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𑁍⋆ Eya - Ep. IV ⋆𑁍

Leo @purgetrooperfox who is absolutely incredible, has made some artwork of Eya for me! I'm still in tears over the fact, and they have posted it to their blog here, but are allowing me to use it as visual for this episode as well!

Rating: Explicit (for Gore/Violence) Wordcount: 7.7k Characters: Eya, Brutus (m!Zabrak OC), Katla (Nautolan!OC belonging to @rowansparrow - ty for letting me borrow her mwah mwah)

Please read the following warnings carefully before deciding whether or not you want to read this chapter. I can give you a recap of what happens that does not go into detail if you know any of this content is triggering to you.

Warnings: gore, violence, graphic descriptions of violence, PTSD, loss of a limb (flashbacks for eya and happens to another character), flashbacks of a kidnapping and a vague martyr-thought, death, memories of murder, a manic episode, body horror, body trauma, memory loss (as part of trauma response)

A/N: Aside from my darling betas Leo and Rowan @rowansparrow, I have NOT tagged people in this post because of the extensive warning list.

Eya Artwork ⋆ Eya’s Charactersheet ⋆ My Masterlist

!!! NSFW ⋆ 18+ ⋆ Minors DNI !!!

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The Fight

The Arena, Coruscant, Lower Levels 21 BBY

It is always incredible, this energy before a fight. Eya knows it from Before, knows the adrenaline that makes their fingers prickle and their tendrils curl. From back when people still called them Kill, from when the intent was not a fair fight, sometimes not even a fight at all. From when all that anticipation led up to one thing and one thing only- the death of their enemies. This is the way.

The feeling now is much the same: the anticipation deep in their belly, their hearts thumping in rhythm with the bone shattering bass of the music, their muscles rippling when they glide through the crowd and hear them all scream the name that they have chosen. The only difference is that now, their name is chanted in awe, in something close to reverence. These are not screams of terror and fear. They are screams of excitement, so loud that Eya can hear them even in their dressing room. The crowd is cheering for Kyreya to win - they are cheering for Jaro to win. A name that seemed oddly fitting for their current state of mind when they chose it, nearly one standard ago now.

Kyreya adjusts the headband for their helmet, making sure their tendrils can move freely. Using their tentacles as a weapon is strictly forbidden in their culture, and Eya has learned exactly why. They have done it only once; broken the sacred code only once when they were facing certain death, and then never again. Because they still feel the bones cracking underneath the grip of their tendrils in their nightmares, they can still taste the despair and the horror and the death on themself whenever they wake up gasping for breath. The nightmares come often, and they are overwhelming every time. Kyreya has killed many. That was the worst of them. Whenever they are reminded of that day, the phantom of their missing limb burns in a senseless pain that refuses to be relieved.

And so, using their tendrils as a weapon in this fight is out of the question for Eya, even though it is not technically forbidden. This, however, does not mean they won’t use them to taste their adversary’s fear in the air, to anticipate their every move. There are no rules against that, and Kyreya refuses not to take advantage of this oversight, not when it can help them win. Success is all that matters right here, right now. Fight the fight. Win the war. This is the way.

A boy comes in, one of the announcer’s kids that does the occasional errand on the side. A family business, they call it. Illegal things like this tend to be.

“They’re ready for you.”

Kyreya knew it was coming. This is a fight they have long been waiting for. This is the fight that will help them get out of here - if they win. The last credits that are needed to get away from here, away from the violence and the death that reminds them so much of who they used to be, and who they do not wish to be ever again. A time they would much rather forget, and yet it is right there every time their beskar fists strike the jaw of their opponent. Skills they have honed and perfected for years upon years; only now they wish they had learned anything else but that. Kyreya shakes their head. No matter now. This is the last fight.

There is no one else in the room to speak encouraging words, no coach, no supportive family or friends. No one can know. For all they know, Eya - Kill - is dead. For all they know, the Ocean Spirit took them and laid them to rest in the depths of the sea, to sleep in Nephto’s halls and find peace. In a way, it is true. On bad nights, Eya finds some comfort in this. On worse nights, it scares them. But tonight, none of this matters, because tonight, Kyreya is none of those versions of themself their family and friends might grieve for. Eya breathes in. Eya breathes out. They square up their shoulders, crack their neck. Breathe in sync with their hearts’ steady paces, willing themselves to be the calm before the storm. All they are waiting for is for the curtains to lift. Already, they can hear the announcer’s voices boom across the ring, as he introduces them as the fighter the crowd wants them to be. Jaro. It sounds like a name as any other, but it means so much more to Eya. Jaro. A word for insanity on the battlefield, for bloody fights and a warrior who does not care whether they live or die. By now, Eya has come to care for life, but back when all this started, it was not like that. And when the owner of the fighting ring asked for a name, Eya said the first thing that came to their mind. I’m Jaro.

