The Prex is Dead: Long Live the Prex!

The size of the moon but glowing with the intensity of a distant (and growing) dwarf star, something ominous this way comes. The sky is quite literally falling. Beings out in the streets pause, heads upturned, before rushing off. Speeders crash in the streets, mothers scoop up their children. A warning siren of some sort starts up in the distance, low at first then rising in pitch.

Knowing where to find the Star Destroyer's hanger isn't Meissa's biggest difficulty. Getting there on a ship that's on fire, penetrating the barrier between exosphere and thermosphere of a planet, and unavoidably losing a critical battle with gravity -- those are far bigger obstacles. And carrying an unconscious Toydarian that smells somewhat worse than carrion doesn't make the situation any more pleasant. Qwynt's smell alone is enough to make the pilot glad for the acrid smoke that's gradually replacing the oxygen in his lungs.

Precious minutes pass between leaving the bridge and shoving aside a small pile of tangled debris blocking access into the Destroyer's main hangar. Meissa doesn't expect any TIE Interceptors to be waiting on him when he arrives, but he groans when he discovers that even the cargo ships are mostly gone. "Burned my hand. Got me shot. Lost my ship!" he grumbles, "And now you can't even provide something to get us /off/ this thing?" Meissa glares over his shoulder at the Toydarian, then spots... a dropship, "Oh, you can't be serious."

The events of the past few minutes have not gone unnoticed by the gentleman who, it must be said, does bear some fault in the way they've played out. He had a spectacular view of the devastation of the CEC orbital station, after all, considering that he was in his office when the Corporate Buyout made its dramatic and catastrophic arrival. The technicians did promise the installation of those viewpanels would be worth the money!

There CEC station, while having suffered a major blow, was not completely decimated by the VSD. There were systems in place on the station for such an occurrence. Well, perhaps not for that -exact- occurrence. Qwynt's antics. while sure to be ill-conceived, have that lovely haphazard quality of the truly deranged. But even now, workers were scurrying to lock down leaks in the paneling, salvaging what they could and figuring out what to do about things they could not.

Smitherbodkins, however, has wasted no time. Almost as soon as the star destroyer wreaked its havoc on the crowning jewel of his career achievements, he had made for a shuttle to intercept it. At the moment, it hurtles through space toward the behemoth that's now more or less dead in space, though what precisely he intends to do about it is known only to himself.

Qwynt's head lolls wildly from side to side as he is carried, his limbs and body completely flaccid. Something growls in his throat, a half-oink/snore, but it sounds angry even with his consciousness gone. Suddenly, something shreds deep within the superstructure of the Corporate Buyout. Her back has been broken -- she will never fly the space between the stars again. A massive section of plate armor covering the hangar peels off, tumbling into the air into the barely there atmosphere. The hangar is mostly intact as well, but only for another few moments. The drop ship and its boarding gang plank, seem to be one unlikely possible route of salvation.

It is uncertain whether the next oath leaving Meissa's mouth is related to the imminent destruction of this temporary refuge in the hangar, or just another complaint about Qwynt's body odor. Gathering that he's got no time to waste fretting over the available mode of transportation -- or his own unenviable dislike of freefall -- the pilot hoists the Toydarian as quickly as he can toward the lowered ingress hatch of the dropship.

Quickly. Quickly! It takes another minute or two to dump the leathery, blue, bald bladder of air and other gases into a seat once he finds the dropship's cockpit. Given the nature of the ride they're about to take, and the fact that he wants Qwynt /alive/ when this is all over, Meissa is forced to misspend several more seconds strapping the Toydarian in. Almost as an afterthought, he grabs another cable tie from his pocket and wraps it around the bases of Qwynt's wings.

Another massive shudder runs through the ship, and Meissa loses his balance, hurtling across the cabin and into a wall. He flails at the pilot's seat, reaching, grasping to haul himself into it and get this bucket off the decking before there's no decking left to get off of!

