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brokenjardaantech · 4 years

Text

a road not taken

Fandom: star trek (2009)

pairing: nero/ayel

summary:

Leya returns from his most recent trial dazed and overwhelmed. It is Ŏ’ŗên's job to comfort his bondmate.

other tags: griefing/mourning, hurt/comfort

ao3 link

Ŏ’ŗên knows something is wrong as soon as his bondmate reappears sitting on the edge of their shared bed. Not because of the silence - that he is used to since the fateful day when his other half miraculously survived the unsurvivable; not because of the frailness - that he is also used to since the day they first met; nor because of the change of the colour of his soulmate’s eyes - that he expects after another trial from beings he is too four-dimensional and mortal to comprehend. But the impenetrable wall he runs into when he taps into their bond - that is something they have not had between them since the day he nearly lost Leya, the price of blocking themselves from each other’s mind too high for them to even try again. Not having access to their bond doesn’t mean that he can’t deduce his bondmate’s emotions from other tells, however, and he knows that right now, the love of his life is overwhelmed with them and therefore is not ready to talk about them yet, so he does what he has learnt from decades of experience that sends his message clearly without resorting to words: press his chest against Leya’s back, wrap his arms around his (painfully thin, boney, narrow) shoulders, and press a kiss with his lips on the pointed tip of his ear.

I’m here for you.

Leya turns his head so that they can exchange a proper kiss with their lips and their fingers. I know. But I’m not ready yet.

One more brush of two fingers against two fingers. A firm squeeze on his waist. I’ll be there whenever you’re ready.

His bondmate pulls away from their embrace and walks away, his skin as pale as the oversized white sleep robe he is wearing, presumably back to the room where his nest is, his own space where he can forget the outside world and rest and think properly. He will be out after a few hours usually.

Usually.

Ŏ’ŗên realises he must take the initiative when the situation doesn’t get better after days of waiting for his bondmate to open up. Whenever the wall between their joined minds wobble, strong waves of sadness washes over the bond, and it is obvious starting from the second day that Leya is not okay at all. Still, he lets him be for a few more days, taking care of their children, tending to the farm, checking on the situation in the rest of the galaxy, while his bondmate hopefully recovers and processes whatever he saw during the trial. On the sixth day he breaches the silence, unwilling to see his other half dwell on his sorrows for any longer: it is not healthy for all of them.

‘Wheaty?’

He finds him on the deck at the back of the house overlooking seemingly-endless hills of different kinds of fruit and blue wheat, the setting sun ruining the world in a fiery hue that he cannot help but find nostalgic; it reminds him of the days in their academy years where they spent their free time sitting in the grass at the waterfront as their eyes were fixed on the glistening sea. They didn’t realise that they were in love back then; they do now.

There is no response from his bondmate and neither does he expect one, although Leya does clutch the large stuffed toy Ŏ’ŗên gifted him all those years ago closer towards his chest and does not protest when Ŏ’ŗên scooped him up so that he can sit on his lap instead. A kiss on the tip of his ear, a nuzzle against his neck where his scent is the strongest, a firm squeeze around his waist. He deflates.

‘Did you pass?’ is the first question asked. Always start from the simplest, most mundane things.

‘Pending,’ is Leya’s response, a low murmur that would have been lost to the breeze brushing their skin had both of them not been Vulcanoids. ‘I try not to think about it too much.’

‘How?’

‘I broke a rule.’

‘What rule?’

‘Non-interference.’

‘What were you supposed to do?’

‘I -’ his voice wobbles. ‘We were supposed to observe our counterparts in three different parallel universes and report back.’

‘Which three did you choose?’

‘The first one was easy enough. I checked on us in the mirror universe.’

‘How are they?’

‘Doing well. They have secured victory over the Empire with the help of my cousin’s counterpart. Their child will grow up in peace.’

‘That’s good to hear. How about the second one?’

His bondmate doesn’t answer immediately and instead wiggles in his lap until he is completely plastered against him with the stuffed toy squished between their chests. ‘The ones my cousin killed. The ones who started all this. The ones who never got to go home.’

He tightens his arms around him. Among all the choices he could make… ‘What about them?’

‘You and your sister were not related in any means and were bondmates. You were going to have a child until a supernova destroyed ch’Rihan. I was your second-in-command on a mining vessel. We were captured by the Klingons not long after we came into this timeline and spent two and a half decades on a penal colony. We escaped in the end but… you know how it went.’

And he does. Starfleet used their newest starship to defeat the terrorist who committed genocide on the Vulcan people, the Captain, the hero behind the Narada’s neutralisation too humble to want their name announced to the general public - at least, that is the official story that is taught in both the Federation and the Republic. In reality, though… ‘Was it what you expected to see?’

‘My cousin did not lie to me, if that is what you are asking.’ He buries his face in the crook of his neck. ‘It did not make it any easier. Do you wish to know?’

‘Please.’

‘That version of us never bonded properly, but the link is there. My cousin killed me first right in front of your eyes and exploited the pain it caused the other you, made you beg for the mercy of death. They… They were happy - overjoyed, even - to help.’

‘Do you think it’s a good thing?’

A shake of his head. ‘Killing our counterparts is the only way to save the galaxy from endless war. My cousin might have done the right thing then, but it was also one of their major steps towards…’ his grip on his shirt tightens, ‘whatever they are right now. Call me a coward or soft-hearted if you wish to, but I do think my cousin was being needlessly cruel. They had the choice of eliminating the threat and moving on or continuing to dwell on it; they chose the latter, they chose to bring even more pain and suffering to the galaxy.’ A deep breath. ‘They became the very thing they had sworn to destroy.’

They let themselves drift for a while. His bondmate has allowed the wall to crumble on its own some time during their talk, and they both bask in the bond between them, Leya drifting between his usual sensitive senses and a light doze, Ŏ’ŗên witnessing the first hint of stars in the sky as the sun descends further and further down the horizon and hearing the faint rustle of their children turning in their sleep from within the house. He will have to wake them up soon, he thinks, but for now his focus is solely on his bondmate.

A sharp pain from the other side of the bond jolts him from his thoughts, the emotion both familiar and distant - familiar because it is not something one can let go of easily, distant because he has not experienced it for a long time. The pain of mourning. Leya is trembling in his arms and the shoulder he is leaning on is wet.

He is crying.

Ŏ’ŗên pushes a wave meant to comfort through their bond hoping to at least calm his bondmate down, but all it does this time is make the sadness return in even stronger waves, and he would have shed a few tears had he had human ancestry like Leya. He receives flashes of images and bursts of sensations, all of them too blurry and short for him to distinguish anything of use; he has to ease himself from his bondmate’s mind to preserve his sanity.

‘I’m sorry,’ Leya says as he leans away and furiously rubs his knuckles against his face in an attempt to wipe his tears off. Ŏ’ŗên brushes his hands away and does it for him, his fingers brushing against his bondmate’s qui’lari to initiate a shallow meld and dragging him away from whatever vision that is plaguing him. ‘I screwed it all up - I lost control of myself -’

Ŏ’ŗên shushes him. ‘What did you do?’

‘I -’ an exhale. ‘The last timeline I visited. It was the closest to the one we’re living in,’ Ŏ’ŗên can feel him clinging onto their bond, grounding Leya against whatever he is reminded of. His eyes are wide. ‘Until I died.’

With so many brushes with death, Ŏ’ŗên isn’t surprised that his bondmate’s counterpart in a parallel universe wasn’t as lucky. ‘What happened?’

Leya shivers from a non-existent cold as Ŏ’ŗên feels age-old memories resurface from the depths of his bondmates mind, one of snow-capped, looming mountains and wind strong enough to rattle entire houses: whatever he encountered during his trial, it made Leya think of his childhood. ‘In that universe,’ he swallows, ‘my cousin never came to take me away. I died cold and starving never to have left the valley.’

Ŏ’ŗên senses that there is some more going on, therefore he merely rubs his bondmate’s thigh through the thin fabric of his sleeping robe.

‘Our counterparts in that universe… They were like us. T’hy’la. Two halves of the same soul. The other you never got to meet me, but he knew that something was missing. There was a giant gap in his mind where the other me should be, and it only grew wider with each passing year.

‘No one believed him when he told the others that there was a void in his mind, that the void was causing him endless pain and confusion. He spent years searching for whatever he could to lessen the pain knowing that he probably would never be able to uproot the ache - writing, serving the Republic, lovers whom he had thought were the shape of the missing pieces - but he got… disappointed, I suppose, and eventually he seemed to have given up. That was when he finally found someone who would perform a mind meld with him, and it was also after this meld that he was told that he had a bondmate, one who had died long before they met. He learnt that the wound would never heal; he would have to live the rest of his life always yearning for someone who no longer exists.’

Ŏ’ŗên holds him closer. ‘What a terrible thing to learn about.’

Leya wipes his eyes. ‘It was a relief for him, though,’ he places his hand on Ŏ’ŗên’s on his thigh, their fingers hooking together in a chaste kiss automatically and not letting go. ‘I guess… That was what made him accept the truth. As much as a closure he was allowed to have. He mourned the other me even though they never met each other, spent his days thinking of “what-if”s and drowning himself in imaginary scenarios where he could be happy with a bondmate with their katra so intertwined that others have difficulties distinguishing the two from each other, let himself feel the loss properly without anyone telling him that his pain wasn’t real. I watched him become a happier man.’ A deep breath. A shudder. ‘Then I watched him make preparations.’

‘What preparations?’

‘To…’ his grip on Ŏ’ŗên’s hand is almost painful. Leya’s side of the bond twists in turmoil. ‘To join the other me. At least, that was what he was thinking of when he wrote his final letter to his family and friends. I - I watched him inject himself with a hypospray and lie down in his bed for sleep just like any other day. He looked so relieved even though he’s so lonely that I - I -’ He heaves. The first sob breaks out from his throat, a high-pitched sound followed by a cascade of tears that goes straight into Ŏ’ŗên’s hears like a dagger, and his hands get slapped away when he tries to help. ‘I couldn’t, Ŏ’ŗên, I couldn’t let him go like this. No one deserves to die alone. I knew it was against the rules, but I - I made myself known.’ A particularly furious wipe, ‘Stepped into that universe with a corporeal form and went through the door to where the other you was. He - he thought I was his bondmate, here to take him away to where they could live together happily ever after.’ His voice breaks, and Ŏ’ŗên gently pats his back as Leya coughs and chokes on his own tears. ‘Please don’t be angry with me.’

Is that why his love is feeling so conflicted? That he broke a rule to comfort a dying man? ‘Never, my love, you know it,’ Ŏ’ŗên promises.

Leya calms down by a slight bit after that and a deep breath. But this time, instead of talking, he intertwines their fingers together on both hands and brings their foreheads together, initiating a meld that, to Ŏ’ŗên, feels as real as any other reality, the background of a setting sun disappearing alongside the endless rows of crops, the contrast between the chill of the evening and his bondmate’s body heat gone and replaced by the feeling of being in a strangely familiar body, and he knows that Leya is sharing his memories with him, that he is experiencing what is before his eyes right now in the way his soulmate did. His vision is blurry with tears - something he, as a full Vulcanoid, would never do in real life, but he can still distinguish the vague, faded outline of scattered pieces of furniture marking that only one person lives in there and they rarely, if at all, bring guests to their home. His legs, tired from pushing his newfound powers to their limits and awkwardly thin and knobbly like puberty never quite left him, creaks with each step forward towards the thick curtains framing a bed too narrow for two. There is an empty hypospray on the bedside table. He feels himself lift his hand and part the curtain, and, in a flow of plain fabric, he is no longer Leya, no longer experiencing the memory as Leya himself, and instead is standing with his back against the wall next to the bedside table, watching his bondmate stand very still and quiet and stare at the figure on the bed, a stray tear escaping the socket of his eye and dripping onto equally plain sheets.

Other-Ŏ’ŗên’s eyes catch the figure watching over him. His lips tremble as if he wants to speak, but in the end only a small, choked sound rises from his throat. ‘Love?’ he breathes.

Leya slowly sits down on the bed and holds Other-Ŏ’ŗên’s hand, his insignificant weight barely making a dip in the mattress. ‘I’m here,’ he says, and he presses a kiss on the back of Other-Ŏ’ŗên’s (oh so bony and thin) hand, tears straining translucent skin wet and leaving tracks on his face. Other-Ŏ’ŗên’s lips twitch. ‘I’m here to take you away. We’ll be together.’

‘I -’ Other-Ŏ’ŗên swallows. ‘You must think lowly of me, wasting my life -’

Leya places a finger on Other-Ŏ’ŗên’s lips to silence him. ‘I do not wish to see you in pain,’ his voice trembles slightly. He intertwines his and Other-Ŏ’ŗên’s fingers together, an intimate gesture only reserved for the closest of lovers, but Ŏ’ŗên finds himself feeling… nothing at all, really, apart from his heart aching and threatening to burst at the same time from the scene before him and his affection towards his bondmate. ‘Sleep now, love,’ he hears his bondmate say to his counterpart before pressing a kiss with his lips onto Other-Ŏ’ŗên’s brow, and he knows that Leya is copying him then: this is how Ŏ’ŗên puts him to sleep when he has trouble doing so by himself. ‘I will be here when you wake up,’ he breathes into Other-Ŏ’ŗên’s skin. ‘Sleep well.’

A small smile appears on Other-Ŏ’ŗên’s face as his eyes slip shut. A few more shallow breaths.

Stillness comes right after.

Leya pulls his hand away from Other-Ŏ’ŗên’s slack fingers and slowly turns his overflowing eyes towards his actual bondmate, and the memory dissolves into a fog quickly blown away to bring both of them back to the deck, the hills of crops, the setting sun. It is at this moment that Ŏ’ŗên realises that he is holding his bondmate’s hands uncomfortably tight in his grip, so he lets go and cups Leya’s cheeks instead, his thumb wiping his tears away. ‘My Wheaty,’ he says, finally understanding what happened. So this is why the pain feels so familiar. ‘No one deserves to die alone. In the last moments of my counterpart’s life, you gave him hope, gave him peace. He died knowing that he was loved and his t’hy’la will be with him forever.’

‘But Ŏ’ŗên, what if there is no other side?’ Leya’s hands fly to his face. ‘Elements, what if the other side is not what I promised him to be? What will the other you become? What if -’ his chest heaves - ‘What if the other me isn’t there when I promised that he will never be alone again? I would have given a man hope and - and shattered it! All because I couldn’t control myself!’

He is trembling and breathing heavily by the last word, angry tears rolling down his already-puffy eyes, and Ŏ’ŗên knows that he has to do something to remedy what can spiral off into an uncontrollable outburst. Sliding his arms underneath his bondmate’s thighs, he hoists him up without any warning, Leya wrapping his knobbly limbs around his torso instinctively and holding on for dear life with his face buried in Ŏ’ŗên’s shoulder, and he takes them both indoors back into their shared bedroom and throws his bondmate onto the pile of blankets and pillows which absorbs all the impact and makes Leya sink into it instead of letting him bounce. Before he can react, Ŏ’ŗên slams himself on top of his bondmate with his arms at Leya’s eye level so that he is the only thing Leya can see, smell, feel. A long, deep breath, and Leya places his hand on Ŏ’ŗên’s chest to signify that he is ready, rolling them over so that he is lying half on top of Ŏ’ŗên with his head on his chest.

Ŏ’ŗên kisses the top of his bondmate’s head. ‘My counterpart died in peace. You did what you could to relieve his pain and gave him peace when he was near his end, and that’s…’ he trails off.

‘All that matters,’ Leya finishes for him, and his voice breaks as his face scrunches up. He buries his face in the crook of Ŏ’ŗên’s neck, tears staining skin wet and soaking fabric, but Ŏ’ŗên can sense from their bond that his bondmate is feeling much better now, the sharp pain fading into a dull throbbing that will likely continue for some time before Leya finds himself distracted by other matters - that is how he dealt with grief before, and Ŏ’ŗên doubts that it will change this time.

He had no one, Leya’s voice suddenly echoes in his mind. He had cut off his family a long time ago. They couldn’t stand the thought of not being able to help with his pain, and he loved them so much that he couldn’t bear to let them know he gave up his life for a long-dead person he had never met. He will be remembered by the void he created in his family and friends’ life, not for who he really was.

But we do, Ŏ’ŗên replies. We remember him.

But what if I forget? It is inevitable given my position between this universe and the extra-dimensional world. One day I will process knowledge too much for my brain to handle, and I will be forced to discard some of it. Memories of our children. Of your counterpart. Of us growing up together. Of you. I might forget them one day and…

You won’t.

But -

You are mortal, Wheaty, Leya, my love, Ŏ’ŗên gives his shoulders a squeeze. ‘There will be a finite end for you and me. I promise.’

It is an empty one, he knows. He is not the one who can jump across universes unscathed. He is not the one who can live in between dimensions. He is not the one alive only because he is bounded to a higher dimension. Elements, he doesn’t even believe in an afterlife in the sense that there is a new world for him to explore and live in after he leaves this world, but he knows, from what Leya told him many times before, that every single person, every single act, every single change - all of them leave a unique imprint in the universe waiting for the right person to discover and learn from. Maybe this is enough to leave a mark in the unending river of spacetime. Maybe they will tell their children about it, someday, when they grow up and start to develop their own powers. Maybe they will join their counterparts afterwards, who knows? It’s not like he can look into the future.

Thank you.

Oops. Didn’t mean for you to hear that.

In any case.

Kaiidth.

And look at what it made me into.

What, the most wonderful bondmate a Rihannsu can ask for?

Leya thumps his fist lightly on Ŏ’ŗên’s shoulder. You are insufferable.

I love you.

Leya sighs as fondness bleeds through the bond. And I you.

Their minds suddenly become much busier and conscious. Their children are awake.

Dinner? Ŏ’ŗên asks everyone.

The cascade of sleepy yes’s brings a smile to his face.

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i wrote this mostly to kick myself to finally spitting out this ficverse, so if anyone is interested in more of it please do let me know. i’ll write more.

#nero #ayel #star trek xi #nero x ayel #nero/ayel #romulan #romulans #rihannsu #star trek #kelvin timeline

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jarmes · 4 years

Text

History of the Golden Valhalla Tournament

Some worldbuilding/history for Double Elimination

The following was taken from the official Tournament website on the third of May, 2234.

Of all the sport and entertainment available to citizens of the WGC, none have had quite the impact of the Golden Valhalla Tournament. A no holds barred showdown between the world’s greatest warriors for the ultimate reward, a wish from our glorious Goddess Marilyn Maia, the Tournament has grown to become more than a sport; rather, it has become a core part of our society’s identity.

The success of the Tournament can be traced largely to its core difference from other combat sports: the Tournament features few rules about what is and is not allowed in a fight. Unlike other sports, where you will see who is the best at punching, or who is the best at swordplay, or who is the best at wind magic, the Golden Valhalla Tournament shows who is the best at combat period. The Tournament determines who is the best at a core human concept existing since time immemorial: combat.

In spite of its current greatness, the Tournament came from rather humble origins. The beginning of the Tournament can be traced back to 2176, when Tournament creator Jayanta Asturias attended the Assembly of 99, a yearly dinner where governmental officials, business executives, and entertainers are invited to meet with Marilyn Maia. At these events, each guest was given an opportunity to ask Maia a single question.

During the 2276 Assembly, similarly to Assemblies both before and after, a majority of the questions fell into predictable categories. Some members of the Assembly asked for guidance. Some asked for blessings. Some asked grand questions about the universe. Bolder assemblymen asked Maia to use her grand abilities for their own benefit. These requests were almost always met with apathy, with only the most selfless requests being answered.

At the 2276 Assembly, Jayanta Asturias, then just a popular sports announcer and journalist, asked Marilyn Maia a question no mortal had ever asked her before: How are you feeling? A hush fell over the room as Maia stared down Asturias. Asturias took a deep breath and continued speaking, saying It must be hard, taking care of the entire world.

Maia laughed. We all must take the hands we have been dealt, she said with a smile. She then asked her own question to Asturias, Would you like to have dinner sometime? Three days later, the man and the Goddess met for dinner and spent an entire night talking, starting a friendship that would last for the rest of Asturias’s life.

In the years following his meeting with the Goddess, Asturias’s intellect and natural charisma led to incredible fame and wealth. In 2189, Asturias used his fortune to create his own television network named Butterfly. Asturias, a lifetime fan of combat sports, began work on a live fighting tournament to air on his network. This tournament eventually became the Golden Valhalla Tournament.

For his humble First Tournament, Jayanta Asturias recruited sixteen men and women from various cities around the globe. The tournament was held in the Chrysalis Gardens, a five thousand seat sporting arena in downtown City 49. It began on May 15th, 2191. The First Tournament took five days, with three matches occurring each day. Unlike later Tournaments, the First Tournament featured no loser’s bracket and had strict rules against killing. Although the early matches only gathered around four million viewers each, the First Tournament’s popularity skyrocketed on the fourth and fifth days, with the final match gathering fifty million live viewers.

The viewing public weren’t the only ones sucked in by the First Tournament; Marilyn Maia fell in love with the Tournament from its very first match. After the third day of the Tournament, Maia announced that she would use her vast magical abilities to grant a single wish for the Tournament’s winner, in recognition of the incredible heroism shown in battle.

Unfortunately, the First Tournament is primarily remembered nowadays for its disastrous final match. The final battle occurred between Regina Diefenbach, a mercenary with the ability to turn any object she touched into a bomb, and Gallus Silvano, an elderly man with a criminal record who used magic to create sharp swords out of light and temporarily boost his strength, speed, and stamina by entering a state called Sage Mode. Although code names were not used during the First Tournament, modern fans usually refer to Diefenbach and Silvano as Bombshell and Sage respectively. The battle between Sage and Bombshell went out of control, with the two fighters exiting the arena and battling in the stands. Twelve spectators died during the chaos. Ultimately, the battle ended with Silvano killing Diefenbach by stabbing her through the eye.

Two days following the fight, Marilyn Maia announced that she would not honor Silvano’s wish, on account of his numerous rule violations, including: exiting the arena during a match, endangering the lives of spectators, and killing his opponent. This decision was quite controversial both then and today. Silvano, who wanted to wish for eternal youth, spent several months appealing this decision. Ultimately, his appeals were denied. Since then, Silvano has disappeared from the public eye.

The First Tournament was, by most accounts, an absolute failure. Asturias’s credibility, wealth, and relationship with Maia all fell apart in the final moments of his Tournament. Still, Asturias saw something remarkable in the First Tournament and began work to create a new Tournament. With Maia’s approval, Asturias recruited 32 fighters for the Second Tournament, which began on June 6th, 2294.

In addition to having double the competitors of the First Tournament, the Second Tournament featured much stricter safety standards to protect live spectators. Interestingly, the Second Tournament changed the elimination rules from its predecessor; while the First Tournament allowed for matches to end via forfeit or countdown, the Second Tournament limited methods of elimination to solely include knockout. According to Jayanta Asturias, this change was made to allow fighters to fight for as long as physically possible, something they deserved the right to do, considering the stakes of each fight. This rule change was widely popular and appeared in all subsequent Tournaments. In an attempt to avoid repeating the debacle of the First Tournament, killing was permitted. Despite the rule change, no fighter dared kill another, making the Second Tournament the only Tournament with zero fatalities.

The Second Tournament’s winner was Shevaun Howard, aka Cobalt, a mutant liberation activist with blue skin and the ability to teleport. Cobalt’s controversial political beliefs made her a base breaking fighter. Still, her determination and overwhelming power allowed her to win the Second Tournament, beating out runner up Collider in the process. Cobalt used her wish to bring her husband Sindri, who had been murdered by anti-mutant terrorists while his wife was fighting in the Tournament. Unfortunately, Cobalt and Sindri were both killed four years later, during the early days of the Invasion.

