The Godless Matron is home to many, resembling a micro-society for those who wish to live outside the typical 'rule' of the galaxy. The Lucrehulk-class battleship's massive hangars have been converted into dwellings as a result. Chute Town is the most notable of these makeshift towns. Many shops and storefronts have been constructed to take advantage of the higher volume of foot traffic. In addition, many ships and crews arrive into Chute Town to sell their "well-earned" commodities, weapons, or artifacts. It is commonplace to find the best and the worst gear the galaxy has to offer, it is only a matter of how big your pocket book is. The 'streets' are patrolled regularly by the crew of the Matron itself, leaving would-be miscreants to be more wary, lest they find themselves on the receiving end of a pirate's sense of justice.

It is built mostly out of spare durasteel panels from derelict ships, dismantled machinery, or any other source or material the pirates could scavenge. It spans the length of the massive portside hangar of the Matron, reaching from it's heavily protected reactor — hidden behind triple-reinforced blast doors and a guard retinue — all the way to the hangar entrance where the many incoming ships unload their cargo. It is more than a mile long, over five hundred feet wide and up to three stories tall, covering most of the floor. Chute Town's streets are a miniature maze, weaving in between buildings on several levels. Verticality is key for the masses of shops and bars to operate without interfering with one another. The main street is nicknamed Murder alley, mostly because all the weapon shops are prominently opened there.

Illumination banks are staggered along the walkways and buildings to provide enough light for the society to function. Still, the 'streets' are left dim with a low hanging fog built up from the collective humidity of so many people in one space. For those calling it their home, there is no such thing as 'off hours'. A large crowd bustles along at all hours, an exotic assortment of individuals from countless planets and the warring gangs that divvy up the territory within. It's the perfect place for those looking to disappear in the crowd.

With tensions running high, Chute Town was far more volatile than it would have been otherwise. Several of the gangs had been stepping outside their territory of late. As yet there had been no outright acts of aggression, though the perceived slights had been steadily mounting for weeks. The cracks in the dam were beginning to show. The crew of the Godless Matron just needed to apply pressure to the right place at the right time to trigger an outright gang war.

To that end, a bounty was put in place. The premise was simple enough. The Herald would grant a measure of clemency to whomsoever cashed in the ID tokens that had been planted on several individuals at random. Such a prize was without measure for not just the gangs of Chute Town, but the denizens themselves.

Dangling helplessly in the air, the man struggled to catch his breath. His throat was constricted within the vice grip of a Zabrak, whose patience was beginning to wear thin. Not one of his queries had provided answers and his time was running short. He had no desire to draw out an encounter providing no martial challenge. For whatever most sentients thought of him, he did not enjoy causing wanton suffering like some Sith. His goal was merely to find the strong, preferably Jedi, and crush them.

Kul’tak shook the man one last time, ignoring the woeful glances of civilians as they fought their consciences and kept walking. Fear. As useful as any weapon when applied efficiently.

“I’ll ask only once more, pirate. Who else possesses the tokens? Someone must have a list.”

The man gurgled his intention to speak, so Kul released some of the pressure on his throat.

“P-please...I told you before I don’t know anything. Her Ladyship only mentioned they were randomly given to visitors aboard the vessel. Exact details are above my paygrade.”

Kul had to give him that point. The Herald surely knew how to keep things exciting on her vessel. She was lucky her little stunt hadn’t caused a complete riot. Things had seemed to die down a bit as the initial excitement slowly dissipated. Which Kul had thought would help him track any token-bearers, but they had all gone dark like himself. Waiting for the opportune moment to strike. Thus forcing him to become more overt in his search. Which was getting nowhere. He certainly could not stop and ask every single sentient that walked by.

Slacking his muscles, Kul prepared to release the man. Then he felt the fabric of his hood close in as a weighted pressure rested against his neck.

“Put the man down.”

Kul liked his hood. It was times like this, however, that prompted him to forego one completely. Unable to see who it was that threatened him so flagrantly, Kul growled in annoyance and clenched his fists. Unfortunately that did not help the Human any, who scratched at the Zabrak desperately as his throat was fully closed off. He realized his temper was getting the best of him, so Kul regained control and dropped him before his lack of air became permanent.

“Thank you. Now, turn slo- “

Kul spun, utilizing his cloak to visually impair the newcomer, and slapped the blaster away from his face. The newcomer managed to center his weight, but could not stop the palm-heel punch the Zabrak drove into his chest. The blow was meant to push the Human away, but the man was sturdy and apparently well trained. The strike forced him to lean with it, but he stood his ground without giving a step. Kul might have granted the save to the man’s flamboyant Clone War era style armor, but he knew better. He could break stone when embracing the Force. Armor would have no effect here.

Though he could see the appeal behind painting the armor a regal purple, it disheartened him. A real warrior cared not for such trivialities as aesthetics, but in practicality. The man’s appearance reeked of self-attributed authority, almost like one of the…

No...it can’t be. Why would one be here?

