Why Can't These People Just Stay Dead?

I head into the bathroom to re-check my hair when I arrive at work this morning. I try to keep it short -- easier to deal with that way -- but lately it seems to be growing a lot faster than normal. Just had it cut a couple of weeks ago and already it's getting too long to manage. I wonder if that's a side-effect of the lycanthropism, or if it's just my imagination.

I struggle with my newly-whitened hair for a minute, then give up and grab a book cart to go retrieve books from the outdoor bookdrop. Usually the other shelver takes care of this, but she took today off, so the duty falls on me. Not that I mind. It's nice to take a break and enjoy some fresh air a few times a day under the guise of actually getting something done.

The library's right next to one of the local elementary schools, and at the moment the recess grounds and sports fields are empty. Part of me wishes I had my shape-shifting under control so I can enjoy a brief gallop out there. But Hippolaya, the were-Apaloosa woman who joined the Alliance and has taken on the role of my mentor for now, says I'll have to wait until after the next full moon and I've actually undergone a shift to try to control it.

Ah well. At least the next full moon conveniently fell between Fandemonium and Mom's wedding, thus avoiding an awkward situation at either event. (Though I suspect it would have been less of a deal at the convention...)

Someone's hanging out by the bookdrop. No surprise. Kids often wait there for the library to open, so it could just be a bored teen. Or it could be someone wanting to hand over a book personally rather than slip it in the bookdrop -- usually a sign that they owe a hefty fine...

The moment I recognize the loiterer's species, my mind does a 180. "What the..."

The Yuuzhan Vong warrior grins, which only serves to overwork my gag reflex. "Miss Starflight," he rasps. "I see life goes on as usual for you despite your... change."

My hand moves to the blaster Vader insists I keep on my person at all times. Okay, so there's a no-weapons policy in the library, but my boss hasn't noticed my hair by now. How's she going to notice I'm armed all the time?

"What do you want?" I demand.

"The Emperor wants to work out a deal..."

I cut him/her/it (how do you tell with these things?) off with a laugh. "Your contingent must not have gotten the message yet, pal. The Emperor's dead. Vader killed him on Mustafar."

It's the Vong's turn to laugh. "I'm afraid you are mistaken, child. He lives."

My heart falls to my stomach. "He had more clones somewhere?"

"No. His clones were destroyed along with Byss. But he has learned... secrets... to keeping himself alive."

I have to stop and think about that. Keily mentioned that someone attempted to bring Palps back as a homonculus (did I spell that right?), but that didn't work out. Unless some Asgard friend of Zacharias' defected or...

Oh crap. I think I know what happened.

"Yes, child," the Vong chuckles. "Our ally Voldemort revealed the secret of the Horcruxes to the Emperor before he faced Vader down. He would not have been so eager to duel his apprentice otherwise."

"Sith," I hiss. "I guess asking where the Horcrux is won't exactly help."

"No," the Vong grins, "but nothing prevents me from revealing what object now harbors half the Emperor's soul." That annoying raspy laugh again. "Anakin Skywalker's lightsaber. The one Luke lost on Cloud City."

"He'd do that, wouldn't he? Just to be sadistic and weird..."

"About the deal," the Vong interrupts. "The Emperor is perfectly willing to let the Alliance have the galaxy for themselves on one condition."

"There would be. What does he want?"

"Skywalker." The warrior's smile widens. "Hand over Luke Skywalker, and the war is over."

I can't help but laugh. "What, does he think we're stupid? Like we're going to give him another apprentice on the off chance that he'll really keep his promise! He just wants another protege so he can begin another reign of terror."

"He doesn't want an apprentice," the Vong counters. "He has a different purpose in mind for the boy."

Oh no. Oh stars above. I remember my Potter-verse now. After failing to kill Harry, Voldemort lost his body and had to go through a huge process to get a new one. Palpatine wants a new body, and he wants a shortcut -- rather than make a new one, he wants someone else's.

