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Chapter Text

6 January, 2260

First Officer’s personal log, Stardate 2260.06. The Enterprise is currently in the first year of its five-year mission. This particular day also marks the thirtieth anniversary of my birth. Initially, I was never fond of birthdays. Even as a child, I would find the notion of the rather human traditions of “gift-giving” and “birthday parties” as illogical and unnecessary. Yet, the present day being what it is, I find myself thinking of my mother; of how she would employ every method she could conjure to make the day meaningful for me. Moreover, she would use the term “special”. If she were still alive, I have no doubt that she would have continued this tradition, despite myself being well into my adult years. Were I completely human, I would say that I could smell the cloud cakes that she would prepare for me, and even almost taste them. As I am not entirely human, and to adhere to my Vulcan upbringing, such things would be deemed illogical. Such is the rather confused life of a product of two different species. To use a human phrase, I should not “dwell on the past”; and yet, my mind cannot help but wander back to those memories, of which I have become rather fond. With both my mother and home planet now lost, I hold onto those images and those feelings more tightly, and have a greater sense of appreciation for all of her efforts in her celebration of my birth.

There is a high probability that Lieutenant Uhura will have made plans of some sort for my birthday, yet I possess no knowledge of what they might entail, as their details had not been divulged.

However, I am certain that she will do whatever she can in order to make today pleasurable for me...and more memorable.

“You know, you can use my first name when referring to me in your logs, Spock.”, a voice emerges from behind his chair, accompanied by the encircling of slim arms around his shoulders.

“Personal logs are precisely what the title implies – personal, Nyota.”.

Despite the slight sternness in his intonation, his reply is supplemented by a touch of his hand to hers. To which, her own response is a soft peck at his cheek and her head resting at his collar.

“Sorry for my good hearing.”, a smile across her lips, with a gift of yet another gentle kiss, her arms tighten their grip across his chest and her face becomes more solemn. “Thinking about your mother again?”.

“I... yes.”.

“I know...you still miss her.”.

“She would often show me a great amount of affection, particularly on my birthday.”. Hesitant are his words as they are spoken, as if still pained by grief.

“She wanted you to feel special...and loved.”.

“Indeed.”. His voice is barely audible with the word, yet her adept ears still detect it all the same.

For several minutes, she allows him to gather himself, still upright in his chair, in respectful silence. She, too, takes a few moments to reflect and remember, of a life stolen from the one she loves. Of a family she had never been made acquainted, and will never be given the chance again.

At the sight of his slightly bowed head, she brings herself around, slipping her slender figure into the small gap between the Vulcan on the chair and the desk in front of him. With her petite hands placed over his, she continues to speak, her tone warm and soft and full of love.

“I know it’s not the same, but I have something special planned for you today.”. A gentle grasp of his hands and an additional peck of affection at his lips, she gazes into his eyes, sending warmth into the mocha irises.

“Yes, I had anticipated as such.”. As her face had since been moved away from his, he shifts himself forward, his face barely brushing hers. “Nyota, whatever it is that you have prepared, I do hope that it is not overly...raucous.”.

“Oh, don’t worry, Spock.”, her voice is sultry as their lips meet yet again, and a slender hand rubs into the fabric of his tunic. “It won’t be anything too wild. You might just appreciate what I have planned. Now, let me give you a little early-morning present.”.

At the utterance of the final phrase, her slim fingers glide downwards, feeling their way to the crotch of his uniform slacks. Naturally, he had readied himself for the day, efficiently completing his morning routine and donning his uniform. So, of course, had she. A small groan is sounded from him as her slim fingers rub against him, and arousing kisses are planted all over his mouth and face. As a result of her rubbing hand, there begins a swelling beneath the fabric.

“Nyota...”, a lengthy hand caresses her stringy hair in soft strokes, “our presence is required on the bridge.”.

“Not for another fifteen minutes.”. Now, her entire figure shifts, with her head moving toward his lap.

