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pocket-thrawn · 2 months

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Crossing the Stars

A pretty self-indulgent fic, warming up my Thrawn writing muscles.

Thrawn x f!reader

Music swirled around you, painting dazzling notes of clear flutes and heady cellos all merging into a beautiful symphony. You smelled the fine wines and the decadent foods being passed around on silver platters by carefully dressed servants.

Despite the rich atmosphere and numerous happily chatting guests, all that filled your mind was the injustice of such rich frivolity when there remained such desperate suffering in the Galaxy. Acts of atrocity spurred on and, in some cases, encouraged by the very Empire you had to pretend to support.

Naboo was your home world, and you had fought tooth and nail to keep your people as protected from the Empire’s influence as you could. Your fellow senators had become little more than puppets dancing luridly on the end of Palpatine’s strings after the fall of the Republic. It was with a heavy heart you took up the mantle of Naboo’s senator after the last Queen had so tragically passed away.

So many uniformed individuals, your heart twisted at the sight of the Stormtroopers and Imperial officers milling around. Your own traditional dress brushed velvet against your skin as you turned and walked unhurried to a part of the grand hall that was sufficiently unoccupied.

“Oh, I do apologize.” You said, brushing against another body as you maneuvered around a rather gaudy potted plant.

“It is quite alright.”

You turned your head to offer the gentleman a commiserating sort of look at the state of affairs here, yet the small smile froze upon your face. Your eyes widened slightly, knowing immediately the identity of the blue-skinned alien you’d carelessly knocked into.

“Grand Admiral.” You said, fluidly moving to an appropriate distance from the Chiss.

Thrawn looked down upon you, a small tensing of his lips the only indicator of his amusement. “It seems you already know who I am. I would be remiss not to ask for your identity miss…”

“Erys.” The false name you’d created rolled easily off your tongue as you politely extended your hand, unsure if he would take it. “Senator and representative of Naboo and her people.”

Thrawn did indeed take your hand and shook once before relinquishing it. You noticed immediately how unusually warm his skin was against yours. “Grand Admiral Thrawn, of the Imperial Navy. A pleasure to make your acquaintance, however abrupt in nature.”

“Yes…” You pulled your skirts fully off the offending plant and gave it an aggrieved glance. “Again, sorry about that.”

Thrawn simply gave a small smile. His glowing red eyes unnerving in the emotionless quality they lent.

“Enjoying the gala?” You ventured, feeling obligated to keep the conversation going. You were almost on auto-pilot at this point, going through the motions of a political representative.

“Not entirely.” Thrawn’s smooth voice was almost hypnotic, you found yourself leaning in to hear better as he cast a look around the crowded room. “I am of far better use on the command deck of the Chimaera.”

“Your Star Destroyer, of course.” Something in your voice must have betrayed your disdain for the Imperial vessels because Thrawn’s piercing gaze flicked back to your face.

“Indeed.”

“You had art specially commissioned for the body of your ship, correct?”

“I’m surprised you are aware of my personalization.” Thrawn seemed to be growing ever more interested in this banter.

You chuckled, making sure to not make excessive eye contact with him. You didn’t want gossiping whispers following you back to Naboo. “I’m not sure there’s anyone who doesn’t know of it.” You met his eyes again, he was making no such tactful attempts. “It’s quite the statement.”

“There’s little about me that isn’t.” Thrawn intoned, drawing a surprised chuckle from you. “May I ask after the nature of your clothing?” He continued, hands tightly clasped behind his back and yet his gaze almost felt corporeal on your person as he studied you.

You swallowed a little thickly through your nerves. The points of brighter red you guessed served as Thrawn’s pupils followed the movement of your throat as you spoke. “Yes, of course.”

Thrawn held up a quelling hand for a moment, smiling politely. “I do not wish to impose my presence if unwanted.” It seemed he wished to clarify his intentions. “The conversation you lend is proving to be the most tolerable of this evening.”

You gave him a dubious look. “I get the impression that’s not saying much.”

He chuckled, short and quiet, but yet an actual expression of mirth from a man rumored to be implacable and cold at all times. “No, you are quite correct.”

“Still…” You decided to capitalize on this congenial moment. “I thank you for the compliment. My dress, as you already suggested, is fashioned after the regal regalia of my home world.”

“Excellent play on words.” Thrawn turned his body fully to face you and despite yourself, you did the same. “Please, continue.”

You explained the meaning behind the colors and the artistry woven into the fabric of your dress and hair ornaments. Thrawn listened with rapt attention, seeming to genuinely be interested in your every word. You couldn’t tell if it was simply politeness on his part, in a desire to be distracted from the endless chatter of political machinations around you. Yet as you spoke and he prompted you from time to time, you felt the tension between you slowly ease and drop into an easy companionship.

“Your planet has quite a rich history.” Thrawn said, inclining his head politely when you’d finished speaking. “My condolences on the passing of your late senator.”

Your lips pursed, lingering melancholia tugging at your heart. “She was the best of us.”

Thrawn was silent for a moment, his mouth turning slightly downward in thought. “You strike me as an intelligent and capable individual, you will do well.”

“What of you?” You asked the question that’d been burning in the back of your mind since bumping into him. “Where are you from? What brought you to serve the Empire?”

“A story, perhaps, for another time.” Thrawn said, giving you a smile to indicate he wasn’t offended by your prying.

“It’s quite unusual to see someone non-human to rise within the ranks of the Empire, and so quickly too.” You mused. “Though I am sure you’ve heard such a sentiment quite a lot.”

Thrawn nodded slowly. “Indeed, I have.”

You wanted to ask so many questions but got the sense he was not open to answering them.

“You are not fond of the Empire.” Thrawn said, it wasn’t a question, and it caught you off guard.

“I…whatever gave you that impression?” It was near impossible to keep the irony out of your voice. You clasped your hands behind your back, mirroring his posture, suddenly careful. Amidst the ease of your light banter, you’d forgotten just what Thrawn was and who he served.

Thrawn studied you silently for several seconds. “It is quite evident. Whenever you speak mention the Empire or look at the Officers in this very hall, the distaste is clear upon your visage.”

“You’ve been scrutinizing my ‘visage’ hm?” You asked coyly, deflecting.

“Indeed. Am I correct?”

You hesitated, your shoulders tensing as you looked around the room for a ready excuse to exit this suddenly uncomfortable encounter. You got the sense that it was no use lying to this Chiss man. You gave a terse nod. “Yes.”

“May I ask why?” Thrawn was unlike any Imperial you’d heretofore encountered. He had proven to be polite and respectful, even though you were a senator; a position that drew disdain and condescension from the majority of Palpatine’s servants. You felt like you could open up to Thrawn, which might have been his game all along, there was no real way of knowing.

