Built from the shell of an ancient foundation, the Arx Colosseum has undergone renovations to allow multiple new configurations for battle. Its spectator setup remains largely the same, with high walls, tall enough for even the most savvy Jedi to find unscalable that lead up to spectator chairs which are divided into nearly organized sections to accommodate several thousand people. At the center, an elongated platform “box” contains a central throne of stone with various seats of smaller scale lined beside it in both directions. Two large holo-projection screens are set up on each side of the Colosseum, offering different angles of the match bia holocam drones.

Today’s setup is known as The Bridges.

High-suspended walkways cross and weave through multiple levels of platforms. Some are solid, metal and duracrete crafting an unmoving foundation. Others are mere rope and wood, swaying with even the most gentle of breezes.

Below the walkways is a void filled with mist, the ground unseen for combatants and spectators alike. Periodic ripples of electrical energy can be seen through the mist, hinting to the deadly nature of the arena floor below.

Foxen laid prone, perfectly still, on his sniper's perch.

The air above was dry, the desert clime still relentless. Below, lower down in the chimerical maze of bridges, it was cooler, vaguely damp, prickling the skin in fulminant buzz with the potential of breath held before a storm. But there were no storms here; only a deep pit of fog that refused to burn away under the glaring sun and the current running through it, ribbons of lightning leaping from cloud to cloud like thoughts through synapses.

The Nautolan's mind was focused, silent and singular, as he watched. There was only the Mission: to win this tournament for Flyndt by defeating his next opponent. For the third time, he recognized the name, this one from obsessive research of the ongoings of the last half decade upon his return to Brotherhood space.

Alaris Jinn. Former Proconsul of Clan Plagueis. A slaver king.

That knowledge was enough to choose lethality.

Unblinking red eyes searched the arena through the scope of his pistol. He had quickly and silently scaled to his position after the gates opened, moving with the shadows and pausing to remain unseen, but despite the minutes that had passed in observation, he had not detected a single tell-tale heat signature through the omniscope. The Force couldn't fool his technology. Either his opponent had forfeited, or he was undetectable to infrared scanners.

But patience yielded results: eventually, a glimpse of blacker black, an incongruous matte distortion against the backdrop of light and shadow of one heavy metal bridge's underside, revealed itself. Foxen's gaze was drawn to it immediately, and with fluid alacrity he switched guns and refocused on the same spot with greater magnification. There he beheld a combat model droid, painted and armed. And not far from the metallic construct was its master: a sudden splash of vivid royal blue amidst the various neutral colors that abounded. The gauchely cloaked Twi'lek's mouth moved while he kept rubbing at his chest, seemingly unconsciously. A moment's watching revealed that he was saying something to the effect of orders to hold position and complaining about the Voice's entertainment preferences.

The Mandalorian's finger flexed on the trigger. The target was too far for a pistol shot to the mouth to shut him up.

Surely the jediit would come to him, whenever he sensed him out. That meant, in the meantime, he could prepare and if preparation finished, he could make a move to get closer.

Foxen holstered his pistols, drew a throwing dagger, and began selecting targets amidst the rope and spindle scaffolding.

---

The Rutian Twi'lek took another tentative step across his current bridge with a sigh. He was content with sticking to the sturdier of the thoroughfares, but it was not always possible. Fortunately, his droid, weighing considerably more than he did, made a suitable scout.

This particular piece was quite interesting in an artistic fashion, seemingly composed of woven glass strands, but it did not inspire confidence. Nonetheless, the BX-series Commando unit marched across just fine, and so Alaris followed, expanding his senses as he did so.

There were many lifeforms watching these matches but only one relevant one; however, the Sith found his mind ballooning into an obscured morass as uncertain as that mist below. He could sense someone out there, but the presence was so dim. Perhaps his opponent was concealing themselves, or he had been handed a particularly weak matchup?

It was just as his booted foot touched down on solid steel that a burst of blue flame igniting wrenched his head up and around, lekku flailing about his shoulders. He reacted just in time to see a barreling blur of black before the mass was upon him, cursing the Force for not alerting him to the danger. But there was no impact, no familiar slam of shattering bone or blunt trauma a heartbeat later.

