#but i insinuated this whole thing in obi's profile

[saphronethaleph]

Did you pack your robe yourself?

“The events on Onderon were, of course, very much not as we would desire,” Palpatine said, with a slight frown of distaste. “While they ultimately worked out, the consequences could be significant.”

“Of course, Chancellor,” replied the Vice-Chair, Mas Amedda. “Is there anything we will need to do?”

Palpatine barely glanced at the Coruscant Guard clone troopers around the entrance to the executive section of the Senate building. “Perhaps,” he said. “We should especially watch out for the risks posed by large crime syndicates. Such an event could result in serious strain on the Jedi.”

With possible witnesses, there were limits to the sort of thing he would say… but with Mas Amedda, a long-time political ally who knew he was more than he appeared, he could insinuate. And he was quite sure Mas would follow the direction of his thoughts.

“That would be unfortunate,” Mas noted. “Especially if the problems were associated with Mandalore. Obi-Wan Kenobi is closely tied to the planet’s leadership, and it would be inevitable that he’d be sent – and the loss of Master Kenobi would be a major blow to the Jedi.”

Palpatine was about to reply, but as they passed through the doorway something beeped urgently.

“What was that?” he asked.

One of the Coruscant Guard troopers was watching a screen, and he signalled to the rest of the squad. They all pointed their weapons, and the sergeant put a hand to his helmet.

“What is going on?” Palpatine asked. “Explain yourselves! I am the Supreme Chancellor!”

“Routine check, your excellency,” the sergeant said. “After the hostage crisis and intelligence of a possible kidnapping attempt, we set up scanners on the doorways of your chambers. Nobody gets in without a weapon scan.”

“That does not explain why you are holding the Supreme Chancellor and Vice Chair at blasterpoint,” Mas Amedda replied.

That wasn’t actually true. It did explain why Palpatine and Mas were at blasterpoint, because Palpatine carried a lightsaber as a matter of course – a weapon that was well-concealed and difficult to detect, and which wouldn’t show up on any scan keyed to detect blasters.

But apparently the Coruscant Guard was more thorough than that.

“We currently have reason to believe that you may have been replaced by an imposter, your excellency,” the sergeant answered. “And if you haven’t been, we’ll need an explanation for why you’re carrying a lightsaber-”

“Oh, this is tiresome,” Palpatine interrupted. “Execute Order 76.”

The whole clone squad straightened.

“What is your order?” the sergeant asked, his tone flat.

“Have all weapons scanners recalibrated to avoid registering lightsabers,” Palpatine told him. “In addition, forget this conversation and record it as a negative result.”

“It will be done, my lord,” the sergeant replied, still flat, and the troopers stepped aside.

“You had to use the order?” Mas asked.

“Surveillance footage,” Palpatine replied. “If any other clone views any recordings taken of this before I can get them deleted, the effect will be the same.”

“Of course,” Mas realized, as they began walking again. “I bow to your superior skills.”

Some miles away, Keelyvine Reus stared at her screen, which was still displaying the helmet-cam feed from CT-1154-17 ‘Thinner’ as he and his squad quietly returned to their positions – and the clone at the scanner began reprogramming it, deleting certain details from the profiles it used to identify potential weapons in the first place.

When she’d been asked to quietly back up Commander Fox as the Coruscant Guard’s number-one contact for complex situations that might require a Jedi Investigator – as Jedi or investigator – she’d expected a lot… but not this.

“...well,” she said, out loud, thinking. “Order 76 implies other orders. They’re secret enough that I don’t know about them, they override the will of the clones, and the Chancellor knows them…”

It all added up in a very unpleasant way.

She considered, then stood.

This was clearly over her head, and the Council needed to know.

[sabraeal]

WFB: There's an exception to every rule (Obi gets a pass on a frat tradition)

The Wide Florida Bay | Previous

It’s two-thirty on Thursday, which means it’s time for Zen’s weekly shower.