They can hear it now, their name being chanted as everything else fades into the background, even before they step out into the light, even as they remain hidden and wait impatiently. The past and the future blur into sweet nothingness as Kyreya’s entire being focuses on the here and now. Win this fight. Then you can shed Jaro and become whoever you want to be.

Eya knocks their mereve beskar together, their tendrils curling in the air at the noise their metal fists make when they collide. The sound of the beskar against beskar is beautiful, it always is. The beauty betrays the violence that is to follow.

The curtain lifts, but Eya stays in the shadows for just a moment longer, taking in the scene in front of them. They can taste the anticipation, the excitement, the overwhelming desire for violence that clouds the air. Reading other people’s feelings… it can be overpowering for those not trained to cope with it. But Kyreya knows these feelings well, and they serve only to further their urge to fight. The taste of the crowd is just right for a night like tonight - riled up, spoiling for a battle between two warriors unlike anything they have ever seen before.

Gar cuyi kad.

No. Eya shakes their head, lightly hits their own cheek, savouring the sting that grounds them in reality. No. Stay in the here and now. That is past. You are no one’s weapon but your own.

The boy is still watching with concerned eyes. Ah, sometimes it can be so easy to forget what it was like to be that innocent; to be untainted by the violence and the death that haunts the galaxy. Kyreya throws him a weak smile and tousles his hair.

“Come on then, kid. Tell ‘em I’m ready.”

The boy sprints off as fast as his little legs can carry him. He barely reaches Eya’s thigh, but he is so full of energy that they sometimes wonder where he stores it all. Absorbed in thought, Kyreya runs their tongue across their teeth and hisses when they nick themself. The teeth were sharpened yesterday, by the same woman they always go to. Kyram’edeem used to be a traditional weapon, but the knowledge on how to create and care for them has been lost over time. Mostly. Eya’s traditional upbringing means they are familiar with a wide array of weapons the rest of the galaxy seems to have forgotten about… it took a long time to find someone on Coruscant who knew what they were doing. Which, speaking for a planet inhabited by trillions of people, is saying something. Whoever she is though, the woman is exceptional at her job. The armourer, Eya has dubbed her. The armourer does not ask questions, never even offers a word of sympathy when Eya quietly hisses in pain as the new metal is moulded and sharpened around their sensitive teeth, the sound reverberating deep inside their head. The armourer does her job, and she does it well, no questions asked, no answers required. Eya likes her.

Kyreya bares their teeth, staring at their own reflection to the side one last time, regarding the face their opponent will never see. The sunken-in skin around their missing eye. The glittering silver across their teeth, a layer of beskar so thin only those who know what kyram’edeem are would know what to look for in the first place. The scars that web along their left side, and the freckles that always make their face seem so much softer than they deserve. The face of a murderer.

Eya’s earpiece crackles to life, abruptly hauling them back to reality.

“We’re ready for you, Jaro. All lights on you. Show ‘em your fists, your muscles. Let them know you are the fighter they’ve heard so much about.”

Kyreya’s eyes leave the mirror. It is time. The fight is now. Verd’manda cuyi darasuum. The old war song sneaks its way into their head, and Eya welcomes it. The fight is now. Kyreya clips on their helmet and steps out into the light.

***

“Aaaand here we have the challenger of the night, looking for revenge after that devastating loss delivered the last time they and Brutus clashed! Much beloved by our audience, and feared by opponents, this is not someone you want to mess with. Last man who did that and won is standing here tonight, esteemed guests - those who didn’t win aren’t standing at all anymore, we hear!

We give you! The fighter you have been waiting for, with iron fists and the meanest mouth in the galaxy! We give you- JARO!

“Look at them go, look at the fucking fists on this Nauto, when I tell you I would NOT want to be the one to face them in the ring… We are all in for a treat tonight, their opponent is already waiting for them- look at him, folks- BRUTUS! Look at those horns, look at that build, this pair is truly a match made in hell. A Zabrak versus a Nauto - that’s not something you see every day!

“Let’s hear it for them, make some noise! Brutus standing in the ring, quiet, poised - we all know what a fighter he is, we all know he brings it every starforsaken match, but so does this challenger. Yeah, look at Jaro shaking their tendrils, they know this won’t be easy, they know this will be bloody. A hard earned victory, if a victory at all…

Talking of wins, folks, you can still place your bets on tonight’s winner at our betting booths! Who will win this match - the battle-hardened Zabrak with horns of steel, or our masked Nauto with the iron fists?

And speaking of Nautolans, just a little reminder to the aquatics in the audience, hydro-cigs can be purchased from our lovely cigarette girls- wave a little hello, girls! - see, there we go - sponsored by Triton, your biggest supplier for aquatic special needs… and to other species in need of special care, don’t hesitate to ask any of our staff members. This may be Jaro and Brutus’s fight, but it’s certainly YOUR night, ladies and gentlefolk, thank you for your continued support and sponsorship of these events.

