#tehlaen

The Rodian said something in that absurd language of theirs and Zubner scoffed. “Fuckin’ right. You come in here tryin’ ta show off, dressin’ like a Cartel underboss with some pretty piece of ass hangin’ on yer arm. Doll yerself up all ya want, yer still nothin’ but gutter trash.”

Muscles bunched under Mav’s fingers as Tressie started to her feet. Before she could, the Sith gave an exaggerated, loud yawn. When she had the attention of all four, she swung her head to look at Tressie. Large, opal eyes blinked slowly, and in her sharpest, haughtiest Kaas City accent, Mav said, “Tressie, darling… I can’t see.”

“Who zis, De’Roachez? Yer a nobody, but she seems classy. Looks expensive, too,” Zubner said with a lecherous grin. “Gotta be a whore. Can’t imagine somebody like her’d be fuckin’ caught dead with a worthless, wannabe streetpunk like you if she wasn’t gettin’ paid.”

Unbridled rage flushed Tressie’s face the purple of a fresh bruise and her citrine eyes blazed like blasterfire. The human made a big show of ignoring her reaction as he leered at Mav’reth. “Whatcha say, sweet thang? Why don’t ya come with us and we’ll give ya what this pathetic gutter-scag can’t?”

Mav’reth didn’t speak Gamorrese, but the porcine alien’s vulgar, jerking motion at his crotch made his meaning plain. Tressie rocketed to her feet. Her fists balled at her sides and she leaned forward on her toes, her nose scant centimeters from Zubner’s. The human stared at her defiantly, lip curled in a sneer.

It was Mav’s voice that broke the silence of the standoff. “Tressie, my love…” Her lover didn't turn to face her, but Mav knew she had her attention. She stretched languidly, then regarded Zubner and his lackeys under hooded lids. “Rid me of this noisome pest, would you, darling?”

Tressie’s chin jerked in a sharp nod. Her eyes blazed as she growled, “Disrespect me here, on my turf, that’s just plain stupid. Disrespect my Lady ‘n I’m gonna slow-roast you til yer skin starts boilin’ off the bone, so ya can watch as my akk dogs start eatin’ ya alive. You got one chance, ‘n only one chance, ta apologize to the Lady for bein’ a brainless, no-manners shitwad ‘n disappear, if ya wanna make it outta here alive.”

The human laughed, then hocked and spat. The gob of saliva hit the floor, barely missing Mav’s feet, but the impact speckled her skin with spit through the open toes of her slippers. Mav’s eyes flashed and her fingers curled, nearly overwhelmed by her desire to rip his jawbone free from his skull and use it to gouge out his eyes. She restrained herself; this was Tressie’s fight, on Tressie’s turf, and stealing her kill would make her weak in the eyes of all who were watching, and all the people they’d tell.

Before either of them could make a move to draw, the announcer came over the speakers. “Just a reminder, sentients and gentlebeings: the only gunplay that goes on here is in the arena! Violators will be disintegrated, and maybe their friends, too, for good measure.”

“Works fer me,” Tressie snarled. “You ‘n me. No blasters, no blades, just fists. ‘N tell yer friends ta stay out of it or once I finish with you, They’re next.”

“Ha! Like I need backup to deal with you.”

Tressie began to shrug out of her shoulder holster and unbuckled the gunbelt as Zubner did the same. She turned to Mav’reth to hand her the bundle of weaponry, and the Sith grabbed her chin in strong fingers. Her pale eyes held Tressie’s gaze and she pitched her voice low. “I won’t waste my breath telling you I love you; you should know that by now. What I will say…” Her fingers tightened and pulled Tressie into a deep kiss that was almost savage in its intensity. “Win.”

“You done yet?” Zubner jeered. “Good idea, get one last kiss from ‘er, ‘cause she ain’t gonna be doin’ much kissin’ once I get done with her.”

Mav’reth’s eyes narrowed and her lip curled in a snarl. Tressie mirrored the expression and gave her a sharp nod.

Mav’s snarl shifted into a predatory grin as Tressie’s muscles tensed. She sat back in her seat, sipping at the dark Rishi rum in Tressie’s glass. Not usually her preferred poison, but it felt like it fit the scene.

