Rory stretched languidly on the blanket up on the beach, on her stomach in a pretty sundress and reading a book of poetry by Robert Frost. She had taken care of her sunscreen thing, and based on a tip from her grandmother, oddly enough, she knew to have the Chanel No. 5 she had been given that Christmas on hand for bugs. Not that there were many ( Read more... )

Earlier in the afternoon, after she had returned from what she was fondly thinking of as the Callisto is Mean Workshop, Rory had checked her email, and discovered a rather unusual message.

And then there had been much, much giggling.

So she had made her way up to the dorms with her laptop, placed a handwavey call to Anakin to let him know to ( Read more... )