Grindhouse Rpg (by Audition Only) (Page 4 of 6)

Character Sheet

Name: Grrow'lun'gh'ung'hh (possibly Groww for short)

Occupation: Previously a tribal shaman, now captured as a slave for the arena pitfighting circuit

Species: Tusken Raider

Gender: Male

Age: 42

Appearance: Average Tusken Raider clothing: ragged, smelly bandages (thanks to slave living conditions), and goggles

Personality: Groww does not have much of a personality per se, as he is constantly bewildered by his circumstances. He is, however, far less belligerent than the Tusken Raiders are famed to be, no doubt due to his elevated status as tribe shaman. Due to this mysticism, he is thoughtful, and seeks to understand his surroundings. He will not hesitate, however, to defend his life with combat.

Skills: Groww is an anomaly among his people: he is a bona fide force-sensitive individual, and is able to harness this gift in limited ways that allowed him to become shaman. It generally manifests itself as an ability to see a muddled vision of the future, or to read the thoughts of others. It also grants him eerie clarity in battle, and a limited way of judging his opponent's moves before they execute them.

Equipment: He has his traditional Tusken garb always on his body, and his gaderffii is kept by the slaving company for him to use in matches.

Other: Despite having been in slavery for months, he has yet been unable to realize exactly what is going on, due to his limited frame of reference on Tattooine. His thoughts are generally severely muddled, and only when he is in combat or in meditation does he have a clear vision of events. Definitely a different point of view

Brief History:  Groww was appointed as shaman to his clan on Tattooine in his teens and served so until a slaving company specializing in exotic goods raided his village. He along with a dozen of his tribesmen and women were taken captive and made to fight. As the months progressed, the group dwindled until only Groww remained, thanks to his abilities. He is now still attempting to figure out just what has happened to him and how he can return to the life he led.

((Sorry about the late entry, didn't see this thread until...today, hehe. I tried to pm you, Gojan, with the application, but since the inbox was full I figured I'd go here before things went too far ahead. Hope it's not minded...))

------------------------------------------

Noise of the dream became the noise of awake. The arid, dazzling light of his desert gave way to a stark opposite in the dark, wet world he occupied in those miserable hours he wasn’t asleep. He hated awake; awake was nasty, it was noisy, and it smelled. Nothing ever smelled in his dreams.

He hated this new smell. He was happy when there was no smell, and he was happy in his dream. When the smell came, that was when he became unhappy. Was it the smell that made him unhappy? Or was the unhappy place simply a place of bad smells, of blood and bile and urine and decay? Impossible to tell. Unanswerable.

A mind approached his slumped form as he lay in the damp yuck, in the muddy, unpleasant straw that was made so by water. He was so much happier when there was no water, and he knew that. When everything was dry, he drank the water and it was good. When everything was wet, you drank the water and died. His people, his tribesmen that had followed him to the smelly place had done it, and they had died.

He reached out and touched the mind. His hands lay where they were, on the floor made of yuck, but he reached out anyway. He felt him leave himself lying there and enter the mind, swirling around and around as the biting sand when the wind blows. He felt the mind, but it was no different from the dozens of others he had touched in the smelly place: alien. He saw its alien words and felt its alien feelings, but none of them meant a thing to him as he swirled around inside the mind. Disappointed, the sands quieted and flowed back to his own mind.

The mind standing in the opening of his wet little world grunted twice and kicked his chain. The rattle noise came, and made the noisy world and the wet one become the same thing. Grrow lifted his hands to his ears, and grunted in protest. He felt the kick coming before the mind knew it was, but he did not want to move. He stayed in his lump in the wet yuck, and seconds later felt the blow from the kick. He stayed where he was, and the mind wrapped a meaty hand around his wraps and dragged him through the yuck. Grrow simply moaned a little as he was pulled.

He was up higher, pulled away from the wet to his feet. His wet hands suddenly held their old friend, the gaderffii. One more swift kick, he was forward and the mind was back behind a barrier. His world was light and even louder. He saw minds, too many to count, watching, looking down on his new light world. Red covered the ground, along with carcasses. They used to be minds, but now they were meat. He thought on it.

