Episode V: A New Recalc
Meanwhile, in a particularly seedy section of downtown Coruscant...
The most infamous dive on the street was known, simply, as "The Cantina." Three humanoid figures hunched over their drinks at the bar, watching the oversized viewscreen. One was dressed in a white samurai's robe; one, in a similar black robe, but with frost riming its edges; and the third in a gray military uniform with Admiral's insignia on the lapel. Though different in appearance, they were oddly matched in the number of empty glasses in front of them, and their rapt attention on the sports spectacular on the viewscreen...
"Welcome to Foxboro Stadium, for today's AFC title matchup between the New England Patriots and the Indianapolis Colts!"
A figure dressed in flannel and denim tried to slide up to the bar. Kryo, annoyed, turned around. One could say that he froze in surprise when he recognized the newcomer; but he was, after all, quite cold already.
"DarkPaladin! What are YOU doing here? This isn't a college game!"
The Midwesterner twitched. "Well, Indiana is Midwestern..."
Ben eyed the farmer suspiciously. "You know Surther would be upset if he saw one of his boys watching a pro game. It's against MWC bylaws."
Sherbert twirled his Shirley Temple thoughtfully. "Which is worse - being caught on a spy mission to Coruscant, or watching pro football?"
DarkPaladin drew himself up, angrily. "I'm not here for either. I came to watch the big matchup between Yoda and Wombat!" He reached for the remote control.
Throughout the bar, there was an ominous chorus of sounds...lightsabers being ignited, swords being drawn, pistols being cocked. The bartender sighted down the barrel of his Death Ray Zorcher.
"This is a title game. Touch that remote, and die."
Meanwhile, back at the arena.
Sirian pushed his way to the center of the ring, fighting the panicked crowd. He grabbed the microphone. "LADIEEES AND GENTLEMENNNNN...please, return to your seats. The next round will begin after a slight delay for cleanup."
Yoda stumped angrily forward. "Cheated, they did, HMMMMM? An assassin was present. Victory is mine. MINE, MINE, MINE!"
Sirian gazed down at Yoda. "RB rule number 7892, subparagraph 'D.' Reloads are permitted in the event of a crash. This...man..." he indicated Harel, who was sitting in the front row, absently polishing a rifle, "'crashed' into the mat, disrupting the match. A reload to the beginning of Round 16 is authorized according to RB bylaws. You picked me for a referee. Deal with it."
"But FIRED a WEAPON, he did -"
Sirian shook his head. "Immaterial, as such occurrences by third parties are not specified as being germane to the match. For all we know, he could have been up in the rafters for a better view and fired accidentally. In the absence of conclusive proof, the match continues at the point of the reload."
Sirian waggled a finger at the Jedi Master, who backed up a touch nervously. "And the agreed-upon rules for the match stated, 'NO Force Powers.' You're lucky we're reloading here or I'd have to dock you points for illegal tactics."
Wombat saw an opening and limped up. "Hey, you just said he cheated -"
Sirian glared. "I said, the round has been reset. As far as I'm concerned, it never happened. Next time you get a sharpshooter, make sure he doesn't miss. And while we're at it, reconstructive surgery on my hand comes out of the pot before anybody else gets a cut."
Sirian, ever subtle, keyed on his throat mike. "Better raise the shields around the ring, or EVERYBODY'S going to start shooting this time."
Yoda sulked. Wombat glared. Sirian...wrapped another bandage around his hand and moved out of the ring. More quickly, this time.
The bell rang.
Keep it clean, fellas...