Warlord Vincent Brujah vs. Reaper Dusa Harik

The darkest rooms of the Tempest Crown Cantina hide many secrets, shady dealings, and unsavory types. The Backroom Ring is one of those secrets. Known to many as top tier entertainment on Nancora, but restricted, open to only those who can pay to fight. And it is lucrative.

Fifty feet in length and width, the Backroom Ring is a square room used long ago as a water cistern, now repurposed into a bloody combat arena. The ceiling is low enough for the taller fighters to feel claustrophobic whilst the walls are layered in dented durasteel plating equipped with shock prods and deadly spikes. Humid air fills the room along with the stench of sweat and bile. Neon lights dot the ceiling in the middle of the room, splashing color and shadows in circles further out. No seating arrangements are available, only cam droids showing live feeds on the cantina screens. Speakers bolted into the walls spread the crowd's cheers in the ring, blasting fighters with their energy.

The ring is segmented into square panels, each capable of independent activation. Pressure plates hidden beneath the surface trigger traps when stepped on. Most panels do nothing, but some discharge electrical bursts strong enough to stagger even armored fighters. Others superheat, glowing dull orange before cooling, forcing constant movement. Some panels are purposefully unstable, collapsing underfoot without warning, to disrupt balance. Many and varied traps exist underneath the floor, constantly innovated on and changed from day to day. Gravity projectors under the arena can alter gravity, making combatants float or pinning them to the floor. The ceiling hides gas vents, misting combatants with stimulants or pacifying and disorientating them.

There is no place for elaborate maneuvers here, no space to breathe or rest. The Backroom Ring is made for pure close combat. No high ground, no distance, only brutality as panic and pain close in.

Warlord Vincent Brujah sat at the bar of the Tempest Crown Cantina, finishing a glass of ale as he watched the screens behind the bar. A fight had just finished, and minor cleanup was occurring before the next fight would begin. He sat in his armor, with the exception of his helmet, which was clipped to his belt. His long black hair was pulled up into a bun. He wasn’t nervous. He never was before a fight, but his emotions were conflicted.

Part of him hated the idea of competitive fighting. After all, he had spent eight long years as a slave. Over those years, he had fought in the Pits of Tatooine multiple times every week just for the luxury of some gruel and the right to live another day.

The other part of him knew what he had always known; this is who he was. This is what he did. This is what he was best at. Deep inside he knew that no matter who was thrown his way, they wouldn’t quite be ready for what he brought to the table.

He felt a hand grab his right shoulder and he turned to face whoever had grabbed him, his eyes glowing a deep crimson red. He was met by one of the cantina’s guards.

“Easy, fella. Save it for the ring. You’re up.”

The Warlord sneered, placing his glass on the bar and standing from his stool.

“Follow me.” the guard said.

As the guard ushered Brujah through the cantina and into the Backroom Ring, he heard the screens yell out.

“Now it’s time for our next battle! Buckle up, folks! Reaper Dusa Harik will be taking on the Hand of the Empress himself, Warlord Vincent Brujah!”

The crowd outside of the backroom cheered, but their sounds were instantly muffled as Vincent stepped into the room and the doors closed behind him. As soon as he stepped into the room the thickness of the air and the scents within it began to overwhelm his senses. The air was heavy with iron, bile, and ammonia. His mind was instantly back in the Pits. The only thing that was missing was the sand. He took a moment to close his eyes and breathe it in. He hadn’t been sure how he was going to feel about all of this before, but now it was clear as day. He was home.

He finally stepped into the ring. His opponent was already there, awaiting him. He gave her a look over. A Rattataki. Short. A smirk on her face and some kind of pun on her shirt that Vincent didn’t have the time or desire to read. He could sense that she thought she was tough, she didn’t seem afraid. He’d have to change that. To Vincent, she was just the next victim.

His eyes met hers, with a sneer he unclipped his helmet from his belt and pulled it over his head. The armor hissed as it sealed him away from the environment. He paced a bit back and forth, making sure that his legs were limber and ready.