Now, I know you’re all just spoiling for a fight tonight, so are we… And so do those two seem to be, just look at those fangs on Brutus, look at Jaro’s stance.

“Before we get started, I’ll recount the basic rules of the night - as many familiar faces as I see, there are always newcomers among us. Welcome, welcome!

This is a challenge for all or nothing, and a revenge fight at that, folks! Those of you that remember the last time these two fought against each other will remember it wasn’t pretty, but Maker, was it a spectacle to behold! Tonight, since it’s all or nothing, our fighters will be going three rounds, win by knockout only. Tonight, there will be no discussion about the winner of the fight. When we say all or nothing, we mean it, so be prepared for the fight of a lifetime! All parts of the body may be used at the fighter’s discretion, body mods are part of this agreement - yes I’m looking at you, Jaro’s Iron Fists, and you, Brutus’ metal horns! The bloodier the fight, the better, but we all know the first rule in this fight club - say it with me, folks, that’s right - deaths are unacceptable! The one and only rule our fighters have to adhere to, as long as they wanna keep on fighting for us at the end of the night.

Now that we’ve got all that out of the way, let me ask you- ARE YOU READY?

TELL ME AGAIN, FOLKS, ARE YOU READY TO SEE BRUTUS AND JARO FIGHT THE FIGHT OF A LIFETIME? YEAH? LET’S HEAR IT FOR THEM!”

“One last time, I’ll give you the details on our contenders. In the left corner, we have Brutus, a strapping Zabrak male standing in at 7’6” and nearly 320 pounds of pure muscle mass. As of yet, he remains unbeaten in the arena! Which, since it is the last fight of the season tonight, makes it a total of nineteen wins for Brutus before this fight- just think on that, folks, nineteen wins! The closest he ever came to a loss though, was against his opponent tonight:

Jaro! This Nautolan, if you can believe it, towers above Brutus, a strapping 8 foot tall, with their weight almost evenly matched at 300 pounds. Their height does not always redound to Jaro’s advantage, folks, in fact it was the reason they lost the last fight against Brutus - the only one they ever lost, we should add! A total of eighteen victories and one loss for Jaro this season! Tonight, we’ll see if they have learned from their mistakes.

Two incredibly gifted, two incredibly well trained fighters in the ring tonight, folks! We are about to get down and dirty. We’ll be your commentator for the night, so strap in and get ready!

Ohnaka Entertainment is proud to present the highlight of the night: BRUTUS VERSUS JARO!”

*****

Kyreya blinks into the blinding lights. They never did get used to this unfiltered kind of light, to this brightness that shines and shines and hurts their pupils. It’s not a true hindrance in battle, but it is this nagging annoyance in the back of their mind.

They knock against their helmet, once, twice, cherishing the familiar sound of beskar against beskar. At’akaan.

Eya regards Brutus suspiciously. He is no more or less brutal than any of the opponents they have faced and defeated before, no better at the physicality of it all. But oh, he is smart. And they underestimated him, that cunning bastard. Their loss last time was Kyreya’s own fault, and Brutus knows it. He has prepared for it. Eya is sure of that.

The announcer’s booming voices are more of a distraction than they are helpful. Eya tunes them out, tunes out the cheering of the crowd, the hammering music. They focus on their hearts, each beating calmly in its own rhythm. They focus on the scents in the air, though there are so many people here it is barely possible to make out anything that could be feelings distinctly belonging to Brutus, not from this far away.

The anticipation flattens, turns into excitement instead. The fight is imminent, Eya can feel it, can taste it in the air. Victory is so close and with it, an escape. A true escape, one where they don’t have to constantly look over their shoulder anymore. They shift in their corner of the ring, flexing their fingers, baring their teeth. They move like a predator waiting to be let out of their cage, waiting to be told that the hunt has started. And right now, that is how they feel. This is the worst part of any fight, those moments when everyone seems occupied with formalities, with jokes and entertainment, and Eya has to wait to be allowed to start. They are ready now. They can feel Brutus staring at them, his eyes glowing as he cracks his neck, stretches out his arms. Oh, Eya knows he is spoiling for this fight as much as they are. The stakes are high, but for Brutus it is about appearances, it is about his reputation as the unbeatable champion of the ring.

For Eya it is about so much more. Brutus will lack that desperation, and Kyreya is determined to use that to their advantage. Win. Or it’s another cycle in this never ending fight. They don’t want to do this any longer than they have to, want to leave it behind and don’t look back. Tonight that possibility seems actually tangible. And so, Eya will fight for it tooth and nail.

