The Itching Powder Incident
So, during the Ficathon, bitwhizzle wanted to know the story behind one of the aspects of my Ficathon story. I had actually planned to writing that one too, and promised to post it when done. The usual disclaimers apply (I really do have no money), and please let me know what you think - or if it needs more. I tend to write short little pieces, so this falls into that category, not even 1000 words total actually.
Title: The Itching Powder Incident
Rating: PG
Char: Wedge, Tycho, Wes and Hobbie
Time frame: Sometime on Hoth
Four human males sat at the table, each silently glaring at the others in turn, each squirming in their seat. Repeated cleaning had not helped to alleviate the itching that had plagued them over the last week, nor had changing clothes - unfortunately, extra laundering was out of the question, given the water restrictions. You’d think being on an ice planet would mean unlimited water supplies, but no.
Individually, they had all formed opinions and theories as to the culprit of this latest round of itching powder mayhem, but no one had yet to say anything publicly. Each took turns sipping from the mugs of caf in front of them, not taking their eyes off each other, most likely out of fear that more hijinks would occur in the slight time it took to get the others back in sight.
Derek ‘Hobbie’ Klivian, long the sufferer of pranks and pratfalls-despite also being a frequent puller of the same, leading one to believe that the two conditions were perhaps related-had been hit first. When he’d gone to bed five nights ago, all seemed fine. Sure, he was bone-tired from that long patrol, but nothing had been out of the ordinary in the quarters he shared with Wes Janson (himself the second-half of the aforementioned condition). When he awoke, part-way through the night, it was due to a blaze of itching across his body. He had jumped from his bunk as quickly as one could when swaddled in layers of blankets to keep out the cold and immediately rushed to Janson’s side of the room, poking the other pilot roughly when he got close enough.
‘This has to stop Wes! Last straw, I swear…you don’t stop putting this crap in my clothes, and I’ll make sure you never spend another evening with that cutie from medbay!’ Hobbie punctuated his words with extra firm pokes, causing Janson to curl in a protective ball beneath the blankets.
‘Ow! Hobbie, what’s going…ow! What’s going on?’ Wes poked his head out in time to see Hobbie leaving the room, a bundle of clean clothes under his arm as he headed to the ready room to change.
Unfortunately, the clothing change and rinse-off did nothing to alleviate the itching-Hobbie found it had been sprinkled onto all of his clothing, bedding, that nothing fabric or fabric-lined had been spared-and when he went to launder it all, he found that new water restrictions proscribed the use of more than his weekly allotment under any circumstances. He decided that Wes would definitely pay this time, it had gone too far for his mental stability after months spent freezing and eating horrendous, nearly inedible food.
The next day, it was Wes who was suffering from a frenzy of itching, and who also promptly blamed his roommate. Hobbie still believed it was the other’s fault ultimately, that someone was getting back at Wes for a past prank, and thus Hobbie as well, given that he was usually tagged along as Wes’ partner in crime. ‘And I don’t even take part in most of what you do! I only get lumped in with all that ‘cause we hang out!’ Hobbie had exclaimed.
‘Well, there was that last time we…’
‘Just shut up Wes. And you better hope this is the last of it.’ They’d gone to bed that night both as miserable as the other.
After seeing the two pilots who usually caused so much grief suffering from a taste of their own medicine, Wedge and Tycho couldn’t help but laugh…repeatedly…every time they caught sight of Wes or Hobbie and their clear discomfort. Of course, other the next two nights, Tycho and Wedge themselves became the victims of the same ailment, one after the other, and, naturally, they then blamed Wes and Hobbie.
So now, they all four sat around a table in the mess, none trusting and each blaming the others. They’d been like this for nearly half a standard hour when Commander Skywalker walked into the room carved into the ice that blanketed the planet. A Commander Skywalker who was not itching and had a slight smile he tried to hide when he glanced at his four pilots as he stepped over to the caf station.
As one, they turned their heads to look at Luke, all noticing his lack of discomfort. By some unspoken signal, they then all stood and walked to join their commander, surrounding him in the process.
‘I can’t help but notice that you haven’t been affected by this latest round of pranks, boss,’ Wes stated. Wedge squinted as he eyed Luke closer.
‘You’re right there Janson. Think maybe he could tell us why?’
Luke began to back away from the pilots, toward the exit to the hallway. ‘Well, I guess the prankster just hasn’t gotten to me yet…’ He turned and started to slowly walk out, his stride quickening as the other four followed him.