Not like he doesn’t shower everyday– oh no, he’s got the ten minute post-gym wipe-down honed to an art form, rolling out of the dorm every morning smelling like hibiscus and mint even though it’s practically the fast food of hygiene.

But this– this is a shower. A real sit-down, five course meal. This is forty minutes of him-time, just standing under the scalding spray and having a good long soak, using every trick Korea can give him to have smooth, glowing skin from head to toe.

It’s just asking for an unforgiving patch of acne or eczema if he’s not vigilant. He’d graced more than enough tabloid covers in high school with the headline Bloom Off the Rose for Wisteria? or Wisteria Heir’s Harrowing Health Hassle! to learn he didn’t have the luxury of skimping on skincare.

His entire kit is prepped– he knows better than to leave any of it in the bathroom; unlike Kiki, he has no clever plan to make the frat smell better by leaving his expensive lotions hanging around– and his fluffiest robe laid out, just waiting for him to shrug it on–

Until someone knocks. “Hey.”

He spins on his heel, and, hah, if this isn’t the last person he expected to interrupt him. “Obi!”

His mouth quirks. “You got a minute, Chief?”

Zen casts a longing look at his face mask and stifles a sigh. Duty first. “Sure thing. What’s on your mind?”

“Ah, well.” Obi’s hand lifts to his shoulder, working the muscle there. It’s an old injury, as far as Zen can tell, but he’s constantly tugging at it, probably making it worse. He should really just see a physical therapist. “Just was thinking, since we’re into the whole pledge part of this frat thing, it’s about time we started getting hazed, right?”

Zen stiffens in his chair, both feet slapping to the ground. “We don’t like to say hazed in Phi Sigma Pi.” Even he has to wince at how bad that sounds. “I mean, we’re an honors frat. We don’t do stuff like that.”

“Right, right.” Obi’s grin thins to a knife’s edge. “You call it nicer words, like what would be in the SATs. Not hazing, just rule introduction.”

“No, I mean,” he sighs, rubbing at his nose, “we don’t do…stuff like that. No physical stuff. Or– or gross stuff.”

“But you do stuff, right?” He waggles his eyebrows, leaning against the wall. “I was talking to the big guy, and it all sounds tame enough. But he did say that the initiation had you know, pillow cases. People getting tied up.”

Zen sputters for a moment before managing, “Well, yes. For fun.”

Obi’s mouth curves in a way that makes him squirm in his chair. “Oh, Chief, I don’t think any of you know how to tie someone up for fun.”

“I don’t–” his mouth feels entirely too dry– “we don’t–” he should have known better than to say something like this with him around– “Mitsuhide is a chief scout.”

Obi blinks. “Chief scout?”

“It’s like an eagle scout,” he offers numbly, “only like, Canadian.”

His grin pulls entirely too wide. “Well then, I stand corrected.”

Abruptly, it falls, a souffle baked a hair too far. They’re not what he’d consider close, not yet, but Zen’s never seen Obi without some sort of sarcastic smile, some dubious raised eyebrow. His face is made for it, for the sort of humor that aims for the kidneys, but now–

Now it’s all gone, and there’s only a wide-eyed worry left in its place. “Is there any way to, you know, opt out of…all that?”

Zen blinks. “Excuse me?”

“I mean–” his fingers squeeze hard around his shoulder, knuckles bone white– “without getting kicked out.”

He gapes. “Why?”

It’s perhaps not his…best moment as president of the chapter.

“Oh, you know.” Obi shrugs, suddenly casual. “If someone wasn’t into it.”

“I mean,” his mind is whirring, on overdrive, but coming up entirely blank, “no one’s really into it–”

“Oooh.” Obi’s mouth quirks, and oh, yeah, that was a mistake. “How do you know, Chief? Maybe one of these boys–”

“I regret talking,” he says. The last thing he needs to hear in Obi speculating on kinks in the house. Zen would like to sleep at night.