Then a fist came flying out of nowhere, but…not yet.

He backed up, a quick half-step, and the knife-wielding opponent lunged through the space he had inhabited just moments ago. Understandably bewildered, the once-mind, now-enemy looked at his intended target only to find the gaderffii lodged soundly up the nose and in the skull.

Then came a flying body but…not quite yet either. The body landed where Grrow had been, and turned a foot for a blow. Well, he hadn’t turned it yet, but he would, and Grrow was already moving into it…

He blocked the blow as best he could and managed not to go sprawling, but was still brought to his knees by the kick. A foot came up to stomp his waiting skull into the floor, but it was all too easy to avoid even before it was raised. The gaderffii flew again, this time covered in blood and snot and brain, and hit with the blunt end the opposing creature (had he any knowledge of creatures, he might have identified the Barabel). Even that blunt end, however, had an edge to it, and by drawing it across the winded alien’s stomach he let spill all the guts it had gone through so much trouble to preserve.

The combat high of awareness, of lucidity was already beginning to fade. The other combatants in the ring apparently had no interest in this relic from far away; they were far more concerned with the preservation of their own lives and the earning of a significant prize. People…minds…lined the arena…light-place…he saw them all, saw their alien eyes, but felt nothing from them.

Electricity sizzled through him. His goggled eyes backtracked, through the crowd and toward a table in the bar. Even as he felt himself slipping back into the muddy indifference of his confused life, as he felt the clarity of combat dropping from him with his adrenaline, still he knew this was important, this was special. The brown creature at the seat with the white one, if only he would look…his mind was like none Grrow had met so far.

By chance, perhaps, or perhaps a twist of fate, or maybe the fact that both creatures were highly intuitive, the Selonian met the Tusken Raider’s gaze.

The muddiness cleared at once. With that instant of connection between them, Grrow understood. There was a language there he understood, completely unlike the alien minds that lived around him. Here was a mind he could understand, and that could understand him. Now he understood everything.

The world of wet and yuck and smell and sounds dissipated with that furtive moment of connection. Now, he was on Ord Mantell.

((Figured I should say what happened exactly, since stream-of-consciousness isn't exactly best for clarity. The Tusken Raider is owned by slavers and used as a gladiator. He was sent into the ring in the bar, where he was attacked by some brawlers but was a ble to kill them. Still confused by his surroundings, he glanced around the crowd and saw Drac. Since both of them are force-sensitive, he was finally able to make some sense of his thoughts, and realized exactly what was going on. Now he's standing in the cagefighting area, lost in the moment. Now that he's a little saner, my posts should be clearer from now on...))

If you are not taking any more applications because you can't handle them, I'm willing to do it.

Drac was lost. The moment that heavily wrapped face had locked its goggled eyes on his, the Selonian had fallen into a trance; years of suffering were shown to him in mere seconds, a small glean of a past on some desert backwater planet was granted him, the robed being’s very life was projected into his mind as Drac’s own understanding was similarly shared by the Tusken. The desert-born nomad was for the first time introduced into the galaxy he was a part of, and the Selonian was shown what horrors the sentient beings of that galaxy were capable of, far different from the honorable and true society he’d known on Yanibar.

On the heels of understanding: horror.

Drac glimpsed murder, slavery, rape, pillaging, burning, destruction, hate, greed, and disregard for all of it like he’d never imagined. It made him sick, and he hardly managed to keep his dinner in his stomach where it belonged, so strongly was he revolted by this revelation. Surely, it couldn’t be possible that such atrocities were committed on thinking, moving, breathing, living creatures? Could it? It could, and now he knew it.

On the heels of horror: pity.

This man, or woman, or thing, whatever was beneath those robes that cloaked it so completely as Drac’s own did, had been through hell in every definition of the word. His family, or tribe may it suit him, was killed off completely; some quickly, some much more painfully. He’d been dragged from his home, put in chains, beaten, imprisoned, forced to fight enemies he didn’t know or choose for no other reason than to survive. This was allowed to happen. Again. And again. And again.

