Tales from Occupied Westside

[Luci]

“Pst!”

Kilgrot the Mighty, son of Kolgoth the Mighty, is crammed into a small wooden desk in his creative writing class, scribbling furiously.

The hulking teenage Klingon looms over the rest of his classmates, even the large ones; and there are some large ones at Westside High. Kilgrot’s creative writing class, like the rest of Westside High study body, is diverse.

Besides Kilgrot, there are several other Klingons in the back of the room, though none of them seem to share his passion for creative writing. Like Kilgrot they wear the Westside High wrestling jackets. Also in the back, but very much on their own, are a pair of orcs also in green Westside HIgh wrestling jackets. The wrestling team is one of the few places in the school where the orcs and Klingons put aside cultural and racial differences, but outside of practice the two groups dont mix.

There are Klingons, orcs, humans, elves, twi’leks, anime catfolk, gazzorpazzorpians, and even a magically sentient wooden marionette, just in one classroom.

And today, there are two new students.

“Pst,” comes the voice again.

Kilgrot still does not look up. He pegged them the moment they walked in, and he has a fair idea why the two new ‘students’ want his attention. He also knows what his father would say.

Kolgoth would clasp his shoulder, and look deep into his sons eyes, and explain to Kilgrot again that the sacrifices he made were for his family, for his son to have a better life than he ever could. He would tell him to keep wrestling, and to maintain his good grades. His father would tell him to stay away from the crooks and the criminals and low-lifes.

But his dad is in prison.

“Pst! Hey!” the voice calls in a hoarse whisper.

Kilgrot slowly puts his pen on his desk and turns around, his chair creaking.

The surly Klingon faces a pair of twin witches with matching blue hair. They wear tattered and patched Hogwarts robes, and were it not for their face piercings Kilgrot would not be able to tell them apart.

“Hey,” one of the girl whispers loudly, still flashing her pearly whites at the stone-face Klingon. “We’re new students, but you’re Kilgrot right? The wrestler?”

Kilgrot is in fact the inter-tier wrestling champion for his weight class, and the class above.

Kilgrot scowls at the girl, who refuses to drop her smile.

“You’re not students,” Kilgrot says in a deep baritone. “And you dont know me from no fucking wrestling.”

The bell rings, and the class rises to turn in their projects to the Niblonian teacher.

Kilgrot rises with them, slouching his backpack on and turning away from the new kids.

“Hey, wait-” says one of the witches.

“I didn’t mean-,” the other says, but Kilgrot is already gone.

Out in the hall, the Klingon thinks he sees the pair following him, so he ducks into a bathroom quietly, turning the faucet on and washing his face with cold, cold water.

He hears the bathroom door open and a few shuffling footsteps. Without looking up he says “This is a boys bathroom.”

He is met with a derisive female snort.

“What? No it isn’t,” says one of the blue-haired witches.

Her companion looked around. “Yeah, this isn’t even a bathroom, it’s a Plutonian spawning station.”

A Plutonian walks out of a stall with a batch of eggs, muttering about the noise.

“Congratulations sir!” the girls say in unison as the Plutonian stalks off.

Kilgrot stares at the water pooling in front of him, his reflection wobbling.

“I’m Danny,” says the girl finally. “This is Dungbomb.”

Kilgrot finally looks up from the sink, sizing up the Hufflepunks.

“Yeah, you guys know my uncle Girg. I know why you’re here,” he says finally, his baritone echoing around the empty Plutonian spawning station. “I knew they would send somebody, ever since Luci-”

“Then you’re in?” asks Dungbomb excitedly, her and her sister moving closer to the Klingon.

Kilgrot is silent. He does not have to wonder what his father would say, he already knows.

Danny fills the void of silence.

“It’s the only way,” she says softly. “You’re the only one with visiting privileges. And-”

“Fine,” Kilgrot cuts in. The twins grin at each other. In his head, he can hear his father begging him not too.

“Lets do it then,” Kilgrot says, with a kind of weary conviction. “Let’s break my dad out of jail.”

***

[Luci]

Crouched on a rope strung between two glittering skyscrapers, a hundred feet above 110th Street, is Batgirl Skywalker.

The eight-year-old orphan Twi’lek was once known as De'ialia, but upon the untimely murder of parents years ago she donned the mantle of Batgirl Skywalker. She made herself a purple cape and mask, and trained herself in lightsaber combat via Omnitube tutorials, and has been striking fear into the criminals of Tier-5 ever since. Well, some of the criminals anyways.