“Seriously though.” Obi’s grin is stretched tight across his face, strangely stilted. “If someone really didn’t like it. If it brought up bad stuff for them. Is there–” he hesitates– “is there something for that?”

“OH.” The word echoes, too loud, but Zen barely notices over the way he’s completely panicking. There’s definitely– stuff. Stuff for stuff like that. For sure. He took a whole course and everything, required by the university.

He just…doesn’t remember a single thing about it right now, when he needs it most.

“I’d have to check,” he manages, and even too his own ears it’s limp, stupid. “I mean, probably. But there’s bylaws? That I’d have to read?”

A corner of Obi’s mouth twitches; great, now he knows he’s acting like a loser. “Don’t put yourself out, Chief. It’s no big–”

“No, it’s cool.” Maybe he shouldn’t be talking over him. That’s probably bad etiquette in situations like this. But he can’t just stay quiet either. “Just…give me a few days.”

“Hey.”

Mitsuhide glances up, right over the rim of his reading glasses, and for a solid second, Zen kinda gets what Kiki might see in him, beside the whole chiseled-body, lantern-jawed good looks. Or at least, he would if the guy wasn’t parked behind a bowl of greens so big most people would serve chips out of it, calling it an afternoon snack.

It’s got hard-boiled eggs too, and something that looks too much like nutritional yeast for comfort. No wonder him and Shirayuki get along so well.

“Hey,” Mitsuhide ventures, clearing his throat. “Something up, Zen?”

He grimaces. It’d be nice if Mitsuhide could at least pretend that distress wasn’t written all over his face. “No. I mean, not much.”

Mitsuhide mulls this over for a second, and then pushes his salad to the side, closing the LSAT study guide that’s perched behind it. “Sounds like something is.”

“Well, yes, obviously,” Zen stumbles, melting into the chair across from him. “Do we have exemptions?”

He blinks. “You’re going to have to be more specific.”

“I mean, for the frat.” He waves his hand, wishing he could be half as casual as Obi had been about…all this. “You know for people.”

“I don’t mean to be critical,” Mitsuhide says gently, “but somehow that’s only making things less clear.”

“I mean, in the initiation.” Every word might as well be a pulled tooth for how easy this is. “When we do the– the stuff with the rope and things–”

Mitsuhide holds up a hand, mouth quivering. “You mean how the pledges are trussed up on the way to initiation?”

“Yes, that!” He frowns. “What else would I have meant?”

“Ah…” A flush blooms right around Mitsuhide collar, and he shakes his head. “Don’t worry about it. But you wanted to know if there were exemptions written in the bylaws for participation?”

“Yes.” How can everyone else just…say stuff, when he’s stuck with a 404 error in his brain. “Exactly.”

“Well.”

Zen’s never had a good picture in his head of Mitsuhide as a lawyer; it seems like something that would take a pettier man, one willing to cut corners and look the other way, but when he sits like this, hands folded over the green-painted wood of the kitchen table, setting his glasses to the side– he gets it. He may not be ruthless, but he’s got authority.

“Even though the initiation itself is outlined,” Mitsuhide explains, one hand reaching out to gesture across the grain, “the exact events leading up to it are not.”

“Oh.” That’s…surprising. And relieving. “So that whole thing is just…?”

“Tradition.”

Nope, anxiety back at full swing. “Oh, great.”

Mitsuhide eyes him, concerned. “It is great. You could just suspend the whole thing–”

“No.” He drops his head into his hands, headache teasing at the edges of his eyebrows. “We can’t. Because it’s tradition. Meaning everyone else has done it, and they expect everyone else to do it.”

“I’m sure people would understand–”

“Yeah, but then I’ll be the president that got rid of it,” Zen insists, wishing that he could will Mitsuhide into understanding.

“And that’s…” Mitsuhide lifts a brow. “Bad?”

