A/N: All previous disclaimers apply.

Chapter 11: The Taming of a Beast

...The grey eyes – the eyes of steel.

No. Not just mere eyes…

She is standing there, facing me - the young woman wearing light brown battle robes. Her double-bladed lightsaber is like a golden sun that cuts the darkness with its fiery edge.

She is a glowing beacon to me; she is at the center of my focus.

The ones surrounding her are nothing. They are shadows – they are worthless insects, fleas, nuisance; they do not exist for me. I will crush them one by one.

The determination in her will. I sense it when probing her defenses. Soon, I will tear them down like they are nothing more than paper. And she has made her choice.

She opens her mouth, shouts: "You cannot...!"

Trying to appear confident but, effortlessly, I slide past her protections, see through her. Sense the uncertainty she so desperately wants to hide. Relish in it. Feel my lips curve into a smile, yet it is not a smile of joy but cold amusement.

Proceed, Jedi, show me what you can do!

The single crimson blade dances in front of my eyes as I turn it to my opening stance. The blade points toward her, and her posture tenses even further.

She has made her choice – good, this way she will be more useful to me. It will not save her from what I consider inevitable.

Regardless of it, Bastila Shan, from this specific moment onward…you shall be mine!

"Daraz."

It was nothing more than a whisper.

A woman's voice in the shadows, I perceived. Soft, careful.

…Concerned.

…" You cannot…"…

…You shall be mine!...

"Daraz."

The name was repeated in a hushed tone, and for a short moment, I did not recognize it…until the reality, the present moment took hold of my conscience with an icy, near painful grasp, and mercilessly began to pull me back.

It was the name I had been taught to respond to like a trained pet, a dark, stray thought reminded cynically. Like a true pawn.

The sensation of the dull hardness of the duracrete floor traveled through my muscles, and I pushed the level surface with my hands, forcing myself to a sitting position. I smelled the unwelcoming odors of the sewers – the rot, the mold, the decomposition, and death; perceived the dense darkness around me. The fragments of my current existence scattered all around me found clicking their correct places.

I steadied my head against my hands and felt the slight moistness at my hairline.

I wanted to cling on to the dream…no, the memory. Every fiber of my being wanted to hold on to the thoughts and emotions in it almost desperately but found my attempts failing, my fingers slipping, sensations fading.

…You…

Even without opening my eyes, the Jedi was a calm presence next to me. I sensed her slender form kneeling beside me, her warm empathy as she touched my mind.

…shall be mine…

I felt a sensation of pressure on my shoulder. A hand, fingers bent around my shoulder in an attempt to provide comfort, I understood and wanted to shake my head and grimace in resentment. I had no need for such; the gesture was wasted on me.

And the present was there with the utmost clarity.

"I do not know what you dreamt of, but I can sense your pain and anger, Daraz. And the danger in those thoughts…"

I shrugged my shoulders in disdain, and the sensation of the calming fingers disappeared. The Jedi's presence left my side. It was not the nonessential gesture of compassion which disgusted me to the core, but way more considerably the moment of weakness I had shown there…allowing myself to slip into a state when I was an easy target for her Jedi senses. I did not have the luxury of affording these mistakes I inadvertently kept repeating time and again like a bantha-brained fool, due to lack of command over my mind.

Bloody Hell!

Dreams gave me freedom with the bitter cost of loss of control. I had managed to create a hairline crack to the barrier surrounding the deepest parts of my mind, which had allowed me another look through to the core. The mindscape had not been beautiful…but tainted. In the dream, in the memory, I had watched the unfolding events through the eyes of an emotionless, dark soul…

…Recognized it as my own; understood that it belonged to me…

…Had touched the Force with ease, and sensed its essence within me…

…It was not benevolent but a cold black, captivating void reaching out, smothering all light around it…

I immersed myself into that moment, repeated Bastila Shan's words in my head, tasted the tone of them again. The lost memory was no longer a whisper at the edge of my dreams, yet it did not provide me all the answers I so desperately sought.