De'ialia “Batgirl Skywalker” is a member, and currently Acting President, of the Westside Deathblades, a gang of deadly orphans with a penchant for anime. President Shadowkill himself had recruited her after hearing of her heroic exploits. With Princess Hellstabs’ untimely death, and President Shadowkill arrested, the Presidency falls to Batgirl, at least until Shadowkill breaks out.

A frown crosses the bright red Twi’leks face. She is a lone wolf, uncomfortable with leadership in any capacity. She only joined the Deathblades for access to new targets, anyways.

Batgirl stays crouched on her taught rope, balancing as perfectly as she balances her inner conflicts. A hundred feet below her the Westside ghetto is alive, seething with human and alien detritus even in the darkest hours of the artificial morning. The poor and the hopeless shuffle into corners to die, the drug-addicts veering pushing forward as their desperation grows, and the ruthless predators slink in the shadows eager for their next victim.

It all makes De'ialia sick.

She longs for the days when she could stalk the predators without considering the bigger picture, without the complex gang politics and long-term strategies, when she could kill a pimp instead of letting him operate for weeks so they could find his boss.

The tiny Twi’lek lets herself fall backwards, hanging onto the rope with just one foot, swinging above 110th Street upside-down, brooding. As she swings back and forth, she notices a squirrel made of shimmering silver start to cross her rope.

De'ialia sits up quickly, crouching on her rope again as the squirrel scurries over to her. She recognizes the squirrel as a Patronus, the primary means of contact among the Westside.

“Hey Batgirl,” says the squirrel. It speaks in the deep voice of Lil Peevz, the wizard who has summoned it. Lil Peevz is a Westside Hufflepunk, but De'ialia requested him for her team specifically. They had worked together before, and De'ialia liked him because he was sober, a claim few Hufflepunks could make with a straight face.

“It looks like there’s some Tuskies in the alley’s behind the Pokemon Center,” the squirrel continues, licking it’s silvery paws quickly. “We got one of them identified as Gorrgush the Finesser. They’re probably scouting out new spots to sell heroin. The bad kind of heroin, not like you. Anyways, if you wanna go introduce yourself, Jacket says it’s a green light light for any orcs west of Hover Ave.”

For the first time all night, the little orphan Twi’lek smiles.

***

[Luci]

“The Westside is dead.”

The declaration comes from Vargok the Terror, Paladin of the Orc Mafia. His smooth voice has no hint of an orkish accent, no growling or tusk gnashing, but is still so deep it could never be human. He crosses his fingers delicately on the table in front of him, his immaculately maintained fur shining healthily as he adjust the sleeves on his black tailored suit. He gazes inscrutably at his dining partner behind opaque black sunglasses.

Weasel, President of the Westside Hufflepunks, glares sardonically back, her bright red mohawk more out of place than the hulking orc.

The two are separated by a delicate candelabra, only dimly illuminating their meal of overpriced steak and Charmander. The restaurant is disgustingly opulent, and Weasel is getting bored of Vargok’s Pacino act. The punk rawk witch leans back and plops her combat boots on the table, rattling the silverware.

“Well someone should tell Jacket,” Weasel says as she reclines. She lights a hand-rolled cigarette with the tip of her wand, smirking. Vargok’s face does not betray any hint of annoyance or offense, but when he replies there is perhaps a hint of coolness to his voice.

“Someone WILL tell Jacket, very shortly,” the ork says, uncrossing his fingers and tapping one of his tusks lightly with his finger, an Orkish expression that indicates ‘don’t worry about it’. Weasel’s smirk widens.

“At any rate,” Vargok continues. “Your empire has fallen. We have every street east of Prohibition Ally-”

“And we,” Weasel interjects. “Still have every street that’s WEST of it.”

Vargok scoffs. “This war was over when you lost the Library. How many soldiers, how much OM have you lost already? Do you really want to face extermination? Come now, Weasel,” Vargok says, allowing a sad smile to cross his face. “I thought you were a businessman.”

The young President blows a puff of foul tobacco smoke in Vargok’s face, causing the candle flames to flicker. Vargok inhales the smoke through his huge orcish nostrils and exhales it again without appearing to notice.

“I’m a gangster” Weasel says finally, her jaw tight. “And,” she continues, leaning forward in her seat, her red mohawk wobbling. “If you could exterminate us, you would have by now. But you can’t, because you’re bottlnecked. You can’t get through Harlan’s casino, you sure as hell can’t come from the Northside. You have to come from south, and you’ll never be never be able to sneak through a large enough force to take us all out. How many boys have YOU lost, trying to smuggle them through the South Side? How many more are you prepared to lose?”