On the heels of pity: fury.

Men had done these things. Men had sinned. Men would pay. The calm, level-headed mentality that the Selonian preferred to keep was shattered in an instant, once again showing that no matter how one tries, he cannot rid himself of what he believes is right. How hard he tries over how many years is meaningless – he cannot deny his heart.

Drac stumbled drunkenly out of his chair, knocking it backwards as he headed in the direction of the arena, all at once not caring about Zenth or the woman who’d joined their table, nor the confused calls they gave him as he stood without explanation. This link, this connection that he felt could not be ignored, and the same went for the robed warrior in the pit. Whatever he was, there were questions to be asked, and justice to be dealt. Gone was the quiet beast-man who longed to be invisible. In its place grew a warrior of fearsome intensity, driven by rage and a powerful sense of justice any Sith would scoff at as Jedi “logic”.

“You alright?” The woman asked, understandably confused. Drac hadn’t said so much as a word to her, and now he was stumbling away like a drunkard towards the pit.

Zenth raised an eyebrow, but stayed silent, finally shrugging and returning to his drink silently. He more than anyone else would understand the concept of following sheer impulse.

“So wrong...” Drac mumbled quietly. “How...?”

He stepped past the wire mesh threshold, still focused on the Tusken Raider fending off opponents with liquid skill at the other end, parrying or dodging nearly every attack flawlessly. His abilities were amazing, and even so Drac felt the need to protect him, preserve him, do whatever he could to balance out the weight of evil that had tipped the scales of life in its favor.

The thought that others would try to stop him hadn’t entered his mind.

Not three strides into the arena, a human brawler took a swing at him with a vibroblade, screaming with his own furious intent to win. Drac denied him that. He drew and lashed out with his Shyarn in a single, deft movement, deflecting the sloppy stroke and following up with a powerful left hook. The man’s cheekbone broke from the force of the blow, and he was sent sprawling on the floor. He might as well have never existed as the Selonian kept walking.

A Spiner was next, one of a species of overgrown porcupines who’d no doubt relied on his unique quill-launching abilities to give him the upper-hand thus far; a deadly trick, if one wasn’t expecting it.

It opened with single, 6 inch spine aimed for Drac’s head, no doubt hoping for a quick finish. Drac dashed his hopes with an almost imperceptible twitch of his neck. The quill went wide. Aggravated, the Spiner launched a burst of three, aiming for his chest now. What happened next would surprise no Jedi, but to a half-wit fighter in a no-name bar’s cage fight, it was impossible.

Not thinking at all, Drac’s Shyarn flew in silver arcs, deflecting all three quills out of pure, unbridled, Force-amplified reflex. The Selonian took advantage of the Spiner’s awed paralysis to bury the cold Cerean metal of his scimitar in the man’s heart. It was the first creature he’d killed tonight.

Drac sheathed his Shyarn as he proceeded, more hastily now as he grew closer to the subject of his undivided interest. He hurled a Duro out of his path with “the gift”, and disposed of the Chev that followed with an uppercut that drove the man’s nose up into his braincase. He hurried onward, somewhere in the back of his mind knowing that his insane strength was starting to gain attention.

The familiar warning screeched into his mind’s ear as he dropped low to avoid the piston-like jabs thrown his way by the Trandoshan now towering over him (he vaguely recalled seeing a being of the same species at a nearby card table). Conservative fighting was a virtue not known to him at the moment, and his “gift” became an instant offensive option.

Drac’s legs drove him back up again, bringing him face to face with his newest attacker as he formed his left hand into a rigid cage, as it might be shaped were he holding a large ball with it. Within that claw, electricity began to spark. The Trando tried again, this time grasping for the Selonian’s throat with its meaty, thrice-clawed hands. They stopped inches from his fur, and though the muscles beneath his green scales bulged with effort, they refused to give an inch of leeway.

Drac’s paw had become a blue star too bright to perceive directly; the electrified Force energy used with such terrible effectiveness by countless Sith lords and dark Jedi had been coalesced into a tightly-contained ball, which he’d then focused into the palm of his paw. It was one of his more lethal techniques in hand-to-hand combat, and it proved extremely useful against a larger and well-muscled opponent.

