[MillietheWarrior]

Recoil could feel the eyes on him.

It was the same every night. He’d leave barracks in the pitch black of the Coruscant darkness, stealing through the shadows to the seedy underbelly of the city. He’d register himself in the tournaments, he’d don the strange set of armor, and he’d fight. He’d fight until he could no longer feel his body respond to his commands, until his lungs threatened to give out and his heart struggled to beat. He fought to rid himself of the pain. He fought to rid himself of the memories. He fought so he didn’t have to face the harsh reality he’d had shoved in his face ever since his squad had been torn apart. When Trinket and Kicks were killed in action, Recoil had sunken into a pit of sadness and despair. But he’d shoved it all to the side in favor of doing his job, and keeping Solus from falling apart.

His anger at the unfairness of it all didn’t diminish, no matter how hard he tried to forget. He couldn’t let go of Kicks’ smiling face and amused laugh, or Trinket’s awkward conversations and quiet chuckle. He couldn’t let go of their lives together, of being raised as brothers, of spending every waking moment with one another. He couldn’t forget, and he couldn’t let go…so he fought. He didn’t know what he was fighting for, but he fought until the pain of losing his brothers was just a distant, dull ache, and the memory of their faces faded and disappeared as the physical pain of the fight set in. He remembered lying broken, battered, behind closed doors as he silently succumbed to the numbness the fight, his head in his hands, his body begging at him to just lay down and give up. He remembered the silent tears, the screams rent from his lips as he’s punched at the wall over and over again until his hand was broken and useless. He remembered the hopelessness of it all. But he did not give up; he didn’t quit.

He went back out, and he fought again, over and over, and over, until he collapsed from exhaustion, or his competitors tired of being beaten. Recoil stepped from the darkness of the tunnel, and the gaze of the crowd rushed over him as a hush spread through the spectators. He inhaled deeply, smelling the familiar scent of blood, dirt, and sweat. This was his home now. This was his escape. His arena. His drug.

Recoil smiled behind the emotionless mask, feeling the thrill of the battle looming in his veins, his heart racing as adrenaline poured through his system. He flipped open a compartment on his gauntlet, and took out a small vial of green liquid: a stim. He stabbed the thin, needle like accelerant into his neck, feeling it’s energizing warmth spreading through his body, revitalizing his senses, and sending his heart, lungs, and muscles into overdrive. His fingers began to tingle, and he flipped the empty sharp to the ground, where he crushed it beneath one boot. The roar of the crowd was nearly deafening, but the roar and the pounding of his blood in his ears drowned out the scream and the cries of death and encouragement all around him. That was what they were here for; they wanted pain, they wanted blood, they wanted death…but most importantly, they wanted entertainment. Recoil was here to give it to them. This was what he lived for.

He could already feel the memories of his brothers melting away as he stepped into the arena, bathed in the pale glow of the giant floodlights above him. Across from him, a mountain of a man stepped into the ring, toting what looked like a giant sword over his shoulder. The behemoth smirked at Recoil, and the Clone frowned behind the mask, inclining his head only marginally in a sign of respect; it was the last thing his opponent would ever see. The crowds cheered around them, some shouting his name, some shouting the name of his challenger. Recoil was undefeated; no man or beast had beaten him in battle as of today. This win would be easy.

The sound of a gong spurred his combatant into action; Recoil was momentarily stunned by his speed as the mountain of a man churned up dust and sped towards him. The sword lifted from his shoulders, and Recoil crouched low, muscles coiled like a spring, as it swung in a slow arc towards him. The arena seemed to blur, his combatant moving at a snail’s pace as everything around him faded; there existed only him, and his opponent. There was no pain of loss, there was no despair, no sadness. Only life, death, and the thrill of the fight. The distinct ‘shunk’ of his vibroblade echoed loudly in his ears, and Recoil dipped low to avoid the swing of the sword, slipping beneath his opponent’s arms and driving his own blade high up into his ribs. It tore through skin and muscles, sending blood spraying over Recoil’s armor and mask.

