Therapeutic Scribbling

The commentator inhaled audibly, his voice rising with practiced excitement. “Well now, ladies and gentlemen, if you thought our scurriers had already faced the worst the Prince’s labyrinth had to offer—think again. Allow me to introduce the final hunter of today’s festivities…”

The mech climbed into the light, its three legs churning as it cleared the ramp. One of its cannons was visibly warped and useless, metal fused and blackened from old damage—but the remaining barrel swiveled smoothly as it adjusted its aim, and the repeating blaster beneath it whined as it powered up.

“Veteran mercenary, avid collector of spice refineries, and a man who paid handsomely for the privilege of ending this hunt riding an attack pod, of all things—Drokan Pell!” There was a pause, and a faint rustle, as if someone had leaned away from the mic. “Is that…can they use—” Another pause, longer this time. “Oh…oh, really?” The commentator cleared his throat, enthusiasm snapping back into place as the volume rose again. “Well. In that case—looks like anything goes!”

In the viewing box, the Bad Batch leaned forward as one, their binders rattling as the bank of vidscreens along the waist-high wall brightened. The feeds adjusted automatically, pulling wide to capture the scale of what had emerged and now dominated the bare area. So close was the ambulatory weapon that the spectators in Scrist's private box didn't need to rely on the monitors. It towered above the retaining wall that ran around the entire expanse.

“That’s not good,” Wrecker muttered.

Hunter’s breath left him slowly. “That’s…that’s a walker.”

Tech’s eyes flicked rapidly between the screens and the tense layout almost directly below them in the arena. “An AT-AP, Republic-era heavy assault platform. Tripedal configuration, designed for heavy siege operations. I was not aware that any had survived the war.”

“You’ve gotta be kidding me,” Echo snapped. "A sniper tank, in this space? That's complete overkill."

“The primary mass-driver appears inoperative,” Tech continued, his eyes narrowing during his detached ramble. “That is quite fortunate.”

Echo flung his manacled arms up in the direction of the arena. “Oh, great. So it’s only got an ion cannon and a repeater left. That's all.”

Scrist lounged back in his chair, his manicured claws tapping each other as he steepled his fingers in front of him. “Overkill is such an ugly word.”

Beside him, Xirn’s dark eyes narrowed in his ugly face, displeasure rippling through his otherwise languid posture. “This was not part of our agreement,” he snapped icily, his voice thick with disdain.

Scrist didn’t look at him. His attention was fixated on the lonely figures on the stark landscape painfully devoid of refuge. “The odds,” he said smugly, “always favor the house.” He picked up his half-empty goblet and tipped it down his throat. "Always."

The walker’s shadow crept across the ground of the arena like an ominous stain, its long legs unfolding with mechanical patience. Each step landed with a weight that Synnovea felt through her boots, up through her spine. Above them, the crowd whooped a multilingual symphony of disbelief and excitement, the sound distorted into something almost oceanic by the cavernous space. Abruptly, she stopped moving, standing there with her arm clamped over her midsection.

Omega nearly collided with her back. “We have to go,” she said, breathless, her fingers closing around Synnovea’s wrist and tugging hard. “We have to—” It was the same as tugging at a statue. At first, Omega thought she hadn’t heard. Then she realized it wasn’t that at all.

Synnovea had stopped listing to the left; her hand no longer guarded her injured side. Her shoulders eased with a kind of weary resignation. Her spine straightened as her stance shifted. The frantic, hunted tension drained out of her posture and was replaced by something unnervingly still.“Synnovea?” Omega pulled again, harder this time, fear thinning out her voice. Still nothing.

At last, Synnovea spoke.

“I’m so tired of this.”

The words were flat and so soft Omega could barely catch them. Slowly, Synnovea turned her head—not toward the walker, but away from it. Her gaze drifted, unfocused, as if tracking something no one else could see. When her eyes finally settled on Omega, it was with a pause that made the air between them feel like strangers, as though Omega had only just now been registered.

They were no longer gray.

The color itself was almost beside the point—it was the absence behind it that froze her. Gold, yes, but flat and distant, like light reflected off dimly polished metal. There was no warmth there, no recognition in the way Omega understood it. Just a moment of consideration, like someone noticing an object left in an inconvenient place. Omega’s stomach dropped. For a split second, she was back on the Marauder—being shoved aside, the look on Synnovea’s face distant and wrong, like she’d stepped out of herself. The memory hit hard enough to steal her breath.

“We have to run,” Omega said again, weaker this time as she faced the woman with growing dread. “That thing has a cannon. And a repeater. And—”

Synnovea glanced past her, back toward the walker, eyes flicking over it with mild interest. The way someone might regard a mess they’d hoped not to deal with. The detached observation didn't match up with the hum of the heavy blaster as it neared operational power.

“Mm,” she murmured. The sound was soft, almost amused. “Yes. I see it.”

The walker’s gun swiveled. A warning burst scorched the ground a few meters to Synnovea’s left, showering sparks and molten stone. The crowd screamed in delight.

Omega flinched, ducking as clods of dirt sprayed them both. Synnovea didn’t.

Another burst struck closer on the right, close enough that the heat washed over them. Omega cried out and stumbled back—but Synnovea merely tilted her head, studying the impact with something like curiosity.

“Running won’t help,” she remarked. Her voice was almost normal, almost, but hollowed out, smoothed razor sharp at the edges in a lighthearted tone that somehow withheld reassurance.

Omega swallowed. “Any moment they'll start shooting—” The ground trembled again as the attack pod took another step forward. Synnovea smiled faintly.

“Yeah,” she said, nodding toward the walker, “that won’t be enough to save them.”

Omega’s hands slipped from her sleeve as Synnovea walked on in an unhurried gait straight toward the towering machine. The roar of the crowd swelled, confused now, uncertain—drawn tight between anticipation and disbelief. It was as though whatever had stepped forward to face the walker had no fear.

In the viewing box, Hunter surged to his feet. “What is she up to?!”

Tech shook his head slowly. “That…does not align with any rational survival model.”

“Well folks,” the commentator breathed, his excitement edging into nervous disbelief, “I don’t think I’ve ever seen a scurrier take this approach—she’s advancing straight toward the hunter!” A warning burst screamed across the arena floor, blaster bolts carving molten scars into the earth and stone beside Synnovea’s path.

She didn’t flinch.

"And Drokan fires right out of the gate! This may be the first time the arena has seen such firepower brought to such a small target. Hope you took your holos already, but if you haven't just remember they are always available for purchase at the concession stand on your way out."

Drokan pulled a lever in the gunner's mount and adjusted his aim. Another burst rang out, closer this time. Synnovea paused, glanced down at the scorched ground, and corrected her steps slightly to the right. And high above in his padded box, even Scrist’s smile began to falter.

She kept going.

Not straight at the walker—not quite—but on a shallow diagonal, each step measured, almost relaxed. The repeating blaster whined as it tracked her steps, its barrel adjusting in small, precise increments. She noticed that. Noted the rhythm of its sweep, the fraction of a second it lagged before correcting. She noticed the way the Devaronian hesitated, unsure whether to fire again so close, unsure why she wasn’t running.

A burst tore into the ground ahead of her. Stone spat and sparked near her boots. She adjusted her stride by half a step and kept going. Omega shouted something; the sound slid past her, unimportant. Everything narrowed to angles and distance and timing. The squeakings of the child were inconsequential.

Here.

She stopped.

The walker loomed over her now, all steel and shadow and humming power. She could feel the vibration of it through the soles of her boots, the ion cannon’s charge cycling somewhere above like a held breath. The repeating blaster dipped, centering on her chest. Drokan Pell paused for effect, then made his selection. The blaster opened up in a sustained roar, not warning shots this time but a committed line of fire, bolts stitching the ground in a brutal advance meant to mow her down where she stood.

Synnovea dropped.

She folded into herself with sudden, fluid economy, her knees hitting the ground first, spine curving as she crouched low. Her hands came up over her head, fingers lacing, chin tucked.

Blaster fire raked over her.

The ground around her detonated, dirt and stone exploding upward in choking clouds. Heat slammed into her back, a white-hot line that burned through cloth and skin alike. There was a sharp, wet sensation—pain registering distantly, like an afterthought—followed by a thin spray of blood and flesh flung into the dust.