Instead, the figure smashed feet first right into dPA-301. The droid loosed a spray of automatic fire from its blaster carbine that went wildly into the air as it was flung clear past Alaris and out into the void. It dropped like a stone, catching on the fiberglass cabling and snapping it with a crystalline scream. Binary hissing faded as the cords and the droid fell away, swinging like a pendulum from the other platform, still firing with deadly intent.

Now the Force shouted to him, and the Twi'lek spun his lightsaber into his hand while throwing off his cape to free his arms just as plasma bolts rained upon his position with little regard for his well-being thanks to the unit's predatory nature. The stench of superheated Tibanna filled his nose as he batted away the continuous stream of stray bolts, wondering what the droid was possibly firing at.

In the space behind him, empty blackness became a red flare of fury, and the Dark Side's warning whispers themselves felt nervous. Alaris' wrist pivoted as his arm reversed, plasma catching a blade bare centimeters from decapitating him. A massive figure bore down on him with a wicked, pristine sword.

It pushed forward like an avalanche, indomitable, searing his own saber into his shoulder while he gasped the Force into his veins to bolster his strength and shove the fatal cut aside. The Twi'lek trembled as he was bulldozed backwards, the sudden, familiar fear that he would die, either thrown over the edge or bisected, curdling his stomach.

He would not perish here.

He channeled the Force again, not into his limbs, but into the crystal around his neck, which glowed with a sudden void light that seemed to darken the space around it. His opponent's weapon suddenly sliced clean through his saber, him, and into the rock behind.

Alaris crept slowly aside, each step weighted yet weightless as moving through water, as gravity undone. Ghostly wails shrieked in his ears. The Ethereal Realm's twilight touch was cold and tepid at once, and all around him, he saw ghosts, for a moment.

He ignored them, examining his assailant, who had straightened from the foiled swing and twisted around rapidly, on guard, obviously searching for him behind that carved face plate. The figure retreated rapidly from the platform edge, peppered by another spray of bolts from Alaris' droid, drawing a hefty pistol to accompany the sword. He moved efficiently but quickly, clearly in superior physical condition.

But the body would not be the Twi'lek's target.

As he felt himself coalesce from shadow, Alaris launched his mind at the other's, the pain of his burn wound a brand that only fostered his power. He felt resistance, as though pushing against a durasteel door, and his grimace twisted into a smile for a prize soon to be won all the sweeter. His opponent stilled briefly, a visible cue, then shook himself, and the barrier Alaris pressed against began to quake, a slowly cracking glacier.

Which was the moment that he fully rematerialized, and the other man opened fire.

The Rutian danced back, vaulting into an enhanced somersault clear across to the next platform as bullets wildly bit into the platform, spraying chips barely close to where he had been. The hulking brute wasn't a very good shot, between that and missing him when he flew in earlier. Likely the martial type, with that physique.

Which meant he but needed to stay at range and slowly worm his way in.

Now, now, friend…that was a near strike, but your resistance is futile, he drawled into the other's mind, a goading call that echoed oddly into a cavernous place. Where was that anger from earlier? The unease and fear? The cacophony of thoughts?

Again he saw his opponent twitch and clench. Then, he took off running, chasing Alaris over the footbridge and firing again. The Twi'lek, puzzled, nonetheless chuckled and leapt over the straying bullets for the middle of the next bridge, a complicated rope construction whose recoil would launch him—

His weight dipped. Ahead of him, a nearly complete cut, clean in one trestle suddenly snapped.

The bridge fell out from under him.

The panic of freefall caught Alaris’s breath. His diaphragm clenched and he instinctively reached out to grab at whatever he could find. The trestle fell as freely and Alaris frantically grasped at it with his free hand - just out of reach. The panic intensified and it was all Alaris could do just to get his breathing under control. His robes flapped loudly as he moved through the air in a direction unfamiliar to the Twi’lek.