"Take it up with Vader and Luke," I tell the Vong, "but I can almost guarantee the answer'll be no. Maybe even 'stang, no!'"

The Vong snarls. "Don't think you've seen the last of us, child." He/she/it stalks away, making a gaggle of little kids shriek and run as if they've seen the devil himself. I don't blame them.

I sigh and open the bookdrop to retrieve the books. Just when things were looking up...

Everyone be on guard. In Leia's words from Episode IV, "it's not over yet."

An American Were-Horse in Idaho

I may have just made a big mistake. A few nights ago I took Kevin, Brandon, and Darth Vader to the Snake River Stampede, a huge rodeo event in Idaho.

For those of you unfamiliar with the phenomenon of rodeo, let's just say it's a combination of tough men with way too much testosterone and not enough brains, big ornery animals who are probably more intelligent than most of these men, and spectators who show up to drink beer and watch the latter do their best to inflict pain on the former.

Okay, so it's more complex than that. But that's the gist of it, really.

Coming from a farm-and-animal family, I happen to enjoy rodeo. But this year, seeing it from the perspective of a were-horse is going to be interesting.

"What are you trying to do, give Darth ideas for the next full moon?" demands Kevin as we struggle to find seats.

"He tries bareback riding on me, I'll bite him," I promise.

Vader chuckles. "Not if I get the bridle on you first."

"Try it, pal," I dare him.

"Is that a challenge?" he asks.

"Bring it on," I reply, taking my seat and brushing my hair out of my eyes. It's turned silver-white by now, not an unattractive color but pretty eye-catching. I may have to buckle down and dye it back to its original dark blond before Mom's wedding, though I guess I can leave it be for Fandemonium.

First event is always mutton busting -- basically cowboy wannabes ranging in age from five to seven years who see how long they can ride a sheep. If the kid manages to hang on past the first few seconds, he inevitably ends up slipping sideways until he's clinging for dear life to the beast's ribs. Several kids actually manage to drag the sheep down with them when they fall, turning it into more of a mutton-wrestling contest.

"Mothma would have loved this," I note, grinning.

"That was goats, not sheep," Vader retorts.

"I don't think she would have cared about the difference," I tell him.

Vader nods, conceding that point. "You will be interested to know that several lycanthropes have defected to our side," he continues. "Apparently their forces are falling apart into several factions, and a few have elected to throw their lot in with us."

"Any were-horses among them?"

"A few, though they claim the were-horse that bit Mothma is now dead. But most interesting of all is that they have information on how Mothma became a lycanthrope herself."

"Oh?"

"When the Emperor captured her, he was intending to kill her or give her to the dementors. But instead he opted to expand his were-beast ranks, and he had one of his lycanthrope officers deal the bite. According to our turncoats, however, Mothma had no desire to serve the Empire and somehow escaped. They guess she was attempting to make her way back to the Alliance, but the moon cycle caught up with her first."

"Ah." So she didn't betray the Alliance -- unless you counted taking the Emperor's word that the war was over, the mistake that decimated the Rebellion. "I still can't say that I'm sorry she's gone."

"That is the general consensus, even among the Alliance," he replies.

The audience roars. While we were talking, apparently, the mutton-busting finished up and bareback bronc riding began. An Apaloosa horse is twisting and leaping like mad in the arena, struggling to throw the man on its back. I've always like Apaloosas, they're beautiful horses. I have to wonder if I'll become one this next full moon...

"She's a member of the Alliance now."

"What, the horse?" I ask.

"Yes. Some were-beasts learn to regulate their changes to the extent that they can change at will."

"Lucky," I reply, gazing enviously at the lycanthrope as it finally tosses the luckless cowboy and saunters toward the gate. "Wonder if she can teach me."

"Ask her when we get home."

"How many other lycanthropes do you think are hanging around here?"

"Very few in the Alliance. As for elsewhere... who can be certain? We will have to use caution."