Omega screamed. The sound cut through the arena just before the crowd erupted, a wall of noise crashing down as spectators surged to their feet. Some cheered. Some shouted in shock. Credits exchanged hands mid-roar even as the blaster slowly spun to a halt, smoking slightly. When the firing stopped, the silence afterward was almost louder.

Dust drifted, slow and heavy.

In the settling haze, Synnovea pitched forward onto her hands, coughing once as she sucked air back into her lungs. Her shoulders shook—not with pain, but with something like hacking laughter held too tightly in the chest. Smoke curled from scorched fabric along her spine. The skin beneath was burned raw, angry and red, edges already blistering under the charred tunic.

Something heavy landed in front of her with a dull thud.

Her braid.

It lay coiled in the dirt, severed cleanly, black hair singed at the ends. For a long, suspended moment, she stared at it as if mildly surprised it was there at all.

Then another object struck the ground beside it.

The collar.

It hit once, bounced, and rolled to a stop, its back plate blown apart, wires sparking weakly before going dark.

Synnovea lifted her head. Her face was streaked with grime and smoke, hair shorn unevenly at the nape, shoulders trembling as she pushed herself upright. She glanced down at the collar, then at the walker towering above her—and smiled. It spread slowly, too wide and far too pleased, as if something long-caged had finally found a crack in the door and decided to tear it off its hinges. Her eyes caught the light through the dust cloud, bright and intent, alive with an unsettling, almost gleeful focus.

The crowd went berserk.

The heavy repeating blaster stuttered once, then twice, its cycling whine breaking into a harsh mechanical cough. Warning lights flared across the gunner’s console. Drokan Pell swore, shoving a control lever aside with unnecessary force.

“Repeater’s jammed,” the commentator shouted, voice pitching high with excitement. “Looks like our scurriers might get a—oh! Oh no, folks, he’s switching to the main cannon—”

The laser cannon began to charge. The sound was different—lower, deeper, a gathering resonance that vibrated through the arena floor and into the bones. The air thickened around the muzzle, heat rippling outward in visible waves. Anyone who’d ever seen it fired before knew what that meant. Not a wound, not even a body left behind. Just a smoking crater.

Synnovea's attention fixed on the cannon with open irritation, like someone confronted with a tedious problem that should not exist anymore. Her head canted slightly as her smile thinned. “Oh,” she murmured softly in an annoyed tone. “Now that’s rude.” She lifted one hand.

It wasn’t a flamboyant gesture, just a deliberate movement. Her fingers curled slowly, one by one, as though grasping something only she could feel. Then she closed her hand into a fist and pulled down.

The cannon slammed.

Not recoiled—slammed—as if the sky itself had seized it and driven it into the ground. The barrel hit the hardpan with a thunderous crack, metal shrieking as it bent and crumpled, folding in on itself at a grotesque angle. It gouged a long, smoking furrow through the arena floor before finally wrenching to a stop.

Inside the walker, systems screamed. Sparks erupted from the gunner’s seat in a violent spray, arcing across Pell’s chest and face. He howled, jerking back as the console overheated beneath his hands. The pilot droid convulsed as its controls overloaded, optics flaring blue-white before going dark.

The commentator lost all pretense of control. “That—what—did you see that? The cannon—by the moons—”

Synnovea didn’t wait. She turned her palm outward this time and pressed.

The walker staggered as if struck by a giant's fist. One massive leg skidded backward, its clawed foot carving a trench into the dirt as the whole machine struggled for balance. The internal explosion went off a heartbeat later. Fire burst from access panels. The pilot compartment blew outward in a spray of shrapnel and flame, obliterating the droid instantly and hurling Drokan Pell hard against his restraints. He had time to scream once.

She made a second, sharper motion—less patience in it this time. The force of it was undeniable now, a concussive wave that flattened dust and debris outward in a rippling ring. The walker tipped, its center of gravity breached beyond recovery. With a creaking groan like a dying god, it plummeted backward in slow motion. Straight into the retaining wall next to the viewing box.

The impact was catastrophic.

The waist-high railing disintegrated as the walker’s bulk crushed into it, tearing away a section of the platform entirely. Hunter yanked Omega’s brothers backward as debris showered the platform. Echo hit the deck hard. Wrecker barreled into Tech, hauling him out of the way as the floor shuddered beneath them. Triage moved on instinct alone, ducking as a slab of broken stone screamed past where his head had been a second earlier.

Seats toppled. Viewers shrieked and scrambled back in panic. Scrist swore loudly, stumbling as the floor lurched beneath his feet. Xirn vanished into the chaos, retreating toward the tunnels without a backward glance. When the dust cleared, the walker lay half-crumpled against the structure, its ruined frame now forming a steep, jagged ramp up to the shattered box.

Synnovea stepped onto its leg. She walked upward with unhurried ease, her boots crunching over bent plating and smoking components as though ascending a set of stairs rather than the corpse of a war machine. Flames licked at the wreckage around her, reflected in her eyes—but she didn’t look at them.

Drokan Pell was still alive.

Barely.

He was crushed into the gunner’s seat at an angle that should not have been possible, armor buckled inward, blood soaking through the front of his jacket. His eyes fluttered open as she approached, unfocused and glassy.

Synnovea crouched in front of him.

Up close, her expression was one of detached curiosity. She studied him the way one might examine a broken experiment, without malice, without sympathy. Drokan saw her. A trembling hand lifted from the console, reaching out in a weak, reflexive gesture. Help. Mercy. Something.

For a moment—just one—she lifted a single finger, hovering it close to his outstretched hand.

Almost touching.

It hovered just shy of his grasp, close enough that he strained toward it, breath hitching in wet, broken gasps.

Then she stopped.

His eyes fixed on the centimeter between their hands. Synnovea idly watched his strength fail. Watched his hand fall, fingers slackening as the light drained from his eyes. When he went still, she straightened, already uninterested, and climbed the last few feet into the viewing box without a backward glance.

The crowd was howling now—running, stampeding—but in the ruined box, no one spoke. She stood among them like something summoned rather than born, smoke and dust clinging to her, eyes bright and unreadable. The clones were still on the ground, scattered where the impact had thrown them. For a heartbeat, no one moved—then the memory muscle of training kicked in. Bruised muscles screamed protest as Hunter and Echo pushed themselves upright. Wrecker rolled to a knee, already reaching for Tech to haul him up.

Synnovea did not look at them. She stood amid the wreckage as if alone, gaze drifting over the torn railing and the empty seats beyond. They might as well have been furniture. Or insects.

Echo was the first to act.

He lunged for Scrist, who had frozen in place, staring at the ruin of his arena with slack disbelief. Echo grabbed his arm, snapping his vambrace open and driving the scomp link home with a vicious jab. Sparks burst from Scrist’s control band as Echo broke it, the device shrieking once before dying in a curl of smoke.

Scrist yelled in alarm. That sound finally drew her attention—not to him, but to the absence beside him. Her head turned in a slow, sweeping motion, settling on the empty space where Xirn had been only moments before. Understanding settled with a curl of contempt.

“The Anzat,” she murmured. It was disgust—like noticing rot. She took a step toward the tunnel entrance, already shifting her weight as if to hunt him down, when a hand closed around her arm.

“Synnovea,” Hunter said urgently. “We have to go! We need our gear before the Zygerrians regroup.”

She halted. Her gaze dropped to where his fingers wrapped around her sleeve. Then it lifted—slowly—to his face. Hunter had faced war droids, bounty hunters, Separatist generals. None of that prepared him for the look in her eyes.

They were no longer the soft, storm-gray he remembered. They moved too quickly, tracking, assessing—sliding over him and past him as if cataloguing a space rather than seeing a person. When her gaze shifted, it swept the box in a single, efficient arc: Omega clambering up the walker with careful steps, deliberately not looking at Drokan’s body. Wrecker tearing binders from Tech and Echo, snapping collars and flinging them aside. Triage standing apart, utterly still, watching her with something tight and unreadable drawn across his face.