Alaris managed to turn himself face down and saw another bridge crossing the gaping void. He returned his lightsaber to its clip, thankful he hadn’t let go of it during the initial panicking. He angled his body to move himself in that direction and realized it was too far out of the way. Cursing loudly, though he could barely hear it himself, Alaris reached out and then realized very quickly that the bridge was under no circumstances going to move. With different colourful language, the Sith grabbed his robes through the Force and dragged himself through the air.

About ten meters from impact, he realized that the fall was probably going to kill him. Still holding his robes with the Force, he pulled himself upward. Between gravity pulling him down and the robes yanking him up, the Twi’lek was suddenly very aware of the skin rash, groin pain, and general uncomfort of his situation. Impact was softer than was needed to kill him, but the crack heard from his femur as he hit the duracrete would have made anyone cringe and share the Twi’lek’s pain.

The noise he made was monstrous. He no longer cared about the sear on his shoulder. He had just fallen a hundred meters. He tried to do the math in his head and then made the realization that he didn’t care how fast he was falling or how long it actually took. He bunched up some of his robes and put them in his mouth to bite down, making sure he didn’t cut his tongue off with his teeth, something he was surprised more Twi’lek’s didn’t do considering how sharp their teeth are.

He was initially thrilled that the fracture wasn’t compounded. He closed his eyes and focused as well as he could. The pain was an old friend, but he needed to focus on the bone. The tendrils of the Force penetrated his leg. Alaris seemed to be able to see the injury within himself. He let the math work itself out this time.

375 joules to break a femur, 60 kg of mass.

Alaris exhaled. He had been able to slow his fall significantly enough to avoid any serious damage, but the compression fracture on his femur left the bone splintering at one point. The Twi’lek looked around for any signs of the freaking giant that he had drawn for this round. There was none for the time being. He refocused and demanded the dark side repair the damage. He watched in his mind’s eye as the pieces began to lengthen and slide back together. The pain of it was excruciating initially, but once the alignment was complete, the white pain dulled. He knew he had some internal bleeding and that the muscles in his quadricep were definitely going to be sore for some time. The bone finally finished fusing and Alaris released it from his grasp.

He was exhausted. The Force hung on him like a soaking wet towel and even walking felt like labour. The fight was long from over, and Alaris felt like it had barely begun, but he knew that he was losing and was outmatched. His opponent was larger than him, much stronger, and highly skilled. Alaris knew he had one single advantage: the dark side of the Force.

He had a minor limp as he moved along the bridge, but it was mostly psychosomatic at this point. He kept low and near the side to avoid being spotted, but any movement at all in the otherwise empty domain was sure to be spotted. He collapsed at a junction, back to the wall, and took the time to open his mind to cover the battlefield. It took him several minutes to find him, but eventually Foxen Erinos was a beacon. His mind was calm and focused and it seemed to be climbing down the side of a junction tower.

Hello, beast.

The movement stopped briefly before increasing its earlier speed.

You’re getting colder.

While indeed the temperature dropped as one descended toward the electric pulsed fog, the Force attempted to manipulate the Mandalorian’s mind. The movement stopped again, mild confusion ringing through it. Alaris grinned, then stood straight up, revealing himself to the world again.

Come here, beast. Alaris let the word drip with prejudice. I am waiting. The dark side had a grip now and Foxen was its puppet.

The Nautolan’s mind stopped and there was an instant flash of recognition before it began moving with alacrity. He dropped onto the platform that Alaris had recently impacted and began a full sprint toward the Twi’lek.

Alaris didn’t move. He simply stared down the imposing force driving toward him. For nearly twenty seconds Alaris stood still waiting for the giant merc to close the distance. When Foxen was 100 meters away, the Twi’lek released his hold and the Nautolan came to a sudden stop, his mind clearing. He had thrown away any preparation and suddenly found himself prone and wide open.

The blaster bolts came raining down from above. dPA-301 showered the bridge with superheated Tibanna and forced a decision from the massive Erinos. He had one direction to go: directly at Alaris.