In one smooth motion, Tressie dropped into a crouch with her legs coiled under her, spun, and exploded out of her crouch like a pouncing vorntiger. The sudden ferocity took Zubner by surprise, and he backpedaled unsteadily, a flurry of sharp jabs at his ribs and short, sharp hooks keeping him on his heels. Mav noted approvingly that Tressie was carefully choosing her shots; without even minimal padding or wrapping, striking the jaw or other bones could easily break her knuckles.

A sharp jab flattened Zubner’s mushroom nose. His eyes opened wide in shock and he shook his head, spraying flecks of blood all around. His shoulders drew in and he set his feet, fists up in a cautious guard.

WHatever his shortcomings, Zubner was not stupid--at least not in matters of violence. He waited for Tressie to spend her momentum, and at a short pause in the flurry of punches, he short a haymaker left at her ribs.

Tressie’s eyes shot open and she twisted, the bone-shattering strike grazing her side instead of cracking her sternum. She danced back out of rang and regarded Zubner warily.

Mav’reth’s opal eyes flicked between the two and she could see in the set of Tressie’s eyes that the two were making the same assessments. Zubner was a brawler, slow and plodding, but it’d be stupid and potentially fatal to forget that the flab covered muscles like durasteel cable. THe punches he threw at her head and torso had roughly the same kinetic energy behind them as a rogue comet, fully capable of knocking Tressie’s teeth down her throat.

Tressie, by contrast, was nimble and wiry, constantly moving so as not to give Zubner an easy target. She couldn't match Zubner for brute strength and weight, but she had the advantage in speed, reach and flexibility. She compensated by striking hard and fast at spots she’d already hit, forcing Zubner to fight defensively to protect his injuries.

The two settled into an equilibrium that, far too quickly for Mav’reth’s liking, stagnated and turned to stalemate. Tressie ducked in, fired off a few well-aimed shots, and ducked back out of reach before one of Zubner’s killer retaliations could connect.

Everyone present could tell how the fight would go. For Tressie it was a battle of attrition, hammering the same sore spots ‘til the pain made the human drop his guard. Zubner, conversely, only needed to land one solid shot to the torso or head to put Tressie down. The Pureblood was younger, fitter, and faster, and if she paced herself and didn’t fall for idiot feints, she’d wear Zubner down.

And thus the stalemate. Both fought cagily, playing it safe. Mav’reth frowned severely; warfare--not to mention a youth at the Korriban Academy--had carved into her psyche and her hide the lesson that stalemate is broken by doing something unexpected. And in her experience, victory went to the bold and the unpredictable.

Gnawing dread and roiling anger vied for supremacy in the Sith’s mind as Zubner acted to break the impasse. With an agility Mav wouldn’t have thought him capable of, Zubner feinted and, when Tresise moved to block, opened his fist and wrapped sausage fingers in a vise grip around her forearm, planted his foot, and twisted his bulky form, giving Tressie’s arm a savage yank. He wrenched her arm and wrung a cry of pain from her throat. Tressie stumbled toward him and into his waiting arms. Zubner’s arm wrapped around her torso, crushing her wiry frame against him and pinning her arm to her side.

The arm around her ribs tightened, constricting her breath. She twisted and wriggled, feet kicking ineffectually against his shins. Her free arm--her dominant left, by some miracle--flailed, trying to both fend off the punches from Zubner’s free hand and strike at him. Her fingers clawed, scratching his eyes, and he jerked his head from side to side to keep her thumb out of his eye socket.

The saving grace--and one that probably saved Tressie’s life--was that, this close in, Zubner couldn’t put his full strength behind the punches he rained on Tressie. Instead he hammered at the side of her head, he flattened her nose, and he pounded at her cheek and lips.

Mav watched ing rowing horror as blood poured from Tressie’s shredded lips and her broken nose. BLood dripped from one ear and her left eye was rapidly swelling shut.

I. Am. Sith. She scourged herself inwardly. Fear is for the weak and the doomed.

Mav’reth channeled her fear into burning, seething rage. Anger at Zubner for his impudence and disrespect and for daring to strike at Tressie. Anger at Tressie for her stupidity in assuming her foe would adhere to her idiot rules of fair play, and for not going straight for the kill, and for hobbling Mav’reth with foolish notions about respect and keeping up appearances and not getting involved. At herself for knowing that Tressie was right and wanting to get involved regardless.

