Skira woke up to the heavy pounding of a meaty fist striking the hull of the Jai'galaar.
In the weeks since their first drink, Raana had decided she wanted him again three times. The second had ended up with them in the medbay, Montrals were made of bone and cartilage, and did not appreciate accidentally getting slammed against the bulkhead by being too enthusiastic in your lovemaking. She'd described the feeling as a cross between hitting your funny bone, setting off a bomb right by your ear, and breaking your nose. The only thing that had saved him was the fact she did it to herself, and he'd dragged them half naked to the med bay and threatened the medical droid at blaster point to treat her then and there as she clutched her head and tried not to scream.
Fortunately, last night had been a lot more gentle, and not involved any drinking. Skira wasn't sure what that meant, but he wasn't going to question it. Killing he knew. Relationships, not so much.
"What is it?" Raana grumbled. The pounding stopped, only to be replaced by the insistent chirp of her comm-link.
Skira leaned over her and the edge of the bunk, ignoring the feel of her breasts as he found the device on the floor and handed it to her. He was going to have to make this up to Ryn, somehow, but he'd worry about that later. He still wasn't sure what this was with Raana either. He was going to have to make that up to her as well.
"What?" Raana growled into the comm.
"Meshgeroya!" Mrssk's joyous, reptilian voice roared over the tiny speaker.
The pair of them froze.
"When?" Skira snapped, scrambling up and on top of Raana, so he was by the comm-link as well.
"Now you bastards!" the Trandoshan roared. "Ships put together a couple teams. Game starts in fifteen minutes!"
Skira and Raana stared at each other for a moment. Then the comm-link went flying as the scrambled out of the bunk, struggling to get in their kute and armor as they tumbled over each other in their haste. One of her boots socked him in the jaw as she danced around one one leg trying to put it on. At some point he tripped and slammed them both into the bulkhead, but the managed to untangle and get themselves outside in five minutes.
Boots pounding the deck, he raced over to the Bes'bev, the hatch opening with a verbal command in his helmet.
Ryn was sitting in the cockpit naked, pouting when he stuck his head in.
"Get your ass into gear," he snapped.
"I was waiting for you all night, Master," the Twi'lek pouted. "But you were at her ship instead of with me."
Letting out a growl, he stalked over, grabbed her by the neck, and lifted her up out of the seat. She whimpered, looking up at him.
"You forget your place," he snapped. "But I have better things to do than punish you right now. Get dressed and get your ass in gear."
"Why?" she said, the pout fading. "Is there trouble?"
"Meshgeroya," he said excitedly, letting go her neck. She practically fell on her ass. "You have one minutes, then you get left behind."
The slave-girl yipped in excitement and dashed past him, lekku flying in the wind as she ducked into their tiny cabin. Thirty seconds later, she was dancing back out, boots unlaced, shorts barely pulled up enough to prevent criminal charges, and struggling to pull a tiny top over her breasts. He picked her up and threw her over his shoulder, making her grunt, before practically throwing himself out of the Bes'bev. R5's angry blyat following them as the hatch sealed.
Mrssk led the way, their heavy boots pounding the deck with a steady rhythm. They went up several decks, joining a throng of crewmen, human and alien, male, female, and otherwise, till at last the crowed spilled into a storage deck that had been converted into a playing field roughly forty-five meters long and half that wide, with goals set up at either end, and the crates stacked to make improvised stands. Ordo and Shada waved them over from seats near the mid field. Holo-cams were already hovering over the field, no doubt broadcasting to those who couldn't come in person.
"Who's playing?" Raana asked, sitting down. They drew several glances, not the least of which was because Ryn was still struggling into her clothes. Skira ignored them and focused on the field.
Meshgeroya, "the beautiful game," was a beloved pastime of the Mandalorians. Known as Bolo-ball, or Limmie to the rest of the galaxy, it was a staple of galactic entertainment. Two teams faced each other, trying to score in the opposite goal, generally by kicking the ball, or hitting it with the head or elbows, or throwing it. Tackling and strikes against other players were allowed, including using the ball as a weapon, though that risked putting it into the other team's hand.
Given the limitations of the ship, it looked like they were set to play a half game, with a half sized field and reduced number of players. Skira recognized at least two of the fighter mechanics on one of the teams. The other team carried itself with the easy grace of soldiers, making them likely either the ships marines, or Alliance ground troops.
"Marines vs Mechanics," Ordo said, pulling out a jug from between his legs and passing it over. Skira took a swig and tasted the sweet, spicy black ale known as ne'tra gal. He passed it to Raana, who made a pleasant sound of pleasure as she tasted the gal.
The two teams squared off, one player guarding the goal, the other four taking a V-shaped formations across from each other. The ref, a Gran, walked out to the middle of the field holding the ball, his three eyestalks roaming the teams and crowd.
"I want a clean game!" he said in a loud, clear voice. "Anyone breaking the rules gets kicked out. We're here to have fun, not kill each other."
Mrssk let out a hearty hiss of disapproval. Mando'ad played the game rougher than some, often in full armor, which meant you could take harder hits. It was viewed as good training, and good fun. If you didn't walk away with at least one bruise, it had been a poor game.
