In the Desert

Initiate distraction. Commence getting sidetracked.

Let's wander off entirely for a moment, shall we? Remember that show that really shouldn't have just been 'boba fett' anyway, since it wasn't? 'The Book of Boba Fett'? What in all the worlds were they even going for with that title? Though really, we can guess pretty easily, can't we. How very strange. How very limiting.

No, let's try that one again. It needs to be bigger than that. Wider. Fuller. No end in sight, not right here. Don't bake it right into the very beginning. Really?

Let's call it "In The Desert", because we're boring and most of the other references would make even less sense. And we can always set that scene, in theme or otherwise. Hint, time and again, at how very strange the deserts of this throwaway world might be (or, you know, whatever 'desert' the episode randomly winds up in), as all are, if you only stop to really look, and listen, and get a lizard up your nose. Only from there can you properly move on into something properly weird.

Notes:

1. Whatever else goes on, the main character's bantha must go forever nameless. It's probably more than one bantha anyway. No names, kids. No names.
2. There can be more than one main character. The main character is the desert. There can be more than one 'desert'. What is a desert, really?
3. Just tell the story in order. If there's more than story, just wrap the one up first before going to the other. Don't try to pull some Arrow shit, that didn't even work for Arrow that well anyway.
4. We already have gobs of artsy slow contemplative shows. Why not have some fun for a change? Also what the hell genre even is this?
5. The sand people aren't beduins, vikings, mongols, or retired gentlemen from southern italy. Which means we can throw in aspects of any of those willy-nilly. Or not.
6. There are a lot of tribes, and they're mostly different. Maybe some aren't different at all, just to mix things up. Maybe some are total barbarians and turn out to have gone way overboard with the drug melons and fried their brains completely. ...oops?
7. Every episode should have some sort of lizard-induced sort of silliness, a ridiculous tribal backstory, and/or a potential hallucination or five. Or something along those lines, anyway. It's a rule.
8. Every tribe has its own backstory. While they all come from roughly the same set of tales, they've diverged wildly since.
9. The timescale is unclear. Is it drugs, or laziness on the part of the writer? Why not both?
10. Prophetic hallucinations are not spoilers. The real thing can go absolutely however it wants. As many times as it wants. Maybe.
11. Most of the sand people absolutely loathe sand.

Episode 1: Oh look, it's Boba Fett

It should open like Digger, or Fear and Loathing, or something else equally as insane, to really set the scene. Introduce everything, as the strange, wounded man wanders the desert, and weird shit happens. He's been here forever, or not. He meets people, things, rocks. Some are real, some are not. Open up, perhaps, with a shoot-out with a bunch of jawa-mounted banthas. The banthas are all floating a bit above the jawas for some reason, possibly just because otherwise the jawas wouldn't even be visible. He dodges their fire quite skilfully, though it turns out to be rocks. Shoots back, takes them out, one after another after another. They also turn out to be rocks, but much larger rocks. And yet more rocks continue to fly at him, because the sandstorm is still approaching.

He has no armour at this point, just a sand-encrusted jumpsuit and a blaster-shaped stick. Does the stick actually work as a blaster? It might. It sure seems to, at least. He has no other supplies at all, however. No water, no food, no shovel, no shelter. Nothing to protect against the sandstorm, either. So he does what any drugged-out man with a stick would do: challenges the sandstorm to dare steal his shoes?!

He actually might be wearing shoes. Nevermind that.

It knocks him over, and he burrows into his shirt, blindly shaking the stick at the storm regardless, firing wildly.

The storm passes, leaving behind a landscape of softened edges and snow-like accumulation. Of the man there is no sign, until he erupts forth from the sand zombie-style, true to the motions all the way through. It's night. The stars are like an ocean, dizzyingly deep. He shakes a stiffened fist and demands in a hoarse voice that they tell him what he's doing there. Who even is he? Who are you? Why am I asking you?! You're just stars! You can't even hear me!