The CEC shuttle continues its course toward the Star Destroyer, its pilot adjusting the intercept course so accurately while expertly avoiding the detritus that continues to slough off the ruined behemoth that there's no way it can be Smitherbodkins piloting. OR IS THERE? (There isn't.) It draws nearer to the hulking mass, minutely slowing its velocity to be better able to counter any other sudden, dangerous debris. In another minute or two, it will have reached its goal.

The Corporate Buyout cracks again, showing daylight through a jagged tear in the bulkhead. It seems to be coming apart around them. The reinforced hangar bays have remained mostly intact, but reality seems to be coming apart as the titan is slowly twisting its insides. Walls that must have once seemed immutable are shifting slowly. The Corporate Buyout is still incredibly high in the atmosphere, but officially in Corellia now. Oxygen is fanning the flames, and black and green smoke now pours from behind the wedge-shaped wreck.

With a grunt, Meissa drags himself almost sideways into the seat, fumbling with the crash webbing until he gets it around himself. "I hate dropships," he mutters to himself, "Hate them, hate them, hate them, hate them." He's not yelling. He's just repeating those two words over and over again. They're relatively HUGE, as maneuverable as rocks, and occasionally tend to mimic them when falling out of the sky.

Thankfully, the thing comes online relatively fast. "No time for warm-up!" Meissa tells the ship. He quickly brings up the most critical systems, fires the thrusters, and points the vessel toward the closest opening large enough to let the vessel pass -- and that isn't necessarily the one that's normally used. As Smitherbodkins nears the Destroyer, Meissa fires the accelerators and rockets out of the bay as quickly as the bulky troop transport will allow.

As the dropship takes off, the shuttle that pursues the VSD shifts its trajectory once more, heading toward that slightly less massive (but still ridiculously cumbersome and lacking in finesse) vessel. It comes up alongside the dropship, attempting the rather tricky maneuver of docking while the other ship is in motion. The speed is matched, but just as the pilot attempts to catch hold, the ship shifts so that he had to readjust once more.

Perhaps it would be easier for the pilot to dock if it weren't for the infuriated Smitherbodkins that looms over him, barking impossible orders. "They cannot get down planetside, do you hear me!?!" he bellows, his eyes on the viewpanelt in front of him but his words unmistakably directed at the hapless pilot that drew life's short straw today. "Intercept them!"

"I'm trying, I'm trying!" the pilot moans, once more maneuvering the ship into position to dock, mumbling something under his breath that may be a curse, or a prayer.

The familiar shapes of landmasses and oceans are vaguely distinguishable now. Through some cataclysmic coincidence, the gray outline of Coronet City is visible in the distance, but the ground is rushing up at a troubling rate. Perhaps the VSD will land in the ocean? The VSD has taken on a new and terrible shimmery vibration, just as the dropship is expertly shifted out of the hangar. Air resistance grabs the dropship and jerks it suddenly, but Meissa's reflexes are developed for precisely this type of wildly fast reactions. Shrapnel from an explosion clatters against the toughened hull of the dropship as they fall in the barely controlled crashing/landing. For his part, Qwynt is slowly stirring to consciousness, his eyeballs rolling inside of his closed eyelids. "Ahhh," he whispers low, still immobile in the chair. He's missing the best part! He'll curse Meissa vigorously one day in the future for being denied the privilege of seeing things unravel.

It feels good to be in a shock couch again, even if this transport is horrendously bulky. Meissa fights with the controls, hauling backward on them to level out his own ship's descent and move them away from the Star Destroyer. But as much as he tugs, it's like his ship is fighting him back. He looks quickly to the displays -- all systems nominal. His eyes go next to the scanner, "It's like something is..." And his eyes go wide, "What in chaos??"

Meissa slaps the ship's comm and throws his own vessel into an uncooperative sideways jerk, something like a bucking bantha. "Unidentified vessel, what are you doing? Move your ship away!"

