As I drew closer to the city, amidst the prevailing gloom, I was still able to make out enough to reach a definitive conclusion: despite the passage of time—which had clearly done the city no favors. Mos Eisley lay spread out before me. It was the place where the Empire had once maintained an outpost long ago—and where I, playing as my character, had last made a stop. Something gave my mind a sharp "twinge" at the thought, yet I couldn't quite pinpoint what exactly had put me on edge.
For some reason, I had been convinced that after the Empire's departure, this cesspool would simply sink beneath the sands within a couple of decades, never to be remembered again. But I couldn't have been more wrong! There are certain things that refuse to sink—not only in water but in sand as well—and this was one such instance. Surprisingly, this glorified shantytown had expanded into a rather respectable "urban-type settlement"—if one could call it that—with tall, imposing structures even peeking out from behind the rooftops of houses.
From one of these buildings—standing precisely on the spot where the spaceport had once been—came a particularly raucous clamor. It seemed as though every inhabitant of this backwater had gathered there in a collective frenzy to shout and gawk at something of interest. It reminded me somewhat of regional hockey matches: not quite a massive, jam-packed stadium, but judging by the sounds, certainly a significant number of sentient beings gathered in one place.
All in all, I reached a simple conclusion: the locals must be celebrating some sort of holiday. That explained why they hadn't reacted to my sudden appearance—they were all simply too preoccupied. Well, what can I say? All the better for me. I felt the urge to drop into a local bar—a *cantina*, as they call them here—but alas: even if the locals *did* accept credits instead of their native Hutt currency, the Force (just kidding—actually, it was common sense) told me that credits dating back to the Sith Empire probably wouldn't cut it. Strictly speaking, I *did* have access to a mind trick... Or rather, my character did—though for the life of me, I couldn't figure out how to use it right now. It was still far too early for me to attempt that level of manipulation—way too early. On the other hand, using the Force to enhance my physical movements was becoming easier and easier. No weakness, no fatigue—I felt absolutely fantastic. Though, I doubted I'd feel quite the same once the sun came up... but screw it.
My first order of business was to track down a local and give him a thorough grilling. I didn't think he'd turn down such a charismatic young man... er... *ahem*... cyborg—especially at night, and especially in a dark alleyway. The locals were sure a skittish bunch who tried to avoid provoking outsiders whenever possible... Or maybe I was wrong, and they'd just try to kill me. A solid plan—right up my alley.
Besides, as I walked along, something inside me kept "whispering": *The harder the challenge, the better.* I couldn't quite pinpoint where this thought was coming from, or even what exactly it referred to. Yet, whenever I focused on it, any lingering traces of fear would simply evaporate. No, I still didn't *want* to die—but now, at least, I was confident that I could take action in a crisis rather than just standing there like a statue.
Yeah... the formula goes something like this: armchair expert plus Sith Inquisitor—all crammed into a single body. It truly makes for one hell of a messed-up combination. After all, here's how it works: whereas before I used to have plenty of thoughts about how I *would* act in this or that situation—only to usually chicken out when it came down to it—now... Now I'll curse myself to the end of my days if I don't start acting the very instant those "brilliant" ideas of mine pop into my—undoubtedly *alternatively* brilliant—head.
Oh, why on earth am I even needed here? I'm just going to get myself killed by the very first Jedi I run into. Back in the game—even with all my skills—I could only take those guys down with the help of a tank companion to keep them occupied while I hammered them with my entire Force arsenal. Now, however, I'm all alone, and my arsenal has dwindled down to nothing more than basic Force Lightning. Even if I land a direct hit, it won't inflict any crowd control—it's far too weak to make their muscles seize up with spasms. And as for lightsaber combat skills? Don't even get me started.
Even my in-game character couldn't exactly boast about his swordsmanship, let alone me now, armed with nothing but fragmentary knowledge. Maybe I could fend off some random Padawan—relying purely on reflexes and muscle memory—but a full-fledged Jedi Knight, or someone like Ventress? They're definitely out of my league right now. Of course, speaking strictly in game terms, those Jedi had way more "health" than I did. But here's how I interpret that: if you're dealing with a monster—like a rancor, for instance—then sure, it makes sense; they'd naturally have a massive health pool. But with a Jedi? I figure that "health" stat actually represents the durability of their Force barriers against my techniques, or perhaps their sheer agility—rather than "Health" in the traditional, biological sense. It *was* a video game, after all. It's more like: they dodged the blow—or maybe it just singed their clothes—but the effort of evading still drained some of their energy, effectively chipping away a bit of their "health." It's a clunky theory, I admit, but lacking a better one, I'll stick with it.