Then she glanced down at his hand on her arm as though inspecting garbage. Hunter let go. Almost absently, she turned back to Scrist. He was still choking, scrubbing at his face as the broken control sparked uselessly on his wrist. Without moving closer, she lifted one hand.

Scrist rose. His feet left the floor as if gravity had simply forgotten him, his body jerking as an invisible grip closed around his throat. His face purpled beneath his fur, green eyes bulging as he scrabbled at nothing.

“Where,” she asked mildly, voice calm and conversational, “are the effects of the slaves kept?”

Scrist tried to speak. Failed. Tried again. “N—next room,” he gasped. “No, two—two rooms down—”

Her fingers relaxed slightly. “Thank you,” she said, with perfect courtesy.

Then her hand snapped sideways.

Scrist’s head struck the wall with a dull, wet crack. The sound cut through the box like a blaster shot. His body crumpled immediately, sliding down the stone, skull crushed, very obviously dead.

For a second, no one spoke.

Then the Bad Batch exploded into motion.

“Gear room, two down,” Echo said rapidly.

“Wrecker, you and me,” Hunter replied.

“On it,” Wrecker grunted, already moving.

“Tech, get ready to override their door controls,” Hunter added.

Their voices overlapped, sharp and urgent, plans forming and reforming in seconds.

Synnovea watched them with open amusement now, her head tilted as her lips curved just slightly. The look was not unkind—but it was deeply unsettling, as though she were entertained by a clever trick performed by trained animals.

She peered down at her side, commenting lightly, almost gleefully. “Well…that's going to leave a mark.” The smile lingered just long enough for him to ponder what she meant. Then her knees buckled. It was instant and abrupt—like a marionette whose strings had been severed. She folded in on herself without warning, consciousness dropping away as her body hit the shattered floor.

They ran.

Rappelling lines burned through gloves as they slid down the sheer outer wall of the city, ten meters of stone dropping away beneath their boots. The arena behind them was still in chaos—sirens wailing, distant shouts echoing—but none of them looked back. Wrecker hit the ground first, knees flexing to absorb the impact, Synnovea slung over his shoulder like dead weight. She didn’t stir. Her head lolled against his back, dark hair shorn and scorched, face pale and utterly still.

“Move, move!” Hunter snapped, already cutting for the treeline.

They tore into the jungle at a dead run, branches whipping at armor, roots grabbing at their boots. The trees swallowed them whole—thick leaves, choking humidity, the ground slick with moss and rot. Behind them, metal gates groaned open. Blaster fire followed. Red bolts lanced through the trees, searing bark, lighting the undergrowth in violent flashes. A shot scorched past Echo’s shoulder; another exploded a fern into ash at Omega’s feet.

“ArEx!” She shouted into her comm as she sprinted, lungs heaving. “Start the ship—now! We’re coming in hot!” Static crackled, then frantic beeping answered her, the Marauder’s engines whining to life somewhere ahead.

The Zygerrians were gaining. Heavy boots pounded closer, voices could be heard barking orders, the rhythm of pursuit tightening like a noose over their newly acquired freedom. Wrecker adjusted his grip on Synnovea, his jaw clenched, as he pounded through the underbrush.

Then the jungle detonated into brightly-colored shapes dropping out of the trees—small, fast, feral. Omega risked a glance back, and her heart leapt. Kowakian monkey lizards swarmed the pursuers in a living wave, clinging to armor and faces, biting, shrieking in high-pitched voices, yanking fur and flesh with wild abandon. Zygerrians spun crazily, shouting, blasters firing wildly into the air as they tried to beat the creatures off. One of them was waving Wrecker's binocs that it was using to clobber a guard in the face.

They burst into the clearing just as the Marauder’s ramp slammed down. ArEx hovered at the hatch, its optics flashing, beeping in frantic relief. Tech shoved past the droid without slowing, skidding into the cockpit and dropping into the pilot’s seat. “Hold on,” he said, already pulling the yoke back.

Hunter was the last to climb the steps. “That’s it—go!” He yelled as he slammed his palm onto the airlock panel. The ramp snapped shut as the ship lifted, its engines screaming. Blaster bolts streaked past the hull; one glanced off the shields in a flare of blue light. Then the trees fell away beneath them, the jungle shrinking to a dark green blur as Tech punched them straight up, breaking atmosphere in a bone-rattling climb.

Only then did the tension begin to ease. Inside the hold, Triage staggered back against the wall, one hand braced on the bulkhead, breathing hard. His shoulders sagged as the adrenaline drained, exhaustion crashing in all at once. He slid down until he was half-sitting, half-leaning, eyes closed for a moment too long. Wrecker carefully lowered Synnovea to the deck, easing her into a seated position against the wall. He adjusted her so her head rested safely in the corner, one massive hand lingering at her shoulder as if to make sure she stayed upright. She didn’t wake.

The Marauder broke through the clouds, leaving Kowak behind—chaos, blood, and a fallen arena disappearing into the void.

The ship settled into a steadier hum as it cleared Kowak’s gravity well, the deck still thrumming with residual vibration. Emergency lights lifted to a normal level. The smell of scorched metal and blood lingered in the air, clinging to everything. Once past the exosphere, the shuddering ceased altogether, and the resulting quiet was almost as deafening as the arena's crowd.

Tech didn’t leave the pilot’s seat. His hands moved in precise, economical patterns as he ran scans and course corrections in tandem with navigation. “We are clear of immediate pursuit,” he said, more to the ship than anyone else. “Hull integrity acceptable. Minor scoring only.”

Wrecker had wedged himself into the copilot’s chair, one arm draped over the back, chest still rising and falling a little too fast. “Heh,” he muttered. “That was fun. Terrifyin’, but fun.”

Hunter crouched near the rear of the cockpit, checking Omega over with a practiced eye. She sat on a crate, legs swinging, grime-streaked and scraped but very much alive. “I’m fine,” she insisted, a little breathless. “I told you. Just bumps.”

“Humor me,” Hunter said, soft but firm, finishing his check before nodding once. “Okay.”

In the corner, Synnovea lay slumped against the wall where Wrecker had set her, her breathing shallow but steady. Tech left the controls and extended a scanner toward her, eyes narrowing as data streamed across his display.

“Multiple superficial blaster burns along the dorsal ridge and shoulders,” he reported. “Significant tissue damage, but non-lethal. That's fortunate; it could have been much worse. Pain response should be… considerable.” After a pause, his brow furrowed. “However, these readings do not account for the behavioral anomaly observed in the arena.”

Before anyone could respond, Synnovea stirred. Wincing, her eyes—gray, storm-tossed rings—squinted against the glare. She sucked in a sharp breath, shoulders pulling in jerkily as pain registered all at once. Her hand went to her side, fingers trembling. For a heartbeat she looked lost, eyes unfocused, then awareness snapped into place. She pushed herself upright.

“Easy,” Wrecker started, already half out of his seat. She ignored him, grabbing at the back of one of the chairs to propel her upright.

“Synnovea—” Hunter tried.

She was already on her feet, swaying slightly, one hand braced against the wall. Tech moved to intercept, his scanner still raised, but she brushed past him with more force than her condition warranted. “I’m fine,” she said hoarsely, though she very clearly wasn’t. Her gaze swept the ship, frantic now, searching. The cockpit, the hold, the familiar armor, the familiar faces—until it found him.

Triage stood near the rear gunner mount, half in shadow, one shoulder against the bulkhead. He looked exhausted in the bone-deep way that didn’t fade with rest. The scar along his throat caught the light through his beard as he turned.

They froze.

The rest of the ship ceased to exist.

Synnovea took a step toward him, relief flooding her features in a torrent so naked it hurt to see. “You’re—” Her voice broke. She swallowed and tried again. “You’re alive.” She reached for him, fingers lifting toward his shoulder as if drawn there by instinct.

The snap echoed through the hold.

Triage caught her wrist midair, grip iron-hard, stopping her cold. The sound of it—skin on skin, sudden and sharp—made Omega flinch in surprise.

Synnovea startled, pain and confusion flickering across her face. She didn’t pull away, just stared at where his hand held her, then up at him. “Triage,” she said quietly. “I— I’ve been trying to find you. For an entire cycle. I didn’t know if—”

“Really,” he pronounced.

