Zeerid barely heard him. He took the time Vrath had used to clear his nose to recover his own breath and eye the floor for either blaster. Both weapons had disappeared under crates during the scrum.

Vrath felt the damage to his nose with a two-finger pincer. “What are you? Harriers? Commandos?”

Zeerid’s breathing cleared and the two men began to circle.

“Havoc Squadron,” Zeerid said, sizing up the smaller man.

“First in,” Vrath said, reciting one of the squad’s mottos.

“You?” Zeerid asked.

“Imperial sniper corps.”

“A skulker,” Zeerid said.

Vrath lost his smile at the insult. “I killed over fifty men in a Republic uniform, Korr. You’ll be just another number to me.”

“We’ll see,” Zeerid said, as calm as the quiet moments before a thunderstorm.

Vrath feinted, drawing a response from Zeerid. Vrath grinned, his teeth bloody with runoff from his nose.

“Jumpy, yeah?”

Zeerid watched for an opening as they circled. When he saw one, he feinted high and lunged in low, thinking to take Vrath down where Zeerid’s size would give him the advantage. Vrath sprawled to avoid the takedown, but Zeerid used his weight to drive him up against the bulkhead. Vrath threw a short elbow, grazing Zeerid’s head, another, catching him on the cheek.

Grunting, Zeerid pushed himself away from the smaller man to get some room to work. When he had it, still holding Vrath’s arms, he put a knee into his abdomen, another, another. Vrath grunted, turned his body to keep his hips in the way.

Vrath’s fingers slid up Zeerid’s shoulder to his face, toward his eyes. Zeerid shook his head but Vrath’s fingers found the sockets, started to burrow.

Zeerid shoved him away and backed off, blinking, covering his retreat with a front kick.

Vrath lunged at him, seized him around the thighs, lifted him off the ground, and threw him back down. Zeerid’s head hit the deck hard and he saw stars. Vrath squirmed atop him, fast, elusive, his arms and legs everywhere, wrapping Zeerid up. Soon he had his body atop Zeerid. Elbows and fists poured down, one after another. Zeerid took a blow to the cheek, the temple, another to the cheek, the top of his head. The last opened him up and blood ran warm and slick down his pate, smeared his face, darkened Vrath’s elbow.

Desperate, he reached for Vrath’s arms but the man was too fast and the blood made his skin slick, more difficult to get a grip. Zeerid wrapped his arms around Vrath’s back, pulled him close to disallow him the room he needed to ply his elbows.

And then Vrath made a mistake. Trying to pull himself back up to loose more elbows, he put his face above Zeerid’s with only a few centimeters between them. Zeerid threw his head up and slammed his brow into Vrath’s already broken nose.