A year after the destruction of the second Death Star in the celebrated Battle of Endor, another war was waged between the New Republic and Galactic Empire. Basking beneath the desert sun of Jakku rests the remnants of this hostility. Shifting sands have since buried and uncovered countless treasures and relics- to the delight of scavengers eager who hope to recover tokens from either side of the conflict!

The harsh desert offers little shelter from the elements, remaining barren and flat against the imposing backdrop of a fallen Star Destroyer that was left uncovered after the famed Battle of Jakku. Rather than allowing the vessel to fall into the hands of the Republic after the self-destruct had been sabotaged, Captain Ciena Ree ordered the Inflictor evacuated and sent it crashing to the planet’s surface. Sunken into the shifting desert sea, the upper portion of the Inflictor’s hull and exhaust ports remain otherwise intact, preserved amidst the rubble of untold casualties that had once occurred on both sides. Although it has been scoured by the passing of several sandstorms, it still displays the former power and might of the Galactic Empire.

Innumerous scraps of metal and machines of war share the same grave, echoing the lives of those who fought and died among the perilous wastes. Hundreds of these relics sit untouched, lingering amidst the ghosts that tend and reside in Jakku’s graveyard.

Dracaryis did not care for the desert. He'd been in it too many damn times to retrieve one Sith artifact or another, and every one was the same: burn pits, giant spiders, and bad food. Plus, he was supposed to hate them on account of deserts reminding him of his tragic origin story on Tatooine, born to a Hutt's whore who valiantly died so that he might live and growing up as an urchin in the sandy gutters of Mos Eisley.

No, Dracaryis did not care for deserts, and he did not care for Jakku. However, he had business to attend to, and when the Grand Master told him to go places, he was obligated to listen. It was in his plot line. Disobeying Pravus would be bad for him. Murdered in his sleep before he even got to make his morning victory pancakes kind of bad.

Probably, the voice in his head agreed.

Wait, you can't seriously be doing this, the other chimed in. This will get confusing without names, won't it? Let's call him...Nunes Crescentgold? No! That's stupid. Freaking name generators. You know what, we'll call him Steve. Steve went on complaining, You're letting them see us? You fuckhead, you might as well shoot yourself in the foot for what that's gonna do to your realism score!

"Actually, it'd be frakhead. This IS a galaxy far far away."

Frak is from Battlestar Galactica! shrieked Steve. It's not even canon!

"FINE, you prick, karkhead, how about that?"

It doesn't even matter if you're using a bunch of English curses anyway, you douche!

"Hah! Now we're both doing it! Hehe. DOING IT."

You two shut up, snapped Bob, we'll call him Bob. That's it, everything we say and think from her on it is in-universe!

"But we're already breaking the wall," Drac said. "Kriff off, mook-milker." He paused. "Alright, what the bantha poodoo did I just say? Gah! And that?!"

In universe, sleemos.

By the Force, Bob, you stink! Steve raged.

"Oh Mother of Moons, it's like it's a PG movie. Did you just CENSOR us? We're Drac! We don't get censored! That's our shtick! The Dark Councillor with a mouth!"

We're not in Tatooine anymore, nerfbrains. Deal with it.

"Are you telling me I can't even say Kaaaannnn— aaatooine. Gaaah!"

Nuh uh! Look, we can fix this, our target is gonna be here soon and we're gonna miss her if we keep standing here like a laserbrain thinking about dustcrepes and Twi'lek girls. Now get in character.

I don't think the reader understands how we think yet, Bob piped up again from where he mentally munched on aforementioned dustcrepes. Mmm, nausages.

"Hey, reader! Just go with it. We're about to change your karking life."

I said i character, us!

"You get in character!"

WE ARE THE CHARACTER— You know, no, no, we're not doing this, you're on your own. You wanna be THE Drac? Go be Drac. Go use both hands to twirl your saberstaff and get your butt kicked, you tool.

"HEY! H...hey..." Dracaryis cried, beginning to protest, then trailing off. He rubbed at his head. Blasted sun was getting to him. He hated deserts. The sand stung his eyes and made his teeth crunch for days, and no matter how tall he stood, now matter the power the Dark Side and his training had given him, he still felt thin and dirty and empty of everything but hunger whenever he was back under the beating sun in an endless sea of dust and downtrodden destitutes.