An expression of murderous and almost childlike glee shone on Zubner’s face. Mav’reth struggled to keep her fury at heel and not indulge her desire to carve the look off the human’s face with a shard of glass. Tressie’s knee came up sharply, and while Mav’reth would have preferred to see Zubner collapse screaming and clutching his crushed testicles, the glancing blow was enough to loosen his death-grip.

Tressie wriggled free--and her knees gave out from under her. Mav’s momentary elation withered as quickly as it had blossomed. Tressie fell onto her back, and although she curled her neck forward, the back of her head still slammed against the permacrete. The blood oozing from her torn scalp gleamed oily black in the darkness.

Dazed, Tressie’s head tipped back, staring upside down through Mav’reth’s face. Grey gnawed at the edges of her vision, and her eyes didn’t want to point in the same direction. Until… Her sight tunneled and focused on Mav’reth’s face. The Sith’s elegant features contorted in a mask of  primal, unbridled fury. Mav’reth’s opal eyes held Tressie’s gaze, as irresistible as being drawn past the event horizon. They blazed and went supernova. Mav’reth’s lips might have moved;  Tressie couldn’t be sure, because she couldn’t look away from that stare. Later, she’d lie awake, wondering if she heard Mav’reth’s voice in her head because of some Sith bullshit, or because she’d so strongly internalized her lover’s expectations and mindset.

“GET. UP.”

Mav’reth and Tressie’s eyes remained locked for  heartbeat that lasted a lifetime. NEither broke eye contact to look at Zubner, standing over Tressie with his foot raised to crush her kneecap.

Tressie tucked her arms inward and rolled into Zubner’s ankle. The human--already unsteady on one foot--windmilled his arms to get his balance. Tressie gathered her limbs under her, then exploded out of her crouch. SHe slammed into Zubner, throwing the teetering human wholly off balance. His arms flailed wildly and Tressie jumped on him, knocking him from his feet.

She kept her grip on him, following him to the ground. The arc of Zubner’s skull as he fell intersected with the alusteel frame of Mav’reth’s chair, and Mav felt as much as heard the sharp KRAKK of parting bone as the side of his head met the metal.

Stunned, the human’s eyes jerked wildly and his hands flailed ineffectually to ward off Tressie. Slender, bloody fingers tangled in dirty hair and she slammed his head again and again against the permacrete. He thrashed weakly but couldn’t break her grip, and she held him by the hair as she rained blows on his cheek, ear and throat.

After a short time--that was likely interminable for the poor Zubner--his weak flailing slowed. He shuddered violently once and went still. It took Tressie a few moments to realize he was no longer moving.

The too-brief stillness was broken when the late--or soon-to-be late--Zubner’s Gamorrean lackey squealed in anger and alarm. Thick fingers groped for the blaster at his hip.

A primal scream tore from Mav’reth’s throat, equal parts fury and exultation, finally free to unleash her rage. Her fingers tightened, shattering the glass in her hand. She surge dto her feet, utterly unmindful of the broken glass shredding her palm. Bloody fingers clutched at the largest shard as she lunged for the Gamorrean. Her other hand clamped around the porcine alien’s throat, his windpipe creaking and cracking under her grip. Fury flooded her limbs and she lifted the Gamorrean off the ground by the neck. Stubby legs kicked and thrashed and Mav allowed herself a brief instant to revel in his terror.

Her bloody hand crossed her body and buried the glass shard in the Gamorrean’s side above his hip. She stared into his wide, terrified eyes and drew the improvised knife across his belly. The glass, with Mav’reth’s raw physical strength behind it, ripped through the cheap jacket and thick hide and opened a ragged, gaping tear from one hip to the other.

Three strides took Mav’reth and the screaming Gamorrean to the short rail of the terrace and the forcefield separating the audience from the arena. It was meant to repel bottles and other detritus thrown from the stands, and to dissipate stray blasterbolts. It was not, however, spec’d to resist a 150kg Gamorrean, propelled by the unchained wrath of a Lord of the Sith. A four-meter section of the field sputtered, flickered, and shorted out. Muscles bunched in Mav’reth’s arm and she hurled the squealing alien through the gap and into the arena. He hit the sand twenty meters below with a sickening thud and the wet crack of snapping bones. Not the neck, Mav’reth mused as the squealing continued unabated. He was, therefore, still alive as the pack of sauroid tonitrans--sensing much less dangerous prey--fell on him and began to devour him.

