my hobby: speculating how many new republic-era plot-threads could theoretically be resolved simultaneously. also letting force-sensitive children meet.
Centering oneself, when the world around you is so off balance, is difficult. As you stand in the ring, waiting for the big mandalorian to come to you, you’re swarmed with the feelings of others, the cacophony of a hundred different emotions, all tied up in one huge wave. You struggle. Three years of training and you can’t help but think that this might be what forces you to fail. Then Luke’s voice fills your mind.
There is passion, yet peace. There is serenity, yet emotion. There is chaos, yet there is also order.
The words repeat and the tide of too many feelings, too much energy, too many people flows away. You take a breath. You lift your eyes from where they were staring at the dirt covered floor. As if guided by some unseen entity your gaze naturally falls on a pure silver helmet set aside on a seat next to its owner. Brown eyes watch you curiously. Yet there’s a hint of wariness to them that has never been turned on you before.
You look away and yet you still see him in your mind, gut clenching into knots, knowing that this is only the second time you’ve ever seen those eyes.
“Let this aranar solus begin,” a graveled voice says and you turn to the side. “Brokor,” the elderly councilman says, finding his seat as your first opponent enters the ring. You let your arms fall to your sides as you turn and face the monster of a mandalorian saunter towards you. A heavy vibrosword double forged rests on his shoulder as he comes to a stop.
“Aren’t you a little small for a Jedi?” Brokor asks, looking you up and down.
A smile pulls at your lips as you turn your body perpendicular to him and begin to walk around the edge of the circle. “Aren’t you a little big for that cheese knife you’ve got there?” you ask, nodding to his sword. He chuckles at that, taking hold of the hilt with both arms, bringing it forward and readying to take his first swing at you.
You expect him to say something else, something to finish this pointless banter as you size each other up. He says nothing. Then Brokor surprises you. With a growl he hoists his weapon above his head and lunges, bringing it in a downward arc aimed for the crown of your head.
You leap to the side, feet leading you in a dance as you twist and turn. His momentum carries him forward to the edge of the circle, barely stopping himself from passing over the line. You raise an eyebrow as you move behind him, hands up and open ready to deflect another attack this time. He turns. An animalistic growl leaves him. Brokor hoists his sword up once again and steps towards you. You step back. Breaking into a run he stomps towards you. Your heels hit the edge of the circle. You wait. One step. Two steps. Three. Four.
On his fifth step, when his sword is readying to plunge itself into your face, you bend your knees and break to the side, twisting in a controlled leap. You can feel the air move as he passes you, going too fast to stop. Your leg kicks out for good measure, striking him in the quad, giving him that last little push as he tries to stop himself from crossing the line.
But he can’t. His feet leave the circle and yells of anger rise up from the crowd as you win your first bout. Quite possibly the fastest fight you’ve ever been in. And you barely had to do anything. Maybe this won’t be that bad.
A sigh leaves you as immediate regret hits you upside the head. You just had to go there didn’t you. Two seconds later and you’re on the floor, arms bound to your side by steel cord. The wind is knocked from your lungs and your head crashes against the stone floor with a resounding crack that no amount of cursing will fix. But it somehow soothes the pain.
“Fuuuck,” you groan as your eyes squeeze shut before you force them open again. You can’t afford to rest now. Not when the line of cord around you is pulled tighter and you’re dragged along the floor. Craning your head up you find the second Mandalorian, the one in black reeling you in, short huffs of air leaving him as he works to bring you in closer and closer. You eye the stun pistol on his hip.
You flex your fingers and wrists, gauging how much movement you have. Just a little farther. You reach towards your belt, the tips of you fingers brushing against hard metal. There. Bringing your knees up, you thrust yourself flat onto your back as your hand wraps around the hilt of one lightsaber, thumb brushing the activator. Bright green light flares outward as you cut the cable and throw yourself up onto your feet. The hum of your saber gives you an edge of comfort as several awed voices echo around you. The light of your green blade reflects in the reflection on the mandalorian as you slowly walk around one another. His hand falls to his hip. You know you can’t let him draw his pistol. Blaster bolts are one story, but stun shots aren’t something you can deflect. If he hits you with one, this fight is over before it’s even become fun.
He moves, fingers hooking onto the butt of his pistol and you throw out your hand, releasing the hilt of your saber sending it spinning through the air. He steps left to dodge it and you rush forward as the saber flies out of the ring, deactivating as it clatters on the ground at some Mandalorian’s feet. You’ll get it back later.
Now you run.
A stunned voice yells out as you leap into the air. “What the—"
“AAAAAH!” With a ferocious yell you tackle the black armored mandalorian, throwing your entire weight onto him as he collapses to the ground. In a mess of dirt and dust you roll with him, a hard punch colliding with your side as he tries to push you off him but your fingers are dug into the gaps in his armor, your hands are reaching. He takes you by the shoulders as you straddle him and rolls tossing you beneath him. You can’t breathe. Your ribs are bruised, maybe cracked by the time he throws you against the ground. Your fingers lock into an iron grip as you stare up at him.
