0549 standard hours

"Uh...Milady?...Milady?...Milady, wake up!"

Two years of leading the Rebel Alliance have taught me that when someone tells you to wake up, you wake up. Even if you don't know who it is or what they're waking you up for. Instantly I am sitting up in bed, bleariness rapidly receding from my vision to reveal a mortified-looking rookie pilot standing in the doorway. "What is it?" I snap, as I have just caught sight of the chrono on my tiny nightstand. I generally wake at 0600 standard; it is now 0549. Common sense with regards to waking up or no, this naïve youngster had better have a good reason for the intrusion.

"Um, milady, Senator, ma'am, General Dodonna would like to, um, have a word with you in the, um, hangar bay. He says there's, um, been a situation. Milady." The invader, young and clearly nervous, gives his explanation in a stuttering rush, then practically flees the suite as if Vader himself was on his tail. Oh, dear. Am I really all that scary? Then I snag a glimpse of myself in the small wall-mounted mirror, in all my nightdress-bedecked, bedheaded glory, and decide that yes, I really am all that scary at 0549 in the morning when I have not been expecting visitors. I leave Dodonna a message saying I'll be there shortly (on the voice-only com, as I definitely don't want anyone else seeing me in this state), and select one of my usual white dresses from the tiny closet.

Five minutes later, I am looking an iota less scary as I stride down the corridors of the Yavin IV base. The humidity will no doubt do mysterious things to my hair by the time afternoon rolls around, but I rest assured in the knowledge that my short auburn tresses are lying flat and orderly, at least for now. As I walk, I comm Dodonna; he picks up immediately. "Dodonna here, state your purpose," he says, in accordance with protocol, a protocol rendered completely unnecessary in this instance by the fact that he will have recognized the ID number of my private comlink. He knows exactly who's calling, so I launch into my speech without preamble. "General, I would rather you state your purpose for rousing me at this hour. Your messenger mentioned the hangar bay; I'm going there now. What was this situation you wanted to see me about?"

He is silent for a moment or two before responding, a pause which strikes me as being distinctly awkward. "Ah...Senator...well, you know how some of the pilots talk, how a 'situation' is code for a problem of rather colossal proportions…?" I get a familiar sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach, and he goes on, "Well, suffice it to say, I think at this juncture you'd have to...to see it to believe it." This, and the unspoken implication that the General, forward-thinking as ever, would rather not send the whole base into a panic should anyone overhear our conversation. I silently indulge in a few well-placed curse words in a couple different languages, most of which Obi-Wan taught me completely by accident. One can learn a lot by listening to a Jedi Master who's been up far too late. Oh, not good, as he would say. Not good at all. As I sweep through the halls toward the hangar, I become vaguely aware that I am meeting far less resistance than usual from various Rebels who wish to talk to me about this, that, and the other. This time, looking scary doesn't bother me quite so much. I am, in fact, grateful for the extra speed. And for my common sense with regards to waking up. Whatever 'situation' Dodonna is going on about, it surely cannot be anything short of catastrophic!

My suspicions are confirmed as the hangar doors slide open, and my eyes and ears are immediately assaulted by utter chaos. I seem to be the only person – indeed, the only thing of any sort – that is not burning, running around aimlessly, soaked in flamm retardant, or covered from head to toe in...paint. Yes, paint. Gallons upon gallons of the stuff splatter the walls, the floor, the fiery shell of a crashed transport freighter taking up most of the center of the room. Not to mention General Dodonna, who is marching toward me with as much dignity as he can muster while the entire right side of his body is covered in grayish-blue paint and he is tracking yellow all over the room, having inadvertently stepped in a puddle at some point. "Senator, I–" he begins, but I cut him off. "What, pray tell, General, is the meaning of this?! How did this happen, why did that freighter crash, and why have you not gotten it under control?"

