Some Underrated Screencaps Of Ahsoka And Darth Maul

 i cry

tfw you’re explaining metal gear background to someone and you’re four hours in when you get to solid snake

Unreleased footage of the Jedi Temple during Order 66

One of the most powerful moments I experienced as an ancient history student was when I was teaching cuneiform to visitors at a fair. A father and his two little children came up to the table where I was working. I recognised them from an interfaith ceremony I’d attended several months before: the father had said a prayer for his homeland, Syria, and for his hometown, Aleppo.

All three of them were soft-spoken, kind and curious. I taught the little girl how to press wedges into the clay, and I taught the little boy that his name meant “sun” and that there was an ancient Mesopotamian God with the same name. I told them they were about the same age as scribes were when they started their training. As they worked, their father said to them gently: “See, this is how your ancestors used to write.”

And I thought of how the Ancient City of Aleppo is almost entirely destroyed now, and how the Citadel was shelled and used as a military base, and how Palmyran temples were blown up and such a wealth of culture and history has been lost forever. And there I was with these children, two small pieces of the future of a broken country, and I was teaching them cuneiform. They were smiling and chatting to each other about Mesopotamia and “can you imagine, our great-great-great-grandparents used to write like this four thousand years ago!” For them and their father, it was more than a fun weekend activity. It was a way of connecting, despite everything and thousands of kilometres away from home, with their own history.

This moment showed me, in a concrete way, why ancient studies matter. They may not seem important now, not to many people at least. But history represents so much of our cultural identity: it teaches us where we come from, explains who we are, and guides us as we go forward. Lose it, and we lose a part of ourselves. As historians, our role is to preserve this knowledge as best we can and pass it on to future generations who will need it. I helped pass it on to two little Syrian children that day. They learnt that their country isn’t just blood and bombs, it’s also scribes and powerful kings and Sun-Gods and stories about immortality and tablets that make your hands sticky. And that matters.

rex comes to stand next to ahsoka in front of the lines of helmets held up on spikes. regards each and every one, variation in their design amidst the ranks. he can recognize each unique scratch above visors or on scalps, see those whose coat of paint was new and spruce and those whose coat of paint was worn and flaking. he can see those who were painted a beautiful shade of sunset orange, white markings of diamonds and lines on their foreheads. he can see those who do not hold any shade of paint at all, the ivory of shinies inducted into the 332nd kept clean save for the ashes atop their plastoid. he can see those with the same shade of blue they’ve always had, forming triangles down the center of their buckets, of unique designs pertaining to the brothers he had known long ago.

his eyes drift towards the clone helmet at the center front, held up on a spike for all to see. the visor outlined by a shade of blue, the republic cog he was so famously known for painted in a gray that flakes off the edge. old, belonging to one of a vet, of one who had led the charge back on saleucami when he could not, of one who took the opportunity to do what was right and risk his life flying those umbaran fighters up to the mothership above. jesse. arc trooper jesse. gone.

( he had died in rex’s arms just hours before. had died once the ship collapsed upon the ground, crawling out of the remains in an attempt to seek vengeance once more. lodged into his stomach was a piece of durasteel. he collapsed three steps in.

rex had cradled him in his arms, sobbing pitifully as he held his brother with trembling hands, clutching to him so tight it could’ve made the pain worse. but it wouldn’t be much of a difference — jesse was dying. rex had reached over, slipped jesse’s bucket from over his head, coming face to face with the trooper he had loved like his own flesh and blood. pain contorting his face, mouth pulled into a grit of teeth, tears falling down his cheek as he gasps for air. smothered in nothing but grime and blood. 

jesse attempts to reach for his blaster, still overtaken by the chip, but rex throws it away before he has the chance. then jesse grabs at his neck, attempting to strangle him. rex latches onto it before he makes it to his throat. he grips it. tight. tight enough to break it, and his vod’ika trembles even harder. he’s shaking. crying harder.

“traitor,” jesse had whispered to him. the words are rancid, spiteful, but the look in his eyes was of nothing but pain. one that rex recognized before. it was the look he had when hardcase died, it was the look he had when kix vanished, it was the look he had after maul breached his mind and subjected him to unspeakable torture. but… it was also a look of love. a brotherly love, one that has rex’s heart-wrenching at the sight. jesse was still in there.

and in the next moment, he’s gone. )

rex stands before the lines of the troopers he’s been with for the last couple of days, or weeks, or years. stands before their burials, lined up just in the formation he had them stand in a few hours before. even in death they were just soldiers. mindless, dead soldiers.

he should have listened to fives. he should have come back for echo. he should have fought harder for dogma to be freed, listened to slick despite what he had done. he should have tried to search for kix after he disappeared, he should have kept tup with him when he had the chance, he should have said goodbye to cody before he left for mandalore. he should have saved jesse. he should have saved wolffe, or bly, or anyone. he should have saved them. instead, he stands in a sea of dead brothers, wearing the armor of a commander that he is no longer fit to be.

“rex?” ahsoka calls out to him softly, her gray robe flowing around her like the wings of a sprite, montrals sticking up from under her hood. 

it’s upon her words that rex realizes the streaks of tears that have begun to cascade down his cheek, flowing down and down until it reaches his chestplate and the dusty ground below. it’s upon her words that rex finally breaks, falling to his knees and releasing a sob from deep within his chest, the grief and anger and frustration and hopelessness finally setting in and washing over like a tidal wave. ahsoka is at his side immediately, wrapping her arms around his neck and burying her face in his shoulder pauldron, letting him sob into her embrace. rex clutches onto her robe so tight he’s afraid to let go.

and rex cries. he just cries. for how long, he doesn’t know. for what reasons, he doesn’t know. but every time he looks up again, and sees jesse’s helmet up on that stake, the tears start up again. and he cries. because that’s all he can do.

The dumbest smart guys

bonus:

well-meaning and nurturing, but angory medics

saw this on twitter everyone needs to know

I don’t know what it is about Star Wars but even if it’s not your biggest fandom, it still has the funniest memes by a long shot I mean “look at all the fucks i give anakin” and “your poncho is a piece of junk” and anakin hates sand it’s all just 1000% pure class

galactic dick jokes pt. 1

Fives: Sir..? *giggling*

Anakin: Yes Fives?

Fives: Are those scopes... Jedi issue?

Rex: *chuckles*

Droids: *synchronized facepalm*

Anakin: Oh my god Fives.