| abstract | - The room is slowly filling with creatures from across the galaxy, friends, coworkers, and associates of the dearly departed Qwynt, as well as teh hangers on, looking to pick up the scraps of the Amalgamated Waste kingpin's estate. It is not quite yet time for the ceremony to begin, but people are finding their seats, filing reverently past the case full of mementos of his life, and grabbing complementary sticks from the famed Qwynt's Meat Shack card in the corner. Frederiko is seated sadly upon the stage, dressed handsomely in an overly-large tuxedo. The Ortolan looks like he has lost some weight, and the sorrow of the occasion only causes him to look worse: his eyes are puffy and red and the end of his snout is pink, as if he has been blowing it a lot. He wipes his eyes with a large handkercheif. Of course, the lord of the manor cannot allow any event of his to go awry, even if he is not technically hosting that event. As such, he moves slowly around the room, murmuring condolences, offering a sympathetic hand, and just generally allowing himself to be seen. The face behind the half mask is grave, somber, and most of all, appropriate. Smitherbodkins is nothing if not completely appropriate for every occasion. He still limps, but though his cane is, as ever, in his hand, he does not actually use it. Perhaps he's just holding onto it for moral support. His steps take him to Frederiko, and he lays a hand on the distressed Ortolan's shoulder, squeezing it compassionately. "I know this is a hard day for you, Mr. Eembek. Let me know if there is anything else I can do to assist you." Since hearing the news, Murdock could not help but think back, as he is sure so many others are doing at this very moment, on his last discussion with G.S. Qwynt III. He could so clearly remember all of the harsh things that they had each said to each other and how they had acted. He simply couldn't help but replay it over and over again in his head. The rather somber Verpine enters the room in his most formal black robe and headband, a true sign of respect for the being he was here to remember. More than normal, his large, bulbous eyes seemed to shine as if covered in a salty shield of tears. Or perhaps it was that he had forgotten to wear the eye shield again while welding, but either way his eyes were looking pretty beat up. He emits an occasional sniffle as he tries to find a seat. Frederiko collapses into the arms of Smitherbodkins, his flabby blue arms bear-hugging the Corellian. If it weren't for how tightly he is gripping him, he might have knocked the injured fellow down. Big, wet tears fall onto Smitherbodkin's shoulder, leaving a damp spot on his jacket. "It's just not fair. He was so good," the Ortolan weeps messily. After a moment of this sort of carrying on, Frederiko extracts himself, pulling himself together. "Look at all of his friends." he says, gesturing out into the crowd. In the front row is an elderly toydarian female, inconsolable and sobbing into her handkercheif. Nearby is another Twi'lek, with seven young children of varying species, three of which are of a blue tint and one of which is a toydarian. "The woman tells me they are all his," he says, sadly shaking his head. "I didn't know he had a family. I must find a way to help them!" Apparently Frederiko has not realized that this is not possible. He seems on the edge of breaking down again when he notices the Verpine enter. "And look at that Verpine. He has been weeping. How sad he looks!" He waves to him, as he waves to many entering guests. Without warning, the Qwynt family arrives. All of them. First, there is Poot, the eldest. He is dressed in a fantastic tuxedo, huge dark goggles covering his eyes. His somber expression is militant, drawn. He wears a thick gold chain around his neck, and his right leg is missing, the remainder just a stump. Alongside Poot is Boo-T, nearly Qwynt's age. He wears a maroon windsuit, has wispy hair on either side of his head. Boo-T is gregarious, apparently, having a hard time getting anywhere in the room due to his constant talking, comments on the Manor, and random discussions with passersby. Tiny, who is in fact Tiny, comes along behind them, about half-sized for a Toydarian, but with oddly disproportionate facial features. The men of the family precede the wide repulsorsled, which is decorated and gilded. It has been draped with heavy carpets and silks. Atop the carpets is the most corpulent figure this galaxy has ever seen: Momma Cleo. Momma is virtually a bag of fat, every motion of the sled jiggling her morbidly obese flesh. Her tiny legs are barely visible under her body. She wears a knitted shawl around her shoulders, which has been pinned in place with a brooch. An oversized hat completes the ensemble, along with a false beauty mark which has been attached on one side of her semi-erect snout. Momma's wings are atrophied and far too small to hold her aloft, but they occasionally flap to help her turn from side to side. At the sight of the room, Momma flops to her face, still on the sled, where all the children rush to her. "Oooooooh! Ooooh!" she squalls. "My baby! Ahhh!" The girls are behind the sled: Naqua (who secretly wears an ankle tracking bracelet and was granted a brief release from her six month imprisonment) and Glitter who, oddly, is the most sensible one of the bunch. Smitherbodkins does, in fact, nearly fall to the ground; luckily he does not, Frederiko, having lost a few pounds in the past several weeks since the death of his benefactor. Smitherbodkins pats him on the back awkwardly, twisting to the side so as not to be completely drenched in Ortolan mucous. "There, there," he says, stepping back as Frederiko pulls away, then turning to looks at where he indicates. He notices