The tall, muscular Zabrak was escorted into the courtroom by a number of equally muscular guards, one of whom was a Twi'lek and the other was a human. The stun cuffs chafed against his wrist, though he couldn't adjust or move them without the defense mechanism activating and shocking him.

He was clad in an orange jumpsuit and his horns were brutally short, cut harshly by the prison personnel. He had a raging headache, due in part to the combination of his horns and the loud courtroom.

He was Fyston Sutsgy, and he was a Vast Imperial starfighter pilot. Today was the last part of his trial, though the charges had been trumped up due to his past. Still, Fyston held his head up. He would be found guilty, he already knew that. He had made peace with that fact and was perfectly calm.

One thing that the prosecution would never get him to do, however, was inform on his comrades. He had been offered dozens of deals and bargains, though he had accepted none of them.

And then he felt himself being pushed up to the Defendant table, where his appointed lawyer looked at him with a look that could only be described as contempt and extreme anger veiled thinly by a smile and a twinkle in his eye.

Fyston did not sit, however, instead remaining standing as the judge, a Bothan, glanced down at him in annoyance.

"The Prosecution has pushed for the consideration of one last deal. Do you, in exchange for your freedom, wish to provide vital information into the Vast Empire?"

"No."

The judge sighed before pulling his datapad to sit in front of it. "In that case, the verdict shall be handed down. On the charge of Treason, you are hereby found guilty. On the charge of crimes on civilization, you are hereby found guilty. On the charge of your father's murder, you are hereby found guilty. On the various charges of murder, you are hereby found guilty. As a Vast Imperial starfighter pilot, you are held accountable for everything done while in your cockpit. Thus, you are sentenced to four consecutive life sentences."

Fyston sighed and stood, shrugging his shoulders before speaking. "I have no regrets. Long live the Vast Empire." And, to thunderous boos and shouts of disapproval, the Zabrak was led by eight heavily armed guards from the room.

OOC:

AAR:
The first post of at least a trio (rather than two longer posts, I decided to break it down) with this post outlining Fy's crimes and the fact that he's been sent to prison.
WC = 398

"So, how're you liking your stay here at Greylands," asked a thin, young looking Rodian. He wore the scars of a lengthy prison sentence, though it was debatable if he wore them well. Fyston had learned that he was in for sabotaging a New Republic vessel as it was being repaired, overpowering the reactor and completely destroying the Mon Calamari cruiser he had been working on.

"Pretty good. I've been able to make money using my skills," muttered the Zabrak under his breath, eyes meeting a nearby guard's gaze. His 'skills' were making a number of weapons out of whatever he could get his hands on. He wasn't able to get access to a full datapad, not since they found out that his ship was slave circuited. However, he had been able to get a flimsi newspaper or magazine every day instead. In exchange for working on the various ships in the facility, watched closely by heavily armed guards, the Zabrak had been given a number of spare parts. Well, he'd been given old holoreceivers and comlinks, though he had also stashed some wiring in his belt line.

Using the salt given to him at each meal, Fyston had made a saltwater solution in the refresher, combining it with the rolled up flimsi magazines to make a fairly sturdy club. He'd made lighters by taking out the power source of whatever electronics he had and removing the insulation before wrapping wire around it. Shanks, of course, were harder to make. The facility couldn't regularly maintain the horns of their single Zabrak prisoner, as not many Zabraks were traitors and forced to serve four life sentences. This meant that Fyston, using a lie to cover himself, could break off his horns and sharpen them down into a small, concealable weapon. Making the shanks hurt him more, as well as taking up more time, causing Fyston to charge more for them

All in all, he was a one mean weapons factory inside of a high security prison. He'd amassed a small fortune in credits, though he only needed money for one purpose.

"Hey, Greylands to Fyston!"

"What?"

"I said, what do you need all that money for?"

