Tyranus

Here's a small bit more . . . Above the sprawling gardens and courtyards of the Royal Palace complex, a dozen TIE fighters abruptly broke patrol formation as their lead ship unexpectedly splintered into a ball of expanding, superheated gases and vaporized debris. The blurred shape of the Millennium Falcon throttled up as it charged headlong through the shimmering fireball that had been its target; exploding from the licking flames, unpredictably pitching this way and that. The broken, charred remains of the vanquished Imperial pilot had become entagled in the struts supporting the large radar dish mounted on the ship’s upper hull. The ‘Falcon rolled over several times narrowly avoiding the deadly blasts of heavy fire now coming from the main guns of the Star Destroyer, Intruder, just ahead. As it did so, the body of the dead pilot worked itself free of the radar dish assembly, tumbled and slid back across the hull of the ship and was vaporized in a flash by the main drive engines, leaving nothing more than a brief black streak in the sky. The scattering Imperial fighters had streaked away from the disintegrated ship, and each other, in large sweeping arcs. Their adrenaline-pumped pilots had pulled each of their ships around, abruptly changing direction and re-grouping into a ravenous pack, racing through the skies above Theed, their twin Ion Engines howling like a hungry, animal symphony pursuing the fleeing Millennium Falcon. Yané held her scarf pressed against the slice on Solo’s scalp. Blood soaked the sheer cloth and ran down the side of his head. Somehow she had managed to drag him over from the stairwell and strap them both in at the gaming table before the rolling had begun again. Han reached back, pressing a wall-mounted comm unit which broadcast into the cockpit. “Chewie, turn on the grav-stabilizers!” In the cockpit, the Wook looked up as he heard Solo’s voice. He reached up to check the control lever, only to discover that the swinging chance cubes he had hung there had disengaged it. He quickly removed the dangling charms and re-activated the stabilizer. As he did so, the pursuing TIEs fired again, forcing him to roll away sharply. This time however, Yané and his captain would not be thrown around in the back of the ship, The Imperial fighters stuck to him closely as he rolled through the sky. Then he cut a hard left, breaking straight for the looming forward edge of the destroyer. Chewie edged back on the throttle slightly, allowing the TIEs to get a bit closer as he skimmed over the hull of the Intruder, her cannons firing at him. The luminous, jade-colored energy bolts sizzled past, narrowly missing their mark as he adjusted the shield energy allocation forward. As the cannons squarely ahead fired again, he rocked the ship up on its side, allowing the blasts to blaze past, destroying two of the fighters on his tail. He veered suddenly, heading straight for another gun tower, rolling in a tight spiral as the fighter jocks on his tail fired, their attack streaming past, destroying the surface-mounted gun instead. A panel indicator for the nav’ computer began to flash and beep; the hyperspace route had finally been plotted. Another cannon quickly acquired the Corellian ship, blasting away. Chewie pulled back ******* the controls, throwing the ‘Falcon into a steep climb as the blast slammed bluntly into the shields, rocking them violently. The TIEs clumsily attempted to follow, as the gun tower began spitting energy, tracking up away from the Destroyer’s hull. The Wook, then threw the controls forward to center, stalling the drive engines, stopping all forward thrust and allowing the ship to slide into a full 180 degree rotation to the left. The TIEs all overshot him, flying past before realizing their error. As soon as the grey, leading edge of the Destroyer’s hull appeared against the black outside the cockpit window, Chewie slammed the controls forward with one hand, bringing the drive engines back online at maximum throttle, as he reallocated the shields to the rear with the other. There was a short blast of blue light from the main engines and the ‘Falcon lunged toward the grey durasteel skin of the Intruder. The gun turret opened fire, spitting a non-stop barrage at the Corellian ship. As Chewie dove below the edge of the Destroyer, the blasts from the tracking gun turrets continued to follow, trailing repeated blasts into the skin of the Destroyer, searing holes through the durasteel of their own hull before stopping. The second, orbiting destroyer was now moving into position to help. A flashing, yellow warning lamp blinked on the console in front of the Wook. He bared his teeth and growled angrily from far back in his throat. They were gaining, and readying their tractor beams. Chewie rolled into a straight climb, heading for the edge of the atmosphere. The friction associated with a sudden acceleration to hyperspace here would incinerate the ship. As he aligned the ship with her pending nav’ computer heading, a loud tone filled the cockpit, indicating all was set for the jump. Once they passed beyond the last fringes of atmo into the chill of space, his furry arms reached over for the three hyperdrive throttle levers. The two remaining TIEs were firing on their target as the Millennium Falcon suddenly accelerated into a blurred flash and was gone. The streaming, green energy bolts flung from the fighters now merely sizzled into the empty space left in her wake. * * *