Jakku was no exception. Dracaryis moved purposefully and easily through the mingling throng of indentured workers, scrappers, merchants, pilots, and trappers that mingled around the closest the dirtball of a planet had for a spaceport, truly little more than a junkyard. The air dried his nasal passages severely enough for them to crack and bleed, and he swiped a tiny splatter of crimson off with the back of his hand as he inhaled the stink of stagnant water from the animal troughs, unwashed bodies, and fetid oil. People watched him with sharp, hollow eyes as he passed, his dark cloak flapping in the hot winds, but he had nothing for the wretches, and they nothing for him. He sought a single quarry, her execution to be met with the Dark Lord's blade.

Dracaryis was, after all, the Grand Master's fist and fury.

Bowing his head briefly, the Human paused on the crest of a sand dune, the junkyard and its populace of living refuse at his back. He reached for the Force, and it answered, guiding his senses across the wasteland...northward, deeper into the desert. "Blasted girl had better be worth it," the Sith grumbled, checking his saber at his side once before he set off.

Annnnnd, Indiana Jones intro music!

Drac missed a step, but even in the sand, his Force-attuned muscles kept him from falling. He glared at everything and nothing as he continued trudging along.

"I thought you were leaving."

I got bored, Steve said.

Have you ever considered explosives instead of the light sword? Use fire, live up to your name rip-off, Bob interjected, dammit Bob. Like, think of how much we could BLOW UP if we just had, y'know, ALL THE EXPLOSIVES.

"We can't just have all the explosives. It'd be OP."

Sure we can. We're Drac. Hell, we're the FIST. We get what we want. Next time somebody makes an assumption about us, we don't stab them, we blow them up. Boom, new catchphrases, catchphrases and explosion puns everywhere!

I like how he thinks, Steve commented.

"Blast off, nerfhearders. Look, we're almost there thanks to this convenient dialogue insert for the sake of plot progression, so let's go do some stabbing, get off this stupid, sandy rock, and be home in time for breakfast."

Deal, both voices agreed.

Dracaryis rolled his grit-filled eyes and blinked a few times to clear them. Refocusing, he glanced around, stretching out with his senses once more. Yes, she was here, the woman he sought. The Consul of Arcona, and a known leader amongst the Lotus. Pravus rightly considered her a traitor. Dracaryis' job was to make traitors very, very dead. Somewhere in one of these husks of dead ships and debris fields, he would find her.

The Force guided his steps, gliding quicksilver across the dunes. He approached the massive corpse of a Star Destroyer, knowing he would discover his target not far within, as the Dark Side cackled and keened in his ears--

"Oh, hello, my friend!" came a voice that was neither his nor one of the ones that usually mouthed off with - to? - him. Dracaryis squinted as his eyes adjusted to the sudden dimness inside the leviathan exhaust ports, dust floating down around him and stirring in the slanted sunlight when he breathed. Not ten paces ahead of him, sitting on the pockmarked, blackened, scoured durasteel, was a silver-haired woman with sepia skin and pointed ears. She wore a blindfold, and robes of unusual white. Her smile was bright and wide as she waved him over to what he could only assume was a picnic.

A desert picnic. In the ruined grave of a warship. On Jakku, of all planets.

"Come in, come in!" she was saying. "Come out of the heat, have some cool tea. Do you like melons?"

"Hah, melons." Dracaryis found himself chuckling quietly at her choice of word, something that didn't go unnoticed. The woman chortled herself. This was his kill order? This was Atyiru Caesura Entar, Shadow Lord? No wonder the Grand Master wanted her dead. The girl was just plain strange.

"So good to meet someone with a sense of humor. Too many broody types around, no? Come, come, join me. Shake off your boots, get the sand out of your eyes. Or, well, I assume, anyhoo." She lifted the cloth on her face with one finger, revealing nothing but a smooth expanse of dark, freckled skin. "Gets in everywhere else, it's like to get in your eyes too, poor dears."

By the Force, she doesn't have a face, how awesome is that? It's even better than Cyclops, one of the voices exclaimed, breaking character yet again. Dracraryis ignored it, electing to give the friendly Miraluka a smirk.

"Sorry, but no. I didn't come to play," the Councillor announced, drawing and activating his lightsaber. Lances of crimson plasma erupted from both ends with a crystalline cry.

