Harcourt and Thriske sitting up with the monkeys one night, maybe after a nightmare UnU
[FICTOBER DAY 3]
In which I steal liberally from the Chinese language. The lullaby Harcourt sings is a classical Chinese poem from the Tang dynasty, written by famous Chinese poet Li Bai.
--
Thriske woke to a nightmare.
The dream was always the same – the thunder of cannonfire in the distance, and the screams. Standing by his side, the Mirialan Jedi apprentice with his wide dark eyes, and in front of them was Jack. The blood pounding in his ears. The recoil of the blaster rifle stock against his shoulder as he pulled the trigger.
As he woke, Thriske lashed out with a closed fist, but met only empty air. The room was empty. Chest heaving, he screwed his eyes shut and shoved a hand through his dark curls. A month since he had arrived on Coruscant, but his mind had not left the front lines.
Through the wall behind his head, he heard a muffled wailing. He tried to shut his eyes and return to sleep, but the sound tugged at something buried in his chest. Unable to ignore the bawling child, Thriske rose from the bed and slipped noiselessly from the guest room.
Padding quietly down the corridor, he found that the door to the nursery was ajar.
When he peeked through the narrow crack in the door, he was surprised to see not Senator Chuchi, as he had expected, but Colonel Falken. Thriske knew that Harcourt had been awake since well before dawn. It showed in the drooping eyelids and the sag of his shoulders as he lifted a tiny bundle from one of the cribs and cradled his child close.
“Shhh,” Harcourt whispered. “Bié kū, bié kū…méi shì le, Xiǎo Pai, nǐ bié kū ba… Bàba yǐjīng zài le, bù yào kū. Méiyǒu shénme huì shānghài nǐmen liǎng wèi, wǒ dāyìng nǐ. Nothing is going to hurt you. I’m here. Daddy is here.”
Outside the room, Thriske had withdrawn into the shadows of the dim hallway. He feared to intrude on the private moment between father and children, yet something held him transfixed, and kept him from retreating to his room.
Then, in the sheltered darkness of the nursery, Harcourt began to sing.
Thriske did not recognize the language, but he thought it to be Kuati, which he remembered to be Colonel Falken’s native tongue. It had a lilting, melodic quality that reminded him of Cheunh, and he found himself suddenly wondering if his parents had ever sung him a lullaby such as this one, before he was taken from his family to join the ranks of the esoteric navigators.
As the quiet melody faded to silence, there was a pause. Thriske was about to slip away to the guest room when he heard Harcourt’s voice, this time louder and speaking in Basic.
“Are you going to stand out there all night, or come in and help me with these two?”
Thriske froze. He had not thought Harcourt would hear him. Embarrassed, he nudged the door wide and stepped into the nursery, bowing. “Forgive me, Colonel,” he said. “I did not intend to disturb you.”
“These two crocodiles and their tears had already disturbed me before you did,” Harcourt drawled. “Come on – take Iochi while I try to calm Pai.”
Obediently, Thriske moved to the crib where one of the twins lay in a swaddling blanket, screaming with lungs just as powerful as his brother’s. Thriske obeyed Harcourt’s direction, supporting the child’s small head as he cradled the small bundle in his arms and began to soothe Iochi with a gentle rocking motion. It was strange, Thriske thought, that the Pantoran children should be blue-skinned – not so different from his own complexion.
Would a son of his own have looked so different from the tiny creature he held now?
“What does it mean?” Thriske asked. “The song you sang to them?”
Harcourt lowered his head, tending to Pai, and did not speak. For a long time, Thriske thought he would not answer. Then, finally, he heard Harcourt’s hoarse voice in the darkness.
“Bright moonlight before my bed;
I suppose it is frost on the ground.
I raise my head to view the bright moon,
Then lower it, thinking of my home village.”
Harcourt sighed. “This was the lullaby my mother sang to me, long ago. I didn’t think I still remembered the words, but I suppose such things always return when you need them most.” He looked down on his child’s face and a smile softened the hard angles of his face. “When Olia was their age, she never cried like this. She’s always been my brave girl. Pai…he needs a little reassurance. And if Pai starts crying, his brother always follows. Always.”
Thriske looked at him, this man he had known only as a killer. There was a gentleness in his face and in the way he held his child that belied everything Thriske knew of him.
“Fatherhood suits you,” he said after a while had passed in silence. “You seem to have grown into it well.”
Harcourt laughed, but the laugh was shadowed over by a darkness Thriske could not name.
