who constantly throws ill-advised house parties

Rixik stormed out to the foyer, “What is this all about?” Thumping music escaped through the elaborate archway.

The Nar Shaddaa neighborhood patrolman flinched, “There’ve been complaints about the noise--”

“So?” Rixik said, “I pay the local office plenty to keep you guys off my back.”

‘Well, yes, sir,” the patrolman said, “but you’re amassing a significant list of violations--”

A party guest staggered through the foyer. He shoved past the patrolman and bounced off a parked speeder, fetching up against the railing around the platform that prevented falls from the sky palace. He gazed out over the cityscape for a moment, then vomited over the railing. He watched it fall before nodding and slumping against the rail, as though satisfied with his performance.

The patrolman turned back to Rixik, “--like malicious littering.”

“If I shove him over, is it still littering?” Rixik asked.

“That might be considered a bit more serious, sir.”

who would put glitter all over everything if given half the chance

“Really?” Kira asked, “a glitter bomb?” She brushed silvery bits from her robes.

Vashutarl grinned sheepishly, “I thought it was funny,” she said.

Kira sighed, “I thought you were supposed to be the master.”

“Come on, it was funny,” Vashutarl said, “besides, we’re almost the same age. I’m barely a knight.”

“You got fast-tracked,” Kira objected, “I didn’t.”

“I’ll get Twovee to clean it up,” Vashutarl said.

“Thanks,” Kira said, still shaking shiny glitter out the fabric folds and her hair.

Vashutarl headed back to the droid’s charging station. The glitter bombs were on sale. She still had two left for Doc.

Second one for a lesser-known character that I didn’t think of until later:

Apprentice Shojomallet bent over her crystal. Her brow furrowed in concentration as she guided the laser lapidary tool with precision and care. Her shocking pink pigtails swayed in her peripheral vision, forgotten. All that mattered was the crystal. The only bright pink one in the apprentice selection bin. Bright pink with violet inclusions. It was her perfect crystal and once she got the facets right, it would be the perfect heart of her lightsaber.

The tool cut. Followed the line marked out by her instructor. Then it wavered, slipped, the cutting blade brushed against an internal fracture. Weakened, the pressure from the hydrovise crushed the delicate gem. It exploded. Glittering pink powder flew into the air, shimmering and shining and filtering into her hair and clothes, settling on her gloves and protective goggles.

Rage rose, uncontrollable. Then she looked at the fine glittering color on her hands, the table, the workstation and tools.

It was beautiful.

She saw her saber hilt, glittering with pink crystal dust. Perfect. Everything glittering, everything shining, colors winking at her and at her enemies. When she graduated, she would have everything in glitter and gems. It would be perfect.

Quickly, she scooped up a handful of flawed crystals from the reject bin. Placing one in the hydrovise, she deliberately shattered it. It rewarded her with a spray of red. Then a yellow one. A green. Laughing, she pulverised crystal after crystal until her workstation was covered with shimmering powder.

Against the wall, the lapidary instructor looked on in horror. Her assistant nudged her, “Shouldn’t you do something?” he asked.

“I’m not telling her to quit,” the lapidary instructor said, turning to her assistant, “if you want to interrupt her be my guest.”

who starts unknowingly mimicking their best friend’s grossest habits

Sha’ra’zaed tossed a flash-bang into the room and ducked behind the wall. Averting her eyes, she followed the bright reflection in the hallway the with a pair of thermal detonators. She barely got back in cover before they exploded with an ear-numbing crump. Flame kissed the wall opposite, leaving a charred smudge and a handful of smoldering spots trying hard to become full-on fires. Vector leaped into the room before the smoke completely cleared and Sha’ra’zaed followed him, her stealth field hardly required given the poor visibility.

She heard Vector approach before she saw him, “We think the room is secure, Agent.”

“Good,” she said, deactivating the field. It often caused trouble with other scrambling fields and cheap anti-slicing technology. The last thing she needed was a delay in accessing the suspect computer.

“May we ask a question, Agent?” Vector said while she shifted the false front on the corner cabinet, revealing the datastation behind it.

“Certainly, Vector,” she replied.

“In our experience, you usually prefer a quieter infiltration,” he said.