Moments later, those still eating breakfast could hear a yelp from the corridor, as four Rogues picked up their commander and carried him away.
The End
Title: The Itching Powder Incident
Rating: PG
Char: Wedge, Tycho, Wes and Hobbie
Time frame: Sometime on Hoth
Four human males sat at the table, each silently glaring at the others in turn, each squirming in their seat. Repeated cleaning had not helped to alleviate the itching that had plagued them over the last week, nor had changing clothes - unfortunately, extra laundering was out of the question, given the water restrictions. You’d think being on an ice planet would mean unlimited water supplies, but no.
Individually, they had all formed opinions and theories as to the culprit of this latest round of itching powder mayhem, but no one had yet to say anything publicly. Each took turns sipping from the mugs of caf in front of them, not taking their eyes off each other, most likely out of fear that more hijinks would occur in the slight time it took to get the others back in sight.
Derek ‘Hobbie’ Klivian, long the sufferer of pranks and pratfalls-despite also being a frequent puller of the same, leading one to believe that the two conditions were perhaps related-had been hit first. When he’d gone to bed five nights ago, all seemed fine. Sure, he was bone-tired from that long patrol, but nothing had been out of the ordinary in the quarters he shared with Wes Janson (himself the second-half of the aforementioned condition). When he awoke, part-way through the night, it was due to a blaze of itching across his body. He had jumped from his bunk as quickly as one could when swaddled in layers of blankets to keep out the cold and immediately rushed to Janson’s side of the room, poking the other pilot roughly when he got close enough.
‘This has to stop Wes! Last straw, I swear…you don’t stop putting this crap in my clothes, and I’ll make sure you never spend another evening with that cutie from medbay!’ Hobbie punctuated his words with extra firm pokes, causing Janson to curl in a protective ball beneath the blankets.
‘Ow! Hobbie, what’s going…ow! What’s going on?’ Wes poked his head out in time to see Hobbie leaving the room, a bundle of clean clothes under his arm as he headed to the ready room to change.
Unfortunately, the clothing change and rinse-off did nothing to alleviate the itching-Hobbie found it had been sprinkled onto all of his clothing, bedding, that nothing fabric or fabric-lined had been spared-and when he went to launder it all, he found that new water restrictions proscribed the use of more than his weekly allotment under any circumstances. He decided that Wes would definitely pay this time, it had gone too far for his mental stability after months spent freezing and eating horrendous, nearly inedible food.
The next day, it was Wes who was suffering from a frenzy of itching, and who also promptly blamed his roommate. Hobbie still believed it was the other’s fault ultimately, that someone was getting back at Wes for a past prank, and thus Hobbie as well, given that he was usually tagged along as Wes’ partner in crime. ‘And I don’t even take part in most of what you do! I only get lumped in with all that ‘cause we hang out!’ Hobbie had exclaimed.
‘Well, there was that last time we…’
‘Just shut up Wes. And you better hope this is the last of it.’ They’d gone to bed that night both as miserable as the other.
After seeing the two pilots who usually caused so much grief suffering from a taste of their own medicine, Wedge and Tycho couldn’t help but laugh…repeatedly…every time they caught sight of Wes or Hobbie and their clear discomfort. Of course, other the next two nights, Tycho and Wedge themselves became the victims of the same ailment, one after the other, and, naturally, they then blamed Wes and Hobbie.
So now, they all four sat around a table in the mess, none trusting and each blaming the others. They’d been like this for nearly half a standard hour when Commander Skywalker walked into the room carved into the ice that blanketed the planet. A Commander Skywalker who was not itching and had a slight smile he tried to hide when he glanced at his four pilots as he stepped over to the caf station.
As one, they turned their heads to look at Luke, all noticing his lack of discomfort. By some unspoken signal, they then all stood and walked to join their commander, surrounding him in the process.
‘I can’t help but notice that you haven’t been affected by this latest round of pranks, boss,’ Wes stated. Wedge squinted as he eyed Luke closer.
‘You’re right there Janson. Think maybe he could tell us why?’
Luke began to back away from the pilots, toward the exit to the hallway. ‘Well, I guess the prankster just hasn’t gotten to me yet…’ He turned and started to slowly walk out, his stride quickening as the other four followed him.
Moments later, those still eating breakfast could hear a yelp from the corridor, as four Rogues picked up their commander and carried him away.
The End