The Godless Matron was once a Trade Federation battleship, crewed by countless droid workers. Since then, many sections of the ship have fallen into disrepair due to the sheer amount of manpower involved in its maintenance. As a result, parts of the central sphere of the Lucrehulk-class battleship has been left to the ravages of time and the scars of the Clone War itself.

The crew has come to refer to this section of the Matron as The Gauntlet, largely due to the danger it represents. Located in the lower regions of the command sphere, it is a crosshatched network of ruined and damaged hallways, repair bays, and even crew quarters. While most power has been shut off to this section — save for critical systems such as life support — the systems and circuitry still require occasional maintenance in order to keep the entire framework operational. Such tech runs have become a matter of betting amongst the crew, earning it the nickname: running the gauntlet.

A heavy layer of dust sits mostly undisturbed along the debris of the halls, save for the footprints of the few crew that have tread the path before. These previously walked paths are a safety net for those who venture into The Gauntlet unknowingly. It is also thought that the remaining Separatist forces staged a last ditch defense within this area of the ship, and did so by any means necessary. Many traps, ranging from explosives to spring-loaded mechanisms, are littered throughout the untravelled pathways — or even still undisturbed within the known sections. Further still, malfunctioning B1 droids and even semi-active Spy Drones remain, ready to ambush the unsuspecting observer and adding to the dangers of the dark, debris filled tomb The Gauntlet has become.

Countless perils awaited those who ventured into the furthest depths of the Gauntlet. This fact was known to the crew of the Godless Matron better than most. There was opportunity, however, when the right circumstances presented themselves. The Herald had offered safe passage and not an entirely small sum of credits to whomsoever managed to 'run the Gauntlet' successfully. The proof of such a feat lay deep within the labyrinthine halls themselves, with a banner bearing the Herald's crest waiting to be claimed.

The risks of the Gauntlet alone were enough to dissuade most, but the crew of the Godless Matron had insured that the ante, so to speak, was to be raised. Those who entered the Gauntlet would do so from varying access points, and all would gain entry at the same designated intervals until the prize was claimed.

It was always a series of seemingly random and unconnected events that led to the least ideal outcomes. Less than one standard rotation ago, Laren had arrived on the Godless Matron, having heard there was a near-infinite list of job opportunities. He quickly found himself wandering rickety Chute Town, entering the array of ramshackle cantinas in search of work. He wanted to get his name out there with those looking to hire a man of uniquely murderous talents. But one drink became another, and before long the counting stopped and any memory of how he had ended up agreeing to run The Gauntlet was buried deep under a regrettable alcoholic escapade.

He had awoken – surprisingly coherent and fully outfitted – in an entirely different section of the ship. He stood up, wiped off the copious amounts of dust clinging to his clothing, and took stock of his surroundings. He was in a hallway devoid of life, one of many that he could see, and had been dropped on the wrong side of a clearly sealed and malfunctioning doorway. The damage to its circuitry was evidently sentient-made, most likely the result of a blaster. Someone had cut off his obvious avenue of escape.

So this is The Gauntlet, he thought gruffly as he began his trek. Laren was careful to step over fallen bulkheads and avoid still active circuitry protruding from the rusting, durasteel walls as he cautiously wandered the Godless Matron’s forsaken center. He had no idea where he was going, only an idea of what to look for: the banner.

Suddenly, he stopped at the corner of an intersection, pressing himself flat against the nearest wall to his left. He wasn’t alone. The clang of powerful, armored footsteps could be heard around the corner. Laren turned his head, expertly peaking to get a visual on the new arrival. His heart sank at the sight.

A powerful human man dressed in Mandalorian armor was slowly making his way toward Laren’s position. The scarred, hooked-nosed man was well-armed, and he walked with the coiled grace of a seasoned warrior. Intricate lightsabers hung at his waist, along with a slew of other weapons and gadgets attached to his utility belt and wrists. He was a man, and, Laren assumed, a Force-user that was dressed for war, perhaps bred for it. And if the unique armor Laren had so often seen on Mandalore gave any indication of his heritage, the man relished aggressive combat almost as much as Laren did.

The run is a bloody race, he realized. Laren took hold of his blaster with a firm, two-handed grip. He had not expected to run into anyone in this deserted part of the ship, which was clearly an ignorant thought on his part. It turned out traversing a crumbling, metallic labyrinth wasn’t enough entertainment in pursuit of a piece of cloth. An expensive piece of cloth, however, and one that Laren was determined to cash in. But he knew that he had to engage the man, try to catch him off guard, and then run for his life before he was discovered. A direct engagement against an enemy with two lightsabers and a Mandalorian obsession was not a challenge Laren could hope to overcome head-on.