Thank you.

Thanks Pappy.

STERLING MANUAL: http://propaholics.wolfchasers.com/uploade...MG%20Manual.pdf Enjoy!

The link in my blog for the STERLING MANUAL has been corrected now, and works fine. For anyone needing the manual, here it is also; http://propaholics.wolfchasers.com/uploade...MG%20Manual.pdf

I posted this same note on THE SANDTROOPER'S STORY thread, but it applies here too: I'm sorry there have been no new postings lately. My Father (78) has been sick most of this year, and was recently been diagnosed with prostate cancer and has had the prostate removed. I have been pretty involved with helping him and managing upkeep of his home while he is out of commission and recovering. I want to write more on this, but can't seem to find the time to do so right now. Jotting ideas down here and there is all I seem to be able to manage. More will come. I promise. I'm not abondoning this story. Thanks for reading and for your comments.

I'm sorry there have been no new postings lately. My Father (78) has been sick most of this year, and was recently been diagnosed with prostate cancer and has had the prostate removed. I have been pretty involved with helping him and managing upkeep of his home while he is out of commission and recovering. I want to write more on this, but can't seem to find the time to do so right now. Jotting ideas down here and there is all I seem to be able to manage. More will come. I promise. I'm not abandoning this story. Thanks for reading and for your comments.

If anyone needs gear, drop me an email: tupperwaretk@yahoo.com

I'm 41.

Nice work trooper! Thanks!!

Thanks guys. He just responded. I appreciate the help. Oh, by the way...for anyone interested: I just wanted to let you know a new run of FULL white kits and the FX LITE helmetless kits ready to ship as of this weekend. They go nicely with the RT-MOD helmet. I also still have a few FULL BLACK ABS kits as well. Email me if interested: tupperwaretk@yahoo.com

Try www.checkpointcharlies.com for the scope. You will need to KEEP checking as their stock changes constantly!

I have tried emailing trooper7@shaw.ca with no response. Does anyone have an alternate contact for him? PLEASE email me at Tupperwaretk@yahoo.com. Thanks!!

I hope someone can help me. I'm trying to find a decent copy of the entire BACK IN BLACK Lucasfilm Marketing video from just before the EPIII launch. If anyone has a decent copy and can email or send thru http://www.yousendit.com/# PLEASE EMAIL ME at tupperwaretk@yahoo.com Thanks!!