Bullriding is always the highlight of the night, even if it's far more dangerous than the bronc riding event. The difference between being thrown by a horse and being thrown by a bull is about equivalent to the difference between being hit by a car and being hit by a Mack truck.

"Such thing as a were-bull?" I ask.

"How should I know?" he replies. "I'm not an expert at were-things."

"Wouldn't mind being a were-bull," Kevin puts in. "I know a few people I'd like to bulldoze."

"Me too, little bro, me too."

"Yeah, but you're already a were, you can just trample them."

A cowboy goes flying. The bull goes after him, and the guy scrambles Spider-man-style up a nearby fence. The bull snorts as if satisfied, then goes back for the gate, going out of its way to grind the rider's hat into the dust and manure of the arena floor.

If I learn to control my lycanthropism by next year, I may have to consider coming back to the Stampede and actually participating in the festivities. There are a few people I'd like to see go face-first in the dirt.

The Dark Lord Speaks VI: An Unfortunate Turn of Events

An update is needed on the were-horse issue. The situation has become much more complicated.

Kevin no longer lives with Kenya and her mother -- he has opted to instead live with his father. What was once his bedroom is now the headquarters for the Terran Resistance... and it is here that certain leaders are now gathering to discuss this grave news.

On my way downstairs I hear Kenya's voice from the living room. She has asked to be removed from her part in the Resistance, and I have granted her request that she may prepare for the convention and help her mother plan her wedding. She already knows what our meeting is about, though, as it partly concerns her.

I have to smile, though, as her furious shout follows me downstairs:

"...AND IF ONE MORE PERSON TRIES TO BE CUTE BY SENDING ME A VADER/KENYA-PAIRING ADULT FANFIC, I SWEAR I'LL PRINT IT OUT, HUNT THE AUTHOR DOWN, AND STUFF IT DOWN THEIR THROAT BEFORE I..."

I shut the door to the control center, cutting off the remainder of her threat. The others are present and smiling slightly at her tirade -- my children, of course, as well as Master Yoda, Darth Maul, Jango Fett, General Drache, and Optimus Prime, visiting from Roseprincess' domain...

Someone is missing, I realize. Then I recall who and bow my head respectfully. I am not yet used to Count Dooku's absence. He proved himself in battle and will be gravely missed.

"Thank you for coming, Prime," I tell the robot. "Especially when you have problems of your own to deal with."

"Those problems are precisely why I came, Ana... excuse me, Lord Vader," he replies. "The Emperor is gone and the Empire is a Republic again, but the evil forces Palpatine chose to ally himself with refuse to die."

"My Master was always one to make strange alliances," Maul notes. "I knew it would someday be his undoing. He would make a deal with someone whose power he underestimated, and the dealmaker would turn on him." He smiles grimly.

A body lies on the table before us, carefully preserved to keep safe from decay -- the body of the were-horse, now in human form. When a were-beast dies, they often revert back to their human shape... and this human shape shocked Alliance and Resistance alike. For the creature that attacked Kenya is all too familiar.

Mon Mothma looks eerily peaceful, pale as a snowbank, with her hands folded over her chest. A semi-circle-shaped scar mars the flesh of her neck... the mark bestowed by the one who made her a lycanthrope. We had wondered at what the Emperor had done with Mothma upon her capture, but we never suspected this.

"Figures," Jango mutters. "From what you told me, Mothma had it in for Kenya ever since the goat incident."

"Why would she join the Emperor's cause, though?" Leia wonders. "It makes no sense. If he attempted to destroy the Alliance, shouldn't she have been fighting against him?"

"Know Mothma's true intentions we do not," Yoda replies. "Know we never shall. But possible it is that turned her allegiances she did."

"I never thought the head of the Alliance could turn like that," murmurs Luke, shaking his head.

"How's Kenya taking this?" asks Prime.

"Well enough," I reply. "She harbored no love toward Mothma and does not mourn her death."

"Has she been cured of her lycanthropy?" asks General Drache.

