Beyond - Legends Saga - Legends Intermezzi I | Bits and pieces from the Ἀνάγκη-verse, ECs & OCs | Kessel Run Challenge 2022

Kessel Run week 6: Write an AU (alternate universe) story of at least 500 words where the moral alignment of one of your characters is the opposite of (or drastically different from) what it is in canon and/or Legends (or the source material, for OCs or NSW fandoms).
Characters: Ayesha Eskari (OC), Thrawn
Timeframe: 0 BBY, just two months before the Battle of Yavin, as an AU rewrite of Ἀνάγκη – Necessity beyond Sway, part I, chapter 1: The Modified Demahl
Word count: 1820 words

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The Modified Demahl

The dimly lit corridor of the Imperial Palace seemed deserted as she stepped out of the meeting hall and went to the pile of materials stacked against the wall, humming to herself along the way. She added the two empty buckets she was carrying to the stack on the left, tucked the lids behind the boxes and turned to the last bucket that was full. She took a deep breath and went to heave it off the floor to carry it into the room.

“Allow me.” A cool, cultured voice behind her caused her to jump in fright. A blue hand protruding from the olive-green sleeve of an officer’s uniform grabbed the handle and lifted the bucket with ease.

She froze in her tracks for a moment. His skin was blue? She had never heard of aliens in the Imperial Navy, or even of near-Humans. As a matter of fact, with precious few exceptions – and those all had to do with people who were so high up in the food chain that they were essentially untouchable – she had never seen any aliens at all in the Imperial Palace, and she had gone to great lengths to conceal her own heritage, lest the hounds of the Emperor’s inner circle smelled blood and rounded on her.

The blue-skinned man was already in the meeting hall, carrying the bucket to the corner where her tools and equipment stood. She gave him a curt word of thanks and noticed his glowing red eyes flitting to the basket of wipes. She offered him one, hoping with all her might that he would leave as soon as his hands were clean of the mud from the bucket’s handle. Instead, his gaze wandered around the room, going from one decorated wall panel to the next and lingering on the unfinished one before returning to her. He arched a single blue-black eyebrow in question.

“Can I help you?” she asked. She strived to sound terse, yet polite. He had done her no wrong – he was actually being helpful – but she wouldn’t let herself be caught in the company of an alien, not after all the effort she had put into carving out her place in Imperial society.

Unfortunately, it appeared that it would take more to discourage him. “I came here for a meeting with High Command,” he replied in a deep, even voice. “I was expecting a roomful of stiff senior officers. I will admit that to find instead a woman in Berchestian artisan trousers running around barefoot and carrying buckets of Gungan swamp clay is... intriguing.” His eyes glittered with their odd inner light. “Especially when the woman in question is neither Berchestian nor Gungan” – he took in the sculpts on the room’s walls once more – “and she is no mere artisan either.”

Her hand went reflexively to her cheekbone, where the Qukuuf mark hidden under layers of makeup marked her as near-Human. She steeled herself. “Indeed, I think it quite obvious that I am no alien.” She gave just enough emphasis to the last word to make him feel that he was not entirely welcome.

He stared at her for a fraction of a second and settled for a military bow. “Senior Captain Thrawn, at your service.” He gestured towards the wall panels. “May I have a look?”

Apparently he didn’t get the hint. She suppressed a sigh. It was just her luck, she thought, that the first and so far only officer to express any interest in her art had to be an alien. She opted for an indifferent shrug. “As you wish. Please don’t touch that one,” – she pointed at the panel to the right of the double doors – “the clay isn’t dry yet.”

Thrawn merely nodded and absorbed himself in a careful examination of the lightning pattern she had moulded from clay on the walls. She returned to the bucket he’d carried, removing the lid before flipping it over. The fresh clay slipped out of the plastoid and landed on the tarpaulin with a soft thump. She selected a potter’s wire from her tools and sliced off a chunk that she weighed carefully before dropping it into the barrel of her duracrete mixer. She poured in the appropriate amount of water and activated the engine to let the clay dissolve until it acquired the creamy texture of liquid mud. She added precise measurements of white dust and a shiny, granular substance to the mix, and was about to weigh the complement of clay when Thrawn’s voice broke into her thoughts.

“Is that the modified Demahl technique you are using?”

Of all the… “It is,” she said over the din of the duracrete mixer. How could he possibly know about the Demahl, let alone the modified Demahl? Most people wouldn’t know it if you gift-wrapped it and served it to them on a platter. But then, it was plenty obvious that this blue-skinned Senior Captain Thrawn was not most people.

Before she knew it, he was at her side examining her supplies. “I was not aware that the modified Demahl mix includes pseudolime.”

Now she was genuinely curious. Stop, she scolded herself. You are not here to make friends, certainly not with people like him. You are here for your career and nothing else. He must go away, the sooner the better.

“It normally doesn’t,” she said coldly. “This is an additional modification that was suggested by Lord Vader.” That should do it. People always gave her a wide berth when they found out that she was on speaking terms with the armoured menace that haunted the Palace’s hallways.

Thrawn raised an eyebrow. “Lord Vader? Most intriguing. I was not aware that he had any interest in art.”

She opened her mouth to speak and closed it again. She wouldn’t make small talk with this stranger, and she would certainly not let the conversation be steered towards Lord Vader’s preferences and inclinations. She decided not to answer, focusing her attention on the clay that was coming together in the duracrete mixer.

There was a long silence during which Thrawn went back to his examination of the lightning pattern she had created on the walls. She all but forgot his presence; the mud in the barrel had become thick and sticky, and she was gouging it out onto the tarp and checking that the mix was uniformly smooth when his voice surprised her again.

“You are an artist, Miss,” he said softly. “A very talented one at that. You cannot hide who you truly are, no matter how hard you try.”

She spun on her heel to face him. “I’m not hiding anything,” she snapped. She had intended to sound annoyed, but couldn’t hide from herself that there was a hint of defensive pleading in her voice.

“Oh, but you are.” His tone was not accusatory; he was merely stating a fact. He took a little of the mud and smeared it between his fingers. “You could have mixed your clay by hand, to allow for slight variations of texture that you would then take advantage of while carving your panels. You chose instead to use this contraption” – he gestured towards the duracrete mixer – “and create a material that is entirely impersonal.”

“Duracrete mixers exist to make people’s lives easier,” she retorted acidly. “I thought that you Navy types are big on efficiency.”

Thrawn was entirely unfazed. “We are. But we deal in tactics and strategy, not art. You, on the other hand, choose efficiency in order to prevent your art from standing out as it deserves.”

“Is that so?”

“It is. Furthermore, you claim that the addition of pseudolime to the modified Demahl was suggested to you by Lord Vader. He may have suggested modifying the mix in order to make the clay adhere better, but it is obvious from this panel” – he pointed behind him – “that you experimented with various additives before you settled on pseudolime. For all his knowledge of the cultures of Naboo, I am quite certain that Lord Vader does not have such a hands-on approach to assisting in the redecoration of this meeting room. I therefore conclude that you did not wish to acknowledge that your take on the modified Demahl is your own. Again, you do not want to stand out.”

He was infuriating, he was. “Oh, really?” she asked. “What else am I hiding?”

The faintest of smiles curled his lips. He gestured towards the panels once more. “Only the obvious. Your clothes are Berchestian. Your primary material is Gungan. The pattern you carved is… Kiffar, I think? And yet...”

He let the unspoken implication hang in the air. She gave him a haughty glare, but he merely stood in front of her, utterly impassive, fixing her with his glowing red eyes and letting the silence between them grow so thick that one could cut through it with a knife. After a few minutes she could only blush and lower her gaze.

“As I said, you cannot hide who you truly are, Miss,” he finally said. “You are trying to keep a low profile, but you are doing a poor job of it. You would be better off embracing your identity. You might have to face some unpleasant consequences, but you would allow yourself to actually enjoy your craft instead of diminishing yourself on a daily basis.” He took one more look at the room. “Now as much as I would like to continue this conversation, I am afraid that I must go and find out where the High Command meeting is being held before I am late.”

At long last he was leaving. “It’s in the Naboo room,” she told him. “One floor up, across the hall. All the meetings have been moved there until I’m done.”

“Thank you.” He took a step towards the door. “It was a pleasure meeting you, Miss.”

“The pleasure was mine, Captain,” she answered very formally. She gestured towards the now-empty bucket of clay. “Thank you for your help.”

