The Death of Glitter, a Star Wars VerySilly
fic by Glacis. Rated NC-17 FOR IMAGES
(NOT WORKSAFE) and SA for Silly and Adult (language and slash).
Blame it on Curt Wild and the Master-Apprentice list.
It started out as any other mission. The people of Glitterdomia were in crisis. Blackness had descended
on a planet known galaxy-wide for its sparkle, and hope was descending
into hopelessness with the speed and grace of a mudslide. Yes, the worst
had come to pass.
The Goths had invaded Glitterdomia.
The Jedi pair currently on station responded with their
patented one-two punch of extreme diplomacy and raw energy, but Master
Fraser and Padawan Kowalski were no match for the opposition. In a flash
of red serge robe and wild hair, the pair disappeared into the heaving
black mass.
The Jedi Council responded to an urgent cry for help by
sending their most experienced field operatives, Master Napoleon and his
Padawan Illya. A week passed. Two.
No word.
Then a coded transmission. One chilling word.
"Birdsong!"
In a panic, but not about to show it, the Council broke
down and sent their alternate best field operatives, Master Ellison and
his Padawan Sandburg. There had been much debate before disturbing this
pair at their meditations - it had been a long and rocky road for them to
complete their Master/Padawan bonding, and taking the cuffs off too early
was a risk. But they ignored the pantherish
growls and wolfish howls that met their command,
and one of the more unusual Master/Apprentice pairings ever evolved went
dutifully off to Glitterdomia.
And disappeared.
A third week passed, then a fourth.
Wisdom and fervor were deemed the next logical step to
meet the escalating crisis. Master Yoda considered going himself, but, peering
at himself in native costume, discarded the idea as unworkable. Blue
eyeliner and sequins were not suitable attire for a being of such short
stature. Next on the old Master roster was Master Methos, and his Padawan
Scout. A-hem. Padawan Scot. Uhm. Padawan MacLeod.
They never made it to Glitterdomia.
Slaughtering the boarding party from the HMS TimeBandit
fried all the circuits on the shuttle, and it would be several decades
before the crippled craft would drift back toward Coruscant. Happily, the replicators worked. And there were several bunks, so
broken springs wouldn't be a problem.
Back home, panic got a chokehold on the Council and
they dug their most menacing trio of field operatives out of the handy cryocrypt and defrosted them. Shivering slightly,
swilling down great gulps of pure malt scotch to get the Force flowing
again, Master Cowley and his paired Padawans Bodie and Doyle were tossed on the nearest transport, the Capriaia, and posted with haste to Glitterdomia.
Last transmission received was garbled almost to the
point of being indecipherable, but seemed to point to a Soviet plot. Not
having a clue that the Goths were a Soviet, much less what a Soviet
was, the Council took the final, irrevocable step.
They called Master George.
Well, actually, they called Master George's coterie of
lawyers.
Eight months later, they got an answer back.
Not liking the idea of a lawsuit, given that Jedi have
no worldly goods to lose but their robes, and the thought of Master Yoda
disrobed struck terror in even the stoutest heart, the Council staged a
raid. Ignoring the summary
Then, with a collective blush generating enough heat to
power Endor for a year, they returned Darth Maul
and went back for Qui Gon Jinn.
Once Master Jinn and Padawan Sexonastick
... er, Kenobi ... were safely cloistered on
Coruscant, they were quickly brought up to speed.
Master looked at Padawan.
Padawan looked at Master.
Master and Padawan looked at the convened Council.
"No bloody way," they sang in chorus.
"No choice, have you," Master Yoda intoned,
backed up by a triple mind whammy from Mace "Don't Fuck With Me"
Windu. Qui Gon reeled back. Kenobi snarled.
The Council gasped.
Okay, this just might work.
Objects flew through the room at the speed of thought.
Robes were torn from finely toned young flesh, silver leather was painted
on, and crimson lip color vied with green glitterpowder
and blackest kohl for first contact with that virgin face.
The carpets in the Council room were deluged with
drool.
It would work. No way this could
fail.
"The fate of the galaxy, or at
least several Very Important Pairs (and One Trio) depend on
you." Windu managed to speak almost coherently through the slack-jaw
syndrome affecting everyone in the room with a pulse (and a corpse in the
corner they hadn't realized had already Departed Into The Force).
"I can't do it, Master," young Kenobi moaned
at Qui Gon. Qui Gon blinked.
"Hunh?" A trickle of drool dribbled into his beard.
"Fuck this." Young Kenobi swirled in place,
hair bristling, face contorting as the paint flew off in every direction,
much like a dog shaking off excess water. Windu ended up with the lip
color, Yoda the kohl, and the green eye shadow glistened in the air like a
miasma of murky pondwater seeded with diamonds.
Jinn sneezed.
Ignoring the stunned looks and desperate pleas for
reason issuing from the combined minds of the Masters, Kenobi turned and
stomped from the room. "Puh-leeze," he
muttered. "Make-up! What sort of fockin' poof do they think I am?"