"You cannot…" Those were Bastila Shan's words, thrown at me in somewhat faked confidence. It was a challenge…or a threat.

There was more to this sentence, more words, and syllables, yet my mind could not reach that far, yet. I could not do…what? I asked myself. Bloody, take her out to drink a glass of exported Aldreaanian wine at a dingy cantina? No wonder. Kill her? Looking at the evidence, this seemed like a way more obvious choice.

Through the eyes of my previous self, she had been not a Jedi but an asset, a tool. I had eyed her like a predator eyes its prey, allowing it to flee for cold entertainment before the final lethal bite.

I had sensed her uncertainty when she had measured me.

Daraz, you are the enemy, I told myself once more. No longer feeling surprised but clarity.

One plus one. Basic math. It wasn't too hard to come to the obvious conclusion.

It appeared most logical I had encountered Bastila Shan aboard the Revenge right before the warship's ultimate destruction. We had fought, and regardless of my confidence, it seemed she had pretty much wiped the floor with my Sithy self. I had been valuable enough to be saved before the most infamous Interdictor was blown to smithereens, useful for reasons still shrouded by not much more than questions.

It most certainly had not been a selfless act, this performance or play, to put it another way. At warfare, knowledge was one of the most potent weapons, so possibly they assumed I held that. Exactly what of that kind? I had absolutely no idea.

It was no coincidence I had awoken at the Jedi enclave, with no recollections of my former self. It was no accident I was right here at this very moment, my mind filled with what appeared mostly fake memories of a smuggler-turned-Republic soldier. The acknowledgment was a dark storm gathering in my mind.

Eventually, some form of retribution was in order, the dark and calculative side of me encouraged.

As a result, I had been weakened, was but a hull of my former shelf. I did not have knowledge and control over the Force in a manner I appeared to have in the past.

But one has to work with the tools at hand, no matter how primitive they are.

Ensign Eldran Daraz was a pawn. He was a marionette, supposed to be stiffly dancing preprogrammed movements aligned with the will of the Jedi Council. Obviously, my apparent incipient awareness over the situation was not a planned course of events. That especially was something I could exploit.

The strings of control of a marionette go both ways, I reminded myself. Careful planning and calculated actions can turn a marionette…into the puppeteer.

I saw the red-haired Jedi's slender, athletic form at the other end of the service room, and could only wonder what her part in all of this was. I did not think the Council had disclosed my true identity to her; she was way too single-mindedly tied to the morality of actions and thus a perfect creature to watch over me. A pawn like me, forged to serve a different purpose.

Before all of this was coming to an end, likely, I was heading to a situation where I was forced to classify her as an enemy for good.

But not yet.

Due to her skill with the Force, she was stronger than me at the moment if we were to battle, and I would have been a fool to underestimate her. It was imperative for me to take note of where her strengths and weaknesses lay. Her empathy was one limitation for sure. It may have made her an excellent Jedi, but this did not necessarily correlate with her being an excellent soldier in a situation where she was forced to choose between bad and worse.

It was going to be interesting to see if she had the mental capability of lifting her lightsaber against me.

Jedi Knight Sandra Aravena watched Ensign Eldran Daraz stand up and walk quietly to her. Tall, broad-shouldered, and clad in all black, he was an imposing sight even in the low-light environment of their makeshift base of operations. He silently walked past their sleeping companions, gait fluid, his gaze spending approvingly a half a second longer on the blaster pistols the Wookiee had cleaned and assembled. For a man of his size, he was very agile - a result of years of disciplined training, a trait very uncommon for someone of his kind.

But she had seen his determination even on Dantooine when he was supposed to be tied to his sickbed.

Based solely on his demeanor, she would have thought he was a Jedi. Except for she had been told differently by a source she had been taught - and learned - to trust.

As he sat down next to her, only the slight heaviness in his movement hinted that fatigue was starting to eat through his muscles.

