Morgan watched the Mandalorian doff his armor silently, his bright blue eyes sharp, intent on the target before him. If the big idiot thought that he could squeeze an honorable fight out of him by stripping down, he was wrong. But, the old scoundrel would make no attempts to inform him of that fact. His opponent was younger than him, taller than him, and at a glance, outweighed him by a fair bit too. Letting him get rid of his damned plasteel shell would make things significantly easier.
So, while the bounty hunter let his plate clatter to the floor, Morgan made a show of limbering up, just as if he was playing along. Touching his toes, fixing his hair, even pulling off his jacket and gunbelt. Even still, he made sure that his batons were still tucked surreptitiously into the sleeves of his synthweave underarmor, alongside the smoke grenade pressed into his palm.
By the time he turned around, the Mandalorian was already waiting. He’d dropped his droid off with his armor, leaving him in a synthweave undersuit nearly identical to his own. Lethal-looking vambraces were still clipped to each forearm. One was a wrist-rocket, the other totally unfamiliar. Typical.
The bounty hunter stepped up slowly. His stance was ready, knees tucked in, hands held high. Mandalorian Core… though Morgan noted a waver in his step, a slight unsteadiness. A beginner, then, and one still nursing a recently dislocated shoulder. Morgan might have even been able to take him in a clean fight. Maybe. But what was the fun in that? And what were the chances that his opponent would keep things clean, anyway?
“I’ll be honest, I didn’t think you’d actually think you’d go along with this so easy,” the bounty hunter stated, hazel eyes glinting. When he took a step closer, Morgan made no move, his posture steady.
“Maybe I jus’ wanted to see ya strip down to your skivvies?” the rogue suggested, shooting the Mandalorian a cold grin.
“You don’t look the type, but I don’t judge,” his opponent answered smoothly, swiveling on the balls of his feet. When he tried to probe against his opponent’s guard, Morgan took a smooth step backward, a low, embittered chuckle rising from the back of his throat.
“Yeah? Well, I didn’t know that Jedi were skiff-munchers that take out bounties on runaway slaves,”
“Hey, that’s not what's...”
“But I don’t judge,” the former thief interrupted, the acid of his tone indicating anything but. Then, taking a half-step forward, he thumbed the smoke grenade in his palm and threw it down between them. The detonation that followed was short and sharp, immediately accompanied by an opaque pall of ash-grey smoke that filled the air between the two of them. Morgan didn’t hesitate, dropping into a low roll just in time for a blazing amber glow to pass through the space where he had just been. Then, shrouded by the smoke, he gave a long, high whistle, a signal.
The damned mutt was probably off scrounging garbage in some back alley, but he would come. Eventually.
With a flick of the wrist, a familiar weight slid into Morgan’s left hand. The baton extended to its full length with a dull click, held loosely in his grip. He could track his opponent easily by the glow of his saber, the click of his step. With any luck, he wouldn’t even need the hound at all.
Baring his teeth, Morgan lunged at his opponent’s back.
This wasn’t what Creon had wanted. Not in the slightest. The Force filled his lungs, cleared the tears from his vision. Reaching out with his mind, he could feel Desatado’s presence.He had meant this to be a deal, not a fight, but now he’d turned his opponent into a cornered hound. He could feel the man’s fear, the anger. But where?
Behind you!
The warning pounded in the Mandolorian’s mind and he reacted on instinct, dropping to one knee as a sizzling baton passed over his head, close enough to set his hair on end. Swiveling on one knee, he lashed out behind him with the short thrust of a flattened palm. A fist of telekinetic force took his attacker full in the chest with enough energy to throw him bodily from the cloud of smoke, a gasping silhouette that disappeared from Creon’s vision.
He followed with a grin, emerging just in time to see his quarry crawling for his discarded gunbelt.
If I can just get him to listen…
Creon launched into a sprint as Desatado seemed to fumble, bringing both arms up as he ran, taking snapshot-aim. A wrist rocket hissed from the left gauntlet, followed a half-second later by the silvery blur of his lanvarok. He was aiming to incapacitate. Unfortunately, it didn’t really matter.
The wrist rocket never reached its target. Desatado ripped a blaster from its holster faster than Creon could have believed and shot the thing out of the air, creating a starburst of smoke and shrapnel. The lanvarok, however, hit home, gouging directly into the dark-haired man’s right clavicle with a spray of crimson blood, forcing him to drop the blaster.
The Mandalorian was upon him moments later, amber saber in hand like a burning firebrand. But, instead of sinking it into the mostly unarmed man, as he could, he stopped. Hesitating, for just a moment. Then, he extinguished his saber.
This wasn’t right. He was acting like the very scum that he had sworn that he was not.
“Listen,” Creon started, crouching to one knee by Morgan’s side. “I don’t want…”
He cut off once again as the Force screamed a new warning into his mind, this time just too late. It was rather hard to dodge a sack full gritty, burning powder thrown full in your face.
”I want ya ta suck my phasskin’ choobies, hutt-humpa!” he heard Desatado curse. Then, he felt his bounty slam right into him, and they both went down, wrestling for control.
