As the Jedi temple faded from view behind him, the scene in front of Atton seemed to disintegrate with each step. The road itself cracked and crumbled a little more beneath his feet, and buildings that lined the ever-narrowing streets began to sag in on themselves, weighed down bu the accumulated misery.
Some things never change. No matter who runs the galaxy, someone's got to suffer for no better reason than that they've been forgotten.
His long legs easily absorbing the rhythm of the crowd, he slid along unnoticed. Forgotten.
It's so familiar. He blew a sharp breath through his nose. I keep this up, I'm gonna get all nostalgic.
All things aside, Atton was feeling a bit nostalgic. Shop keepers hawking their wares, street performers belching flames and drunks just belching. He was distracted, for a moment only, by the clink and rattle of a Pazaak table, but the game held little lure for him since he awakened to the Force. Too damned easy. No skill involved anymore.
The noise and swell of sentient life around him pressed over his body like a blanket. Like a shield.
Right, Rand. Just like home. You idiot. What the hell are you trying to prove to yourself right now? That you belong here? Well, congratulations...
All things aside, Atton liked himself a hell of a lot better when this particular voice just shut the fuck up.
Uh-huh. Cuz all that other stuff – constant fear, the hunger that rips your ribs open, the days and nights and weeks without rest, let along sleep – that can all be forgotten under the warm fuzzy of right now, huh?
He didn't need to dig to discover what was driving his steps towards the ugliest part of the city. He'd picked up too damned much self-awareness in the past few years.
Kriffing Hell.
Mission. Kid like that shouldn't be growing up on Nar Shaddaa. No kid should. But a pretty little thing like that? No way.
She wouldn't welcome the thought, though. Atton pondered the language she'd use if he suggested that she might need protection and surprised himself with a smile. OK, so it might not be as bad as what he'd have said at that age...
The smile disappeared.
Stabbed 'em in the back is what I woulda done. What I did do.
Still. Didn't mean he couldn't make it easier for her to make her own way into the galaxy.
One last turn, and Atton found himself facing a crooked and disreputable door. He knocked once, waited, that rapped out a complicated tempo. After a few moments of silence, the door creaked open and a small, thin face peered out at him.
"Da's na home. Go awa'"
"Cut the crap, Matta. That poor orphan bullshit doesn't work on me."
"Ah well. Y'can't blame me fer tryin'"
The door swung open and the tiny, bent figure gestured Atton's welcome. "Come in, come in. Yer lettin' all the warm air out," the woman said, then barked a laugh at her own wit.
Atton mimed a smile at her in the tiny, frigid room. "Can't stay long, you old hag. I need some talent."
"Ye can leave right now, ya Hutt-humping screw-up. What d'ya need?"
"Pilot ... and a mechanic. Preferably in the same body- one that's free to travel and can stay under the sensors."
"Brant's yer boy. Daddy taught 'im everything there is to know about runnin' a smugglin' ship between th'beatings."
"Can I trust him?"
"Sure, if y'can afford his trust."
"Perfect. I'll need him to leave immediately."
"Can't have 'im right now. 'E's fightin' down at Naaban's"
Atton's head cocked like a kath hound's
"He's a fighter, too?"
"Nay, not 'im. Wouldn't call 'im that a'tall. Said the red bugger 'ad summat of 'is an 'e needed it back, is all."
Atton heaved a sigh. "Anyone else?"
"Fer what yer lookin' for? Nay. Mebbe two or three others could do it ... if y'could get 'em to work together."
Placing his hands on his knees, Atton leaned down until his tall body was nearly doubled over to look her in the eye. He raised a single, dark brow. "You wouldn't happen to be worried about this Brant and attempting to manipulate me into helping him, would you, Matta?"
Two delicate hangs appeared from under the tattered clothing and wrapped her cloak tighter around her spare frame as she met his gaze. "Sure'n I'd be a fool to try any tricks on a Jedi, hey?"
Grinning, Atton rolled his eyes. "Right ... the Force works in mysterious ways and all that shit. Fine, fine, fine ... I'll get your boy out. But keep that mouth of yours shut. I have a reputation to protect."
Her quavering voice called out to him, "'E's the young Duros. Y'can't miss 'im!" as he left.
Shaking his head, the ex-assassin left the dubious shelter and turned towards the darkest slums of Coruscant.
The roar of gamblers and thrill-seekers was muted to a dull roar in the 'pens' behind the pit. Beasts of every size, species and sentience lingered there, waiting for a chance to win their fortunes, freedom ... or their funerals.
