I'm not creative with prompt ideas, but honestly I'd just love to see Shaak Ti kick ass and take names. Maybe a challenge/dare made by younger clones who in training at Kamino for her to spar with several older clones at once and she just mops the floor with them? Bantering and teaching even then, of course. Bonus if Colt's there and is ... impressed.
“The general agreed to what?” Colt repeats, absolutely certain he heard wrong.
“A match,” Blitz repeats, grinning like it’s his decanting day. “With as many of us from the first batch as want to go.” He hauls his blacks on and does them up, then slams his locker shut. “Hammer’s down for it, and Havoc’s in. You playing along, vod?”
Colt scoffs, but some flicker of interest through the derision has him stripping off the pieces of armor he’s already put on. “I guess a lightsaber means you can never be outnumbered—”
Blitz laughs, and when he turns to face Colt he’s wearing the look that always promised trouble when they were in training. “Oh no, Commander. No lightsaber. This is hand to hand.”
Incredulous, Colt raises a brow. “The general agreed to go hand to hand?”
She’s a Jedi, sure, but she’s on Kamino. Colt's pretty sure they didn’t stick Shaak Ti with the job that’s as far from the front as physically possible because of her sheer talent with a lightsaber. Not that he’d really know; he’s never seen her so much as move quickly, let alone pick a fight.
“A couple of the cadets got her to agree to it,” Blitz says with a shrug. “Domino Squad, I think they're called. General Ti stepped in when Bric got hurt and now they're hers.”
Rolling his eyes, Colt picks up his water and follows Blitz towards the training hall. The general coddling a squad through training isn't exactly something to be happy about. He’s heard Bric talking about them, and even if Bric’s a bastard, he’s usually right about talent.
Jedi are soft. They're peacekeepers. They're not meant for war, and the one sent here least of all. She’s beautiful, and graceful, and kind, but—
That doesn’t make her a fighter. Colt needs her to be a fighter, if any of his brothers are going to make it out of this war alive.
“Going to take a turn on the mats?” Blitz asks, thumping Colt with his elbow. “Show her what she’s up against?”
“I’ll wait for you, Havoc, and Hammer to get your shebs kicked and then I’ll step in and save you,” Colt retorts, shoving him away, and Blitz laughs and goes. He hits the door first, tossing his towel to one side, and immediately makes for the ring, where Havoc and Hammer are already circling the tall Togruta Jedi in the center.
Colt stops at a safe distance, brows rising a little. Shaak Ti has always struck him as a picture-perfect Jedi, composed and reserved, stiff in her heavy dress and enveloping robe. Now, though, she’s stripped down to some sort of thin shift that’s slit up the sides, up to her thighs, sleeveless and baring a hell of a lot more muscle than Colt had expected. He eyes her arms, then the curve of her shoulders, and frowns.
“Get them, General!” one of the cadets whoops, and Colt casts a sideways look at him, taking in the start of a patchy goatee and the number five tattooed on his temple. Beyond him, the rest of his squad is scattered around the ring, watching avidly. All five are still there, which is mildly surprising; the trainers aren’t the type to let anyone skate by even on a general’s say-so, which means the cadets must be meeting requirements at least or they'd have been turned over to the Kaminoans for reeducation or termination.
“Really think the general’s going to win against three ARC commanders?” Colt asks, raising a brow.
It’s not the kid with the five tattoo who looks up, but the clone next to him. Perfectly regulation haircut, no tattoos, but the set of his expression is mulish as he turns it on Colt. “Absolutely,” he says, like it’s a challenge. “She won't have any problems wiping the floor with them.”
Colt makes a skeptical sound, glancing back towards the ring. Blitz is crouched and ready, weight perfectly balanced, and he’s grinning again.
“Ready, General?” he taunts. “We’ll go easy on you for the first round, all right? Best out of three.”
Shaak doesn’t look perturbed by his bravado. She smiles, amused, and tips her head. “Easy? Well. That’s very kind of you, Commander. And since you’re willing to go out of your way for me, I must return the favor.” She steps back, glances to the side, and says, “Fives? May I borrow your armband?”
The kid with the tattoo grins, unknotting the black band tied around his bicep. It’s painted, Colt can see now, with streaks of white and blue, just like Shaak's montral markings. “Of course, General,” he says, and throws it to her. “If you knock Commander Hammer out of the ring in under five minutes, he owes me double rations for a month.”
Of course Hammer would make a bet like that with a cadet. Colt rolls his eyes, but watches as Shaak catches the strip of cloth, then deliberately ties it over her eyes, letting the ends flutter down over her third lek.
Blitz makes a sound of pure offense. “A blindfold?” he demands.