“Thirteen minutes and fifty-two seconds, to be exact.”.

“See? Plenty of time.”. With a foxy grin, her fingers fiddle with the fastenings.

“Nyo-“, a tiny fingertip placed upon his lips abruptly interrupts his speech.

“Spock,”, her arm outstretched, she glares at him, whilst maintaining her sultriness, “do you doubt my ability to satisfactorily bring you pleasure by the method of oral stimulation within a specific timeframe?”.

“No, I- “

“Well,”, she settles back into position, nestling herself between his legs, of which he had parted for her, “please allow me to continue.”.

There is yet another low groan emerging from his throat as he is freed from his slacks and his trunks, with slender fingers wrapped around him. However, before he is wrapped by her lips, she utilises the moment to speak one last time, grinning broadly as she does so.

“Happy Birthday.”.

Chapter Text

It is a seemingly ordinary day aboard the Federation’s flagship; some might even add the word “dull” to that description. The crew continue to perform their regular duties with all of their usual diligence and rectitude. There was, however, a break from the norm with a planetary survey; that task had been efficiently carried out by the Beta shift, in the first breaking hours of the day-time.

One officer who thrives on routine is the ship’s second-in-command. In spite of this specific day being his birthday, his thirtieth to be accurate, he treats it as he would any other; as stated by the old Earth idiom, it is “just another day”. To say that he is nervous about what his new-found friends, and in particular his courter, have planned for him in celebration would be improper; Vulcans do not become nervous. Or, do they? There is, admittedly, a mild apprehension within him; somewhere deep, perhaps, buried in his subconscious. His usual air of stoicism masks such minute things perfectly...almost. He is, however, confident that at least his suitor has prepared for him a more subdued observance, a quiet occasion marking his thirtieth year of existence. After all, does she not know him more intimately than the rest?

At precisely 1230 hours, as displayed by the ship’s chronometer, the Commander enters the turbolift, proceeding to make the journey toward the mess hall. With the day being uneventful as it is, the ship’s crew are permitted by their Captain to attend the celebration as they so wish. Approximately thirty minutes prior to the Vulcan, the Lieutenant had already exited the bridge in order to prepare the venue for the upcoming gathering; the organisation of tables, the setting of food and drink and whatnot. Before departing, she had suggested to Spock, “take your time” in his travels to the mess hall, leaving him with a sweet peck at the lips.

As a Vulcan, and with his upbringing, he most certainly does not dawdle nor “take his time” with his ventures through the corridors; or with anything, really. It is not in his nature to have his time wasted. Yet, the day being as it is, and with Uhura’s efforts, of course he would comply, with his steps slow and deliberate as his uniform boots tap along the glossy flooring.

Despite the Vulcan’s rather forced ambling, the venue is prepared in excellent time, simple refreshments placed sparingly atop the tables, the room clean and uncluttered. There is a centrepiece to this gathering, one which was the first of the foodstuffs to be affectionately prepared by the Lieutenant herself: a meagre plate of what is known as ‘cloud cakes’. The rather light confection is a small roll, created with bread comprised of mashya four. Abundant with vitamins and lightly sweetened, the pastry was considered a healthy form of ‘comfort food’, made and prepared lovingly by the First Officer’s mother during his childhood.

Proficient as she is at her role as Communications Officer, the Lieutenant had previously transmitted a communique to the father of her Vulcan courter, stealthily requesting from the Ambassador the recipe and preparation instructions for the delectable treat, and of course informing him as to the reason behind her request and her intentions for the food in question. Fortunately, Sarek was willing to provide her with the information she had requested, grateful that his son has found one who treats him with such love and devotion.

The information successfully acquired without a hint of suspicion from neither the Commander himself nor the Captain, she had awaited the night prior to the celebration to begin preparing the bread in the privacy of her own quarters. Due to the mildly lengthy preparation time of the bread, she would not have been able to make it during her meal break. Once she had finished, she had covered and put aside the treat, joining her suitor in his personal living space.

