Dirt

[Kenth Typho]

Nar Shaddaa. Cold, unfeeling machine. Stained with blood.​

It kept rebuilding itself, over and over again.​

It didn't care.​

​

Neither did the fist repeatedly punching Elliot's face over and over again.​

Cold, unfeeling flesh mashing against flesh.​

Stained with blood.​

​

The industrial sector, the scene. The dead of night, the time.​

​

Locke bounced back again, as he had many times over the course of this night. Parts of his face were bleeding, while others were welling up ugly red and strained. It wasn't pretty, no. But that was part of life, wasn't it? Some beat, some took and in the end the show went on, like every other day.

This wasn't his idea of a fun time, but when did the boys behind the scene ever care about his ideas?

A hotel, he told them.

Something classy with a pretty new cover identity. Why not a wealthy mineral baron from Mustafar? Nobody goes there anyway! It's perfect! And in Elliot's mind it had been perfect, a pretty young lass hanging from his elbow and a drink in hand.

Pretty, little dream.

The fist loomed again and filled his eye's corner, before he could reel and backstep, pound.

"Ha! Sthat's all ya'can do?" He spit blood and his hands beckoned to the lass. Not all that a pretty a lass, but there was that anger in her eyes, it scared him... and that interested him. Wasn't many things that could properly scare him these days -- or maybe it were the shots against his head that made him feel that way.

Bam. Down. Stars around his head and a little pink unicorn whistling on a trombone... yeah, that was that.

It was nice, Locke thought to himself in curves, as long as it lasted.

His head connected to the floor and his mind to the void.

Good first impression, naw? [member="Sam Rodarch"]

 

[Sam Rodarch]

There was a certain feeling of nakedness when it came to bare-knuckle boxing. So accustomed to the world of shockboxing was Sam Rodarch that without her gauntlets on she felt vastly less clothed than usual.

Not that it took any satisfaction out of twatting some bugger right between the eyes. Oh no, it added a much needed visceral layer to the proceedings. Yes, gauntlets did damage, great bloody damage but flesh upon flesh had that brutal satisfaction, something violent, something primal. It was knuckle against skull and one wrong move could crack either.

Had to keep going either way. Cracked heads and broken hands didn’t stop those on the bottom rung of society from making their coin. You fought until you couldn’t any more. Credits for your blood and teeth.

Her opponent had gotten a few good shots in, Rodarch’s tongue pushed against the now loosened tooth that had been granted potential freedom by a fist. The spot where he’d stiffed her in the side felt hot and tight but he had taken his fair share of blows too.

Mostly to the head.

The slur in his voice spoke the classic tale of punch drunk. She’d been there, that’s usually the point right before another fist takes you right down. Fortunately he was on the wrong side this time and a rocket to the temple sent him down. Poor sod. Nothing personal, just the way things go around here.

A light coating of relief was sprinkled over rage-fuelled adrenaline. A victory meant credits, and credits were absolutely vital for Viktor and her’s adventure. Not that she seemed particularly pleased on the outside, upon winning Sam just craned her neck and bared her teeth like some hard man drunkard looking for a fight. She wasn't a figure the beamed an aura of happiness to the galaxy. No, that was the absent blacksmith, her partner in framed crime.

Walking over to her downed opponent, the woman crouched at his fallen form and inspected him, checking to see if he was actually still alive. Pointer finger and thumb clamped upon what was likely a very tender nose and gave it a waggle.

Usually worked.

---

[member="Elliot Locke"]

 

[Kenth Typho]

Didn't get much of a response the first time waggle through.

The second time around eyes suddenly burst open and a stream of expletives rolled its way fluently over his lips. From nerfherders, to bantha fodder and the rare Tionese lotus-position, it all came out in spades while he flicked her hand away from his tender nose.

"Gorramit, woman." Elliot groaned out, while gingerly touching his nose and trying to figure out if it was broken. Didn't seem to be that way -- just really painful, sensitive, probably the by-product of being hit one too many times on it.

"Ugh. Nice left hook, though. Help me up." His hand got extended and, presumably, [member="Sam Rodarch"] helped him up. If not, he'd crawl around a little bit, until he found some good purchase to push himself up.

Teary eyes blinked once or twice at the light, at her, at the crowd cheering and jittering, before shrugging and giving her hand a shake.