He gave her another military bow and left. She let out a breath that she didn’t know she had been holding. Who was this man who could see right through her? At least she had not told him her name – not that it really mattered, she thought bitterly; her secret was out now. She wasn’t trying to protect herself from the Emperor’s hounds anymore, she was just being rude.

And she was being rude to the only senior Navy officer who was likely to be her ally once the entire Palace realised that the Emperor Palpatine Fellow for the Arts who was redecorating the High Command meeting hall was not a pure-blooded Human.

She sprinted out of the room and caught up with him at the end of the hallway. “I realise that I didn’t introduce myself, Captain,” she told him when he arched that eyebrow again. “I’m Ayesha Eskari.”

 

Kessel Run week 10: Write a story between 100 and 400 words, and include these three words: galvanise, cavalier, adversary
Characters: Commander, later Admiral, Wes Deplat (OC)
Timeframe: the first part takes place in 8 ABY, during Ἀνάγκη – Necessity beyond Sway, part III, chapter 37: Sacrifice; the second part takes place in 18 ABY and refers extensively to the following chapter of Ἀνάγκη: Obsession.
Word count: 304 words for the first section, which is the actual challenge response.

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Against Oblivion

It was just like Senior Captain Ruud, Commander Deplat thought, to galvanise his crew with an impassioned speech about the need to save the Grand Admiral at all costs, and then to send everyone to the escape pods.

Of course, Wes didn’t really expect any less when it became clear that the senior captain’s plan was to ram their adversaries’ incoming capital ships with the Discipline. Ruud had never been cavalier about the lives of the men and women under his command, and while he was willing to sacrifice his Star Destroyer – or what was left of it – and himself for Thrawn, he would do everything in his power to ensure that those who were still alive after hours of this savage battle survived.

Everyone obeyed the captain’s orders and fled. Everyone, except his wife Valeria, who should never have joined the fleet on this expedition against the Far Outsiders in the first place (she was a civilian consultant, for Vader’s sake, why did she need to follow her husband into battle?), and the Discipline’s helmsman, who argued that Ruud needed him if this gambit were to work. Wes hoped fervently that someone remembered the man’s name. He didn’t know it himself, but he’d be kesseled if they ultimately survived this and didn’t know who to thank for it.

His escape pod ejected just as the Discipline’s bow collided with one of the Far Outsiders’ ships. The mother of all shockwaves sent it tumbling across space, the synthleather strips of his safety webbing slicing into his flesh as the pod careened in what felt like every possible direction. He was shouting instructions at his fellow passengers, telling them to curl up in a brace position, when a piece of debris crashed into them. His head slammed against the pod’s wall, and everything went black.

* * *​

The commemoration of the Battle of the Edge was always a momentous occasion in the Empire of the Hand, but today’s ceremony, taking place ten years to the day since the fateful encounter where Thrawn’s fleet had stopped the Far Outsiders’ first attempt to invade the galaxy, was grander than usual, with more pomp, longer speeches, and every ship of the fleet flying in orbit above Nirauan as the service was broadcast over the comm for the crews to hear. Standing in the Admonitor’s hangar bay, Admiral Deplat let out a sigh. How many of those in attendance, he wondered, had seen enough combat to understand how terrifying it had truly been? Since Grand Admiral Thrawn had returned to the known galaxy and then disappeared, his lieutenants had been busy rebuilding their forces and preparing for another invasion – but, for all practical purposes, the fleet had merely been patrolling the Unknown Regions, unable to reveal itself to the New Republic lest they opened another front before the gaping wound inflicted by the Far Outsiders had properly healed; and the younger crewmen and women simply couldn’t grasp the devastation of that battle on the edge of the galaxy all those years ago.

The speeches finally ended and the audience began to disperse. The senior officers were due to join Admiral Voss Parck in the lounge where refreshments were being served, but Wes gestured for his subordinates to move on, indicating that he would catch up with them. Once he was alone in the hangar bay, he turned around and took a few steps towards the memorial on the back wall.

He could remember how Thrawn’s lifemate had started carving the names of the fallen into the wall as the fleet limped back to Nirauan after the battle. She had invited all and sundry to assist her in this task; Wes himself had etched the outline of the word Discipline in the durasteel plate. He had been a commander back then, Senior Captain Ruud’s second-in-command. As he stood here now, the same tidal wave of bereavement that had caused him to break down on that day began to rise again. He disciplined his emotions. There would be time for him to grieve once more for his long-gone comrades in private after he returned to his ship. Now, however, was not that time. He was here to right a wrong.

Over the years, Wes had spent long hours poring over this list of names, in a fruitless effort to identify the Discipline’s helmsman who had shared the fate of the Senior Captain and his wife. His eyes went automatically to the names ‘Matthias Ruud’ and ‘Valeria Dalissis’ that had pride of place near the centrepiece of the monument. He noticed that ‘Dagon Niriz’ had been added at some point in the last year. Captain Niriz had been grievously wounded in the Battle of the Edge, and, while he had survived and gone on to administer the Fortress of the Hand, he had ultimately died of complications related to his old injuries some fourteen months prior. Wes allowed himself a small smile. It was only fair that Niriz be added to the memorial, but it also justified the addition he was about to make himself.

He extracted a small plaque from his uniform pocket, welded it carefully next to the word Discipline and took a step back to look at it. It read: “To the hand on the helm. Your name is lost to us, but you are not forgotten.”

Yes, he thought. That would be fine. It wasn’t quite good enough, but it was the best he could do.

He pressed his palm to the durasteel wall for a few moments and bid his missing friends one last farewell. He felt considerably lighter as he spun on his heel and walked towards Admiral Parck’s reception.

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Fanon elements and Wookieepedia links
‘Far Outsiders’ is the name used for the Yuuzhan Vong by the Chiss (in canon) and the Empire of the Hand (in my fanon).
The Battle of the Edge is my fanon. I touched upon the idea that the helmsman’s name was lost to history in my related story The Lost Artist, but I felt that I should elaborate.
Wes Deplat, Matt Ruud and Valeria Dalissis are OCs; Voss Parck and Dagon Niriz are established Legends characters.

 

Kessel Run Week 12: Write a longer vignette/one-shot between 2,000 and 8,000 words using the “5+1 Times/Things” format. This is typically a series of scenes or shorter vignettes connected by an overarching theme. The first five sections will usually have the same “thing” in common, while the last section is an inversion of the previous sections.
OTP challenge #28: March 2023 OTP Bingo. My prompts are: (un)necessary, “I know”, push/pull, love is patient, vow. Because this is on the longer side for a one-shot, I bolded the words ‘unnecessary’, ‘I know’, ‘patient’ and ‘vow’ in the text; the push/pull element comes as a recurring theme throughout the fic.
Characters: Matthias Ruud, Valeria Dalissis, Ayesha Eskari (OCs), Thrawn, a smattering of other established and original characters
Timeframe: 0 BBY - 1 ABY; begins during part I, chapter 10: Captain Ruud of Ἀνάγκη – Necessity beyond Sway, and ends with chapter 24: Jealousy.
Word count: 5721 words
Notes: Matthias Ruud first appeared in Ἀνάγκη as a secondary character in 2014. He has somewhat evolved in my mind in the 9 years that have passed since I created him, but I do think that this version doesn’t diverge too much from the original one.

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‘She’

One month before the Battle of Yavin

Contrary to the reputation that followed him around the Imperial Palace, Captain Matthias Ruud was actually quite shy. Most thought that speaking to women came to him as easily as breathing, but the truth was that he made the best of his good looks and easy charm to hide his natural awkwardness. He didn’t mind the fact that it made him come across as an incorrigible flirt – although he was always pleasantly surprised when women responded in kind – as long as it allowed him to breeze through official events like the one he was attending today.

As Palace functions came, this one wasn’t too bad. The room where High Command held their meetings had been redecorated by a young artist who was the recipient of a grant sponsored by the Emperor, and the result wasn’t at all what Matt had expected. He wasn’t much into imperial aesthetics in the first place and he’d tried pretty hard to figure out a way to decline the invitation when he received it – his service in the Outer Rim left him little time to see his friends on Coruscant, and he’d much rather be drinking a couple of ales in one of his favourite haunts on his first day planetside. However, it turned out that coming here was the right thing to do. Not only had the sculptress created a living aurora – the walls of the meeting hall had literally lit up and sparkled when the oblique rays of the setting sun came to touch the sculpted lightning pattern – but her work was as far removed from the dark, austere lines of imperial art as could possibly be. What was more, she explained in her presentation that she had chosen materials favoured by the Gungan of Naboo and the Talid of Ando Prime, and that was bound to rile up the Human supremacists that abounded in the imperial administration. The woman had guts, he had to give it to her. She also struck him as being smart, cheerful and friendly, and the fact that she was rather cute was an added bonus.