Bringing his blaster to bare, the Pantoran snarled ferociously, firing a quick burst from his DC-17. As he fired he moved adeptly, side-stepping in the direction he had originally been traveling. The Jedi – or was he a Sith? – activated his sabers with supernatural speed, deflecting the bolts into the bulkheads. Laren fired another volley, this time into a nearby control panel. Sparks erupted from the now defunct station, flying into the face of his adversary. Laren took the distraction as an opportunity, losing sight of the human in the adjacent hallway as he dashed away. He heard the familiar whoosh of lightsabers gliding through the air at an intense speed, and he knew that he was being followed closely.

“Nice to meet you!”

“Whoever you are, I will kill you,” was the blunt reply.

Laren turned his blaster on the ceiling as they ran, bolts of cerulean plasma scorching and breaching tarnished durasteel framing. Metallic fragments fell in Laren’s wake, forcing the Mandalorian to dodge potentially fatal debris with effortless grace. The human was persistent and closing the gap between himself and Laren.

The chase, and the race, was on.

Some of the Brotherhood's finest had not come to this place willingly, taken in by drink and poison, to fight for the entertainment of the crew of the Herald's ship. Others still came here simply because they wanted a damn good fight, hoping that the lust for battle would sustain them another day. Mateus Kelborn was one such being. He was not here to drink and be merry. He was not here because someone had stolen him in the night. He was here to kill people for sport, pure and simple. Fortune and glory would be his, no matter who stood in his way. Many trueborn Sith would consider this a waste of time and energy - not for Mateus. War was a muscle that needed to be flexed every now and then to keep it strong.

As the Pantoran fled deeper into the belly of the metallic beast, the warrior knew only to give chase as best he could. Laren's legs carried him with lithe celerity, vaulting over a fallen steel girder like a sand panther, clearing it quickly and efficiently. The moment his feet touched down, he pivoted in place and unloaded a short burst of blaster fire from his sidearm before dashing off again, hoping only to distract the Mandalorian warrior from his onrushing, headlong charge. He didn't expect a shot to take out his opponent, but that was fine. He just had to beat his opponent to the prize. Surely a man clad in such heavy battle armour would be slower, right? All he needed was his wits about him and a good eye with a blaster pistol to take the banner and cash in for a wonderful payday. It was a race, a scramble to the finish line. He took the opportunity to vanish behind a corner, disappearing into the darkness - even if he was a Jedi, all he had to do was disappear where he couldn't be found.

Keen senses locked behind the helmet spied the landing of the contender to the prize and the Force whispered dark truths in his ear. With a whirl of his twin sabers, humming viciously as they carved bloodthirsty arcs through the air, a trio of blaster bolts found themselves splashing harmlessly onto the detritus of a war long over. It was enough of a distraction, giving Laren the single moment he needed to become one with the shadows and removing him from Mateus' sight. Whatever. If he was gone - and Mateus couldn't sense his presence right now - then he was not a threat, merely a contender. That suited the Sith just fine. One less problem to deal with in the immediate future, beyond the reality of the fact that he had to beat this slippery snake to the prize.

This place was a labyrinthine maze of damaged circuitry, barely-functioning glow panels, and fallen steel. Plated feet crunched over the debris, every step measured carefully as eyes darted around to scry the terrain. Somewhere off in the far distance, an echo well away, Mateus could hear the dissonant footstep beat of his enemy moving his way through the underbelly of the ship. Electric arcs crackled through the air, the stench of ozone mingling with the musty stench of an ancient, dusty place as it provided momentary illumination. The only real light that Mateus relied on as he moved through these darkened hallways were the two-tone glows of his lightsaber blades, casting both flickering vermilion and steady amethyst glows across the walls of this ship. Every step was a dangerous one, threatening to shift the blaster-scored debris underfoot or to unveil some ancient trap laid here before their time. How far he had truly travelled through this ruin was unbeknownst to him at all, mingling with the uncertainty of danger.

In short, Mateus hated this place.

The Mandalorian halted at a junction, two corridors linking further into the depths of the vessel. Faint light could be seen from the reaches of both hallways, indicating that something worked all the way down here, at least. A little less of the unknown, and only a simple question of which path to take. Mateus went to move down the hallway that looked to end in a mechanical workshop, a likely place to plant the banner at the far end.

He'd almost forgotten about his enemy. Complacency was the silent killer.

The Pantoran mercenary remained crouched in the darkness in the hallway opposite his opponent. He could see the powerful form of Mateus treading warily towards the mechanical workshop at the end of the corridor. With every deliberate step, Laren could hear the telltale crunch of the withering deck under the Sith’s feet. The entire enclosure was a time capsule, a monument hidden away in isolation and darkness, to a war fought among nearly forgotten titans.

