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sanerontheinsideoriginal post
Was my robe this pink and fluffy yesterday morning, Mace wondered calmly, while some part of his awfully sleep-deprived brain screamed in horror. Then he shrugged and dragged it over his shoulders anyway, dismissing it as a lingering dream he’d soon wake from, and then have to drag himself through his whole morning routine all over again—this time for real.
The last three days had been entirely surreal as it was: doors sliding back and forth entirely without reason, as if startled by a puff of air; lifts traveling up and down repeatedly between floors without stopping, experimenting with rates, then dropping down to the lowest levels no one had even used in years; the bloody announcement system blaring music at 0300—music that should have died in a Hutt hole on Nar Shadda, for Force’s sake. Council meeting minutes had been committed to datapad by hand, but mission details and rosters were, more often than not, inaccessible.
The commissary food, remarkably, had been much improved. Mace absently considered decommissioning the droids altogether, then wondered if there was any way to preserve whatever particular bug had been spawned in their coding.
Coding. Right.
A few days ago, Tahl had approached the Council with a request to ‘make some changes’ to Temple security, with the assistance of Obi-Wan Kenobi and Anakin Skywalker. They had argued, convincingly, that the system should have been updated years ago—several times, in fact, since Obi-Wan had first hacked it with Tahl’s help at the age of fourteen. Anakin, now twelve, had managed the same in under three hours, entirely unassisted. They also added that if the Council did not allow them to make changes, they’d go ahead and do it anyway, since obviously nothing was stopping them. Eventually they—begrudgingly—owned up to the fact that Anakin’s exploits had not gone unnoticed, and in fact Master Jocasta Nu was out for blood since half of the Archives had apparently winked out of existence (not erased, just temporarily inaccessible, gods only knew why).
The Council had been persuaded by the argument, and assigned a Master-Padawan pair of Shadows to ‘assist’ (to oversee, and possibly control the potentially destructive trio, to mitigate disaster).
The Council really should have considered the character of the Shadows in question; as it turned out, the two could give Tholmé’s entire lineage a run for their money.
No one had heard from all five of them in the last three days—no surprise there, as some had had about as favourable a reaction to the various malfunctions as Jocasta Nu herself. Mace also privately suspected that the Padawans and Initiates had taken advantage of the chaos to unleash a truly wild array of various pranks.
Mace was beginning to think this morning dream was getting a bit too long. He hadn’t run across anyone yet, but no one seemed to notice the robe, or just gave it an arch glance in passing and said nothing. Honestly everything was too blasted normal.
Finally he turned the corner to the residence hall that currently housed the Kenobi-Jinn lineage. Qui-Gon, it appeared, was just stepping out of his quarters as Mace approached, and looked up with some apprehension at the sense of an approaching Council member. Mace was just thinking he ought to find time to pay the man more casual visits when he saw Qui-Gon’s diplomatic mask slam down tightly over his features. Some mischief was surely afoot, then.
“Morning, Qui-Gon,” Mace called. “I’ve been looking for your Padawan and Knight-partner, and one rather tall wily Noorian, is there any chance you might have seen them?”
Qui-Gon coughed lightly. “Mace, what are you wearing?”
Mace stopped, then carefully dared to look down.
Robe. Hot—practically neon—pink. Fluffy.
Alright, so he was awake, then. Finally, someone showed a reasonable reaction.
“Actually, that’s exactly what I wanted to talk to them about,” Mace said, a little too casually. “The laundry looked a bit bright this morning. I wanted to know if the laundry droids had lost their collective sanity, or if Skywalker had somehow managed to release hallucinogens into the water.”
Qui-Gon nodded, like this was the most normal thing he’d heard all year. “Definitely the laundry.”
“That brings me to the second question,” Mace said, looking up again, managing to sound almost plaintive: “why couldn’t it have been purple?”
crack fic? have a crack fic. blameobaewankenope for crack fic.
maawi said: Was my robe this pink and fluffy yesterday morning, Mace wondered calmly, while some part of his awfully sleep-deprived brain screamed in horror.
