#i did just watch inter arma enim silent leges after all

[baggebythesea]

Princess Glimmer and the Day of Many Choices: Save the Bat (16/?)

"DOWN WITH THE TYRANT!"

"You can't kill him!" Entrapta pleaded. "Just look at those cute little ears."

"I think you will find they are perfectly capable to kill me," Hordak rumbled, "and well within their right to do so."

"KILL HIM!" the first in line of the lynch mob shouted.

"But he's chaaaanged," Entrapta promised.

"Which will not wash away the blood from my many crimes as a warlord and invader," Hordak said with arrogant voice, "nor the pain, rage or rightul desire for retribution felt by the survivors."

"Actually, brother, I think crimes commited while brainwashed don't count," the clone who had taken the name 'Wrong Hordak' said with a little wink. "Wink."

"However dubious that defence might be, such comfort is denied me," Hordak rumbled. "I commited the atrocities I did in the name of our father-brother willingly and under no influence other  than my own misguided sense of pride."

"LESS TALKING, MORE BURNING AT THE STAKE," the loudest person in the lynch mob shouted again, a little sprite girl with pink dress and transparant wings.

"SIC SEMPER TYRRANIS!" George the librarian cried.

"ENOUGH TALK! KICK HIM IN THE DICK!" the pink girl cried.

"Noooo, don't kick him in the dick," Entrapta pleaded.

"I'LL KICK HIM IN THE DICK!" the pink girl rushed forward. Hordak watched in contempt as her foot conencted with the crouch area of his power armour.

"Ouch, ouch, ouch," the girl wined. "Did you all see that? That was child abuse! Kill him!"

"Hoooordak," Entarpta wined. "Lets go home and put together an IKEA bookshelf together instead."

"No, my love," Hordak said with stoic voice. "I have to face the consequences of my action."

Entrapta watched him in confusion for a few moments.

"No, you don't," she said after a little while. "I have an hover scooter right here. We could just leave."

"A man's gotta do what a man's gotta do," Hordak proudly said.

"Oooooooookey...." Entrapta said. She looked uneasily at the crowd. "Well, you get on with that, and I'll just step to the side and build a tiiiiiny murder-robot real quick..."

"SILENT ENIM LEGES INTER ARMA!" Geroge cried.

"KILL HIM," the pink girl cried. "BEAT HIM WITH A STICK! FOCUS ON HOW ANGRY YOU ARE WITH THIS EVIL WARLORD AND NOT WITH THE CURRENT WAREABOUTS OF ANY OF YOUR BELONGINGS!" she helped herself to the purse of a fellow mob-member and turned her attention back to Hordak, when she suddenly became aware of three women standing in a half circle around here with arms crossed.

"Eh.... oh, I'm such a sweet innocent girl..." 'she' said with an unconvincing giggle. "Anyway, I think I should get..."

"Hello, 'Flutterina'," Glimmer said.

"Or should we say 'Double Trouble'?" Despara said.

"I'm so happy to bump into you again," Catra said.

"Oh no, I'm not Double Trouble," Double Trouble said with a big grin. "But whoever it is sounds handome. Anyway, I should get going..."

"You are not going anywhere," Despara said.

"Actually, just let her go," Glimmer sighed. "It's not Double Trouble. I suppose this must be the real Flutterina."

"What?" Catra asked.

"What?" Double Trouble asked.

"You don't think Double Trouble would be stupid enough to disguise themselves as the one person in Etheria we recognize as them, do you?" Glimmer asked.

"I suppose that WOULD be stupid," Despara hesitantly agreed.

"Yeah, you are right," Catra agreed with a grin. "Also, there's no chance they would play as unconvincing and obnoxiously as this. I suppose it must be a real child."

"Hey!" Double Trouble protested.

"Not to mention what a lame scheme it is to set up a lynch mob simply as a cheap distraction," Glimmer grinned. "Double Trouble might not be the smartest operator, but at least they're better than that."

"OK, OK," Double Trouble said and took their own guise. "Just stop. I know you're trying to be smart, but..."

"IT WAS DOUBLE TROUBLE ALL ALONG!" Despara gasped and grabbed the changelling. "I GOT THEM!"