And then a voice answers, strange and terrible and everywhere: "You're still looking for a job, so stop getting distracted."

He reels at this. He has no idea what it's talking about, or what it is, or anything about it at all. He should be terrified. He's not. He makes an animalistic snarl, indignant-like, regaining his posture. Growls back, "I have a job!"

The voice doesn't miss a beat. Answers, in awful enormity, "But you're not doing it."

"Oh, fuck off," he tells it, except in a more family-friendly way. Mutters something about jawas selling him defective lizards.

Stops.

Remembers.

Flashback to him trading with a bunch of jawas. He's in his trademark armour, except it's absolutely covered in slime, and surrounded by a cloud of fumes. He's haggling, in jawa. Does he even know jawa? He does in the flashback. It's unclear how accurate any of this is, as the colours are all wrong and the other jawas in the background sometimes randomly start floating and doing loop-de-loops before settling back down and resuming whatever they were doing. At one point we see a bunch of completely unrelated muppets doing a whole jizzy gig in the background. They're not there at all a moment later.

It's a frustrating trade. They don't have what he's after. It's not clear what he's after anyway, since it's all in jawa, and he possibly doesn't remember now either. They pull out a bunch of other options. Half a broken droid. Half a working droid (it complains about being not even beside itself anymore). A sack of stinky fish. The engine from a speeder. A pile of guns important to some scene several episodes later. A tiny basket with a lizard.

He trades his armour for the lizard. His blaster is already a stick, so no need to do anything with that.

The lizard jumps up his nose, wiggles in, disappears entirely. He struggles, falls over. Stops.

The voice says, from everywhere and nowhere at once, "Hi there," even as all the world around shimmers, wavers, swirls into exquisitely coloured dust.

Jump back to the present, or whatever this is, and some more setting-appropriate cursing, which quickly deteriorates into incoherent babble, and then somehow reforms itself into some sort of mangled song as he starts running across the dunes.

At some point he dives for cover. A moment later, flying beasts swarm through the air, chirping and twittering. He peers out from behind his cover, before pulling back, scrunching up further. "Need to stay focused," he tells himself. "Not here for the bats, the bats aren't it."

After a bit the bats clear out. He stands up, looks around. The stars are gone. The sky is swimming in lurid hues of every colour imaginable, pulsing, throbbing, doing its very utmost to make everyone very ill, or something.

"No!" he tells it. "You're not it either!" Shoots at the horrible lurid sky. Crouches down and shuffles away. Spies some plant-like shoots poking out from some craggy rocks, follows the rocks down, more plant things. Looks around suspiciously, before dropping down fully to the ground. Uses his stick to dig up a weird melon. Pops the top like a can of soda, and the fumes that emerge waver and shift, almost as if with a life of their own, as if trying to form some particular sort of shape.

He waves the fumes away, then drinks the innards. Glares at the now-empty melon-thing, and informs it, "I don't like you." Nonchalantly stands up and hucks the shell away over his shoulder.

Comes face to face with an oddly-specific figure, who asks him, "What if I don't like you either?"

"I don't need you to like me," he answers. "Either work with me, or stay out of my way."

The figure smirks. Turns to dust on the wind.

It's night again, or maybe still. He's holding another melon, standing atop a huge towering butte, staring off into the abyssal sea of stars above as the sand blows across itself below into a blurred, insignificant horizon between.

He drinks the contents, throws the shell over the edge, and it disappears into the distance.

He blinks. Looks around. Asks, "How did I even get up here?"

Adds, after a moment, and with a great deal of consternation, "Also why?"

"Didn't you want to see the sea?" the voice asks.

"I could have seen it just fine from down there!" he points out. He sighs. Turns around. Looks for a way down. Digs up a couple more melons for the road on the way. Winds up having to fight off some local wildlife, which seemed to be under the bizarre and very unfortunate (for them) impression that drug-man-with-blaster-stick is prey.

It's day. He's sitting in the shade of some canyon thing. Sips his melon, tries to ignore all the chanting from above. Whatever they're doing, he doesn't like it. But it's also above him.