Meissa's communication might as well not have been made, for all the attention the shuttle pays to it. The pilot's in no place to respond, trying desperately as he is to meet the demands of the irrational man behind him, and Smitherbodkins so enraged that he's barely able to form a coherent thought, much less sentence, that doesn't have the words 'Qwynt' and 'die' in it. The shuttle continues to fly perilously close to the dropship; a lesser pilot might already have disabled the craft beyond repair.

Finally, agonizingly, the shuttle manages to lock onto the dropship and complete the docking procedure. The man at the controls heaves a sigh of relief, but Smitherbodkins doesn't even hear it. He's already racing through, spurred onward by adrenaline and pure, unadulterated rage. It's only a matter of time before he reaches the unlikely pair in the other cockpit.

"Blast it!" The ship shudders as the shuttle locks on. Eyes furtive, Meissa checks the sensors to at least make sure that the stricken Star Destroyer and debris from the space station won't collide with them. Ensuring their safety on that front, he unbelts himself from his seat and reaches for his blaster. "I'll be darned if I'm going to lose you now, Mr. Qwynt." Flexing his wounded arm to make sure it will function for whatever is coming, he tightens his hand around his weapon's grip, makes his way to cover, and prepares to defend his bounty at the door.

Qwynt opens his eyes, but only to slits, his yellow orbs flicking back and forth quietly. "You're going to diieeee," Qwynt whispers to Meissa, tauntingly, as he gets up from the shock couch and goes to the cockpit door. Qwynt is a Toydarian, so things that are tuned for normal humanoids do not have the same effect on him. In general, due his smaller mass, everything he takes in or experiences is on a larger scale. The basic things of humanoids are all experienced on a grand scale -- food, carnal pleasures, are all on an intensity that some may take for granted. Meissa's two stun shots on the Toydarian have completely electrified his nervous system, every fiber of his body feeling on fire. But at the same time, Qwynt is a recent glitterstim addict, and has enough glitterstim moving through his tiny body to shatter the good senses of a dozen wookiees. Some combination of the extreme situation, the spice, and the physical trauma have unleashed a different Qwynt.

And so it is that he wedges his bound legs into the space between the chair and the side of the control panel, takes a breath, closing his eyes -- and twists his body. The sound is almost inaudible, but Qwynt grimaces suddenly. He has just broken his own leg. "Exquisite!" he whispers, nearly silent, completely mad, reaching down to slip the tie off his bound legs. He gathers himself and leaps from the chair, falling immediately to the ground, wrapping both his hands around the trap door emergency lever, yanking it free and opening the apertured portal. A tiny ladder leads into the darkness below the cockpit. "Keep up the good work," he says, and Qwynt affects a little salute to Meissa with his two hands, still bound together, and tilts forward, disappearing into the black space below.

As luck would have it, Smitherbodkins appears in the door of the cockpit just in time to see the object of his desire disappear through a panel in the floor. He lets out a strangled roar, and moves forward in pursuit; just then, though, the stench hits him. He steps back once more, leaning over with a hand on his stomach as he struggles to keep his last meal from making its dramatic comeback.

After a moment, when he's gotten some control over his gag reflex, he spares one moment to turn his head to Meissa, barking, "Stay here in care he comes back!" It makes no sense, but there's no time for sense. He doesn't bother to wait for an answer, or to make sure his orders are followed, merely drops down the hole himself with almost as little care for his own safety as Qwynt has shown. Every decision he makes, now, is with the end goal of getting to the Toydarian, no matter what it takes.

Corellia rushes up at them all, promising a sudden, hard impact and definitive end to their shared circumstances. There is a huge, subsonic boom -- as the remnants of the VSD and the dropship itself (roughly matching speeds) move at near the speed of sound. The VSD is broken into twenty or thirty massive pieces, along with the main barely identifiable wedge shaped main piece of junk. Thousands of other pieces of junk, twisted and hardly identifiable, are coming down behind the fiery mess.

