OO4 | SPAM + VIDEO

[maytakecenturies]

[Open Spam]

[T'Pol can't recall the last time she was given a gift. She thinks it must have happened, at some point: it's highly likely her parents presented her with items for education. She doesn't recall them in detail, though. Faced with so many presents from a group of people who are, effectively, strangers, she stops trying to remember; the past is not important, the same as so many of these gifts are not important.

She doesn't put stock in material wealth, and never has. She understands it, certainly - well enough to use against others. But possessions have never been important to her. She hasn't owned anything in years.

So, really, she has no idea what to do with this new found wealth. Which means she's as clinically logical and practical about it as she can be. The clothing she inspects carefully for anything dangerous - satisfied with their safety, she puts them away, behind her duty uniforms. Not because she prefers the Starfleet issue, but because they are what is familiar. Another time, she will decide what she actually likes to wear for herself, but for now that lies unimportant. Everything else decorative and useless she puts away rather than hangs up, save for the Everstone from MewTwo. That she displays on her desk, the one decoration her quarters have ever seen.

Everything Vulcan is stored in a box and shoved into the back of her wardrobe. Old habits die hard, if they ever do. She almost regrets tucking away the wall hangings. It has been so long since she's been surrounding by anything but cold Earth blues. That is seized upon as unnecessarily emotional, though, and she shoves it away fiercely.

In the end, she returns to the clothing and grudgingly selects a sweater and jeans, annoyed to be accepting the gift. She doesn't like owing favors. But the temperature has reached intolerable levels, so she dresses more warmly, and heads out into the ship.

Most of her day is spent wandering, committing every inch of the ship to memory. She can be found in the halls, working out in the gym - from a corner, of course, where no one can sneak up on her - and, briefly, walking through greenhouse. Everything is too flush, there, the flora too Human; she leaves quickly. Come dinner time, she works her shift in the mess hall, following instruction in cooking. She's not bad at it, so long as there are directions. Cooking is a science of its own, after all, and she is predisposed. It's good that most meals are buffet style: serving she is much less predisposed to.

And at some point in the evening, she discovers that there are labs just beyond her reach. She loiters there, considering asking after the every day monitoring that must occur in there; instead, she waits for someone to let her in.

Much later, closer to the morning than the middle of the night, T'Pol leaves her quarters again when sleep eludes her. She winds her way up and down the Barge, eventually finding herself back in the dining hall. Finding it abandoned, she hesitates in the door way, glancing over her shoulder, up and down the hall, before heading for a table with a low burning candle. She pulls it toward her, staring at the flame and trying to meditate.]

[Private to Bucky]

Captain Rogers has volunteered you as my secondary warden.

[If he listens reeeeaaaaal close, he can hear the irony in her voice.]

Comments

outside the labs

[fridgetothefire]

You hoping for an invite?

[maytakecenturies]

[T'Pol turns to eye Anya, glancing briefly between the girl and the door.]

Entrance would be agreeable.

[It comes out stiffly, as it always does when she says anything particularly Vulcan. She knows what response to expect, so she delivers it as a Terran. Well, as close as she can get.]

[fridgetothefire]

[Anya tilts her head for a moment, assessing. It's still hard, sometimes, trying to balance her instincts with her responsibilities. Just because she likes T'Pol - there was Hannibal, there was Aslan, biding their time, abusing their access where they could get it. But she doesn't fit the mold - in her oblique, Vulcan way, she's quite open about her grievances.]

I can't set you up with a longer-term supervised project without your warden's okay, but you can come and look around with me today and then we'll see what he says, yeah?

[She's already unlocking the door.]

What do you study normally?

[maytakecenturies]

Very well.

[She lifts her chin just slightly - asking a superior's position isn't exactly a new concept. She just doesn't like the reminder that this is a prison, however nonsensical that is.]

I've studied an array of subjects. Astronomy would be the most applicable.

private

[imfollowinghim]

Sounds about right. Nice to finally meet you.

private

[maytakecenturies]

[No it's not 8|]

You don't mind.

private

[imfollowinghim]

Why would I?

private

[maytakecenturies]

I don't know you well enough to answer.

You served in the second World War?

spam

[150th]

[Mewtwo is in the greenhouse, cupping carefully in its paws one of the vases everyone received for Christmas. Inside are a few vibrant orange lilies, looking none the worse for wear despite being carried all the way up here.

But, it recognizes her from the network and nods solemnly in greeting. Its voice is surface-level telepathy, serious but non-invasive.]

{Hello, T'pol.}

spam

[maytakecenturies]

[T'Pol's mind is neat, orderly, and very guarded. It's her nature, but also necessity: she makes use of her people's limited gifts, and is eternally wary of the abilities that may be used against her.

But most of her preparation is effectively out the window, here, and she stops when she sees him, hears him. Her surprise is limited to her sharp stare, the way she holds herself perfectly still. He is not what she expected.]

