The Road Unseen and Ongoing Part IV

The Pawn Trilogy Episode I:

Heir to the Hempire

*Riiiiing, riiiiing...*

“Who is that?”

“It's... not important.”

“That same number has called a couple times, Ned. Forgive me for wondering why you're getting repeat calls.”

“Look, it's really nothing to be concerned abo- hey! Ow, watch it!”

“Would you sit still for a sec?! God, you're being such a baby.”

“Hasn't my face undergone enough trauma lately without you poking the hell out of it?”

“It's not my fault you got bashed with a pipe! I'm just trying to stop the stitches from reopening! You know, you could try and be grateful for the help.”

“Thanks, Darce, you really succeeded at making the wound sting on top of my headache. It's heavily appreciated.”

“Har-dee-har. You are one smart-ass comment away from me ripping these out, mister.”

“It's just uncomfortabl- wait. Stop.”

“What? Are you too much of a crybaby for me to have a needle near you?”

“It's not that. Did you hear something?”

“Hear wha-”

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Captain Knukleon stood on the bridge of the Star Destroyer Liemara. The intricate controls were strewn out upon the collection of panels and stations, all helmed by the new Hemperial Cadets. Ever since the loss of Emperor Pagetine, the Galactic Hempire had faltered in its ceaseless dominance. Whereas they once ruled the XWF Galaxy with an iron fist, now they didn't even control the Ann-ar'kii System. The sacrifices were innumerable, but Knukleon held no fear as he stared out into the vastness of space, lighting up a blunt in front of his subordinates. They had the greatest mind in the history of the Hempire on their side. A man with innumerable resources and a title that made lesser men quiver. At the very least, he was the smartest guy Knukleon knew, which probably meant nothing, but he wasn't smart enough to make that connection. Walking onto the bridge was the man in question, wearing his stunningly white attire with the proper badges adorning it, his rank confidently seen over his chest: Grand Admiral Bourb.

“What's happenin'?” Asked the Grand Admiral, adjusting his fly that he had neglected to rezip upon leaving the latrine.

“We've got three New Republic starfighters flying around an' shit, but I don't think they realize how much of a threat we are.” Replied the Captain, not entirely confident in their crew, yet still certain of their capabilities to blow up much smaller craft. It was unusual to see the Grand Admiral arriving without his bodyguard, but Knukleon was more than happy to avoid that “creature” at all costs.

“Hmm...” Bourb placed a hand on his chin. His skin was an intense shade of blue and his eyes were fully red, though not from any of the excessive usage of pot aboard the Liemara. Using his brilliant, tactical mind, he assessed the situation and calmly gave an order, “you there! At the turbolaser controls.”

“Y-yes, sir!” Responded the young man at the corresponding station, quivering in fear from a direct order from his higher officer in such a crude manner. His head peaked over his nervous shoulder as he saw the arm of the Grand Admiral extended outward, pointing an intense finger at the cadet.

“Turboblast them shits, I dunno,” commanded Bourb.

“Aye!” The cadet the fumbled with his station, coordinating with the targeting systems that had already been calibrated. With a few short motions of confirmation, the hull of the ship, adorned with the turbolaser cannons, began to whine softly as energy was redirected and burst out in a shining, deadly beacon of jade. The scattershot fire tore through the weak shields of two of the starfighters and seemed to disable those of the third. The two craft that took the brunt of the damage burst into a fiery blaze most comparable to one of Knukleon's smoke sessions. The Captain looked up to Bourb in awe of his astute analysis of the situation.

“I made that happen,” stated Bourb confidently, “now, blow up that other one, cadet.”

The young man at the panel gave an affirmative nod, resetting the firing capabilities of the nearest turbolaser cannon whilst awaiting the targeting computer to calculate the new coordinates for the next shot. After another brief moment, the cadet fired once more, but this time, the scattershot strands of emerald were unable to find their mark, the remaining starfighter, weaving through the fire as the officer at the radar station called out.

“They're preparing to jump into hyperspace!”

Bourb's eyes narrowed as he disapprovingly gazed at the cadet, beginning to walk towards his station. Despite his best attempt at preparing the turbolaser for another shot before the hyperdrive of the smaller craft was ready, the starfighter zoomed forward, leaving a trail of glittering blue in its wake and bringing the Grand Admiral inches away from him.

