The Sting

The Setback

It was alive. A great, lumbering beast, writhing and thrashing against the torrent in which it labored to subsist, a heaving mass of deceit and honor, sacrifice and abandonment, loyalty and betrayal. Ever conflicted, ever changing, diverging…ever a haven of welcome security, of relative peace.

“You’ll never find a more wretched hive of scum and villainy,” Qui-Gon muttered, sinking into a large, red, plastoid seat located near the back of the diner. Flexing his toes against the rigid synth-leather of his boots, the Jedi Master struggled to appear outwardly undisturbed. Of course, he couldn’t actually relax until Dex showed himself and confirmed that the coast was clean and that they could talk freely.

About fifteen meters from Qui-Gon’s table, two Gran, their wide heads bent in earnest and probably less-than-legal conversation, chattered in low, grating monotones over blue cups of jawa juice. To their left, approximately six meters away from where the Gran sat, a dazed and ragged old Rodian female hunched over a bottle of something that looked more benign than it seemed to be, her as shoulders bent and broken as her spirit. Three human males, clad in the markedly garish trend that was high Coruscanti fashion, conversed with ease over a half-full pot of caf, gesturing with the smooth effortlessness of the upper class.

In truth, the diner itself was swathed in shady practices, but it maintained a cover that was efficient and perfectly legit, and that was good enough for Dexter Jettster. The Jedi permitted Dex – a former prospector and mercenary with tendencies bordering on piracy – to continue to practice minor violations of Republic law in return for solid, difficult-to-find information that was both sensitive and vital. It was Qui-Gon Jinn who managed to convince the Council not to press charges against his friend, but to enter an arrangement that was mutually beneficial and that neither party would be willing to leave very soon.

“Qui-Gon!” Qui-Gon glanced over sharply to see the hulking, slightly overweight figure of Dexter Jettster lumbering heavily toward him. His four thick harms outstretched in a gesture of embrace and a sloppy grin pasted across his broad face, Dex was a study in welcome warmth, and Qui-Gon rose, smiling genuinely at the sight of his old buddy.

Qui-Gon Jinn was not a small man, but he still managed to lose himself in Dexter’s embrace, just as he had as a Padawan. As Dex playfully slapped Qui-Gon’s back, he leaned over and whispered softly in the Jedi’s ear.

“We’re being watched. The Rodian female in the corner. She’s not as far gone as she looks. She’s an operative. She’s here to see what you’re up to.”

Qui-Gon stepped away, the broad smile never leaving his ruggedly handsome features, but Dex recognized that particular, predatory, fatal glint that his dark blue eyes now carried.

“It’s been too long, Qui-Gon, old buddy.”

“It has, I’m afraid. Business at the Jedi Temple has been quite touchy.”

“Ahhh, tough times, Qui-Gon. Tough times. Sit down, old buddy!” he gestured broadly toward the red seat with two of his meaty arms. “Let me get you something. Jawa juice?”

“Please,” said Qui-Gon, sweeping his dark robe from beneath him and lowering himself into the bench.

“Coming up,” Dex said, motioning to a server droid who whirred over on her ungreased servos and delivered a pot of the blue liquid to Qui-Gon’s table, depositing it gently on the smooth, granite-colored surface. Dex reached over and, gingerly, grabbed the pot with one of his right arms, pouring the juice into a cup that rested neatly on the table. Dex moved closer to the Jedi Master to thrust the cup into his outstretched hand, when, seemingly without warning, his left leg crossing slightly over his right, causing him to stumble. Throwing his four, heavily muscled arms out for balance, Dex fumbled the cup of jawa juice just enough for a huge plop to land smack-center on Qui-Gon’s tunic.

Qui-Gon looked down with disdain as a large, florescent blue stain began to spread like cobalt streaks of flame down the front of his tunic.

“Oh, Qui-Gon,” began Dex, averting his eyes, “I’m so sorry, old buddy. I…don’t know what came over me. Here, let me help—“

“No, no, it’s fine,” breathed Qui-Gon, standing erect and brushing his Jedi robes with both hands, but only succeeding in further embedding the stain in his tunic.

“Buddy, alcohol stains, but if we can get that tunic to some cold water, maybe—“

“I’ve had more than enough help from you, old buddy,” Qui-Gon sneered, fixing the Beslisk with a cold stare.

“Look, Qui-Gon, I’m sorry. It’s not like I meant to, you know.”

“Frankly, Dexter, I don’t care. Now, if you’ll excuse me—“ Qui-Gon said, shouldering his way toward the large, four-armed being.