The Third Tournament, beginning on July 1st, 2297, continued the success of the second tournament. The Third Tournament featured heavy competition from several powerful fighters, including Wyvern, Striker, and Zombie. Ultimately, the Third Tournament was won by Miro “Vulcan” Caiden, an engineer who fought using a suit of heavily armed power armor. Caiden used his wish to greatly increase his intelligence, becoming the smartest man in human history. After the Third Tournament, Vulcan’s small tech startup, Vulcan was acquired and expanded by EWC. Vulcan went on to become one of the chief inventors of technology for the World Government Coalition military and played a critical role in fending off the Invasion.

The Fourth Tournament was originally scheduled for June 23rd, 2300. Expectations were high, with many predicting that the Fourth Tournament would be the best one yet. Unfortunately, the world changed two months before the Tournament. On April 10th, 2300, a 400-meter long pillar of metal and glass crashed down in the center of City 32. The resulting shockwave killed thousands, but was only a precursor for what would come next. Panels on the side of the pillar slid open and released hundreds of hulking alien monsters.

After ten hours of fighting from the local police, WGC Military, and even Marilyn Maia herself, the threat was finally quelled. But, the battle was far from over. Analysis of the ship by Miro Caiden revealed that the pillar that crashed in City 32 was a mere scouting vessel, and that the rest of the fleet would be arriving in two short weeks. During the scramble to prepare for the Invasion, the Fourth Tournament was quietly canceled. Still, the preparations for the Fourth Tournament were of some use; all of the fighters scouted for the Tournament enlisted in the WGC military without a second thought. Delta Squad, a team led by several of the Tournament’s most anticipated fighters, including Redwing, Arcane, Justice, and Quicksand, played a pivotal role in several key battles and became a symbol of hope for the helpless citizens hiding in their bunkers. On December 17th, 2302, after two and a half years of fighting, the Invader mothership appeared in the sky above City 82. Marilyn Maia, using her vast magical abilities, tore a hole in the side of the mothership, allowing several members of Delta Squad to destroy the ship to put an end to the war once and for all.

When it was announced that the Fourth Tournament had been rescheduled for May 2304, many were skeptical. The world had just gone through the bloodiest war in human history, who would want to see more violence? Maia and Asturias pushed past these short-sighted critiques and gave us a spectacular event that honored those who risked their lives for our world. In doing so, they helped to bring a fractured world back together.

The Fourth Tournament began on May 17th, 2304. It was held at Valhalla Coliseum, an arena built by Vulcan on the small pacific island of Fitafita and featured 32 fighters. The final match was fought between Metrophanes “Redwing” James and Jude “Patriot” Romilly, two members of Delta Squad. Redwing, out of loyalty to his friend and comrade, forfeited the final match, making Patriot the fourth Champion. Using his wish, Patriot helped to fix the lasting damage of the Invasion.

The Fifth Tournament, beginning on June 28th, 2307, doubled the number of fighters to 64, doubling the Tournament’s length in the process. Like the Fourth Tournament before it, the Fifth Tournament was won by a member of Delta Squad: Kulap “Quicksand” Trueman, a soldier with the ability to telekinetically manipulate sand. Quicksand was unable to fight in the Fourth Tournament due to injuries sustained during the Invasion. She used her wish to restore her damaged body. Quicksand spent the next ten years hunting down anti-government radicals in the Outlands, founding the elite group known as the SPARTAN Squadron. In 2317, she perished at the hands of an unknown opponent, presumed to be related to the terrorist organization Ragnarok.

The Sixth Tournament, beginning on July 1st, 2310, continued the trend of doubling the size of the Tournament and featured 128 unique fighters, the most of any Tournament before or since. Unfortunately, this led to the average fighter being much weaker and resulted in a Tournament that drug on for far too long. Although the Sixth Tournament featured a large number of fighters, discussions of the Sixth Tournament are almost exclusively centered around its controversial Champion: Adelais “Hellfire” Stendahl.

Hellfire possessed a versatile palette of powers, including enhanced strength, flight, near-immortality, and the ability to summon cursed black fire that created unhealable wounds. The source of Hellfire’s terrible strength was revealed at the end of the Sixth Tournament’s final match; in reality, Adelais Stendahl was a vessel possessed by Lucifer, one of the five Ancient Gods and older sibling of Marilyn Maia.

When Maia confronted Hellfire about this following the final match, Hellfire attempted to kill Maia. Maia survived, but sixteen spectators were killed by Hellfire’s flames. As punishment, Maia revoked Hellfire’s wish, and instead gave it to Jayanta Asturias, who used it to imprison Hellfire on a desolate island called Devil’s Rock. Hellfire stayed imprisoned on this island for the next thirty-three years.

The Seventh Tournament, by comparison, was far less noteworthy. Beginning on June 29th, 2313, the Seventh Tournament returned the number of fighters to 64, a decision kept in later Tournaments. Notable fighters of the Seventh Tournament include Lion, Matchstick, Lovecraft, and of course, Legion. Arastoo Van Rompaye, the orphaned son of a Federal Chancellor killed by Ragnarok terrorists, fought at the young age of seventeen under the name Legion. Using his ability to create duplicates of himself, Legion won both the hearts of the audience and the title of Seventh Champion.

Rather than using his wish for personal gain, Legion wished to become Marilyn Maia’s knight and protector. Honoring this wish, Maia amplified Legion’s duplication abilities and entrusted him with her personal collection of Magical Weapons. Legion was assigned to work as Maia’s personal bodyguard. In the years since his victory, Legion has become both chief General of the WGC Military and head of the SPARTAN Squadron.

Tragedy struck the final night of the Seventh Tournament, when Tournament creator and chief producer Jayanta Asturias was murdered by members of the terrorist organization Ragnarok. Marilyn Maia called for a national week of mourning, honoring the death of one of history’s greatest minds. He was sixty-eight years old. With Asturias’s death, the fate of the Tournament was left uncertain. Out of dedication to her fallen friend and to the people of her world, Marilyn Maia continued the Tournament, announcing that the Eight Tournament would begin on schedule in 2216.

Still, the question of who would host the Tournament remained. Hundreds of prospective hosts were personally interviewed by Marilyn Maia. Ultimately, she decided on Faustino Nash, a popular comedian and talk show host. Reception to Faust was mixed. But, to be fair, reception to any new host would have been similarly mixed.

Two months prior to the beginning of the Eighth Tournament, Marilyn Maia made a startling announcement. The Eighth Tournament would feature a new mechanic called the Redemption Bracket. After the ending of the Main Bracket, the Tournament would continue, with willing fighters joining a new bracket. Unlike the Main Bracket, the matches in this new bracket would only end when one of the two competing fighters fell in battle. According to Maia, this idea was originally pitched by Asturias during the planning of the Fourth Tournament, but was rejected by her due to fears of negative reception.

The response to this new bracket was controversial, with many critics writing the Tournament as barbaric and cruel. Maia assuaged these fears with her famous “What is cruelty” speech, given live from Fitafita as millions watched.

What does it mean, to be cruel? I have been called cruel many times over the years. I ended war and brought peace and prosperity to this world, I have cured diseases and stopped armageddon, I have dedicated myself to others, yet they call me cruel. When I united the world, they called me cruel. When I fought off the evil that was the Priests of the Damned, they called me cruel. When I created the Golden Valhalla Tournament, they called me cruel. Again and again, they have called my kindness cruelty.

This is not a critique of my results, for the greatness of my deeds is plain to see. Rather, it is a critique of my methods. There are those out there who have not faced strife who look down upon me with contempt for my willingness to do what is necessary. Those who wish for me to limit my power and do nothing to stop the festering evil threatening to destroy the world that I have built, out of reverence for the monsters that wish to burn our cities to the ground. These people would rather I sit back and watch as a terrorist guns down a hundred innocent souls, for it would be cruel for me to interfere.

I do not care for these people. They are not just foolish, but arrogant, treating themselves as saints for their willingness to judge others. I do not let the concerns of these people dictate my actions.

Once again, these people have turned their crosshairs on me and called me cruel. Cruel for offering salvation to those willing to give everything for it, cruel for giving my fighters the opportunity to seek their dreams, cruel for honoring the wishes and legacy of a departed friend. The critics are not brave enough to step foot in my arena. No, they are academics and activists, people who have lived lives dedicated not to work, but to criticizing those who have strived to improve society. They do not understand the importance of the Tournament. They do not care about those who fight to cure diseases or to revive fallen loved ones. They see our Champions and call them barbarians.

If someone is willing to die for their dreams, is it not right to give them a chance to fight? Is it not moral to allow people to decide for themselves when they have had enough? This Redemption Bracket is not something that people are forced to compete in; entry into the second bracket is completely voluntary.

So again, I ask, what is cruelty? Is it cruel, to allow people to chase their dreams? Or is it cruel to strip that choice away, to deprive others of their freedom for the sake of our own moral compasses? The answer, I pray, is obvious.

The Eight Tournament began on June 30th, 2216, and began a new era for the Tournament. The setting was switched from the arena atop Fitafita to a massive flying stadium floating by the island, designed by Miro Caiden. Ten fighters ultimately signed up for the Redemption Bracket. When the dust cleared, the last fighter standing was Nitya “Phantom” Babineaux, a cat-burglar with the ability to alter her body’s density, allowing her to increase her physical strength and turn intangible to phase through attacks. Babineaux wished for wealth and became the second richest person alive in an instant. Babineaux continued working as a thief for several years before switching to a career in politics. In 2229, she was elected to the position of Federal Chancellor of the WGC, a position she still holds.

Although the Eighth Tournament was mostly a success, with praise thrown towards the new arena, ruleset, and spectacular fights, Faustino Nash’s role as announcer received criticism. Most of said criticism was aimed at his absence of combat knowledge, leading to the fights having the in-depth, insightful commentary of Jayanta Asturias. Starting with the Ninth Tournament, Seventh Champion Arastoo Van Rompaye was given the role of co-host. The dynamic between Faust and Legion brought back many fans who left following Asturias’s death, and finalized the format of the Golden Valhalla Tournament.

The Ninth Tournament, starting on July 1st, 2219, continued the success of the Eight Tournament. Its Champion was Herman Wayne, aka Pharaoh, an engineer and protege of Vulcan who fought using a tank-like suit of armor. He personally requested for his wish to be kept a secret. The Ninth Tournament featured no major problems, but faltered in the ratings for unknown reasons.

The Tenth Tournament, beginning June 28th, 2222, was marred by a scandal regarding the identity of its Champion. Benesh Monet and Sigal Monet, a pair of twin mages who disguised themselves as a single fighter called Gemini. This blatant destruction of Tournament rules, covered up and abetted by Tournament executives close to the Monets infuriated Maia, who stripped the Monets of their win and removed the executives responsible from their power. Following the Tenth Tournament, Marilyn Maia significantly slimmed the size of the Tournament staff, leaving major decisions in the hands of herself, Faust, Legion, and Vulcan, to prevent a similar event from occurring in the future.

The Eleventh Tournament, first airing on July 1st, 2225, continued the ratings drop beginning with the Ninth Tournament and exacerbated by the Tenth Tournament. At the time, Marilyn Maia considered ending the Tournament. However, a series of steller final matches, including a heartbreaking battle between star crossed lovers Vigdis “Maelstrom” Underhill and Iustinus “Renbar” Reilly, saved the Tournament.

Maelstrom, with her ability to control the weather, ultimately won the Tournament, becoming the Eleventh Champion. Using her wish, she brought Rebar back from the dead. Following the Tournament, Maelstrom was tasked with using her abilities to manage the Coalition’s farms. Tragically, Maelstrom passed away in November, 2233. The circumstances of her death are currently under investigation.

Although the Twelfth Tournament, starting May 30th 2228, featured a variety of exciting matches, it has become overshadowed in the public zeitgeist by an infamous match occurring in the fifth round of its redemption bracket. A fifteen-year-old fighter by the name of Swiss, then the youngest person to ever fight in the Tournament, died a painful death as millions watched. Swiss, who had been fighting to cure his sister of a fatal illness, became a martyr for critics of the Tournament. It should be noted that Swiss was not the first, nor the last fighter to die in the Tournament, making the public outcry of his death somewhat hypocritical.

Swiss’s final opponent, Helena “Wanderer” Pasternak, ultimately won the Twelfth Tournament. Wanderer, a centuries-old mutant with the ability to heal from any wound, used her wish to modify her mutation, giving her the power to heal others in an instant. Wanderer joined the Tournament Staff as their chief medical officer for the Thirteenth Tournament.

The Thirteenth Tournament, beginning June 28th, 2231, initially drew in poor ratings due to a boycott inspired by the Twelfth Tournament. Despite this, the Thirteenth Tournament ended with the highest ratings in Tournament history. The Tournament’s revitalization can be traced to a single man: Seong-Su Schuyler, aka Dreadnought.

Dreadnought, a cybernetically enhanced warrior equipped with super strength, energy blasts, rocket punches, and near invincibility, took the world by storm through his raw power and endless charisma. Dreadnought’s mentor, Fourth Tournament runner-up Redwing, finally achieved victory when Dreadnought handily won the Thirteenth Tournament, winning each match without allowing his opponents to score a single blow.

Instead of using his wish for personal gain, like some Champions, Dreadnought requested that he be placed in charge of the rules for upcoming Tournaments. With his new position, Dreadnought rewrote the entire Tournament rulebook to ensure more exciting matches. Most notably, he removed the rule preventing former Champions from fighting again.

Over the past forty-three years, the people of this world have had the privilege of witnessing thirteen unique Tournaments and close to nine hundred different matches. The Fourteenth Tournament is set to begin on June 28th, 2234, and should end sometime in September. Although we cannot say for certain how the Tournament will go, the Tournament Staff has announced several of the fighters. Judging from the standout candidates chosen, the Fourteenth Tournament is sure to be an absolute knockout.

Notable upcoming fighters include Ramses, an android co-built by Vulcan and Pharaoh to be the ultimate killing machine; Harta Ximeno, the son of two Delta Squad mages widely thought to be the greatest wizard alive; Gwynn Galo, a former apprentice of Pharaoh’s fighting to prove that he can outfight any android; rock star Brunhild Eliot; several captured Ragnarok terrorists, including unofficial leader Terenti Abney; the last living Invader, who was captured back in December; boxer Ronalda Hendricks; famed supervillain Edison Vile; EWC Ceo Alexis Hanigan; and dozens more.

The most notable fighters, however, are familiar ones. After removing the restriction on former Champions, Dreadnought announced that he would return to the Tournament to defend his title. In preparation for the Tournament, Dreadnought traveled to Devil’s Rock and killed Hellfire in a duel, his greatest victory yet. Vulcan, Legion, Phantom, Pharaoh, and Wanderer all declined to face Dreadnought in the Fourteenth Tournament. But, one former Champion accepted the challenge: First Champion Gallus Sage Silvano. The Fourteenth Tournament will feature the First Champion, the most recent Champion, and sixty-two other warriors vying for the ultimate prize: a single wish, granted by Marilyn Maia.

Sage. Cobalt. Vulcan. Patriot. Quicksand. Hellfire. Legion. Phantom. Pharaoh. Gemini. Maelstrom. Wanderer. Dreadnought. Thirteen Tournaments, thirteen Champions. Who will be next?

#worldbuilding #writing

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july-19th-club · 4 years

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about to just start inventing picard episodes

star trek picard episode whatever “Electric Sheep”: Cris, Raffi, and the gang beam down to pick up supplies for malfunctioning holograms. Soji and Geordi conduct an experiment on lucid dreaming. (geordi’s here because i love him and the experiment they’re doing is ‘if soji puts enough parts of her brain in sleep mode can she or geordi talk to a remnant of her dad in there’ and the result is ‘yes and there are seventeen individual lines of dialogue that will have you bawling like a baby’. then they have to pilot la sirena out of a contested patch of space together because they accidentally let her drift while they were doing weird science and everybody else is planetside having wacky market haggling shenanigans and emmett & enoch are still not online. do they sit in The Correct Spots On The Bridge? brother, it’s the only reason the scene exists)

star trek picard episode whatever 2 electric boogaloo “Dinner and a Holonovel”: Raffi and Seven go on their first official date. Meanwhile, La Sirena receives a coded message from one of Raffi’s mysterious contacts. (in this one Raf and Sev get dressed up but they’re both sort of uncomfortable doing so and they try to have a date but neither of them are enjoying themselves trying to be normal, because Raf’s an old reprobate who’s definitely forgotten how to Have Fun With Others and Sev never learned because it wasn’t relevant to her interests. but then they wind up in some trouble(maybe they deliberately seek it out sort of unconsciously bc they’re bored) and it becomes a fun bar fight date that they really enjoy. everybody else is playing twenty questions trying to figure out this weirdly-encoded message for her bc she’s busy. they come back all bruised and grinning and the whole gang looks up at them with this half-decoded message and is like what kind of life do you lead).

star trek picard episode whatever 2 the sequel “Dr. and Mr. Smith”: Raffi’s contact has asked the crew for their help in a...discreet political matter. (it’s a reverse heist episode starring everyone’s two favorite sort-of-semi-retired-?-spies (if we are spies no we are not. yes we are. no <3). julian and raffi have a very good rapport and sev and garak don’t understand each other AT ALL. yes they are together in this one. no i dont think we need much backstory on when or how it happened i will leave that to the experts and their fucking youtube plays. keep up the good work. what are they reverse-stealing? idk yet it’s just a vehicle for character dynamics anyway).

star trek picard episode we cry a lot “The Daughters”: Soji confronts her legacy when an old friend of her fathers hails La Sirena, eager to repay a debt. (although to be honest, when is our sweet girl NOT confronting her legacy? that bitch is all legacy; she’s got legacy frankly oozing out of her positronic pores. this is partly a story about soji, but it takes a while to get there. first it’s the story of Sarge, who had an imaginary friend when she was six...

she can’t pinpoint exactly when she came up with him, and she doesn’t even remember what she named him - but she knows it happened sometime around the evacuations, and when they all moved back home and the world started growing again - lush and fast from the rich volcanic soil - she used to spend hours playing around with her birthday-gift radio set, ‘talking’ to her imaginary friend. of course, she never got actual replies, but as she aged out of the phase she retained an interest in radio and communications, and her parents indulged it and bought her more and better equipment, enrolled her in science programs, fed her curiosity. until one day as a young adult doing a school project on theoretical outer space transmissions, she arrived at a theory which (she later describes it as a CLICK, like something is settling into place in her brain) could account for the existence of extraterrestrial life, just out of reach. and perhaps, she posits in her presentation, the reason no aliens had yet contacted her world had little to do with them not being there and much to do with them choosing not to respond. the goal, she concluded, was to continue reaching out - to close the gap. she wrapped up the presentation with a nod to nostalgia. “And maybe someday, those friends will be imaginary no more.”

she wins an award for the project, and begins work in her chosen field that’s extremely rewarding, but it is still years before she reaches her second conclusion: the logical leap that if future alien contact was not only possible but likely, her imaginary friend might have been a real person after all. she brings this idea up with her mother one night over dinner, and her mother is somewhat alarmed - what do you mean you think you were talking to aliens, you couldn’t do that on a child’s transmitter kit, adults??? adult aliens? what are you saying they said to you? - but she can’t answer. she doesn’t have clear memories of that time, only an unshakeable conviction that the life she may have contacted is closer than anyone could possibly imagine. and so she starts a new project. she digs out the old childhood kit, fiddles with the dials, finds the frequency she used to tune it to. in her mind’s eye there’s the impression of a clear, frank voice, but no words. she tunes her own, more modern and complex instruments, to the same frequency, and keeps listening.

one day, she hears something. this time, she doesn’t talk first. the next few months are a whirlwind of information-gathering. there are people out there. whole societies. she pieces together the basics of what she’ll eventually learn is the prime directive; enough ships pass by the atmosphere of her world that she’s able to form a working conclusion as to why the come close but never hail. they know we’re down here, she thinks, they just think we’re not ready.

and maybe they don’t have the kind of boats that could get you that far into the sky. but she’s always been resourceful. she picks up a new frequency, and starts listening to starfleet. and after a few months of listening and planning, she starts packing. she takes the kiddie transmitter kit, she takes clothing designed for all-weather wilderness exposure, she takes the kind of emergency preserved food that people used to keep by the pallet in case of earthquake, and she takes a few other trinkets she can’t live without. and when the time is right, she hails. it might be a combination of luck or goodwill, but she manages to convince a passing freighter that she is the stranded comms officer of a downed private ship, the only survivor of the wreck hiding out on a pre-warp world. they beam her up and the first few weeks are very touch-and-go, but she manages to convince them she belongs up here, that the people who look like her are very far away and not just under their feet, darting around her green little world like a hill of bugs under the eyes of giant birds. she gets off at the nearest starbase, and she starts exploring.

she takes numerous vessels to numerous worlds, gathering information all the time. she starts calling herself Sarge, instead of Sarjenka, and it makes people think she’s a military type and nobody bothers her. she stops at a library planet for a month and researches everything she can about the major governing systems in the galaxy. without much to go on - no name, only a vague physical description (tall? pale? humanoid?) - it’s hard to determine exactly what kind of vessel the Friend would have been on, if indeed he existed. the yellow clothes, one of her few clear recollections, lead her to guess starfleet, but starfleet is a massive organization and so many of its vessels have come near her homeworld that it seems unlikely she’ll be able to narrow it down like that. so she tries a different tack, searching for the other two vague faces that she can bring to mind. one is a middle-aged woman, humanoid, but the search turns up nothing; the woman is a doctor who has retired from the organization and now works at a teaching hospital near vulcan. the other is a bald man with a deep voice, humanoid, and his record turns up an absolute deluge of information. she skips past most of it; she’s inpatient now, if anyone knows about the Friend he will, and so she checks his last known location. on board the private supply-class ship La Sirena, captained by ex-starfleet officer Cristobal Rios. Rios is tall, dark-haired, and humanoid, but absolutely nothing about him rings that little mental bell. she checks his last docking location. the ship visited a reclamation site briefly, and then disappears from the record.

but Sarge is nothing if not a searcher, so she adjusts her frequencies and tries again. it’s months before they’re in proximity to one another, months in which she’s taken the opportunity to secure her own vessel, a little rented, dented passenger bucket that’s probably worth more in repairs than the price she got it for. but she trades radio repairs for ship repairs at the port where she buys it, looks up its name (Avis) and finds it acceptable, and then she’s in the sky. she tools around exploring new bases and stations, and keeps the hail open. and one day, it’s answered. a human voice answers. “Avis, we read you. What can we do for you?” they go on-screen with each other, and she sees first the captain - the bearded guy - and then...him. the old man. he is an old man, the bald guy, and his eyebrows raise when he sees her come on the viewer.

“Permission to come on board?” she asks. “I have something which might belong to one of you.”

the old man looks wary for a moment, but then he turns to someone behind him, they exchange some quiet words, and he nods. “Permission granted.”

there’s a young woman waiting for her at the transport platform. shorter than her by a good half meter, humanoid. pale. “Dr. Soji Asha,” she says, “You look...”

and Sarge could swear she’s about to say ‘familiar.’

“Sarge,” she says, and the woman’s small hand grasps her long one in a firm shake, and then waits patiently while Sarge performs greeting, letting her fingers just-not-rest on the woman’s shoulders and arms. “I’m actually looking for an old friend of mine, and I thought you might have his whereabouts. Tall, pale, starfleet officer? Ops gold. I know that’s not much to go on, but if it helps, he would have once contacted and established a rapport with pre-warp Drema IV? Humanoid, but not human. He...” It’s weird. standing here, explaining herself to this quietly-held young woman, Sarge is able to articulate better than ever before her half-formed memories. “He told me once he was a machine.” and then, like another CLICK is settling, she has a name. At last. “Data.” I knew he’d had a name.

the woman’s face lights up and falls in such swift motion it is hard to tell which comes first - the recognition or the sorrow. but they’re both there, clear and present. “Dad died almost twenty years ago,” she says. “But if it helps, I have a positronic clone of his brain.”

