A gambler’s den of the Vertical City’s greatest bettors, Club Vertica is a casino reserved for the wealthiest of Nar Shaddaa. Cardshark droids are used exclusively to deal hands to those willing to risk their credits at the sabacc tables. Cheating is rendered near impossible under the surveillance of the droid's six photoreceptors. That of course does not stop the downtrodden from accusing others of being a fraud, which can often happen before someone receives a blaster bolt between the eyes. The few that have able to use skiffers undetected are counted as some of the best swindlers in the Galaxy.

Cerulean lights illuminate the tables, making concealment during a game difficult. Seated around most of the oval tables are a mix of gamblers from different species, succumbing to their addiction for the ultimate prize—the sabacc pot. Credits are tossed onto the tables forming mountains that draw in fierce competitors with deeper pockets and faster wit than the usual patrons.

Behind the games of sabacc, drinks are being served from the alcove of a small bar. Most of these are a shade of blue in color, expertly mixed to dull the senses of all but the hardiest individuals. Onstage, a local band sets the mood of the venue with an upbeat number that deafens out most conversations. The stakes are always high at Club Vertica.

They called it a den. That was how Club Vertica was so often described by patrons and outsiders alike. It had an unmistakable allure that attracted those with a craving for high stakes and the rush that came with it. Such a thing was hard to describe to those who had never felt it, and Kazdan Chin had given up trying long ago. No stim could compare to the high of endorphins that could only be felt when the favor of fate lay with the risks more than the rewards. That was the driving force behind the diminutive looking man, with his shaggy brown hair framing a gaunt facial features, and his eventual path as a mercenary in the employ of the Sentinel Network.

His sunken blue eyes were mesmerising when set against his skin's olive hue — a fact he knew and relied upon — while his red and grey jacket disguised his skinny frame. He pulled absentmindedly at the collar of his shirt with his left hand while his gaze burned holes through the pale cerulean liquid swirling in the stout glass in front of him. Kazdan could feel the familiar weight of his blaster in its holster upon his hip, but it lacked its usual reassuring quality. Still, the merc felt the buzz of activity behind him as he sat in the alcove of the bar. The games of sabacc were in full swing and the band had just shifted into their next equally upbeat and obnoxious set of medleys. Yet with all the cacophony generated within Vertica, the silence offered by the man seated beside Kazdan managed to be deafening.

The Sentinel operative's body tensed as the man reached out and passed a credit chip to the bartender. The hand was deathly pale when contrasted against the burns etched through the man's flesh and the black, ribbon-like cloak that fell in layers around him. Kazdan knew there wasn't a logical reason for how jumpy he had become since the man arrived. There was a notable calm about the other man that should have had the merc more at ease, and yet there was something in the subtle recognition that shone for but a moment in the man's grey-gold eyes that told Kazdan he had become a target.

Meanwhile, Atra Ventus remained focused on his mission. He had not come to Club Vertica for the ambiance. In fact, any trail that took the Umbaran Grand Inquisitor to Nar Shaddaa was always met with a concentrated power of will on his part. He resisted the urge to rub his temples as the bright illumination bit at his sensitive optic nerves with fiery determination. Thanks be to small miracles, Atra thought as he focused on the relative shade of the bar itself. The bartender returned with his drink in short order, a mirror to the one that had been placed in front of Kazdan. The Umbaran's nostrils flared as the smell of liquor hit him and betrayed the sheer numbing strength of the drink. Thankfully, he had no intention of drinking it to begin with. It was merely an excuse to keep away from the better illuminated tables filling the club proper.

"Unless you intend on adding a new skylight to Vertica," Atra said with a slightly lilting accent, "you should take a sip before you jump out of your skin."

Jumping was exactly what Kazdan did in response to the suddenly broken silence between them. In fact, he nearly toppled his drink as his hands spasmed around it. It would have been amusing to Atra if it wasn't so pitiful at the same time. "I presume you are Kazdan Chin, then?" he continued with his eerily calm voice, loud enough to be heard over the noise of the club.

"De—" the merc tripped over his own tongue before steeling himself, "depends on who wants to know."

"A prospective employer."

