T'Pol (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
maytakecenturies) wrote2015-02-05 06:16 pm
maytakecenturies) wrote2015-02-05 06:16 pm
OO5 | SPAM + VOICE
[Spam for Steve]
[When she wakes, it’s with the roar of a flamethrower and the snarls of a hellhound still ringing in her ears. She is used to dreams – perverse, for a Vulcan, she knows. But on Enterprise there was rarely time for the proper, deep meditation that would prevent it: it was always safer, when surrounded by Humans, to stay alert. For years, T’Pol has made due with surface meditation, arranging her thoughts without losing focus on the world around her. So she has dreamed, often viscerally. It is the price of the emotions she has allowed into her life.
It isn't the dreams themselves that make her jerk up in her bed. It’s the fact that her mind has no basis for them. She cannot – no, she should not be able to name the giant of a man with the long hair, but she knows he is Sammy. She should not know the pallid, middle aged man who grabbed her shoulder, but she knew him as father. She should not have known her way through the halls of an otherwise unfamiliar, advanced starship. And the boy with the gun, with blood in his eyes whose name is Bill Leyden and complains of having no other nickname, she should not know him. She should not remember fear for his well being.
Sitting up in her bed, pushing Earth-blue sheets away, T’Pol can feel the scowl of consternation from her brow to the base of her neck, an ache that she can’t discern the source of. No, that isn't entirely true, but the logic that tells her it’s from a tank firing too close to her too-sensitive hearing flies in the face of the logic that says it was a dream.
Her eyes lock on Steve’s form, and she wonders for only a fraction of a second if this is just the next dream in a very strange series.
Before the second becomes two, T’Pol is out of her bed and standing stiffly, putting distance between herself and her warden.]
What are you doing here?
[Her voice is raised, louder than she’d realized it would be, with an easily identifiable edge to it. Fear, anger, she cannot pick them apart now and struggles to suppress something she can’t name. There is only this – invasion, and how it leaves her reeling.
(It wouldn't be incorrect to compare her countenance to a spitting cat, not that she’d appreciate it.)
She scans the room, hands clenching and unclenching with the remembered weight of - a gun? A ring on her finger? It all felt so real, and it takes a moment to convince herself that the aches she feels - the shredding of her leg, her shoulder, the weight of bodies falling on her, of explosions and heat - it takes precious seconds to convince herself that those things are not physical.
T'Pol backs up until her shoulders press against the cold glass of her window. She feels something then, tucked into her back pocket: a compass, with the picture of a woman she recognizes inside. For a moment, she stares at it mutely, shifting from some feeling she cannot name but which leaves her feeling almost ill back to herself. She is not crashing a ship into an ocean.
She’s not entirely sure of anything else, though.]
[Public Voice]
[T’Pol is still so far from herself when she makes this post that she’s surprised she manages to hide it. Her voice is level, unhurried, unbothered.
And just below the icy surface, she practically boils.]
I will be returning to my regular duties on the dinner shift and boot camp.
[There is a pause here, as though that might be the entirety of her message. She considered asking about the dreams of the Barge as a whole and decided against it before she even turned on the recording. She considers it again, now, and her frustration burns a little hotter at the experience of second guessing herself. She needs focus.]
Are there other areas in which I may be of service? [Because the prospect of spending one shift every night working, and every hour of the rest of the day thinking on her coma is maddening.]
[When she wakes, it’s with the roar of a flamethrower and the snarls of a hellhound still ringing in her ears. She is used to dreams – perverse, for a Vulcan, she knows. But on Enterprise there was rarely time for the proper, deep meditation that would prevent it: it was always safer, when surrounded by Humans, to stay alert. For years, T’Pol has made due with surface meditation, arranging her thoughts without losing focus on the world around her. So she has dreamed, often viscerally. It is the price of the emotions she has allowed into her life.
It isn't the dreams themselves that make her jerk up in her bed. It’s the fact that her mind has no basis for them. She cannot – no, she should not be able to name the giant of a man with the long hair, but she knows he is Sammy. She should not know the pallid, middle aged man who grabbed her shoulder, but she knew him as father. She should not have known her way through the halls of an otherwise unfamiliar, advanced starship. And the boy with the gun, with blood in his eyes whose name is Bill Leyden and complains of having no other nickname, she should not know him. She should not remember fear for his well being.
Sitting up in her bed, pushing Earth-blue sheets away, T’Pol can feel the scowl of consternation from her brow to the base of her neck, an ache that she can’t discern the source of. No, that isn't entirely true, but the logic that tells her it’s from a tank firing too close to her too-sensitive hearing flies in the face of the logic that says it was a dream.
Her eyes lock on Steve’s form, and she wonders for only a fraction of a second if this is just the next dream in a very strange series.
Before the second becomes two, T’Pol is out of her bed and standing stiffly, putting distance between herself and her warden.]
