Glimmik music was the best workout music, in Djak's humble opinion. His muscles burned as he pushed, pushed, pushed in time with with the heavy bass beat. Sweat trickled down his red skin, flushed dark with his exertions, his fire-glass black hair soaked. He was working out in their makeshift gym, laying on his back across a row of crates, bench pressing a heavy durasteel pipe weighted at both ends. 

He wasn't concerned that his music would disturb others. The tunnel was long, taking several tight turns, and the walls were soft enough to muffle most of the sound. What filtered through was a pleasant rumble, and if that was enough to hurt their delicate sensibilities, they were sensitive enough to be useless in the game of survival. Djak did like to know who was dead weight. Not that he'd leave anyone behind if he could help it... the veins in his neck stood out, and he racked the weights at last, sitting up to catch his breath. 

The Zeltron hadn't touched a lightsaber in three years. He'd left it, along with his padawan braid, when he'd left the Order. His swordsmanship had never progressed beyond mere proficiency, since he'd done so much work undercover, and he didn't really feel the loss the way his companions would. His weapons harness was hung over a peg in the corner, sporting a heavy blaster pistol in a drop-down leg holster, a smaller backup blaster, and a vibroblade as long as his forearm. He was never defenseless, though. Even in workout attire, he wore another backup blaster on one calf, a vibroblade on the other. Those were his normal weapons, though. While running with the gangs of Coruscant, he'd learned how to handle bigger weapons, and kept up his practice here in exile. 

Laying back down, he started another set. The tattoos on his right arm rippled as his muscles flexed with each rep. His breath came in short gasps and long huffs. The uneven edge of the crates beneath him dug into his back. He was training with free weights and no spotter, and with his ineptitude in telekinesis, if his muscles failed he would have a very difficult time of things. 

Finishing at last, he sat up with a groan and stretched his aching muscles. Anna would be back in by now. He stood, still stretching, and turned off the glimmik music before picking up his harness and heading down the tunnel, intent on a good hot shower before breakfast. Through the Force, he could sense the others beginning to stir. Sahrot in particular hadn't slept well. Djak could probably have helped him with that, but it would only be a temporary reprieve. 

His fingers instinctively combed through his hair before he came into the common area, raking the sweat-dampened locks into a stylish tousle. "Anna, Sera," he nodded to the two young women as he came in. "How's tricks?"