The referee waves the fighters to the middle of the ring, looking almost comical as his small frame is standing next to the two looming, muscle-packed fighters, and Eya is ripped from their thoughts by his nasal voice.

“Step up to your opponent, shake hands. Jaro, Brutus - this fight does not have many rules, but the ones it does have are to be obeyed at all times. Fight hard, fight clean, no dirty tricks.” He leans in closer and lowers his voice. “This, for all it could be and is, is one thing above all else: high class entertainment for the fucked up upper class. Don’t hold back, but don’t scare them away. You both know the line.”

The referee holds the mic up to his mouth again.

“Fight hard, fight fair. Rules are rules. Good luck to both of you.”

Eya nods sharply behind their helmet, watching Brutus’s eyes light up with anticipation. His large hand grips Eya’s forearm, their fingernails in turn digging into his yellow skin. He growls, and Eya shakes their tendrils. Ah yes, they can’t wait either.

“Been too long, Brutus,” they snarl before backing away into their corner of the ring. Brutus answers something, but Eya can not hear him over the noise of the crowd. It does not matter. All that matters is the fight. The bell sounds and the announcer’s voices pipe up, but all fades into the background as Eya’s eye zeroes in on the tension in Brutus’s body. When he makes the first step, all conscious thoughts float away, and the flow of the fight begins.

***

“Gentlebeings, both of these fighters have a lot of money riding on a win tonight, a lot of your money riding on a win tonight. If you have not placed your bets, now is the last chance to do so as we dive into round one of three.

Brutus- OH HERE WE GO- Brutus starts the fight with an aggressive but not unplanned maneuver, Jaro counters with ease though it is hard to say what they are feeling behind their mask. Tactically both fighters seem evenly matched, both of them smart, unusually quick for their height and weight- ah, first hit of the night goes to Brutus, a brutal punch to Jaro’s gut- they’re stumbling, but holding upright- here we go, folks, this is it! The beginning of a match that we have all been anticipating for an entire season!

It’s incredible, the way these fights look like dances until one of them loses a battle that can’t be seen from the outside, until their reflexes are not quick enough and- OH! Oh, that must have HURT, did you see that- replay it on the screen for the audience- Jaro’s knuckles right to the temple, bet Brutus did not see that coming, it is a wonder he is still standing upright. First hit may have gone to him, but first blood of the night goes to Jaro.

Excellent footwork for a man only just hit by metal fists, Brutus manages to dodge a powerful swing by Jaro- they’re stumbling- too much momentum to have missed- OH, a brutal hit to their ribs, I think I heard that crack up here, Maker, they are getting right into it. So much force behind both of them, so much muscle mass, the minutes are flying by the way they are fighting- look at their heads, both of them keeping them straight, near unmoving until they start throwing punches. Oh! Attempt of a knee to Jaro’s stomach gone wrong, now Brutus is struggling to wiggle out of their grip- MY GODS, right in the face, that’s a broken nose, it has to be, what a brutal attack from Jaro! They fight like a wild animal tonight, folks, I’ve seen them through the entire season, but this- Maker, only two minutes left in this first round, we are off to a strong start, gentlefolk!

Beautiful straight left from Brutus, barely dodged by Jaro, but they did- they got lucky- or was it skill, who’s to say- here we go, another try to knock each other off balance; they’re coming right hand and then right hook over the top of it- one knee caught in an iron grip, this is what I was talking about, sometimes being taller is a disadvantage, gotta get out of Brutus’s claws if you don’t want to be knocked over, Jaro- OH! Swinging from their whole shoulder, all muscles working here with a powerful left hook from Jaro- both of them doubled over, one pile of muscle and sweat, oh STARS, someone is bleeding profusely, which one is it- it’s Brutus, BRUTUS is losing lots of blood, Maker, that’s one nasty gash right across his face, as if the nose was not bad enough already… Both of them are hurt, that much is obvious, Brutus pawing at that left eye, gotta be hard to see out of that, but Jaro seems to have been hit right in the gills, they look like they can barely breathe, helmet askew, they quickly adjust and clip it back into place- wouldn’t want to lose that advantage so early in the fight… my GOD we expected a fight but we did not expect this, look at those two go, barely one minute left in the first round and both of them already damaged and covered in wounds that may have knocked lesser fighters out.

Now listen, the placement of the wound on Brutus is not bad, not on the lid, nothing vital, but Maker, the blood is right in his eyes, we wonder if he can even see anything, he might have to throw everything into this before it’s too late, but Jaro is getting worked up, getting more aggressive- those tendrils in the air sure make for a frightening sight, I don’t think I have ever seen them like this, not even during a previous match…

Brutus is barely dodging Jaro’s punches, but there is less and less technique to them, only aggression, once he finds his footing again I fear the tables may turn much quicker than Jaro can react- OHHH AND THAT’S THE BELL, that’s it for round one- lucky timing for both of them.