Atra turned his head to claim eye contact with Kazdan as he replied. He had waited far too patiently to allow the potential opportunity to slip through his fingers. The Grand Inquisitor had done his homework well. While the members of the Inquisitorius so often worked alone, or in small units, the Umbaran had a notable advantage that worked in his favor. He was Praetor to the Voice of the Brotherhood, and privy to the resources such a position afforded him. It was those resources — the operatives within his sphere of influence — that Atra had relied upon to forge the complex web of connections that pointed towards this singular man.

It had been a series of coincidental meetings surrounding suspected Resistance activities, too many to trust to chance. Ship logs, transaction records, holo-recorders, and eyewitness reports all culminated in one man: Kazdan Chin. The conflict between the Jedi of Odan-Urr and the Brotherhood's forces had become a game of hide and seek since the destruction of New Tython. It had taken far longer than it reasonably should have to start finding cracks in the enemy's veil of secrecy, and the matter was far too important to leave for others. It was this need for success that had set the man second only to Evant — the Voice himself — on a collision course with Kazdan.

"Now that's a shame," the mercenary replied. "I happen to be exclusively employed for the time being, mate."

Clearly the idea that Atra was merely coming to him with a job had eased much of Kazdan's previous nervousness. It was quite the tightrope the man was walking, and Atra was sure the Odanites had at least the decency to be upfront about the risks involved. Working against a shadow organization would make anyone jumpy. Now that he had settled, Kazdan sunk into his chair and the Praetor thought there was a slight drawl to his words but had difficulty making it out over the band's latest tune.

"All I need is information," the Praetor remarked. He produced another credit chip from beneath his cloak and gave it a twirl before placing it between them. "About that employer of yours."

"Exclusivity comes with privacy, pal."

Atra nodded, having expected as much. For so many, loyalty always had a price point, but so did betrayal — you just needed the right currency. His focus turned inward, sifting through himself until he felt his connection to the Force within his mental grasp. He felt the distinct flavor of the Light, warm and soothing... and a lie. The Praetor dropped the concealment that had become all but second nature to him, feeling the Dark's embrace once more. The sensation was both hot and cold in equal parts and it washed over him greedily. Then his focus shifted once more, pushing that power outward.

Kazdan felt a tightening in his chest, the first unconscious response to the unseen tendrils slithering into the cracks between his thoughts and taking root deep within him. His pulse quickened and so did his breathing. Emotions welled within his mind; dark and primal in nature, they pushed against his reason. Even the din of Club Vertica seemed to fade into the background as Kazdan's body turned against him. Sweat beaded along the merc's furrowed brow as he fought the unbridled fear that sought to claim him, panic setting in as he teetered on the edge of failure.

Then it was gone.

Relief washed over Kazdan and filled the void left in the wake of his previous looming terror. He swallowed hard and composed himself once more before shifting his gaze to Atra, who was still staring at him intently. Could he have... no, the merc thought to himself before shaking it off. It had been a panic attack, nothing more. Live with risk long enough and they'd catch up to you eventually. "Now," Atra began again as he placed another credit chip on the counter, "I don't take you for a deviant, so we'll assume you didn't particularly enjoy that."

Kazdan swallowed hard, his previous suspicions suddenly being realized even after he had dismissed them. "What—"

"Tell me everything you know about this Sentinel Network," Atra interrupted.

Again, Kazdan swallowed and looked at his drink. His jaw worked back and forth while his mind weighed his options. The merc turned back to Atra and—BANG! The first shot scorched the counter and sent the credit chips there scattering deeper into the alcove. Another shot rang out, penetrating the glass pane of the windows lining the walls across the club from the bar. Now, while it wasn't uncommon for disputes in Vertica to end with blaster fire, sniper fire was an altogether different situation. The band ceased playing, but the noise within the club didn't lesson and was instead replaced by cries of panic and surprise as the crowd sought to either pinpoint the source of the attacker or find cover.

A series of shots fell in a line between the mercenary and the Inquisitor, leaving Kazdan to take advantage of the ensuing chaos by diving to the side and away from Atra. The Praetor exhaled hard through his nose and pushed away from the bar, rising to his full height as he turned to follow Kazdan. Another cascade of fire from the sniper forced the Praetor to hold his position, but not without suddenly being knocked back against the counter as someone pushed past.

