Laundry Day
Summary: Young Qui-Gon has some issues with laundry.
Genre: Humor, rated G
DISCLAIMER: I do not own Qui-Gon Jinn, Dooku, Yoda or the Star Wars concept; Lucasfilm does. I am very respectfully borrowing them with no intent to profit. No credits have changed hands. No copyright infringement is intended.
Whack. Thud. Whack.
Scowling, grumbling, and thoroughly annoyed, the young teenager paced back and forth in the cramped space. It wasn't fair that he be there. It really wasn't. Disgusted with the turn of events, he glared at the sight before him. Blast it all.
Qui-Gon Jinn, Padawan Learner to the great Master Dooku, was surrounded by huge laundry tanks, big ugly things full of dirty socks and stained tunics and lots of sloshing water. The durasteel vats were making loud thumping sounds for no reason that he could figure out. With all that mechanical clatter and working machinery, it was almost too noisy to think. The droids scurrying about didn't help matters either.
Whack. Thud. Whack.
Besides, the humidity and odors of unwashed clothes and acrid soap was not pleasant. He looked down in disgust; his fingers were wrinkled and splattered with flakes of dried detergent. Trying to clean his hands on his dirty tunic, brushing at his sweat-soaked hair, he felt damp, grubby and unhappy.
It had not been a good day.
Thud. Thud. Thud. Whack.
Glaring at the injustice of it all, Qui-Gon kicked at the nearest tank and muttered, "I shouldn't be here." When the washer did not kick back, he just leaned against it and folded his arms about his chest in protest. "I should be at the Festival like everyone else."
But, instead, he was stuck in the bowels of the Temple, among the cleaning droids, doing laundry detail. Because his Master sent him down there. For punishment. Again.
Thud. Gurgle. Whack.
It just wasn't fair.
It wasn't his fault that he liked to grub in the dirt, that he felt more at ease there in the gardens among the Living Force plants than did his overbearing ogre of a Master. Who didn't understand him... at all. Unifying Force indeed. Bah.
He couldn't help it if his leggings got torn and dirty. That was the price you pay for digging in the soil and helping things grow. His Master should know that. He should. But, instead, Qui-Gon had been sent to help the droids with the laundry.
Thud. Thud. Gurgle. Whack.
And who heard of using soap and water to clean clothes? Only the poor people on faroff planets with no access to the modern comforts of civilization, that's who. He shook his head in irritation. Sonics were the only way to get clothing truly clean. Everybody knew that. But, instead of latest conveniences, the Temple uses the tried-and-true old-fashioned approach. 'If good enough for a thousand generations it is, then good enough it is for you'. Bah.
He glowered at the tanks and gave the one he had been leaning against a hearty kick.
Thud. Gurgle. Gurgle. Whack.
Qui-Gon frowned at the sound. That was odd. The tanks weren't supposed to gurgle but then they began to thump once more and he sunk back into annoyance.
If only he could finish the job quickly, he'd still be able to go to the Festival and have some well-deserved fun. Not stuck here. Alone. He butted his head against the tank and closed his eyes. If he could only meditate, maybe it would go faster.
Gurgle. Gurgle. Thud.
But how could he with all this racket? At least he tried to help things along. That extra large box of detergent in the tanks should speed things up. If only he could shake the bad feeling in the pit of his stomach. Maybe it was just hunger. If only...
Gurgle. Gurgle. Whack. Gurgle.
What was that annoying sound? As he stood up and began to turn around, his danger sense flared. Oh, the bad feeling got much, much worse.
Gurgle. Gurgle. Thud. Gurgle.
And then he saw it - Oh, blast it. A great white wall of suds fermenting out of the tank. Towering over him, about to fall. Oh, no. Could he stop it? Could he push it back into the tank with his bare hands? Oh, Force, could he drown in bubbles? He was about to find out.
With a great roaring hiss, the foamy wave tumbled over him, blotting his vision in a sea of white. Wildly cartwheeling his arms about, he stumbled backward and hit the tank behind him with a loud whump. Brushing at the soap, flinging it this way and that, he managed to open a slight hole in the suds for some much needed air. Looking around, he realized that, luckily, the soapy mess only came up to his shoulders. That seething surge of bubbles wasn't going to kill him after all. He was saved.
He would have laughed in relief but then his eyes started to burn and he couldn't see for all the tears flooding him. Scrubbing at his eyes only made it worse. Frantically, he was able to blow away the remains of the suds from his mouth but his face and everything else was still covered in the runaway detergent. He was soaked in soap and dirty water. Yuck.
He started for the door, hoping to escape with his dignity intact when he started to skid. Blast, he had forgotten that soap was slick and incredibly slippery. His body began to buckle as his feet did a wild dance, trying to find some traction, slipping and jerking as he skated forwards, out of control.
He let out a screech as the wall came out and smacked him right on the nose. Pain exploded in his head and he went down into the bubbles, still gripping his now bloody and pain-filled snout. Sliding to a stop, he brushed away at the foam and tried to stand. He would not drown in bubbles, he would not.
But the soap had other ideas. As he put down one foot and pushed up, he slipped again and fell heavily into the wet mess. Waves of foam floated into the atmosphere and covered him, blotting out the light for a moment. He opened his mouth to yelp but...oh, that was not a good idea. He jerked upright and tried to spit out the bitter stuff that he had inhaled. When that didn't work, he scrabbled along with his streaming eyes shut and finally found a handhold. With a grip that would surely bend durasteel, he used the railing to get slowly to his knees and then his feet. His eyes tearing still with the pain of the he-was-sure-it-was-broken nose and the sharp sting of soap, he did not see the tall man and very short, very green Councilor standing in the doorway.
"Padawan, what is going on here?" roared his unhappy Master.
Blowing out the last of the suds from his mouth, Qui-Gon replied, "Master, I'm sobby bud I tink I brokd my node."
And then Master Yoda let out a very loud cackle, the first that the boy had ever heard from the revered Master. "Cleaned the clothes, he has, Master Dooku. Just as you instructed. The walls, he has also and the floors. Never cleaner have I seen them."
"Master Yoda, this is not funny. This place is a mess and so is my bleeding apprentice." Qui-Gon could hear the frown in his Master's voice even if he couldn't see him too well through all the bubbles.
Another Yoda snicker. "True, true. Take him to the Healers, you will."
"Come along, Qui-Gon. Let's get you cleaned up."
And as Qui-Gon reached for his Master and began to walk carefully away from the foamy disaster, he heard one final long cackle.
"Good job."
The end.