Author's note: Well, before I begin posting this, I'd like to take a moment to thank those Mary Sue writers that made this parody possible. I apologize for making fun of their sphere, for now that I have tried to write in it, I realize how difficult it truly is. I have read and enjoyed many a Mary Sue adventure into Star Wars world, and I hope that those who write them will excuse my little fun here. ï
Chapter One: In Which We Learn That Crosswalks Are Our Friends
had never found anything odd about myself.
First of all, before you immediately begin to judge me, allow me to drive that point home. I was a regular, attention-deficit, over-imaginative child, who blossomed overtime into a massively dysfunctional young woman. Normalcy leaked out at every crack.
There was just that little Star War's thing, and my huge emotional handicaps. But that's being really nit-picky, I think.
And then it happened. My normal, average existence was crushed like a bug under a bantha. No, I'm not bent. But this brought me pretty dern close. Frankly, I blame Qui-Gon.
My story is always the odd one. Most people get into situations like the one I found myself in by opening a strange book, stepping through a mysterious mirror portal, saying a crazy incantation and opening the rift in the time-space continuum or some silly nonsense like that. Myself, I got hit by a truck.
When I think back on the incident that began it all, I feel rather foolish. I just don't think about things logically sometimes. I can look back and think of all the many things I should have done differently. Like crossing the street to get to a coffee shop in the first place.
I just shouldn't have been wearing my headphones, dark sunglasses and been jay-walking in traffic all at the same time. 'Duel of the Fates' screamed vaguely in my ears. The sun was blinding to the traffic. I just wanted to cross the road, get to the coffee shop on the other side. I just wanted espresso. That would have been okay. But it was not so.
I felt the hot roar of the oncoming tractor trailer rather than heard it. It didn't occur to me to walk faster. Pedestrians had the right-of-way in America, didn't they?
Apparently they did not.
Darkness enveloped my vision, and that point was really driven home. The blinding embrace of my own mortality crushed me. I could still feel the heat of the truck, my CD still spinning its morbid tune in my ears, a lingering taste of life, as an insects limbs will twitch even after death. Then I suppose the rest of the truck hit me, because I felt nothing.
I didn't know it then, but that's when it all really started.
It was really freaking hot. The thought formed clearly in empty space, then faded.
"Ow. Ow. Ow."
I still couldn't see anything, and that in itself was terrifying. I knew in the tiny portion of my mind devoted to logic that I had to be dead, there was no way I could have survived my silly caper into the street. And yet, my head was pounding so badly...for it to hurt this bad, I had to be alive...
"Ow..." I hissed again, and heard my own voice echo in my ears. This was getting idiotic. I rolled over, and to my surprise, felt sandy grit against my face. So then was I still on the highway? Perhaps the truck had merely half-pancaked me...
"Ah, you're awake. Lie still, you're wounded...did you fall off one of the caravans?" A soft voice, strangely familiar, interrupted my musings on mortality. Panic suddenly flooded through me. I was not alone wherever I had ended up. I froze.
"I'm just going to take a look at your shoulder, it seems you've scraped it rather badly...hold still..." The sensation of touch was just coming back to me, and the hand descending onto my throbbing shoulder was startling, to say the least. Immediately I wriggled backward, away from the hand, but I had no where to go, and was in no state to move. My vision was still blurry, all I could make out was a brownish blob reaching toward me. The hands gently moved away the shoulder straps of my shirt. This would not do at all.
Ah, yes, trusty "Pepper Spray." I felt the clip of it still hanging on my jeans where I secured it every time I went walking. A little spray of tear gas, and certainly this punk would leave me be. Feeling weakly clever, I unclipped the canister of mace and made my move. "Wait, just one moment." I whispered. Then, with a little chuckle I raised the canister and sprayed whoever it was directly in the eyes with my Pepper Spray.
The resulting shriek of pain was payment enough for my trouble, and I sniggered as the hand abruptly withdrew. I sprayed the mace a few more times in the direction of the blob and rolled over, attempting to rise shakily. Now would be a good time to run, should my legs cooperate. My vision was beginning to clear, and I could now quite vividly see that I was no longer crossing a street in my hometown. All around me was a brushy wasteland, alien and unfamiliar. I had, if one will excuse a cliché, the strangest feeling I wasn't in America anymore. I stumbled, unsteadily attempting to run, and as I went, I glanced backward over my shoulder. The sight that greeted my newfound vision made me freeze.
A brown-haired young man was vigorously rubbing at his watering eyes, a long slim braid waving over his shoulder as he moved. Although I had never seen him before in real life, I knew him immediately. The broken nose, the shape of the mouth, the way he was dressed, it was unmistakable. I cursed out loud. I had just pepper sprayed Padawan Qui-Gon Jinn.