"Nothing to see here," Glimmer said to the mob. "Just bed time for Flutterina is all..."

"I will sing a lullaby," Catra grinned, and the four of them left the scene, where the mob kept trying to work up the courage for someone to be the first to attack the aloof Hordak.

"CETERUM CENSEO HORDAK ESSE DELENDAM!" Geroge cried. "Oh, hey, Bow," he added in normal voice.

"Hi dad," Bow said. "Um... could you stop attacking Hordak, please."

"Now, now, Bow," George chided. "violently overthrowing despots by the means of angry mobs is a time honoured tradition."

"I wrote my thesis about it," Lance added.

"And juuuuuuuuust a little laser..." Entrapta muttered for herself, tinkering with a growing contraption.

"But you can't kill him!" Bow pleaded.

Part 15: https://www.tumblr.com/baggebythesea/712016363195170816/save-the-bat-it-is-next-chapter-will-be-up

[everysongineverykey]

i. i just realized that the guy on the right looks exactly like sloan and i don't know what to do

jadzia tapping into her 300 year old reservoir of dad jokes

[subatoism]

God okay so another thing that gets my gears turning is that one bit in Inter Arma Enim Silent Leges when Julian says he’s incapable of making a diagnosis by simply looking at a man, to which Sloan replies, “Oh, your genetically enhanced friends determined that Gul Damar killed a woman just by watching him give a political speech. I’m sure you can do better than that.” Which he then very much does.

Because like,, up to this point in the series, I was kind of writing off the discrepancy between the abilities the other Augments have (learning Dominionese in one day, reading Damar’s entire backstory from his nonverbals, etc) and what we see from Julian both before and after Doctor Bashir, I Presume as purely a result of the writing problems that inevitably occur when you throw in a revelation like that so late in a show.

Which, yeah, I still think it is that. But in-universe, it makes the question of how Julian has so thoroughly managed to hide any signs of his augmentation this whole time much more immediate. Obviously this is something that a lot of other people have already examined, and probably more eloquently than I can, but I just want to work through my own thoughts on the topic.

So, assuming that Julian has roughly the same intellectual capacities as the other Augments, there are a couple possibilities:

[1] Julian is a brilliant actor. Since the very beginning of the show, he has been subtly playing up his own spotty observational/deductive skills in certain areas specifically to maintain his cover. This, of course, has profound implications for interpreting almost any scene he is in pre-DBIP (and particularly for all of his relationships with people who only ever see this persona). I mean god!! Confronting how complete an enigma the real Julian Bashir is if you accept this interpretation makes me feel insane.

But it also says something about all of his scenes after DBIP: That he can’t let it go. Can’t drop the façade, either because it’s ingrained habit to pretend or because he still believes (rightly or wrongly) that displaying his full potential will eventually lead to Starfleet changing its mind about letting him go free. Like, this guy is 3x more traumatized than he appears at any given moment.

[2] Julian intentionally avoids knowing/paying attention to things.

Not when it comes to medicine, for the most part. Sacrificing the well-being of a patient to keep his own secret is absolutely antithetical to his core values, and I’m unwilling to entertain the idea that his fundamental motives are a falsehood. At the very least, if he did ever hold himself back out of fear and put someone else at risk by doing so, it would eat him alive for the rest of his life. So that’s a whole ‘nother level of trauma that the show never gets a chance to address.

But, anyway, he avoids thinking too hard about what he’s capable of— forces himself not to think through problems that it would be suspicious for him to solve; possibly even denies himself access to information that it would be alarming for him to memorize too quickly which, given his deep curiosity and hunger for knowledge, would be an almost painful act of self-denial. And, again, this behavior is so ingrained that he keeps doing it even after his secret is out. He doesn’t even think to try doing what the other Augments have clearly demonstrated they can do (at least, not outside the events of Statistical Probabilities, which may have actually reinforced his self-limitation given how all that turned out).

So, yeah, both of these options are just absolutely fucking tragic and make me want to cry but I cannot stop thinking about either one.

