The Godless Matron was once a Trade Federation battleship, crewed by countless droid workers. Since then, many sections of the ship have fallen into disrepair due to the sheer amount of manpower involved in its maintenance. As a result, parts of the central sphere of the Lucrehulk-class battleship has been left to the ravages of time and the scars of the Clone War itself.

The crew has come to refer to this section of the Matron as The Gauntlet, largely due to the danger it represents. Located in the lower regions of the command sphere, it is a crosshatched network of ruined and damaged hallways, repair bays, and even crew quarters. While most power has been shut off to this section — save for critical systems such as life support — the systems and circuitry still require occasional maintenance in order to keep the entire framework operational. Such tech runs have become a matter of betting amongst the crew, earning it the nickname: running the gauntlet.

A heavy layer of dust sits mostly undisturbed along the debris of the halls, save for the footprints of the few crew that have tread the path before. These previously walked paths are a safety net for those who venture into The Gauntlet unknowingly. It is also thought that the remaining Separatist forces staged a last ditch defense within this area of the ship, and did so by any means necessary. Many traps, ranging from explosives to spring-loaded mechanisms, are littered throughout the untraveled pathways — or even still undisturbed within the known sections. Further still, malfunctioning B1 droids and even semi-active Spy Drones remain, ready to ambush the unsuspecting observer and adding to the dangers of the dark, debris filled tomb The Gauntlet has become.

The Human, clad in his blacks and dark greens, was hauling it down the broken corridors. He hoped his clothing helped him blend in as he tried to shake what he was preferring to call an angry fan and not a pursuer.

Just gotta get further from Chute Town and if it turns ugly… he mused, a certain sister-in-law’s voice sing-songing in his head about not endangering people or exposing his abilities to the masses. I can shake this guy, easy, no problem, thought the man.

Wyn wasn’t sure what had set the guy off. One minute he’s on the stage in a Chute Town bar for open mic night, getting a laugh here or there and a lot of groans from the audience, when a frakking chair nearly took his head off! He’d barely had time to dodge before a bottle of what he thought might have been decent rum— the real victim in this scenario— had smashed into the wall behind him. After that had been a barrage of glasses, another chair, and finally a poor random Jawa that was in the crowd.

Some people just didn’t appreciate art. Some people like the armored figure jogging along down the halls behind him, heavy boots clanking in a steady rhythm.

This guy is in decent shape, thought Tyris with an internal groan, glancing over his shoulder to catch a view of the six-foot-plus, heavy armor-wearing fellow. “Take a joke, buddy! I dunno what I even said to set you off!”

He’d been telling some kind of joke about a Rorian, Nabooian, and a Gungan walking into a bar he thought. The punchline was good, it was almost the end of the set he’d been working on for weeks when he’d caught wind of open mic night. Whoever the angry man chasing him was, he had ruined weeks of work and deprived an avid audience of the stunning comedic climax!

“Mesa no yousa’s buddy, guy,” came a rasping reply from behind, the first time he’d heard the figure speak.

Wyndell Tyris groaned aloud as he realized now why the man was upset. The joke wasn’t even really about the Gungan, blast it, but now…

Always check the crowd, can’t be telling a Corellian joke without one suddenly popping up, crap. Fine, looks like we’re about far enough now, doubt anyone was crazy enough to follow this guy.

The Defender rounded a corner and slowed his pace, moving about a dozen meters down the hall and unslinging his Bryar rifle. Eyes searching for cover, he instead was met with the unnerving sight of a few old B1 battle droids in dire need of repair, their head-units slowly tracking the Human. With gritted teeth, Wyn took up a position at the end of the corridor, turned, and began charging his rifle. While he did, he focused on the world around him, weaving an auditory effect of the rifle whining louder and louder to help make it clear to his pursuer that this was a ‘bad idea’.

He heard the armored figure’s gait slow as it reached the corner, and something ‘felt’ off about the whole situation. The Gungan came round the bend, empty-handed, palms out to its sides and head slightly forward in a menacing, predator-like stance.

“Look, sorry if you can’t take a joke, pal, but this here is my Yeet-cannon,” Wyn gestured at them with his rifle, “and it will blow you through two bulkheads if you don’t turn around and leave. I don’t want to hurt you.”