"Several people have offered cures for her condition, but she wishes to wait until the next full moon on August 9th. If the change proves to be a significant problem, she will resort to one or more treatment option. Otherwise, she has elected to retain her were-beast status."

"Funny," Jango smirks. "I thought she hated being a were-horse."

"It upset her at first, but now that she's over her anger, she sees advantages to it," Maul replies. He chuckles faintly. "Trisha is upset that it was Kenya and not herself. She loves horses."

"Have Kenya offer to bite her next month," Luke laughs.

Drache salutes. "Supersonic has sent us a shipment of silver-crystal lightsabers, Lord Vader," she informs me. "We retain certain weapons that have been of use against the Vong. The Ministry of Magic has offered to send representatives to teach the Force-users among us to utilize the Patronus Charm. Proper wards and amulets are being set around the property. In short, we are preparing for another war... one that will hopefully clean up this mess the Emperor got us into."

Another war. I had hoped it would end with the death of the Emperor. But as Prime told us, the forces he chose to call comrades refuse to call defeat. And before we can call the war over, we must eliminate them somehow.

Two stormtroopers cover Mothma's body and prepare to take it away. The meeting is adjourned.

I return upstairs to find Kenya at work with her clay again, crafting a dragon and using Shmendrick as a model. For the first time I notice her dark blond hair is taking on a definite gray tone, as if she is aging prematurely.

"You may have to dye your hair," I tell her. "To keep your co-workers and friends from questioning too much."

"My hair color's none of their business," she retorts. "How'd it go?"

"They know the war is not over. We will continue to fight until we have neutralized the threats the Vong, Voldemort, and the rogue lycanthropes present. Then we may finally know a moment of peace."

She sighs. "Windu was right for once. We celebrated the end too early."

"No. We did not celebrate the end. We celebrated the death of the Emperor. That did not end the war, but it was a giant step in the right direction."

"True." She sets the clay down. "Dang, I suddenly have a craving."

"For carrots?"

"No way. The leftover cheesecake." She goes to the refrigerator. "Just because I'm a were-horse doesn't mean I'm going vegan."

I smile beneath my mask. Lycanthrope or not, she remains Kenya.

Why I Now Hate Mr. Ed...

I'm in a foul mood tonight, so forgive me if this blog entry turns into a major rant. I'm pretty upset with several people tonight -- Palpatine for obvious reasons, myself for not paying attention, and Vader for being so dang-blasted CALM about this whole business! Thank goodness I'm not a Force-user, or people around here would probably be dead or at least nursing sore throats or electric burns...

Okay, doubtless you're wondering what happened. Here goes...

It's in the neighborhood of midnight when I get up from my sculpting table and realize I forgot to turn off the water to the gardens. I look over to the couch -- Vader's out for the night. I have no idea where Maul or Jango are, either. I sigh and slip on my shoes. I dislike going outside alone at night, but looks like I have little choice right now.

"Shmendrick, let's go," I whisper, grabbing a flashlight.

The dragon accompanies me as I step off the deck and turn off the hoses. It's a warm night, and a full moon rides high in the sky. I take a moment to look at the stars before heading back in. Some night I ought to take my crew stargazing. August would be perfect -- we could catch the meteor showers too...

A bleat catches my attention, and I see a lanky brown form lope down the lane. Guess who found a hole in his pen?

"Cocoa!" I hiss, and I run back to the house for some dog food. The dogs have been dead for a few years, but we still have plenty of dry dog food around. And for some reason we have yet to find in any book on raising goats, they love dry dog food, especially the cheapo stuff. I figure I'll use a cup of it to lure him back into his pen, then jury-rig a repair and worry about it more in the morning.

I emerge with the dog food, rattling it in the cup and calling softly to the goat so as not to wake anybody up. The goat just gives me a blank look, then turns and bolts in the opposite direction. Shmendrick squeals and gives chase, snapping at Cocoa's heels.

"Stupid chunk of nexu bait..." I grumble, stalking after the Bonehead Twins. "And the stinking lizard too..."

