Han Solo was airborne. Flailing his arms around like the wings of a frantic curdlefly, he pitched forward over a furrow in the earth. Time slowed as gravity dragged his body down through the air. This was not going to be pretty. A jolt of pain shot through his right side as he landed awkwardly, the product of a poorly executed last second mid-air rotation. Clods of dirt shot up into the air around him. Barely giving the pain a second thought, he rolled sideways and shoved up from the ground, grinding dirt under his nails. He rushed forward and darted around a large rock, then vaulted over a fallen log, heart leaping into his throat with every jump. They were almost upon him, he was sure of it. The loud screeching sounds were as good as a warning klaxon. He was aware that they often travelled along this way. But like the cocky idiot he knew he could be - occasionally - he'd thought nothing of landing in the wooded clearing and leaving Chewie behind to figure out where that incessant rattling noise was coming from. He hadn't planned to remain on Zofile long, after all. All he had to do was make a dead drop at the local watering hole. The cryptonode had fit perfectly underneath a pile of risovee nuts heaped in a small bowl on the bar. But then, the barmaid had noticed him with his hand in the bowl, so in order to cover up his actions, he'd forced himself to sit there and eat a handful of the stale legumes, feigning flirtation. Whatever charm he'd managed to exude, however, quickly dissolved when he realized he'd swallowed a dead fly by mistake, sending it down the wrong pipe. So he'd had to order a glass of the local swill to keep from choking and wash the taste of insect out of his mouth. Not that it was much of an improvement. Then, just as he placed his money down on the bar, Yuvis Tambol had recognized him across the room, and everyone knew you didn't say no to Yuvis when he offered to buy you another. Like, literally. Somehow, the man had the uncanny ability to get you to agree to whatever he asked for. If he had suggested Han dance a M'Neerish reel on the table, Han had no doubt there would have been scuff marks on the tablecloth by now. Still, Tambol was harmless; all he really wanted was someone to listen to his stories. Never mind that half of the tales didn't actually happen to him, while the rest were complete and utter fantasy. He trampled his way through a small stream, sending sprays of muddy water in all directions. Lungs burning, he silently cursed his blaster in three different languages and two dialects. Despite having gotten him out of many a jam in the past, the weapon was completely useless against the enemy he now faced, not even for taking potshots. There was only one way out of this; he had to get to the Falcon. Had to. After a couple of minutes, he finally spotted a familiar landmark. The wing of a derelict ship that looked as though it had crashed sometime in the early days of the Old Republic rose up from the ground, a jagged silhouette against the early evening sky. Tearing into the clearing, he spied Chewie crouched next to the Falcon. "Chewie!" he yelled, waving his arms back and forth, running for the ship. The screeching sound increased as shadows began to move over the tops of the trees. "Take off! Take off!" The Wookiee, who was bent over examining one of the landing struts, turned around at the sound of Han's voice. "Grr-wor?" "Take! Off!" Han cried, hands cupped to his mouth. "NOW!" Chewie shrugged. He looked behind Han and through the trees, searching for whoever was gunning for his friend. Spying nothing, he walked around to the aft end of the ship, clutching a screwdriver in one hand. "Wroo-hurgh," he muttered, waving a paw dismissively. "No! Come back!" Han growled. "That's not what I-" He halted in his tracks. "-meant." The air above him vibrated with thousands of high-pitched calls and the the flapping of twice as many wings. His heart sank as he looked up at the darkening sky. An enormous flock of greenish-brown birds rushed overhead, calling loudly to each other. Silvery beaks and flashing yellow eyes caught the waning light. Clamping his hands over his ears, Han watched helplessly as they soared above the Falcon, coating it in layer after layer of sticky white mess. One of the birds swooped low and dive-bombed his head. "Hey!" Rivulets of goo dribbled down his cheeks. He winced as another splattered his right leg. Groaning, he staggered backwards, then bent low and covered his head with his arms, trying to block out the infernal sound. After what seemed like hours of bombardment - but was probably only three minutes maximum - Han straightened up slowly. Putrid white goo covered his entire body. He pried his arms away from his torso, and let them dangle limply at his sides. Off in the distance, the flock had all but vanished, save for the occasional straggler. Han shook his fist at the foul creatures, then lifted his gaze to the Millennium Falcon. "No." Both the ship and the grass surrounding it were thoroughly coated in a thick layer of bird droppings and plumage. Brushing a stray feather off his shoulder, he rubbed his eyes and blinked several times. "Arrrgh." Het let out a frustrated sigh and stomped through the field of muck towards the gangplank. "Chewie!" The Wookiee peeked out from his hiding place underneath the ship, his eyes widening as he took in the pilot's mess-covered body. Unlike Han, not a single dropping or feather had landed on him. He plodded over to where Han was standing and jerked his head back at the sight of the newly whitewashed Falcon. The screwdriver dropped to the ground. He frowned at Han. "Wraa-ooorrr-irrl!" "Yeah," Han nodded, yanking another feather out from under his collar. "A big mess." He jabbed a finger at Chewie's chest. "Next time I tell you to take off, take off." He crossed his arms and lifted his foot from the ground, grimacing as it brought more droppings up with it. "Ugh..." He puffed out a breath of air and patted the side of the ship with one hand, smiling faintly at Chewie. "Well," he shrugged, "at least it won't rattle anymore."