Murdock, and snorts, barely managing to turn it into a cough. "Yes, it is all so tragic." Another straggler arrives after the large group of Toydarians: an Askajian, clearly having stored as much water as she can for the occasion, though she threatens to lose it all, judging by the rivers of tears coursing down her cheeks. Her six breasts are barely covered with three black, sequined brassieres, and a nearly sheer black skirt adorns her bottom half. She takes out an enormous handkerchief (where was she keeping it?) and blows her nose loudly. Murdock tried to be strong. He thought of all of his most favorite holovid action movie stars who would bravely conceal their true emotions as they pressed on and sacrificed. Deep down inside, the Verpine knew he was nothing like these beings. Despite his best efforts, he was a lover, not a fighter. Frederiko's words break down the walls to his heart, and he doesn't hold back. A loud, chittering, insectoid noise bellows out from his chest as he mourns in the true Verpine way. He throws himself upon both Frederiko and Geophreigh, his chest occasionally heaving with more emotional outbursts as he sputters, "The things we said! The things we DID to each other! I wish I could take it all back!" Diving deep into Smitherbodkins' jacket, he breaths out forcefully through his noseholes to expel the excess fluids residing there. "Oh Smitherbodkins! If only you knew how heated our talk was!" Frederiko's chubby arms wrap around the verpine now, and again engulfs Smitherbodkins in a fresh torrent of tears. "I know! I know how you feel! I did not even know how he cared for me! We had lost touch! And then, I was named his benefactor. Can you imagine? There were so many instructions, but I followed them. I do not know what to do with it all. I never got to thank him. I never got to say goodbye! How can I thank him?" Frederiko steps back from the group hug and turns to the giant image of Qwynt hanging above them. "THANK YOU!" he yells at it. "You should tell him how you feel. It helps. I have been doing it all day!" he suggests to the weeping verpine. "I know." He is in the process of giving him a reassuring pat on the back when Qwynt's family arrives. "Excuse me, I have to make sure they are seated properly." The Ortolan makes his way through the crowd to the Toydarian entourage and, stepping up to the chaise, takes Mrs. Qwynt's hand and kisses it. "I am Frederiko, your son's friend. Please, we have made a special place for the family up front." He bows low to the family matriarch and then gives cordial bows to the other members as well. Meanwhile, the Askajian is approached by an usher and he asks her her relation, in order to facilitate seating. In the presence of such grief and ceremony Dante is a somber presence in a precisely tailored black uniform, just one of a handful of Imperial officers present to represent the Empire and, of course, to offer their condolences to the family of the departed. She joins the group moving toward the family members, studying the room with quiet curiosity and eyeing the chubby Ortolan who just shouted his thanks - she presumes - to the spirit of the deceased. A telltale twitch of her lips is the only hint that she's concealing a smile of slightly appalled amusement at the antics of the Ortolan, shaking her head: non humans, never know what they'll do. It looks like Poot is going to confront Frederiko, his inscrutable expression coming between the Ortolan and Momma. "Go ahead," he says after a moment, waving Frederiko through. By the time Frederiko gets Momma's hand, her finely lacquered nails will be evident -- incredibly elaborate designs have been painted and etched onto them, little jewels secured on the lengthy claws. She pulls her hand back weakly. "Who?!" she says, her lip curling. But then they are directed to the front, and she nods: "Oh right." The entourage makes its way ahead, through the chairs, Momma's repulsorsled slowly listing to one side as the Toydarians start to discuss who is sitting where. Boo-T takes a seat at the far end of the row, avoiding the discussion, draping an arm across the seatback to either side of him and nodding pleasantly at the other guests. Smitherbodkins is now completely engulfed in hells know what, and it's all he can do not to gag as he reaches up, perhaps planning to wipe some of the viscous liquid off his coat. He then seems to think better of it; if it's a choice between his coat and his skin, probably best to go for the coat. After all, he can always burn it later. "I know, I know," he soothes, patting the distressed Verpine on the back, meanwhile looking over his shoulder to the interesting party that has recently arrived. The faintest of sighs escape his lips. Perhaps any who hear it could be convinced that it was a sigh of sadness. The Askajian, wiping her eyes and stuffing the handkerchief back down between her middle breasts, turns to the usher as she's addressed. "I'm his fiance!!!" she wails, holding up her left hand. Indeed, a large, gaudy, and clearly very cheap ring glitters there. "We were going to be married in two weeks!" At this statement, the Twi'lek with the many strange-looking children whips her head around, head-tails nearly snapping the faces of those sitting around her. "Excuse me??? -I'm- his fiance!" She holds up her hand, displaying an almost identical ring. The Askajian's eyes widen, and she sputters, before she cries, "You lying hag!" and lunges for the Twi'lek, who looks game for a fight as well, especially with those fingernails. It's all the usher can do to keep them apart, and he grabs the Askajian, forcing her toward the other side of the room, well away from the other "fiance." The glare the Askajian gives her could probably cut through steel. Along with the Imperial