yellow helmets

Ever since her sister died in a horrific accident (some suspect sabotage), Yellow has required all members of her “Crazy Diamonds” biker gang to wear helmets and proper safety gear.

She responds with extreme violence to anyone dumb enough to ignore this rule…

The Inter-System Kenobae Fanclub

Also known as The One Where The Entire Galaxy Realises Obi-Wan Needs To Be Mothered

Summary: As above. Mildly crack. Mostly my favourite combo of angst + humour. Oneshot. Early/mid-Clone Wars. (I have no excuse but it was very liberating to write something as tropey as possible so…)


Really, in hindsight, that particular event shouldn’t have made the war-reels.

But it did.

As it turned out, there had been a holonet war correspondent on board The Negotiator when Ki-Adi-Mundi and Obi-Wan Kenobi returned from the second battle of Geonosis; already, the hangar had been aflutter with whispers that the landing at Point Rain had not gone well.

The journalist had carefully leant out from behind a supply crate (he is technically not allowed in here, he knew), and raised his holocam at the exact moment an oil-streaked, blood-spattered LAAT/i scraped open its doors to reveal a russet-haired Jedi general, clad in equally russet robes.

A general that took two halting steps forward before collapsing onto his knees, blood splattering across the duracrete from lips muffled by a dirt-streaked gauntlet.

Shouts rang out across the hangar’s oil-slicked floor; General Mundi crouched beside Kenobi, hand on his counterpart’s shoulder, whispering words that were lost in said counterpart’s hacking coughs - Kenobi sounded as though he was disgorging half the contents of his chest.

The journalist’s shock at seeing a High Jedi General reduced to this state had not impeded his holocam from recording everything.

And slowly, the holonet correspondent had realised that Kenobi’s robes were not supposed to be dyed russet.

Engine oil. Blood, too. Mostly blood.

Now, after a veritable army of medics have lifted General Kenobi onto a hover-stretcher and whisked him away, the journalist flips open his holocam display and reviews the footage.

Perfect.

He pulls a wadge of stickli-root gum out of his pocket and jams it in his mouth, chewing eagerly as he slinks back down the hallways to his cabin. He is not stupid; his superior will want to see this. But that being said…if his boss deems it unfit for the war reels, footage of this particular subject will fetch a very high price indeed.

He smells profit, indeed - even if for the moment, it smells like stickli-root.


The footage hits the holonet three days later, and instantly crosses the galaxy faster than a Hutt power-coup through the information black market.

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