Qwynt is gone, but must not have gone too far. If the fighter ace and the evil businessman are watching for it and not supremely concerned with their impending deaths, they may notice a series of side console lights flickering on. They come on one at a time, in a row, in a certain sequence. These are other portions of the ship coming to life, the dropship spooling up its cargo handling tools and cargo deployment functions... if Smitherbodkins is close behind, he'll notice lights coming on progressively deeper in the bowels of the ship, an insane toydarian half hopping, pulling himself along.

Qwynt pauses at the terminal end of the tunnel, at another armored durasteel hatch, which is propped open, and swings inside, pulling at the hatch behind him!

Meissa nearly shoots Smitherbodkins. When the businessman gets on board and Meissa narrowly recognizes him, the Zabrak throws his hands in the air in frustration. It takes everything he's got not to yell at the human CEO when he realizes, first, who it is, and second, that in trying to defend his bounty /from/ Smitherbodkins, the /bounty/ has gotten away!

"I'd better get paid for this!" he yells at fate in general after Smitherbodkins disappears through the hatch. At this point, he's ready to shoot the both of them, claim the dropship as his own, sell whatever's in it, and call the whole cursed thing even. Dropping into his chair with a scowl, Meissa holsters his weapon and glances at the console. "What the...?" He leans forward to see what's happening.

Smitherbodkins drops down into the tunnel somewhat behind Qwynt, landing with a metallic clang and barely managing to keep his feet. Catching a glimpse of the limping Toydarian just before he makes it to the hatch, Smitherbodkins manages to increase his pace, racing down the corridor in the hopes that he might manage to catch his quarry. The lights coming on barely get a glimpse from him, but they confirm his suspicions, which were why he was so adamant that Qwynt not make it planetside. He arrives a split second after the hatch clangs shut, and his roar rings out in the corridor as he smashes a fist against the wall, then heaves the hatch open once more and follows the Toydarian in. His hand is bleeding now, but he takes no notice.

The zip ties formerly at Qwynt's hands are now off, the Toydarian having found a convenient place to pop them off. He laughs aloud at his own broken leg, and how easily he removed the ties from his hands. It is not as if this is the first time Qwynt has had his hands tied together or been arrested. There are ways out of these things. He continues into the cockpit of the AT-AT, which is folded up inside the mechanical womb of the larger dropship. "Mmm hmmm mmm mmm," he hums, tuneless and rasping, fingers plunging into the console at random buttons that he happens to pass, paying no heed to the enraged Corellian following. When something lights up or makes noise, he leaves it on. If it doesn't, he hits it harder. "Fire control?" Qwynt asks aloud, leaning forward to read, making the crackling sound of radio static with his throat. "Admiral Qwynt to base... permission to, ah, fire?" A grid of blue-white lights appears on the viewscreen of the AT-AT. It is a firing grid. He has just primed the main cannons of the AT-AT and turned on the firing computer, which is now seeking a firing solution even as it is within the dropship. Can this little creature possibly cause more damage?

By the time Smitherbodkins has rounded the corner and entered the cockpit with Qwynt, the tiny blue devil is wearing the Imperial-style AT-AT Walker pilot helmet, though it is far too large for his head. It is a Vader-esque affair, with a polished black dome and two outward angled flared faceguards. The chin straps dangle against his chest. He looks for all the galaxy like a child at play -- except that there are reminders all around them that this is no play. He twists in his seat and looks at Smitherbodkins quizzically. He doesn't think to ask how he got here, or what he intends. The expression is solemn. "Smitherbodkins. I... I'm glad you're here for this. There's something I've been wanting to say to you. Something I didn't know how to say before, but now. Yes, I think now it is time. For you to know the truth."

Qwynt squeezes the trigger at his station, quite by accident, shooting a hole through the interior of the dropship.