What are you doing here?
[Her voice is raised, louder than she’d realized it would be, with an easily identifiable edge to it. Fear, anger, she cannot pick them apart now and struggles to suppress something she can’t name. There is only this – invasion, and how it leaves her reeling.
(It wouldn't be incorrect to compare her countenance to a spitting cat, not that she’d appreciate it.)
She scans the room, hands clenching and unclenching with the remembered weight of - a gun? A ring on her finger? It all felt so real, and it takes a moment to convince herself that the aches she feels - the shredding of her leg, her shoulder, the weight of bodies falling on her, of explosions and heat - it takes precious seconds to convince herself that those things are not physical.
T'Pol backs up until her shoulders press against the cold glass of her window. She feels something then, tucked into her back pocket: a compass, with the picture of a woman she recognizes inside. For a moment, she stares at it mutely, shifting from some feeling she cannot name but which leaves her feeling almost ill back to herself. She is not crashing a ship into an ocean.
She’s not entirely sure of anything else, though.]
[Public Voice]
[T’Pol is still so far from herself when she makes this post that she’s surprised she manages to hide it. Her voice is level, unhurried, unbothered.
And just below the icy surface, she practically boils.]
I will be returning to my regular duties on the dinner shift and boot camp.
[There is a pause here, as though that might be the entirety of her message. She considered asking about the dreams of the Barge as a whole and decided against it before she even turned on the recording. She considers it again, now, and her frustration burns a little hotter at the experience of second guessing herself. She needs focus.]
Are there other areas in which I may be of service? [Because the prospect of spending one shift every night working, and every hour of the rest of the day thinking on her coma is maddening.]
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[Is this a joke? Is it not??? We may never know.]
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[Maybe he would like someone hanging out in his room while he sleeps x-( cause she sure doesn't x-( Maybe she and Jimmy should trade wardens x-( x-( x-(]
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Are you alright, ma'am? I heard about the coma.
tw: racist language
She doesn't shiver, but she feels the temptation to, rage physically crawling along her skin. Fucking die.]
I'm fine.
[Her gaze turns sharp on him again.] Did your friend wake?
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[More or less. Gene thinks the flood rattled his cage more than he's used to seeing Snafu's cage rattled, but he's more or less acting like himself.
But, well, on that subject...]
Did anyone mention the flood to you?
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Yes.
Why?
[She remembers dreaming of the taste of her own blood in the back of her throat. Who else shared that?]
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[spam]
Although lately, she's been doing more than breathing. It's the flood, he figures, that's been causing her to toss and turn, although he didn't think you could do that in a coma (although these aren't "normal" comas, so who knows).
He doesn't actually expect anything different this time - but of course, different is exactly what happens, because he's just doing his once-over of the room when his inmate suddenly jerks up in bed. He stops moving, but it doesn't take her long to notice him. Not that he's trying to hide.]
Checking on you. You've been in a coma for about two weeks.
[He just stays put, now that she's awake, letting her get her bearings again - although the sword she uncovers in her bed is a little disturbing. But it's not the only thing she appears to have brought back - there's a ring, and -
Oh.
He frowns, faintly, glancing up at her with sympathy he can't quite hide, and no small amount of guilt.] There was a flood. While you were out. You had some pretty crazy dreams, huh?
[spam]
She has been asleep for two weeks. It explains the stiffness, the way movement feels so - far off. But nothing explains the coma itself, nothing tells her why shes is still perfectly functional after two weeks of sleep, nothing tells her why she's still alive because if he could get in, it stands to reason anyone could have entered, anyone could have slipped a knife between her ribs or--
T'Pol recognizes the paranoia as it seizes her, but it isn't as easy to dispel. She doesn't offer the compass, doesn't know what to do with his sympathy.]
How did you know?
[There is a logical answer, she's certain of that. Instead she bites off the words like accusations.]
[spam]
What he wouldn't have given, some days, to have it have been only two weeks.]
Aside from all the tossing and turning? [He tilts his chin in the direction of her hands, indicating the compass she's practically trying to crush into its constituent parts.] That's mine. Only you didn't get it off me. [Not here and now, anyway.]
And the rest of us had dreams, too. [Including him, until he just stopped sleeping for the rest of it.]
Are you feeling okay? Do you want some water? I've never been in a coma here, I don't know how you feel coming out of it.
[spam]
I do not toss and turn.
[She very nearly snarls it at him. Swallowing around a dry tongue, she takes a step forward and holds the compass out.
She doesn't sleep for weeks either, though, so she doesn't know what to make of....anything.]
How long have you been here? [She ignores the question completely, because she has no idea how she's feeling at all.]
[spam]
Not normally, I'm sure. But. [He shrugs, as if to say, extenuating circumstances and all.
He glances down at the compass when she holds it out, but shakes his head.] you can keep it, if you want. I still have mine. You never know when it might come in handy.
