The Drop (Amelia Bounty Claim)

[Thraxis]

The stars flashed and contorted, twisted as the ship flew through the nigh-endless void of space as Thraxis sat there, atop his arm rested a scarred, hole-ridden and charred corpse tucked beneath his arms. A few men passed him on the old Junker, Commenori symbols sat dilapidated along the hull of the crumbling vessel. It was no true commentary ship, hell no one would be caught dead in the thing with the odd exception of Junkies and Pirates. This was an odd mix, the Captain an old Pirate, and the crew a cobbled assortment of every junkie under the sun, from Death Stick's to Spice the smell permeated in every crust of the ship. But time flew by in the old junker, the odd pipe darting down as steam came in a swath of white, followed by the wrapping of gum and tape wherever possible.

But that time passed, soon the stars shifted into place no longer a torn and drawn outline of white but mere freckles in the void. And underneath those stars, a sole ball of stagnant brown sat there, a disk of rubble and debris clocking around it as Thraxis pulled the corpse up and over his shoulder, departing down towards what some would call a docking bay, at this point, was nothing more than a couple chains suspending a wall of busted durasteel. Around him a dozen men hovered and swayed on the back of the ship, Thraxis pulling out a chair and placing the corpse at his feet. He snapped his fingers, a series of lights flashing around him as he put on his blackened helmet, he looked through, opening comms and searching through a dozen names. "Genosia... Geonosip... Ah. Geonosis." He snapped a finger, swaying on the back leg of his chair as he swayed back and forth, around his shoulder a yellow bag with knick knacks was unzipped, pulling out a sloshing brown liquid as he rested it in his hand, matching the pendulous swing of the chair.

"Man... How do ya... Oh, here we... Nope... No... No, there we go." He muttered as if accomplished he had never cashed a bounty before, it was rather exciting, the still air almost grew tense with anticipation. He wasn't even sure what was up for grabs, he just knew every bounty hunter in the galaxy wanted this one and he was the one to cash it in. Hell, unlike those scrubs he didn't even need to put the work in, just steal some other person's glory. "Ahem. Geonosis. Whoever it is that want's the bounty on Amelia cashed in, I, Thraxis, have come to deliver." He said, his words were laced with excitement and jubilance, struggled to maintain as his crew in the background, he had never dealt with the clearance of spacecraft, due in part to the fact he had always smuggled himself aboard or had been part of a less than inviting and more of invading force. "If you are going to pay up. Meet me in some ruined Tournament arena. Let's be real its Geonosis I am sure there is one. So just... I dunno meet me there." He had begun the descent onto Geonosis, hoping he could at least land, if not paused at where he is to make the delivery, but if otherwise.

The ship descended with all the ease of a donkey coughing a furball, it was jagged, it's movements were wrong and the fact that it was coughing up a furball brought the question to whether it was a donkey. It's rocky frame landing in the cradle of some broken up and ran down arena, the dust settled in every nock, an age and generation of sand filled the stadium and holes in this decrepit thing dust rose and settled again with an uneasy creak as the ship lowered, Thraxis and crew descending out, guns on their hips and chains in their paws as they pulled from the rear a large blue Shipping Container, Thraxis tossing his chair and climbing its top with Amelia's corpse in toe as he placed them at his feet, legs crossed as he now plays the waiting game.
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[member="Darth Metus"]

 

[Darth Metus]

This was not Ishmael’s definition of time well spent.

In fact, the whole ordeal was a waste. Credits. Resources. Attention. All could have been spent in more productive outlets than placing an execution order on some lowlife’s head. From a practical point of view, the Clone disagreed with his “father’s” decision to the letter - but he understood where the furious response came from. A message had to be sent to the Galaxy - House Verd and Her Allies would not be trifled with. This Execution Order made that point crystal clear.

And now came the part where they made good on their promises. The Hunters would find little to no opposition coming to the Confederate capital. The vessel would be provided clearance codes, a landing vector, and a warning that any deviation would see them blown out of the air.

