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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