Mav’reth spun to stare at the Rodian, her bloodlust still raging. The bug-eyed alien’s compound eyes were hard to read, but he jerked back and forth between looking at the possibly-living Zubner and the avatar of death clad in a backless, shimmersilk evening gown.

The Sith kept eye contact--as much as she could with a compound-eyed alien--as she moved to remove his dilemma. Bloody fingers wrapped around the unmoving Zubner’s ankle and dragged him to the terrace railing. She stooped and grabbed him by the collar and belt, then hoisted him effortlessly and flung him to join what was left of his friend.

The Rodian fled. Mav’reth--with blood seeping from the wound still embedded with broken glass--stared at the alien’s retreating back. She was giving serious consideration to chasing him down, to burying serrated fangs in the back of his neck, to feeling the delectable KRONCH of vertebrae between her jaws…

She was drawn from her reverie by Tressie’s panting and groaning. Her lover sat slumped back against her chair, too exhausted to lift herself up into it. Mav’reth turned back to her and gave her a beaming, loving smile. “May I, darling?” she asked and offered Tressie her hands to help her up.

Tressie grunted inarticulately and Mav’reth pulled her easily to her feet. “Shall we stay for the remainder of the show, Tressie, dearest? Or shall we see to your concussion, broken fingers and knuckles, popped eardrum, torn lips, and hairline skull fractures?”

Tressie gave Mav’reth a wary, sidelong look from her good eye as she listed off her injuries matter-of-factly. A disapproving frown tugged painfully at her shredded lip and she hissed to herself. “Love, ya know I don’t like it when ya use that Force bantha-shit on me, even if it’s jus’ ta see how bad I’m hurt.”

Mav’reth snorted and surreptitiously wiped blood from her hand on her dress--where Tressie couldn’t see. “I didn’t, darling. You might not have noticed,” she quipped dryly, “but I’m something of a connoisseur of bloodshed and bodily harm. The injuries of a fistfight are rather… uncomplicated.”

Tressie shrugged and winced as the gesture shifted her wrenched shoulder. “If ya won’t be disappointed, I think I’d rather get some kolton ‘n somethin’ ta take the edge off.”

“Mmm. I didn’t get the fight I expected, my love, but I’m not at all disappointed. In point of fact, Mav’reth said, lips curled in a predatory grin, “I believe I prefer the show I got to the one I came for. Besides… For what I’ve got in mind for you, I need you in fighting trim.”

Tressie leaned heavily on Mav’reth as the Sith led her lover to the exit, her arm over Mav’s shoulder and Mav’s arm supporting her around her waist. “Mav… Ya know I love showin’ off fer ya, but…” She hissed in pain. “I don’t think I’mma be up for another brawl like that again real soon.”

Mav’reth stopped and turned with her arm still around Tressie’s waist. Her other hand caressed Tressie’s cheek tenderly and she leaned in to kiss the point of her chin, between her jawspurs. Her eyes smoldered and the growl in her voice sent shivers up Tressie’s spine.

Eyes followed them, heads turned and the crowd split before them. The two strolled through the path that opened for them, eyes sliding over faces and seemingly unaware of--or, more likely, uninterested in--the attention. Tressie’s long legs set a leisurely pace, leading Mav’reth to their seats--or rather, the seats they intended to have. Mav’reth’s hand rested lightly in the crook of the elbow that Tressie gallantly offered her. Her fingers tightened in an affectionate squeeze, and Tressie turned her head and gave her a beaming smile.

A human, a Twi’lek, and a pair of Rodians were in their seats in the front row of the middle terrance. The Purebloods stopped in front of them and waited. Mav looked from one to the next, regarding them from under hooded lids, like a carnivore idly considering whether the morsels in front of her were worth the effort.

Tressie gave them an expectant look--though her patience started to run out as the seats’ present occupants exchanged wary looks. After almost a full minute of the silent discussion, the gangster cleared her throat pointedly.

