#j'ula

Bria nudges her phaser rifle up to J’Ula’s face. The Matriarch stares down the barrel of the rifle, stubborn rage in her eyes. “Logic would indicate that our best choice in this situation is to kill J’Ula here and now, before she can manipulate us or our companions. General Martok, your opinion?” “I would tend to agree, Admiral,” he growls, the corners of his mouth rising into an almost sardonic smile. “This honorless petaQ does not deserve even to see the Chancellor as she dies. But J’mpok has given us his orders, and honor dictates that we follow them.” “So you would risk the future of the Klingon Empire for your honor? If we leave her alive, she could run back to the Lukara, use her superweapon again, and where would that leave us? Knowing that it was our fault the Empire was in danger yet again.” “And I thought Starfleet was cowards,” J’Ula laughs, her pale chin brushing the tip of Bria’s gun. “They need to leave people like you in charge, Admiral. Maybe then they would win wars.” Bria’s black eyes turn cold. “Daring words from the woman on the business end of my phaser,” she spits. "Don't tell me you're a turncoat, Lady J'Ula."