You stand in a room, nearly dark but for the pulse of rhythmic flashes of bright colored lights. Besides your opponent and yourself, you note a large number of bystanders who are sure to take exception to the coming carnage. Then again, knowing this crowd, they could just as easily find entertainment in an old-fashioned brawl. Spanky's is, after all, one of the more fashionable drinking establishments of Karufr.

The patrons seem to be a mix between the scantily clad women hawking their charms and the well-dressed gentlemen eager to part with their hard-earned credits. The odors in the tavern assault your senses and threaten to muddle your reflexes. Among them, you recognize over a dozen various types of stimulants—both legal and illegal—and the heady scent of, what is quite possibly, the most varied collection of liquor this side of the Galaxy.

The tavern itself is fraught with tactical advantages and disadvantages. Designed in the familiar style of all amphitheaters, the floor is slightly slanted toward a central stage where a lithe, twi'lek female is currently dancing. Littered amongst the floor are drink tables, heavily laden with glassware and other potential missiles. Uncomfortable, heavy metal chairs surround each of the tables in a semi-circle, so that the occupant's view of the stage is never hindered. The only exit, aside from the doorway where you stand, is a vaulted staircase—guarded by two very well-dressed, and heavily muscled, gentlemen—leading into parts unknown.

Small bars bracket the tavern on either side, filled with a glittering rainbow of bottles. Whatever is about to go down, you realize it would go down better with a stiff drink.

Fear.

It rang in the chest of the old man as he quickly scurried into the bar, hoping he had outran his pursuer. His heart pounded in his chest, sweat dripping from every pore. The Scourge was near, and he was angry.

The old man looked at an ocean of patrons gazing at him quizzically, disgust filling their faces. The gentlemen of the establishment looked posh and high class, something the old man was not. Their eyes were full of hunger for consumption, whereas the old man hungered for his life. They were young and still had some sins to commit, the old man was now running away from his. He pushed past a couple of scantily clad women, each of them saying something rude to the strange old man. Their reaction got the notice of the bouncers, one being dispatched to deal with him while the other stayed by the door.

When it next opened, an angry Gungan burst through its threshold and scanned the room. The stimulants and scents in the air of the tavern washed over the Gungan, their presence causing the Jedi to shake his head to try and dislodge them. The music of the bar was loud, which Kah hated. This game of cat and mouse turned his anger to rage, making him thirst for a fight with his prey. The bouncer by the door started to chuckle and walked over to the creature, placing one hand on his shoulder. He smiled and shook his head at the Jedi, waggling a finger at him.

“Yeah, I don’t think so.” said the bouncer.

Kah aggressively clicked at him, the sound being heard over the music. Kah glared at the bouncer’s hand, which did not budge from his shoulder. The Jedi was warm with fury, this establishment becoming his least favorite place he had been in recent memory. Kah clicked again, grabbing it quickly and bringing a swift kick to the bouncer’s head. He fell, his head landing hard on a chair before he hit the ground. The other bouncer jerked towards the Gungan, seeing his comrade on the floor and approached him, allowing the old man to slip into the back storeroom.

“What’s your prob---” said the bouncer before Kah extended a hand, causing the bouncer to lift into the air and smash against the wall behind him. Cracks in the plaster spidered their way out behind him, dust and debris landing with him as he hit the ground.

The Gungan started looking for the old man, the sound of his clicking radiating outward.

“Come out, come out old man... answuh for your crimes.”

Kah brandished one of his bone daggers, its sharp blade glistening in the lights of the club. The Gungan forced his way through the crowd, shoulders bumping into his being greeted with an aggressive grunt and clicking emanating from the Jedi. Most of the patrons paid him no mind, making some rude face or giving him some hand gesture. He bumped the shoulder of a silver haired female, his eyes locking onto her visage. A quaint smile coming across her lips as the Gungan continued his advancement into the tavern.