He saw in the corner of his eye that, once the pomp and speeches were over, she had joined Senior Captain Thrawn on the balcony. This was as good an opportunity as any to present his compliments to her while catching up with the man who had been his favourite instructor in the Academy of Carida, and he moved towards the buffet to order a drink before joining them.

That was when he saw her.

The pretty, elegant brunette came across as a quiet, unassuming woman, or so he thought at first, but the moment her eyes moved away from the nondescript officer with whom she was talking and met his, he understood that she was anything but. There was a mischievous sparkle there and something more; she was looking at him as if she could see right through him. He did his best to not blush and gave her a polite nod. Had he met her somewhere before, for her to be staring at him like this? But no, he’d definitely remember that piercing gaze. There was something powerfully attractive about her –

The steward placing a glass of wine in his hand brought him back to reality. By the time he stole another glance at the woman, she was already talking to the officer again and he was far too intimidated to just walk up to her, interrupt them and introduce himself. He looked back at the Northern Lights Room. Night had fallen over Coruscant and the crystal threads embedded in the walls’ carved lightning pattern shimmered softly in the light of the glowpanels. Senior Captain Thrawn was still with the artist on the balcony, near a gaggle of young officers and courtesans who appeared to be greatly enjoying themselves. He joined the group for a few minutes and drifted towards his former instructor.

An hour later, he was as happy with this evening as he could reasonably be. The conversation with Thrawn and Ayesha Eskari – that was the artist’s name – had been entertaining and interesting. She was genuinely curious about the places he had visited in the Outer Rim and his own natural curiosity provided endless fodder for a compelling discussion. Then the Emperor himself had turned up and essentially ordered him to take Ayesha out to dinner. Matt wasn’t particularly keen on the Emperor organising his dinner dates for him but in this case he didn’t mind at all. Ayesha was a delightful person to be around and he really wanted to get to know her better. He left her briefly in Thrawn’s company to arrange an appointment with Admiral Ozzel and came back to fetch her, hoping that the awkwardness that had taken hold of her when the Emperor appeared would fade away once they were sitting in a cosy little restaurant and talking about alien art again.

They were about to step out of the meeting hall when he saw her again. She was staring at him with that piercing gaze of hers, but this time, there was a hint of disappointment in her eyes. For a moment he was under the impression that she had been hoping to leave with him tonight – and, deep down, that would have been his preference as well – but, once she had his attention, she glanced at a spot somewhere to his left, returned to him and raised her eyebrows ever so slightly.

Matt turned around casually and saw that Thrawn was still on the balcony, watching Ayesha walk away. And suddenly, it dawned on him. The Emperor hadn’t instructed him to take Ayesha out to dinner for their own enjoyment. He had done so to keep her away from Thrawn – and, judging from Thrawn’s longing stare and Ayesha’s newfound stiffness, she would much rather have left the Northern Lights Room inauguration with the blue-skinned alien than with him.

He squared his shoulders, returned his attention to her and gave her the faintest nod of acknowledgement. He couldn’t disobey what was tantamount to a direct order from the Emperor, but he sure as hell could guarantee that Ayesha spent a nice, respectful evening in his company before he stepped aside and let her live her life.

* * *​

Six weeks after the Battle of Yavin

“Oh, come on, Matt, you and I both know that it’s not true.”

Matt was surprised at her determination. “And how do we know that?”

“Because you’ve been floating around Coruscant, escorting me to Imperial shindigs and taking me out to lunch and dinner for nearly two months,” Ayesha retorted. “If the Rebellion had the firepower to blow up entire planets, it would be an all-hands-on-deck situation and you’d be out on your ship fighting a war. I can put two and two together, you know. Alderaan was destroyed by…” Her voice trailed off as she remembered that they were in a restaurant and that the neighbouring tables might overhear her.

The young man studied her carefully. There was no point trying to argue with her when she was so blatantly right. He lowered his voice. “You do realise that I can’t confirm that, don’t you?”

“And I’m not asking you to,” she countered. “But I like to think that we’re close enough friends by now that we don’t need to pretend anymore.”

Matt gave her a warm smile. “We are.”

The irony of the situation didn’t escape him. The Emperor’s plan when he’d hooked him up with Ayesha had backfired spectacularly. Not only was the young woman clearly not attracted to him – Matt had no doubt that she was actually smitten with Senior Captain Thrawn, even though she did a fairly good job of not being too obvious about it when his name came up in conversation – but they’d had such a nice time during that first dinner that there had been a second one, and then a third, and, before Matt knew it, Ayesha had become like a sibling to him. Not only that, but once he’d noticed that the Emperor was in the habit of throwing every single man in the Palace at her, and usually the sleazier types, he had taken upon himself to attend official functions with her. As the Emperor Palpatine Fellow for the Arts, Ayesha was in no position to decline invitations when she received them, and Matt was happy to shield her from the unwanted attentions of the likes of Grand Admiral Zaarin – as if, he thought with a snort, any sensible woman would pay attention to that barve when someone like Thrawn was around. The rumour mill was running amok but he didn’t care. To him, those evenings were merely another opportunity to spend time with his friend, and they came with the perk that her presence made him that much more confident to socialise with the imperial elite.

He sat back in his chair. “There’s one thing I can confirm for you though,” he said quietly. “I did some ferreting around, because I thought you might be worried, and” – he lowered his voice to a whisper – “Senior Captain Thrawn wasn’t involved in any of the fighting that took place this month. I wasn’t able to figure out where he is, but I’m pretty sure he’s safe.”

Ayesha blushed ever so slightly. “Thanks for telling me.”

He grinned. “You’re welcome. That’s what friends are for.”

There was a comfortable silence. The waitress came to clean up their table and brought a plate of fruit for dessert. “So,” Ayesha asked. “Are you happy with your new assignment?”

He shrugged. “It’s just more of the same, really. I’ll be patrolling a sector of the Outer Rim. They’re giving me a bigger ship than last time though, so I’m counting it as a win.” He took a handful of zherries from the platter. “By the way, I forgot to mention. They called me to the Northern Lights Room to give me my orders.”

What he was too shy to tell her is that she had been there.

This hadn’t been his first meeting with High Command of course, and, while he was as diligent as ever about his preparedness for such encounters, he’d stopped being intimidated a long time ago. But walking into the room and finding himself face-to-face with her had thrown him completely off-kilter. The mysterious brunette was on her way out as he came in and she was entirely unperturbed at his sudden appearance, staring at him instead with that piercing gaze that seemed to reel him in like a dreeka on the end of a fishing line. She merely gave him an impish grin, said: “Good afternoon, Captain Ruud” (he noted that she had a deeper voice than most women, but how the blazes did she know his name?) and left.

Ayesha’s eager question broke into his thoughts. “Did it light up?”

He pulled himself back to the here and now. “The aurora in the Northern Lights Room, you mean? Oh yes, it most definitely did. Not even from direct sunlight, mind you; it was just a reflection from the windows of 500 Republica, but it made the snow crystals glow just fine. Grand Moff Kaine was there and it was his first time seeing it. He was impressed, I can tell you that. He told his aide to look up more of your work.”

Ayesha blushed again, with pleasure this time. Matt checked his chrono and tapped the datapad embedded in the table for the bill. “Tonight’s on me,” he said when she went to protest. “Besides, you’ll be on your own for the next couple of months now that I’m going on assignment again. Try not to let Zaarin corner you while I’m away, yeah?” He grinned. “And if I make it back before your dashing blue captain, you’re treating me to dinner as soon as I’m planetside again.”

* * *​

Four months after the Battle of Yavin

There was no promotion in the galaxy, Matt thought, that was worth having to face this.

Sure, he deserved his rank of senior captain for crushing that rebel task force in the Paloma system – not that it was a system of any importance, but his little manoeuvre had denied the rebels a base, and, most importantly, it had been clever enough to attract the attention of Grand Admiral Declann. He was also fully aware that there were a great many officers who were a decade older than him and who barely made captain, if even that. But to be given his new rank bars by the supreme commander of the Imperial Navy who was breathing in his face in that creepy mechanical breath of his, and to not faint on the spot? He ought to be made at least a rear admiral for that.