The soldier did not have the same opportunity and the skill as she did, to gain strength through meditation and the Force. Slowly but surely, Daraz was consuming any reservoirs of energy he had built up during his time on the Endar Spire. Eventually, the disregard related to the boundaries of his own strength was going to blow up into his face one way or another.

"You are strong but not a droid, Daraz," Sandra whispered. "You need more rest."

"I'm done sleeping for tonight," he responded, voice quiet. "Been through worse. Have I ever told you how I fled from PSFs for three days and nights consecutively when my vessel lost its hyperdrive in the Corellian system?"

There was some lightness in the tone of his quiet voice, but something behind his eyes did not quite reflect it.

"How did it go?" she asked, almost whispering, not entirely sure if she was interested.

"Not too well, I suppose," he shrugged. "Since at the moment, I'm sitting inside a Tarisian sewer."

Understanding, she could not entirely deny the feeling of genuine amusement, and the resulting small smile pulling her lips shortly before she forced herself serious.

"What do you plan to do, Daraz?" the Jedi asked. "After this is over."

It was still one of her main concerns, especially now, after witnessing the ultimate uncontrolled chaos the man was capable of a few hours ago.

"Assuming there will be such an 'over'…" he said, regarding her with a sharp but tired look.

"What do I plan? Truthfully? To get off-planet, drink a couple of quick shots of old'n strong Mandalorean tihaar in some off-world cantina, and then perform some stress-relieving in pleasurable female company so to speak."

"Daraz! There is a child around," Sandra hissed.

"…But I do understand that will not be the outcome," the man continued, seemingly ignoring her. "I have you to take care of it, haven't I?"

Calculated words and Sandra understood what he referred to, but was not interested in threading further on that road.

"Independent on my guidance related to your return," she pointed out dismissively, "I recall you have a binding contract with the Navy. You still have - was it? – minimum of ten years of service remaining?"

"Nine years and three months, to be exact," he corrected nonchalantly. "Pretty long run. Based on what I remember, they appear to have been very reasonable regarding the outcome of my case… I should be thankful."

He smiled joylessly.

"The war might even be over before my release."

"We shall hope it is," she said quietly.

And we shall hope you do not destroy yourself along the way, she thought.

Unless you already have. I have seen firsthand what happens to people like you.

Stress has the tendency of luring extreme personalities out of people, and Daraz did not appear different in that respect. Based on the man she assumed to have known on Dantooine, this was not the same person. This man in question was adamant on walking the path of his choosing like a battering ram with so little regard to the price he was paying for his actions that he did not look back.

The less than three weeks between the present and the day they set foot on the shuttle taking them to Endar Spire, could have been years. A lifetime.

"You never went to the Mandalorian Wars," Daraz suddenly said. "For someone who wants to set the world straight so…strongly, I find that surprising."

For a moment, she stayed quiet, due to the perceptive words. Daraz was correct. Although barely a Padawan at the time, she could have been there. The Jedi still easily remembered the stern expression taking over her Master's features when Sandra had expressed her wish.

"My Master advised against it," Sandra explained. "She understood the danger, saw the importance of neutrality."

And her Master had been correct. Although Revan and Malak had been unstoppable, a force of nature, and although their actions initially shrouded by fine intentions, they had led the galaxy to further turmoil and bloodshed.

"You have never mentioned your Master before. Where is she stationed now?"

"She…she is gone."

Sandra did not want to take the discussion any further, the wounds still too raw on her flesh. The soldier raised a brow at her but did not pursue further.

The Council's orders were clear, but she was uncertain if even they were able to help this stubborn man. The Council had undoubtedly been aware of his underlying potential. But they had also seen the danger tied to it in combination with his character. That must have been the reason why she had received her assignment in the first place. She was able to watch over him to a certain extent, but her tools were very limited in this hostile environment.

She had seen the likes of him follow the path of destruction and death. Her Master had been one casualty to such actions, one of so many.

By definition, the term 'problem' refers to a harmful obstacle along the way that needs to be dealt with.

We were facing a massive problem, size-wise.