The Zabrak merely smirked in response. He'd taken a liking to the Rodian, who had said that his name was Rem. Rem had assisted Fyston in getting used to the prison, though he had also forgone salt and his daily newspaper, as well as smuggling food to the Zabrak, to further help the pilot. Rem worked in the kitchens as he wasn't trusted not to destroy the larger ships, ships Fyston couldn't work on anyway. The Zabrak had, unknown to Rem, purposely sabotaged a fighter so that it would only work when the navicomputer was unlocked. Fyston had set it up to only recognize his voice, though he'd worked on the fighter with three other people and merely blamed them for "incompetent power flow that resulted in the automatic locking of the navicomputer."

He had even been able to memorize the schedules of various freighter pilots, particularly the pilots who were bringing supplies to make extra cash. On those days, he would volunteer to unload the supplies. In reality, however, he was chatting up the various crew and garnering their favor. He would, after all, need their help in order to escape. Fyston had been informed that there was no hyperspace ring in orbit, though a quick look at the ship's cargo hold told him that the ring would fit inside the bay.

The sound of more cells opening, however, brought Fyston out of his recollection. He had bigger fish to fry now. The pilot had been the target of a fairly large Trandoshan, who had decided to attempt to bully the Zabrak into sharing his business. Fyston would have none of it, however, and had been preparing himself for the confrontation between them.

Today was that day. The Trandoshan snarled, attempting to intimidate the warrior. Having been raised on the harsh planet of Iridonia, Fyston wasn't fazed in the slightest. He merely smiled and nodded toward his opponent before grabbing one of his very own clubs. The Trandoshan swung wide, and the tall Zabrak bent backwards at his waist, following up by jabbing the Trandoshan in his gut. The lizard man stumbled backwards and Fyston pressed his advantage, swinging his club toward his opponent's head. Fyston's right arm, however, was intercepted by the Trandoshan's arms. Fyston frowned before launching a quick jab at his opponent's head, slamming into his face and causing the crunch of bones against bones to emanate into the air.

The fight was quick to end, however, as the fight was broken up by a number of guards, who rushed in and pushed both parties into a nearby wall. Fyston had stood his ground, however, and had shown that, even though he was a newer arrival, he wouldn't be beaten down.

OOC:

WC: 820
AAR: Fy's been in Greyland for about two months, though has already begun setting up his escape plan.

It was time. Sighing with relief, Fyston swung his legs around and felt the soles of his shoes touch the metallic floor. He was tired, though he was feeling the anticipation that came with knowing that today was the day he escaped. Or died, though the Zabrak almost certainly felt that dying was better than staying with the New Republic. And so he stood, stifling a yawn with his large hand. He stood in front of the flowing shield that separated him from the rest of the inmates, waiting for it to deactivate. Within a few seconds, the blue field shimmered and went out.

He took three steps, stepping into the walkway at the exact same time as the other prisoners. It was a practiced routine, and only the new guys were unsure of what to do. The pilot had learned rather quickly, though, in order to survive. Still, you could generally tell who was fit for prison and who wouldn't last long. In fact, they even took bets on who would last and how long. It was an interesting bet, and Fyston even found out that they had pegged him for two and a half months.

They were counted off and, to Fyston's surprise, he was instructed that he had the day off. That's not the deal we had, he thought with a scowl on his face. He was supposed to work in the hangar today and Rem was to unload cargo. Rem was also given a free day, which tripped a number of red flags in his mind. They know, he muttered mentally.

Fyston glanced over at Rem and made a motion with his hand, summoning the Rodian. "What," he said when he finally got close. "I got the day off and I don't want to spend it where I can get shiv-." "Shut up and listen," interjected the Zabrak, glancing around to get a visual on the guards. "I think they know." "Know what?" "Look, I've set up a plan for us both to escape to Vast Imperial space. They'll take you in because you blew up a Mon Cal ship and know the schematics. I'm a starfighter pilot there, so we've got history. We can't escape, though, if we're in here. We need to get to the hangar."