Sarge starts laughing; she doesn’t mean to, but the way the woman - Soji - says it, so matter-of-fact, so frank...she stops herself before it’s rude, but Soji’s laughing too. “Sorry, I -”

“No, don’t - how do you - how did you know Dad? Come on, come with me -”

“What happened? I didn’t know him for long, I barely remembered him, but I knew he existed -”

“That’s a long story. Do you want to meet the crew?”

Soji reaches for her hand, and with a feeling of mechanisms interlocking as they properly should, she takes it. they start walking. “Oh.” She’s almost forgotten. “If...if he’s not around to take it back, then this might belong to you.” She reaches in her pocket and holds it out: a small, ceramic singing bird.)

#mr chabon take notes or just hire me #geordi is also in all the other episodes . i really think picard would go from good to great if geordi was there regularly #i miss him sm and im in the middle of tng AS WE SPEAK #i got a little carried away on the last one and it turned into a whole-ass fic maybe #star trek #star trek: picard #this is the post that was incoming and yeah it's all star trek dont @ me #i am really good at star trek

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biscuitreviews · 5 years

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Biscuit Reviews Star Trek Discovery Season One (SPOILERS)

So I know I normally review games, but I figured I’d try out a different review, mostly because I have a lot to talk about with one of the new Star Trek series, Star Trek: Discovery. I recently subscribed to the CBS All Access streaming service and granted it was mostly for Picard, I figured I’d give Discovery a go in between episodes.

As for my history with Star Trek, it’s been around for pretty much my entire life. My dad is a huge fan. I remember that he used to have a huge VHS collection of TOS and TNG. My first introduction was actually through TNG and it holds a special place in my heart. I’ve also watched every series minus Enterprise (will soon be remedying that), watched every movie, was in the initial launch of Star Trek: Online and watched the fan series Star Trek Continues, where despite being “fanon”, has been regarded by Rod Rodenberry as the true continuation of TOS and has gone on record multiple times that his father, Gene Rodenberry, would consider the series canon.

So yeah, I’d say Star Trek is a pretty big deal for me.

This review is going to cover the entirety of season 1 for Discovery. I won’t break down episode by episode as the season did have a continuing storyline throughout the entire season. I will go ahead and state that I’m not going to harp on the inconsistencies of Discovery’s technology. I know season 1 takes place 10 years before TOS. In fact, I gave it a pass because when it comes to long lasting sci-fi IPs, I feel that it’s an issue that has to be forgiven. How the 1960s audience viewed the future is vastly different than how we today view the future. So with that all of the technological inconsistencies, are just going to get a pass. As far as the subject of Lore such as well established events within Trek history, that will be taken on a case by case basis and I’ll be explaining those in my review as well.

Oh, and I will also be mentioning spoilers for season 1. A lot.

I walked into Discovery with an open mind, I was actually excited for the pitch on how it followed a first officer and would be more of a personal story. Discovery follows Michael Burnham (portrayed by Sonequa Martin-Green), first officer of the USS Shenzhou, a human who was raised by Vulcans. Immediately I loved this idea as Michael Burnham, which is traditionally a masculine name, is played by a woman and a person who identifies as a woman pushing another boundary that names are just names, they got no gender.

Even her backstory on how she got adopted by Vulcans was intriguing. Her home was attacked by Klingons which resulted in the death of her parents. This not only created depth but immediately establishes that Discovery is very much Michael’s story. Then came what is what I consider the biggest blunder to Michael and perhaps her greatest weakness. The Vulcan who adopted her was Sarek, Spock’s father.

This is the first case of lore that I have a problem against. For one it’s never been mentioned that Spock had a sister, adopted or otherwise. Now you can argue that the idea of Spock having a sister is open to debate as Spock himself has teased that in the movies when he mentioned having a brother to Kirk. However, we never got any actual confirmation that it was the case. Also, we see that Sarek actually has somewhat of a close relationship with Michael which goes against Sarek’s character in that point of time in the Trek universe. Although Sarek is more open and accepting to emotions, he always still projected the outward appearance of Vulcan logic to his peers and his son. He was also always stand-offish towards Spock, yet despite that he did a lot for Spock and tried to teach him both his Vulcan and Human heritages. There’s also another issue with the Sarek/Michael relationship that I have that I will expand upon later in the review.

If you thought lore inconsistencies would be my major sticking point, my other major sticking point is the first two episodes of Discovery. These episodes cover the event that started the Federation/Klingon war in TOS, an event that would be known as The Battle of the Binary Stars. What’s my issue you might ask? This very episode actively contradicts a certain event, an event that Discovery itself established. That Michael’s home was attacked by Klingons. How does it contradict this? By having Captain Georgiou say in the same episode and to Michael that Klingons have had no known contact with the Federation for 100 years.

Now, we don’t know how old Michael herself is, but I’m assuming her tragic backstory happened 20+ years ago. Last I checked, Michael and her parents are considered Federation citizens. Having Klingons attack what is a Federation outpost, I would consider that a contact. So to have a character say that didn’t happen, when that very contact makes up Michael’s backstory was quite a head scratcher. You could argue that maybe the Federation is trying to cover that up, but if that’s the case, they’re doing a pretty terrible job by allowing one of their leading ambassadors to adopt a survivor of this attack and then accepting that survivor into Starfleet.

Aside from that bit of lazy writing, there’s also some really stupid character and narrative decisions that occured within the first two episodes. I feel that these two episodes were prisoners of the established lore so to keep in line with that, they tripped over themselves to make sure said event still happened.

You have Captain Georgiou not listening to Michael. Michael tells her how the Vulcans managed to open a dialogue with the Klingons. Despite Michael giving Captain Georgiou a proven working tactic, Gerogiou actively does the opposite thing saying, “no we can’t shoot at them, we have to talk, peace, Federation principles.” Yeah, but Federation principles are also figuring how to communicate with a species and seeing how Klingons respond with aggression and you have Michael who is citing how Vulcans established contact, nope, we gotta talk to them, not shoot them.

Now, there are a couple of sticking points that the first two episodes also show. For one, the Klingon redesign. Klingons have always had lore inconsistencies in terms of their design so I don’t see a reason to give Discovery grief on that so it gets a pass. The other point, Michael being labeled the first mutineer, with as controversial as that is among the Trek fans, I’m letting that one slide as well. I know TOS said that there has never been a mutiny on a Starfleet vessel. I know technically Spock was the first mutineer but even TOS itself has been weird about that detail. So, I feel that argument doesn’t really hold much water to count as a lore inconsistency if even the established canon likes to be wishy washy about the fact.

Anyways, it’s not until episode three that we finally get to the titular ship and meet its crew. We have Captain Gabriel Lorca, First Officer Saru, Lt. Staments, Chief Medical Officer Hugh Culber, and Cadet Tilly. There are some other regular crew members throughout the entirety of the series, but they have such little screen time that I’m not going to count them.

As far as supporting cast goes, Captain Lorca actually does an excellent job in helping establish that this Trek series is different than the usual fare. It’s more focused on war and he considers himself a Soldier more than he does an explorer. Saru, is by far the best new character introduced to this series. He’s a new race never before seen in the lore and the past he shares with Michael during the Battle of the Binary Stars creates good drama and tension in all these fronts. Staments is researching a new travel method that involves space mushrooms and his personality falls under the “cold and jerkish, but has a heart of gold” trope. He’s also the resident gay and how Discovery showed his relationship with Dr. Culber was so beautiful and amazing, that I really wish other series would take note. Then it had to do the typical “kill the gay” trope and it lost my respect.

Then there’s also… Ash Tyler. He is perhaps the most mishandled character in the entire Trek series. Honestly, he felt like someone that was just written to create problems for the sake of creating problems. I don’t mind showcasing PTSD and bringing awareness to it. But when you constantly throw the guy with PTSD at Klingons and even acknowledging it multiple times that’s not bringing awareness, that’s terrible writing and a blatant lack of understanding. Let’s not forget he’s also a result of Klingon torture, experimentation that caused his personality to be shared with a Klingon personality, brainwashing, and rape. When he recognizes something is wrong, he reaches out for help, but what does everyone do? They just keep bringing him on missions and then yell at him for fucking up. The crew keeps telling him he'll be fine, it will pass he has their support and then proceed to chastise him for not seeking help and having their back when he was having a mental episode.

The series also brought a classic TOS antagonist as well, Harry Mudd (portrayed by Rainn Wilson). I have to say if there was a way to bring a classic Trek character to help build the universe and show the relation between Discovery and TOS, having a minor antagonist from TOS was a great way to build that bridge. I’m talking about the episode where Harry Mudd attempts to steal the Discovery and he tries to do it in the most Trek way possible. Creating a timeloop with technology that is beyond our understanding, but alien enough and futuristic enough to have the audience intrigued about how the device itself works and the cast also trying to figure it out and finding a solution.

There’s also two other classic Trek trope episodes, first contact and saving an ambassador. First contact was amazing and further showcased Saru as a Starfleet officer. The saving an ambassador episode was a bit of a mess.

In the ambassador episode (which is episode 6) Sarek’s ship has been attacked by...Vulcan logic extremists. This is something that I’ll admit was a really tough pill to swallow, Vulcan logic extremists? I was against the idea at first but then I sat down and tried to think logically. I mean it’s not unheard of, as we do have Vulcans in the Maquis during the TNG and DS9 era. Having a Vulcan terrorist organization on Vulcan would make as much sense as there have been Vulcans in previous series that are in terrorist organizations. Then there’s also the Vulcans that followed and worked with Spock during his attempts to broker peace with the Romulans during the TNG era. They too were considered extremists, so much so that the Federation ordered Picard to get Spock for fear that he was defecting. So having a Vulcan logic extremist group actually isn’t as much of a leap as I initially thought.

However, it’s the event that followed the attack I have issues with. After the terrorist attack, Sarek reaches out to not Spock, but Michael. This is an issue because it’s been proven that although Sarek can be a bit callous, he will always reach out to Spock in times of trouble and need. I feel like Sarek reaching out to Michael, as he is possibly dying, is a bit of a slap to the complicated relationship showcased between Sarek/Spock throughout the years. “Sorry Spock, got to make way for your adopted sister that was messily written to have connections to us in an attempt to get the long time Trekkies to buy in the series.”

As mentioned previously, I want to make it super clear that I have no issues with Michael Burnham. I just wish that the writers treated her character with more respect to allow her to be her own character rather than have a sloppy connection to legacy characters. I feel that Michael would have stood out more if she were adopted by a Vulcan that was not Sarek, but rather some other Vulcan. I feel by having a different Vulcan adoptive parent, Michael could have had a lot more room to grow as a character. You want the connection to Spock still? Fine, make them childhood friends or something else other than adoptive brother/sister. Make them Starfleet Academy rivals, I felt anything would have been better than Sarek adopting Michael.

Then there’s the Mirror Universe, which I’ll admit the multiple episode arc that covered the Mirror Universe gave me a love/hate feelings. First, I do love that it continued and added on to the fan theory turned canon event of the USS Defiant being shifted to the Mirror Universe in the past. I love that it touched more on how a Prime Universe person, living in the Mirror Universe can take a toll on them as they do things against their morals to stay under cover. TOS only scratched the surface and with Discovery taking it further and actually having that impact Michael was truly a nice change of pace to other instances of Trek characters encountering the Mirror Universe.

But there were definitely weird moments. Again, continuing to put Ash Tyler in situations that trigger his PTSD or his dormant Klingon personality, Captain Lorca actually being from the Mirror Universe. Now I’ll admit I wasn’t a fan at first, but the way he left the Mirror Universe and returned was such a Trek way of going back and forth, I can’t help but actually admire it.

Of course we run into counterparts of other characters as well. For example, we find out that the Mirror Universe version of Captain Georgiou is actually the Emperor of the Terran Empire. It was such a beautiful build up and made so many changes to Michael and bringing the Emperor to the Prime Universe could and does lead to some great dilemmas. However, there is one very tiny thing that I feel negates all of that and something that plagued Discovery in its first two episodes. Being a prisoner to established canon. When Discovery makes their way back to the Prime Universe they are ordered to never reveal the discovery of the Mirror Universe to anyone, because you know, Kirk hadn’t found it yet. So how does Discovery explain this? The Klingons can’t know about alternate universes and that it’s possible to travel to them so they are ordered to never reveal the possibility of alternate universes.

Anyways the Federation is on the verge of losing the war and desperate means call for desperate measures, that being genocide. Now it’s the not first time the Federation has threatened to commit genocide, they’ve threatened to do that in the established canon a few times as well. TNG did it, DS9 did it, Voyager did it, and from what I can tell, Enterprise did it too. So being in the corner that they were in is not uncharacteristic of the Federation, especially with how desperate they were to turn the war around. It also establishes Emperor Georgiou as a recurring antagonist to appear in future episodes.

After turning the war around, the Federation and Klingons agree to end hostilities, the Klingons are united as one empire and glorious speeches all around then off to Discovery’s next mission: Escort Sarek to Vulcan and pick up its new Captain. However, during the journey, Discovery picks up a distress signal from none other than the U.S.S. Enterprise and ends with the classic ending theme from TOS, which I’ll admit really hit hard and brought many happy feelings.

Discovery does have a lot of potential. However, I feel the writers are trying too hard to keep within established lore. The attempts to also sell Michael as the sister of Spock holds her back so much that it weighs her down unnecessarily. A lot of issues I have with Discovery is with its writing. It has all the ingredients to be a great series, but it was greatly mishandled. I feel that if Discovery was either not a prequel series, or a prequel series that didn’t try to play coy with established events the first season would have been great. With as big as a universe there is to play with, they could have had the potential to truly explore new worlds and ideas and it wasn’t seized upon. Hell, despite a rough beginning, it had a great idea with introducing the theme of war it established in the beginning and how it affects someone on a personal level.

However, despite the good, it was mishandled in so many ways and did these new characters more of a disservice than anything.

Star Trek Discovery receives a 2 out of 5

#Star Trek Discovery #Discovery #Disco #Biscuit Reviews #Series review #Star Trek #CBS #CBS All Access #Star Trek: Picard #Michael Burnham

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claudia1829things · 5 years

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"STAR TREK DISCOVERY" Season Two Musings

Below is an article that I had written about Season Two of “STAR TREK DISCOVERY”. Parts of the article is an amalgamation of previous posts about the series’ second season:

"STAR TREK DISCOVERY" SEASON TWO MUSINGS There have been plenty of articles on the Internet that many television shows with successful first seasons usually decline in quality with its second season. This is known as the "second season curse". I do not There have been plenty of cases when the quality of a television series has improved with each succeeding season. However, I do believe there are some shows that adhere to this theory. When it comes to Season Two of the CBS All Access series, "STAR TREK DISCOVERY", some believe it had . Most Trek fans either believe that Season One of "DISCOVERY" was a disaster. Many were put off by Michael Burnham, who is portrayed by an African-American actress, as the series' lead. Many had complained about the series' serialized format. And there were numerous complaints about the season's ambiguous portrayal of its main characters and the Federation. Despite these complaints, "STAR TREK DISCOVERY" managed to become a big hit and attract many fans. Unfortunately, the show runners had listened to these disenchanted fans who considered themselves "veteran" Trekkers and made certain changes to the series for its second season. I usually have no problems with a series making some kind of changes. It is necessary for a series to develop. However, some of the changes or additions to Season Two of "DISCOVERY" . . . bothered me. Season Two began with the episode called (2.01) "Brother", when Captain Christopher Pike of the U.S.S. Enterprise, took emergency command of the U.S.S. Discovery after his ship was damaged during the crew’s investigation of seven mysterious red signals. The last signal led Pike and the Discovery crew to an asteroid made of non-baryonic matter, where they discovered the U.S.S. Hiawatha, damaged during the Federation-Klingon War of last season. How did the Hiawatha crew’s rescue play a role in the season’s overall arc? Were the events of "Brother" more about rescuing Commander Reno and adding a new character to the series? If so, this was a piss-poor and vague way to do it. Reno could have easily been transferred to Discovery as its new chief engineer without this convoluted set-up to bring her aboard the ship. Also, she had played a very limited role in the second season’s narrative. By mid-season, I found myself wondering why she had not returned to Starfleet Headquarters on Earth, following her rescue. I did not learn until after the finale had aired that she had been officially assigned to Discovery. Huh? And there was the matter of a primitive Human colony on a planet called Terralysium. The Red Angel had led the Discovery to the colony and prevented its inhabitants from being destroyed by an extinction-level radiation shower. How did this play a role in Season Two's overall arc? Burnham and the Discovery crew eventually discovered that the signals came from a time travel sentient being called "the Red Angel". And the Red Angel turned out to be Michael's presumed dead mother, Dr. Gabrielle Burnham. Since viewers learned that Dr. Burnham's overall goal was to make the Federation aware of dangerous artificial intelligence called "Control", why did she go out of her way to bring attention to the Hiawatha crew and Terralysium's inhabitants? As it turned out, Dr. Burnham was not involved in those situations. Michael was. Michael had ended up using the Red Angel suit in the season's finale, (2.14) "Such Sweet Sorrow, Part II". And she was the one who had sent the seven signals, including the two that led Starfleet to both the Hiawath and Terralysium. Really? Was that show runners' way of explaining why the Red Angel led the Discovery crew to situations that had no major impact upon Season Two's narrative? Frankly, I found this rather a waste of time. Perhaps Michael wanted to save Commander Reno and allow Terralysium to survive when Discovery arrived in the future. But honestly, the show runners and their writers could have handled this with tighter writing. Or perhaps the above scenarios were inevitable, since the show runners had planned to send the U.S.S. Discovery over nine hundred years into the future. Imagine, a serialized television show's format or setting undergoing an extensive change in the middle of its run - during its third season. The series went from being about a Starfleet science vessel during the 2250s to one that is exploring the future. Why? Alex Kurtzman claimed that he had wanted to take the series into a new setting so that the writers would not have to work hard to connect the series' narrative with the 1966-1969 series, "STAR TREK". Especially since the latter series is set a decade after "DISCOVERY" and so many fans have been crying plot holes upon discovering that Michael Burnham was the adoptive daughter of Spock's parents, Sarek and Amanda Grayson. Pop culture fans can be incredibly stupid sometimes. And so are the television show runners who listen to them. Taking the U.S.S. Discovery some 900 years into the future struck me as one of the most unnecessary moves the show runners could have made. I also find the whole idea ridiculous. "STAR TREK DISCOVERY" began in 2256 - a decade earlier than "THE ORIGINAL SERIES" and aboard another Starfleet ship . . . with a different crew. There would have been NO NEED for the series to make a concerted effort to connect with the 1966-69 series, despite Michael Burnham being the adopted sister of Spock. At best, Spock, Sarek and Amanda can make the occasional appearance on the show. If "DISCOVERY" ever lasts as long as those shows between 1987 and 2001 - "STAR TREK: NEXT GENERATION", "STAR TREK DEEP SPACE NINE" and "STAR TREK VOYAGER" - the series' setting would have ended in 2263 or 2264 - at least two to three years before the beginning of "THE ORIIGNAL SERIES"setting. Did any of the show runners ever considered this? By changing the premise, "DISCOVERY" will only end up being some kind of time travel version of "VOYAGER". And that does not strike me as particularly original. There is another problem with the new direction that the series had undertaken in the Season Two finale - namely the former Most Imperial Majesty, Mother of the Fatherland, Overlord of Vulcan, Dominus of Qo'noS, Regina Andor, Philippa Georgiou Augustus Iaponius Centarius of the Mirror Universe. As everyone knows, mirror Philippa eventually impersonated the deceased Captain Georgiou prime as a retired Starfleet officer and later became a Section 31 operative. Midway during the airing of Season Two, it was announced that Michelle Yeoh, who portrayed Georgiou, would headline a new Trek series in the near future about Section 31. Why is this a problem? Georgiou was one of the Starfleet personnel aboard Discovery when it followed Michael in the Red Angel suit . . . into the future. If Discovery being 900 years in the future is the series' new premise, how will Georgiou return to the 2250s in order to continue her story with Section 31? Someone had suggested that she will command Section 31 in the 32nd century? Really? Why on earth would anyone in Earth's future allow a woman from the 23rd century assume command of an organization like Section 31? There were aspects of Season Two that I liked. I found Starfleet's conflict with the A.I. entity known as Control rather interesting . . . and frightening. Many Trek fans had complained that "Control" should have been portrayed as the origin story for the Borg. What they had forgotten that around this period Trek history the Borg had existed for quite some time and had wiped out the El-Aurian home world. Using "Control" as the Borg's origin story was out of the question. I also enjoyed how the writers used the spore drive's mycelial plane to bring Dr. Hugh Culber back from the dead and how this resurrection had affected his relationship with Lieutenant Paul Stamets. I especially enjoyed Michael's reunion with her missing mother, Gabrielle Burnham. In fact, I could honestly say that I had truly enjoyed the episodes of mid-Season Two - from (2.05) "Saints of Imperfection" to (2.11) "Perpetual Infinity". However, I did not like the finale, (2.13-2.14) "Such Sweet Sorrow". Many had complained that the two-part episode seemed over saturated with action. Or that the finale seemed more "STAR WARS"than "STAR TREK". The action in "Such Sweet Sorrow" did not bother me. I certainly had no problems with Georgiou's brutal fight against the Control-possessed Captain Leland. Along with Discovery's eventual journey into the future, I had some problem's with the episode's writing. One of those problems involved Ash Tyler, the former Klingon whose body and consciousness had been transformed into a Starfleet officer who had died during the Federation-Klingon War. Instead of joining the rest of the Discovery crew for their journey into the future, he remained behind to contact Empress L'Rell (his or Voq's former paramour) to help Starfleet's conflict against Control. This would be nothing, but Ash had openly contacted L'Rell and was later by her side aboard a Klingon starship during the battle. Apparently, Alex Kurtzman and the episode's screenwriter that Georgiou and Section 31 had went through a good deal of trouble to end Ash's brief role as L'Rell's aide on the Klingon home world in order to save her reign as the new Empress . . . by faking his death. Worse, Starfleet put Ash in command of Section 31, despite his limited experience with the agency and his unsuitability as a spy. Despite the fact that Georgiou had managed to destroy Control and prevent it from acquiring the massive data from the Sphere that the crew had discovered in (2.04) "An Obol for Charon", Michael and the Discovery crew traveled into the future anyway. Following Discovery's disappearance into the future, Captain Pike (back in command of the Enterprise) and Ash informed Starfleet that Discovery had been destroyed during the battle against Control. Why? Why did the writers feel that was necessary? I feel as if a great deal of unnecessary writing decisions had been made in this episode to justify the Discovery's journey into the future. For me, the biggest frustrations of Season Two proved to be the presence of Spock and Captain Christopher Pike. Especially the latter. But I will start with Spock first. Initially, I had no problem with Spock's role in the season's narrative. But once the crew had identified Gabrielle Burnham as the Red Angel and Admiral Katrina Cromwell had returned to Starfleet Headquarters, why did Spock remain aboard the Discovery? Why did he not return to Headquarters with the Admiral and rejoin the Enterprise crew? However, Spock's continuing presence aboard the Discovery struck me as minor problem in compare to the presence of his commanding officer, Captain Pike. I have been a fan of Anson Mount since he starred in the AMC series, "HELL ON WHEELS". But I wish to God that he had never been cast as Christopher Pike in "STAR TREK DISCOVERY". More importantly, I wish that the show runners had never utilized the character in the first place. I believe Christopher Pike was the worst aspect about Season Two of "STAR TREK DISCOVERY". His presence on the show struck me as irrelevant. Useless. Why did the show runners have him serve as Discovery's commander throughout the entire season? Why was he even needed? Saru could have easily remained in command of Discovery after the crew was given the Red Angel mission. This was the officer who had led the ship out of the Mirror Universe. And he had also stood behind the crew's refusal to obey Starfleet's order to help Georgiou to decimate the Klingon home world in the Season One finale, (1.15) "Will You Take My Hand?". With the Enterprise temporarily out of commission, Pike could have appeared in "Brother" to hand over the Red Angel mission to the Discovery crew and to inform Spock's disappearance to both Michael and Sarek before guiding his damaged ship back to Starfleet Headquarters. Then he and the Enterprise could have returned for the final battle against Control in "Such Sweet Sorrow". But no. Certain fans had raised a fuss over an African-American actress serving as the lead of a Star Trek series and cried tears over "DISCOVERY" not being "traditional Trek". And the series' show runners made the mistake of listening to them, despite the fact that "DISCOVERY" was a hit. And with Pike, they had provided these narrow-minded fans with an ideal leading male character to swoon over. But why did the show runners felt it was necessary to appease these fans with the addition of Pike for Season Two? Pike was not needed. Even worse, they did not have to paint Captain Pike as this ridiculously ideal Starfleet officer. Because frankly, he came off as a bore. And bland. There were moments when the series was willing to portray Pike's idealism and inflexibility as flaws, especially in his conflict with Ash Tyler. However, by (2.09) "Project Daedalus", it seemed quite obvious that the show runners were determined to paint Pike as "the perfect or near perfect" Starfleet officer. This became obvious in his conflict with Ash. Even when Pike was seen to be in the wrong in both (2.07) "Light and Shadows" and (2.08) "If Memory Serves", Pike was painted in a more sympathetic light than Ash. If only the show runners had ditched this useless conflict and focused more attention on the fallout between Ash and Hugh from Season One, I would have been more impressed. In "THE ORIGINAL SERIES" episode, (1.11-1.12) "The Menagerie", Trek fans had first learned about Pike's future as a paraplegic, due to an accident. Somehow, the writers managed to twist Pike's future as some kind of "heroic sacrifice" in which he had to give up the idea of accepting Klingon time crystals to defeat Control or taking them and facing a future as a paraplegic. There was no need to include what I believe proved to be a contrived and unnecessary plot twist. I loved Season One of "DISCOVERY". Despite some moments of clunky writing, I thought it had provided something new and exciting to the Star Trek franchise. I became an instant fan. There were aspects of Season Two that I liked - Starfleet's conflict with Control, Dr. Hugh Culber's resurrection and Michael Burnham's reunion with her mother, Gabrielle Burnham. However, there were aspects of Season Two that I disliked. Too many. And that included the season finale, (2.14) "Such Sweet Sorrow, Part II", along with Discovery’s unnecessary trip into the future. Also, I saw no reason for the over utilization of characters like Spock and Captain Christopher Pike. I saw their presence during the season as a heavy-handed attempt with the "nostalgic factor" to win over certain Trek fans still mired in the past. It must have worked to a certain degree. Many have declared Season Two to be superior to Season One. Do I agree with this assessment? Obviously . . . no. In my opinion, I feel that the Trek fandom's desire for nostalgia - especially in the form of Christopher Pike and Spock - has made Season Two overrated in my opinion . . . and a victim of the "second season curse". And most importantly, I saw no need for Christopher Pike to serve as the temporary commander of the U.S.S. Discovery. I found this decision by the show runners to be completely unnecessary.