Fundamentally, it sounds plausible enough, and it clearly illustrates just how far behind I lag compared to all these Jedi when it comes to survivability. It puts it in stark, numerical terms—since, as a rule, their HP pools were always vastly larger than mine. I'd better keep that fact constantly in the back of my mind; otherwise, there won't be any medical probes to call in, nor any chance to "respawn" wherever I please... If things go south, that's it—off with my head, and I'm done for. Just like Dooku. Lost in thought, I hadn't even noticed I'd drawn right up to a massive stadium—or rather, an arena, judging by the building's shape—from which the roar of the crowd was emanating. There was no one else on the road; it seemed all the locals had gathered inside. I wouldn't be surprised if they'd even set up a betting ring.
As expected, a droid stood guard at the entrance; upon seeing me, it demanded the admission fee: ten credits. What a hunk of junk! Ripping people off in broad dayli... Oh, right. It's nighttime. Well, alright then. But I'd try a little trickery of my own; after all, what's the harm in trying? As a test, I held out one of my own credits—an "original," ancient coin—just in case it might pass muster.
The droid immediately pressed it against a scanner pad, checked the results, and then—I swear—let out a disappointed sigh before flinging the coin somewhere behind its back. It then sharply advised me to get lost, declaring that "it couldn't be fooled by such a fake." And indeed, even if I *were* capable of deception, Force suggestion doesn't work on droids. Which meant... What did it mean? Go back to my capsule and sleep until daybreak, then try questioning the locals? Leave empty-handed!?
In a fit of rage, I kicked a stone that had inconveniently rolled under my foot, fuming over the situation as I strode as far away as possible from that accursed hunk of metal. The thought of slicing the droid in half crossed my mind a couple of times, but after cooling down a little, I immediately banished the idea. And at that very moment, I caught a glimpse of movement out of the corner of my eye; I instantly spun around to face it—pivoting my whole body—with one hand already resting on my lightsaber, bracing myself for trouble.
In the alleyway, a small silhouette came into view. In the darkness, I initially mistook him for a Jawa; but upon closer inspection, I recognized a Rodian child. His condition was absolutely wretched—and I'm not even referring to his worn, heavily patched clothing, but rather to his physical appearance: he sported a black eye—the result of a punch from either a peer or, more likely, an adult. Both scenarios were grim, to be honest. He also possessed an anorexic build—so gaunt, in fact, I marveled at his ability to remain standing on his own two feet.
I walked up to the kid, sighed as I took off my pack, pulled out a packet of hardtack, and tossed it to him. The boy didn't come any closer—keeping his distance—but he caught the treat and looked at me with disbelief. Well, what did he expect? Sure, I'm a Sith, but I'm not some kind of animal. I never cared for that "survival of the fittest" ideology; while I actually found much of what the Empire preached appealing, that particular notion certainly wasn't one of them. It's sheer nonsense, if you ask me. The reason humans rose to the top of the food chain is precisely because they learned to help one another—including the elderly, the young, and the wounded. After all, you'd think that for some prehistoric societies, an old person would just be dead weight—just bash them over the head with a rock and be done with the problem—but no...
I don't know how things worked in the GFFA, but I doubt it was all that different. Among our own ancestors, the elders became teachers who prepared the young for adulthood. That way, there's a place for everyone in society; that whole "survival of the fittest" rubbish was invented solely to justify all the filth that the Empire was just as rife with as the Republic is now.
"Thanks..." a child's voice said, snapping me back to reality.
"Listen, kid—I hope you know how to show gratitude, so do me a favor and answer a couple of my questions."
Surprisingly, I spoke calmly and automatically in Basic. My voice sounded a bit muffled, passing through the filters of the half-mask covering my face, but that actually lent it a certain charm—and I rather liked it.The boy simply nodded silently in response, and I didn't waste any time:
"What is this city called, and what's going on here?"