Concurrently, a young ensign, whose remarkably pale skin had almost shone in near dim lighting, had begun to prepare a surprise of his own...

Chapter Text

Upon arriving at the mess hall, the Vulcan “birthday boy” is met first by his courter, the gathering’s organiser. Her arms encircle his torso, the slender limbs holding him taut in a doting embrace. In her background, are the grinning faces of the bridge crew and other senior officers, of whom he had grown quite fond. Undoubtedly, they had chosen an alternate route through the ship, hastily leaving their respective stations after he had, avoiding him on their own travel to the venue.

This rather mixed group of unique individuals had become respected colleagues, friends even, through recent tribulations. Almost a second family to him, having lost part of his own along with his home. And with that sentiment, this ship is like a home for him. This gracious, majestic vessel, whose interior walls may be viewed as cold by an unfamiliar, yet she houses within her this crew. This collection of people, who have made from her a home.

Within the space of the mess hall, there is no white noise of deafeningly blaring music, nor boisterous displays of intoxication. There is only the soft modulations of pleasing music wafting in the background.

Palatable to sensitive ears, the piece is instrumental, almost classical in its composition. The specific instrument with which the piece is performed one explicitly familiar to the Commander: the ka’athyra, a Vulcan harp-like contraption comprised of wood and an array of strings. If the music is pleasing to the ears, the instrument is pleasing to the eyes. Its stylings are similar to that of some stringed instruments of Earth, yet it still remains uniquely Vulcan.

Unsurprisingly, the piece had been composed and performed by none other than the First Officer’s father, with the Ambassador recording and transmitting it to the Communications Officer with instructions for it to be played on this day. There was a musical event on their home world, a competition of sorts, in which both had participated. Competent with the ka’athyra, both had competed against others with a show of skill and technique. The Ambassador had placed first in this contest; his son, second. Proficient indeed, their respective achievements are exceptionally admirable.

Inside the walls of the flagship’s mess hall, the notes of the composition float around the room, almost filling it without becoming overbearing. Truthfully, all of the gathering’s participants find the music to be rather soothing and uplifting and pleasant all at once. If only the Vulcan officer’s mother were present to hear what her husband had composed for their beloved son, and to bear witness to the love and admiration and respect from his peers, his comrades...his friends. No doubt, she would have been elated to find that he had accumulated such a wonderful group, this collection of souls with which he shares this magnificent ship. Tearfully elated.

And so, the group encircle their crewmate and friend, offering him warmth and love without much need for a touch. A light tap on the arm, yes; no more than that, however. So much more can be conveyed, through only their eyes and their faces. Smiles and well-wishes are delivered, and after this brief pause, the crowd disperse, allowing the Vulcan and his courter space to progress further into the room. With arms affectionately bound together, the couple travel across untainted flooring, all while the strumming and plucking of the recorded ka’athyra wafts around, amongst light-hearted discourse and laughter.

As the pair move through the sparse crowd and further into the room, the dark eyes of the Commander spot a table deliberately placed at the centre of the other arranged furniture. Atop, is a plate, relatively small in size, and onto which some form of foodstuffs had been settled and veiled by a light cloth. On closer inspection, vague shapes are more visible, circular and ovaloid beneath the covering. Moving closer still, he can discern a tiny gap where the plate meets the cloth, and a glimpse of pastry is soon sighted.

Finally within direct proximity of the mysterious plate on the table, she releases his arm, having led him all the way there. His voice breaks the silence between the couple, at a volume a tad lower than the norm, despite being amidst cheerful chatter.

“You need not burden yourself, Nyota. Such lengths are not necessary.”.

“Oh...”, her hands brush against his with a delightful grin, “how nice of you to think of me, Spock. Trust me, it was no trouble at all. I actually thought the preparation was fun.”.