Thankfully, Lord Vader merely clipped the plaque to his chest and moved on to the next officer. Matt let out a silent sigh of relief and looked at the assembled audience. He barely knew any of the people in attendance. Most of his friends were, like him, in the army or navy and, while it had taken some time to get the heavy imperial machine to react to the loss of the Death Star, by now nearly all of them had been pulled into active service, even those who had secured data-pusher jobs in Imperial Centre. In a bizarre twist of fate, Matt’s promotion meant that he was being taken away from the frontlines and assigned to one of the orbital defence platforms above Coruscant. However, this was bound to be a temporary arrangement. Senior captains normally commanded a task force, complete with Star Destroyer and all, and it was only a matter of time until High Command figured out where to deploy him next.

He saw that Ayesha was standing in the back of the crowd. She gave him a bright smile and waved at him when she caught his attention. It was nice of her to be here, he thought; an invitation to this sort of palace function didn’t come with compulsory attendance and chances were that she hadn’t even been invited in the first place. She’d turned up just for him and he was grateful. Receiving your promotion from Lord Vader was terrifying indeed, but still, making senior captain when he was just over thirty-one years old was something to celebrate and Matt was glad to have a friend to celebrate with.

The ceremony finally ended and Darth Vader dismissed the newly-promoted officers. Matt began to make his way across the throng of well-wishers, stopping every now and then to accept compliments or to greet what few acquaintances he had among the assembly. He saw that Zaarin was making a beeline for Ayesha and she, in turn, was dodging in and out of the crowd to evade him. He picked up a little speed to reach her before the grand admiral could get there –

And suddenly she was there, standing just in front of him and holding out her hand for him to shake.

“Congratulations on your promotion, Senior Captain,” she said in the rich contralto that had struck him the first time he’d heard her voice. “This is quite an achievement. You must be very proud.”

It took all of his self-control to not turn beet red. What was it about this woman that caused his stomach to perform a somersault at the mere sight of her? He took her hand in his and noticed vaguely that she had a firm grip; but all his attention was focused on trying not to mumble and wondering how to start a conversation without making a fool of himself.

There was a kerfuffle behind her, and Matt realised that, in his haste to nab Ayesha, Zaarin had caused one of the junior officers to spill his drink over the dress of a palace courtesan, a woman with red-gold hair who was known to be one of the Emperor’s favourite dancers. His blood boiled at what happened next. That sorry excuse for a grand admiral abandoned the clumsy lieutenant to the dancer’s wrath without so much as a single word of apology – he actually blamed the younger man for bumping into him – and he was already moving towards Ayesha again. As much as Matt wanted to stay and introduce himself properly to the brunette, there was no way in the Seven Hells of Corellia that he was going to abandon his friend to such a sordid moof milker’s tender care. He’d just have to be patient; he was sure that an opportunity to get to know her would present itself again.

“Thank you, Miss,” he said, putting all the warmth he was capable of in his voice. “You’re very kind. I truly appreciate your taking the time. But I must excuse myself; my friend is waiting for me.”

* * *​

Six months after the Battle of Yavin

The moment Ayesha commed him to decline his offer to go to the New Year Fete ball together, Matt knew that Thrawn was back, and, as he watched them approach his table in the grand reception hall of the Imperial Palace, he could tell that the burgeoning romance between them had come to fruition. It was about damn time too, he thought, and he experienced a great surge of affection for the young woman, together with a pang of sorrow at the idea that she wouldn’t be able to dedicate quite as much time to him in the future. But that didn’t really matter right now; Ayesha was glowing with happiness and the cheer of her smile was simply infectious. It was an auspicious beginning to the evening, but then things seemed to take a wrong turn.

First, Lord Vader invited himself to their little group and made Ayesha recount what sounded like a rather terrifying experience she’d had as a child slave during the Clone Wars. The fact that the ultimate outcome of those events had been her freedom was a reason to rejoice of course, but merely retelling this tale shook her so deeply that she was left pale and trembling when, to Matt’s great relief, the black-clad menace marched away. Then the Emperor summoned Thrawn for a talk, and Ayesha was left alone with Matt and Captain Piett. And of course, as soon as Thrawn was gone, Zaarin the Lewdbrain had to appear in their field of vision, although Matt was able to send Piett to ward him off before he could come any closer.

It wasn’t normally like Matt to ponder the Emperor’s deeper intentions, let alone in the middle of this sort of celebration. He was just a navy officer, not a high-flying politician, and such questions were well above his pay grade. However, he had to admit that the Emperor’s behaviour towards Thrawn puzzled him to no end and annoyed him more than just a little. It was obvious to anyone who paid any attention at all to military matters that the Emperor valued Thrawn far more than his rank of senior captain would let one presume. Matt himself had participated in several military campaigns that were said to have been instigated by the Emperor himself, but, no matter the admiral in charge, the strategy was brilliant enough that he could see Thrawn’s fingerprints all over it. Oftentimes, he had interpreted the fact that Thrawn was denied a promotion to the higher position that was rightfully his as an attempt by the Emperor to assuage the Human supremacists among his senior advisors. But he was aware that this was a rather feeble justification, and, seeing the Emperor’s handling of Thrawn and Ayesha’s relationship, he couldn’t pretend anymore that it wasn’t a deliberate expression of contempt towards an alien. Ayesha couldn’t possibly have anything that the Emperor wanted, so his single-minded endeavour to drive a wedge between her and Thrawn could only be a reminder to the latter of his place as a non-Human in the Imperial hierarchy.

Matt didn’t like that, and he was particularly unhappy that the Emperor had sought to use him as a pawn to this end. Thrawn was his mentor and Ayesha was his friend, and he only wished for them to be as happy as any couple could possibly be. And here and now, he wouldn’t let petty prejudice ruin their evening. Once colour returned to Ayesha’s cheeks, he invited her to dance. It wouldn’t be quite as nice for her as to dance with Thrawn, but he didn’t mind being second-best as long as he and his friend were having a good time until her partner came back.

They’d been swinging between the other couples for an hour or so and having a good laugh with idle gossip when Matt saw that Thrawn had finally returned. And, he noticed with the now-familiar backflip of his stomach, she was there, just a few steps behind him, deep in conversation with the courtesan with the red-gold hair.

It seemed that his patience had paid off. This was his chance. He would leave Ayesha with the man who was her actual date for the evening, and he’d go and introduce himself to the brunette and apologise for cutting her off when she’d been congratulating him on his promotion.

He hugged Ayesha tightly when fireworks erupted outside the palace to signal the passage of the new year, escorted her back to Thrawn and scanned the room for her. She had joined a group a little further back in the reception hall, and, after taking his leave, he began to make his way in that direction.

The orchestra was now playing a Corellian duple-step, and Matt couldn’t help but notice, as he wove his way casually through the crowd, that the din of the chatter became a murmur, then a whisper, and soon evolved into absolute silence. He glanced over his shoulder to see what was going on and stopped dead in his tracks.

Thrawn and Ayesha were alone in the middle of the ballroom, moving through the steps of the dance with such fiery passion that everyone else had retreated to the sidelines to admire them. There was no doubt, from what Matt could see, that Thrawn knew his way around a dance floor, but Ayesha was literally flying around him, leaping and twirling and pirouetting with such ease that she defied the laws of physics, the pure joy on her face radiating so bright that she seemed to illuminate the room. The duple-step ended with Thrawn catching Ayesha and pushing her into a dramatic back bend, and Matt joined the assembly in thunderous applause. Most of those in attendance, he knew, were merely expressing their praise for the display of skill they had just witnessed, but he found that he was actually cheering for the actual people, Thrawn and Ayesha, the man he so revered and the friend he so loved. There was something between them that was truly unique, as if the universe had created them to exist for one another, and Matt could only hope that, one day, he would also meet the soulmate with whom he belonged.

It took him a moment to shake off this train of thought and remind himself of what he had been doing. Ah, yes. Her.

He looked back to the little cluster of people where she had been standing just a moment ago, but she was not there. Nor was she further to the left, or to the right, or to the back… When his eyes finally found her, she was by the main entrance, wearing an elegant cloak and exchanging goodbyes with the officer who had helped her slip it on.

He shook his head in dismay. It was beginning to feel as if unseen forces were conspiring to make sure that he never got to even approach the mysterious brunette with the piercing, mischievous eyes and the deep, velvety voice, but he wouldn’t let himself be discouraged. He vowed that, next time he saw her, no matter what, he would not let himself be sidetracked and he would talk to her.

