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May. 3rd, 2015 at 8:00 PM
No, not strange. It's just ludicrous. Too many of them trust, even after the absurdity of seeing a hundreds-foot tall....magma creature walk through a tear in reality. (There is a muted, distant part of her that is desperate to study the phenomena. It's almost silenced under the weight of all she learned on the command track in Starfleet.) Too many of them think that the death toll is an acceptable fall back - and though she can't deny it, T'Pol can forgive laziness, either.
She's been watching the antics as the days have dragged on: she can'd deny that the return of her wash room was a welcome change, but the rest? What purpose does any of it serve?
It's as she walks, restless, that she finally stops debating how best to use these abilities and just uses them. Aboard Enterprise, she always kept her door locked fast, but any senior officer had a code to override that lock. There was more than one occasion that she was glad to sleep with both her knife and phaser in reach. So as she strides down a hall, she removes a door with a glance. Maybe if they all fear a little more, they'll manage to instigate something useful - like martial law - on a ship that sorely needs it.
What she should really do, she thinks, is take herself somewhere else. The only thing stopping her from trying tonight is that she doesn't know where her best destination lays: Vulcan is a ruin, and if Sato has taken control of the Empire then it's nowhere that T'Pol wants to be.
The exhaustion sets in after the fourth floor; her pace, brisk at the start, slows to practically plodding. Her eyes are half closed, and she can't remember having this little energy on the Barge - outside of the death toll, at least. That thought sets her teeth on edge, so she pushes it back, and heads for her room.
There, she installs Enterprise's arsenal, and gazes blankly at the mass of phase pistols and rifles before she passes out in her bed. It's probably the best sleep she's had in a very long while.
In the morning, she walks the ship to make sure it wasn't a dream - she's been having far fewer of them, nearly none, since Captain Rogers started insisting on regular meditation with her, but T'Pol has learned to trust little here. Well, okay, she's learned to trust little anywhere.
She doesn't smile when she sees the doors gone, of course she doesn't. But she does lift her chin a little, looking into each room as carefully as she can without being too obvious. Eventually, she makes her way to the mess hall (in her Starfleet uniform, with her old weapons, a knife and phaser, strapped to each hip), and instead of waiting online to find something edible out of the Human line up, she takes a seat at an empty table. In a blink, there is a bowl of plomeek broth in front of her. She hasn't had it - she hasn't had proper Vulcan food at all - in years. The taste is almost enough to give her an emotional reaction.]