delegation. The Imperial Warlord shows up in his formal attire. He flicks a piece of lint from the collar of his black coat as he watches the baby mama drama start off. A slight smile crosses his lips, perhaps from the outflow of strong emotion or the fact that a normally somber occasion could get interesting, as long as he doesn't get shot. As Murdock turns and sees the enlarged image of Qwynt, he again breaks down and falls to his knees, his head resting in his hands. "How has it come to this, Qwynt? I am so dearly sorry that you were placed on my blacklist!" Grief has him in its grasp now as he fights to pull his head up to look at the image once more and begs for his forgiveness. It takes him a moment, but he summons the strength to collect himself and then pick himself up. Turning towards his new business associate, he speaks in a more collected tone, "Mister Smitherbodkins, it is best to let out all of your grief. I know that you and Mister Qwynt did not always have agreeing business strategies, but I am most sure that he would truly appreciate some kind words from you today. I believe we all would. You are such a gifted public speaker." A large group enters the room, all in their Amalgamated Waste jumpsuits, and all wearing PLA pins. They are not here for trouble, but to pay tribute to their fallen leader. An usher directs them to a cordoned off section near the front, appropriately distant from the cadre of CSA Direx Board members who have come to pay their respects. Another usher approaches the Imperials who have entered the room, directing her towards the section where Imperial representatives are seated. The Imperial section is not far from the "present and past lover section" which is almost bigger than the Imperial section. Plan as he might, Frederiko had not anticipated that seating all of Qwynt's former flames in the same place might be a bad idea. Indeed, the ushers rush in to separate the two women who threaten to start a fight. "WE HAVE CHILDREN," the Twi'lek screams in an agonized fashion at the 6-breasted woman. "Think of the children!" She waves her arms at the children, none of which look anything like Qwynt. Frederiko moves towards the podium, catching Murdock's suggestion to Smitherbodkins. He steps up to the microphone and says, "I would like to thank you all for ocming here today. My friend here," he motions to the verpine, "has just had a wonderful idea. Before we begin, everyone should let loose their emotions to our dearly departed. Just tell him how you feel. Get it off your chest! All at once now!" He turns to the enormous visage of Qwynt looming down at him and begins weeping anew, grabbing Murdock and flinging his arm over his shoulder. "MY BENEFACTOR HWO CAN I THNK YOU?" Dante follows the usher with all manner of polite respect, nodding to the other officers who are already seated and taking the nearest empty chair that will allow her a better view of the room and all the people seated in their designated sections. That the seating area for the Imperial's present is near enough to the Baby Mama Drama section is not lost on her and, shameful as it is, she settles back and when offered the chance quietly chips into the betting pool as to which baby mama is going to throw the first punch and/or pull the first hank of hair or brain tail tentacle thing. Tiny sits on one side of Momma, Glitter on the other side, her shoulders slumped forward resignedly. Boo-T is farther down the aisle, vaguely interested in the twi'lek-Askajian conflict, leering with his yellow tusks exposed. Poot is straightening his suit jacket when he spots the Imperial delegation. The Warlord -- wow, that's a sight -- but Poot is more interested in Dante. He holds his palm up to his mouth, just a quick test, and starts to smoothly make his way up the aisle to the Imperial section. He got but one leg, but Poot still got game. Momma has produced a folding fan from somewhere, which she snaps open and starts to fan herself awkwardly at the beginning of the services. "What the?" Momma says aloud. "This spast is weird! Naqua, what are they on about? To the hells -- two-toed swamp suckers..." Her voice trails off in volume but grows in intensity. "I, ah..." Smitherbodkins takes a step back, the outpouring of emotion almost too much for him to handle. "I do not think...that is, I would not want my personal grief to overshadow that of those who knew him so much better than I." He begins to say something more, but though his lips move, the words are lost in the torrent that follows Frederiko's heartfelt yet possibly ill-advised direction. The Askajian falls to her knees and lets out a wail that could rival a Corellian sand-panther. "Whyyyyyyyy?" she screams, clutching at her face, breasts heaving as she sobs, "Whyyyyyy, Geophreigh?!?! WHY DID YOU HAVE TO LEAVE ME????" At his name, Smitherbodkins looks toward the source, frowning, his expression one of complete confusion. His eyes fall on the large near-human, and they widen for an instant, then narrow almost to slits. The hand on his cane tightens until there's no way that any blood could possibly be flowing to his fingers. Frederiko. A true musician, he was, playing upon Murdock's heartstrings as masterfully as if he were an instrument used by the Sack of Pancakes. It was truly no wonder at all why he was the benefactor of this truly unique being they had all gathered to remember. With one arm draped over Frederiko, Murdock raises a fist to the heavens and shakes it menacingly. "By the powers of Zod, if only I could recall you myself to the mortal realm and resolve our business contract! If only I had injured Mister Smitherbodkins more seriously!" Heaving a heavy sigh, he looks down as he pulls out a datapad and begins tapping away at it with his thumb. Perhaps a