“I don’t know who you are…” the Warlord said in a deep, modulated voice. “Nor do I care. But I do hope you’ve come here to fight, as I have come here to kill.”

For her part, the woman wasted no time pulling what looked like a staff into her hands. With a couple of clacks four claws extended from the head of the staff and suddenly the staff was no staff at all; it was a laser ax. The crowd outside erupted over the speakers in the room. Vincent raised a hand, waving her towards him in a taunt. As she rushed him, the Warlord called a saber hilt into his hand. With a scream the crackling crimson blade of Hellfire erupted into existence.

He prepared himself. A laser ax was deadly, but it was no match for a saber. He’d simply slice the head off of the ax before he did the same to her. This fight would be over as quickly as it had started. He focused on her every movement. She was fast. Her movements were smart and unpredictable. As she got close, Vincent readied his attack, pulling his right arm back to intercept her ax, but in the moment that he began to swing his saber, the floor beneath him sent a jolt of electrical current through his armor. It wasn’t enough to hurt him, but it was enough to slow his swing just enough for Dusa to strike the hilt of Hellfire with her ax. The blade disappeared as the top half of the hilt went crashing to the floor and the bottom half of the hilt smoked and sparked in the Warlord’s hand.

“You’ll pay for that!” he growled.

“Ain’t got the credits, babycakes!” Dusa grinned, her muscles flexing as her grip on the axe loosened. She hooked her arms over her extended axe staff and suddenly, the five foot five inches nothing gave out the ‘aura’ of being intimating. Despite the Hand of the Empress being much bigger.

“Tell ya what, I’ll be an ax-cellent chickadee and remove my axe from the ring if we talk with our fists. Quickies are no fun. Leaves a lady unsatisfying.” She spun the laser axe in a flashy motion, the laser head on the floor and the blue color reflected off the plates. Her grey eyes vibrated with excitement.

The Warlord scoffed under his helmet but then his lips slowly curved into a smile. It would be good to tone her ego down. Slowly, Vincent then clipped what little of his lightsaber hilt he had to his belt since the Kyber crystal was still attached to it. He watched the female eyes widen with fear. Good.

Dusa could feel the goosebumps on her skin as her brows furrowed. What did he do? Her heart pumped with adrenaline had changed to extreme fear and she had the urge to run. Scream. Anything. She let out a surprised gasp and covered her mouth. Her body shifted from the sweat of the humidity to a sickly cold sweat.

“You-” she remembered this feeling. Her mouth felt dry. Was she coming back down from a high? Did she take something without knowing-

Dusa cried out as she was met with a punch in her gut and sent her back to the spiked prongs. The electricity sounds filled the small area as she groaned when she landed on the floor, triggering another plate as gas shot up and filled the Backroom Ring with colored gas, her muscles spasming.

The Warlord scoffed at the colored gas. Did they think this was fun? He leapt off of his feet and moved at abnormal speeds. He made his way to where the woman had landed. Only to find nothing. He rolled his eyes. Great. Another coward that runs- He immediately turned and caught the baton mid-air but then Dusa lunched forward and used his very own sliced Hellfire hilt to stab him at the armpit.

Vincent yelled. He yanked Dusa’s baton back. He stepped forward and struck her jaw with his elbow. Dusa stumbled back and followed up with a kick to his helmet. She winced in pain. Stupid karking heavy armor-

Vincent grabbed Dusa’s ear and slammed her to the wall. Her head started to spin. She raised her knee. She extended her leg and kicked him at the chest. It gave them the distance she needed. Dusa grimaced at the bright flashing lights. The deafening speakers.

Vincent scoffed. Who was this fool? Did she really think this was some kind of game?! He was winning. He closed the distance. His hand grabbed her neck.

“Some fries, motherfucker!” Dusa screamed as she had her blaster at the ready and right at his chest. Vincent felt the impact as he had no choice but to let her go. The color gas had grown dense, and it was now hard for them to find each other. The neon lights barely penetrate the density.

Vincent roared in anger. What was up with these cowards lately!?