I accompanied the latter question with a nod toward the arena, while asking the former purely as a precaution—after all, when I had "been" here in the game, I hadn't seen anything resembling this arena. Of course, I could have gathered this information tomorrow—I could even have questioned that droid—but I feared he wouldn't survive another interaction with me, and I didn't want to wait too long. I had a distinct premonition that I needed to hurry.
"Mos Ila, sir. The arena hosts gladiatorial bouts, and a performance by a gladiator sent directly by Jabba the Hutt is about to begin. He dispatched him—along with funds to organize these events—to every settlement possessing an arena, or a suitable substitute, in order to host a series of celebratory games. I don't know exactly what he's celebrating, sir, though it seems to be something related to his son," the lad explained. I smirked and asked:
"Am I to understand, then, that the arena is running a betting pool?" He nodded timidly in response. I asked my next question, yet only as the words left my lips did I feel a flicker of uncertainty—the realization that I was seriously contemplating actually putting this plan into action:
"Good! Just excellent! I reckon I could put on a show myself, couldn't I? Just how tough are the local gladiators?" Although the part of me that was still a "armchair expert" absolutely dreaded getting involved in this, something deep within my soul kept insisting: "The harder it is, the better." I simply couldn't resist this strange impulse emanating from the very core of my new self. Of course—despite all my bravado—if the arena had turned out to be home to some genuine monsters, like a pet rancor or a Krayt dragon, I certainly wouldn't have dared set foot inside. But... this wasn't Mos Eisley! Who in their right mind would drag a rancor into Mos Ila!? But if the combatants here were just ordinary sentient beings, the idea of earning enough for "passage"—to somewhere a bit more hospitable—by placing bets didn't seem like such a bad one. However, the kid's reply quickly dampened my enthusiasm:
"Nobodies, sir. Compared to Jabba's gladiators, they're nothing. Take that gladiator he sent here, for instance. His name is Khem Val, I think. He tossed all our guys around like a krayt dragon scattering a dozen Jawas—and he didn't even use a weapon! Too bad I missed it myself, but they say it was quite a spectacle!" he rattled off, while I cursed inwardly.
Khem—the hell with him—Val! The Sith Inquisitor's first and indispensable companion in *SWTOR*—the one I'd met even before my graduation from Korriban academy . These memories—belonging to the body of Thaalas—immediately surfaced in my mind, feeling as real to me now as my own actual past. Khem belonged to the Dashade species: beings highly resistant to the Force, which made them a particularly nasty opponent for any Force-users who dared to stand in my way.
Before we met, he served Tulak Hord—a figure about whom I know next to nothing. Judging by his occasional slips of the tongue, the two of them got up to quite a lot of mischief together; eventually, however, he was locked away in stasis—and that is precisely the state I found him in. At first, he flew into a bit of a rage upon learning that his beloved master had already perished; but with the help of a few choice words—and just a *tiny* bit of Force lightning—I managed to impress upon him that it simply isn't good form to attack his liberator... especially when that very liberator happens to be *me*!
Alas, what's past is past. Yet right now, I am certain that this brute will be itching for a rematch. And that is where the trouble begins. He is an excellent fighter—and, to top it all off, resistant to the Force... So what now? Do I just abandon this lout right here? No; somehow, that just doesn't sit right with me. Besides, it wouldn't hurt to have someone standing like a living wall between me and my future enemies.
I also finally realized what had been nagging at me throughout this whole situation. Back on the ship, when I boarded my escape pod, I hadn't seen a single living soul anywhere—and the hatches to all the other pods stood wide open. It seemed the crew had used a different section of the ship for their evacuation; but was it really just a coincidence that I crashed landed *precisely* here—and so close to a city, at that? And not only that, but right near the very spot where my former traveling companion happened to turn up at the exact same time?
"No," I answered myself aloud, paying no mind to the curious stare of the young boy nearby.