Whew, what a start to this fight, gentlefolk, are you still with us? Yeah? Alright, we hope you have placed your bets and are as anxious to see the outcome of this match as we are, because at this point everything we thought we knew is off the table. Brutus is taking some time to clean up the cut on his forehead, smart move on his part if you ask us, but Jaro seems like a Nexu on the hunt, stalking their prey from side to side. As always, hard to read with their helmet still on, but everything about them screams anger and aggression and we know if we were down there in the ring with them our legs would give out.”

***

Eya can hear their blood rushing through their ears, can feel their hearts pumping - each of them in its own rhythm. Gone is the calm before the storm, replaced by a seething rage they can’t quite grasp, by a fervour they have no control over. Knocking against their helmet, they pace up and down, trying to ground themself, trying to shake the insistent voice in the back of their mind that sounds so much like someone they used to know, back when their name was neither Eya nor Jaro.

Gar cuyi kad, Kill. Ke kyr’amu. Oya!

Eya blinks, trying to focus on the pain that flares up when tears sting in their empty eye socket. I am no one’s sword. They knock their fist against their head, their missing tendril twitching when a sharp pain runs through it.

The anger won’t calm, the rage won’t stop gnawing at their nerves. Eya desperately wishes for a drag of a hydro cig, but they can’t, not right now. Show no weakness, lose no battle.

Brutus has fixed the gash above his eye, pacing up and down his side of the ring in much the same way as Eya is. His lips are moving, and Eya distantly wonders if he is praying to whatever entity Zabraks worship. They scoff and look to the side. No god could help them now.

Impatience sinks its poisonous teeth into them, and the time until the bell sounds again seems like the longest they have ever had to wait. Kyreya should be afraid, they should fear the fight, fear Brutus’s horns, his strength, his cunning. They don’t. When the bell rings, all that floods them is relief.

They step towards Brutus, and he lowers his head as if to impale Eya with his horns.

“Oh yeah? You sure you wanna try that?” they mock, easily sidestepping the attack. Zabrak horns are dangerous, deadly even, but attacking with your head low has the deciding disadvantage of not being able to see where you are going. Which could be alright with a smaller opponent, but Eya is taller than Brutus.

“Why do you waste your time on stupid maneuvers for show when we could be fighting, Brutus?” Eya calls, impatiently raising their fists and knocking them together. “Show off those horns all you want, they’re not gonna help you win tonight!”

Brutus snarls and straightens up, baring his teeth.

“At least I still have all of mine!” he snarls. “Can’t say the same for your pretty little tentacles, can you, tailhead? I never asked what happened to you, what, you have an accident while practising and got it cut off?”

Seething rage rises within Eya, red and hot and ugly.

“You don’t know what you are talking about,” they spit. Brutus inches closer, his feet dancing around Eya as they try to anticipate his attacks. There. Fist- up- blocked.

Brutus continues his little dance, reaching for their tendrils that are curling angrily in the air. Just as his fingertips touch one, Eya hears a voice from the audience, deep and angry.

“GO BRUTUS! RIP THE TENTACLES OFF THAT FUCKIN NAUTO!”

Kyreya shudders, Brutus’s rage mixing with their own as his long fingers close around their tendril and yank. Eya gives in, bowing their head to meet his force- it HURTS, hurts more than they have words to describe, this anger, this force that pulls at the most sensitive part of their body.

“Or maybe this is how you lost it!” Brutus taunts loudly. “Maybe you were too weak to defend yourself and someone. JUST. TOOK IT!”

He pulls again, but this time Eya anticipates it, their hand meeting Brutus’s jaw as they raise their knee to hit him in the gut. The Zabrak yells in pain, his fingers letting go for one split second, and that small distraction is enough for Eya to free their tendril, tossing it over their shoulder as they step up to Brutus and pull them into a deadly hug from behind. Their arms close around his chest, locking his arms to his side. Brutus bends over, trying to escape the force that holds him captive, but Eya does not give in, instead pressing harder until they can feel Brutus’s bones crack in their cruel embrace.

“You talk too much,” they hiss. An idea rises in the back of their mind, something ugly and brutal. They shake their head trying to hold back. Don’t-

“Yeah?” Brutus manages to press out. “I hit a nerve back there? Did you get your weird little tentacle cut off because you were too weak to save yourself, coward?”

Red clouds Eya’s vision. They can vaguely hear the booming voices of the announcer as they wrap themself tighter around Brutus, caging in his legs with theirs.

“We’ll see who’s weak,” they grit out. In one quick maneuver, they let go of the headlock they held Brutus in, but instead of trying to knock him out with a hit in the temple, their fingers close around the base of one of Brutus’s horns.