“Now, just wait one minute, Master Jedi,” rasped Dex, planting one arm firmly in Qui-Gon’s chest and another in his stomach. “You go nowhere until I say that you’re going somewhere. You get my meaning?”

“Are you stopping me, Dexter, old buddy?” Qui-Gon said, his voice a chilling but fully audible whisper.

The eyes of every being who currently inhabited the diner remained fixed on the fierce, bloodless but bitter, contest of wills, scarcely daring to breathe lest they be implicated in what was certain to follow.

“This is establishment belongs to me, Qui-Gon. Just because you’re some Jedi doesn’t entitle you to take advantage of my services. If you don’t like what I have to offer, you can leave. If you don’t like what I have to say, you can leave. And if you don’t show proper manners,” he muttered, leaning in closer, “you, dear buddy, can leave.”

“I don’t think so,” said Qui-Gon through gritted teeth.

Inhaling deeply, Dex balled his left fist and punched Qui-Gon in the nose, throwing his fully bodyweight into the jab but wincing sharply at the deep crack that followed.

“Master! Master! I completed the training exercise just as you—“

The diner patrons shifted their gaze from the large Jedi Master who lay sprawled on the floor of the establishment, eclipsed by the massive shadow of its owner, to the small boy with the light, Coruscanti accent, buzz-cut hair, and a little braid hanging near his right ear.

“Um, hello Dex,” he said, cautiously eyeing the Besalisk. “What have you done to my Master?”

Dex nearly smiled at the young boy. His tone was curious, rather than accusing, and his soft, penetrating eyes were enough to melt the stoutest of hearts.

“We’d better take him to the back,” said Dex, heaving the barely conscious Jedi Master to his feet and half-carrying, half-dragging him toward the back of the diner.

“Okay,” the boy said agreeably, following Dexter.

The strange party ended their brief journey, after breaching several doors and hidden entrances, near a dank, grimy, drafty exit at the very edge of the diner. It looked as if it hadn’t been touched for nearly a thousand years, its frame drenched in a greenish substance of dubious origin.

Dex dropped the limp form of the Jedi Master heavily on the ground, then turned toward the small Padawan with a massive, toothy grin enveloping his face.

“Obi-Wan!” he exclaimed, holding out his arms.

Obi-Wan glanced uncertainly at his Master, who was beginning to stir slightly but otherwise remained unnaturally still. He lifted his little chin up toward Dex’s massive, hulking form, sensitive brow furrowed deeply in thought.

“What’s wrong, Obi-Wan?” asked Dex, dropping his arms in disappointment as the large grin faded from his face.

“My Master. What happened to him? Did you hit him?”

“I’m…fine, Obi-Ban,” Qui-Gon mumbled, rising to his haunches and flinching at the combination of blistering pain and frigid numbness that extended from the base of his nose to the tip. “Dex, why’d you have to bak it? You know it’s been boken too bany times already.”

Stifling a pearl of incessant laughter at his Master’s voice, which was even more nasal that usual, Obi-Wan covered his mouth and studied the grimy floor with expertly feigned innocence.

“I’m sorry, Qui-Gon,” said Dex softly, avoiding the Jedi’s injured expression. “I…lost my head. I panicked. I wanted to get you out of there as quickly as I could. This was the fastest way I could think of. Besides, we used this one when you were younger, and I thought you knew the drill.”

“I did dow the drill,” wheezed Qui-Gon, his hand cupping the fresh droplets of blood that were inching out of his nose. “But I didn’t dink you’d hit my node.

“Ach, it doesn’t batter. What batters is the mission. Obi-Ban, did you do what I asked you to?”

“Yes, Master,” he chirped cheerfully, pulling a small box from inside his robes.

Laying an enormous but gentle hand on Obi-Wan’s head, Dex regarded the box with a grave expression unbecoming his naturally friendly demeanor.

“If you’re ready, Master Qui-Gon, we’d better make this quick,” said Dex. “I have a feeling our Rodian friend won’t be deterred for long.”

“You’re right, Dex. Obi-Ban, if you’d explain? I’m somewhat…”

“Yes, Master!” he said, delighted at his important role.

Holding the box out toward Dex with both small, calloused hands, Obi-Wan was somewhat uncertain where to begin, and yet…

…that couldn’t have stopped him for all of Coruscant.