“Hundreds,” says Varok calmly. “We will send as many strike teams as it takes, and for every ten that you catch, one will slip through. And methodologically, relentlessly, you will all be wiped out. This is not a war, my gangster friend. This is a holocaust,” the Terror says, with a hint of a rumble in his voice. The ork clears his throat, lifting a napkin daintily to his mouth, and continues.

“We will accept nothing less,” Varok continues, his eyes hidden by his sunglasses even in the dimly lit restaurant. “Than the complete, unconditional surrender of the Westside Hufflepunks. You will resign as President and leave Tier-5 forever. Any Hufflepunks who refuse to disband will be hunted to the ends of Coruscant, their bodies hung from the rooftops as an example. Your graffiti will fade, your money will dwindle, your power will wane, but you will live. It is a better offer than any other gang in the Westside is likely to receive.”

Weasel glares across the table, her cigarette burning slowly.

***

[Luci]

***

A human woman with hollow eyes drinks alone at the back of a dive bar in what used to be Westside territory. She taps an overlage heel against her barstool in time to the music blaring from the jukebox, her bell-bottoms jeans waving freely. Her oversized hoop earrings jingle beneath her afro, and a small diamond disco ball dangles from a thin gold chain around her neck.

Her name is America Jackson.

She takes a sip of her Jack and Pepsi, ignoring the grunts and bellows from the bar patrons easily. It is their smell that is ruining her night.

The T-5 Eastsyd Gangsta Ork Waryorz are in the house.

A dozen burly orks are drinking riotously, the smallest at least seven feet tall and hundreds of pounds. They are dressed in black biker gear, complete with chains and bandanas, each one of them wearing dark sunglasses in the dim light of the divebar. At their hips are their sidearms; sawed off shotguns, handguns, Heaters, Cracklers, phasers. On their backs are their melee weapons; swords, axes, chainsaws, chains.

The warriors are celebrating a victory; the squad has just claimed the bounty set by the Orc Mafia on Bloodstain, Second Lieutenant of the Westside Knife Ear Warriors. The drow’s severed head had been delivered that evening, and so tonight they party.

Some of them America knows by reputation. She spots Tiny Arahg, Slayer of Sprinkles the Ewok, looming large in the back. She sees Warslut, the female orc with a machine gun instead of a left hand. Some of the toughest gangsters in the Orc Mafia shove and jostle and growl at each other, but there is one among their number who is given a wide berth.

A black furred orc sits in the back, drow blood still splattered across his face, his necklace of gold-covered elf ears glittering. Today, Jarl Elfbane has added a new ear to his collection.

Eventually the talk turns to politics.

America sips her drink.

“I wan’ anudder bounty,” Warslut declares, smashing her tankard on the bar. Her voice is deep and rumbling witha thick orkish accent. “I wan’ Jacket’s fuckin’ cock ‘ead.”

The other orcs grunt, some in agreement, some in humor.

“I jus’ wan’ anudder drink,” offers Gary the Slaughterhouse, a brown furred veteran with a twin pair of chainsaw katana’s on his back. His voice is even lower than Warsluts’, his accent even thicker. “I dun wan’ nuddin da do wid no Jacket. You ‘eard whad ‘e did up on third stree’?”

A chorus of offended grunts.

“I could eat da Fangz for bregfast,” Tiny Arahg rumbles. “And shit dem oud for lunch.”

The conversation devolves. Only America Jackson and Jarl Elfbane are still, seated across from each other, the gang of orks between them. America decides Jarl is staring at her from behind his mirrored aviator glasses. She finishes her drink and gets up.

Her disco heels click against the tiles of the bar, her gold bracelets and hoop earrings jingling, her booty swaying like her afro.

America saunters up to the bar, reaches over the counter, and pours herself a drink. The bartender, an old white man with a handlebar mustache, grabs his coat and leaves. The orks grow very quiet.

America pours herself a double.

“Seems like that Jacket could show up just about anywhere, any time,” America says calmly, a little smirk on her face. The orks start to chuff. Jarl does not move. “Do you think he might show up here, tonight? Would you be scared?”

Warslut cannot contain her rage and pushes through her gang to slap some respect into the uppity human bitch.

In the blink of an eye America has a .500 S&W Magnum in her hand, the comically large barrel pressed into Warslut’s neck. Warslut freezes, her piggy little eyes filled with hate, her nostrils chuffing.

