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I cant go to my local libary anymore because last year when I stopped by a librarian was reading a book I wrote under a pen name years ago. This book sold under 10k copies and I've literally only heard people talk about this book online *if* I went looking for it so I went up to them and tried to start a conversation like "oh hey I've heard of that book is it good?" Like hoping for some real feedback and she goes "yeah I love reading things by queer writers" and in a moment of terror I was like "oh but- hold on, I thought the author was some old hetero white guy?!" A thing I thought because I used my own dead grandpa's picture for the author pic because grandpa never had internet. I fake looked it up and was like "yeah if he was queer its not public?" And without looking up this absolute unit goes "oh the author bio is obviously fake. I'd bet my left leg the author is a west coast millennial non-binary queer who has never lived on the east coast." And then proceeded to rattle off a dozen linguistic flourishes that are specfic to the pacific northwest that are in the book and several that are nearly ubiquitous in the state where I said my pen name lives that are somehow completely absent from the book.
So you know. Got read for fifth and didn't even find out if she liked it.
in a reasonable canon, shane would simply have THEE most dependent and intimate relationship with the montreal team nutritionist. like, he has her on speed dial. they text multiple times per day. she spends 60% of her work hours adjusting meal plans for his texture issues and aversions. nobody else really sees how intense their connection is.
when he was crashing out about trading to ottawa, he said, "You know, it's just gonna be really hard to leave melissa," and hayden was sitting right there like. "melissa?? it's gonna be hard to leave MELISSA??"
but i think we can probably convince melissa to move to ottawa with him, don't worry.
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(i was also super inspired by the prompt and Last of Their Kind, but your sketch and this piece set my brain on fire. I hope you like this)
“Uncle Ben! Look! Tookas!”
Technically speaking, if this was a residential area that would be grounds for a noise ordinance violation, but the closest apartment complex was a whole speeder ride away and the Remembrance Square was deserted. The sun was barely poking up over the horizon, painting the memorial statues a buttery yellow. People could be screaming bloody murder – had screamed, once – and no one would notice.
Subjectively this was Wooley’s jealously guarded morning ’communing with dirt’ time, huddled on a patch of mulch stretched out between two flowering lavelac bushes, huffing a gentle flower perfume before the shitstorm of the rest of the day began.
The rehabilitation of the Room of A Thousand Fountains was an in-progress nightmare that no one wanted to spend more time in than necessary, so that particular selection of soil was out, and Coruscant being Coruscant, the only other place for public dirt close by where the loitering bylaws weren’t so strictly enforced was the Remembrance Square memorial garden. He was already grimacing over the shitty crumpled rim of his single use caf cup as he looked over his shoulder towards the Council Circle. He tapped at his comm.
Wooley: can we arrest people for yelling this early?
Boil: yes
Doc: No.
Waxer: turn your chip back on and blame that
Crys: who?
There were two figures standing at the foot of General Kenobi with their backs to Wooley, an adult with a hood, and a child with light hair. The child was pointing at a puddle of Temple tookas who were curled up in General Kenobi’s lap, lounging in the stone folds of his robes, the bend of his knee.
“Well spotted,” said the adult – Ben? – who then coughed and cleared his throat. His voice was raspy and quiet.
Wooley watched him dip a hand into a pocket to retrieve a small crinkle-wrapped lozenge.
Wooley: belay that. Child nuisance.
Hound: Y i k e s
Crys: warrant out for social blunder
Waxer: you and what judge
Crys: [idowhatiwant.hpeg]
The child’s attention was caught by the noise of the crinkle-wrap, and when he turned, Wooley could see a concerned frown as Ben coughed again and cleared his throat.
“Just a little cold,” Ben said, voice clotted around the medicinal sweet, but attempting the soothing tone of voice meant to remind the universe of a previously established fact.
“‘Cause you went out in the sand storm like you said not to?”
Dry as, apparently, sand, Ben said, “Yes. I should have listened to myself. Look where it’s led me.”
“To dish-aunty!”
“Ah, no,” Ben said, with a little wheezy laugh. “Not quite.”
