BOOM. BANG!
​
​The hull of the Bastille shakes as missiles filled with high-impact coal rounds shatters against it. The red lights waver in power, as the broken radio system bleats old Earth classics back and forth.
​'Is that it?! Coal missiles? You’d think they'd try a little harder when faced with the MIGHTY PRAXUS AND CARROT! HA HA!' Praxus throttles the Bastille to full power, sliding her hand all the way up a touch-screen interface as the coloured bars go from a faint orange to a deadly red. Her piloting expertise is not world-renowned for its subtlety — but it is world-renowned.
​
​'Full power, Praxy! Give em' some' of that flare!' Carrot screams. Praxus looks in a small reflective mirror by the console to see her co-pilot pulling off her dancing heels and flinging them back down the bridge entrance, clutching for dear life as the Bastille spirals.
​The Bastille descends violently hard into the maw of the Not-So-Great Skull of Smith, a large rock formation that looked quite like one of Tarlog's skeleton drawings (he was very proud of the new craft he’d learned from the kids).
​Like a vortex of flame, thrusters and brand-new neon lights (courtesy of Pierre), the Bastille screamed through the Skull and across the planes of Celestial Battle, where age-old titans battled endlessly in tribute to a famed Crab God who fought an Italian in the mortal realms.
​Once stabilised (with Carrot firmly placed back on the floor) Praxus looked over to her pilot companion and reached out her hand. 'Grab on!'
Carrot reached out her hand and clasped onto the palms of her companion Praxus, who pulled her up to the second pilots seat.
'That's the LAST time I fight in a dance-off with a Turtle-Deity while we're in chase, I can tell ya that much. Next time you’re bloody dealin' with it!' Carrot buckles herself firmly into the pilot's seat and grabs ahold of the secondary controls, providing some of the lacking subtlety to the engine thruster directions that Praxus is foregoing.
​Praxus laughs as the Bastille pulls up towards the ship-shaped fracture in reality that they absolutely definitely didn't cause.
​'We're not gonna have to explain that, are we? You won't be able to see it from Winterland Town right?' Asks Carrot.
​'Oh, absolutely not! What you even worrying about it for? Those old-timey pirates like Lazar and Winnie cause way bigger holes,’ Praxus says, waving off the old-timers with a breezy hand.
​'Well now you're makin' it sound like a competition, mate.'
​'All this talk of holes is distracting me a bit—'
The Bastille takes another blow of coal-missiles as a giant pudgy devil in a red outfit gains on the Bastille. If the speakers weren't completely shot to hell, I'm sure they'd be hearing all sorts of profanities.
Praxus drops the holes, for now. ‘Whatcha think he’s saying, then?’ she asks.
​'Probably something like—' Carrot swells up her chest for her greatest impression yet ‘—oh, I'm Mr. Mayor of the Present Factory! Ho ho ho! You can take all the gifts, don't worry if I chase ya to the ends of the Earth, it's just a joke! Ho ho ho!'
​Praxus and Carrot laugh as they push forward simultaneously on all the controls. The Bastille blares into a white light as massive amounts of fireworks launch from behind it. The ensuing devil is caught in a moment of panic, as his trusty steeds rear in fear!
And with that, the Galaxy's Greatest Pilots make their escape.
​---
​'And that's when the bastard realises who we really are—' says Praxus, drink in hand as she slaps her arm around the stoic Butler (who is not having any of it).
​'—and he goes so red that steam actually comes out of his ass!' Carrot exclaims, finishing her partner's sentence.
​The two roar in laughter as they fall to the floor, drinks in hand and fake-antlers dangling around their heads.
​Butler shakes his head as he looks at the completely banged up Bastille.
​'You know it was my turn to take the ship out, don't you?' he says, as the two continue to laugh and ignore him. At least bring me next time, he wants to say, but decides against it.
​Butler instead looks to the large sack of bundled up presents and toys that Pierre is carefully scanning. 'Y'know,' he says, 'it's a good thing Calypso had other plans. Seems that cat toys are a popular gift these days. She'd probably think it a gift from her god or what have you.'
Butler shudders at even the slight mention of Catue and scratches his head.
​Praxus and Carrot continue to egg each other on with laughter and what barely constitutes as proper stories. They point and laugh at each other over the smallest of prompts: 'And then the b—the ba—the banana!' and there they were off again.
​Despite his grumblings, Butler can't be mad at seeing these two laugh again. He smiles a little, and goes to help Pierre sort through the gifts. He was always pretty good at guessing what toys each kid would like the most.