Private Ready Setty Goey Blowy Uppy

[Rag]

Here’s how it went down: Mozzie was somewhere on Nar Shaddaa (he didn’t like it when Rag called it Nashadra, or Narshard, or Nash Dragon, or whatever else) trying to get money and stuff. Rag had asked if Mozzie wanted Rag’s help, and then Mozzie was all, “The charlatan’s craft is not only to acquire the confidence of one’s mark, but that one commits fully of their own confidence as well. You see, dear Rag, the basic idea is…” And at that point it was sort of like, ugggh, you know? So Rag walked away.

It’s not like Rag was gonna leave Outrider. And Mozzie had shouted after Rag to watch the ship, but this Nar Shaddaa place was so big that Rag doubted anyone could even find it if they were looking. Also also, Rag had hooked it up so if someone tried to break in, they’d have all the flesh melt off their bones. Not literally, but pretty much.

So there was Rag, walking through Nar Shaddaa, listening to Rag’s favorite radio station (local gang chatter). That’s when Rag heard those two magic words, the ones that start with pod and end with racing.

Pod racing.

A few days of handiwork later, Rag stood at the starting line. Under Rag’s feet was a huge surprise, hidden under a tarp but towering over all the other racers. Bone was nearby. The crowd hummed like a bunch of swamp flies waiting for stuff to kick off.

And oh man, they didn’t even know what was coming.

Buck @Bone​

 

[Buck]

Rag

It would come as no surprise to those most intimately acquainted with him where our intrepid leading man now found himself.

In light of the unscrupulous and unconscionable decision by those capricious Imperial officials to oust him (a decision that was most certainly an effect of the all too common envy that encircles our hero), M. Mason had bandied his tie fighter and starship license for a humble pod racer and the liberty to live in open defiance of tyrants.

The attainment of the pod racer was simple enough for a Rodian of M. Mason’s repute. Sparse words accompanied by animal magnetism culminated in a covenant that rivaled divinity.

M. Mason would pilot the vessel and should he win (which he would undoubtedly), a large sum of credits would await him. Should he fail (again, an impossibility in all but formality), he would serve as an incumbent attaché to one of Nar Shaddaa’s most budding entrepreneurs.

With the stoic confidence of a being that possessed an unbridled knowledge of their inner workings, and by extension capabilities, M. Mason cemented the deal with only two syllables.

“Uh huh.”

Our preordained champion now stood proudly aside his turbine-hearted steed. He waited in meditative silence and allowed the restrained elegance of competition to wash over him. It was a feeling that had accompanied many of his proudest moments in the academy, the first place where his prowess had been given the proper opportunity to flourish.

His fellow contestants mounted their own pod racers, all of which paled in comparison to the majesty of M. Mason’s very own, and unsynchronized roars deafened the sounds of an eager crowd.

With this signal M. Mason took the unfamiliar controls in his hand, tracing his fingers along the console. The pod imparted all of its habits, patterns, and secrets onto our idol at his beckon. He gripped the controls more firmly, now filled with the assuredness only a pilot of such unparalleled skill could possess.

Then he launched himself forward and out to an early lead, beginning the race without the official signal from the flagman. As in all manner of things, M. Mason was not one that would wait idly for the orders of lesser men.

 

[Rag]

Rag wiggled up on top of the 10-foot tall tarpy lump. Pretty soon the talk guy would introduce Rag, and then Rag would have to say one interesting fact about Rag, but then everyone would get to see the fruits of a few days’ hard work. They’d also get to see why some kinda weredroid was hauling pod racers over its shoulder in the dead of night. But they’d understand.

“And now,” said a voice over the loudspeaker, “straight out of deep space, it’s Rag! This is your time, Rag! It’s time for you to go!”

Shoot, Rag was almost nervous. But after training for this sort of jumpy buzzy on the C2’s loose wiring, Rag stood confidently towards the crowd — almost eye-level from the height of the special surprise — and put the C2 microphone on full blast. Rag took a deep breath in.

“IT’S RAG TIME BAAAAAAAABES!” Rag counted down to Bone on Rag’s finger (3, 2, 1). “LET’S MAKE SOME MIRACLES HAPPEEEEEEEENNNN!”

Just like they practiced, Rag jumped up as Bone whipped off the tarp, revealing

THE MEGAPOD.

THE MEGAPOD was five or six dumb stupid not MEGA pod racers, lashed together into one gorgeous five-engined leviathan. THE MEGAPOD reminds you that you can’t spell “combustion engine” without obscene, or combustion. THE MEGAPOD came to Rag in a dream, and in fact it had come to Rag in every dream for the last six months, slowly getting closer each time and whispering secrets in Rag’s voice.

Now it was real, and it was here, and it was bloodhungry. The crowd drank in THE MEGAPOD’s eldritch majesty through confused gasps and murmurs. A few of them probably realized where all those missing pod racers went, and Rag even heard a few fall to the ground with long, grateful screams that their boring pod racers had been reincarnated as this great, unfeeling pod-god.

“Great job Rag!” the loudspeaker voice said. “What you did is okay! Right and wrong are for the b-”

Just then, one of the other racers shot out of the gate. Rag giggled as Rag scrambled into the cockpit of MEGAPOD. Bone hopped into the sidecar and gave a thumbs up. Rag lowered Rag’s goggles.

Other racers confusedly scrambled out after the first guy, kicking on turbo to catch up. Rag started up all systems, laughing. At last the big yellow smiley-without-eyes button flicked on.

“HERE WE GO BABES!” Rag slammed a fist down on the button.

The MEGAPOD engines hummed loud, shook violent, and…

Nothing happened.

Buck @Bone​