“Careful, friend.” she whispered, her voice reaching the Gungan’s ears and causing him to stop, “Perhaps you should take a moment to clear your mind.”

“Mesa not yous friend, girl.” said Kah through gritted teeth, his anger seething.

“I’m not your girl, pal.” replied the lady, her smile growing, “What is it this person you’re looking for has done that makes you so passionate?”

“Hesa butchered my sistah and mudda in front of me. Mesa but a child den, but now hesa can pay. If yousa stand in me way, I am not dah one responsible for what happens to yousa.” said Kah, trying to push past the blind one. He continued for a little, until he heard her whisper again.

“I know which way he went.” she said.

Kah whipped around and stared at the female, her smile growing from quaint to large. The Gungan pointed his dagger at her, it shaking slightly from his anger. He tried to calm down, tried to focus on the Light and the tranquility it brought but the only thing that swirled in his mind was the memory of his sister crying out.

“Yousa tell me where hesa went.” said Kah, his anger filling every word. The Jedi tried to calm himself, but the memory of his sister clawed at his heart.

“Calm down, reconsider your course of action. It’ll be okay.” said Atyiru calmy, extending a hand outward.

“Hesa must pay for what he did.” said Kah, clicking on the word pay.

“Will killing him grant you peace? You aren’t a beast, friend.” said Atyiru, her hand still extended outward.

It was then that Kah had had enough. He would not be swayed by a stranger in a bar, his dagger would taste the blood of his prey. He would silence the moans of his sister in his nightmares once and for all. He would know peace, and be able to walk amongst the Light once more. He pushed past the silver haired Arconan, his hand pushing her shoulder back slightly. The moment his palm touched her skin, however, Atyiru had moved to snatch the Gungan’s wrist and twist it, grabbing the Jedi’s shoulder and pushing him downward.

“I won’t let you kill that man. Why won’t you listen to reason?” she asked, staring into the Gungan’s eyes, her hand twisting slightly at his wrist..

Thump-thump.

Fear.

The sensation of every single nerve ending in the body being absolutely alive, alive like the lightning that speared storm-darkened skies. The feeling of pure, undiluted power arcing in every muscle and pore, so much wild tension that, by all rights, it seemed flesh ought to be aglow. An incredible rush thrumming in the blood, making it boil, making it sing.

Thump-thump. Thump-thump.

Fear.

The feeling of all that raw energy frozen in place, immobile, just like every ligament and bit of sinew. The feeling of every fiber of tissue aching to move, to flee, but unable to do so. It is unthinking and imprisoned — but inside, screaming. Screaming. Such warring entities rage within, that power and that poison. They go thrashing about inside, breaking, choking, playing circles with gray matter and making boweties of intestines. They cut off all coherent thought, obliterating all rational and logic and letting instinct run free.

Thu-thump., Thu-thump.

Fear. Terror.

Thu-thump, thu-thump, thu-thump.

She saw it, that fear. Not just that of the man he hunted, but his. She saw it as she stared at him without eyes. Rancid and sour, like sickness, an illness all its own, deathly and paralyzing. She could taste it like the cloying stench of slowly rotting flesh that coated the nostrils and tongue — the smell that hung in hospital beds and old sheets and on the breath of dying men, indescribable except for its wrongness and the way it never washed out.

Thu-thu-thump, thu-thu-thump, thu-thu-thump.

But not just fear, no. Anger too. Anger is quick and anger is fire. Fire is bright and fire is clean. Fire purges the dismay before it can even take root between the sulcuses of gray matter and turn synapses to stone. Angry ones, they yell. They scream. They curse at the world and swear vengeance above and the below. They chase old men into the dead of night when truly, they are the ones running. Running from the heat, the pain. Running from the fear.

Thu-thu-thu, thu-thu-thu, thu-thu-thu.

She could feel his anger, so strong it seared her blood where they touched, hot like fever. His rough skin burnt with the heat under her fingertips. If fear was the sickness, then rage was the symptom. Fear was what was going to eat him alive, but rage would do the killing.