The man brushed his chest nonchalantly where Kul had struck. Since he made no retaliation, Kul took the opportunity to prod as he growled out speech. Extra emphasis on the growls.

“You would stand against a Sith? Armed with naught but a blaster?”

Tarvitz cocked his lavender helmet to one side before reaching up and removing it, locks of hair falling to rest on his shoulders. He chuckled amusedly at the bristling Zabrak, nonplussed after taking a direct hit from a “Sith.” If that was all the power this Zabrak could muster, no wonder he was harassing innocent shopkeepers. Admittedly, he had felt his body scrape a few centimeters as he absorbed the blow, but he still felt confident if there was a situation brewing. He was relieved to see the shopkeeper had moved on safely, as well.

“A Jedi is more than enough for the likes of you, Sith. How ‘bout you pick a fight with someone who can actually fight back?”

Kul’s eyes immediately became glossed as his emotions swirled, and only one thought became his deepest desire: to kill all Jedi. Then, tokens forgotten, a beast emerged and he leapt.

Tarvitz turned his shoulder in towards the enraged Zabrak’s charge through the fog choked air, allowing the familiar thrill of battle to take hold. He was barely given time to firmly plant his feet against the tarnished deck plates before the two collided. There was a crack like a smith’s hammer, and Kul stumbled backwards as if he had been thrown headlong into a durasteel bulkhead. To his credit he did not fall.

As Kul withdrew, momentarily dumbfounded, Tarvitz advanced, raising the fist still clutching his helmet and smashing it into the alien’s horned face. His makeshift weapon repeatedly pistoned into Kul, driving him backwards towards a blackened scrapmetal stall, and away from any potential bystanders. Tarvitz grunted, feeling something crack under another blow, staining the helmet with Zabrak blood. Satisfied, he stepped back, lining up the pistol on Kul’s chest. For a second he paused, making certain the bolt wasn’t about to sail to one side and strike one of the fleeing residents in the back. It was a second too long.

Seemingly oblivious to his shattered nose, Kul dropped and spun, his foot lashing out and tearing the weapon from Tarvitz’s gauntlet; sending it skittering under one of the makeshift shops and out of sight. Then, without pausing he darted forwards, one hand bracing himself against the rusting metal floor, one leg hammering into Tarvitz's side. Pain flared across his abdomen as Tarvitz was hurled boldly into the air, plasteel and ribs alike cracking under the impact. He landed heavily, sliding backwards before coming to a standstill several meters from Kul, the familiar taste of copper filling his mouth.

On reflection, he thought as he dragged himself upright, perhaps this had not been the smartest plan after all. He had hoped, just for once, to maintain a relatively low profile and blend in with the grimy streets of the shanty town. Passing himself off as merely another bounty hunter among the dozens present, he could have claimed each ID token with ease. It would have been a simple thing, but no, that old itch to defend the helpless had dragged him into another fight; this time with a vermilion skinned nightmare who seemed ready to part Tarvitz from his spine. Likely with his bare hands.

Letting the bloodied helmet fall from his grip, Tarvitz reached for another weapon, and then paused. The Zabrak was no longer there. There was an empty space where he had been standing moments before, and something told Tarvitz that his foe wasn’t the sort to flee from a winning battle. He could still feel Kul’s rage through the Force, but it was somehow distant and subdued. Glancing about he searched for any sign of Kul, his optical scanner whirring with activity as the crowds began to draw in.

With the more cowardly (and somewhat more innocent) bystanders having fled, their duel was drawing in the killers. Mercenaries, pirates and bounty hunters alike were rapidly flocking about them in a broad circle, cheering like schoolground children sensing a fight. Something told Tarvitz hey weren’t about to let him retreat despite his injury, either. No matter no matter the era, any impromptu gladiatorial bout would draw an audience hungering for entertainment. Then again, perhaps there was something to that.

“Ladies, gentlemen, if you please,” Tarvitz called with all the bombasity he could muster, throwing his arms wide in a manner akin to a performer “It seems my opponent has taken leave of this battle. Any chance you could find him for me?”

Laughter rippled throughout the crowd, rising as he began to stalk about the edges of the makeshift ring. Grandly gesturing with every taunt denying the Zabrak’s prowess, he reached out with the Force, probing the emotions among them. Unskilled as he was as this particular facet of a Jedi’s talents, even Tarvitz could tell the difference between sensing mirth and rage. It was difficult to truly pick out at times, to separate from among a myriad of different emotions. Yet as his exaggerated claims continued, each was intensifying, until before long the rage he had so keenly felt was little more than an island among a sea of laughing faces.

There. In the shadows cast by the walkway overhead. He was there.

With one last declaration, Tarvitz drew the WESTAR-M5 from across his back, raising it over his head. Then, in a flurry of motion, he dropped it to his shoulder and loosed a hail of bolts into the cloaked Zabrak’s hiding place.

Ka went over the word count and is DQ'd for this match. Drol will receive 0.36 points for 1 post.

Both are free to queue again, and please ignore any timeout emails for this match. It is a known bug.