Dry weeds crackle just behind me. I'm being followed.

I turn slowly in place, wishing I'd thought about grabbing a weapon on the way out. The beam of my flashlight lands on a solid mass of black muscle. A shining-eyed long face regards me with a strangely haughty look.

Just a horse, I tell myself, relaxing slightly. Several of our neighbors own horses. One must have escaped its corral and come wandering to our property for eats. This means calling everyone in the neighborhood and waking them up to see if they're missing a black horse...

My train of thought screeches to a halt as the horse rears, silhouetted eerily against the full moon, and screams.

Crap! is my thought now as I back away, step in a gopher hole, and fall on my backside. The dog food goes flying. I scramble away like an upside-down crab as the horse clumps forward, head lowered, ears back, teeth bared, eyes gleaming wickedly...

Voices from the vicinity of the pasture gate reach my ears, and I turn to see Vader, Maul, and Jango running full-tilt for me, the former two with sabers drawn, the latter arming some weapon I can't identify right off the bat. Shmendrick zips circles over their heads, chattering urgently. Did the little bugger go for help, or did Vader sense danger...

My thoughts are interrupted once again, this time by powerful jaws clamping onto my right forearm. A horse's teeth are more suited for cropping and grinding plants than for tearing flesh, I know, but try remembering that when one's got its choppers in your arm as deep as the bone. Can you really blame me for screaming?

Vader and Maul are on the beast at once, scarlet blades slashing. The creature snorts and releases me, strangely unaffected by the light swords. It bares bloodstained teeth and lashes at Maul, but only gets a mouthful of black robe.

Jango fires a blade from a flechete-thrower, and the horse screams and staggers to the side before collapsing in a heap.

Vader extinguishes his blade and kneels, grabbing my arm and clamping his right hand against the main artery to halt the bleeding. "Aside from the bite, are you all right?"

"No!" I snap, hyper with panic. "What the stang was that thing doing here? A vicious horse should be put down!"

Jango bends down and retrieves his blade from the horse's chest. "Not an ordinary horse, Miss Starflight. Remember that lightsabers had no effect on it. Only a blade -- a silver blade -- killed it."

I stare at the man's T-slit visor. Then my gaze moves skyward to the full moon.

Then the shock, pain, blood loss, and realization of what just took a chunk out of my arm all take their toll, and I faint for the first time in my life.

***

So yeah, I'm a bit upset with the world at the moment.

I should have been more careful, I know. I should have known that, just because the Emperor was dead, it didn't mean all his henchmen were out of the picture. Voldemort is still out there, not to mention the Vong. And while the lycanthropes seem to have broken up now that their leader is dead, a few still seem to be eager to fight the Resistance.

Like the were-horse Jango offed, for example.

Vader says I was lucky. Not only was the injury easily repaired with a good bacta immersion, but horses are common enough around here that the addition of one more shouldn't be noticed. He tells me to feel lucky that it wasn't a werewolf, were-panther, or some other, stranger lycanthrope that dealt the bite.

What I want to say I can't say, because every time I swear these guys get on my case for being religious and using profanity. Sure, Vader can be reasonable, HE isn't the one that has to put up with turning into a horse the next time there's a full moon! Maybe I should bite him and see how he likes it...

*keyboard taken from Kenya*

This is Vader reporting. Kenya Starflight is recovering from her injuries sustained late this night (or early this morning, if you will). Aside from a few scars and her unfortunate newfound lycanthropy, she will bear no ill effects from this incident.

I understand the Wolfsbane potion is effective only against werewolves. Most unfortunate...

Forgive Kenya for her anger, readers. She has been through an ordeal. Once she has calmed down, perhaps we can find a way to deal with her new status as a were-beast.

Suggestions and information will be welcome.