moment of silence was in order for all to contemplate the man. The Prex. The legend... Yes, silence was in order. What could facilitate that moment? Not to be outdone in showing the most grief, the Twi'lek looks at each child and says loudly, "YOU LOOK JUST LIKE HIM! OH HOW CAN I GO ON HAVING TO LOOK AT HIS BEAUTIFUL FACE EVERY DAY WHEN HE IS NOT HERE???" She clutches all six of the non-Toydarian children to her bosom and screams hysterically. "I CANNOT! I CANNOT DO IT! HOW WILL I CARRY ON!" The children struggle to support her weight, as she howls bitterly about the unfairness of life. In the Amalgamated Waste section of the hall, all the workers begin to chant in unison, "We will not forget! Our Prex is still our Prex!" repeatedly, stomping their feet on the ground. Frederiko eventually collects himself, and turns from the giant picture of Qwynt and holds up his hands, trying to bring the crowd to silence. "Please, please, my friends. I am so thankful that you could all come to celebrate the life of our dear friend," he consults a notepad, "Geophreigh Smitherbodkins Qwynt III." He pauses, and gives Mr. Smitherbodkins an odd look. "Amazing coincidence," he says, that we are hosted so generously by Geophreigh SMitherbodkins IV, no relation, I'm sure!" he quips, winking to the crowd, which is still settling down. It's unclear how many people have heard this part of the speech. "I would like our host to say a few words, and then his family, please. Please, please. Settle down." Frederiko is not quite in control of the crowd yet. The PLA folks are still stomping. He shoves Smitherbodkins towards the microphone. Dante is passing a small handful of credit chips to the officer next to her, making sure it goes into the pot for the officer keeping book on the baby mama betting. All of which is done with the most subtle of gestures, tiny head tilts, nothing loud or overt, low key being the theme of the day. She straightens again, shoulders squaring, keeping a weather eye on the room and the Toydarian - one legged Toydarian at that - making his way up the aisle toward the section where she and her fellow officers are seated. Again that faint twitch, the telltale hint of amusement as she keeps a smirk very carefully off of her face. Vassily Korolov arches an eyebrow at his junior officers at the betting going on, whether it is because it is unbecoming or that they did not include him, cannot be determined. He folds his arms across his chest while turning his attention back towards the matters at hand. He sits quietly watching the spectacle, the anger building between the Baby Mama's causes a yellowish tint to be perceptible in his normally dark brown eyes, he runs a gloved hand across the back of his neck, while watching the proceedings continue. Tiny is... where is Tiny? The most pressing thing happening with the Toydarians this very moment is Poot, working his way up the aisle to where Dante is seated. He slides between the spaces between the chairs in the row ahead and the people in the seats behind, his oversized backside and round belly pushing against nearly everyone until he comes to Dante. "Damn!" Poot greets the Imperial woman. "Girl look fly! Saw you up in here, figured: flava!" Poot pinches his lapels with delicate fingers, adjusts his coat smoothly for Dante. "What choo doing after this? I'm thorough. Def. Show you my ride." This is all presented very seriously, without regard for the rest of the Imperial delegation: they'll just have to find their own suave, wealthy Toydarian. The Askajian hears the Twi'lek's ridiculous assertion, and she stands again, twisting her body toward the rival for the dead Qwynt's affections and giving the children each a long once-over. "Yeah, right! If those were Geophreigh's, they wouldn't be so ugly!" The Twi'lek gasps and makes as if to vault over the seat in front of her, reaching frantically for the Askajian's long, flowing hair. "You slag, who are you calling ugly??? Look at yourself! Lay off the moisture!" It looks as though a fight is about to save Smitherbodkins from his unplanned eulogy, but alas, not for nothing had about 2 dozen large hulking ushers been hired for this occasion. They quickly move in and restrain the two women, though they struggle mightily to break free from their holds and have it out, old school. Smitherbodkins stumbles inelegantly in front of the microphone, his pain evident, though not it's likely not at all physical. However, he can't very well say no at this point. Therefore, he straightens, waiting for as much of a lull as he's likely to get in the din, and begins. "Welcome friends, family, admirers, coworkers. Welcome to my home, as we say goodbye to one whose legacy will live on long after he is gone. Mr. Qwynt was tremendous in life, and in death, has only become more so. One only needs to look around this room," and here he waves an arm to encompass all the beings, alien and human, sentient and more or less sentient, "to see the effect that he has had on the galaxy. Let us, then, have a moment of silence for our fallen comrade." He takes his own advice, bowing his head, his last words fading slowly away. The dapper little Starlight Studios executive assigned to shepherd Miss Glory Lockhart upon this sad occasion has, as they enter the ballroom arm in arm, the aspect of one who has looked Hell in the face and been obliged to keep on walking. His charge was happy enough to wear black. Black is, after all, one of her colours. But she has, to his regret, no concept of black frocks which don't cling lasciviously to every curve of her remarkable figure; which don't slide temptingly from her pale, creamy shoulders; which aren't slit up to staggering heights while simultaneously plunging to dangerous depths, as though determined to meet