The little boy considered this with the gravitas of the very small, and then – as if remembering other facts of the universe – his little face lit up. With energy, he reached for the thermos slung over his shoulder. It was an average size on its own, but from a perspective counterpoint to the tiny back it rested on, it looked like a little rocket launcher. Once it was off his back, he flopped to the ground so that he could hold the bottom of the thermos between his tiny shoes. This gave him enough leverage to unscrew the cup lid.
He placed the cup on the ground before gingerly lifting the thermos to pour out a draught of steaming drink. It was surprising how steady he kept it, both the thermos and the stream of liquid. It seemed too unwieldy for someone that small, his tiny hands not even covering two thirds of the circumference. The leverage of it all seemed a little strange as well, but he was mostly successful in getting it all in without spilling much, so maybe he was just stronger than he appeared. Then, just as carefully and slowly, with the kind of hugely exaggerated care of a child entrusted with a monumental quest, he set the thermos back on its base.
There was also something odd about the way the thermos moved that final second before it was on the ground, but Wooley couldn’t quite put his finger on why he thought it.
Like the bottom of the bottle was dropping before the arms moved. Like gravity didn’t have quite a strangle hold of it.
He stiffened.
“That was very well done,” Ben rasped.
With hilariously outsized solemnity, the kid patted the ground next to him, staring up at Ben with huge eyes.
Ben resisted for a handful of seconds, then sighed, tried to make a casual survey of the square to see if anyone was watching – there was no one else, but he missed Wooley half hidden by his bushes and a trash can – then slowly sank to his ground.
The little boy smiled hugely at him -- he was missing a tooth -- then scrunched his face into one of extreme focus as he lifted the cup in both of his little hands to give to his uncle, who took it, said, “Thank you, Luke,” and drank.
“Do you think we can pet them?” Luke asked, attention back on more important matters. The tookas were now stirring out of their puddle in the general’s lap and into recognizable individuals. An orange and white female (a 212th favourite), a white female with dark tail, socks and face, and a brown male with large rosette spots.
Wooley grimaced. They were some of the oldest Temple tookas that had managed to survive the Empire invasion of the Jedi’s home, and were intensely anti-social as a result. Hound had been attempting to rehabilitate them, but unlike massiffs, tookas had long memories for enemies.
“Oh,” Ben rasped, sounding surprised. There was a long moment before he sucked in a shuddery breath and continued. “Maybe. Why don’t you try asking?”
Luke immediately looked anxious. “Can you ask for me?”
Ben was quiet. “I’m sorry, I can’t right now.”
“‘Cause your heart hurts?”
His words were mumbled. Had Wooley heard ‘heart’ or ‘head.’
There was another long silence. Ben looked around again, and Wooley tucked his feet up so that he was completely hidden. “Yes,” Ben said finally. “It hurts a little too much. Can you help me?”
Looking a little like a novelty speeder dash decoration, Luke bobbed his head. “Yeah! I’ll help you, Uncle Ben!”
He wiggled, and Wooley expected him to rocket up to his feet to try and climb the statue, but all he did was straighten his back, put his hands on his knees, and close his eyes.
“Be polite,” Ben murmured, and Luke nodded vigorously again.
Wooley straightened, heart rate abruptly leaping as all three tookas sat up at once, as if called, before they jumped down from General Kenobi’s statue.
The spotted male was the youngest and most hesitant, but the white and black female trotted up to Luke immediately. The orange female went to Ben, and she put her claws against his knee so that she could lean up to permit scritches under her chin, which was friendlier than Wooley had seen her in years. She had been a nicely fat tooka years ago, but now all that was left was a loose paunch of skin that swung under her white belly as she walked.
His voice was tender, a little choked as he whispered, “Oh, hello there, Carrot.”
Wooley wouldn’t have heard it not for his enhanced hearing, but he did, and then had to clap a hand over his mouth to stop himself from gasping out loud. His face was still mostly hidden by a hood, but as Ben turned to face her, to stroke her chin, Wooley could make out a beard, a familiar side profile.
Wooley scrambled for his comm to send an emergency alert to the chat feed, which had devolved into a meandering argument about threshold punishments for food crimes.
