Kem's strike—nearly connected with full force—it whizzed mere millimeters from my face, triggering an explosion of joyous applause and cheers from the stands, while I tried to widen the distance between us as quickly as possible. Alas, it was not to be; he had no intention of granting me a moment's respite, immediately utilizing his ability to pull me back toward him.
I had completely forgotten he possessed such a skill—a lapse that nearly proved fatal. I was forced, in turn, to channel every ounce of my available power to blast him away with a shockwave. And when I say "every available ounce," I mean literally every ounce. After all, the Dashed race was renowned for its resistance to the Force, so I had to exert myself to the absolute limit just to push him back.
Unfortunately, I couldn't generate the perfect hemispherical blast seen in the games; yet, what I did manage to produce was sufficient to send Kem tumbling onto his back, his concentration shattered. Seizing the moment, I snatched up a vibroblade that lay abandoned on the arena sand from an earlier bout, gripping it with both hands. Aided by the Force, I closed the distance to the fallen Kem in a single bound, unleashing a sweeping strike from behind—even as I realized he would have just enough time to dodge. And indeed, at the very last instant, he rolled over his right shoulder—scooping up his own dropped weapon in the process—and sprang back into a combat stance.
Now, he was in no rush to attack; instead, he circled me slowly, like a predator searching for a weakness in its prey. I remained rooted to the spot, focusing entirely on my senses. Suddenly, a stir rippled through the stands, and from the group of bandits with whom I had struck a deal, I sensed a distinct wave of fear and bewilderment. Casting a fleeting glance in that direction, I immediately noticed a Gamorrean standing beside Shada in the dim light of the VIP box—clad head-to-toe in their signature medieval-style armor—lecturing her about something while jabbing his massive battle-axe practically in her face.
Now, I'm certainly no expert on the Star Wars universe, but even I know that on Tatooine, these pig-men serve primarily under Jabba; which meant they had finally come for me. A bit sooner than expected, perhaps, but no matter—my main priority was to finish the duel, so this changed absolutely nothing regarding my original plan: I still had to defeat Kem and collect my winnings from the gangsters. The sheer magnitude of the task—combined with the realization that I had never pulled off anything remotely like this before—gave me a massive adrenaline rush; I was absolutely buzzing with excitement, and frankly, I was shocked at my own audacity.
Kem, meanwhile—seeing that I had momentarily lost focus—finally decided to strike. He leaped forward once again, though this time he didn't wind up for a heavy slash; instead, he intended to launch a quick, thrusting lunge the moment it became clear which way I would attempt to dodge. Even I—someone previously far removed from the world of close-quarters combat—recognized his intent with ease... Okay, fine, I'm lying a little; I did occasionally participate in historical reenactment battles. But it's not as if we had much opportunity for sophisticated swordsmanship while fighting in full plate armor—especially during group melees—so that doesn't really count. Got it? Besides, it's a miracle I hadn't forgotten even that much.
In any case, in response to his attack, I decided to execute a thrusting counter-lunge of my own. Of course, against a less experienced opponent, this might not have worked out—he might have impaled himself on my weapon while still managing to land a hit on me. But Kem was far from a novice; he managed to shift his weapon into a blocking position just in time. With a screech of grinding metal, our blades clashed, and we recoiled from one another amidst the disappointed groans of the crowd.
Glancing peripherally at my surroundings, I noticed several silhouettes appearing on the arena roof—the very roof I had used to get inside. They were clutching suspicious-looking pieces of scrap metal; they certainly hadn't come to set off fireworks.
Still, I was confident that Shady valued his reputation—and, more importantly, that he needed me to join his gang—so he would surely find the right words to convince Jabba's envoys to wait until the duel was over. Indeed, if I were to pledge allegiance to this gangster, he could easily hand me over to his Hutt patron; conversely, if I decided to double-cross him, he could simply pin the whole mess on the mercenaries who had come to collect my bounty. A cunning, shifty character—I had to admit.
Meanwhile, Kem spoke up again:
"You are stronger than you appear. Yet, at the same time, you are weaker than you have ever been. You're lucky that I was frozen, too; I lost most of my accumulated strength."
— At this, I couldn't pass up the opportunity to glean some information:
"Do you remember how—and why—we ended up frozen in carbonite?"
— But alas, he merely shook his head in reply:
"All I remember is returning to the spaceport when we were suddenly engulfed by an incredible surge in the Force. Even I felt it. After that... came long moments of pain."
"It's strange that you don't remember, but it looks like this was a trap—and we walked right into it. The only question is: whose?"
He delivered this lengthy tirade in a rough dialect that, to the uninitiated, sounded like a string of threats directed right at me. The crowd immediately resumed its frenzied roar, giving me no chance to reply; nevertheless, I still tried to make myself heard above the din:
"Since we're both weakened, shouldn't we postpone our duel until later—once we've both regained our strength?"
