Timeframe: Before, Saga, Beyond
Characters: Admiral Ackbar
Keywords: It’s a trap! j/k – smell, sound, touch, taste, sight
Raising his head and consciously swiveling his eyes in all directions, something that clearly disconcerted these humans, he inhaled deeply. He smelled contempt dart away from the young ensign watching him like silver pike fleeing a predator and smiled.
Every ship he boarded in the Empire possessed its own set of scents. Some of industry and determination, some of fierce pride and loyalty – he remembered Daala’s smelling of resignation and perfumed shampoo.
Ackbar was learning to correlate the scents of a ship to the command structure.
The ensign’s contempt was suddenly welcome against the background. The Executor stank of fear.
The measured footsteps in the hall were the only warning he was given before the door whooshed open and the amused face of Tarkin was looking down on him. It amused Ackbar that Tarkin managed to always look down on who he was talking to, whether a slave or Vader. It amused him more that Tarkin often looked down on the seas and never saw the krakanna lurking in the depths.
“Working late tonight, Ackbar? How admirable," he sneered. "You are dismissed.”
He left happily. Tarkin thought him a well-trained hound which meant more time to learn his master’s secrets.
The dry, flat air moved across his mottled flesh and continued on its circuitous route through the conference room. He indulged himself and allowed one eye to track the miniscule ripples left in its wake. These uncomfortable breezes – his human overseers would argue that term – were the closest he came to the currents of his home waters these days.
His skin, a handsomely dappled olive before his capture, now bore the brown overtones of age and abuse. Tarkin often withheld Ackbar’s salt baths as a means of keeping him in his place. It suited Tarkin’s peculiar aristocratic and ‘refined’ sadism.
How did others survive without this? He pitied his human friends sometimes, mostly when he was floating in the confines of his quarters’ pool. A Mon Calamari cruiser! With the comforts he long ago gave up wishing for- air that was not dead but instead could breathe life into his skin even within the far reaches of space where his duty called.
He blew a satisfied gurgle. Sometimes, when Master Skywalker spoke to him of the Force, he remembered what it was like to be part of the Current. This small taste would suffice for now, but he craved more.
Mon Calamari do not cry. It is a physical impossibility. Right now, though, is the first time that Ackbar ever envied humans that ability. The flush in his skin, the fluttering of his gills, it all seems wholly inadequate to express the emotion he is feeling as he steps from the shuttle onto his watery homeworld for the first time since his capture.
The suns setting on the endless waves send him a bloody salute, as if honoring the sacrifices made for these waters, and dip beneath to leave him in silence and perfect solitude.
He was home.