Boil: i’m just saying if you separate out the yolks first you don’t get the snot OR the wet chalk texture
Rivet: That’s too many steps, and I’m an engineer
Wooley: JS-01. Potential Jedi sighting at Remembrance Square. Adult and child, padawan 3c/5s. Identity likely General Kenobi. Repeat. Jedi presence, potential Kenobi sighting.
The chat went completely dead quiet.
“Her name’s Carrot?” Luke asked, delighted as the black and white female curled up in Luke’s lap and started rubbing her face against Luke’s chest. “What about this one?”
“That’s Clover,” Ben – the general – murmured, the familiarity of his voice suddenly prevalent under the rasp. “The scaredy cat over there is Barnacle.”
Are you sure? Cody’s message popped up almost immediately, which was almost as surprising. Cody had been a ghost in the general feed for ages. His only proof of life were weekly update logs on the various Temple restoration projects.
“What’s a barnacle?”
Yes, Wooley sent back. Jedi at the very least, but I’m positive it’s him. The adult alias is Ben, child is Luke.
“It’s a type of sea creature that attaches itself to other animals. Do you remember when we learned about oceans?” The general stuck out his leg and gently tickled the side of Barnacle’s flank with his boot.
Luke made a face of suspicion as he stroked Clover’s back, who was melting back into a liquid with delight at his attention. “Oceans really exist? I thought that was just a story.”
On my way, Cody sent, then, No one else.
A storm of Aww come on Commander! overwhelmed the feed.
“Yes, they do. Ah,” Kenobi laughed as Barnacle latched onto his leg with his front claws, biting his pants and kicking his boot with his back legs, growling. “See? Just like that. Ouch!”
Cody sent an arrival countdown, and Wooley vaguely vibrated in place with desire to move. He took a surreptitious pic and sent it to the chat. The light wasn’t great, but it caught most of the general’s side profile, his melancholy smile, the tookas. The feed went berserk.
For the next several minutes, all Luke and the general did was sit in silence, petting tookas. Finally, Kenobi said, “Two more minutes.”
Two minutes, Wooley sent Cody. The contact countdown just passed four.
Luke looked gutted. “Can we keep them?”
Kenobi grimaced, stroked soft hand down Carrot’s back. “I don’t think so.”
“But they’re so skinny!” Luke wailed, and hugged Clover who submitted to this indignity with surprising patience. “I don’t think they have a house! Clover’s hungry!”
The general flinched, glanced briefly at the Temple, and then looked hurriedly away. Carrot took this time to engage in some emotional warfare by producing the most plaintive mews outside of dramatized animal welfare ad campaigns. From the looks of it, it was working, but – with a great deal of regret – Kenobi still said, “I don’t think they’ll be happy on the ship. It’s too small for them.”
“What about Uncle Bai–”
“Luke,” the general interrupted with another quick glance around.
“Sorry,” Luke sniffed, wiped his eyes. “Can uncle, um, uncle, um – Can other uncle take them? Maybe they can go to, um, to, um, his house.”
The general looked down at Carrot, stroked her skinny back. “We can try.”
With that he stood, gathered Carrot and Barnacle into his arms and waited for Luke to put the empty cup cap back on his thermos without letting go of Clover. When that failed, Luke pouted, and squinched his eyes shut.
The cup twisted back on without him touching it.
If Wooley hadn’t been sure before…
The general only sighed, shifted Barnacle to his shoulder, hefted Carrot into one arm, and used his free hand to help Luke put the thermos back over his shoulder. He ran his fingers through Luke’s hair. The expression on his face was an open wound.
They’re leaving, Wooley sent to Cody heart juddering, anxiety ramping up.
Stall, Cody sent back.
He didn’t even have time to make up a plan before Luke said, “Oh, someone’s here.”
The general whipped around but didn’t spot Wooley. Then he winced, briefly touched his temple as if he’d taken a blow, before finally whirling on Wooley’s hiding place.
He must not have been using the Force.
“Who’s there?” he demanded.
Wooley took a deep breath, two, then stood. He put his hands up when he came into view.
“Sir,” he said.
The general went so pale so fast Wooley thought he might faint. He snatched the back of Luke’s jacket and yanked him behind him. The tookas all at once started hissing.