Was my robe this pink and fluffy yesterday morning, Mace wondered calmly, while some part of his awfully sleep-deprived brain screamed in horror. Then he shrugged and dragged it over his shoulders anyway, dismissing it as a lingering dream he’d soon wake from, and then have to drag himself through his whole morning routine all over again—this time for real.
The last three days had been entirely surreal as it was: doors sliding back and forth entirely without reason, as if startled by a puff of air; lifts traveling up and down repeatedly between floors without stopping, experimenting with rates, then dropping down to the lowest levels no one had even used in years; the bloody announcement system blaring music at 0300—music that should have died in a Hutt hole on Nar Shadda, for Force’s sake. Council meeting minutes had been committed to datapad by hand, but mission details and rosters were, more often than not, inaccessible.
The commissary food, remarkably, had been much improved. Mace absently considered decommissioning the droids altogether, then wondered if there was any way to preserve whatever particular bug had been spawned in their coding.
Coding. Right.
A few days ago, Tahl had approached the Council with a request to ‘make some changes’ to Temple security, with the assistance of Obi-Wan Kenobi and Anakin Skywalker. They had argued, convincingly, that the system should have been updated years ago—several times, in fact, since Obi-Wan had first hacked it with Tahl’s help at the age of fourteen. Anakin, now twelve, had managed the same in under three hours, entirely unassisted. They also added that if the Council did not allow them to make changes, they’d go ahead and do it anyway, since obviously nothing was stopping them. Eventually they—begrudgingly—owned up to the fact that Anakin’s exploits had not gone unnoticed, and in fact Master Jocasta Nu was out for blood since half of the Archives had apparently winked out of existence (not erased, just temporarily inaccessible, gods only knew why).
The Council had been persuaded by the argument, and assigned a Master-Padawan pair of Shadows to ‘assist’ (to oversee, and possibly control the potentially destructive trio, to mitigate disaster).
The Council really should have considered the character of the Shadows in question; as it turned out, the two could give Tholmé’s entire lineage a run for their money.
No one had heard from all five of them in the last three days—no surprise there, as some had had about as favourable a reaction to the various malfunctions as Jocasta Nu herself. Mace also privately suspected that the Padawans and Initiates had taken advantage of the chaos to unleash a truly wild array of various pranks.
Mace was beginning to think this morning dream was getting a bit too long. He hadn’t run across anyone yet, but no one seemed to notice the robe, or just gave it an arch glance in passing and said nothing. Honestly everything was too blasted normal.
Finally he turned the corner to the residence hall that currently housed the Kenobi-Jinn lineage. Qui-Gon, it appeared, was just stepping out of his quarters as Mace approached, and looked up with some apprehension at the sense of an approaching Council member. Mace was just thinking he ought to find time to pay the man more casual visits when he saw Qui-Gon’s diplomatic mask slam down tightly over his features. Some mischief was surely afoot, then.
“Morning, Qui-Gon,” Mace called. “I’ve been looking for your Padawan and Knight-partner, and one rather tall wily Noorian, is there any chance you might have seen them?”
Qui-Gon coughed lightly. “Mace, what are you wearing?”
Mace stopped, then carefully dared to look down.
Robe. Hot—practically neon—pink. Fluffy.
Alright, so he was awake, then. Finally, someone showed a reasonable reaction.
“Actually, that’s exactly what I wanted to talk to them about,” Mace said, a little too casually. “The laundry looked a bit bright this morning. I wanted to know if the laundry droids had lost their collective sanity, or if Skywalker had somehow managed to release hallucinogens into the water.”
Qui-Gon nodded, like this was the most normal thing he’d heard all year. “Definitely the laundry.”
“That brings me to the second question,” Mace said, looking up again, managing to sound almost plaintive: “why couldn’t it have been purple?”
crack fic? have a crack fic. blame
obaewankenope for crack fic.