The Zabrak makes a strange sound, something between pain and crippling fear. Eya can’t help it, their remaining tendril snaking around Brutus’s upper arm as they taste the bitter aroma of deadly terror when they pull. Brutus cries, clawing at their arm that is still wrapped around his chest, his long nails drawing blood, but Eya does not care, his cruel words echoing in their head. Were you too weak to save yourself? Coward.

They close their fist tighter around the horn, feeling the rough texture scraping against the sensitive skin of their palm. Kyreya closes their eyes, unwrapping their tendril from around Brutus’s shoulders. They don’t want to feel what is to come.

Brutus notices the hesitation in their actions, stilling in their grasp.

“What? I thought you’d said we would see which one of us is weak,” he hisses. “To me, still seems to be you. You wanted a fight? Come on then, you coward.”

Gar landuur. Hut’uun. You are weak, Kill. A coward. Do it. Now.

Eya makes a raw sound in the back of their throat as they throw themself back, pulling at Brutus’s horn with all their might until they hear a CRACK, and Brutus wails. They feel the dry texture of bone splintering underneath their fingers, feel the thin metal coating around the horn warp and crack, the layer giving in at the sheer force they are exerting. Eya pulls again, harder, so hard that their hands go numb as they feel the bone crack and rip, the horn breaking off in a violent burst. Splinters dig into Eya’s fingers, little pieces of metal shredding their skin, but they can’t let go, their grip around Brutus’s broken off horn too tight for them to know how to release it. Eya screams. They put all the pain, all their rage into this noise that rips from their body as they raise their fist above their head, triumphantly holding up the Zabrak’s horn in spite of the fact they feel so sick that they can’t breathe.

Brutus goes limp in Kyreya’s embrace, his body sagging against them, and they allow themself to breathe, just for a moment. It’s a mistake. Brutus suddenly tenses as he twists violently. His elbow hits Eya in the gut and all the air is punched from their lungs. They are gasping for breath, and Brutus uses that opportunity to escape their grip, kneeing them in the gut again for good measure. The horn slips from Eya’s fingers, tumbling to the ground nearly without a sound as they stare at their opponent, taking in the wild pain in his eyes. There is no blood, but the ragged edges of the freshly broken-off horn sicken Eya more than any gore ever has.

Death is quick, painless. The snapping of a neck, the slit of a throat, a shot in the heart. It comes in many forms, though Eya has never savoured it, never enjoyed it. But this… this is violence in its purest and most senseless form. This is entertainment for the masses, no necessary evil, and it makes them sicker the longer they think about it. They swallow their disgust, vaguely noticing Brutus’s eyes that are fixed on them, aflame with a hatred so pure and deep it feels like they could drown in it.

Still gasping for air, they are slow to react, too slow, when Brutus lands a hit against their throat, his fingers wrapping around them to pull them closer and back into the deadly dance. His fingers dig into the lip of their helmet, and the beskar is pulled from their face, Brutus shying away when Eya bares their teeth at him. Last time they fought, they never got this far, he was too fast, too smart about it. He has never seen their kyram’edeem, and Eya can see the fear in his eyes as he realises the danger he has put himself in by removing their helmet.

And Kyreya laughs.

Stupid little man.

Brutus spits at them, a cheap shot, but an effective one. Eya’s fists come up for a brutal punch, but Brutus is too quick. A step to the side, he ducks, moving forward too fast for them to catch him, reaching for their exposed tendril. Eya cries out, but they realise too late what the Zabrak is trying to do. Sharp teeth sink into Eya’s tendril, and for a second, they cannot even remember how they ended up here.

Where did it all go wrong? No mistakes are allowed in battle.

Nibra cuyi kyr’am.

It takes Eya’s mind the fraction of a second to catch up with the unbearable pain that wrecks their entire body. They stand there, paralysed by memories from the last time - the only time - they were hurt like this.

A flash of blue and yellow, smaller fingers gripping their arm.

“Come on! We gotta-”

Her voice, so soft - too soft - she was not made for this, not the way Eya was. She won’t be able to bear it, she won’t survive if Eya doesn’t-

“Help!”

Katla’s slender hand vanishes from Eya’s arm. They whip around, their eyes finding the pale orbs of a Vitae soldier, his teeth so much sharper than Eya’s when he flashes them a cruel smile. Translucent fingers wrap around the soft blue of Katla’s body and Eya tenses.

Katla screams, writhing in his grasp, but he is far too strong for her. Eya can see the pale skin straining across his bulging muscles. There is no thought inside Eya’s head except the thought of what will happen if they fail, of Katla’s blood tinting the water, of the light vanishing from her eyes as they go empty and dead.

Eya attacks without thinking, slamming their mereve beskar into the warrior.

He yells in surprise more than pain, but the split second is enough for Eya to rip Katla from his grasp, pushing her behind their bigger frame to keep her safe.

