GODS DON'T MAKE MISTAKES.

this is not an art blog or even a star trek blog, it’s a cringe ass w/eyoun roleplay blog. if you came here for drawings, please go to @reallytinydog instead and dominion records is now a fanfic on ao3 you are welcome to stay and watch me embarrass myself, please just don’t like/reblog any of my dumb rps!

[ option 1 : wormhole ] just assuming the bajoran wormhole was always there. and just. no one happened to find it. we could maybe assume the dominion finds it first somehow and weyoun 4 goes through it --> enter first contact scenario with the federation a lot earlier

[ option 2 : time travel ] which somehow barely makes sense ever but. going back and forth between the wormhole i would imagine one day the prophets might say “fuck this guy” and launch weyoun 5 back 100 years or so. just to fuck with him. so he enters the wormhole in present time and gets shat out 100 years in the past. and its another interesting idea because then weyoun is familiar with the federation / humans but it’d be their first time encountering a vorta. 

     ❝ I APOLOGIZE. I wish there was a way I could describe it to you in greater detail, but I’m, unfortunately, limited in what I can demonstrate. Weyoun-type models are not typically associated with the sciences. A Zeveth or a Borath would have more information. Perhaps if the Federation ever obtained schematics ... although, few Dominion ships keep this sort of data aboard. The secrecy of the cloning process is paramount, you see -- divinity is not often eager to readily share the power of creation itself. ❞

     THE LAST sentence ends with a tepid laugh, an uncharacteristically clumsy attempt at levity despite the pervasive awkwardness of this conversation. Weyoun struggles to draw what he explains out on the PADD: so far, he has managed an upright rectangle, a few circles indicating attachment ports, and a control panel beside it. A child’s scrawl would look better than this. 

something pulls at one corner of his lips. in spite of better sense, nearly humored, mutt snorts. it grates, the way he’s being talked to, but he’s been chewed up and spit out too many times not to know when and what to pick his battles with. besides, he thinks it’s funny, somewhere, deep down, in an odd way. “ i’m not like most young men my age. “ terse words of correction are quick-drawn, though his tone remains level. 

mention of oft thought of friend snags his attention. he figured he were lying, just something to distract him, but feels something within him loosen and tighten in equal parts at seeing the data rod. he represses the urge to gnaw on his bottom lip. those milky eyes might not see, but those ears, he knows, could probably hear the pulsing of his heart, which is why he stubbornly reined it in, and refused to curl into habitual lip biting. 

though his ire does not fade, it does, by sheer force of steeled will, grow subsumed, pocketed between the wire barbs of his ribs. his anger may yet be great, but his pride is greater, and he does not intend to give weyoun the satisfaction of rising further to this bait or any other, not if he can help it.

his gaze stings needles of displacing clarity into the finely-formed lines of weyoun’s face, and the skull beneath. mutt’s silent for several moments more, weighing the consequences now that his tongue seems to have stilled. “ a favor. “ barbs of wary skepticism and defiant mistrust litter his voice like shrapnel in his disdainful echoing. no other utterance is given. instead, he nods, a silent gesture for weyoun to continue, though not quite an acceptance. 

     ANOTHER SMILE pulls at the corners of his gray lips, as if tugged by some invisible puppeteer’s strings. It is an action devoid of any genuine intent. ❝ No, ❞ Weyoun agrees, patient and indulgent as if entertaining a child’s fantasy, ❝ no, of course you’re not. That’s why I need your help, isn’t it ? This is a matter of some -- delicacy, ❞ he explains, a brisk little laugh accompanied by a noncommittal hand gesture as he rounds the desk. ❝ I need you to keep an eye on someone. My own eyesight, as you know, ❞ he says dejectedly, exchanging his vapid smile for a somewhat saturnine one, ❝ is rather lacking. But don’t think I haven’t noticed your, shall we say, rather unique talents of subterfuge. ❞

     THE VIEWSCREEN in his office is large and luxurious, as is afforded to the highest ranking member of the Dominion aboard the station. He mostly uses it for long range communication to the Gamma Quadrant -- occasionally, he indulges in an online game of dabo, and he’s getting rather good at it, too. 

     THE DATA rod is inserted into the port, practiced fingers flitting over the keys. It’s him -- it is, undoubtedly, Ensign Nog, dressed in his standard issue uniform aboard a nondescript Federation-style ship. His chipper face is aglow with excitement, managing a cheery, “how good it is to see you,” before Weyoun pauses the recording and stops to stand in front of it like an eclipse.