Atra was already reaching for the saber hanging from his belt, his fingers wrapping around it, as he turned to locate his target once more. The sniper took that moment to shoot the glasses still sitting upon the counter which forced Atra to shield his face from the shards with his arm. He allowed himself another long exhale as he centered himself against the rage growing within him. Atra blinked several times after lowering his arm, having to adjust to the bright room once more, and found Kazdan standing calmly across from him. The Praetor shifted his gaze to the broken window and waited for more shots to come from wherever the sniper was perched, but none appeared.

"Friend of yours?" the Umbaran asked with a minor head nod towards the window.

"Something like that," Kazdan replied. The merc then shifted his weight. "Before this gets ugly, how 'bout we just go our separate ways?"

Atra's visage remained expressionless while his eyes glanced over the mercenary. There was something off about the situation that just didn't feel right, a peculiarity that didn't fit with everything else. "The alternative being?"

"I'd think that obvious," Kazdan replied with a shrug and an obvious air of confidence.

A confidence that was at odds with what Atra had seen in the man he had been targeting, and all traces of the merc's drawl were gone as well. The Praetor's left arm, covered with black fabric and a metallic bracer, rose from beneath his layered robe and tensed suddenly, forcibly cracking his own knuckles as he clenched his fingers. "Where is Kazdan, and who are you?" Atra responded dryly.

A half-grin spread on fake-Kazdan's face followed by a soft chuckle. "Should have figured this wouldn't work, but hey... one could hope," he said.

One instant, Atra was staring at an exact replica of the man he had been speaking to moments before, and in the blink of an eye he became someone else. The Praetor cursed inwardly, a mild flare of frustration at being tricked even for an instant. Atra had expected to see Kazdan, and that was what had allowed the newcomer an anchor to tailor his illusion around. A simple mistake to make and one the Inquisitor couldn't afford.

He took the opportunity to examine his opponent, making note of as much as he could. From the undercut hair style with a wolf tail in the back, to the stubble on his face, and even the bright green eyes that had a mixture of confidence and time-worn weariness, Atra was able to piece together exactly who he was facing. The leader of the Sentinel Network himself: Turel Sorenn. As Proconsul of Clan Odan-Urr, that much information the Inquisitorius had been able to piece together before the Jedi went off the grid.

"Kazdan isn't picking up right now, but feel free to leave a message, Inquisitor," Turel stated confidently before raising an eyebrow. "Or do you prefer Atra?"

The Praetor's eyes narrowed slightly, making note that the enemy had more information than he was altogether comfortable with, but it was to be expected at least. “I’d prefer if you just surrendered, actually,” Atra responded sarcastically. “They say there’s always a bigger fish. Looks like Kazdan just landed me one.”

Atra freed his saber from the hip and toggled its switch. The blade snapped to life with a hiss and a crackle as energy worked like sparks along its white length.

“Yeah, that’s… not going to happen,” the Proconsul said.

“Shall I drop him?” Echo-3’s voice crackled through Turel’s commlink. His reply came with a slight gesture of his hand, raising a finger within view of the sniper’s scope. As assets go, she was always reliable when Turel needed her to be.

“You’re not the only one with friends,” Atra stated with a noticeable smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. “Do it, Adalinde.”

“Finally,” the woman responded in Atra’s earpiece. The woman — his companion on most missions — had gained access to the club's power grid as a precaution before Atra had taken his first steps within. A sudden surge through the electrical circuitry caused the bright lights inside Club Vertica to flare for an instant before sputtering out in a shower of sparks, leaving only the light of the Vertical City itself shining through the windows and the pale, dancing glow of the Praetor’s weapon. He had closed his eyes protectively and stalked forward in response to his own command and found himself face to face with Turel in the sudden darkness.

He swung his arm up from its lazy stance at his side, a whisper in the Force allowing him to intercept a shot from Echo-3 before turning the momentum into a full cleave at the Jedi. Turel responded with a cool head and gripped his own lightsaber firmly. The lavender blade came to life and pushed Atra’s weapon away from its lethal arc.

