“My advice always to brother Cassius is that he never do anything that will in any way tarnish or take away from his image as the Heavyweight Champion of the world, because I frankly believe that Cassius is in a better position than anyone else to restore a sense of racial pride to not only our people in this country but all over the world. He is trying his best to live a clean life and project a clean image, but despite this you’ll find the press is constantly trying to paint him as something other than what he actually is. He doesn’t smoke, he doesn’t drink; in fact if he was white they’d be referring to him as the All-American Boy, like they used to refer to Jack Armstrong.”
[Illustration. Jesse Custer screaming at an unmasked Klansman, with a number of Klansmen in the background. Jesse: “Why is it the greatest champions of the white race always turn out to be the worst examples of it? YOU!” Klansman: “Wh-wh-wh-?” Jesse: “WHERE THE FUCK IS YOUR CHIN?” ]
For @fireflyfish who got me thinking about the handmaidens meeting little Luke. This was meant to be a short snippet about a happy reunion, but it just kept growing and growing and getting sadder and sadder until it turned into this monstrosity of angst ( @albaparthenicevelut you can stop laughing!). Comment and criticism extremely welcome - this is the longest bit of fic I’ve written in a very very long time.
Rabé was beginning to truly appreciate why Anakin Skywalker had hated Tatooine. The rasping howl of the sandstorm outside was relentless, and what could not have been more than a few hours felt like years as she waited restlessly for it to end. It felt far too similar to the last time she’d been here, years before. Really, she should have known better. Everything had been going so smoothly - her arrival in Mos Eisley had gone unremarked, her contact had been waiting in the cantina as expected (just two travellers sharing a drink while waiting for the next leg of their journey) and the datachip carrying key intelligence was safely stored alongside several decoys in one of the pockets sewn in the bodice of her dress. Her informant had left while she waited a little longer for her prearranged lift off planet. Then the sandstorm arrived and with it the inevitable delay in her departure. Now here she was, slumped over a table in what was, thankfully, one of the more reputable watering holes in town, trapped with the memories of another time, and the aching hole of grief threatened to draw her in.