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vamppeach · 5 years

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None of you follow me for this specific niche content but I am living my truth so you all have to hear about my X-Men Star Trek AU - still have powers (because Best Life).

(mobiles sucks idk how to insert a read more . I'm so sorry. )

Magneto is Bajoran and I know this is an obviously choice because Bajorans are space Jews buy again, I'm living my truth. He was an active part of the rebellion against Cardassia, and unsatisfied with their complete lack of reparations after ceasing their occupation of Bajor, Erik was first among the Maquis. Maybe even a founding member. Also, fuck Starfleet for making faithful Bajorans remove their earrings. (Erik may or may not believe in or respect the Prophets, I can't really decide, but he still wears his earring. Like the agnostic Jew who still participates in religious ceremony because it's their culture.)

Also, I've been reading a lot of movie-verse Cherik fanfiction so my versions of them are a weird amalgam of the comics and movies :T

Charles is a telepathically gifted Vulcan. I was torn between making him Vulcan or a Betazoid but settled on Vulcan because he's always so obstinately sure what he wants is the most logical thing (re: how he raises Scott. just like, all of it). He's a respected science of for his competency in comparative alien physiology but his research into the Progenitors is seen as eccentric and his theory that genetic mutations are in some way related to them viewed as pseudoscience.

Speaking of Scott: I had a tough time placing him. He has the cool collection of a Vulcan but tbh part of that is Trauma. And he has the dogged adherence to Honor in a Klingon sort of way. Then I tried to fit him in relation to Charles as a Vulcan and I realized Scott is of course half Klingon, half Vulcan, but clings to Vulcan logic as the most important virtue, due to Charles' influence. Kind of similar to how B'elanna struggled with aspects of her natural personailty because she was half Klingon but grew up around mostly humans. Joined Starfleet as soon as he wad able and quickly rose through Starfleet's command division. Probably commands a deep space vessel.

Jean is a Betazoid, grew up on a Federation planet. She joined Starfleet with the intent of becoming a science officer but halfway through basic training essentially decided to change her major. She's head of security on Scott's deep space vessel. I want to do something with her similar to Sisko being the Emissary but re: Mutants and the Progenitors?

#peach hiss

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justheretobreakthings · 6 years

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Remember Me - Chapter 6

(First Chapter) (Previous Chapter) (Next Chapter)

Word Count: 3,913 (Total Word Count: 20,760) Read on AO3

Story Summary:

It was strange enough for the paladins of Voltron to have found another human this far from home, locked in a Galra prison. But it was stranger still when this human insisted that he knew them, and even that he was the former red paladin of Voltron.

That couldn’t possibly be true, could it? After all, if this Keith was actually a part of the Voltron team, then why does nobody remember him?

Chapter Preview:

“Ready when you are,” Lance said with a nod. “And hey, I know you’re still kinda convalescing right now, so I’ll go easy on you for the first couple of – ”

And before he even noticed Keith was moving, his legs were swept out from under him and he landed hard onto his back. After taking a moment to shake his head clear, he glared up at Keith, who had settled back into his beginning stance, looking perfectly innocent and for all the world like he had absolutely no idea how Lance had wound up on the ground.

“Don’t bother,” Keith said. “I think I can handle it.”

The night before a conference with a dozen planetary leaders from the coalition was a terrible night to have had difficulty sleeping. Throughout the seemingly endless meeting – the timekeeper on the wall of the room measured out three vargas, and Lance couldn’t remember how to convert that to Earth time, but he assumed it was somewhere in the ballpark of thirty years – he constantly found himself dangerously close to nodding off completely and would have to shake himself awake, barring one instance where it took Hunk kicking him in the shin under the table to get him upright again.

It wasn’t that the conferences were boring, exactly; more that they were mentally draining. Although all of the paladins had taken the time to study up on interplanetary geography and relations, they had barely made a dent in all they needed to know when it came to which planet was which, who was allied with whom, how trade systems on different galaxies worked, what embargos were in place, who had what resources, which planets had military forces, what types of governments and laws different planets had, all the important names to know…

If they didn’t have Allura on their side, Lance was certain the team would forever be hopelessly, embarrassingly lost. Sure, Shiro was always nodding along and focusing hard during these meetings, but Lance wasn’t sure if he was actually following everything, or just trying to look like he knew what he was doing. He didn’t speak up all that much when they weren’t discussing Voltron specifically, so Lance suspected it was likely the former at least as often as the latter.

In any case, his I-definitely-know-what’s-going-on face was on in full force today, and Lance tried to match it as best he could as he listened to the aliens on the different screens discussed the positioning of security personnel on trade routes that had been experiencing interception by rival forces. Allura had holographic maps up, with routes highlighted in clusters that looked to Lance like glowing bunches of yarn more than anything else, but which Allura was reading and manipulating like a piano.

Lance zoned in and out listening to the princess speak, searching out for names and places he recognized. “Our cargo line from the Griftsor system to the rebel outpost on Karimaw has been compromised, but now that we have a trade deal in place with the Yltraxians, we can reroute through their quadrant. There’s a tarriff in place on vulcanized esmerite if we cut through Theta-J-1-7’s orbit, but ultimately it would be less than the price of the fuel it would take to go around the rings of Yltrax altogether, so it’s worth the cost,” Allura would say, and Lance would understand some of those words individually.

The conference ran this dry for the majority of the meeting, until finally they reached discussion of recent activity in the battle campaigns on both their own side and the Galra’s, and Lance straightened up, back at full attention; this was the part where he could actually get use out of the information. They ran through an update on encounters since their last meeting – a handful of base raids by the Blade, transport vessels taken down by their rebel forces, the Galra attacking one of their armories and invading one of the moons of Qrandor, and the destruction of the public archives building in Olkarion’s capitol city.

Allura kept calm and composed, face neutral, during the full report, but at that last bit, her brow wrinkled a bit in worry. “They’ve been back to Olkarion? That’s… distressing. We had word a movement ago about an attack on Arus, and recently the Taujeerians reported signals of Galra activity in their vicinity.”

“There seem to be signs of planets previously liberated by Voltron being targeted through relatively contained attacks,” an Alien on one of the screens said – Lance recognized him as Puigian, but couldn’t recall his name. “It would be one thing to work to contain the coalition’s threat to their forces, but strategically it doesn’t seem to make sense for them to be focusing efforts and resources into reclaiming old planets when they could be using those resources to continue expanding outward.”

“We’ll pass along instructions to our Blade undercover operatives to look into this as soon as possible,” Shiro said. “In the meantime, Ryner, what’s the damage on Olkarion?”

“No fatal casualties,” Ryner answered. “There were eight parties injured by the incident, two of whom were considered to be in critical condition initially, but all are expected to make recoveries. It seems the contents of the public archives were being targeted more than the people maintaining and accessing them.”

“That’s a relief,” Allura sighed. “Any other significant damage worth noting?”

“Fortunately no major research operations nor particularly sensitive material was harmed, at least not beyond repair. But the public archives do have historical significance, not to mention sentimental value, so it was still quite the loss.”

“If you have the time to spare for it, I’m sure the Olkari would highly appreciate a visit from Voltron in a more ceremonial context. Never underestimate the importance of keeping up morale.”

The rest of the meeting was spent first on arranging for a visit to Olkarion within the next couple of quintants, and then on the status of and ideas for the public image campaign. Normally Lance would enjoy discussions on this topic, but the meeting had been running for so long by that point, they could have been talking about crowning him king of the universe and he still wouldn’t have wanted to sit still for another minute of it.

He let out a long sigh of relief when the screens finally shut off and they were excused to get up from the table. Immediately he made a beeline for the kitchen to grab a snack, snatching up one of Hunk’s handmade fruit bars before heading out toward one of the rec rooms in search of fun. Around one corner, he bumped into Shiro, only narrowly avoiding splattering the fruit bar all over his shirt. “Sorry,” he said. “Wasn’t looking.”

“No harm done,” Shiro said. “I take it you were pretty eager to wrap up the meeting and get your free time in?”

“Was I that obvious?” Lance asked.

“You left the room at about a thousand miles an hour, so, yeah, I’d say so. You know, if you’ve got spare energy to work off, you could head over to the training deck with me. I was going to stop by the kitchen real quick, so I could meet you there right after.”

Lance smiled and nodded. “God, yes, that’d be great.”

“Excellent. I’ll be back in a moment,” Shiro said, nodding to him and continuing down the hall toward the kitchen. Lance finished his own snack there in the hall before making his own way in the direction of the training deck, passing by the open doors of a ballroom, the holodeck, the med bay –

He paused and doubled back when he passed the med bay, peering through the open doorway. Apparently, Keith had relented and taken Allura up on her suggestion of helping Coran with cleaning, since there he was, back to Lance as he scrubbed resolutely at the glass of one of the cryopods. Lance couldn’t help but pause, taking a moment to stand in the doorway and observe.

He was wearing another set of Lance’s clothes, jeans that were too long for him and one of the close copies Coran had made of the blue-and-white baseball tee that Lance favored (after seeing the garish designs Coran had come up with when he first had made the paladins new clothes to cycle through, the paladins had all decided they’d prefer it if he just use the clothes they were wearing already as a style guide with minimal alteration; the Altean had muttered something about ‘stifling his art’, but had nonetheless agreed).

Lance couldn’t help but feel just a little miffed at Keith. It seemed he had taken the fact that Lance had let him borrow his pajamas as an indicator that Keith was free to raid his wardrobe to his heart’s content. Sure, the guy needed clothes, of course, but the least he could have done was ask, even if just as a matter of social convention. Besides, blue still looked terrible on him.

As Keith moved around to the other side of the cryopod to clean, he finally spotted Lance, and jumped back an inch in surprise. “Um,” he said, “… Hey.”

“Hey,” Lance answered, and for a brief and uncomfortable moment, the two of them were silent, just warily observing each other. “So, um,” he continued, scratching uncertainly at the back of his neck. “What, uh, what are you up to?”

Keith stared at him for a moment, then he shifted his gaze first to the cryopod, then to the washrag in his hand, then the bottle of cleaner at his feet, and then finally back to Lance. “I’m auditioning for Cats on Broadway,” he said flatly.

“Okay, mister sarcastic,” Lance said with a roll of his eyes. “Just trying to make conversation is all.”

“Oh.” Another pause before he edged back to the cryopod and continued wiping down the glass. “If you’re going to just be hanging around here anyway,” Keith said after Lance spent another half a minute watching him in silence, “You could go ahead and grab another washcloth and lend a hand.”

“Oh, no, um, I’m busy.”

Keith raised a brow. “You don’t look busy.”

“Well, I will be in a moment, just meeting Shiro to, uh… to train…”

The expression on Keith’s face softened, fell, a flicker of something that Lance couldn’t identify flashing across his eyes before he simply said, “…Oh.” For a moment he stood in silence, chewing at his bottom lip, then he pointedly turned his back to Lance to resume scrubbing at the cryopod, more vigorously than what was necessary, as if he were trying to sand a hole right through it.

“Lance,” a voice came from behind him, and Lance whipped around to see Shiro approaching him from down the hallway. “You coming to train or what?”

“Uh, yeah, sorry,” Lance said. “Just, ah, got held up.”

“By what?” Shiro asked as he reached the med bay as well and looked past Lance, seeing the answer to his question. “Ah. Hi, Keith!” he called. “Morning going all right?”

Keith leaned around the cryopod to look back at the doorway again. “Yeah,” he answered tonelessly.

“How long you been working on the cryopods?”

“I dunno.”

Shiro raised his brow and gave him a soft smile. “So, all morning?”

Keith shrugged. “I guess.”

“Don’t suppose you could use a break?”

“Nah, I’m okay,” Keith sighed, returning his attention to the cryopod. “I’m okay. Go – go ahead to your training, don’t let me keep you. I, uh, I’m okay. Go train.”

Shiro frowned as he watched Keith work. “Correct me if I’m wrong, but I get the feeling you’d rather be training than doing this.”

Keith paused his scrubbing, and then after a few ticks, resumed, expression unchanged, as he answered, “Doesn’t matter. Can’t train, remember? Allura’s orders.”

“Actually,” Shiro said slowly, “Technically, she didn’t put a ban on training altogether. She just said you’re not allowed to use any of the training equipment.” He shrugged. “There’s training you can do without weapons and armor, you know.”

This time after his obligatory pause, he turned back toward the doorway, eyes wide. “Wait, are – are you serious?”

“Yeah. If you want to.”

Lance frowned up at Shiro. Nothing against the new guy, but he had been rather looking forward to getting to have some one-on-one training with the black paladin. He didn’t get the chance to often, especially considering that it should be a fairly common thing for leader and right-hand man, so the times he did, they were, well, nice. Now a wrench had been thrown into the works, and it was too late to double back; there was no way he could uninvite Keith without seeming like a major dick.

Keith, for his part, hesitated. “But, um, Allura said that if I question whether or not I should be going somewhere, then I – ”

“Well, I think that rule leaves a lot of wiggle room for claiming plausible deniability,” Shiro said with a shrug. “Come on, kiddo, you want to spar or not?”

Again Keith hesitated, and then, the corners of his mouth turning upward by just a hair, he slowly nodded. “Yes. I do, just, uh – just let me finish up here real quick, won’t be a minute.”

“Uh, Shiro?” Lance asked, tugging lightly at Shiro’s shirtsleeve. “Are you really sure that’s a good idea?”

“It’ll be fine,” Shiro replied. “And if Allura finds out and has a problem with it, I’ll take the heat, no big deal.”

“Well, yeah, uh, that too, but I was thinking more, um…” Lance worried at his lip as he fished for something to say, finally settling on, “He’s kind of a twig? You spar with him, you’ll probably break him in two with one hit.”

“I can hear you, you know,” Keith called from across the med bay, crossing his arms and narrowing his eyes at Lance. “And you’re one to talk.”

Lance shrugged. “Maybe he could break me in two, too, if I wasn’t so great at defense. I’m just looking out for you.”

“Oh, it’ll be fine,” Shiro said with a wave of his hand. “I can pull my punches if I need to.” He paused, and then smirked over at Lance, raising his brow. “Unless you’re hinting that you would rather be his sparring partner instead? I suppose two twigs would be a better match.”

Lance punched Shiro in the shoulder. “I’m not a twig! You’re just a hulk. Your perception’s all warped.”

“All right, all right, I’ll take him. Seeing as you’re not up for the challenge.”

“Hey, that’s not it at all!” Lance snapped, and he turned back toward Keith. “Hey, Mullet! I’m your sparring partner now!”

“Um, okay?” Keith said.

Shiro gave Lance a nudge. “Go get changed if you’re gonna spar with him. Wouldn’t be all that fair for only one of you to be wearing armor.”

Lance nodded. “Right. Meet you at the training deck.”

He took off down the hall, reaching his room and getting changed into casual clothes in record time. It had been a while since last he had done any sort of training in day clothes; it actually felt kind of nice, looser, lighter. He stretched his arms and legs out a couple of times and then, satisfied with his range of motion, headed back out to the training deck, where the others were already at their marks, Shiro standing against one of the walls along the deck, Keith out on the floor, his arms looking thin as ever as he stretched them.

“You ready?” Shiro asked.

“Am I ever,” Lance answered, striding toward the center of the room and taking his position.

Keith met him there, situating himself across from Lance and settling into his stance. “We going for three-second pin?” he asked.

“Sure,” Lance said with a nod. He set his feet and lifted his fists into a starting stance. “Ready when you are. And hey, I know you’re still kinda convalescing right now, so I’ll go easy on you for the first couple of – ”

“Don’t bother,” Keith said. “I think I can handle it.”

“I – I didn’t know we were already starting,” Lance grunted.

“Gotta be on your guard, Lance!” Shiro called from the sideline, and Lance scowled at him before replying, “I know, I know!” He finished straightening himself and firmly planted his feet. “We’ll count down this time, keep it fair, okay?” Keith nodded his agreement. “All right. Three – two – ”

He struck out with a fist before reaching ‘one’, but Keith ducked out of the way before it could hit. He glared at Lance – uncalled for, really, he had just been trying to even things out in regards to false starts – but he didn’t say anything, instead opting to dive right into the spar.

And, honestly, unexpectedly, he was good. He wasn’t packing much power behind the jabs or attempted holds he threw Lance’s way, but it was immediately clear that he knew his way around a fight. He was strategic and calculating even as he kept up a rapid offense, aiming for pressure points and keeping watch for openings and opportunities. His form also wasn’t perfect, as he still stumbled or overshot a couple of times, probably just still unused to fighting at his current weight, but he made up for it with speed and, especially, reaction time.

Lance grew increasingly frustrated as Keith dodged or blocked everything thrown at him, and seemed to catch every opening Lance left even if it was only for a fraction of a second. He gritted his teeth as Keith landed another tap on his left arm as he turned out of the path of the punch from his right almost before he’d even thrown it. They kept a steady distance, Keith matching Lance’s footwork perfectly without even looking down. It was like a dance in which only one partner had been taught the choreography.

In fact, that was exactly what it was like, he realized, and mentally kicked himself for having taken so long to realize it. If Keith remembered training with Lance before in his little possibly-fantasy universe, then he would already know all there was to know about Lance’s moves and fighting style, already had learned how to tell when he was feinting or where he was aiming the next hit. And the same couldn’t be said for the other way around.

There came a point when a hit to the knees and a push to the chest brought Lance to the floor again, and Keith was quick to press Lance’s shoulders down. He was panting hard, Lance noticed, a sheen of sweat coating his pale face, but he didn’t seem to notice. “One – ” Keith counted between panting breaths. “Two – ”

Lance brought his knees up and bucked hard, managing to toss Keith off of him, and the smaller boy wasted no time rolling back onto his feet, going back onto the attack with just as much intensity before, if not more, despite the fatigue starting to take a noticeable effect on him.

They lasted several minutes more, each getting one more almost-pin in that the other managed to break free of, before, finally, Keith overcorrected dodging a hooked punch from Lance, nearly losing his balance and giving the other the opening he needed to bulldoze him to the ground. “One – two – three!” Lance shouted out, and Keith stopped his attempts to throw Lance off of him, instead letting his head collapse to the ground as he closed his eyes and caught his breath.

Lance clambered off of him and to his feet, and, after Keith’s breathing started approaching its normal rate again, he did the same, standing up unsteadly and then bending down to set his hands on his knees, expression unfocused as if seasick. Shiro moved from the sidelines and joined the two of them at the center of the training deck. “You all right, Keith?” he asked, brows pinched in concern.

“Yeah,” Keith said between panting breaths, not taking his hands off his knees. “Yeah, I’m good. Just – stamina’s not what it used to be, I guess.”

“If you’re not feeling well – ”

Keith waved him away. “I’m fine, honest. Just need a moment. I, ah, I haven’t done that in a while. Must have been going harder than I realized.”

“You really didn’t have to go all-out for this, you know. Don’t need you hurting yourself.”

“I know. I just, um, I wanted to.”

Lance snorted. “Wanted to what? See how long you could go before fainting?” Keith rolled his eyes.

“Well, hey,” Shiro said. “For your first time back on the horse in a while, that was really good.” At Keith’s raised brow, he continued, “I mean it. It’s pretty obvious you know what you’re doing a fight.”

Lance frowned and glanced between the two of them. “And, uh… any feedback for me, Shiro? I’m the one who won, so, if he’s good, then…”

Shiro smirked and brought up a hand to ruffle Lance’s hair. “Sure, Lance, you’re the universe’s greatest warrior.” Lance batted his hand away, and Shiro turned to Keith. “I think we’re gonna want to get you hydrated again. Come on, Coran’s got plenty of water pouches at the ready, and it won’t hurt to grab you something from the kitchen too.”

Keith finished straightening up and nodded. “Sounds good.”

“Excellent,” said Shiro. He turned and started toward the door. “You coming too, Lance?”

“Nah, that’s, uh, that’s okay,” Lance answered. “I think I’m gonna hit the shower first.”

“All right. Come on Keith, I’ll lead the way.”

He strode toward the exit, and Keith trailed behind him, but paused before he reached the door. “Hey, uh,” he said tentatively, turning back toward Lance. “Thanks. I - I missed this.”

Lance smiled at him. “Right. No problem.”

Keith nodded a goodbye and ducked out the door. Lance watched him go, letting his smile fall. There was a bitter aftertaste in his mouth from that sparring match, one that he couldn’t quite place, and he didn’t know where it had come from. He was feeling off his game, off-kilter somehow.

Sure, by the end of their spar, Lance had gained the upper hand, but that had only been after Keith had worked himself to exhaustion. He couldn’t forget that at the beginning, he had been getting his ass handed to him. He wasn’t the best fighter in the world, sure, and he’d had his ass handed to him before… so he didn’t know why this was bothering him as much as it was. Something just felt off.