The much shorter man settled into a defensive posture, keeping his muscles tense and ready for the attacks he knew would come. He took two steps back in an attempt to provide Echo-3 with a better firing solution, but Atra used his leg span to his advantage and kept close as Turel retreated. The Praetor took a probing stab at the other man’s defenses that was easily parried, then pivoted with a horizontal slash aimed at Turel’s midsection.

The Proconsul didn’t disappoint and managed to bounce the slash up and away from him with a countering slash. Atra smiled internally, enjoying the exchange while making note of the obviously defensive nature of Turel’s style. That could work to his advantage over time, so long as the Inquisitor managed to maintain his own stamina and overpower the Jedi.

“Huh, smart play,” Turel noted with a cocksure grin that elicited a slight curious tilt of Atra’s head. “Our positioning,” he continued while pointing over his shoulder with his thumb.

The Praetor sighed slightly and shifted his single-handed grip on his saber’s hilt. It had been the practical course of action: putting Turel between himself and the sniper. One less thing to worry about until he could figure out a better plan of attack. Atra should have expected the other man to pick up on it, but it confirmed at least one thing for him. This battle would be decided by the mind as much as the body.

The sound of broken highball glasses crunching underfoot broke the relative silence of the formerly busy casino floor as the two men circled each other trading blows with their blades. Each swing of the blazing sabers bathed the dimly lit room in hues of ivory and lavender with the occasional flash and shower of sparks when the weapons met. Atra continued to press his physical advantage to keep Turel on the defensive and negate Socorro’s line of sight for sniper support. It quickly became clear to the Jedi that the odds of this situation were not in his favor. His eyes darted around the darkened room as his mind raced for possible ways to turn the tide.

Turel had expected to snare an Inquisitor in this little ambush that he could capture and interrogate. He never dreamed he’d catch the deputy to the Voice himself, though now he was starting to think he’d get devoured by this bigger fish if he wasn’t careful. Atra was noticeably stronger and faster than the Sentinel was and his combat style seemed to lack the unfettered aggression so common among Dark Side users. The Umbaran’s advance was constant, but not reckless. Each strike and movement was calculated and precise, moving only as much as needed and applying his strength to any perceived weak points.

Every time Turel tried to move the fight back into Echo-3’s line of sight, Atra would quickly flank him and force the Jedi back on the defensive. This isn’t working, I need to level the playing field somehow. The Jedi moved away from the Inquisitor toward the now abandoned stage. Switching to a one handed saber grip, Turel pointed his free hand at the advancing Atra and willed a loose Kloo Horn on the stage to fly toward his opponent. The Praetor sliced the instrument in half without so much of a hitch in his stride.

“Not much of a music lover I take it?” Turel quipped as he called on the Force for his next move. Atra’s lack of any response was deeply unsatisfying. The Jedi slashed upward just as the Umbaran was getting into striking distance. His target was a low hanging set of stage lights. The fixture came down as expected, but instead of landing on Atra it stopped midair and abruptly flew toward him. The Sentinel had no time to dodge the improvised projectile, which struck him in the midsection and knocked him over.

Atra stood poised to follow his telekinetic counter-attack with a finishing blow when a screaming warning through the Force caused him to turn around and block an incoming sniper bolt. Turel’s gambit wasn’t a complete failure; by making himself a tempting target on the stage he had gotten his opponent to momentarily forget about positioning. The Jedi pushed the lighting fixture off himself as he struggled to regain the wind which had been knocked out of him. Time for a change of venue.

He keyed up his commlink, “Keep firing!” Unable to resist the chance to gloat, the Sentinel turned to his opponent. “Protip: If your evil plan is to fight someone in the dark, don’t use a bright glowing blade of light to do it. Kinda misses the point.”

Atra dove behind an overturned table and moved from makeshift cover to makeshift cover to get out of the view of the window. Socorro had bought Turel a few second at most.

Turel’s commlink crackled to life, “I have to move, the security forces are on to me.”