Suddenly, a loud snap breached the once tranquil silence. Mateus maneuvered his mauve blade closer to the ground, looking for the source of the sound. A thin tripwire lay ripped in half to either side of his left boot. Clearly the marauder had sprung a trap, but his sight was nearly useless. What awaited him? He honed his anger and violently latched onto the Force. His eyes fluttered closed as he concentrated, attempting to feel the battlefield with every iota of his being. He waited patiently, allowing the Force to surge within him for his next strike. They are coming.

Mechanical footsteps could be heard behind Laren, and he nervously turned to look down the hallway. This time it wasn’t the sound of boots, but the familiar clang of metal-on-metal. One pair of artificial feet became two, and then more joined the efficient, mechanical march toward the mercenary’s position. The marauder clearly heard it too, his lightsabers pivoting to face the hallway he had previously left unexplored in favor of a more tactically obvious venue. But the opportunity to join battle with these new adversaries was too much of an opportunity to waste, even in the middle of a race.

“Shoot to kill,” came an automated, monotone voice from the darkness.

"Roger roger.” Droids, it seemed.

Crimson blaster fire shattered the once darkened corridor. B1 Battledroids, six in total, were marching down the hallway in a muddled formation, poorly dodging the debris littering the corridor. Their frames were in serious disrepair, evident by various lubricants and liquids oozing from their joints. Their metallic bodies were so rotted and dilapidated that the two rear droids were barely able to hold their surprisingly functional blaster rifles. Laren could even smell the pungent odour of rusted durasteel and neglect from the advancing droids mingling with the musty stench of The Gauntlet. They had apparently been placed on standby as a failed ruse against Republic forces who had once invaded the ship. Now they were live, and they looked like the stuff of childhood nightmares come to life.

The Mandalorian deflected their fire and began advancing with virulent intention, wanting to crush the droids. The two closest droids to his position increased their rate of fire, hoping that quantity would inevitably defeat the lightsaber-wielding sentient before them. The Sith’s reaction was swift, with one droid falling to an expertly diverted blaster bolt, and the other being torn in half by a wildly aggressive slash through the torso. The Mandalorian screamed - no, he roared with a fury Laren could hardly comprehend and set his sights on the following two droids.

“You’re not a clone!” said one of the rear guard droids, looking down at the Pantoran mercenary who was still laying on the ground.

"Oh bloody hell.”

He had hoped not to be exposed, but it seemed the droids could still see well enough in the dark through their degraded visual hardware. Laren fired his DC-17 and stood in one rapid, continuous motion, dropping the rear droids and ending their miserable existences. Laren turned to see his Sith opponent falter, clearly wrestling in his mind as to what target was of the highest priority: the two remaining droids, or the Pantoran? He won’t have time to figure out.

With an insidious grin, Laren used his right hand to pull a thermal detonator from his utility belt. He quickly activated the weapon and tossed it in the direction of the Mandalorian and the droids. The mercenary didn’t wait to see the reaction of the trio, pivoting quickly and dashing away into the darkness. All this running was beginning to weigh on him, but he knew he had to push through. The man was bigger and clearly stronger than Laren was - all he could hope was that he could wear him down, or that the thermal detonator turned his opponent into dust. Yet Laren had prickling feeling it wouldn’t be that easy.

Mateus had enough sound in the distance to put stock into where Laren was - the one advantage to idiotic droids was that they would unintentionally make little mistakes such as poor choices of dialogue. Mateus had a bead on his true foe now - between predator and prey were only a few ancient clankers, which posed little threat to begin with. Somewhere, on the edge of his psyche, there was a whisper and an echo of a new metallic sound that seemed nothing like the sullen footfalls of bipedal droids.

Whispers and echoes became clarity. Clarity became a warning.

Move. Or die. I don't care which.

The thermal detonator slowed as it ambled towards the Mandalorian's feet, flashing its sinister countdown towards oblivion. There was only one thing he could do in that split second, given enough warning: sprint forward, sabers whirling a psychotic dance through the air on either side of him, carving through the thin durasteel of his fragile opponents. As the Force propelled him to superhuman speeds, Mateus dove head first into the wellspring of mystical energy around him, dashing well past the explosive device. Behind him, the detonation rocked the innards of the Godless Matron, gouging an entire chunk out of the ship's decks. The remains of the battle droids were enveloped and incinerated in an instant. The shockwave knocked down the running warrior, the shrapnel slicing him open. Both of his lightsabers clattered away, brilliant blades disengaging as the weapons left his hands.