"Well, you see, Senator–"

"No, I most definitely do not see. Where are the hangar personnel? Did no one think to requisition extra flamm retardant from the supply stores in order to put out that crash site? And how come there are also, in case you hadn't noticed, pilots throwing paint at each other all over the place?!"

"Senator, that is exactly why I needed your help!" Dodonna cries, in obvious consternation. "I would have run to the control room long ago and issued directives over the intercom, but someone seems to have fooled with a computer terminal and jammed the intercom for this hangar. It's a bug, Senator, an admirable bit of slicing especially if it's from one of our own, but what I mean to say is I can think of no way to get around it save your override codes. At least, no Rebel would dare slice our systems in a way that even your codes couldn't crack. With all due respect, they probably couldn't– those codes are seriously powerful, you know."

I gesture at the surrounding pandemonium as we too begin to walk in no specific direction, a not-altogether-pleasant thought having materialized in my head. "At least, these scoundrels could not. And if there were an Imperial spy here, they would not deign to wreak havoc so localized as this if they were capable of effecting more damage to the facility, as I believe anyone who can produce a bug of your description would be. However, I am concerned that...are there any Special Operations agents participatory in this...ah...battle?" For I have realized a certain pattern hidden within the seemingly random volleys of paint: Blue Squadron is fighting Red Squadron, and needless to say, they are doing it with a vengeance.

My question catches Dodonna off guard. "Uh...yes, I think. Two or three of them. Why do you ask?"

"Would they be codenamed Wisp, Nexu, and Fulcrum, by any chance?"

"Yes, now you mention it! I don't see any of them at the moment, though; how did you know?"

"You don't see Wisp because she's one of our sneakiest operatives, and you don't see Nexu because he's probably covered in paint beyond all recognition, but as for Fulcrum...I am fairly sure you don't see her because she's tailing us right now."

This third surprise is enough to make the august General actually stop in his tracks. "What – how – is she really?!" he splutters, if spluttering is the correct word for when a being's normally smooth speech is rendered halting by utter shock without actually going so far as to choke on saliva. "I mean – if an operative like that – how do you know she's tailing us?"

"That, I'm afraid, is classified." And it is, because what has tipped me off to Fulcrum's presence is not any lapse in stealth, but merely the paradoxical fact that my dress alone has remained pristinely unsoiled throughout the whole exchange, clean white in the maelstrom of flying color. Droplets of paint can only defy the laws of physics for so long before the object which they so deftly swerve to avoid begins to notice. I have no doubt about who is invisibly shielding me from said colorful projectiles, because I would have been the first person she'd tell if anyone else like her were to come to Yavin IV. And she'd know, too, if they did. Force-sensitives are like that.

"Jah krohoi tai!" I hear a Togruti curse from above, and then Fulcrum is crouching in front of us, having dropped from her hiding place somewhere in the vicinity of the ceiling. She straightens up and offers a salute for Dodonna and a small bow for me, all the while looking rather put out at her discovery. "General. Milady. Astute of you to notice my...ah...intervention, I must say. Don't worry, milady, I've been careful not to let my shields slip an inch. Vader, at least, shall remain in the dark about this whole mess."

Dodonna is still looking entirely nonplussed. "Senator, do you know what in stars' name she's talking about?"

"Yes, but as I told you already, it's classified." I beckon to Fulcrum to join us as we walk off again. Just because I flushed her out of hiding doesn't mean I don't want her help with keeping clean. "So, Fulcrum," I ask casually, changing the subject, "would you care to tell us how the intercom in this hangar became unworkable except by those possessing certain high-level access codes? Not to mention how one of your...peculiar history...came to look as though she had been caught in the crossfire of a heated paintball debate?"

Fulcrum flushes, her white facial markings exactly matching the shade of delicate pink that has formed on her left montral where splotches of red and white paint have run together. She gulps audibly before responding in a sheepish tone one rarely hears her use, "This is going to be exactly like what happened after my prank war with Wes Janson, isn't it, milady?"