I scolded myself for not pulling every single detail about the sewers out of the girl with a pair of pincers. A creature of that magnitude was not supposed to fit in hallways like these, but that was a bloody lousy excuse for not thoroughly verifying any assumptions.

"I just hope the rancor monster is no longer there."

She had chimed those words with a young happy-go-lucky attitude and left me cursing silently.

Where would it go, kid? Where in the damn bloody Hell would it go?

Based on her own words, Mission had been able to sneak past it before. For a group of five that was not an option. Even with stealth field generators, of which we had only one and not five, there was a high likelihood of someone ending up as a rancor late-night snack. The beast had more senses to utilize than just its sight.

We had taken a good look at the space and its sole inhabitant before retreating a few intersections back to formulate an action plan. A sort of, anyway.

The room, or rather a hall, was about thirty meters wide and at least three times longer. I had taken a good look at the creature – after all, it was pretty hard to miss – and had wanted to grimace. The animal was over four thousand tons of muscle, bone, and extremely thick brown skin, and when standing tall, it would almost touch the ceiling of the space.

This one was lying on the floor, seemingly asleep, the disproportionately long arms with sharp nails so characteristic for its kind crossed in front of it.

The creature was efficiently sealed in its shadowy and stimulus-free location. Likely brought here as a hatchling, now it had grown way too massive to fit in any of the hallways in front of it, or through the strengthened durasteel double-doors standing behind. Perhaps it had been captured directly from the wild of Dathomir and sold through the black market with some substantial credit. It was not unheard of.

A rancor in the wild is dangerous. A captured rancor, trapped in a far too small space and unable to convey its natural instincts, is off-the-charts dangerous.

As a grim proof of this, corpses and skeletal parts of creatures in various states of dismemberment and decay were littered around the space. This likely was the reason for the generous 'payment' for this mission Gadon had promised. Likely he did not expect to see a situation where he actually had a need to pay, to give up their precious spot in the swoop race. And in case he had to, it was no doubt well worth it.

"The Beks were working on some ways to kill the rancor, but I guess it didn't work out," Mission said. "I think…" she thought for a second, "Gadon mentioned some scent to lure the rancor away."

"Seems their 'test run' if you will, did not go smoothly," I stated, shaking my head unimpressed, remembering that some of the corpses had been wearing rags reminiscent of Bek colors.

Not that our options were much better.

Two basic rules apply when fighting a rancor.

First: bloody keep your distance.

A fully grown rancor has a horrendous range with its long arms and nails. Way more than any man equipped with a sword of any kind. The most common way to perish when facing a rancor is to eventually find your body clutched between its long fingers and your head between its sharp teeth.

Second: ditch any blaster weapons.

A rancor's skin is one of the most potent armors designed and provided by nature herself. Layers on top of layers of gnarly cartilage hidden below the thick skin. Unless there's the will of the Force or whatever-the-heck equally powerful giving added support and a ton of extra luck in the supply bag, blaster bolts are more likely to give the rancor a tickle than actually wound it in an advantageous manner. Blaster bolts may sting, irritating the animal more and increasing its bloodlust.

Grenades are a little better, a thermal detonator actually useful. Blaster weapons are not much more than disadvantageous extra weight.

We were about to break both rules and break them simultaneously. Carth was aware of this; the acknowledgment was a dark shadow over his features, as he shook his head.

My personal weapon, the vibroblade, was almost as useless as my blaster pistol.

Perhaps it can use my vibroblade as a toothpick while chewing my head off my shoulders, I thought cynically.

But two fighters were needed in close quarters. This was certain. Due to the reach of the creature, sending one out was suicidal…but two brought along some form of diversion and thus, an opportunity. My task likely was to be a tempting snack running around the room, attempting to keep the rancor's attention directed to me and avoiding its claws while Sandra finished the creature off with her lightsaber. Sounded like a plan, I shrugged.

Unless.

A thought formed inside my head. She did not know who or what I had been, and it might be enough required for pulling this tricky maneuver off right now.

"We have precisely two weapons powerful enough to kill this creature. Only two. We need to use them both."