"Good one. Rematch soon, yeah?"

Not in this life, her fecking arm was like a gorram piston launching itself off. Never again. The boys behind the scene can go kark themselves, for all I care.

A nod and then, still a bit shaky on his feet, he tried to climb out of the scrappy arena. The lockers probably had something to drink for him. Gods knew he could use a drink, right about now.

 

[Sam Rodarch]

Usually worked.

Usually wasn’t pleasant either.

This was in fact confirmed when the swears started to flow from the downed man’s lips as if he’d just completed a full sailor scholarship in a single dream. Letting go of his abused nose, Sam stood over him for a moment, just observing his graceful awakening.

“Thanks,” she replied gruffly, giving the man a hand back to his feet. She might have been a surly madam for sure, but not without a certain shred of honour after the fight.

Only after, mind you.

“Aye,” Sam said in return, before dropping down and rolling out of the impromptu boxing ring. Oh, she would gladly give him another go. Who would say no to such easy credits? Her tongue pushed against the loose tooth again. Well, moderately easy.

“I’ll definitely need to come back to your interesting...technique. I’ve never met somebody who blocks punches with their face.”

It's just banter, mate. A small grin revealed the playful nature, even if it was plastered on top of a freighter full of adrenaline, artificial and otherwise. Talking smack was almost as integral as the actual smacking.

“Who taught you that one?”

---

[member="Elliot Locke"]

 

[Kenth Typho]

Elly snorted, before shaking his head.

Oh, no... baaaaaad idea. Bad idea. Everything swam for a moment and he had to steady himself against a pillar, he coughed and spit blood again. Took a moment, but the fire receded and he was in control again. At least for the moment. There would need to be some bacta up in this business. Otherwise he could forget getting back in the field again, that was for sure.

"Trade secret, I am afraid." Locke finally retorted, when he caught up with her. "I'd have to kill you if I disclosed it."

They locked eyes and the SIS agent grinned a bloody grin.

"Sorry."

They left the rowdy arena behind them. The doors closed and suddenly it was silent -- the lockers were sound proof, which served two exact purposes. One was to give the fighters some zen and quiet, before a fight. The other was to allow the arena owner turned local crime boss to kick the shet in of his enemies, without their screams getting out too much.

It wasn't too pleasant.

He settled himself down on one of the benches, grasping for the water bottle on the ground. Still where he left it. Excellent. The paranoid part of him had worried someone would try to nick it while he was gone.

Cold liquid filled his mouth, it mixed with copper. Not that pleasant, but whatchagonnado?

"How long you been fighting then?"

 

[Sam Rodarch]

For a moment she thought he was being serious.

Sam stopped, slowly turning her head with her lips pursed and an eyebrow cocked, expression perfectly spelling out the phrase, 'aye, I'm sure you would' in full sarcastic glory. Of course, by that point she had caught his crimson grin and had realised that yes, it was a joke.

A small exhale from the nose was about as much laughter as the woman would grant him, but then again, that was a generous portion from Rodarch.

Unbelievably, the Nar Shaddaa shockboxing set-up was one of the nicest that the Mandalorian had ever experienced. Locker rooms? What a luxury. She had to suppose that this was the benefit of crime being the done thing. Oh, there were no slap-dash warehouses set up overnight here. This was established. Not quite glitz, not quite glamour but it was certainly a step-up from the other places she had fought.

The dire details were probably deep behind the scenes. Whatever. As long as they weren't asking her to fix a fight it was none of her business. Look out for yourself. Nobility didn't grace criminal underworlds with her presence very often.

She remained standing, leaning back against one of the lockers that had an unfortunate scorch mark upon it. A half-scowl appeared upon her face as he posed his question. In her mind it had more than one meaning. How long you been fighting then? One of the answers seemed melodramatic and stupid, so she opted for the much shorter one.

“Coming up on five years,” Rodarch spoke, folding her arms across her chest and raising another eyebrow, “and you?"

---

[member="Elliot Locke"]

 

[Kenth Typho]

Woman of not so many words.

Elliot gurgled some of the water from his bottle, making sure that the icy liquid got into all the parts, before spitting it out to the side. It was a nice locker room, but not that nice. Blood came away and the copper taste started to slowly recede. Some of his teeth were still shaky in the flesh, but whatya do about that?