Of course, one could always pin it all on the "mighty Force"—that cosmic entity supposedly orchestrating everything in the universe exactly as it pleases—but as far as I'm concerned, that's just utter nonsense. Let's leave that particular point of view to the fanatics—the likes of the Jedi. Personally, my primary belief is that it is the sentient beings who construct the world as we know it—and that world would not have changed all that drastically had this very *Force* not existed. True, perhaps technological progress would not have been quite so impressive; yet, conversely, one cannot rule out the possibility that the world might actually have been far better than it is today.
As for Ventress proving to be far more cunning than I had initially suspected, that had already become a nearly indisputable fact: I had seen with my own eyes that I was by no means the only one being held in carbonite stasis aboard her ship—yet, for some reason, it was *I* who had been thawed out. And the escape pod had landed in the precise spot it was meant to. Kay Vall is the property of a Hutt. And I need him. Obviously, by "taking" him, I will expose myself and divert attention away from her. She has almost certainly laid several additional traps to ensure that the trail of the abduction—of which I no longer had any doubt—leads directly back to me.
Well, that's clever. Alas, in this instance, I was outplayed before I even entered the game. So, drawing on Taales's experience, I can say there is only one way out of the resulting trap: brute force. Fortunately, that's something I can—sort of—afford to do. Provided, of course, that I team up with Kem first—if I can manage to "convince" him to rejoin me while he's in his current state! Ah, and where does all this confidence come from? After all, I know even fewer techniques now than I did when I fought him back in the game, following the storyline.
"To hell with it! The harder it is, the better," I whispered, barely audible.
By now, a plan was beginning to take shape in my mind, and to execute it, I needed to get inside the arena... And that kid would come in handy, too. I don't know if I can truly rely on him, but I simply have no other choice. I don't know any mind-trick techniques, and I won't find any better guarantees anywhere else—a fed beggar is plenty motivated to help his savior in return, as far as I'm concerned.
So, about thirty minutes later, everything was ready. I ran through the plan with him one last time, just to be safe, and then headed toward the arena.
To start, I circled the building itself, checking for cameras or any other observers. Everything seemed "clear." There was only that commemorative droid at the entrance; step out of its line of sight, and you're completely invisible to anyone watching. From there on out, it was simply a matter of technique... Focusing my mind, I tried to channel as much Force energy as possible down into my legs. I had to stand there like that for about two minutes until I felt the results of my manipulations. Say what you will, but it was gradually becoming easier for me—now, for such "simple" actions, I didn't even need to enter a "state of rage" anymore. I'm confident I could even lift that container over there into the air—and by the looks of it, that thing weighs a good forty kilos. Finally, having steeled my resolve, I leaped onto the nearest rooftop. Then—striving not to lose that momentum—I broke into a sprint once more and executed another long jump. With nothing but my fingertips, I managed to latch onto a series of pipes that girded the arena in several parallel rows; together, they formed a sort of "ladder" that my gamer's intuition told me I could use to ascend.
There was just one tiny detail I hadn't accounted for, though: this wasn't a damn game. And the very next instant, I felt the full force of that reality, for the pipes turned out to be hellishly hot! The heat seared through even my gloves, leaving me no time to "channel" my power back into my hands; I had to scramble up just as I was—and as fast as humanly possible.
At last, having reached the final row, I nearly howled aloud as I surveyed the next obstacle before me. My palms would surely be covered in blisters by tomorrow—but as the saying goes, a miser pays twice, while a homeless guy pays with his very health; and I, it seemed, fell squarely into that latter category. However, glancing around, I realized that I would have to jump again. Just like that—pushing off from the final row of pipes to attempt to grab hold of the arena's slightly overhanging rim with my scorched hands. The height wasn't exactly mind-boggling, but it was substantial—about five or six stories by the looks of it. It was a long way down, and I wasn't sure that even with the aid of my Power, I would survive a bad fall; yet, I found I could no longer stop.
I don't even know what kept driving me forward like that. Perhaps it was the Force—or maybe my new temperament, born of my fusion with a pureblood (or nearly pureblood), goddamn Sith—but in any case, I felt no fear; only an intoxicating rush of adrenaline. After making my final, most perilous leap, I finally managed to latch onto a ledge—nearly plummeting into the depths below in the process—holding on by just three fingers. Yet hold on I did; I then hauled myself up, clambered over the lip, and found myself inside a sort of maintenance alcove.
