kimbureh replied to your post “Toss me a prompt? Been feeling really blue lately and the writing just…”
my first thought is luke with a kitten! space kitten if u will ;) doesn’t matter if its tattooine Luke or old reclused brooding Luke who has a cute kitty or two to keep him company on that green rock
@kimbureh! You were right, there is indeed a kitten. Thank you for the prompt!
X-wings make their own gravity.
Pilots can’t be getting thrown around the cockpit with the accels and decels of battle. The G’s would knock them out if the whiplash didn’t get them first.
It took Luke by surprise the first time, when he stayed snug in his seat through the battle above the Death Star. Now, he takes the artificial gravity for granted as he flips his starfighter through hairpin turns and 360 degree rolls.
He knows just when it’ll give out, too. This roll he’s about to execute–it’s going to strain the engines, the grav sensors don’t have a chance. Luke mashes a control button and eyes the accelerometer as the ship tucks into a dive. The safety straps snap taut, hard against his collarbones. Then he forces the stick sharp left and braces for impact. This time the straps cut into the tops of his shoulders as the starfighter flips a sudden 180 and the TIE that’s been chasing him soars overhead.
The TIE comes around in a tight U-turn, lasers already blasting. Luke, still upside-down, takes it out on his second shot.
He peers through the claristeel of the canopy. Space is empty around him. The gravity’s back on, straps loose around his shoulders again. He doesn’t bother righting the ship because what direction’s “up” in the middle of space, anyhow?
Luke rubs at his neck. As the sharp pain of wrenched muscles subsides, he’s aware of a different pain now. A line of heat across his face. He reaches up and his hand comes away streaked with blood.
Whoops. Luke pats the chest pocket of his flight suit and, sure enough, it’s empty.
“Where are you?” he says out loud. An answering whistle comes through the comm. “Sorry, Artoo, not you. I’m glad you’re still back there, though.”
Artoo offers a series of beeps in reply.
Luke, bent down now to try to feel under the seat, cranes his neck up to read the droid’s words on the monitor. “Yes, I’m bleeding.”
“Yes, you were right.” It’s empty beneath the seat, at least as far as he can feel. Luke reaches up, now, back over his shoulder to the space behind his headrest. His fingers brush soft fur for a moment, then encounter air.
Eyes still on the monitor–”No, I’m not telling you where it scratched me. I don’t need you laughing all the way to the Remembrance”–Luke reaches back with the other hand.
He works his fingers under the soft little body, other hand blocking its escape, and gently lifts the kitten down into his lap.
It wriggles, trying to get away. Luke cradles it against his chest, both hands around it now, and gradually the tiny creature calms.
“That’s better,” he says. The kitten is barely larger than his palm. He uses one finger to stroke its head, smoothing the fur between its ears. The tiny eyes drift closed.
A moment later Artoo whistles, concerned.
Luke laughs. “That’s not the engines, Artoo. It’s just a noise these creatures make.” The soft purring does sound a little like a rough engine. Luke wonders if Han’s ever seen a kitten–and if not, how long he can make his friend think the Falcon’s subspace drives are out of whack again.
Luke shifts the kitten in his hands, petting its back now, and the purring gets louder. Beneath that sound, the starfighter’s engines hum smoothly. All around them, the stars are bright, and the space between them is empty and silent.
Luke jumps when Artoo whistles again. The kitten jumps too, leaving gouges on his palms when it leaps down to his knee and then disappears at his feet. “What?!”
The text on the screen is plain and emotionless, but Artoo’s scolding comes through loud and clear. This is still Imperial space.
Yeah it is, Luke thinks, as he twists his body to get his head under the control panel. “Where did you go?” he mutters, aware that Artoo can hear every word.
We still need to set a hyperspace course.
Luke whacks his head on the panel as he tries to look up at the monitor again. “Right, could you get on that please?”
If you’ll tell me where we’re going.
Artoo knows where they’re supposed to be going. “We’re still going home to the Remembrance,” Luke says, his back to the monitor now as he stretches around to look behind him. “Stop being jealous, it’s just a kitten.”
And what the hell are you doing petting a kitten when the Empire is probably coming back any minute to kill us?
“I’m not petting the kitten.”
You lost it again, didn’t you.
Luke feels something moving against his lower back. He extracts the kitten, carefully avoiding the tiny claws, before he tells Artoo, “No.”
Just put it back in your pocket and let’s get going. You’re supposed to be driving, not me.
Artoo can fly the X-wing just fine. He’s programmed to do so, in case Luke’s badly injured, or knocked out cold, or dead. But Luke’s none of those things, and he supposes Artoo’s programming doesn’t cover the rescue of tiny cats from abandoned Imperial outposts.
Luke slips the kitten back into his pocket. The kitten squirms and begins to claw its way up his chest. “Stay there, ok?” he tells it in whisper, stroking its back until it begins to purr again.
It’s not easy to fly an X-wing one-handed, but once they’re in hyperspace he can let the autocontrols take over for a while.
The comm pings with Artoo’s hyperspace coordinates. Luke accepts the course and engages the hyperdrive, and the stars stretch out and shift to a multicolored swirl. A few minutes later, the young pilot and the tiny kitten are both sound asleep, cradled in the artificial gravity, while Artoo mutters quietly to himself about Skywalkers, common sense, and rescuing things.