Despite all the setbacks, the agonizing difficulties, and the infuriating disasters, Smitherbodkins has finally managed to get into the same room as Qwynt. He shoves his way into the cockpit of the AT-AT, cane in hand, his face a mask of rage, so unlike his normal composure that he is almost unrecognizable. He comes to a stop, his hair in disarray, sweat dripping down his face, gasping for air as he leans one hand against the wall for an instant to try and compose himself for the final strike.

It's this one instant of hesitation that allows him to hear Qwynt's words. Had he not paused, he might have cut the Toydarian down before the disgusting creature had opened its foul mouth; as it is, he's completely taken aback. His jaw drops, eyes wide and staring at the opponent that had proven more difficult to rid himself of than he could possibly have imagined. The elegant businessman, so adept in any sphere requiring intelligence, wit, and wordplay, finds himself once more rendered speechless by this seemingly insignificant alien. Finally, he manages to force out one word:

"What?"

Qwynt makes a panicked, aghast face at the power of the AT-AT's cannons. The mighty thrumming of the military-grade blaster rattles even through the handles of the weapon's controls. "Woa-ho!" he yells, alarmed, but more than a little thrilled. "Eh? Yes, oh." Qwynt pauses, collects his helmeted thoughts, and swallows hard. "The truth. About why I pushed you so hard. Why I was so focused on you, above all others." He takes his hands from the console and turns to face the Corellian, holding the seat by either side and looking over at his foe. He seems to *grow* closer to Smitherbodkins, physically, yes, but also somehow emotionally as well.

"I never told you the truth. About me. You see, we're not so different, Smitherbodkins." He pauses, dilated pupils huge in the flickering light of the dropship fire that he has ignited. "Because my name is Geophreigh too. G.S.? Did you never wonder?" he asks, shaking his head. "Geophreigh Smitherbodkins Qwynt. The third." He reaches out with his three-fingered hand, letting it hang there in empty air. "Take my hand. My son." His face is earnest, open, hopeful.

There are no words to describe the emotions that course through Smitherbodkins, too fast to even register in his head, much less on his face. Shock, anger, disgust, chagrin...they are so mundane, compared to what this revelation evokes in the gentleman who now stands in front of Qwynt. His face is deathly pale, the blood draining from it as Qwynt attempts to reach for him with the gesture that's almost human, and made all the more despicable by that thread of genuine emotion it holds. He's to stunned to even pull back, much as he might want to; the stench is still almost intolerable.

It's frightening how everything can change in one instant. His face goes from white to a red so deep it's nearly purple. He throws back his head as a scream fills his lungs, ripping its way from his throat to fill the cockpit with a force much greater than what he should be able to produce.

"NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!"

With that, he gives the handle of his cane a violent twist, releasing the blade from within its secret sheath. He lunges at the creature, with nothing close to his usual practiced grace, not even aiming, blinded to anything around him but the beast that's now grown giant in his vision.

Qwynt seems indifferent to the horrible, unearthly scream. Perhaps not indifferent. Perhaps he looks on Smitherbodkins as if expecting this response, or is that the expression of tenderness? Perhaps it is just the dulled senses of a body and mind taxed far beyond its limits, and too now dimmed and dulled to process a reaction.

And with that, Qwynt looks down matter-of-factly to his chest, so small that Smitherbodkins's two hands could easily encircle it. He looks to the long, silvery blade that has come to rest in his body, at the blue foamy blood that is oozing down his skin and pooling on the shelf of his round belly. The Toydarian looks back up at Smitherbodkins, his eyes barely visible beneath the rim of the oversized helmet he's wearing. Qwynt gives Smitherbodkins a little nod and a wink before collapsing forward. His shoulders hunch, he exhales a long breath that seems to go forever, and there is a clattering noise... from his concealed hand behind the seat he has dropped a utility handaxe, painted red and fitted with a vibroblade made for cutting into and out of dangerous spaces. It is not an ideal weapon, but it would have been fine for cleaving Smitherbodkins's skull.