Alaris still felt fatigued from the healing process, but he focused hard on the dark side tendrils that invisibly connected him to the Force. He issued a command, and though it was a hesitant response, the Force acquiesced. Billions of valence electrons were drawn from atoms surrounding Alaris, even from within the Sith himself. They coalesced, each pushing hard against one another, repelling as hard as they could, though the dark side pressed them together into a volatile soup. Then, with a scream of fury, the Elder relaxed his hold on them and a blast of violet plasma burst from his hands. A different colour than the electricity below, but far more potent. It superheated the air around it, scorching the particles that it passed through, and finally crashed into the Nautolan with such force that he was knocked out of his run and onto his back. The dark side treated him as a ground source and the current passed through Foxen into the duracrete and steel.

After only a few seconds, the current was arrested and Alaris collapsed onto his knees. Smoke rose from his hands as if they themselves were the source of the energy. He panted for air for several seconds before labouring to his feet. He retrieved his lightsaber from his belt and looked across at his opponent.

Foxen tried to pull himself upright, but collapsed to one knee. He shook the weakness from his muscles, some of which were still twitching from the hatred that had just shot through him. He finally looked up, straight down the bridge at the Twi’lek, who took that exact moment to ignite his lightsaber.

Green plasma burned to life, a ghastly torch casting its purulent glare over the gaseous vapors that lapped at them now on the lowest of platforms.

No.

Tears burned down Foxen's cheeks, vision blurring without eyelids to blink them away.

Not again.

The Twi'lek's steps echoed as he approached in an uneven but proud stride, a blue figure amidst the morass. A smile twisted the Sith's face. The feeling of something wriggling inside, of fingers touching and prodding and digging in his skull, grew stronger again.

No please.

His muscles still spasmed and clenched with that familiar burn of electricity. The stench of his own flash-frying flesh. The taste of his own gums and something distinctly metallic.

No no no no no—

He hadn't been able to control his body. He'd just been moving. Out of position, down the ladder. And then the bright light, the burn.

At the edges of his blurred vision, things blackened. The world narrowed. Shifted. Flickered in and out.

Hello, beast. Come here, beast, the Twi'lek had said in his mind, a tongue thrusting in uninvited, unwanted, violating. He said it again then, another command, That's better, beast, stay on your knees. Don't move.

Other voices overlapped it, memory replaying:

"That wasn't a very good performance, pet. I'm disappointed."

"Someone should put you back on your leash."

"Control your dog!"

The shock collar around his neck burned and chafed, heavy overheated metal, tearing where skin had tried to grow around it—

No.

"Pet, pet, pet..."

No. He wasn't there. No. It was not that arena, not that pit. It wasn't. He was on Arx, not Tattooine.

"Put on a good show, now..."

He wasn't here for this—

"My prize champion…"*

NOT. YOURS.

The green blade lifted, glowing, ready to fall.

Foxen commanded his arm to move, like Alaris had reached inside him before he could even scream no and moved his legs. He begged. He refused.

Move.

Move!

MOVE!

Plasma pealed as it sparked and shrieked against beskar. His vambrace shone with the verdant light it held back from his head by centimeters. The Nautolan's arm shook violently, his whole body quaking.

Red eyes refocused through the tears, meeting the other's and glaring, fangs bared. He spat silent words back at the Plagueian.

"Not. Your. Beast," it was a hiss, no volume. "Hound of Omwat. Flyndt's protector. Not. Yours. Not anyone else's. You can't have my pain."

He used all the wherewithal he had left to push off his knees, shoving his opponent back. Alaris tumbled away but rolled with the momentum, throwing himself into a ridiculous flip before landing with a stumbling flourish. The acrobatic showiness heralded a brief lessening of the pressure in Foxen's mind, and the mercenary didn't spare a heartbeat before seizing the opportunity. His trembling fingers flexed, barely managing to hit the control on his bracer that sent a salvo of scintillating, singing metal birds into the air. Their tiny tail feathers of smoke trails heralded them as they raced for the Twi'lek, whose saber swatted back and forth in rapid, panicked slashes as he tried to bat away the dummy-fired miniature rockets. Several exploded around him as he backpedaled, knocking him to and fro, back across the bridge they fought upon.