[sanerontheinside]

Work In Progress: Silent enim leges inter arma for @aidava and @deadcatwithaflamethrower, the two people most guilty for the existence of this monstrosity (without even meaning to be), and for @poplitealqueen with many thanks for encouragement. :)

There’s a chance I won’t have much to show for May the 4th aside from this, but I’m not sure I mind. I will not be posting any of this au to ao3 until a significant portion is done, however, which may take a very long time. Previously introduced under the guise of ‘the frankenAU’, I now give you a relatively polished first chapter: 

In all the time he’d known Maul, the Zabrak had barely spoken two words together. Most of his language seemed limited to snarls and baleful sulfurous-yellow glares. He’d smile back with a curve to his lips all too feral, tip his head in the barest sketch of a nod, all the time waiting. Waiting for his chance to deliver Maul to Sidious as a failure, albeit the result of his own careful, delicate sabotage.

Sidious would know, of course. The bastard always knew. But it wasn't as though he expected to keep both Apprentices, surely. No—survival of the fittest, that was what Sidious wanted. Maul was an excellent specimen, a sterling example of a weapon honed by and tempered with hate and pain. Sidious’s weapon, an evolutionary marvel if your study was pure brute force.

An assassin, but not a successor. Never a threat to Sidious himself.

And that was, in part, the risk of getting rid of him. It would attract Sidious's attention, snap it tightly onto his other pet, show him far too much of the cards his lowly remaining Apprentice held. Maul’s death was therefore never to be risked, unless and until the stakes were high enough.

They certainly were now.

Maul stood in the hangar bay, waiting, far more patience coiled about him and holding him in place than he'd ever thought possible for the Zabrak. He almost felt sorry for what he was about to do—for the meticulous work he was about to destroy. But no, this was a matter of protecting what was his and his alone.

He waited until the very last moment to relax his shielding, letting his rival sense his approach. Outwardly, he smiled at Maul, as friendly as ever.

In truth, Maul’s voice was soft, astoundingly so.  It had a quiet rasp—like a heat haze dancing over coals in a firepit. “What are you doing here?”

“Why, our Master sent me,” he replied cheerily. “To finish the job when you fail, of course.”

Maul’s jaw tightened almost imperceptibly, nostrils flaring, eyes ablaze, but his voice remained even. “I will not fail.”

He smiled. “Such unwavering conviction. You stand against not one, but two of the best fighters of the Jedi Order. Can you be so certain?”

Quicker than thought, his blade had slipped from its concealed holster in his sleeve, falling into his palm like coming home. Maul met the stroke with a sharp movement of his own, matching him for speed, but with a brow raised quizzically.

“Our Master wants the Jedi dead. This would serve no purpose but to tire both of us out before they arrive.”

Logical, practical. Totally unprepared.

“You're so right.” He grinned.

Spun, tapped his boot, and met Maul’s side with a deft kick to his ankle.

The Sith hissed, mostly in surprise—it wouldn't have hurt him much. In fact, concealed daggers such as these were meant to pass unnoticed, and Maul had acquired a fairly high tolerance to pain under Sidious's gentle ministrations—they both had. The Zabrak twisted around to get a hand into his hair, but he had always been quicker. He'd tucked the blade back into his boot by then, put enough distance between them at a single leap, laughing as he landed softly catlike and well out of reach.

“I'll leave you with that,” he called back. Then he paused, a black-gloved hand raised, cocked his head to one side as if listening. “They're nearly here, after all,” he added softly, with a warm smile. “Do take care to actually kill them this time?”

Maul angrily thumbed the switch of his own lightsaber with an indignant grunt, but said nothing, disengaged his blade and turned around to wait. In seconds he'd fallen into his version of a meditation again, gearing up for a long fight, utterly heedless yet of the venom slowly seeping into his circulation.

Crashing blades, violent red and blazing emerald, Darkness roiling, spilling over into the air and battering against the mind—

Now wasn't the time to be thinking of visions, not when the Force hung still and tense, stretched taut and poised for shattering. It felt like a metaphysical bated breath, paralysed in the face of infinite possibilities flung out in a death spiral. Obi-Wan sank into it, shoving aside the thought that he'd known of this coming moment, that the vision that had haunted his dreams for years was finally happening and he knew precisely what the outcome would be. Foreknowledge wasn't of much help when everything around their opponent was warped and twisted with dire warnings, and the terror of this moment had melted into his bones too long ago to be a distraction.

