science_blues: (Obtuse)
[personal profile] science_blues
(OOC - I should put a warning on this, there are some...uncomfortable family moments beneath the cut. Just FYI.

Also: If anyone wants me to retcon their conversation with fSpock, just let me know. Since it's unestablished wobble time, I figured what the hell? Why not?)

From her position on the floor, Spock regarded the ornament that decorated her doorway. As of yet, this was the only decorative piece she had acquired in this plane of reality. It was a curious element, disassociated from the space around it, and altogether fitting in a metaphorical sense.

That it had inspired, through some simplistic form of the Butterfly Effect, a sequence of curious visitations, only made it more interesting. It was impossible to divine the statistical likelihood of so many sequential visits, so Spock did not attempt to. Rather, she considered the visitations as she regarded the ornament.

She had met an actor who was a non Vulcan variant of Spock, spoken with the native variant of herself, engaged in conversation with a female variant of Christian Chapel, become somewhat engendered to her non-native variant, and had established a formalized friendship with James Kirk.

That particular conversation, extended as it was, lingered in her mind. The visceral reaction she'd acquired, as result, had not faded. As a prolonged state it was both unusual and uncomfortable, and Spock closed her eyes as she took a meditative breath.

It should have been easily corrected, her discomfort. It would have been, had it been any other subject matter. Spock resigned herself to the fact that she would garner little sleep and attempted, to the best of her ability, to clear her mind.

“Physical assault is unacceptable.” Spock had never heard her mother's voice so tight, so tensed. The tone had not altered, nor the lift and formation of her words, but the enunciation was strong, almost violent, and Spock flinched away. It was fortunate she was out of sight, standing in the very place she'd been when the front door had parted fifteen minutes prior. The lights in the hall had dimmed, casting her into forgiving shade, and Spock watched the shadows at the base of the stairs as they shifted. The abstraction, somehow, only served to increase the impending sense of...something that coalesced at the base of her stomach.

“It had to be done.” The strength of tone, the edge of pride...that had become increasingly common. Spock had never heard it so loud, though, thrown with such volume against the walls of their home. Heavy footsteps paced beneath, beside where Spock stood. She unconsciously calculated the angle, the direction, the rate of motion. Sybok was livid, her pacing was agitated, her gait skewed. “They were my age and still behaving like children, like their actions would not have consequences.”

“Words only do what damage we permit of them,” Sarek reminded sharply, it almost sounded like a threat.

“You're wrong.” Spock's eyes widened as she watched the shadow at the base of the steps move, grow and shrink in relation to Sybok's steps.

“Now, can't we talk this out? Like reasonable adults?” The calm voice of her father did little to the situation. Sybok's pacing increased in vehemence and Spock recalled how Snowball behaved when cornered. It was not difficult, unfortunately, to imagine Sybok with claws, hissing as her mother advanced.

“Apparently not,” Sarek answered and the strength in her voice forced the room silent.

“What kind of mother are you?” Sybok's voice was low, seethed, and the silence that followed her words was less comfortable. Spock took a step nearer to the wall, a subconscious effort to remove herself from the situation, to become safe. “You should be thanking me, even praising me.”

“Praising you? For intentionally injuring three of your classmates? For bringing harm to them in reaction to anger?”

“For doing your job,” Sybok countered lowly, her voice dipping into a coiled calm.

“That's enough.

Spock tore her eyes from the staris, her shoulders jumping as though she'd been caught doing something wrong. She shifted back against the wall and closed her eyes, tried to hide against it as her father's voice resounded across the ceiling. She drew a slow breath, repeated the exercise they'd taught her in school, tried to empty her mind and be...clear.

“You are a danger to others.” The volume of Sarek's voice had raised, lifted to keep par with the other two. Her words were shorter, faster. It was the way she spoke to adults, the way she spoke formally, if louder. “You will pursue the path, immediately. Any error will result in--"

“In what? You withdrawing my privileges? Defaming me across all of Shi'Kahr? Sending your husband on me, like some half leashed sehlat?” Sybok was pacing again and Spock lowered herself to the ground, made herself small as she tried to be clear.

“Expulsion from this house and excommunication,” Sarek completed evenly. Her words had gravity, weight, and everything before seemed lighter, less important. The wall was cold.

“Sarek, you can't--”

“Additionally, as a citizen of Vulcan, I would be remiss not to inform the authorities of your actions,” Sarek continued and Spock pressed her palms against the floor. The floor was cold too.

“I'm sorry.” Sybok's voice was even, void of anger, but not without inflection.

“An apology is not an agreement.”

“I wasn't talking to you,” Sybok snapped, her words cracking unpredictably. “Either of you.” The footsteps started again, but they were not in a clean line, they were not the pacing of a caged thing. Two pairs joined, they were all moving, crossing and crisscrossing the room below. Spock inhaled slowly and exhaled, pushed her mind back.

“You can't—Sarek, stop her, don't do this.”

“It is a path that leads only to destruction.”

“I'll take my chances, move.”


The reflected light down the hall, Spock could still see it through her lids. Her mind watched it, even as she struggled to keep conscious thought away. There was a shuffle of fabric and a shift in the light, quick and terrible. The door made a jarring judder and a familiar sound, flesh striking cloth, followed. There was a terrible hitch in time and something heavy hit the ground. It was quiet after that, voices suddenly hushed and footsteps soft.

Date: 2010-01-01 08:40 am (UTC)
From: [identity profile]
[[OOC - That was intense. Thank you.]]


science_blues: (Default)

August 2010

222324252627 28

Style Credit

Expand Cut Tags

No cut tags
Page generated Sep. 19th, 2017 07:01 pm
Powered by Dreamwidth Studios