The Rodian's eyes went wide, though Fyston could see the gears turning in his head. "We need a diversion, though I don't have anyone to help me start one," admitted Rem, shaking his head as he spoke. A spark lit up Fyston's eyes as he had an idea. "Don't they give you a few MREs for your work in the kitchen?" "If by 'give' you mean 'steal' then yes." "Good, I remember the rebels using whatever they had on hand when they were repelling the Empire from my planet. They'd make bombs out of their MREs and they used them to great effect."

Twenty minutes later, the Zabrak and Rodian were sitting on Rem's bunk. They'd finished counting the MREs and had only three, partially due to Rem selling a few and partially because they had each eaten one due to their insatiable hunger. "They'll self heat and the reaction will cause a nice boom. They don't have a timer, though, meaning it's a lot of guesswork. Once you seal it and activate it, toss it." "Got it. How are we going to do this?" "It's simple. We start a riot."

The plan wasn't as simple as Fyston made it out to be. The armory was too well guarded and defended to break into it, meaning they had no access to any decent weapons. As a number of the inmates, Fyston included, made weapons, then they wouldn't be completely unarmed. Besides, makeshift clubs and other blunt weapons ignored the benefits of many armors, as those designed to protect against energy weapons typically weren't cushioned. They would place the MRE-bombs close enough to large groups of inmates to excite them but far enough to keep them from being injured. This would, of course, cause the guards to rush out with their riot gear. From previous lockdowns, it took nearly two minutes to initiate a full lockdown, though the cell blocks were locked within twenty seconds. That meant they had to book it to the blast doors and even at a full run they may not make it, particularly if there were guards in the way. Having readied themselves readily, Fyston and Rem set out with the MREs. Fyston held two and Rem hid one under his shirt.

And so they stood, opposite from each other. From across the block, they locked eyes and locked. Fyston shut the first MRE and activated the exothermic reaction before tossing it into a far corner. It lay there for almost five seconds before it exploded.

Meanwhile, Rem had lit his and dropped it into a laundry chute. Fyston heard the thudding of boots and activated the second MRE, hooking it up onto the second floor. It landed near the guard post, where a number of guards were rushing out. With screams of pain accompanying it, the sound of an explosion bounced off the metallic walls. His ears ringing, Fyston motioned to Rem. "Let's go, 2 minutes or we're dead," he shouted as he took off a run, heading for the blast door. It had yet to descend, though reports of the explosion would find their way back to the administration soon.

They were halfway there when it began closing, the thick door threatening to cut them off from the rest of the facility. Adrenaline coursed through his veins as he ran, speeding him up ever so slightly. Lighter and smaller, Rem was even faster than the Zabrak and ran under the blast door with plenty of time. Fyston, however, was running out of time. He allowed his legs to fly out from under him, putting him into a slide as the blast door got closer and closer to closing. He could feel the faint wind of the blast door on the top of his skull as it descended, the Zabrak mere millimeters away. He was pulled to his feet by Rem, who began running again.

It was a close call. They'd nearly been tripped up three separate times, generally by guards or other prisoners. When the guards began shooting, however, Rem had been hit in the calf. While not life threatening, it hindered his ability to move enough to warrant being carried by the now frantic Fyston.

As they reached the hangar, however, Fyston opened the canopy of an X-Wing, many of which were flown by the pilots that escorted the cargo ships in to Greylands. He nearly threw Rem in and was about to give him a crash course in piloting when he was cut off. "My parents were smugglers, I know how to fly!" Sighing, Fyston shouted a command at the navicomputer, unlocking it.

With that, Fyston rushed over to his own fighter and opened the canopy, leaping into the cockpit with a sense of joy. Slipping on his headset, he opened a link to Rem. Neither of them worried about buckling up for safety, though Fyston jokingly called Rem a "mother karker."

Simultaneously, the two fighters sped out of the hangar, their engines casting a glow on the other ships as they flew by.. As soon as they were clear of the hangar, the automated guns began firing in their direction, the red spurts lighting up the space in front of them as they passed. Both began performing evasive maneuvers, though it was obvious that Fyston had been trained. His moves were clean, practiced, and he was calm. Rem, having not flown in some time, was quite panicked and Fyston guessed that he would lose his hearing if Rem didn't stop screaming. "Shut up! We know where not to put you in the Vast Empire," he said with a smile, though that quickly faded even as they left the range of the defensive guns.