It wasn’t loud. It wasn’t grateful. It was dry, almost empty, edged with something that might have been disbelief. His eyes never left her face.

She nodded, a little desperately. “Yes. I looked everywhere I could. I followed every lead that made sense. I thought— I hoped—” She faltered, then pushed on through his stony silence. “Did any of Beacon squad make it out with you? Do you know where they are?”

His grip loosened, but he didn’t let go right away. He stared at her as if she’d asked him something incomprehensible. Then he released her wrist and answered.

“Dead,” he said flatly. “They’re all dead.”

The words landed like a physical blow.

Synnovea’s face crumpled, grief breaking through the shock in a sharp, silent wave. She took a step closer without seeming to realize she’d moved. “What… what happened to them?”

Triage took a step back.

He looked at her then as if she’d lost all sense, as if the question itself was unreal.

“…You did.”

Previous: Ch 21 / Next: Ch 23

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When they passed into the next section, the first thing that hit Synnovea was the smell. Damp earth. Rotting vegetation. The sharp, acrid tang of something that hunted and fed and lived here. She slowed despite herself, one hand drifting back just enough to make sure Omega was still close. The arena beyond the threshold looked nothing like the stark deathtraps they’d already passed through. This place looked like the world outside, looked alive—packed dirt underfoot, clusters of rocks and fallen logs arranged with careless intent, the walls disguised with faux stone and creeping growth. A low chittering echoed somewhere ahead.

Omega swallowed. “This looks like a zoo.”

Synnovea’s mouth tightened. “For something,” she said quietly. “Yes.”

Above them, unseen speakers crackled to life, the commentator’s voice spilling out with delighted anticipation. “Oho! And there they go, folks—straight into one of the audience's favorite setups. Prince Sono does love to share his little exotic pets. A lovingly crafted homage to the great predator pits of old. Plenty of room to run, plenty of places to hide… and nowhere to go if you’re too slow.”

The crowd roared in response, a wall of sound pressing down on the enclosure. Synnovea felt it like pressure against her skin, the echo of thousands of eyes tracking their every movement. She forced herself to keep walking. Slowly. The ground sloped gently downward, the packed dirt was uneven beneath her boots. She noted the scuffed paths, the shallow grooves worn into the earth. Claw marks scored the rocks. Some were fresh.

The chittering came again—closer this time. Omega leaned in, keeping her voice low. “What makes that kind of noise?”

Synnovea didn’t answer right away. She crouched, her fingers brushing the dirt near a half-collapsed log. There—indentations, clustered too closely together. Three of them, over and over. Not random. There was a purpose to these marks, if she could just remember where she read about them…

“A warren,” she said finally as the shapes in her mind finally clicked into words. “We’re in a nesting ground.”

As if summoned by the word, movement rippled through the enclosure.

Shapes detached themselves from the shadows—first one, then another, then too many to count. Lyleks skittered into view, their sickly-green chitinous bodies catching the light in jagged flashes. Multi-faceted eyes fixed on the intruders. Mandibles clicked in agitation, the sound sharp and hungry. Omega froze.

In the viewing box above, five clones leaned forward as one. Tech’s eyes flicked rapidly across the monitors lining the waist-high wall. “Lyleks, from the planet Ryloth. Highly territorial, especially in proximity to eggs.”

Wrecker grimaced. “Why’s it always large bugs?”

Hunter didn’t answer. His gaze was locked on the screen where Synnovea had gone very still, her expression blanking out as she shifted in readiness, watching the advancing creatures.

Triage said nothing at all.

Back on the arena floor, Synnovea straightened slowly. She lifted her chin, forcing herself to breathe evenly as the lyleks began to spread out, fanning into a loose semicircle. Clicks and clacks echoed softly as they pattered closer, their heads tilting in twitching motions almost like that of birds. If birds had eyes the size of fists, and crushing mandible jaws.

“They’re deciding,” she murmured.

“Deciding what?” Omega whispered.

“Which one of us is easier to eat.”

The commentator laughed, rich with anticipation. “Oh, you can feel it, can’t you? The tension! The patience! Our lovely residents are just waiting to see who panics first.”

Panic. Too late, Synnovea realized that the sweat on her neck had gelled to a tacky residue, her heartbeat had fallen to—

"Omega—"

Lightning raced down her spine in a vicious arc as her collar jerked a strangled cry from her throat, jostling her down to a knee as her vision blurred down to random swaths of black and white. Her cry and stumble broke the frozen tableau that had taken over the enclosure. A lylek twitched, antennae quivering with aggression—and then the enclosure exploded into motion.

With a collective screech, several of the creatures lunged forward, their jointed legs pumping up and down like rows of pistons. Their bodies hugged the ground, curving with the landscape as they practically flowed in a chittering wave. There were so many of them, it was impossible to stay together. Lunging from the ground, Synnovea dashed to the right, towards the thickest number of lyleks. It worked…sort of.

Only half broke toward Omega.

Omega didn’t wait to be told. She spun and bolted toward the nearest rock formation, boots scrambling for purchase as claws raked the dirt behind her. The lyleks pursuing her moved with terrifying speed, bounding over obstacles, snapping mandibles inches from her heels.

In the box, Hunter surged to his feet, hands slamming against the rail. “They’re splitting them up.”

On the screen, Synnovea pivoted sharply, slowing as she noticed that the entire swarm wasn't following her. Up on the rocks, Omega's left foot slipped, dangling enticingly above the leaping jaws at the base of the boulder before she managed to get a knee over a higher ledge, hoisting herself up.

Synnovea's gaze snapped to the center of the enclosure. In a shallow bowl tamped out in the earth, surrounded by twigs and lined with rough pebbles, pale ovoid object lay clustered in a heap. Eggs. Each one lovingly clean and carefully balanced amongst the others. Their shells were mottled and faintly translucent in the warm sunlight.

Her jaw set.

“Oh no,” Tech breathed, seeing it a heartbeat before she moved.

Synnovea kicked the nearest lylek in the thorax, booting it into the one behind them. Breaking from her original path, she sprinted straight for the nest, every instinct screaming at her not to—but knowing there was no other way. Behind her, the remaining lyleks turned as one, their collective shriek rising into a furious, enraged howl as she crossed some invisible line in the ground.

In the stands, the crowd erupted.

“Well folks,” the commentator crowed, his voice climbing with unrestrained glee, “it looks like one of our scurriers has made a very interesting choice.”

Synnovea hit the nest at a dead run.

She scooped up the nearest egg without slowing, the smooth, faintly warm shell nearly slipping from her fingers as the weight surprised her. It was heavier than it looked—alive, unmistakably alive, something tipped inside—and the instant it left the hollow, the enclosure exploded with a high-pitched sound.

The lyleks screamed. It wasn’t just sound; it was fury given voice. Their mandibles opened wide, revealing rows of serrated edges. Every single one of them turned on her as if of one mind, abandoning Omega in a heartbeat, their many legs hammering the dirt as they surged after their stolen future.

“Okay so that really worked,” Synnovea muttered, already sprinting for all she was worth. She vaulted the first fallen log, boots skidding on bark polished slick with age. Without the Force, there were no effortless leaps, no preternatural balance. Every movement brought muscle, momentum, and a very real awareness that one mistake would end her.

The egg wobbled in her grip.

“Oh—no you don’t,” she hissed, clutching it tighter as she landed hard, knees screaming. A lylek snapped at her heel, its jaws clanging shut centimeters from her calf. It scraped against the ground, venting its thorax in a musky odor, dry and cloying, like snakeskins or old leaves. The lyleks closest to her flushed a deeper shade of green, their tentacle-like arms snapping in the air. "Well, that can't be good…"

Above, the commentator lost his mind. “UNBELIEVABLE! An outright theft, folks! A direct insult to the nest! Bold? Absolutely. Fearless? Possibly deranged! She’s turned the entire enclosure into a death chase!”

The crowd roared its approval.

Synnovea scrambled up a slanted rock face, her fingers slipping on grit as she hauled herself over the top. The egg slid in her arm again—too far. She windmilled, her heart lurching into her throat, managing to clutch it against her chest just before it could hit the rock's surface. The motion cost her balance. Her foot slid. For a split second, she was weightless. Then she fell.