Atyiru adjusted her grip just slightly as she twisted the Gungan’s arm behind his back, bent low over him as his ears and her braid brushed the floor. They stood prone and tense, like dancers of a final act, bidding the world farewell as the curtains collapsed their dream into darkness and ate them whole. If she wrenched her grasp to the right, she would snap his wrist at the thumb. If she pivoted left, he’d be freed.

“Listen to me, friend,” the Seer spoke slowly, just loud enough over the music that no one but he and the Gods could hear. “More blood will not silence your ghosts. Believe me, it never does. Revenge is an ashen thing, empty. Listen. To. Me.”

The Force came to her like an old friend, wrapping her in a warm embrace. She reached out, swaddling the Gungan in it too.

“Listen to me,” the Arconan repeated. “Let him go. Let him go and come with me.”

For the flicker of space between thunder-crashing heartbeats, it seemed to work. The Jedi’s muscles uncoiled, and he went limp like a dead fish beneath her. The horrible shrieking of his anger, his fear, his pain, it all went quiet, shattering as though the nightmares of an awoken child. Atyiru smiled, loosening her hold.

For just a heartbeat—

Rage roared up in a riptide, rushing over her. The bloodlust howled in her mind, pure fury boiling forth and screaming under her skin, crushing her senses under its fiery weight. It clawed at her chest, clawed at everything and everyone, seeking more, seeking something to hurt, something to maim and tear and break. Such unspeakable anger that there was nothing left for the rage to do but rip her open and bleed her out. No, not her. Not her, not her, him—

The Gungan’s bones became durasteel, his muscles whipcords meant to break. He broke her hold and tossed her bodily into the with all the force of a hurtling speeder. Her screech of pain was ripped away with the air from her lungs as she crashed into a mess of tables and chairs, shattered drinks and startled shouts raining down around her. Agony bit into her spine and lanced through her chest, skin splitting under cut-glass kisses. Atyiru gasped in a breath, instinctively inhaling the Force along with it, and gave a cry as her ribs ground together at their cracked edges.

A bubbling, otherworldly caterwaul unlike any sound she had heard before pierced the clamor as the blaring music cut off and suited bouncers began an advance through the crowd. The Consul struggled to her knees, glass cutting into her palms, and gave a shout, “NO, DON’T!”

But she was too late and the men too slow to listen.

The yowling Gungan, spittle flying from his mouth, swayed forward like a rabid animal, boney daggers appearing in each of his hands. He launched himself at the tavern’s guards, limbs flailing in a rage-drunk tangle, and tackled both to the ground at once. A breath later, he became not as water but as stone and death, the writhing pile of muscled bodies churning into a bloodied, wailing mess. The swift snap of bone echoed to the harmony of blood splattering the floor and the tearing of skin, and Atyiru could but cover her mouth and feel relief as the Humans’ lights disappeared into the Void with haste.

Others who watched begun to run, panic spreading through the crowd as flame through brush. Aliens of all kinds rushed for the door, the higher tiers of tables, ducking behind the bar and each other for shelter. Some went down, trampled. Some cried and whimpered, and some stood in frozen silence, unmoving, unthinking, driven mad, mad with—

Fear.

Atyiru climbed to her feet and drew her weapon from her belt. The seraphic, sky-hued blade unfurled with a bell-chime cry, her blood dripping down its spiraled hilt in steady rivulets. Her left foot slid backwards, her body pivoting as wind, arm steady as she pointed her weapon directly at the Gungan who rose from the carnage and fixed ferocious eyes — tired eyes, terrified eyes — on her.

“No more,” whispered the Miraluka, saber spinning into a whirlwind as she dove for her opponent.

“YOUSA ALL WILL PAY,” keened the enraged Ranger, tendons flexing as he leapt high into the air, clear over her head, and raised his life-stained daggers, falling like a comet to meet her.