     IT’S JUST enough to attest to Weyoun’s honesty, the validity of which is often rather difficult to prove. The screen’s glow illuminates him from behind, burnished green and orange on his dark clothes and hair, a cutting refraction against his sickly pale skin -- it obscures his features, from which the sockets of his eyes appear dark and dim, though the pearlescent shimmer of his dull grin remains as disquietingly plastic as ever. 

scrim of mutt’s jaw tenses hard at searing gaze and unyielding hovering, eyes flashing back a steely mirror in response. breaths steadying out in a refusal to give him the fear he supposes he must be after, though his fingers itch where they rest dangling near his pockets, deliberating between given comm and long-owned knife.

he wants to press, like a dog with a bone, or a wolf with claws and teeth dug into a haunch of meat he is unwilling to relinquish to a larger predator, irrevocably stubborn, but he knows to tread carefully, lightly, around men like weyoun. men are the same everywhere, seems like. the faces change, their names, too, but the way they’ve treated him never does. considering he knew those mutt had kept close to his heart, even years after escaping thoutania, he wonders, briefly, if he had something to do with the utter cruelty present on that shit planet.

(i do love them. they’re my pack. he can’t let his pack get hurt, not because of him. he can’t tell them about rom, doesn’t think he’d ever forgive himself, is sure they would never forgive him, either. can’t tell them about anything. anything can happen to him, but he won’t let anything happen to them. that is what a leader does. that is what a protector does, no matter how small, or how young.)

he leans in, looks left, right. it is as if he is checking for any eavesdroppers that might overhear some harmless, but precious, secret. “ i don’t know. “ pushed through clenched teeth. “ i’m not the only person living on this station. “ the blood still trickles down his shirt from where the claws had gripped at his head, further irritated by movement. 

“ stuff happens that i don’t know about. “ that’s a lie. he always finds a way. weyoun doesn’t need to know that. “ shit happens. you can replace your jem’hadar. you can replace your cardassians. you can be replaced. shouldn’t you keep your eye on more important things than interrogating boys? “ never is true (obvious and apparent) youth given special attention. but, to make a point, he’ll let this one slide.

     SOME BRIEF flicker of an expression crosses Weyoun’s face. It’s too short lived to be detected, let alone understood -- like some malfunctioning machine, his lip quirks slightly in amusement, the wrinkle by his nose deepens in irritation, the furrow by his brow cuts a scar across his skin as a lash of anger seizes his small frame. The Founders have bestowed upon him the gift of a silver tongue: he tells himself that he is a peaceful, reasonable person, that he will always wield words in lieu of a blade. But his mercy is seldom appreciated, and just because talk is his first resort does not mean it is his last. 

     A HANDKERCHIEF from his pocket is roughly pushed against Mutt’s face, some pale imitation of concern. The abrasive scrape of the foreign cloth sands away the streak of drying blood and also the first layer of his skin. ❝ Get the Glinn. And tell Gul Dukat we have found our perpetrator, ❞ Weyoun instructs the Jem’Hadar. 

     NOT THE Major. Dukat would object and protest her innocence even if he saw her shoot Weyoun dead in the middle of the Promenade. He can’t pin the blame on the Captain’s son. It would be an ugly declaration of careless violence to kill Sisko’s kin, a waste of life that he would prefer to avoid. And certainly not the Constable. Not Odo -- never Odo. Odo, in his sacrosanct wisdom, may do as he pleases, and Weyoun will diligently and wholly honor his wishes -- so long, of course, as they don’t supersede the Founder’s.

I really want to try to get back on writing on here regularly and going beyond just shallow rps and really getting into some c00l shit so i might end up softblocking a lot of people in an effort to trim down my followerz and think about who really has interest in writing with weyoun. 

if we’ve rped together i wont sb but if not and you DO want to interact, feel free to like this post or dm or something to get a thread starter, otherwise ya

people will say all manner of things in the earshot of an inconsequential boy, and freeze up silent soon as there’s people with influence and guns around. always been that way, mutt thinks, or at least so long as he can remember. (the dominion might still see him as an animal to put down or cage and muzzle, all the same.)