* * *​

Nine months after the Battle of Yavin

It was genuinely cause for concern, Matt thought as the umpteenth member of the audience stood up merely to reinforce the points made by the speaker, that, in the entire conference hall, there wouldn’t be a single person to raise objections. Granted, this was a COMPNOR event, and people tended to toe the line whenever that particular agency was involved, but Crueya Vandron’s long, rambling diatribe about aliens in the Rebellion and the need to tighten the Empire’s iron fist around their worlds bordered on the unhinged. Not only were aliens not stupid – Thrawn was living proof that some of them were of superior intelligence – but they were also far more similar to Humans than Vandron would ever be willing to admit and their reaction to even more repression was bound to backfire at some point. The fact that they were joining the Rebellion in droves was merely evidence of it.

He tuned out the subservient blabber and began to construct his own intervention in his mind. It was a tricky one; he wasn’t sure that he could figure out a diplomatic way to say that COMPNOR’s policy was grossly counterproductive, but –

He realised, as he was lost in thought, that another member of the audience was now speaking, and they were speaking in a rich contralto voice that was all too familiar. “... may be detrimental in many cases. There are, for instance, a number of studies about Wookiees that demonstrate that there is, indeed, a breaking point, and that this ties in with deeply ingrained cultural customs rather than specific events. Similarly, researchers have established that there are cultural mechanisms that govern the Mon Calamari’s choice to submit or revolt – their fight-or-flight response, if you will…”

Matt’s head jerked up to see that she was standing amidst the audience, holding her datapad in one hand and a bunch of flimsi documents in the other. He felt his cheeks turn crimson, but it didn’t really matter – she wasn’t looking at him after all.

Crueya Vandron’s fingers traced quotation marks in the air. “Studies,” he said with a derisive snort. “I assume that you found them while browsing the HoloNet.”

She was entirely unfazed. “Actually, the Wookiee studies are from the University of Corulag and the Mon Cal ones from the Imperial Research Foundation.” She tapped a key on her datapad. “I am posting the references to the main monitor, should any of our honoured attendees wish to peruse them. Furthermore, my own research regarding Quarrens establishes that they cannot be considered as reliable allies in this context, insomuch as –”

“Your own research,” Crueya Vandron interrupted again, his tone dripping with contempt. “This is a COMPNOR conference, not a forum to advertise your end-of-school project.”

“My research was published in the official journal of the Corellian Planetary Centre for Xenosociology, and for that it underwent a stringent peer review process handled by some of the most prominent scholars of our times,” she answered calmly. “As were the other studies I referred to, which I will gladly concede are far better documented than my own. If you’ll allow me to continue –”

Matt saw with a pang of worry that Vandron’s assistant was passing a note to him. “Peer-reviewed by the most prominent scholars of our times?” he asked with noxious glee. “An Obroan and a Drall, one of them a known alien-lover, the other an alien himself, and you expect us to take such references seriously?”

She didn’t even bat an eyelid. “His Highness the Emperor is a patron of the Corellian Centre for Xenosociology, sir. I can only recommend that you take up the issue of their low academic standards directly with him.”

There was a silence during which the temperature in the room appeared to drop by several degrees. Matt could only watch in awe as the woman and Crueya Vandron stared at each other in a contest of wills. He had been tempted to intervene and request that she be allowed to continue her analysis, but he could see now that his assistance would have been entirely unnecessary. She could take care of herself perfectly well, thank you very much, and now that Vandron had been stunned speechless, she resumed talking and completed her presentation with utmost professionalism.

When the day’s proceedings finally came to an end, Matt hung back a little in the hallway. He caught her as she exited the conference hall and gave her his best smile. “I only want to thank you for your remarks, Miss. It was very instructive and –”

Her face hardened as he spoke. “Apologies, Captain,” she said shortly. “This is a bad time.”

Matt was utterly bewildered; had he done something? Surely she couldn’t be angry at him for cutting her off several months ago when she was congratulating him for his promotion, he had been polite at least…

She must have noticed the confusion in his eyes because, without shifting her expression, she pointed her chin fractionally towards a spot behind him to indicate that someone was coming. He stepped aside to see Sate Pestage himself sweeping on her. The grand vizier was visibly so furious that he didn’t even bother greeting them; he grabbed her by the elbow and dragged her away.

Matt’s heart sank. She was clearly in trouble, if Pestage himself was getting involved, and he thought once again that he should intervene… but then, he saw her answering his hushed reprimand with her trademark composed manner, and he remembered that she could handle herself.

* * *​

One year after the Battle of Yavin

Matt was giddy with excitement as he entered Old Zeltros. As a matter of fact, he’d been giddy for a week, since he’d been given his own task force. At long last! It wasn’t that he minded commanding one of Imperial Centre’s orbital defence platforms; it was as good an assignment as any and it allowed him to spend a lot of time on-planet. But, well, there wasn’t much glamour or adventure in the job, and the truth was that he missed the blackness of deep space, the unknown worlds, the mysterious alien species. He had always liked learning, and there wasn’t much to learn while monitoring traffic in Coruscant’s orbit – especially now that the Rebellion were on the run and that even a small-scale infiltration of the Empire’s capital world was as unlikely as a tropical rainstorm on Ando Prime.

So this was it. He’d dedicated the week to saying his goodbyes to friends and acquaintances – he’d even managed to set aside today’s entire afternoon to go sunbathing with Ayesha in the Imperial Gardens and celebrate her birthday – and now he was going to spend the evening with the officers from task force Discipline, in an attempt to bond a little with his team before they took off to the Outer Rim the next morning.

As they made their way into the Zeltron restaurant, he saw that she was there, standing by the bar, in deep conversation with a man he didn’t know. There was something to be said, he thought, about this woman who always managed to always turn up in the right place at the right time. Once more, his stomach did that little somersault –

“If you’ll excuse me, sir,” Lieutenant-Commander Deplat said, “I’d like to go and greet Senior Captain Thrawn. He’s right over there.”

Matt tore his eyes away from the woman and looked in the direction Deplat was indicating. Thrawn and Ayesha were indeed sitting in a side booth; this was clearly their dinner date for her birthday, and while it would be outright rude to not say hello, they had better make it fast so as not to encroach upon what was meant to be a private evening for two. He waved the rest of his little posse of officers towards the bar and joined Deplat for some quick small talk. Thrawn was not in a garrulous mood – not that he ever was – but Ayesha was resplendent in her pale yellow dress. For the umpteenth time, Matt had to wonder if Thrawn knew how lucky he was to have such an exceptional woman in his life. There always was a special radiance about Ayesha, but never was her glow more intense than when Thrawn was nearby. They exchanged polite salutations, he gave Ayesha a compliment on her appearance, and he quickly steered Deplat back towards their party.

She was still there, and she now stood alone, nursing her drink with her elbows resting on the bar.

Matt glanced at his company. The men had already placed their orders; they were chatting and laughing among themselves and a few had already drifted to the dance floor. He took a deep breath. There would be plenty of time for team-building once they were out in the Outer Rim, he told himself; but she was here right now, it was highly unlikely that he’d run into her at some point during their expedition, and he didn’t know when he’d come back. It was now or never.

He walked straight up to her. “Hi!”

She turned around to look at him and graced him with a bright smile. “Hi.”

“I’ve been meaning to do this for some time, given how regularly we bump into each other…” Oh kriff, he was mumbling now. He steadied himself. “I’d like to get to know you better. Can I buy you a drink?”

There was that mischievous twinkle in her eyes again. “Too bad you had to wait until the day before you left to the Outer Rim.”

So she knew that. Either this woman was keeping tabs on him, or she had a position in the Palace where she’d come across that sort of information. He, on the other hand, didn’t know anything about her, not even her name.

He grinned. “Better late than never, that’s my motto. Was that a yes in disguise?”

“Absolutely.”

He motioned for the bartender to come and take their order and looked at her again. “I’m Matthias, by the way. My friends call me Matt.”

It was her turn to grin. “I know. I’m Valeria.”

---------------------------------

Fanon elements and Wookieepedia links

Spoiler

I created the Northern Lights room for Ἀνάγκη, where the process of its redecoration occupies the first 9 chapters. The lightning pattern on the wall panels is moulded from Gungan swamp clay encrusted with snow crystals threads and glazed with oil-wax. The snow crystals ignite upon contact with sunlight, creating the aurora effect. All of this is fanon, so don’t go looking for it on the Wook. I’m happy for anyone to use these concepts if you need fancy art materials, no need to ask for my permission.