A howl of pain pierced the air as Mateus struggled to his feet, brushing off what of the pain he could by bathing himself in the ambient energy around him. This would not be enough to end him, but the blood trickling down his spine was a definite detriment to everything that went on around him. Dazed and staggered momentarily, Mateus re-focused his energies and found that even now he could still sense his enemy, vanishing into the night as he might try. There was little place left to run now. His discarded lightsabers were called back into his hands, their steely and familiar presences a soothing touch even as his body screamed for the torment to end. What started as an unsteady amble became a steady walk and once again a full-tilt Force dash into the shadow as Mateus hunted the Pantoran mercilessly, trying to find him even in the shadows of the belly of the beast.

The Quaestor was crafty, taking his time not to run too far ahead in order to avoid setting off yet another trap in this ship. Unlike the Arconan that hounded him mercilessly, he was a mercenary, not a butcher, working for contracts. This debacle? This wasn't just a hire job, this was self-preservation now. He had to outsmart this guy and see if he could get the warrior to end his own life on whatever this ship had to offer instead of fighting head-on. Every footstep had to be watched carefully and calculated for traps. Trip-mines, det cord, remote explosives, inactive droids; anything and everything down here could hide another way to the end of a life.

Eventually, the darkened labyrinth came out to a final room - a junkyard full of old droid parts, a cavernous space that seemed to play home to a cargo hold, once upon a time. Littered with the remains of dozens of corpses, clusters of data terminals and downed shelving units, this was clearly the end of the line with no other entrances in sight. The glow panels overhead worked perhaps half the time, flickering in and out of functionality with little in the way of repairs over time. Wide and high, this place was the perfect place to store droid parts, perhaps repair a few on the spot, and keep them inactive until the next wave of Republic troops came through to invade.

It seemed they already had, decimating a few dozen battle droids on the way through.

In the middle of it all, wedged in droid corpses, was the banner. Quietly sitting, it waited for someone to claim it. Laren smiled - he was mere metres away from his prize. Every step drew him closer to the pile of credits he knew waited for him, the fame, fortune and glory-

A snarl echoed from behind him, scything that thought apart.

"You're mine, little man."

Bloodstained and bruised, there the Shadesworn stood behind him, blades raised. There was nowhere left to run now.

“Not if I can help it, Mandalorian scum,” retorted Laren.

He was unprepared for the untimely return of the hulking marauder, having once again underestimated the survival of the Force-wielding savage. If a thermal detonator couldn't hamper the beast, what would?

“Arcona Invicta!” Mateus cried, his booming voice echoing off the high walls of the room.

A proud Arconan. That may be useful, Laren thought, storing the information for later use.

The mercenary had little warning before the Mandalorian moved to press his advantage. With no opportunity to raise his blaster, Laren instead executed a well-timed barrel-roll, avoiding a gruesome blow through the center of his body. The Pantoran quickly regained his footing and fired a quick burst from his blaster, attempting to slow the Arconan’s momentum. The Shadesworn responded by deflecting the condensed plasma harmlessly into a scorched heap of disabled droids as he closed the gap between himself and Laren. Mateus then raised his amaranthine blade, intending to deliver a vertical, downward strike.

Laren's reaction was swift and decisive. With an agile grace, Laren lowered himself into a deep stance and expertly pivoted aside, knowing that he would just barely avoid the descending lightsaber. The Sith, taken aback by his quickness, was helpless to halt his blade. Laren took advantage of this, unleashing a well-placed chop with the butt of his hand blaster that descended upon the wrist of the Mandalorian, causing him to drop his lightsaber and stumble forwards. The massive human, unbalanced by the blow, barely managed to remain upright on two feet. Laren could hear an enraged snarl emanate from the beast, giving him a moment of smug satisfaction upon the battlefield.

Laren’s superiority was short-lived. Mateus quickly regained his proper footing while he called his fallen lightsaber back to his outstretched hand. The Pantoran abandoned his widened Nexu stance and tried to catch Mateus off guard, firing a string of plasma bolts at the marauder’s legs. Mateus deflected the bolts with a sluggish arc of his coral blade, exposing his weariness.

Suddenly, the convoluted whispers in the Shadesworn’s head materialized with a simple order and dangerous finality: Strike him down. Now.

Willing his aching legs and bruised body into action once more, Mateus bounded toward the Pantoran for one final assault. Calling upon the Force was a struggle, but Mateus felt the rush of raw power flow through his body, somewhat easing his immense pain. He focused this power into his arms, and with Force-augmented speed he unleashed a horizontal slash toward Laren’s torso.