The Zabrak fought with seemingly no care to exhausting his reserves, relying as much on Force-assisted shoves and Force-propelled shrapnel as on his blade. Obi-Wan had never faced an opponent who fought like this, even when Master Giett had taken it upon himself to humble Qui-Gon and his Padawan together. The Combat Master’s favored Sixth Form relied on its surroundings as much as it did on skill with the blade, but they'd fought in a set obstacle course with no flying distractions. Obi-Wan flashed on a sudden, hysterically pitched thought that if the Combat Master had had the time before his injuries landed him on the disabled list, he might have put them through a course of moving obstacles as well.

A blow to the jaw sent Obi-Wan to the edge of the catwalk, where he desperately snatched a precarious few seconds of balance—only to fall anyway, swearing without any particular sort of malice. Perversely he was almost grateful for that kick, at least when he finally found handholds a couple platforms below. It gave him time to reach out with his senses and reassess the situation above him.

Qui-Gon had taught Obi-Wan to fight, but after the Stark Hyperspace War, the Combat Master had taken to watching both of them in the salles and throwing out commentary and advice. On one memorable occasion, Micah stayed to watch Obi-Wan and Quinlan spar. Quin, as always, fought dirty. Obi-Wan had held up pretty well, but three rounds into their ‘friendly match’ Micah waved him over and pulled him down to mutter a secret into his ear.

“Pull back,” Micah had said, which made no sense. “Take a moment and pay attention to your opponent, look for a pattern. You already know how to trust in the Force, you already know how to move. You don’t need to focus on every individual attack anymore. Pull back, look for anything you can use against him. Look for your opponent’s intent.”

Obi-Wan still hit the mat a few more times that day. But on Yinchorr, that lesson had saved both their lives.

He refocused just as Qui-Gon threw the Zabrak from the catwalk. Obi-Wan permitted himself a momentary spark of glee, sensing a flare of anger and Dark as the bastard fell. Qui-Gon, determined to press his advantage, leapt after him.

Unfortunately it didn't seem that the fall had taken much out of their opponent. The Force told Obi-Wan his Master was tiring fast, but that was no surprise either—conditions may have been better here than on Tatooine, but they'd already faced a small skirmish on the way into Theed. The Zabrak had been waiting for them, with likely nothing else to distract or concern him.

Still, as Obi-Wan pulled himself up and back onto the catwalk, he thought that perhaps the Zabrak’s moves had slowed, or become less precise. He stopped for a split second, pushed away his revulsion at the overwhelming rush of Darkness and forced himself to look at the Sith more closely, hunting for any sign of weakness.

He was surprised to find any. They hadn't managed to so much as tag their opponent yet, but Obi-Wan could sense a tiny thread of pain feeding into the anger. Not even pain—a kind of numb cold. It roused a suspicion in him and he looked again, desperate to find anything that might give them the upper hand. He studied the movements, compared them to the memory of their opponent’s dance at the outset. Was it his imagination, or was the Zabrak favouring his right more and more often?

He was also giving ground easily—far too easily—and drawing Qui-Gon along with him. It should have been obvious, yet Qui-Gon kept letting him do it, pressing forward in a relentless attack. Obi-Wan had a sudden sharp awareness of the possibility that he might not be able to catch up.

Sith take it, they could take him if they just stayed together.

A leap upward took him to the right level, but even with the brief (and dubious) reprieve, Obi-Wan could not hope for Force-assisted speed. Lungs burning, he ran after his Master, dimly realising that the Zabrak was leading them to the shielded power generator, and that he wasn't going to make it.

He skidded to halt between the first and second shields just as they cycled closed around him. Far ahead, one final barrier remained between his Master and the Sith. A pity these shields couldn’t hold back the buffeting waves of Darkness that tangled the Force around him—the chaotic threads were physically distracting. Obi-Wan had the dim sense of prickling on his skin, like the memory of blistering heat, and wondered what Qui-Gon, so deeply entrenched in the Living Force, must feel. He watched, almost in disbelief, as his Master deactivated his blade and dropped to one knee, to meditate in the face of this jangling discord.