With a rise onto her tip-toes, she plants onto his cheek a sweet peck, then turns to the table, unveiling at last that which had been concealed during the entire period. Atop the small ivory-tinted plate, there sit a meagre bundle of “cloud cakes”, each no bigger than the palm of one’s hand.

As with any social gathering or event, there are those late stragglers, attendees that trickle trough the venue’s open doorway one or two or three at a time. Among those arriving after the gathering’s commencement, is a pasty young ensign, with short russet hair styled in slick pompadour.

... ... ...

With one small bun taken into his hand, the Commander gazes at the delicacy, with its airy character and appealing scent. Almost weightless, the bread feels rather pleasant, even for tactile-sensitive fingers. As Vulcans do not consume food with their hands, he places the treat onto a plate much smaller than the one onto which the other buns are set and grabs a fork. Moreover, being midday, he would not eat any meal at all, as his people generally do not partake in what others would deem a lunchtime meal. Yet, it would be impudent, and illogical, of him to not consume that which had been meticulously and lovingly prepared solely for him. Additionally, it would be quite logical for him to allow himself a minor indulgence or two on his birthday.

At the arrival of that conclusion, he utilises the edge of the fork to break off a tiny slice of the bun, with the utensil cutting through the light mixture. As the fork lifts the slice closer to his mouth, the scent along with it, his nostrils spark within his mind fond memories from times long passed. Memories of his beloved mother. A flash of images from those occasions where she would prepare these treats for him, with the fragrance floating about the air inside the walls of the house. The aroma is rather light and quite pleasant for the sensitive nostrils of a Vulcan or two. Of course, those memories only intensify once the taste of the bun enters his mouth. Imagery displaying his mother’s smiling face as she lovingly watches on whilst he takes a bite of the bread, and the secret joy on his own face, veiled by upturned brows and thankful eyes.

In this present moment, that same visage is almost mirrored by the woman currently by his side, the Lieutenant’s cocoa eyes affectionately glancing at him with an anticipative grin. She silently offers him several moments to enjoy the sweet bread, and those warm remembrances which accompany each bite. At the arrival of a favourable opportunity, she begins to speak to him, her tone soft despite the low background noise.

“I was informed by your father that this was a favourite of yours and got the recipe from him. Prepared the cakes last night. I just hope I did them justice.”.

“I believe the Earth idiom ‘just like mother used to make’ is appropriate. They are much more than satisfactory.”.

“I’m so glad. Your father also recorded the music we’re listening to right now. Sent that via subspace communication.”.

“That is unsurprising. He is highly skilled with the ka’thyra, more so than I.”. He pauses a moment to glance around the space behind them, his sensitive ears picking out every note of the harp through a muddle of conversation. Noticing the movement of his irises, she lightly touches his forearm, with a smile of understanding on her lips.

“I hope it’s not too much for you.”.

He responds by temporarily setting the plate of partially-eaten cloud cake onto the table, gazing into her eyes as his hand gently touches hers.

“You have my assurance that it is not. I find this gathering to be quite enjoyable. I am immeasurably appreciative of your efforts. Thank you, Nyota.”.

“You’re very welcome, Spock.”. With an arm encircling his waist and a lift of her figure so her face meets his, there is planted onto his lips a doting kiss and an equally loving gaze into mahogany irises.

Now he reciprocates, tilting forward his upper body until their foreheads meet, embracing each other with all the affection and warmth that their figures encompass. Beneath the surface facade of his repressed emotions and outward stoicism, she can nearly discern a kind of elation within him. A hairline break, perchance, in his Vulcan armour, and seeping out into his aura. She could probably state that for the first time, he is happy. For her, he makes no attempt to mask this invisible air of bliss, and it results from her mirthful smile, as if she were also grinning for him.

