Lightning shatters the sky and strikes the spire atop the cloning complex towering before anyone who steps off their ship and onto the rain-slick landing platform. Kamino, the Planet of Storms, is known for its roiling seas and constant torrential downpour. The fall of the Galactic Empire hit the planet’s primary export of military cloning projects extremely hard, but the Kaminoans remained afloat, both figuratively and literally with contracts to galactic warlords and the brilliant engineering of their iconic seaborne cities.

The initial landing pad is a wide circle designed to accommodate a variety of ships, and is connected to a series of other platforms as well. Every surface is slick with rain, but avoids flooding due to the sloped edges that allow the water to run off into the sea below and away from the center-point.

The cloning facility’s exterior is characterized by similar slopes, and raindrops rapidly transform into steam as they touch against the series of lightning rods around the platform, much like they would if they dripped onto a lightsaber blade.

History tells of the fateful encounter between Obi Wan Kenobi and renowned Bounty Hunter Jango Fett. The doors of the facility are sealed, which means that whatever challenge awaits will have to be faced in the heart of the omnipresent rainstorm.

Raindrops beat a staccato tattoo on the landing platform, the everpresent thunder rumbling in the distance adding to the tumult. Qyreia strode briskly through the maelstrom, her mind preoccupied on the outcome of her recent meeting with the Kaminoans. Ostensibly, her purpose there had been to strike a deal with the master cloners on behalf of Arcona to secure a new batch of clones for their infamous Summit Guard. It hadn’t gone well. A voice cut through the storm, halting her progress.

“I thought I made my feelings on mundanes on the summit clear when I beat Satsi like a red-headed step-child,” Sashar remarked from behind her.

The Quaestor turned slowly, not placing the voice. Soaked through as he was, Sashar Erinos, di Tenebrous Arconae was still instantly recognisable; he was fairly infamous in Arcona.

“The way I heard it, she beat you,” the Zeltron replied, crossing her arms as she stared down the Elder.

Sashar smirked and instantly Qyreia wanted to smack the expression off his smug face. “She still Consul? You make ‘em bleed and sooner or later someone will take them down. Didn’t matter if it wasn’t me. Problem as I see it is that upstarts like you started following her sterling example. So, congratulations. You’re the proud new owner of one brand new beat down.”

“I’m honoured,” Qyreia responded sarcastically, taking a step back, unholstering her A280C rifle in the process.

Sashar’s grin widened and he shucked his own rifle from its resting place slung across his back. He then carelessly tossed it aside, letting it clatter to the floor a few feet away.

Instead, he drew his lightsaber in a gesture so deliberately relaxed it looked like a nexu stretching. In the same motion he hit the activation stud and took up a ready stance; one hand stretched out parallel to the blade, the hilt held near his face.

“Have at you.”

The Zeltron didn’t need to be told twice. She depressed the trigger, unleashing a hail of red bolts at Sashar.

Sashar’s reflexes were in full harmony with the Force as he shifted his blade to bat away the first salvo, moving his body slightly to avoid those he didn’t catch. Qyreia shifted laterally, not letting up the onslaught. To his credit, Sashar didn’t tire. His stubby cyan blade wove an impenetrable bulwark, warding away the incoming blasts with dedicated precision. Realising the direct approach wasn’t working, the Zeltron ceased fire and lowered her weapon, glowering at the Arconae.

He didn’t pounce at the opening. If anything, he seemed content to wait for her to dictate the direction of the fight.

“That’s all you’ve got? Shab, Galeres has gone to the dogs,” Sashar said, loudly enough to be heard over the downpour.

Qyreia glared through the cobalt blue hair matted to her forehead from the rain, skewering him with a look which would definitely scare the new recruits. “Look, I’m sure the mystic mob jump right up when you mince in waving that saber around. Thing is, I don’t scare easy and I don’t need critiques from a washed up schutta like you.”

The Quaestor was clearly refusing to be intimidated and Sashar inclined his head, smiling as if she’d just scored a point. Still, he made no move to attack or advance; the Mandalorian had an unnerving capacity for stillness.

Growling in vexation, Qyreia re-commenced fire and Sashar’s saber whipped back up, knocking the bolts away, some flying into space, others into the water-slick durasteel of the pad flooring. As soon as Sashar’s eyes glazed over as he let his entire concentration focus on upholding his mighty guard, Qyreia dropped the rifle to the soaked floor with a splash. Sashar staggered back as if a weight he’d been pushing against was no longer there and he blinked in momentary confusion. The glare from his own weapon and the afterburn in his eyes from the intense fire pouring his way cost precious milliseconds, rendering him lightblind.