The large man grunted, a hiss of air escaping his mouth and then the wound that had punctured what Recoil suspected was his lung. His opponent seemed surprised, and the sword dropped from his hand as he reached down to cup the wound in both massive paws, as though he were trying to staunch the mighty flow of blood that had sprung up like a leak in a dam. Recoil stepped back, sheathing the vibroblade and watching as his opponent fell to his knees with another grunt, and then face first into the dirt. He lay there, unmoving, and Recoil neither cared to know when he stopped breathing or that he was the cause of it. He simply turned, much to the pleasure of the crowd, who took up a roaring chorus of chanting his name and his praises as he stepped back into the tunnel he’d emerged from. Recoil heaved a sigh when he’d reached the darkness, lifting his helmet from his head and running a blood-stained glove through his short, sweat soaked hair. Maybe after a few more fights, he’d forget who he was…if only for a little while.

[Jessari]

From behind the bars of another gate, Jane watched as the victor of the previous battle strode from the open circle of the arena. Her crimson eyes grazed his body before coming to rest upon the blood-adorned mask that hid his features. Her face held an odd sort of hunger as she watched him disappear into the darkness. It wasn't a hunger rooted in lust, but rather a hunger borne from grudging respect and a wish to face him in battle herself. The mixed-gender events were few and far between, and Jane had yet to participate in one.

Could he be the one? she asked herself as the attendants raised the heavy metal gate that separated her from the arena. Could he be the one to end it all? Like him, she'd found herself unmatched in battle although some had come close, as evidenced in the multiple scars on her hands and arms. Winning hadn't made her happy, though. It hadn't silenced the voices in her head but for a few adrenaline-soaked minutes. As she entered battle after battle, Jane had come to suspect that only one thing would bring her perfect peace - the blade of a superior opponent.

From somewhere in the lit area, her name was called, and Jane stepped forwards into the light. Her opponent was a tall and well-muscled, a blonde Valkyrie in armor designed to amplify every ample curve to the mostly-male audience - standard gear for the female fighters. The woman gripped a trident in her hands, but Jane suspected it wasn't the only weapon hidden on her person.

Jane herself wore nothing but regular street clothes - jeans, tight tank top, jacket. Despite her flawless record in battle, her attire made her less popular among the males in the audience. They were here for blood, and in the case of the female matches, bare skin and cleavage to boot. But Jane had no curves, and absolutely no desire to pander to the wants or needs of the crowd. She was here for other reasons.

Then the gong sounded. Crimson and cobalt hair drifted across her face from where it had escaped the tight braid at the nape of her neck. Jane held no sword, no trident. She stood there, hands empty, as her opponent advanced. Her mind cleared as every sense focused itself upon the battle. Her hands, hanging down near her hips, flexed as if she were a gunslinger from ages past waiting for the perfect moment to draw her gun.

The Valkyrie took a few steps, then broke into a run, spurred by the cheers from the spectators. As she came closer, she lifted one arm, raising the trident over her head as she aimed the three deadly points at Jane. She pulled it back, ready for release...

Then the trident fell to the ground with an ungainly thump. The crowd paused, confused, as the Valkyrie doubled over, clutching her wrist. Their collective gaze shifted to Jane, who simply stood there motionless as if she was one of the spectators herself. The Valkyrie straightened, and the reason for her pause became clear - the small, slender hilt of a throwing knife protruded from her wrist.

A murmur of appreciation rippled through the crowd as they acknowledged the skill in that strike. Not only had Jane's attack been too quick to catch the eye, it had been thrown with perfect precision. Instead of glancing off one of the many bones in the wrist, the blade had buried itself deep in one of the few tender spots at the base of the wrist, severing muscle and tendon.

With a cry of pain and fury, the Valkyrie yanked the knife from her useless hand. The
sharp tang of blood reached Jane's nose as the wound wept crimson. She'd hit an artery - if the battle didn't end soon, the other woman would surely collapse from blood-loss.

As the Valkyrie lifted her trident in her other hand, Jane slid a hand in her pocket, an unconcerned look upon her face. The crowd was on to her now, and while some still cheered for the Valkyrie, the others screamed for her to draw her weapon and finish it.