“Ya mind? Yer in the lady’s seat.” Citrine eyes gave them a hard stare. The standoff stretched for a handful of heartbeats, and Mav’reth glanced around, an expression of boredom on her face. Those other spectators sitting nearby were watching with bated breath to see how the confrontation would unfold.

Tressie’s voice dropped to a dangerous octave and she growled, “Get. Up.”

The human held her gaze for another heartbeat and a half. Then she and her friends scrambled to make themselves scarce.

Mav’reth favored Tressie with an adoring smile. “Thank you, my darling.”

“Anything for a Lady,” she shot back with a grin.

Mav’reth stifled a sigh of disappointment around the rim of the glass. Te first three bouts had been unremarkable at best. She pondered idly whether that was intentional--a play, perhaps, to sell more of the overpriced, watered-down rotgut that was the bar’s stock in trade. Watching over-the-hill, half-blind  akk dogs get butchered--slowly--by an equally past-her prime Mandalorian who hadn’t had the grace to die in honorable combat would likely be far more entertaining if one were suffering the early stages of alcohol poisoning. 

The Wookiee from the second fight was similarly underwhelming. Normally, Mav’reth appreciated Wookiees’ primal savagery and brutal strength, but the poor beast had long ago lost both. It had virtually been a mercy-killing when the iknayid punched its heart out through its spine.

She sighed softly again and tucked herself under Tressie’s arm, and Tressie gave her a squeeze. Her chinspurs twitched as her lips curled down in a frown. “Ya look bored, love. Ya wanna say ‘fuck it’ and leave?”

Mav’s lips pursed as she considered. Just as she opened her mouth to reply, the lights went down again and spotlights bracketed three figures on the bloody sand in the middle of the arena.

“This looks promising,” Mav’reth murmured in Tressie’s ear as the announcer’s voice boomed from hidden speakers.

“And now, dear sentients and fight-fans of impeccable taste… Our Main Event!” The dim hum of conversation in the stands surged into cheers--not, Mav’reth mused, as much as one might expect. She thought it likely quite a few of their fellow spectators were as disillusioned as the two of them and didn’t have high hopes.

“Our undercard fighters have got the pit sands hot and bloody for our stars! Sentients, are you ready to see our prize fingers kill and bleed for your entertainment?!”

The crowd roared, and Mav’reth added her own primal scream to the bloodthirsty chorus. Tressie jumped and stared wide-eyed at the Sith, and Mav answered her with a sharp, toothy grin and a feral gleam in her eyes. “Don’t pretend it doesn’t get your pulse racing, too,” she purred and gave Tressie a hooded, heated look.

Tressie just laughed and shook her head, and they turned their attention back to the arena.

“Here’s what’s in store for our champions tonight, sentients and gentlebeings! Three challengers, one purse, seven waves of rabid, starving-mad beasts… and a hundred ways to die, each more horrifying than the last!”

Mav’reth gave Tressie a smile and her teeth shone white in the dim gloom. Tressie’s arm settled around her shoulders and the Sith nestled against the gangster’s side.

“Now let’s meet our challengers! Hailing from the ass-end of nothing and nowhere, Kohnir climbed the ranks of the Republic’s elite Special Forces, where he offed so many Imps that they put a price on his head--a bounty that still holds the record for an Imperial contract on an individual Republic soldier. How’s that for a gladiatorial pedigree?!

“The Pubs kicked him out--dishonorably, they said--for brutality. Well, here on Nar Shaddaa, we aren’t squeamish about brutality, are we?!”

The spectators screamed their denial. This time, Tressie’s voice rose to join Mav’s, and the two shared a wicked grin.

“Neither’s Clan Vizla! When their warriors came to collect the bounty, he collected their skulls instead… and won adoption into the clan through combat! Mandos might be creazier than a shit-house rat, but they ain’t stupid, and they know a talent for killin’ when they see it!”

Kohnir sprang into the air on a silver flame from his jetpack, then pirouetted with a ribbon of fire gushing from his wrist-mounted flamethrower. At the apogee of his climb, he tucked into a forward flip, then dove for the ground. He slammed to the sand, a concussive charge detonating as he landed. He rose to his feet and thrust his fists into the air, sand falling back to the ground and cheers washing over him in waves.