Absentmindedly picks off some dried slime from his jumpsuit. His eyes water at the fumes. He coughs, falls over.

Watches, in horror, as huge slabs of dried slime jiggle their way out of the dirt, wiggle their way out of the cracks in the cliffs, jitter their way through the air, and slam together with a weird snicketty shrieking sound each time another piece joins the whole, coalescing into a huge, giant, sandy, slimey, fluttering figure of... himself? But in armour. With maybe an actual blaster. Definitely a jetpack.

It jetpacks away, up, out.

He jetpacks out of the sarlaac, having finally remembered how to use it, through the thick, corrosive, mind-numbing fumes, muttering about its ears, gotta stop them, gotta snip them, all the ears, it's the ears in the tendrils, ears, all ears, ears. He travels quite a ways, past an actual city or two and totally oblivious of all the gorgeous desert panoramas besides, before finally running out of fuel. Falls out of the sky still muttering, and also twitching a bit. Ragdolls on impact, still completely oblivious as he continues to roll down the dune.

Comes to a stop. Mutters something about happy nappy. Pats the ground securely, and stills.

Strange insectoid blobs show up, bubbling and blurring, their shapes ever changing, right at home with the rest of the world all around them. They crackle and hiss like flames amongst each other. He tenses, not sure what to do, not sure how. They're so big, so wrong. Maybe they'll pass by if he just pretends he's dead?

Nope. They cluster around, crackling, spitting. Poking. They try to take his armour. He leaps into action, swats at them with his not-quite-yet-stick, whirling and twirling. Howls that it's the ears, gotta snip the ears. The ears! Runs at them insistently as they scatter and flee, and chases after a bit, still shouting.

The shapes start to settle a bit as they get away, much smaller than they'd initially looked. Also hairy. He stops before actually catching any, so they never do quite fully turn jawa just yet.

He would be making so many crazy faces at this point, except we can't even see a one, because he still has his helmet on. Gotta settle for some rather inhuman sounds instead, perhaps.

Return to the present. We can see his face now, as he remembers, puts two and two together. Mostly he just looks vaguely uncomfortable. Not quite sure what to do with this information. Not quite sure it matters?

Eyes his empty melon. Gives it a shake, waves it around a bit. Gets some residual fumes to emerge.

They're awfully similar to the sarlaac fumes.

"Now he gets it," the voice says, huge and everywhere and awful.

"You're a hallucination," he tells the voice.

"Obviously," it replies.

"So why couldn't you be less awful?" he asks.

It doesn't answer.

He rolls his eyes. Tries again, "It's all hallucinations?"

"Only mostly," it tells him. "Can't be too distracting, lest the desert seas never survive themselves."

"Am I even really here at all?" he asks.

"What is here? Here is what?"

He winces, pinches his eyes. Just gives up entirely and wanders off.

Maybe other stuff happens. Maybe not. Do we care? This probably covers most of the important bits, at least. The rest would just be further filler. Teasers. Stuff thrown in to see what people turn into memes already, hopefully, because that'll be the stuff to focus on, of course, if you definitely don't understand the lifecycle of memes.

In the end, he's mostly sober, adjusted to this whole mess, just getting some continued vague weirdness from the melons. Maybe he's even starting to question if his stick really is anything more than a stick. Presumably some dramatic climactic reveal that this is definitely actually Boba Fett, complete with gratuitous namedropping, has finally occurred.

OBLIGATORY TITLE SCREEN AT THIS REVEAL, EVEN IF IT'S ALMOST THE END OF THE TIMESLOT ALREADY

It's day, the suns beating down overhead. He's sitting by a marker, one of those tapering stacks of stones, indicating the way in the middle of a great flat vastness of rippling heat and nothing much but. In this case, the way is some of those unreal plant shoots, as if only painted badly on in post, and under them, more of those infernal melons to dig up like some sort of joke replacement for a well. He's drinking one, resigned to it, maybe even coming to savour it. Why not. It's all there is. He has no choice.