The Sting

It all started with the talk of a Valentines Day challenge at TFN. We were supposed to pair two characters up and write a love story -- serious, humorous, canon, non-canon...whatever we wanted. Immediately I thought of Qui-Gon and Tahl, of course, but my thoughts then went to Yoda and Yaddle. They could be the subject to many jabs that I could really work with.
But soon, after much toying with the idea, during one of the low points of my critical thinking class, I scrawled out the words "She was haunting him." in my notebook. And, before I knew it, what I had intended to be a short, funny, quick fic about Yoda and Yaddle turned into something huge and incredibly vibrant. I call it "The Sting," and it's designed to twist and turn and pace itself just as the movie does. But, if you haven't seen the movie, it should work just fine.
Since I didn't have time to post a Valentines Day blog because of homework, I'm posting the first two parts of this grand tale. It'll be updated again tomorrow.
I'm Robert Osborn, and I'm proud to present The Sting. (Sorry, couldn't resist the TCM reference.)

Sometime Before

She was haunting him.

Sitting lightly upon a gray, hollowed bench, eyes half-lidded in enigmatic contemplation, her supple form and fair complexion shining pleasantly in the dim glaze of evening, then dark eyes widening in succulent surprise that tickled the back of his throat as she turned to see him and he darted around a corner, just in time…

Her regal stature, subtle but apparent, frozen wordlessly, but framed so neatly, by a chair of dark, royal violet, seized and held in a glance so fleeting, but forever etched in his mind; that rare moment of silent contemplation, glancing up with a knowing smile playing across her gracious lips as he bowed away, just before she could see…

The pale, soft smoothness of her skin, a passing but unforgettable gaze, the gleaming currents of chestnut hair rippling down her back…

She was there, lingering just beyond his gaze, tormenting him, shaming him, and never, ever relenting, torturing even his final refuge from the miseries of existence – his own mind – berating him, belittling him…

She was haunting him.

And yet…

…he loved her.


The Problem

Master Yoda seldom looked pleased. It was often stated, with a certain degree of reverence, that he was, and would forever remain, one of the wisest, most powerful, and greatly accomplished of all the Jedi. But Qui-Gon tended to believe probability would dictate that your chances of accomplishing something in nearly a thousand years were, at the very least, fairly good.

Regardless of this fact, the Jedi Order looked upon its so-named Grand Master with something markedly similar to admiration, and that, if anything, demanded a standard that was almost hopelessly extreme. So, it was not surprising that Master Yoda seldom looked pleased. Excellence was as stressful as it was impossible.

And it didn’t help, the way he paced in irritable solitude, alone down there beneath your knees, but, at the same time, alone up there above your thoughts, tapping that gnarled gimer stick, as outwardly worn and tattered as the ancient Jedi Master, against the damp reflections on the floor. The image was delicately deceiving; both Master Yoda and the gimer stick were intensely and inherently focused, and terribly, fearfully strong. But that didn’t make either of them any less annoying.

“Master Qui-Gon? Listening are you? Hmmm?”

“Yes, Master,” Qui-Gon sighed, biting back his ready-made sardonic response.

“Good. Because summoned you here in light of a very important issue, I have,” croaked Yoda, pounding the gimer stick against the polished floor with every other word.

“May I ask what that might be, my Master?” Qui-Gon ventured, his outer veneer of detachment betraying none of his impatience.

“Patience you still have not, Master Qui-Gon? Hmmm?”

Well, perhaps he didn’t look as detached as he would’ve preferred.

“With respect, Master Yoda, my Padawan has been out by the East Lake for about,” raising his arm, he checked the small chrono strapped to his muscular wrist, “twelve minutes and thirty-seven seconds.”

“Hmm? And training by the lake is he, Master Qui-Gon?” asked the Jedi Master, his large ears as elevated as his interest.

“Yes, Master, he is.”

Yoda paused for the briefest of moments to count the dots on the ceiling. Satisfied that there were none, and that, if there were any, they wouldn’t aid his confusion in the least, Yoda turned toward Qui-Gon’s kneeling form once again.

“Then…hmmm…worried about your Padawan are you, Master Qui-Gon?” he hazarded cautiously.

“No, Master.”

As Yoda turned away, a small smile tugged lightly at the corner of Qui-Gon’s lips while he regarded the irritation that was pouring from the diminutive Jedi Master, and the speed at which he struggled to staunch it.

“Master Qui-Gon? Care to explain, do you?”

“Of course, Master,” Qui-Gon said, nodding helpfully and stifling a gentle chuckle. “He’s going to fall in.”

