Pronunciation guide:
Oxičti: okh-EECH-tee
Torz'rðo: Torz-er-THO
Gol'rðo: Gul-er-THO
Torz'gol: Torz-GOLL
Tolle Rheu: Toll Hroo
Now, a dictionary:
Grasthiolle: First Order equivalent of "thank you" or Spanish "gracias" (pronounced grathias in Spain)
Athul: Blue (Spanish "azul," pronounced athul in Spain)
Ern: one. Nothing really special about it.
Xorshe(n): First Order for "fine" or Russian "хорошо" (khorosho)
Obviously, this is because the First Order takes its language from real-world dictatorships like Francoist Spain and the USSR. Might do a language and history profile attached to a later chapter because boredom.
Seriously. I want to hear more from y'all, rather than just my one loyal reviewer. This is a story I want to tell, but it can always be improved. And sure, you can sit through my ad-lib linguistics lectures and promises of more fictional meat, but I can't do anything without help. Please
Anyway, let me shut up and make my return. Enjoy!
: Þ
The First Order was not a small affair. Starkiller was its heart, yet their reach extended and was growing daily.
On the edges of such a system, something greatly nameless and sparse save one world, a traitor was being hunted.
On Oxičti, Gollen-LokkenCast was a HoloNet station, much like that on Jakku, using its planet's strong magnetic field to boost its own signal across a region of space. It had always been loyal, gladly receiving tapes and transmissions and redistributing daring stories of perfect soldiers, the pure and loyal Hero Without a Face standing vigilant in the face of dangerous subhumans and traitors. Loyalty to the shining face of His Supremacy was the most heroic trait of all, the Father above Fathers personally congratulating that Faceless Hero for his efforts.
These tapes arrived, they would be edited, and the Gollen-Lokken studio was permitted to hire and even conscript actors as needed for the sake of drama. The Rodian family who had run the studio since the days of the Old Republic sometimes played the Traitorous Alien or the Slimy Criminal themselves, one teenaged male being impressively happy with the role of the Unleashed Alien Child for the hero to mercy-kill after his corruption became obvious, and he would never return to working under a human. When First Order officials occasionally checked on the station, he would re-enact these live for them, smiling and joking with his human acting companion, always eager to please.
When news inevitably spread of Jakku's demise, the family who had been content to keep to simply air the programmes turned to more ambiguous storytelling, their most recent offense being a short about the Hero Without a Face removing his sacred Terry staller and visil to reveal to his underling troops that he was an alien. Gol'rðo, the current station manager and the boy's father, had argued this was to encourage Order loyalty among nonhumans, but media specialists had declared the short was simply too subversive.
They must be removed. Let the people go without some entertainment for a few days, and gladly wolf down what was broadcast from the next studio. Perhaps they would capture one of the Republic's studio-stations, maybe even be bold and bravely take one back from the Imitation Empire, that Xeno-loving junta of Brillblues and aristocrats bastardizing the Old Empire, the lesser successor.
Two carriers and a TIE Silencer dropped from hyperspace over the planet, syncing their orbit and positioning themselves to drop over the equator and approach the Noulr-pole under the friction of atmosphere. Anything less, and their ships would be pulled in from space and burn up when the atmosphere disagreed with terminal velocity.
The winds were strong, but better winds than magnic pull. Today was a stormy day up to the Noulr, too. Citizens watched with excitement and ever-growing anxiety as the trio of Order ships shot overhead, understanding roughly what for. They could only guess what was aboard: some First Order troops not yet earning the anonymity of the Terror Trooper, some Terrors, their respective pilots and assisting droids.
The Silencer, none had a clue. It looked kind of like a Hexect, moreso like the Old Imperial TIE Interceptor. Had it flown any lower and slower, the identifying mark of an Inner Spire could be seen, distinguishing this as a high-ranking member of the Order, a military leader.
Or a Knight of Ren, had the First Order public known of such things. They were rather like ghosts, in the same way every Terror Trooper wearing Darth Vader's face was a wraith, capitalizing on old fears. And yar, that was the face. They would not be surprised to see what was in the Silencer's cockpit.
Gol'rðo had gotten a message from an astronomy associate warning him of the approaching ships. That he was to act naturally and obediently, all of which he knew. His wife Torz'rðo knew, as did their little acting hopeful Torz'gol. When the First Order arrived they would "play it cool" as they said in the Republic, go along with everything and do nothing to suggest subversion. Burn their Rebellion tapes, use the word "Supreme" whenever possible, address them by a Higher honorific, none of that damned Xenoloan lekksiker. Most First Order worlds were already diglossic in that sense whenever the military got involved.
The three Rodians excused their staff for the day, insisting they leave their equipment as is and return to deal with it the following morning - if any of it was left. They stood outside, waiting attentively for the First Order to arrive. Truth be told, it was a wonder this hadn't happened sooner.
"Papjad, why now? Was it The Reveal?" Torz'Gol kept his eyes to the Solt, where they knew the ships would come from.
"Likely," his father answered. "They're even more fickle than we thought." He chuckled. "I mean, they let that last one slide, that Clone Wars-era one." He couldn't chuckle again, not without losing what breath he had left. A Rodian's diaphragm often spasms in periods of panic, much like the human heart racing. In theory, air is quicker in intake and expulsion, but it was painful and dangerous when standing still. Thousands of years away from the great dangerous swamps of Rodia, and still they could not evolve past this, often taking medication and personal training to avoid panic.
He coughed with half a breath. Torz'rðo breathed deeply, trying to fight that same feeling. She couldn't panic, not in front of her son.
They didn't wait long. The trio of ships were on the horizon now, zooming in fast. The Rodian man gripped his son's shoulder.
