The Freak Fleet 'verse:

A series of stories exploring the dynamics among Grand Admiral Thrawn, Pellaeon, Covell, Parck, Niriz, Dorja, and other members of the Seventh Fleet. Legends cast in Rebels, a couple of OCs. Mix of Canon and Legends (Essentially AU). Serious, as well as not so serious fics. Semi-crack.

The Freak Fleet - Breaking the Ice - Of Chiss and Men - Witch Hunt - Second Chances - Chance Encounters - The Evil So Terrible It Tried To Black Out The Stars - An Unstoppable Force Meets an Immovable Object - All Roads Lead to Coruscant - Freak Fleet Files - A Kingdom of Isolation

A series of ficlets set in the Freak Fleet 'verse exploring the backstories of my main cast. Writing a parody of myself? Abso-kriffing-lutely! Jumping back and forward in time through the whole series.

Title: Rules? What Rules?!

Author's Note: Jump back in time; the one month of hell aboard Strikefast, featuring Lieutenant Thrawn and Lieutenant Bittenfeld sharing bunks.

Parck: [Oh, I can recall once I had to bail out of a brig and discipline a certain lieutenant who got into a fist fight over a painting.]

Thrawn: [That was completely different. The fool could hardly tell apart Mon Calamari pre-Imperial surrealistic paintings from their Post-Imperial abstract paintings and he had the audacity to call the masterpiece of Kahfr Oladia a swoosh of bantha's tail. And I did not strike first.]

- The Freak Fleet

"Lieutenant Bittenfeld," Thrawn said in a deceptively mild tone, the alien eyes emanating an intense, bright red glow. "If we are both to survive a month in these quarters, then there are certain rules to be followed."

Bittenfeld gritted his teeth. Who in the blazing fires of Mustafar the damned alien thought he was, ordering him around like an ensign? Thrawn was a mere navy lieutenant, they both held the same rank, army or navy, it didn't matter; Thrawn had no freaking right to talk to Bittenfeld as if he had been his commanding officer.

"Rules?" He snapped. "What rules?!"

The icy blue alien made a vague gesture in the direction of all the junk in his quarters.

"You touch the art, you die an instant death. You cause a reversible damage to the art, you die the most horrible way you can imagine. You cause an irreversible damage to the art, you die the most horrible way I can imagine. Am. I. Clear ?"

Bittenfeld blinked. "Oh," he breathed out. "Well, sure, why not. I'm not interested in your trinkets anyway."

He could easily humor Thrawn with this one.

Apparently, it was the wrong thing to say. The alien hissed, a strange reptilian sound, and crossed the distance between them in an instant, the glowing eyes now mere centimeters from his own. Vader on a speeder, the red-eyed devil was abso-kriffing-lutely scary; Bittenfeld had almost wet his pants right there.

"Sir, yes, sir!" Bittenfeld shrieked, his survival instincts telling to jump into military parade attention straightaway as if the alien had been a drill-sergeant at the bootcamp. "Perfectly clear, sir!"

Thrawn stepped away from him, retreating from his personal space, giving him a chance to regain his composure; apparently he must have been sufficiently pleased with Bittenfeld's reply for he gave him a curt nod, an expression of satisfaction apparent on the otherwise unreadable face.

"I am glad we understand each other, Lieutenant," Thrawn said in a smooth, cultured voice, as if he hadn't been about to tear him apart bare handed mere seconds ago. "There are no more rules from my side. Is there any wish or possibly even a personal request coming from your side?"

"So when you say something, it's a rule, and when I something, it's a request?" Bittenfeld thundered. "Don't kriff with me, Thrawn. That's my request!"

The cold-blooded alien only tilted his head to a side.

"Most certainly, Lieutenant Bittenfeld. I have absolutely no desire to engage in a mating session with you," Thrawn declared in a voice of durasteel, his expression deadly serious. "Or anyone else for that matter."

Bittenfeld openly gaped. "That's… I, ah, I didn't mean that literally," he babbled, totally at loss for words, "it's an expression."

"Oh?" Thrawn casually lifted a blue black eyebrow, the alien face unreadable, as if carved from a pale blue marble. "What does this peculiar expression mean, then?"

Bittenfeld let out a deep sigh. The red-eyed devil was giving him an epic headache already, and Bittenfeld hadn't even unpacked his own stuff yet. This would be a month of pure hell.

"Don't mess with me?"

"Mess?" The alien repeated the word, presumably trying to make sense of the idiom. "I do not make mess, Lieutenant Bittenfeld. I keep all my things in perfect order under all circumstances. And I have no desire to touch any of your personal belongings either."

Bittenfeld clenched his fists in anger. He was this close to start reprogramming the defective protocol droid with his bare hands. The only thing that had stopped him was the prospect of sharing bunk with Thrawn for another month.

"Don't annoy me? Don't make me angry?"

The cold-blooded alien made a derisive sound. "I am afraid I am unable to comply with this particular request of yours, Lieutenant Bittenfeld."

TO BE CONTINUED