Matta wasn't kidding on either point. First of all, Brant stuck out like a sore thumb amidst all the thugs and bruisers in the pen. Secondly, the kid was no fighter. The young Duros' spindly limbs looked like they'd snap in a stiff breeze. It was always hard to read a Duros' eyes, but Atton could see Brant's hands clenched tightly at his sides.
Sauntering over through the slew of lowlifes and scumbags, Atton approached Brant with an air of forced casualness. "Whatcha doin' here, Kid? Doesn't really look like your game."
Atton sighed ruefully when the youth leaped a good foot into the air, spinning wildly at the sound of his voice. "Aww...see what I mean? That's just no good," he said, catching the eye of one interested goon and staring him – her? - down. "These freaks're gonna make you for an easy mark from a light year away."
Give the kid credit for guts, though. After he collected himself from the start, Brant gathered himself up enough to shoot a disparaging look at his new companion. "Matta send you to save me, yes? No good. Not going."
"No. Matta sent me to hire you. Real, honest work. Maybe something you can be proud of."
Brant waivered, but, "Must get jewels."
Atton all but felt his ears perk up. "Jewels? What the hell, kid? You're gonna get your face smashed in for shiny rocks?"
Ok. Well, no mistaking the look in the Duros' eyes, now. "Not a kid! You, space off! I have honour, if you know not the meaning."
"Rocks don't carry honour, kid," Atton growled.
"Sister's honour. Mother's honour. Father bartered them for these rocks. I will have them back." The Duros was all but snarling.
"You can't protect your family if you're dead, ki...Brant. C'mon...let's get you out of ..." He was cut off as a squealing Gamorrean calling out the kid's name.
Brant shot Atton a scornful glance, before gathering up all of his 80-pound bulk – that's generous – and followed the walking swine to the pit. "Tell Matta...sorry."
"Dammit!"
Dodging nimbly through the crushing crowd, Atton made his way to the pit. Naaban was easy to spot, his huge horns rising above the crowd like a monuments to his own arrogance. Dirty piece of work. Using the noise and push of the crowd, as they surged to jeer at Brant, Atton shuffled closer to the gigantic Devaronian. A quick pat-down assured him that any jewels – Brant's or not – weren't present.
Of course not. Couldn't ever have anything be easy, could we?
He tried to calculate out his next move, but a meaty thump from deep in the pit narrowed his options considerably. That kid's gonna die here.
And then, as he launched himself over the edge of the 10-foot hole, he thought, I might, too.
The ground gave a sickening squish as he landed, dirt softened by layers of blood and shit and vomit. Yeah, that smell's never comin' out.
Without time to catch his balance, Atton was caught off-guard by a wiry street tough with a mini-stunner. The jolt, though minor, knocked his teeth together and had his eyes spinning in the wrong direction for a moment. Like there's a right direction for my eyes to be spinning?
He dropped to one knee, and the tough gave a whoop of victory and charged in at Atton's back – straight into a waiting elbow.
Not sparing so much as a glance at the now-unconscious Brant, Atton called up to Naaban. "The kid's mine! His pa sold 'em to me last week! I'm taking him out of here!"
"That whelp pledged himself to fight, and lasted less than a minute! If you want him, you will fight in his place!"
"Of course I will," Atton muttered, trying to keep the glee off of his face.
Shrugging, he looked up at the crowd. "All right." He dug into his jacket pocket and came out with a handful of creds. Throwing them toward a young-looking female bounty hunter, he yelled, "Bet it all on me, sweetcakes!"
He couldn't hold back a wolfish grin as the fun began.
The first few were easy. The crowd didn't know exactly what had landed into their night of entertainment. A single Gammorean – maybe the one who called Brant to the ring. Atton hoped so. A pair of human knife fighters. A Twi'lek male armed with a Geonosian spear took a couple of minutes, but only because he was getting bored.
The crowd, however, was far from bored. The shouts and screaming were mind-numbing as bets flew from hand to hand. The young woman who'd caught his cred waved and threw down a skin of Corellian whiskey. Atton grinned up at her and blew a kiss.
He began to lose track of what they threw at him. Giant men with sharp teeth. Wookiees. A gaping spider. When the rancor came out, he stripped off he remnants of his shirt and finished the last of the whiskey. With his head spinning, bleeding from a dozen small cuts and scrapes, he felt alive. He felt useful.
Vibroblade humming comfortably in his hand, Atton ran at the slimy wall of the pit, and used the momentum – with a boost from the Force – to scramble over the head of the creature. He tucked neatly into a flip and landed near the rancor's tail. In theory, that is. In practice, one giant, clawed hand swatted him from the air, sending him flailing to the ground where Brant huddled, dazed and terrified.
Ok. So, I might have been getting a bit cocky.