He blinked twice and his eyes widened as he saw the Zeltron yank the pin from a grenade and toss it in his direction. Reflex took over and he jutted a hand out, telekinetically shoving the grenade off the side of the landing platform. His gaze followed the grenade for a half-second to ensure that it was no longer a threat before shifting his attention back to Qyreia—

Who had just lobbed a denton charge at him.

Whatever curse he muttered under his breath was lost in the highstorm as he threw his arm out — dropping his saber in the process — placing a wall of Force energy between himself and the denton charge. It exploded a moment later whilst Sashar gritted his teeth and leant into it as the barrier shattered, the remnants of the blast buffeting him and tore at his attire. Still, he kept his feet.

It took a moment for Sashar to gather himself. He shook his head, trying to rid the irritating ringing from his ears, but nothing save time would be able to solve that particular issue. His lightsaber was gone, presumably thrown over the side by the blast, and whilst it left him far from defenseless, it was the weapon he was most comfortable with. Similarly absent was his opponent.

“Shab,” Sashar muttered, trying to pop his ears.

As the human’s eyes scanned the area for the red woman, he felt a tug in his synapses — like a rope tied to the back of his brain, pulling his head and his attention to a possible threat. His gaze turned and he could see the mercenary kneeling on a higher platform, the rain beating against her, skin and clothes reflecting the ambient light as much as his cloak likely was. Just as before, she eyed him through the scope of her rifle.

Double shab, he thought as the tugging on his brain grew, thunder rolling dully off his beleaguered eardrums.

Lightning flashed, closer now, and the irregular shape of his own rifle filled out against the smooth rain-slicked surface of the landing pads. His hand shot out and the weapon lifted seemingly of its own accord, water streaming down from the pools that had formed in its crevices. The warning tug crescendoed, only to dip when the Zeltron’s attention was turned by the movement. A twitch of his finger invisibly pulled the trigger, the thwoom of the concussion rifle a subtle sound amidst the storm around them.

Without the ability to aim properly the round went wide, but it was only a distractionary measure: it allowed Sashar to draw his pistol with his free hand. His opponent’s blaster tore into his rifle, the glowing red bolts hammering into the barrel and firing mechanism. First my saber, now the gun too?

He brought the pistol to bear and let loose, advancing as he went. This quite acutely caught Qyreia’s attention though, between the storm and his torn attention with the slag of his former rifle, his shots were going wide.

“Frack OFF!” she yelled above the din, leaving the lump of metal with a parting shot before turning her attention fully on Sashar once again. The only round she got off in time was a mere glancing blow.

Lamenting the loss of his gun but finding no greater use for it, the Force user swung his guiding hand at Galeres’ Quaestor, sending the heap of metal careening in her direction. She barely had time to register the dark shape’s outline. Shifting her shoulder protectively to take the brunt of the blow along her arm and side, she toppled to the shimmering surface of the pad as it struck. She was out of sight and the remnants of the gun lost to the dark void, but Sashar saw the opportunity and rushed forward. The mundane wouldn’t stand a chance against him up close. They never did; except maybe the Tameike woman, but she was an exception.

Channeling the Force to his limbs, he bypassed the stairs and leapt onto the next platform where his opponent lay. His feet had hardly touched down when he felt the same similar tug in his reflexes. He turned and raised a protective shield just as the first of several red bolts battered away at it, not unlike the ever-present rain.

“Arcona has losing its touch to hire someone like you to lead Galeres.”

Qyreia offered a wry grin. “Look at the Jawa calling the Ewok short. Must not have been much to speak of when you were around if this is all you’ve got, nerve burner.”

He smiled again, much as before, but the quip burned a little hotter this time. The thought crossed his mind to respond by asking how ten-thousand volts straight to the chest felt,but reconsidered with all the water running about their feet. Sashar was just as likely to electrocute himself in the process.

Across the platform, the Zeltron was in a similar predicament. Without grenades, there wasn’t much chance of her breaking his barrier, and unless the Kaminoan security came out to stop the fight — which they wouldn’t — the two would be at an indefinite standoff.

“Listen guy, I don’t give two karks about your choobies being all tangled up over anything, much less some clearly unresolved issues you have with Sleemo Satsi. Whaddya say we both just,” she flitted her non-firing hand sideward, “go our merry ways and call it a day?”

Sashar smiled to himself. “You just don’t get it.”

Frack, Qyreia thought as she got off a shot against his protective barrier only to be lifted bodily with a jerk, her rifle falling to the ground some two or three meters below. There she was, dangling against the Force user’s invisible grasp as he shook his head dismissively.

“I could throw you off this platform into the seas, and no one would ever find you.”

As the wind and rain whipped at the two of them, Sashar realized something, and seemed to do so at the same time as the Zeltron. Her hands were still free. There was a pistol holstered on her leg.

“Shab.”