“ now, that’s not very fair of you, is it? “ the lifting arch of his brows is as much a warning, as much a challenge, as it is an inquiry, his speech low and rough, just the same. most days that feels better in his mouth, besides. the mimicry of weyoun’s speech patterns is done near subconsciously. he’s always been a sponge for that sort of thing. it helps him blend in, assimilate. helps him survive, allows him to avoid questions.

he picks the bowl up in his rough, calloused hands, and brings it to his mouth. he gives the vorta across from him a piercing look from over the side. he slurps at the last few swallows of emerald green broth. his sleeve once again acts as a napkin, wiping across the lower half of his face as he places the bowl back down. “ – you want to hear about nog. i want to hear about damar. “ he doesn’t wait for a rebuttal, his inhale barely a beat long. “ tell nog i’ve been looking after jake, his uncle, and his father. “ as promised. a huff of the same breath scrapes back out through his nose, gently flaring, tone taking a still sharper turn for the wryly sarcastic. “ and that business is going well. in part of the generous contributions made by your friend frequenting quark’s bar so often to drink – what’s that stuff? “

his head cocks, similar to the animal of his namesake. (do you know what they do to dogs that bite, boy?) he appears perfectly innocent, curious. (almost. genuinely calling mutt those sorts of words would be like trying to jam a square peg into a round hole.)

     HE CAN’T phase him.

     WEYOUN HAS been at this too long, far too many lifetimes ( and lives lost ) to the art of maneuvering through unpleasant conversation just to falter now at one boy with bad manners. Mutt must think he doesn’t like Damar -- but he doesn’t know how much he loathes him, despises him, finds him wonderfully pathetic and repulsively fascinating like some sort of particularly grotesque science experiment. Weyoun nudges the napkin a bit closer, if Mutt so feels inclined to eat like a civilized human being rather than the creature of his namesake.  

     ❝ YOU’LL HAVE to forgive me, but I don’t believe I share the same fascination for the Glinn as you do, ❞ Weyoun simpers, a serrated glare sent towards Ms. Sivo as if warning her not to approach. He has business to attend to; better to do it all in plain view, lest Mutt get any ideas about exaggerating what a vicious despot he is. ❝ I always found it so strange that children have such an intense interest in the matters of adults. Shouldn’t you be enjoying yourself ? Your years of youth are not eternal. What the Glinn does in his spare time -- and the things he partakes in -- are of no concern to a boy, ❞ Weyoun drawls. The Vorta are liberated from many things -- the anguish of a godless existence, the distractions of small pleasures, the terror of childhood. Mutt is, in a way, a fascinating glimpse into a phenomenon not just stolen from him, but his entire species. 

     ❝ YOU AREN’T like the others. Of course, enduring hardship doesn’t make you unique, ❞ he muses, ❝ as the Bajoran children have weathered adversary just as you have. Born in the occupation, orphaned by the Cardassian forces, raised on nothing but gristle and misery -- but you, well, you turned out quite different, didn’t you ? They’re all practically catatonic. It’s really quite very sad. And you, on the other hand -- so hardy ... such resilience ! ❞ he beams, a cheerful smile splitting his frigid face. ❝ You should be very proud of yourself, ❞ he coos, his voice thick with patronizing self-importance. Whether or not this flattery is genuine is irrelevant. Weyoun finds him intriguing -- he finds him pitiful -- he finds him infuriating. 

     ❝ THERE’S SOMETHING almost intriguing about watching people so determined to inhabit their own deluded version of reality that they construct these vast, endless palaces in their own minds, monuments to their egos. I don’t doubt that D.ukat was ... intelligent, passably, and that he had a somewhat remarkable sense for strategy, but his need to make everything some contrived, personal plot to fulfill some desperate need for validation was irritating, at best, and actively inhibiting our plans at worst. ❞

     ❝ THIS IS not how to lead an Empire. We are all one, under the Founders: we work together, we have our places, and this fantasy he couldn’t stop entertaining of being the Patron Saint of Bajor -- or whatever -- simply had no place in the future the Founders are working for to liberate the Alpha Quadrant. He was good to work with because any baseline appeal to his ego set him back on the right path. But he was unpredictable. He chased whatever fleeting, romantic notion of glory grossed his mind, he let his personal attachments get in the way of his duty to the Dominion -- how badly he wanted his daughter to accept him, how badly he wanted that Bajoran Major’s affection. ❞