somewhere in the middle in a plot against the sanity of every man present. Her hat -- well, her hat is appropriate enough; a great big circular black thing set atop her violently red curls, with ribbons and veils trailing behind. It bobs about, and the rest of her does likewise, as she peers about in the -- well, the *almost* silence. "Where can we-- Oh, I see two seats there!" She points to the very front row. "I believe, Miss Lockhart," the Starlight executive whispers, trying to set an example of the behaviour appropriate to a political funeral, though the gods know no one else is taking a page out of that particular etiquette book today, "those seats are reserved for family members--" But his attempt to steer her toward another vacant place, halfway back, is fruitless; Glory Lockhart under full steam has the aspect and attitude of a beauteous battleship (complete with twin cannon). "I'm a front row girl now, darling, and don't you forget it," she coos, dragging him onward. She snatches up the funeral programme from her chosen seat and perches, with affected daintiness, in its place, stretching out her shapely legs in a manner which invites her skirt to ride up. (The invitation is accepted.) "We Say Goodbye to a Great Friend," she reads, haltingly. Then she blinks bright-eyed at her minder. "Who'd you say he was again?" It was rather cathartic to slice a system or two. A rather calming release of his grief as Murdock implanted himself somewhere within the residence's automation systems which were so carefully programmed for this evening. Carefully or THOUGHTLESSLY?! Yes, Murdock knew how difficult it must have been for Smitherbodkins to have chosen the proper timing, mood, and intensity for all of the lights, music, temperature, air flow, and bathroom deodorizing this particular gathering deserved. Apparently, the security system in the residence was also rather unrelenting in its protection of the preprogrammed path for the evening. It was rather unfortunate that Murdock had forgotten the password to the system as well, though it was more likely that his trying to type it in with just one thumb was to blame. Eventually, he works his way around the issue of the security system he had installed himself and finds himself staring down the master control system for the power grid on this block. Qwynt deserved no less than the best. No less than the silence, soul searching, and contemplations of this entire neighborhood. Taking in a deep breath, he then drops his thumb onto the pad and slices in a portion of the Mad Dog code. A few seconds after Mister Smitherbodkins calls for a moment of silence, the power to the building cuts out and the Verpine closes his eyes, replaying each of his memories of Qwynt. And then trying to forget half of them. As Smitherbodkins asks for a moment of silence after his long speech, the room finally completely settles into a respectful tone; the workers stop stomping their feet and everyone, even the warring fiancees quiet for a moment, each doing their best to out-silence the other and look more sorrowful. And then the lights go out. A few shrieks can be heard, a thump or two, and some scurrying. At length, the lights come back on. It takes a few moments for this to register to Frederiko, who is standing on the stage, shrieking in fright. He does not like sudden darkness. As he finds everyone looking at him, he turns a deep shade of crimson. Luckily, the attention is quickly shifted away from him when it becomes clear that the thumps heard in the darkness were a result of the twi'lek woman breaking free of her usher, who is now bleeding profusely from bite marks, and the thumping was her tromping on anyone in the front row who was in her way, including a redhead. When the lights come on, she is in midflight, having leapt towards the other fiancee. Her children are all either crying or cheering. Frederiko rushes to the front of the podium, signalling madly for more guards to descend. Meanwhile, eh tries to pretend like nothing has happened. "And now, Mama Cleo, the dearly departed's mother." Vassily tilts his head to watch the Toydarian work his game on Commander Dante, his neutral expression turning into a smirk. Once again his attention is drawn back to the pulpit where Smitherbodkin's begins by calling for a moment of silence, quickly interrupted by the arrival of the startlet shortly before the power fails. This causes an all together different reaction from the Sith Lord. His hand slips to the cylindrical object concealed in the folds of the sash wrapped around his waist, with a twist of his wrist it is free of the clip. He does not activate it however, instead reaching out with the Force to ensure that the failing light is not the start of an Ambush. He quickly becomes aware of the other sentient beings in the room, feeling the unique presence of each one and cataloging it, just incase things get really bad. The lights coming back on does not single an immediate de-escalation. He can feel the rage boiling up in his throat and the smirk disappears, being replaced by a tight lipped expression. He keeps his saber in the palm of his hand down by his side, just in case his 'calm' gets further disrupted. By the time the one-legged Toydarian arrives in front of Dante she can tell that another set of betting is going on, much more lively and a great deal less covert than the first round. Taking a moment to enjoy the mental image of doing a few barrel rolls as she drops the lot of them through atmosphere sans the benefit of a safety harness or two, Dante lets that smile form on her face in place of the other options that were jockeying for position. She doesn't need a prompter to know that she's going to hear about this endlessly and that her entire squadron is going to be yanking