"About three years." Elly then mentioned, before shrugging. "Not all that good at it, but debts are debts, eh?"

Sometimes the Agent wondered what would happen if he started winning the matches. But then he thought of the cold, unimpressed faces of the SIS and realized that wasn't something he wanted to find out.

They were the good guys, sure.

But they weren't the Jedi. There wasn't some kind of mystical crappoodoo dictating their every move. No, they were out there in the Galaxy, trying to make a difference. More often than not... it changed them, not for the better.

But clandestine operations meant that there was little oversight.

"So why you doing this?"

 

[Sam Rodarch]

She was always lucky in that respect. Debt. She didn't owe, nor did she plan to owe any great amount of credits. The bargain basement battery acid stims that she used came out of her own meagre pocket. It still left room for some profit, but not enough to really help after human necessities.

“Credits,” Rodarch replied rather starkly, but there were always more reasons than just that.

Rage.

Relief.

It was the perfect way to release all that pent up rage that often sat so heavy upon her chest. Things she didn't want to talk about, things she wouldn't talk about. Personal. Home. Family. Shame. Pride. It was all channelled into fists and fury, blood and bone. But it was always only ever a quick fix. Fights ended, and so returned grievance. Like clockwork.

“I make enough. Not much, but enough to get by."

 

[Kenth Typho]

[member="Sam Rodarch"]

"Sounds like you got it figured out." Elly remarked slowly, while picking out a cigarette for himself. A cigarette after a fight was the perfect pleasure, kept his nerves down and his attention focused to a pin-point. Was definitely necessary after boxing, otherwise your body stayed in that flight-fight nonsense and your heart started beating so hard it was threatening to burst out of your chest. That was the last thing that Elliot needed right now.

"Smoke?" Locke offered one to her, would light it too, if she took it.

If not?

Meant more smokes for him in the long-run of things.

He leaned back against the metal lockers, felt the cold cooling him down and the smoke pouring out of his mouth. Felt good, felt perfect, actually.

Only thing that could improve the mood right now? Maybe a stiff drink or two.

"You wanna go for a drink?"

 

[Sam Rodarch]

Despite living what was otherwise known as a low life. Sam's activities outside of the ring were something of a bore to her peers. She didn't smoke, nor did she drink.

The woman was painfully aware of what drink did to a person. It turned a man yellow, made them sick. Proud men could be reduced to nothing by the very glass that they held in their hands. Shadows of their former selves that couldn't even get through the morning without needing a top-up to stop their hands from shaking.

Made them dependent.

Weak.

Could the same thing by said of her stim-habit. Maybe. But Rodarch was more likely to punch you for suggesting that than consider it.

She let him enjoy the first drag of his cigarette, watching him silently, scrutinising him with her eyes. When he asked her if she wanted to go for a drink the reaction was not as predictably coarse as it might have been. I mean, she didn't burst into a flaming scowl at the very least.

“Don't drink,” Sam replied, at the very least not shooting him daggers with her eyes, “not my thing, sorry.”

Still, she spent enough time in solitary that it would have been refreshing to have company for a little while. Even Sam Rodarch got a touch lonely, especially so far from home comforts.

“I'm not local here, anything else fun to do around this dump?”

---

[member="Elliot Locke"]

 

[Kenth Typho]

[member="Sam Rodarch"]

"Sure." Elly responded after another drag. Took him by surprise she didn't drink, most fighters did- took the edge out of the sting and little pains gathering up after years of being beaten to pulp for the amusement and credits of others. But maybe she had other poisons that kept her busy.

He wasn't the one to pry.

Well, that wasn't true as a spy, but he wasn't investigating Sam. All this was just socializing, just a moment of relaxation and peace, before he'd have to go back into the grinder and start breaking down the local crime lord's business.

Wasn't gonna be a fun one, by the looks of it.

"Local karaoke bar, got a good restaurant attached to it." He shrugged. "Gambling, shooting- 'Shaddaa, you want it, it will find it for you in no time."

The smoke was blurring the pain, made him less tense too.

"Whatcha feel like doing, Knuckles?"

 

[Sam Rodarch]

An eyebrow immediately tried to escape as the words 'local karaoke bar' hit her ears. All-in-all it was a pretty bold first suggestion for the surly young woman. Sam could have laughed at the very notion, but she didn't.

Actually, the shockboxer considered it.