Maybe he had been going easy on him, he thought. Subconsciously, that is. Maybe he’d thought he was giving it his all, but on some level had been all too aware that he didn’t really want to beat up a guy who looked like he hadn’t gotten a minute of exercise or a crumb of food in days, and had pulled his punches accordingly. Some sort of pity thing.

That made sense. That was probably it. Pity. That was probably why Shiro was going out of his way to be chummy with Keith, too. Just being nice and cheering him up a bit since he was down. And that must have been what had left Lance feeling off, too, reading that odd vibe on a subconscious level before the rest of his mind caught up.

Satisfied with that explanation, Lance left the training deck to head back toward the living quarters, deciding he’d go for a nice bath instead of a shower, just a little reward for a fight well fought.

#vld keith #vld fic #vld lance #keith kogane #lance mcclain #shiro #lance #keith #my writing #fic: remember me

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theshadiertwin · 6 years

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D&Dangerous All-Fictional All-Stars

As I promised to @davependrys on twitter, here’s my full 20 person women’s hockey roster made entirely of people’s Tabletop RPG characters and NPCs, plus my picks for the captain, the 2 assistant captains, the coach, and the GM. I submitted only Kima, Strix and Carey Fangbattle in the official RAWHL fantasy draft, but I was inspired and couldn’t stop!

Click below the cut for the full list, and feel free to reblog with your own picks!

(Be warned that my reasoning has spoilers for Critical Role C1 and C2, The Adventure Zone: Balance, Dice Camera Action, VAST, Eric’s TBD RPG, and Shield of Tomorrow. I also mention Acquisitions Inc: C Team, but there are no spoilers for that campaign)

Goalies:

Kima of Vord (Critical Role Campaign 1)

Lady Kima of Vord is a paladin of the Platinum Dragon, well known for her aggression, strength, stubbornness, and unwavering faith in her friends. Her faith and stubbornness would prove equally important as a Goalie in the RAWHL, although the aggression may prove problematic if opponents manage to get under her skin.

Lup (The Adventure Zone)

As a high level Evocation Wizard and Lich, Lup certainly has the skills necessary to play in the RAWHL. She survived a 12 year imprisonment in an umbrella with her mind and powers intact, and her focus remains impeccable both as a mortal and in her lich form - important when facing smart opposition in the rink.

Defenders:

Strix (Dice, Camera, Action) *Assistant Captain

While her history of fear might indicate a disadvantage as a defensive stalwart, Strix’s main motivation in all of her heroic endeavours have been protection of her friends. I see some great leadership potential in Strix, but her anxiety makes me hesitate to give her the C right off the bat, so she gets an A.

Killian (The Adventure Zone)

Killian doesn’t have a lot of patience for incompetence. She pushed herself to the peak as a rogue, and will be able to steal the puck away from her opponents and get it as far away from her net as she can. She’ll also push her team to be better at doing the same.

Vex’ahlia (Critical Role Campaign 1)

Honestly, I was torn on whether to put Vex on Defence or Forward, but when I considered that she multi-classed in Rogue, I settled on Defence. I needed her on the team for her speed though - Vex just flies. (SORRY NOT SORRY FOR PUNNING)

T’Lan (Shield of Tomorrow)

T’Lan is more a stay-at-home defender than the rest, but her analytical mind will put her in ideal positioning at any given point during the day. Plus, given her Vulcan strength, she will be nigh unmovable if anyone wants to knock her off the puck.

Kayla Torvis (VAST)

Kayla’s history as the protector of the Rampel Family puts her in the right mindset for defence, and her ability to withstand a direct blast from a tank give her the physical ability to protect the net. She also has incredible tactical skill from her 135-ish years participating in the Sojourner-Returner conflict and observing the aftermath as a wandering ronin. She may have some difficulty meshing with some of the other personalities on the team, due to her long solitude, but the team leadership should mitigate that issue.

Louvin Yikjaal Muur (VAST)

Louvin’s high level of intelligence and tendency to jump to the defence of her crew made her an ideal two-way defender. Her Kiraeyi racial trait, pheremones, will also give her an advantage when battling forwards for possession of the puck.

Forwards:

Carey Fangbattle (The Adventure Zone)

Carey is far too flashy to be a defender. Just... can you picture her sitting around and waiting for someone to bring the puck close so she can stop it? No. She’s gonna chase that puck. She’s going to chase it to the other goal and then she’s gonna score and kiss Killian and it’ll be great. I love their love and I want them both on my team. Shut up, you do too.

Nott the Brave (Critical Role Campaign 2)

Speed and size, more than anything, put this Goblin Rogue among my forwards. It’s perhaps a little obvious, but she’s a pickpocket forward, more likely to pass the puck to her team than go for the snipe herself, although she’s certainly capable if she has the shot.

Evelyn Avalona Helvig Marthain (Dice, Camera, Action)

As a paladin of the Morning Lord, Evelyn is the kind of forward who will be absolutely lethal on a breakaway, but more than that she will be able to draw attention to herself in the opponent’s end while her linemates get themselves into better position for a dump goal.

Jester (Critical Role Campaign 2)

While we don’t know know everything about Jester yet, she’s certainly another flashy forward. She’s also extremely strong, and will be well suited to muscle off bulky stay-at-home defence on the opposite team.

Throlo Sh’shirros (Shield of Tomorrow)

As an Andorian, Dr Sh’shirros is at home on the ice. Her innate skill on skates will put her on the team but it’s her analytical mind and unbeatable optimism that I really want.

Lark Sage/Razka Anell (Shield of Tomorrow)

Our mult-named Bajoran has a lot of aggression and past trauma to work out, and I personally think sports would be very good for that. She’s also an excellent pilot, and because of that she’ll be able to see lots of great routes through defensive nets to give herself a breakaway opportunity.

Keyleth (Critical Role Campaign 1) *Assistant Captain

Keyleth’s skill is, of course, vast and undeniable, and her leadership as the Headmaster of the Air Ashari is certainly a great feature. She’s used to an established team and structure though, with personalities that almost always mesh well, which is why I’m giving her the A instead of the C

Tova (Critical Role Campaign 1)

Tova’s there for the dump goals. She’s going to hang out beside the net and wait for her lineys to pass her the puck and slide it in beside the goalie, and there’s nothing you can do about it. She escaped the Hells, after all - she knows how to hide when she needs to, and when you see her again it will be too late for you!

Zahra Hydris (Critical Role Campaign 1)

Zahra brings a veteran presence to this majority young team, and it’s certainly needed. She’s strong tactically, and strong physically, and strong magically. More likely to bring the puck to the net than to shoot from farther away, but capable of scoring from distance.

Lucy Bard (VAST) *Captain

Lucy Bard is a trailblazer, being the first human to captain a Peacekeep vessel, the leader of the team that discovered the Secret of the Pac-Ha, and the broker of the peace between the Peacekeep and the Brightest Eye. Her undeniable talent puts her on the team, but her incredible skill at managing multiple big personalities and getting them to work together for a common goal, as well as her skill in communicating with both hostile and adoring media, puts her in the lead for the Captaincy.

Visionary Destroyer (VAST)

The queen of the Brightest Eye, Visionary Destroyer is aggressive, fast, and larger than the rest of her species. She expects loyalty from everyone on her side, and is very good at inspiring that loyalty among even those she has previously wronged in pursuit of her goals. She is potentially going to have difficulty making fast changes to her tactics, but as her tactics have generally worked in the past this may not be an issue.

Finn (Eric’s TBD RPG)

Unforunately, I’m having trouble finding a synopsis of Finn’s background to link to, but this age of sail pirate queen is all about action. She is unlikely to make flashy moves to draw attention to herself, which could put her in the right position to snipe at the net... unless her very excitable space spouse somehow gives away her position to the opposition. Regardless, she;ll have a good time on the ice and throw a good party afterwards, and isn’t that half the fun?

Coach: Rosie Beestinger (Acquisitions Inc: C Team)

Rosie’s age and experience as an adventurer make her a standout choice for someone these women will listen to and learn from, and her tactical skill indicate that she will be able to create plays and combinations that will dominate on the ice. She’s also quite protective, but won’t let the women she’s coaching give anything less than their best.

GM: Lucretia (The Adventure Zone)

Lucretia’s alignment is certainly up for debate, but I’ve always read her as lawful neutral, which is fairly important in a GM. She’s also got an incredible tactical mind, a huge team of very well trained scouts on her payroll, and a mystical jellyfish that can erase information from the minds of anyone not inoculated against its power. The future of this team is in good hands with Lucretia as the GM.

#women's hockey #dungeons and dragons #hockey #that good nerd shit!!!!#I LOVE HEADCANONS YOU GUYS I DON'T KNOW IF YOU KNOW THAT ABOUT ME BUT I LOVE THEM

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shih-coulda-had-it · 7 years

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reverse the polarity

a reverse captains!au for Star Trek: Discovery, wherein Captain Gabriel Lorca is Michael’s first Starfleet Captain, and Captain Philippa Georgiou is her second

@senator-organa this took basically two rewrites, and I actually feel compelled to continue in a longer, more refined oneshot

-0-

(captain gabriel lorca)

“I know I asked you for recommendations, Sarek,” drawls the tall man, “but I didn’t expect you to escort one aboard my ship.” His arms are crossed, and he looks vaguely unimpressed. Fortunately, Michael Burnham has undergone a lifetime of being subjected to unimpressed looks.

She is unaffected by the cold glare of his eyes, mostly because she is pissed off. Denied by the Vulcan Expeditionary Forces only to be shuttled directly off to an old Starfleet science vessel? She could’ve reapplied, tried again—god knows she’s done that her entire childhood.

“Michael Burnham has an extensive résumé,” demurs Sarek. “Did you not tell me you were in need of a science officer knowledgeable in xenoanthropology?”

“I told you that months ago.” The scowl appears to be permanently etching itself into the man’s face. “You said there weren’t any Vulcans available with that ‘particular skillset.’”

“Yes. No Vulcans.” Sarek turns to Michael, and she detects the glimmer of amusement in his eyes. “Michael, this is Captain Gabriel Lorca of the U.S.S. Shenzhou.” He nods, like he thinks his job is done. Like he can simply drop Michael off in the company of Lorca and continue on with his life, assured that he is never confronted with his greatest failure.

Michael looks at Lorca and doesn’t quite narrow her eyes. She resolves to stay impassive.

“You don’t want to be here,” Lorca says.

In this instance, Michael thinks, even Sarek would let her get away with a bit of insolence. There is something of the wounded animal in her, still smarting from a wounded pride. Her resentment at the situation grows, and withers. Perhaps… perhaps she does deserve this.

“You would be right,” says Michael, noting the tightening muscle of Lorca’s jaw. He hides it well, but one doesn’t live with Vulcans, breathe in their culture and mannerisms, without picking up the ability to detect anger beneath a façade of civility. “But you are currently in the wrong. I make it a principle to observe and then conclude.”

“Michael,” Sarek interrupts, and she turns her eyes to him. They’ve been a family unit long enough that he should take notice of her desperation to join the Vulcan Expeditionary Forces. He knows she can do it—her scores had been perfect.

It would have been a life of cold shoulders, but Michael is familiar with that kind of atmosphere.

Lowly, Sarek tells her to behave. He gives a perfunctory nod to Lorca. And then he leaves.

Lorca watches him go too, something appropriately ticked off in his expression. No protocols cover events like this, this being: a highly-respected Vulcan escorts a Vulcanized Human trained extensively in the field of xenoanthropology (among other disciplines) to be integrated into a Starfleet crew.

He switches his glare back to her. “Are you even aware what kind of vessel this is?”

“An exploratory one,” says Michael. The U.S.S. Shenzhou (NCC-1227) is named in tradition for a long line of Shenzhous, except the majority of its predecessors are satellites and asteroids. However, the former were also considered the property of China—this ship is under a more… universal purview.

Shén for heaven, divinity; zhōu for vessel. To translate it fancily, the Vessel of Heaven. To translate it literally, space boat.

The utter insult of it is that Sarek had chosen to drop her off on a ship that parallels the Vulcan Expeditionary Forces. It is a pat on the head. A consolatory reward. You were good, but you weren’t good enough.

“How fortunate for you.”

“Indeed,” Michael says, “Captain.” Her eyebrow lifts, voluntarily. She thinks it will always be voluntary—a challenge of ‘Do you deserve my respect?’ to a man she could overpower or outsmart given enough time and luck. Also, this is the one action that can’t be ruled as misconduct or disrespect to a captain.

Lorca suddenly breaks into a grin. “Let me show you around.”

(captain philippa georgiou)

The room is brightly lit, warm yellows and zero fluorescents. It’s an odd characteristic for a new vessel to be in possession of. It reminds Michael of the Shenzhou and Lorca’s stubborn determination to keep it just as his predecessor had—

A woman studies a tactical map. Blue for Starfleet and its allies, red for the Klingon Empire. Michael is familiar enough with the color scheme of blue (good) and red (bad) that her mind registers it instantly and turns itself inside out when it identifies the captain of the ship.

The captain is standing for her.

The captain—

“Michael Burnham,” says Captain Philippa Georgiou, hands clasped behind her back and a considering look in her eyes, “welcome to the U.S.S. Discovery. I’m Captain Georgiou.”

She is so different from Lorca that Michael finds herself blinking hard. Where Lorca was tall and broad, Georgiou is short and lean. Lorca had loomed because before he was a complete softie for the underdogs of Starfleet, he knew the importance of being respected by a bunch of greenhorns. Georgiou… welcomes. She is kind and not imposing.

Not the reception she expects for a mutineer like herself.

“Captain Georgiou,” echoes Michael, struggling not to crumble. Of all the captains in the fleet, everyone—everyone—likes Georgiou, even when they haven’t been chosen to join under her command. She’s never heard a cadet go a year in space without muttering, ‘Damn, I should have applied for Georgiou, she’s the best.’

Lorca had taken the complaints as compliments.

Lorca had said to Michael, “They all want to serve under, good. Georgiou is one of the best—explorer, warrior, and commander all in one. But they have no idea that she’s like me.” He had cracked a grin at Michael. “Her fist is only covered in velvet. At least I’m open about it.”

Rather abruptly, Michael remembers why she’s onboard this ship. “I’ll take my leave as soon as possible,” she blurts. She doesn’t want to be the cause of another destroyed ship, let alone Philippa Georgiou’s sleek science vessel. “I’ll go voluntarily to the brig.”

“That’s unnecessary,” Georgiou shoots back. “You’re a science officer, no? As it currently stands, there is a vacancy in the science department.” There is a wry grin playing at her mouth, and Michael is fixated on the weirdly humanizing aspect this has on the woman all cadets put on a pedestal.

She glances away from Georgiou. Distance. She needs distance to wrap her mind around this illogical decision. “I’m a mutineer,” Michael says. The words taste worse on her tongue than when she’d confessed it to the empty air of her cell. “Starfleet’s first ever recorded. Is this wise?”

“Starfleet understands assets,” the captain dismisses. “There will be some backlash, but there is always backlash in making decisions in war.” She looks mildly guilty about admitting this, even though it is par for course for Michael’s shitty decision-making skills seven months back.

“Yes,” says Michael, “but surely I wouldn’t be good for morale.” Under Lorca, Michael had developed a finely-tuned sense of snark and sarcasm.

Nine years of mutual needling and brisk fondness had chipped away part of her Vulcan shell, but her emotions hadn’t made a surging comeback. If anything, it had strengthened her defensive measures of hiding sentimentality and nostalgia.

Captain Georgiou pulls a face and sits down. “Burnham,” she says, “this war isn’t your fault.”

That, Michael cannot bear to hear from a captain so beloved by the fleet that Starfleet Command wouldn’t promote her to admiralty and a desk on Earth. “With all due respect, captain, I don’t see how that’s so.” Before Georgiou can continue, Michael adds, a little desperately, “My arrival here cannot be due to coincidence.”

Like a masochistic idiot, Michael lays out the whole thing. The shuttle’s change of course. The lack of warning about being transferred to a different prison facility. Her arrival here has been engineered.

Georgiou blinks. “I did ask for your shuttle to change courses. First, because you are an officer of many talents. Second, because the Discovery does have a vacancy, though my science officer tells me that he is capable of handling it. But lastly…” She looks guilty again. “I think you did not deserve so harsh a sentencing that you were given.”

“I started the war,” says Michael blankly. She’s repeated this sentence many, many times.

“By your admissions in the court transcripts, you suggested a solution, and the captain agreed to its flagrant disrespect of Starfleet’s code.” Georgiou is standing again, and moving around to the front of her desk. She maintains a respectful distance around Michael, who is feeling distinctly dizzy. “This ship is outfitted to win a war, Burnham. It only needs the right people to help it to success.”

She needs—she needs to take this chance—fix mistakes—

“Probation. I—give me a probationary period. Any mistakes, I go back to prison.”

Georgiou frowns. “You ask this condition as though you were not going to be on probation.” The slight relief Burnham feels when she is reminded that Georgiou is a highly competent officer is actually immense. This is a net to prevent her from blowing up the galaxy again. This is good.

A hand extends, and Michael shakes it. The firm, warm grasp is a much-welcomed anchor.

“Let me show you around,” offers Georgiou with a smile.

#st disc #star trek discovery #shih.txt #MADE IT BEFORE 12AM HAHAHA

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Aronnax In The Abyss

A Vulcan captain and her husband, a long-exiled Cardassian, touch on Deep Space Nine after their vessel is nearly destroyed by an explosion - a suspected piece of tampering by the Maquis. Julian becomes embroiled in the ensuing intrigue - alongside him, so does Garak. Julian can't decide which interests him more.

Set late in S3, after the events of The Wire, but before the war begins in earnest.

Ao3. FFN. Ko-Fi.

WIP. 15k. Rated M. Julian Bashir/Elim Garak. Features OCs, Ilar Jasek and T’ran. Lots of interspecies romance and cultural differences. This is chapters 1-3.

Chapter One

“There’s a Vulcan trading vessel incoming, Doctor Bashir, and they’ve been hit hard. Part of their hull plating blew apart – electrical burns and air deprivation are the main problems. Estimated thirty injured with moderate to serious injuries, ETA twelve minutes.” Kira’s tone is clipped and sharp, and Julian nods even though she can’t see him.

“Got you,” Julian replies to Kira over the comm link, and when the line goes quiet, he snaps into action. Ordering the other doctors to ready beds and get into place, he moves swiftly down the length of the medical wing, putting things into place – thirty people is a lot for a sudden intake, but he’s ready.

Or, at least, he thinks he is.

It actually takes less than twelve minutes for them to start arriving into the medical bay – members of security beam those injured directly into the infirmary, and Julian barely takes notice of anything around him.

When he’s thrust into situations like this, everything around him dims to darkness. Julian sees nothing, hears nothing, feels nothing except his medical duties: he takes pulses, asks short, pointed questions and does diagnostic tests, and as best as he can, he does what he’s been trained for – he heals. This is what he has trained for since he was a child, nursing Kukulaka and tenderly stitching up his wounds – this, Julian honestly believes, is what he was born to do. Or at least, a rather bitter voice at the back of his head says in an undertone, what I was genetically resequenced to do.

“Who’s this?” he asks crisply of the last patient to be brought into the room; a broad-shouldered man lays her on a bed. She’s a Vulcan woman perhaps some way into her fifties, and there’s a deep laceration across side of her scalp, baring thick, green ooze that has soaked into her dark hair. He runs his tricorder over her, frowning deeply – as a nurse draws a dermal regenerator over the cut, he takes in evidence of something a little more severe.

Most of the injuries had been easily healed – the crew is primarily Vulcan, with only a Caitian and an Orion creating any extra diversity in the medical practices, and Vulcans are an especially hardy race who aren’t injured too easily. With dense muscle, excellent posture and thicker bones than other species of similar build, they tend to resist a lot of the damage that would easily kill a Human or a Bajoran, but unfortunately, this woman had been crushed by something, and Julian reads evidence of a rather severe spinal injury. He knows, grimly, that the injury was undoubtedly exacerbated by the way in which she was carried aboard, but there had hardly been time for a stretcher.

“This is Captain T’ran, of the merchant ship Aronnax.” Julian glances up from the tricorder, setting his jaw, and he freezes. Immediately, the dozens of streams of thought running side by side through his genetically-improved mind screech to a halt, and his eyes widen slightly. The man speaking – the man who’d carried the Vulcan commander into the medical bay – is a Cardassian. He has a heavy, black bruise blooming on the side of his chin, and his leftside brow ridge is cut to the bone, bleeding purple-blue down his face. It shouldn’t stop him as it does, but Julian often feels uncertain about Cardassians when he expects them to be in the room with him, let alone when he’s suddenly thrust into a situation with them. Shifting his neck, Julian does his best to bring himself back to his “groove”.

“Right. You should sit down,” Julian says. It is his medical voice, crisp and not to be disobeyed, but the Cardassian doesn’t move, staring stonily at Julian. A heavy drop of blood drops from his cheek onto the fabric of his tunic. The haze of medical focus has been popped like a balloon, and although his concentration isn’t entirely broken, he is… Distracted. Why would a Cardassian have been on a Vulcan merchant vessel? “Look— The captain has serious injuries. These can’t be easily fixed with a dermal regenerator. You need to be looked at yourself – Doctor N’daya—“

“I will remain here, Doctor. Our ship’s databanks were partially destroyed, and you’ll have need of her medical history.” the Cardassian says lowly, and he settles slowly into the chair beside the bed. Straight-backed, he doesn’t look as if he could be moved with all the power in the warp cores, and Julian slowly inhales. “Captain T’ran suffers a severe allergy to penicillin, for example.” Julian makes a note on the new record for T’ran, then calls over his shoulder.

“Doctor N’daya,” Julian says crisply, forcing himself to concentrate as much as he can, “Look after this man here, will you?”

The best he can, he sets himself back to work.

♛ ♕ ♛ ♕ ♛ --- ARONNAX IN THE ABYSS --- ♛ ♕ ♛ ♕ ♛

“Major Kira,” Julian says several hours later, quietly into his own comm link. The Cardassian, whose name Julian has discovered is Jasek, is sat very straight beside T’ran’s bed. The Vulcan woman is laid out on her belly, and a yellow strip of softly shining fabric is laid over the length of her spine. T’ran is heavily anaesthetized, and even unconscious, her expression is drawn into a tight, Vulcan expression of firm neutrality. “First Officer Jasek, of the Aronnax, is here in the infirmary.”

“The Cardassian?” Kira asks, tone slightly biting. She sounds ready to call security in at the very thought, and Julian suppresses the urge to sigh. “What’s the problem?”

“He’s exhausted,” Julian says, his hand going up to his brow and rubbing at the bridge of his nose. “I need him out of here, to go and get some rest, but he won’t leave. T’ran is going to be unconscious for several days while the damage to her spine is repaired – she’d be in too much pain, even as a Vulcan.” Julian had even offered Jasek an infirmary bed, although they had really lacked the space, and Jasek had quietly retorted that he would prefer to stay precisely where he was.

“So tell him to leave.” Julian does sigh now. He considers telling Kira that he has told the man to leave, three times now, and has been ignored each time. He considers telling Kira that he himself is tired, that he doesn’t want to argue with a patient, and he doesn’t want to call security on him, but—

“Doctor,” Odo says, stepping over the threshold of the infirmary, and Julian mutters a quick, “Bashir out,” before turning to the door. Odo looks up and down the infirmary – the Caitian is lying unconscious, breathing steadily as his ribs are knitted back together, and the rest of the crew are all gone. “How is the condition of Captain T’ran?”

“She’ll be unconscious for several days, Odo, you can’t talk to her right now. That’s her second in command, there.” Julian nods to Jasek, and he sees the way Odo’s not-eyebrows raise as he looks at the other man, but the Cardassian doesn’t so much as glance in their direction. Cardassian hearing, from what Julian has managed to assuage, is not as well-defined as the hearing capability Humans have, but he is certain Jasek will have heard their conversation, or at least realized they were having one.