Brujah could feel the hypermatter reactor within his armor warming as it fought to repair the damage to his armpit and chest. The colored gas had hidden his opponent for the moment, but the room was small and his temper large. It wouldn’t take him long to find her.

He yanked his Sith dagger from its sheath and reached out with his mind to find her. As he did, the Force screamed at him to move. Before he could, a foot made contact with his back. Dusa had managed to sneak up behind him and land a jumping kick to the small of his back. He careened forward and into the spikes on the wall. His dagger flew from his hand and to the floor as he threw his hands up to brace for the impact. His armor managed to prevent the spikes from penetrating him, but the sudden jolt into the wall sloshed his brain within his skull and made him a bit dizzy and disoriented.

He shook it off as best he could and turned around to find her. He didn’t have time to heal in the heat of the battle, and he was done playing games. Another scream from the Force hit his brain like an alarm beacon. He jumped, hopping over a sweeping leg from the Rattataki.

The speakers filled the room with the sound of jeers from the audience outside. The colored gas had not only hidden the fighters from each other, but from the bloodthirsty crowd. Above the fighters, ventilation fans kicked on sucking the gas out of the room. The crowd cheered once more as the fighters came back into view and the fans kicked themselves off.

Vincent turned just in time to see Dusa dashing at him. Her baton had been activated and now was a full spear that was longer than she was tall. She was aiming directly for the still partially damaged area on the Sith’s chest from her blaster shot before, clearly going for the kill.

Just as she got close, a panel beneath her feet collapsed. She lurched forward, completely losing her balance. The spear darted into the floor and she found herself vaulted into the air from the momentum. Vincent raised his left hand, holding her in place in the air with an invisible hand around her throat that began to tighten.

“I told you before what I came here to do. Now the time has come.” he said as he stalked closer to her levitating body.

With a snap-hiss Brimstone jumped to life in the Warlord’s right hand. The fiery orange blade glowed throughout the room, contrasting with the neon lights. Vincent growled and then spun. His grip on the woman released and she fell to her feet just in time for the blade to contact her centimeters above the waist. Her eyes widened as the top half of her body slid off of the lower half, both pieces falling to the floor.

She coughed up blood, but then she looked to her side where her lower half sat motionless next to her.

“Ha… w-would you look at that?” she said, her voice fading.

In a moment she was gone, and the crowd erupted as Vincent was declared the winner of the fight. He looked down at the remains of her body. He was half amused and half impressed.

“What the fu…”

With a seething growl, Vincent stood in place. It didn’t take long to discover that his opponent didn’t have the Force while he did. He heard stumbling sounds not too far ahead and rolled his eyes. Really? Prepared for the next surprise, he made his way towards Dusa while unclipping his next saber, Brimstone, from his belt.

Dusa waited carefully; the speakers made it impossible for her to be able to hear his footsteps. Her eyes constantly darted around. Her hand gripped her baton staff. Then she saw the movement in the neon reflected gas as she swung her baton. There was a sudden snap-hiss. Her baton was sliced in half. She did another swing, her body weight followed. Vincent easily caught the bottom end of the baton. He pulled it forward; they were face-to-face again.

“Supplies, motherfracker!” Dusa yelled, confusing the man behind the mask. There was a soft hiss and click as the baton hilt was suddenly full of spikes. Vincent screamed and dropped the baton as Dusa went for another swing.

Only for her body to slam into the wall. She winced at feeling small pricks against her back.

“Enough!” Vincent growled, the modulated voice cracking with how loud he was. He kept his hand up, holding her body against the wall.

Dusa winced as little pricks pierced her back, blood trickling down her body.

Vincent got close enough to watch her squirm despite the density of the gas. He can hear some of the boos over the speakers. No matter.

“Any last words?” The Sith growled. Dusa chuckled.

“Heart eyes, motherfracker.” And gave him two thumbs up. Vincent waved his hand, and her head slammed into the wall, knocking her out. He stared at the hooked, now unconscious, woman.

“What the fu….” The speakers blared louder, announcing Vincent Brujah, Hand of the Empress, as the winner!