Foxen regained his feet at last, panting raggedly, heart galloping against his ribcage. He unsheathed sword and dagger and sprinted after Alaris, not allowing any reprieve.

Again, metal and lightsaber clashed, but this time it was sword against sword. The Plagueian was heaving with exhaustion, hemmed in by Foxen's longer reach, burnt and blasted and harried. Still his gaze putrified with the sulfuric ichor of the Dark Side, and he parried and twisted, initially sloppy but then seeming to grow steadier with each exchange. Every time their blades met, the lightsaber pulsed hungrily, and the Nautolan felt bizarrely weaker. All the while Alaris kept spouting taunts.

"You're weak," hissed the man, and while he was only defending with his weapon, the stabbing lance in Foxen's mind returned stronger than before, a spike driving between sulci. They dug deeper and deeper, opening any box they pleased, rifling through. "You don't really know what it's like not being a slave, do you? You are just a beast. A pet. A dog off its leash. Let's collar you again, beast. You were happier that way, weren't you? Making choices can be so difficult…what happens when your little bird leaves you? Rejects you? You won't have anyone then. You won't be anything. But you can be useful to me…Drop your weapons."

Foxen swung, and his hand opened as he did so. The dagger clattered to the crumbling bridge, skittering off into churned rubble from the whistling birds. His fingers carried on empty, and only jerking back saved him from slapping the lightsaber open-palmed. Snarling, he reversed his grip on his beskad and slashed again, too fast for the yammering Twi'lek. Alaris cried out as the very tip of one lekku, a half centimeter longer than the other, sliced clean free in a spurt of crimson.

The red spray spattered the Nautolan's armor as he kept going, spinning into a roundhouse kick that slammed into Alaris and flung the man several meters away, skidding on his back. He wheezed, saber clattering from his fingers as it winked out. Foxen kicked the damn draining thing away as he advanced, the Rutian's invading commands still echoing over and over in between his ears. He wished he could rip them out; his eardrums, the words.

Drop your weapons.

His sword slipped out of his grip, too, left behind while he stepped over the other man and knelt with a knee crushing into his chest, pinning him down.

Fine. He would do this barehanded.

Alaris choked harder, air pressed out of him. His arms lifted as he scrabbled weakly to push Foxen off him, unable to gain leverage.

"G-g-get— off—"

The Nautolan backhanded him, silencing any further verbal witchery. More blood sprayed across the pockmarked stone and metal as the Twi'lek's nose flattened, and his blue hand was wet and smeared with it as he gestured towards Foxen's face glowering above him.

The desperate mental spike drove home into the base of the Nautolan's skull.

You can't hurt me without hurting yourself, Alaris decreed telepathically. Anything you do to me, you'll feel too.

For just a moment, as the whip and chain of that order sunk in, stitching together synapses and sewing closed his spine, the mercenary's body stilled again. His weight eased back onto his heel. Alaris gasped in great lungfuls of breath.

And then something on Foxen's expressionless, quietly crying countenance twisted and split, halfway between a smile and a sneer.

He grabbed the gleaming dagger off the Twi'lek's hip holster, grabbed the hand waving at him, and slammed it down into the duracrete.

Then he stabbed the blade directly down through the meat of both their palms.

Alaris screeched. Foxen was silent as ever.

Though he couldn't communicate back to the Sith, the thought was clear in his mental warehouse: you didn't understand what you saw in here, if you thought that would stop me.

The pain was nothing. He shut it away, ignoring it, and moved to rip the knife back out, intent on stabbing it down into the throat this time. But as he did so, a numbing sensation began to spread around the hole in his hand, which bode poorly. One more thing to deal with when this was over—

Plasma splashed down around them. Foxen rolled off to dodge the rest, and his opponent rolled the opposite direction. The Nautolan growled to himself, pulling free the dagger and tucking his wounded hand close while going for his pistol with the other. His back hit a low wall, blaster fire kissing his boot heels while blue lekku ducked down across from him.

He needed to get rid of that damn droid once and for all.