Grim and hasty as he’d been when he entered the cage, Drac drove his left arm forward, forcing the orb of energy into the Trandoshan’s abdomen. Sparks flew, screams of agony rang out, and blood sprayed from the charred remains of the reptilian’s midsection. The Selonian let him crumple to the ground, then stepped over him and leaped the final few meters between himself and the Tusken, who’d been fending off attackers all the while with the omniscient foresight and dexterity Drac had observed before.

He was both confused and scared by the realization that now that he was here, before the individual who doubtlessly shared his “gift”, he didn’t know what to do, or if the robed figure wouldn’t just try to smote him dead here and now.

The Selonian whirled on his heel, drew two of his precious discblades, and hurled them with supernatural speed and accuracy. No one watching had seen him draw, but they could see the results, see them very well may it do ya fine. A charging Togorian tag-team was decapitated simultaneously, their massive bodies flopping lifelessly to the floor in eerie tandem. Drac felt a twinge of respite for the part he played in all this loss of life, but lost it in an instant as he turned once again to face the Tusken through the momentary lull in the chaos of this un-glorified battle for entertainment and coin. He caught the returning discblades behind his back and returned them to their harness, his eyes never leaving the desert shaman.  Stretching out with his “gift” again, Drac focused his mind on a single word:

Friend.

((Yautja, you could put your lot in with my character's brother, Nathu. His Twi'lek girlfriend's ditched him, you could come in with one of your many Twi'lek jokes to sooth his anger)).

The Force, according to most Jedi, is something generated by all living oganisms, something that surrounds us, penetrates us, and binds the galaxy together. While this is true, one thing they left out is that it works fairly well as a universal translator.

The word “friend” formed in Drac’s mind.

The Force does not know words. It knows what things are. It knows what friendship is, what camaraderie is. It ignores Drac’s word and carries this concept as though on a wave.

The Tusken Raiders have no word for friend. Every other Raider is a clansman, and each is the same to every other. There are no enemies inside a clan, so naturally there are no friends. Other tribes can be enemies, but the opposite of enemy, in that case, is clansman.

So imagine Grrow’s surprise when a word materialized in his mind. He had never known this word before; he knew for certain it was not an actual Tusken term. Nevertheless, he knew what it meant. He saw the word, but it was more than that. He experienced it. He felt that emotion that the Selonian had sent him.

Tusken raiders do not know love. They do not know kindness, as it is for the weak; they do not know familiarity, because they have no need of it. So imagine, if you can, exactly how it felt for him to experience just a taste of this raw essence of friendship. He was nearly crippled by the alien rush of benevolence that the new word encompassed.

Dea’korrn’ya…a friend. He gave an involuntary shudder.

He forgot that he was in the center of an arena filled with deadly brawlers who had it out for anyone they could see. All that mattered now was that the creature standing next to him was a dea’korrn’ya. Feelings of fraternity overwhelmed him.

…Until a Gamorrean contender, wielding a hefty piece of lumber with a metal spike protruding from the side, swung his weapon and smashed Grrow’s head into bandage-covered pulp.

Only…not yet.

Grrow ducked, and the swing cleared the top of his skull by mere millimeters. His balance ruined by the unopposed club, the Gamorrean grunted and picked up a foot to shift his weight. Before it could bring it down again, Grrow’s elbow jutted out into its side, and it toppled to the ground, its jaw shattering with the impact.

Other potential attackers rushed in, but jumped back a step when Grrow swung his gaffi in a wide arc. His personal space thus defined, he cautiously waited for whomever dared to make the next move. Without looking, he could tell that his dea’korrn’ya was stepping behind him to cover what he could not see. Their stand attracted a bit too much attention from the other fighters, and in moments a solid ring of vehement combatants had formed just outside their threatened area. Back to back the two creatures stood, ready to defend each other’s life, and neither knowing exactly why.

The tension of the situation was broken at last when a massively fat man clad in tattered coveralls muscled his way through the crowd. He focused beady black eyes on the duo, and let loose a grunt of annoyance.