Off toward the horizon the faint hint of a moon obscured by thick, foreboding clouds hung silently in the black sky, casting little to no light on the pitching waters below. Roy was jolted awake by a cracking bolt of lightning and the immediate percussive blast of thunder as the white-hot bolt of energy arced across the cockpit window on the sloped nose of the shuttle. Angrily swirling, heavy black clouds lay ahead sporadically illuminated from within with the glow of wild, erupting lightning. White bursts of spray blew from the crests of the waves below. Leon was gripping the controls firmly as the small ship was buffeted by fierce crosswinds. He glanced over to Roy, “We had almost made it to Los Angeles when some auto-drone beacon hailed us asking for codes and landing permissions. I didn’t know what do say, so I pulled away, back out here over the water.” Roy stared off into the fury of the storm ahead. The bright lights of LA were barely visible along the shoreline through the heavy rain and haze. His mind raced. “We’re going to get wet. Let me warn the others, then we need to ditch into the water. Get us closer to shore; about 200 yards out, that way the current will pull the ship south, down the coast and away from town.” Leon’s eyes widened a bit and one began to twitch as he listened, “Ditch in this? I hate water, especially water at night.” He looked over to Roy, the pallor of fear smeared across his face. Roy smirked a bit as he stood up, pausing with a hand on Leon’s shoulder, “We ditch. Facing your fears will help you overcome them. Is your fear real or imagined?” He paused a moment. “Don’t trouble yourself searching for the answer. The answer while find you while we’re swimming to shore.” With that, he turned and exited the cockpit to tell the others. The ship slipped sideways with a jerk as it was caught in a powerful gust of wind. Everyone seated in the main passenger area was thrown jarringly sideways. Roy was pitched up against the bulkhead as another shuddering blast of air from the raging storm outside tracked through the shuttle, shaking it violently. He regained his footing and addressed the others. “Everyone needs to be at or near the main hatch when we set down.” He said pointing toward the door, “We’re putting down in the water.” “What?” said Mary, “In the water?” Roy held on to the wall as he responded, “Yes, Mary, in the water. We have to be smart. We can’t land legally at the shipyard. Not that that bothers me in the slightest, but they would match the ship’s identifier codes with that of the missing shuttle and we would be caught. We’ll be fine.” Hodge appeared worried, but said nothing. Mary looked over at him, then momentarily back to Roy, over to Zhora and finally to came to rest her sights on Pris, who sat with hands gently resting on the flat of her belly, lost in thought . . . daydreaming . . . “We were told you were the best in the aftermarket.” said Roy to the man behind the partially opened door. With yellowed eyes deeply set into a frail face he peered from behind the door, then pulled it open a bit further, stepping out to the sidewalk, glancing quickly one way and then the other. “Come in quickly, both of you.” Pris followed the old man inside as Roy looked up and down the street himself, and then followed, closing the door behind. The narrow foyer was intolerably dim and smelled of the ancient books and mildewed paper stacked along the left hand wall, but was out of the cold air. A narrow staircase led up and twisted around for several flights to levels above, but Pris had followed the good doctor into a closet beneath the stairs, through a door in the back wall and down roughly-hewn steps to a room cut from the solidly packed soil and stone beneath. A sterile smell washed over Roy as he descended the curved steps to the small room where they were. “Have a seat” said the old man to Roy. “Thank you, doctor” whispered Roy as he settled in the creaking chair. “You my dear, come, sit up here” he said to Pris, patting the end of an examining table. “How did you find me?” he asked, as Pris settled onto the table. Pris shot a glance to Roy who spoke up immediately, “A friend . . . suggested we contact you. She said you had been able to successfully render her sterile, but also had the ability to take existing organs and connect the dots, so to speak, to make reproduction possible.” “For you two?” asked the old man looking a bit bewildered. “Yes” said Pris. “I’m a doctor that could possibly do such things, but Replicants reproducing introduces a whole new series of ripples in your synthesized gene pool.” He rubbed his head, staring off into space. “Each of you has only your own DNA strand and no others. A genetic cross-pairing of the two of you . . . I’m inclined to think that might be problematic at best, if they merged at all. There could be hideous birth defects.” “But could it not also possibly take the best characteristics of each of us and merge into a superior, unique sequence?” asked Roy, with eyes opened just a bit too wide. “Yes” began the doctor, “but why would you . . . “ Roy cut him off, grabbing the aging physician firmly by the arm, “There is no why. We’re running out of time. Can you do it? WILL YOU DO IT?” The elder man’s eyes were wide with fear, not only of Roy, but at what his tinkering might possibly unleash. “I worked for Tyrell for years, my requests to work on just such a course of action denied. Then I learned another team headed by a colleague had been secretly working on that project all those years. They called the project, your friend . . . Mary. I wanted nothing to do with it. Too many religious implications if you ask me. Tyrell was playing God, and I’d had enough of being the man behind the curtain, so I left.” He nodded his head rapidly, “Yes. Yes, I’ll do it. I’d be happy to.” The wide-eyed glare on Roy’s face receded a bit as he looked back over to Pris who smiled impishly and lay back, resting her elbows on the sterile, cloth-covered table. “You okay?” Mary said, leaning closer to Pris, holding her around the shoulders. Pris blinked, coming back to reality, “Yeah. I’m fine.” Roy watched her closely for a moment as the ship shook again, “Okay everyone, get ready. I’m going to tell Leon to put her down.”

