The Death of Glitter, a Star Wars VerySilly fic by Brenda
Antrim. Rated SA for Silly and Adult (language and slash).
Blame it on Curt Wild and the Master-Apprentice list.
Uhm, template stuff ... Go ahead and archive if you'd like. No
spoilers or warnings. Summary? Ha.
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 No Fucking Way
from the Legal Powers, they snuck in under cover of blackest
darkness and Jedi-napped the most powerful of all the
Master/Apprentice pairs in the Galaxy.
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 is not
one of 'em."
"Are." Jinn stared him down. Kenobi stared right back.
"Is."
"Are." Jinn's beard jutted out. Sloppy form in battle was one
thing; bad 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.
Archive 