[He's trying to be as straightforward as possible, just because she probably is pretty disoriented.] Just now? About a minute, tops. I've just been checking in on you, otherwise, you've had the place to yourself. Promise.
[For what that's worth.
And, after a beat:] I'm sorry about the dream, too. [For what that's worth.]
[spam]
Slowly, T'Pol lowers her arm, because she is unsettled. She does not feel okay. But she doesn't know how to parse that. Her jaw clenches briefly.]
Do you remember anything, after the - dream ended?
[She's not sure what makes her ask. She's not sure she wants to know, and she's not sure she doesn't. She's not sure of anything at the moment, and that is maddening for someone who has been hyper focused as long as she has been.]
[spam]
But what really throws him for a loop is the question. He didn't expect it, because he didn't expect her to care. So he blinks for a minute, then glances down, shaking his head. If he's unsettled (he is), he's trying to hide it, but he's also not great at hiding things.] Not really. The next thing I knew, I was waking up in New York, and things were very wrong.
[He knows she won't care, but he also can't help saying,] I'm sorry. That you saw that. I wouldn't wish that on anyone. [It's part of the reason he's so adamant that Bucky can't be on that plane with him. He honestly doesn't think he could watch his best friend drown and just hope it will turn out all right for them both.]
[spam]
[Her voice is hard and sharp and she's not sure, immediately, why this of all things bothers her most.
Apologies are illogical. She knows this. They do not change the past, and they undermine any actions taken. Action should make up for action, not words. She knows too well how worthless words can be.
Steve has done everything to prove himself worthwhile, though. She can't write his actions and offers off entirely, even if she doesn't quite believe them. She doesn't believe him, really. He is the embodiment of some absurd, distant dream: a hero in a world that believes in heroes. He makes sacrifices so that others don't have to. He suffers so that others won't.
T'Pol doesn't know how to believe in that.]
It was seen. What you wish doesn't matter.
[spam]
He hadn't thought about how she'd take it, anyway. It just came out. It's just how he feels. He's not sorry for that, but if it's not going to help, he can keep it to himself.
Nonetheless,] No. It doesn't. I know that. But that's a human thing, I guess. Sometimes we wish things were different. Most of the time, it's called regret.
[He eyes her, as if to say, since you know so much about us, you probably know that, too.] I'd imagine you might want to capitalize on that. It's a pretty good weapon, in the wrong hands. Or even in the right ones.
[spam]
Regret would serve no logical purpose. So she does not feel it. That is what she tells herself.]
And I'm supposed to believe that you would just hand me a weapon? [She gestures with the question.] Why would you let me keep this? There's a picture of the woman you love in here. You seemed a reasonable man, Captain, but I'm beginning to wonder if you're completely insane.
[Her anger turns, then; those are always the two most difficult emotions. Anger, and paranoia. Her eyes widen, then narrow at him.]
Did you share one of my dreams? [Her voice is quiet, near enough to a hiss that it doesn't matter.]
[spam]
[He doesn't know if her paranoia comes from feeling helpless - whether she even realizes it or not - but if that's the case, then helping her to see just how powerful she can be should help, right?
The second question isn't harder to answer, necessarily - it's just that the answer isn't one he's sure she'll accept. It's nothing but sentiment, honestly, and the feeling that he does want her to keep it, even if she just ends up destroying it.
In any case, it doesn't stop him from giving it.] Because she's never steered me wrong. Maybe she can be of some help to you, too. [His smile is one that's attempting to be playful... but is really just hiding a world of hurt.]
Besides, I hate to tell you, but you're not remotely the first person to think I was insane.
[He glances down for a second, but only a second. Then he looks back up, nodding.] I think so, yeah. [He doesn't just think so - he knows so. Who else here has green blood? And he recognized those manacles on sight.]
[spam]
She doesn't move, doesn't look away, because if anything could be a weapon than a super soldier is at the top of the list. Whatever edge Vulcans might have had over Terrans has long since gone; with their Eugenics Wars bleeding out as it did, she knows she has no distinct advantage over a Human of her time, save for learned skills; and over Steve? T'Pol has no doubt that if he wanted to hurt her, she could not stop him.
She's try. And she'd fail.
But he doesn't move, and she begins to wonder, through the flash of paranoia, if perhaps she's being illogical. The whisper of doubt stays with her as he spills sentiment, and it disgusts her, but it also, strangely, makes her feel something she thinks might be shame. She shouldn't be disgusted.
Shutting the compass, she slams it down on the thin windowsill behind her; not hard enough to break, though maybe she could have. Everything else fades out when he answers her question.
She remembers every second of it, from the beating, which bones cracked and fractured, to the countdown to the Defiant's destruction. And now he knows them too. He thinks.]
Yes or no. Was there Humans in a uniform similar to mine? A man and a woman?
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