“Jasek,” Odo says, with some apparent familiarity as he takes a few steps forward, and the Cardassian glances to him. Recognition shows in his tired, green eyes, and Julian wonders how old he is, exactly. His shining black hair is long and tied at the nape of his neck in a tight braid, and he sees that there are a few wrinkles around his ridges, but Julian knows he would struggle to tell the difference between a fifty-year-old Cardassian and a one-hundred-year-old one. “I need to ask you some questions about what happened on the Aronnax, sir.”

“With respect, Constable Odo, my—”

“Your wife is unconscious. She will be unconscious for several days. Your crew has need of you.” Julian stands for a second in heart-stopping silence, and he stares open-mouthed at Jasek.

“His wife?” Julian repeats, and Jasek takes in a soft breath. It’s only now that Julian looks at him, actually looks at him and thinks critically – Jasek isn’t wearing the Cardassian armour Julian would expect, or the big, square garments he sees on Garak. Jasek is wearing a Vulcan tunic, the Chinese collar adjusted for the shape of his long, ridged neck, with his blue-grey blood dried into the thick, yellow fabric. Jasek is wearing Vulcan boots, made of some rubbery material made from trees, and he has two woven bracelets around his wrist that don’t look anything like Cardassian materials. He’s a Cardassian, sure, but he’s wearing Vulcan clothes. And Jasek is old – older than middle-aged, at least, and settled on Vulcan. Of course he must have had some personal connection to the ship, for no one ever sees non-military personnel on Deep Space Nine these days (barring Garak, he thinks snidely).

“Very well,” Jasek says, reluctantly, and he stands. He’s a very tall man, over six feet tall, but he moves with a slight rigidity on his left side: immediately Julian freezes, his gaze going to the Cardassian’s knee, but before he can say anything, Jasek says, “An old injury, Doctor. Psychosomatic, so my wife insists.” His voice is strangely kind, for that of a Cardassian, and Julian doesn’t feel as if he’s being laughed at. He feels intensely guilty for his ignorance, at assuming Jasek could be nothing more than T’ran’s first mate, and really—

“I’ll inform you of her condition if it changes,” Julian says. Guilt flushes through him; he’s coming to the end of his shift, but fatigue is no excuse – he’s an absolute genius, and he’d noticed next to nothing about this man. “I’m— I’m sorry, I, er— I didn’t realize-“

“Thank you, Doctor,” Odo interrupts him, obviously seeing no point in Julian’s apologies, and he puts his hands neatly behind his back, walking from the room with Jasek in his wake. Despite his limp, he moves quite fast, and Julian glances back to T’ran on the bed. T’ran is as still as a corpse, the only movement around her that of the machines measuring her heart-rate and breathing.

Julian’s never heard of Cardassians marrying any other species, and Vulcans— well. Vulcans marry outside their species, of course, but with Humans or Orions or Betazoids… Not Cardassians.

♛ ♕ ♛ ♕ ♛ --- ARONNAX IN THE ABYSS --- ♛ ♕ ♛ ♕ ♛

Garak is already in Quark’s when Julian comes in for lunch the next afternoon. He leans back in his seat, sipping very leisurely at a fragrant, steaming tea that Julian hasn’t seen him drink before. Julian follows his gaze to a mirror, which reflects a window across the bar, which, in turn, reflects the form of Jasek seated at a table, examining the multiple PADDs stacked in front of him. With his right hand, he holds a Vulcan ink pen, and he writes neatly on soft, cream-coloured parchment. Julian’s UT doesn’t work on hand-writing, and of course he shouldn’t be able to read the pages from so far away anyway, but he recognizes the curving lines of Vulcan script, covering each page. It seems strangely traditional, and initially he thinks that Jasek must be writing letters of condolence for the families of his crew, but then he realizes it is something rather different – they aren’t letters, he imagines, but some sort of prayer scroll, to be burned in the Bajoran chapel on the Promenade. The idea catches at Julian’s heartstrings, but also prompts in him a little perplexity, a little curiosity – what Cardassian would do such a thing?

“Making friends?” Julian asks, slipping into the seat across from Garak, Garak’s blue eyes meet Julian’s, and Julian doesn’t see curiosity in them, but something else. Anger? No… Garak looks almost territorial. Julian thinks of everything that he has done in his approach, wonders if he has somehow stepped out of place, if he has somehow been too bold with Garak. It hasn’t been so many months, after all, since Julian was forced to go to Enabran Tain for a sample of his leukocytes, since he was forced to augment the device in Garak’s own skull…

“I think not. Why should I want to be friends with a disgraced Cardassian, cast out from the Empire?” Julian frowns slightly, examining Garak with interest, and then he turns his head, looking directly at Jasek up on the balcony.

“Misery loves company?” Julian asks, dryly. That tears Garak’s gaze away from Jasek’s reflection’s reflection, and Garak’s eyes stare into Julian’s own, the stare intent and piercing, but Julian knows better than to shyly look away, as he might have done when they had first met. If Julian has already overstepped, already piqued Garak’s temper in a way he had not intended, he may as well provoke him on purpose. But Garak isn’t angry: his teeth show as he displays a rather dark smile, and Julian feels a slight flutter in his heart. Why is it, he wonders, that even now, Garak is such a delight, such a curiosity, so difficult to predict? Even in using Julian’s every power of analysis, his every hypercompetent sense and capability, Garak remains an enigma in himself… And how is a man like him to resist an enigma?

“He’s been here all night, Quark tells me,” Garak murmurs. His tone has lost the anger, the Cardassian pride, it had been tainted with a second ago, and now he looks only at Julian, and Julian feels the heat of Garak’s gaze on his face. Julian is confident, entirely confident, that he knows Garak better than anybody else on the station, and vice versa… But what of that? Garak knows Julian better that anybody else on the station, but that doesn’t really matter – even Garak, as much as he thinks Julian is a stupid, little boy at times, doesn’t know what Julian is, where he comes from.

“Does Quark often feed you information?” Julian asks, before adding, “Is that why you wanted to meet here instead of the Replimat? So that you could watch him the whole time? Garak, you’ve really wounded me here. How am I supposed to remain my charming, arrogant self if you rank an exile over me?” Garak looks at Julian, and Julian wonders for a moment what it would be like if Garak knew. What if Julian just told him? Would that be so entirely insane? What if Julian told Garak that he was a freak, a product of genetic resequencing, a genius the unnatural like of which Garak could never conceive of?

Are you flirting with me, Doctor? Garak’s glittering eyes seem to ask, and Julian wonders if he is, or if he isn’t – it’s honestly hard to tell with Garak. They argue and they dance in circles, and Julian tries to say without saying that he’d be alright with Garak kissing him, that he’d be alright with Garak biting him…

“Are you not curious, Doctor?” Garak asks softly (Oh, God, I’m curious! What does your mouth taste like?), adjusting his grip on his mug and bringing it to his lips. He doesn’t sip from it, though – he just inhales, his nostrils flaring slightly, and not for the first time Julian wonders what it must be like to smell with a Cardassian nose. He likes the twitch of the nose’s ridge as Garak’s nostrils flare almost imperceptibly: would Julian trade his Human hearing for a Cardassian taste and smell? Perhaps. “Jasek was exiled from Cardassia some forty years ago – he served in the military for a time and was forced to resign his commission after an injury. Some say it was self-inflicted. But then, three years later, he left Cardassian space entirely, without permission at all from the Imperial Command. And married an outsider.” Some say it was self-inflicted. What absolute nonsense: for all Julian knows, it’s entirely true. Garak’s gaze is wandering, and Julian presses his shoes flat against the tiled floor of Quark’s bar, feeling its slight stickiness.

“Do Cardassians not believe in relationships with outsiders? I’ve known Cardassian soldiers to seek out Bajorans, Klingons, even Humans.” Julian says casually, and Garak’s gaze locks with his once again. Garak’s lips twitch, as if Julian has said something significant, and for a little while he doesn’t turn to glance at Jasek in the mirrors.

“Perhaps, my dear doctor, but hardly marriages. And Vulcan marriages, at that! They have children.”

“He’s got two bracelets on his arm,” Julian says quietly, following Garak’s gaze to Jasek’s reflection, and says, “They look handwoven.” Do Vulcan children weave bracelets, as Human children sometimes do? They must, he thinks. Vulcan children can’t possibly spend all their time in those awful learning pits – oh, how Julian had desperately wished to try one of those, when he’d been a child. But his father had once wrenched him back when a Vulcan boy in London had bitingly invited “Jules” to have a go, and Julian knows in hindsight that a boy like him would have excelled in the Vulcan education system, but that it would have let the whole cat out of the bag. Julian wishes he’d thrown off his father and launched himself into the pit, wished he’d enjoyed the chance while it had been proffered to him.

“Ah, you see,” Garak murmurs, amused. “You can pay attention, hmm? But just look at him. Vulcan clothes, Vulcan boots, Vulcan children! He’s forgotten Cardassia quite entirely.” He seems so angry, so incensed, even though the anger is masked with Garak’s genteel speech patterns. Julian can’t truly find out much about Cardassia, given how difficult it is to get hold of real, unbiased information, but he’s always intrigued when Garak becomes passionate about one Cardassian tidbit or other – though he never can know for certain if the spy is telling the truth or not. He feels himself smile. “What do you think of him?”

“I think he loves his wife,” Julian says. He doesn’t know why he says it precisely like that, but the words come softly out of his mouth: it just seems so out-of-character for a Cardassian to be so focused on another person, let alone someone outside their species, but he hadn’t left her side for hours, even knowing she wouldn’t wake up. “I didn’t realize they were married until Odo came in. That’s awfully stupid, I know, but I was actually rather surprised to have a Cardassian in our midst, and it rather threw me off-kilter.” There is no reason for Julian to make the confession, except that he can, and he thinks it seems relevant. Garak neither complains nor jumps upon the point to needle at him, but merely looks at Julian with that occasional, analytical curiosity that Julian thinks about in his off-hours and in the minutes, sometimes, before he goes to sleep.

“Chief Constable Odo and Jasek are, of course, acquainted.” Garak takes another sip of his tea, and he catches the eye of a Ferengi waiter, waving him over to take their lunch orders. “And Odo never forgets a face.” Julian takes the opportunity, as Garak is making his own order, to look at the reflection’s reflection: Jasek shifts in his seat, and Julian gets a look at his eyes from under the shadow of his eye ridges; the bruise on his chin, which he hadn’t allowed the medical staff to take care of, is being broken down from black to an obnoxious lilac. His eyes are watering slightly, a sign Julian recognizes as one of fatigue – he hasn’t slept, Julian realizes, since he arrived on the vessel. Can prayer scrolls truly be so important to him? Wouldn’t it be prudent – logical – to put them off until Jasek is well-rested?

“And what would you like to order, Doctor Bashir?” The Ferengi prompts him, not, judging by his slightly impatient expression, for the first time.

“Oh,” Julian says distractedly, and he turns his head reluctantly from the Cardassian for a few moments as he looks to the Ferengi. This one, Mag, is in his early thirties, and he and Garak seem to have a rather dangerous rapport, but as much as Mag shows his impatience, Julian never gets the impression the Ferengi personally dislikes him. He makes his order in rather a hurry, for his own sake if not the Ferengi’s, and then he glances back… But by the time he looks, Jasek is gone. Julian frowns, furrowing his brow, and Garak smiles like an angry dog.

“Jasek, isn’t it?” Garak asks sweetly. Mag looks between the two Cardassians, his gaze shifting between them as if following an invisible tennis ball between two racquets, and then he resolutely turns on his heel and makes his way over to the bar.

“I didn’t realize there were other Cardassians aboard,” Jasek says in a quiet, serious voice. He stands beside Julian’s chair, his PADDs stacked neatly under one of his arms, and Julian’s fast gaze runs quickly over the parchment paper in Jasek’s hand, and he makes out the little parts of the Vulcan script he can read: the name of a crew member, and a wish for his spirit to continue onward.

“Other?” Garak repeats in an innocent fashion with his eyes wide, his tone saccharinely sweet, and Julian feels the distinct urge to step on his foot under the table, but Garak would only make a scene about it rather than taking the hint like someone else might do.

“Garak owns a tailor’s here on Deep Space Nine, Mr Jasek,” Julian says. Jasek looks to Julian, making eye contact with him, and Julian adds in a quieter voice, “I will let you know if her condition changes, sir.” Jasek shifts his head, and his neck moves in the odd, reptilian fashion that Cardassians have, even under the high Vulcan collar; Vulcan clothes are much tighter and formfitting than the armour-like wear of most Cardassians Vulcans has seen, and Julian’s medical curiosity is more than piqued at the shape of Jasek’s body. Cardassian physiology remains something of a mystery, but just the square shape of his torso, lacking a dip at the waist one might see in a Vulcan or a Human, and with the ridges just slightly visible under the soft fabric, is a clue Julian hasn’t had before.

Jasek looks back to Garak, meeting his icy gaze, and for a long few moments they stare each other down. Back on Earth, there had been a few feral cats on the campus of Starfleet Academy – they were kept healthy, but allowed to keep to themselves, and were often friendly with different members of the campus corps. Julian had seen, once or twice, the stand-off between two cats as they stared each other down and refused to blink, slowly raising their hackles and arching their backs, until one lost their nerve.

It’s Jasek who looks away first, but Garak seems irritated rather than pleased at his victory, and a ghost of confusion passes over Jasek’s face in response – Yes, Mr Jasek, Julian wants to agree, Isn’t it bizarre when he reacts exactly as you don’t expect? I rather know the feeling.

“I will see you, Doctor Bashir,” Jasek says, with a polite bow of his head: even the way he holds himself reminds Julian more of the Vulcans than Cardassians – it’s stiff and measured, and while he has a heavy sense of grace, it lacks the reptilian slink that Cardassians usually have. Vulcans have a measured way about them, a quiet step, but it’s to do with the conservation of energy and the most logical, rational way to move around, not to do with desiring stealth.

Julian watches after him as he goes, with mild curiosity, and then he turns back to Garak. Garak’s jaw is set, his lips pursed together, and he is watching Julian with an alarming intensity. “What, Garak? Are you jealous?”

“I would be careful, Doctor,” Garak murmurs, softly. “If you’re not careful, you might become friends with the wrong sort of people.” His tone is laden with implication, and he leans forwards, stacking one of his hands over the other and laying his chin on the back of his hands: mirroring his movements exactly, Julian reflects Garak’s position, and he relishes how it closes some of the distance between them, although the table is still a woeful barrier. The position they’re in isn’t a naturally Cardassian one, which is perhaps why Garak chose it – perhaps he felt it might disarm Julian or confuse him!

Or perhaps it’s just the position he felt like settling in, and there was no ulterior motive at all, and to Garak, Julian seems like a ridiculous, naïve child for copying him.

“You might well be right,” Julian says in an equally quiet voice, arching his eyebrows meaningfully as he does so. The flirtation does little to dissuade Garak’s frown. “What do you think happened? Odo said there was a hull breach, but it was more than that – it was an explosion. It was an attack on the ship.” Julian had listened to Odo’s debriefing about it this morning to the command staff – he suspects the Maquis, thus far, and Julian won’t tell Garak that. But why would the Maquis try to attack a Cardassian that had been exiled for so many years? He knows Odo has instincts Julian himself lacks, but logically it seems like there’s a few missed connections between the concept and the result.

“There are many reasons one might wish to kill anyone on the ship, my dear,” Garak murmurs shrugging his shoulders loosely. Not for the first time, Julian wonders what Garak’s shoulders are like under all that stiff fabric – even in healing Garak’s broken ribs or bruised organs, Julian has never gotten a proper look at the way his body is built. “But the investigation ought reveal the truth. A version of it, at least.” Mag brings along their meals, hot from the replicator, and Garak changes the subject to something rather more innocuous.

Julian remains distracted, nonetheless. The Aronnax must have been attacked for some reason, after all, and he’s certain there’s more to this situation than he can yet ascertain.

Chapter Two

“We’ve examined the wreck in some detail,” Odo says, looking up from his PADD with a neutral expression on his moulded features. Julian glances around the table, at Jadzia, at Sisko, at Kira and Miles, and remains silent. When he first came to the station, he had felt deeply out of place at these command meetings, knowing full-well that every other person at the table thought he was an idiot, but now he’s proved himself enough, and he genuinely feels as if he’s among friends. “From what I can extrapolate from our investigation, the damage was triggered by an explosive device hidden within the lining of the ship’s hull and was discovered by an engineer and mistakenly set off. Had the young man not discovered it, it would have gone off upon docking procedure.”

“And we were scheduled as the Aronnax’s next port?” Sisko asks, arching an eyebrow as he glances up from his PADD: Odo gives a curt nod.

“I suspect the Maquis,” Odo says cleanly. Julian worries the inside of his lower lip, drumming his fingers on the underside of the table so no one will see him fidgeting, just as they won’t see the bounce of his knee. “It would be in their best interests to frame a Cardassian – Mr Jasek, who has been exiled for so long, could easily be believed as someone attempting to win back the favour of the Empire by causing damage to the station. The ship’s log reveals contacts with those who we know to be Maquis, such as Wendyn Durras, an ex-Bajoran freighter captain, and Destiny Falmer, a smuggler renowned in six sectors. It is within the Maquis’ interest to remove the Federation from this space, and to stop short any potential good will the Cardassians might have – causing massive damage to Deep Space Nine and framing a Cardassian in one fell swoop makes complete sense.”

“Does anyone else corroborate it?” Julian asks. Odo gives him an arch look, and Julian feels Miles, Kira and Jadzia stare at him, obviously showing surprise. Sisko glances to Julian, but his gaze isn’t especially disapproving – it merely slowly tracks back to Odo, and he looks at his Chief of Security expectantly.

“I have sources,” Odo says, shrugging his shoulders slightly before he says, “I cannot reveal names, Doctor, but I’ve had two Maquis sources confirm that they were aware of the plan.” Julian frowns, furrowing his brow and pressing his lips tightly together: something about the whole situation feels just slightly wrong. The Maquis hate Cardassians, of course, and he knows that even Major Kira had all but spat the word when talking about Jasek the night previous, but nonetheless…

“What is it, Doctor?” Sisko asks. He is looking at Julian with his head tilted to the side, his gaze expectant, and once again there is no sign of irritation or impatience, or even curiosity. Sometimes, Julian thinks Sisko could go up against a Vulcan in a poker game.

“Well— Constable,” Julian says. Everyone is staring at him, and while he doesn’t feel as self-conscious as he might once upon a time, he’s more used to Deep Space Nine now, and if arguing with Garak has given him anything, it’s boosted confidence in his opinions. “They came from Ferenginar, and you know what Ferengi are like: for all the gold-pressed Latinum in the world, it wouldn’t be worth it to help some disgraced Bajorans.” Kira’s head snaps towards him. “No, no, Major— I’m just saying it as the Ferengi would see it. Even if Jasek would be a fall man of sorts, why would Ferengi help? It’s not in their best interest to help the losing side, particularly not when their shipments come in toward Deep Space Nine, and when the Grand Nagus has such fondness for the place. Besides, surely the crew would have mentioned in their reports if they’d seen anyone out of the ordinary on planetside. I’m not saying the Maquis are incapable of stealth, but there’s something about this situation that… I don’t know. It slots together too easily.”

Odo presses his not-lips together, leaning back in his chair and considering what Julian has said. His fingers brush his own, soft chin, and he looks at Julian very thoughtfully. Odo doesn’t like to be contradicted, Julian knows, but he understands that Julian isn’t just trying to do his job for him, and he meets Julian’s gaze. “You have an alternate theory, Doctor?”

Julian hesitates.

“No,” he says, awkwardly. “I just don’t think the Maquis make sense.” Odo scowls at him: Odo’s convenient good will is apparently lost. “Have you told Mr Jasek your theory, Odo?”

“It is not my custom, Doctor, to tell every potential suspect what my theories might be,” Odo says, rather haughtily, and Julian cannot suppress his own scoff of amusement. At the way Odo looks at him, Julian lets out another disbelieving sound, shaking his head.

“You do it with Quark!” he points out, and Odo snaps his head around to stare at him, absolutely incensed.

The meeting, after that, does not go well.

♛ ♕ ♛ ♕ ♛ --- ARONNAX IN THE ABYSS --- ♛ ♕ ♛ ♕ ♛

Julian is off-duty today, barring the command meeting, and he’s glad to be free from work: he knows full-well that for the time being, he’d be lacking in the necessary bedside manner to practise. He lingers on the Promenade, looking through the window into Garak’s shop: he’s leaning gracefully back in his chair, to the side of his desk, and there’s a softly shimmering fabric laid across his lap that seems to ripple like water. From this distance, Garak oughtn’t be able to sense Julian watching him, and he’s utterly focused on his needle as he stitches a sleeve into place by hand: it’s sort of beautiful, watching him work with so much certainty, so much easy finesse. Julian only wishes he could watch him from a closer distance, without Garak teasing him, or setting his work aside – but there are things that can be said plainly between them, and there are things that have to be kept to innuendo. And Julian’s desire to sit quietly in Garak’s presence, watching him work, listening to him speak, merely enjoying being part of the space around him? That’s a desire he can’t afford to voice at all.

Julian has met a great many doctors in his life, at the Academy, at Starfleet outposts, and in many places on Earth, throughout the galaxy – he’s met people who approached medicine in so many different ways, but those he was always most envious of were those who could approach medicine with dignity, with a sort of inherent poise. He only ever spares a thought toward elegance when he sees Garak work, but that doesn’t make him less jealous. There’s something else there, in the distracted whorl of thought and emotion, the implication of an emotion that Julian doesn’t want to feel right now, a sort of wanting powerlessness – and he’s looked too long.

Garak has sensed him despite the distance between them, and he glances up from his work, giving a cursory glance to his shop’s door before he looks through the window and sees Julian standing there, on the opposite side of the Promenade. Garak watches him for a moment, and then he smiles, lifting up a hand in a wave.

Plain, simple Garak, with no inhuman instincts at all.

Julian returns the wave, uncertain and hyperaware of his own gracelessless (but how are you meant to compete with a Cardassian anyway?) and he walks hurriedly across the room, dipping down a corridor. He taps his fingers upon his leg, thinking about the meeting as he makes his way, unthinking, towards the habitat ring. Perhaps he has moved this way unconsciously, or perhaps he knew on some level what he was to do, but he recalls the number of the room Jasek is temporarily renting, and he makes his way toward it, through the winding halls of the ring. He taps the buzzer, and he waits in silence for the longest time (and yet he knows it’s only seconds) outside of Jasek’s room.

Jasek’s doors open, and the Cardassian stands in the doorway, looking at Julian impassively. It is at this moment, with an uncomfortable certainty, that Julian realizes that Jasek hasn’t smiled at him, or at Garak, or at anybody, once in his time on Deep Space Nine. Perhaps that oughtn’t be surprising for a man whose wife is taking up a space in the infirmary, but Cardassians constantly smile – they smile to be sarcastic, to be cruel, to be happy, seductive, angry… Julian is no expert when it comes to Cardassia’s cultural complexities, but he realizes he has become used enough to Cardassians that to see one without a smile, fake or otherwise, is unsettling in a way he would be hard-pressed to describe.

“I’m so sorry, Mr Jasek,” Julian feels himself blurt out. Behind the taller man, he sees the flicker of Jasek’s meditation flame, and he realizes he has interrupted what is likely a nightly ritual of prayer and meditation – just as it is for Vulcans. Had Jasek burned those prayer scrolls, Julian wonders? “I’m not here to update you on T’ran’s condition – I actually wondered if I might ask you about your time on Ferenginar?” He tries to keep himself straight-backed and professional, but the humid heat from the room radiates outwards in a way that makes it difficult to retain composure – is this heat more like Cardassia or Vulcan? Julian had only ever enjoyed a brief visit to the Vulcan, taking a short course in Vulcan field medicine in the verdant expanse of one of the planet’s most luscious nature parks, very different to the majority of the planet’s ecosystem.