“Arright, you,” he growled, approaching Grrow with a complete lack of fear, “you’ve had enough fun fer one day. Back in the crate with yeh.”

It was fear that had kept Grrow under his slaver’s control for so long; soon after capture, the fat man had fitted him with a collar and delivered a series of agonizing electrical shocks. The collar remained on for weeks, but after then it was thought that it was no longer needed. They would never attack the man again, not knowing that it was he that made the pain come. They had no knowledge of technology; to them, he was simply God.

The raider stood solidly in his place, gaderffii still raised. The fat man’s eyes flickered slightly- something wasn’t right here- but tried again.
“I told yeh once, yeh stupid git. Git over here or ye’re done for.”

Grrow, his mind no longer clouded by the fearful confusion of primitive ignorance, jammed the pointed end of his gaffi between the man’s eyes without hesitation.

The fat man fell to the ground with an unceremonious splat. Silence reigned for a moment, until Grrow slowly raised his gaffi above his head in both hands and emitted an inhuman bellow of triumph. All heads in the bar turned for an instant, then returned to their drinks. This was nothing extraordinary to them. To Grrow, however, it was everything: his personal demon, the monster that had killed off his clanmates, was dead by his hand. He hooted for what seemed to him like an exultant eternity, during which time the creatures circling the Selonian and himself dissipated, presumably to find prey that was less terrifying. When he was done, Grrow lowered his arms and stared at the ground.

The fat man was dead…but he was alone now. His clan was gone, and his planet gone from him. He had absolutely no way of returning on his own, and no idea what he would do if he were to return. His life had lost all meaning.

In his mind flickered a single word: dea’korrn’ya. He still had his friend. Facing the Selonian, who had been observing the display in silence this entire time, he stared at the muzzled, stolid face of the creature who had, for no particularly good reason, just freed him from slavery and saved his life. This creature was now the focus of his world.

Grrow fell to his knees before the Selonian and dropped his gaze to the blood-stained durasteel plating. His gaderffii he lay down between them, and he began howling in his native tongue. Everyone in the bar heard the hooting, but only a very select few could understand what was being said. The Selonian was one of them; he felt the impact of the words through his Gift.

It was, and remains, the only time in history that a Son of Tattooine has pledged a life-debt to an outsider.

Arran Fyve dismissed the arrival of the Governor for now. 

I'm sure I'll have plenty of chances to meet him.  And kill him if I have to.

  Right now, he had to find anyone who knew about the assassination, if indeed there was one.

  Two figures crouched over a third caught his eye.  He recognized the human male as one of the participants in an earlier fight.  From what Fyve had observed, he wasn't too shabby.

  The other beings were a human female who bore a close resemblance to the other human, and a male Zenth, who appeared to be injured.

  Fyve also realized that the human male had been complaining about a Twi'lek girl to his sister.  At least, Fyve guessed she was his sister.  He could be wrong, but he usually wasn't. 

  That was one thing most people didn't know about Arran.  He was extremely observant, and a master eavesdropper.  He could zero in on a conversation that was taking place across a large room, with at least fifty side conversations.  Which is exactly what he had done earlier that night.

  He stopped several feet behind them.  The pair of humans turned and looked him over. 

Fyve knew just how to break the ice.

"I couldn't help but hear you were having some trouble with a Twi'lek girl.  Well, you know what they say about Twi'lek girls.  They have-"

"Who the hell are you?"  The woman interrupted. 

Fyve was not perturbed.  He got that response a lot. 

she's not one to mess with, though.  He  added mentally. 

"The name's Arran Fyve, but you can just call me Fyve.  I'm an ex-bouncer here and-"

"Leave us alone."  She turned away.

"Uh, wait.  do you know anything about the Governor here?  Say, oh, I dunno, a bounty?  I coulda sworn I heard you guys talking about something like that."  It was a little too direct for his liking, but the Kiffar had to do something to grab their attention.

He gave them a one-sided grin and waited.

"Alright Dresden," Ace started his attitude getting the better of him. "Tell me again why I'm sitting here talking to you instead of winning a bundle at the tables."