Sha’ra’zaed stopped, her hands poised in mid-command over the station’s manual interface. He had a point. “What’s the question, Vector?”

“We were wondering if you asked Kaliyo for advice on getting into this Exchange broker house,” Vector said, “and if so, whether this approach was her idea.”

who gets Way Too Involved in game of thrones politics

“No, no, no,” Varrel objected, “that’s not at all what they’re planning.”

“But how can you know, love?” Jaesa asked.

“Because they’ve spent the entire season building up to it,” Varrel said, “And they haven’t killed anyone in at least two episodes. Plus remember last year we saw the unification of the tribes and they have yet to bring up that plot again. I tell you, it’s going to be a bloodbath.”

“Oh, I do hope so,” Jaesa said, “We should have done that for our wedding.”

(fair note: I don’t watch Game of Thrones, this was the only event I could think of to incorporate into a drabble, and I really have no idea what the actual leadup was. Of all my characters, Varrel would totally follow GoT politics.)

who only ever buys hideous sweaters for people in gift exchanges

Vashutarl held up the garment, “What is this?”

“It’s a sweater,” Ian Kughel answered.

Vashutarl dropped it in her lap, “I know that,” she said dryly.

Ian grinned, “Then why’d you ask?”

She rolled her eyes, “Because it has a Wookiee on it. A purple Wookiee. With a Life Day hat.”

“I know,” Ian said.

“And the hat lights up,” she continued.

“Of course,” Ian said, “Genuine Life Day Sweaters are ugly. It’s a tradition.”

“It’s a tradition to get something for someone you know they’d never be caught dead in?” Vashutarl asked.

“No,” Ian said, “the tradition is getting someone an uglier sweater than the one they get for you.”

who made out with an inanimate object once

Jealousy, Darth Occlus, set the mask back on its stand and returned to the party.

Kel’eth Urr’s holocron spoke up first, “I do believe I’m envious of you.”

“Well, you don’t have lips,” Revan’s Mask replied.

“Technically, neither do you,” Kel’eth Urr’s holocron said.

“I resemble a face more than you do,” Revan’s Mask retorted, “though I doubt it mattered. I think she was drunk.”

The bedroom was silent for a long while. The party music drifted back, muted but for the suggestion of a beat and vague melodies. “So I might still have a chance, then, do you think?” Kel’eth Urr’s holocron asked.

who everyone’s convinced is secretly a superhero or magical girl

[Ooo! Pulp novel crossover drabble inspired by @kabeone‘s artwork as well! I had the idea rolling around for a while but beyond an intro I couldn’t decide what to do with it.]

Jurial pressed one hand against the transparasteel window in the lounge. Coruscanti rain sheeted down, washing away the grime and dust that went unnoticed up here in the high levels. Washed it all away, away and down, down to the lower levels where everyone assumed some system or other took care of it. But it didn’t. Not all of it. No system was big enough or caring enough to deal with all the beings that washed up down in the lower levels, discarded like the dust and dirt and garbage.

He turned away from the window. The Jedi were supposed to be heroes. Were supposed to be amazing and powerful and compassionate and perfect. But nights like tonight, he knew it was not enough. It was never enough. Being a Jedi, being part of the order, wearing the robes, it wasn’t enough. It was too limiting. As a Jedi, there was only so much he could do. There were things he couldn't do, actions forbidden, paths closed to the robe and lightsaber.

His gaze fell on a shadow in the back of the wardrobe. He pushed aside his regular attire revealing a copper-colored suit, a gift from the Sarkhai royal family. He wore it only once, to please them. It was not proper clothing for a Jedi and while he should have given it away, something made him keep it instead. He took it out, smoothing the fabric with his hand. Perhaps the Force wanted him to keep it. Wanted him to keep it until the time was right.

He donned the suit, the unfamiliar pieces and fasteners making him feel clumsy. Once it was on, though, it felt perfect. He looked at his reflection again, in the window where rain rippled down outside. He wasn’t Jurial the Jedi anymore. He was a Mirialan, just a man, one of thousands on this world. He picked up the matching hat and set it on his shaved head. The brim cast a shadow over his eyes. In the shimmering reflection, they vanished. He was hidden. Secret. The Shadow.