Gambling and shooting wasn't really her style. Risking what little credits she had and then getting thrown out of the casinos for getting angry about it was the likely outcome in one case, and well, she had never really cared for long-range weapons. Likely because Rodarch wasn't a very good shot. The man would have probably bested her at the range and then she would have gotten thrown out for getting angry about it.

The Mandalorian did have hobbies, not that she would disclose them with much ease. But jigsaw puzzles and card games for one would have probably made the man laugh at her, then he would get punched in the face about it.

“We could do the karaoke bar,” Sam announced abruptly before adding a very sharp addition to the end of her sentence, “but I'm not fething singing.”

Although he was free to.

---

[member="Elliot Locke"]

 

[Kenth Typho]

[member="Sam Rodarch"]

Was that amusement showing at the corner of his mouth?

Or just the cigarette working its way through his central system.

Either way, Elly had a lot of issues, but shame wasn't one of them. Unless the job demanded it. This time around it did not and that was good for both of them. Meant that he could go loose for a second, enjoy himself and hopefully get this lady to enjoy herself for a while. Locke didn't know why that was important to him. She wasn't exactly a friendly face, punched him out far too often to really be classified as a friend and what came out of her mouth... didn't do much to ease the ache of his own mouth. But Elly was a social creature.

Had to be.

Wouldn't have been good at this job otherwise. (Well, as long as he had some food in his system, without food he'd be pissed off the entire time, but that was a story for another time.)

"Don't worry, girl." Locke mumbled from between his cigarette. "I will sing for the both of us."

Another pull and then the cigarette was done for. He climbed himself back up his feet, gave her a once-over and then trundled over to his locker. Where his clothes were, because this was still a locker room.

 

[Sam Rodarch]

The woman shot him a rather incredulous look in response, she would believe his claim when she saw it and then Sam would likely deny that she was with him and then probably get into a fight and get thrown out.

There was a reoccurring theme there.

Rodarch just stood there, waiting for him to get changed. Under the unfortunate circumstances in which she had fled Mandalore had really not given her the time to pack more clothing. She would go out as is. Not terribly attractive or hygienic but the sweat upon her would soon be masked by the smell of drink, cigarra smoke and cheap fog machines.

Fighter's adrenaline had yet to completely recede, that leftover rage that sat beneath the skin still bubbling away. In all honesty it could have been attributed to the abuse of cheap battlestims. An ache of muscles, a small thrum in her skull a sign that it was time for a top up.

But she could go without. At least for a night.

Or so was the hope.

---

[member="Elliot Locke"]

 

[Kenth Typho]

[member="Sam Rodarch"]

If there was one bane for agents it was that it was really hard to cover up scars and tattoos.

So at some point Command just gave up on trying when it came to Locke and just created covers that underlines and illustrated. He wouldn't ever cover as a librarian anyway, not with a face like that, so why even try? Shirt went off and out came the scars; burns marks, badly healed stab wounds puckered, a few aftermath shots of a blaster by the looks of it, things and ugly.

But that was life, wasn't it? Bunch of ugly nonsense. You could either let it get to you or enjoy the good parts.

Get the most out of it while you could.

The tats were different, geometrical shapes and forms inter-locked into obscure matrices. There were still enough skin left that he could probably get half a dozen more, but there wasn't anything in-your-face about them. No skulls or bleeding tears or anything like that. Just the shapes that seemed to mesmerize under the right light's cast and drinks.

"Whatcha do for fun anyway?" Locke asked, while covering up the assemblage and changing his pants. He didn't seem to be the one to worry about physicalities and all that came with it. "No singing, punching isn't something you do for fun, so what is it you do?"

 

[Sam Rodarch]

This wasn't her first time in a locker room.

As such, no gazes were averted in his undressing but thankfully Sam wasn't a habitual pervert, so the man was very likely safe in getting changed.

One couldn't help but notice the array of scars that littered the man's body. Now, the shockboxer, unsurprisingly was no stranger to scars. However, most of hers were situated right where everybody could see them, the face, around the head and it was very obvious that they had come from fists.

He however, had a myriad of marks and not all of them from the blows in their trade. A more violent life than his demeanour would ever seem to let on.

“Jigsaws,” Sam replied almost instantly, feeling that it was fair enough to sacrifice some of her own dignity if he was so willing to destroy his at the karaoke bar.