Sandra quickly understood what I meant. After all, she had carried two Jedi weapons in her supply bag since the events aboard the Endar Spire. The other one was her personal weapon. The second one was a crimson-bladed saber, hilt adorned with Sith engravings. That specific lightsaber had belonged to the Dark Jedi I had shot.

The Jedi stood silent as she studied my features, sizing me up, and then shook her head slowly from side to side.

"A lightsaber is not an ordinary soldier's weapon, Daraz," she repeated the words said onboard the Endar Spire like she had memorized them years ago. Yet this time, she was not bleeding, and the tone of voice remained as unyielding as that day.

I was well aware I could not say the lightsaber was just a sword. Since it was not. It would have made me sound ignorant, and such a statement would have worked against me, increased her already strong resistance. Obviously, nor could I say I absolutely knew how to operate the weapon of Force-users. Since Ensign Daraz did not have such knowledge.

"I will be able to control it, Sandra," I told her. And stretched out my arm toward her, open palm up, waiting.

"You will hurt yourself… Or someone else." The Jedi folded her arms, and her mouth was pressed to a thin line.

"There's a much higher likelihood that the rancor will do it before me, Sandra. Not utilizing all assets adds only unnecessary risk," I pressed her, hearing the edge of tension growing in my voice.

"That weapon will not only cut you; it will sever a limb instead."

"At least I do not need to be concerned about bleeding then," I replied quickly. "I am willing to take my chances here."

The Jedi was silent, still hesitating, weighing pros and cons, risks and necessities, an aura of uncertainty flickering behind the emerald eyes.

"Normally, I would not entrust a soldier with a lightsaber," Carth commented calmly, seeing the bigger picture. "But you have seen Daraz with his sword, and Sithspit – he's spent his share of hours in training halls. I suggest an exception is made, knowing what we have against us over there with the limited resources we have at hand. He'll not be as efficient as a Jedi, but will get the job done."

There was some wisdom in the Commander's words even the Jedi was unable to deny, and his support was the final hit to the Jedi's defenses that had already been weakened by the growing seed of uncertainty I had planted. She heaved in a short breath and pulled the silver cylinder from her backpack. No more than a half a second later, it was pressed in my hand with a hasty gesture.

Although countless times I had visualized myself holding one of its kind, blue or crimson, in those fragmented reflections from the past, all of this did not fully prepare me to the feeling of the actual physical object once again in my hand. The weight of it; the sleek, the very familiar shape…and the realization of intense almost-memories intuitively pulled from my subconsciousness as the sensations reached my mind.

I did not hesitate to take what was offered there and then.

The balance of the hilt was not perfect, analyzed the Dark Jedi within me with a scrutinizing eye. No more than twenty grams too heavy at the front, yet I would need to take this into account when handling the weapon.

My preferences were, to some extent, differing from the original creator of this lightsaber. Still, it was a decent weapon. Not perfect, but acceptable.

Somewhere in the distance, I observed absent-mindedly, the Jedi was giving me instructions with short, forced sentences. I felt myself nodding once roughly toward her direction as if her guidance had sunk in. But in reality, the words could have been just generic gray background noise without any syllables holding them together.

My hands found their correct locations on the hilt effortlessly, and the crimson blade sprung forward, accompanied with a snap-hiss, illuminating the hallway with a shade of deep red.

…The single crimson blade dances in front of my eyes as I turn it to my opening stance...

Black-clad hands, blood-red vambraces, a crimson blade. Then. Aboard the Revenge.

It would have been so easy to slip there and then. To allow my muscles to guide the blade to one of the many opening stances my mind and body instinctively knew so well. It would have been effortless to let myself fall in the rhythm of the familiar dance of elegant yet fierce sequences I remembered hundreds, thousands of.

Absolutely effortless…and utterly foolish.

So, I restrained myself, swinging the lightsaber only a couple of times, as if to test its balance, behavior, and range. The blade hummed.

