No one said Sith was easy

Author’s note: I still own nothing, please review! It helps me move the plot along!


Had to be him, he matched the description.

So how had the idiot missed that he was a wanted sentient? Klacasa smirked, watching her bounty sleep off the drugs. This was a typical enough contract, seek, capture, collect. And it had been easy, oh so easy. For what she was making from him she’d gladly set him loose and try again. Her employer, remaining anonymous, had pressed the significance of hunting with stealth. (A messy partnership?) She mused, (or a disastrous family affair? Usually those are the ones that require so much secrecy. I wonder what he did?) The Zabrak’s breaths were deeper, She frowned, noting the rapid recovery rate. The tattoo’s on his chest rose and fell with his breaths, catching her attention. (I know these guys are big on the tattoo thing, but he’s kinda ridiculous…) She allowed herself the indulgence of wondering how far down the markings went. (No lower than the waist I’d bet, unless he’s really crazy…) a hand snuck forward to pull at the pants waistband. Mentally she laughed, catching herself and using the motion to check his restraints instead.
There had to be a catch, had to be. If not, than her employer was daft, and probably had no intention of paying her at all. (Which could get messy… and that’s not entirely a bad thing.) The doors to her office opened and a flustered twilik male ran in, covered in dust, soot, and she’d rather not know.

“I have a job for you!! A big job!”

Up went one skeptic eyebrow. “And you can pay my fee?”
“I will get the money!! I swear it!!”
Klacasa walked over to him, placed a hand on a shivering shoulder. “Look, much as your random and uninvited appearance has given meaning to my life, I only do jobs paid in advance.” One hand gave him a hard shove towards the door. “So get out.”

“Please!! You must help me!! She’ll kill me!!”

“She?” Klacasa smiled. “Your boss, your wife, someone I’d know?”

“No!! The dog! The damn dog!!”

Disbelief. “You’re being chased by a Kath hound? Oh geeze. What, do I have a sign above my door that says ‘desperate for credits?!’ look. Buy a bone, suck up to it, play with it a while. It’s not my problem.”
The twilik was looking past her now, starring over her shoulder with wide eyes. With a painted smile Klacasa shrugged, and brought her elbow up behind her into what should have been a man’s gut. It wasn’t. It was his fist.

Using her force he pulled her off the floor and then let her drop. She rolled free and leapt to her feet, eyed him as they sized each other. The restraints were gone; they were nowhere to be seen. (Ah, here’s the catch.)
The twilik seemed to decide the kath hound was safer, he turned to run. (I don’t blame you coward, go on, run from the pissy half naked Jedi!) The Zabrak stretched out a hand, his eyes on hers, and the twilik stopped running. Eyes bulging he coughed, his hands made a desperate grab for his throat. (Not a Jedi…) as if being lifted by a hand he was levitated into the air, choking loudly and flailing, the skin around his eyes and lips coloring dangerously. He seizured, jerking as his lungs fought. The Zabrak watched her reaction from behind cold, yellow eyes. (Not a Jedi at all…) At last the twilik died, his form, lank in the air, fell. Crumpled upon the floor he lay like a discarded pair of pants, pale eyes looking up at her, blood starting to drip from their corners, surreal and disgusting.

“Sith’s blood! You did that in my office!!”

Maul paused. (Sith’s blood?) part of him smiled, the rest remained cold. He advanced on her, waiting for her to pull her weapon. The trip was a success… somewhat. He had wanted to hunt her. Instead, she had hunted him, proving how ill prepared he was. His hate simmered. She had embarrassed him, it would never, ever, happen again. She was calm, trying to negotiate the rapidly decreasing space in which she could move. He cut off her retreat, knocked her feet from below her with a well timed kick. Again she rolled free, jumped up and came at him swinging. He grabbed her left hand but her right grazed his cheek, forcing his teeth down on his tongue. Pain blossomed in his mouth as he let out a hiss, winced and caught her next blow as it tried to gouge his eyes.
With both hands caught he should have predicted her next move, but it was a very near save. Eyes wide he looked at the knee he had blocked with his thigh, realizing it’s intended destination.

Standing on one leg, hands above her head, knee against his thigh she saw his wide eyes and laughed.

“Care to dance?”

In surprise and disgust he dropped her. She sat there, seemingly at perfect ease, laughing! They had been fighting, and she was laughing? He had killed a man and she was… well, a bounty hunter yes, but still, laughing? Wanting to dance? Joking? She was insane. In the face of all this chaos his years of training seemed sluggish to respond. He cocked his head, observing her madness. (Strange.) his eyes narrowed, (I have lost my focus, strange indeed.) he reached deeper, tapped the force. The power was there, simmering below the skin, but it was placid. Perturbed he sought deeper, into himself, found himself placid! The hatred had bled from him... it had fueled his fight as he toyed with her, but had now run thin.
A pang of disappointment. There would be no satisfaction in this killing. It would be monotonous, mundane. He would feel just as empty after as before, and that feeling was what had lead to this entire mess. Unless…

A new option offered itself. He could use this, use her. She would be the prey, and he the hunter. She must have been paid, he would investigate into that, but she was stalking him, stalking as she did to make a living. What better training? To practice on one who would know him on sight, would hunt him at the same time? He allowed himself a small, cold smile. She saw it, some of her calm dissipated. He leaned over her, caught her scent, committed it to memory. (Remember this face, every detail, every flaw. Remember so that she will have nowhere to hide if she ever attempts to run.) His knee bent and he knelt, his fingers slid under her chin, tilted face up to memorize her eyes, and the small fear he saw in them. A gentle push with the force…

“ What is your name.”

“Klacasa…” she blinked, focused in an obvious battle to shut her mind and mouth.

“All of it.”

Aware of what he was doing she fought it for several moments; he felt her anger, basked in it with contentment. In a fit of pride she declared. “…Ordo. My people have no last names.”
It was a lie, and he knew it. But Ordo… that rang true. Part mandelorian? There were few left. And that clan… where had he heard them mentioned before? (Ah… yes… Darth Revan’s servants until he vanished. Tools of the Sith…)

“Klacasa of the clan Ordo,” he leaned in, so they were face to face. “ I will break you.”