She hit the ground in a heavy thud, the impact momentarily knocking the breath from her lungs. Pain flared down her spine, sharp and hot, and her lungs mourned the loss of air, but she rolled instinctively, curling around the egg as claws raked the dirt where her head had been a moment before.

“Okay,” she wheezed, scrambling to her feet, “ground is still hard. Good to know.”

Another lylek lunged. Synnovea dove sideways, stepping on another, barely clearing a large pointed leg smash down, breaking the hardpan soil, and sprinted again—zigzagging now, using rocks and logs to break line of sight. She hoped it would help. Her lungs burned. Sweat stung her eyes. She felt every ounce of fatigue, every jarring impact.

Across the enclosure, Omega had frozen at the top of the rocky outcropping. The lyleks that had bayed her initially were no longer below, but had joined the ravenous herd. She stood watching in horror as Synnovea tore across the arena with an entire nest of eight-foot maddened arthropods on her heels.

“Synnovea—!” she shouted as the woman sprinted past, still cradling one of the large pale eggs like a gravball, tucked securely under one arm.

“MOVE!” Synnovea yelled back without looking. “I am not doing all this cardio for you to just stand there!”

“What does it look like I’m doing?” Omega snapped, already climbing down the far side as fast as she dared, keeping low, keeping quiet. She hit the ground and took off. Crossing an open area, she looked around nervously, but Synnovea had successfully pulled every lylek to follow her in a mad dash around the perimeter.

Up in the viewing box, the roar of the crowd had bled into a constant, hungry thunder. The screens along the waist-high wall flickered between angles—Synnovea sprinting with the egg, lyleks boiling after her, Omega disappearing from view. The entire enclosure shook with the pounding legs of the furious insectoids, yet Scrist barely looked away from his glass.

“Hm,” he said mildly, as if commenting on a dejarik move. “They’re more responsive than I anticipated.”

Xirn leaned back in his chair, long fingers steepled, his black eyes fixed on the screens with lazy interest. “I was wondering,” he said, conversationally. “Lyleks aren’t meant to be nesting this time of year. How did you coax them into breeding?” A servant lowered a tray of finger foods near his elbow, and he waved it away. Synnovea vanished into a knot of rocks, lyleks shrieking behind her in a mammoth crowd as they followed, jointed legs smashing at the smaller boulders.

Scrist smiled thinly. “Starvation works wonders. Add hormonal stimulants, a little sonic agitation.” He shrugged, reaching out to take one of the savories and stuffing it into his mouth. “They’re simple creatures, really," he continued as he chewed. "You give them a territory and place a threat inside of it, and they do the rest for you. They never disappoint when properly provoked.”

Onscreen, Synnovea slipped, nearly taking a header into the shallow stream that carved its way across the area. The crowd gasped, then cheered when she recovered on its slippery bank. Xirn chuckled softly. “Remarkable. All that effort just to make the maze feel… alive.” His gaze sharpened as she half-slid, half-fell down the broken skeleton of some large creature that hadn't been as fast, or lucky. “Fear ripens better when it has something to lose.”

"She's slowing down," Scrist chuckled rubbing his hands together. “The collar limits her efficiency. Fear, pain, exhaustion—it all compounds. Eventually, everyone missteps.”

“Eventually,” Xirn echoed, smiling faintly. “I do enjoy watching the moment hope turns into panic. It’s…intimate.”

Hunter’s jaw clenched. Tech’s hands curled into fists at his sides.

“And I thought the Empire was bad,” Echo muttered.

On the screen, Synnovea vaulted another log, barely clearing it. Her foot clipped the edge, pitching her forward. She stumbled, nearly dropped the egg again, and had to throw herself into a roll to avoid being bowled over by a lylek that crashed past her in a frenzy. Curling over the egg, she tucked her head in as the spear-like legs stabbed agitatedly into the ground.

The commentator was nearly shouting now. “Oh, she’s slowing! You can see it! The strain! Doubling back is going to cost her precious seconds. That strategy might be brilliant—or it might get her torn apart!”

Triage, slouched back in his seat with his collar gleaming dully against his throat, snorted. “You ever notice,” he drawled, eyes never leaving the screen, “that people who talk about ‘simple creatures’ are usually the ones who can’t survive without an army of toys?”

Scrist shot him a glare. “Watch your mouth, skug.”

Xirn lifted a hand, amused. “No, no. Let him speak. I enjoy gallows humor.” His eyes flicked briefly to Triage. “Especially from things that know they’re already dead.”

Triage’s smile didn’t reach his eyes. “Funny,” he said. “You had to handicap her just to keep her in the arena, and she's still running circles around your expensive pets.”

Xirn’s expression softened into something almost fond. “She does endure well,” he murmured. “I always admired that about her. You can bend most beings with pain. Others…” His smile sharpened. “Others require patience. Pressure. A slow descent into a waking nightmare that never ends.”

Wrecker growled under his breath. “I hate him.”

Scrist took a sip of his drink, eyes gleaming. “Enjoy it while it lasts. You bet against the house, Xirn. I sincerely hope you didn't need all those credits.”

Xirn’s smile sharpened. “She runs beautifully when cornered.”

Triage’s expression didn’t change—but something in his eyes went cold.

“Yeah,” he said flatly. “Funny how people do that.”

On the big vidscreen, Omega broke into a run toward the far side of the enclosure.

Synnovea burst from between two boulders into a clearer stretch of ground and realized, dimly, that she was running out of options. The lyleks were faster on open terrain. Her legs were burning. Her grip was slick with sweat. She glanced once—just once—over her shoulder. Omega was no longer up on the rocks. Relief hit her so hard it almost buckled her knees.

As if on cue, another lylek lunged again, forcing her to twist sharply. She skidded, barely keeping her footing, the egg slipping dangerously—“Nope, no nono,” she growled, yanking it back in and sprinting for the nearest tangle of rocks as the creatures screamed and gave chase, the enclosure echoing with chaos, speed, and the razor-thin edge between survival and disaster. Once Synnovea was certain—absolutely certain—that Omega had cleared the far side of the enclosure, she stopped running away and turned deliberately toward the nest.

She raised the egg.

Every lylek saw it.

The reaction was instantaneous and deafening. A shrill, tearing chorus ripped through the enclosure as the insectoids reared and shrieked, their attention snapping wholly to the fragile oval in her hands. Mandibles clacked. Claws gouged furrows in broken stone. The very air seemed to vibrate with their rage.

“That's right,” Synnovea breathed, heart hammering. “Eyes on me.”

She hurled the egg straight up.

It soared higher than she’d meant it to, spinning end over end beneath the arena lights. For a suspended, unreal heartbeat, the entire nest froze—every lylek tracking the arc of it, instinct overriding everything else.

Synnovea didn’t wait to see it fall. She dropped low and ran, ducking between stampeding legs, slid beneath a chitinous thorax. She felt the rush of displaced air as massive bodies collided above her. A claw clipped her shoulder and spun her sideways; she caught herself on a knee and kept going, her boots skidding in dirt and gravel as she drove toward the far exit with everything she had left.

Behind her, the egg bounced off one of their heads, rolled down a carapace, and plopped onto the ground. Rolling gently, delicately even, until one of the massive legs came down, shattering it. The entire pack exploded into chaos—screeches climbing into a frenzy as the lyleks collided, turned on one another, scrabbled and tore in a blind storm of fury. Synnovea clambered over a rotting tree and misjudged the landing. She nearly went down hard, then she was through the opening, stumbling into the narrow passage beyond.

The noise cut off abruptly.

For a single, brittle moment, there was quiet. Not true silence—the distant roar of the crowd still seeped through the walls and crashed over their heads—but the immediate, bone-deep adrenaline was seeeping away. Synnovea braced her hands against the corridor wall, dragging air back into her lungs in great gulps as her pulse thundered in her ears.

Omega was there. Wide-eyed, breathing hard, but upright. Alive.

They stared at each other for a split second—relief sharp and almost painful—before Synnovea straightened, already turning to move again.

Then—

A blaster shot cracked through the passage.