In response Laren leapt backward, hoping to avoid the strike and fire a debilitating shot at the Mandalorian. However, he had underestimated the hulking human man’s speed.

The well-placed lightsaber strike struck true. Mateus’s mauve blade nearly missed, but then found its mark as it cut a wound into the Pantoran’s dominant left side. Laren screamed in agony, the distinct smell of his own charred flesh filling his nostrils. The blow caused Laren to lose balance, tumbling uncontrollably into a fallen shelving unit.

The mercenary lay motionless on the ground, the cauterized wound on the left side of his torso exposed to the churned up swaths of dust. Every meager breath Laren took was horrendous, with each expansion of his chest feeling like being stabbed with a thousand blades at once. He attempted to focus his thoughts away from the pain, instead focusing on a plan to save his nearly forfeit life.

Think man, think!

Laren could hear the labored breaths and slow footsteps of his exhausted foe slowly advancing closer to his sprawled body, evidently readying a killing blow. Laren’s spare blaster was awkwardly pinned under him and he was in no condition to continue fighting. The only sliver of hope he had lay in his words.

“Arconan,” he rasped, his voice strained. He opened his eyes to see the towering man standing above him, ready to bring his blades down on the helpless Plagueian.

“The banner is yours.”

A victorious grin swept the bloodstained face of the Mandalorian. He saw Mateus’s eyes glow with triumphant pride as he turned away to claim his prize.

I am never drinking again, thought Laren as he drifted into blackness, leaving the wounded Arconan to claim his victory.

Surrounded by damaged droids, Laren found himself with only a few steps of recourse left - there was plenty to hide behind, plenty to move around on. Standing still and letting this Sith get into melee range was going to be his downfall, however. There was no way the Pantoran would let himself get caught by the pair of energy swords. No merc worth his money would be beaten in a place like this.

Laren raised his blaster, already squeezing off his first pair of shots - twin blades whirled through the air, flicking the iridescent beams sideways before the Mandalorian arced high through the air with the Force. Laren took the chance to use the backpack of an old battle droid as a springboard, leaping through the air towards an overturned set of shelving. Tucking and rolling, the mercenary positioned himself into cover as he pulled off another shot to cover himself before moving again. The easiest target was a stationary target and no amount of cover would fix that.

Conversely, the human warrior clad in battle armour had no such qualms about cover. He was his own best defence. So too was he his own best offense. As he pointed his left arm towards the debris in the middle of the room, Laren spied the motion and realised with horror just what was attached to his left wrist: a rocket launcher.

"Kark!" spat the Quaestor as he sprinted away, hoping to evade the carnage that was about to unfold.

The explosive anti-vehicle rocket leapt forth from the launcher, shrieking through the air as Laren tried his best to avoid it. What he didn't know was that the vicious barbarian hounding him was manipulating the projectile with the Force, guiding it through to its final target - only a metre behind Laren's feet. Just as he'd done before, shrapnel flew through the air and the concussive wave knocked him off-balance. Pain sliced its way through the Pantoran, shards embedding themselves all up and down his body. The momentary distraction was just enough for Mateus to pounce. Once again airborne, the Sith warrior knew that he could kill this man with one jump, impaling him simply on landing it he could make it.

Laren knew better. Rolling onto his back, one arm already shot to hell with five metallic fragments in it, he held his blaster in the other and pulled off four shots in rapid succession, aimed straight for Mateus' chest. Gasping for pain, the mercenary knew that if he could just find his mark even once, maybe he could end this thing sooner rather than later.

The first shot found Mateus' foot in the middle of his arcing jump, the howl of pain a palpable thing in the air. The other three drilled straight through his chest.

As the Sith's body hit the ground, accompanied by the sweet melody of parts crashing and flying around him, the Pantoran struggled to find his footing, clutching his lame arm as he stood up. Maybe he would've been a great fight somewhere other than this; maybe even a potential ally, based on their allegiances. Here they were, though, stuck in the underground depths of an ancient warship, fighting for survival. Maybe this Sith was better than him - but on the day, someone less skilled could still win out. That was probably what happened here. Stronger and faster, maybe, but The lithe little Laren was fast on his feet. Fast enough to take this guy down. The muscle called the brain could be flexed as much as biceps sometimes.

All he had to do was pull the banner out of the pile of droid corpses and limp home. The blood trickling down his arm made the banner pole slick and hard to grasp, but the cool touch of durasteel as he coerced it from the ground was a reminder that yes, victory was a sweet kiss. He cast the body nearby one last look of remorse, then began the trek back out of the vessel. Oh well. Job done - no longer his concern.

Now to get rich. Shame he almost had to die trying to get it.