"Ah," Atyiru murmured softly. "And here I was hoping we could just enjoy a chat, you and I, Lord Fist."

"You know me."

"You're famous."

"I was more hoping for infamous, but it will do."

"Hmmm," she hummed, smiling sadly as she rose, kicking aside her luncheon, her hand moving instead for her own weapon at her belt.

Dracaryis moved, whipping forward, his blade leaping for her neck. Instead of severing her head from her shoulders, it hammered into a sky-blue counterpart with a buzzing scream, spraying sparks. The Human bore down on their crossed blades with all his might, shoving the woman back and pressing on of her knees into the ground. Their faces grew close over their clashing blades, both of them bearing snarls.

"You...don't want to do this," the Miraluka spat through clenched teeth, something in her tone hypnotic, slithering in his ears and caressing his mind. He felt his arms quiver despite their strength. "Disengage, leave this place."

"I...don't...want...to do this," the man hissed, wrenching back and lowering his weapon. It died with a flick of his thumb. "Leave...this place?"

"Precisely," answered the Consul with a flutter of her fingers as she retreated several paces, her own blade still ready. She took another step back, then pivoted on her heel and ran, sprinting off into the bowels of the ship.

Dracaryis stayed where he stood for a moment, then turned to go, back out into the desert. A nagging thought, however, gave him pause. One that rather suggested he was a moron and should be running.

"Wait a minute..." the Sith muttered. Then, he spat a curse, reactivated his lightsaber, and sprung after the girl.

Hey, Judge Person. I know, right? Can you believe that Atty actually agreed to this nonsense? Here we are, duking it out in the ACC where we are supposed to be spitting fiction so hot it melts steel. Instead, we’re intentionally having massive realism detractors for breaking the Fourth Wall. Just go with it. You’ll be entertained, we’ll have some fun, and maybe you won’t have to dish out a 5-2 match!

“Steve is at it again, Bob. Can you please shut him up so we can get back to the story?”

ON IT , Bob shouted, a little louder than necessary for a disembodied head voice.

OUCH!

“Thank you, Bob. Now, where was I? Oh yes!”

Dracaryis sprinted after the silver-haired Consul, nearly tripping over the blanket and picnic lunch she had left behind.

Hey, were those scones?!

“SHUT UP! Wait. Did you say scones?” Dracaryis stopped, grabbed a scone, and then continued after Atyiru, leaving a trail of crumbs in his wake.

The dark corridors of the Star Destroyer swallowed Dracaryis as he hunted his quarry. Jakku was slowly claiming the massive husk, a half-meter deep river of sand covering the floors and rooms and making running exceptionally difficult.

Good thing we have that +3 in Athletics and Endurance, or this would be hell , Bob said.

“Right you are, Bob.” Dracaryis said, “but I really don’t feel like running around in the dark in all this sand.”

Then make use of that +3 in Sense, dumbass, Steve quipped.

“Oh yeah.” Dracaryis said. Closing his eyes, the Sith stretched his mind to its limit, filling the corridors of the crashed Imperial ship with his thoughts. Like the Angel of Death from that movie where Charlton Heston convinced everyone he was totally a Hebrew, Dracaryis’ mind crept through the hallways and rooms, in search of the pointy-eared wench he’d been sent to kill.

Nice old movie reference, dude!

“Quiet, stupid brain voice. Concentrating.” After a few moments and a bite of the scone he was carrying, Dracaryis found his target. Atyriu’s presence in the Force lit up as though she was being viewed through a thermal scope. Dracaryis opened his eyes, and took off towards the Miraluka’s location.

The room the Arconan Consul had chosen as a hiding place was near the outer hull of the ship. A large crack in the durasteel bulkhead allowed the Jakku sun to pour in like water from a faucet, casting a large pool of sunlight on the sandy floor. Darkness filled the edges of the room. In the dark of the far side of the room, Dracaryis could only make out the blue glow of Atty’s lightsaber.

“Mind trick? Really? And to think I expected somewhat of a fair fight. I was just going to beat on you for a bit and then haul you off to Pravus. Now, after making me run through all that sand, in the frakking dark, I’m going to just have to kill you. But seriously, thanks for the scones. DELICIOUS.”

Still hidden by the dark of the edge of the room, Atty laughed. “You really thought you were going to take me that easily? I’ve fought better than you and won.” Atty stepped back and readied her weapon.