In the viewing box, the commentator’s voice rose, eager and smooth. “And there it is, folks. Karn Ekir finally makes his move. He’s a patient one—likes to pick his spot and let the prey come to him.” On the monitors, a broad figure shifted into view, rifle braced to his shoulder with practiced ease as he tracked the corridor ahead. “But don’t be fooled,” the commentator continued, almost cheerfully. “Ekir’s not above running his quarry down if he has to. And a little trivia for our audience—he prefers his trophies clean. No headshots. They don’t look nearly as impressive mounted.”

Karn's rifle whined softly as it charged again. He didn’t rush them. His footsteps were measured, unhurried, echoing through the corridors behind them with the confidence of someone who knew they were running out of places to hide. Each turn they took bought seconds, not distance. Every sharp corner only funneled them deeper into the maze’s bones, the walls closing in, the air growing stale and hot with desperation.

“Left—no, right,” Synnovea snapped, already pivoting, Omega right on her heels as another shot scorched the wall where her head had been a moment before. Stone exploded into grit that stung the side of their faces. The sound ricocheted through the passage, followed by the low hum of the rifle recharging.

They burst through the next turn—

—and stopped.

The corridor ended in blank stone.

Synnovea didn’t stop. She spun, her back to the wall, and dropped into a crouch, fingers lacing together automatically. “Up. Now.”

Omega stared at her, eyes wide. “What about you?”

Synnovea looked up at her then, her expression hard, her steely voice cutting clean through the enthusiastic cheering of the crowd. “You promised. You do as I say, no questions!” The next shot cracked overhead, close enough that Omega flinched as heat kissed the air near her face. Synnovea glared down at her.

That decided it. Omega planted her foot in Synnovea’s hands, and Synnovea surged upward with everything left in her legs. Omega caught the edge, scrabbled, then hauled herself onto the top of the wall, boots slipping on smooth stone before she found her balance.

“Can you see the exit?” Synnovea called, already turning, already listening for Karn.

“I—yeah. I think—”

A blaster bolt shrieked past Omega’s shoulder, close enough to make her yelp. She crouched down instinctively, then scrambled up and broke into a run along the wall’s narrow spine, her boots pounding as another shot chased her heels.

“Go!” Synnovea shouted, the word tearing out of her chest. “Don’t stop!”

Karn rounded the corner at a jog, rifle already tracking upward, eyes narrowing as a small blonde hair bobbed in his sights.

Synnovea sprinted straight at him. He adjusted smoothly, lifting the rifle—but she leapt, planting a foot on the wall and twisting midair, her kick slamming into the barrel just as it fired. The shot went wild, scorching the ceiling as the rifle was knocked aside.

The hunter grunted, surprised—but only for a second. He rocketed forward, slamming her back-first into the wall. The rifle stock jammed up under her chin, pinning her there, the cold metal biting into her throat as his weight crushed the breath from her lungs. Up above, Omega skidded to a halt, looking back.

“No!” Synnovea rasped, her voice raw, panic cutting through her control. “Don’t you stop—Omega, run! Just go!”She sagged against the stone, her breath aching as Karn pressed closer, the rifle still locked beneath her chin. His grip tightened, his presence filling her vision as the crowd’s roar murmured faintly through the stone. The toes of her boots scraped along the ground as he lifted the barrel higher, then they dangled.

Above them, Omega paused, then jumped down, throwing herself on Karn feet-first. She came down on Karn’s shoulders with a small, fierce cry, her arms locking around his neck as her weight slammed into him from behind. It wasn’t enough to truly hurt him—she was too small, too light—but it was enough to piss him off. Karn swore, stumbling a half-step forward. The rifle jerked away from Synnovea’s throat.

“Omega!” Synnovea coughed, terror slicing through her.

With a brutal twist, Karn reached back and grabbed Omega by the arm, tearing her loose as if she weighed nothing. He flung her aside. She hit the stone wall hard and skidded, the breath knocked from her lungs, scrambling to roll before she could even think. Karn was already reaching for his sidearm.

Synnovea launched herself at him again. The impact drove them both into the opposite wall, bodies colliding hard enough to rattle her teeth. Karn grunted, surprised again, and this time she took advantage of it—grappling close, hands clawing at his arms, her shoulder slamming into his chest as she tried to keep the pistol from clearing its holster. He was bigger. Stronger. Every movement of his felt like pushing against a durasteel door.

“Stay down!” he snarled, wrenching at her arm.

“Not—happening,” she gasped back, teeth clenched as she headbutted him, the blow glancing but sharp.

They staggered, boots scraping, grappling desperately in the narrow space. The pistol came free in Karn’s hand as he twisted, his elbow slamming into her ribs. Pain struck in blinding flashes, but she wrapped herself around his arm, forcing it wide.

Behind them, Omega was just getting to her knees—

—and the blaster went off.

Once.

Twice.

Three sharp cracks that echoed down the corridor.

Omega froze. When she lifted her head, Karn was slumping, his weight collapsing forward as Synnovea rolled with him, barely managing to shove him aside before he hit the ground. The pistol clattered across the stone and skidded out of reach.

Karn Ekir lay still.

For a heartbeat, there was nothing but ringing silence. Then Synnovea pushed herself upright with a sharp inhale, one hand pressed hard to her side. Her fingers came away dark. She noticed—but she didn’t look at it for long.

Omega scrambled over. “You—you’re—”

“I’m fine,” Synnovea said quickly, already straightening, already forcing her breathing even. She flashed Omega a thin, determined smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes. “Come on. We can't stop.”

She turned and limped into the passage before Omega could argue.

In the viewing box, the reactions came in a fractured wave.

Wrecker let out a low, impressed whistle. “Heh. Took him down anyway.”

Echo’s gaze flicked between screens, already tracking Synnovea’s gait. “She’s favoring her left. One of those shots clipped her.”

Triage had gone very still. He murmured quietly, almost to himself, “Well. That’s one way to end it.”

Scrist’s expression darkened. Xirn only smiled.

Back in the corridors, Synnovea’s pace slowed despite her best efforts. Each step sent a sharp reminder through her side. Her breaths were coming shorter now, like she was rationing air. Omega stayed by her side, eyes forward, focused on the path ahead, until the corridor suddenly opened. They spilled out into a vast space, empty save for the echoing boom of the audience. Omega skidded to a stop, staring.

The room was enormous—and still growing.

With a grinding roar, nearby walls began to retract into the floor, slabs of stone sinking away to reveal an even larger arena beyond. The echoes multiplied. The crowd’s distant roar swelled, reaching a fevered pitch. Synnovea bent slightly at the waist, hands on her knees, fighting for breath.

“Uh oh,” she said faintly.

Omega turned. “What’s wrong?”

Synnovea straightened just enough to look at the widening space, eyes tracking the scale of it as it increased.

“Big room,” she gasped.

Omega frowned. “Yeah, so?”

Synnovea managed a humorless huff. “Big room… bad.”

As if summoned by the words, a deep mechanical clang echoed from below. A ramp split open in the arena floor. Heavy, metallic footsteps followed—slow, measured, each one reverberating through the stone. A massive shape rose into view: a tripedal walker hauling itself upward, scarred and repurposed, its silhouette unmistakable even without a name.

One of its cannons hung bent and useless, slagged metal curling at the muzzle—but the other barrel tracked smoothly, and a repeating blaster whined as it powered up. A droid sat rigid in the pilot’s cradle, while a horned Devaronian manned the gunner’s seat, grinning broadly.

The commentator’s voice boomed with manic delight. “An incredible run, folks—truly! Everyone here today has seen a completely unprecedented match. The scurriers gave it everything they had, but it looks like we’ve reached the end of the line!”

Previous: Ch 20 / Next: Ch 22

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It was deafening. Thousands of voices layered together into a single, hungry sound: anticipation, blood-lust, delight. Synnovea’s jaw tightened as she forced herself to breathe evenly, one slow inhale, one controlled exhale. The collar at her throat sat heavy and cold, an ever-present threat. She could feel it, waiting.

