Beneath the surface of Lake Paonga lies the Gungan capital. Otoh Gunga is constructed in such a manner that leaves the Gungan city trapped beneath water pressures—potentially fatal to the denizens should the city be breached—converging on the lake’s vertical center and floating between the surface of the lake and the lakebed. Its location makes the capital difficult to find without knowing its precise location, remaining untouched during the Separatist occupation of Naboo.

Water-breathing species would be able to swim easily to its bubble-shaped buildings; however, those unable to remain submerged without air would find the distance impossible to swim. Therefore, breathing apparatuses are essential for those determined to make the journey themselves and without the aid of Gungan bongos. Its bubble-like buildings are hydrostatic force-fields that contain breathable atmospheres for their occupants and have special portals that allow the inhabitants to enter and exit. Since the Gungans actually grew the building material of their cities from the natural plasma of Naboo and bubble wort extract, the structure of Otoh Gunga is a hub and spoke design. Each of the bubble-like buildings are compartmentalized units, able to be sealed off at a moment’s notice.

The Gungan Grand Army utilizes patrols that make regular visits between the compartments. Favouring spears, atlatls, Electropoles and cestas for throwing boomas, these soldiers are the staunch defenders of Otoh Gunga. Sometimes armed with distributed Gungan personal energy shields capable of turning aside blaster bolts, these warriors are too-often underestimated, lending to their victories over the Trade Federation.

Deep beneath Lake Paonga were the glowing spheres. They were hollow, floating beneath the surface. The spheres which held the proud Gungans, mighty warriors. On a fateful evening there was a battle of blades beneath the moonlit water, a massive Togorian wielding dual blades against a spear-wielding gungan. Yet this wasn’t what made this a night to remember. Quickly approaching was a nondescript bongo, and with it, trouble.

The floodlights swept through the murky waters, whilst there were tremors in the water from the cheers of hundreds. Inside one of the spheres of Otoh Gunga was an arena, home to the Gungan Fight Club. Tonight, the announcer welcomed a guest to the arena, a member of Odan-Urr.

“Welcome! Tonight, the fight we’ve all been waiting for, Adroc v Nugar, no holds barred! Place your bets now!”

Down on the metal floor, the Togorian was bouncing on his feet, preparing for the fight. Across from him was the Gungan, Tar Nugar, preparing similarly. Both combatants looked into each other’s eyes, readying themselves.

The crowds were cheering, betting, and awaiting the spectacle about to unfold before them. The GFC was a common source of entertainment, and the people were ready for a show. Suddenly, a tall, cloaked figure with Jedi armor underneath strode into the arena. A figure Tassk recognized.

A look of confusion crossing his face, Tassk asked, “Creon, what is your business here?”

The figure pulled his hood down, a tall human with a strict, formal look about him. “Tassk Adroc, you will come with me for an audience with High Councillor Ta’var. Your behavior is unbefitting of an Odanite, and I will escort you personally to Kiast.”

Outrage spread across Tassk’s face. “Of what concern are my private affairs to Aura? What I do in my free time is my choice, so stay out of it.”

The crowd above had quieted, all eyes below, their hunger not yet satisfied. Soon the Gungan contestant made his way off the stage as the two Odanites stared each other down.

“Orders are orders Tassk, don’t make a scene out of this,” Creon said.

“Yes, orders are orders, soldier, so here’s one for you: leave.” Tassk’s eyes were defiant, ready to take a stand. A stand for his freedom.

“I can’t do that Adroc, now this is the last time I’m asking nicely. Shut your mouth, move your butt, get on the ship, and present yourself before High Councillor Ta’var or there will be consequences.” Keeping a straight face the whole time, the veteran was dismayed by the inexperienced Togorian’s rebellion. “Choose your battles wisely, Tassk.”

“Believe me, I have. I’m not just letting you come here and tell me what to do, so go tell Aura to leave me alone.” Tassk sheathed his vibroblades as his hand shifted towards his lightsaber.

“Tassk, neither of us wants this, so just stop. All Aura wants is to talk. Your master, Teikhos, he’s worried about you. Your activities of late are getting out of hand. The late night trips to Nar Shaddaa and now this? It's not too late to amend things, we can help you.”

“I don’t need your help, so stop trying.” Tassk ignited his blade and raised it to his chest, his intentions clear. A simple position, but effective nonetheless.

Creon’s face soured at the prospect as he raised his own blade in response. “If I have to drag your unconscious body onto the ship, then so be it. This only ends one way, Tassk.”

A hush fell over the arena, the spectators watching intently. Both figures leveled their blades, watching each other intently.

“What do we have here? A new challenger has entered the ring, a battle of Jedis! Who will come out on top, orange or yellow? Place your new bets now!” The announcer was riling up the arena, Tassk included.

Sprinting forward across the ground, Tassk took two long strides before leaping forward towards Creon. Bringing his golden blade down onto the Mandalorian, Creon twisted out of the way with the grace of a gymnast. Backing away, both combatants leveled their blades once more.