Hesitation flash-boiled into motion. A strobe of lightning lit Sashar’s features, his lip peeled back over his teeth bared in a rictus. His right hand - which had been held up, telekinetically keeping Qyreia aloft - was yanked back towards his body and the Zeltron was similarly dragged hurtling towards him, her own hand pulling the blaster pistol free. She didn’t get the chance to use it. Rather than moving out of the way of the incoming Quaestor, Sashar shifted his body, extending his left arm out horizontally and shooting forwards, the Force aiding his flight. With preternatural speed, Sashar’s lariat connected with the Zeltron’s upper chest and she slammed back to the floor, water spraying about her in an almost ethereal halo.

Qyreia lay on her back for a long moment struggling to breathe. The water poured down from the heavens, obscuring her vision. All she could hear was the distant high peal of ringing; presumably from when her head had bounced off the landing pad. She’d never seen anyone move that fast.

The Zeltron was far from out of action. She moved a hand to her face to wipe away some of the rain and nearly brained herself with the blaster she still held. Hope — faint though it was — lit a candle within her as she rolled onto her stomach then got her feet under herself, desperately trying to spot the Mandalorian.

It wasn’t hard. He stood with his back to her, maybe three meters away, his hands empty. As Qyeria stood, still gulping in breaths, Sashar turned, his shoulders rising and falling rhythmically, as if he’d just run a kilometer at full pelt.

The Quaestor raised her blaster, not willing or particularly caring to find out why he’d hesitated. He exploded into action, closing the distance between them in an instant and swept an almost dismissive arm out, knocking her blaster out of the way. Qyreia fired anyway and the bolt went wide, missing his face by a few inches, though it might as well have been miles for all the good it did. He followed up with a savage punch to her solar plexus which sent her sprawling to the floor, finally losing her grip on the pistol.

Qyreia cried out belatedly as she hit the deck, the wind leaving her lungs once again. She felt the familiar tingle that had been felt hundreds of times before by opponent after opponent who found themselves going toe to toe with an Elder of the Brotherhood. It was the realisation that there was a very good chance that they were going to die. This was a man who had literally come back from the dead after giving his life to save his Clan. A man who was so completely and unequivocally loyal to Arcona, who had died willingly so that the Shadow Clan could endure, and after coming back, had found its halls filled with complete strangers and beings who hadn’t the first idea who he was. He’d found people incapable of hearing the Force leading the Clan of Force users, and that idea was demonstrably repellent to him. If he was willing to die for his Clan, then he’d certainly kill her for it.

A half-second had passed. Qyreia fumbled at her boot as Sashar landed atop her, his knees tucked under her arms. His fists flashed out as he rained punches down on her, as numerous as the rain. She managed to get one arm up to partially block some, but it was a futile effort. With a last scream of defiance, Qyreia’s hand came around, finally having drawn her knife from the boot holster. Sashar didn’t see it until the metal blade glinted briefly, and was driven into the meat of his shoulder.

The former Consul grunted in pain and rolled away from further slashes, blood pouring freely down his left arm, granting Qyreia a brief reprieve. His eyes locked on the Quaestor, he unbuttoned the front of his armoured top and tugged the garment off. With a brief flex, he tore a strip of fabric from the garment and wrapped it tightly around the wound before tying it off.

The Zeltron’s head darted from side to side, trying to spy her blaster. It had clattered to the floor mere moments ago and rested a few meters away. She lunged at the weapon, the slick standing water helping her flight and turned—

Sashar was there, grabbing a fistful of her hair. He dragged her up roughly, knocking the blaster aside and tore the knife from her other hand. The Mandalorian released his grip momentarily, twisted her wrist savagely about and slammed the knife home, driving it through Qyreia’s hand and lodged it into the landing pad. She pealed out a scream and tried to twist away, but it was no use; she was securely pinned in place.

Wordlessly, Sashar drew a throwing knife from the small, unobtrusive holster on his right thigh and grabbed a fistful of Qyreia’s hair once again, rivulets of water and blood running down his bare skin. Thunder rumbled closer than before, almost drowning out Qyreia’s constant stream of profanities.

“I won’t kill you. Leaving you alive makes a much more visceral demonstration. You need to tell them why,” he said, as if convincing himself he was doing the right thing.

He twisted his grip in her hair and Qyreia winced in pain, her free hand trying to gain purchase on the slick hilt of the knife pinning her down. With brutal precision, he pressed the blade of the throwing knife into her forehead, just below the hairline, and dragged.

The Quaestor’s curses and lamentations ended in a sustained scream as Sashar quickly slashed a halo around her head, ignoring the water-matted hair and with a final, savage tug, yanked her scalp free of her skull, separating the gory trophy from her head.

Sobbing, Qyreia collapsed to the floor. The blood pooled about her face, and she was broken.

