Title: HSU: Bots and Beamers
After: "Jump, Jive an' Wail"
Author: Shana Nolan
Rating: TIS (totally insane silliness)
Archiving: Darry, incoming!
Disclaimers: don't own him, wish I did, pout. Um, Crow and Tom are from Best Brains Inc (Mike paid for his cameo by forking over a better copy of VG g), George is... George-- Brendan in a loincloth, basically. And all the movies I've made fun can keep themselves. shudder And Dande, I'm sorry, but I got a brief mocking of two characters played by some guy you seem to really like... innocent look I couldn't resist! The plot bunnies made me!

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

"Hey, have you heard from Crow? I finally got a hold of the rest of Kim
Cattrall's movies and thought he'd like to see them."

"Wow, Mike, even 'Deadly Harvest?'"

Patting the 'Bot on the head, he nodded. "Yeah, and 'Turk 182!'"

There was a pause as the two stranded members of the Satellite of Love pondered the greatness, or lack thereof, of the cheesy movies in Mike Nelson's hand.

And then Tom Servo hopped off the table and headed for the door.

"Hey! Where are you going?!"

If he'd had eyebrows, the little Bot would have raised them. "HSU. Crow asked his boss and she said I could come over and help out. She's paying in Peztm and James Cameron movies."

"Ooooh, only the best. Bring back 'Piranha II!!'"

~*~

"So do you think there's something like Generalaholics Anonymous?"

Emmy, sitting in one of the chairs, her tiara slightly askew in her ruffled hair, pointed across the desk at the other Ho. "I do not have a problem! Tell him I don't have a problem!"

Shana gave an arch look at the Bot. "She doesn't have a problem, Crow."

"This coming from the queen of burying-paperwork-no-one-is-supposed-to-see. You're as bad as an X-Files episode."

Emmy crossed her arms. "I don't have a problem. I mean, is it my fault that he's just that much better when he's jealous?"

"You mean when he's not whammying you all into a coma so you can't dance with that loin clothed Cro-Magnon?"

"Shush, Crow."

"No, I mean, why is it that semi-illiterate vine swinger being used to get the General's attention when you could use me?"

Both Hos blinked.

Crow paused. "Are you saying I'm not attractive?"

Emmy sighed.

Shana blinked again.

"You—you don't love me anymore!"

Casting a desperate look across her desk, Shana whined and found herself patting the gold shoulder. "It's okay, Crow, we love you, really... stop crying... you don't have tear ducts, Crow... no way... I don't buy that for a second..."

~*~

With a growl, Darry stared at the wall of her clinic, leaning back in her chair. The entire situation was horrible, disgusting, unbelievable, reprehensible, mind-boggling, atrocious, sordid and filthy.

After all, how damned hard was it to find one car?!

The phone rang and she snarled. It had better be good news. "Yes?"

The voice on the other line hesitated. Maybe he should have called a different faculty member and have them deliver the news for him. "I think we've found your car."

Her eyes widened. There was hope after all and she wouldn't have to kill the foul creature that took it from her. "Where?"

"It was parked downtown, and we had it towed to the precinct. Looks like everything is intact, CD player, glove box, and no one slashed the soft top.
Pretty damn lucky, I'd say."

Darry blinked. This didn't sound quite right, but still... "I'll be down to claim it as soon as possible."

~*~

"That'll be $578.66 total."

Aya blanched. "Five -hundred- and seventy eight?"

The mechanic crossed his arms. "And sixty-six cents."

The shock wearing off quickly enough, the Sith Intern shook her head. "I could have a first year Sith apprentice bang that dent out for the mere reward of pleasing his master and you're asking for 600?!"

The mechanic shrugged, nonplussed. "You want a perfect repair job in under 48 hours, you call me. You want a three week job with a bad paint match, you go to your 'apprentices.' Just the way it works."

"Excuse me, is there a problem?"

Aya sighed with relief and practically wrapped herself around the blue clad man. "Bob, this guy is nuts, he's overcharging you—I mean, us. Talk some sense into him like I know you can."

Meeting eyes with the rather grungy man before him, noting with disdain the amount of oil and grease stains smeared all over his less-that-fitted jumpsuit, the Senator sighed. "My dear man, you cannot expect someone to pay so much for such a simple repair."

"$578.66."

Aya tugged at the exquisitely tailored sleeve.

"Are you sure you aren't overcharging?"

The mechanic shook his head and narrowed his eyes. "$578.66."

"Bob, use your—" removing her hands form the blue fabric, Aya extended her hands like a Merlin wannabe.

"I can't."

"Why not?"

The elegantly dressed man pointed at the vehicle parked not two metres away from them. "Because if I return this with one mark of blue lightning, she'll kill me."

"She's gonna kill you anyways over taking it in the first place."

There was a pause. "Perhaps, but if that's my only reason for punishment, I might have hope for something... enjoyable to die from. My good man?"

"$578.66."

~*~

"Hello, I'm looking for the Student Affairs office."

"Grrr."

"I'm sorry, did you just 'grr' at me?"

"Grrr."

"Geez, it's Boris Karloff after a night in a tattoo parlour."

"Grrr."

Tom Servo backed up a bit and looked around. "But shorter."

"Grrr."

"Yeah, yeah, I know, it's hard being shorter. All those tall Bots, or Sith in your case I guess, to measure up to, all the comparisons to a walking toy, the jibes about taking Smurfette to your prom, yadda, yadda. Lemme tell you all about it while you show me the way to the office I'm looking for."