It was difficult to say at that moment whether meditation would help in the face of this raw discord, or not. Perhaps it was good manipulation, convincing their opponent that they were not as far-gone after all: his Master wore serenity like a cloak, even like this, winded from a long fight and preparing for one last burst.

But they had been a team for nearly a decade, and Obi-Wan knew without a doubt that this short reprieve would not be enough. He reached for the bond—

And ran up against a wall. Tight shields locked his Master’s mind away from him, as they never had before in any fight they’d faced together.

It didn’t just hurt, it burned with dismissal and a baseless lack of trust. Obi-Wan felt a surge of something that tasted like anger and channeled it outwards as a distraction, turned back to hammering against his Master’s shields because that was all he had left. He had no weapons in his arsenal against this. He’d never experienced this kind of deliberate disconnect.

The emptiness where the training bond had been was cold and glaring, now completely impossible to ignore. All that remained to him was the hope that he would be fast enough to reach his Master when the ray-shields cycled off.

Qui-Gon was all too keenly aware that he was running out of time. The Sith had drawn him into the heart of the city’s main generator, to the melting pit of the reactor—boxed in, Qui-Gon thought. Behind him, he heard his Padawan pacing. They were both riding the ragged edge of exhaustion, as their opponent had clearly intended. But so long as Qui-Gon stood between him and Obi-Wan, so long as he had the strength to—at best—kill, and at least—maim the Zabrak, he had no further care for what happened to him.

So long as Obi-Wan was safe, and alive, nothing else mattered.

But at the moment he had the frustrating feeling that nothing he did or tried seemed to matter, either. The Zabrak deflected his blows almost as easily as swatting away an insect, and on the occasions that he’d met with Qui-Gon’s elbow or knee intimately, he’d brushed off the pain like water. He’d slowed down, but not by much, as if the pain kept him going. It was enough to be concerning: by now Qui-Gon’s lungs burned, his arms ached, and he felt as though he were moving through a haze. If he were to draw on the Force, even for one hard shove, he would have no strength left for anything else.

So he did not risk it.

As the ray shields slammed closed he stopped, and immersed himself in it instead, letting it flow through him as he had not in the last weeks. Always on the move, in a harried, haphazard rush—how had he permitted himself to forget this? The Force reached back for him, cradled him, held him. Five shields behind, Obi-Wan was desperately calling into their bond, trying to break though his Master’s shields. But Qui-Gon didn’t dare drop the barriers between them—he could not, not without betraying his intentions.

Oh, gods, Obi-Wan, I’m so sorry.

Damn the Force and the visions it had plagued his Padawan with, and to hells with so-called ‘fate’, Qui-Gon thought. The Force could do what it liked with him, but not with his Padawan.

Down on one knee, finding a moment of calm in a sea of chaos, Qui-Gon ignored the Sith pacing before him and breathed. He needed clarity for what he was about to attempt. He could not, would not fail, because failure meant the life of the man behind him.

You offered me your life on Bandomeer, he thought. This time, let the gift be mine.

When the ray-shield cycled open, he was ready.

It was a struggle, forcing his body out of the stance he’d used for years and just for one moment, to fall back into drilled-in habits, into a form he’d hated so much. Where Ataru was an attack, pure, straight-forward, Makashi was a fast taunt, a cat toying with a mouse. His Master had always pointed out his weaknesses like that. But it was worth it for the flash of surprise, for something that tasted like fear in the Force; fear that the Sith had not taken the full measure of his opponent. It was worth it, for that one risky lunge, landing a hit and shearing through the saberstaff and slicing easily through muscle as his momentum carried him forward.

Perhaps Qui-Gon should have expected the blow to his unprotected side. He’d certainly landed a damaging hit, but the Sith remained stubbornly standing, while he found his vision greying and his knees folding under him. There was hardly any pain, only numbness and confusion as he wondered how the hells it had happened he’d managed to catch a blow from the Sith’s reverse-grip, and furthermore why his opponent hadn’t moved. The Zabrak was just standing there, glaring down at him with those burning, corrupted eyes.