He’d been too distracted; too many things not going according to plan. Before he could redirect his hold, the mercenary drew the heavy blaster and fired, catching him square in the chest. He crumpled to the wet ground, wheezing but still alive, while Qyreia fell the few meters back to the earth with a hard, splashing thud.

“Owww,” she groaned as she slowly recovered. Sashar was still convulsing from the impact of the high-powered stun round. “Goddamn space wizard… lucky you’re in my unit or I wouldn’t’ve switched the setting.”

The Zeltron was on unsteady feet, but she was doing better than her human counterpart. Her eyes darted toward her ship further up the spider web of tiered platforms, then back at the recovering Arconae. Kark this noise. I’m going home. Snatching up her rifle, she started walking briskly in the direction of her ship, clutching at her shoulders as much to protect herself from the rain as to ease the soreness in her limbs.

She didn’t quite hear the wet slap of the Force user regaining his feet, but she was very acutely aware of her own feet being dragged out from under her. Shashar tugged at her ankles, hardly even needing to concentrate on invisibly tripping the Quaestor. It was oddly satisfying to be able to do such simple things just by grace of her being dumb to the Force.

“We’re not done with that beat down of yours.”

Qyreia grimaced, slapping the ground in frustration before pushing herself back up. “Seriously?!” She angrily swiped away the wet hair sticking to her face. “Who the Hutt-humping hell do you think you are?!”

“Sashar Erinos Arconae, in case your memory is as bad as your ability to lead the House.”

The mercenary rolled her eyes hard. “You say that like I give a bantha’s ass. Might as well be Grandmaster Whatshisfrack for all the good those titles mean.”

Shashar clicked his tongue, thoughtful as well as derisive. “And you…”

“You’re in my House, Sash! Don’t like it? Bring it up with Kordath. Otherwise cry me a river, build a bridge, and get the kark over it.”

Qyreia turned to walk away, pinging her droid to get the ship started, only to feel that all too familiar tug. The thought, Not this crap again, barely had time to cross her mind before being thrown backward. She would have lost her rifle yet again were it not slung across her chest. Rather than let her fly into a wall again, the Mandalorian let her fly into his waiting hand, snatching her by the shoulder and flipping her forcefully onto her back. The wind quickly left her lungs, and she was left gasping for air as the Arconae leveraged one leg to pin both her blasters, a wrist-mounted blade hovering not far from her throat.

“You might want to listen when your betters are talking. Tameike had the same problem.” Qyreia tried to pull her pistol again, but he just locked his leg tighter. “Your stubbornness at this point isn’t even admirable; it’s just foolhardy.”

The Zeltron coughed, her diaphragm allowing air once again into her lungs. “Frack you.”

Her knee cemented the sentiment. When it connected with Sashar’s groin, leveraged by the ground, Qyreia was able to follow up with a rough kick to knock the stunned human away. He recovered quickly enough, much to her chagrin, but she was at least able to regain her feet.

Lightning flashed and the thunder rolled louder as the heavier part of the storm surged ever closer, following the wind which likewise blew all the stronger. Even the rain began to sting their faces as it pelted them. It made everything very dramatic as the Mandalorian rushed forward yet again, though with a slightly altered gait. I just need to get in close, he thought as he pulled his pistol and fired. The shot zinged her side, leaving a searing streak in her red skin that made her yelp and miss her own return shot. Her gaze seemed distracted though, and Sashar’s rush brought him within striking range.

Qyreia sidestepped, her rifle butt barely deflecting the impact of his fist. He spun around ready to finish the charge, and saw his vision filled by shining metal.

“Wheeeoo bleep-doot!”

The R3 unit’s battlecry, such as it was, carried loudly through the air just as the jets in the droid’s legs carried it through the air and straight into Shashar’s face. With all of the electromagnetic activity in the air, its sensors couldn’t quite tell where the ground was in relation to the man’s skull, but refrained from squishing the fleshbag as soon as the meaty sound of impact with the floor reached its microphone node. In an instant, the human was out cold, bleeding profusely from the head wound, but he would live.

“What’re you doing here, Remee?” Qyreia asked as the droid wheeled over.

“Bleeet breep-dootdoot beep brrt.”

“I do not always ‘get in over my head.’”

“Brrt brrt wreeeow.”

“Okay, sometimes. Yes. I’ll give you that.” She looked back at the Arconae lying in the rain. “He’ll be fine. C’mon. Let’s get home before this schutta wakes up.”

As the Zeltron made her way up the ramps and stairways to her ship’s platform, the droid paused, turned around, and offered a quick poke of its shock prod on the supine Force user. While it was spared a return current by grace of its wheels, the R3 was hardly spared the slap on the dome once its master realized what had happened. The fight was over, she told the droid, and there was no need to rub salt in the wound. The Arconae would have plenty of that once he got back to Selen.