“Do you yield?” he yells down at you. Your lips pull back into a bloody smile. A beskar covered fist slams into the floor beside your head. “Do you yield?” he asks again. You squeeze one finger.
Peeeew.
Blue light flashes. The man above you jolts. He groans. His arms go limp and he crashes down on top of you, forcing out what little air was in your lungs as you cough. Throwing the pistol in your hand aside, you twist your wrists, flipping your palms upward. The body on top of yours lifts up limply, head lolling to the side and you gasp for breath. You sit up as his weight leaves you and raise one hand. With a flick of your wrist, he soars through the air, passing over the threshold of the open doorway as the crowd steps out of the way, watching him as he collides helmet first with the floor. You stare at him for a moment, his body unmoving. With a grunt you stand up, dusting yourself off as the crowd breaks into an uproar.
“That’s too fast!”
“Pay up!”
“She cheated!”
Wiping your face you sigh and turn to face the rest of the room. You drop your hand to your belt, checking your second saber is still attached. You’re going to need it. Standing on the other side of the ring, literally standing between you and Mand’alor is the third fighter. She stands tall, spear to one side, hips jutted to the other as she leans against the solid line of steel.
“You worked them out pretty quickly,” she says, her voice low like grinding gears pushing against each other. You look over your shoulder to find Brokor standing on the sidelines, arms crossed. You imagine that if you could see his face, it would be pouting. You smile and bow your head to him before turning to the door. Your recently defeated opponent still lays unconscious on the ground. You turn back to the woman.
“They underestimated me,” you tell her, eyes sliding to the right as she steps to the side. “They wanted a quick match, so I gave it to them.”
She bows to you mockingly, arms outstretched, spear raised high. “I’ll make sure I don’t make the same mistake,” she tells you.
You sigh. You’re tired. Of talking. Waiting. Fighting. Your gaze drifts to the man seated behind her. He watches the both of you, hunched forward, elbows on knees, chin resting atop one hand. A flare of annoyance runs through you. He’s right there. And to even speak with him, you’re playing warrior when all you want to do is stop. He blinks those brown damn eyes as he notices you staring at him, lips parting, eyebrow rising up.
It’s then that you do the one thing Luke told you to never do: you attack first.
Your feet push off the ground sending you leaping through the air, fingers wrapping around the hilt of your saber. It ignites just in time to strike downward towards the mandalorian. You meet solid steel, the metal turning bright red where your saber connects with it. She drops to her knees, swinging out a leg to tangle with yours. It strikes you off balance, not much but enough that you throw yourself back to avoid the sudden jab of the sword tip. One step. Two steps. Your body loses control as you stumble towards the ring’s boundary. Swinging your arms, you arch your back, engaging your core to pull yourself to stand straight, legs bending to give you a solid foundation.
Your stumbling stops just in time for you to spin to the left avoiding yet another jab. She follows you, keeping you at a length. The spear gives too much distance. You can’t close it with a swing of your saber. You need to get closer.
Your feet widen their stance. Your knees bend as she holds her spear parallel to the ground, ready to jab at any moment. Lunge. As your draw closer and she thrusts towards your center, your legs drop out beneath you, knees colliding with the stone floor, your momentum carrying you across the floor. Slash. Twist. Your saber connects with the center of the spear as she blocks your attack. Her weight bares down on you from above, your face – a grim reflection shows in the visor of her helmet. You reach up with one shaking hand and grip the spear above you, the heat of your saber beginning to flow through the metal.
Your thumb hits the activation switch. Your saber shuts off.
What follows next is a mess of limbs, shouts and rough, crazed punches. The length of the spear collides with your shoulder, heat and bruising force forcing the air in your lungs to escape with a loud cry. You spin on your knees as she falls forward, losing her balance. Your sword is still in hand as you wrestle for the spear, rolling to the side as she fights you, a jab to the ribs nearly forcing you to release. But you hold.
You swing your elbow back, connecting with something – her face, chest, you’re not sure. But it’s enough to get your body between her and the spear. You wrench around.
“No!”
You can taste the dust in the air as you breathe heavily, holding her at spearpoint. Her hand is outstretched towards you and you start to smile. She’s disarmed. You won.
Then she flicks her wrist, the salvo glinting as a single shot leaves her. It’s a pinprick. Not live ordinance. You look down at your bare shoulder, a small metal bead embedded in the surface of your skin.
It’s an arcing pain, electric, racing through your entire body. Your lungs seize. Your hands drop the spear. You fall to the side, landing face first against the dirty, stone floor. Muscles spasms send you flopping like a eel.
A shadow looms over you as your body finally stills and as your vision begins to fail, you see the tip of the spear pointed an inch away from your nose. Then nothing.
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A/N: Stares at next chapter. Will we finally get the Din/Y/N reunion?