The grandstands were shielded from the daytime sun by a specialized canopy—now illuminated by a host of spotlights—along whose rusted girders I made my way, striving to make as little noise as possible. Not that it mattered much, however; the spectators were already raising a deafening roar as they watched a battle unfold between two Wookiees—how they had ended up in this sandy hellscape was anyone's guess—who were fighting with genuine melee weapons: a massive two-handed greatsword in the hands of the first, and an equally monstrous spear wielded by the second.
Finally, I reached my destination—directly beneath me lay the most lavishly decorated private box, occupied by a handful of thuggish-looking characters, most of whom were—surprisingly enough—human.
The box itself was quite spacious and dimly lit—presumably to avoid making things too easy for any potential snipers—but in any case, that only worked to my advantage. A lone hulking bodyguard—also human—stood at the entrance; this meant I could drop down right behind him and quickly neutralize him. And after that... Well, good old-fashioned improvisation. I knew nothing of these guys' personalities—or even their names—and thugs of their ilk understand only one language: force. So, it looked like I'd have to throw a few punches.
Was I nervous? Of course. It was my first truly dangerous mission, after all—though at the same time, Taales's memories reminded me that we had pulled off more raids like this in the past than there were sentient beings currently gathered in this room.
In any case, there was no point in stalling any longer. But first, I summoned a surge of rage from the depths of my "soul." It came far more easily than it had before; I didn't even have to *imagine* the bastards—they were sitting right down there, discussing the sale of drugs and slaves, as well as how to extort a ransom from a certain family by kidnapping one of their children. They weren't even trying to be discreet about it; I could hear everything perfectly clearly from where I stood.
The very next instant, I dropped to the floor, and everything sprang into motion—while time itself seemed to slow its pace. The moment I landed behind the hulking guard blocking the doorway, I immediately pressed two stunners—salvaged from my survival kits—against his back; cranking the power to maximum, I unleashed the charge. Surprisingly, he actually managed to react the instant he felt the cold metal pressed against his spine—though not quite fast enough. He had barely begun to move when electrical currents seized his muscles; a second later, he slumped to the floor unconscious, and I turned toward the bandits, who had frozen for a brief instant. The very next moment, they frantically overturned every piece of furniture they could find—attempting to use it as cover—and began blasting away at me. In my slowed perception, their shots appeared as sluggish streaks of light—effortless to dodge. I know that precognition is typically the standard method for such feats, but I am not yet sufficiently adept at such precise manipulations of the Force; instead, I simply supercharged my body to its absolute limit, drastically boosting my reaction time and speed.
This method of physical augmentation was incredibly exhausting—to use an analogy, it felt like trying to drive nails in with a microscope—but it worked, and I didn't really have much of a choice. Lunging forward, I sent a table—and the thug hiding behind it—flying against the nearest wall with a single kick. Even I hadn't expected the blow to be quite that powerful—let alone my enemies.
Nevertheless, they hadn't quite reached the necessary level of compliance yet, so I had to knock out two more guys in the same fashion before one of the remaining ones finally deigned to speak: "What the hell do you want, you freak? Get lost before we mess you up. Look, we can see you're not actually killing our guys. Props for that—I respect it—but our own people won't understand if we let you pull stunts like this without any payback... So, how are we going to settle this?" Yeah, alright—it looked like this really was their ringleader; he'd figured out way too quickly that I wasn't going to be easy to kill.