“You really should have tried my melons.”

Giggling once again at the mention of the word ‘melons’ Dracaryis ignited the dual blades of his staff.

Hey. It’s Steve again. Just so you know, the first post was better.

“Frak off, Steve. I made the minimum word count, and then some. I might even get a Cluster of Ice for this thing. And let’s not forget that I’m supposed to be in charge of gaming. Writing is hard.”

Excuses. First post was better. I believe the term for what is about to happen to you is ‘ROFLstomped’.

“Whatever. I’m not even going to ask anyone to proof this crap.”

I bet you’re really regretting not updating that Character sheet before you agreed to this, eh slugger? Bob teased.

“Right you are, Bob!” And with that sidebar to himself out of the way, Dracaryis charged into the center of the room the voices in his brain taunting him relentlessly as Atty barreled toward him.

You know, I just realized something.

"Shut up, Steve," Dracaryis growled as his scarlet saber struck out again and again, hammering against the seemingly immovable anvil that was the Miraluka's rapidly spinning defenses. Her saber didn't seem to stop, and all the pinwheeling was giving him a headache. Maybe he should have listened to his doctor nagging about that whole eye strain thing instead of using his severed head as a hat, spent less time bent over approving Cluster reports in the middle of the night with his datapad's brightness turned all the way up, but by the Force, was he lonely sometimes—

This is actually sort of important, genius, get existential later.

"Okay, what?!" snapped the Human, causing the woman across from him to raise her silvery brows. Drac shrugged one shoulder and swung his blade again, nearly knocking her flat with the force of the blow.

Her numbers are bigger than yours. Like, dude, did you realize she was two ranks above you? Because I'm betting you her author didn't. She probably expected to get her ass kicked. Isn't that hilarious?

It's certainly ironic, Bob commented.

Nobody kriffing cares, Bob, STARS, shut up with that technical writing sithspit, you smear of bantha poodoo.

The judges care. Bob nearly sounded like he was crying, if a head voice could cry. Stupid Bob, that pussy. He didn't even have eyes. Then again, neither did the girl they were fighting, and she was doing a stupidly good job of not being dead yet, as far as Drac was concerned. Bitches, man.

Wait, wait, hold up, that raises some important questions! Steve barked as the Miraluka parried another hit and pirouetted away, her braid flying like a white ribbon. She spun into the sun, putting the cracked hull to her back and forcing the Councillor to squint as he moved to face her. Instead of charging, he thrust out his free hand, fingers curled like talons as an explosion of violet electricity writhed from his grip. The woman threw up both of her hands, lightsaber clattering aside. The lightning met an invisible wall of willpower made manifest with a spark-filled scream, shattering it but leaving the Consul unharmed. Dracaryis growled. Hey, noob! Ask her if she knows what she looks like naked!

"I'm not asking her that!" snapped the Battlelord, then considered briefly and opened his mouth again. "Say, melons, do you even, like, know if the carpets match the dra—"

She drew one of her pistols and shot at him.

"HEY!" Drac yelped, quickly swirling his staff to redirect the bolts with tight, fluid motions. "It is a VALID question, and given how difficult you're being, I totally deserve to know. And don't cut me off mid-crude question, I'm trying to stick to character here!"

Actually, if you were sticking to character, you probably wouldn't be having all these sidebars. Your Aspects indicate you're supposed to be serious when a fight starts—

"NO ONE LIKES A PARTY POOPER, BOB, YOU SKIDMARK. GO BE THE BRONZE MEDAL."

Oh, great, references from two abridged series, now you're really on a role, Steve snarked. Here's an idea, a way better idea, forget the blasters and swords, let's make this a slap-bet. I'll be slap bet commissioner. You win, she gets five slaps to be distributed whenever. You lose, she gets three.

"Where's my winning option, Steve, huh?"

Somewhere back BEFORE you accepted this challenge. Besides, we're masochistic perverts, remember?

"Right you are, Steve."

"You know, my friend," Atyiru called as she backed up and he advanced, deflecting more of her shots. "I am a doctor, and I would be happy to address this whole talking to yourself thing you seem so enraptured with. Back at my medcenter. Without any weapons. How does that sound? Wouldn't you like that?"

"Oh no, honey, no more mind tricks from you! I'm wise to you."