Jinn wandered out after him, mind still trying to wrap
itself around the aftereffects of that moan. As the apprentice stomped all
the way to the transport and his master followed, dazed and distracted, one
thought zapped from the Council to the Jedi Master.
SPORES.
Followed quickly by another.
OIL.
And a third.
LEATHER.
Then a fourth.
SCREAMING PUNK.
Jinn collapsed inside the transport and resolutely
blocked out the fifth and final instruction from the Council.
fund raising
The stench of foul darkness could be, well, smelt, long
before they reached their destination. The standard twinkle of stars
around Glitterdomia were muted, and the planet
itself gave the impression it was under a black out. The Jedi found themselves surrounded by pale humanoids with
dark-rimmed eyes, dyed black hair, pasty white skin, black painted nails,
and solid black clothing. That was before they left the dock.
The customs workers were cheery compared to the general
populace.
Two weeks of snooping about, stealing into locked
cages, staring forlornly at Jedi stuck in stasis fields like flies in
amber, and being unable to break the communications jam around the planet
finally broke Master Jinn's resolve. Knowing it was only a matter of time,
he delicately brought up the matter at hand. The last chance they would
have to complete their mission, before time and Darkness caught up with
them and they ended up just two more flies in somebody's drop earrings.
Some of the Goths were pretty damned big.
"Padawan, you must go under cover."
Big blue eyes stared at him, disbelievingly. "No
face paint, Master. There are many things I will do as a Jedi apprentice. Dressin' up like a woman and vamping a bunch of Goths
are not one of 'em."
"Is." Jinn stared him down. Kenobi stared right back.
"Are."
"Is." Jinn's beard jutted out. Sloppy form in battle was one
thing; poor grammar, quite another.
"No glitter."
He sighed and tried another tack. "It's the native
custom, and we must blend in if we are to rescue our fellow Jedi and help
the natives throw off this devastating darkness!"
"What's this 'we' shite,
Master mine? I don't see you decked out like a hooker on acid, peddlin' your wares for the Undead out there. And
you won't see me doin' it any time soon,
either!"
Jinn sighed again. As always, the Council were right. He'd tried, in his own way, to buck the
trend, and get away with murder, like usual, but in this instance it just
wasn't working. And the darkness was getting closer - he could feel it.
Nodding to his young apprentice, faking acceptance and masking the
fake-out with a calm perfected over years (although not nearly as many as
some would have one think), he nonchalantly picked an innocuous looking
flower pod from a handy hedgerow.
"You must follow your conscience, Obi Wan,"
he sighed softly, making sure he was standing upwind. Waving the pod
gently, presenting an astonishing likeness to a dead Irish poet from a
time and galaxy far, far away, he dusted the pollen surreptitiously all
over his apprentice's robe. "Weigh the choices you must make,"
as he brushed the light powder along Obi Wan's hands. "The
fate of so many, against the pride of one."
Kenobi's hands rose, and he
wiped the sweat from his face, streaking the talcum-fine dust into his
skin. Jinn grinned, then stifled it, continuing his
suggestions, hoping something would sink in.
"After all, how difficult is it? Some oil, some
leather pants, a screaming attempt at music, a little glitter over your
skin, a hand down your pants, a few wild gyrations, a harmless bid or
two-"
AAAAA-CHOOOOO!
The pod exploded in the Master's hand as the fine
powder worked its way up into Kenobi's sinuses. Jinn hit the deck with
Force assisted reflexes, and escaped all but the finest dusting. The
majority of the pollen settled on Obi Wan like a fine mist. Jinn rolled
over and stared up at his apprentice.
"Padawan? Are you all right?"
Shady blue eyes, glittering gold and brown in the
sunlight, stared down at him, becoming somnolent and sensual even as he
watched. "Hey, Master," he growled, low in his throat. "Wanna be my Main Man?"
Jinn shuddered. Not in a bad way.
The Plan was underway. He just hoped he survived it.
As his usually grumpy Padawan climbed him like a
tree-monkey and an agile tongue wound its way through the tangle of hair
at the juncture of his neck and shoulder, he wondered, briefly, why he fought
the Council so often. Every once in awhile, they had a
really good idea.
Night came, and the plan was put into action. A
lightning raid (and some inspired saber-slinging) made short work of the
close-harmony Gregorian monks who had originally been scheduled to
headline the Death of Glitter Mega-Concert. A resistance cell made up of a
blond spacemonkey in gold spandex, a brunet
wailer with curls down to his ass and leather chaps, and a bottle-redhead
with an icon earring, took out the Goth guards to the stage and ripped
down the black hangings. Backstage, an industrial blender was turned on,
fed a large block of ice, and screeched out to the deathly silent audience
via a boom mike lowered to within an inch of the whirling blades.
It made a nice introduction.
A heartbeat later, a single spot threw the center of
the stage into high relief. Standing in the center of the spot, head
thrown back, chest thrust out, pelvis thrust out even further in the white
leather chaps with the blue satin shorts underneath them ... one Padawan Fuckmenow.