A figure appears on the horizon. Rides up very, very, very slowly, because banthas are very, very, very slow, apparently.

The guy just watches, disinterested. His stick is beside him, but he doesn't reach for it. Not yet. Plus the figure apparently also has a stick, but with mounted advantage. Typical.

So he sits, watches, as the figure continues to approach, finally starting to actually look like someone on a bantha. Definitely has a stick.

Boba Fett sighs.

Finally, after a long, long, long approach, the figure arrives. Dismounts. It's a sandperson, but only one. Comes around, points the stick at Boba Fett.

Turns out he's a bit beyond actually caring at this point, and just watches the sandperson impassively, waiting still. Daring the newcomer to either follow through or fuck off.

The sandperson stands in deliberation, stick pointed quite certainly straight at sitting man's chest.

Boba Fett doesn't even really react at all.

"He knows, same as you do," the terrible everywhere nowhere voice says. "He knows."

"I don't," Boba Fett says. "So unless he can actually explain any of this, I am not interested."

The sandperson rocks his head, seems to consider. Notes our madman's stick in turn, before finally lowering his own. Answers, in a language that definitely shouldn't be perfectly intelligible, but somehow totally is, "I can. Ride with me."

Episode 2: Well, that's a backstory, maybe

Open on a stereotypical adventuretown settlement, desert edition. Star Wars bedouins, aka sand people, doing star wars bedouin non-raiding things, because why the hell would you even be going a viking all the time?! Obviously they do normal stuff too, somewhere, probably. Like at very least throw a moot and get high on concentrated melons or something maybe? But also come on, even if you know nothing about the culture you're aiming to stereotype, at least pull from something functionally similar. They're all pretty weird regardless, it's just different flavours.

In this case, normal stuff at the moment seems to mostly consist of a couple of arguments amongst each other (possibly folks seated in something rocking-chair-like somewhere porchlike, drinking concentrated melons all day long like the proper old farts that they are), as well as some random pantsless tiny children running around screaming, with some sort of parental figure shouting at a pair of them in particular, and then a shoe flying at one of those, clonking that one on the head.

Notably, this particular pair of pantsless tiny children appear, for whatever reason, to be twi'leks, making the pantlessness that tiny children the worlds over seem to be prone to all the more ironic. Never even mind how uncomfortable pants actually are in a hot desert, consider how most gamers seem to want to play twi'leks in MMOs. But nope, in this case, it's just typical tiny undergrown idiots being typical tiny undergrown idiots. Ensue obligatory pantslessness.

Another shoe flies after them before we move on from this semi-pointless scene-setting.

It may be of note that these sand people are, while still recognisably sand people somewhat, overall dressed and masked in a fashion rather different from previous portrayals. This isn't to break convention, however, so much as just to maybe possibly start to set things up to distinguish between different tribes, especially when we might possibly be on totally the other side of the planet from others previously seen on TV anyway (who we'll definitely obviously encounter later). Planets are big, yo. They're big.

All of that probably sails over our viewers' heads regardless, and our two riders - the not-actually-titular Boba Fett and the for now still unnamed, masked-only fella who just randomly showed up out of nowhere and we're absolutely not calling Sherif Ali - finally dismount from the incredibly slow-moving bantha that has, thus far, allowed us in its slowness to still somehow fail to appreciate all the worldbuilding smashed into this random desert settlement.

It's a little comical, really, considering the sheer size of the thing. They basically each drop down like overweight cats. The only thing missing is the loud thonks.

They go into a yurt. Inside are two sandpeople in even differenter garb, fighting over what may or may not be the dial on what may or may not be some sort of portable stove. Flames erupt from the hob, then change colour, then go out. They're also arguing, something about how we need this temperature, so this colour, no we need it to not burn out the emitters, dude there's no point if we can't actually cook the thing anyway?! Etc, going around in circles a bit.