“Who – Wooley?” Kenobi looked sick with horror, but it couldn’t mute the sting of warmth in Wooley. Even after all this time, his general recognized him.
Kenobi's expression morphed into something grim and hard. His eyes darted to Luke, then back to Wooley’s face, then to Wooley’s vambrace, where he knew a comm would be.
“Sir, I’m sorry,” Wooley said, sick with grief.
“Who have you told?” his voice was still raspy, but it was stronger now. Commanding, familiar. Luke was quiet and intent at Kenobi’s side.
“Cody,” Wooley admitted.
Kenobi staggered back a step, as if Wooley had hit him. His eyes were wild and wide. “How far?”
The timer read two minutes. Should he say five? Keep them here? Would lying make it worse? Would he be able to tell?
“Sir, please, I’m so sorry, it wasn’t us—” Wooley tried.
“Be quiet.”
“We didn’t mean to—”
“Stop.”
“We can explain—”
“There is nothing—What could possibly explain—” Kenobi snarled, stopped. “There were children—” he stopped again. He took a deep breath. Clenched his teeth. “How long?”
“Two minutes,” Wooley said wretchedly.
Kenobi took another step back, darted looks at the horizon for speeders, which all caught on the Temple and stuck. He was shaking. He looked back at Wooley, something like fury in his wet eyes, quickly plastering over terror and grief. His free hand spasmed at his side, an aborted twitch towards a weapon. Wooley couldn’t see a lightsaber. Maybe it was in his pack. Maybe he had lost it on Utapau.
It seemed like a reflex only. Strangely, Wooley felt no fear, only a wretched aching pain. He couldn’t imagine Kenobi actually attacking him, but Wooley dropped to his knees anyway, hands still in the air. Maybe it would help. When Kenobi’s expression twisted into anguish, Wooley almost felt victory.
“Please,” Wooley tried. “We won’t hurt you–”
“Stop.”
“—Cody can explain—”
“Be quiet.”
“—There was something in our heads—”
“Enough!”
Kenobi wavered. He must have heard about the coup, the policy reversal on the Jedi. He wanted to trust Wooley, but in the distance there was a roar of a speeder engine. Kenobi started to turn towards the sound, coming from the east, backlit by the sunrise, and there was a longing there, quickly smothered, and Wooley started to hope that maybe—
Luke said, voice timid, “Uncle Ben?”
And Kenobi’s expression went blank and calm.
“Wait!” Wooley begged, but with stunning Jedi speed, he scooped up Luke, and before Wooley could scramble to his feet, he disappeared over the edge of the square.
Wooley hurled himself to the safety rail, but by the time he got there, they were gone.
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A fun thing about computer skills is that as you have more of them, the number of computer problems you have doesn't go down.
This is because as a beginner, you have troubles because you don't have much knowledge.
But then you learn a bunch more, and now you've got the skills to do a bunch of stuff, so you run into a lot of problems because you're doing so much stuff, and only an expert could figure them out.
But then one day you are an expert. You can reprogram everything and build new hardware! You understand all the various layers of tech!
And your problems are now legendary. You are trying things no one else has ever tried. You Google them and get zero results, or at best one forum post from 1997. You discover bugs in the silicon of obscure processors. You crash your compiler. Your software gets cited in academic papers because you accidently discovered a new mathematical proof while trying to remote control a vibrator. You can't use the wifi on your main laptop because you wrote your own uefi implementation and Intel has a bug in their firmware that they haven't fixed yet, no matter how much you email them. You post on mastodon about your technical issue and the most common replies are names of psychiatric medications. You have written your own OS but there arent many programs for it because no one else understands how they have to write apps as a small federation of coroutine-based microservices. You ask for help and get Pagliacci'd, constantly.
But this is the natural of computer skills: as you know more, your problems don't get easier, they just get weirder.
This is a phenomenon that extends to all fields btw. You should see the abominations mechanics make of vehicles. Hell, you should see what the technical divers are up to.
@sherbertilluminated there's a line somewhere in Ursula Vernon's Digger that goes something like "it is difficult to be metaphysical around the truly geologically minded"
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