Thanks Ray! I’m really glad you’re enjoying it. More is coming all the time. If you haven’t read Part II, don’t miss it here: http://forum.mepd.net/index.php?showtopic=2148 Thanks dutchy! I provided the PDF links for JUST THAT PURPOSE, printing to read at your leisure, and not trapped in front of the monitor. I really appreciate your feedback and hope you too will check out Part II: http://forum.mepd.net/index.php?showtopic=2148 It’s a Work in Progress, but is already 18 chapters! I hope to continue the story through the entire Original Trilogy timeline. I would love to see this made into a film, if I were directing it – because I’ve already seen it all in my head! I appreciate you guys for not only reading, but posting in too. I know there are a lot of readers out there, but I hear from very few of them. It’s nice to get the feedback. Have a great day, and check back for more!!

Thanks! Braided foot hoses, Aluminum Foot Strips and Ankle Details came in, but I only managed to grab pics of the ankle details: The little tab at the top (that will be painted blue) is made so it unscrews for painting - NO MASKING with TAPE!!!

Thanks Diana!

Breathe Andre Kertesz Image – “Accordionist – Esztergom, Hungary – 1916” I remember a time as a youngster being settled in the upstairs bedroom in darkness, and hearing the wonderful sound of my Papa’s accordion drifting up to keep me company as I slipped into the seductive, comforting arms of sleep. He would play in the evenings, after supper while mama prepared for bed. As sore and tired as his hands were, it seemed to ease his mind after a long day in the fields. One leathery hand and fingers would glide over the keys, as the other pushed and pulled on the bellows, allowing the instrument to breathe and exhale music like a living thing. Now I see my hands moving over the keys as his had, and I see them becoming more and more his hands season after season. Most of the ivory keys have darkened, yellowing with age, and the bellows have several patched cracks, but the same youthful notes spring forth as I slip my hands through the brittle leather straps and squeeze. Again it breathes and exhales the voice of an old friend after a long-silent absence. I think of my son upstairs asleep as I play. Perhaps someday he will sit here, with this accordion around his neck, and reflect . . . realizing how easily life’s greatest pleasures can be achieved. Maybe his hands will look like mine.

The Dead of Night Andre Kertesz Image – “Budapest, 1914” It was during my walk through the quietest, deadest, still part of the night that the cold, biting wind gnawed at my face and exposed knuckles. I had been down the winding river road trying to numb the pain of the fitful, anxious last moments of one of my oldest friends. His passing had drained me completely, both physically and emotionally, and I found myself shivering to the core as I made my way home. Painful, icy talons of the unrelenting gusts needled at my body through layers of clothing. The collar of my wool overcoat was drawn up high around my neck, and my left hand was buried deep in a somewhat protective pocket. The only sound in my ears was the slight wailing of the winds, and the light crunching of my feet moving hurriedly over the open lot where Miller’s produce had once been, before the fire. My right hand firmly grasped the hard, squeaking leather handle of my thirty-plus year old bag. It had been given to me by my mother at my graduation from Medical School. In the eighteen, no, nineteen years since her passing, it had been a constant companion, a reminder of her, and a compass, that kept my heading in line with the ideals of my early days in practice. That night, however, it was a reminder that my wrinkled hand was as bitterly cold as the tip of my nose. The frozen dirt beneath my feet was as hard as rock, and the village was so suffocatingly quiet in these early morning hours. I was almost home, knowing that as I rounded the next corner I would be able to see the glow of the oil lamp that my wife always left in the hall window for me, lighting my way in this inky-black, moonless night. That was when it happened. There was a brief muffled crackling as out of the blackness came a warm, brilliant light, as if a higher power had split open the night and gazed down upon me. I whipped my head toward the sound and light, standing motionless; transfixed in the wind. A scar of brilliance ripped open in the blackness above as light streaked across the sky. The falling star made no noise, no protest, dying gracefully in an instant of beauty. Reflecting momentarily as the light faded once more to pitch, I hoped that when my time came, that I might be lucky enough to pass with such unassuming dignity and serenity.