her chain over this. Dante looks the Toydarian slowly over from head to toe, er foot that is, wings and smarmy expression and back before she leans back in her chair and rests one hand on the arm of the officer to her right and the one to her left and gives a smile that's /almost/ on par with the feline expressions of the baby mama's, though lacking either depth or lack thereof. "Sorry, darlin," she says in a voice that carries the distinctive Corellian accent that marks her as a native, not a transplant, to this world, despite the stamp of Imperial officer that tends to pare away anything that doesn't conform. "I'm taken already," she says with a fine display of remorse just before the room is plunged into darkness. In the ensuing darkness and chaos that follows, as civilians are EVER prone to stampeding and charging around like sand rats trapped in a box when the lights go out in unfamiliar places, Dante takes advantage of the moment to perform a tactical advance in another direction. By the time the lights come up there's a beefy looking master chief seated in her chair, she is one row back and several chairs over, her face a bit flushed and her uniform jacket being tugged smooth as she folds her hands in her lap and gives a brief glimpse of a cheeky grin for having pulled off the switch in the darkness without anyone the wiser - save her co-conspirators. They do, after all, remember who's piloting the shuttle back to the ship. Girls who look like Glory Lockhart grow up knowing what's likely to happen to them in the dark; and her hands have formed into fists before she even feels the first touch. She punches blindly at a nearby opportunist -- and then someone kicks her in the shin and she takes another wild, wholehearted swing. When the light returns, her studio minder is sobbing quietly as he attempts to staunch the flow of blood from his broken nose; her hat has been knocked off and her ruddy curls are spilling over her voluptuous shoulders; and her bosom is heaving with the exertion of it all. A particularly susceptible bystander passes out at the sight. The Qwynt family is a flurry of activity when the lights go out. Tiny: Missing in action. He already had his hands on a valuable-looking letter opener from an antique writing desk down the hall. By the time the lights come back on, he's just hovering there in the hallway, hands empty, the letter opener having vanished. Tiny has an intense, playful look on his face. Naqua: Behind Momma, helping guide the hoversled. When the lights come back on she has a blaster in her hand, waving it around wild-eyed, but she quickly puts it on when the lights return and she can get oriented. Boo-T: Still in his front row seat, arms and legs splayed, his head lolling back and looking up at the ceiling. Poot: If he is the type that kisses and tells, well. Of course he is. He wears an extraordinarily toothy grin, his dark goggles on his forehead, revealing his beady eyes. He makes the rude-everywhere-in-the-galaxy 'OK' gesture at Dante's seat with emphasis, and then shifts over to Korolov, holding out a tiny fist for him to bump. "Don't leave me hanging, bro." Then his mouth opens, his head shaking wildly at the sight of the Imperial body double. "Daymn!" he says, aghast, searching for Dante and very confused. Glitter: Behind Momma as well. The repulsorsled is quite an obstacle to work with, but this is just one dimension of Madame Qwynt. Disabled but mighty! A strong leader in her family and beyond. The children help her somewhat, pushing chairs out of the way, getting Momma up to the microphone. Because of the odd arrangement of her obese and reclining body, the height of the podium, and the repulsorsled, only the upper lip of her hat is visible over the podium. "THEY SAY," an incredibly loud and grating voice comes over the speaker system. "THEY SAY MY BABY DIED A HERO. AND YOU." The Qwynt family looks at Smitherbodkins in unison, having heard this story. The upper edge of the hat turns to Smitherbodkins as well. "AND YOU GAVE HIM COMFORT WHEN HE PASSED." Momma works the repulsorsled controls, aiming for Smitherbodkins with a click-whirring sound. "What did my baby say, when he went?" she asks, looking up at Smitherbodkins, eyes rimmed with red. "Was there much..." She chokes on the word, has a full-body spasm, and throws her face into the crook of her arm. "Pain," Glitter supplies drily from behind her mother. "Was he in pain, she wants to know." The darkness is complete; Murdock has certainly been thorough, and even the backup generators were rendered useless by his Mad Dog code. When the lights flicker on once more, Smitherbodkins is standing to the side once more, his hands politely clasped behind his back, pointedly avoiding the brawling fiances, who have now begun to go at it in earnest. The Twi'lek seems to have the upper hand at first, but then the Askajian reaches for one of those swinging headtails and pulls violently, nails raking down the twitching appendage. The Twi'lek shrieks, then hauls off and slaps the Askajian right across her cheek, the red mark appearing almost immediately. The Askajian, however, having a few hundred pounds on the measly Twi'lek, rolls her over and begins pummeling her, the six breasts threatening to break free of their rather flimsy restraints. She only has a few seconds to get in the shots, though, before she's dragged back by an usher, still swinging wildly. Smitherbodkins, meanwhile, has been nearly pinned against the dais by the repulsor sled with the corpulent Toydarian stop it. He attempts to step to the side, but to no avail; there's literally only millimeters of room between him and her. "Ah...he...well..." He pauses, choosing his next words carefully, "when he died, the last words on his lips were your name, madam." The