In front of them, however, were four A-Wing Interceptors. Many would be nervous or even scared, though Fyston had more than enough experience to deal with the slims. His ETA-2 was one of the older models, which meant he had shields to help protect him, shields of similar strength to his normal TIE-Interceptor.

"Enter these coordinates and signal your surrender as soon as you arrive. Go willingly and tell them that you're with Chief Petty Officer Fyston Sutsgy, serving with Nightshrike Squadron aboard the SSD Atrus under Seth Qorbin. My ID number is #98-B32.8-7. Tell them the truth and let them know that I'll be there shortly," he said as he transmitted all of the information. Rem wouldn't survive the dogfight that was fast approaching. As it were, Fyston would have to rely on the complex nature of the A-Wing's controls and apply as much pressure on taxing the New Republics pilots as he could. Well, there was that and there was the fact that the freighter that carried his hyperdrive ring had yet to arrive.

Even as they streamed towards the pair, Fyston shot into action, firing his laser cannons into the tightly grouped flight of New Republic fighters. He received a notification through his display that they were requesting a comm channel. Smiling to himself, he allowed the request. "New Republic Flight Leader Fenrith to Prisoner #91839-36-4-B. Stand down and deactivate your engines." Fyston scowled before replying, allowing a guttural sound to seep into his speech. "Vast Imperial Chief Petty Officer Sutsgy to New Republic scum. Stand down and get out of my way." With the sound of indignant anger, Fenrith replied. "You dare challenge us?" "Yes. Yes, I do. I'm going back to the VE, so you can either get out of my way and go home to the New Republic or you can end up as space dust." "Prepare to die, Imperial fool."

And so they began the dance that was a dogfight. Fyston sought altitude, though pulled behind one of the A-Wings. He was sandwiched between them, which suited him fine. He swerved his craft to dodge the bolts of red energy that threatened to kill him. All the while, his blue bolts stitched the space in front of the lead A-Wing. The shields shimmered with a hit and the Zabrak jerked his craft to the side, causing a red bolt to slam into the A-Wing. The resulting explosion sent shrapnel everywhere, though the dogfight had moved away.

Fyston heard the repetitive beeps that signaled an impending missile lock, though was unable to successfully out maneuver his foe to escape it. With his headset emitting a shrill ringing noise, Fyston groaned. His display showed him the distance between his fighter and the missile, a distance that was rapidly shrinking. Flipping a switch, he deployed countermeasures. At the same time, however, he was blindsided by one of the A-Wing pilots, who came at him from the left. His shields shimmered but held as three successive bolts hit and Fyston responded by increasing power to the shields.

Of course, that's not all he did. He shot upwards, performing an Immelmann that pointed him at the other two A-Wings. He fired thrice and one slammed into the starboard stabilizer, sending the fighter into a death-spiral. It was at that time that the familiar form of a freighter entered his viewport, eliciting a smile from the Zabrak.

Leaving the A-Wings to come about, he shot forward. He was already entering the coordinates into his navicomputer, though this would certainly be a narrow escape. The A-Wings began closing the distance as the freighter released a hyperdrive ring. They were within firing distance as Fyston locked his fighter into the ring and many of the bolts went through the space between his fighter and the ring, with enough hits to break his shields.

By the time they could fire their concussion missiles, however, Fyston was gone. As he set his head back, he realized he had been holding his breath. He had done it. He had escaped. He was going home.

OOC:

WC = 2014

AAR: Fy escapes! He improvises some bombs and blows stuff up before booking it to his fighter and escaping into space. He also kills 2 A-Wings before jumping into Hyperspace. As a gift to the VE, he brings someone with knowledge of Mon Cal cruisers and an X-wing.