America grins nastily, her pearly white teeth dazzling against her shadow-dark skin.

“Well you should be,” America says softly. She glances over Warslut’s shoulder. “Watch your back.”

A flashbang goes off, briefly blinding the nocturnal humanoids even through their dark sunglasses.

When their retina’s recover, the orcs realize there is a figure behind them.

He wears a red letterman jacket, he holds a bloodstained baseball bat, and he wears a rooster mask.

The T-5 Eastsyd Gangsta Ork Waryorz light him up, their pistols and machine guns and heaters ribbing him to shreds. When the smoke clears, all they see is the mangled burnt remains of a scarecrow stuffed with cotton.

“You dummies,” America says from behind them. She is wearing a black panther mask that covers her entire head.

Her Magnum goes off like a cannon, a massive bullet catching Warslut in the back of the head. She lurches forward and hits the ground with a thud. She is down, but not out.

A man in a dog mask jumps up from behind the bar and slips a long garrote over Tiny Arahg’s neck, pulling the snarling ork gangster backwards over the counter. Two men in gleefully grinning pig masks emerge from behind the bar as well, and produce long skinny knives which they proceed to stick in and out Arahg’s belly over and over again.

A man who is clearly the fat old bartender in a penguin mask rises from a trapdoor in the floor with an automatic shotgun and starts firing his scattershot wildly into the ork gang.

The orks have barely turned back to America when the machine gun fire starts.

The orks are sturdy and wear battle armor; the shotgun blasts and even America’s massive magnum can be shrugged off. But outside, a group of men in animal masks have a machine gun mounted on a tripod in the back of an old Toyota.

The Orks hit the ground, some of them ducking, the rest of them dying, the broken glass from the front windows of the bar smashing to the floor.

As quickly as it starts, the machine gun stops. And then the horror begins.

Men in sickenly grinning animal masks come running from three entrances, jumping through the broken windows, leaping up from behind the bar. They carry disgusting weapons, hammers and fire axes and buzzsaws, anything to get through the the thick armor and hide of the Orks into their juicy centers.

The orks fight savagely.

Warslut guns down two attackers and guts a third before a giggling woman in a crow mask throws a bucket of acid in her face. The ork’s final howl is cut short as man in a cheetah mask catches her under the chin with a rock hammer, shattering her tusk. As Warslut the falls to the floor, the man in the cheetah mask mounts her and smashes her head with the hammer again and again.

Gary the Slaughterhouse bellows his foreign Urak-hai war cry as he unleashes his dual chainsaw katanas. The whirlwind of death rips through the front lines of the attackers as he closes in on America Jackson. America calmly empties the clip of her .500 S&M Magnum into his face. The clip is empty, but the massive orc still charges. America does not move, but watches the orc sink slowly to the floor and die.

The ambush is working. The masked humans have the T-5 Eastsyd Gangsta Ork Waryorz surrounded, and the remaining work is slow butchery.

Then Jarl steps in.

His wordless roar beats on the air like thunder, his greatsword lashing out in a wide arc, slicing through of the masked men behind the bar. The rest scramble over each other, but Jarl’s blade licks out to deliver devastating slashes.

“JACKET!” he roars, flecks of blood rolling off his fur. The ambushers back up, holding their weapons in front of them, a small group of orks huddling together in the middle of their circle.

Jarl growls and gnashes his tusks, and the ambushers take a half step back, all except America Jackson.

“JACKET!” he roars again, and again his attackers flinch backwards, and again America does not. “You coward! Will you let your people die for you, rather than face Jarl Elfsbane yourself?”

The men in animal masks at the front entrance break lines, diving through the windows and out the front door. The Orks straighten a little.

Behind her black panther mask, America Jackson chuckles. She pulls out a burning molotov cocktail, dripping fire onto the floor. The men in animal masks behind hold up firebombs as well, the dancing flames casting strange shadows on their hideous viasage’s.

“You’re the only ones dying tonight, suckas,” America says. Jarl roars. A half dozen moltov’s come flying through the open window. America and her gang let loose with theirs.

The orks howl as the gasoline hits their thick greasy fur. The ambushers vanish, all but America Jackson.

America watches as Jarl Elfbane pulls himself through the fire, step by agonizing step, his matted black fur melting to his skin.

She watches dispassionately as he raises his greatsword over his head, and drops in clattering to the floor.

America Jackson removes her mask, bends down, and lights a hand-rolled cigarette from the smoking corpse of Jarl Elfsbane.

