As they descended through the crowd, bets were already being taken.

"I've got twenty riding on this, Redsun," came an unfamiliar voice.

"Make it good, Par'Vizal. We want to see some blood!"

Jeryd fired a look of disbelief over the heads of the front row, where he spotted Gorm Jolee, the eternally callous and abbraisive Iridonian blemish on the Citadel, and his chattering peons, Algosh Moll and Tyrell Catanna. They were exchanging credits and barking insults, already forming the most vocal chorus of his detractors. Their words ran off like rain water. As a veteran wegman, he was used to having an audience, indeed he thrived on it; the same could not be said of his opponent.

From the edge of the arena floor, he watched Jensen warming up. The corner of his mouth ticked in amusement. He was making a good show of it, as he knew he would. It wasn't that Jeryd enjoyed forcing Jensen out of his comfort zone - well, he did, but what was the point in being mates if you couldn't dine out on each other's misfortune? - but this kind of thing was important, first of all, to himself, for the sake of his own sanity, and secondly, for Jensen. He wasn't sure which of them was in need of a little normality more. Maybe they could both play pretend.

From inside the equipment bag, he unearthed a couple of training sabers, and tossed one to Jensen. He fired up his own, at once. It was a sound unlike any other, unmistakeable, as sharp and sudden as a blaster shot, followed by a low hum to keep the drone of cadets at bay. He marvelled at it, every time, a column of blazing white light, singing its song into the palms of his hands. It was in moments, such as those, that he felt like a spectator in his own life. It was the life of someone else, he was just wearing their skin, for a while. After a couple of practiced adjustments to blade length and power, the lightsaber was shut down.

"Ready?" he called out, crouched tentatively over his open bag. A look from Jensen told him it was time. He reached inside to tamper with something, then stood up just in time to avoid getting bonked on the nose by it, as it rose swiftly into the air. The crowd stirred. A training remote, about half the size of a smashball, hovered just out of reach, burbling away as it contemplated, first, Jeryd, then Jensen.

"After the third shot, we fight," he said, joining his friend in the centre of the arena. His training saber burst to life, once again. No sooner had Jeryd readied himself than he felt a strange sensation, almost like a chill, chase up the length of his spine. His body responded, not in a shudder, but with a stiff angled deflection. The first shot rang out, struck the blade, and hit the floor. His mouth formed a silent 'O' as watched the spot on the ground fade from red, to pink, to grey, then he raised his gaze to get a read on Jensen, across from him. He managed a nervous snort of amusement.

"Jens, is this a bad idea?"