Firlov's fierce eyes sharpened as he turned his gaze from the cages to Ace's seat. The VIP section was elevated slightly overlooking the entire cantina; Firlov's domain. Ace was starting to reconsider his bluntness. Nevertheless the Chiss stared defiantly into the crimelord's eyes as their fellow patrons dined in blissful security, among them Governor Telk.

"I'd advise you to show some respect Valerno," reprimended Dresden. "I own you until our little financial dispute at the tables is all taken care of. Use that sharp tounge again, and I'll serve it as Telk's main course."

A gulp from Ace.

"Anyway," said Firlov changing course, all business. "The matter we're discussing concerns Governor Telk's security."

Ace glanced at the Governor's table a few feet away unphased. There were so many lights winking off the bodyguard's weapons it was almost dazzling.

"I'm not too worried," Ace replied shrugging. "And good luck to the poor assassin who tries to get through that wall of muscle."

Dresden leaned forward in his chair and grinned at the Chiss. This was undoubtedly the most frightening thing that Ace had ever seen from the crimeboss. He could see Firlov's wrinkled eyes twitch as he forced his face to assume the foreign expression.

"But I am worried Valerno," said Firlov still smiling painfully. "And if Governer Telk dies than it would be very bad for business. And you know what an important night this is. I had the damn Tusken shipped halfway across the galaxy for the Governer. There is going to be a hit on Telk tonight. And you are going to stop it. Understand?"

"Well, that'd all be very well," answered Ace absently rolling his chance cube between his palm and the table. "Except that I'm the wrong barve to stop a hit. C'mon, if all the tough guys over there can't stop them, then what could I possibly do."

"Don't play dumb with me Valerno," sighed Firlov. "I know perfectly well what you're capable of. Just remember, fail me, and you'll owe a lot more than a few credits."

Dresden pushed his chair back and stood up satisfied. Without another word the imposing man walked away from the VIP area leaving Ace to ponder his next move. And this time, Ace Valerno wasn't so sure he had all the cards.

Zenth was confused. Quite confused, or at the very least, unable to focus on anything at all. The orange-haired Zeltron had eagerly stood to follow after the furred and cloaked Selonian to take part in the fun, only to be pulled back into his seat by the pretty and strangely strong human girl. (Actually, she was sort of ugly when held next to Zeltron standards...Which wasn't exactly saying a whole lot.) But pretty girls never talked to Zenth, they usually just reached in their purse for a spray-can of macenol. (Not entirely an unpleasant experience when you got over the tears and the burning flesh.)

          The Zeltron was still pondering his next course of action when suddenly...

          Wow.

          Zenth could feel the stiff and knotted pressure in his arms, shoulder, and chest suddenly loosen with the faintest tingle of something he almost couldn't recognize...feeling. The pale-orange skinned Zeltron was completely stunned, and his orange eyes widened for a second. Only as quickly as that strange sensation had suddenly appeared...it was gone, and he couldn't be sure he had even felt it all.

         "Why bother? He seems to enjoy pain."

         The Zeltron looked up to see that he was being talked about, and began to form a sentence and a smile when HE showed up. Arran Fyve. The ex-bouncer. The bouncer with a definite knack for cracking skulls together and kicking sentients to the curb. Zenth knew this because remembered going through elaborate schemes to get past said bouncer only to fail just as elaborately. He was about to put one of the many pre-prepared plans into motion when he suddenly realized he was already inside the cantina, and the Zeltron couldn't figure out quite what he was supposed to do from there.

         "I believe it's your shout for drinks," The pretty human's brother was moving his mouth again.

         "Hey," The Zeltron pointed firmly, and then explained sternly, "You're kind of annoying."

         Meanwhile, Govenor Telk was still holding on to the delicate forearm of the lovely red Twi'lek he kept at his side when he heard himself being addressed.

         "The Admiral sends his regards, Govenor Telk. I'm supposed to play bodyguard, but I'll gladly step back if you'd rather the hired help defend your 'valuable' life," And with that the agitated being sat down leaning against the doorway.

