Pain… Quite the numbing feeling that pain is…
He couldn’t -quite- recall how he made it to his ship. Couldn’t quite recall how he took off and was fairly certain that his droid punched the hyperspace route. That’s where he must have lost consciousness for a while.
Coming to, he could feel as if something alien was wrapped around his throat, his face sent up flaring messages to the pain centers in his brain, competing with the rest of his body which would jolt him in consciousness first. It took all of his will to selectively focus on each wound, each aching part of him and quiet it down.
Slumping in the pilot’s chair, white and blue light streaking past, he kept his eyes half-open as he focused inward. A combination of pain-induced numbness and generous amounts of alcohol had made sure the world around him had stopped to matter. In this moment, there was only him, his pain, and his contemplations.
Taking a deep breath, he coughed a little, his throat still sore from the choking it had received. He felt his face, swollen on the right temple, bloody lips and teeth, but nothing broken. “Good” he thought as his consciousness replayed each hit delivered to his face - a lightsaber hilt to his temple, a feminine hand delivering a backhanded slap with the weight of an anvil.
Moving on, focusing on his knee, he remembered the kick that threw him on the ground, almost dislocating his kneecap. He did concentrate on it to assess the damage, resorting that he may be limping for a few days. Next were his ribs… Two on the left side, one on the right. A reddish black flurry of blows passed before his eyes, blocked by a bright green blade, as he opted to brave the punches and knee-kicks rather than the searing heat of a lightsaber, preferring to endure with his physical stamina, rather than rely on the Force not to get killed.
Satisfied at the level of detail of the biofeedback coming from his body and of the memories of how each wound was inflicted, he closed his eyes and concentrated on his bruised forehead. In his mind’s eye, a woman was standing before him, red hair blowing in a calm evening breeze. She was holding out her hand, defiantly at him, offering to help him up with a pose of superiority towards a beaten foe. Perhaps she expected him to follow his former training’s ways in admitting defeat but that was a long time ago, and he did not play fair. As he replayed the scene in his mind, he remembered reaching for her hand, only to use his superior bulk to drag her down on him and deliver what was slowly becoming a signature move - a powerful headbutt straight at her face. Tossing her aside, he slowly got up to his feet and grinned through bloody teeth fully knowing that was a -wrong- move when your opponent is a Sith.
He drew another deep breath and coughed up, chuckling at the mere thought of her startled sight, the next few seconds came to mind. He was no longer touching the floor, but held aloft, a cold, tight grip around his throat, choking the life out of him. Everything was turning to black, everything was becoming calmer and just as it was time to give in, he felt himself crashing to the ground, his breath coming out at a pained, struggling wheeze. In the background, he faintly registered crashing and breaking noises and in the present, still slumped in his pilot’s chair, he was rubbing his throat groggily.
“That might be a bit tough to hide” he thought to himself as he brought his senses back to the here and now. Tapping on his holo-comm, he sent out a text message to some contact of his
Oi, you Duros. Gonna need some boys to stage a mugging. I’ll be arriving on Nar Shaddaa soon-ish. Handle the arrangements, and I’ll pay you the regular fee.
Flicking the comm off, he slumped back in his chair, returning his focus to his body and his aching wounds. He drifted into that semi-conscious state again, only this time his bloody lips were curled in a satisfied grin.