Фэлэм'пирос'алʝлłóдо (Transliterated: Felem'piros'alyllódo: Fel Empire.)

In Chiss space, some AUs from capital world Csilla.

The Pellaeon was birthed from the hyperlane alone, and was greeted immediately by Clawcraft escort wings lying in wait.

The Zabrak Underadmiral watched from the Bridge.

"Wing Odin-Shjest to Pellaeon: convoys in motion, cleared for approach formation Zed-Tovan. Respond."

Would he sacrifice this squadron, too? All of them? Oh, he probably would, the decrepit old Blue Man. How many thrown to the dogs before he finally turns over to someone else?

Of course, who'd make those decisions then? Another Chiss, one who strolls up and thinks he owns the place. Or would it...

"Received, Odin-Shjest commander. Zed-Tovan, disperse."

"Copy, out."

The cause for the special formation was a stray asteroid cluster - "convoys," they called them. Unpredictable, answered to no one. And until all ships cleared orbital defenses in perhaps an hour, they were simply an obstacle. To be avoided and dealt with accordingly. Part of life in Chiss space.

Tore retreated to her commander's chambers, in the hopes of getting some answers, or at least somewhere away from the people for a time. It was a person - who, strangely enough, she was headed toward right now - that she wanted to let loose her anger on.

"Admiral," she began coldly, knocking only once on his door. Simply barging in, even now, would be pushing it too far. Too much, and certainly too dangerous.

The door opened, and she stepped through, throwing as brief a salute as she could and earning herself a small scratch to the cheek. She could not, would not let it show. No emotion could excuse lack of discipline.

It was just like all his other rooms: square walls, open floor made less open by some genuine art and some recreations, now cramped to fit the pretty sprawl of a ship's chambers. Bed against one corner, some mural or poster spread out on the ceiling overlooking it. She couldn't decide whether to scoff or giggle or tear his glowing eyes out at the thought of Mitth'raw'nuruodo having a poster over his cot. She didn't read it, not yet. Do that, she might go a bit too soon.

"Do come in, Underadmiral." Flat, open, impossible to misinterpret. "Share a drink?"

Her eyes went to the small glass in his hand. He'd never drank in front of her before. Or done anything not meant to display contemplation and shrewdness. Yet now, it was like he was asking her to take him less seriously. It pissed a little in her blood, him asking for an ounce of humanity thrown his way! That was mockery if ever there were taunts.

It took her a moment to realize it was a question at all. She had no idea, and when in doubt...

"Yes." No! She'd meant no. But that word and plenty others had escaped her. She did as she'd been taught, hoping to turn it to her advantage. A shared drink in an informal space, that was a gesture towards trust. And before she knew it, he was handing her a second glass of the same liquid. She recoiled a little at the color of it.

Not in horror, but with simple surprise: a holiday present, or a new speeder with some new functions.

"Yes, I am aware. It's a Zabrak drink - mergjer počji. I'm glad you recognize it. Food and drink have always been a challenge to get right." He clicked off a holo-emitter in the padded wall, and the pollerscratch obelisk eating at the floorspace fizzled out. He motioned for her to walk where it had once stood.

"Please, sit down. And feel free to trample the greatest achievement of the old Jakkui tribes." If the (nervous?) smirk was any indication, that was supposed to be a joke. He was motioning to the little low-hanging bed against the wall, with its spotless white sheets and the poster overhead. Keeping her eyes low as she could, and still trying to ignore her commanding officer and sensujlo having just made a possibly sincere humorous remark, she saw that it was a flyer for one of the old holos, a colorful piece of classic CIS propaganda. On its cover, two brightly-colored and bulked-up battle droids stood back to back, blasters raised and free arms performing some salute predating even the Trade Federation. No doubt Thrawn knew its name and every ensuing faction's bastardization of its meaning. In crisp Confederate Aurebesh, it read as "Units Don't Need Names!"

In four steps she'd planted herself on it, hovering the počji glass at waist level just over the stainless sheets. The commanding officer did not sit, simply paced as if greatly nervous. She saw now the rumples in his white uniform, wrinkled dimples in the chest, the clumsy scratches on the cufflinks, crooked insignia. The age hadn't reached the rank pins on his sleeve just yet. But soon, she could feel that radiating from him. Age, just another word, meaning that place between youth and death. It was upon him now.