The armored helmet cocked slightly the moment Wyn name-dropped his gun. Wyn thought he saw the shoulders shake, and heard a dry, disturbing laugh.

“Oh, so you do have a sense of humor in that shell somewhere, good. Let’s both go our separate ways, okay? That joke I was telling wasn’t even speciest, I don’t do— oh frak!”

The figure began to jog down the short hall at him, and Wyn clenched his jaw and fired. Only to go wide-eyed when one of the half-broken down B1 droids flew into the path of his shot, practically exploding into shrapnel as the overcharged shot impacted.

Oh, oh no.

Wyn held his rifle up crossways as he shrank back from the coming, armored fist that was seeking his face. Instinct took over, and after seeing the Gungan apparently telekinetically shield himself with a possibly innocent droid, all bets were off. The armored man almost seemed surprised when their fist impacted a shimmering field of energy.

“Oh, yousa gonna make a moi good meal,” rasped the taller figure, a dry, horrible chuckle emanating from the helmet.

“How about no,” responded Wyn, his voice dripping with strained power. “Turn around and leave, you don’t want any trouble.”

There was a stillness from the Gungan, fist slowly withdrawing, body turning and stomping off. Wyn let out a breath of relief, body sagging as the adrenaline began to burn off. It was his turn to go stock still as the armored steps stop, and a growling sound came from the Sith.

“Come on,” groaned Wyn to the universe in general, lifting his rifle and rapid firing at the figure. A few bolts pinged off the armor at random angles, hitting curved bits and deflecting, others were dead on, and he could hear a grunt of pain from the Gungan. He couldn’t know about the magnetic coils inside the gear keeping the Sith from deadly injury so far, but he could tell that he was hurting him.

The Gungan lifted a hand and jerked, and suddenly Wyn found himself stumbling forward, shots going wild as his weapon was pulled from his hands. The sling dragged him along, and this time he couldn’t find his footing time to stop the—

Crack!

—fist from impacting his pretty face.

“Baaah! Mah nose! Take a joke, buddy,” he shouted, before yelping as an armored hand grabbed him by the jacket and dragged him up to his tip-toes, face to helmet. Wyn clenched a fist, drawing power towards it as the Gungan spoke, blood streaming from his possibly, probably, broken nose.

“Mesa. Not. Yousa’s. Buddy. Guy,” growled the Sith.

“Well I’m not your guy, pal,” grunted Wyn, lifting his hand up and squeezing his eyes shut as he released a flash of light in his attacker’s face.

The Gungan’s shriek did little to comfort Wyn, but it did at least mean he could hurt the guy. The moment his jacket was released, the Defender scrambled away down the hall, leaving his assailant behind.

Just gotta get off the ship, he thought. The ominous snap-hiss of a lightsaber behind him only made him move faster. Oh, great, he’s got one of those, too.

White-hot fire, like the boiling twin suns of Tatooine, flooded the Gungan’s vision. Yeet flailed a heavy fist and swiped blindly in front of their body as they clicked and croaked a string of Gunganese expletives. Their amphibious eyes had never been meant for such things, and by the time spots began to fade and the grimdark corridors of the Godless Matron came back into focus, their quarry had, of course, fled.

Yousa coward, fool! Yousa tink the light is yousa ally? Yousa forgets dat light create shadowsa, and in da shadowsa are wheresa Yeet thrivesa!

The dull thrum of the local magnetic field generated by their armor pressed against every fiber of Yeet’s being. The discomfort mattered not. Life was pain and suffering. If anything, it reminded the Sith Marauder that they were still alive.

The Marauder tightened their grip on the conversion hilt lightsaber, stretching out with ethereal feelers into the slipstreams of the Force. Yeet traced a thin red line that appeared, tracking a trail towards their adversary. The Human glowed brightly against the Sith’s darkened landscape of awareness over this makeshift battlefield.

Daree you be... the Gungan sneered.

---

Come to comedy night in Chute Town, Alaisy said. It would be fun she said.