“Yes, because then it’s not– it’s not fair.”

The point hangs over the table, heavy in the silence. Mitsuhide sits back, sliding his glasses back on, and drums at the edge.

“I think…” he starts, but instead closes his mouth, thoughtful.

He sits another minute, fingers stilling.

“There’s no bylaws about it,” he says, even, no judgement in his voice, “and only an old tradition to uphold. So–” his gaze pins him, as thoroughly as Izana’s ever has– “I think it’s up to you, Zen.”

He collapses in a heap over the table, just barely missing Mitsuhide’s salad. “Great,” he groans. “Just what I wanted to hear.”

“My, my.” Izana’s drawl is as grating as ever, crystal clear even across a hundred miles. It’s probably the 5G. “A call? Thanksgiving is still weeks away.”

“I know that,” Zen snips waspishly. “And I call, sometimes.”

“Of course,” his brother soothes cloyingly, “when you’re in trouble.”

His jaw snaps shut with a snick. That…that may be an accurate assessment, but still…he didn’t have to say it.

The silence must stretch too long for Izana. “Is something wrong? I’m in the middle of something right now, but I can have it wrapped up in–”

“No, no!” The last thing he needs is his brother swanning in here, reminding everyone what an amazing president he was. “I just…had a question.”

Izana hums, far too intrigued for comfort. “Oh my.” The words melt like honey. “Are you asking me for advice?”

“No!” He grimaces, then amends, “I mean, not really. It’s just about the frat…”

Zen may not be able to see his brother, but oh, he can feel that eyebrow raise. “The frat.”

“Yeah, something’s come up with one of the pledges.”

He knows the moment the words are out that they are exactly the wrong ones. “Come up? Like a criminal record? You know that Phi Sigma Pi doesn’t–”

“No, not that!” He hopes. “It’s just that this pledge has, ah–” special circumstances seems a little premature, considering how little he knows about Obi in general– “asked for an exemption to some of the parts of the pledging process.”

“Hm.” Strangely enough, it sounds like Izana taking it seriously. “Have you asked Mitsuhide if there’s anything about it in the charter or our bylaws?”

“These things aren’t, um, stipulated in either.” He’s not even in the same room with his brother, but still he shuffles from foot to foot, nervous. “It’s just…traditional.”

“Ah, traditional.” Zen could swear there’s the barest undercurrent of a laugh. “Of course.”

“So I was just wondering if there was a, ah, precedent for this sort of thing.” He hurries to add, “I thought you might know since you were, you know, a president too.”

“When I was president, I ran the frat on the same traditions that had been passed down to me.”

He lets out of huff. Of course he had. Izana always did everything perfect. It’s him who can never seem to stick to the script their father laid out for them.

“But…” Izana hesitates. “That doesn’t mean it’s the right decision. After all, we didn’t have women in the house, and I think we can all agree that was a mistake.”

Zen snorts. “Well, it certainly does smell better around here.”

“To say the least,” Izana agrees. “You’re running the frat now. I think it’s up to you what sort of precedent is set for your pledges going forward.”

“Ughhhh,” he groans, flopping bonelessly into his chair. “I hate it when no one will give me answers.”

Again, he can tell that his brother is making a face. Probably one that’s laughing at him. “You know, it wouldn’t bother you so much if you weren’t always waiting for permission.”

His mouth pulls thin. “Well, anyway, great talk.”

Izana chuckles softly. “I’m glad I could be of help.”

“Oh yeah, loads,” he snips. “See you at Thanksgiving.”

“Ah.” His brother’s grin is palpable through the speaker. “Now that’s more like it.”

Kiki stares at him over her dish of soft serve, blank. “I don’t see the problem.”

“What?” Zen yelps, nearly tipping his off the table. “What do you mean?”

She licks her spoon, cleaning it, before serving in for another scoop. “Everyone told you to do what you want to do. So all you have to do is do it already.”