He swiped his fingers through his hair, deliberately not thinking about the sticky moisture he was rubbing into his scalp.
This ain't about you, Rand.
The crowed howled with excitement as Atton approached the rancor with more caution this time. He reached out ahead of himself with the Force, searching for a weak point to exploit and found nothing. Can't exactly kick one of these in the junk, can ya?
This time, when he ran at the beast, he kept a close eye on the claws and great jowls that dripped with saliva and mucus. The rancor had enough bestial intelligence to anticipate another leap, but Atton dropped into the filth and under the creature's belly. A few rapid jabs of his knife as he passed drove the rancor into a rage. He found a rhythm of dodging and stabbing. It wasn't flashy, but it would work – in time.
Unfortunately, Atton's hosts weren't interested in anything that wasn't flashy. The squealing of the iron gate announced the presence of two more opponents – Mandalorian mercs in full armour.
"You have got to be kidding me!"
"Fight, stranger! You want to claim my gladiator..." Naaban all but spat the word, "... you must fight until I am satisfied!"
"Why do I get the feeling you've got some creds against me? I'll be happy to claim those later, you swamp-spawned Hutt-licker!"
With the enraged rancor in front of him, and the Mandalorians separating to circle around him, Atton didn't bother to wait for a reply.
"Right, the overgrown rat has to go first." Narrowly dodging a swipe from a vibroblade, he dove straight at the beast, gasping slightly as the enormous hand closed on him. The blood and slime streaking down his back and arms helped him wiggle one arm free, and when he drew close enough to the gaping maw, he tossed a small disc that made absolutely no impression as it disappeared down the rancor's throat. In fact, only the smallest belch of smoke indicated that anything was wrong at all, until the behemoth began to totter.
Still clutched in the giant claws, Atton watched the ground speed up to meet him.
"Fuck."
Even the most acrobatic of rolls wasn't going to be able to absorb all of the impact, but he did his best. The sound of his clavicle cracking wasn't a great indication of success, however.
"Fuck!"
His vibroblade dropped from his numb right hand, disappearing into the muck. The Mandalorians began to advance. Why is it that even when their heads are covered by those buckets, you can still see them smirking at you?
He was going to have to arm himself...and fast. There were four stun batons, a force pike and a long sword - as well as his own blade - hidden somewhere in the goo under his feet. He ran down a mental list of where they'd all fallen. Two of the batons were under the rancor's monsterous carcass. The pike was behind him, on the other side of one of the Mandalorians, and the sword was by Brant. That left two batons, one to his left, the other by the iron gate. He feinted right then dove left into a roll, plunging his arm into the filth. There!
Grinning, he rose with the stunner in his hand and dove at the nearest merc. The stunner crackled, but had no effect on the heavy armour. Instead, the Mandalorian's heavy fist came down on Atton's collar bone, sending him to the ground, nauseous with pain. Atton rose, empty handed, pain rolling off him in waves. The walls of the pit curved and hovered over him, dancing madly and punctuated by leering Mandalorian helmets.
"C'mon you fucking bucketheads! I'm not done with you, yet! You got nothing left, you two-bit Nar Shaddaa hucksters! No clan. No honour. No war. And I'm. Not. Done."
The bigger of his two opponents charged forward, howling in Mando'a. Atton sidestepped awkwardly, but managed to tear off a piece of the thick armour. Sliding behind the crashing merc, he stuck a small ion charge to the back of his helmet.
The second merc – smaller, faster – slipped behind him, tucked a foot into the back of one knee and pushed. Atton's leg buckled under him, throwing him to the ground. He turned the fall into enough of a roll to avoid the descending vibroblade – barely. But goon number one had regained his equilibrium and was on his way back.
Scrambling now, Atton stumbled through the muck and gore, focused only on avoiding the still-shining tips of two whirring blades. He slipped again, bracing himself on his right arm before remembering that particular course of action might not be wise. His vision tunnelled into blackness as pain drove through his chest from his clavicle. He wondered vaguely whether watching the blade that killed him would be a good thing.
In the blur of motion, a high-pitched sound broke into Atton's consciousness. He looked up in time to see Brant, slime-covered longsword swinging high overhead, descending on the back of the smaller Mandalorian. The merc turned, easily deflecting the Duros' swing, and batting the kid back into the dirt before aiming a vicious kick at his head. Futile attack. But it was well timed. And it was enough.
Yeah, yeah. Force. Mystery. Blah blah blah.
Atton's left hand closed around his own blade as the ion charge detonated in a shower of blue lightening. The big Mandalorian howled as his helmet filled with smoke and sparks, and the smaller one turned to his partner.
