SnowytheSaneFangirl

Being a smuggler during a galactic civil war is hard. It’s hard and nobody understands. Your name is Dave Strider and in theory you understand that surprise attacks need to be secret or they will probably fail, but in practice, you just came out of hyperspace in the middle of a massive battle and this is really not how you imagined your day going. Fortunately, you’re a good enough pilot to respond immediately when you realize that yes, there is definitely a Separatist dreadnought hovering over this planet and there is definitely a Republic command ship across from it, and there is definitely a fighter dogfight going on between th

By the time Dave found the bomb it was already down to less than sixty seconds, as per the stereotypical movie norm. All he needed now was for a damsel in distress and a hardboiled detective to be tied up next to it. Oh, yeah, and the fabric of spacetime to be in one fucking piece. That would be nice. He adjusted his iShades and opened a new chat. TG: okay i found a bomb and its the most stereotypical thing from a fucking 1920s mobster movie which leaves exactly zero doubt as to who put it here TG: shits big enough to blow this whole place to kingdom come judging by the sheer amount of shit that is here TG: and also i somehow doubt the playi

At eight years old, Jade Harley thought travel was exciting and seeing all these cool new people was great and she was sure they were going somewhere awesome. Grandpa always went to awesome places and came back and told her about them and she couldn’t wait to see them all for herself. And they were going off-planet, too! At eight years old, Dave Strider wished he didn’t know why the fuck he was being dragged out of his house and into the fucking spaceport. Bro never even made him leave his room, much less the house, much less the goddamn planet. Fuck this noise, fuck Bro, and fuck everyone in the goddamn spaceport. Dave glared d

In the autumn, the valleys where the Dark Mountains met the southern moors of Largia, the ground turned to a book of grey pages, paper made of the dead branches and roots of scrub bushes and dry white topsoil, words of bright red and green ink decorating it, and a cover of sheer grey cliffs. The page was marked with sturdy trees hugging the cliffs, pine and aspens vying for majority in the surprisingly rich soil at the base of the mountains. Straggling aspens made their way out onto the moors, a movement the pines might have called retreat and rout, and the aspens referred to as exploration and conquering. Their red, gold, and black leaves mo

Dave Strider had a lot of regrets. Some of them were for things he actually remembered doing, some were for things he knew some alternate version of himself had done, and he had been forced to clean up. His regrets were soaked in blood and water, action and inaction, anger and passiveness. He had killed where he shouldn’t have, and stopped death where he should have let someone die. In dreams, he sometimes still walked the bubbles and met a doomed version of himself who could never seem to shut up about the mistakes he’d made. Sometimes he found himself in the shoes of one of those Daves, doing things he would never consider doing