Not only had the new “Queen of the Shroud” not bothered to show up for his set, but now Wyn was left trying to make peace with some psychotic Gungan. A headstrong, Force sensitive Gungan that, for some reason, had been allowed to have power armor and a laser sword.

Because every creature deserves a warm meal? Wyn mused to himself.

The Human tasted copper on his tongue as he ran, his breaths coming in more laborious than usual thanks to not being able to take in air through his nostrils. Those were now, of course, caked with crusted blood behind his swollen nose, backed up into his inflamed nasal passages that throbbed uncomfortably. The instinctual tears had since dried, but Wyn did not need a mirror to know that it would take a bit more than the Force to properly reset his nose.

Oh, well. Wouldn’t be the first time someone punched him in the face for a joke.

I get no respect.

While his first instinct was to hide and mask his signature in the Force, the Defender knew enough about the Gauntlet to know it wouldn’t do him much good. While there were plenty of decommissioned droids and discarded tech in the Matron’s veritable junkyard, there were not many places he could realistically hide. Perhaps he could try to seek the high ground— but, no, Gungans were really good at jumping.

Realistically, his best chance for survival was to put some distance between him and the grumpy Gungan. To do that, he’d need to be able to think straight. So, instead of hiding, he focused the Force inward and walled off the stinging sensation in his face until it was nothing more than a dull pulsation. He still felt like cotton balls had been shoved into his sinus cavities, but he could at least see straight.

Thanks to the trusty padded sling, his Bryar Rifle was still with him. Hooray for small miracles. He rummaged around inside his equipment bag and was pleased to see a set of specially-coated discs.

A thought occurs.

For his idea to work, however, he needed a way to deal with whatever armor the Gungan wore. It was going to be a tough onion-skin laminate to crack, surely. It reminded him of the kind of armor the Praetorian guardsman wore in the historical interpretation videos he liked to watch. The ones that depicted the—alleged—death of Supreme Leader Snoke. Zig called them glorified L.A.R.P*er’s, but Zig had questionable taste in holonet media. Wyn thought the fight choreography and performances were just *fantastic...

“—MEESA SENSE YOUSA FEAR!” a gravelly voice echoed through the cavernous junkyard of discarded and forgotten droid tech.

Right. Crazy murder Gungan. He had tried to do the right thing, tried to reason with the creature, but the time for patience had passed. He made sure his shoulder sling was in place before he pulled out his twin LL-30s and gently tapped the barrels against each other for good luck. Just the tips. Now, it was time for something entirely different.

Pst, I can hear you just fine, you don’t have to yell, Wyn sent the thought telepathically towards the Gungan.

No answer came.

Or, perhaps, it did.

Wyn froze in place, unmoving. He felt cold, suddenly, as if all the warmth had somehow been sucked out of the Matron’s stolid, regulated internal climate. He felt a shiver creep down his spine as a sense of dread began to tear slowly at the edges of his bravado.

The cybernetic Gungan did not bother to hide their arrival. He stormed forward, heavy boots crunching over the carcasses of decapitated droids and machinery. The two hilts of the conversion lightsaber linked together to form a double-sided crimson saberstaff. Dark, malevolent intent oozed out from the Sith through the Force.

Wyn’s hands trembled around the grips of his blaster pistols as he pressed up against his makeshift cover. Yeet seemed to know exactly where he was hiding. Wyn tried to calm his breathing and started to retreat into himself. He had to focus. Yeet was going to find him, and then...what? Eat him?

”MEESA GOEN TO DEVOUR YOUSA SOUL!”

The way that the Gungan slurred and pronounced “yousa” made the word “soul”, however, sounded very different to Wyndell’s ears.

“You want to devour my hole?” Tyris asked aloud.

Saying it out loud, of course, caused Wyn to burst out into a fit of giggles that snowballed into full on laughter. The release of serotonin, combined with the Defender's inherent ability to focus his talents not just on others, but inward. To find the real most valuable player. Himself.

Wynning...

Slowly, a faint but relieving wave of energy pulsed through his body, repelling the crippling tendrils of fear and self-doubt.

“Alright, then, let's dance.” Wyn grinned as he unleashed a screeching volley of alternating blaster fire at the Gungan Sith while strafing away to find a new pile of junk to use for cover.