“After my first marriage,” Harcourt said, “it was my intention never to father children. Riyo, though, it was non-negotiable with her. I was so afraid that when they were born, I wouldn’t…love them, the way other fathers love their children. Afraid I didn’t know how. Foolish, I know.”
“No,” Thriske said. “I do not think it is foolish.”
A wry smile turned up the corner of Harcourt’s mouth. “It was for nothing, in the end. From the first moment I held Olia in my arms…that fear disappeared. I had never loved anything the way that I love them.”
Thriske nodded, as though he understood, even though in his heart he did not. Far away, in some distant corner of the Chiss Ascendancy, his own children were living out their lives without him. He had never known them, not their names nor their faces. Had never held them in his arms. Yet now, looking down at the pinched blue face of the child in his arms, he was overwhelmed and alarmed by how…fragile a thing it was. How easily broken, and therefore how much more precious.
“Thank you,” Thiske said, “for your trust, Colonel.”
Harcourt gave him an appraising look. “I’m not a colonel anymore, Wyth’riske. Please, call me Harcourt, or at least Chairman, if you must.”
Thriske inclined his head. “I will try to remember, Chairman. Thank you.”
WAIT OK ISB Director Falken asks Kallus to explain his lack of success on Lothal aka why is a grown man being shown up by a group of actual children.
[FICTOBER DAY 10]
Your wish is my command, mueeheehee >:)
--
Kallus had long suspected that it was no accident that the room outside Director Falken’s office was not furnished with any chairs. Now, as he shifted uneasily on his feet and glanced at the chrono on the wall for the ninth time since he had arrived, he was certain of it.
If he didn’t know any better, Kallus might even suspect that the Director’s Chiss secretary took some twisted sort of pleasure from his prolonged suffering. Kallus could never remember how to pronounce the man’s name. Wrother or Worthy, or some similarly inscrutable alien name. Where the Director had found him, Kallus couldn’t fathom. There was only one other Chiss in the known galaxy, and as far as Kallus was concerned, the Empire would be better off if they both went back to wherever they’d come from.
At last, the Chiss secretary looked up from his desk and said, “You may go in now, Agent Kallus.”
Kallus drew a steadying breath and squared his shoulders, drawing himself to his full height as he strode with confidence through the retracted double doors and into the office of the ISB Director.
“Sir,” said Kallus, coming to a halt in front of the wide desk and executing a crisp salute.
The Director did not acknowledge him, taking his time to peruse the contents of the datapad in his hand while he kept Kallus standing uncomfortably at attention. When at last he lifted his gaze from the datapad, his eyes were narrowed and keen in his sharp, hawkish face. An eyebrow quirked ever so slightly as he scanned Kallus up and down, appraising him.
That’s right, Kallus thought with a sneer. I’m the one she’s with whenever she’s not with you, old man.
If Harcourt Falken shared any of his bitterness over the fact that they were both sleeping with the same woman, none of it showed in his expression. “What do we do here, Agent Kallus?” he asked at length. His voice was calm, but edged with steel.
The question caught Kallus off guard. “…sir?”
“What do we do here, as agents of the Imperial Security Bureau?”
Kallus felt resentment rising in his gorge, but carefully swallowed it back down and straightened his shoulders before he spoke. “We are trained to collect intelligence and to identify and prevent security breaches–”
“No.” Harcourt’s inky black eyes seemed to penetrate straight through him. “We are health care providers, Agent Kallus. We treat sickness and extinguish disease. We keep the Empire and its citizens in good health so that we are all better able to serve our Emperor.”
Harcourt pressed a small blue button on his desk, and the lights in the room dimmed as a holomap of the galaxy projected itself into the center of the room. Territories under Imperial control were demarcated in red – like a cloud of blood diffused in a clear pool.
“Look at all of the systems aligned under our leadership,” Harcourt continued, wending his way through the array of constellations. “The Empire has improved every system it has touched. Safety. Prosperity. Opportunity. We are the present and the future. We are the way forward for millions of beings across thousands of systems. The way we maintain this promise is through constant vigilance – and careful control of every message heard by our citizens.”
Director Falken folded his hands behind his back and strode to the wide viewport behind his desk, overlooking the Imperial military complex.
