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.]
[spam]
It should not surprise her that even this is not private. Her eyes dart to her desk where her file is hidden away, and her jaw clenches: nothing is private here, not her memories and not her nightmares. Not even her dreams, she thinks, and decides they are interchangeable: she shouldn't be having either.
It would be easiest to call that the Admiral's fault, but maybe, she thinks, it's hers too. It's not as though she can meditate properly.]
Yes.
[The word grates out of her.] That is, I assume, what sent me here.
[spam]
Either way...] I thought you were brave - [He pauses.] Or is that a human thing?
Dedicated, maybe.
I didn't see a single thing that would warrant being labeled a criminal.
[A pause.] But maybe saying everyone who's here as an inmate is literally a criminal isn't right.
[He knows he doesn't have the whole story here. But what did the Admiral bring her here for? Hatred of humans? Is that thinking too small?]
You really think that's why you're here?
[It's an honest question. He's not trying to lead her into anything, although if she has a good answer, he wants to hear it.]
Re: [spam]
[If only that was all that matteted. She doesn't want to tell him more - not about what led her to that moment. Not about the ship full of Humans who should have been destroyed. She assumes that must be a crime on her record, perhaps that and everything else she's done since Archer seized command.
She's not sorry for any of it. She did what had to be done. That she failed does not make her actions regretful.]
What would you label me as?
[spam]
[Because that's maybe the most honest answer she's ever given him - and it says a lot. It also doesn't exactly conflict with what he thinks, because if she were to ask him, he doesn't exactly think fighting back is the wrong thing to do.
But there is still a lot he doesn't know. One brief glimpse into her past isn't going to suddenly open up her psyche to him, and he knows it.
Still, it doesn't hurt.]
Honestly? A freedom fighter.
[Someone who's willing to take part in violence to overthrow oppressors - but someone who maybe loses a little of themselves, along the way.
Maybe he can help her get it back. Maybe that's why she's here. He doesn't know that, either, but it's his best guess, right now.]
[spam]
I'm no idealist.
[It's true, but it's also a lie, in some ways: she wouldn't call herself one, certainly. She couldn't in good conscience take that title when so much of her career has been spent fighting the rebellion her people began. Even if she managed to escape and find a rebel cell - they would be just as likely to kill her as anyone in Starfleet, now.]
[spam]
I didn't call you an idealist. You don't have to be an idealist to fight for your freedom.
[Freedom is one of those inalienable rights, whether you're a man, a woman, a child, a human, a Vulcan, or anything else. He believes that, just like he believes that you don't have to be an idealist to want or deserve those things.]
You just want what's yours. I want to help you get it. [He does. If he can help her get off this boat, she can give herself the power to take that freedom back. He truly believes that, too.]
[spam]
By helping me graduate. You think that will allow me to successfully fight for my freedom.
[spam]
[spam]
[spam]
Everybody needs some reinforcements, sometimes.
[spam]
[As much as she could accept, as much as she could get away with.]
I convinced-- [friends, they were her friends or as close as she has ever had--] two of my colleagues to work with me. One took the Defiant's defenses offline. The other took control of the Avenger in order to destroy it. [She wasn't supposed to be there when he did, but. Sacrifices are necessary. She and Soval understood that.]
[spam]
Still, he's not the kind of guy who really likes accepting that reality, even if he has to.]
You think anyone will see you as martyrs?
[spam]
[She knew their chances on escape were wholly dependent on what kind of firepower they could bring to the resistance. In death...]
We were all Starfleet officers. Those in the rebellion have no reason to see us as anything but enemies.
[spam]
[So maybe you might want to graduate and figure things out from there, huh???]
[spam]
One Vulcan is unlikely to turn the tides.
[A beat, then:] I'm sure you disagree.
[spam]
The smile she gets in return is pretty wry.]
Looks like we're finally getting to know each other.
[Because,] Yeah. I'd beg to differ.
[spam]
Do you know about the Eugenics Wars?
[spam]
No, I don't.
[spam]
[Everything about her body language says "If only."]
The Vulcan Science Directorate thinks there may have been a time when we were biologically stronger than them, but that time is long past.
We aren't all super soldiers, captain.
[spam]
Things change, [he says quietly.] That's all you can count on. I didn't become what I am to suppress people, but I was given that choice, and the man you saw, in your dreams... he chose the opposite.
Super soldiers aren't invincible. And we're - I'm - still human, for better or for worse.
[He suspects she might choose the latter.]
You use what you have, [he finally says.] What you have may not be strength. But that doesn't make it less powerful. Or effective.
[spam]
T'Pol things she would not mind a return to the wold ways, sometimes.]
You are more than any other Human you're likely to meet in your world. You can bend metal with your hands. How many Humans are capable of the same?
[She shakes her head, wondering. She's never had to argue with an idealist before; she's always been the idealist, or as close to it as possible.]
I have my strengths, but I can't win a war.
[spam]
[He's quiet for a moment.] Not thinking like that, no. And not alone.