Mewtwo.

spam

[150th]

{I apologize if my psychic communication is startling. I have no other means to speak.}

[It turns towards her, cautious, flower still in hand. It keeps its movements slow - would it be judged? By one it had sympathized with? It wouldn't be the first time.]

[Gym spam]

[takeyouapart]

[So Merlin's stuck his head into the gym once or twice since his arrival and he still doesn't...get it. There are machines that replicate the activities of running, and rowing, and lifting heavy loads - but by using the machines, you're not actually accomplishing anything that he can see. The running and rowing doesn't get you anywhere. The heavy loads remain exactly where they are.

Maybe it's a kind of sacrifice. Sweat and toil to power a ship without sails or oars. He doesn't know how the Admiral's magic works.

Eventually it's going to occur to him that standing at the door of the gym and (occasionally) watching its lone female occupant might be considered impolite.]

[Gym spam]

[maytakecenturies]

[T'Pol has shifted the equipment in the gym more than once, largely for her own comfort: too many of these machines force you to face a wall rather than the room, and the idea of having her back to an unknown number of strangers at any point does not sit well with her. She was surprised Cassel allowed it, though of course she barely showed it.

Now, she sits on a rowing machine, oddly annoyed by the swish of water. An effect, she does not doubt, added to make the exercise seem more realistic. But she isn't from a planet nearly covered in water. The sound is more a buzz over the sound of her inhales and exhales.

It quiets when she notices the young man in the doorway, though, because once she notices him she won't look away. Her arms work; her legs push; her eyes narrow. Her hands tighten on the handles, and eventually she raises her voice above the rowing, sharp and cold.]

Do you need something?

Re: [Gym spam]

[takeyouapart]

No. Sorry.

[He takes a step back, considers leaving, then doesn't. Curiosity propels him.]

...what are you doing?

[night time, hallway spam]

[routemistress]

[Iris needs far less sleep than a human, and she uses some of that time to patrol the Barge. Sometimes she brings the dogs with her; sometimes she trades off the extra eyes, ears and noses for stealth and wanders the floors and hallways alone.

She's alone tonight. She steps quietly and carries no light. She's considering going to the swimming pool afterwards; providing she doesn't encounter any stabbings, evil clowns or hordes of zombies.

The other solitary wanderer doesn't seem to be any of those, and Iris smiles when she recognises her.]

Do Vulcans not need as much sleep either? I'm always glad we don't 'ave pub and library closing times 'ere, I'd do me nut.

[night time, hallway spam]

[maytakecenturies]

[She doesn't notice Iris right away; the lack of constant run lights is affecting her eyesight enough that T'Pol reserves to take a light with her the next time she decides to walk about late at night. Iris nearly startles her, and it's only a few seconds that save T'Pol from having to stifle a reaction.

Instead, she's wary, but not shuttered as she usually is. She is curious about Iris, enough to table some of her deep seated hostility. Not all who look Human are; she knows that very well.]

A good deal less than Humans. [She cocks her head.] Shouldn't every service have a gamma shift?

[warisart]

[Ben's reactions are always either blatantly obvious or almost nonexistently subtle; there's really no middle ground, not that most would recognize, not yet habitually. So maybe it isn't really all that surprising that he appears to settle right back in on the Barge now that he's home, with his time away - both months worth - making only minimal inroads into the comfort and belonging he's managed to find here.

And that that isn't entirely accurate.

It's not as bad as he supposes it could be, as he supposes it is for others; after all he grew up at Manticore, and not for nothing have both versions of himself found similarities on their respective Barges. But the unsettling anxiety is still there. He keeps it quiet and to himself because that is how he operates by preference, extending his understanding of anything and everything as far as he can so that he can explain to others when, if he needs to speak to them exactly what the problem is, so he can answer questions as precisely as possible, when possible. And because maybe, if he can resolve it himself, it will go away entirely.

This is part of that: he has never needed much sleep and now that he's physically recovered from the ordeal, that hasn't changed. He doesn't keep to his cabin or Anya's anymore, though, and instead wanders the halls of the Barge, often winding up here, in what is closest to his territory as he comes here. Closer even than his own room.

T'Pol is already in the dining hall. He can see her clearly, even without the candle, when he slips out of the kitchens where he's been going through the inventory by touch and smell; allows the door to click somewhat more loudly than necessary to alert her to his presence as well, unsure how well she can see outside the ring of light.

It isn't until she looks over that he addresses her, though.]

Apologies. Do you require anything from the kitchens while I am here?

[maytakecenturies]

[Her eyesight is better suited to searing sunlight than dark halls, but T'Pol long ago convinced herself that her hearing makes up for it. She hears the door and shifts to look over her shoulder. It's a subtle gesture, nonchalant, as if she isn't searching for a knife aimed at her shoulder blades. The surface is calm, but just below it she is simmering, ready for a fight that has not begun.