“That’s– that’s not the point!” he insists. “I can’t just…waive the whole thing.”

“Why not?” she says, uncomfortably even. “You did the same thing when I pledged.”

“It’s different.” Zen shifts in his seat. “That was just…sexist bullshit. This is…tradition.”

“Oh, right, Tradition.” He doesn’t know how she does it, say the word like it’s got a capital and italics. “I thought you were all about ridding the frat of archaic and antiquated ideas about Greek life.”

“I am, it’s just…” He takes a bite of his ice cream, trying to stall. “Everyone’s gone through it. If I suddenly say, oh nope, don’t have to do it anymore, people are going to get upset.”

Kiki lifts a brow. “After the shit fit everyone threw about letting me into the house, you’re afraid of some people being upset?”

“No! I mean, yes, but not–” he shakes his head– “there’s a half dozen co-ed dorm on campus, and the frat itself is co-ed, it’s just the people who rushed the house were, you know, guys. Anyone who thought you couldn’t hack it was just a– a pig. But with Obi…” He shrugs. “I don’t know, maybe it’s unfair.”

She hums, at the precise pitch Zen knows as judgement. He’s heard it enough from Izana, after all. “Are you hesitating because you think it’s actually unfair, or because you’re afraid of what people will say about who you’re changing it for?”

He tenses, closing his eyes against the tabloid headlines that flash before them. Wisteria Heir Growing Out of the Closet? No, they’d be worse than that, with pictures of Obi splashed across the front page while they played shirts and skins, and Shirayuki–

Well, there’s nothing with Shirayuki. They’re just friends. Just like him and Obi.

He shakes his head, shoving another spoonful in his mouth. “Sometimes I really wish we hadn’t known each other so long.”

Kiki grins, far too sharp. “Really? But your mom says we’ll make such a cute couple.”

Zen gags.

“Also,” she says, more serious now, “Do you really think Obi would bring this up if it was a small thing?”

Ah, there’s the rub. He doesn’t really know Obi well– a few weeks may make a friend, but they’re not close, not confidants. That kid’s locked up tighter than his father’s liquor cabinet, and they haven’t managed to find the key to that in almost ten years.

But he knows enough to know Obi’s life hasn’t been easy; hell, if it was, then there wouldn’t have been a sweet scholarship for Haruka to wave under his nose, and the only place Zen might have met him was on the squash court. He’s not the sort of person who expects exemptions, or who even assumes they could exist without a gospel choir of Franklins, but he still came to him anyway, and–

“No,” he sighs, tilting his head over the back of his chair, the top of it hitting against the first rung. “Obi’s the sort of guy who would die from a paper cut before asking for a bandaid.”

Kiki’s mouth tilts, amused. “That was my read as well.” She taps her spoon on the table, thoughtful. “So would blindfolds work?”

He coughs around coffee ice cream. “What?”

“Instead of pillow cases. Or can he not be tied up?” She leans back, gears churning so loudly he can practically hear them. “We could just get a van with no windows. Or tape them up.”

“Uh.” He stares at her dumbly, trying to catch up. “I don’t– I don’t know. I didn’t really ask for details.”

“Do it.” She set her spoon to the side, finished. “I’m sure there’s a way to work around what he needs. And if not…” She grins. “There’s always other traditions he can participate in.”

Zen’s halfway down the grand stair when he hears one of the one pledges– Kai, he thinks his name is– grumble, “It’s not fair.”

He freezes, hand gripping the banister so hard it nearly creaks. This is it, the beginning–

“I know,” Shuuka mutters back, “his legs look good in that skirt.”

“I shaved and everything,” Kai complains, “and I still look like King Kong next to– to that!”

Shuuka lets out a huff. “I heard he borrowed Kiki’s skirt.”

“That’s gotta be it.” Kai leans toward the window with a glower. “That’s cheating.”