At this point, a notification chimed within the Clone’s helm. He squinted as the verbage of the Hunter’s missive was translated to text upon his HUD. They had requested to meet in one of the planet’s arenas. Very well. Before proceeding, Ishmael took a moment to reach out to his kin for volunteers:

Ish: Anyone else want to get this?
Pops: I’m offworld, can’t.
Scone: I can come with, give me a few.
Ish: Aight, meet you there.

Several minutes thereafter, [member="Thraxis"] would be greeted with the din of roaring engines. A pair of speederbikes would thunder through the Arena gates, kicking up a wall of dust as they arrived. Abruptly, they came to a halt before the rag tag. Neither Verd dismounted.

”Just need confirmation that the remains are Sorenn-Syrush and you’ll receive payment in full.”

 

[Thraxis]

Atop his poorly designed cargo carrier, crate or whatever word one might find to describe the hunk of junk, he sat looking down and around as his newly assembled crew departed and dashed around, finding every niche and corner to fill the empty chairs and perforate drugs in a frenzy as Thraxis rolled on his chair, risking high as it balanced an inch from toppling over and into the dust beneath. "Doot... Doot... Do... Doot?" Mindless amusement sputtered as engines roared, a Mad-Max Esque frenzy tossing dust and revealing decayed bones as they plummeted through, the noise crackling throughout as Thraxis raised a brow.

It was a grand display and something that drew a far from sarcastic clap and echoes of Bravo from Thraxis as he applauded the entrance. Like a child in amusement, he watched, half expecting to come to a collision before the duo made a pause and a break before destroying his crate it had seemed. "Hello." He said in a mundane jovial attitude, his chair brought upright as he pulled a flask of alcohol prepared to offer before realizing what situation this was. It wasn't a fun one to this duo, they seemed perturbed by being sent on this whole deal. He was hoping the collectors or Claim placer would have had an air of spirit to him.

He gave a half-hearted sigh, a little disappointed by it all"Oh. It's one of these dealios." He hoped for a little more, a drop of energy, a pint of panache or even a cup of joviality to the exchange of a corpse. He looked to his side, a hand coiled around the cindered corpse as he brought it to his lap. Looking it over. Well, he wasn't even sure if this was valid, the thing was burnt and was sure that if left alone long enough underneath the Genosis sun it would finish its journey and turn to ash. But nevertheless with the care, one might have for a toddler he placed it on his knee, bouncing it up and down as the next to hollow and lifeless eyes gave a cold stare to who he imagined was the cause of all this. He propped a hand underneath its jaw, in the shape of a pistol comfortably gripping the undercarriage as he pulled it up and down in a mockery of life as he played with his own voice.

With a horrid croak of his voice, he began the puppeteers dance, "Ello, it is I, Amelia the dead!" His voice a horrid cobbled together Space Mexcian accent as he twisted their head around, the sound of taut flesh tearing and ripping as it met with what use to be everyday motions now turned to agonizing twists. "I am here to cough myself up and afterwards." Thraxis gave a chuckle, features softened and mellowed at the horrid display before looking to the duo, it was very likely bad form what he did, but then again, everything he did seemed to be tainted with bad form.
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[member="Ishmael"] | [member="Darth Metus"]

 

[Natalie LaForte]

"These idiots must think me blind to allow for my own fiance to die and not expect me to come after them?" mumbling to herself as threw the crude tracker into the sand, stamping it and sending sparks flying in a minuscule vicinity. She wasn't here for blood, or even to retrieve the corpse of her former lover, but for answers. Why did somebody want her dead? Who wanted her dead? Would Natalie be next? Undoubtedly, she had a sneaking suspicion as to the answer to the third one, though the former 2 required closer inspection. While she usually relied on the assistance of a private army of a few hundred droids, this was a solo-operation.

Oh and it was too suspicious to attempt to smuggle them through customs, even if she could play it off as a shipment from IMF.

"Great. Now they're flouncing her corpse around in an arena" eyeing up at the mountain-like Colosseum, shaking her head slightly then lowering it, so as to conceal her identity under a mundane black hood. Holding back her frustration, she stood at a distance, peering as [member="Thraxis"] used her romantic partner as a puppet, along with glancing [member="Ishmael"], whom she could only assume was associated with the group who had put an execution order out.