Erm, Kenobi.
Music howled.
Padawan howled.
The body thrashed, the mike bounced, the hair flipped.
So did the audience.
Words like benedictions, invitations, damnations,
salvations poured from the painted mouth. Eyes wide with want and
repudiation, ringed with kohl and glitter that flashed back the light,
mesmerized and hypnotized the Goths frozen in their seats.
Then the oil bottle floated across the stage and
slapped into one outflung hand. "Go with
the Force, Padawan" the front row heard howled.
The Padawan howled back. The oil was upended, running
in rivulets down that perfect creamy flesh, outlining straining muscles,
highlighting lovely little nipples.
The Force was moving, already. And so was the Padawan's hand. Kenobi arched forward, falling to one
knee, wailing into the microphone all the things he wanted the audience to
do to him, singly and en masse. His other hand scooped up oil from his
chest, ran it round to his waistband at the small of his back, and zoomed
straight down the curve of his hindquarters.
His voice hitched.
The audience's strange paralysis broke.
Kenobi swiveled so that his back was to the audience,
his face toward his Master. Through the satin of the shorts, perfectly
framed by the white leather of the chaps, the distinct motion of several
fingers going in ... and out ... and in ... and out ... provoked shrieks
of pure insanity from the Goths.
It was all the distraction the Glitterdomians
needed.
With a cry of sheer animal triumph, natives in every
shade of the spectrum broke into the audience, tearing the offending black
from the invading Goths, smearing glitter in their hair, paint on their faces. Several Goth found themselves in
full-body sprawls, boots torn from their feet as glittery neon orange and
blue polish was slapped on their nails. The darkness that had spread like
a shroud over the imprisoned planet shredded like wet tissue under the
determined assault of the Glitterati, and the rainbow once more ruled the
planet.
Meanwhile, on the stage, those fingers were going in.
And out. And in. And out. And
in. And out. And in ...
"Five thousand credits!"
"Ten!"
"Forty!!"
It had worked. The powerful emanations in the Force had
drawn out the minions of darkness, the servants of the Sith
who were responsible for the Goth invasion. Vibrations in the Living Force
were crumbling the amber prisons, and distracting the Dark jailers. All
over the planet, as those responsible for monitoring the amber were drawn
into the welter of emotions (mainly lust, considering the source), the imprisoned Jedi sprang free from their
disintegrating prisons. Blood, gore, and revenge ... uhm, the
Light fought and triumphed over their evil counterparts.
Except, of course, for the Head Evil Guys, who were
currently gathered at the Main Stage watching Kenobi's fingers go in ...
and out ... and bidding like crazy on poaching rights.
With a final scream that fried the microphone, those
fingers went in and stayed in, rooting around a bit then nesting. Kenobi
executed a perfect back flip (not easy to do with one's fingers up the
fundament, but he'd obviously been doing a lot of training) and ended flat
on his back (well, arched), legs splayed, displaying a rapidly widening
wet spot in the tent of his shorts (again, perfectly offset by the white
leather chaps. Say what one will about his master, Jinn knew how to dress
the boy).
The bidding went through the roof.
As planetary treasury houses were emptied and universal
treasure hordes were proffered, the ultimate in Evil prevailed. Ignoring
the outpouring of credit into the Jedi bank accounts, one particular, most
Evil Sith in the Galaxy snapped. Flinging out a mind whammy that
slaughtered every other Sith in range, Sidious
leapt over the bodies of his erstwhile allies and swept Kenobi's limp form
into his skinny but surprisingly strong arms.
Jinn whimpered a little as his boytoy
... ah, Padawan ... left for the night. He knew he'd get him back
eventually, but the Jedi were patient, and the longer the Sith was distracted, the better chance they'd have
of defeating Evil in the long run.
Besides, he had a handy-dandy Padawan-finder embedded
in the boy's braid. One night, and poof (no, not like that, silly)
his apprentice would be pulled willy-nilly through the Force back to his
side. Then he could spend as long as he liked (damn the Council anyway)
putting the poor traumatized lad back together again.
He grinned in anticipation.
In a galaxy far from the Resurrection of Glitter,
red/yellow eyes surveyed the wreckage of what had once been a very posh
attorneys' suite. Dead bodies littered the pile carpet. The smell of
singed flesh and fresh blood gave him a tingle. Closing his eyes and
calling through the darkness, Darth Maul reported to his master.
The eyes popped open. The mouth dropped open. The
channel of communication abruptly became one way.
Ooooooooooooh.
A Sithly wave of anticipation
rolled through him. It was time. Time to rise up.
Slay his master. Claim his place as Numero Uno Sith Lord.
Get him some o' that sweet Padawan ass.
Nodding politely to Master George as they crossed paths
on the sidewalk outside the attorneys' office, he smiled. It was a
frightening smile. The Force shivered.
With anticipation.
END.
(it's not my fault. Really).