The couple maintain this amatory contact for a few moments, almost entire minutes, with time seeming to lose its forward momentum for them alone. Around them, bodies and objects and sounds almost dissipate, blurring and merging into a haze. This rather odd sensation is somewhat familiar to her, like the mind-meld she had experienced with him soon after the initiation of their courtship. That may be what this sensation is: a form of mind-meld, yet without the physical touch of his fingertips to her face. Not a complete meld, however, as he is not witnessing her thoughts; moreover, he is sharing with her his thoughts and emotions in this present moment. It is as if he were opening himself up to her and her alone, revealing to her his innermost feelings. Pleasant as it is, this act would almost cause one to wonder just how powerful a Vulcan mind really is.

Through words unspoken, the connection is gently severed by them both, their brows simultaneously parting from each other. Smoothly picking up his plate once more, he resumes his tidy consumption of the first cloud cake. In the same instant, she fixes herself a plate of another foodstuff arranged for the event: a small portion of neatly cut fruit. With a fork of her own, she elegantly takes a bite of one piece, the juice from the sliced mango flowing into her mouth, sweet and luscious as it goes, satisfying her palate.

In contented silence, the pair enjoy their respective treats, wallowing in the flavour with each bite, each taste. All manner of activity around and behind them had been practically ignored by this point, the gathering maintaining its tamed festivity and merriment all this time. Having sighted his completion of his first cloud cake, she takes the moment to speak once more.

“I know you don’t normally eat lunch, which is why I only made a small batch of the cakes. And, since I made them solely for you, we can save whatever you don’t eat for later on.”.

“That is quite a mindful gesture, Nyota. I plan to have another at a later stage of this gathering.”. He makes another tender gaze at her kind face and affectionate eyes as he continues. “Again, I am infinitely grateful.”.

With the fork resting on the plate in his hand, he extends his free hand to her, the index and middle fingers outstretched. Mirroring this gesture, she touches tips of the same fingers on her opposing hand to his, a grin of love spread across her lips as the couple engage in the ozh’esta. Once again, his brow caresses hers, in an additional display of his deep affection for her. A familiar voice soon politely enters their space, the rather jovial sound belonging to their captain, and friend.

“All right you lovebirds, that’s enough. Happy birthday, Spock.”.

“You know, a few hundred years ago, people used to say that everything starts going downhill once you hit the ‘big three-zero’...and you begin to feel old.”, the good Doctor McCoy utters, before his Vulcan friend has a moment to respond. “Feelin’ it yet?”.

“A rather odd notion, Doctor, one that is not shared by Vulcans. Given that our lifespan is significantly longer than that of people from Earth, someone of my age is considered to be quite young. Moreover, we are not ashamed or ‘embarrassed’ by the inevitabilities of ‘growing old’.”.

“Is that so? You do know I was joking, right? Anyway, let’s all be hopin’ that you have many more birthdays after this one.”.

“I second that.”, adds the blond Captain. “Here’s to your longevity, Spock.”.

In the place of the clinking of a drink glass, he merely taps the shoulder of his Vulcan friend, a comradely gesture that he is genuine in his words. The Commander’s reciprocation is not one of a physical nature; instead, it is more of an upturn of his sharp brow and a slight altering of his facial muscles. Accompanying, of course, are words of gratitude toward his two friends.

“That is an amiable sentiment, and an agreeable one at that. Thank you, gentlemen.”.

“Don’t mention it, pal. Now, if you’ll excuse us, we’re going to mingle. You two kids enjoy yourselves.”. With those parting words, Kirk takes his leave of the couple, the physician following with a wink and a smirk towards the two.

Meanwhile, a rusty-haired ensign had overheard the entire exchange from his position at an adjacent table...

... ... ...