But Jane didn't move until the Valkyrie released the trident. It sailed towards her, the aim commendable considering it had been thrown by the woman's non-dominant hand. At the very last moment, she threw herself to the side. One of the blades grazed her arm as she fell, ripping through clothing and skin, but Jane didn't pause. In a flurry of movement, she rolled to her feet and charged into the oncoming opponent. They collided, but despite the Valkyrie's size advantage, Jane kept her feet. Another knife appeared in her hand, and as the Valkyrie pounded at her body with her bare fists, she swept it across the fighter's throat.

The crowd rose to its feet, wild at the sight of the blood that now covered both women, but Jane was oblivious to their joy. Her lips twisted in a disappointed grimace as the Valkyrie collapsed to the ground in a large heap. As she turned to leave the arena, her eyes sought out the fallen trident. She'd come so close to simply letting the points find her, but it seemed that desire for life had a hold on her still. Peace would not find her tonight.

[MillietheWarrior]

Recoil was leaning against the wall just out of reach of the arena lights, face half shrouded by shadows. His eyes were unfocused, staring into nothingness as they seemed to dart back and forth in sporadic movements. He didn’t seem to know what he was staring at, and the fight and the crowd and the death in the arena didn’t seem to register with him. Recoil was beyond pain. The stim that he’d shot into his system hadn’t even begun to wear off; his heart was pounding loudly in his ears, his breathing slightly labored and erratic. His arms ached and tingled, and his entire body trembled with the effort of holding back the flood of adrenaline shooting unchecked through his system. The fight outside didn’t seem as though it had even caught his attention, but as it finished, and the crowd began their blood-hungry chanting, Recoil lifted his dilated eyes to the arena, watching the woman with the gash in her arm as she exited the arena. Recoil looked down, his head shaking almost imperceptibly as he lifted one of his gloved hands to inspect in the dim light of the tunnel.

Blood. He was covered in it. It wouldn’t be the first time, he thought, his mind moving at a slower pace than his body. The stim erased all pain and thought, and made it hard to focus. It made him one hell of a fighter, but he was certain it was destroying his brain. Recoil didn’t care; he was ready to die. He’d been ready to die for a very long time. Recoil opened the compartment on his gauntlet, staring at the rows of the dark green liquid in the stims. He debated using another; too many stims would send him into a blissfully dreamless state of numbness. He wouldn’t feel. He wouldn’t think. There would just be endless darkness to sink into and forget everything. Recoil closed his eyes, his hand trembling as he shut the compartment with a snap. He shoved his helmet back on, ignoring the stale scent of sweat and blood that permeated it. The stench of the blood made him sick, but Recoil didn’t even seem to notice the bile at the back of his throat. He pushed himself off the wall, turning and walking back into the darkness to the empty rooms that awaited the winners; each one was fitted with luxurious amenities. It was a back alley, black market slum fight, but that didn’t mean they didn’t have money.

The sound of footsteps in the corridor made him pause, and Recoil turned to see a watery eyed man rushing towards him. The man balked slightly when Recoil’s emotionless t-visor turned towards him, but determined, he pushed on. “Sir, sir!” the man shouted, waving at the Mandalorian as if Recoil hadn’t already caught sight of him. Behind his mask, the Clone rolled his dark eyes, a low growl rumbling in his chest. “Make it quick,” he snarled, aware that this was one of then proprietors of the fights and they obviously needed something from him. The man paused as he reached Recoil, looking nervous and hesitant. “Yes, well…Ah, since you’re our best fighter and you haven’t yet lost a match…We were hoping to set your next match up against…” he turned and pointed over his shoulder, a wicked smile curving his mouth. “-her.” Recoil jerked his head up to observe Jane as she stood motionless in the arena. He snorted darkly, and felt the trembling in his hands increase; he had to get back to the room before his body collapsed on him. Recoil realized the man had been speaking the entire time, and slowly tuned back into what he was saying.

