A blog? (I that what you call it) Straight, Christian (not the mean kind), she/her, immortal, 아미, maribat, MLB, I love a good salt story! Jasonette is my non-cannon OTP and Lukanette is my cannon one Recovered from COVID-19 ITS A REAL THREAT PEOPLE! it took 300 years to decide to become an author Indecisive I can’t remember what I ate for breakfast
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works
Chapters: 2/31
Fandom: Star Wars Prequel Trilogy, Star Wars: The Clone Wars (2008) - All Media Types
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Relationships: Obi-Wan Kenobi/Anakin Skywalker, Anakin Skywalker & Ahsoka Tano, Obi-Wan Kenobi & Ahsoka Tano, CT-7567 | Rex & Ahsoka Tano
Characters: Obi-Wan Kenobi, Anakin Skywalker, Ahsoka Tano, CT-7567 | Rex, CC-2224 | Cody, Clone Trooper Characters (Star Wars), Female Anakin Skywalker - Character, Jedi Council Members (Star Wars), Mace Windu, Yoda (Star Wars), Original Characters
Additional Tags: Omega Verse, Alternate Universe - Always a Different Gender or Sex, Female Anakin Skywalker, Omega Anakin Skywalker, Alpha Obi-Wan Kenobi, Alpha Ahsoka Tano, Slow Burn, Undercover, Undercover as a Couple, clone wars are longer, like at year 5 during the prologue, Action/Adventure, Protective Anakin Skywalker, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Rule 63, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, BAMF Ahsoka Tano, Other Additional Tags to Be Added
Summary:
Chosen for a mission only they can accomplish, Anakin Skywalker and Obi-Wan Kenobi vanish into the criminal underworld, assuming roles that blur every line between duty, instinct, and desire.
As they climb deeper into a dangerous syndicate, Ahsoka Tano steps into leadership, haunted by the absence of the person who shaped her most.
The war hinges on secrets, and some bonds only grow stronger when tested in the dark.
Y’all, I've posted the entire prologue!!!! Chapter 1 of Arc 1 will come soon :D
For a second I didn’t realize it meant “high” as in a stoner--I thought “High Geologist” was like a rank of geologist or something and he was insulted you would challenge him to naming stones
As Marinette walked through the portal to her room, she pondered the events of the day. It had been a long day, too long. She sat down for her nightly meditation, closed her eyes, and imagined a lake with a surface of glass. Glancing around she picked up a stone and held it to her chest to imbue it with one of the negative events of the day. She thought of the run-in with her old friends and Lila. She considered what feelings she might have had when she passed them in the store. Was it jealousy? No, she didn't think so. Perhaps… disappointment. Having given the memory its due consideration, she skipped its stone across the surface of the mirror-esque water to be lost in the pebble beach across the lake.
Selecting another rock, Marinette remembered her trip to the florist. Her emotions around this memory were a bit mixed. While it felt good to talk to someone who genuinely cared for her, the woman was worried and Marinette had lied to her. When she opened her mind’s eye, the stone had transformed into an emerald and she placed it in a golden chest along with a few other gemstones. Following the same process, Marinette sorted through her day placing more focus on her gems than over her skipping stones.
With a sense of tranquility, Marinette opened her eyes and set her mind on eating dinner peacefully. Despite the events of the earlier portion of the day, Marinette was in a surprisingly good mood. Perhaps it was the ability to walk away from the situation that made things better. Of course this wasn't a luxury she had when she was still living with her parents. Privately, she thought that there's nothing worse than living with one’s enemy. Taking a deep breath, she headed to the kitchens to prepare dinner. I have to cook for two people now! I almost forgot. She quickly changed directions to the back gardens.
The gardens remained one of Marinette's favorite places in the temple. In fact, to refer to such a place as a garden would do a disservice to the vastness of the area. In reality, while she still would think of it as a garden, it was, in actuality, more similar to a farm. There were many fields neatly arranged to provide several different types of produce. Corn, potatoes, wheat, etc. yet, this was only a small portion of the “garden.”
Past the flat fields, on the hills, were tiered rice fields. It made a grand sight, all the different shades of green and brown. One would think that all these different kinds of food cannot grow together in the same environment. Marinette hypothesised that the same magic that had held the temple frozen in time was responsible for this phenomenon.