The ball went up in the air and the teams went at it. Both were filled with humans, or near humans at least, which made things relatively even. The rough, hardy strength of the mechanics was obvious in how hard they could hit the ball down the field and take their hits. The spacebugs, however, had little issue pulling their military coordination and training into making their team run like clockwork.
It was obvious both teams had played each other regularly. Play after play was countered, the ball flying into the air as knees and elbows were thrown, often catching another player as they 'missed' the ball or as a follow through to a driving strike. Blood spattered the deck as it was spat out of busted mouths.
The first to score were the Marines. Their center midfield, a woman who had to be two meters tall at least, spiked the ball hard from the center line. It tore through the air like cannon shot, ripping past the Mechanic's goal keeper and impacting the wall behind him like thunder.
The ref called half time shortly after that, both teams falling back to check their wounds and try and plan to either keep the lead or try and take it.
"Damn," Mrssk grumbled. "I was hoping for a real game."
Skira looked over the players. Sure, they weren't playing to Mando'ad standards, but given they were probably under orders not to put anyone out of commission, he didn't think they were doing that badly. Though he did admit the lack of scoring was leading to a sense of ennui. It was hard to get excited about plays when they were just going to stall out.
Even the crew around was starting to look disgruntled. Perhaps they'd seen these two teams going at it often enough for it to start to become mundane. Ordo seemed to pick up in it too, because he stood up and walked down to the Gran running the game and started talking in a hushed voice.
The creature's three eye stalks wavered for a moment, then looked at the other teams.
"Grant, Mosben, come here." The Gran called.
The two team captains walked over. Grant was the tall woman from the Marines, while Mosben was a short, broad man from the Mechanics. The four talked in low, hushed tones for a moment. Then they nodded.
Ordo came back over, a grin splitting his features.
"Out of the armor, ade," he said. "We're playing."
"Yes!" Mrssk hissed.
"I promised we'd go easy on them," Ordo said, chiding his brother-in-law. The Trandoshan hissed in disappointment, but started pealing off his armor.
Skira shrugged and joined the others in taking off his armor, leaving only the black kute. Beside him, Raana did the same, her white kute plastered to her toned form, matching the white strips of her montral and lekku, and leaving a nice contrast to her orange skin.
"Crewmates!" The gran shouted. "We have a change of plans. I know everyone is a bit tired of watching the same game every month, so our guests, the Mandalorians, have agreed to play our Marines!"
Cheers went up around the cargo bay as the Mando'ad took the Mechanic's place on the field, stretching themselves out.
"I'll take goal," Raana said. "Best place for a sniper."
"I'll take center mid," Ordo said. "Shada, you take my back. Mrssk, right mid. Skira, you fine with mid left?"
"You're the boss," Skira said. He looked over the Marines. No, not spacebugs he decided. These were proper mudbugs. They didn't fight in the clean vacuum of space. They knew the mud and filth. Especially the tall red head woman that was their boss.
Slowly, he undid the fasteners on his kute and pealed it down, wrapping the arms around his waste and exposing the scars on his torso. There were several gasps, including from Shada, and the Marine's eyes grew wide. They were his marks of shame, reminders of his failure. To others, however, they were a weapon he could use. Few could look at a man with that many scars and not flinch at the idea of what he could endure.
They lined up across from the other team, Ordo in the center, Shada and Mrssk to his right, Raana and Skira to his left. Grant stepped forwards to shake Ordo's hand. The Gran nodded in approval.
"I want a good clean game," the Gran said. Ordo and Grant nodded. Grant stepped back towards her team.
"Kote!" Ordo shouted, slamming his foot onto the deck and raising his right hand up by his head.
"Kandosii sa ka'rta!" The other Mando'ad shouted, mimicking his movements. "Vode an!"
The Marine's stood stunned for a moment, and a shocked hush fell over the cargo bay.
"Mando'ade a'den mhi!" Skira chanted with his kin, smashing his arms against each other repeatedly, along with Ordo and Shada. Raana and Mrssk leaned forwards and opened their jaws wide, displaying their fearsome teeth. "Vode an!"
"Bal kote, darasuum kote!" They roared, stamping their feet and pounding their chest. In full armor, the haka produced the terrifying clash of armor. Without it, it showed the kind of bruising force they were willing to endure even without beskar's caress. "Jorso'ran kando a tome!"
"Sa kyr'am nau tracyn kad!" Ordo roared, making a challenging gesture, mimicked by each of them, before they all finished, shouting, "Vode an!"
Silence reigned for a moment and Skira took the chance to savor the haka. It had been too long since he had been a part of one. To see its effects, even muted by a peaceful game of Meshgeroya, warmed his heart.
They fell back, taking their positions on the field, and the Gran launched the ball. Ordo snapped forward, Skira and Mrssk on his wings, as the the other team moved to counter them. Their center forward got to the ball first, but despite throwing a near perfect kick into the ball, Ordo intercepted it and sent it flying with a back hand.
Grant took the center mid position, where she could watch her players. It was a good general's position, contrasting her instantly with Ordo's lead from the front policy. Skira's own opposite number was a short, broad woman with dark skin and a shaved head, who moved with a bull-nerf's determination.