The fact he would ask your reasons for disliking the Empire surprised you into answering. “There are aspects that I do not agree with, the utter abolishment of democracy being one of them.”

“It has not been abolished as of yet.” Thrawn intoned, lowering his soft voice so you could not be overheard. “The Senate remains, you are proof of this.”

“We are little more than puppets, extensions of Palpatine’s will. And the Senate, as it remains, is slowly being dissolved.”

Thrawn listened to your words, he didn’t argue back. Again, surprising you.

He waited, so you continued. “I don’t condone slavery or the rape of worlds for their resources, displacing millions of people from their homes.” Your words lapsed as you became dangerously close to speaking treason.

“I will not say the Empire is perfect.” Thrawn’s voice remained gentle, no condemnation coloring his words. “However, it is stronger than the Republic, more capable of protecting the Galaxy.”

“I won’t argue that the Republic was perfect.” You rubbed anxiously at your neck before folding your hands politely in front of you. “However a totalitarian regime that relies on fear to govern isn’t the answer.”

“Yes, I had heard rumor the senator from Naboo was quite vocal in her political stance.” Thrawn murmured, his hand found the small of your back causing you to jolt slightly. “Come, peruse the gallery with me.”

Intrigued and not wishing to draw more eyes than had been already, you allowed the Grand Admiral to gently guide you out of the crowded gala hall and into a more secluded marble corridor. Your footsteps echoed as you walked together in silence, Thrawn’s hand no longer at your back.

“After you, please.” Thrawn opened the glass door and bowed slightly as you passed.

You instantly noticed the plush carpet beneath your thin shoes and sighed in relief at the ease it gave your aching feet.

“Yes, a much more comfortable setting. One I quite prefer to political decadence.” Thrawn said behind you, and you turned to see him calmly observing a vivid oil painting framed by the door.

“You did mention your fondness for art.” You joined him and looked at the splash of color that made little sense to you.

“I am equally fond of truth.” Thrawn glanced sideways, you could feel the burning of those red eyes upon you like a weight before he shifted his attention back to the painting again. “What do you see upon this canvas?”

“A…lot of color all thrown together.” You said, mildly peeved, you folded your arms across your chest. “It’s quite an abstract piece.”

“Indeed.” Thrawn turned to face you more fully, causing you to step back on instinct. “To me it describes chaos, anger perhaps, a purposeful lack of care to hide the true meaning beneath.”

“You know…” You remained poised and standing straight, your shoulders back as you inclined your chin to look up at him. “It is very impressive what you can sense from someone’s art, or what they’ve named as art. However, I will remind you that art is up to the viewer’s interpretation. You cannot draw concrete conclusions from art the way you can from the sciences.”

A small smile tugged the corner of Thrawn’s mouth, it gave a self-satisfied impression. As if you’d said exactly what he’d expected. “Very astute, senator Erys. And almost entirely correct. However, even with art, there are certain patterns that become predictable as one studies the nature of sentient beings, particularly humans.”

You arched a brow. “Such as what, may I ask?”

“Emotion.” Thrawn said, leveling his glowing gaze at you. “I would suggest art is always produced by the emotion of its creator. That is why, to understand an adversary or an ally one must study all aspects of their culture, including their art.”

“Which am I, adversary or ally?” You asked, unable to help yourself, even as your hands clenched briefly.

Thrawn smiled and shook his head slightly. “I do not yet know, senator.” His smile faded as he lent down more into your space. “There are many rumors surrounding you, however I know firsthand how such gossip can be entirely inaccurate. For this reason, I am giving you one opportunity to tell me the truth.”

“The truth?” Your heart dropped like a stone; your hands became clammy as you realized how you’d walked right into his trap. The tilt of his head indicated he’d read and recognized all your reactions as the dread coiled within you.

“About yourself, and the organizations you are affiliated with.” Thrawn said softly, his every muscle holding very still, like a spider in its web. “Now, shall we start from the beginning?”

#thrawn fanfiction #grand admiral thrawn #thrawn x reader #thrawn x you #thrawn x oc #chiss fic #drabble #multi part fic

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from-a-legends-pov · 9 days

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Star Wars Legends: Poll of the Week - Favorite Wraith Backstory, part 1

In the Star Wars Legends novel X-Wing: Wraith Squadron, Wedge Antilles and Wes Janson put together a new kind of group for the New Republic Navy – a combination commando unit and starfighter squadron. To conserve resources, Wedge and Wes recruited the initial members of the squadron largely from pilots who had promising skills, but had been identified as misfits or at risk of washing out of the New Republic navy.

Wedge, Wes, and ten other pilots with a variety of skills and backstories made up the original roster of Wraith Squadron (initially known as Gray Squadron).

Of these five original Wraiths to join Wedge and Wes, whose backstory is your favorite? (We’ll ask about the other half of the roster in part 2.)

Falynn Sandskimmer, an ace Y-wing pilot from Tatooine who was extremely sick of being compared to a certain X-wing pilot from Tatooine, and often got charged with insubordination for voicing her low opinion of Luke Skywalker and other famous Rebels.

Voort “Piggy” saBinring, a Gamorrean who had been genetically engineered for high intelligence and mathematical abilities, so skilled that he could do navigation calculations without an astromech and was an expert in pattern recognition; he had been charged with insubordination because other officers kept attempting to start fights with him, and merely blocking their punches was enough to get charged.

Myn Donos, a Corellian sniper and pilot who was the lone survivor when his former squadron, Talon Squadron, was ambushed; Talon Squadron was lured into the ambush thanks to false intelligence planted by Imperial agent Gara Petothel, and Donos was so troubled by the incident that he no longer would wear the Corellian bloodstripes he had earned previously.

Kell Tainer, an ace pilot and demolitions expert from Alderaan whose father, also a pilot, panicked during an early mission for the Rebellion and tried to flee, forcing Wes Janson to shoot him down and prompting Kell’s family to change their name due to his father’s reputation for cowardice; he constantly sought to be the best and to somehow make up for his father’s failings.

Jesmin Ackbar, a Mon Calamari and the niece of Admiral Gial Ackbar; Jesmin was a gifted pilot and communications expert but kept getting assignments way beneath her abilities, because nobody wanted to be the commanding officer who got Admiral Ackbar’s niece killed.

Hungry for more Legends content? Follow @from-a-legends-pov and check out our upcoming Star Wars Legends fanfiction event, From a Legends Point of View, HERE. Signups open April 28 — please encourage your favorite Star Wars writers to participate!