“What is your operating number, cadet?” Asked the Grand Admiral in an icy tone.

With a stutter, he answered, “LRC-22. Name: C-Cadet James.”

“Well, James,” Bourb's calm words were a frozen dagger in the ears of the young man, “take a lap.”

“No, no!” The cadet jumped up, cowering from his superiors as a few stormtroopers took him by the arms and “escorted” him off of the bridge. There was a silence as the Grand Admiral walked back towards Captain Knukleon, his glare softening as he shrugged, breaking the uneasy silence with an expected request.

“Shit, I am starving. Can one of you get me a hotdog or somethin'?”

Knukleon nodded, realizing that this man was truly the greatest mind in all of the Hempire.

---

A searing pain shot through Ned's head as he leaned upon the guardrail on a balcony. It was an immaculate design, but he wasn't able to focus on the details by sight, the pain forcing his eyelids to shut violently. Once he forced them open, he looked down, seeing endless stories with flying cars that sped through a city that never seemed to halt. He recoiled from the guardrail, his fear of heights kicking in as he fell backwards, needing to catch his breath as everything was too overwhelming. He still didn't understand what he had just seen involving TK and Bobby or why his brain would bother hallucinating some garbage about them, but those questions could be investigated after he was more than a leap away from a 80 story plus plummet.

Inhaling and exhaling with a slow, deep rhythm, Ned did his best to figure out what exactly was going on. He had a holstered firearm of some sort at his side and a black vest over an off-white, almost tan shirt. Pulling himself off the ground, Ned rested on knee as he tried to understand why everything looked so distinctly different. Unfortunately, his train of thought was abruptly interrupted by a voice from the doorway.

“Master Solo!” the white-haired woman in a ceremonial robe walked out to help Ned to his feet, “what's wrong? Have you gotten hurt?”

“Uh... no,” Ned forced out, a baffled look upon his face as he processed her words, “what did you just call me?”

“Master Solo, of course. Although, I know you prefer merely “Ned,” though my formal tendencies
compel me to use a proper title. What is the matter?” The woman gave a reassuring smile to Ned despite clearly being concerned about the state he was in. After a few uncomfortable seconds, Kaye forced himself to ask the question that was burrowing its way into his mind.

“I'm sorry... but who are you?”

Her face scrunched up in a horrified shock, uncertain what sickness had overcome him. Resting a palm over her mouth, she swiftly collected herself and answered his question to the best of her ability.

“I'm Winter. Your wife's closest aide and confidant? How could you not remember me...? Perhaps we should see her,” Winter led him by a firm grip on his right hand, leading him into the intricate palace they were currently somewhere in the upper layers of. He pondered what she meant by wife. This whole situation had been thoroughly surreal already and seeing Lily in it... that would only complicate matters worse. After a few minutes of traversing the inner halls, they had made it to small chamber door, a highly advanced scanning system correlating to the DNA signature of Winter, welcoming her with a few chimes and beeps that almost seemed familiar. As the door shot upward to open, staying open only long enough for the two to enter the room. Ned looked at the other figure standing inside uncertain what was waiting for them until her appearance was within his line of sight.

“Ned,” Darcy asked, looking completely stressed out in a regal nightgown, a horrified look on her face, “what the hell is going on?”

“What is it with you two tonight?” Asked Winter, even more baffled by Darcy's response, “Aren't you happy to see your husband, Darcy?”

“Husband..?” Darcy's voice trailed off as she stared at Ned, their eyes connecting for a moment as the situation sunk in... and they both burst into laughter, walking towards one another, immensely tickled by the absurdity of such a claim.

“As if!” Exclaimed Darcy, wiping a tear from her eye from chuckling as hard as she ended up doing, “no offense.”

“None taken. I'm not exactly looking to get wed to Sarcasm: The Person,” replied Ned with a glare as she flipped him off wearing a smirk of her own, both feeling less tense with the other's company and a brief bit of normality.

Winter rolled her eyes with an exasperated expression as she passed off the strangeness as something fairly circumstantial, “Well, I just hope you two can keep up that humor with one another once the babies arrive.”