Her disco heels clack against the tile as she leaves the bar behind her to burn.

***

[Luci]

***

Two Westside Knife Ear Warriors are speeding down Asimov Avenue in a beaten white Toyota, sharing an American Spirit cigarette dipped in PCP.

The driver, a red-haired elf boy named Radish, lets the smoke waft from his mouth into his nostrils, then out again. His elven eyes dilate.

He passes the cigarette to his passenger, a particularly lithe platinum-blonde elf with particularly long and  almost floppy ears known as Breeze. Breeze accepts the cigarette gratefully, with shaking hands. The new recruit is already starting to develop the thousand-yard-stare of the gangwar veterans.

“Chill, man,” Radish says, noticing his companion’s distress. His freckled face forces an easy grin. “We got another hour on patrol, and we can head back to the clubhouse.”

Breeze also forces a tight lipped grin. “Yeah, no, I’m not worried,” he lies, taking another drag form the cigarette. He drums his fingers nervously on the shotgun on his lap. “I don’t think we’ll see any action tonight.”

The pair sit in silence for a while.

“So,” Radish says, his voice cracking slightly. “Where’s Pomegranate been lately?”

Breeze snorts derisively, his long ears twitching. “Fuck Pom. He’s probably fucking that stump-eared kid from the Hufflepunks. I don’t need that kind of drama right now.”

Inside his chest, Radish’s heart is pounding.

“So-” Radish begins to say.

His sentence is cut off as a black Jeep barrels through a red light, almost t-boning the elves Toyota.

Radish curses and swerves as Breeze’s head swivels to follow the Jeep. His head snaps forward, and he does not speak. Radish flips the Toyota in the middle of the intersection and starts speeding off after the Jeep.

The two elves are silent, but their faces are cold. They do not need to communicate what they saw. The glowing yellow eyes and dark hairy faces of the ork driver and passenger.

The human woman screaming in the backseat, being held by another ork.

The Toyota starts to close in on the Jeep. Breeze smacks the glass behind him four times. In the bed of the truck, two elves jump up, their bows loaded with arrows. Breeze grabs his shotgun and leans out the window.

Radish revs the engine, and the Toyota lurches forward.

“LIGHT EM UP!” Radish cries.

The Jeep swerves, narrowly avoiding one of the arrows and the shotgun blasts of the Knife Ears. One of the arrows finds it's mark and lodges in the rear tire of the Jeep. After a moment, the arrowhead explodes and the wheel is blown off. The Jeep quickly cuts left down an alley and out of sight.

The Toyota rumbles up to the alleyway. It is pitch black, but the elves know that there is no exit at the back.

The Knife Ears hesitate only a moment. Then Radish cuts the engine, and the elves hope out of the truck. They walk cautiously forward, weapons drawn, into what they are certain is a trap.

They do not get far.

Blue flashes of light explode from the back of the alley, briefly illuminating the grinning faces of the orks. Radish screams as bolts of blue fire rip through Breeze. His other companions likewise fall to the hail of phaser-fire; only Radish is quick enough to hit the ground prone.

With fury in his eyes and a warcry on his lips, Radish rises with Breeze’s shotgun in hand. Before he can’t point it, a pair of huge hairy hands wrap around his throat. Another pair of huge orcish hands rip his shotgun away from him. Radish struggles in vain to free himself, feeling his oxygen running low.

A pair of glowing yellow eyes appears in front of his face.

Radish spits into the ork’s face. “Kill me then, tusk-fucker,” Radish hisses through the chokehold.

Deep, guttural orcish laughter responds.

“No.”

***

[Luci]

Dr Linda Himes is hunched over a workbench in Chirpa’s garage. She is using a delicate laser to open up a large street-made Orkish cannon, until she gives up and tries to pry it open with a hammer.

The beautiful blonde woman has looked better; the ends of her hair are splitting, her supply of makeup long since depleted. Dark black circles have appeared under her eyes, and her cheeks are becoming sunken and hollow.

But that’s what a few months in Tier-5 will do to a wealthy Tier-1 Imperial Weapons Technician.

Dr Himes pries the cannon open with a grunt, revealing a pair of glowing purple crystals in the center.

Chirpa the Ewok, President of the Westside Ewoks, rolls over to Linda’s workbench on a motorized stool. The tiny Ewok lifts his welding goggles and inspects the weapon, then nods satisfactorily.

Although small of stature and of number, Chirpa and the Westside Ewoks are a vital part of the Westside gang. Chripa and his team create the tech and the vehicles the Westside needs for their fight against the Orc Mafia.