“Did you know, Agent Kallus, that before any substantially new message is broadcast to the public over an Imperial frequency, it is vetted not only by the head of COMPNOR but by the Joint Chiefs as well? That when it is a message of exceptional importance, the words are sent for approval by the Emperor himself?” Harcourt did not wait for Kallus to respond. “No. Of course you didn’t know that. You have no need, as a Bureau field agent, to know that. So why do you suppose I am telling you now?”
Kallus felt his face redden. “I think I can guess, sir.”
“Can you?” Harcourt rounded on him, his hawk’s eyes honing in for the kill. “If you can guess my intentions, then perhaps your powers of observation are not quite as utterly bereft as I have feared.”
“My mission on Lothal is finally beginning to show results,” Kallus insisted. “We have captured one of the rebels, the Jedi Kanan Jarrus.”
“You allowed a band of insurgent rebels to seize a communications tower and broadcast a public message encouraging acts of terrorism!” Harcourt snapped. “Do you have any idea of the damage your actions have caused, far beyond the insignificant backwater sector you were sent to bring to order?”
“Due respect, sir, but they were not my actions alone,” Kallus forced out through gritted teeth. “Minister Tua and the Grand Inquisitor, even Grand Moff Tarkin–”
“Is that the best excuse you have to offer?” Harcourt’s lip curled with disdain. “I am not interested in the performance of anyone who is not operating under my authority. When you are sent to deal with a problem in the field, you are a representative of this office, and as far as I can make out from these reports, you have done nothing but to assist the rebel insurgency on Lothal through the near inconceivable scope of your own incompetence.”
Harcourt paused for a breath and steadied himself against his desk, seeming winded after his diatribe, and Kallus could not help the cruel satisfaction he felt to notice it. The older man withdrew a silver case from his breast pocket and popped a couple of white pills in his mouth. Without turning back towards him, Director Falken waved a hand and spoke in a hoarse voice:
“Supervisor Massom has been given charge of the Lothal sector. You are to report to her directly on all further matters related to the insurgency there, and you had best hope I do not hear of any further failures of this magnitude. You are dismissed.”
Kallus let his breath hiss through his teeth, trying not to show that he was surprised by the news of Oriana’s promotion. “Sir, if I may be allowed to speak in my defense…” But whatever words he had wanted to speak withered on his tongue when he saw the Director turn, his countenance black.
“You are dismissed, Agent Kallus.”
Kallus saluted and ducked out of the office before he could do something foolish that would result in unpleasant stains on the Director’s carpet.
Thriske makes a visit to see Kleya at the gallery to discuss the delivery of some new B-wing fighters for the Alliance. Inspired by that one Rebels episode and, of course, Andor.
--
Thriske stepped out of the speeder, red eyes scanning the plaza from behind his tinted glareshades. When he was confident that he was not being watched, he straightened his cuffs and strode through the rotating glass door into the cool interior of the gallery. With relief, he saw that the room was empty, save for the human woman at the counter with her hair done up in a tidy coiff.
“Administrator Riskar.” Kleya greeted him with a veiled smile. “Always a pleasure. Are you here on behalf of Chairman Falken?”
Thriske inclined his head. “The Chairman feels the traditional Kuati decor in the bank lobby has grown stale, and hoped you would have something in stock that might breathe some new life into the display.”
“Of course. We brought in a few new items last week that might be just what the Chairman is looking for.” Kleya led him to the display at the side of the gallery, where the view from the street was obscured. “Here we have a beautifully preserved set of ancient prayer beads from Kashyyyk. Each bead is individually carved from the wood of the native wroshyr trees, which are sacred to the Wookiee culture.”
Thriske dropped his voice. “I came to speak to Luthen.”
“You are a day late,” whispered Kleya tersely. “Luthen’s already left.”
“That is unfortunate,” said Thriske, “but I didn’t want to bring word until I had confirmation. The Drive Yards can deliver but it will take time.”
She fixed him with a penetrating stare and moved off to another display, making a show of lifting the piece from its pedestal to present to him, with her back to the glass windows that looked out on the plaza. “Time is not a resource we have in great supply.”
“If you have another shipyard at your disposal, then I encourage you to make use of it,” Thriske answered, a chill in his smooth sibilant voice. “If you do not, then it will take time.”
Kleya pressed her painted lips into a thin line. “How much time?”
“Six months–”
“Six months?”
“–until the assembly line is ready, and then another three months after that.”
“Nine months to deliver half a dozen starfighters?” Kleya lowered her voice. “We are against a tide, Wyth’riske, and the tide is winning.”