"Were I attempting as much, dear, you would be complying, not questioning."

"I would not! That's not how the power works when interacting with Resolve! Tons of people have Aspects written just to get around that poodoo."

"They...what? Resolve? Aspects? What are you talking about?" She stopped firing for a moment, appearing extremely confused, which was impressive for someone with only half a face. Dracaryis seized the opportunity and lunged forward, thrusting his fist out, nearly right into her chest. She raised her hands as if to create another one of those fancy barriers, but he wasn't striking with his saber.

Instead, he channeled the Force in a telekinetic hammer of awesome right at her.

The Miraluka went flying backward like a ragdoll, right out the split in the hull, her hair and robes rushing up around her as she plummeted for the sandy ground far below.

It took Drac a couple of seconds to realize that he was viewing as much from, well, above her. Also falling. How had that happened?

SHE GRABBED ONTO YOU, YOU STUPID SLEEMEO! Bob yelled, high-pitched. Drac glanced down at where the Miraluka's gloved hands were indeed knotted for dear life in the fabric of his tunic and cape. Steve rolled his not-eyes.

Well, this will be a nice couple seconds before we die. Any last thoughts?

Grain-filled air stinging his eyes as Jakku's surface rushed to meet them, Drac giggled, then yelled, "I'M FLYING!"

We can't fly! Bob cried.

"But it's good to have dreams!" the Councillor insisted, voice lost to the wind. Wow, this was either an unrealistically long fall or a very fast not-entirely-internal monologue. Was that girlish screaming coming from him, or Atyiru? She didn't look all that screamy, more concentratey.

Dreams? Sure, Steve scathed. Delusions...not so much.

And that was when they hit the ground.

-=x=-

Dracaryis awoke with...well, pain, lots of pain. He groaned and dragged his eyes open to the blazing sun overhead. His lips, mouth, and nose were dry as the sand that coated his tongue. The Councillor spat and coughed, making his lungs and throat passages scream and cringe for sweet, sweet moisturization. He sat up slowly, feeling aches all over, though not so bad as he'd first thought. In fact, he felt relatively okay, considering he'd thought he'd be dead. He moved to stand—

Sllloooorp, went his leg, along with a nice little wave of wet, squishy agony. Drac hissed in a breath, looking down to see the broken stock of the blaster he'd had pointed at him embedded in his thigh, slick with blood and dirt.

"Aww, geez, gross, my body's never gone sloorp before," the man muttered, making a face. He channeled the Force to ease the pain, then gripped the metal piece, ready to pull.

"Don...don't do that," wheezed a voice from underneath him. That was about when he realized that he was not, in fact, crouching in the sand, but rather atop a body beneath him. Drac glanced at his Miralukan target, who wheezed flat on her back. "You may...may have a perfo..rated...artery. Pulling out...make it worse."

"Heh, pulling out." Dracaryis chuckled to himself, but released his grip on the shrapnel. "Shouldn't you be more dead by now? I mean, it's in my script to survive epic falls, but you're no Drac."

"Why, yes...you're...welcome for...saving you from...splattering," rasped the woman.

Dracaryis blinked. Saved? She'd pulled him out the damn ship with her, the harpy! Kriffing inconsiderate.

Though, he supposed, as was required by the plot for him to realize in a nice little moment of human vulnerability and connectivity, I guess she did take most of the impact for us, and probably did some barrier stuff too to help absorb the fall. I'm kinda scripted to be grateful for that. What do you frakkers think?

Silence.

Steve? Bob? Drac thought at himself — themself? No reply came though. He suddenly wondered how hard he'd hit his head in the fall. Were they gone, or messing with him? Oh noes—

The Miraluka started convulsing and sputtering under him, and Drac scowled. "Hellllo, having a MOMENT here, can you stop dying long enough to be a little respectful?"

"I'm...not...dying, you madman...you're...crushing my diaphragm..."

"Oh, sithspit, mah bad," said the Councillor, leveraging himself up enough to crawl off of her, his injured leg splayed funnily. She gasped loudly, sitting bolt upright and gulping deep breaths.

"Thank Ashla and Bogan, finally," Atyiru exclaimed. She touched the back of her head and winced at the red spot matted there, dusting off her clothes with the other. "You, my talkative friend, are heavy, do you know that?"

"Um, excuse me, honey, but I look good. You can't touch this."