I also came up with the not-so-original idea that the Emperor would host the New Year Fete ball every year in the Palace. The Corellian duple-step mentioned in this story, which I entirely made up, is my GFFA version of the pasodoble. What I had in mind was primarily the version of the dance displayed in bullfights, where the man dances the role of the bullfighter and the woman the role of the cape.

Lastly, the Imperial Gardens and Old Zeltros are Coruscant locales that I created for Ἀνάγκη. I was surprised to find out that there are no Legends parks on Coruscant, so I modelled the Imperial Gardens after the Jardin des Tuileries in Paris (albeit on top of a skyscraper instead of the ground). Old Zeltros is a Zeltron restaurant that was redecorated by Ayesha’s artist friends Lamtee and Dacco.

Grand Admiral Demetrius Zaarin
Grand Admiral Nial Declann
Grand Moff Ardus Kaine
Crueya Vandron
Academy of Carida
Ando Prime
COMPNOR
Dreeka
Paloma system
Talid
Zherry

 

A nice look into your character and finding the love of his life

 

*chin to floor*

*drools a little by accident*

*snaps out of it*

Just... wow. Your previous entries were quite good, but this... this is some of the finest writing I've ever read. So precisely beautiful in its symmetry and utterly in character with what I think of as the Force. I had to comment on that one. Marvelous.

 

@earlybird-obi-wan Thank you for the review! Indeed, Matt has met the love of his life, but he didn't know it during all those months when he didn't even dare talk to her.

@Vek Talis Thank you so much! You had me blushing there. I don't often do this sort of lyrical writing, I find it difficult because English isn't my first language and I'm always afraid I'll veer into excessive melodrama, so I'm really happy that it came through right!

On to the next story. I'm hoping to finish last year's Kessel Run before this year's challenge is over

 

Kessel Run week 7: Write a story between 100 and 1,000 words that is entirely introspection. No spoken dialogue, no action.
OC Revolution Challenge: When a door closes... Challenge – The end of the year brings the opportunity to reflect on what has been and look forward to what may soon come. Your OC feels the same. Write a story in which something in their life either comes to an end or something new begins. How will your OC react to this upheaval?
Characters: Chemayyano of the tribe of the High Clouds of Palsaang, a 8-year-old Wookiee slave who recently escaped and returned to his homeworld(OC)
Timeframe: 1 ABY, a few months after Ἀνάγκη – Necessity beyond Sway, part I, chapter 26: Qumawarat
Word count: 463 words
Notes: This tear-jerker is brought to you courtesy of @Findswoman, who, all the way back in 2015, left a comment on Ἀνάγκη that really stuck with me. She said that, after losing his mother Qumawarat to a gruesome death, Chemayyano’s return to Kashyyyk wouldn’t be a happy one even though he was now free from slavery, and that (I quote) “no doubt even the trees will no longer be the same”. For years I had this nagging feeling that there was a story there that needed to be written, and here we are.

-------------------------------------------------

The High Clouds of Palsaang

He can feel her absence in the trees. There is a limb of wroshyr above their family home that comes under the sun from dawn till dusk; its bark is snug and pleasant like her embrace. When he was a little pup, he climbed up here to watch for her return, and when he saw her he tumbled down and ran from the warmth of the tree to the warmth of her fur. He still comes every afternoon, but the path from town remains deserted.

He can taste her absence in the fruit. The citru pods she gave him were tart and juicy, the wasaka berries sweet and luscious, the pepo gourds mellow and fragrant. It was the flavour of Kashyyyk itself, it was the taste of home. But now home is bland and dull and empty, fruit is but nourishment, and there is nothing to fill the gaping chasm in his soul.

He can smell her absence in the winds, in the void between the spice of the wood, the grassy fragrance of the leaves, the headiness of the blossoms and the musky odour of the myriad creatures that weave their lives amidst the People of the Trees. Even in the worst of hardship, scarcity and exile, he could seek relief in the mild, milky scent that clung to her undercoat under the stench of misery and pain. Now he finds himself imploring the aromas of Kashyyyk to give him a little of her as a balm for his solitude, but the air around him is hollow and he remains alone.

He can hear her absence in the rustle of the forest at night, when silence blankets his hometown of Palsaang and he tries to sleep in the eerie stillness of the treehouse. His relatives have offered to take him in but he cannot bring himself to be away from her. And yet, as he lies in the dark, the calm, steady rhythm of the deep, peaceful breath that used to swaddle him in a cocoon of serenity fails to reach him, and he can only toss and turn until exhaustion weighs him down into the depths of oblivious slumber.

He can see her in the high clouds that gave his tribe its name. They amass in the skies and form constantly shifting shapes above him until they coalesce into the achingly familiar outline of her face. Her head is always tilted to the side, as it had been when she held him close against her shoulder to comfort him on the slaver ship that had torn them away from their homeworld. He is tempted to lean into her, to nuzzle into her neck. But then the breeze sweeps away the cottony mass, and her face dissolves, and she is gone again.

------------------------------------------

Fanon elements and Wookieepedia links

The wasaka berries are canon, but the self-explanatory citru pods and the pepo gourds (based on the Greek word for melon) are my creation. Similarly, the town of Palsaang is canon, but I made up the tribe of the High Clouds.
Wroshyr tree

 

Your Week 12 entry, 'She' was an incredible journey. I suspected Valeria would be some kind of Imperial agent, knowing his every move as she seemed to, rather than a stalker. Your ability to write from a male perspective is quite excellent as well. and I loved how you relegated Piett to the role of simpleton lackey, lol. I actually quite enjoy Kenneth Colley's flawless performance as Piett, the Imperial toady.

More stellar writing, at any rate.

 

Poor Chemayyano. I feel his pain in so many ways. I wish I could not get stupid and keep someone, anyone in my life for longer than a heartbeat. And I'll bet he feels like it's all his fault, too. That if he'd been braver, stronger, smarter, something, then he'd still have her around.

When you've been you for so long, and have lost so much and have blamed yourself, it becomes too easy to start pushing people away, instead of embracing them. At least, if he stays alone, he won't have the continued pain of finding someone else, only to shove them away, too. That's just me - always looking for the silver lining, I guess.

 

A very sad introspection. Showing his sorrow, his mourning. A great entry for the OC challenge

 

How fun to read events from Matt's point of view! And wow, he sure ran into Val at least a dozen times before they could exchange first names!

 

I am going to finish the 2022 Kessel Run before the end of the 2023 edition, I am going to finish it, I am, I am...

Ahem! Thank you for the reviews and thanks to everyone who stopped by to read! A few replies before I post the next entry.

@Vek Talis Thank you so much for taking the time to read this whole thread!

Haha! Yes, Valeria is well-placed in the Imperial Palace to keep tabs on people; she works in Sate Pestage's office, after all, so she gets to see pretty much everything even before her boss I do feel that you're being a bit unfair to Piett though. I'd use "imperial toady" to describe Ozzel, and just say that Piett is "nondescript" or "insipid"

As for poor little Chemayyano, he does indeed have survivor's guilt, since his mother sacrificed herself so that he could live, so it makes his grief a lot more complicated. And he's just a cub, so he doesn't really know how to handle all that. But he has loving relatives and friends, so I'm sure he'll make it up the hill eventually.

@earlybird-obi-wan Thank you! These are all complicated emotions for a young soul. I'm pretty sure a future OC challenge will give me an opportunity to write more about him!

@WarmNyota_SweetAyesha Thanks! I thought you'd like it, seeing things from Matt's perspective! I've had this story on my mind for longer than I care to admit, and I'm glad you enjoyed the final result!

Thanks again to readers, reviewers and lurkers! Next entry coming right up.

 

Kessel Run ‘Get out of jail free’ prompt: Write a story between 300 and 1,000 words in the format of a letter. The entire story should be written as the letter, without any additional narrative framing.
Characters: Makh Vrill (OC), a Nautolan philosopher and essayist and Ayesha’s disgruntled ex-boyfriend
Timeframe: 0 BBY, shortly after Ἀνάγκη, part I, chapter 5: Zygerria and ‘Discarded’
Word count: 748 words
Notes: Makh Vrill is the character I dislike that I was planning to use for the week 8 prompt, but I ended up using my first story idea for the 2023 Kessel Run instead. He will get a story for the week 8 prompt in this thread, but I need to set the stage for that first, so here you go!