lights return a little quicker than Murdock had anticipated. No doubt, an action taken by the security suite installed in the Manor. The Verpine taps away some more on his datapad to check the status of things and finds that it has begun to alert the authorities to the presence of malicious code. An action he should have anticipated, since he had programmed it in himself. Feeling that he had shown the proper amount of grief, Murdock slinks off to the side, towards a side hallway as he eyes over the other occupants to ensure none are following him. One last glance is given to the large image of G.S. Qwynt III before he disappears and begins to run for the nearest exit. Log scrubbing waits for no one! Having done his bit to represent the Empire, Imperial Warlord Korolov takes his leave. He rises up, all but ignoring Poot. His saber is reclipped to his belt as he makes his way as quiet as possible out of the wake. He can still feel the rage coursing through him, his teeth clenched and jaw tight. He does not even wait for the rest of the Imperial procession before making his way as quickly as decorum allows to leave the house and return to Coronet House, where he has taken up residency. The exchange on the stage sets Frederiko to crying, this time grabbing both Naqua and Glitter into a bear hug, who are the nearest things he can find to offer him something to weep upon. "Poor, brave Qwynt loved his mama so," he blubbers miserably. "Please tell us how he went, Smitherbodkins, so everyone knows how brave he was," he wails. Meanwhile, the ushers somehow manage to drag the two brawling women out of the room, another one shuffling the children along after. For a brief moment, it seems that civility has been returned to the room. Dante makes a face as she hands over more credits to be passed down the line, having bet on the wrong baby mama when it comes to first punch thrown. Alas! She's not the only one to sober up to a more severe measure of deocrum when Warlord Korolov rises from his chair, in fact there's a wave of shoulder squaring, spine straightening, expression altering for the duration of their Warlord's process through the room; there isn't a single officer among them who hasn't done SOMETHING they know they'd get in trouble for, and each and every one of them is thinking very very intently about anything BUT what ever it is that would get them in trouble. Once Glory has had time to correlate the blood streaming from her companion's nose with that upon her own knuckles (don't worry, fans, she's hard as nails and will recover in no time), she exclaims, "Oh, poor sweetie! We need just a little sip of something, don't we, darling?" Looking round, first, to ensure that everyone's watching, she folds back the hem of her skirt and slips a little silver flask out of her stocking-top. Then she tugs her skirt down again, not to any great extent. Time for drinkies! Momma collapses in a heap of... Well, in a heap of herself, at Smitherbodkins's words. She had been hanging onto this idea, needing it so terribly, and Smitherbodkins's soothing reassurance are a wonderful balm for her crooked and dark little soul. Naqua and Glitter take their sobbing mother back to the side of the room, giving her a little respite from the main stage and the acute sorrow that hung there with her son's face overhead. Poot gives a rude gesture to the departing Korolov and whirls, looking again for Dante. He thinks he spots her, finding another human female in the assemblage, though this one looks drastically different. "Heeeey," he calls in his lowest voice. All the humans looked alike to him, anyway. Boo-T has not left his seat at the front, all the way down at the end. But he is looking at his palm with an intent stare, flexing his fingers slowly to savor the memory, before glancing at the nearby Glory with deep appreciation. This was turning out to be quite a day. So far Glory has received five offers to bandage her poor wounded hand. Eyes brighter than ever, courtesy of the contents of the flask, which like its owner packs a punch entirely out of proportion to its size, she sizes up the price of each of the aspirants' garments. Hmm. It's almost too tough to call, until the gentleman to the left reaches out to her and she espies the Corusca gems in his cufflinks. Oh, how pleased she is to give her hand into his keeping for a few minutes, to have it tenderly bound with his very own handkerchief, to gaze up at him through her long sooty eyelashes and giggle that little special giggle of hers. Who knew funerals could be such a scream? Just as Smitherbodkins imagines himself being crushed to death between the hulking repulsorsled and the stage, his remains spatters everywhere, blood seeping into the floorboards that he has walked on for so many years, he's given a miraculous reprieve. His breath leaves him in a quiet *whoosh* as he's once again able to expand his diaphragm. Turning to Fred, he places a hand on the Ortolan's shoulder, "No, Frederiko, I would not wish to cause you all pain with talk of your friend's noble death. Think of him as you saw him last, not as I last saw him. I shall bear that burden alone." Frederiko returns to the podium, front and center and raises his arms. "Thank you for coming, everyone. Please, there will be a reception now. Please, feel free to enjoy the meat snacks from Qwynt's Meat Shack! Anyone who writes a story about the dearly departed in one of the Guest books around the room will get a free commemorative t-shirt of the Toydarian's great life! Please, let's use this time to remember a true friend and a great inspiration! Thank you, once again, to Mr. Smitherbodkins, and thank you all for coming and honoring a life well lived." With that, Frederiko steps down from the little stage and there