Walking through the rows of impossible greenery, the guardian hummed a tune while selecting the ingredients for tonight’s dish. She, using a sickle, removed three ears of corn from their stalk. Quietly moving to the vegetable patch, Marinette harvested a few carrots, a cabbage, a little celery, and some peppers.
Taking her basket of supplies back to the kitchen, Marinette called for some of the kwamii to assist her in the meal preparation. Sass, Roarr, and Longg decided to help this time. While Mari was rinsing the rice, Roarr and Longg were working together to chop the carrots; and Sass was gathering them up to place in the wok. It was an odd sight watching all these tiny creatures carry all these heavy and sharp tools. One might say it bordered on absurd
By the time the rice was cooked, all the vegetables were chopped and placed into the pan and the corn was shucked and rotated over the fire. Adding oil, she began to look for the proper spices to mix into her Marinette-style fried rice stir-fry. Upon the discovery of some spice stalks, Marinette gathered all the dried plants, tore them up, and crushed them with a mortar and pestle. Swiftly tapping the powder into the wok, she turned and removed the corn from the fire placing two ears inside a tightly woven steaming basket. Once cooked, she cut the kernels off of the cob and into the pan to mix them in.
“Do you think he will like it, Wayzz?” she asked, “I haven’t cooked for someone in a while.”
“I’m sure it will be fine, Guardian. I will go fetch our guest.”
Marinette had stalled for too long. Perhaps the kwami knew this and that is why they had insisted on fetching the young man himself. But this was her safe space, and she found herself reluctant to permit someone else to stay. Marinette bit her lip, gathered her courage, and brought the various dishes to the dining hall.
—————Damian—————
I think that’s enough of a heads-up, Damian called Jon.
He picked up on the first ring.
“Damian! Where are you? I was so worried! You never disappear without telling me! Why didn’t you tell me?!”
“Kent. It was a quick decision and I didn’t bring my bat-phone.”
“Your dad came to talk to me yesterday, he thinks you ran away. Did you?” Damian grimaced. I guess there’s no avoiding it now. Kent is… persistent.
“Yes, Kent, I… escaped.”
“What happened to your whole ‘I am the blood son’ thing?”
“Tt, I may be the blood son, but that doesn’t mean that Bruce can do no wrong.”
“You must have had a bad fight. You never call him Bruce! What’s our password? I need to make sure you’re actually Damian.” He sighed.
“Jagged Stone’s secret guitar pick.” Ridiculous. It made sense, though. A password had to be something that would never occur to a stranger.
“Okay, you are Damian. So, what happened? Where are you?
“Nowhere of consequence.”
“I’m just worried, Dami.” He smirked.
“I won’t stop you.”
“Thanks,” Jon responded, voice dripping with dry sarcasm.
“Listen, all I can say is I am safe and far away from both Bruce and Talia. Trust me. I. Am. Safe.”
“Okay, okay. Message received, loud and clear Cap’n.” Damian rolled his eyes. He was beginning to wonder if one day they’d get stuck back there.
“Goodbye, Kent.”
“Wait!” He hung up just in time for Wayzz to knock on the door.
“You may enter.”
“Miss. Marinette has sent me to tell you dinner is ready and laid out in the dining hall.” Wayzz turned in the air and left.
Without much thought, Damian stood and made the small trek to the large, ornate dining room. When he entered, there were several bamboo-weave baskets and a few bowls on each side of the table. Occupying the seat on the farther side of the set-up was Marinette. She gestured for him to sit, and he did.
The meal was a quiet affair. The only noises were the dull clack of wood tapping wood and the occasional whiz of a kwami.
“Wow … this is duller than Frank’s funeral.”
“Plagg!”
“What! Just stating the obvious.”
“Plagg, this is Damian. Damian, this is Plagg.”
Damian just stared. There’s a cat too?! He cleared his throat.
“Hello.” The cat, Plagg, just looked unimpressed.
“You were supposed to be more interesting, little kitten,” Damian bristled. He was not a child.
“Kitten! I am not a child.” The cat just smirked.
“So, you don't just take being offended. That's a lot better than my last one, pigtails! Where did you find him?” The guardian’s jaw dropped. He had the feeling that the tiny creature had said something controversial.
“Plagg. Outside. Now.” She gritted out; standing with a sharp hand gesture and striding out of the hall.
As she left, his phone rang.