Whatever satisfaction that Smitherbodkins gets from finally sinking his blade into his nemesis is short-lived. For all that he's witnessed every single move the Toydarian has made, he's still not prepared for the hidden weapon that is now whistling through the air toward his face, its path made even quicker by Qwynt's downward trajectory. He barely has time to cry out and turn away before the axe finds its mark, though that last second turn may have saved his life as the axe glances off his perfectly sculpted cheekbone and slices off a generous chunk of his face.

His life may have been saved, but the axe continues its gristly work, for though he falls backward and crashes onto the floor, managing to avoid the killing blow, there's nothing to stop the weapon from continuing in its path. Nothing, that is, except his thigh. The axe cleaves through his flesh with a sickening wet sucking sound, stopping as it finds the bone within. He doesn't feel the pain immediately. That's how he knows that it must be bad. He looks down, putting a hand to the wound. His fingers come away red.

Suddenly, inexplicably, he begins to laugh.

Qwynt's lifeless body slides off of Smitherbodkins's blade, backward onto the console. The whole cockpit seems to swivel, the head of the AT-AT turning inside of the cramped space, slamming into a side strut that keeps the (normally) folded walker in place during a drop. Qwynt's corpse continues to slide downward, at an odd angle, the controls for the main cannon repeatedly triggered as the length of his body lacerate the side of the drop ship with extreme and unintended prejudice. As Qwynt silently hits the floor of the cockpit he seems to deflate a bit. There is only the acrid smell of burning and ozone, the sudden rush of air from the outside, Smitherbodkins's mad laughter, and finally, and perhaps most essentially, the explosion.

A blistering fireball of green and black hell expands instantly inside the dropship, some critical component hit.

THe explosion snaps off Smitherbodkins' laughter immediately, bringing him back to himself. One consequence of this is that he's able to at least begin to think about how he's going to get out of here. Gritting his teeth, he begins to remove his shirt, popping the buttons off in his haste to get it open and off. He manages to do so with no small effort, beginning to wrap it around the deep wound in his leg and tie it off tightly.

The other consequence of his sudden switch to reality is that he notices his pain. And there's a lot of it. His grunts turn to clipped screams, and the crisp white linen is quickly stained bright red.

There's only one way out of the AT, and there's little to no hope of him making it, but he's too stubborn not to try. He yanks the sword from Qwynt's chest, grasping frantically for the sheath. His fingers close around it and he manages to shove the sword back in, heaving himself up with the once ornamental, and now sadly quite necessary, implement. He begins to half-hop, half drag himself toward the door of the walker, moving as fast as his injuries will allow him, blood dripping down his face and onto his undershirt.

Suddenly, he registers a strange sensation. The ship is not moving. He blinks, sparing an instant to look around as though the opaque walls will give him some sort of answer to this unexpected turn of events. Meissa must have managed to land the! Hoping against hope, he hobbles down the corridor, banging frantically at the buttons on the hatch that would normally release the walkers. After a moment of paralyzing fear, it begins to creak open. The roar of the explosion grows, setting off more and more eruptions that will soon rend the dropship asunder. He's blinded momentarily by the Corellian sun, but he doesn't stop, forcing himself to move away from the ship that might otherwise have been his shroud.

As he distances himself from the wreckage, four words hiss their way through Smitherbodkins' gritted teeth:

"Damn you...curse you..."

The dropship creaks, now in flames as well, but it seems as if it will sit on the hot sands of the Golden Beaches and roast its contents. A small explosion pops at the nose of the huge dropship, spraying tiny bits of transparisteel all over the beach. Qwynt's funeral pyre. He was never one for ceremony, but he always was one for elaborate plots, and cons. Was he ever G.S. Qwynt, III? Did he ever exist? Was the entire thing one enormous con?

Was he even dead now?