The spotlight on the Mandalorian dimmed and focus shifted to a woman wearing white- and bronze-colored armor that looked too big and unwieldy for her slight frame. The ease with which it moved with her as she twirled the lightsaber-pike around her body and over her head removed any doubt that she was accustomed to it.

“The Eternal Empire sure as shit wasn’t, but our next fighter might just be! Aubriena served--and survived!--Arcann and his even-crazier sister Vaylin, first as a Knight of Zakuul and then as a Horizon Guard! Sure, she could go back and hang up her saber, but war runs in her blood! And if she’s gonna die with her boots on… She might as well get kriffin’ rich, right?!”

The announcer introduced the third fighter, but Mav’reth only paid the barest of attention. Out of the corner of her eye, a flash of orange and red drew her gaze, and she casually glanced over. It could have been coincidence: a human, a Rodian and a Gamorrean striding in like they owned the place, wearing the colors of one of Tressie’s crew’s chief rivals on this level. Tressie followed Mav’s gaze and the Sith could feel her lover tense up.

Not coincidence, then.

Mav’reth slipped her arm around Tressie’s waist and patted her stomach gently. “Pay them no mind, darling, not tonight.”

Tressie looked down at her and forced her scowl to curl into an unconvincing smile. “Sure, Mav. Whatever you say.”

Mav’reth turned her attention back to the announcer’s explanation of the night’s entertainment. “...Just one prize, winner takes all! Do they take out the competition early, or run the risk of bein’ outnumbered, overrun and eliminated with no support? Take a look at these savage beasts, sentients and gentlebeings, and tell me if you’d wanna face ‘em alone!”

Holographic images of the beasts in their cages sprang to life above the arena. Mav’s eyes dilated and her breath hitched in delectable anticipation. She felt her mouth water, her pulse race, and her tongue move of its own accord over the sharp points of her teeth. The promise of violence made her hot and tight between her legs, and her fingers curled, clutching at Tressie. Her lover chuckled softly  as Mav’s eyes fixed on the nightmarishly-lethal monsters, and a moan--equal parts lust and bloodlust--slipped from her lips.

“Excited for the fight?” Tressie teased.

Tressie gave her a blank look and she clarified, “The one with that obnoxious, nosy Bothan running the bar.”

Tressie’s citrine eyes blinked twice, then she gave a surprised laugh. “Love, I run the spice biz in the back of the place and deal to the pitfighters. I dunno if that makes me ‘fond’ of it. Or that bantha-fuckin’ shitwad of a Bothan tryin’ to take a cut.”

Mav’reth straightened and turned to face Tressie. Her smile sharpened to an almost predatory grin as her lover’s jaw dropped, and she gave a little pirouette. The flared skirt swirled, the gauzy, translucent fabric revealing nothing but hinting at so much. Mav’reth turned her head and caught just a brief glimpse of the lasting impression her bare back left on Tressie. When she completed her spin, her lover’s lips curled in an identical wolfish grin.

“I’m certain you’ll bring that nuisance around to your way of thinking.” Mav’s rings glinted gold as she waved a hand dismissively. “Your rough charms make you oh so persuasive, my love.”

Dark spots of deep crimson burned on Tressie’s cheeks and Mav’reth felt a sudden, intense warmth in her own. To cover the blush she was certain was near to lighting up the room, she stepped into the circle of Tressie’s arms and kissed the point of her chin, between the bony spurs. “As I was saying,” she mumbled, using the brief kiss to collect herself, “there’s a fight, and I want you to take me out to it.”

The hitch in Tressie’s breath--and in her voice--told Mav she’d had the desired effect… and put her back on an even keel.

“Beautiful dame insists I take her out for a night on the town? It’d be ungentlemanly to turn her down.”

“Rylothian, I guess, if we’re talking ‘bout where I was born. That’s… not really an easy question to answer, though. I was born on Ryloth, sure, and spent the ‘formative years’ there, but I left when I was twelve. I’m not sure I’d say I’m Rylothian, though. For starters, if I go back, I’ll be arrested  and probably executed. ‘The effect of the planet’s history and society.’ Ha. You’re  kidding me, right? Let’s see, my planet’s history of bullshit political maneuvering left me an orphan on my twelfth birthday. So, yeah, take a fucking guess as to how it’s affected me.