The cry startled him, and Qui-Gon shot upright, like a wire had been pulled taut through the top of his head. Obi-Wan. That awful cry, it was his voice, and with it an outpouring of anguish that broke through the barriers in Qui-Gon’s mind like nothing else could have. He nearly blacked out from the pain of it, but grit his teeth and snarled up at the Sith. For Obi-Wan’s sake.

The Zabrak only smiled.

I am going to kill him, the dark thing said in a voice too soft to be real. I will take great pleasure in making you watch.

Black spots were dancing in his eyes, grey touching the edges of his sight. But he was a Jedi Master, gods damn it all, and unconsciousness could bloody well wait. He wasn't about to let this thing anywhere near his Padawan.

Pushing away the rising, tingling cold, Qui-Gon pulled the Force to him with a last prayer for strength, and lunged forward, rising up from his knees with a terrible cry of his own. The Sith parried the onslaught rapidly, poorly-masked surprise turning quickly to annoyance. Qui-Gon even managed to push him back to the melting pit before the shields started to cycle again. But rather than allow his attention to be divided between two opponents the Zabrak simply stuck out his hand and brought the Force to bear, sent Qui-Gon flying across the room and into a wall. It knocked the remaining breath out of him, and he slid down to a crumpled heap on the floor, unable to do any more than gasp and watch with stunned horror as Obi-Wan dueled the relentless monster.

He wondered if it would have been better if he could not see. Watching, hearing this duel was a torment all its own. The Sith certainly meant to make good on his word, his own injuries notwithstanding. Qui-Gon couldn’t fathom how he still fought. When his Padawan vanished into the melting pit, Qui-Gon almost gave in to the pain clawing into his consciousness and let go. Only the sight of the Zabrak, still standing at the edge of that pit and toying with his prey, convinced Qui-Gon that Obi-Wan had managed to find some sort of handhold.

Qui-Gon was fighting his own losing battle with unconsciousness. He spared a moment’s irritation for the distasteful thought that he might be killed in his sleep, put out of his misery like some wounded beast, by an opponent just as injured; and all for nothing, if Obi-Wan did not survive this. Unbidden, the thought crossed his mind that it would be better to be one with the Force than live in a world where his Padawan was dead, and the manner of his own death was irrelevant.

This dark spiral was interrupted, however. At his side, under his heavy hand, Qui-Gon suddenly felt his lightsaber twitch. He pried his eyes open again, loosened his grasp on the weapon. Now it seemed to take monumental effort to simply lift his hand and free the blade to move. But something that dangerously resembled hope awakened in him, forced another breath of air into his lungs and then another, as his lightsaber began to creep across the polished floor with gentle clacking.

There. In a brilliant emerald flash, Obi-Wan flew up out of the pit, twisting in midair to land behind the startled Zabrak. Qui-Gon heard the gasp torn from the Sith as the blade sliced through him, watched him fall, then let his head drop back, eyes falling shut.

It felt like he’d been unconscious for hours when he heard Obi-Wan’s worried—desperate—voice calling him back. It felt like swimming through thick mud, but he fought it, fought to force his eyes open and look at his Padawan and see him.

Obi-Wan’s face, pale and tear-stained, slowly came into focus above him. He blinked, once, twice, willed his eyes not to roll back. His Padawan was alive, but distress was printed in every line of his face. He couldn’t leave him alone now. Qui-Gon wanted to say something, but his tongue felt thick and immovable.

In the end he simply threw an arm around quaking shoulders and pulled his Padawan into a tight embrace. Obi-Wan collapsed against him, trembling with exhaustion. Hot tears leaked from his eyes, a bitter reminder of the fear that had gripped him only moments ago.

I’m here, Obi-Wan, I’m here, he thought, softly sending the words down their reopened bond. He fought to keep his eyes open, desperately clinging to every word his Padawan poured into his ear even if his mind was too sluggish to comprehend the meaning of them anymore, muttering thanks to the Force over and over until he was too tired to do even that.

Obi-Wan was alive. That was all that mattered.