His vision a blur of red and chaos, Atton leaped at the smaller merc who was pulling his friend's helmet off. Wrapping his one good arm around his enemy's neck, he wrenched up, popping that helmet off as well. He barely registered the surprise as a long braid of golden hair fell from the helmet and snaked down his chest.
The face of the big merc, pale and freckled of all things, froze as he watched Atton's arm tighten around his captive's throat. Panting, hurting and pissed off as all hell, Atton had enough strength left in his right hand to sever at least one windpipe. If he pushed the corpse forward, he might just be able to throw the second one off balance enough to get the blade under the neckguard of his armour. If he could just get the blood out of his eyes...he could... he...
The audience was screaming with glee, chanting and howling for more blood. Atton's grey eyes were ringed with white, as the hoard swirled from ten feet above him. But instead of the young Mandalorian's long braid, he saw short-cropped blonde hair and a gentle face full of compassion.
A low, feral growl crawled in his chest. "No!"
He sucked in two great breaths, and met the young man's stare from across the ring.
"Now I'm done."
Planting one foot in the small of the woman's back, he kicked off her, sending her crashing into her partner. Using the momentum to reach Brant, he scooped the Duros up in his left arm, gritting his teeth against the pain that sent his stomach shooting into his mouth. Pulling on the Force, he scrambled up the enormous carcass of the rancor and lifted himself out of the pit. He came down – hard – one foot between the horns of Naaban, who buckled beneath him.
Most of the crowd backed away from the filth-covered pair. But the bounty hunter, the woman, grinned and handed him a pile of creds. "I'm keeping my cut," she echoed his grin. "Don't even try to kiss me. You're disgusting."
Atton threw his head back and laughed. "I'm heartbroken." Stuffing the creds in his pants pocket, he backed through the stunned crowd to the open door.
He didn't stop til he got to Matta's sad little shelter. She threw open her door without a word and directed him to drop Brant onto a low cot, making low sounds of distress. "Hush, old woman. Just...just give me a minute. It's the head injury that's the worst of it."
Atton dropped to his knees beside the prone youth, scowling. "You don't get out of a job that easily, you little nerfherder."
Placing one filthy hand over the wound, Atton walled off his own pain, drawing heat and energy from deep inside and pushing it towards Brant. He held his breath for a moment, but released it in a shaking hiss as flesh began to knit over the lad's skull.
Trembling, Atton hauled himself onto a rickety chair and dropped his head into his one good hand. "He'll be all right, Matta. Brainbox's as thick as they come."
He waved away the tiny woman's attempts to see to his wounds. "Don't. A drink, if you've got it. I'll deal with all of this when I've had a drink...or six."
"Sure'n y'come to my home, making demands, ya great lout. Y'smell like someone puked up a sewer." But she brought him a rough clay cup full of hot liquid.
"And here I chose a fragrance just for you." Atton glared at his hand in annoyance as it twitched, sloshing hot liquid. "Then again, I still smell better than whatever's in this cup."
Grimacing, he tilted his head back and drank it all. "Oh, that is vile, woman. I knew you were tryin' to kill me."
"Y'got a loud mouth for summun with so much crap in it, Jedi."
"Oh, don't call me that, you old goat. Just shut up and let me rest."
Atton slumped against the wall, and let the potion work its way through his veins. When the room finally stopped spinning, he closed his eyes and began to focus inward on his own injuries. He was weak and sweating but whole when he opened his eyes to meet Matta's impassive gaze. He tossed some creds down. "I need to use your shower. If you could find me some clean clothes and burn these ones in the meantime, I'd be very, very grateful."
Later, clean and dressed once again, Atton sat across from the table from Matta, explaining the task he had for the young Duros. A small creak from across the room captured both of their attention, and they turned to see Brant rising up from his makeshift bed. The boy stumbled to a halt in front of Atton and paused before cocking his fist back and landing a solid haymaker. Atton's head snapped back from the impact on his jaw, but the rest of his body remained still.
Brant, panting in small sobs, wouldn't meet his eyes. "My sister's honour, my mother's you left there," he muttered. "They will pay for my weakness."
"I'll get 'em back, kid. You're going off planet tonight. By the time you get back, I'll have 'em. I promise."
He grabbed the kid's head and stared into his bottomless red eyes, "You can't help them dead, right? All right?" and nodded as the tension left the small body.
"Matta will explain what you're doing. I've left enough creds for transportation, materials and labour. I'll have more when you get back. It's a big job."
Brant nodded as Atton turned to go, wiping blood and grime from the Duros's hit from his cheek. "Oh...and if you want my advice? Open the hatch and space those gizka the first chance you get."