Boba Fett gives them a dubious look. Raises an eyebrow at Not-Ali.

Not-Ali crosses his arms.

The two don't seem to notice, and continue arguing and fighting over the dial for an entire two more lines and four more bursts of flames before one of them makes an especially pretty purple fwoosh that sets the other one on fire.

The not-on-fire one screams and flails a bit, before running away.

The on-fire one falls over, but completely neglects to actually roll around on the probably actually somewhat fire-resistant carpets. Normal wool is surprisingly fire-resistant, turns out. Bantha wool might be positively impervious. At very least the yurt doesn't catch fire, whatever the case.

Not-Ali finally steps forward, grabs the star wars version of a fire blanket (probably just a fire blanket, come on, you can make them out of just about whatever as long as it's gapless and has a relatively high ignition point) off a random post, and throws it over the on-fire person. Wraps them up a bit in a sort of twisting motion and fwips it back off.

Just like that, fire's out, situation resolved.

The stove makes a weird noise, so Not-Ali turns it off fully.

"Seriously?" Boba Fett says, decidedly unimpressed by all this, on several levels.

The other bickerer, now hiding behind something, peeks around the side of it. Pulls back abruptly when spotted.

"I have no words," Not-Ali says. Shakes his head in utter disappointment, or something.

"You mean besides those?" Boba Fett also steps over to take a look. Admits, "Not that I have any idea what to make of this either, but I don't really know what to make of any of this anyway."

"Ashk-osk," Not-Ali commands. Jerks his head in a come-here motion as the other bickerer peers around at them again.

Ashk-osk, apparently, finally emerges trepidatiously, scoots forward, drops to the ground at Not-Ali's feet.

There's a bit of a pause, as if even Not-Ali wasn't actually expecting that. Then he just sighs. Asks them both, "Did Torishk Abernthadsol not tell you precisely what temperature you need?"

The pair look at eat other (or at very least point their masks at each other), before the slightly-singed one admits, "Well... yes?"

The other one also looks up and nods, after a slight further delay.

"So what exactly is the problem?" Not-Ali asks.

"Well..." the singed one starts. Trails off. Points his (?) mask at the other one.

"The stove doesn't do that temperature?" Askh-osk says.

"Do other stoves?" Boba Fett asks.

"Uh..." Ashk-osk says. The two exchange looks again, and then, in perfect unison, flee out of the yurt, running right past our actually maybe important characters.

"...what," Boba Fett says.

"Some people are idiots," Not-Ali replies. Waggles his head. "It's a fact of life."

TITLE SCREEEEEEN?! OOOO BACKSTORY

They wind up talking to some sort of Important Person further in, who seems to be some sort of secretary records keeper, or possibly the shaman guiding the entire tribe, or maybe some random granny or something, who gives them the sweeping grand backstory.

It's an epic tale, complete with custom animation, depicting the origins of the tribe, their floating turtle-crawlers eating their way across the surface of the misting, churning, blinding oceans, and an infestation of totally-not-slugs that kept getting into their beer. They fought the slugs with weapons, with space swords and sticks shaped like blasters (the sticks being giant slugs too at this point might be a bit much), to no avail. They fought the slugs with poison, and near poisoned themselves more than the actual slugs (and maybe their slug-guns?). They fought the slugs with fire, and the slugs just became flaming slugs, not even bothered, still getting into their beer!

So the tribe had to take drastic measures. They broke away from the other tribes, and set out alone in search of aid, or answers, or something. Something to use as slug repellent that actually worked, maybe? They encountered monsters, sirens, storms, the tribe's then-shaman-leader's mum, now giant and half-mum, half-kraken, and possibly not even the correct halves. Through it all they prevailed, or at least mostly survived, since they did at least still have some beer even if the slugs were eating a good half of it, and they weren't exactly helpless considering their floating turtle crawler was absolutely covered in giant guns... that may or may not have just been giant logs (or slugs) shaped like artillery, it's not entirely clear. Literally, the art style isn't the clearest.