The vacant stare that leapt to Yoda’s face could’ve held its own against any of the statues in the Jedi Archives.

“Your Padawan?” he asked, eyes narrowing.

“Yes. I sent Obi-Wan on a task to acquire something in a specific location on the Temple grounds. I told him that it would take no more than twenty standard minutes to accomplish, but if he could do it in less than fifteen, it would be most remarkable, indeed. If he could accomplish the task in no greater than twenty, he would be about average. But if he took longer than twenty minutes to acquire the object, then…well…no Jedi, even a Padawan, takes over twenty minutes to do such a thing.”

“Hmm…Master Qui-Gon…not certain of this concept you are teaching your Padawan, am I. Speed matters not over accuracy, competition matters not, especially among Jedi, and detrimental, pride can be.”

“I know, Master. And soon, my Padawan will know as well.”

“Tell me then, Master Qui-Gon, what is this object that seek your Padawan does?”

“The stone of Larsoon,” he replied evenly.

“Larsoon’s stone, you would have him acquire, hmmm? Then, accomplish it he cannot.”

“Master, Obi-Wan’s focus has rested entirely too much upon the opinions of others and he has neglected his fundamental purpose as a Jedi. Had he concentrated on the words behind my words, rather than the words themselves, he would not be near the East Lake at the moment.

“If he had sufficient patience and foresight to research the area where the stone is concealed, he would have known that he must either cross the Lake to retrieve it, or go around it. To go around it would take considerably greater than twenty minutes. To cross it would easily take around ten minutes for a Jedi Knight, and for a Padawan, perhaps, much longer.”

“And the stone?” prompted Yoda, delighted that he now understood.

“Well over 250 kilos. He could never retrieve it even if he did manage to reach its location in less than twenty minutes.”

“Hmm…then learn this lesson well, he must. And be quick about this business we must be,” Yoda muttered, grounding his stick into the floor with emphasis.

“I agree. For what business did you summon me here? And without the Council’s knowledge?”

“Big ears do you have, Master Qui-Gon. Grown they have, since you were a Padawan.”

“I certainly hope so, Master,” Qui-Gon chuckled.

“But care about the Council you do not. Ask this question out of curiosity you do. It matters not,” he added swiftly as Qui-Gon moved to interrupt, “especially once you hear what I must relay.”

Clearing his throat, Master Yoda paced the length of the room once…twice…three times, before cocking his head toward Qui-Gon. Once again, he cleared his throat, which Qui-Gon believed sounded much more painful than it was worth, shook his head, and spoke in a voice oddly touched with something undeniably distant.

“A problem I have, Master Qui-Gon,” he whispered.

“A problem?” Qui-Gon asked, cocking an eyebrow. “A…personal problem, Master?”

“Hmmm, yes. A…personal problem,” he uttered the words as if they had never before touched his tongue. “With a…with another…with…”

“Ooh,” Qui-Gon gasped, rocking slightly on his heels and moving from a kneeling position to a more comfortable posture with his long legs crossed beneath him. “You mean…a woman,” he said with finality.

When Yoda said nothing Qui-Gon laughed, long and hard, tears streaming down his cheeks and collecting in droplets upon his dark beard.

“Why, Master Yoda! You’re in love!”

Master Yoda continued his downtrodden silence, eyes attaching themselves firmly to the floor.

“Well, then, who’s the lucky girl?”

“Master Qui-Gon,” he began again, “much knowledge you are said to have in these matters. After all, captured a few hearts you have since your childhood, hmmm?”

Qui-Gon nodded solemnly as Yoda continued.

“Ask for your help in this one matter I do. Know this, I do, that attachment is forbidden for a Jedi. But just one day and one single wish do I have. Above…above everything…just…happy I wish to make her. For one day.”

Gesturing vaguely, Qui-Gon absorbed the information with the air of a certified connoisseur, his deep eyes set with absolute, unbending determination.

“I will help you. But you must tell me who she is.”

“She is,” his voice broke, he couldn’t speak, he couldn’t breathe, he couldn’t move – how she haunted him! He tried to utter those fatal words, finally managing to squeeze out, in single syllables, “Master Yaddle.”

“Force forsake us!” Qui-Gon shrieked, rising nearly instantly from his position on the floor.

“Qui-Gon Jinn,” Yoda spat, motioning slowly and deliberately with the gimer stick, “how dare you—“

“No, not you, Master,” Qui-Gon said indifferently, “It’s Obi-Wan. He’s drowning, and he’s worse off than I anticipated. I’m afraid I shall have to speak to you sometime later.”