There was a beat, and a small scowl flashed his way that could have only suggested further violence. Rodarch had absolutely no qualms of adding to his already full repertoire of physical scarring.

“Don't you dare laugh.”

It did sound ridiculous, as if she would have to justify. On the defensive, show your footwork.

“It's relaxing, okay?”

---

[member="Elliot Locke"]

 

[Kenth Typho]

[member="Sam Rodarch"]

A shrug followed.

He settled himself down on his ass, back still facing her, and started putting on some real shoes. Not the crappy sneakers that helped with mobility, but had literally no weight behind it. Felt like he was walking barefoot with them and that just wasn't cool. Especially not in a dirty place like Nar Shaddaa and associated places, just didn't feel that alright.

"I do card games when I need to relax." Locke absently supplied, while doing his laces. "No judgement here, Knuckles."

It was somewhat amusing to him how much the lady seemed to care about these things.

Not care about him personally, but about opinions. Like, what did it matter what some guy she had never met prior to this night thought, especially since she kicked his teeth in already once before. But, Locke reflected to himself, some people were just different. It bothered them what others thought and tried to keep their image as much as they could.

Seemed exhausting to Locke, but what did he know?

It was his face that kept being punched in all night long.

Jacket was pulled over his shoulders, he brushed his hair to the side and stared at his face in the dirty mirror for a second. Bruising was already welling up, but bacta was in short supply here. Wasn't much to be done about it- besides, chicks dug some scars and pain marks. Especially around these parts, as long as he kept strutting along like he the winner in the end.

"Aight, you ready?"

 

[Sam Rodarch]

Well, that was a mild coincidence.

They were both fighters that liked a card game on the side. Not that she knew what kind of card games that he was referring to. Whether it was in a gambling sense or in a lone person venture kind of way. Hers was the latter. When Rodarch didn't have a new puzzle to put together there was always solitaire.

I mean, could you imagine her playing pazaak? Hell, she probably didn't have the right mindset to play snap.

There was a mild snort when he called her Knuckles. Sam had been called many names in her time, most of them too offensive to put here, but Knuckles was fairly tolerable, a compliment even. At least he had known what she had hit him with.

“Just waiting for you, Bruises.”

Inwardly Samantha complimented herself for that one. She wasn't very good at jokes, nor quick on her feet with words (something about being punched in the head a lot). So on the rare occasion where the woman fired back with something relatively smart it was a moment to be treasured.

Presumably (unless he needed to put on his make up and get his purse) the pair departed from the locker room and out into the streets of Nar Shaddaa, where admittedly she had to follow him, not knowing this place very well.

“How do you not get lost here?”

---

[member="Elliot Locke"]

 

[Kenth Typho]

[member="Sam Rodarch"]

Bruises.... nice.

That earned her a grin. Now that the blood wasn't showering his teeth, it wasn't even half a bad grin. Very natural and relaxed, it didn't seem like Elliot was a man who cared all that much about other people's perception. But that was a thing that came with experience, get kicked down enough and either you relaxed, or you cramped down.

Elly relaxed.

"Oh, I have. Many times, when I was younger" First day on the streets of Nar Shaddaa was... something. It took him years to really get a beat on the street and really hear the rhythm. That natural sound that gave you a tip whenever something popped off, or when it was time to run or when you accidentally walked into a hostile gang's territory.

"But the longer you are here, the more sense it starts to make."

Even if it was the sense in the chaos.

"How long you been here anyway?"

 

[Sam Rodarch]

She very much lacked his relaxed comfort upon those streets. Of course, even upon Mandalore she was a guarded woman. Rodarch found it difficult to ever be at ease around people in general. Ill temperament. Zero trust. Couldn't handle being surrounded by proud warriors, forget about theives and criminals.

Sam wasn't entirely sure that she would have liked to stay here long enough to make sense of it all.

“A week,” the shockboxer replied truthfully, eyebrows furrowing slightly. Every day felt like the first day. Busy. Fast. Overwhelming.

“...it's different here...”

Eyes darted back and forth, catching suspicious glances at those who passed them by, a clenched fist at her side ready to make acquaintances with a pickpocket, ready to knock the teeth out of some spiced-up chancer that wanted to make a dig.

“...it smells.”

---

[member="Elliot Locke"]