Ned and Darcy ceased laughing, Darcy's face freezing into something in-between a scowl and a smile, “scuse me? Are you trying to say-”

“You're pregnant, Senator,” Winter's face became a bright smile with every sound as the color drained from her face, “with twins, too!”

“C-co-,” Darcy stammered as she held back an emotional outburst, doing her best to keep calm in front of the strange, snow-haired woman, “could you give me a moment alone with my hubby?”

“But of course, Senator!” Winter bowed with an elegant grace reserved for only the most polite people in the galaxy as she departed the room. As soon as the door had closed, Darcy began to vibrate from pure rage.

“I feel like I would remember something like that,” said Ned with a flat tone, trying to lighten the mood and failing miserably.

“WHAT THE FUCK IS GOING ON HERE?” exclaimed Darcy, the madness of their given situation finally boiling over, “IS THIS A WEIRD FETISH THING? DID THE XWF PUT YOU UP TO THIS?”

“Of course, not! You know I wouldn't-” Ned was unable to finish his statement before Darcy began to strike him rapidly. For the first time ever, her slaps managed to actually sting upon impact. He figured she was really angry about the whole ordeal already.

“OH YOU'RE GODDAMN RIGHT YOU WOULDN'T!” Darcy screeched as she changed her aim to Ned's head, looking for maximum damage output.

“Hey! Watch the face!” He used his hands to block her onslaught rather uselessly, Darcy's barrage of smacks halted by an expression of pure befuddlement as she inspected his forehead carefully.

“Your stitches... they're gone,” she muttered in disbelief, increasingly uncertain what to believe. Ned placed his fingertips on his forehead, running them over the stitches on his head. He certainly felt them, but she couldn't seem to see them.

“They don't feel gone,” Ned managed to force out, silently processing the information as Darcy stumbled back onto the bed behind her, trying to get a hold of anything resembling reason.

“Darce, what do you last remember before waking up here?”

She hesitated, trying to parse through the overload of information placed before her, “I woke up here with a splitting headache after some weird... hallucination or something.”

“What was in that hallucination?”

“I think there was that Knuckle guy and some blue dude...”

Ned's ears perked as the proverbial wheels began to turn in his head, “I saw the exact same thing! It must've not been a hallucination, then... I should look around and see if I can put anything else together and figure out what's going on.”

“And me?” Darcy asked, a little curious what exactly he had planned in the span of two breaths.

“You stay here. It could be pretty dangerous,” Ned replied as Darcy stood up, clearly insulted.

“Now wait a minute, I'm not gonna just sit around for you to be the knight in shining armor like some useless princess! We're both in this mess and I want out of it just as much as you.”

“Look, I don't think you're useless, but I can handle it alone-”

“Like you handled the guy who bopped you with the pipe?” She cut him off, causing Ned to turn around, an annoyed look adorning his face. He had a long way to go for not beating himself up for his failures and having them thrown back in his face never felt particularly pleasant.

“What? Can't take a little brutal honesty? You know, if we're gonna simulate some married couple, you're definitely sleeping on the space couch or whatever they have here...” Her words jogged something in Ned's brain causing his frustration to be sidelined for the time being.

“Darce, that's it!” He swung around excitedly to meet her confused gaze.

“...I didn't realize you wanted the “estranged marriage” experience that bad, Ned.”

“No, not that! Simulation! The sci-fi stuff, the disappearing stitches, the weird other reality! We're in the simulation chamber at The Facility! This is just like The Chameleon simulations I underwent!”

Darcy's eyes lit up a bit as she began to remember, nodding her head, “You're right! We were coming here for some reason... but what the heck was it?”

The two shared a silence, both attempting to see if the other could recall as the door to the bedroom flung upward and Winter rushed in.

“We're under attack! You must hide this instance!”

A blaster bolt collided with her shoulder, causing her to collapse instantly as Ned and Darcy recoiled at the blaster fire, quickly rushing for cover!

TO BE CONTINUED

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“It's always something with you Bastards.”

Ned crossed his arms, propping up his feet on the table with an exasperated sigh.