"For one, I believe I already have. For another, your cloak makes you look chalky and your eyes don't match your boots."

"Witch, I'm fabulous—" he cut off, then frowned, and then laughed. "I see what you did there."

"I don't," she replied with a faint grin, groaning painfully as she got to her knees and moved towards him. "Here, let me help heal that."

"Sure," the Sith said, leaning back and watching her work from a fairly appreciative angle. "Then I can get back to killing you."

"Then you can go night-night," chimed the woman, extending the hand that wasn't wrapped around his wound and pressing the spare pistol in it to his temple. Her thumb clicked its setting to stun. Drac wondered briefly if Steve and Bob had saved him any scones when they'd run off like a couple of babies.

Her finger twitched, and then all Dracaryis knew was darkness and dreams of the in-universe stand-in for tacos, booze, and some ladies with very nice chests.

”Hold on a minute. Is this one of those alternate ending battles? She’s probably already beaten you and you don’t even get to find out about it until someone grades this drivel!” Steve complained.

“It could be worse, annoying head voice. We could be doing one of those lame rap battles.”

”So we just go on from where we left off, right?” Bob piped in.

“Uh, yeah. Yeah, I think we just go with it.” Drac replied to himself--himselves--whatever.

Sorry, judge person. We’ll get back to the action.

”This would be a lot better if we had some music to go along with it.” Steve mused.

“You can’t embed video files into ACC posts!”

”As a matter of fact, Bob said, ”you can. The ACC uses Markdown. So you could embed a link that way.”

“By Ragnos you’re right, Bob! Yo, judge guy! Click this and crank those speakers up!”

”There. Isn’t that better? Now, back to fighting!”

Dracaryis readied himself as the blindfolded, pointy-eared, totally non-canon Consul of Arcona charged toward him, lightsaber ablaze. In the pool of light that split the dark room in half, the Dark and the Grey began their intricate dance of death, each saber strike crackling like the sound of a live electrical wire lying in a puddle of water.

It’s time for some old-fashioned witty banter between combatants!

Atty and Drac’s sabers locked, their faces inches from each other as their blades sparked and sputtered.

“There’s only one way this ends, Atty.” Dracaryis growled through gritted teeth. “I have no choice but to kill you. The Grand Master demands it.”

“Are you sure about that, Draccles?” The Arconan Consul hadn’t stopped smiling the entire battle. How someone could hold the title of “Shadow Lady” and spend a majority of her time grinning like an idiot baffled Dracaryis. “There is another way.”

“And that is?”

“Join me. Join the Lotus. Fight the Grand Master from within his inner circle.”

Dracaryis paused, his eyes locked on Atty’s blindfold, the blue and red sabers casting a purple glow on her face. She was still smiling.

“And if I refuse?”

“You will join me.” Dracaryis suddenly felt his mind go blank again.

“I will...join you.”

”Hey dumbass, she’s doing that mind trick thing again. Wake up dipshit!” Steve said, whacking at Drac’s brain with a mallet.

”Dipshit isn’t canon. Dumbass is, according to that horrible Aftermath book.” Bob pointed out.

“This whole battle isn’t canon. All we’re doing is ripping off Deadpool.” Dracaryis pointed out, as he began to drool on himself. Bob and Steve’s nonsense coupled with Atty’s assault on his mind were taking their toll.

“Who are you talking to?” Atty asked, momentarily breaking her hold on Drac’s mind.

“Huh? Oh. Nobody. I will join you...” Dracaryis said dramatically, deactivating his saber and winking to the poor member of the ACC staff who is stuck reading this.

“Excellent.” The Miraluka deactivated her saber. Without warning, Dracaryis raised his hand and clenched his fist, grasping the Arconan’s throat with an invisible noose and lifting her off the floor.

“Sorry Atty. You know, I think that in another world, you and I might have been the best of friends.”

Atyiru Caesura Entar gasped for air as Dracaryis continued his assault.

+4 in Telekinesis! Maximum Effort!

”You are such a ripoff.” Steve groaned.

With a swift flick of his arm, Dracaryis released his grip on Atty’s throat and tossed her aside, her body flying like a rag doll against a wall.

Dracaryis ignited his blade and strode over to Atty’s prone form. He raised his blade over his head and glared at his prey.

“So long, sweetheart. And thanks for all the scones.”