Deeds by Number

[Tar Suller]

-Unknown urban world-

"Gate one! C'mon, the masses await."

And with that, the young snivelling runt wondered out from the cage, armed with a vibroblade which had no muscle to support. He was to go out there and be fed to whatever came out of the opposite gate. Odds versus evens, that's how it worked here. Tar had been able to figure that out when he was being initiated, but where as that young accountant who'd tried to con the wrong gangster, was doomed? Tar was just damned. It was his own fault though. He had a regular life, unremarkable in most ways except when he got employment with a private security company when an Imperial Moff swooped in on his homeworld. Of course he just drained it and turned all security companies into his militia. This is where he made his first mistake, his first foot in the cage, so to speak.

The Rebellion had built up far faster than any had anticipated, and as such, the Moff was unprepared. He counted up the troops on both sides and knew that he could just throw meat to the grinder and emerge victorious. Most were smart enough to figure that out on the ground, but something clawed at the back of Tar's head, beneath his skull and prodding into his brain like the long bony fingers of a Muun. He just knew that if he joined the assault, he and his colleagues would die. So, he took a risk. A calculated one, but unfortunately the numbers came up wrong. He led an uprising in their camp, unfortunately not all had the clarity to see past that evening. Things got out of hand, shots were fired and an Imperial officer was dead and the blame fell squarely on Tar's shoulders. When no one else came up to spread the blame or even try to deflect some of the punishment, he learned the hard way that there was only you to help yourself. But perhaps it was too late. Now he could only delay the inevitable.

"Number three!" The guard called out and Tar's cage opened.

"That was quick!" An alien said to his brother, both in for whatever they screwed up on.

"I'll last longer." Replied another.

Tar did all he could not to scoff. He avoided all conversation, certain that any of them would use him at the first chance they saw, but they dare not approach him. Standing tall at six foot two inches and carrying the poor posture of someone who'd worked a hard, physical life, he carried a vibrosword and a dull mace on an electric chain in the offhand. He was positive he wasn't allowed such a weapon but the armourer froze when he reached for it so he'd missed his opportunity to object.

"Wonder if you'll make it past these thugs." The guard muttered, as Tar passed him.

"Don't talk to me." Tar replied.
"Beg your pardon?" The guard uttered in response, but Tar didn't reply. He'd said it once and that was enough. Now enough time had passed and he figured the Guard had weighed up his chances in such close quarters and let the issue slide.

He began to prepare, inhaling deeply and rolling his shoulders. A metal breastplate covered his chest and provided little protection for his back, save for a few leather straps. His off arm was armoured similarly but around his right wrist was the only protection he had, to avoid losing his good hand. His hair was messy, dirty infact, but growing by the day. He used to keep it neat and short, a requirement by his employer but that ship jumped to hyperspace long ago.

The cage opened and Tar walked out to find there were barely a hundred in attendance. Not the bloodsport crowds he'd expected, but aristocrats, high ranking officials and the only crowd noise which came was weak clapping and a pre-recorded roar from an apparently far grander arena. It pushed him over the edge.

'I'm going to die in some spoilt politicians playset?!' The thought burned in him, his chest erupted in flames, or so it felt like. He felt the heat building and building. He wanted it to stop as it climbed to the point of actually causing him pain, but then he lashed out. Three men stood before him, the first was a Devorian? Or something like that. Professionals, apparently, but Tar's approach had dissuaded them from proper preparation, and he was caught off guard, the sword sliced his head diagonally like a watermelon, spilling onto the floor and bringing out gasps from the crowd, followed by a real noise.

The two remaining gladiators looked at their fallen colleague then back at him. They raised their weapons, this time revealing their actual techniques, showing skill instead of mild boredom. Tar tried not to give them any chance to ready themselves...

(Some time later)

The guard who had talked to him earlier walked up to his cage, looked at him until Tar returned the gaze, which sent him back on his patrol, but not before leaving a message.

"I expect you'll start getting paid for that blood-work out there." Mild praise, he didn't want it.

He didn't want blood, he wasn't an animal. He was focused, his anger at being downtrodden propelled him into a lethal fury, nothing more. But he wasn't without drive. He wanted revenge, vengeance on the Empire, to inflict suffering ten-fold on those who inflicted it upon him. For a moment, he wondered of his parents. What they must have thought, but they had probably been sent off to an Imperial prison. The Empire doesn't leave traitor's legacy's to survive, but perhaps unfortunately for them, they'd let him slip through the net.

[Slade Xandir]

A golden gaze stayed well on the runt of the cage as he came out with what appeared to be a vibroblade, though from his distance in the arena, it appeared smaller than even that. But he was farther away, and the man looked equally as miniature, but again, Blood was in one of the farther seatings. Far enough to not be a part of the silly bickering and gambling both men and alien poshmen blanketed the entire front row with.

Needless to say, the runt of a man was quickly slaughtered.

The next cage opened however, and his interest piqued in watching a man stride out, a more intricate and blood curdling weapon bound in filthy hands. The Sith Lord sat forward, his ebony mane snaking around the front of his neck as his darkly dressed form shifted for a better view. Everything around him nullified, dulled, and silenced himself as Blood honed in on the man who matched the image within the holofeed of his watch. Face, eye color and pelt shade. Body structure may have bulked and leaned, toned even since the picture was taken, but this surely had to be the target.

The Agent had pointed the Hunter in this direction, and with nothing more than a face and a name to go off of, he was directed to extract Mr. Tar. And with the Agent being someone worthy of following protocol of, the Wolf heeded the mission, and abided by it. Now only for the extraction.
This could go either of two ways. Blood could either massacre everyone in this small carnage carnival, or he could barter the freedom off this prisoner. He was both a business man and a murder, so it could end in either fashion with no lost sleep on his end. But regardless, Blood would keep his affiliation secret until it was called for.

And If the wicked messiah played his cards right, he would not have any futile resistance.

The show was over only an hour later, slaves and prisoners being returned to their cages, or what was left of them, and Blood stood from his seat looking for whoever ran this freakish ordeal.

Who was the manager?