You’ve done enough Socorro the Jedi thought as he raced toward the stairway to the lower level with Atra closing the distance behind him. He deactivated his saber and focused on hiding his signature in the Force as he ran. All he had to do was break line of sight somehow and it would give him the opportunity to either set up a hasty ambush or escape. He wouldn’t have any support on the ground floor of the casino. Turel quickly weigh his options as he cleared the final flight of stairs leading to the atrium. The Praetor to the Voice was a once in a lifetime target. He likely wouldn’t get this opportunity a second time. He couldn’t just flee, he had to try to capture him somehow.

The casino atrium was as gaudy as any Hutt decorated establishment was. The room was filled with fountains, plush furniture, hanging tapestries and gold statues of the various casino managers and founding investors. Why anyone would ever think a statue of a Hutt was something people wanted to look at was beyond Turel. The once busy foyer was now abandoned with luggage, papers and various items strung about the floor as the patrons and employees fled. The fountains were still and the lights were out as power was still out in the building. The only illumination in the room trickled in from the bright lights of the street outside.

Turel quickly ducked behind a Hutt statute just as Atra came down the stairs. Once in place he devoted his full concentration to hiding his presence in the Force. The Sentinel silently readied his dart launcher, he’d likely only get one shot.

Both men were now the hunter. Both men were now the prey.

The Praetor took a slow, patient step from the last rung of the stairs leading to the atrium. Atra hadn't rushed to catch the Proconsul of Odan-Urr like so many others would, but had conserved his energy and stalked him as a predator would with prey they were certain had no chance of escape. Just as Turel's capture presented too great an opportunity to overlook, the Praetor was certain that the other man had much the same thought process in regards to him. Neither would be fleeing so easily.

The Inquisitor had already learned one thing in their encounter though, thanks to Turel's need to stop and gloat: they didn't know he was Umbaran and subject to light sensitivity. Why else would the Jedi have misjudged the reasoning behind killing the lights? So the Sentinel knew who Atra was, but not what he was. A perk of his peculiar appearance among his own kind perhaps. That, at the very least, was a positive takeaway from the engagement no matter its resolution.

The Umbaran paused in place to survey the room with his grey-gold eyes. His segmented cloak swayed around him as the last traces of his momentum faded away, and his saber sat inactive within his right hand's grasp. His gaze was raptor-like in its focus, adding to his unsettling appearance now that he wasn't bothering to disguise the Dark Side within him as he had earlier. "Turel Sorenn," Atra called out, his voice echoing in the empty confines of the atrium. "What happened to all that bravado you showed at the Grand Master's tournament?"

The Praetor resumed his advance, strolling out into the open as his head swiveled slowly from side to side. The gaudy decoration and furnishings of the casino was almost overpowering, but Atra still reached out with all his senses. Tendrils of the Force snaked like probing fingers within the ether and searched for any sign of the Sentinel. "I must say, I expected... more from you," he continued.

With his back pressed against the Hutt statue, Turel was hardly what he would call comfortable as he waited for his chance. He maintained his focus despite the burning need to offer up his own retort to Atra's taunts. His Force signature remained concealed from Atra's probing and that was the way it needed to stay. The Sentinel's breathing was slow and controlled with his concentration focused on the task at hand.

"Come out and play, Sorenn," Atra called out again with his carefully even tone, "or should I ask your sister instead?"

Turel raised his eyebrow at that, unable to contain himself entirely. "Clearly you haven't met my sister. If you want your ass handed to you that bad, you just need to ask nicely," he muttered while trying to judge the other man's position without giving away his own.

Atra let out a hard exhale through his nose as he sidestepped an askew pile of luggage that had been left in the foyer. Turel's ability to hide was certainly impressive, and altogether infuriating. The Praetor maintained his calm but even his considerable patience would not last forever. Motion in the corner of his eye drew Atra's attention, causing him to spin about in a flurry of strands, ready to attack... his reflection.

The Umbaran's body relaxed once more as he stared into the still waters of the fountain. He felt the corner of his lips pulling back in a grimace as he looked over his mirrored visage in the glassy surface. "What I am... is necessary," the Inquisitor murmured. It was a mantra he had repeated so often he barely ever needed to say the words aloud, and yet he felt compelled to in that moment. Another sharp exhale escaped his throat before the large man growled quietly and threw a nearby suitcase into the water. The resulting ripples broke through his reflection and distorted it beyond recognition, no longer there to offend his gaze.

