Listening to an itinerant spice trader tell you how much you're worth on the galactic black market is an experience I am still stuck with mixed feelings over.
I laughed at the time, right along with them and their supposed joke. They didn't laugh much longer.
Reaching the battle grounds, I see the simulated zone spread before us. A holographic cityscape sprawled beneath a dark green sky, dotted with crumbling towers and deserted avenues.
Hovering drones buzz overhead, ready to record our performance.
A thrill courses through me.
There's a chill skittering across my thick hide and down my tail, but it is little more than a vague sensation relegated to the back of my mind as I inhale thexereafumes being pumped into the air via chutes buried beneath the start zone.
Nothing like a bit of delirium to make the fighters more sluggish and ensure a drawn-out fight.
The ceremony is part martial skill and part endurance.
Very few still bother to makexereafumes, so the product is expensive, reserved for the more illustrious of our number who can afford the exorbitantly priced canisters of stimulating yet numbing smoke.
For the Darangul Clan to spend this much to douse us, it means some heavy spenders threw their weight behind making this year's event as entertaining as possible. They were always richer than my clan.
We wouldn't agree to the waste.
The stark increase in numbers compared to last year's live audience is telling enough.
From a glance, it seems like the usual mix of civilians, their proto-wing drapings and ornaments clearly marking them asnon-combatants. Aside from the occasional disabled veteran, none of them know what it's like to fight for their lives.
My chest swells with pride that my efforts make that possible for them.
The scars on my hide are clear proof.
Our leader, Maj'Rasare Xallen, a grizzled veteran with a cybernetic arm that gleams in the morning sun, bellows the starting signal. The air crackles with the suppressed energy of fifty eager draks.
This year, I plan on lasting until the end.
The mock battle begins. We scatter through the holographic city as the countdown ticks down before we are allowed to fight, using the ruined buildings for cover. The drones whir, mimicking blaster fire as we prepare to engage in our simulated skirmishes.
I slip through an alleyway, navigating the debris with practiced ease. My reflexes, honed by years of patrolling and training, come into play.
A hulking figure rounds the corner. Thorg, another veteran with an axe the size of my torso. I roll out of the way just as the blade whooshes overhead, sparks flying against the stone under us.
"You're getting slow, Drasuk," Thorg booms, his laugh echoing through the alley.
I leap at him as I retort. "Just warming up, old friend."
We lock blades in a mock duel, the training bio-mesh groaning in protest.
We exchange a few playful blows. The temptation to use more lethal tactics is there, spurred on by my already intoxicated mind, but this is a mock battle.
Lethality is frowned upon.
I tail whip the defensive Thorg into a nearby pool marked as poison, a shrill chirp letting me know it counted as a kill. I sheathe my blade in the holder on my under-armor plating and take off on all fours in search of new opponents, my heart pumping out my excitement.
As I do, I feel thexereasettle in my lungs and the roof of my mouth like a magnetic cloud that fills me with equal parts thrill and lethargy.
Long moments slide by.
I dispatch three more competitors, feeling a pang of regret each time, even though it is simply a way to sharpen our skills and they aren't harmed. No one wants to imagine the death of a fellow drak. It happens far too often.
A few hours later, the battlefield thins.