Zen smothers a laugh and makes sure his steps are louder, almost stomps, as he descends the rest of the stairway. “Is there a problem, pledges?”

They both scramble to stand upright, trying for a level of casual two men who have never worn anything shorter than basketball shorts could not possibly achieve in pleated skirts.

“Oh!” Shuuka pants, pasting a smile on his face. “No! I just– we were just saying that, ah…”

“Obi has nice legs,” Kai blurts out. “And it sucks.”

Zen coughs, trying to keep back his laugh. “Is that right?”

“I don’t know how he got them so smooth!” Kai peeks back out the window. “Do you think he waxed?”

Shuuka frowns, following his gaze. “I don’t know. My sister used Veet once, and those looked pretty smooth.”

Zen bites his cheek. He shouldn’t laugh at them, not when they’re enjoying themselves. “I’m to take it he’s outside?”

“Yeah, talking to Kiki.” Kai glowers. “I bet she gave him tips.”

“It’s cheating,” Shuuka mumbles. “I had to borrow my sister’s skirt.”

Zen leaves them at that; any more and he’s liable to burst, and then this whole exercise becomes less about pushing boundaries and more about humiliation, and that’s– that’s not the point of Phi Sigma Pi. Or at least, it isn’t going to be now.

He steps out onto the porch, but it’s just Obi leaning against the rail, mile-long legs crossed at the ankle. The whole skirt-and-sneaker combo shouldn’t be working as well as it does, but as Kai put it, Obi has killer legs.

“I trust you’re enjoying yourself?” he asks, sidling up to the post across from him, settling his hip against the banister.

Obi arches a brow, far too knowing. “Are you, Chief?”

Heat flares up his neck, and oh, he just knows his skin is showing every bit of it. “I-it just seems like you’re getting a lot of attention.”

His mouth breaks wide into a grin. “Oh, if only you knew the whistles I’ve been getting. I should raid Ms Kiki’s closet more often.”

“Well,” Zen manages through clenched teeth, “there are about four more days of this–”

“Oh, I know,” Obi assures him. “I’ve got outfits planned. My milkshake will bring all the boys to the yard.”

He lets out a long breath. He should have known. “Well, tell them we already handed out our bids. And then send them home.”

“Ooh, Chief, are you jealous?” Obi’s grin turns positively gleeful. “Are you going to tell me you want to do a special initiation with your presidential paddle?”

“No.” God, he should have known it would be a mistake to talk to Obi when he’s in this sort of mood. “But I did want to talk to you about, ah, the initiation thing.”

The mischief drains from his face, leaving it blank, guarded. “Oh?”

“Yeah.” he coughs. “Kiki wants to know if you’d be open to blindfolds?”

He knows the words are a mistake the moment they leave his mouth. Obi’s eyes spark, going from flat gold to amber. “Oh, anything for Ms Kiki. Tell he my safe word is–”

“WE CAN TALK ABOUT THIS LATER,” Zen interjects, dizzy. “I can see you’re in a– a mood–”

“Oh, hey.” Obi brightens, eyes fixed down the walk. “Is that Doc?”

Zen’s gaze whip’s over his shoulder, and sure enough, there she is, red hair bobbing down the walk, eyes fixed on her shoes.

Obi stands up, feet hitting the planks with a thud. “I gotta show her my legs.”

His mouth pulls thin, and he’s about to tell him that maybe she’s not interested in his legs, that maybe she isn’t into tall, dark and handsome, when–

“Obi!” She lifts a hand, waving wildly. “I love your shoes!”

“Do you hear that?” he asks giddily, “she loves my shoes!”

Zen gives him a flat look. “I am right here.”

“Cool.” He bolts toward the stair to meet her, but pauses. “Hey, can we talk about all this…?”

“Later,” Zen agrees with a nod. He can let him have his fun, for now. “Enjoy showing off.”

Obi winks, gives him a wink that could only be called salacious. “I always do.”