“I have already updated your Chief of Security as to such information,” Jasek says. His voice is quiet, but perfectly enunciated – Julian wonders, for a moment, if his UT is translating the tuts and sibilant sounds of Vulcan, or the plosives and hard “k” sounds of Kardasi, and then he wonders if it matters. “I assume you have alternate lines of inquiry.” Jasek steps back, allowing Julian entrance. “Come.”

Julian follows Jasek inside, and when Jasek takes his position on his knees, Julian sinks to the ground across from him, seating himself cross-legged and looking at the Cardassian over the open flame. He feels the wet heat of the room sink under his uniform, making him sweat, but he does his best not to show it: the station itself is a few degrees higher than the average ideal temperature back on Earth, but this room is warmer still, the humidity cloying and lingering on his bare skin. It turns out it isn’t a candle that lights the dimness of the room – it’s a traditional meditation lamp that hovers an inch over the grey carpet, and it looks to be hand-carved. Julian examines the carvings on the lamp, looking at its intricacy with a quiet wonder and wondering how old it must be.

“I’ve lived on Vulcan for over thirty years, Doctor,” Jasek says, and Julian looks up from the lamp, staring at him. What is it about Cardassians and being able to read minds? They’re not even meant to be a telepathic people. “You seem surprised that I have assimilated.”

“With respect, sir, it doesn’t seem in the Cardassian nature to assimilate.” For a moment, there is silence as Julian looks at the stony expression of neutrality on Jasek’s face, and then Julian hears the crackle of Jasek’s low, rumbling laugh. The soft, beige fabric of his robe shakes with his amusement, his teeth brightly white in the darkness of the room, and Julian stares at him, his lips parted slightly in pure surprise.

“T’ran once told me the same thing, some weeks before we got married,” Jasek’s smile is warm, and it comes easily to his face. Suddenly, he looks three times as Cardassian as he had before, and the strange uncertainty Julian had felt around him is soothed. He imagines, for a moment, what T’ran will be like when she wakes – will she smile and show her teeth, as a Cardassian would? “Come, make of me your inquiries.”

“Odo suspects the Maquis of sabotaging the Aronnax,” Julian says, laying his hands loosely in his lap. “The idea being that they’d make Starfleet believe you’d wanted to destroy Deep Space Nine, so that you could weasel your way back into the good books of the Cardassian High Command. But… The Maquis would jump at the chance to sow discord amongst the Cardassian ranks, but they know Cardassian High Command better than to believe that a traitor would want to return after forty years. I mean, of all the people to pick – I know you’re a Cardassian, but like you said, you’ve been on Vulcan for over three decades, and I read your file: they gave you citizenship on their planet, and Vulcans don’t do that for anyone who isn’t completely naturalized and assimilated.” Jasek is watching Julian, and his green eyes are the colour of jade, dark in colour and reflecting what little light there is in the room.

“I’ve not heard a question yet, Doctor,” Jasek states simply, and Julian feels a rush of blood to his cheeks.

“Um— I wanted to ask if you remembered anything out of the ordinary on Ferenginar. Cardassians have photographic memories, don’t they?” Jasek’s lip twitches with amusement, and he arches one of his eyeridges. There’s a sort of mischief in his eyes, a Cardassian mischief Julian is well-accustomed to – he sees it most in Cardassians when they speak with Humans. It should grate on him, he supposes, but it merely serves to make him more curious about the Cardassian way of doing things.

“Do they? I had no idea.”

“They’re trained into you, from childhood. I know Odo wouldn’t have suggested this, because he’s— well: I was just thinking that if you meditate every night, like Vulcans do, and obviously you’re mediating now, this morning, and you have the photographic memory, can’t you, um- that is to say—”

“Could I focus myself upon my own memories, combing through them for forgotten details, and examine evidence of non-Ferengi interference?” Jasek’s expression is even more impossible to read than that of most Cardassians as he tilts his head slightly to the side: Julian is struck suddenly by the desperate urge to blurt out an apology, but Jasek gives a very slow, measured nod. “An interesting thought.” Jasek’s left hand hovers beside the lamp, the light of the orange flames reflecting against the grey flesh of his palm. “One, I confess, that I had not considered.”

“Wow,” Julian says. At Jasek’s questioning eyebrow, he says, “Admitting you didn’t think of something doesn’t seem very Cardassian or Vulcan.”

“An expert in both, are you?” Jasek asks.

“Oh, in neither,” Julian says immediately, and Jasek chuckles before the laugh slowly melts away from his mouth. He closes his eyes, his expression changing to one of complete impassivity, and he coaxes the lamp up between his palms. The flame dims slightly, and behind his closed eyelids, Julian sees the shift of Jasek’s eyes, searching.

He’s observed Vulcan meditation rituals in the past, and he’s watched Jadzia at meditation a few times, as well as approaching yoga now and then himself – he’s read about all manner of different meditations, of course, but he can’t help but wonder at the differences here. There are so many gaps in his knowledge of Cardassian physiology, but this is something different again – the Cardassian psychology is a complex one, Julian is sure, even with the bits and pieces of bare information he’s managed to draw together, but the idea of Cardassian meditation is a completely novel concept. Cardassians, from what Julian can glean, are very focused on compartmentalization and putting certain thoughts aside: doesn’t meditation rather force one to be honest with oneself? With one’s feelings?

As Jasek takes in measured, even breaths, Julian examines him – he’s wearing a robe Julian would usually expect of a Vulcan dressed for bed, one that wraps over his chest and comes down in a steep V. Julian can see every separate ridge on each side of his neck, as well as the grey, rough flesh of his chest. He has a large, spoon-shaped crest where his sternum must be, like the one on his forehead, but bigger, and with a less pronounced curve to it. He can see the shape of ridges under the soft fabric of his robe, and he realizes, in a sudden, ridiculous rush of information, that Cardassians might not have nipples.

Vulcans have nipples. Humans have nipples. Ferengi have nipples, and Bolians, and Tellarites – Caitians have up to ten nipples each! Do Cardassians? There is a beat between that thought and the next: Does Garak?

“We were on Ferenginar for a little over a week, but as we came through Cardassian space, there was some damage to our hull – a piece of meteorite loaded with materials that disrupted our shields. One of the Ferengi, not one of the engineers who assisted us, but there was a salesman from the agora—” Julian frowns slightly, wondering why the translator had chosen that word. Agora is rather archaic, and not something he would expect to be applied to the bazaars of Ferenginar. “Mentioned that in the past weeks, a Cardassian had been in the area. I didn’t bother paying him for further information, but I heard the name in the background of some conversation or other… Denor. Gul Denor.” Jasek’s smile is subtle, and it reminds Julian of Garak’s more superior, sarcastic smiles. “Did you excel at the Academy, Doctor? What was it that made you choose medicine?”

“Mr Jasek?” The change in topic rather takes Julian by surprise, and he looks directly into the older man’s face, trying to glean what precisely he’s saying. How much older is Jasek than Garak? It would be rude to ask, Julian is certain, but he cannot help but be curious – but Julian doesn’t even know how old Garak is. How old is Garak? Why can’t Julian hold a conversation with a Cardassian without thinking only of him? Surely it’s insensitive of him, on some level – or at the very least, obsessive. Were he to think only of Jadzia when speaking with a Trill, or of Quark with a Ferengi, he might think he had a problem. With Garak… He knows there’s a problem.

“The way you combine ideas, young man: you know little of Cardassian memory or Vulcan mental organisation, and yet you thought of the two in complement of each other. Even my own children struggled with such a concept, and they themselves were borne of Cardassia and Vulcan in coalescence.” So he does have children, says an inner voice of Julian’s that sounds uncomfortably like Garak. Jasek’s smile widens slightly, and he adds, “One might have thought an aptitude test would suggest you apply for a command role.”

“I always wanted to be a doctor,” Julian says: the command track has a lot more tests and requirements than the medical one. He shudders to think how quickly the truth of his genetics might have been discovered had he gone for a command role: he’d lack the tools to defend himself and mask his genetics, and even so, command roles are more often tested to be who they say they are. To have higher-ups looking at his DNA so often, even though his DNA isn’t obviously unnatural… Julian stares at Jasek, searching the old Cardassian’s face to ensure that Jasek believes him, and Jasek chuckles. He does, and why shouldn’t he? It’s not a lie.

“Ah, the determination of youth.” Jasek leans back on his heels, and he says, “You may bring this information back to Odo. I would speak with him myself, but…” Jasek shrugs his shoulders. “I don’t care to.”

“You don’t like him?” Julian asks, and rather emphatically, Jasek gives a shake of his head.

“On the contrary,” Jasek says easily, “I became acquainted with Odo a little before I left the Empire, and he and I… Get on.” He stares Julian in the face, and says, “I don’t wish for his particular mode of repartée for the time being. Odo has never been permitted his own culture, Doctor, but he dislikes outliers. He no more understands the choice I have made than he understands a tasting tongue.” Julian stands, giving a short nod of his head, and Jasek watches him. Julian guesses that he has some question to ask, but when it comes, it’s unexpected.

“You and the tailor – Garak. How long have the two of you been involved?” Julian feels the sudden jump of the heart in his chest, feels his eyes widen, feels himself suddenly embarrassed and put on the spot – he knows exactly how well he and Garak have a gap between them, but here Jasek is, picking precisely on the chink in Julian’s armour.

“Involved?” Julian repeats. “We’re not— we’re not involved.”

For the barest moment, Jasek looks surprised, genuinely surprised. The expression passes across his features like a fleeting ghost, and then Jasek says, “My apologies, Doctor. Evidently I misunderstood.” Julian nods his head, and as he goes toward the door, Jasek adds, “Good morning.”

“Good morning, Mr Jasek,” Julian says, and he lets the doors of Jasek’s rooms close shut behind him as he leaves.

♛ ♕ ♛ ♕ ♛ --- ARONNAX IN THE ABYSS --- ♛ ♕ ♛ ♕ ♛

“A martini, please, Quark. Strong.” Julian sits hunched over on one of the stools, his forearms rested against the bar’s edge. Quark frowns at him, his head tilting to the side, but Quark knows when it’s best to counsel his patrons and when it’s best to let them be: not only does he set a martini down between Julian’s hands, but he puts another on the bar in front of him, so that Julian can work his way through a second without having to speak to anybody.

After so many years on the station, it’s nice that Quark can leave him be when the situation demands it.

Involved? He hears his own voice echo through his head, bouncing between the inner walls of his skull, and he stares down at the olive floating in the mix of his gin and vermouth. He wishes he could be that olive, wishes he could be submerged in alcohol with no hope of getting out, and— He takes a sip of the drink. That sort of abstract train of thought is best reserved for once the whole martini’s finished. Involved? We’re not— We’re not involved.

What does Garak’s mouth taste like? What is his body like, underneath those armour-like tunics he wears? Are his shoulders rounded, or sharp at the edges? How big is the spoon on his chest, and how defined, and how blue? Does the blood show under his skin when he’s excited, turning the grey ridges on his neck to purple, making the ridges swell? Julian’s mouth is slightly dry, and the martini doesn’t really fix it, resting on his tongue and going down easily when he swallows.

And what is the point of wondering? What is the point of all this?

Garak greeted him that first time by grasping at his shoulders, and Julian can still feel the ghost of Garak’s fingertips pressing into the muscle of his shoulders, his thumbs pressing against the blades of Julian’s shoulders. Garak had squeezed a little too hard, at first, and then suddenly relented as if the softness of Julian’s flesh had been a surprise to him. Garak is a man who freely makes contact with those around him, inviting intimacy or using physical divides to manipulate those around him in one direction or another, but even that, even just that first grasp at Julian, was so, so bold. So much bolder than any other terribly bold thing Garak’s ever done. And Julian had sat in shock for several minutes, titillated and overwhelmed and embarrassed all at once, because there was a man he just didn’t understand!

Reaching up, he touches his own shoulder, and wonders how many times Garak has touched him since. How many times has Garak grasped at his wrist and pulled him out of the way of something, or guided him into a position with a palm upon Julian’s lower back, or grabbed Julian by the arms to examine him?

But he doesn’t want you. Cardassians seem to argue as a way of flirtation, that much is true, but as much as you argue with him, as much as you insult him or throw yourself at his every potential weakness. The tension between you grows and grows, but he does nothing about it! Julian drains his glass, committing something of a sin when it comes to a drink as dignified (and with such a high percentage) as this. And you don’t do anything about it either.

He sets the empty glass down, and the quiet clink of its base against the bar’s polished surface seems to cut through Julian’s bones. We’re not involved. And they aren’t – he and Garak are distinctly not involved, but Julian feels the want heavy in his chest, feels the desire to connect to and understand Garak, to dominate the space around him and force Garak to close the distance between them.

And what had Jasek meant? It hadn’t been a jibe at Julian, he’s certain, it had been an honest question, but why would anyone think they were involved? Jasek hadn’t been close enough to witness Julian and Garak arguing, hadn’t been able to misconstrue any element of their relationship…

With a sigh, he sets his head against the bar, feeling the cool tile against the skin of his forehead.

“You still want that second drink, Bashir?”

“Mmm,” Julian hums against the bar, miserably. He feels the empty glass leave the proximity of his hand and hears the slide of the full one across the tile of the bar, pressed against Julian’s palm. Inhaling, he props his chin on his forearm, and he says, “You’re a good bartender, Quark.” Quark looks at him suspiciously and walks away.

Julian resists the urge to call him back and demand if he and Garak seem like a couple.

♛ ♕ ♛ ♕ ♛ --- ARONNAX IN THE ABYSS --- ♛ ♕ ♛ ♕ ♛

T’ran wakes the following evening.

She struggles visibly to speak, pain seemingly overpowering her body: when Julian brings the hypospray to her neck, she lets out a heavy sigh, and coughs quietly. Her eyes flit around the infirmary, and Julian mutters an order for one of the nurses to call Jasek in from his room. Laid upon her belly with her head laid on its side, T’ran can’t easily survey the entire room from her position, and Julian has to remind her to remain still.

“Please, don’t move, Captain T’ran,” Julian says, holding up his tricorder and ensuring her heartrate and breathing are within acceptable limits. The pain is his biggest concern at this moment – the fact that she is awake is wonderful, but soon it will be necessary for him to begin testing the nerve response in her back and ensuring she has full sensation. “You’re in a lot of pain, I know, but it’s because of a spinal injury – it needs some more days to heal. Your ship was—”

“What is the status of my crew?” T’ran’s voice is clean, low and entirely bereft of emotion. Her black hair is tied messily in a bun behind her head, and the unkemptness of it seems all the more out of place now that she is conscious, contrasting with her Vulcan features and unemotive voice. In a Human captain, or a Bajoran, perhaps Julian would do his best to change the subject, but Vulcans are often distinctly stubborn, and there is no sense in trying to wait until T’ran is entirely healed before breaking the news to her.

“Fourteen dead, Ma’am. Some serious injuries were also sustained, but yours was the worst.” Julian sets the tricorder aside, reaching for another instrument and very tenderly drawing it down the length of T’ran’s spine, creating a three-dimensional recreation that hovers in the air in holographic form.

“The Aronnax?” T’ran asks stoutly. Julian watches as she individually flexes the fingers and thumbs on each of her hands, obviously checking for any nerve damage herself, and Julian feels his lip twitch. It’s incredible to see someone so severely injured, pinned in place, and display no anxiety at all – but then, what should Julian expect of Vulcans?

“I think the necessary repairs are well underway now.” T’ran is silent for a long few moments. Julian has never known a Vulcan to hesitate, and it takes a second for Julian to realize why: Julian feels a twinge of guilt, and immediately says, “Your husband is currently staying in the habitat ring here on the station – he’s on his way. He sustained a few minor injuries, but he’s hale and hearty. He carried you off the ship.” T’ran’s grey eyes flit to Julian, examining him, analysing him, judging him.

“My thanks, Doctor,” T’ran murmurs, and it’s then that Jasek all but sprints into the room. He skids to a halt before T’ran: he’s barefoot, wearing soft, brown trousers and a plunging, green wrap – he must be freezing in the comparatively cool atmosphere of Deep Space Nine, but he doesn’t seem to notice. Julian watches him put out his hand, his index and middle finger outstretched, and T’ran does the same, pressing her fingers to his although she cannot move her body. T’ran’s eyes close shut as she keeps her hand to Jasek’s, continuing the contact of the Vulcan kiss, and Jasek says, “She’s still in pain.” Julian’s head whips toward her, and he grabs another hypospray.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” he demands, and T’ran remains quiet as she opens her eyes once more, merely giving Julian a glance that tells him nothing.

“My wife is strong,” Jasek answers lightly, and T’ran presses her lips together, otherwise not changing her expression at all: she does not flinch when Julian presses the next hypospray to her neck.

“Is that better?”

“Yes. Thank you.” Julian takes out a PADD, noting down some readings from the tricorder and then beginning to look over the hologram of T’ran’s spine. T’ran asks, “For how long will I be constrained to this infirmary bed, Doctor?” As she speaks, Jasek looks down at her with an entirely undisguised affection, and Julian gets the sense merely by being here that somehow, he is intruding.

“At least another few days, Captain,” Julian says, rather more sternly than he intended the words to come out. “But for now I can’t even let you sit up, or face outward.”

“It could be worse, my darling,” Jasek says. His thumb is rubbing a slow and rhythmic circle on the back of T’ran’s hand – Julian knows full well that such a motion is undoubtedly banned in public spheres of Vulcan, but they’re not on Vulcan, are they? “You could be dead.”

“Were you not speaking Vulcan, Jasek, I would worry for my translation matrix. How is it that you have spoken this language for so long and confused the words for “worse” and “better?” That answers the vague question Julian had asked himself the night previous – Jasek is speaking Vulcan, then, not Cardassian. It’s a curious choice. Has Jasek really given up so much to blend in on Vulcan? How much of it is naturalization upon the planet, Julian wonders, and how much is done for T’ran herself? Julian does not know.

“Feisty as a le-matya, though thankfully not so ugly,” Jasek says affectionately, and Julian turns away to note down a few more readings. It makes him almost uncomfortable, the ease with which they flirt together – he has just been thinking of grace and finesse, and here are a Vulcan and a Cardassian, showing exactly that with one other. He feels he is intruding even more, but he can’t exactly flee for in the moment: for another hour, he stews in the discomfort of the situation.

Once he had arrived home last night, stumbling cocktail-drunk into his quarters, he had laid for the longest time in the centre of his living space, lying on his yoga mat so that he wouldn’t have to crawl the awful distance to his bed. He had thought about Garak, and then about Garak, and then a little bit about Jasek and the Maquis, and then about how miserable his parents used to make him, and then about how much he loved Kukulaka, and then about how pleasant it would be to have a shower.

He had then made the rather inadvisable decision to drunkenly attempt the downward dog pose, and he had vomited into his fruit bowl, ruining the half-bunch of bananas he had been slowly demolishing in the past week.

After waking up and taking a hangover cure, Julian had felt rather refreshed, but now? Julian feels the complexities of his thoughts, the layers and layers of them, settling upon him once again. When Doctor N’daya takes over the shift, Julian is grateful to leave, and he makes his way from the Medical Bay toward the Promenade.

Garak’s doors proclaim that the tailor’s is closed for business, but they’re not yet locked, and Julian steps inside. Now that Garak no longer has to worry about pesky customers, he has dimmed the lights to be more acceptable to his Cardassian eyes, and Julian has to take a few moments to allow his own eyes to adjust to the darkness. He examines Garak from behind as the Cardassian pretends not to know he’s there before he says, “Up for a drink in Quark’s?”

Garak, dramatic as he is, goes so far as to gasp. “My dear doctor – when did you get here?”

“Please,” Julian says quietly, in as serious a tone as he’s ever used with the other man, and Garak turns to look at him. His grey lips frown. He drops the act entirely, and his very posture as well as his expression seems to say how serious he is. What does Garak think he’s doing here, Julian wonders? Does he think Julian’s doing to reveal a secret? That he’s going to mount a seduction?

“Give me one moment to lock up, my dear, and we can go.” Maybe he doesn’t think anything. Maybe for once, Garak is thinking nothing – maybe Julian can think nothing too, and they can sit in blissful, peaceful silence together.

He dismisses the thought as soon as it comes.

Chapter Three

Garak walks quietly beside Julian – uncomfortably quietly, in fact. When Garak sneaks up behind him, Julian doesn’t pay it any heed, but when they’re walking together like this he becomes hyperaware of his clothes shifting against each other, of his bootsteps on the ground, of the click his pips make together when he turns his head. Silence radiates from Garak like a spicy scent, and when he catches Julian looking at him, he raises his eye ridges in question.

Julian looks away and walks faster.

Julian thinks of walking onwards, of leading Garak to his quarters, of bringing the other man entirely out of Garak’s territory – out of his quarters, or his shop, or even the Promenade where his informants and “friends” are everywhere – and bringing him into Julian’s own. Garak has never been into Julian’s rooms, which are half the size of Garak’s own, and he wonders how Garak would respond to being in rooms that are thick with Julian’s scent, his energy, and no one else’s.

Would Garak see it as an invitation? Would Julian mean it as one?

They sit down on one of the observation decks in Quark’s (Julian doesn’t want to be anywhere near the noise of the dabo tables), and Julian orders an obscenely-named cocktail that prompts a stare from Garak. He’s not truly scandalized: he just likes to make the appearance of it, now and then. Julian had woken that morning with the taste of vermouth and bile clinging to the roof of his mouth, and he has no desire to sip at a martini tonight – besides, the cocktail is fruity, and offers a distraction from Garak himself.

“What is it, my dear?” Garak asks, softly. He makes no assumptions, makes no analyses based on Julian’s summoning: he is simply here, silently awaiting whatever Julian has to say, and the idea…

He debates asking, with all the aggression he has to hand, Why won’t you just kiss me? He thinks that without appropriate context, this might come across as childish or ridiculous, and perhaps the tiniest bit desperate, as if Julian can’t possibly get attention from anyone else on the station. Julian sips from his drink, lets out a sigh, and doesn’t exactly plan the torrential outpour of words from his mouth.

“It’s just— look, alright, I know that it shouldn’t matter to me, and I’m a doctor, and I myself have been in all manner of mixed relationships, but— The way they are together. They just— they seem so inherently incompatible, but they mix so well!” Garak’s expression is unreadable. He examines Julian with apparent interest, but his features betray nothing more, and when Mag brings their drinks, he takes a sip from his watered-down kanar. Julian takes a big gulp of his cocktail, and stares at the surface of the table. “And I don’t care about your stupid opinions about how he’s not Cardassian enough anymore or— or what-have-you. I just… I don’t understand why I feel like this. I feel like I’m intruding whenever I’m within the room with them.” Garak’s left eye ridge rises nearly imperceptibly, but his expression is otherwise neutral. “And I know, I know that I’m babbling, because I always do that in situations where I’m uncomfortable and I don’t mind saying it because I know you know and you probably make note of it whenever I do it and the thing is, I don’t understand why anyone would do this to them of all people anyway just because he’s a Cardassian, just because he’d be a—Unless it was personal, obviously, but I don’t know that it is personal, and I… And actually, that’s not what I’m annoyed at all! I don’t have any especial investment in the cause of Jasek and his wife.”

“Is that so?” Garak asks, in a measured tone. He is looking at Julian with all the polite interest and detachment that he reserves for of the books Julian asks him to read, and Julian lets out a huff of breath.

“That’s so,” Julian says, and then blurts out, “My problem is you.” Julian stares down, wide-eyed, at the shining surface of the table. He holds his cocktail glass very tightly. When he dares to glance up, Garak is smiling at him softly – fondly. “What?” Julian demands, archly.