“Kent, I swear--”
“I’m sorry! I’m trying to stop him! My dad heard me talking to you and--” Sound of a scuffle followed along with what appeared to be Clark taking the phone. However, it was Bruce who spoke to him over the speaker.
“Damian, tell me where you are.” He scoffed.
“Like hell I would, Bruce, I can not trust you with my safety.”
“It wasn’t a request.” Damian took a deep breath. Be mature Damian. Stand your ground. He can't find you unless you tell him where you are. This is you taking care of yourself.
“You will not be able to find me so I suggest you stop trying to trace me. It’s a waste of patrol time, Batman. It’s late. You are late. Goodbye.” He hung up.
Faintly, there was a sound of arguing outside of the small side door that the guardian had stormed through. It sounded both panicked and exasperated. Which of course is an interesting combination. Curious.
While he in no way was intending to take advantage of his host, it seemed that not everything was going as expected for her. He wondered what exactly that little creature had said to cause such a reaction in the girl. While he wasn't worried, Damian could hope that it wouldn't affect his eligibility for staying here. He was kind of relying on the magic to keep him hidden from all of his father's resources.
Right on queue, the young woman strode back into the hall. Her face was stiff. More so in a way of someone who was in denial then someone who is upset.
“Let's just pretend that you didn't hear any of that,” she said.
“ Fine by me but I can't say I understand it.”
“Well, thank the Kwami for small blessings.” She sat back down.
Damian observed her silently, things only got more interesting the longer he stayed.
I used to work for a call center and I was doing a political survey and I called this number that was randomly generated for me and the way our system worked was voice-activated so when the other person said hello you’d get connected to them, so I just launch right into my “Harvard University and NPR blah blah blah” thing and then there’s this long pause and I think the person’s hung up even though I didn’t hear a click
And then I hear “you shouldn’t be able to call this number.”
So I apologize and go into the preset spiel about because we aren’t selling anything, etc. etc. and the answer I get is
“No, I know that. What I mean is that it should be impossible for you to call this number, and I need to know how you got it.”
I explain that it’s randomly generated and I’m very sorry for bothering him, and go to hang up. And before I can click terminate, I hear:
“Ma’am, this is a matter of national security.”
I accidentally called the director of the FBI.
My job got investigated because a computer randomly spit out a number to the Pentagon.
When I was in college I got a job working for a company that manages major air-travel data. It was a temp gig working their out of date system while they moved over to a new one, since my knowing MS Dos apparently made me qualified.
There was no MS Dos involved. Instead, there was a proprietary type-based OS and an actually-uses-transistors refrigerator-sized computer with switches I had to trip at certain times during the night as I watched the data flow from six pm to six AM on Fridays and weekends. If things got stuck, I reset the server.
The company handled everything from low-end data (hotel and car reservations) to flight plans and tower information. I was weighed every time I came in to make sure it was me. Areas of the building had retina scanners on doors.
During training. they took us through all the procedures. Including the procedures for the red phone. There was, literally, a red phone on the shelf above my desk. “This is a holdover from the cold war.” They said. “It isn’t going to come up, but here’s the deal. In case of nuclear war or other nation-wide disaster, the phone will ring. Pick up the phone, state your name and station, and await instructions. Do whatever you are told.”
So my third night there, it’s around 2am and there’s a ringing sound.
I look up, slowly. The Red phone is ringing.
So I reach out, I pick up the phone. I give my name and station number. And I hear every station head in the building do the exact same. One after another, voices giving names and numbers. Then silence for the space of two breaths. Silence broken by…
“Uh… Is Shantavia there?”
It turns out that every toll free, 1-900 or priority number has a corresponding local number that it routs to at its actual destination. Some poor teenage girl was trying to dial a friend of hers, mixed up the numbers, and got the atomic attack alert line for a major air-travel corporation’s command center in the mid-west United States.
There’s another pause, and the guys over in the main data room are cracking up. The overnight site head is saying “I think you have the wrong number, ma’am.” and I’m standing there having faced the specter of nuclear annihilation before I was old enough to legally drink.
The red phone never rang again while I was there, so the people doing my training were only slightly wrong in their estimation of how often the doomsday phone would ring.
Every time I try to find this story, I end up having to search google with a variety of terms that I’m sure have gotten me flagged by some watchlist, so I’m reblogging it again where I swear I’ve reblogged it before.
But none of these stories even come close to the best one of them all; a wrong number is how the NORAD Santa Tracker got started.