Sculpting the Dark Lord... And an Announcement

I examine the Dark Lord carefully before moving on to the next stage. This isn't as simple as a dragon or a unicorn or a gryphon, where a few extra bumps and bulges can be overlooked. One has to pay particular attention to the shape of the mask's "cheekbones," the number of buttons on the chestplate, the curve of the helmet over the eyes, the texture of the leather armor.

I go back to the wad of black clay sitting on the table before me, daunted by the task. One slip of the sculpting knife or a little too much pressure from a clumsy finger, and I'll have a sculpture of Hannibal Lector gone goth instead of Darth Vader.

"Are you done yet?" he asks.

"Getting there. Stand still, will ya?"

He resumes his stance as I poke and prod at the clay. My sister got me hooked on crafting with Sculpey clay years back, and I've gotten pretty good at making fantasy characters. This year, though, my sculpting isn't for fun. I'm trying to get some statues made to sell at this year's Fandemonium. My goal is to get my $110 investment into this project back.

Luckily, I have some friends willing to serve as models for this work -- Shmendrick, Luke, the droids, Vader of course...

"His face is warped," Maul points out. "Looks like a bantha skull."

"I know that," I retort, squashing the mask and starting over. "I don't need you looking over my shoulder, pal."

He just laughs. Luckily, Fett, Grievous, Janson, and the others went back to their hosts' places, so there are relatively few people looking over my shoulder. At the moment it's just Maul... and our newest arrival.

"Where do you keep the whiskey?" asks Jango, strolling out of the pantry.

"We're Mormons, we don't drink whiskey," I tell him.

"Ah yes, I remember now." He glances down at what I'm poking at. "That's the strangest battle droid I've ever seen."

Vader doubles over laughing.

"Shut up, you two." I flatten the sculpture with a fist and begin again.

Jango just smiles. Yes, another one back from the dead. He showed up at the celebration (which FINALLY ended last night with help from some troops securing the area) without warning, startling several people and making Boba Fett cry for the first time I'd ever seen. He was remarkably nonchalant regarding the whole deal, acting as if he'd never been gone -- which is a surprising feat for someone who got decapitated twenty-odd years ago.

"So now that the Emperor is gone, now what?" Jango asks.

"Those two have to be in Canada tonight," Maul replies. "Godparent ceremony for Keily's adopted son. And tomorrow..."

"Tomorrow the Resistance officially joins forces with the remnant of the Rebel Alliance," Vader finishes. "We will begin establishing a new government."

"On the Fourth of July," I note. "Appropriate. I take it this means you're gonna miss the parade and fireworks?"

He considers. "Perhaps we can make time for that."

"Oh good." I shape a shin guard and mold it onto a sculpted leg. "You can finally meet Mom's fiance, then."

He splutters. Maul, whose mouth was full of soda, gives Jango a shower.

"Your mother's WHAT?!" demands Vader.

"Apparently, while we were busy with the war, Mom's boyfriend, Robin*, proposed to her. And she said yes. They'll most likely get hitched in August."

He stares. Then he gives a hearty laugh. "I shall have to congratulate Rebecca on her engagement."

"You're next, you know," Maul says slyly, grinning at me.

"First I need a boyfriend," I retort, using a toothpick to form the air intake vent of a helmet.

"I thought you had one," Jango protests.

"Sounds like you need the 'Kenya-and-Vader-are-just-friends' talk..." Maul tells him, pulling him into the living room.

I hold up the helmet I've been making. "Well?"

Vader gives it a studious look. "Close enough."

"Finally." I pick up a sculpting tool and start attaching the helmet to the figure's body. "What should I make next?"

"If you're up to a challenge, you could do Grievous."

"No thanks, my sanity's stretched far enough..."

Shmendrick, who feels he hasn't been getting enough attention, chooses then to exhale a jet of flame and roast the spider he's been stalking across the kitchen counter. I jump -- and as a consequence drop the figure on the floor.

"SITH!" I hiss, rescuing the sculpture. "Flattened his head..."

Vader sighs. "Assume the pose again?"

"Yes, please. This is going to take awhile to fix..."

*Name changed