Bid Against the Thunder || ONC 2020

Chapter 6 - We Don't Belong

 The pain was excruciating: a merciless scalding beneath his skin that penetrated his joints and muscles. It literally took his breath away, and that was the worst part, breathing. Lying on his back on a wooden bench, Tabraile fought to remain calm. Panicking required oxygen to fuel his fight-or-flight instinct, fuel he didn't have. 

He remembered a time when his cargo skiff ran out of fuel deep in the Doaba Badlands of Socorro. A corroded fuel line was the culprit. Running on fumes, he nursed the craft across the sand flats by evening out the inertia dampeners and maintaining a low, but steady draw on the throttle. It had made the difference between walking 5 kilometers to Soco-Jarel Starport versus walking 40.

"Get out of my way!" Anayera forced her way into the small storage room where they had brought him after the fight. "What have you done with him?"

Tabraile managed a wry grin as the mob of hardened rogues and scoundrels, including the Gamorrean, scattered out of the doorway. Hushed voices came from the threshold, but the throbbing in his ears made it difficult to hear.

"What do you mean Mol'jattu will not honor the agreement?" Anayera argued. "My champion not only survived the round, he killed yours. We won."

"Technically, he did not survive," said the voice of Mol'jattu's foreman, speaking in Rylothian. "Krak'Craw poison is fatal."

"Fatal?"

"His lungs are filling with fluid. He fought well, but he'll be dead within the hour. Sorry for your loss."

"Tabraile?" Anayera knelt beside him, her hand on his arm. "Can you walk? We're leaving this place!"

"Before you go, there is the matter of compensation," the Twi'lek said. "The Great Mol'jattu is asking 100,000 credits for the loss of his champion."

Tabraile knew she was reaching for her lightsaber. Before the familiar thrum of ignition, he drew in a deep breath. "Ana!"

Still carrying his uniform and his gunbelt under her arm, she leaned over him and held the back of her hand against his feverish face. The look of horror in her eyes was all he needed to understand the gravity of their situation. "Does it hurt?" she whispered.

"Only when I breathe." Tabraile laughed involuntarily, wincing due to his bruised ribs. He held onto her shoulder and with assistance sat up. It was easier to breathe in that position. Taking in a slow, shallow breath, he held on to her and shrugged into his Imperial uniform. The gauze bandage covering the stinger puncture was bleeding through and stained the gray fabric.

The Twi'lek in the colorful headscarf blocked the doorway. His two companions stood shoulder to shoulder in the outer corridor behind him. "Mol'jattu demands his compensation."

Gritting his teeth, Tabraile pulled the heavy blaster from its holster. He pointed the muzzle centimeters from the Twi'lek's smug face. "Min min vil ut valle Nharqis!"

The Twi'lek raised his arms in surrender and bowed his head to signal his acquiescence. "I make it a habit not to fight with dead men."

Tabraile shoved passed him. He leaned on Anayera as they exited the hideout through a side entrance leading to the street.

"What did you say to him?" Anayera asked. Their AV-21 landspeeder was in sight, and she hastened her steps toward it.

"I told him I would eat his ashes," Tabraile replied. "A Socorran curse. In other words, I'd kill him if he didn't move out of our way."

Anayera secured her grip around his torso and helped support his weight. "Where'd you learn to fight like that?"

"I had a brother. We didn't always get along." He coughed, blood spilling over his lips and onto his hand.