“Nothing, my dear, nothing at all. You have every right to a problem with me, so it seems,” Garak murmurs, his blue eyes sparkling with something that is definitely not “nothing”. Julian’s eyes drop to the precise shape of Garak’s lips: they’re quirked into a slight smirk, a slight shine on the blue-grey flesh from the overhead lights, and Julian thinks about Jasek asking, “How long have you and the tailor been involved?”

“Garak,” Julian says, very lowly.

“Yes?” Garak’s teeth show when his mouth opens – they’re sharper than human teeth, but not as obviously as a Klingon’s or a Ferengi’s, and his tongue is a deep purple.

“You did something.”

“Did I?” Garak’s tone is full of innocence, but then, it’s always full of innocence. Julian doesn’t think (outside of the incident with his implant) that Garak has ever sounded remotely guilty in all the time they’ve known each other.

“You—You implied something to Jasek, something I didn’t notice.” Julian wants to keep watching Garak’s mouth, but he tears his gaze away and meets Garak’s eyes, leaning over the table slightly, so that they’re closer. Garak mirrors him, as is his wont, and there’s half a foot between them; Julian can smell the slightly spicy scent of whatever it is Garak uses in his hair, and a softer, soapy scent from his clothes.

“Prove it,” Garak whispers. His eyes are unblinking. Julian’s are too. The innocence has drained away, now, left with a sort of urgent, biting energy, but Julian will not turn his head away, will neither be deterred or distracted from what he has set his mind to.

“I don’t need to,” Julian murmurs back. “I was in his quarters—” Garak’s nostrils flare, and his lip curls momentarily. “And he asked how long we’d been involved. What did you do?”

“I don’t believe I admitted to doing anything.”

“It was subtle, or I’d have noticed it. And, Garak, we are not involved.”

“Aren’t we?” Garak asks: Julian heart skips a beat, and he feels a rush between his ears.

“No,” he spits.

“I thought as much.”

“But you still—”

“I didn’t do a thing.” Garak’s tone is more dangerous now, with a slight edge to it. It’s not defensive – it’s more like a challenge, and Julian feels the want to yell in frustration. Why does he have to be like this? He’s just so bizarre, and Julian doesn’t understand why he has to be such an enigma.

“Did you want to?” Julian asks, changing tact but keeping his softly urgent murmur. Garak’s expression doesn’t change, but his eyes flash, and Julian wishes he knew what that meant, wishes he could study Cardassians the way he has studied other people, wishes he could read up on their etiquette and culture and even on the language, but there are no Cardassian books he can possibly get hold of.

“You’re changing the terms of the argument, my dear.” What could Garak have done? Something Julian hadn’t seen, or something he had seen and not understood… Understanding comes to him in a sudden flash, and Julian grins his victory. “What?” He keeps his eyes on Garak’s. His own are starting to hurt from the dryness, from not blinking. Julian might not wish to be near the dabo tables, but that doesn’t mean he doesn’t know how to gamble.

He lunges forwards, puts his hand on the side of Garak’s neck, shifts himself forwards over the table, turns his head as he dips in—

And pauses with his mouth nearly touching Garak’s own, with but a few micrometres between them. Garak is stiff as a board, his eyes closed, his neck shifted imperceptibly into the grasp of Julian’s hand, and when his eyes open, Julian has never seen him look so furious. How long ago could Julian have done this? How long ago could he have closed the gap between them?

“What is it you think you’re doing, Doctor Bashir?”

“The aim of the game is to make sure I’m the last one to blink, isn’t it? That’s what it was with Jasek,” Julian points out, knowing his breath, scented with fruity notes of alcohol, is ghosting over Garak’s lips. “You blinked first, Garak.” He can smell the kanar lingering on Garak’s tongue, on his lips, can feel the cool, hard-ridged flesh under his left hand, can feel the edge of the table digging into his side – and it’s now that he remembers where he is. Quark is staring up at them from the bar with his mouth open and his eyes wide, unabashedly shocked by what he’s seen. A few Bajorans around the room are glancing at them with various expressions of scandalized horror or curiosity, but they don’t matter. “I thought it was just Cardassian fare, but it wasn’t, was it? He thought we were involved, because when he stood behind me, you got territorial. That’s what that staring contest was about. Just like a moment ago, when you realized I’d been in his quarters.”

Garak isn’t leaning back, isn’t leaning away from him. He’s letting Julian touch his neck – and these ridges are deeply sensitive, Julian shows, and this is probably very improper in public, but there aren’t enough Cardassians here for anyone to know that. Garak has the gall to smile, and Julian resists the urge to push him onto the ground – he’s never had very many violent urges before meeting Garak, but now they come and come and come.

“What do you know about a man called Gul Denor?” Julian asks, his tone interrogative. Garak’s smile drops like a piano from a skyscraper in one of the old cartoons – it’s ridiculous, the way he suddenly becomes so scandalized and furious so incensed. Is that how it is in Garak’s mind, eh? It’s fine to run circles around Julian, but as soon as the tables are turned…?

“What?”

“Only joking,” Julian says, and he kisses Garak on the mouth.

Julian has never kissed someone cold-blooded before, and the sensation is strange to say the least – Garak’s tongue is surprisingly dry when it touches against his own, and his lips part to allow Julian in before he changes the terms of the argument himself. The hand not wrapped about his kanar glass takes Julian by the front of his uniform, pulling him closer even though the table digs right into his side and it hurts, and Julian gasps into Garak’s mouth as Garak drags one of those sharp teeth over his lower lip, almost drawing blood.

When he lets Julian go and Julian lets him go in kind, Julian is dazed, feeling the flush in his cheeks, and Garak is studying him like a particularly interesting vase in an ancient museum. There is no anger in his face, but nor is there any excitement, and Julian has never been so certain of what precisely Garak is feeling in his life.

“Gul Denor is coming on in age now,” Garak murmurs. “An empire man if ever there was one: he wishes for the return of Terok Nor to Cardassia, and the idea of destroying a traitor at the same time, whilst tying in the Maquis to disguise his tracks… Why, I can see how that might appeal to him.”

“I have to go to Sisko.”

“Now?” Garak says, almost plaintively. Julian pulls away from him, downs the last of his drink, and stumbles on the stairs as he makes his way down to the ground floor of Quark’s. Quark is grinning, and he tries to say something, but Julian is already walking right past him, and he all but sprints through the corridors towards Sisko’s office.

♛ ♕ ♛ ♕ ♛ --- ARONNAX IN THE ABYSS --- ♛ ♕ ♛ ♕ ♛

Ops is quiet. At this time of the evening, most of the Beta team are in command, and only Kira is at her usual command, apparently engaged in some complex plan of the Bajoran system. Julian makes his way down the stair grating and onto the main part of the floor, listening to the soft tones of buttons being pressed around him, of sensors releasing their usual quiet pitches and whines, and he steps up to the door of Sisko’s office.

The chime doesn’t go ignored for long: mere moments after it rings, he hears Sisko say, “Enter.”

Julian steps inside, letting the stained-glass doors close behind him with a soft whoosh of sound, and he stands straight with his chin raised, his hands clasped neatly behind his back. Sisko glances up from a PADD in his left hand, which he sets lightly down on his desk; in his right hand, loosely held (he has a habit of throwing it up into the air and then catching it again) is a baseball.

“I’ve just been speaking to First Officer Jasek, of the Aronnax,” Julian says, making eye contact with the Commander and not looking away. “I asked him if anything seemed out of place on Ferenginar – I suggested he combine his Vulcan meditation technique with his Cardassian capacity for memory. He heard mention of a man named Gul Denor, who Garak has informed me is a member of the old guard on Cardassia: great damage to the station, the death of a Cardassian traitor, and the added instability of tying in the Maquis…”

“Following your hunch, hm?” Sisko asks, his eyebrows raising. His lips twitch as he asks the question, and Julian knows in front of other commanding officers, having gone behind a security officer’s back to conduct his own investigations, he would likely be chastised. He has been chastised by Benjamin Sisko before, and it has always been deserved, but it doesn’t seem like the commander is going to have at go at him now. If anything, Sisko seems strangely pleased, his lips quirking into a small smile.

“You’re not going to tell me off? Odo would.”

“I’m not Odo,” Sisko points out, not unreasonably, and he lets out a small chuckle, tapping his knuckles against the desk. “I didn’t issue an order for you not to talk to Jasek.”

“Although I did mention security information to non-station personnel,” Julian points out.

“I won’t tell if you won’t.” Sisko stands, passing the baseball between his hands as he looks out through the station windows, his eyes passing over the blackness and the shine of the distant stars. “Odo won’t admit it, Doctor, but the Maquis felt like too simple an explanation to him, too. The question is how to proceed.”

“Yes, sir,” Julian says, nodding his head, and Sisko glances in his direction.

“At ease, Doctor,” he says, and Julian lets his shoulders loosen, bringing his hands to his sides and letting his arms swing slightly as he teeters on his heels. He thinks of Garak in the Replimat, thinks of Garak’s mouth on his – do Cardassians kiss each other? On the Cardassian homeworld, growing up, did Garak go through the same awkward teenage fumblings Julian did with young women, with young men? “You like Jasek, don’t you?”

“I find him very interesting,” Julian says quietly, taking a few steps forward and slowly sliding down into one of the seats in front of Sisko’s desk. The older man continues to play with the ball, keeping his back to Julian, and Julian adds, “I’m very curious about Cardassians, sir, more and more as time goes on. I just wish there was literature, or media, or something.”

“Don’t you and Garak read books together?” Sisko asks, turning his head to look wryly in Julian’s direction, and his chin tilts slightly. Julian’s lips part. It is true. He does read the Cardassian literature, but there’s so little of it he truly understands, and he knows for a fact that Garak picks out literature he really believes Julian will understand. But Julian knows the books they’ve read, volume by volume: the Cardassian stories don’t reveal nearly as much about Cardassian culture as he wishes they would. He is certain there are metaphors he’s missing – if he could only access more books, select them at his choice from a wider library, look into the lives of their authors, perhaps he could truly learn, but he can’t access anything Garak doesn’t pass onto him.

“It’s not the same as accessing a library,” Julian murmurs. “He can find out whatever he likes about my culture – his is a little more out of reach.” And what does he know about Garak, really? What does he know can spark a reaction out of Garak, what does he know is really important to Cardassians? Openly stating a fact without couching them in riddles? Doing something selfless without an ulterior motive? Wearing mauve? Well, that’s not Cardassians in general. It’s Garak who doesn’t like mauve. But how am I to know where Cardassian culture ends and Garak begins? He allows the silence to span between them for a few moments, and he can see Sisko considering what to say next, and he wonders if he’s said too much, if Sisko thinks he’s as childish and over-excited as he was when he first came to the station. “What’s going to happen with Gul Denor?”

“I’ll pass this onto Odo,” Sisko says. “Leave this with me. Good night, Doctor Bashir.”

“Good night, sir,” Julian says, and he steps out of Ops, making his way into the turbolift. He leans back against the wall, and then he says, “Promenade, first floor.” He spends the journey in the turbolift staring into space, and it seems like the minute or so lasts only seconds: he steps out and makes his way into the second level of Quark’s, looking from the balcony into the bar. Garak is still sat at one of the tables, a PADD in his left hand, a tall glass of kanar beside his right. Julian keeps watching, waiting, waiting… Garak turns his head in Julian’s direction, meeting his gaze full on.

Julian grins. “How do you do that?” he calls down, and when Garak smiles, he feels his heart give a little flutter in his chest. Making his way down the stairs, he walks up to Garak, but steps slightly behind him instead of sitting down across from him: Julian sets both of his hands on Garak’s shoulders, presses down just slightly, feels the way Garak’s entire body goes stiff, looks at his wide eyes in the bar’s mirrors.

“What connotations does this have?” Julian asks, softly. “Tell me frankly. You look positively scandalized.”

“Perhaps I am,” Garak murmurs, taking a small sip of his kanar. Julian looks at their reflection in the mirror, at how natural the position seems, Garak with his book and his evening drink, Julian poised behind him with his hands on his shoulders: it seems a little old-fashioned, provincial, even, but he is certain that to the Cardassians, it is so much more. “But it’s rather good to be scandalized once in a while, I feel. Keeps one’s heart healthy.”

“I often think about your heart,” Julian whispers, so quietly he doesn’t think Garak should really be able to make out the words amidst the noise of the dabo, but perhaps Garak reads it on his lips, because his eyes soften, his head tilting to the side. The PADD is gently set down, and Garak’s hand settles on top of Julian’s, slightly cool and dry against Julian’s skin. “I don’t know if that means the same to you as it does to me.”

“In Kardasi,” Garak says, his fingers clasping at Julian’s, “our word for heart is purely anatomical. It is the central organ for pumping blood around the body: that is all. But in Terran tongues, it seems, the heart is a battleground for one’s honour and one’s love, one’s courage, one’s grief. One’s soul, even.” Cardassians don’t have souls, Julian thinks. He’s certain Garak’s told him before that Cardassians don’t put faith in such foolish notions. Must everything be in my language, based on my understanding? Julian wonders, Will you never expect me to learn something more significant than how to argue, or how to eat my food more slowly?

“The ancient Greeks believed one’s essence was stored in the chest,” Julian says. “They didn’t yet know how important the brain was: their emotions, thoughts, beliefs – and yes, their soul, their lifeforce – all of it was right here.” Julian’s hand, the one not grasped by Garak’s own, slides forwards, to the very centre of Garak’s rib cage, where the Cardassian heart is found. His hand is just over the spoon there, no doubt evolved to make blows glance away from the plate of the sternum. I don’t know why I’m always surprised at how coy you are, Julian wants to murmur against Garak’s hair, which is inches away from his lips, so close that he can smell the product Garak wears to keep it stiff and shiny, You’re a species who grew armour from their very own flesh, evolved to protect against any kind of exposure. How could I expect you to be open, exposed, when your very body is built to be the opposite?

Garak tilts his head back, and his hair brushes Julian’s chin, the back of his head resting lightly against Julian’s chest. Garak’s neck, like this, is easy to examine in the light of the mirror, and Julian can see the softness of the scales there, the lack of heavy scales or deflective ridges.

“You shouldn’t do that,” Julian murmurs, hypnotized by the column of Garak’s pale grey throat in the mirror. “I could slit your throat like this. Baring your neck like that – it doesn’t seem very Cardassian.”

“Scolding me, are you?” Garak asks, and when he chuckles, Julian sees the bounce and change of the muscles in his throat, the way his flesh seems to ripple with it. “In Kardasi, my dear Julian…” Garak trails off, seeming lost in a cloud of thought for a moment before he continues, “The phrase, to wear one’s heart on one’s sleeve?”

“Yes,” Julian says. His mouth is dry.

“This piece of flesh, here,” Garak takes the hand Julian has on his chest, raises it higher, until Julian’s fingers are brushing the flesh on the underside of Garak’s chin, at the very top of his throat. The flesh is soft here – not as soft as a Human’s skin, but much more yielding than most of a Cardassian’s flesh – and doesn’t have any scales or tiny ridges, instead a smooth square hidden under the chin. It feels vulnerable. “What would you call this?”

“Your— Your throat, I suppose. Your gullet, just inside – and then there’s the larynx, the trach—”

“Let us not get carried away,” Garak interrupts, his tone stern, but thoughtful. “This patch of flesh is the vut-Iyok.” As Garak talks, Julian feels the slight vibrations of his voice through the smooth flesh, feels that here, his flesh is warmer, so close as it is to the surface – he supposes Cardassians aren’t truly cold-blooded, or at the very least, not entirely.

“The vut-Iyok,” Julian repeats, doing his best to perfectly mimic Garak’s pronunciation. “I don’t suppose I might ask for an etymological history?” Garak laughs, outright, leaning into Julian’s hand as he does so, and Julian is aware of Quark, who has now noticed them, shooting nosy glances in their direction. He sees money exchange hands between him and Morn – a bet, no doubt, but Julian will begin worrying about that later.

“Iyok means song. Literally, perhaps one could say throat-song, although the vut is actually one’s jaw. Throughout ancient Kardasi literature and philosophy, the vut-Iyok is where the life-force, the base for one’s feeling, is found,” Garak murmurs. “But there is a crucial phrase: to bare one’s vut-Iyok to the sun. It means… To be overly candid. To reveal one’s hand. To show one’s… affections.”

“What is sun in Kardasi?” Julian asks. Garak leans further back, so that he is looking directly up into Julian’s face: they no longer look at each other with the mirror as a buffer, and instead Julian can see the soft blue of Garak’s eyes up close. “I must look silly upside down,” Julian says, because he cannot think of anything else to say. With his fingers pressed to Garak’s vut-Iyok, he can feel the soft pulse of his blood in his veins, just under the skin. Garak seems as if he is waiting for something, his expression carefully neutral, but his eyes so soft, their gaze so tender. Perhaps Julian is imagining things, perhaps he is imagining the gentle warmth in Garak’s eyes, the apparent affection there.

“What does it mean?” Garak asks. “If I were to reach out and touch your heart, to feel its pulse beneath my fingers?”

“Probably that I’m disobeying some sort of sacred Cardassian etiquette,” Julian replies. “Letting you touch such a vulnerable part of me – I feel like you’d scold me. For trusting you too much.” Julian thinks of the patch of flesh under his fingers, and he suddenly feels as if he may burst spontaneously into tears. “You often scold me for that.”

“Etiquette isn’t everything,” is all Garak says, and he pulls away from both of Julian’s hands, standing up from the table. He drinks the rest of the syrupy substance in his glance, tucking his PADD into a wide pocket, and suddenly, Garak stands before him, a tailor on his break, polite and deferential. “If you will excuse me, Doctor, I—” Unzipping the outer jacket of his uniform faster than he ever has before, Julian grabs roughly at Garak’s right hand and pulls it to his chest. The coolness of Garak’s fingers as they splay over the left side of Julian’s ribs is palpable even through the fabric of his undershirt and the vest he wears beneath, and he wonders what Garak thinks of the heat, if it is pleasant or merely uncomfortable.

“If you call me Doctor outside the infirmary or a war ground ever again, I will slit your vut-Iyok from ear to ear,” Julian says, rather more harshly than he’d intended and rather more violently, but Garak doesn’t seem uncomfortable in the least. In fact, Julian thinks as they stand together, one of Garak’s hands on his chest and the other on his hip, Julian’s own hands awkwardly splayed on Garak’s upper arms (they must look like the tawdry cover of one of Leeta’s romance novels), Garak’s smile looks so dazzlingly bright, it could relight dying stars.

“My dear,” Garak murmurs, conspiratorially. “I believe everyone is looking in our direction.”

“One can hardly blame them,” Julian says emphatically, and he pulls the other man into a kiss. Across the room, he hears an excited cry of “Dabo!”, and it feels almost as if the applause is for them.

♛ ♕ ♛ ♕ ♛ --- ARONNAX IN THE ABYSS --- ♛ ♕ ♛ ♕ ♛

Jasek stands stonily in the middle of the conference room, his arms crossed tightly over his chest. Julian looks around the room, at Kira and Jadzia, at Miles, at Sisko. Odo is the only other person standing, and he doesn’t seem intimidated by Jasek in the least.

“I have spoken to a contact on Ferenginar,” Odo says lightly, holding a PADD leisurely against his hip. “And I’ve been informed Gul Denor had indeed come with an envoy to Ferenginar in the past month, with some Cardassian goods being sold in the bazaar; speaking with another contact on Cardassia, it does seem to match the philosophy of others of Denor’s plots in the past. He’s now a Gul, but he was an officer on Terok Nor, only recently promoted before the resistance to the Occupation began to come to a head.”

“What does this mean for us?” Kira asks. “It’s not as if we could prove what Denor did, and even if we could, we have no extradition policy. The Cardassians would probably give him a medal for this!”

“We hardly need to go through official channels to remove him as a threat,” Sisko says in a measured tone. “How well-viewed is Denor on Cardassia?”

“He’s respectable,” Odo says, shrugging lightly. “I’ve heard he has a penchant for gambling, thus his fondness for his time on Ferenginar. The man seems to have self-control in other areas, but it seems he cannot resist a bet.”

“Gambling isn’t well-fostered on Cardassia,” Jasek says quietly. His fingers brush the woven bracelets on his wrist, and he says, “But there are worse things to be than a gambler. He could hardly be pulled down from his position on that charge alone.”

“Where does the money come from?” Julian asks. He has to contribute somehow, and no one else is asking the question. “Cardassians believe in careful budgets, investments in property or resources – they’re not known for their free cash.” A mix of his Ferengi and Cardassian educations: Sisko gives Julian an approving nod. Jasek and Odo each seem rather surprised by the question, and they exchange a glance, both considering the thought.

Julian lets the conversation wash over him, considering the elements of the plan that come together in the room, every one of the Ops team and their temporary guest committing some fragments of concept to the fray, except Julian himself. Denor is next to visit Ferenginar in some weeks, where a Tongo tournament is occurring in the capital. Jadzia, attending with Quark and Odo, will join the tournament and bring Denor into the final, where he will be publicly disgraced – shown to embezzle from Cardassian military funds. Whether he actually does embezzle is regardless: they will either expose it if it is already the case, or Quark will engineer it if it isn’t. These aren’t approved Starfleet methods of dealing with political enemies, but they’re given a lot of leeway out here by the wormhole.

Once the meeting is over, Julian makes his way back to the infirmary, walking beside Jasek.

“Thank you for asking that I be invited to the meeting,” Jasek says. He is wearing a warm-looking tunic of earthy green, a thick, woollen cardigan worn over the top. It’s sehlat wool, Julian guesses, and although the animals themselves seem shaggy and full of teeth, the wool itself looks enviably warm. Julian would bet anything it’s rather itchy though.

“It was nothing, really,” Julian says. “It makes sense for a Cardassian to be present, and you’re personally involved in this.” They pass by a pair of Bajoran women walking arm-in-arm: one of them looks at Julian, whispers something in the ear of her friend, and the two of them titter as they make their way onwards. Julian feels a little heat come to his cheeks, but he doesn’t turn around to look after the Bajorans. He glances sideways at Jasek’s neutral expression, staring forwards with his lips pressed loosely together. “What, no snide commentary?”

“What snide commentary could I possibly have to offer?” Jasek asks, snidely. “Vulcans do not engage in gossip, Doctor Bashir. Nor do Cardassians.”

“But Starfleet nurses do,” Julian says. He thinks of last night, standing in the middle of Quark’s bar with Garak’s mouth on his and Garak’s hand on his chest, of his hand on Garak’s vut-Iyok. Garak had walked Julian back to his quarters, the two of them standing nearly shoulder to shoulder as they made their way through the corridors, and then they had finally got to Julian’s door, and it had opened… And Garak had pushed Julian over the threshold, waved a cheery goodbye, and made his way contentedly back to his own quarters. “And last I checked, you still have ears.”

“From what I have heard,” Jasek says, turning his head to meet Julian’s gaze, “You would have been breaking several laws of propriety were you on the Cardassian homeworld.” Julian chuckles, looking down at the ground. “There is a particular difficulty to any cultural exchange, Doctor Bashir. When there are elements of romance, yet another layer of nuance is added.” The infirmary’s doors are within sight, and Jasek smirks slightly as he adds, “My wife and I have broken proprietary rules on both Cardassia and Vulcan. That is the essence of interspecies romance, I think.” Julian cannot help the laugh that bursts out of him, and when he steps into the infirmary, finally, he’s glad to set his mind to work.

A/N:

Thanks so much for reading! Please subscribe on Ao3 or FFN if you want to read more of this when the next chapters come out.

Thanks so much to @tinsnip and @feltelures for their work on @cardassianlanguage, from which I lifted vocabulary for the vut-Iyok!

And if you enjoyed my fanfic, feel free to drop me a tip on Ko-Fi.

#garashir #cardassians #elim garak #julian ba #deep space nine #fanfic #dictionary writes

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