A roar like thunder, like an approaching sandstorm over the twin-sun desert, like the dying scream of a dragon slain, rolled over Karran Val'teo as he stepped through the dunes of detritus that made up the most derelict portion of the Ebon Ridge he'd seen so far. It was screaming, shouting, baying for blood. He knew the sound all too well. His hearts double beat to it like an old, familiar song, his blood warming and rising like the haze of heat over the sands of his homeworld when morning broke the frigid night and Tatooine burned once more.
Zsoldos wasn't a desert planet, though he'd seen a patch on their approach. And here, the only clouds were the putrid stink of unaddressed poverty and rotten, gangrenous criminal scum to be cut away: urine, alcohol, unwashed bodies, spice.
But this pit they were headed into? This, this smelled like blood. There would be no politics, no laws, no warnings against war crimes or vengeance here. Only battle and victory. Only his blade and justice for those taken advantage of.
Karran loved it.
It was the kind of place his Master would despise with every bone in his body. Which begged the question.
"Master," the Zabrak began, turning his head fully so he wouldn't keep gawping at the spectators and the electrified ring tucked away behind mammoth mountains of metal and scrap, and could see his Mirialan Master fully with his one good eye. "Why are we here? Will you tell me now? It is not exactly the kind of place you would... appreciate, my friend."
Ruka had specifically requested that they meet on Zsoldos for their reunion visit this time instead of Selen or Kiast, which was apparently having its troubles. He'd refused, however, to say why. Perhaps they were here on a bounty? It would be serious for Ruka to bring him.
But the shorter man merely shook his head, the golden cowl wrapped over his locs shimmering faintly in the stark flood lights that they stepped under as they got closer to the suspended ring and pit. Ahead of them, Ruka's escort droid pushed through to make a path, Karran's BD-unit riding atop its head like a grand king.
"I heard about this place from Socorra while I was still Proconsul, when she came to be theirs. Can't stand it, bunch of pujas. But...it seemed right up your alley, ay?" Milky amethyst eyes turned up to peer at him, locking the Zabrak in place. There is always, always a price, Ruka had once said. One of their first lessons, under that tree. His Master had left his glasses behind on the ship. Karran understood: show no weakness to a predator on a hunt. Vizsla wasn't an enemy, for now, but they were not allies. They had no sense of loyalty. "And, well... You've always wanted us to really fight."
Thoughts of the philosophical nature or preparedness flew out of the warrior's head. His massive form straightened, hearts leaping with excitement that sizzled from his fingertips to his stomach and curled there, a coal fire. "You don't mean...?"
"Yeah, yeah, I do." Ruka gestured ahead, and went to speak briefly to a Mandalorian figure who had come down from the control room. They exchanged words, then credits, and then Ruka turned back to him and beckoned him to follow him.
Into the pit.
A smile that could be called giddy stretched across the Zabrak's face. He was already reaching up to undo the clasps of his outer robes as he strode after his Master to descend into the ring.
Someone had definitely pissed in their armor in the last fight. And that might have been a liver in the corner. Scorch marks bloomed on the floor.
The roaring, roaring crowd came as they walked into the arena, bathed in light, so bright that everything outside was just black lit by flashes. Karran threw off his cloak, robe, and shirt, baring his powerful muscles and proud tattoos, and turned his face up to the crowd. He closed his eyes. Bathed it in. Welcomed their cheers and especially their boos as he raised one hand, straight out, then bent the fingers in a beckoning motion. The noise increased. The electric fence sparked as it sizzled whatever beverage was thrown at him. Let them hate. He would use it.
"YOU CAN'T SEE ME!" the Zabrak bellowed, keeping his eyes closed, listening to the swell. "YOU CAN'T SEE ME!"
"Are you done, ay?" Ruka snarked from nearby, though it sounded fonder, not the Mirialan's usual disappointed or exasperated tone. When Karran peeked one eye open, he saw his Master picking up his clothes, folding them neatly to set aside.
"Ruka, no, you're ruining the aura!"
"I don't know what that means and I'm not havin' our laundry just throw all over people's place, ay, where you manners."
"Ancestors, Ruka, please."
"Alright, alright, I'm coming."
The Mirialan walked over across the ring, turning to take up a standard position. He seemed ill at ease with the crowd, the attention, and Karran knew he was likely anxious and uncomfortable. Truly his friend was going out of his way for this. But why?
"Why now, Master?" he called out, more just for them than the show, though he continued to flex, slowly. Let them see. "You've never approved such sparring before, and this is quite the flavor."
Now came the disappointed look. Ruka shook his head, then lifted his chin, a cool focus coming over him like stepping off into a deep, cold depth. Amethyst eyes cleared, black veins blossoming. From various sheathes and a clips, one blade after another after another floated into the air around him, five crystalline and one plasma singingscreamingspringing from crystal kyber. Ruka didn't so much as twitch to do it.
"Happy birthday, Karranmi. Te ahmo, arrarmio," he said in familiar Mirialan. My Karran, my little brother, I love you.
And then Ruka punched him in the face.
The Mirialan had been across the ring one second, and Karran had expected the telekinetic combat his Master so often displayed his mastery of. But then between blinks and a surge of the Dark Side, he was in front of the Zabrak, fist slamming upwards, into the underside of his jaw. Karran's head rocked back, teeth rattling in their gummy sockets, skull ringing, tongue bit bloody. That had been a hard hit.
Ruka was serious.
And then he was gone, on the other side behind Karran while the Zabrak whirled around. Karran laughed, joyous and booming.
"YESSSSSS!" he roared, roared back to the crowd, the Dragon unfurling, and let the Force explode into his muscles as he charged full on at his Master and tackled the Mirialan into the wall.
They hit with a resounding clang of metal and chain fencing, breath bursting from Ruka's lungs, Karran grabbing for his head. His larger hand reached about the Mirialan's skull and dug into his green hair, knotting and lifting to slam him down to the ground. Ruka yelled and twisted midair, landing on his shoulder and not his face, and with another surge of shadowy power, punched out again. This time, though, it wasn't knuckles to skin. A sledgehammer of telekinetic force blew Karran straight off his feet, throwing him across the arena to land in a roll, whooping manically.
"This is fantastic, Master!" he crowed, spitting blood. In truth, he felt almost like a child, overjoyed by his Sezȃh's attention. He felt too old for it. He felt wonderful for it. "You mean it? Truly? A real fight?"
Grim-faced, Ruka rose to his feet, rubbing at his temple where a chunk of his hair had ripped out, leaving a bloody, skinned smear above where his ear had once been. Danger prickled along Karran's spine, two heartbeats, and he remembered the blades just in time for two wavey, emerald daggers to bury themselves in his thighs, one each, sunk for the tendons just below his glutes. The pain as his knees hit the floor unwillingly wasn't a hurt. It was a celebration.
"I mean it," Ruka growled, ripping the weapons free and returning them to swirl around him with but a glance. "Come on, ay."
Blood spurt from his wounds. Karran threw his head back, roaring, tossing his horns and pushed his body back up to charge again.