Beside her, Omega stood very still. Her eyes were wide, reflecting the shifting lights as they ran along the labyrinth walls, but her shoulders were squared in stubborn defiance. She looked small here, too small for a place like this. The sight sent a sharp, protective ache through Synnovea’s chest. Her hand found Omega’s shoulder without her quite realizing she’d moved. Not to pull her back—there was nowhere to retreat—but to anchor them both. She craned her neck, taking in the sea of cheering bodies, the blur of faces and waving arms. Above them, unseen but sonorous, a voice cut cleanly through the noise.

“Well now,” the commentator drawled, amusement dripping from every syllable, “it appears Prince Sono Molec has outdone himself today.” The voice paused dramatically, long enough to let the audience lean in with curiosity. She felt Omega stiffen beside her. “In a rare—and I do mean rare—twist,” the commentator continued, “the arena has not one, but two active targets. A bonus for our esteemed patrons. Two scurriers for the price of one! This will certainly change some of the odds…”

The roar in the stands doubled, the noise pressing down like a weight in the air they were breathing. Stomping, cheering, and calling in dozens of languages as bookies began frantically doing the math.

“Companionship,” the voice went on lightly, “can be such a fascinating variable. Will it inspire heroics? Or hasten disaster? We’ll find out once the fun begins. It’s time to set the little rodents loose in the maze!”

Synnovea exhaled slowly through her nose. “Stay close,” she murmured, barely moving her lips.

Above the arena floor, the viewing box overlooked the labyrinth like a predator’s perch. The Bad Batch were wedged in a row right in front. A waist-high barrier of dark transparisteel ran along the top of the red stone walls, and just beyond it, the sheer drop to the maze below made Hunter’s stomach lurch. Embedded into the wall in front of them was a bank of screens, nearly a dozen, most dark for now, and several large holoscreens were spaced around the top of the amphitheater.

“Two targets,” Scrist said smugly from his seat nearby, swirling something amber in a crystal glass. “Looks like your plans went sideways yet again.”

Hunter didn’t look at him. “She isn’t supposed to be in there,” he gritted through his teeth.

Scrist grinned wider. “The crowd disagrees.”

Wrecker growled, his fists clenching as if the Zygerrian’s neck were in his grasp. Next to him, in a rare loss for words, Tech was assiduously examining every centimeter of the monitors in front of them. Echo glanced over at Triage, whose eyes were stiffly tracking the two figures in the vidscreens. The commentator’s voice boomed across the arena.

“The hunters have been released,” he announced cheerfully. “Let the games begin!”

The maze lights flared. Hunter’s hand tightened against the transparisteel as the first passage illuminated on the screen. Somewhere in the labyrinth below, Synnovea lifted her head. There was a strange rolling, grinding, sliding noise somewhere out of sight, and she whipped to the left, clutching at Omega’s arm. Only they weren’t the ones moving.

The labyrinth was.

The floor tilted beneath their feet without warning, a slow, nauseating cant that sent Omega stumbling and Synnovea lunging to catch her. The stone-metal surface groaned, panels shifting and locking into new angles as if the maze itself were alive. Part of the wall slid into itself, revealing a new doorway, and they darted through the opening.

Then the boulders came.

Great spheres of dull gray metal dropped from recessed slots in the walls with thunderous impacts, immediately rolling as gravity reasserted itself along the newly slanted passages. The sound was immense—grinding, booming, echoing off the high walls until it was impossible to tell where the next one would come from.

“Move,” Synnovea snapped, already pulling Omega with her.

They ran.

Synnovea took the lead instinctively, her eyes flicking to the slope of the floor as it tilted, trying to ascertain the rhythm of the shifting panels, the timing between drops. She steered them left, then hard right, boots skidding to brace against the wall as the floor tipped them yet again. A boulder roared past the junction they’d just cleared, missing them by a meter.

The commentator’s voice drifted over the audience, buoyant with delight. “Ahhh, such a classic obstacle, and I confess, a favorite of mine. Where any misstep has a mortal consequence. Our scurriers need to be quick, or this game could come to a quickly disappointing end.”

A hole yawned open in the floor ahead, circular and utterly black, its edges rimmed with warning lights that flickered almost too late to be useful. Omega gasped as the ground vanished beneath her next step. Synnovea caught her by the back of her tunic and snatched her sideways. The hole swallowed a boulder that appeared from around the corner instead, the impact echoing hollowly as it fell, and fell…and fell.

Omega’s breath came out in a sharp sob. “I—I didn’t see—”

“You’re fine,” Synnovea said tightly, already moving again. “Eyes up. Don’t trust the floor.” They threaded through a narrow passage where the walls pressed close, boulders scraping sparks as they thundered past a junction. Green exit lights flickered ahead along an opening in the walls. They were almost there. The floor leveled, making the next dash across the corridor with the nearest boulder easier. Just a little further—

A sharp crack split the noise, clean and deliberate, nothing like the chaos of the room itself. Stone burst from the wall ahead of them, spraying fragments across the passage. Synnovea shoved Omega behind her as a figure stepped into view, blocking the exit. “Back. Back, back, back,” she gasped urgently, pivoting and putting words into action, her boots sliding before getting purchase.

“Well,” came a woman’s voice, smooth and amused, amplified slightly by a helmet mic. “Looks like I got here first.”

The commentator all but purred. “And there she is, ladies and gentlemen—Zyra Helix enters the field. Heir-apparent of House Helix, arena darling, and very motivated to make a statement today.”

The Nikto stood with easy confidence, her twin pistols raised in a relaxed stance that spoke of a close familiarity with their use. Her sleek armor glinted in the bright sunlight. Synnovea felt the floor begin to sway again, tipping them toward the hunter.

“Wrong way,” Zyra warned, her smile cold even in the baking heat of the arena. “You don’t want to go out this door.” She aimed at their retreating forms. “Or maybe you do…”

A boulder thundered down behind them, cutting off retreat the way they’d come.

Synnovea didn’t hesitate. “Run,” she said, and pivoted sharply, dragging Omega left through the only other passage.

Blaster fire screamed past them, bolts scorching the wall inches from Omega’s head. Zyra laughed, boots pounding after them as the floor tilted again, boulders rolling, holes yawning open in new, lethal patterns.

“Look at them scatter!” the commentator crowed. “Zyra Helix in pursuit—this is what she paid for!”

They burst through a side corridor just as another boulder crashed down between them and the exit, sparks showering the passage. The floor pitched violently, forcing them to scramble, half-running, half-sliding toward a darker opening ahead. They didn’t know what was ahead, but they definitely knew what was behind them.

And they were still coming.

The second room all but blinded them.

The walls were black, the floors were black, plunging them into a false sense of darkness. Light stabbed into being the moment they crossed the threshold, thin, brilliant lines slicing the air in precise intervals. A lattice of cutting lasers swept back and forth across the chamber, some pulsing on and off, others drifting laterally like patient predators. Pillars rose from the floor without warning, only to sink again seconds later, while sections of the walls slid and locked, breaking any straight path into fragments.

Omega froze for half a heartbeat.

Synnovea didn’t. She pulled Omega sharply to the left as a beam ignited where the girl had been standing, the heat close enough to prickle skin. “All right,” she said, breathless but dry, “new rule—stay away from the lights.”

Omega choked back a sound. It might have been a laugh, or a groan. “You told me this wasn’t a game. So why are you joking?”

“It keeps me from screaming,” Synnovea replied, already moving again.

They advanced in bursts, timing their movements to the rhythm of the room. When the lasers dimmed, they ran; when they flared, they flattened themselves against pillars or pressed into shallow recesses in the walls. The low hum of the machinery vibrated through Synnovea’s boots and up her spine. The cacophony of the crowd surged, some booing, some shouting encouragements, it was hard to tell.

Halfway across, Omega spotted it.

“There!” she hissed, pointing. A box jutted from the wall at an awkward angle, black like the walls and the floor, half-hidden behind a shifting barrier. “That’s a control panel, I think. If I can get to it, I might be able to shut the grid down.”

Synnovea followed her line of sight, calculating the distance, the play of the beams. “Might?”

Omega flashed her a grin that was equal parts bravado and strain. “Breaking things is easier than fixing them.”

Before Synnovea could answer, a familiar voice cut through the room.

“Oh, don’t stop on my account.”