“That was no wise decision,” the soldier snarls, his voice bubbling through the water. Eya does not respond, just rams their helmet into his chest. This time he does gasp for air, and they allow themself a triumphant sound, but before that can even leave their throat, the warrior’s arm shoots out, his spear meeting with their helmet. The sound that resounds is deafeningly loud, so loud it makes Eya dizzy. Strong fingers wrap around their longest tendril and pull.

They try to fight back, try to escape, but there is a sharp pain in their side when they try to swim away.

Everything is so much, so MUCH, so fast, and when Eya looks down, a speer protrudes from their side, right below their ribs. Their fingers raise to touch it without them telling them to do so. It is a strange fascination, though their tendrils shudder with the sharp-hot pain that emanates from the wound.

The warrior yanks at the harpoon, the barbs digging into Eya’s skin as the force of the warrior pulls them backward until his arms wrap around their broad frame.

“Should have just gone when you had the chance.” The Vitae soldier whispers into their ear. “Now I’m going to make you suffer. That was a high price target you took from me.”

The words spark something inside Eya’s head. They force their eyes open. Katla is nowhere to be seen. Eya exhales in relief. If they die, at least their death will have been worth something. Katla made it. It was all worth it if she is safe. Death is not the end. Verd’manda cuyi darasuum. Eya’s tendrils twist in the air. Death is not the end, but… that does not mean they will go down without a fight.

They twist, their back cracking as they raise their fist to slam it into the warrior’s temple. He curses but his grip does not loosen. Eya punches again, blood staining the water around them. The warrior curses again in his strange deep-sea dialect, and just as Eya’s fist moves towards him again, sharp teeth dig into their tendril.

Everything blurs, the world fading away as an all-encompassing pain overwhelms their senses. They can feel nothing, see nothing, think nothing. All there is is pain, and burning cruelty, and blood in the water.

Eya screams-

Eya screams, the sound so violent that they don’t recognise their own voice. Tears are streaming down their face, and it is not only the physical pain that causes them. Their fingers dig into Brutus’s jaw, but it is not enough to make him let go. He bites down harder. Black spots start to dance in Eya’s vision.

Sharp teeth- a pain that consumes all thought- gone, gone, GONE- sharp teeth- where is- why is there NOTHING- there was everything, there was feeling, there were feelings. Now there is nothing, just empty space, a sense of loss that threatens to take Eya’s mind.

They wail, though they cannot grasp what is happening, WHAT IS HAPPENING?

All there is is pain- sharp teeth- pale skin- long, nearly glowing tendrils curling around their biceps as he breathes in their pain and loss- he? Who is he? No matter, only pain, hot and sharp, so dark- there is nothing- NOTHING-

Eya does not think- they cannot think. All they feel is sharp teeth digging into their tendril, all they remember is the pain of the loss, the blood, the agony.It still gives them nightmares.

His throat is right there, so close, RIGHT THERE; make it stop - please make it stop-

And Eya bites. Tendons rip beneath their teeth as their kyram’edeem slice through the warrior’s skin like butter, blood gushes, bittersweet in their mouth as it floods across their face, makes Eya choke on it. Their vision is blinded by rage, all that is left is desperation and anger, all that is left is pain and loss. The blood is everywhere, on their hands, in their mouth, running down their neck, covering the soldier’s chest as he twists and shakes and writhes in their grasp.

His horn digs into their side and-

Horns? That’s not right, the soldier is Nautolan, he’s not- he doesn’t have-

Eya blinks through the blood, through the rage and the pain that hangs heavy in the air, breathes through the familiar smell of death. Focuses their eyes on the Zabrak that hangs in their arms like a doll with cut strings.

Zabrak? No, he was Nautolan, he swam with me- he attacked Katla, he-

Small hands wrap around Eya’s arm, and they whip around.

“Katla- you’re-”

It’s not Katla. It is a man, so short, much shorter than Katla even, a man in a shirt that says Ohnaka Entertainment. Eya does not understand. They were in the water, they were being attacked by Vitae soldiers, they tried to take Katla- where is Katla-

Eya’s breaths quicken, they can’t find Katla, where is she- where did she go? She was right there, she was safe, where is she?

Someone tells them to breathe slower. When they do, they notice it is not their gills that extract oxygen, it is their lungs.

No water.

Sounds filter in - two voices on speakers overlapping each other, both of them utterly distressed. Another voice, much closer, nasal, vaguely familiar… Eya stares at the man shaking them without really seeing him.

Yet another voice, this one the inflectionless voice of a female droid, repeating the same words over and over again.

