The creature screamed.
It went from low and flanged to high, a keening shriek of a whine that was terribly humanoid. Jon pressed another button on his gauntlet, already moving, and saw his boot toes phase out into nothingness as his cloaking mechanism activated, optical camouflage in place. A floating head, he crept slowly around while his opponent reeled, smoke trails clearing from the darts that had blown and lodged shrapnel into their body, and saw the flash of a face twisted in agony—
—a young face.
It was just a glimpse, scrunched by acrid tears and a snarl of a wail, but the features were definitively childish: rounder cheeks, wider eyes, an adolescence he instinctively recognized as much as he logically knew what it looked like when he spotted a kid dressed up like a gangster, in over their heads but as committed to a stupid decision by necessity as once he had been. They went to rub at their eyes and then recoiled, limbs reverting into hands and legs while they clutched at their side, sobbing and spitting, and then that flash of youth was gone, as flesh molded and calcified and crawled back into something vaguely like Jon, if Jon had been a plastic toy left too close to a hot reactor.
It's probably just another trick, the chameleon decided, abused of twinges of guilt from serving around Jedi Codes for several years now. He couldn't afford to hesitate if the shapeshifting thing was young or not. His father had long ago taught him not to, and survival had taught him better.
That didn't mean it didn't twist in his gut as he stealthily drew his dagger and snuck up behind the thief. They were gnashing and spitting multilingual obscenities as they looked around for him through bloodshot copies of his eyes.
He recognized many of them, even.
"—blithering wretch, I'll pluck out your stomach and feed it still attached to the rancors—" they were promising in a Dathomirian dialect of Ancient Sith, greenish Magick writhing at their fingertips. Jon made his move, stabbing for their wounded side they were partially guarding, careful to not touch his own blade lest he poison himself. The metal sunk in, eliciting another snarl, and Jon forced himself to retreat slowly so that he stayed partially invisible, despite his body's urge to dart away.
His opponent slapped their hand back over the fresh cut as they whirled, searching for him but finding nothing. Not until Jon's boot heel scuffed at the edge of where the torn-out plate had made a hole, fritzing the network of traps. Then their head snapped towards him, and the waver of his armor and his helmetless head above it, and they smiled. Pulling their hand away from their wound, they brought it to their mouth to sniff at, and licked up the blood.
Then the creature began to laugh, cackling.
"Oh, Jonny boy, tis a nice try, but your little toxin won't touch me. Let me show you how it's done," they hissed. Their gazes met, and they pointed at him, a dramatic gesture. "Go on. Give yourself a little cut. Take a taste. Turn off that cloak and cut your cheek."
The command was like that encroaching tension headache earlier, only so much worse. Like a sledgehammer and a creeping whisper at once, skittering up his spine, sinking in claws, a speeder crash in the liminal, Light-lined lanes of his Force senses, scrambling the starmap. Jon locked his jaw, trying to fight it off, knowing he could and knowing the consequences if he didn't, that he would poison himself.
"DO IT, JON. Cut yourself with that dagger," they repeated, condemning. His arm lifted, bringing the Sith Dagger to his face, shaking violently as motor neurons strained against synapses in his brain. Cold metal bit into his cheek, and he winced, feeling the slice burn briefly with pain before it numbed entirely.
Karabast, he thought, as the numbness spread through his face, nose and lips going tingly and then eyelids sagging, the trembling in his arm getting worse. He jerked the blade away from himself, stowing it and pulling his pistol back out. He still had three more shots, if he could just stay on his feet long enough to use them.
"That's better. Now…" The imposter pulled a dagger from their own person, though Jon hadn't spotted it on them ten minutes ago when this had begun. Even to his fosteringly senses, the weapon pulsed with the Dark Side, a shout where his own dagger murmured. "Do I just cut you up, or do I make a hat out of your skin, to be symbolic?"
"'ow ab'ot ne…nee, eith'er?" the smuggler replied, though his words slurred, tongue heavy and jaw loose. He swayed on his feet, kept his finger carefully off the trigger even as it kept slipping. One of his eyes wouldn't stay open. Out the corner of the other, he saw something gleaming under a partially-lifted panel. Maybe he could use whatever the trap was? The crowd shouts echoed from speakers around them.
The doppler charged him, blade held ready and close. Jon fired, knowing it would miss, and dove right. Two. He hit the floor and struggled to get back up, jamming his hand under the panel trying to get to whatever was inside. His other hand lifted his gun and fired again in his opponent's general direction, distracting, but they didn't seem to care about getting shot. They just kept coming, steps away. One.
His fingers curled around something. Jon hoped and pulled wildly.
Gas exploded out, and the Human rolled away, coughing and gagging, blind. Smoke clogged his nostrils, suffocating when his facial and throat muscles were already paralyzed. He heard hacking before the noise stopped entirely and wondered if his opponent had stopped breathing, intentionally or otherwise. But he had to adapt, take the opportunity. The smuggler forced himself to his hands and knees, dizzy, and scrambled along until he hit something — the cage edge, barbed and sparking. He leaned away, put his back that direction, and raised his pistol.
All he had to do then was wait, as from the dark, blurry cloud, a beast emerged. A rancor, like promised, but white-blue and malformed, bleeding from the flanks, darts still stuck in it. Its mouth yawned open to close on him.
Jon fired.
Zero.
The little rocket punched into the back of the creature's throat and burst out the other side in a spray of blood. The beast fell down dead with a terrible THUD, nearly crushing his legs before he pulled them back. The shouting grew louder over the victory. He stared for a moment, wheezing and near-blind, incredulous that for once one of his tales would be true.
And then a blade appeared at his throat from his left, and Jon realized belatedly that when the rancor has fallen, though there was a sound, he hadn't felt the impact.
"I win or you die," said the shapeshifter sweetly, a sooty, off-white version of himself that looked a bit like a skeag, hair blown back and caked in black powder. The illusion blinked away, leaving the ripped up arena in front of him. They were still wearing his damn hat.
"Not a bad trick," he tried to say, and it mostly came out, "Nnnfjnmmmdf."
"You're awfully connected to this hat. Special, is it? It's on your mind." They inhaled, snorted, spat black mucus out the side. "Tell you what. I changed my mind. You can have it back. But only because I want to get karking drunk right now with that prize money more than I want to cut off your toes. Happy flying, Jonny. Don't asphyxiate."
The blade tapped twice on his Adam's apple, where he could just barely feel the pressure, thanks to the poison. They set his hat back on his head, then stood up and pulled the darts out of their side. No blood spurted out, though bad burns riddled the mottled skin. The shifter turned as the arena doors were opened.
Jon's world went black.