Jane was going to be heading their way; no doubt she’d catch the conversation. “-of course it would be within the next week. We’d want to give both of you time to rest. It would naturally be a fight to the death-” Recoil growled here, and folded his arms over his broad chest. “Naturally,” he agreed with a biting undertone of sarcasm. The man didn’t seem to acknowledge him, and only nodded with a greasy smile. “Oh yes. And the purse would be quite large. Ten times what it normally is. I can guarantee you wouldn’t walk away empty handed…If you walked away at all, of course.” Recoil considered this for a moment, his gaze lifting behind his visor to study Jane. There was something wrong about her; Recoil’s senses weren’t dulled so badly that he couldn’t tell she wasn’t normal. After a few, long, agonizing seconds, Recoil responded.

“No. I don’t kill women. I don’t care how big that shabla purse is. I don’t fight for money. And I don’t fight women. You can shove your offer up your-” But the man was huffing indignantly, pointing a finger at the armored man who towered over him. “Listen you! We allow you to fight here and we allow you to stay alive! You owe us this m-” He was suddenly cut off by Recoil’s fingers clamping around his throat. The man was lifted clear off the ground as the clone raised his arm, a dark snarl and a grimace twisting his face behind his helmet. “Listen you little insect,” the clone growled. “You don’t allow me to do anything. I said ‘no.’ That is my final answer. Take it or leave it.” The man’s face was now turning blue, and Recoil released him as if he was trash, letting him fall to the floor in an undignified heap. With that, Recoil turned to head back to his room.

[Jessari]

The spectators continued cheering as Jane retrieved the knife she'd thrown. Seemingly oblivious to their applause, she paused to wipe away the dark smears on the small blade with the bottom of her shirt. Then came the long trek back to the gate that led back inside, made even longer by a tiredness that grew more weighty  with each step. During the battle, adrenaline had been her closest ally, enhancing her strength and reaction speed, but now that the danger had passed, it quickly drained away, leaving her feeling empty and a bit unsteady  on her feet.

"Idiots," she whispered as the noise followed her into the relative darkness. It wasn't much of an honor to gain attention in the arena. She'd seen them cheer even harder when, during one of the odder matches, a wolf pack had been set upon a female grizzly and her cub. Jane was their golden child today, but she was far from irreplaceable. The higher she rose, the more wins she collected, the harder her challengers would work to oust her from the limelight. Careless choices, like the one she'd made in this match, would see her maimed, or worse.

An attendant met her just inside the door, red arm band marking him as one of the so-called medics who attended the wounds of those who survived their matches. This one, from the look of him, had a day job as a mechanic. Greasy smudges marked his skin and clothes, and the stub of a cigar hung from the side of his mouth. She pulled off her jacket, hissing quietly as the fabric scraped over the gash in her arm. Without a word, he set to work binding it with a cloth that had seen better days. She'd rebind it herself when she got home, taking all the care he lacked to clean the wound and rebind it, but at least this would keep her from bleeding to death beforehand. Not that it would be a bad way to go.

As soon as the binding was secure, he walked off to linger beside the door for his next patient, never once having looked her in the face or she at his. That was how she liked it, no communication, no connection. She shrugged her jacket on and stood there for a moment, eyes closed. She was so tired, but it wasn't enough to stop the voices that whispered in her head. She needed a drink, and she needed it now.

Jane had begun to wander down the hall that led to her particular 'guest room' when a few words of conversation drifted to her ears. She paused to listen, recognizing one of the figures ahead of her as the man she'd seen in the arena. With rising interest, she gleaned enough from the conversation to guess at what the other man wanted. If she had believed in the gods, she would have thought that this was an answer to prayer. Wasn't this just the opportunity she had desired not a half hour before?

But the armored man's reply immediately dashed her plans. A frown twisted Jane's lips as she watched him lift the smaller man by his neck as if he weighed nothing more than a kitten. It wasn't that she disagreed with the violence; no, she was rather ambivalent about that. She just couldn't see any reason for him to turn down a match with her so emphatically. Try as she might, she couldn't make any sense out of it, but she knew one thing for certain: she wanted this match. It would be a true test of her skill, and even if she lost...well, losing held its own prize for her.

"Afraid?" she asked as he turned to walk away. Her low voice rang out, just a touch of curiosity breaking through the emotionless mask of her face. She stood in the middle of the hall, her arms crossed and head tilted just slightly, expecting an answer.