At least *he* had stopped shooting, while his cronies kept trying to land a hit on me. I had to dart to the side again and send yet another guy crashing into the wall before the rest of them finally calmed down... Or rather, their leader calmed them down; he rose slightly from behind his cover, crossed his arms over his chest, and watched me with an expectant gaze. Honestly, my adrenaline was still pumping. It had all gone down a little too simply—and too fast. I'd been mentally geared up for a fight to the death, but these guys turned out to be absolutely no match for me. However... In that very moment, I "released" the physical augmentation, and nearly cried out as a wave of pain washed over me. Like a rising tide, it seized every muscle I'd previously enhanced with agonizing cramps, and a thin trickle of blood began to run from my nose. My handling of the Force was too clumsy—I was simply too inexperienced in wielding it—and I risked doing myself more harm than I did to those around me. Fortunately, in the dim light, it was unlikely anyone noticed my condition; so, after discreetly wiping away the blood that had begun to trickle, I finally spoke: "Impressed by my skills? My ship crashed not far from the city, and—let's just say—I'm in need of funds. What a stroke of luck that you happen to be hosting gladiatorial matches with betting right here; naturally, I came rushing over at breakneck speed. Straight to the 'respected gentlemen,' of course, to strike a deal. My proposal is this: you loan me some credits—or peggats, whichever is more convenient—and I'll wager them all on my own victory. If I lose... well then... Since I possess nothing else, I'll work for you—for free. Let's say... five years. Yes, I'm putting my own freedom up as collateral for the loan. Would you like a fighter like that on your team?" I asked with deliberate emphasis. The bandits practically choked on their drinks at such audacity; a few even snickered under their breath.
Soon, the silence was broken by a character standing to the ringleader's left:
"Shady, I think he just schooled you!" he guffawed aloud. The ringleader—whose name, apparently, was Shady—grimaced and jabbed his comrade with an elbow. The man clutched his gut in mock agony, theatrically feigning death, while the rest of the bandits joined in the general laughter; even a few of the men I'd slammed against the wall—who had by now regained their senses—couldn't help but crack a smile. "Yeah, well... I gotta admit, you've got a way with words. What's your name, anyway?" asked Shady, now composed, as he lowered his weapon—though he didn't go so far as to holster it. I gave my name: "Taales." A mercenary eager to strike it rich today—at whom he waved a dismissive, patronizing hand, remarking: "Well, you're, a hell of a fighter. So there's no point pitting any of these local scumbags against you. You're going to face our reigning champion—a gladiator in Jabba's own service! Apparently, he also took down our guys with his bare hands." "My price is a thousand peggats. That's enough to fix up any old clunker," he smirked—and I finished the sentence for him: "But hiring a fighter like me for five years would cost a hell of a lot more anyway." He also has an insane belief in the power of the Kem... and not without reason.
Yes, my scheme seems like sheer madness—what if I lose? But I'm dead meat either way if this plan doesn't work. I'm a hundred percent certain that Ventress has already put the Hutt and his cronies on my trail, so time is definitely not on my side. Of course, she clearly hadn't anticipated that the Jedi who fought her back then would interfere with my "awakening"—that part went one hundred percent off-script for her—but the viper still managed to wriggle her way out of it. Besides, I wasn't thinking straight *at all* back then; you wouldn't need any particularly clever machinations to deceive someone in that state. Alright, I needed to stop zoning out and give the bandit an answer: "It's a deal. When's the fight?" At that, he leaned forward slightly and announced in a silky tone: "Right now. Confirm the contract on this datapad and head to the arena; he's waiting for you. If—by some miracle—you win, you can collect your money using the automatically generated login and password. As you can see, I always 'play' fair," he said, flashing a smirk so vile that my mood instantly snapped back to pure rage.
Having completed the necessary steps and copied the data to my own datapad, I wiped it clean from his. A specialized, anonymous droid—stationed on some distant planet—oversees the execution of the deal, ensuring that everything remains more or less transparent. Having settled my immediate affairs, I used the Force to launch myself onto the sandy arena floor in two massive bounds, coming to a halt before the hulking giant frozen at its center. With a voice tinged with surprise—and a very well-concealed delight—he declared: "You've finally come, little Sith..." he roared, assuming a combat stance before adding a moment later: "You've grown so weak, little Sith; today, I shall finally be free!" Yet he held back from attacking, granting me a moment to reply: "It seems you have a different master now. A Hutt—or am I mistaken?" At this, he grimaced—a sight that, given his hideous mug, looked doubly grotesque—and let out a growl: "I swore no oaths to that worm! Nor did he even ask—he merely requested that I fight on his behalf from time to time. But it was *you* I was waiting for—the one I am destined to defeat! Only then will I be truly free!" Finally, with a sudden jerk, he wrenched his sword free from the arena sands; then, with a single massive bound, he landed directly before me, launching a full-force, head-on attack...