Suddenly, a chill crawled up Atra's neck and a sense of warning came from behind. He spun about once more and ducked to the side, barely stepping out of the path of the oncoming dart which pierced through the trailing strands of his segmented cloak. The Inquisitor's eyes narrowed as he spotted Turel with his arm outstretched and his dart launcher exposed, just leaning out from behind one of the nigh unbearably ostentatious Hutt statues. "I wonder," Atra mused, "what someone like you fears."

The Proconsul donned a cocksure grin — possibly his default expression — before rising to his feet and stepping out from behind the statue. No need to hide when you're already spotted, after all. "I'd have to say clowns, really. That makeup is definitely the stuff of nightmares," Turel responded with more than a hint of impudence. "Kind of like all those dramatic outfits you Sith types are into. Just tragic."

The Dark Jedi allowed himself a half-grin of his own, not bothering to correct the other man about the differences between someone like himself and the followers of the Sith — though he had spent time as one. "Let's find out together then," Atra offered sarcastically. "It could be enlightening. I hear Jedi are all about that." The Inquisitor raised his left hand, directing his focus through the simple physical act, and let his dark power flow through the space between them.

Turel braced for an attack, with his left arm raised defensively and his right hand pressed against his Enforcer in its holster. The attack, however, wasn't so overt as that. The Sentinel realized exactly what was happening as he felt the cold touch of the Force surrounding him. His awareness was pulled inward, along with the probing tendrils of power forcing their way into the cracks of his mind. Turel's chest tightened as the first wave of anxiety swelled within him, only to crest and fall away as a single word lingering in his mind.

Failure.

Memories, twisted and malicious, played like a slideshow within his consciousness. New Tython burning, Vorsa's pain echoing through their bond, the hopeless cries of so many innocents followed by sudden silence. Many more images merged together in a rush that couldn't be put to words, but their meaning was like a dagger through his very essence. It was not an obvious fear that fought to terrorize the Proconsul of Odan-Urr, but something far more insidious. It was the fear that came even unknowingly to those with responsibility. It was the culmination of all the potential repercussions that could come with a single misstep.

Turel's hands balled into tight fists, his nails cutting into the flesh of his palms. His enemy sought to have him overwhelmed by terror, like Timeros had tried himself in the final phase of the Grand Master's tournament. The Sentinel hadn't let it break him then, and he wouldn't let it now. His resolve would not falter. Through an act of sheer will, Turel pushed back against the seemingly impenetrable wall of emotion and found its cracks. He pushed back at doubt with confidence, and fear with hope.

The terror could not claim him.

Turel inhaled with sharp, rapid breaths as the world snapped back into focus for him. The chill of the Dark Side was replaced with the heat of his exertion. Sweat beaded along his brow and stung at his eyes only to be brushed away by a swipe of his forearm. The attempt had only lasted a few heartbeats, but its effects would linger still.

"Interesting," Atra acknowledged. He lowered his left arm and rolled his neck from side to side, then ignited the surging, ivory blade of his lightsaber once more.

"You forgot 'dashing' and 'charming'," Turel said before pulling his Enforcer free of its holster. He knew the physical differences between them, but there was no element of surprise in the moment. The Sentinel needed to reclaim that, and there was always a way. He just needed to figure it out.

The first shot rang out, echoing within the foyer, and forced Atra to take a step back while blocking the slug with his blade. Turel broke into a run and fired again. The Jedi needed to close the distance between them while keeping Atra from taking the offensive, and his staggering shots were doing just that. As the space shrank with each step, Turel activated the shield on his left arm. The buckler-sized disc of energy formed with a hum he could feel reverberating faintly along his forearm. The Sentinel dropped his center of gravity and pushed Atra's saber arm up and away with the shield, leaving the large Umbaran wide open. Turel crashed into the Umbaran with the full force of his momentum, barreling through the other man and rolling along the ground.