“Please leave the Arena in an orderly fashion. Our advisors will instruct you on exit routes. Sensitive viewers, please avert your eyes. Instructions on reparations will be sent to your holopad shortly. Please leave the Arena in an orderly fashion. Our advisors will instruct you on exit routes…”

Kyreya shakes their head, gagging at the bitter taste of blood that fills their mouth. Their eyes flick around, taking in their surroundings. The empty rows of seating surrounding the ring, the small man whose hand still grasps their arms. The… the body that lays on the floor. No tendrils, only black markings on yellow skin, horns glittering in silver, one with splintered, ragged edges.

No Nautolan. Zabrak… Brutus.

“What did I do?”

Eya’s own voice sounds strange to them.

The referee stops trying to shake them.

“Don’t… It’s alright. Come with me. We’ll clean you up and talk this out.”

Why is he so calm?

“I didn’t mean to- I didn’t want-”

“It’s alright,” the referee says quietly, gently guiding them along their path. Referee. That’s who he is. “These things happen. You get lost in the heat of the fight… Brutus killed someone a couple seasons prior, actually. We made that go away, he was too good in the ring to lose him. It’s alright, Jaro. We have protocols in place for these situations, don’t panic.”

Kyreya blinks. The referee does not even sound vaguely angry. He rattles off a list of things, procedures they will need to go through. They can’t focus on any of it. Eya stares and stares into empty space, tasting Brutus’s blood that still coats their teeth.

Someone pushes them into their changing room, telling them to get cleaned up. They do so mechanically, without thinking about their actions. When Eya is done, they walk out, back to the Ring. Brutus’s body still lays there, in a pool of dark blood. His eyes look at nothing, and yet Eya can feel them burning into their own as they stare at him. He looks… like something someone has forgotten. His muscle mass, his imposing presence, everything he was is… just gone. He is just a pile of flesh and bone and muscle; an empty, bled-out shell. Eya’s eyes glide over Brutus’s form, catching on the severed tendons of his neck, the exposed bone.

I did that. Their tendrils twitch.

“I’m sorry,” they whisper quietly. No one answers.

Eya picks up their helmet from the pool of Brutus’s blood, but they just can’t bring themself to leave. Something about his twisted, pale body keeps them locked in place.

When the Arena supervisor finds them, they are still staring at Brutus’s corpse.

The supervisor does not touch them, keeps his distance. Consoles them with vague words and a wad of cash from the fight. Blood money. Guides them to the back doors and tells them to let him know if they will be returning for the new season as soon as possible. No better advertisement than a scandal, he says. He winks at them as he pushes the doors shut.

Eya stares and stares and stares, and sees nothing while they think about who will take care of the body. Will they honour Zabrak traditions? Will they turn Brutus over to his family? Tell them how he died, who killed him?

Kills in war are strange. There are so many - too many. Eya remembers everyone they killed, but they knew nothing about any of them. They were on opposing sides. That was all that mattered back then.

But this… this is different. The sound of Brutus’s voice haunts them, and they cannot stand the thought of returning to the silence of their own flat, where Jaster will wait and know of nothing, and curl up beside them without thinking any different of them than he did before. Stupid little loth cat. No, they cannot go back there. It’s too quiet, too hauntingly familiar. Too much like nothing has changed. But everything has changed, they broke their oath. They lost control, and they took a life, for nothing.

No, they can’t go back and pretend this did not happen. They need… a distraction. Anything. Coruscant is full of them, they just need to find the right kind.

Eya walks through Coruscant for hours. Their mind feels like it races and is treading through molasses at the same time. Eya picks at their knuckles, trying to clean the last bits of dried Zabrak blood from their mereve beskar. No one bothers them, even though this area of town is not exactly known to be safe. But tonight, they seem to be the scariest creature around.

I will never kill again. A promise they made when they left Concordia, when they gave themself their new name. I will never kill again.

Tonight they did, and all they can hear is that nagging, familiar voice that reminds them that this is what they were made for.

Gar cuyi kad, Kill.

Eya stops in front of a bar. They walk in. The Togruta bartender greets them with a friendly smile on their face and hands them a dark ale without being asked for it. Soldiers in uniform fill the club that flashes with neon lights, and the longer Eya sits at the bar, the stranger this place seems. The air is filled with fun, and light-hearted flirtations.

They can taste desire and lust, affection and some bitter twangs of jealousy. But they also taste death and desperation. Not things they expected to find in a place of pleasure, but things they find a strange comfort in. These soldiers - these men… they know death, they know killing, they know war. Eya can feel it.

“What is this place?” they hear themself say. The Togruta smiles and tosses one lek over her shoulder. Her smile is genuine, but her voice sarcastic when she answers.

“Didn’t you read the sign? Welcome to 79’s Clone Bar, a place of relaxation and entertainment, provided by the Grand Army of the Republic.”

───── ⋆⋅𑁍⋅⋆ ─────

No taggies this time because this was brutal to write and I knew where it was going. Tags will be posted on a separate post along with a link to this chapter.

#oc brutus

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