"I can control it," I said, hearing my voice coming out as if short of breath, without being able to fully conceal the violent stir within my mind. Possibly it made sense to my companions - after all, I was supposed to be a soldier handling a notoriously dangerous Jedi weapon for the first time. Perhaps. Likely.

I deactivated the blade.

"The strategy is pretty straightforward," I said, having again gained control of myself. "Sandra and I will move close and aim to cripple it, reduce its ability to move. And after we are successful, then either of us will attempt to slay it. Before this, it can move far too well, and due to the reach of those arms, the risks are way too high."

Sandra nodded, agreeing.

"Keep it out of our backs with blaster bolts," I directed the words to the trio with blaster weapons. "It is an animal; it should follow the greatest distraction. You should be able to turn its attention away from us."

Wookiee acknowledged in Shyriiwook.

"We'll keep it away," Cart replied.

"Remember, it is just an animal," I said, directing my words mostly to Mission and not really the others. "Powerful and deadly, yet just an animal. Animals are driven by instincts and not logical planning. It will not plan, it will react, and thus it is predictable. A predator, something on top of the food chain, does not have a built-in tactic for the situation it is going to face. That is our advantage. Let's utilize it."

"Let's get this out of the way," Carth replied, shouldering his weapon, the grim understanding of the high-risk battle looming in the near future darkening his features.

"Just an animal," Mission whispered to her Wookie companion, whose arm was protectively wrapped around her shoulders.

"And bloody do not, in any situation, get stuck between the rancor and any wall over there," I pointed toward the open space a few intersections away. "That's a kriffin' suicide. Make sure you always have a path to retreat in case it charges at you."

We were about to take another risk.

It was acceptable since we were so deep below the Lower City, and due to the presence of the massive guard, there was only a low likelihood of Vulkar proximity on this level. Several stories worth of duracrete, durasteel reinforcements and air were in between us and their base of operations hundreds of meters above. All of this worked as efficient noise isolation.

Nonetheless, we needed access to the legs of the bipedal carnivore, and while it was sleeping, this was not possible.

I activated a frag grenade, and tossed it toward its broad head, counting down seconds in my mind.

Four. Three.

It was an accurate throw, and with a clack, the sphere landed almost next to its massive flat face and fluttering nostrils. As I pulled back to the protective cover of the nearest hallway, I assumed its small reptilian eyes having opened and locked their beastly, unintelligent gaze to the small round object.

Two. One.

An explosion shook the ground, and shockwaves echoed through the duracrete. This was followed by a roar and thumping sounds, as the massive creature lifted itself up, its tiny brain trying fiercely to comprehend the combination of noise and a flash of pain. As the final resonances of the explosion were absorbed by the surrounding structures, Sandra and I were already closing the distance. The Jedi was following the wall leading to the left side of the rancor, and I ran along the wall on the other side of the hall. The Jedi's steps were agile and quiet.

Understanding of the actual physical size of a rancor can only be substantiated when actually being forced face-to-face with one. This one's head towered at seven meters. With that, it wasn't large for its kind - just medium-sized. The observation did not feel relieving. At all.

It snarled, confused. Still dozens of meters away, and way too far.

If I had hoped for the frag to do any actual damage to the creature with some additional help from the Force or even sheer luck, maybe by sending some shrapnel to its eyes, I had to discard those thoughts. With only some mild wounds on its thick-skinned shoulders, its head looked fairly undamaged. Probably after one galactic standard year, it would bleed to death.

Just as dangerous as before the frag, the three-meter long arms with sharp nails clawed the empty surrounding air around it as it spotted us. And we had to get closer.

"Fire!" I shouted.

And the blaster weapons sang, a stream of bolts cutting the empty air between Sandra and me, and hitting the rancor with a series of tapping sounds. Black circles appeared on the brown skin without any blood leaking out, and the creature roared in fury as it locked its gaze to the group with blaster weapons.

And it charged, growling, the massive strength of the creature hurdling it to formidable speed plowing against the stream of blaster bolts. It went head-on towards the shooters, the inflictors of pain and irritation.

And we took our positions near the mid-section of the hall and waited.