"Papjad, that hurts." He hadn't realized it. Sorrowfully, he removed the hand from his son.
The Silencer decelerated, in perfect sync with the escorts. Gol'rðo even heard the switch in engines as they approached, their engines being "clamped down" to negate the magnic effects of the pole. Just seeing it reminded the Rodian of the ringing in his teeth. Funny how even nonmetals still resonated, or something more nuanced only an expert scientist could understand.
The land before them was mostly an empty stretch, a touch colder than the rest of the world, and flatter. Most of what grew was short and stubborn, a greyed-out kind of grass and moss. It sank visibly under the weight of three ships, and he must've imagined the deep squelching noise they made - had Torz'rðo and Torz'Gol not heard it too.
The Silencer did not move. The two carriers opened wide, and the Rodian family stiffened out of fear. With any luck, the Order would see that fear and be satisfied. Sadly, nothing goes that way.
Several officers in those hats needing restraint to avoid laughing. If they laughed, the blasters came out.
Grey uniforms, black uniforms, several variations of the Hex and Spires insignia. Following them were the Terror Troopers, the ones wearing Vader's face. No rank markers, no distinction of any kind. Same height, same build, same stance, step size. Like clones.
A black uniform approached them. Strong human jawline, beak occupying half the face, buggy eyes fitting of a so-called inferior form.
"Rodians. You running this station?"
Gol'rðo nodded. The officer - no telling what the insignias meant these days - was not shy about stepping close, breathing on them, letting some of that disgust shine through.
"Ah, xorshen. You've done great service to the First Order, you know. We simply cannot overlook that, yet..." He squatted to Torz'Gol's level, held out a gloved hand to straighten a flap on the boy's jacket.
"You've been playing some of both sides, haven't you." The gloved hand went to the boy's arm. The grip was not overly tight.
In the background, the Terror Troopers chatted in scrambled tones amongst themselves.
"Nar'n intentionally, sire," the patriarch replied. "Only what's Supremely relevant, what we believe the citizenry need to hear. Anything is someone else's interpretation. Sire."
A small smile creeped across his face. Facing the boy, he tightened his grip ever so slightly.
"I think I recognize this one: you're that brillyouth from The Reveal. Quite the aktorxorshe you'll make, play your dealings right."
Torz'Gol was slow to reply - the officer's claw dug like his Papjad's had, and tightened still. His eyes were going wide.
"Y-yar, sire. G-g-Grasthiolle, sire!"
He removed the hand in an instant, smiling with something like sincerity. His denters, human though he would claim to be, were pointed. Zabraks had fangs. Monsters and flesh-eaters had fangs.
The officer stood up.
"We would like to see inside your station. Any resistance will be... noted."
"Unders-st-tt-stood, sire," Torz'rðo stammered. "R-right this way-ay, s-sir-sire."
He broke from his family, escorting the officer back under the blocky roof Gollen-LokkenCast.
The Terrors were assembling a perimeter, spreading out in some rough circular shape around the station, alternating between facing out and facing in. Their long-barreled blasters hummed.
One of them gazed down at Torz'Gol, daring him to try anything, any excuse to end his acting career and his life. In moving his oyos to the ground, he passed a hilt on the soldier's belt.
Of course...
Normal blasters get a bit thrown off by strong magnic interference. What this could mean for later, neither mother nor child could tell just yet. Only hope that if they should run, they would not be cut down by pursuit.
Torz'rðo had been smart to leave every door open, or so he believed. He walked down the corridor and gestured to the main studio straight down that way.
"Why is every door open? The winds here cannot be kind."
"Oh, sire, we heard you were coming and - " He should not have said that. The officer threw out a hand, stopping both where they stood.
"You heard we were coming."
Too late to correct it now. His friend was already dead. He could feel that thing in his stomach tightening again, begging him to run, begging him to set himself free! But nar. He would stand here and choke if his diaphragm kept going, or worse actually run.
"Yar, sire. An..." He briefly doubled over and clutched his stomach, gasped for air and resumed. "Down by the Equather, he - " Gasp, gulp. "His name's... Tolle Rheu. Fine-machining shopper called... Krevo and Kears, name written in yon ern ancient font."
The officer wrote no notes, merely a lifting of a brow.
Then he shrugged and kept walking.
"What, sire? Nothing of it?"
"Nothing of note. We encourage integration, after all. And if I must ever repair an Oxičtiam timetell, I will thank him personally for aid in your assimilation. Now, tell me more about your recent holofilm projects."
"Oh, err, not much of note, sire. Usual projects: tales of brave units, interspecies relations, hierarchies, simple might... and inferiority."
The officer grunted agreeingly in reply, urging him to continue. If he kept talking themes and narratives his lungs could not take it. He sucked air and moved into the technical side.
"We're experimenting with resolutions, color clarity, shades of athul in the final airing. But we still shoot in color because to the average oyo it always makes a difference, sire. Ern can always tell, yar, ern can."
"Yar, indeed."
Drop. His time was up.
Yells, blasterfire outside. Thick, heavy bolts clanging against surfaces, mixing with screams. Totally disconnected from them.
His hideous buggy oyos went wider; he choked and fell in an instant.
The officer watched the life drain from him, and casually helped him along with a boot to the throat. His eyes went wide and what consciousness aliens are alleged to possess finally abandoned him. He gurgled and toxic-colored drool was free from his bocker at last.
"Serves you right," the officer mumbled. "Stepping out of line."
He went outside.
All dead. Save one.
He fell to a lightsaber. His Supremacy had decided they would not concede another propaganda machine so sloppily, in just plain view. They would simply... cease to exist.
The Silencer took its leave, wiping out the station, the carrier, the fresh bodies of human and Rodian. Then broke atmosphere and went to lightspeed without fuss.