Until at last, at long, long last, they came to the Quantum Island, said to be spotted once in every man's lifespan, only to disappear the moment they look away.

Only now, they all saw it. And they all stared at it. Did their utmost to not look away. Some blinked, but so long as others did not, it was okay, and so they coordinated their blinking! Until they could dock, a procedure that consisted of the crawler taking a giant chomp out of the island, eating approximately half of it in one bite.

The bravest warriors disembarked, staring absolutely intently all the while, bug-eyed (the masks came later). Searched the island, under every rock, every bit of washed up weeds. Behind the single tree approximately eight different times.

And that's where they found the lizard. Which promptly jumped up someone's nose and told him how to fix the problem: just dump all the beer from the affected vats, clean them out completely in the ocean, and get a new starter off another tribe. Dude.

And so, armed with this new information, they headed back. Returned to the other tribes, did as the lizard said.

And all was well.

This whole tale takes maybe five minutes to tell, and ends with a pithy, "See? Totally reasonable."

Boba Fett winces. Shakes his head. Says, "Yeah. No. I'm going."

"But now you know," the horrible everywhere voice says, as he turns to leave.

"No!" he shouts at it, not even stopping as he heads for the exit.

The lizard jumps out of his nose, hits the floor with an entirely too wet-sounding splat, especially considering the ground is probably carpets, which really aren't that conducive to splats.

Finally Boba Fett stops. Stares at it.

The lizard doesn't move.

He stares at it some more.

"Yup," the shaman granny secretary says, going back to whatever she was doing before they'd shown up.

Not-Ali comes around. Looks at the lizard. Looks at Boba Fett. Tilts his head enquiringly.

Boba Fett pokes it with his stick.

Immediately the lizard perks up and scuttles away. Dives into a bunch of random junk, and disappears.

"It's real," Not-Ali says. "Welcome to the tribe." Pauses. Adds, with a slight shrug, "If you want."

Boba Fett tries to speak. Sputters. Throws up his hands and gesticulates a bit. Finally just lets out a long, sad whimper, the desperation at this point written clearly across his face. Not even diagonally. Just straight across.

"You can leave," Not-Ali goes on. "Wander on, see the sights. Find other civilisation if you want. Even go off-world if that's where you'd rather be. There's..." he trails off with a long sigh. "Options. Not really sure why more people don't take them."

"Well... what about you?" Boba Fett asks.

Not-Ali shrugs. "This is what I know. And I'm good at it. Damn good."

"Eh?"

"Damn good," Not-Ali repeats.

"At what, exactly?" Boba Fett asks.

Not-Ali just turns to leave, but indicates with his head to come with.

Outside the yurt once more, Not-Ali points in a seemingly random direction, and declares, "THIS."

"Uh huh," Boba Fett says. "Okay."

One of the old drunk porch farts shouts at them, "Hey, when ya gonna check out that construction out by back by way?" Waves a particularly fumy melon at them for emphasis, while Not-Ali just turns slowly to face him. Shouts as a followup, "You should totally check out that construction and tell us aaaaaall abouts it!"

Not-Ali shifts his stance. Takes a deep, huge breath. Begins, initially quietly, "For the 87th time." Pauses for an even deeper breath, and bellows back his actual retort, like an angry foghorn: "I DON'T CARE!"

The settlement goes silent, still. For a moment, the sheer loudness and its after-effects put a pause to everything all around. Then a bantha falls over, and sound resumes. Life goes on.

The old fart grumbles, but pretty obviously intentionally still loudly enough for them to still hear it, "Well if you're gonna be like that about it..."

"Yes!" Not-Ali barks back, still loudly, but at least not as. Quieter like a more normal, less violent sort of horn. "Yes I am."

Which is amusing and all, but at some point, presumeably some actual plot should happen? What even is anyone after here, anyway? It never really was clear.

Seriously, I'm not gonna make up an entire plot for a silly TV show that shouldn't even exist (for so many reasons). I got dumber plots to make up.