"Grr?"

~*~

Typing serenely at her desk, chewing on a pencil, Dieben stared at the screen.

She had been working at the bloomin' database for hours and she still had a stack of stuff to enter. It just wasn't fair.

Of course, given her employer, she wouldn't have minded had it not been for the 4 alarm headache involving a previous night of Sex on the Beach and various other sundry alcohols that made her wonkier than an Ewok on catnip, which was not to forget the rather athletic gift the General had given her beforehand.

Of course, it would have helped to take the aspirin.

Taking her hands away from the keyboard and digging into her drawer, she felt tug at the leg of her catsuit.

"Shush down there."

The voice was plaintive. "George safe yet?"

"No," Dieben hissed, bending over to lock eyes with the barely dressed hunk of muscle curled under her desk. "He's due to come in any second, change clothes and then leave and -then- you can come out. Okay?"

"Cave too small, why can't George hide elsewhere?"

She grinned suddenly. "Not the closet, that's for sure."

"George like Caeryn, why can't George hide there?"

"Because that's where the General is right now."

"George like Shana, too."

Dieben shook her head. "Crow is in there, too. Do you like being mocked by a small gold plastic robot?"

Shaking his head and accidentally banging it against the bottom of the drawer, George sighed. "George not hide at crazy Nurse's office."

"Good plan."

His face brightened suddenly. "George hide at Emmy's!"

Dieben winced. Inclined to say yes in any other case, she shook her head and grabbed the bottle of painkillers. "Nope, that's where he's going after he changes clothes."

George's face fell. "Oh. George stay here then."

~*~

Banaoire and Jael stared at each other, then at the disturbingly organised stack of art and music department supplies stacked outside the buildings.

"What does this mean?"

"I don't know. Is anything missing of yours?"

"No, which is why it's weird."

"No kidding."

About to weave herself through the stacks of paints and wind instruments, Jael froze when a dusty figure emerged from one of the building's side doors. "Cal?!?!"

The Padawannabe smiled and tried to saunter across the court, but nearly tripped himself on his own feet. "Yes?"

Ban bit back her initial reaction. "Why is all the stuff out here?"

"I'm cleaning the rooms before classes start."

Jael blinked, momentarily distracted by music sheet for 'The Saga Begins.' "The kind of cleaning that requires removing everything from the room?"

"The General said everything had to be perfect for his girls."

"So why are you covered in dust, Cal?"

There was a pause, to which the two Grrls exchanged nervous glances and started to head for the door the Padawannabe had just emerged from.

"Well, I was polishing the floors with one of those nifty machines and it... got out of hand, spun into a corner and crashed through a wall."

"So..." Banaoire prompted.

"So," Cal shuffled his feet, " I had to tear down the old stuff, remount a stud, hang the sheet rock and right now I'm just now sanding the seams and—"

Jael, her geek artist senses starting to stand on end, raised a hand. "Okay, fine, no more detail. Just get everything covered by the time the sun sets."

Cal looked around suddenly. "Well, I would..."

"But..."

"Vocab Man has the spackle and paint."

Both Hos groaned.

~*~

"Detective, this isn't my car."

The cop took a full step back and pointed at the vehicle in front of them. "It's a BMW."

Darry growled. "MY car is midnight blue 750iL, not a black rag top z3. Are you blind?! This is a sports car and NOT. MY. BABY."

Settling his hands at his waist, wondering why it was so wrong to use his nightstick in cases like this, he shrugged. "We ran the plates, the registration was renewed from your employment."

"That's because—" Darry paused. There were two Beamers in the HSU family, meaning this one was... "This isn't my car, but I know whose it is."

"Oh? Do you have a number for the owner?"

The Nurse suppressed the growl in her throat. Gee, hadn't they thought of looking at the rest of the bloody registration? Barney Fife fraggin' Boyd Briar patch schmucks. "Yes, in fact I'll call her now."

The detective smiled.

Hitting auto-dial, Darry smiled back, knowing that the following exchange between law enforcement and irate car owner would be amusing to watch.

"Mulder."

"Dammit! No, not you ... Shana!"

The voice on the other end was definitely aggravated. "Darry? What are you
doing calling me from your cel?"

"Are you missing something?"

The growl from the receiver was loud enough for the cop to hear. "Why yes, a certain vehicle of the sleek black Beamer type... why do you ask?"

Darry cackled. "Hop a cab to the local precinct, the boys in blue towed it here."

"They did WHAT?! I was parked legally!!"

Darry smiled at the now wide eyed police officer. "I'll make them explain when you get here. See ya then."

"Yeah, be there in ten."

The cop gestured at the black car next to them nervously. "I guess I should put back the trunk contents, eh?"

Darry nodded. "Including the 14th century Hungarian crossbow. It killed a king and changed the course of Europe, did you know that?"

The cop opened his mouth, but no sound came out.

"And her permit to carry such antiquities is in her glove box." Darry added quickly, omitting the detail that the one arrow's tip was still probably tipped with 14th century dried poison.

Little details.

~*~

The door flung open with a bang. "Crow!"

"Tom!"

"Crow!"

"Tom!"

"Crow!"

"Uh... Tom!"

There was a pause. "Can't think of anything witty to say either, huh?"

"Not a phrase."

"Damn."

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

(quick note: I actually had to look it up, but Vocab man is supposedly 5'7"... tall compared to ducks being hit by those that are shorter than that many, but shrimpy compared to say, DV.... :-D)