“The prototype you are asking us to reproduce has never been manufactured,” Thriske said. “It will take time to design and build and test the assembly line, and we need to do it under the Empire’s nose without drawing suspicion. Nine months is with minimal testing and unpaid overtime for hundreds of workers – which is only possible because of the Empire’s special labor provisions for the Drive Yards.” Thriske did not flinch under her gaze. “I guarantee you will not find a shipyard that can build them any faster.”
For a long and breathless moment, they stood unmoving, locked in a contest of wills. Then, with a disgruntled twitch of her mouth, Kleya relented.
“I’ve just remembered,” she said, gliding away toward another display case, “the Chairman takes a special interest in artifacts from Pantora, doesn’t he? This statue is nearly two thousand years old, from the Jade Era, a representation of the Pantoran moon goddess. In modern times she is worshipped as a goddess of motherhood and justice, but historians believe that her earliest incarnation was as a goddess of war and death.”
Kleya lifted the carven jade statue from its pedestal, her gloved hands cradling the idol almost reverently. “It’s fascinating, don’t you think?” she went on. “How culture and tradition are so often rewritten to mask the darker and uglier periods of our history.”
Thriske said nothing.
When she had wrapped the statue and taken Thriske’s payment of some two hundred thousand credits, Kleya escorted Thriske to the front of the gallery.
“Are you sure you’ll take nothing for yourself?” she asked with her practiced smile. “Artifacts from the Ascendancy are rare but I believe we may have something in the back. Or perhaps you have a taste for something more recent – we have a collection of bronzium commemorative medallions from the Clone Wars that you may find of interest.”
Thriske regarded her with a quiet stare. Kleya was ordinarily subtle with her intentions, sometimes painfully so, but today it was clear that she wanted him to know that she had far more information about him than he would ever have about her.
These games we play with each other, Thriske thought. How will we ever win this war when we can’t even trust the person fighting right next to us?
Thriske looked around the room – ceremonial artifacts and war trophies and stolen history from a hundred worlds. At last, he turned back to Kleya and said, “Thank you, but I prefer to let the dead rest. There is enough work to do taking care of the living without carrying ghosts around as well.”
A short and silly one for today hahah. Oriana Massom belongs to @coruscas.
--
“…and then I said to the Prime Minister, ahaha, I said, ‘How fortunate for the Yanks that they’re always granted the luxury of fighting only when they already know they can win!’”
Kallus grit his teeth so hard his jaws creaked. On the barbecue in front of him, the Angus beef patties lay forgotten, charred into unrecognizable husks. Today of all days, on the Fourth of July, that most sacred of American holidays devoted to the celebration of independence and freedom and courage, Harcourt Falken was seated in his backyard, forgoing the traditional local IPA in favor his imported brandy and openly mocking the United States of America with his talk of Yanks and Prime Ministers.
“We are a patriotic household,” Kallus ground out through his teeth. “I would appreciate it if you kept your disrespectful nonsense to yourself.”
“Sasha,” Oriana hissed from his side. Kallus yelped as her sharp elbow connected with his ribcage. “Why don’t you pay more attention to the beef and leave Harcourt alone.”
“No, no,” Harcourt said with a flippant wave of his hand. The man’s cheeks were flushed pink with booze. “By all means, Ana, allow him to continue. I would be fascinated to hear Alex’s opinion about what constitutes a patriotic American.”
“Thousands of American soldiers have fought and died on foreign shores to bring peace and democracy to the world,” said Kallus, lifting his chin with an air of pride.
Harcourt nodded thoughtfully. “Have you ever fought in a war, Alex? Ever served in the military in any capacity whatsoever?”
Kallus glared stiffly. “I serve in other ways.”
Harcourt afforded him a simpering smile. “Do any of those ways involve having bullets shot at you or shells dropped on your ass?”
Kallus flushed from his neck to the tips of his ears. “There are children present, if you don’t mind!”
“Oh, but you said it yourself – this is a patriotic household! And what could be more patriotic to an American than dropping shells on a foreign country you’ve never set foot in?” Harcourt’s hawkish stare was boring a hole straight through Kallus’s muttonchopped head. “Well, I have set foot in some of them, Alex, and I have to tell you – nearly dying in the mud in some backwater third-world country we had no business in to begin with didn’t make me feel particularly patriotic.”
Kallus stared at the drunk old man until his face was purple, but could not come up with a response. Behind him, he heard Oriana sigh. At last, Kallus dropped his gaze back to the grill…and frowned when he saw the solid black pucks that remained of his Angus beef patties.