         The Imperial Govenor blinked his one eye with careful scrutiny on just barely turning to see where Kin had made himself relatively comfortable considering the situation. A slow smile curled on the aged and weathered officer's scarred lip, "This must be the Admiral's way of taunting me."

         "Reyl, do be a dear and call that creature there against the door over here. I do believe he's from that infamous neural project no one's been able to learn a damn thing about." The Govenor spoke as though Kin couldn't hear him, or perhaps even understand what he was saying. The Imperial Official watched with pleasure as the Twi'lek walked slowly away in her super-holo-model strides. The Twi'lek stopped a few steps away from Kin and posed, seemingly out of natural habit of being perfectly beautiful in every way, and waited for the Imperial experiment wearing a neural collar to notice her.

          The masked mercenary called Smoke still stood next to the Govenor's table with toxic white gas hissing from the vents over his mouth. He took everything going on around him in lethal silence. The tall humanoid hired killer turned to the green-skinned Faleen next to him, and spoke in his deap metallic grinding monotone, "Hsffss...How many Twi'leks...Hsffss...Does it...Hsffss...take to screw..."

          "That's what he said." The Faleen named Sheeka interupted quickly, idly checking her weapon for imperfections that she knew weren't there.

          The mercenary glared at her, then began with slow frustration, "Hsffss...Sheeka..."

          "That's what he said." The Faleen retorted without missing a beat.
         
           Smoke gave a loud exasperated sigh, but was drowned out by the sound coming from the arena...a sound that echoed from the hot and lethal dune seas of Tatooine and the blood that had been spilled under those hot twin suns looking down from the cruel sky. The enslaved creature from the sand had killed his master.

Firlov closed the hidden office door behind him and walked up the flight of stairs to his office, and sat down in his high-back chair. He disliked the public bar and arena...So bloody, musty, and everything out of place...Exept the VIP Area of course.

"Hmm." Firlov smiled, looking down at a confused Ace Valereno. "Let's hope things go according to plan."

An hour had gone by. Ace had gone back to the tables and Firlov did nothing but ponder the different benefits of Telk living, or dying. But he had already decided that before the Governor even arrived.

"But how to kill him? It won't be easy." "There are others here that are planning to terminate him...I'll bet you a million credits." Firlov said to himself. "I wouldn't doubt it, but I wanted the pleasure of doing it personally." He replied. "We could kill him now." "No! We must wait for the opportune moment." He shot back. "...Yes..."

Firlov concealed his "other personality" and turned around to see a minigun, along with several other firearms hanging on the wall above his chair.

"Just like my old office, but how I miss it's view."

"Creature? I'm sure that felt clever before he actually said it."
Not that Kin cared if someone heard it, which they didn't. Standing up quietly, pushing the chair back towards the wall with a foot. Ignoring the Twi'lek as much as he could, left a couple of seconds to stare. Moving along the wall towards...Smoke...and if that's not a creative title...If everyone remained interested in the arena who's to say he couldn't...finish the mission. Tempting. Naw, too sneaky if not possibly redundant seeing as how he hadn't had time to understand said bodyguard. Snaking up beside the table. Rapping a knuckle on the surface.
(Not a lot of time to type out anything.)

Fyve glanced at the stunned Twi'lek and then back at Kalu.  He raised an eyebrow.

"Nice shot."  He said, only a little enviously.

"I've had better."  The human replied.  She wasn't bragging, it was just a simple fact.

Hmm, she's actually kinda pretty . . .   His male mind had begun to wander, as it usually did when it came to women.
No, can't go getting of track.  He thought to himself.

"She'd probably kill me anyways."

"What?"

Whoops, said that part out loud.

"Nothing.  Nevermind."

As Fyve tried to get get his brain back on track, he found himself staring at the hyperactive Zeltron.  His face seemed very familiar, but he couldn't quite pin it down.

"Hey, who are you eyeballin', bouncer?"

Arran suddenly imagined Zenth's face as a little more bruised and bloodied and it clicked.

"You're the Gundark-ass who kept trying to get past me aren't you?!"