Zyra Helix stepped into the chamber behind them, ignoring the lasers dancing along the dark walls. Her blasters flashed brighter than the polished gleam of her distorted reflection on a mirrored pillar. The commentator’s voice rose immediately, delighted. “And Helix presses the advantage! Bold entry, let’s see if confidence beats caution!”

A beam ignited inches from Zyra’s shoulder. She didn’t flinch, stepping further into the room. The half-wall Synnovea and Omega squatted behind didn’t offer much cover. Zyra fired, forcing them to make a mad dash forward. Blaster bolts ricocheted dangerously close to active beams, light and energy colliding in sparks that made Synnovea’s skin crawl. For a moment, there was nowhere to go, not even to take a deep breath. Then she felt the wall next to them begin to recede. They had no choice now.

“Go,” Synnovea ordered, already turning to cover Omega.

Omega hesitated, then sprinted. She darted toward the control node, ducking under a beam as it flared to life above her, rolling across the floor as another cut across where her head had just been. Synnovea followed, heart pounding, every instinct screaming as Zyra pursued with reckless speed.

A wall section slid out abruptly, separating them. Omega skidded to a stop just short of the control box—and a blaster bolt scorched the panel beside her head. She yelped and threw herself back around the corner.

Zyra rounded it at the same time.

Synnovea hit her from the side like a battering ram.

The impact drove them both into the wall, the metal ringing beneath their combined weight. Zyra snarled, recovering instantly, and slammed her forearm up under Synnovea’s ribs. Immediate agony stabbed through her lungs as she staggered back a half-step—just enough for a laser to flare to life where her spine had been a moment before.

Heat licked across her back.

“Careful,” Zyra said fiercely, spinning and throwing a punch that Synnovea barely ducked. “You’re not very good at this.”

Synnovea caught Zyra’s wrist, twisted, and drove an elbow into her chest. “Sorry,” she grunted as Zyra kneed her thigh, “you have no idea how much I hate disappointing people.”

They broke apart as a pillar surged up between them, forcing Synnovea to vault sideways. Zyra rolled beneath a sweeping beam and came up firing, blaster already back in her hand. Synnovea slapped the barrel aside just as it discharged, the bolt scorching a black line across the wall.

Omega’s voice cut through the chaos. “I’m—trying—the lid won’t open!”

“Take your time,” Synnovea called back dryly, blocking another strike and feeling the jolt rattle up her arm. “No pressure.”

Zyra laughed, a sharp, delighted sound. “You hear that? She jokes. I like you.”

“I wish I could say I felt the same.”

The Nikto hunter feinted low, then snapped her bony head forward, smashing it into Synnovea’s nose. Pain flared, white-hot and sharp. Synnovea reeled, her boots skidding as she stumbled back, and a laser ignited between them with a vicious hiss.

They were separated by inches of lethal light.

Zyra leaned in close, the heat shimmering between them. “Stay still,” she growled. “This’ll be quick.”

Synnovea wiped blood from her lip with the back of her hand, eyes never leaving Zyra’s. “You’re going to have to do better than that,” she said mildly. “I’ve had worse mornings.”

The laser cut out.

Synnovea lunged at the same time. She caught Zyra mid-motion, driving her shoulder into the Nikto's chest, and slammed her back against the pillar as it began to sink. Zyra grunted, then twisted, using the motion to hook her leg around Synnovea’s and yank. They went down hard, rolling as another beam sliced through the space where they’d just been. They came up grappling, fists and elbows flashing. A punch caught Synnovea’s cheekbone. She responded by ramming her forehead into Zyra’s collarbone and sweeping her leg out from under her. Zyra crashed to one knee, snarling, and came up swinging again.

Behind them, wires sparked as Omega tore into the control box. “Just—keep her—busy!”

“Oh, I am,” Synnovea muttered, wincing as Zyra’s wild strike clouted her in the back. “Believe me.” She kicked out, connecting with the Nikto’s stomach. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw the lasers shifting, and reached out to grab Zyra’s shoulder, trying to pull her back from the edge of the barrier. “Wait—!” she shouted, stretching—

Zyra stumbled. For a split second, her expression changed, surprise flickering across her face as she realized where she was. Where she was going.

Synnovea’s fingers brushed Zyra’s gauntlet as the lasers swept across. There was no scream, only a sharp, searing flash of light and the smell of scorched air. Synnovea staggered back, her chest heaving as she stared down at Zyra’s motionless…parts. Her hand shook.

The commentator’s voice cut in, reverent and thrilled. “And that will do it! Zyra is eliminated, folks—claimed by the maze itself! Looks like House Helix will be…reconsidering its succession. Will our other hunters manage to bag their prey, or will they face the same downfall?”

Omega’s hands shook as she yanked free a bundle of sparking wires. The lasers flickered, stuttered, then went out. Out of sight, she shouted, triumphant and breathless, “I did it!”

The lattice went dark all at once, plunging the room into a merciful dimness weakly contested by the running lights that now appeared along the base of the walls. Synnovea closed her eyes for a heartbeat—just long enough to swallow the ache in her throat—then turned as Omega came around the wall a little battered and bruised but still standing. “Good job,” she said quietly to Omega after a moment. Her body blocked the pieces of Nikto barely visible in the newly darkened room. “Come on. We should keep moving.”

Above them, the crowd screamed its approval, and the maze shifted again, eager for the next kill.

The vidscreens along the waist-high wall flickered as the laser room powered down. Hunter leaned with his hands braced on the edge of the railing, his eyes locked on the feed as med-droids hurried in to clear what remained of the fallen hunter. Tech adjusted the angle of one screen with a dial, pulling up a slow-motion replay of the last few seconds—Synnovea’s outstretched hand, the impossible timing, the sudden empty space where Zyra Helix had been. For a long moment, none of the clones spoke.

“She tried to save her,” Echo said quietly after the second replay.

“Yeah,” Wrecker muttered, lifting both manacled wrists to scratch the side of his head. “That was nice of her.”

Triage snorted, his gaze never leaving the image. “That was dumb. She was there to kill them.”

“Not everything has to end in killing each other,” Echo retorted sharply.

Behind them, Scrist was speaking in a low, oily voice to Xirn, one hand gesturing vaguely toward the screens as if this were all just a numbers game. “The odds are recalculating,” he said. “One hunter down already. Unexpected, but hardly decisive. The labyrinth favors attrition.”

Xirn hummed, distracted, his eyes flicking between the displays. “Yet see how breathless the scurrier is already.” He smiled thinly, the folds of his face contorting in an unappealing fashion.

Hunter grunted. “We need to keep it down, or else that blasted furry freak will zap us all again.”

Wrecker leaned back in his chair, a dark chuckle rumbling out of him. “Don’t worry,” he said, glancing sideways at Scrist, “they can only zap one of us at a time.”

“Is that so?” Scrist sneered. He twisted the dial on his forearm and pressed the button again. Current surged through all five shock collars at once. The box filled with the sound of bodies jerking against restraints and the sharp, involuntary groans of pain. Hunter’s teeth clenched; Echo bowed his head, fists tight. Even Triage sucked in a breath through his teeth as the shock ripped through him, muscles locking before he slumped back against the chair.

The current cut out.

“Wrecker,” Tech gasped as they struggled to regain their breath, “please stop talking.” He tipped forward, hanging his head.

“Or just use bigger words so this big-eared bantha-brain can’t understand you,” Triage added hoarsely, forcing a crooked grin as he leaned back.

Scrist glowered and rose, reaching for the whip at his side.

Xirn caught his wrist without looking away from the screens. “That’s my property,” he said calmly, slowly tugging Scrist back into his seat, “not yours. And I need him in good condition if he’s to be fit for trading.”

Scrist scoffed. “You’re dreaming if you think she’s going to survive the labyrinth. Even without the Prince’s toys, there are still hunters roaming free. She can’t win.”

Xirn’s smile was slow and unpleasant. “That,” he said, voice smooth as silk, “is where you are mistaken, Master Scrist. Synnovea can endure a… remarkable amount of damage.” Hunter’s jaw tightened at the phrasing. Xirn leaned closer to the railing, his eyes gleaming as the screens shifted to the next corridor.

“This place won’t break her,” he added softly. “But it is fascinating to watch the struggle.”

Previous: Ch 19 / Next: Ch 21

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