When everyone’s attention had turned back to whatever conversations they were having, Thriske moved quietly through the crowd to Harcourt’s side and bent to murmur in the man’s ear.
“Chairman,” said Thriske, “have you been mixing alcohol with your pain medication again?”
Harcourt scowled. “My liver is one of the few parts of me not riddled with cancer, Thriske, and I’ll be damned if I’m going to give up my brandy.”
Harcourt and fellow financiers having a bitchfest about the Empire's strict new banking regulations and Imperial audits
Thriske paying a visit to Kleya at the gallery to coordinate the delivery of starships from Kuat for the rebels or some shit like that, and buying a nice new statuette to decorate the bank lobby
FOR THE WIP MEME: Sprawled on the wide paving stones, Morgan Pendleton lay, his skin rapidly paling as blood gushed from the ragged hole in his chest, soaking his clothes and pooling beneath him. His own pistol was still clasped in his fingers, loaded and cool where he had been too slow in loosing off his shot. His chest heaved with laboured breaths, his dark eyes rolling blindly in their sockets, until he stilled with a stuttering sigh.
Ohhohoo, a Pendleton suffering a grisly and well-deserved death?? WE LOVE TO SEE IT. I’m guessing that Custis is somewhere nearby and he’s about to lose his fucking MIND. Also, assuming this is a duel, I love the idea of Morgan not even getting his shot off. There’s a wonderfully morbid euphemism in there somewhere.
Here’s a short bit from something BRAND NEW that I started JUST FOR YOU cus you’ve already read my other Star Wars WIPs lmao.
--
Yellow lights flickered at Belkor’s temple as he pulled the dossier from the ISB servers. “Wyth’riske, designation TS-903, formerly Imperial Army Special Missions. Adult Chiss male. Homeworld unknown. Age unknown. Current alias: Wythe Riskar, executive administrator, InterGalactic Bank of Kuat. Status: Wanted in connection with ISB investigations of desertion, money laundering, economic espionage, seditious conspiracy, and aiding and abetting acts of terrorism.”
Thriske did not so much as blink. “If you intend to threaten me, Colonel, you’ll have to do better than that.”
“I am not threatening you. I am educating you.”
Thriske shrugged. “You have not told me anything that I did not already know. Director Kallus is welcome to bring me in for questioning at any time. He knows where to find me.”
--
Send me a line or two from your current WIP and I’ll share one of mine!
sad clone trooper feelings are always my jam; hit me. (or answer publicly to hit us all.)
@elpuercopeludo @metrophor
Ugh, I always say I want to talk about my OCs but then when I actually get an ask like this I realize none of it will make sense without several paragraphs of context lol.
So, I originally created Hijack/Jack as part of the backstory for another OC of mine, Thriske. Thriske is a Chiss with a long and complex backstory, but the digest version is that he was a Force-sensitive navigator in the Chiss Ascendancy who was ultimately exiled for questioning the system. When he came to the Republic, he didn't speak Basic at all and got himself tangled up with the Black Sun crime syndicate without really knowing what he was getting into.
Eventually, the Black Sun betrayed him and left him to be captured during a Republic sting operation. The Republic gave Thriske a choice -- to serve his sentence in prison or in the military. He chose the military, which at that time meant the Judicial Forces. During his time in the Judicials, the Clone Wars broke out, and Thriske was integrated into the Grand Army of the Republic. And that is where he meets Jack.
The reason I'm explaining all this is because the parallels between Thriske and Jack are very important. They've both been given very little choice in their lives.
When Jack and Thriske eventually fall in love, it is the first time either of them has made a CHOICE for themselves. They are two men who have no real family and no real home, but they choose to find a home in one another, on the frontlines of a war they've been ordered to fight.
But then, Order 66 happens. For reasons I won't elaborate on here, Thriske finds himself standing between Jack and a young Jedi Padawan. They have to choose either their orders or each other. And...well...I imagine you can guess which one they choose.
So I saw @leothelionsaysgrrrr playing around with this Disney prince maker thing-a-ma-bob, and when I saw they had non-human skin tones, I knew of course I had to make my fave blueberry, Wyth’riske.
This is Wyth’riske in his adolescence as a Force-sensitive Chiss navigator, decked out in the uniform of the Expansionary Defense Fleet...and a sexy af ponytail that tragically did not survive his exile to the Galactic Republic. RIP sexy af ponytail.