There were few old Chiss. The obvious exceptions were those simply 'too Chiss' - in kinder terms, too stubborn - to simply turn over to a sleep clinic and be done for, and too important to die of more natural causes. He was leading the Empire left to him by a very different people. And Tore was to be one of those personally selected as leaders of the Third Imperial Generation.

"Speak freely and without titles, Underadmiral. And take a sip of the Počji, it doesn't take a short while to perfect, especially not this orange blend." He tried to send some signal of smiling. "It'd be a shame to let waste."

Tore nodded.

And her impulse finally seemed to get the best of her.

"I'll keep that in mind. But right now I need answers. What was that back there?"

His own glass seemed to quiver a little in his hand, and his next step was a slower one. Glowing red eyes seemed to wink out for an instant. When they came back, they seemed a little shaken.

He took a single sip, and if she were to believe that little twisting in his face, he hadn't mastered orange mergjer počji after all.

She needed to prove that for herself. And so she took a drink. It was the stuff she'd had as a child - at least, before the tar-black počji of... wherever those places were. Them. More tasteless parts of her adolescence. Then Thrawn had found her, in some capacity. Found she and her fast thinking, or something like it.

Plenty more stuff that might as well be irrelevan now. But now the Chiss that had changed her life was losing his edge. Once again, not many old Chiss.

Thrawn replied. No attempt at humor this time, at least. Only statement.

"Necessary. There was no other way."

"Don't say that. You've always had another way - something smart... o-or-or something outsiders would call insane. Ludicrous! You never sent people to pointless slaughter. It has never. Been. Necessary."

His mouth tightened.

He caught on.

"That wing commander was your friend. Wasn't he?"

She nodded. Her hand acted on its own, lifting the počji again to her mouth and letting it flow. She could barely taste the stuff. If anything, she could taste his bitterness riding the liquid, turning it green or brown or some color more like rotted things.

"Let me state this clearly," he began. "Anyone can be killed in a war. Whoever kills more is declared victor. Regardless of their side. Moreover, I don't care that he was your friend, he was a soldier. A tool. Just like you, and just like me."

He downed more of his vile fluid. Stepped closer to her, gazed downward.

"Whatever he is - was - to you, it doesn't matter. When in command, nothing can matter but destruction. Not your friends, not your family, not yourself, not the enemy or anything they might do to you. All is just a step on that ladder. If you can't understand that, you cannot command this Empire."

He'd given speeches in a single breath before. Always about victory, understanding, the values of everything. Never this.

Was this the Thrawn he was only wanting her to see? Quite possibly. But collect enough masks, and you can hide a real face in there anywhere. Lose one, too.

"Do we understand each other, Tore?"

"Ja." Then she added: "Admiral."

The pause held there between them for a moment. From where Tore was standing, the picture frame on the wall opposite her was blending with him, oppressive silhouette of the mythical Krayt dragon blocked by the Blue Man's skull. The aura surrounding it was the same shade of red as his eyes, funny enough. But there were no Mandalorians here to put Thrawn down. Most stayed in disputed space and kept to themselves. Just like she wished she could right now, away from this monster in uniform. He wasn't decrepit, he was maniacal. More dangerous to others.

"Dismissed, Underadmiral. Please leave when you're ready."

Tore's brain was still running on a delay. She didn't hear it. The message bypassed her ears and, by some invisible nudging, dug straight past that into her mind.

She left shortly after, even worse off than she'd entered. As soon as she landed, she found a drainroom and regurgitated the recreation of a drink from her childhood. With it, that illusion of youth and adoption of safety were gone.

The Pellaeon evaded the convoys with room to spare, pierced atmosphere and circled Csilla's largest continent before descending further.


...


A/N:

"I'm of half a mind to do a language profile on Cheunh, just for the absolute heck of it. From what I've read it's got the wildest grammatical and phonological parts of Finnish, Russian, Xhosa and more analytic languages like the East Asian Japanese, Korean, Chinese and Vietnamese groups. Ludicrous consonant clusters (Russian), really low number of core words (Finnish), absolutely insane phonology (Xhosa), and syntax like little else in the galaxy (Russian and Finnish pragmatic word order, or the more rigid syntax of, say, Japanese).

In short, crazy stuff. And unfortunately something just as interesting to me as this weird butchering of Star Wars lore you're reading now. I can only hope you enjoy it, because I sure do!"