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STAR WARS: IMPERIAL CADETS-BOOK ONE, ADEPTUS
Part 2 Chapter XVII-Fight's End, Slak, Sabaac, and Getting Slammed...

Part 2 Chapter XVII-Fight's End, Slak, Sabaac, and Getting Slammed...

Norrin, glancing at his wristpad for the mini-map he’d saved, ran until he arrived at the location. And...

Aw, no! There was a bolted, metal plate covering everything. Either someone had the forethought to try and keep someone like him out of the place, or someone had tried to hack into the security system before.

Either way, the kind of help that Norrin could give Dav, wasn’t going to be coming anytime soon. Photographic (and maybe a little creatively doctored) evidence of Freddik’s unwarranted aggression couldn’t be used to help Dav if Norrin couldn’t even get to the cameras. And Norrin knew that with all the thousands of hours of information recorded each day, it wasn’t likely anyone was even going ot be looking too closely at the fight currently going on a few levels above...

“Poot-te-wheet!” chirped a little, metallic voice behind him. Norrin whipped around, and beheld Rex, the little astromech he’d helped out a few weeks back.

“Well, look at you,” Norrin said. “If I believed in the Maker, I’d thank Him now. I could use your help, little guy. You got a minute?”

Rex whistled and chirped again in what Norrin hoped was a happy assent. His hopes were confirmed when two little panels popped open and a pair of little extender arms appeared with a cutting torch and a small, circular saw attached to the end of each arm.

“Perfect,” Norrin said, getting out of the droid’s way so he could open the panel.

Perfect thought Rex, as he went to work. Based on what Rex had seen when he looked into Norrin’s files, this might be one of the more useful humans he’d ever encountered...

Dav’s vision had gone a bit blurry. He’d taken three punches and a kick to the head in the last three minutes of fighting, and delivered nearly as many blows to Freddik as well. He sucked in air, trying to give his brain as much oxygen as it so he could start to think straight again.

“Is...” Freddik said, struggling to maintain his defensive stance while sucking air as well. His blond hair, normally perfectly coiffed even when doing sports, was slicked with sweat and matted with blood spatters where a lucky shot of Dav’s had opened a cut above his right eyebrow. “Is that...(breathe) the best (breathe) you can do, Cityboy?”

“I’m just warming up, Rich boy,” Dav said. It was a lame taunt; but then again, someone like Freddik who was the son of an industrialist magnate on a Corporate world didn’t really have the ability to insult someone like Dav who came from a city world, either.

Freddik apparently had gotten enough time to recoup. After Dav’s last little phrase, Freddik took a last, deep breath and charged with a yell, his legs moving in readiness for another spring in the air.

Dav, expecting this, moved down into a crouch, seeming to bring up his forearms in a protective stance, ready to try and either deflect the blow or block it.

Freddik jumped into the air, his powerful legs launching him first up and then on a curve which pointed his legs from pointing behind to pointing square at Dav’s arms. Freddik smiled, his teeth showing. He’d practiced this move with his personal sportsmaster at home for hours upon hours, and he knew that if he pounded hard enough he’d break at least one of Dav’s arms in a hairline fracture or worse.

Satisfaction swarmed through Feddik’s brain. What had begun as a simple exercise to secure his status in general and the most politically desirable female in the squadron in particular had suddenly become a personal vendetta.

Dav was supposed to wilt before Freddik’s social, physical or mental might, and when he didn’t that angered Freddik, more than anything had which Freddik could remember in his relatively short life. Freddik had to crush Dav, crush him publicly. Perhaps even make him a toady like Rand later, so Freddik would seem a generous and magnanimous leader of his peers.

No matter, the rational part of his brain thought even as it dwindled in its influence over his actions. No matter. In a split second he’d have literally broken Dav Eccles, and with him anyone else who’d be stupid enough to challenge Freddik at anything.

Or so Freddik thought. Dav had already been using a trick his Sportsmaster Tavin had taught him in school, something he should have used earlier. But Dav had been both angry and overconfident when he stepped into the ring-a potentially fatal mistake- and hadn’t thought of it until now.

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Breathing had enabled him to break the action of the fight, and especially Freddik’s movements into a series of still stages as he traveled towards Dav. When done properly, it made your opponent’s movements, attacks and defenses easier to predict. When done improperly, you ended up getting pounded while you took to long, analyzing you opponent’s moves, standing still with your jaw slack while your opponent laughed and punched you in the face over and over again.