Shaak hums, light and easy. “Once you stop going easy on me, I’ll take it off,” she says, and Colt watches the curl of her lips and gets a sudden, sinking suspicion somewhere in his gut that this isn't what he thought it was going to be.
One of the trainers has the saying, doesn’t she? If a bunch of sabacc experts sit down with a pretty young thing, and the pretty young thing says so how do you play this game, someone’s about to scammed out of their kriffing teeth.
Somehow, he suspects that something not entirely dissimilar is happening here.
“Sure, General,” Blitz drawls, and glances at where Havoc and Hammer are standing. Havoc smirks in return, circling Shaak with silent, gliding steps, eyes focused, while Hammer goes the other direction, equally quiet.
The cadets, Colt notices, aren’t saying a word. There's no attempt to help the general, no yelling, no shouted warnings. Just rapt attention, their eyes all fixed on her. Colt studies them, then glances back at the ring, and for the first time he really notices how Shaak is holding herself. Balanced, attentive, and she’s not moving, isn't turning her head to listen, but she doesn’t look even a little uncertain.
Then, in a blur, Hammer moves. He lunges low, while Blitz rushes Shaak from the front. Havoc is a step behind, holding back—
Shaak twists, and like she can see everything around her in perfect detail, regardless of the blindfold, she sidesteps Hammer, grabs him, and throws him over her hip with a limber twist, right into Blitz. They go tumbling back with twin yelps, right out of the ring, and Shaak turns smoothly, brings an arm up, and blocks the punch Havoc throws at her head.
“You have good form, Commander Havoc,” Shaak says, smiling. Just for an instant, Colt thinks he can see sharp teeth behind it, and something that’s equal parts hot and cold slides down his spine. “I've always admired that about you.”
“Thanks,” Havoc says, the friendly idiot. “Can't say the same, General, seeing as you’ve never shown anyone your form.”
Shaak laughs, and when Havoc aims a kick at her ribs she turns, grabs his arm, and as easy as tossing around a cadet who’s fresh from decanting, she flips him over and slams him into the mats. Havoc hits with a wheeze, but he twists out from under her grip, kicks at her ankles, and rolls to his feet. A step sideways and he lunges, shoulder-first, right for Shaak's center of mass.
With a single step, Shaak leaps him, lands, spins. She pounces, and it is a pounce, feline and quick. Colt winces as Havoc goes down again, hits the ground harder than before with Shaak perched on his back, and no matter how he twists and jerks, he can't shift her.
“Well?” Shaak asks, and her smile is still that perfect, gracious thing, an expression that wouldn’t be out of place in the Prime Minister’s office except for the look in her eyes. A predator’s intent, Colt thinks, and has to swallow. It’s not entirely chagrin or fear that’s pooling in his stomach right now. “Planning to tap out, Commander?”
“Karking hell,” Havoc says in disbelief, and slaps the mat. “That is a blindfold, right?”
Shaak laughs, reaching up to pull it off, and she dangles it in front of Havoc’s face as she slips off his back. He grabs it, holding it up to his own eyes to test it, and Shaak says, “No trick, Commander. Not beyond what tricks nature has given me.”
There's a moment, and then Blitz, still flat on his back outside the ring, groans loudly. “Kriffing montrals,” he says, like it’s an offense, and Shaak hides her laughter behind a hand.
“I appreciate your offer to go easy on me,” she says, amused, “but I'm one of the best swordsmen in the Order. Guarding Kamino wouldn’t have fallen to me if the Council didn’t have a high opinion of my skills.”
It’s not boasting. It’s not anything but a simple statement of fact, and Colt breathes in through his nose.
Guarding Kamino. Not overseeing it, not liaising with the cloners. She’s here to guard Kamino.
Maybe some of Colt's brothers really will survive this.
“Okay, out of the ring, Havoc,” he says, stepping forward. Shaak glances up at him, still with a predator’s eyes, but it’s measured, balanced, thoughtful. Restrained, like everything else she does, and for the first time Colt wonders if that just makes her more dangerous. “My turn.”
Shaak arches a brow, silver lips curling. “You alone, Commander Colt?” she asks, amused. “A bold one, aren’t you?”
Colt smirks at her, and the thrill in his chest might be anticipation, but there's every chance it’s something else entirely. “I'm not an idiot,” he says. “And I'm not going to go easy on you.”
Hammer makes a sound of offense that Colt pointedly ignores.
Shaak chuckles, but she steps back, falls into what looks like a starting stance. “A good commander steps in to rescue his men?” she asks, a gentle tease, and Colt snorts.
“Can't let them make us look bad in front of our general,” he says, and Shaak smiles like she knows what he means by phrasing it that way.
She wipes for floor with him, but it at least takes her a few minutes longer than it did with the others. Colt's willing to call that a victory.
