Title: Curiosity Killed the Chiss


"Look, I just hate Gungans, okay," Bittenfeld let out a deep sigh in exasperation. The alien wouldn't let it go. Naturally. "It's not xenophobia, or at least I've never considered myself to be a xenophobe." Bittenfeld tried to explain his stance. "I have no problem with aliens, including you, I have problem only with the Gungans."

Thrawn tilted his head to a side, as if trying to process the information through his brain. "Interesting." He said at last. "Then I shall not inquire further." He gave him a curt nod in acknowledgment. "However, if it is permissible then I would like to ask you something else."

Bittenfeld rolled his eyes; he sat down at the edge of the bunk bed and shrugged in resignation. Clearly, there was no point in trying to dissuade Thrawn from something that had caught the interest of the red-eyed gaze. He would have to bear with him until the alien's curiosity was satisfied. "Okay. I will try my best not to strangle you."

Thrawn slowly inclined his head. "Likewise. Very well. Does the name Hela Brandes say anything to you?"

Bittenfeld blinked. Hela Brandes? Sounded like a woman's name. "Nope. Who is she?"

Thrawn frowned. "A famous Naboo harpist." He said in a cold tone. "Omar Berenko?"

"Never heard of him."

"A poet. Author of the Defense of Naboo." Thrawn's face darkened; the glowing gaze intensified. "I cannot believe this." He growled. "Nabooans are supposed to have a good knowledge of poetry, it is said even the lowliest laborers can be seen debating the merits of one classical poet over another." He let out a strange low, guttural sound. "Palo?"

"Doesn't ring a bell."

"One of the most famous Nabooan artists." Thrawn's eyes narrowed into mere slits, his whole posture tense and intimidating. He looked as if he had a hard time keeping his composure. "In that case, I suppose you have never heard of the Parnelli Museum of Art either," he said in a deceptively mild tone.

"Ha!" Bittenfeld exclaimed. "Gotcha! I did!" he shot the icy blue alien a triumphant grin, clenching his fist in an old gesture of victory.

"You did?" Thrawn repeated dryly. The tension in the alien's posture disappeared; he lowered himself down on the bed with a long, deep exhale, all animosity gone in an instant.

"Sure." Bittenfeld barked out a sharp laugh. "My parents' flat is right next to it. Never been there, though."

Thrawn blinked, falling silent for a whole minute before saying: "You have spent your formative years living right next to the Parnelli Museum of Art and never, ever ventured inside?"

"Not really my area." Bittenfeld gave him an innocent shrug; he decided to climb up back to his own bed since it seemed the alien was not going to attack him at any moment. "But I can get you free tickets if you want," he offered. Perhaps then the alien would finally give him a break. "My father works there."

"What is his position?" Thrawn asked with a soft sigh.

"He's a guide."

"He must be very proud of you, then," Thrawn murmured in a low tone of voice.

"Of course." Bittenfeld grinned broadly. "I am the eldest son."

"Hmmm," Thrawn mused thoughtfully. "Do you happen to have any family portrait with you? Is it permissible for me to see it?"

Bittenfeld cocked up an eyebrow. "Well, why the hell not, I guess. Here you are." He turned on the holoprojector he kept by his bedside, browsing through the gallery until he had finally found a photo of his parents and passed it down to the alien. "Why the sudden interest in me and my family, Thrawn?"

"Simple curiosity," Thrawn said in a neutral tone, taking the holoprojector from him. He fell silent, studying the family picture carefully for a couple of minutes. "Interesting," he murmured, presumably after he was finished with his evaluation, returning the device to him with a thank you.

"What is it you find interesting?" Bittenfeld wondered aloud. What the hell was wrong with the blue guy? Well, Thrawn was an alien, and alien brains worked differently, Bittenfeld supposed; who knew what might have been going behind the glowing red gaze?

"The amount of family resemblance," Thrawn said in a tone that suggested it should have been self-explanatory enough. "I thought you might have been adopted."

TO BE CONTINUED