-------------------------------------------

Throwing Down the Gauntlet

To the editor of Die Coruscanter Allgemeine

In last Benduday’s edition, the rag that you have the gall to describe as a newsflimsi hosted an opinion piece by Crueya Vandron of COMPNOR fame, in which he referred extensively to my latest book without ever naming it or me. Allow me first to correct this oversight by informing your readers that its title is Lesser Citizens: The Place of non-Human Sentients in Imperial Society and that it is available for purchase in every well-stocked bookshop across the galaxy – still available, I should say, since Mr. Vandron’s speciecist rants have often resulted in books being pulled from the shelves for no particular reason. It is not unlikely that he will have his way once more; therefore, I urge anyone who is interested in this topic to procure my book before it is pulped or digitally deleted.

There are a few points about which I would like to set the record straight.

Contrary to Mr. Vandron’s assumption that I am ‘an illiterate squidhead’, as he put it with undisputable elegance, I hold a doctorate from his very own alma mater, the University of Alderaan, from which I graduated summa cum laude. This is far more than he can say since he dropped out to join the Imperial administration before he could complete his basic degree. His meteoric rise through the ranks of COMPNOR over the past two decades, while admirable, is merely proof that success in the service of the New Order does not require the type of academic skills that most sentient beings associate with intelligent thought.

Furthermore, Mr. Vandron brandishes the fact that I have been employed – and still am – in a variety of menial jobs as evidence in support of his claim that I am in no way qualified to write a book, let alone to publish one. He may have forgotten that, a mere few years ago, he proudly presented in the pages of this very newsflimsi the long list of professions that are no longer open to non-Humans on Coruscant, with boastful claims that he had authored this particular piece of legislation himself. It is therefore at least amusing that he would blame my alleged deficiencies as an alien for my inability to seek out paid employment in a field that he deems worthy of his intellectual acumen. As for myself – and I know that, in this, I speak for the hundreds of millions of non-Human residents of Imperial Centre who were forced into jobs that underutilise or ignore any skills they may have acquired through experience, study or sheer talent – I consider the fact that I was working as a luggage carrier whilst writing Lesser Citizens as a badge of honour, and it is further proof, if any were needed, of the point I make in the book.

Lastly, Mr. Vandron’s insistent denial of the difference in the way the Empire treats near-Humans and non-Humans reveals ignorance at best and bad faith at worst. It only takes a few minutes of HoloNet research, for instance, to come to the conclusion that, while all non-Human presence was eliminated from the armed forces within months of the proclamation of the Empire, there are several near-Humans currently serving in the Imperial Army and Navy. I will concede that the vast majority of them belong to sub-species whose differences to baseline Humans are minor and that their not being fully Human is not obvious to the casual acquaintance. However, there is at least one officer whose skin and eye colour unmistakably identify him as near-Human. I would be curious to hear from Mr. Vandron what, I have no doubt, would be a detailed and well-rehearsed explanation as to how this individual could reach the rank of senior captain. (Before Die Coruscanter Allgemeine hastens to publish another one of his op-eds, let me clarify that this is a rhetorical question. I already know that Mr. Vandron will argue that near-Humans are blessed with near-Human intelligence, notwithstanding the fact that, as noted above, he is possessed of little intelligence himself.)

I am looking forward to seeing my letter published on the same page and with the same font size as Mr. Vandron’s op-ed, as I can expect it to be with consideration to my right of reply – provided, of course, that such rights still apply to non-Humans, of which I am not entirely certain given your newsflimsi’s occasionally creative interpretation of the law.

Yours,

Makh Vrill, PhD

-------------------------------------------

Fanon elements and Wookieepedia links

Die Coruscanter Allgemeine is a newsflimsi that I created for the multi-author story The Galactic Correspondent way back when.
The idea of restrictions on the professions accessible to non-Humans in a discriminatory system is borrowed from the RL situation of Palestinian refugees in Lebanon, where the law is made in such a way that they will forever be on the margins of society.
Nautolan
Crueya Vandron
COMPNOR

 

Great to see Makh Vrill sending this letter and wanting to be published with valuable arguments why

 

I came over for the OC challenge! There's a very quiet sort of sadness to this entire piece...

It makes so much sense that for a species as deeply connected to the natural world - and to the trees of their homeworld in particular - as the Wookiees are, this is how grief would manifest. And especially still being so young himself, Chemayyano fixates on these tangible things - things he can see, touch, taste, hear - to process his mother's absence.

It's amazing what a difference it makes at night, sharing that space with someone else versus being completely alone. Eerie is an apt description for it.

Poor kiddo. Such an aching loss that won't soon fade. Well done with this piece! A great response to both the OC challenge and last year's KR prompt. (I'm impressed that you're going back to finish those other KR prompts; that's awesome! )

 

Delightfully thought out and executed, @Chyntuck Excelent as always.

 

Thank you for reading and reviewing! I said that I'd finish last year's challenge before this year's Kessel Run was over, and I'm back with the final entry, woo-hoo! But first, a few replies.

@earlybird-obi-wan Thank you! In truth, Makh is indeed correct about pretty much everything he says – the problem being, of course, that saying all that out loud may not be the wisest decision in the age of the Empire!

@ViariSkywalker Thanks for stopping by Wookiees are my favourite SW species and I always enjoy writing about them. As you said, I imagine them to be deeply connected to the natural world, and also to be very social, very cuddly and very comforting to each other. I have a whole bunch of fanon notes explaining how connection to the family and the community is essential to their very being (someday I'll write all that for the Fanon Thread) so for little Chemayyano, losing his mother is twice as hard, first because she's his mother, and second because he's now alone.

They were great prompts And in fact they worked better for me than this year's prompts, it's just that DRL interfered. Thanks for the review, and thank you once again for hosting these awesome challenges!

@Vek Talis Thank you! You know me, I like to torture Makh... and more of that is on its way!

Thanks again to all readers, reviewers and lurkers! The final entry of this thread is coming right up.

 

Kessel Run week 8: Write a story of at least 400 words from the POV of a character you hate/dislike and make them sympathetic.
Characters: Thrawn, Voss Parck, Makh Vrill (OC)
Timeframe: Towards the end of 0 ABY, 8 months or so after ‘Discarded’ and Throwing Down the Gauntlet, 4 months after 35:07:01 GrS, a couple of weeks before Ἀνάγκη, part I, chapter 12: The Diner.
Word count: 1592 words
Notes: So. I tried this way, and I tried that way, and the story I wanted to write wasn’t coming to me from Makh’s POV, Makh being the character I dislike. Since, on the one hand, the 2022 Kessel Run has been over for nearly a year, and on the other hand, I just wrote a story that fulfils the exact terms of this very prompt with ‘Discarded’ for the 2023 Kessel Run, I decided that I’d cheat and, instead of writing the story from the POV of the character I dislike, I’d just make it about a character I dislike and make him sympathetic. Welcome, therefore, to Voss Parck’s POV about the not-so-gentlemanly pissing contest between Makh and Thrawn.

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Defeat

Voss Parck trusted Senior Captain Thrawn with all his heart – trusted him to the end of the Unknown Regions and back. He was also incurably curious about his commanding officer’s decisions and he always tried to understand their deeper meaning, even though he knew that keeping up with the Chiss’s peculiar mind was nigh impossible.

Which was why he had looked up this Makh Vrill’s file before boarding the shuttle to fetch him from the middle-of-nowhere penal colony where he was held on the edge of Wild Space, and despite his best efforts he couldn’t make sense of Thrawn’s actions.

Vrill was a Nautolan essayist who had penned the book Lesser Citizens: The Place of non-Human Sentients in Imperial Society, and while the title reeked of the sort of provocation favoured by political agitators and Rebel sympathisers, Parck couldn’t deny that it held a kernel of truth. However, the book had seen only limited circulation, and the fact that Vrill – and his publisher – hadn’t been locked behind bars as soon as it was put out on the market indicated that, as outspoken and controversial as the author might have been, he had expressed his arguments in terms that were tolerable for the Imperial censors. No, the reason Vrill had been picked up by the Coruscant constabulary and shipped out to a labour camp without further legal ado was a letter to the editor of Die Coruscanter Allgemeine; and that had been a blistering attack against prominent COMPNOR leader Crueya Vandron.