I asked, casting out a feeler. Kem, however, merely laughed in response, letting out a growl:
"I think I'll have a little more fun first!"
He seemed to have worked himself into a frenzy, oblivious to everything around him—including the massive crowd of mercenaries who stood out among the spectators by keeping me squarely in the crosshairs of their assorted weaponry.
It was time to stop improvising and return to the original plan. Raising my hand high, I fired a signal flare into the air; these, too, had been part of the "survival kit" salvaged from the escape pod, making them the perfect tool for my scheme. All that remained now was to wait—and hope that I hadn't miscalculated.
XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX
Our duel had dragged on a bit. To be honest, I had suspected that Kem had lost some of his strength—but to this extent? Then again, I was on the brink myself; using the Force to physically augment my body had never been a specialty of a Sith Inquisitor. Although I knew the "Force Speed" technique, for the most part, I had always fought strictly at range; unleashing Force Lightning right now, however, would have been far too impractical.
Up until this point, the most I had used was a Force Push—and even that looked more like I was delivering a powerful kick. I hadn't even drawn my own lightsaber, fighting instead with a scrap of metal I'd picked up in the arena. Thus, blasting the Dashade with Force Lightning right now would have been not only foolish and ineffective—given his species' natural resistance to the Force, as I've mentioned—but it would also have exposed my true identity to Jabba's mercenaries, or whoever it was Ventress had swiped me from. As it stood, they clearly weren't sure if I was the one they were looking for; they were simply enjoying the free spectacle. Later on, perhaps, they might even let their guard down and start chatting idly—and that would be exactly when I'd strike.
Kem attacked again, this time unleashing clearly defined sequences of strikes—as if executing a specific martial arts form. Honestly, had I not retained those meager fragments of knowledge left over from Taales, I wouldn't have been able to parry even the first four thrusts. Unfortunately for my opponent, I still possessed a fair amount of muscle memory—and general recall—so I was able to easily anticipate the subsequent attacks in each sequence, even finding the opportunity to launch counter-attacks of my own.
The Dashade soon realized that I was simply "reading" his moves; consequently, he switched to a more chaotic style, mixing up his attack sequences in a completely random order. At this point, I began to feel truly disheartened; parrying blows without the aid of foresight was becoming increasingly difficult. Only a mind operating at several times its normal speed allowed me to react to threats in time—yet Kem continued to press the attack, roaring furiously right into my face:
"Are you underestimating me? Come on—draw your lightsaber and fight me at full power!"
Fortunately, he shouted in his own tongue, a language unknown to the locals. And yes, he was, in a way, right.
Unlike the heavy vibroblade I was currently wielding, a lightsaber allows for much faster strikes—which would have afforded me the opportunity for a potential counterattack. However, I still had no desire to "blow" my cover. Ideally, I needed to get off this planet without ever revealing my true identity. That said, Palpatine himself would surely learn of my existence soon enough—most likely through Ventress's report, if he didn't know already—meaning I couldn't keep hiding forever.
Finally, gathering my wits, I focused entirely on the fight, purging every extraneous thought from my mind. And then, something strange occurred. With every passing second that I expended the Force, I felt a portion of that energy draining away into a peculiar medallion hanging around my neck. Seizing a brief opening, I pulled it out—and at a single glance, I cursed.
It was a simple rhomboid pendant on a cord, crafted from multicolored alloys, within which something seemed to be beating like a heart. At least, that was how it felt to me—and I recognized it from the game. In the game, it served as an "off-hand weapon"—a "Focusing Unit," or something to that effect; I couldn't recall the exact name anymore. Nevertheless, it surely wasn't a coincidence that the game assigned it to the secondary slot—the one designated for the left hand—while the primary slot held a lightsaber. It must have somehow aided in manipulating energy, enabling the creation of all those "unusual" Force lightning effects. Alas, attempting that right now was simply out of the question; I had precious little strength left as it was. That kid—Grada—should have arrived by now, yet he was nowhere to be seen; consequently, I was forced to resort to a rather underhanded maneuver.
With a single swing, I scooped up a hefty clump of sand on the broad face of my blade and, with a precise flick of the wrist, hurled it straight into Kem's face. He tried to shield himself with his sword, but it all happened so suddenly that he lost his focus for a split second—a lapse I instantly capitalized on, slamming the flat of my blade directly against the giant's sword-wielding hand.
With one sweeping motion, I scooped up a hefty clump of sand on the broad face of my blade and, with a precise flick, sent it flying straight into Kem's face. He tried to shield himself with his sword, but it happened too suddenly; for a split second, his concentration wavered—and I seized the opportunity instantly, slamming the flat of my blade directly against the giant's sword-wielding hand.