is a scraping of chairs as people begin to stand. Men dressed in white waiting in the wings are ready to move chairs out of the way as they are vacated to make some space for socializing and mixing. Dante takes her time collecting her share of the betting pool, mingling with the other black clad Imperial officers as the baby mama section prepares to go mobile, agile and quite likely hostile. Hence, another round of betting commences! Sadly for the betting men (and women), the ushers have the baby mama and her jiggling adversary on complete lockdown. The former comforts her headtail as she herds her children toward the buffet tables, the latter looking up at her security detail and batting her eyelashes while still managing to get a little teary. She clings onto his arm, subtly removing her ring and slipping it down the front of one of her brassieres. "It's so sad!" she wails, pressing her face against his arm, which elicits a wince from him, though he can't afford to pull away, lest she vent her frustrations on the Twi'lek once more. Smitherbodkins, meanwhile, moves in the opposite direction of the Qwynt family, grabbing a glass of liquor from one of the tables and knocking it back in one swallow. He then makes a face and proceeds to hack vigorously; it's not, as he thought, his usual, but actually a Toydarian whiskey that is a few proof points short of rubbing alcohol. Frederiko takes a moment to make sure Qwynt's family is taken care of before joining the throngs in the ballroom. The first thing he does is make his way to a meat cart and gather up a handful of meat sticks of varying flavors. Stuffing some napkins into his shirt, he methodically begins ingesting them. He smacks his lips at the barbeque flavor, mmms in delight t the honey mustard, greedily chews on the ranch, but turns slightly red when he gets to the Toydarian special, a particularly spicy meat stick. Coughing slightly, he walks up to the Imperial contingent. "Thank you for coming, everyone. I hope that the collection of Imperial waste was not too impacted by the death of our dearly departed?" The uniformed man who was swapped into Dante's chair during the service happens to be the Imperial that Frederiko approaches. The man gives the Ortolan a slow shake of his head and a smirk. "Not at all. Can't let something like that get backed up, after all, these things have to proceed at pace along projected guidelines." The man eyes the smear of barbeque flavor mixed with other spices smeared on Frederiko's face, "Looks like a good buffet. What do you recommend?" turning the question toward the starting point that kicks off the whole waste collection process. The Corellian sputters and coughs, but manages to recover himself after he snags a glass of water (thought of course, making quite sure that it actually -is- water, this time) and downing it quickly. He takes a deep, gasping breath, thumping his chest and letting out one more cough. He then turns to survey the room; the Qwynts are downing meatsticks by the score, the CSA members are cheering on one of their compatriots who is chugging a large glass of ale, and the children are running amok through the room that's been given a giant track, now that the chairs have been removed from the center. He winces as one of the little blue-tinged horrors clips a statue of Qwynt set on a pedestal, sending it crashing to the floor and gouging a mark in the hardwood with its sharp wing. Why, oh why, did he agree to do this? Several of the PLA members come up to Smitherbodkins after their drinking contest is over and clap him on the back, "We really 'preciate what you did for our Prex, Mr Bodkins," they slur. "If ye were Prex, we'd surely follow you!" The others say "Aye!" and then wander on the bar for more shots of that Toydarian Ale. Meanwhile, Frederiko manages to take a moment to wipe his mouth with the handful of napkins sticking out of his shirt. "Oh, the barbeque is definitely my favorite," he replies to the Imperial with a smack of his Ortolan lips. Never one to turn away from a buffet, especially one that isn't comprised entirely of rations, water or more rations, the Imperial speaking with Frederiko turns to survey the array of meat snacks and nods, "Barbeque it is," declared in a nice rumble of a voice. The man rolls his shoulders slightly, the cut of his dress uniform not entirely accommodating his shoulders, and nods to Frederiko before making course for the buffet and moving in to sample what fare is to be had. The mention of the word "prex" nearly makes the gentleman reach for another shot of that nearly intolerable whiskey. He nods to the men, though seems just as happy when they depart. He begins to make his way toward one of the ushers, saying something to the other man in an undertone. He nods, proceeding to walk toward the middle of the room, gesturing to a few more of the large men to follow him. They stand shoulder to shoulder, arms crossed over their chests, effectively cutting off the route that the children are using to run their races. One of them, a little boy who looks to be part Twi'lek, part Chiss, and part Wookiee, doesn't notice the wall of flesh that's been erected in front of him, and runs smack into one of the ushers, falling flat on his back. For a moment, he's stunned; then, he begins to cry. His mother rolls her eyes, coming to collect her brood and herding them through the doors. This seems to signal most of the guests that the time has come to depart. The Qwynts do so with as much pomp and circumstance as they had when they arrived. The Askajian and her escort are nowhere to be seen. The PLA men stagger through the door, singing a rousing chorus of "Oh, Etti IV, We'll Always Want More." The others trickle out in dribs and drabs, grabbing meatsticks as they go.
|