In fairness again, Parck had to agree that Vrill had had a point – or even several – about Vandron himself. The man was certifiably unhinged when it came to aliens, but no one in their right mind said so out loud. It was a thought that Parck buried deep in his soul; COMPNOR was simply not to be trifled with.

What puzzled him to no end was that Thrawn had gone out of his way, as soon as they crossed from the Unknown Regions back into Imperial space, to have Vrill transferred to the Admonitor, and the data trail seemed to indicate that he might have reached as high as the office of the grand vizier, or even the Emperor himself. Now this was outright strange. Perhaps the senior captain had a personal connection to the prisoner, or maybe he was planning to include him in one of his arcane plans at some point in the future; and Parck was eager to find out.

The fact was that Vrill himself wasn’t helping. He hadn’t said a word in the camp governor’s office when he was notified of his impending transfer to an Imperial Star Destroyer; he’d remained impassive when the guards manacled him and escorted him to the landing pad; and even now, as he sat across from Parck in the Lambda-class shuttle, he maintained an air of superb indifference, as if it did not matter in the slightest that he might, for all he knew, be on his way to one of the ISB’s notorious torture chambers. Either he was truly as reckless as his letter to the editor would let one presume, or he was a highly trained Rebel agent and he was steeling himself for what was to come. In any case, he came across as supremely arrogant, and Parck couldn’t quite suppress a smirk of satisfaction when he saw him falter a little upon disembarking into the Admonitor’s hangar bay and catching a glimpse of Thrawn.

The senior captain merely gave the new arrival a quick once-over with his glowing red eyes, motioned for the guards to remove his shackles and led the way to his study.

Thrawn’s office was unlike any other aboard a Star Destroyer. There were many admirals and senior captains who had their private space remodelled to suit their style or preference – usually a gaudy display of status and wealth – but what set Thrawn’s apart wasn’t the furniture, which was all standard-issue with the exception of a comfortable-looking, if worn-out, nerf hide armchair by the viewport. No, what set it apart was the shelves that covered the walls and that were lined with row upon row of books made of flimsi, papyrus and parchment, some of which were handwritten in languages Parck could never hope to learn; it was the miniature projectors embedded in the floor, walls and ceiling that allowed the senior captain to transform the room into a holographic art gallery at the flip of a switch; and it was the physical pieces of art that were on display, the most recent of which was a wooden sculpt representing the bust of a screaming woman that featured prominently on Thrawn’s desk.

Parck stepped inside after Thrawn and the prisoner and remained by the door. He hadn’t been invited in, but Thrawn hadn’t dismissed him either. This was his chance to find out more about the relationship between the two aliens and, as long as he wasn’t sent off, he was going to take it. He noticed that Vrill did something of a double-take at the sight of the wooden sculpt and took a few steps towards it before getting a hold of himself. Meanwhile, Thrawn sat at his desk and tapped a few keys on his datapad. A piece of flimsi came out of the printing slot, which he cut off and handed to the Nautolan, together with a datachip. “Your release order, Mr. Vrill,” he said in his even voice. “I was unfortunately unable to purge your record and therefore recommend that you keep a low profile, but you are a free citizen of the Empire once more.”

For all his feigned nonchalance, Vrill couldn’t prevent a jolt of his head tentacles. This was visibly the last thing he had been expecting. “My what?” he blurted in a most undignified way.

“Your release order,” Thrawn repeated. “This fleet is returning to Coruscant, where you will be able to resume your life – although, as I said, you would be wise to keep a low profile.”

The Nautolan’s bulging black eyes wandered around the room for a few heartbeats, as if he were expecting the place to dissolve around him like a mere hallucination. He finally settled for closing the distance between himself and the sculpt on the desk and resting his hand on the head of the screaming woman to ascertain that it was real. “She put you up to this,” he said after a moment. “She asked you to come for me.” His tone was low and hopeful, almost reverent.

Thrawn arched an eyebrow. “I am afraid that I must disappoint you. I came on my own initiative.”

“Why would you do that?” The question came out so bluntly that Parck was tempted to intervene, but this whole dialogue was far too interesting to interrupt and he kept mum.

“Because I do not believe that you belong in a labour camp, Mr. Vrill,” Thrawn explained. “I do not believe that your offences are such that you deserve a life sentence, and I was adamant, in my argument to the powers that be, that it is entirely counterproductive to imprison opinionated, yet ultimately harmless, sentients such as you.”

The Nautolan’s entire posture stiffened. “Harmless?”

“Quite harmless, yes.”

Vrill was visibly expecting him to continue, but Parck knew better – that was indeed all the senior captain would say. The Nautolan pondered it for a moment, and when he spoke he was all bluster again. “You really think it’s a good idea to set free the ex of the woman you’re dating?” he asked, his voice dripping with contempt. “You’re not worried that the little minx might change her mind and chuck you out like she did me? She’s flighty, you know.”

Parck thought that he saw a flash of anger in Thrawn’s eyes, but it was gone before he could think more of it. “I am not dating Miss Eskari, Mr. Vrill.”

The Nautolan’s head tentacles twitched in disbelief and he threw a pointed glance at the wooden sculpt on the desk. “Aren’t you?”

Thrawn merely arched an eyebrow again. Vrill stared at him for a moment, then broke out in a fit of hilarity so bitter that Parck felt bad for him. “You really have no idea, do you? I thought you were courting her, but you’re…” – he let out another bark of a laugh – “you don’t have a clue.”

The senior captain stood up. “Apparently not. However, I did not bring you here to enlighten me and I have duties to attend to. This conversation is over.”

“Good,” Vrill growled. He straightened himself to his full height. “I guess that’s where I’m headed now.” He pointed at the prison planet through the viewport.

“Not unless that is your wish,” Thrawn replied mildly. “If you would rather return to your labour camp, kindly let me know and I will have your life sentence reinstated.” He allowed for a pregnant pause. “Do you wish to be returned?”

The silence between the two men grew so thick that one could cut through it with a knife, but Parck knew that no one could beat Thrawn at a staring game, and indeed, Vrill’s head tentacles finally slackened in defeat. The Chiss allowed himself the faintest of smiles. “I thought not,” he said in his unflappable manner, but there was a thread of steel in his voice that told Parck that Vrill had skated right to the edge. “We may dispense with each other’s presence now, Mr. Vrill. The guard outside will escort you to your quarters.”

 

Fabulous seeing things from Parck's point of view as he observes the interplay of wits and wills! Makh is definitely challenging and demanding of explanations. None of which Thrawn is willing to provide as to his motivations.

Congratulations on wrapping this up.

 

A contest of two observed by Parck. But no motivations why Thrawn is doing this.

 

I came over here to change the tag on this thread from 'WIP' to 'complete', and while I'm at it I want to thank everyone who has been reading these little stories.

@WarmNyota_SweetAyesha and @earlybird-obi-wan Thank you for the reviews! I had a good time writing this last entry, because putting Makh up against Thrawn is just too much fun (in a perverse sort of way ). Makh just doesn't stand a chance, and yet, now that I developed him some more, I kind of feel for him, even though he's a jerk. He'll definitely be back in other stories, because he's just an OC I want to torture some more!

Thank you again to all readers, reviewers and lurkers This thread is now out of business, but the characters that appear in these stories live on in my many other threads set in the Ἀνάγκη!verse.

 

Thank you for reading and reviewing 'She' @Findswoman! I'm glad you enjoyed this story. It has been pinballing around my head for many, many years now, and as soon as I saw the 2022 KR long vignette prompt I knew that I would write this, but alas, DRL got in the way at the time. However, this year has been much kinder on me (the first several months, at any rate) and it was nice going back to finish what I'd started and to finally put out there how Matt met Valeria. Matt is one of those OCs who has really grown on me over time; I always imagined him as a "wholesome, gentle" man as you said, but for a long, long time he was little more than a plot device, until I realised that there was more to his story that I needed to tell. It's an important reason why this story turned out (as you pointed out) to lay so much emphasis on his friendship with Ayesha, in that he really grew as a multi-dimensional character in my mind, not one who exists just as a foil for Thrawn or as the love interest of Ayesha's best friend. Meanwhile, Valeria has also grown on me (unsurprisingly!) and, even though I keep swearing that I'm going to move on from the Ἀνάγκη-verse and write about other things, I suspect that she's going to get more of her own stories at some point. There's something very special about that 'verse for me, and I'm happy you enjoy revisiting its locales and scenes as much as I do!

Thanks again for the review, and thanks to anyone else who stopped by to read!