“There's always a concealed pipe or a distraction or scheme, but there never seems to be any indication that any of you ever wants to just do better for the sake of becoming better. I suppose then that the correct thing to say would be: It's always something else with you Bastards. Now, the one possible exception to that is Bobby Bourbon. He pays lip service to walking the fine line between upstanding and vomit-inducing while keeping the most rotten-smelling company this side of a -era reunion show. Now, who I am to talk? I've fucked up. Doesn't that make me the same as ol' Bobby here? Simply put: no. It doesn't. We are not alike. My attempts to better myself are not for image and I've said repeatedly that if you want to cheer or boo for what you view me as: that's your business. When I do something, even the wrong thing, I do it in earnest. The only thing that the Grand Admiral knows about earnest is that he saved Christmas in that one movie. You know, I'm not giving him enough credit. I'm sure he's aware he went to jail, too.”

“I know I'm expected to bow down to the king, but you and I are both aware that when we enter that ring or pit or arena, that crown comes off, your highness, and you have to face me on my level. It took TK all his smoke and mirrors that I said he needed to finally take me down and now he's so chickenshit scared of me getting back in his face that he's put you in my path, using “your majesty” as little more than a human shield because he knows he pissed off somebody who doesn't fuck around when terms of righteous vengeance comes into play. Or perhaps, you're stupider than I took you for and you assumed you were gonna hop in here and beat me down to a pulp to prove the dominance of BoB. Spoiler alert: Darth Vader is Luke Skywalker’s father and you couldn't even if you wanted to. Hell, it's a crap shoot whether or not you're actually gonna take me as a threat or just skate by like you did in our Hart Title match and Leap of Faith 19'. Sure, the circumstances have changed, but the fact that you have the attention span of a small dog certainly hasn't. It's distracted you from how you're apparently number one in your organization with ol' TK as your right hand man, kinda like how Page was a few months ago. What happened to him, Bobby? Who's the next sucker TK will put between himself and consequence before you realize that you're being used?”

“See, I'd like to respect you, Bourbon, but you don't earn that respect. You don't even attempt to earn it. Sure, it seems cool to act that way when you're twelve, but you're a grown man. Fucking act like it. For all of the pomp and circumstance attached to you taking that cloth off of your face, you never really unmasked. You're still hiding behind the same bullshit that I was when I was high off my own ego. The thing about highs, Bobby, is that they all come to a stop sooner or later. If I have to drag you into the sobering flame of the sun through every style under my belt, every technique I've ever witnessed, you're goddamn right I will. You could never have been The Chameleon for two big reasons: 1. You're not talented enough to do anything more than toss your body around the ring with a few brainbusters thrown in and 2. You don't love pro wrestling for its own sake like I do. I would be wrestling if it meant it was just some bingo hall in front of a dozen people. You don't feel that passion for the XWF or your “friends,” you just feel obligated to represent them at this point. It's not what you want because what you always really wanted was to stay in the back, watch a few pornos in the locker room, come out for a match, and get one good orgasm before the day is done. Your mentality fails you, your highness, and I've always been a little bit of a rebel myself.”

“BoB was an organization that picked anyone and everyone, always looking for some way to exploit others and use their talent, their work, to prop up a few people at the top. Do you think that's all going to stop because you slimmed down to a handful of fools instead of a basket full of them? The problem is rooted to the core of BoB and the mentality behind creating it. It's why even at my worst, I chose people I cared about. That I could carry a real conversation with. You and TK? You aren't friends. You're TV co-stars. You show up, get a paycheck, and then do some goofy shit for the camera before you're done with one another's presence. If you were strewn across the floor in a drunken haze, TK, Charlie, anybody in your little brand wouldn't lift you up like Cooper did to me, they'd just take bets on how long until your corpse was cold.”

“And frankly? I'm sick of it. I'm sick of the stupid segments and the childish Cornetteism-laden theses of feces you slobber over microphones. I'm sick of the Bastard-expanded universe. Of the merchandising, of the self-aggrandizing, of the crash television approach to being a human being. All of it is more played out than a Vinnie Lane mixtape and regardless of how cute your act was for a while, I speak for a lot of people when I say that your reunion tour is as unexpected and welcome as Kiss taking a fortieth “last ride.” The image-era of the XWF needs a kick in the ass and your dipshit tag partner only succeeded at making me buy pointier boots. So keep that hand near your blaster and remember: Han didn't shoot first.”

“Han had the lone shot.”

"You can't run from yourself."