#star wars legends #star wars eu #star wars extended universe #sw legends #from a legends pov #poll of the week #wraith squadron #falynn sandskimmer #Voort saBinring #piggy #myn donos #kell tainer #jesmin ackbar #wraith backstories #part 1 #wedge antilles #wes janson #x-wing #aaron allston

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inquisitor-apologist · 9 months

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Thinking of another Star War AU I Will Not Write. This time, it’s an Imperial Ghost Crew one:

Sabine Wren fails to escape the Imperial Academy, and is, for some reason, forced into a mentorship program with Hera Syndulla, an extremely competent and talented new ISB agent coming out of a decorated career in the Imperial Navy. Sabine hates her on sight. She attempts to run away at least five times a day (Hera always seems to know where she is), and makes no secret of how much she wants to join the rebel terrorists they are currently hunting. The only upside to the situation is Agent Syndulla's ancient, borderline illegal droid (he doesn't want to go through Imperial reprogramming, and Hera won't make him) who lives for chaos and is absolutely willing to hack into a Star Destroyer’s comm system to blast the Republic anthem and smuggle in smoke bombs.

Hera Syndulla was captured in an Imperial raid when she was a kid (11-12) and placed in an Imperial reeducation facility. She graduated top of her class at the Imperial Fighter Academy and served as one of the Empire's most talented TIE pilots until she was promoted to the ISB. And now she has to wrangle a teenage Mandalorian whose favorite hobbies are high treason and vandalism. Sabine's relentless rebellion starts to change her mind on the Rebellion, especially when Sabine tells her about the Duchess and what the Empire's done to Mandalore.

Chopper, of course, goes where Hera goes, even though the Empire is far too orderly for his tastes. He somehow found her after her capture and reeeducation, and covertly replaced her astromech at the Fighter Academy. He commands an army of Mouse Droids on the Star Destroyer, and takes great pleasure in using them to sneak bugs and smoke bombs into Officer's quarters. In his opinion, Sabine is the best thing that's ever happened to him--she's an excellent gunner, a fellow chaos lover, and she's gotten Hera to loosen up a bit, so it's easier than ever to sneak off with her codes to prank the Admiral.

Ezra was captured with his parents on Lothal and put into Project Harvester, where he was eventually transferred into the Inquisitorius as a Junior Inquisitor. As such, he is extremely repressed. Sabine takes one look at him and decides he's her new best friend, and by the Force she is going to radicalize him. They become fast friends, and are soon the bane of every Senior Officer's existence. But no one can track the mysterious disappearance of all of Admiral Konstantine's pants back to them, of course. They bond over shared Imperial Trauma and eventually decide that they need to get out of here as fast as fucking possible.

Kanan was captured after Order 66 and was tortured into the Inquisitorius, so he's even more emotionally constipated than Ezra. He is Struggling with attempting to parent a teenager because Vader and the Grand Inquisitor's solution to everything was torture, and for some strange reason, he doesn't want to do that with Ezra. Also, he's extremely confused whenever he looks at Hera because he gets Feelings other?? than unquenchable rage??? and he does not know how to process this At All. He ends up covering for Ezra and Sabine's shenanigans because they're just kids and he doesn't want to see them punished. So no, Admiral Konstantine, he has no idea how all the security tapes for your room on the night your pants were stolen disappeared, it's a complete mystery.

Zeb and Kallus are the leaders of the Rebel cell they're trying to capture, because there's absolutely no way Zeb would ever be Imperial. Kallus and Hera were friends back at the Imperial Academy so they've got that best friends to enemies dynamic, and Zeb and Kanan have a really old rivalry--Zeb has a habit of sneaking Force Sensitive kids out of the Empire's reach, and Kanan's been halfheartedly hunting him for years. They are absolutely kriffing, and keep asking Hera and Kanan when they're going to finally do it. Kanan is so embarrassed he can't speak, and Hera looks straight down for so long that the rebels make their getaway unchallenged.

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f1tyreslightmyfyre · 3 months

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We Go Together - Ch. 1

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A Jedi!Charles x TIE Fighter Pilot!Max Star Wars AU

Ch. 1 Warnings: Language; near-drowning and crash-landing injuries; hurt/comfort; head wound; discussion of war and death; forced drug addiction (by the Imperial Navy) and associated withdrawal

He’s dying.

Though it's not happening as fast as he always thought it would. Ever since he strapped into his first TIE fighter, it should just be a blinding flash of conflagration, the flesh searing from his bones in the cold of space, and then… nothing.

But this is disturbingly peaceful. Midnight blue water fills the cockpit and surrounds him. Metal and machinery creak in protest under the increasing pressure as the ship sinks. His head throbs with a disorienting ache from the force of impact. Tacky blood mats his hairline, streaking his face and tainting his tongue beneath the vacuum-sealed helmet as he gasps the remainder of his air supply.

It won't be long now. The design of his pressure suit and atmospheric unit only works in the vacuum of space, and something will fail under the water’s invasive weight. He groans against the pain in his skull, exhaling sharply as he fumbles for the last of his restraint harness tabs. A seal hisses and bursts behind him, but he still can’t move from his bench. Cold water stings his skin as it floods into his suit and displaces the air.

An impossibly warm line of solid strength wraps around his torso. Dimly, he registers the feel of it - it… it feels like an arm. He floats free of his bench, guided by the bracketing heat that radiates through his pressure suit.

Every instinct compels him to struggle, to fight back. So he does, trying to flail his arms in the water against the… person? Being? - whoever attempts to immobilize him and pull him from his ship.

That's not how this is supposed to end. He needs to stay with his ship - a pilot till his death.

Waves of calming, comforting peace wash over him. The foreign sensations seep into his soul, snuffing out any will to fight. Every combative instinct in him settles and surrenders to the flood of serenity that overtakes him.

Soothing. So soothing.

Saltwater burns his nostrils and eyes as his movements grow sluggish. A solid presence holds him from behind now - a body moving, legs kicking as an arm claws for the surface. His eyes drift closed as his lungs burn with the need for air.

Numbly, he paws at the pressure seals of his helmet. No familiar hiss of breathing tubes or vacuum seals sound in his ears - just the gurgling of bubbles as he loosens its hold. He wrenches it off just as his head breaks the surface.

He gulps down air, dizzy from the onslaught of relief. Saltwater burns his head wound but it’s a distant second sensation compared to the feel of his rescuer holding him close. Just so warm, so reassuring, so calming… did he mention warm? Black spots eat at his vision, and he chokes on a mouthful of saltwater.

The arm around his chest tightens. “Hold on, mate.” A grunt of exertion follows.

He’s never felt so heavy, his arms and legs near impossible to move now. His waterlogged pressure suit suffocates him and it hurts to expand his lungs. Blackness eats at his consciousness and his eyes close as he succumbs.

He jolts awake when he suddenly lands against something solid. There’s… there’s no water around him. He’s surrounded by frigid, brackish air, but he can breathe freely… and he greedily inhales. The world spins before his eyes, or… or is that the rocking motion of the boat? Or both? Nausea eats at him either way.