The Sentinel was back up to his feet in almost an instant, having instigated the collision and been prepared for it. He maintained his sprint and broke line of sight once more as he moved between the fountain and another set of statues. He had to rely on the relative darkness deeper inside the atrium to give him the advantage once more. Turel hid his presence again while trying to think of some trick to pull off Atra's capture. Perhaps an illusion would be to his benefit, and he could see how the Praetor liked having his own head messed with.

Meanwhile, Atra had to center himself once more after having the wind knocked out of him. His saber had slipped from his grasp and rested among a bundle of the papers that littered the foyer's floor. A tug of the Force brought the hilt back against his palm and the Praetor closed his fingers around it tightly. As he came to his feet once more, the Inquisitor couldn't help but question if the effort was worth the reward, in this case. He began searching for a sign of Turel once more when his earpiece crackled to life. "Whatever you're still doing in there," Adalinde's heavily accented voice said in his ear, "you might want to hurry up. Security is getting set up outside."

"But that sounds like fun," Atra responded dryly. He afforded himself a mental groan and rubbed his tender side as he straightened, turning to look out the glass panes that stood tall along the atrium's entrance. The bright lights outside had been joined by the flashing red of Nar Shaddaa's security forces and their vehicles. Time, it seemed, was growing short.

A rational voice somewhere in the back of Turel’s brain told him to run while he could. He couldn’t overpower the Umbaran and fight off the Nar Shaddaa security forces who likely still had his biometrics on file from his past run-ins. Cut and run, live to fight another day, things a sane person would do in this situation. The Proconsul was anything but a normal person when it came to physical confrontations. He has an intractable stubbornness to his personality that is at times both his saving grace and his downfall. In this particular moment, it was the latter.

The Jedi charged his dart launcher as quietly as he could. The now depleted shield on his other arm was still warm from use. A toxic dart, a lightsaber, half a clip of slug rounds and a desperate plan was all Turel had. He’d won sabaac tournaments with worse hands. The flashing lights outside grew brighter as the security forces tightened their cordon of the establishment. It was now or never.

Atra suddenly felt a ripple in the Force as Turel stopped concealing his signature. He couldn’t tell precisely where the Jedi was hiding but he knew the general direction. The soft lavender glow of a lightsaber igniting emanated from behind nearby statue. The Praetor stood his ground, waiting for his prey to emerge. Turel did not disappoint. The Sentinel emerged from behind the statue in a reckless charge. Atra took up a two-handed saber grip and shifted his dominant leg to his rear. He would be the rock that the Jedi’s wave broke upon.

The Umbaran swung his saber in a horizontal arc to meet his opponent’s. Instead of a clash and sparks his blade found only air as Turel ducked into a slide at the last second to slip past. Atra pivoted to face the Jedi below him on his left flank. His saber now turned toward his opponent on the backswing from the first maneuver. The Sentinel appeared to be slicing toward the Praetor’s shins from his position on his side. Atra reflexively lept above Turel’s blade as he brought his own down toward the Jedi’s now undefended head.

In the split second his feet were off the ground, Atra felt a warning of danger blare through the Force. The source of the danger was right behind him. He felt a strong shove strike him right between the shoulder blades. The Turel in front of him vanished in a blink as Atra flew face-first onto the ground from a telekinetic shove.

Before the Praetor could rise, the real Turel landed on his back and shoved the dart launcher into his neck.

“Dodge this!”

The sting of the dart going into his jugular caused the Umbaran to buck like an angry rancor, throwing Turel onto the ground behind him. Pure animalistic rage and survival instinct took over. The dark side coarsed through every muscle in his body and before he knew what was happening his was rising to his feet, arms outstretched, as Turel floated in the air before him desperately clutching at his throat for air.

“Not fair,” the Jedi wheezed as he struggled to keep his dark side wielding opponent from crushing his windpipe. It was all he could do to telekinetically push back enough to get small gasps of air. It was a losing struggle, soon he’d be overpowered and it would lights out.

Then the dark vice around the Jedi’s throat relaxed as Atra slowly lowered his arms, stumbled around, then slumped to the floor.

---

Atra awoke to find Adalinde pulling him to his feet. “What happened? Where’s Sorenn?” He inquired as she drug him into the street over a pile of dead security officers.

“He got away.”