When the distance was no more than a few meters, the crimson blade sprang forward, and I turned it to a violent swing. A flash of blue appeared on my left, as Sandra moved, her actions synchronized with mine. The hissing red blade sunk into the rancor's leg, which gave some resistance to its movement, requiring more physical strength to keep the momentum up. It ate its way violently through flesh, muscle, and bone, cauterizing veins.

But most importantly, it cut through the tendons.

The creature fell forward and hit the ground with a loud thud as it lost the ability to use its legs. Both of us had succeeded. The first part of the plan was complete. Done.

A whiff of burnt meat reached my nostrils, but I was too busy dodging the animal's arm with sharp nails to take more note of this.

Numbers always give a tactical advantage in close-quarters battle, no matter the strength of the opponent. Two against one, and as the rancor could only efficiently attack one of us, it gave the other one an opening. This was what we counted for, laid our strategy on top of this presumption of its built-in behavioral patterns.

We followed the plan, and I slashed its arm with a series of defensive strikes, as Sandra lashed out with her saber on the other side. It reacted by pulling the arm back. The rancor's massive head turned slightly, and the body shifted when the reptomammal attempted to get a visual of Sandra's form. The Jedi quickly sidestepped its arm when it made a sweeping stroke at her.

The dominating form of danger still was its range of over three and a half meters. Even without normal mobility, it still was more than capable of inflicting some severe damage. Eventually, we had to move within the main danger zone because directly at the center of it was the head, and the tiny brain its skull sheltered.

This defined the rhythm of the battle. We alternated, switched turns, landed blows, and retreated, shifting the animal's focus always from one attacker to another. No expert swordsmanship and complicated moves, just accurate and straightforward hits. Eventually, it would tire, slashing arms become clumsier, and one of us would be able to close the precious distance to finish it off.

That was the plan.

And this was where it went terribly wrong.

A rancor is one of the creatures nature has evolved to survive in environments a majority of sentients attempt to avoid for the entire extent of their lives. A true survivor should never be underestimated.

I managed to land a broad blow to its nonexistent neck area and had to jump quickly back to dodge another sweep from a claw. Again, this allowed Sandra to attack and should have redirected its attention. Should have.

But something had snapped within its tormented brain, and it fixated to the only cause of pain and irritation in its world it could anymore distinguish. Me.

Even without the use of its legs, snarling, it lunged meters by pulling its body with its claws. The mouth full of sharp, protruding carnivorous teeth attempted to get a taste of my blood with a bite that caught only air as I dodged backward.

Again, within a second, I was in its reach and had to duck and parry to avoid a claw. The blade hissed, and a finger fell from the rancor's claw off before I retreated again. Someone's blaster rifle blazed, and smoke rose from its side. Behind the rancor was a flash of blue, as Sandra attempted to divert its focus with no success.

Each defensive strike left a dark, scorched crack on its arms, but it did not slow it down. And I was seriously in a hurry, attempting to gain some safety distance to the massive beast.

Until my back thudded against a wall.

Shit.

You could compare the experience to being run over by a speeder at full speed. To the exact moment, where just a fraction of a second prior to the impact, you realize that soon it will hurt…

…hurt like Hell.

Instinctively, I managed to tense my muscles just before the rancor's enormous claw hit my body with tremendous force. I flew in the air like a child's toy, and when my body found the location of the floor again, it hit all air out of my lungs. My grip had loosened, and the lightsaber slipped out of my hand, I realized, while gasping convulsively for air.

I needed the saber, or I was dead.

The silvery shape had rolled to my right, too far, way out of my reach. And this was all I had time to observe before the massive creature was right on top of me. One sharp nail sunk into my left shoulder as the mouth with long sharp teeth and no lips appeared to cover everything else in my field of vision.

Have...

...to get…

…it.

With effort and teeth exposed, I stretched my right hand – my only free hand - out toward the lightsaber...and the weapon was again in my hand. I pushed the cylinder against its lower jaw at the same time as it lunged to bite my head off.