Swallowing a mouthful of bile, he strains for a glimpse of his… captor? Rescuer?

He doesn’t trust his vision at first. The young, male humanoid doesn’t look remarkable. Wet, dark curls plaster to his forehead above a lean, pale face. Neat, short facial hair paints a dark contrast to his skin tone, as does his water-soaked clothing. The stranger also heaves for breath, sprawled against the boat’s rear bench, exhaustion evident in his lean but strong build.

Questions flood the pilot’s addled brain but his tongue is too thick for words. A violent shiver seizes him as a gust of wind whips through the boat. He thinks a groan passes his lips, but he’s not sure.

“You can rest now.” The other man’s voice carries a mellifluous, otherworldly accent as it floats on the biting wind. “You’re alright.”

The words discomfort him, but he falls helplessly back into darkness.

Charles glances over at the unmoving figure in his bed before sampling the broth. Two days now and the TIE pilot still labors in the throes of high fever. Charles wishes he could do more to ease it, but he’s already cleaned and dressed the gash on the pilot’s head to the best of his ability. The wound appears to be healing cleanly, but he suspects the fever torturing the pilot has more to do with the extreme trauma of the situation.

Not to mention the withdrawal.

Again, Charles samples the steaming soup. He reaches for another pinch of fresh astrid leaves and stirs to release their savory aroma. With any luck, the broth will sit well on the pilot’s empty stomach when he wakes. If anything, his body needs the energy to heal, and then… then they can figure out what to do next.

He blinks back over at the sleeping figure. A surprisingly tall man for a pilot. He looks about the same age as Charles which surely must be older than the average age for TIE pilots who have notoriously short lifespans. That could only mean that this man is better than average - a fearsome killer of his masters’ making.

The body concealed beneath the ruined pressure suit hadn’t surprised Charles, though. Like any elite warrior, the pilot is all tough sinew and whipcord muscle with strong, broad shoulders. Small scars litter the man’s limbs and torso, but Charles hadn’t noted any additional injuries aside from intense bruising. However, the five digit number imprinted on the inside of the man’s left wrist had stopped him cold.

11410

Imperial operating numbers change with post designations and squadron rankings, but Charles doesn’t understand that string of numbers. Even now as he stands at the stove of his meager kitchen, the five digits hover in the back of his mind. Perhaps the pilot would be inclined to tell him about it. Or maybe not.

He’ll need to be careful either way. Ever since Order 66 passed and branded every Jedi a traitor, he can’t reveal too much about himself. Or his abilities. As he reaches for a wooden bowl from the shelf over the stove, he hopes that the pilot won’t ask too many questions about his rescue. For better and worse, the man had been in such a state of shock that he likely wouldn’t remember much, anyway. And he most certainly had passed out before Charles lifted him into the boat hands-free.

Sighing gently, he laddles out two spoonfuls of broth into the bowl, blowing across the surface to displace the curling steam. With another glance back towards the bed, he takes a deep breath and prepares himself.

It’s time for the pilot to wake up, and Charles reaches out with a gentle ripple.

He stirs under soft, worn covers, cracking an eye open. Fire burns in a hearth across the room from him, and he can’t recall ever being surrounded by such suffocating heat. He doesn’t know why he’s awake, but he’s so hot… too hot.

His limbs weigh too much to move, but he takes in his surroundings with a wary gaze. The dwelling is simple, functional yet oddly inviting. Imperfect raw wood, sea-smoothed stones, and thick, crude woolen fabrics. None of it is familiar, and none of it feels right.

He needs to leave. Immediately. He needs unyielding metal, sharp edges, and cold precision. He needs to hunt… he-

A stab of panic seizes him in a rush of startling, unfamiliar sensation. It doesn't make sense - he’s always perfectly in control. Always riding the razor’s edge, always focused - always sighted on his target.

But now? Now, there’s no target. There’s no focus. There’s no… control. He hears himself gasp as his heart pounds and sweat beads on his brow.

What’s happening to him?

“Calm yourself, mate.” The voice from a half-remembered dream washes over him. “You have a fever, and you just need to rest. My name is Charles, and you're safe.” The man owning the voice steps into view, hovering just on the edge of his vision.

“What…" he croaks, barely recognizing his raw voice. “What did you do to me?” His hands fist in the bedsheet, agitated and angered as a tremor seizes him. He grits teeth against it, needing that persistent, aggressive hunger filling his veins.

“You’re in the worst of it - and I know that probably doesn’t make any sense to you right now. But it will.” Charles speaks softly in a low soothing register as his face softens with concern. “Your body is trying to compensate for what it doesn’t have anymore. Just breathe now - breathe the free air, in and out. Slowly - here, follow me.”

He grips the bedcovers tighter, refusing to succumb. He doesn’t need comfort. He never has. What has this Charles done to him to make him want these things? Fuck, he needs… he bears his teeth, ready to jump out of his skin and go for the jugular. Anything to reclaim that intense high, sharp edge of control.

He jolts up from the bed with a savage snarl, lunging forwards. His head swims from the sudden movement, overcome with fatigue and disorientation, and his offensive attack crumbles. His hands fall weakly to his side as he slumps over and the bedcovers pool around his waist.

To Charles' credit, the man doesn’t even flinch. He merely places one hand in a trouser pocket as he stares back and holds a steaming bowl with his other hand. His face is carefully guarded, regarding him with eyes in the most stunning shade of green as he speaks softly. “They have done quite a job on you, mate… you must have spent many years in the pilot corps.”

“What the fuck are you talking about?” He growls through labored breaths, a bead of sweat running down the side of his face as black spots eat at his vision. “You don’t know anything about it!”

“I know more than you would ever want to know.” Charles suddenly stands taller with a disconcerting wisdom beyond his years. “Psychological conditioning and biological manipulation are dangerous endeavors. Drugging a person’s mind for a constant state of adrenaline-fueled aggression and hyper-awareness will take its toll in days, let alone years. And you, mate, have had more than your fair share.”

“You lie!” He roars. “You lie to cover your own deeds and manipulation!”

“What’s your operating number?”

“SD-62-1.”

“Where were you born?”

“Unnecessary.” Anger vibrates along his skin, nostrils flaring through raging breaths.

“What’s your name?”

He shakes his head, pain blooming deep in his skull. “No.”

“What’s your name?” Charles presses again, voice soft and even. “Come on - think.”

“No! I don’t-” The bed sheet fabric rips under his hands as he struggles. “I don’t have a name.”

“Yes, you do. Now, what is your name?”

“I DON’T KNOW!” His words echo off the stone walls as the realization sinks in. How… how can someone not know their own name? Of course he has to have one… at least, at some point in his life. But now? What is it…?