Naturally—no matter how powerful he was—he immediately let go of his weapon, shaking his hand in an attempt to quell the pain. In that very instant, however, I pressed my blade against his throat. I doubted he hadn't encountered such dirty tricks before, but he certainly hadn't expected them from me—a Sith who, as a rule, typically fights with a lightsaber. His mistake.
Meanwhile, the stands erupted in a deafening roar; some spectators were outraged, while others—quite the opposite—cheered in delight. I, however, kept my gaze fixed on the Dasheid.
Wiping the sand from his eyes, he smirked and let out a low, menacing growl:
"You surprised me, little Sith. Very well—for now, I submit to you. You don't even need the Force or a lightsaber to stand against me,".
He said as he retrieved his weapon. But that was a lie. In truth, I was at my absolute limit. Every muscle in my body felt as if it were on the verge of tearing apart, and my head was spinning.
Meanwhile, mercenaries began streaming onto the arena floor—though not all of them; a contingent remained behind in the stands and on the rooftops, while the bandits with whom I had struck a deal were irritably shoving people aside at the entrance, scrambling to make a hasty exit before the brewing trouble boiled over. Meanwhile, a Trandoshan approached us, clad in full combat gear—looking like Rambo, had Rambo been a lizard-man and carried a solid-metal Mosin rifle instead of a light machine gun.
"You two are coming with us! And no funny business—drop your weapons!"
As he spoke, he jabbed his rifle in our direction; I, with visible relief, cast aside my rather heavy sword. It was precisely for a moment like this that I hadn't used my primary weapon. It was still on me, at my belt, concealed beneath the cloak draped over my shoulders. Kem glanced at me questioningly, but when I gave a brief shake of my head, he too reluctantly tossed his monstrous sword toward one of the nearby Gamorreans. The Gamorrean managed to catch it, but the unexpected weight made him drop his own weapon in surprise, triggering an explosion of laughter among his colleagues.
Thankfully, they didn't frisk us or slap on any cuffs—small mercies. Apparently, they have that much faith in the Hutts' authority on this dusty ball—or perhaps, and this seems just as likely, they see the state I'm in after the fight and aren't particularly worried about me posing a threat. I can't really blame them; I can barely drag my feet along, and truth be told, my general condition could best be described as "a beaten dog."
Most of the fighters went off to keep watch over the remnants of the crowd—fearing, presumably, that someone might suddenly come leaping out of it—while the others parted ways, clearing the center for something. Most likely, for their transport craft. While everyone was distracted with their own tasks, I quietly asked Kem:
"Did they implant a control chip in your head?"
At which he gave a nasty chuckle, revealing his shark-like grin, before letting out a satisfied growl:
"They tried, but I quickly showed them just how weak they were. Too bad there wasn't a single 'Gifted' one among them whose power I could devour!"
Well, he didn't have a control chip implanted in him, and that made everything infinitely easier.
Incidentally, the boy—Grad, as he'd introduced himself—didn't have one either. I didn't know why; perhaps his owner had run out of funds, or maybe he was simply confident that escape from this place was impossible—the nearest settlement wasn't exactly close by—but in any case, the kid was free to act as he pleased.
Finally, I decided to make my move and gave Kem a cautious poke in the ribs to get his attention. He didn't know exactly what I had in mind, though he likely suspected that things weren't quite as simple as they seemed; so, in response to my subtle "signal," he stepped down onto a blade—barely visible beneath the sand—that had been left behind from some previous battle. In fact, the arena floor was littered with weapons; this was, in part, a deliberate element of the spectacle—a chance for a seemingly defeated fighter to snatch a bladed weapon from the sand and strike down their apparent victor.
A small shuttle hummed overhead, descending low enough for us to leap aboard—the very shuttle I had been waiting for all this time. Unfortunately, hijacking the shuttle outright would have been far too audacious—and ultimately inefficient. Had we been dealing with ordinary criminals, I wouldn't have hesitated for a second; but given that this belonged to a Hutt, there were almost certainly surveillance bugs—probably more than one—hidden somewhere on board. He "trusted" his mercenaries no more than he did any other sentient beings—and there was absolutely no chance in hell I'd be able to locate, let alone remove, those devices. I could have attempted it using the Force, but that approach was highly unreliable. I, however, had a different plan.