Having consumed the final crumb of his first cloud cake, the Vulcan momentarily sets down his plate and fork in order to acquire a beverage for himself as well as his suitor. The Lieutenant had, of course, insisted upon fixing his drink for him, with this being his “special day”, and escorts him to a table laden with cups and various beverages. Some liquid refreshments are of the alcoholic kind, with only light to medium degrees of strength, whereas others are specifically non-alcoholic. Pouring him a glass of light wine, she passes the liquor to him and fixes one of her own, raising her filled glass and delicately touching it to his in a tiny clink in his honour. It is true that Vulcans are seemingly unaffected by certain types of alcoholic drink, there is enjoyment in the flavour of the liquor, and with this being a social gathering amongst friends, Spock is willing to partake. Uhura, naturally, is happy to share the moment with him.

Always observant, a pale ensign awaits several moments, then moves stealthily towards the table holding the rest of the cloud cakes, his enduring patience at last offering his reward.

With the couple, and the rest of the gathering’s participants, sufficiently preoccupied, the ensign approaches the now seemingly unguarded table. His opportune moment arriving at long last, he reaches a hand into his trouser pocket. Fortunately for him, the table houses many a varied type of culinary delight, making his next movements much less...suspicious. A small, cylindrical vial is removed from the shelter of his pocket and hovers with his hand over the peak of the cloud cake bundle. Not much larger or thicker than a pinkie finger, the phial is easily concealed and difficult to sight unless within close proximity. With a lid unfastened in deft fingertips, a crystalline fluid is methodically released, raining onto the bread in miniscule drips. There is no odour emitted from this liquid solution, nor taste; naught that would rouse the unwanted glance of curious eyes. His task is complete within mere seconds, whilst his eyes shift their gaze along the other prepared foodstuffs, as if he were struggling to decide which of the delectable treats he would consume first.

The vial sufficiently emptied and his meagre undertaking now accomplished, the tiny vessel is promptly returned to his pants pocket with a lone hand. A free hand, in the same moment, grabs a barren plate, and the tableware is subsequently topped with a fist-sized portion of Earth fruits. With the refreshment held to his chest and a utensil in his grasp, he departs from the table, calmly moving along the untarnished flooring, and positioning himself at a safe distance from the table of cloud cakes. Irises of a silver hue glance about the surrounding space, yet remain observant of the couple now situated at the liquor table.

Observing and waiting...

Chapter Text

With the Lieutenant accompanying, the Commander utilizes the following hour or so engaging in what the Captain had dubbed ‘mingling’. A secondary round of light wine in their respective grasps, the couple socialise with other participants of the event, conversing with one or two at a time. These individuals are co-workers, comrades, crewmates, each taking time from their own schedules to attend this gathering, out of respect for the Vulcan First Officer. After discussions of work, life, interests, hobbies and whatnot, all relative small-talk, they offer their well wishes to him, with words of ‘long life’ and ‘happy returns’ and ‘longevity’ offered through friendly faces. And, of course, he responds with a polite ‘thank you’ in some form or another, through typical stoicism, yet still showing appreciation, before finally departing to engage in another bout of discourse with another crew member.

Acquiring a break from their socialising, the pair once more approach the table of cloud cakes, allowing the rest of the gathering’s participants to mingle amongst themselves. Having been left untouched by the hands of others, the Vulcan yet again tops his plate with another piece of the special bread. Utilising also the same fork he had prior, he takes a bite of the airy pastry. Naturally, he had grabbed the bun at the highest point of the small mound of cakes; moreover, the very bun that, unbeknownst to him, had been contaminated by a watchful ensign.

Slowly and methodically, the sweet bread is consumed, the Commander showing no haste as he enjoys the familiar flavour.

With the mixture of cheerful discourse and pleasing music behind him, his plate is cleaned of the bread’s final crumb, as the Lieutenant enjoys her second serving of fruit. Concluding that this is enough foodstuffs to bring them contentment, the couple make one last journey to the refreshments table, each acquiring a glass of the same beverage they had consumed earlier. Thusly, with drinks in hand, their mingling is also resumed. Cautious to not rouse any suspicions from other attendees, the pale ensign awaits the unfolding of his plan, and the correct moment with which to utilise for his departure.