He freezes, recognizing every muscle in his body coiled and tensed in familiar readiness for a fight. Sweat from his palms dampens the sheet still clenched in his fists, and it clings to his chest and the back of his neck. What… just what the fuck is happening to him?

Charles takes a small step forward, eyes warm with kind understanding. “Your body has spent so many years in a state of agitation, it’s chasing the only way it has to maintain that state now.” A small smile quirks the corner of his mouth. “And you can try to call me a liar, but I can see the uncertainty in your eyes.”

He drops his head to his chest, squeezing his eyes shut as if to hide. This stranger has no place to comment on his business or what he thinks or how he feels. Taking a deep breath, he loosens his grip on the bed sheet, muscles protesting in pain as he unclenches his fingers. Everything hurts - from the throbbing ache deep in his skull to the tightness in his chest to the pull of the bandage on his head. He shakes his head, jaw tensing. “I don’t want this. Don’t… don’t do this to me.”

“I don’t have the drugs they use in your air supply. You’ll continue through withdrawal until your body levels out.” Charles sighs regretfully. “I wish I had an easier way for you, mate, but… well, like I said before - biological manipulation is a dangerous endeavor.”

His head spins and his vision swims. The last of his strength leaves him as he slumps backwards, landing against the pillow. It offers meager cool relief against his sweat-soaked brow and he squeezes his eyes shut as if to block Charles out. The man has already ruined him, and he won’t let Charles do anymore damage.

“Before you go back to sleep,” Charles’ voice draws up alongside the bed. “I have some broth for you. It should help, I think. At least, it will give your body some energy to heal.”

He shakes his head. “No.”

“I think you’ll be surprised.” A gentle hand falls to his shoulder and a current of peaceful calmness overtakes him. His mind fuzzes as he loses the will to protest. Charles’ hand drifts to support his head with surprisingly tender strength, and the rim of a wooden bowl presses gently to his lips.

Warm, savory aromas wash over his tongue, filling his belly with a comforting fullness. The haze in his mind grows as his body stills under gentle strokes of Charles’ fingers on his nape. His mind catches the undertow, drifting away to the safe shores of sleep.

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#f1 fanfic #f1 rpf #charles leclerc #charles leclerc fanfic #max verstappen #max verstappen fanfic #charles leclerc x max verstappen #lestappen #star wars au #jedi #tie fighter #f1 fandom

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cambion-companion · 11 months

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Shades of Blue

I've always wanted to explore (even with my broken keyboard) how Thrawn would address someone he cares about needing comfort.

You sat with the other members of the Chimaera crew around the intercom table, your uniform doing very little to keep out the chill seeping into your tired bones. It was too early in the morning to function properly, you were sure your own face reflected the exhaustion you saw in the people sat around you. Well, all faces save for that of your commanding officer. Thrawn's face was devoid of any signs of fatigue, though his expression looked mildly bemused as his red eyes scanned his crew's slack positions.

To your left Commander Faro poured herself a generous amount of steaming caf into a white mug. The cozy smell of it filled the room with a little more life.

After a moment where the Grand Admiral allowed you all to adjust to alertness, he spoke. "I've summoned you this morning so we may continue addressing the Mynock infestation troubling supply lines."

It took everything in you to suppress a groan, the Chimaera and her crew had been trying with no success to rid the fuel chain of the wire-chewing pests. Something in your body language must have shifted enough to draw your Admiral's attention because Thrawn shifted his gaze to you. "What is your opinion?" His voice was smooth and low as it usually was, but he clasped his hands behind his back while waiting for your answer.

You had joined the Chimaera's crew several years ago and had proven to be a competent addition to the team, so much so that Grand Admiral Thrawn had specifically requested you stay on with him even after you'd been offered a position on a different Imperial Star Destroyer.

You met Thrawn's gaze with sudden alertness and confidence, straightening your posture and explaining what you thought to be the best next steps in addressing the Mynock issue. Thrawn nodded at your words, his expression unchanging though you noticed his lips lift slightly in a slight smile as you continued.

One of many things that set your commanding officer apart from all the others in the Imperial Navy was his habit of asking his crew and others who would be considered subordinates what they thought of any given circumstance. He valued the input of others, not a sentiment shared in any other circles that you knew of. This played a large part in why Thrawn's crew felt so loyal to him.

"Perhaps if all else fails we could even try sending out individual TIE fighters against the beasts?" You glanced around at your peers as you finished speaking, looking for anyone else to give their thoughts.

Lieutenant Roz, an experienced officer aboard the Chimaera, snorted a little derisively, his eyes still a little red from sleep deprivation. "And who's going to fly those fighters? I've told you several times already we don't have pilots yet available. I do speak not just to hear my own voice you know."

All eyes flicked back to your face as you flushed, your brow furrowing as you tried to recall that conversation. Lieutenant Roz had taught you many things but you were almost positive he'd never mentioned lack of TIE fighters. You doubted yourself just enough to remain in an embarrassed silence, however. Your eyes flickered over to where Thrawn stood. He didn't look pleased.

You cleared your throat a little awkwardly. "With respect Lieutenant, I don't recall such a conversation taking place."

Roz shot you a stern look. "That speaks to your own incompetence, not my own."

"That is quite enough, Lieutenant." Thrawn's voice was unchanging in its calm cadence, but there was an edge to his words that caused Roz to glance down at his hands upon the table a little bashfully.

You had retreated into yourself at Roz's last comment, your hands folding tightly on your lap as you tried to school your expression into a mask of emotionless politeness. Perhaps it was due to the early hour but his words had stung, especially as they weren't true. He hadn't actually told you anything of the sort yet just made you look like a fool in front of everyone.

Thrawn thanked you smoothly for your input and moved on to asking Commander Faro for any additional information. You hardly heard them however, your ears seemed to be ringing as you fought with your emotions, your lips pressing together as you pretended to drink from your own mug of caf in order to hide your face as you blinked rapidly.

The rest of your crewmates woke up more as the meeting went on past the hour mark and they spoke up and shared their own ideas and calculations but you remained silent. When the meeting adjourned and Thrawn dismissed you back to your stations you hadn't said a word or really looked up from the space of table occupied by your now empty cup.

You rose to stand slower than the others and packed away your papers before departing the room. You felt the Grand Admiral's eyes on your back all the way out the door, though you didn't look around to meet them.

Your feet took you automatically to the washroom where you splashed some cold water on your face, trying to shake this mood off. When you looked into the mirror even you were shocked with how sad your expression was. Definitely something you'd have to work on, being able to mask your emotions better. Especially with an Admiral as perceptive as Thrawn.

You sighed heavily and exited the washroom, taking a moment to pause in the dark hallway, peering out the window into the vast beautiful star scape.

"I value your input, Ensign."

You jumped a little at Thrawn's unexpected voice and turned to face him. His eyes seemed to be fixed very intently upon your face as he spoke. "Do not allow the blunders of others to limit your own voice."

You straightened and gave Thrawn a little smile. "Yes, sir." You sighed a little allowing vulnerability to show. "It was early and what was said probably affected me more than it should have."

Thrawn nodded slowly. "I must admit, the sleep patterns of humans is still a little foreign to me. Your bodies must rest far longer than I am used to." He paused, studying your face a moment, his hand going up to touch his chin thoughtfully. "You did bring up a point I was going to make myself."

Your eyes widened in pleasant surprise. "You were?"

"Indeed." A small smile touched the corner of Thrawn's eyes. "This may be the perfect opportunity to test my new TIE defenders and their maneuverability."

"But Lieutenant Roz said we don't have pilots." You couldn't help yourself from adding. "Look at that. I remembered."

Thrawn's lips twitched as though he were suppressing a smile, his eyes softening on your face. "Well done, Ensign. The matter of acquiring pilots should be an easy one to resolve." He seemed to think for a moment. "I will have you dispatch a request for three to be sent to the Chimaera posthaste."

You gave him a salute. "Yes, Grand Admiral."

"If I may add a few last words." Thrawn drew a little nearer, his tall stature causing you to tilt your chin up to see his face. "So long as you are striving to learn and improve upon yourself, that is enough for me. Do not hold yourself to an impossible standard of perfection nor allow others to influence your opinion of yourself." His eyes seemed to glow a little brighter as he placed a warm hand upon your shoulder. "And come to me first if anyone continues to be unduly impatient with you."

Your mouth was very dry as his hand rested on your shoulder, it's weight both a comfort and a little intimidating. He seemed to care a great deal about this predicament and your emotional state, it almost was as if he had his own personal experience dealing with such people.

After a moment of looking into each other's eyes, you nodded again at Thrawn, a small smile of gratitude softening your features. "Thank you."

Thrawn removed his hand and moved back to an appropriate distance, his voice was still soft and held a measure of fondness. "Dismissed, Ensign."

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toaster-boi · 5 days

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heyg tell about Lancer pls

👉👈

ok so basically it takes place 15,000 years in the future, and about 5,000 years before it takes place an entity called Union was formed as basically a pan-human government. Union's history is basically split between three Committees: First, Second and Third, shortened to FirstComm, SecComm, and ThirdComm.

FirstComm was basically hyper-vigilant institutionalized PTSD as humanity had nearly fought itself to extinction. SecComm was imperialistically expansionist and best described as Anthro-Chauvinist, and as a result they committed xenocide against the one sapient species humanity has encountered yet in the setting. this incident, known as the Hercynian Crisis, happened in ~4500u, or 4500 years after the formation of Union.

this resulted in 1.) the invention of mechs, 2.) the ThirdComm Revolution, which ousted SecComm from government and Union's navy, and 3.) the formation of Harrison Armory, an interplanetary imperial corpo-state run by a SecComm arms dealer, who was so horrified that people would protest the use of mechs to render a planet uninhabitable that he bought the production rights immediately.

in the game's present, 5016u, ThirdComm does their best to use soft power and diplomacy to enforce the Third Committee's Utopian Pillars (right to movement, right to have physical needs met, right to not be held in bondage), but that isn't always enough. this is where Lancers come in.

a Lancer, generally, is a mech pilot with access to a large-scale 3D printer capable of rebuilding a mech from scratch within a day. additionally, they have to be trained at a minimum to operate Union's standard mech, the General Massive Systems (GMS) Standard Pattern 1 "Everest."

this mech is basically the galactic standard; the benchmark for whether a unit is good or bad at something is whether an Everest can be built do the job better. it deliberately lacks any kind of official artwork or physical description, specifically so that players can make it look however they want. plus its frame-specific traits straight up improve your action economy, giving it what is debatably the best core power in the game.

progression is through License Levels, usually shortened to LLs. they give you more points to invest into pilot talents, and one point per level to invest in a mech license. each mech (other than the Everest and the other GMS mechs) has three levels in its license, each giving you pieces of equipment, while the frame itself unlocks at two levels invested in the license. as such, the entire progression system is effectively stacking more and more multiclasses on top of one another.

if you wanna know more, lemme know, i could go on and on about this game

#toaster thoughts #asks #lancer rpg

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spell-cleaver · 1 year

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AU where luke overhears owen and beru talking about how his father is darth vader. luke, who is still kinda ignorant about how bad the empire is but knows they're evil, sets out to save his father. A few months later, Darth Vader is kidnapped by an Imperial engineer :)

Read it on AO3 or on FFN instead!

Vader knew the stowaway was there before he even got onto the shuttle. The troops who were meant to accompany him on his diplomatic mission to Tatooine stood to attention when he strode into the hangar and didn’t dare to question him when he waved them away. They could take a different shuttle.

He was bored. He was angry. If he had to spend the afternoon negotiating with Jabba rather than simply rolling into Hutt Space with the Imperial Navy and taking what he wanted, then he would at least spend the morning finding out what pathetic sort of trap this was and crushing it. The presence on board was clearly Force-sensitive: was this an attempt by the dregs of the Jedi to assassinate him? He would enjoy putting it—and the stowaway—to rest.

So, pretending not to have noticed the presence, he sat down in the pilot’s seat and smoothly took off from the hangar, feeling his troopers’ baffled stares after him. They would follow in a transport soon after. He wanted to have this chance, first. The presence sparked with joy and excitement when they took off: the Jedi must think their plan was succeeding.

It wasn’t long before the trap he was waiting for was sprung. The controls of the shuttle started to wobble, and their trajectory pitched to the right. Vader growled. Their current course would take them away from Mos Eisley, towards the Jundland Wastes and towards…

His mother’s grave.

The autopilot was engaged. That was exactly where they were taking him, when he checked: the programme had been fed coordinates that Vader well-remembered inputting once before, in another life. When he made to override it, the navicomputer beeped at him angrily.

Passcode protected. Vader spent a scant thirty seconds trying to break through, but the Jedi’s tech skills were at least passable. He could work at it harder and correct their course, but first he wanted to see what plan they had shoved into actions.

He stood from the pilot’s seat and looked behind him. In a lambda shuttle, there should be nowhere to hide. There was the cockpit, the engine room, and the hold, where both cargo and troopers would be stored. Nowhere else should be large enough to hide a humanoid.

The cockpit was empty other than for him, and to enter he had had to come through the cargo hold. That left the engine room—but at a first glance, that was empty too.

A challenge then. And one with a time limit, before they reached his mother’s grave and whatever nefarious plot this was came to full fruition. He let rage soak his chest, lit his lightsaber, and stalked forwards.

“I know you are here, Jedi,” he boomed. “What game do you think this is?”

A flicker in the Force—almost like a giggle. Vader snapped his gaze around the engine room and peered behind the engine itself. Wires tangled in and out of his peripheral vision, tubes interlocked throughout like a grid, but the Force saw clearly. The Jedi was directly behind—

He stopped. He’d reached the back of the room. There was only a metal wall.

He reached out to rap his fist against the wall.

The resounding echo was hollow. The Force betrayed the wince and discomfort from the Jedi, but more importantly, his own ears betrayed the moment when they started scrambling through this vent they’d found to hide in and ran.

Darth Vader was never going to let his prey escape. He drove his lightsaber into the rigid metal like it was water and slashed down. The Jedi screamed. Vader slashed along the other side, uncaring as to whether he amputated a limb, or a head, or a torso, and the metal buckled and bent as he seized the Force in his fist and flung it backwards.

The panel slammed past him, into one of the metal tubes throughout the engine room, and clattered to the ground in a twisted, charred mess. The Jedi tumbled out of the vent in the wall to land at Vader’s feet. He didn’t have the time to lift his chin before the edge of Vader’s blade lingered at his throat.

The Jedi was a boy. He couldn’t have been more than fifteen, so the Imperial engineer’s uniform he was wearing was laughable: it was several sizes too large for him, and it horrified Vader to think that his men could have let such an obvious imposter infiltrate the Devastator without noticing. Heads would roll for their incompetence. The boy’s hair was long and shaggy, as sun-bleached and yellowed as bones forgotten in a desert. His pale eyes moved slowly along the length of Vader’s lightsaber, from one line of smoke that snaked up from his uniform collar where the blade was at his throat, to the other line of smoke that rose from where the tip of the blade punctured the floor.

“What did you hope to achieve by this, Jedi?” Vader spat. “Why are you taking me here?”

The boy swallowed, set his jaw, and glanced up at Vader. “To bring you home,” he said earnestly.

Vader extinguished his lightsaber. The boy didn’t have time to telegraph his relief on his face before Vader telegraphed his rage on his face instead. Feeling cartilage crunch under his durasteel fists was a satisfying sort of violence, second only to seeing someone squirm in mid air as they realised how fragile their grip on oxygen was. Vader lowered his fist, and the boy’s knees rammed into the floor. He spluttered blood.

“What?” he asked. “I—”

Vader seized him by the throat. The boy stopped talking. His nose twisted in on itself like an ingrown jogun, and his cheekbone didn’t exactly look straight, either. He audibly gulped—for air, perhaps, as the blood blocked up the access through his nose, though his terror was a sudden bright, sharp thing.

It cut Vader to the bone in an instant. He didn’t know why. He didn’t want to.

“This,” Vader hissed, his fury crashing like cymbals through his helmet, through the Force, until the boy looked dazed from the experience of it, “is not my home.”

“But—”

Vader threw him. In the engine room, there were many things to hit, and he hit at least three of them. His head slammed into a pipe, his spine into another one, and his foot even crunched with unpleasant finality against the thrumming engine itself. He lay limp on the floor. Consciousness flickered out for him for a moment—but only for a moment. Vader reached out to seize him and drag him back to the waking world with an ease that surprised even him.

He was not yet finished.

“What do you know?” he demanded, stalking forwards. The boy jerked sluggishly upright, staring blearily at him—then scrambled backwards as fast as he could. “Where did you find out—”

The boy got to his feet and made a run for the door, back to the corridor. Vader indulged him: he made it to the doorway of the cockpit before Vader seized his neck with the Force and yanked him into the air, kicking and lashing out. A hand gouged deep scratches in his throat, as if he could unpick Vader’s grip on him, Vader’s grip on the Force, Vader’s grip on reality and the truth of how he had lived for nearly sixteen years. It did nothing. A strangled cry was all that escaped Vader’s chokehold.

Vader stopped in front of him and quieted himself to speak almost calmly. “Where,” he said, voice still with promise, “did you find out about this place?”

The shuttle set down with a resounding thud. They had landed. Vader didn’t bother glancing out of the viewport: it would be the same desert, the same worthless farm, and nothing of import would ever be found there again.

The boy was trying to speak. Vader gritted his teeth—if he did not control his frustration, he would kill him and lose any chance of discovering what the Jedi knew about Skywalker’s past—and loosened his grip.

Tears streamed down the boy’s face. They cut through the mangled mess of blood left behind from Vader’s attack. White bone gleamed in his cheek.

“I…” he got out. “Live here.”

That was unexpected—and insulting.

“Why?” he demanded. “Why would the Jedi settle here?” His mother had remarried, had she not? Perhaps whatever farmers had dared to monopolise her affection had decided to throw in their lot with random Jedi, in memorial to the Jedi who had failed to save her from her fate…

“Not. A Jedi.”

“Not a Jedi?” Vader tightened his grip again, and the boy’s cry was near-silent. “Your presence is unmistakeable. Who are you, what do you know, and what do you intend by bringing me here?”

He loosened the grip to let him speak.

“Skywalker,” the boy said.

Vader threw him into the viewport. The whipcrack of his skull against transparisteel was also satisfying. He slid down onto the console, several functions of the ship whirring into action as he landed on them.

A cool breeze blew through the cockpit—increased circulation. He’d opened the vents, and the eddies blew his hair back from his face, so that his eyes were clear and uncovered when he locked them on Vader’s mask and finished, “Luke Skywalker.”

Vader’s fist froze halfway to closing.

“I’m—not a Jedi.” He coughed; Vader could see the muscles in his throat spasming from here. “Don’t know what that is.”

Vader lifted a finger. “You—”

“Thought you were my father.” Luke’s eyes spilled fresh tears down his cheek. Down his soft, ruined cheek. “Must’ve been wrong.”

When Vader reached out to connect to that Force presence, as powerful as any Jedi’s but—now—blaringly obviously untrained, he felt it settle somewhere in his chest. Pain followed. Pain, he was used to, but not this pain.

“You are Anakin Skywalker’s son,” Vader said.

“Overheard my aunt and uncle saying you were… him. Empire’s evil. Like Hutts. Thought you’d be… a slave again.” His head lolled, the effort of keeping it up clearly gargantuan. “Didn’t realise you’d be a Hutt.”

“What do you mean by that?” Vader snapped. Luke flinched. “I am here to negotiate with Jabba, to destroy him if necessary—”

“I came to save you,” Luke muttered. “Didn’t—didn’t even let me explain…”

“You were a stowaway on my ship! What sort of naïve, ignorant child are you? Have you no concept of danger? Of violence?”

“Didn’t expect a Hutt,” Luke muttered again. “Seen them get violent, but—”

“I am not a Hutt!”

Luke didn’t respond—because he didn’t want to, or because he couldn’t, Vader didn’t know. He just kept looking up at Vader through pale lashes, head lolling without the strength to be lifted.

“Thought you were my father,” he said.

“I am your father.”

Luke closed his eyes, then. A thin wisp of a sigh wheezed from his lips. “Oh.”

Vader stormed up and towered over him. “You are a fool,” he hissed. His finger sprang out to jab in his face. “You—”

Luke flinched and turned his face away.

Vader’s tirade stumbled to a halt.

“Maybe,” Luke mumbled. “Dunno what I was thinking.”

But Vader knew what Luke was thinking. It was written into Luke’s thoughts, projected into his mind like a slide-by-slide presentation. It was something that Vader would never, ever have considered. He had never thought he’d get away without being caught. He’d just trusted his father, a man he loved without knowing him, not to hurt him.

He'd had no idea how capable his father was of violence. Now, though…

Now he knew it intimately.

“You require medical assistance,” Vader said awkwardly.

Luke coughed. “Probably can’t afford it.”

“I will provide it.”

“You don’t have to. I…” His heart was audibly breaking. “I get it.”

“You most certainly do not.”

“I—”

“You do not have a choice.” Vader moved for the comlink set into the console and typed in the frequency for his personal medic on the Devastator. “You will require urgent attention if you are to be saved.”

Luke snorted. “I came here… to save you.”

“You cannot save me, Luke,” Vader said. “What was done to me, and what I have done, is written in blood. Anakin Skywalker is dead. You are not.”

Luke cracked his eye open to peer at Vader for a moment, just as his personal medic responded. “No,” he said, almost with amusement. “I’m not.”

Vader wouldn’t realise what that meant until later.

Later, when they returned to the Devastator, and Vader realised a few minutes into Luke’s surgery that he had to get painkillers or anaesthetics for Luke, because Vader’s own droids were not equipped to provide them. He ran for the first time in over a decade, because he could not interrupt the surgery, but Luke was screaming, screaming, screaming, and the sound tattooed itself on his eardrums. He heard it even as he sat in the chair beside Luke in the medbay and watched his sleeping son.

Anakin Skywalker was dead. He had long since been exposed to the violence of the galaxy, the betrayal it was capable of, and he had returned it tenfold.

But because of him, Luke Skywalker was not.

Vader had long since lost any innocence. He had torn it from the hearts of civilians in his campaigns. He had beaten a lot of Luke’s out of him, as well. But not all of it.

Protecting someone had never been something Vader cared about. Even the Empire was not something Vader protected; it was something he served. But after all he had done, Vader would crawl through another universe of torment to sit at his son’s bedside and listen to the beep, beep, beep of the heart monitor assure him that he still lived.

Luke had wanted to bring him home. He had succeeded in that, at least.

#as always i am so so sorry for the delay #received this ask february 3 2022 #skywalkersinflight #my writing #random words on a page #luke skywalker #darth vader #for darkness shows the stars #whump #so much whump #i wanted to beat up luke okay

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acornminiatureslog · 24 days

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Agniosanne van Hart, distant half-niece of the inquisitor and actually talented imperial Navy nepo baby. Had a habit of getting into drama and solving it with pistol duels when not deployed as a fighter pilot. Her mother doted on her, letting the situation get out of hand, where half the noble houses in the subsector had growing beef with the van Hart family. In an attempt to get Agniosanne out of the picture in a non-lethal fashion, her mother reached out to a supposed half sister who supposedly was employed in the arbites, asking if they perhaps had a use for a skilled pilot. A month later, inquisitor Wrex had arrived to evaluate and recruit her niece as the retinue's dedicated pilot. Agniosanne was gifted the family dueling pistol and her father's pocket watch in parting, and has been a reliable pilot and rakish charmer in the service of the inquisition ever since.

#warhammer 40k #painting log #finished units #imperial inquisition #imperial navy #huzzah! lore!

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talesfrommedinastation · 2 months

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"If not me, then who?....It is only through courage that my people have survived. I am going to protect my home, my family, milowda , as are you.”

- Dr Sjael Drummer, Far Past the Ring

It’s International Women’s Day!

So, here’s two sides of the coin to celebrate: my OCS, Dr. Tanke Drummer (left) and Dr. Sjael Drummer (right).

They are Belters are from the world of The Expanse, who end up colliding with clones and others from the Star Wars universe.

First cousins of the mighty Camina Drummer, these two are sisters, with Tanke being 10 years older than Sjael. Daughters of a physician and a lab manager, they were raised on Ganymede and are currently situated on Medina Station.

I designed them to not only be symbols of the Belt itself (no self insert here!) but also the many facets of femininity that I foresee in a post-Earth future,:

Tanke is the Protector and Guardian: she is a combat veteran, having served in the Free Navy as a medic and foot soldier. A former extremist of the Outer Planetary Alliance, she’s killed countless Earthers, Martians, Belters, and Imperials in her fight for the Belt.

Now a physician with a young family, Tanke views her work in medicine as a personal calling and patriotic duty to the greater solar system. This eventually includes the clones, whom she deeply empathizes with as both a veteran and a Belter.

Sjael is the Bringer and the Visionary: she has never truly seen combat, choosing instead to serve the Belt as a chemical engineer with a focus on creating safe foods and liquids for human consumption. She is about discovery and exploration.

When Sjael eventually does take part in combat, it is as a pilot, rather than a soldier. Her ship is named after the Norse goddess of eternal life and her helmet is covered with plants.

Both are mothers and wives.

Both are tattooed.

Both end up with Clone Force 99 as part of their family (Tanke adopts Crosshair as her son, and Sjael marries Tech).

Both are a nod to their partial Scandinavian heritage (Tanke is the Danish word for 'Thought' and Sjael is the Danish word for 'Soul'), as both arguably serve as Valkyries: celestial bringers of living warriors to their eternal reward, whether it is through combat, medicine, food, or rescue.

Their face claim is Jane Fonda (and Cara Gee, duh). Needed someone with classic features who was also very expressive.

Tag-tag-tag-a-roo: @amalthiaph @askwenjing @autistic-artistech @sometimes-i-talk-a-lot @dukeoftheblackstar @deezlees @wrenkenstein @rocicrew @that-salmonberry-punk @theocs-strikeback @yeehawgeek @ilikemymendarkandfictional @insertmeaningfulusername @ithillia @isthereanechoinhere96 @perfectlywingedcrusade @freesia-writes @just-shower-thoughts @littlefeatherr @luxris @constant-brain-fog @cdblake1565 @sued134 @blitzink @nahoney22 @notavalidusername @nika6q @moosethren @merkitty49 @marymunchkiin @eyecandyeoz @eelfuneral

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