Seriously, this is legit.
In December 1955, Sears decided to run a Santa hotline. Here’s the ad they posted.
Only problem is, they misprinted the number. And the number they printed? It went straight through to fucking NORAD. This was in the middle of the Cold War, when early warning radar was the only thing keeping nuclear annihilation at bay. NORAD was the front line.
And it wasn’t just any number at NORAD. Oh no no no.
Terri remembers her dad had two phones on his desk, including a red one. “Only a four-star general at the Pentagon and my dad had the number,” she says.
“This was the ‘50s, this was the Cold War, and he would have been the first one to know if there was an attack on the United States,” Rick says.
The red phone rang one day in December 1955, and Shoup answered it, Pam says. “And then there was a small voice that just asked, ‘Is this Santa Claus?’ ”
His children remember Shoup as straight-laced and disciplined, and he was annoyed and upset by the call and thought it was a joke — but then, Terri says, the little voice started crying.
“And Dad realized that it wasn’t a joke,” her sister says. “So he talked to him, ho-ho-ho’d and asked if he had been a good boy and, ‘May I talk to your mother?’ And the mother got on and said, ‘You haven’t seen the paper yet? There’s a phone number to call Santa. It’s in the Sears ad.’ Dad looked it up, and there it was, his red phone number. And they had children calling one after another, so he put a couple of airmen on the phones to act like Santa Claus.”
“It got to be a big joke at the command center. You know, ‘The old man’s really flipped his lid this time. We’re answering Santa calls,’ ” Terri says.
And then, it got better.
“The airmen had this big glass board with the United States on it and Canada, and when airplanes would come in they would track them,” Pam says.
“And Christmas Eve of 1955, when Dad walked in, there was a drawing of a sleigh with eight reindeer coming over the North Pole,” Rick says.
“Dad said, ‘What is that?’ They say, ‘Colonel, we’re sorry. We were just making a joke. Do you want us to take that down?’ Dad looked at it for a while, and next thing you know, Dad had called the radio station and had said, ‘This is the commander at the Combat Alert Center, and we have an unidentified flying object. Why, it looks like a sleigh.’ Well, the radio stations would call him like every hour and say, ‘Where’s Santa now?’ ” Terri says.
For real.
“And later in life he got letters from all over the world, people saying, ‘Thank you, Colonel,’ for having, you know, this sense of humor. And in his 90s, he would carry those letters around with him in a briefcase that had a lock on it like it was top-secret information,” she says. “You know, he was an important guy, but this is the thing he’s known for.”
“Yeah,” Rick [his son] says, “it’s probably the thing he was proudest of, too.”
So yeah. I think that might be the best wrong number of all time.
I have no opinion on harrymort other than that voldemort is not hot, but this points to the very different ways people use Tumblr.
I log in and check my activity page, which I have filtered for mentions and reblogs with content only. I miss a lot of gif reactions unless the person typed text because Tumblr doesn’t show those properly on the activity page. It does, however, show tags just fine. I have all the new xkit stuff turned on to see reblog tags on everything. They’re a primary way I navigate popular posts and see what people are saying.
Once I’m done seeing who’s said things since I last checked activity, I answer my asks. Or vice versa. Sometimes, I start with asks.
Sometimes, I go straight to someone’s tumblr and scroll back through their recent posts.
I generally see my dash only in between other activities like this
Goon: Are you kidding me?! I'm not fighting that monster thing! He just suddenly grew twice as tall and his joints are all off! Sometimes it looks like his torso wants to go a different direction than the rest of him! Everyday he becomes more like a creepy demon crawler! No thank you!
- Meanwhile -
Dick: Guys! You need to start listening to my directions, we almost fell over tonight. Again!
This is literally me as a kid. Dad used to have the responsibility of giving out the well reports that came in on the friday night to anyone who phoned for the rest of the weekend. The problem was, on saturday mornings, he was doing the food shopping, so I was given a list of approved callers and he’d leave the well report figures by the phone.
Theoretically I was just supposed to list off the numbers. Except. Very early I started parsing the figures and give my own analysis. Apparently engineers and geophysicists got a bit freaked out by a ten year old going ‘It’s not that good, the flow’s really slow compared to last week, and there’s gas pockets really screwing up the flow in the east pipe judging by the pressure report.’
Dad still got that yelled at him at conferences: ‘This is the fucker who used child labour to do well analysis!’
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