With the progression of the gathering to its continued level of light merriment, there also begins some rather unusual symptoms in the officer to whom the event is honoured. Initially, the Vulcan had dismissed the early signs of mild dizziness and anxiety as an aftereffect of the alcohol he had consumed. Peculiarly, such a beverage of relatively low strength should not render any effects within him. And yet, these current sensations and their increasing severity only add to his level of confusion.

There are, presently, small droplets of sweat forming on his brow; extremely odd for him, yes, considering that he is not suffering from a severe wound, nor illness, nor participating in anything too overly strenuous. Moreover, his heartrate has now elevated, the organ thumping at his side, in the place of its usual hum. This, in turn, results in a quickening of his breathing; again, not even a high degree of activity can cause his breaths to hasten so. Moreover, there also begins a twinge of pain in his right hip, radiating to the rest of his torso on that side. Combined with all of this, there is also a growing nausea, a symptom he rarely endures.

Of course, along with the passage of time, there too progresses a worsening of the symptoms, and a greater sense of unease from the Vulcan. So much unease, in fact, that it morphs into an alarming concern, and the inevitable touching of his suitor’s hand in a beckoning of her attention. Her gaze had shifted from him to the room, the music, the cheerful faces all around. Now, however, with his contact of fingertips to hers, the eyes shift once more. It merely takes a single moment for her eyes to detect his distress, and for her heart to realise that something is amiss.

“What’s wrong?”, a gentle caress of her dry palm to his clammy face, her own face displaying her concern.

“I am...uncertain.”.

“Do you think it’s a panic attack?”. Her irises continue their scanning of him, as if a tricorder were searching for an answer.

“That is...possible. Perhaps, even...something more.”.

With his staggered breaths and growing nausea, it is more difficult now for him to even answer her inquiries. Of this, yes, she is quite aware and gifts him her patience, allowing him time to respond if inclined to do so.

“Okay...we’ll go to sickbay, alright? Hopefully, they’ll find out what’s wrong.”. Her voice cracks slightly with her words, while a slender thumb strokes his face.

“May we...please be discreet. I do not wish to...alarm the other...crew members.”.

“Of course. I’ll alert McCoy so he can meet us there.”. A gentle grasp of the hand, while dark irises continue to worryingly study him.

As the Vulcan’s head lowers and eyelids close taut, the Lieutenant utilises a subtle hand gesture to signal the good doctor, once his gaze met hers of course. Also, thankfully for them, he is within the couple’s proximity, making the summoning of him easier. Upon spotting her signal, the rather odd sight of the Commander’s pained face and the hand clutching at the hip, McCoy travels the few metres toward them, his expression mildly perplexed. Another who had spotted the Lieutenant’s beckoning is the Captain, who also approaches his friend.

“Everything alright?”, the physician taps the shoulder of his friend.

“You don’t look too good, Spock... didn’t eat too much chocolate, did you?”, queries Kirk.

“He didn’t have any.”, begins the Lieutenant on her suitor’s behalf, upon noticing his taut and pained face. “He’s not well. I’m taking him to sickbay.”.

“Yeah, I saw that something was up when you called me over. I’ll grab a scanner from the emergency medkit here and go with you.”.

“I’ll clean up here for you, the party’s nearly done anyway.”, adds the Captain.

“Thank you, Captain.”. Uhura turns to the Vulcan by her side.

She touches the hand of the mysteriously-ill Spock, who in response, straightens his posture with an uneasy nod of his head and hands clasped together at his lower back. A usual pose for him, now a facade to conceal his current condition, what ever that may be. During these brief moments, the doctor moves across the room to his intended destination. Fortunately for him, he knows precisely where an emergency medkit is located within this venue, and stealthily takes the opaque box from its housing. Unfastening the container, he glances at the couple, and the awkward steps of his Vulcan friend.

Something’s definitely wrong.