Surprisingly enough, I stumbled upon two remarkably familiar speeders in this backwater. They were exactly like the ones in the game, so—just to try my luck—I applied my access codes to them, using one of the slips of paper I'd so carefully kept tucked away in my bag. And lo and behold! It turned out no one had even thought to reprogram them. Well, naturally—as if there'd be any techs skilled enough for that in a backwater like this, and besides, why would they bother? The locals surely just dug them up from some old cache left over from the glorious Imperials past, and then proceeded to run them into the ground with gusto. Fortunately, they never managed to finish the job—and now they never will—since I have, shall we say, confiscated them. It's a pity the first one conked out so quickly, and I didn't have the time to figure out what was wrong with it, so I had to settle for just the one. We'll fly to the nearest city, and once there—using the money I've won—we'll buy passage on some beat-up rust bucket bound for the nearest planet that isn't choked with sand and criminals like a week-old, uncleaned cat litter box. Well, that's assuming my primary plan doesn't work out—and there was every chance it wouldn't.
Anyway, getting back to the matter at hand: right now, I needed to "neutralize" that shuttle and get the hell out of here. I've never enjoyed having to shoot down helicopters in video games, and I certainly don't intend to start now; the problem needs to be nipped in the bud—right here, right now. How to do that? Simple as can be.
Look over there: a Rodian—festooned with grenades like a suicide bomber—has just poked his head out of the opening hatch, shouting something down to his comrades. I'm physically drained, of course, but I'm still capable of activating a basic telekinetic push. As I focused my mind, I whispered to Kem:
"The moment the explosion goes off, follow me. Don't get distracted by the fighting, but keep an eye on the enemies up on the roof. It looks like they're packing some nasty 'toys' up there."
The Dasheid gave a brief nod, and with that, I triggered the detonator. The blast thundered so loud it felt as though it could be heard all the way out in space; in that very instant—propelled forward by the shockwave at our backs—we bounded toward the exit in massive leaps. The crowd had already dispersed, leaving only a lone droid blocking our path. I couldn't help myself igniting my lightsaber for a split second, I sliced through the accursed hunk of scrap metal with a single fluid motion. I'd disliked that thing from the moment I saw it—plain and simple! I simply couldn't resist.
However, our "honor guard" quickly recovered; everyone capable of doing so gave chase, while the guys on the roof began blindly spraying fire after us. Lacking the gift of foresight, I dodged frantically from side to side with every ounce of my strength, altering my trajectory whenever I could; even so, several shots seared my arms, and one grazed my leg—a glancing blow that singed right through my trousers.
Finally, we rounded a corner, and at that point, I could focus on nothing but running. My body screamed in agony, yet somehow I managed to "transform" that pain into a raw fury that fueled my sprint. I certainly hadn't possessed this ability before; it must have been a residual trace of Taales's memories—something I supposed I ought to thank him for.
After wandering for about five minutes, we arrived at the rendezvous point where Grada was supposed to be waiting for us—but he was nowhere to be found. Actually, the original plan was for him to pull right up to the arena exit at the perfect moment—a couple of minutes after the signal—so we could make a clean getaway. But when he failed to show, I decided to check here instead; it seemed, however, that the kid had other plans entirely.
At that very instant, several silhouettes appeared on the nearest rooftop—lucky bastards; those scumbags had jetpacks. To be honest, I really should have wiped them all out back in the arena, but at the time, the thought hadn't even crossed my mind. Yet the memories stored within this body "whispered" that I already had the blood of hundreds of sentient beings on my hands; still, I hadn't fully internalized the fact that I was the one who had killed them, so my conscience hadn't exactly been weighing heavily on me. Here, though, it was a different story—a completely different matter. Of course, I hadn't felt fear or aversion at the thought of killing before—especially when it came to such scum—but I had clearly understood that it wasn't me; I simply wasn't ready for it yet. Now, however—by all appearances—the time had come to make a choice. A difficult moral dilemma... But "the harder it is, the better," an inner voice kept telling me.
"Damn it!" I growled, finally attempting to focus my energy. A small amulet—now coursing with the Force—significantly streamlined the conversion process; a second later, a short blast shot from my hands, striking the nearest mercenary—who had already raised his weapon—square in the chest.
Such is war: either you kill, or you get killed, I told myself. Surprisingly, my trepidation vanished almost instantly, and vague memories of Taales's first kill surfaced in my mind—memories of how he had gone through the exact same struggle I was facing right now. That thought made things a little easier, so I fired off a second blast even faster this time; meanwhile, Kem used the Force to yank several opponents toward him, slicing them apart in mid-air. And yet, the mercenaries still outnumbered us. Taking on twenty enemies at once is no easy feat—even for those who wield the Force—so we were very quickly pinned back toward the nearest shack, behind which we took cover from the "dagger-like" fire.
"Looks like your plan failed,"
Kem muttered, but I cut him off immediately:
"I don't think so."
And sure enough, a moment later, a speeder shot out from behind a nearby building, carrying a small figure. I hadn't misjudged Grada after all.