Rating: PG. For "Star Wars" goofiness.

Feedback: Very, very much appreciated. In fact, they're mandatory.

Distribution: If you want it, by all means. . . Just let me know first, I'd like to know where my work goes so I can brag about it.

Spoilers: That would be a no.

Disclaimer: Joss. What can I say? He owns every damn thing related to Buffy and gang. And George Lucas owns every single, tiny iota even remotely associated with "Star Wars," the lucky cad.

Author's Note: Sorry for the lack of update, folks. First, I was really busy and then, when I actually had time to do some writing, I got pneumonia. Oh, well. I hope you'll forgive.

A/N 2.0: This chapter will reveal the Obi-Wan character. . . sort of.

A/N 3.0: There really isn't anything new about this post. It seems as though Fanfiction.net decided to remove the story from the list... I just wanted to give people the chance to read the story... and to get more reviews, but that's just a sidenote.

*****

Welcome to the Wyndam-Pryce garage, homy but very worn and torn. Willow is lowering herself into a nice warm bath and. . .

"A little privacy, if you don't mind."

Sorry. Willow is lowering herself into a nice warm bath, surrounded by a curtain so Connor couldn't see. . .

"Thank you."

. . . But the curtain was more or less useless, because Connor had other more important things on his mind that even a scantily clad droid woman couldn't falter that train of thought. The temper in his head was building to a boiling point where he slammed his wrench against an unwilling bench.

"Oh, it's just not fair! I'll never get out of here!"

"If there's anything I can do. . ."

Connor chuckled. "Well, not unless you can alter time, speed up the harvest, or teleport me off this rock."

Willow pondered the comment. "Ehh. . . No. I'm just a droid and don't really know much about time travel or teleporting or. . . Wait a sec. What planet are we on, anyway?"

"If there's a bright center to the universe, you're on the planet that's farthest from."

"Sunnydale," Dawn nonchalantly observed. Connor nodded in agreement.

"I see, sir," Willow said.

"Uh, you can call me Connor."

"Okay," Willow replied, pursuing the topic no further. "I'm See-Three-Willow, human-Wiccan relations. That garbage can over there is Dawntoo-Detoo." Dawn waved to Connor, then glared at Willow for the snide comment.

"Hello," Connor greeted. Behind him, Willow dried off her droid body with a towel and put her jumpsuit back on. She stepped out from behind the curtain to find Connor cleaning dirt off of Dawn.

"You're awfully grimy for a droid. It looks like you girls have seen a lot of action."

Willow ran the towel through her hair to dry it. "What, with all we've been through, I'm surprised we've come out with barely a scratch. The Rebellion can be killer on a girl's cuticles."

This certainly got the boy's attention. "You know of the Rebellion against the Aurelian Empire?!"

"Oh, yeah. That's how we got to this 'rock' in the first place."

"Have you seen many battles?"

Willow rolled her eyes at the memory. "Ugh. . . Several. But there really isn't much to tell. I'm just along for the ride and don't make much wave in the ocean, if you catch my drift."

While Willow was describing her and Dawn's misadventures in space, Connor was rummaging through the younger droid's pockets to see what he could find. Dawn, feeling violated by this, slapped Connor straight across the face, sending the boy, head over heels (and not just metaphorically speaking, either).

Just before Connor hit the ground, he was able to pull a small object out of one of Dawn's jumpsuit pockets. The object, a very teeny projector that was still connected to Dawn via wire, hit the ground along with our boy-hero and, upon impact, the projector was set off, revealing the hologram of a beautiful, but extremely small and blue, female figure (and if you don't know who this "mysterious" female is, shame on you).

"Help me, Rupert-Wan Kenobi," the tiny blue Princess said, "You're my only hope." The recording was obviously flawed because the Buffy effigy kept repeating the message over and over.

Connor was dumbfounded. "What the? What is that?"

Dawn decided to play the blissfully ignorant, the routine all teenagers play when hiding something important. "Um. . . What is what?"

The redhead noted Dawn's ignorance and smacked her upside the head. "What do you mean, 'what is what'?!" Willow pointed to the hologram. "That!"

The room was silent, save the malfunctioning message, while Connor and Willow waited for the response. Dawn pretended to notice the figure for the first time. Her eyes widened in mock surprise.

"Oh, *that*! I hadn't noticed *that*. . ."

Willow rolled her eyes in frustration. "Teenagers," she mumbled under her breath. "So, Dawn, what is it?"

Lying had really always been this droid's specialty--

"Nuh-uh."

Dawn, you're lying now.

The droid stopped to think about this twist of irony. "Shut up."

Oh, I love irony.

"What is it, bolt brain?" Willow repeated.

"Nothing. It's a malfunction. Old data. Forget it."

Connor had this sneaking feeling she wasn't telling the *whole* story, but was so intrigued by the Princess Mini-Me that he didn't really care what she said or did.

"Who is she? She's hot."

Connor!

"What? She is."

Quit the teenage hormones.

"All right, all right. You're the boss. 'Who is she? She's beautiful.'"

Better. Willow, continue.

"I dunno. I think she was on the last ship we were on. Princess. . . Princess. . . Oh, Goddess, I know this one. . ."

The message kept repeating over and over again and it was getting *really* annoying.

"Is there any more to this recording?" the boy inquired after several more moments of staring.

"Hey, farm boy! I didn't come out all this way to be harassed by some two-bit, dust-loving teenage nightmare who is frustrated in more ways than one! Besides, the message ain't for you! You can just take that recording and shove it--"

Whoa! Hey! Dawnster! Keep the longshoreman talk to a minimum. This is a PG story and I'd like to keep it that way.

"Oh yeah?" Connor said in a threatening, 'I'm a big boy' tone. "Then who *is* this message for, Almighty Queen of Everything."