Across from Tassk, Creon ran straight at him, akin to a charging rancor. His powerful frame was undeniable as he struck down towards Tassk with a series of staggering blows. Faltering underneath his strength, Tassk tried to scramble out of the way of his next strike.

Sensing his evasion before it even happened, Creon spun his leg into a sloppy but powerful kick. Feeling it connect with his ribs, Tassk fell to a knee winded. Dropping his saber, Tassk quickly drove his elbow into Creon’s gut, watching him bend in half. Forcing himself to stand, Tassk sent a surge of energy through his arms as he grabbed Creon behind the arms. With his sudden strength, Tassk hurled his large opponent several feet across the arena, watching as he landed with a harsh thud.

Creon tucked in his lower body and thew himself up back onto his feet. He reached down for the WESTAR-35 holstered on his thigh. Seeing this, Tassk scurried to the blaster at his hip, but it was shot out of his hand the moment it was removed from the holster. Tassk sent both of his hands up in response. His thoughts raced for an idea, and his eyes were drawn back to his lightsaber.

"I wouldn't try it. The lightsaber was made with the intent to be ceremonial," Creon called to Tassk's attention. He did a small whirl of his pistol with the trigger well and aimed it at him again, "This weapon was made with the intent to kill. Choose wisely on which on you want to dedicate your time to."

Tassk yanked the pistol out of Creon's grip with the Force and darted forward in a surge of speed. Creon replied by bringing up his wrist and firing his MM9. Tassk darted to the side when he saw them launch, but retreated with a amplified jump after the Thermal Imploder detonated between them. The implosion sucked in everything within its blast radius, which brought the Togorian closer while midair. The following explosion toppled him away again, with a harsh landing that caused him to roll across the platform before coming to a complete stop.

Creon dropped his barrier, he was well out of the way of the blast radius, belt always kept it up as a precaution. He reached for the mag holstered M5 on his back. He pulled out a second imploder and loaded it into the grenade launcher as Tassk was slowly trying to bring himself to his feet. The soldier then lock and loaded the round, and switched his function on the blaster from semi-auto to full auto. He raised the weapon to his shoulder and aligned his front sight post with his opponent.

"Last warning," The Mandalorian called.

Growling a little, Tassk forced aside his first instinct of charging Creon. This called for a little more tact. Rising up onto his knees, he put his hands up in the air while he remained kneeling, keeping his head down.

“I’ve been terse with you. You’ve been an Odan-Urr attack dog nearly blowing my head off. I’d say things are roughly even between us, so hear me out. I like boundaries as much as the next person, and probably more. When I’m not at Praxeum, I need me time, space away from that uptight academy. Its nice and all, but it’s no hunting trip on Endor,” Tassk said, smiling. “I’m getting off track, but the point is, we don’t need to fight.”

“You know we both want that, but I wasn’t born yesterday.” Creon’s finger tightened on the trigger, eyes narrowing on his target. Something strange was afoot but he wasn’t being fooled by a Journeyman.

“I’m not trying to trick you!” Tassk was seemingly upset, but Creon was still suspicious. “Look, maybe you could just wait for me on the ship while I sort out my affairs? It’s a perfectly reasonable request, you wouldn’t want to be rude to our kind hosts, the Gungans, now would you?”

“Get this through your skull, recruit: I’m not letting you out of my sight, not after the trouble you’ve caused. Oh no, you can ‘sort your affairs’ then you’ll be answering to the council.”

Taking a deep breath and clenching his hands half of the way, Tassk voiced his frustration, “You’re being difficult, thick, almost like a…,” extending his fingers slowly towards Creon as he finished, smiling, “barrier.”

The air blurred between the two, seemingly a wall of air that coalesced exactly perpendicular to the arena floor. A look of outrage spread across Creon’s face as he instinctively squeezed the trigger.

From the other side, Tassk got up and began running towards his defensive construct, as Creon’s airborne grenade struck the divider, ricocheting back towards Creon a couple of feet before releasing its volatile contents.

As Creon lifted his arm to shield his face, Tassk ran forward, letting the explosion shatter the barricade, waiting a second, then running through as soon as the second explosion had detonated. Charging Creon before he had recovered, Tassk ripped the M5 away with one hand, while following up with an uppercut to the face from his other massive fist.

Clenching his nose, Creon swung out with a wide hook, smashing the brash Togorian in the shoulder. Letting out a cry of pain, Tassk slashed out at Creon with his claws, but they bounced off of his sturdy chestplate.

Shoving Tassk away to gain a second of reprieve, Creon lunged back at him, channeling the Force through him into a devastating jab at Tassk’s midsection. As the powerful blow connected, Tassk’s ribs cracked and he was launched backwards, falling prone.

The crowd had been cheering, but they all fell silent now. Creon walked slowly across the arena to a seething Tassk, standing over the writhing figure. Breathing in slowly, Creon concluded what they all suspected, “Tassk Adroc, you are under arrest by order of the High Council of Odan-Urr. You have the right to remain silent.” Lifting an armor clad boot, he spoke to the pained Togorian, “Nothing personal, Tassk,” bringing down his leg abruptly, knocking him out cold.