The ball flew fast and hard between the players. Skira took an elbow to the face as they scrummed over the ball, but returned it with a knee to someone's gut.
Then the ball popped out and shot down the field towards their goal. Skira went down on the deck, tackled by his dark opposite. It shot past Shada so fast the woman couldn't react.
Raana, however, was ready. Grabbing the upper bar of the goal, she waited for the perfect moment, then lifted herself up and twisted in a vicious kick. The ball cracked as it was suddenly sent the opposite direction with just as much force, zipping past the players. Grant tried to intercept, but missed. The Marine's goal-keeper caught by surprise, stood stunned as the ball went in.
"Goal!" the ref roared.
They picked themselves up, and reset. A new found respect glinted in the eyes of the Marines, and they came back twice as hard. This time, they scored a goal, by faking Raana into thinking they were going for another long shot, only for one of their players to slip bask Mrssk, pop up right by the goal, and catch the ball before tossing it in under the Togruta's kick.
By the end of the first half, it was three Mando'ad, two Marines.
"That was a fine elbow," Ordo said, slapping Skira on the back. "Thank you for clearing the way on that last goal."
Ryn appeared at his elbow and handed him a flask. Skira took it gratefully and drank deep, tasting citrus and spice before handing it to Ordo. The other man took it without question and drank, eyes widening in surprise.
"Good stuff," he said. "What is it?"
"Something Ryn makes," Skira said, petting the Twi'lek's head. "Her people use it as a restorative to stay hydrated."
Ordo handed it to his wife, who drank and passed it on to Mrssk. The Trandoshan passed it to Raana.
"We might need a new plan," Ordo said, drawing them in close. "What say we mix things up?"
"What you thinking?" Shada asked, squeezing her husband's hand. She had a bruise forming on one cheek, and there was a trail of blood from where she'd busted her lip. Skira didn't think she could have looked happier, short of her child doing something impressive.
"Swap positions," Ordo said. "They each train their own spot. They've been practicing it for ages, and they've been practicing against the same people in the same spots for ages as well. They think they know us because of what we're playing."
"Skira take center forward," Raana said. "I'll watch your back."
"You sure?" Skira asked, making a slight gesture towards her head. Raana glared at him for a moment, then sighed, grabbed the back of his head, and gave him a firm keldabe kiss.
"I'm fine," she said. "I can handle a bit of Meshgeroya."
"I'll take goal," Ordo said. "Mrssk, take left, Shada right."
"Ori'jate," the Trandoshan hissed.
They broke apart and took their new places on the field. Confusion spread across the Marine team, but they took their spots warily, exchanging glances.
Skira let out a breath and focused. As left mid, he'd been the shield. Now, he was the spear, with Raana to watch his back.
The ball dropped and he exploded into motion, blasting forwards with singular determination. His counter's eyes snapped open in surprise as Skira slid forwards. The other player kicked the ball, setting it to sail over him, but Skira twisted, slamming the ball with his elbow and driving it towards Ordo.
"Ukoror!" he yelled, continuing his slide under the other player. Rolling, he came up to his feet in front of the redhead captain. Her eyes went wide as he grabbed her, using her as a pivot point to spin past her attempt to block him.
She was so distracted with him, she never saw Raana jump over the fallen forward or slip past her. Ordo had caught the ball, twisting around and elbowing his opposite in the jaw, before passing it to the Togruta. Two meters from the goal, there was no way to block her shot by the time her leg lashed out.
From there, Skira kept up the pressure. The Marines scored another two goals, managing to use his aggression against the Mando'ad, but his kin kept their two point lead all the same.
Then Ordo made a subtle gesture. Skira grimaced, but nodded. Glancing back an Raana, the Togruta shrugged, but nodded back. Ordo wanted to throw the rest of the game, given there was perhaps ten minutes left, and let the Marines have the win. Politics, but it was best to let the other side think they were better than you in a fight. That way you could catch them by surprise later.
This time, when he exploded forwards, Skira missed the ball and kept sliding. The Marine's center forward capitalized it, driving forwards. Raana moved slower to block this time, giving him the chance to slip past her.
Instead, the marine hit the ball up in the air with his knee, then jumped after it to strike it with his elbow to drive it towards the goal. It struck true, but in the process, he crashed into the Togruta and drove his elbow into her injured right montral. There was a crack, and Raana let out an agonized scream. The ball sailed past, into the goal as they fell to the ground.
For a moment, the room went silent. Raana lay on the ground, clutching at her head as another scream tried to fight it's way out. The other player pulled himself up, looking stunned.
Against his will, Skira felt himself fall into the past.
Then he saw red.
"Master!" Ryn's voice was screaming. "Master, stop! You'll kill him!"
Someone was fighting him, trying to haul him back. To stop him. He struggled, lashing out, elbows and fists flying.
"Easy boy!" Ordo was shouting. "Mrssk, you lout, stop fucking around!"
Skira felt words leaving his mouth, though even he wasn't sure what they were. All he could see was Raana laying on the deck. Like his family. Screaming. Always screaming.
Then the world went white as someone shot him with a stunbolt.