Now, somehow, it seems they have added the good Dr Linda Himes to their roster.

“You were right,” Chirpa concedes to the doctor.

Linda does not respond, but simply grabs the purple crystals with a pair of tongs and places them carefully in a metal tray on her bench. She takes a deep breath, and then lets out a scream of rage and pushes the bisected gun off her work table. She takes a few more deep breaths, and her body goes slack.

“It’s been four days,” Linda says in a flat tone.

Chirpa sighs. “She has been out longer than that before.”

Linda whirls on him, her stained lab coat swishing, fury in her eyes. “Ten confirmed dead this week! Five missing, six if you count Chi! She could CALL!”

The Ewok nods solemnly. “She is young, Linda…”

“Don’t,” Linda chokes. “Don’t give me that shit. She was young when she wanted to go party and slum it with the T5 kids. She’s a killer now, a thug on the frontlines of a war that we AREN’T WINNING.”

Linda presses her hand to the bridge of her nose, not crying at all.

A Harley Davidson muffler cracks in the night, and Linda’s head jerks up. Instantly her face is twisted in fury, and she rises from her bench again.

“Linda, be careful with her…” Chirpa warns, his warning falling on deaf ears.

Linda stands at the entrance to the garage and hears the motorcycle engine die. A moment later, the metal door is rising.

Chi’owo stands with her hand on her hip, the orange, half-chinese Twi’lek posing obnoxiously. Gone is the shy genius lab-assistant who never went lower than Tier-2 in her life. Here stands a gangster.

Chi’owo wears tight leather pants and a tiny leather vest tied like a corset with shoelaces in the front, pressing her petite breasts together and giving her a semblance of cleavage. Her bare midriff exposes her black tattoo of a snarling badger, with the words WESTSIDE HUFFLEPUNKS above it in an arch. A pair of .45 magnum revolvers hang at her waist, the chambers glowing slightly red, and Linda knows that Chi is using the incendiary ammo that Linda invented.

The Twi’lek drops a cigarette on the driveway and stubs it out with her black combat boot before strolling inside Chirpa’s garage.

“Hey Dr Himes,” Chi’owo chirps, as she used to do every morning back in their lab in the imperial armory. “Hey Chirpa. Do you guys have like, a rocket launcher, but it launches fire? The tuskies got this chopshop-”

The Twi’lek is cut short as Linda grabs Chi’owo roughly by her shoulder and spins her around to face the seething doctor.

Chi’owo stares defiantly back up at Linda, but does not try to break her old boss’ grip.

“Where,” Linda demands in an icy voice. “Were you?”

Chi’owo’s jaw seems wired shut.

“There have been ten confirmed dead this week,” Linda says, her grip tightening. “You could have called…”

Chi finally rips herself from Linda’s grasp.

“You’re not my mother!” Chi screams. “And you’re not my fucking girlfriend!”

“I,” Linda says, shouting right back. “Am the only real friend you have down here, Chi!”

The women start to scream at each other in increasingly aggressive tones. Chirpa only watches patiently, hearing the same conversation he has heard play out in his garage over many nights, and waiting for it to lead to it’s inevitable conclusion.

“I came here on Westside business, I don’t need this,” Chi finally says, turning from Linda. “I need tech, plus someone blew up Pomegranate’s Corvette, so he needs something new. He thinks orcs did it, but personally, I think Breeze did it. Either way, we gotta go bust up this chop shop, so...”

Chi’s phone beeps, and she frowns as she opens a text and starts typing back furiously.

“You’re not going back into that meat-grinder!” Linda declares, her hands clenched into fists, her knuckles white.

“Yeah,” says Chi, eyes still on her phone. “I am, and so are you.”

Linda blinks intelligently. “What?”

“Yeah,” Chi says again maddeningly, still texting. “Change of plans. President Weasel says she needs us both, says something funny’s going on.”

Chi looks up to meet Linda’s worried gaze.

“Chi,” Linda says softly. “I’ll come, for you. But I’m not killing anyone.”

The Twi’lek grins.

“That’s EXACTLY what I first said!”

***

To follow Kilgrot, Danny and Dungbomb, check here
http://omniverse-rpg.com/showthread.php?tid=10382

To follow Batgirl Skywalker’s story, check here http://omniverse-rpg.com/showthread.php?tid=9746

To follow Chi’Owo, Linda, and Weasel, check here
http://omniverse-rpg.com/showthread.php?tid=10226

No idea where America Jackson will end up though!

***