“I guess I really ‘grew up,’ physically and emotionally on Nar Shaddaa. Nobody’s from Nar Shaddaa, though; everyone’s just passing through, or at least that’s what they tell themselves. It’s where I learned to do whatever it takes to survive, and a place that lawless and brutal really just reinforced what the coup on Ryloth taught me: Don’t trust in authority and law and righteousness to save you. Take care of yourself and the people you care about and don’t count on anyone else to do it. 

“……”

“Wow, re-reading that, it sounds fucking militant. And pissy. Do I really sound like that? Let’s try again, and hold the salt:

“The stuff I’ve kept with me from Ryloth and Nar Shaddaa has more to do with my upbringing and my family—the food, the faith, the festivities. My love of all things joyous and fun, I got that from the way my clan raised me on Ryloth, and I guess we weren’t all that different from any other Twi’lek clan in that sense. Music, dancing, the food and drink, the romance and passion and love… Is that because of my upbringing, or is it because that’s just who I am after all the other random crap that’s happened to me? Hell if I know, and… what does it really matter? I’m me, and maybe who and what I am makes me some sort of statistical near-certainty, but I don’t care. Maybe I tick off all the boxes on some sort of Twi’lek checklist. Fine. But I’m me, and that’s something nobody else in the whole kriffing galaxy can claim.

“Digressing. Whoops. Um. What was the question? Oh, right, right, traditions ‘n stuff. I celebrate my clan’s holidays, but since the most important one happens to coincide with my birthday, it’d be hard not to, right? But even that’s personal. I do ‘Twi’lek stuff’ on my birthday, which consists of drinking and dancing, and that’s not species- or homeworld-specific. It is… was… also my sister Rai’laen’s birthday, so I guess I use it as a day of… um… remembrance. So, sure. I celebrate some stuff that’s specifically Rylothian-Twi’lek, but I do it my way and for my own reasons. Make of that what you like, I’mma make myself a drink.”

For Species: Do they have a sense of connection with others of their species? Were they raised with their own species or in a more diverse community? Do they follow any traditions or customs that are species-specific?

“The town I grew up in was, I guess, a big ‘compound’… My family’s relatives and courtiers and servants and employees, some business partners, that sort of thing. There aren’t all that many non-Twi’leks on Ryloth, at least not in our little corner of it. Might have something to do with all the off-worlders who think the best kind of Twi’lek jewelry consists of stuncuffs and a shock-collar. So, yeah, pretty homogeneous. 

“After that,Nar Shaddaa was a bit of a shock—all those species, all those faiths and customs and everything. The galaxy’s cast-offs. There was something kind of reassuring about that, though… Regardless of appearance or origin or anything, everyone in the Undercity was in the same situation. The same story, told uniquely, several billion times. 

“I’m not particularly religious, but on the rare occasions I invoke a deity, yeah, I talk about the Goddess. Kika’lekki. Her name in Ryl means, ‘Mother of the Lekku’ed ones,’ which could technically include the Togrutas, but yeah, she’s pretty much a species-specific sorta goddess. I know some non-Twi’lek converts, though, and you know what, if it makes them happy, I say go for it.

“As for ‘Twi’lek solidarity’ or something? Who should I feel a ‘connection’ to, the members of my species who orphaned me for some temporary political advantage? The ones who stood by and didn’t say or do anything to prevent it or to punish it? The ones who, when I killed the leader of the conspiracy for revenge, cried their rancor tears and wailed and moaned and shouted ‘foul’ and would like nothing more than my head on an electropike? They’re not like me, and I’m not like them, so no, I don’t feel any ‘connection.’

“But the ones I met on Nar Shaddaa and a hundred other planets, who are just trying to make their way in the galaxy, just living their lives? Sure, I guess. But the ones I really feel for are the ones I see going through the same stuff I live with. Beings see my lekku and my skin and they make up their mind about me—low-life, criminal, pauper, prostitute, slave. Granted, I’m at least one and arguably two of those things, but… that’s beside the point. I’m a criminal because I take stuff that doesn’t belong to me, not ‘cause I was born with lekku.