Oola hated that the rancor was kept caged below the throne room. At night she used to sneak down to the kitchens, steal some meat and go and feed it to the rancor. She and it were both slaves to Jabba
When the time comes and she is fed to the rancor, it remembers. Instead of chewing her up it pops her in its mouth and stomps back to its den. Oola spends a very unpleasant few hours skulking in its mouth, trying not to choke on its terrible breathe. After a while it’s let out into the yard to run around like a free range rancor, and spits Oola out. The fence was made to keep rancors in, and its childs play to slip through to freedom.
hi i’m kitty i don’t know anything about star wars whoops
“What am I looking at?”
Lando leaned forward and laced his fingers together. “My taxes.” He paused, then gestured to Han. “Our taxes,” he corrected, with an unnecessarily rakish grin.
Leia squinted at the datapad. “Tax fraud.”
“Oh, no no no. Absolutely not. My accounting is impeccable.”
“I don’t see how it could be,” she said. “He’s a smuggler.”
“Hey,” Han began. He shut his mouth when Leia leveled him with a look. He opened it again to persist, but saw that Lando had a shit-eating grin as he watched their argument-in-potentia. Han glowered at Lando, and made him grin wider. Han huffed, hooking his thumbs on his belt.
“Legally, he’s a long-haul transport navigator,” Lando said, and Leia snorted. “Because he has a spouse at home—me—he qualifies for a higher income deduction as well as a few credits unique to the profession.”
“Wait, credits?” Han asked.
“Because he’s my dependent,” Lando continued, ignoring him.
“The hell I am.”
“That puts me in a unique legal position—not many people know about this, but in order to incentivize long-haul transportation, a spouse who claims a long-haul transport navigator as a dependent qualifies as a household caretaker, which is a kind of head of household that’s able to claim significantly more not only for themselves but for any other dependent spouses they may happen to have.”
“But his transport isn’t legal,” Leia said, fascinated. Han was pretending to understand the conversation, which would have been more convincing if he weren’t already fiddling with a kinetic sculpture on one of Lando’s shelves.
“It’s art.”
“What?”
“As far as my taxes are concerned,” Lando said, “Han transports art. They can’t prove that it isn’t. And I’m always careful to get the valuation right.”
“How do you know what I transport?” Han asked, indignant. A piece came off the sculpture in his hands. He looked down at it, then looked at Lando. He made a hasty attempt to reattach the piece. The entire sculpture collapsed. Han took his hands from it, and attempted to lean casually against the shelves with his elbow to block it from view.
“They call me,” Lando said.
“No,” Leia gasped, delighted.
“Yes,” Lando said, grinning again. “They know I’m his partner. They know I can’t be sure I’m getting my fair share unless I know exactly what he’s getting. So they call me.”
“What!” Han stood straighter, his brow furrowed and his face all twisted into an incredulous pout of anger.
“They might have been able to catch him smuggling,” Lando said to Leia, still not addressing Han.
“They would never,” Han sneered.
“But they’re never going to get him on tax evasion. There’s no way he would have been paying taxes on his own.”
“It never even occurred to me that he would,” Leia said.
“I’m right here,” Han reminded them.
“So you can see why I can’t divorce him,” Lando said.
“I don’t follow,” Leia said.
“My household caretaker status is the foundation of all of this,” he said, pointing to the datapad. “I divorce Han and the whole thing collapses.”
“Collapses how?” Leia asked, narrowing her eyes.
“Cloud City goes bankrupt.”
Han choked.
“How many people have you married?” Leia demanded.
“Leia, you know that you’re my favorite wife-in-law,” Lando said, “but I don’t think I’m comfortable discussing that aspect of my personal life.”
The pile of former-sculpture slid from the shelf, and clattered to the floor.
Han pretended not to notice.
This is GLORIOUS and also 100% in character for someone who allegedly doesn’t know anything about star wars.
New trend or trope I would KILL to see in sci-fi novels:
Rich industrialists fund space travel and gain the means to leave the planet and colonize Mars to leave a ‘dying/depleted’ Earth behind. Only the 1% have the means to afford a ticket on board the ships and ‘start fresh’ on the red planet in domed cities or whatever.
And then with the people most responsible for destroying the planet and depleting its resources gone, the remaining 99% of people ‘left behind’ on Earth construct new socialist societies, implement clean energy and redistribute the existing resources while of restoring the planet’s renewable resources and healing the damage done by pollution and irresponsible waste management.
Cut to a few hundred years later where Earth has a thriving population on a thriving planet that is not at all the doomed and dying and ‘used up’ place the Mars colonists thought it was when they left for the planet they’re still attempting to terraform so they can step out of their scattered little bubble cities that don’t allow for any real growth, innovation or exploration.
Earthborn character to a Martian: “Guess the grass isn’t always greener on the other side, huh? Oh wait, you guys still don’t have grass over there yet, do you? Whoops, my bad.”
assuming Mars society hasn’t collapsed in on itself when a bunch of billionaire entrepreneurs discover they don’t have the skills to plump a toilet
everyone is running around trying to deal with whatever shit, the door bangs open. standing there is mako and raleigh. everyone is frozen in shock. raleigh holds up a tupperware. he made cookies
Order 66 still goes down and a bunch of clones invade the Temple, only the place is apparently deserted. There’s not a single Jedi or youngling to be found anywhere. All of the records are missing from the Archives.
It doesn’t make sense. How could they all have disappeared so fast?
Plot twist: the entire Jedi Order has stepped into L-Space. They could be watching Palpatine from anywhere and anywhen. No data terminal is safe. No knowledge can be contained. The words whisper to themselves in the dark corners of the Emperor’s mind.
wrennette 