She doesn't relax when he speaks, not entirely, but there is something familiar in it. She waits out the tension.]

I did not come looking for food. [Which isn't a no, and doesn't give much explanation of what she did come for. She's okay with that.]

[warisart]

[If she is searching for a knife aimed at her shoulderblades, Ben would not take offense; if she is wary, ready, he would not begrudge her that. She won't find it from him though. It's what allows him to feel neither responsible nor guilty, neither offended nor threatened.

He doesn't approach, and doesn't miss the lack of an answer although he doesn't know what it means.]

Then do you require anything else while I am here?

dining hall spam

[withtheoldbreed]

[It's been about a week and a half since Gene had started borrowing one of the spare cots (well, technically speaking, Jay's cot, but Jay's not here and probably won't want it even if he does show up) in Snaf's room, and for the most part, he's sleeping a little easier than he was. This probably has more to do with the fact that he's now sharing a space with someone who can wake him up before he starts screaming or thrashing and less because he's actually starting to sleep well, but regardless, he tends to spend less time staring at his ceiling or wandering the halls trying to distract himself until he's tired enough to go to sleep.

Tonight, he'd still needed the space or the distraction, and so after Snafu had gone back to sleep on his own cot, Gene had quietly gotten up, thrown his uniform back on and headed to the dining hall for some coffee, fully expecting it to be mostly deserted at this hour.

... Except it's not, and he sort of nervously hovers in the doorway for a moment when he sees who it is. He hasn't really spoken to Lieutenant Commander T'Pol since the incident with the mistletoe, when she'd pressed his fingers to hers and he'd made the mistake of asking why, and he's fairly certain it would be for the best if he just turned right around and headed back to his rack.

But he's also really fucking tired, she's not actually his commanding officer, and he wants some coffee, so he finally carefully takes a couple steps into the room.]

dining hall spam

[maytakecenturies]

[Her eyes follow the candle flame, counting the seconds until it gutters. She tries to silence the quiet, calculating numbers, pausing in the stretch between two minutes, pausing her eternal forward thinking. Instead, she watches it shiver and twitch, allowing herself to be hypnotized.

That is what meditating has felt like more often than not in recent years: she cannot ease herself into inner peace. She must trick herself into it, arrange the opportunity to fall for the trap.

She is falling when movement catches the corner of her eye, and T'Pol's eyes jerk up sharply. Any pretense of calm fades; her hand closes around the hot candle holder, ignoring the way it burns against her palm. It would make a good projectile, if one becomes necessary.

When she sees who it is, she's not convinced it isn't. Vulcans don't keep grudges, but T'Pol rarely forgets.]

It's late.

[Why are you here, she means.]

cw for racist language

[withtheoldbreed]

[Sledge freezes, eyes flicking down to the candle and back to her face, fighting the irrational urge to reach for a weapon. She's not a friend, but she's not a Jap, either, and he really fucking wishes he'd stop having this startle response to anything unexpected and potentially violent happening.

He doesn't quite relax, but it should be pretty clear that he's not a threat, anyway from his posture and expression. Startled, is maybe the better way of reading him.

(There are also a couple things he'd like to ask - do you need less sleep than humans and what were you doing with the candle for one - but he feels like he's learned his lesson. Sort of.

Mostly.)]

I'm sorry.

spam } greenhouse

[changeit]

[Kieren hasn't spent much time in the greenhouse, yet. For green things he prefers the Enclosure, which he can program to his specifications and which is less obviously confined.]

[Today, though, he's seated at a bench in the corner of the greenhouse for the first time, earbuds in, mousse off, contacts out, listening to music and reading. T'Pol's movements draw his eye, though, and when he looks up and sees her approaching, he tugs the buds away in the collar of his sweater.]

[She's wearing a sweater, too. One of the ones he gave her - he brightens slightly when he sees that, his white eyes widening in surprise.]

They fit all right, then? [Of course they fit all right. Stupid question.]

spam } greenhouse

[maytakecenturies]

[Of course they fit. She doesn't even consider answering his question, though, stopping instead to stare at him. This is not the Kieren she first met; this one is deathly pale. She almost expects to smell decay when she inhales next.

She doesn't, mostly she just smells the plants around them, but she also understands that this boy is from the same place as Simon. She wonders if he's secretly a religious fanatic, too.

(That's probably not fair. She doesn't care, though: she's seen too much fanaticism to bother differentiating.)]

How long were you dead?

spam } greenhouse

[changeit]

[He starts - just a little bit, but the shaky gesture is there, undermining his credibility. He should always expect this, but he never does. People are rarely as clever and incisive and above all observant as T'Pol is.]

[He glances at the ground, then up at her, watching her through his lashes.]

Not long at all. But then I sort of still am. So it depends on your definition of dead.