This a piece (also for the Color RED contest) completely inspired by the image and the image alone. No Place like Home His voice, and the walls of the little Kansas consignment shop fell away, melting into the ethereal mists now engulfing her. Her head swam, and nausea swept over her as the hushed scream in her throat finally gave birth to actual sound, echoing off the brick walls of the nearby buildings. She felt faint as the fog slipped away. Somehow she was on the street . . . alone. Her back was pressed against the cold metal of a lamp post, and the sound of distant lumbering locomotive cars accompanied the subtle vibrations in her feet . . . her feet. She remembered that he had stopped for a break from the endless driving . . . the endless running . . . in the little town of Cherokee, Kansas. Images of her morning began to align themselves . . . she recalled he had taken her into the shop to find some cheap, used clothing and shoes that wouldn’t match her last description. Yes . . . trying desperately to be noticed by someone, without angering him, she had been looking at clothing and trying on a pair of shoes . . . beautiful red slippers that glittered in the light. Surprisingly, they had fit so wonderfully, but then as she turned to look at herself in the mirror, she had inadvertently clicked the heels together as she turned to the right, then back to the left, and then again as she moved back to center to turn around and see them from the back. Reaching back, she steadied herself on the lamp, her hand coming to rest on a flyer with her face on it. She sank to the ground, exhausted and looking for him. A cruising police car pulled up alongside her, and the officers stepped out to help. As she stood, she caught sight of the city name on the car door. She was in her hometown. She was safe. She was home.

I'm posting a few more of my short pieces up here in case anyone is interested. This was written for a contest about the color RED. It is based on a character I am developing for a thriller I am thinking of calling Paint It Black. Red Guilt . . . the walls of the alley seemed to pulsate as if alive, on fire. His heart and mind raced as he made his way past the huge dumpster, cardboard boxes and plastic trash bags toward the rusted downspout. Water still trickled from it, the rooftop far above still draining from the earlier freak shower. Water seeped osmotically through the fabric at his knees as he knelt, placing his hands under the trickle. Blood flowed in diluted red streams onto the pavement as he rubbed them together. Red guilt flowed away, diluted in the rainwater. He closed his eyes tight, trying to drown out the incessant looping of Paint It Black playing in his head. "Thanks mother. Do you think you played that goddamned song enough?" He glanced back down the alley at the feet of her sprawled body sticking out from behind the air conditioning unit. What exhilaration he had experienced in the moment of her death . . . feeling her initial pull away from him, the struggle . . . the skin of her throat split open under his blade . . . her desperate gasping and hopeful clutching of the neck . . . the slow, twitching movements of her shocked body and limbs slowing and eventually withering away as she succumbed to the darkness. He watched as his hands came clean, transforming from red-stained guilt to pure white innocence. As it happened in his hands, so it happened in his warped mind, freeing him. He wiped the water from his hands and reached for the small bottle of black paint inside his jacket pocket. Standing, he headed back to paint her nails . . . paint them black. Would anyone notice? Would they make the connection? If not now, someday . . . someone would. Deep down, in a place buried deep inside him, he hoped that someday they would.

Thanks! I tell you though, if I waited until I could afford it I never would have started. I started mine with one piece for under $30 and have been collecting parts for almost 4 years. It's pricy to do the aluminum pieces, but you can do it for very little with wooden frames, resin pieces and making some of them on your own. Some of the builders have done a whole droid for under $400-$500. Check out the site: www.astromech.net The bug bit me when I saw the body skins at someone's house when I was at a party. I was irretrievably hooked. Drop me a PM or email if you want to get started. I'll help you with sources and people to go to. OH, and I like your pottery!! You should do an INDY HOLY GRAIL prop. . . . . Just a thought.

ROTFLMAO :lol: :lol: :lol:

As I mentioned before, the ankles and legs were on their way to me. I had the feet, the legs arrived a few weeks ago, and the ankles finally arrived yesterday. I spent some time in the shop grinding and filing for a test fit. Here are some pics of the night's activities: