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thrawns-backrest · 17 days ago

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The Ronan adventures continue.

Title: Buried in Ice

Characters: Ronan, Ba'kif and others

Chapters: 14/?

Summary: Ronan adjusts to life with the Chiss when a sudden revelation leads him to realize that his fate is not as firmly in his hands as he'd thought it was.

___

For the next few days of his stay, Ronan stuck to his routine, repeating the same mundane patterns that would bore any outside observer to death. He wandered the market, spent a few hours a day staring meditatively at his questis and ate his meals inside, affecting a slowly improving mood.

On the second day, his guide had dropped in for an unexpected check-in and he’d answered the man’s probing in typical fashion, making it clear that he didn’t appreciate the scrutiny until the chiss had gone away.

His nights were fitful. Although that was to be expected.

By the third day, he knew the streets of the market like the back of his hand and the idleness was beginning to grow trying. Ildavo had promised to have his ship ready and all arrangements made by the end of the week and Ronan hoped that not seeing the man once during his wanderings meant that he was properly busy with that.

At the very least he had seemed confident when he and Ronan had parted. According to the alien, getting off Rhoar was a walk in the park compared to getting on it.

Ronan had flown in with an official chiss escort so he hadn’t gone through any checks but apparently all other alien visitors and merchants underwent a rigorous screening process and cargo inspection because of the war. Weapons and all other potentially dangerous devices and substances were confiscated upon arrival to ensure that everything that entered the planet was safe so that nobody had to worry about what was on or taken off it.

Ronan had countered that by pointing out Ildavo’s blaster but the man had simply taken it off his thigh to show him the small chiss-made device that limited it to a low-power stun setting.

‘Douses your hands in acid as soon as you try to tamper with it,’ he had said cheerily, making Ronan wince.

Of course it wasn’t a foolproof strategy. Any piece of glass or loose piping, heck the bare hands, claws and teeth of some of these aliens could easily become a lethal weapon, Ronan observed. But war and trade were eternal rivals.

And more often than not, trade came out on top.

In any case, Ildavo had sworn up and down that the only time they did port lockdowns or searches was when a theft or some other crime was reported. Which meant that as long as they didn’t run into some infernal piece of bad luck, they would be fine.

There was also, of course, the matter of getting to Ildavo’s ship in the first place. Ronan had studiously avoided going near the port during his walks, affecting a total disinterest in it. He had seen part of it when he’d arrived – the more sterile, official chiss section of it – but he was only vaguely aware of the bigger, more eclectic section dedicated to the alien merchant ships and smaller vessels belonging to non-chiss visitors.

The instructions Ildavo had given him were more than detailed however and he would have to rely on them to navigate when the time came. In the interim, he busied himself with burning daylight as innocuously as possible.

When the day did arrive, he woke to find his focus as sharp as the time he had played the small-time conman in front of Sisay and her thugs.

He dressed as usual, tucking the hood of his cloak out of sight, and made his leisurely way to the market, ignoring the familiar stares of the chiss that inhabited the hotel complexes and residences around his apartment. The market was awash in its habitual activity and less than an hour later he had his cloak flipped to its dazzling white lining and was heading briskly towards the starting point Ildavo had indicated, making sure not to falter as familiar surroundings gave way to alleys and streets he had never seen before and focusing instead on the instructions he’d been going over in his head since that day in the bar.

Two left turns. A tap café at the corner. Right turn. Straight ahead under the archway and through the roofed off section of booths… And finally, into the small square with its tiled fountain.

Ronan felt himself straighten almost involuntarily, slowing his pace to match that of the moving alien masses around him.

Beyond the living carpet of hair, scales and ridges, the skyline opened up to a midday blue with the silhouettes of ships taking off and gliding down towards the planet like ants, the smell of engine exhaust and ozone tickling Ronan’s nostrils.

It only got stronger as he emerged into the square –

And instantly ducked back out, gluing himself to the nearest wall.

Vader take him, he was going to kill Ildavo. Right before he shoved those credit chips down the man’s throat, he thought frantically as he peered out around the corner, ignoring the squawks of two aliens he had nearly barreled over in his haste.

There, standing squarely in the middle of the path was a chiss guard, staring placidly at the flow of tourists and merchants making their way towards the space port beyond.

Ronan sent a few more mental curses Ildavo’s way. The man had promised there were no patrols on this route to the port. Ronan’s approach was meant to be clear of them but that chiss was most definitely not out for a simple stroll. In fact, Ronan noted, his pulse picking up again, the guard seemed firmly rooted to his spot and Ronan watched in silent horror as he peered closely at every alien heading in the direction of the port.

Was it all a trick? Had he been betrayed?

Then again, Ildavo had mentioned that the chiss occasionally changed their patrol patterns…

Frowning to himself, he remembered his own thoughts about infernal bad luck. If Ildavo had gone and ratted him out, the chiss would hardly wait this long to arrest him. They certainly wouldn’t try to do it somewhere where it was easier for him to avoid them or cause trouble.

He could backtrack and try to find another entry point to the port, see if all of them were similarly blockaded, but that would take time and run the risk of getting him lost.

With another frown, Ronan moved closer to the edge of the square, raking his eyes over the ring of stalls around it and the motely assembly of tourists looking to buy last minute souvenirs.

Whatever the case, he couldn’t risk letting the chance slip if this wasn’t Ildavo’s doing. He would have to walk the high wire and hope that Ildavo was waiting on the other side, still willing to deliver on their deal.

The only question now was how to do that. Willing his pulse to settle, Ronan focused on the crowd again. After five minutes of desperate observation, he had a tentative plan and pushed off the wall behind him to make his way across the square.

His eyes were on one of the stalls a little way away from the street leading to the space port and the large bulky alien currently perusing the wares with an air of distracted curiosity. Ronan had observed the alien reach into his pocket every thirty seconds, pulling out a few metal chips – local currency, perhaps – and a pouch of what looked like precious stones and zealously checking them over before putting them back.

Paranoid about pickpockets, Ronan guessed. And likely to do something about them if he caught one, if the domineering bulk and posture were any indication.

Making sure to keep his head lowered so the hood concealed most of his face, Ronan slowed his pace as he approached, carefully slipping through the crowd to wedge himself between a few other shoppers and said alien, still pawing at his pockets absentmindedly every so often.

He timed his lurch to coincide with a group of avian-looking sentients passing behind them to make it look like he’d been pushed and let the man see his face clearly as he bumped into him to dispel most of his suspicions before muttering an accented apology in Minnisiat. The alien glared at him for a good moment, seemingly pegging him as a harmless nuisance before turning back to the stall.

From that point on, Ronan had mere seconds to push his way to another unsuspecting tourist before walking away. And sure enough, he had barely crossed to the other side of the square when there was a loud exclamation and the large alien swiveled away from the stall with an expression of what Ronan could only assume was fury.

It didn’t take long for him to find Ronan’s white cloak in the crowd and Ronan sent out a silent prayer as a pair of beady eyes locked with his and the alien started stomping toward him, bloody murder on his face. Hopefully his decoy wasn’t so clueless as to blow this whole thing…

If he was, Ronan would either have to be very quick or very convincing.

Or alternatively very lucky.

The second ticked by and he held his ground until finally a commotion ground the alien’s advance to a halt.

Not much further away, another alien stood staring in bewilderment at the scarf in his hand. The scarf he had finally noticed hanging out of his pocket and pulled out to inspect, only for the unfastened pouch wrapped inside to tumble out with it, spilling its contents onto the square and drawing most of the crowd’s attention.

There was a moment of confused silence. Then all hell broke loose as the large alien roared something furious and broke off from his vector towards Ronan to fall upon the bystander still holding the scarf.

What followed was an ugly little confrontation that quickly seemed to escalate and draw the attention of the whole square. Ronan ignored it however, his focus zeroing in instead on the guard who was now hovering uncertainly at his post, seemingly unsure about what to do.

Ronan’s eyes narrowed at the chiss.

Already, a few stall owners were breaking off from their booths to try and stop the squabble from turning destructive and some bystanders were rushing to join them. But the chiss had a reputation to maintain – a very zealously upheld reputation – and the guard seemed to feel the pressure of it as multiple sets of eyes turned toward him, expecting him to swoop in and end the dispute.

Ronan watched him dither, making a few aborted attempts to abandon his post, each looking more agonized than the last. Then, at long last, he seemed to receive some kind of signal from the commlink at his collar and moved forward, parting the crowd like a plasma cutter towards the two aliens still hurtling expletives at each other.

There was the briefest of heart-stopping moments where Ronan thought he saw the chiss pause and look directly at him before setting off again but he shrugged it off as his imagination and darted towards the now free path to the space port.

From there, it was easy to follow his instructions to the designated landing pad.

The port was as motley and as chaotic as the markets – Rhoar had air control; their own ship had received permission and instructions for landing upon arrival but all non-chiss ships had to go through their customs check and by the looks of it, that was as far as the chiss’ efforts of organizing them went.

There was a rudimentary numbering system in place however and Ronan released a stunted breath as he reached the agreed upon dock and found a ship of Ildavo’s description, the man himself loitering outside the open hatch, his long-limbed form propped lazily on the hull.

Ronan stood there for a moment, taking in the sight.

The ship was there. Ildavo hadn’t betrayed him. In fact, the man was seemingly not even aware of him yet, scanning the crowd with a look of casual boredom on his face.

So that was it, his mind whispered at him, you’re getting out. It was almost too hard to believe and he slowed his gait, walking slowly toward the modest ship while he tried to process the enormity of what he was about to do.

Vanto would be furious. Ba’kif even more so. And yet, some part of Ronan decided, he could hardly be blamed for it.

He hadn’t given them any reason to expect otherwise.

The crowd around him thinned as he moved closer to the pad, the noise and smells falling away to make space for the freshness of open air. Giving the ship another once-over, Ronan felt his brow scrunch as he assessed the vessel.

It was rather small. Perfectly serviceable for a smuggler’s ship, with a decently sized cargo bay attached to it but obviously designed with no more than two passengers in mind.

Perhaps a small living cabin somewhere in there, with a fold up cot and desk, he thought absently.

And yet Ronan wouldn’t even have that much once he reached the Empire. Once he gave Ildavo his credits, he would practically only have the small amount he had set aside for himself and the clothes on his back. If the smuggler didn’t decide to take those as well, Ronan had promised him after all.

He would have his name though. And his skills. And he would use all of that once he was back to do… what exactly?

What exactly was his plan, he thought with dismay, a spike of consternation lancing through him.

March up to the Emperor demanding a pardon?

Knock on Vader’s door?

Scour the nearest system for an officer patient enough to verify his identity and hope they wouldn’t drop his trial in the hands of one of Tarkin’s flunkies?

Ronan stopped and swallowed through the influx of anxiety.

For all that he had planned for this moment, he had never really planned for what came after it. Desperately, he tried to think of what Director Krennic would do in his place but his mind drew a blank and he chastised himself for even thinking he could measure up to the man. The Director would have a plan by now. He would be able to pull resources from thin air and talk his way out of any dead end with ease.

Ronan had only ever picked up a fraction of those skills.

Nevertheless, he needed to go back, he thought with chagrin. He needed to go back to fulfill his duty… whatever that duty was now that he didn’t have his post.

Because he didn’t have that post anymore, did he? He didn’t have much of anything really.

Everything he had ever stood on in the Empire was currently a pile of dust floating in space.

The thought filled him with another surge of dread and he stood there, paralyzed, while the crowd blurred into nothingness around him. At some point, Ildavo seemed to spot him and pushed off the ship, starting towards Ronan with a half-formed smile before doing a double take at his expression and scrunching his brow.

It registered only vaguely in Ronan’s mind, too preoccupied with its own little crisis.

Kriff…

Kriff, what the hell was he doing?

All of a sudden, a newfound wave of sobriety washed over him and he dug into his pockets, pulling out the pouch of credits and credit chips and the discreet handheld comm Ildavo had supplied him with. Then, dumping the pouch on a pile of nearby crates, he keyed on the device watched Ildavo fish for his own a few dozen feet away.

“The deal’s off,” Ronan spoke into the comm. “You can have your credits but the deal’s off.”

The whites of the man’s eyes were visible even at this distance but Ronan didn’t wait for him to protest and cut the connection before turning around and setting off at a brisk pace. From the corner of his eye, he saw Ildavo hesitate for a moment, hovering there in the same indecisive confusion as the guard, then start tentatively toward the credits.

By that time Ronan was well on his way toward the exit of the port, his mind going a thousand miles per minute.

What had he been thinking?

It was bad enough that they had lost Stardust and everyone on it and now Ronan was about to throw himself into uncertainty and risk without a lick of a plan as though acting on a death wish.

You have a job here, he heard Vanto’s voice sneer in his head, connections, friends in the Aristocra, prestige, luxury.

And he was right.

Damn it all, Ronan grit his teeth, he had always been taught to put his best foot forward and here he was, practically amputating himself. Throwing away all the resources he had amassed over the last few months and rendering himself helpless.

Director Krennic would have thrown a fit if he saw him.

He could still fix this though, Ronan thought as he weaved around dithering aliens and port staff in their coveralls, as long as no one had seen him skulk around the space port or communicate with Ildavo, he would be safe from reprimand. Even if someone had seen them talk at the bar and him giving Ildavo that credit piece, he could always pass it off as trying to purchase information about what was going on in Lesser Space.

Still an offense but a more minor one. One that could be explained away with Ronan’s state of mind and his desperation to learn more about the Empire’s situation.

He would go back, Ronan decided firmly. He would return to Csilla, he would apologize to Ba’kif for his tantrum and then he would go about fixing –

“Secretary Brierly’ro’nan?”

Ronan froze.

Time seemed to come to a stop as he turned to see a figure emerge from a side alley, its glowing eyes boring into him.

“Yes?” he said hoarsely, trying his best not to lose his calm.

The woman – a guard, Ronan noted bleakly, taking in her combat suit and charric; possibly even one of Ba’kif’s agents judging by the harsh, hardened look in her eyes – stepped forward, pinning him in place with her eyes.

“I’m going to have to ask you to come with me,” she said flatly and stepped aside to motion Ronan into the alley.

And just like that, Ronan’s hopes tumbled like a tower of sabacc cards.

#thrawn treason #thrawn ascendancy #brierly ronan #Buried in Ice fic

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thrawns-backrest · 18 days ago

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omg lmaoooo this is becoming more and more accurate 😂😂😂

I can already see it in my mind, you're so right:

'This is your insubordination level. It's unusually high for someone your size, we need to fix that.'

Ba'kif: I need someone to be my envoy

Ba'kif: maybe send me a human

Ba'kif: the nicest human you have

Ronan: [laughing]

#and yes Ronan as a lost duckling who eventually imprints on Ba'kif #that's literally the story lol

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thrawns-backrest · 18 days ago

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Ba'kif: I need someone to be my envoy

Ba'kif: maybe send me a human

Ba'kif: the nicest human you have

Ronan: [laughing]

#that's it that's the plot of Buried in Ice #backrest's ronanposting

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thrawns-backrest · 28 days ago

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i am officially speechless

#only just realized that they went to the effort of drawing the carrion spike specifically #such a cool little detail

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thrawns-backrest · 28 days ago

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Well well, would you look at that, link insertion finally decided to do its job. Anyway, new (relatively long) chapter out and we've got new characters this time too.

Title: Buried in Ice

Characters: Ronan, Eli, Ba'kif and others

Chapters: 13/?

Summary: Ronan adjusts to life with the Chiss when a sudden revelation leads him to realize that his fate is not as firmly in his hands as he'd thought it was.

___

Rhoar was a largely unremarkable place. Not by chiss standards perhaps but Ronan had seen so many like it that he couldn’t help the twang of homesick nostalgia in his chest.

Perhaps the only remarkable thing about it was that the motley farrago of beings and businesses seemed to be contained almost entirely to its handful of trading hubs, the rest of the planet swathed in rolling hills, fields and a pair of snow-capped poles that Ronan had observed upon their approach from space. Back home, those hubs would either be part of a planetary-wide network or otherwise be tucked between the places of residence of regular citizens.

But Rhoar was not just any world. It was a chiss trade world.

Ronan hadn’t even known about the existence of such worlds until recently though in hindsight it made sense. The steady stream of exotic goods that Syndics and Aristocra scratched each other’s egos with had to come from somewhere and singular excursions into alien space couldn’t possibly cut it. Neither were alien merchants allowed on chiss worlds for the sake of security.

Trade worlds were the solution to that problem.

Most importantly, Ronan thought as he gazed out the floor-to-ceiling viewport of his luxurious residence, they were also the only places where the chiss mingled and coexisted with a variety of other species. And that was all that mattered.

“The artisan market is right across the street from here. You’re highly advised to stick to that part of the city for safety purposes. Most of the species here speak Minniasat and Sy Bisti but in case you need them, there are kiosks where you can hire translators,” his guide finished in a bored tone and Ronan turned to him with a strained smile.

“Thank you, I’ll keep that in mind,” he told the man with a nod.

Ronan couldn’t for the life of him tell if this was the same aide that had shown him around Csaplar when he’d first been dropped off on Csilla. Though he had the same annoyed, dispassionate air about him that implied he was doing this on autopilot and couldn’t care less about Ronan.

The man nodded back looking glad to be relieved of his duties and left Ronan to his own devices, the hatch sliding shut behind him with a sophisticated hiss. Everything in the room, Ronan noted, seemed like it had been made for nobility.

Naturally, the merchants crawling around the local markets were from all manner and walks of life. But the privilege of visiting Rhoar seemed to be reserved for the highest tiers of chiss society, as evidenced by the shiny hotel complexes and luxury villas that had been built to house them on their trips.

Regular citizens on Csilla also enjoyed access to the goods being sold here but Ronan supposed that had to do with the massive section of the hub’s port dedicated to freighters and cargo ships.

Either way, he decided as he pushed his hover case towards the bed, it wasn’t the chiss on Rhoar he was interested in.

After hastily unpacking his belongings, he ate a quick meal in his room and made the short trip from his residence to the market right across the street. The few odd looks on the way there were a given, mostly from the chiss lingering around their fancy buildings, but once he reached the area of the market, it was like stepping into a whole new world.

A cramped, improvised lineup of stalls and display carts, the place was positively teeming with all manner of alien life and nobody seemed to pay him any mind as he weaved around the crowd. The majority of the stalls were dedicated to small trinkets and decorations but there were a few that specialized in more elaborate wares like clothing and dishware, arranged in flashy displays and aggressively peddled by hardened stall-owners.

The first thing Ronan noted was the relative ratio of chiss to aliens. Most of the people there seemed to be local species who had paid a small docking fee to explore the markets – and enjoy the benefits of chiss security, Ronan guessed – and he eyed them furtively as he pretended to examine the stalls.

Some of them, clearly tourists. Awestruck and distracted and generally not worth his attention. They drifted between the stalls, oohing and ahing at the merchants’ demonstrations and losing their way every so often in the general hubbub.

Others navigated the place with more confidence, moving in small groups and seeming more focused on their conversation than on any of the displays. They gesticulated heatedly in groups made up of two to three species and Ronan figured that it was only natural for such places to become meeting spots where interspecies relations took place. Politics, trade, gossip; all topics that could be discussed in the safety and anonymity of the general buzz of the markets.

With the added bonus of the hundred or so combat-uniformed chiss that hovered around the place like prison wardens.

At the very least, Ronan guessed, no one had to worry about a political assassination or the consequences of a trade dispute gone awry. The chiss had the March of Silence, he supposed wryly, but noise was just as good at keeping you cloaked as silence was. Which the chiss seemed happy to overlook as long as they pocketed their docking fees.

Speaking of the chiss, they were the clear minority there yet they moved about the place with the unbothered confidence of people who knew they owned the place. But it was the fourth group; those who hurried to scurry out of their way, or otherwise let their gazes linger a bit too long, that caught Ronan’s eye.

Most of them walked with that awkward, hunched gait that Ronan associated with fringe dwellers or dirt-caked asteroid miners looking for their next spice hit and took special care to avoid the information kiosks and their menagerie of guards. Ronan followed a few of them from afar, noting the way they gravitated towards one specific alley, branching off the main street, then dutifully filed that information away for later.

Finally, after getting a good feel for the lay of the land, he stopped at a few of the stalls, filling his pockets with useless trinkets like any other tourist, before focusing his attention on a few sparsely decorated cloaks made of a soft material that looked unremarkable enough at a glance. He lifted the edge of one and quickly pushed it back down, making sure the action would go unnoticed by anyone watching, and paid for the piece, assuring it remained folded as he made his way back to his rooms.

By the time he was back, the day outside was crawling towards twilight and his legs hurt something vicious.

There was a nervous energy thrumming through his body alongside the fatigue but he simply put away the cloak, checking for the glint of the credit chips he’d swiped from his uniform before coming here, before emptying the rest of his purchases with affected care and sitting down to have his evening meal.

The rest of the evening was spent in contemplation, with him staring at the expansive view outside his viewport. Anyone looking would see a man in the throes of a brooding fit.

In reality, Ronan’s mind had never been clearer.

He did more of the same field work the following day, retiring early in the evening for another lackluster meal and a check of his belongings.

The next morning, he barely stopped himself from rising too early.

He put his clothes on with extra care, making sure the strip of fitted sheet he’d torn from his bedding the night before was safely tucked into a pocket – same for the credit chips from the bottom of his case – then made his way outside. The main street was as crowded as could be by this time and he felt a small layer of sweat gather on his upper back where the cloak’s hood was tucked out of sight.

After lingering at a few of the stalls and even starting a small argument with one of the stall-owners, he decided it was time to make his move and dove back into the main street. His opening came in the form of a thickening in the crowd gathered around a street performer, and he used the amalgamation of beings as cover to duck into a nearby alley.

His hands were slightly clumsy as they shucked off the cloak and turned it over, putting the white lining right side up, but they had regained their confidence by the time he wrapped the strip of bedding around his head, the way he’d seen some of the local aliens do.

Merging back into the crowd was easy enough from there.

He took a few more turns down streets he’d never been to before, trusting his intuition to guide him back to the main street, and finally reached the alley he’d scouted out the other day, ducking into it just as a large group of aliens cut through his path.

It looked just like the kind of place he’d pegged it for – darker, narrower and more fetid than any other part of the city he’d seen so far – and he felt a sense of triumph as he turned a corner and found a bar nestled into the crook of a dead end, with a bright neon sign above it.

There were a couple of aliens loitering around outside; they gave him bored looks as he passed but didn’t react otherwise.

It was inside, he knew, where he would really make an impact.

Pausing in the entryway to remove his shawl – he expected the smell to be fouler without it but the odors coming from the bar were surprisingly agreeable – he tucked it away in a pocket and pushed the cloak off his shoulders, letting it hang by the clasp around his neck.

Then, satisfied with the way it revealed the robes underneath, he took one last fortifying breath and stepped inside.

To say the reaction was instantaneous would be an understatement.

Immediately, at least a dozen pairs of eyes locked on to him and followed his every step.

Most of them were smart enough not to pause their conversations so as not to be too obvious but Ronan could feel the weight of their attention on him like needles digging into his skin.

He made sure his gait was confident as he marched to the curved bar and sat himself on a stool, waving down the burly red-skinned barkeep. In the process, he let one of his goldworked sleeves flash under the overhead lights.

Presentation was key here. And nobody understood good presentation better than Ronan.

Chances were, he guessed, nobody would even speak to him if he weren’t dressed like this. He would just be another shabby alien trying to look tough in a den of wannabe tough types. But the demonstration had done the trick.

Now all he needed was for someone to take the bait, Ronan decided as he pretended to examine his glass while surreptitiously letting his eyes roam over the assembled patrons. There was a good number of them still watching him, trying to hide it behind raised glasses or by averting their gaze every so often.

They all looked like they could potentially make a move but Ronan preferred to narrow the scope a bit. The more humanoid, the more likely to be from Wild Space so he singled out those that fit the description and didn’t look too much like stereotypical thugs.

Finally, after a minute or so of waiting, he noticed one of them slide out of the booth where he’d been sitting with two others and sidle up to him, trying his best to look casual. Several sets of eyes followed him, some of them clusters of four or six, but did nothing to stop him, only looking mildly disappointed for having been beaten to the punch.

The man came to a stop on Ronan’s left and rattled off something unintelligible. Ronan regarded him with a sneer.

“Sy Bisti only, if you want a conversation,” he sniffed in said language, turning imperiously back to his drink.

You’re in control here, he told himself mentally. Act like it.

The alien narrowed his eyes for a moment before seemingly deciding it was still worth to pursue this and sliding into the bar stool next to Ronan’s.

“Sy Bisti it is then,” he said, his accent smooth and practiced. He ordered his own drink in Minnisiat and tipped the barman with a wink before turning back to Ronan.

“So, friend,” he began with a smile. “You may have already noticed but you’re a bit of an oddity around here.” He pointed around the bar with his glass. “Any chance you’d tell a curious soul what your story is?”

Ronan paused as if to consider the question. And in doing so took the opportunity to examine his companion more closely.

This section of space boasted dozens of species he’d never encountered before. All in one place, they blurred together into a faceless mass of exotic bone structures, feathers, ridges, scales and all colors and patterns of skin.

But up close like this, the differences became more defined.

The man next to him – Ronan was pretty sure he was a male, if such concepts existed in his species – looked humanoid for the most part except for the deep symmetrical groves cleaving his face, going up from his mouth to his cheekbones, their borders raised into ridges with an intricate system of organic bridges crossing from one side to the other.

The sides of those bridges had an iridescent scaly texture that occasionally reflected the light of the bar in purples, teals and pinks and contrasted with the man’s muted white skin.

Ronan’s guess was that the groves were a sensory organ of some sort – he’d seen other species with complex skin formations meant to provide a large surface area for as many sensory cells as possible and this didn’t look much different.

The top of the man’s head was also covered in ridges where one would expect to see hair, though these had no groves in them. Other than that, his features were remarkably standard and Ronan felt confident enough to be able to read his expressions.

“That depends on what you can offer in exchange,” Ronan retorted and took a sip from his glass. Or rather let the liquid touch his lips briefly.

He couldn’t afford to look too much like an outsider but he wasn’t going to take any chances with these alien concoctions either.

The man next to him chuckled.

“I see you’re here to do business. But for starters, I’ll offer some advice. It’s not very wise to strut around these parts tricked up like that.” He paused as if to let Ronan take in their surroundings before letting his voice drop an octave. Ronan didn’t miss the way his eyes studied him, occasionally coming to rest on the gold accessory on Ronan’s right ear.

“Lots of folks around looking to make a quick buck and that coat alone is worth good money.”

“And yet none of you will so much as try to get it off me.”

“Oh? How so?”

Ronan felt his heartbeat pick up ever so slightly.

This was the big gamble of his scheme. In theory he had a good grasp of how these people thought but that was just theory sans experience. He thought he knew but he could have misunderstood completely.

Time to put that to the test…

“You don’t want to make them angry,” he said, his voice faltering only a little bit. The reaction was more than he could have asked for as the man’s lips thinned and his mouth contracted.

Bullseye, Ronan thought, mentally patting himself on the back.

So he had been right.

They were all afraid of the chiss.

This sector may have hundreds of species that ruled their own worlds without opposition and the aliens here acted all tough and mighty but when it came down to brass tacks, the chiss were still the big bad of the area.

No one wanted to get on their bad side. Not when they did such a jealous job of policing the place.

“And you know you will if you rob someone like me,” Ronan finished confidently. For a moment, his companion seemed like he wanted to argue but he seemed to be smart enough and saved them both the time.

“If you haven’t robbed someone already yourself,” he muttered. “What are you anyway? Some kind of weirdly pigmented blueskin?”

The word came out with unmistakable derision. Even on their own world, the chiss didn’t seem much beloved, Ronan noted.

“That’s beside the point. What isn’t beside the point is whether you can be of any use to me.”

The stranger’s ridged brows rose and he looked put off for a moment.

“I didn’t exactly come here to make a deal… but that might change depending on what you’re offering.”

Without a word, Ronan reached into his robe and pulled out a credit bar, placing it in front of the man and making sure the action remained unnoticed by the barkeep and the rest of the patrons.

Even in the dim light of the place, he saw the way the other’s eyes widened.

The logic behind it was simple.

If Alderaanian wine could reach this far outside the Rim and serve as an exotic souvenir, it stood to reason that other wares trickled in from the edges of Wild Space as well, changing hands from merchant to merchant until they travelled the necessary distance. Credits could make the same journey in the same way, only backwards.

And if expensive smuggled goods were valuable here, so was clean, unmarked cash to the shady types that supplied them. It was a symbiotic relationship Ronan was well aware of. Not least of all because of all the backdoor channels Stardust used to get many of its resources.

(Which was also incidentally why high-ranking Stardust personnel had access to those kinds of credits, Ronan thought cynically. That and it did miracles for bribery.)

In short, the best move for a merchant in possession of a smuggled, stolen or otherwise questionably acquired ware – the only kind these wares could be; no legitimate business traded with the Unknown Regions – was to sell it where no one was looking for it and getting a clean stack of cash in exchange raised the status of a potential buyer exponentially.

By the looks of it, his companion knew that too.

Which was exactly what Ronan had been banking on.

“Let me guess, there’s more where that came from,” the man said, picking the piece up and running his finger knowingly over the groves.

Ronan nodded.

“One hundred percent real. Unmarked, clean. You can take this one home with you and check, on the house. There’s also credit chips, unprogrammed, of course.”

“And what you’re asking for in exchange?”

He took a breath.

“Transport. To Lesser Space. I don’t care exactly where but I need to get there. You can have the clothes too,” he hurried to add. Too eager perhaps but he had the man on the hook and he didn’t want to lose him. “And the jewelry. But only once we’re off planet.”

There was a definite spark of interest in the man’s eyes. And it made a corresponding spark of hope light in Ronan’s chest.

“Well, my friend,” he chuckled at length, “it sounds to me like you might just have a deal.”

He pocketed the credit bar and leaned closer to Ronan in a casual friendly way. Ronan reasoned that it wouldn’t do to look too conspiring in front of his colleagues. It might just tip them off to what they were missing out on.

“And if that’s the case, a name might be a good start. Real or fake,” he waved a hand, “we’re not too sensitive about it here.”

“Just Ronan is fine.” He didn’t care either considering he would be out of here soon. “Though I have a feeling you’ll insist on calling me your ‘friend’.”

“Small pleasures.” The alien grinned. “As for yours truly, the name is Ildavo. Transport services extraordinaire.”

“Are they now?”

“Fast ship. Low rates. Good company. What more can you ask for?”

Ronan rolled his eyes. He could have said smuggler and left it at that.

For the time being, though, this Ildavo fellow looked reliable enough. Not too ambitious to try anything funny based on how he’d reeled back from the deal at first and not too thick to not know his way around.

Altogether the curious type that wouldn’t close his door if luck decided to knock. He was clearly a local and a regular if the friendly conversation Ronan had interrupted was any indication and besides the small sidearm strapped to his thigh that most of the local alien populace seem to carry around (the limit to what the chiss permitted, Ronan guessed), Ronan couldn’t see anything to suggest he was dangerous.

They talked for a while longer, smoothing out the details of the deal, while making it look like they were talking about the weather.

Just before they parted ways, Ildavo gripped his upper arm and locked eyes with him.

“Just so we’re clear, this doesn’t have the potential of getting me in trouble with our benevolent blue overlords, does it?” he asked intently and Ronan could feel the tension in his voice.

“If they were going to do something about it, they would have already,” Ronan lied. “As far as they know, you’re a clueless third party.”

“I’m not comfortable with the thought they might know anything about me at all.”

“I told you, they don’t.”

He seemed reluctantly appeased and Ronan reminded him of the credit chips once again for good measure before taking his leave, keeping a low profile now that everything was in place.

A shady-looking alien who had been side-eyeing him for a while stood up to follow but Ildavo was a smooth operator and Ronan watched him put an arm around the alien’s shoulders and steer it back to the bar.

“Friend! Why don’t you let me buy you a drink…”

Ronan shook his head.

He had no doubt Ildavo would go back to his companions and spin a completely false story about their conversation. If nothing else, the self-serving ingenuity of fringe-dwellers could always be relied on, he decided.

The trip back to the apartment was less tense but just as elaborate and by the time he’d flipped his cloak again and traversed most of the market’s back alleys to throw off any pursuers, he was more than ready to collapse into his bed and not think of any of this again for a lifetime.

A lifetime is not what he had unfortunately. A few days, however, he did.

And the best way to spend the next few hours of them was in a blissfully, hopefully dreamless deep sleep…

Author's note: because text formatting is hell, Ildavo's name is ILdavo with an L and not a double i. Felt the need to get this out there from the get go.

#thrawn #thrawn ascendancy #thrawn treason #brierly ronan #Buried in Ice fic

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thrawns-backrest · 29 days ago

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no, but the soft way Mensah looks at Murderbot when she realizes what the show means to it is so important to me

it's such a great moment of acceptance and understanding that it makes my heart ache. she could have dismissed it as stupid or even selfish but then she actually looks at what is happening and because she's such an empathetic person she understands. she understands that Murderbot is trying its best to help in the only way it knows how and in doing so, it's letting itself be vulnerable without even realizing it

like here is this person who's struggling with personhood and all its complexities and pitfalls, who's found profound comfort in something so seemingly trivial. Murderbot is just as stressed as Mensah is and it ends up being more comforted by the show but how fucking cute is it that Mensah finds her own comfort in her fondness for it in that moment

and of course it's refreshing to see a character's special interests or hyperfixations or whatever you want to call them not be looked down upon for once. yes, Mensah was angry at it at first but that's before she realized the full scope of what this means to Murderbot. and the whole sentiment of 'it doesn't matter what I think of it, it matters what it means to you' is on point

#mbtv #mbtv spoilers #murderbot tv #murderbot spoilers #ayda mensah

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thrawns-backrest · 1 month ago

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Outbound Flight (2006) Deleted scene

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thrawns-backrest · 1 month ago

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Chapter 12

Oop, new chapter is out. Rushed to get this one done but we're setting up juicy stuff, enjoy!

Title: Buried in Ice

Characters: Ronan, Eli, Ba'kif and others

Chapters: 12/?

Summary: Ronan adjusts to life with the Chiss when a sudden revelation leads him to realize that his fate is not as firmly in his hands as he'd thought it was.

___

Sleep didn’t come to Ronan that night. It was foolish to think it would. Perhaps for the best as he had no wish to see what convoluted nightmares his mind would come up with in the wake of his conversation with Ba’kif.

Though they could hardly be worse than the reality he was being forced to endure, he thought wryly.

By the time the knock came on his hatch, his body had grown stiff and the room had begun to fill out with the first rays of dawn without him noticing. He sat up and blinked at the light coming from the window. All of his muscles felt like he’d been pummeled with a shock baton.

“Who is it?” he called out hoarsely, trying to clear the grit from his voice.

Maybe this is what Director Krennic had felt in his last moments, as the radiated dust kicked up from the beam had entered his lungs. If they had even given him the honor of dying by his own creation’s hand. Or maybe that hadn’t been the case at all and he’d bled out somewhere from a blaster shot, fired by some dirty rebel or one of Tarkin’s agents.

Ronan shook his head and focused back on the present. “Hello?”

“It’s me, Eli,” Vanto’s voice called back. “Can I come in?”

The request made Ronan frown and he forced himself to contemplate it.

Vanto had never come to visit him at his apartment. More than likely he was here to discuss the report with him.

Ronan wasn’t sure he was ready for that yet.

Unless, he thought, narrowing his eyes at the hatch.

Baring his teeth at Ba’kif hadn’t gotten him anywhere earlier. He could thrash and spit fire all he wanted but there were limits to how much he could push with the old general. Lines he couldn’t cross. Vanto, on the other hand, Ronan thought with vicious clarity, was fair game…

“Yes, you can come in,” Ronan said slowly, heaving his stiff, weary body from the couch.

The hatch opened and Vanto stepped into the room a moment later, pausing to eye Ronan’s wrinkled lounge robe and the bags under his eyes.

“Is everything alright?” he asked and it took Ronan’s all not to sneer.

“Peachy. What brings you here commander?”

Vanto hesitated but took another step into the room.

“I’m assuming Ba’kif already told you everything.”

“Yes, he was very thorough.”

His annoyance spiked as the words brought some kind of pathetic, commiserating look to Vanto’s face.

“I’m sorry. I know it’s a lot to take in.”

“Indeed. A tragedy on all counts.”

Vanto shook his head, his usual unfiltered honesty making him the picture of sympathy. “I’m still struggling to process it myself.”

Ronan saw his chance and leapt at it.

“Is that so?” He smiled cynically. “And what exactly has changed for you, commander?”

Vanto’s head snapped up at that, the skin around his mouth going taut. The question seemed to have caught him off guard.

“What do you mean?”

Ronan shrugged. “You said it yourself, didn’t you? That you were here of your own volition. In that case nothing should have changed for you.”

He began to pace the room slowly as Vanto sputtered in search of words.

“You can’t be serious. You know… you saw what that report said about Thrawn.”

“Of course I did,” Ronan said. Somewhere in the back of his mind a voice was telling him that he was going too far but Ronan had become an expert at ignoring that voice. “The man who was only after furthering his people’s agenda, failing to protect the Empire. Am I supposed to be surprised?”

By now, all traces of sympathy had vanished from Vanto’s face and his glare had turned stony, shooting daggers at Ronan.

“Where are you going with this?” Vanto said icily. “Both of us are in the same boat here. That report concerns everyone and you’re standing here, questioning Thrawn’s integrity.”

“Thrawn’s integrity?” Ronan asked in disbelief, feeling his anger spike. “I’ll tell you why I’m questioning Thrawn’s integrity. It’s because he’s the reason both of us were here when we could have been with our people in their time of need.”

“And you think Thrawn intended that? He was gone by the time all of that happened. The Death Star. Alderaan. He disappeared fighting for the Empire.”

“Oh did he now?” Ronan sneered. “Next thing, you’ll tell me how much he cared about us all. Unless that’s just what he wanted you to think so he could convince you to come running here.”

The fire in Vanto’s eyes flashed.

“How is any of this relevant here? What are you trying to say?”

“So you admit it’s true?”

“Of course it’s not. And you have no right implying it. You didn’t know him.”

“No,” Ronan admitted. “I didn’t. But I know his type.”

“And what exactly is his type?”

Ronan barked out a laugh.

“Open your eyes, Vanto. You’re surrounded by them.”

The words sent understanding skittering across Vanto’s face and Ronan watched him shake his head. “You have no idea what you’re talking about.”

His tone implied that he was holding back and Ronan cursed him mentally for it. He didn’t want Vanto to hold back, he wanted him to snap.

“And what about you then?”

Ronan blinked, caught unawares by the question, and felt a wave of defensiveness wash over him. “What about me?” he bit back a bit too quickly.

“Why haven’t you run off yet?” Vanto sneered. “If you’re so worried about people’s integrity. Why haven’t you run off to help them build their next Death Star?”

Ronan bristled.

“I was forced to be here,” he reminded Vanto viciously and only got a chuckle in response.

“You love to think of it that way, don’t you? Except that’s not really true anymore. You have a job here, connections, friends in the Aristocra, prestige, luxury,” Vanto listed them off before pausing and narrowing his eyes. “You’re alive. All because of Thrawn.”

Because of Thrawn?! Ronan thought, incredulous. Did Vanto actually believe what he was saying?

It was true that Ronan had found success here. He had worked himself delirious in the hopes of making a difference and Vanto wanted to use that against him?

His anger surged again, kindled by a fresh pouring of fuel.

“I was in danger because of him to begin with! Or are we just to ignore that he sicced the most murderous psychopath in the Empire on me and the Director?”

“If Vader hadn’t killed you, you would have died on the Death Star. What’s your point?”

“So I’m supposed to be grateful? You’re insane if you think that’s the case.”

“I’m saying you shouldn’t be ungrateful.”

“And how exactly have I been ungrateful? By solving these people’s petty spats? Or by helping them root out their traitors?”

“You can start by respecting those that give their lives to protect our people.”

“Which they do out of their own self-interest.”

“Which is more than you or Krennic have ever done.”

Ronan’s jaw clenched.

“Director Krennic dedicated his life to the Empire,” he said slowly as Vanto held his glare. “Something a traitor like you wouldn’t understand. You weren’t there when millions of our people died –”

“And who killed them?”

Ronan smirked at that, seeing another opportunity.

“The man your beloved Thrawn counted on for his political support. That ever cross your mind, Vanto?”

With that, the ball was in Vanto’s court again and Ronan watched him bristle visibly.

“You will not link those people’s deaths to Thrawn. He knew your weapon spelled trouble and he was right.”

“The weapon? It’s the weapon’s fault?” Ronan huffed. “Do you think blasters fire on their own too? Tarkin was in charge of that weapon.”

Because he tore it out of the Director’s cold dead hands, his mind added angrily and he tried not to let that thought derail him.

“And do you think the people of Alderaan care who gave the order?”

The mention of Alderaan was unexpected and Ronan felt his anger twist and warp into something more uncomfortable.

“The people of Alderaan are dead,” he said stiffly. “And so are those responsible for it.”

“Are they?” Vanto replied vehemently but Ronan waved him off.

“Mourning their ghosts will do nothing for them.”

“Holding those that killed them responsible for it will. And preventing it from happening again.”

“How? By letting an entire system be dismantled? By causing more war?” Ronan laughed wryly. “Your solutions are childish,” he finished and watched as Vanto went quiet, something unreadable simmering in his eyes as his gaze lingered on Ronan.

“Thrawn was wrong about you,” he said finally, prompting a final sneer from Ronan.

“How fortunate then, that I never cared for his opinions.”

That seemed to be the final latch of the coffin and Vanto’s lips twitched before he tucked the gloves he’d been clutching under his arm and gave Ronan one last frosty look.

“Good day, Secretary.”

The sound of his footsteps was harsh as he stormed out of the room and Ronan winced at the way he punched the pad to shut the hatch behind him. Well, Ronan thought, suddenly exhausted, so much for that tepid alliance.

He and Vanto were never meant to be anything but two people who barely tolerated each other anyway, he decided. The fact that they didn’t see remotely eye to eye in this situation proved it.

With a great deal of effort, he dragged himself to the window, fixing a sharp, baleful glare on the landscape outside.

It didn’t matter what Vanto thought. It didn’t matter what anyone thought, really. Heck it didn’t even matter how Ronan felt – Director Krennic was dead and so was Stardust (Ronan couldn’t bring himself to call it the Death Star anymore. Not so much because of the unwarranted deaths it had brought about but simply because it wasn’t theirs. The Death Star was the project that had suffered a fiery ignominious death at Tarkin's hands. Stardust was the project he and Director Krennic had dedicated their lives to.) and anyone who could be directly blamed for it was just as dead as them.

All Ronan could do was decide how to proceed going forward. And for once, he decided wryly, Vanto was right. There was nothing holding Ronan here anymore. The Empire was vulnerable and the chiss had no more need for him than they’d had for Thrawn while he was busy foiling the Emperor’s plans.

Yes, Vanto would get what he wanted. He would have Ronan out of his hair soon. And so would Ba’kif. Whether they realized it or not.

___

The office was oddly hollow and small looking without the general there, Ronan mused as he stood a few feet from the luxurious desk, his hands twined behind him. His robes were neatly ironed, still smelling faintly of chemicals and steam and the collar of his underrobe tickled his neck.

This was the first time he was here so early as to arrive before Ba’kif himself. The feeling was odd and the unfamiliar arrangement of the office’s shadows made the place look even more eerie and Ronan examined the picture with a sense of detached nonchalance.

“Secretary,” Ba’kif’s voice sounded behind him at some point, pulling him out of his thoughts. “I was told you were here to see me.”

Ronan barely twitched.

“Yes, your aide let me in. He said you were expecting me.”

“I was.” He watched Ba’kif’s silhouette move past him, the memory of the chiss’ stern, unfeeling expression the night before rising unbidden in Ronan’s mind.

“Though to be honest, I wasn’t expecting you so soon,” Ba’kif finished as she settled himself behind his desk.

A small smile.

“Yes, well, I’m full of surprises.”

“I can’t argue there.”

Ba’kif moved his questis and a few data sticks to the side before cocking a single eyebrow at him. “Well?”

Taking a deep breath, Ronan smoothed a hand over his nerves.

“I’ve come to a decision. I’ve thought about everything that’s happened and our conversation and in view of how things stand,” he paused to wave a hand vaguely. “I’ve decided it’s not worth chewing a limb off to escape.”

Ba’kif observed him for a moment before inclining his head as if to say ‘go on’.

“With that said,” Ronan obliged him. “I’ve come to ask for permission to take leave.”

That prompted a slight reaction of surprise from the chiss.

“You’re asking to go on leave?” Ba’kif asked, sounding perplexed but not displeased yet.

“I need time General. To rethink my new priorities. And decide how to move forward.” Ronan explained before pausing briefly. “And with all due respect, this place is oppressive.”

His bluntness earned him an amused huff.

“Very well, I understand. I suppose we do owe you as much. Any preferences for where you would like to take that leave? I’m hoping you don’t expect us to ferry you to the Empire.”

“No, of course not.”

Ronan bit his lip, pretending to think. “I was thinking maybe… a trade world?”

“A trade world?” This time both of Ba’kif’s eyebrows shot up. “Whatever for?”

Ronan feigned some irritation as he shifted in place. “I know it may not have occurred to you but it gets tiring being ogled like some zoo animal all the time. It’s not something you get used to.”

Which was only half a lie, he admitted in the privacy of his mind.

Ba’kif was silent for a good while, his eyes scouring Ronan for any signs of a lie, but Ronan was relieved to see his body language relax into something more accepting before he gave Ronan a nod.

“Very well, I’ll arrange it for you. In the meantime, do you have any other requests?”

“No. None that I can think of right now.”

“I see. I must say, Secretary, I’m impressed by how well you’re handling this. I was expecting you to need more convincing.”

Ronan gave a shrug. “To be fair, I could make this more difficult,” he said brashly. “But I don’t see how that would benefit either of us.”

“It won’t indeed. In that case, you’re free to go back to your rooms and prepare. I’ll contact Rhiuh’vek and tell him to take charge of the bureau for the time being. I’m sure he can handle it.”

“I’m sure as well. Thank you, General.”

“Don’t thank me yet.” Ba’kif raised a warning finger as he reached for his comm board. “You said it yourself, Secretary, you still have a lot of thinking to do.” There was a certain weight behind his words but Ronan ignored it in favor of a small cynical smile.

“I wouldn’t worry, General. I’m fairly certain I know where I stand.”

#thrawn #thrawn ascendancy #thrawn treason #brierly ronan #eli vanto #ba'kif #Buried in Ice fic

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