I activated the blade.

A vertical red pillar appeared inside its mouth. As it instinctively pulled its head back, the plasma blade started to eat its way towards the sharp-toothed opening. However, it was not my blade that ended its life. It was a blue lightsaber, and an accurate hit directly from above that punctured its skull and fried up the tiny brain for good.

The rancor screeched for one final time and vomited something reminiscent of blood on me before rolling to its side.

This was the first time I could actually get some air into my lungs. I rested there for a while, my brain attempting to analyze the extent of damage to my body. Now when the surge of adrenaline was leaving my veins, it did not feel precisely enjoyable but also not lethal.

The Jedi jumped off the rancor and walked to me as I slowly pushed myself to a sitting position against the wall, grimacing. She kneeled next to me, and her fingers gently took hold of my jaw as she turned my head from one side to another, assessing my situation.

"You are not critically injured," she observed, openly relieved.

I saw her fingers having gained a red coating when she let go of my face.

"Eldran, please don't die," Mission shouted from dozens of meters away, openly extremely worried, as the rest of the team hurried to us.

"It's mostly the rancor's blood," I responded dryly, understanding I was pretty much covered in it. Most likely, I looked terrible.

I started the painful job of opening the bindings of my armor, locating fresh jolts of pain flaring from my shoulder and left side. I had to get the wounds cleaned before an infection took place and compromised the mission. Based on sensations, the damage appeared to be only flesh wounds, and possibly I had a couple of cracked ribs. Nothing major in my books.

When I had stripped my upper body bare, the bleeding wounds on my shoulder and side were clearly visible. The injuries would impact my efficiency in battle, which was something I had to live with. A couple of more scars to add to the collection was nothing to lament about. Reduced mobility, however, was an unwanted visitor.

"What did you mention about getting stuck between it and the wall?" Carth queried, some lightness in the tone. The Commander had also analyzed my situation and was glad to see I had no intention of joining the pile of decaying corpses in the room.

"That it is a bloody joyride. Like a kriffin' vacation."

Sandra had retrieved kolto from one of our supply bags, and the Jedi walked to me. Mission took my armor for cleaning, and mentally I wished her good luck since it was fully covered in blood and grime.

"Let me do this," the Jedi said.

She cleaned the hole on my shoulder and dosed kolto to the area as I watched the swift work of her hands. The Jedi pressed her hand on top of the open injury. Her touch was soft, and felt cool.

"Stay still," she commanded.

And I sensed the gentle flow of the Force through my body and tingling in the wound, as the muscle fibers grew and connected, damaged veins built their walls and circulation of blood normalized. After she was done, it was fully closed. The shade of the skin was a couple of degrees lighter at where the wound had been, reminiscent of the damage endured.

She continued to work on the scratch wounds on my side.

"You are not completely healed yet, so be careful. Kolto and nature will continue the work," Sandra said after she was finished.

I gave her a short nod and rotated my shoulder to analyze its mobility. A slight weakness remained, but other than that, I seemed fully functional. I felt a bit impressed.

I was not a person who distributed gratitude easily, if ever. But I did value the fact that I was fully back at the fighting strength and could pursue the mission as planned and without unneeded limitations holding me back.

"Thank you," I said, and started to don on the partially cleaned and slightly damaged armor. Sandra did not request returning the Sith lightsaber, nor would have I given it back even if ordered. Not anymore.

However, with her Jedi senses, she must have noticed that a certain aspect had been out of place at the end of the battle.

I had called the lightsaber, and it had come. I still doubted I could repeat this at will had I wanted.

Yet, every passing moment and after each fought battle, it had become increasingly challenging for me to any longer distinguish Daraz from…

The Dark Jedi.

A/N2: Disclaimer: No actual rancors were harmed during the writing of this chapter.

Personally, I never enjoyed the plot point where you had to use the odor and the frag. It always felt a bit rushed.

As you may have guessed, the 'major reveal' starts to be pretty near… Very, very near.

As usual, reviews, favs, and follows are highly appreciated!