"Don't call her that," Willow warned. "You'll just make her think it's true."

"For your information, it's for Rupert-Wan Kenobi."

"Wow," Connor said sarcastically. "I didn't know that from the first 9000 times I heard the message."

"She's very observant, you know," Willow wittingly added.

"Can it, Red," Dawn snapped.

That nickname is not for you to use on her. It's reserved for someone else.

"Right, right. I forgot."

Connor, at that awfully convenient moment, had a revelation. "Hold it. Rupert-Wan Kenobi?"

"That's what I said, I said."

"Hmm. . . Maybe you mean old Ripper Kenobi who lives out beyond the apartment buildings. Wait. . . apartment buildings?"

I know. Let it go.

"No, I meant what I meant when I meant it by calling him Rupert-Wan."

The boy conceded. "Fine, fine. Is there any way for you to play back the whole thing?"

"If you take off my restraining bolt you can," Dawn replied far too innocently.

"Now wait a second. Narrator?"

What's up?

"Far be it from me to question your plot line but, if I take the bolt off of that conniving droid, won't she just take off into the sunset the moment I turn my back?"

Yes, quite.

"Then why should I?"

Because then you'd never meet Rupe-. . . I mean, old Ripper and there would be no story.

"Oh. All right then." Connor then proceeded to remove the button-shaped bolt (she wanted it to match the rest of her outfit) and the message disappeared all together.

"I knew it. I knew she would trick me," Connor grumbled. "All right, I'll bite. Where's the message?"

"What message?"

The redhead pinched her nose with her thumb and forefinger. "We are *not* going to play the idiot game again, Dawn."

"But I like the idiot game."

"Oh, you would."

Then the dinner call echoed before the droid fight could continue. "Connor? Connor! Dinner!"

The thought of food made Connor's tummy go rumbly.

"Made my tummy go what?"

Rumbly! It's from Winnie the Pooh. Geez, you kids have no taste in the classics.

Connor threw the wrench at Willow. "Here. You take care of her." He then disappeared out the garage door without another word.

Willow had her own ideas about what to do with the wrench, but we must remember that this is a PG fic.

"Aw, nuts."

So she decides to chastise the girl instead.

"Dawn. . . Will you just replay the message already?"

"But I think he likes me."

"No, I don't think he likes you."

Dawn looked down at her feet. "Do you like me?" she asked pathetically.

"No, I don't like you either."

Dawn sighed. "This place sucks."

*****

Dinnertime at the Wyndam-Pryce house consisted of everything barbequed, considering that the main chef of the house wasn't from 'round these parts.

"Where I come from, if it ain't BBQ-ed, it ain't worth eatin'. Besides, if I let Wesley cook every night, he'd have broiled everythin' in sight by now."

Oh, those crazy Brits and their broiling things. Gotta love it.

"Not me. Last time he tried to cook, he nearly broiled his own hand."

But, I digress.

Connor arrives in the kitchen just as Fred was placing his plate on the table. Don't you just love that movie timing?

"I sure do." The growing teenage boy wolfed down the meal faster than you can say "Nerfherder."

"I can say that pretty fast, you know."

Regardless. Now, just as Connor finished up his meal of barbequed. . . something. . . he struck up a conversation with his dear uncle. Well. . . More of a direct question, but let's not argue semantics.

"Who's Rupert-Wan Kenobi?"

In his dramatic way, Wesley took off his glasses and cleaned them with his sleeve, then put them back on again. "Rupert-Wan?"

"That's what I said, yeah."

Wesley out the kitchen door and at Fred, who was barbequing what looked be mashed potatoes in the main courtyard of the house, then back at his inquisitive nephew.

"Why do you ask, Connor?"

"The younger, eccentric droid had a recording in her pocket reserved just for him and I was just wondering if it was *really* meant for old Ripper."

"It's not."

"How can you be sure?"

"I just am!"

"Narrator, how can he be sure?"

He's a learned bookman, that's why.

"See, Connor! Even the author agrees. Well. . . There's that and the fact that he's probably dead anyway. Right about the same time as your father."

"He knew my father?" Connor asked hopefully.

Wesley shot him down with the Britishman glare. "Now I want you to take that Dawn-too unit to the Quor-toth station and have her memory wiped."

Connor grinned. "Willow would love it. It's gonna do us all some good. Oh, um. . . Excuse me? Ma'am?"

Right here, Conny.

"Can I ask him now?"

About what. . .? Oh. . . Yeah. Go ahead. Sure.

"Uncle Wes?"

The Britishman looked up from his BBQ-ed meal. "If it's about you going to the Hemery Academy next semester. . . The answer's no."

Anger swelled up in the boy's head. "But you said. . . the new droids. . . if they work hard. . ." Connor's dust tanned face turned an interesting shade of red.

I think he's gonna blow, Wes.

"Connor. . . You have to understand. . . Harvest time's when I need you the most."

The reddening is not going down any.

"I know how much you want to go." Yeah, the red face sure says a lot about the subject. "But-. . ."

"Yeah, yeah. . ." Connor gnashed through his clenched teeth. "I'm *that* important." He couldn't take it anymore. With a teen angst-ridden sigh, Connor stood from his seat and left the kitchen just as Fred was coming back in.

"Ah, Wes. Ya didn't. . ." Fred groaned. "And I just finished BBQing these mashed potatoes." Fred looked back behind her, catching the dust Connor kicked up in his rage, then glanced back at Wesley. "Ya can't keep 'em here forever."

"I'll make it up to him next year," Wesley responded, picking at the mashed potatoes on his plate.

"He's not a farmer, Wes," Fred chuckled. "He's got too much of his father in 'im."

The Britishman kept picking at his food. "That's what I'm afraid of."

And so are we all.