Dav held his crouched position, his forearms crossed with his eyes up looking at Freddik, for exactly a quarter of a second.

Freddik’s face was animated with hatred, but he hadn’t yet gone into the kind of frenzy that made people careless and putty in the hands of a skilled fighter. Dav would still need to work hard to finish this fight on top of things. And so, when Freddik was barely a foot away from stomping Dav’s arm in midair...

Dav ducked lower, and rolled.

And while still on his back, Dav kicked hard as he could with both legs.

Had the move been executed perfectly, he would have caught Freddik and popped him high into the air, spinning him in midair and disprienting him, having him land with a heavy thud! on the mat.

But Dav didn’t execute the move perfectly. Instead, he hit Freddik in the legs hard enough that Freddik flew up in another arc, flailing in the air like a rag doll, spinning like a pinwheel towards the edge of the ring, and over the safety energy bands that normally kept fighters in and spectators out of the ring.

Freddik fell flat on his back as the tide of people surged backward, instinctively moving out of the way of the body falling towards them.

"DAV!" someone yelled from the back. Dav looked up, his eye swelling shut from one of the hits he'd taken.

"Whut?" he said, his voice sounding a little drunken from the fight.

"Slak is in trouble!" Porkins said, his eyes wide and his round head bobbing earnestly, "Fight! Fight in the Cantina!"

1st Lieutenant Jal Teddig, undisputed Commander of One Flight, stood beside Shea Hublin and Han Solo while pretending to sip his drink. They'd been watching the fight on one of the monitors in the Officer's mess, the smaller one that the commanders of the cadet flights were allowed to use.

"Well," said Hublin, "looks like our boy proved himself quite handily against your wonder-child."

Teddig smiled. "Freddik needed to be taken down a peg or two. I'm just glad your boy did it, and not me. Otherwise I might be in trouble next performance review, what with how influential Freddik’s father is. Are you going to punish him? What's his name again?"

"Eccles," Hublin said. "Dav Eccles. I don't think so. After all, it was your boy who challenged him. Looks like there's going to be another fight in a second."

"Yes, Porkins. Shame the fellow didn't step in and help Daggart on his own. Well, calling for reinforcements is a viable strategic move for someone like Porkins. Especially when you're better at flying a fighter than throwing a punch."

“We’ll see,” Hublin said. There wasn’t a trace of concern in his voice.

“I’m still rather new here, Hublin,” Teddig said. “How often do things devolve into a fight between the Flights?” Teddig said, standing from his almost-comfortable chair and cracking his back a little.

“Each time, Teddig,” Hublin replied. “Each class of cadets has at least one huge brawl between them. It's to be expected, after all. We’ve bottled them into such a pressure cooker precisely to see who’s going to crack. I’d chuckle to think a One-Flight cadet is going to lose to someone from Four Flight.”

“You think one of your little misfits is going to take down a One-Flighter? That'll be interesting to see. I don’t doubt that there’s going to be quite a bit of posturing in the Cantina right now, and the cream is going to rise to the top, as usual. Wouldn't you say, Second Lieutenant Solo?”

Solo stretched his legs out before he stood, and poured his stimdrink into the sink. "To be honest," he said, "I still don't like it, not the way it's currently done. I know a good fight gets rid of the bad blood, and it can build a lot of camaraderie among a loose group- and if any group is loose, it's this batch of Four Flighters. Plus it gives us an excuse to make their lives tougher with calisthenics for a few hours. Gives them a mental tune up- which is something every batch of One Flighters needs, by the way, First Lieutenant Teddig."

"Then what, may I ask, is your issue?" Teddig said as they walked down the hall towards the shouts, slams and sounds of things breaking in the Cadet Cantina.

Solo smiled before he answered. Virtually anyone who'd voiced disagreement with any rule or regulation found themselves punished in some way. But there were ways to make one's position known while staying safe.

"I don't like the casual attitude I see so many officers take towards a fight. A fight is a battle, and every battle should be fought to win. We ought to be there in the Cantina with them, right now, fighting each other and leading our Flights. It should be me and Hublin against you and your Second, Teddig, in full view of everyone. That’s my issue. I was actually thinking about taking it up with Captain Ozzel at some point, seeing if something like that had any precedence in Imperial training…"

"I….doubt that will be necessary," Teddig said.

#

"Oof!"

Slak grunted as the fist pounded into his gut....