"So help me, yes. Now get your bug out of that system before I march over to the nearest terminal and do it myself, complete with a couple of privilege removals for a certain fun-loving slicer!"

I could swear I see a reflexive 'yes, Master' die on her tongue before she scurries off to right whatever damage she did to the intercom firmware. A Padawan's instincts indeed. Being Skywalker's apprentice, even for such a short span of years, must have drilled them into her. By the time I have led Dodonna, who has lapsed into bemused silence, back to the doors and the computer terminal there, the intercom is up and working again, as evidenced by the fact that I can open a channel to the whole hangar without incident. I must admit, Fulcrum's slicing skills are impressive, if occasionally ill-placed. In the sternest and most commanding voice I can muster, I state into the wall-mounted microphone, "Attention all pilots and other personnel! This is Senator Mon Mothma, leader of the Alliance, and I demand that you effect an immediate ceasefire!"

This does the trick. The room falls instantly silent, save for the crackling of flames and the echoes of my announcement. I turn around for a moment to cast a sweeping glare around at the assembled miscreants, then continue, "Red and Blue Squadrons, report to the supply stores on the double. Fetch cleaning equipment and extra flamm retardant, and then return here with it. Oh, and Commanders Dreis and Altriff plus Agents Wisp, Nexu, and Fulcrum, come see me on your way out. I want this hangar, and all of you, spotless by 1200 today! No slackers! March!"

This further edict elicits a great kerfuffle of movement as everyone scrambles to obey. A short chat with the two commanders and three SpecOps agents later, I have learned how exactly this whole incident was brought about: the crashed freighter had been old and in need of maintenance, so her repulsors quit just as she was attempting a final approach. All that paint had been her cargo. Some enterprising pilots who'd been called in to fight the fire had found the storage bays largely intact, and began a mock battle, as rather bored young male beings are wont to do. The three agents and the rest of the two squadrons had then joined in, with Fulcrum sneaking off at some point to slice the intercom and again to tail me. It does not take long for the pilots, looking suitably chastised, to return with copious amounts of flamm retardant and cleaning fluid; the cleaning commences immediately, with a vigor lacking in most such operations. Am I still that scary, even while looking halfway presentable? Oh, dear.

Behind me, the good General clears his throat for what must be the third or fourth time– I've been so preoccupied with overseeing the cleanup crew and with my own thoughts that I have completely forgotten about him! "Oh, so sorry, General, what is it?" I query, as he looks distinctly uncomfortable.

He shifts his stance awkwardly; could General Dodonna possibly be feeling embarrassed? "Senator, I...well, I was wondering...could I possibly be dismissed to quarters, in order to...ah...return my appearance to regulation standard?" Noting the fact that the majority of his hair is now grayish-blue from the quantity of paint it has been coated in, I am fully inclined to accede to his request.

"Yes, of course, General. You may go. I shall handle this for as long as it needs handling. Do not forget our meeting with those Lannik officials this afternoon," I state, and he visibly relaxes, exiting the hangar at a speed just within the limits of courtesy. I do not blame him in the least. I sweep my gaze over the hangar for a final time, pleased that everything is running smoothly: the fire is very nearly extinguished, and the paint cleanup is coming along nicely as well. I make a mental note to send in another commanding officer, perhaps Rieekan as I know his schedule is fairly open; I don't fully trust these pilots not to start another battle, this time with flamm retardant and soap suds.

It is not until I am well on my way to the mess hall for my morning cup of caf that I think to add an addendum to the mental note: In future, High Command would do well to remember that pilots plus paint equals mayhem. Of a colossally messy magnitude.

A/N: And of course, in a story classified as belonging to the Humor genre, that "morning cup of caf" often leads to trouble… ;) No promises about when the next chapter will be up, but the Muse has been singing unusually loudly with this story, so you never know- could be as soon as tomorrow! Reviews are, as always, much appreciated!