“There is no time!” Yoda barked, prodding Qui-Gon sharply in the leg with his gimer stick. “Meeting her tomorrow, I am, at Dexter’s Diner. Ready will you be?”

“Dex’s Diner,” Qui-Gon mused, stroking his beard softly. “It will take some time and much preparation, but I think I will be ready by tomorrow evening.”

“Thank you, Master Qui-Gon,” Yoda said, tapping his stick heavily upon the floor. “And may the Force be with you—and your Padawan.”

“May the Force be with you, too, Master,” Qui-Gon countered, bowing slightly at the waist and striding from Yoda’s modest quarters out into the lavish hallways of the Jedi Temple, his robe brown streaming majestically behind him.

“May the Force be with me,” Yoda muttered. “Or doomed I am.”

And, with that, he padded softly toward his small hover-chair. He wanted to cry out in terror, he wanted to leap with joy, he wanted to bury his head in his hands and will himself away from that which stole so much from him, and yet, he breathed deeply, he lifted his head, he meditated shortly…

…and he moved on.

The Secret Adventures of Luke's Hand - Part 3

I never knew what it was like to be afraid.

It was sort of like being cold, a frigid, bitter frost that envelopes your whole body and chills your blood. But it was far worse than a mere physical cold. It held you utterly immobile, a ruthless tendril that bound you fast against its beating heart, inescapable except through an act of sheer, coarse will.

Before I lost Luke Skywalker, I had existed only as a limb, as an accessory to his actions. That meant that I could experience physical sensation, but not necessarily true emotion. The only real emotion that was channeled through my fingertips was the remnants of what the remainder of Luke’s body had already experienced. It had something to do with the relationship between the cardiovascular system and the amount of midi-chlorians in Luke’s bloodstream. All anatomical stuff that I know instinctively because of the rather…special…position that I used to hold.

But the terror that had apprehended my spirit didn’t stop my agile mind from wandering. How could I actually be experiencing emotion, a decidedly human thing? Of course, other species are known to exhibit passion as well, but none tend to act upon it in quite the irrational manner that do human beings. Was I now in possession of human intelligence?

A strange little stew of bantha poodoo that I had cooked up. I kind of liked it.

Not that it helped anything.

Up ahead and to my immediate right was a recess that I recognized immediately as some kind of tunnel. If I could crawl up there and lean over toward the edge of the tunnel, maybe I could see what lay below and find some way out of this living incarnation of the hells of Corellia.

Having something resembling a plan made me feel better and more secure about my future. At least I’d have something to occupy myself so I didn’t go insane from fear.

Can I hand go insane?

Ask me sometime later.

So, with that, I edged slowly forward against the dank smoothness of the tunnel, easing along with the power of my middle and forefinger, going somewhere very slowly, and nowhere very fast.

Distant Star

This is my little sister's first attempt at a fan fic!! I told her to start off with a short story about a character that she liked, and, no surprise to me, she picked Luke! (She considers herself a LILWL in training.) Anyway, I love the story, (and the photoshopped cover she made) and I'm sure you all will, too. She'd be extremely happy if you left a comment, so fire away! Here's to my little Padawan disciple and her first fan fic!!

“Luke!” called Beru.

“Luke, dinner’s ready!” yelled Beru again.

“Coming!” Luke yelled back.

Luke Skywalker was a boy who lived the small life of a farmboy but had dreams that could overpower any great wish.

“Uncle Owen, why can’t I submit my application to the academy this year?” asked Luke.

“I need you for the harvest,” Said Owen.

“Uhh,” said Luke as he stormed off.

Luke sat in his room thinking he would never get of the planet. Anyone could tell he was holding back tears.

The next day Luke got up early, (Owen and Beru were still asleep) ate breakfast, and decided to run away. Luke went to go tell Ben good bye. As Soon as Luke entered Ben’s small home Ben greeted Luke.

“What brings you to the Jundland wastes?”

“I decided to run away,” said Luke.

“Run away?” asked Ben.

“Yep,” said Luke.

“What was the life of a Jedi like?” asked Luke.

“Very hard; they were guardians of peace and justice of the galaxy. Anyway, why do you want to talk about Jedi?” asked Ben.

“I don’t know. I just felt an urge.”

“Are there any Jedi left?” asked Luke.

“Unfortunately not,” lied Ben.

He wanted Luke to find out for himself. Ben knew after going through a lot of pain and anger he would find out…but that would be a long time from now.