With the medical scanner in hand, the kit is shut once more and returned to its former placement, and the physician proceeds to trail the couple now making their way out of the room. Not halting their journey, they bid brief farewells to crew members as they pass by, all the while attempting to adhere to the Commander’s wish of discreetness. It is, however, quite lucky that the gathering itself had already begun to ‘wind down’, with attendees slowly trickling out of the mess hall in sparse numbers.

This staggered mass departure also includes the young pale ensign, upon sighting the Vulcan’s condition, and the unfurling of a plan.

Chapter Text

And so, the Commander and the Lieutenant make their uneasy journey toward the ship’s medical wing. As the former trying his utmost to conceal any outward indication of ailment, the latter has her arm hooked through his in a possible attempt to help him remain somewhat steady. There is nothing, or very little, that either can do to mask his inability to normal, steady breaths; nor the blooming discomfort and pain radiating along the entire right side of his body; nor the near-unbearable nausea and dizziness; nor the now unusually hasty beating of his heart. Whereas before entering the mess hall, his steps were purposefully slowed to allow the preparations to be finalised; now, his movements are hindered by the lack of oxygen in his system, and those symptoms that had become alarmingly severe.

Following just a few steps behind the couple, is the doctor, monitoring the Vulcan’s vital signs with the medical scanner.

Despite the vast scale of the ship, the journey to the medbay is surprisingly short, with a traversing one corridor and a very brief turbolift ride. For the Vulcan in his current predicament, however, the trip seems to take a much longer period of time than it normally should. With pain and numbness and a lack of oxygen surging through him, it truly is a wonder that he is moving as well as he is...for the moment, of course. A vigilant glance up at his friend, the physician’s face shows more concern. The scanner in his hand indicates a heartrate far too high for the Commander, climbing well above 300 beats per minute and a tad irregular. And yes, the doctor is aware of what his friend’s pulse should be: around the 242bpm range. As Spock has not been engaging in any sort of strenuous activity during this time, the good doctor has indeed cause for his alarm. Within a few long strides, he is placed in speaking range with the Lieutenant at the Vulcan’s side.

“His heartrate is way too high, even for him...and his blood oxygen levels are too low. I don’t like this.”.

The Lieutenant responds to the doctor with a subtle nod and a tauter grasp of her struggling courter’s arm. Within seconds, the trio enter the turbolift, and the small space is shut instantaneously. For a few brief moments, the closed doors offer some small privacy for the Commander, and his head is lowered, eyelids tight, upper torso angled. Not at all a welcome sight for the crewmates attending him, and their minds are abuzz with joint concern.

“We’re nearly there.”, the utterance comes forth from the Communication Officer’s lips, her tone warm yet trembling with worry.

In pained silence, the Vulcan merely dips his head in acknowledgement of her assurance. This action, albeit a rather simple one, almost results in a toppling of the towering form, to the bewilderment of those near him. The two almost leap with a start, and their hands extend to save him from an inevitable collapse. In their surprise, he thankfully doesn’t fall, with helpful arms brushed away as the turbolift doors open once more.

Mere minutes after stepping into the open corridor, the Medbay is at last within the anxious sights of the trio. In spite of their apparent proximity to the ward’s invaluable arms, it seems too distant for the Vulcan still, from whom there is an abrupt crumpling of a lengthy torso. Within just seconds, the medical scanner is relinquished from the grasp of the physician, hastily shoving the gadget in his pants pocket. Subsequently saved by the two accompanying him, the Vulcan is thoughtfully lowered by their helping arms, and now lies in a strewn heap on the glossy flooring. A quiet curse from the doctor and a glance over slender shoulders by the Lieutenant, they grab at the now unconscious Commander. Their new task is the hauling of the limp form for the completion of their short journey’s remaining portion. In silent harmony, the two elevate him off the cold surface, with the physician speaking as they go.

“I know he wanted to be discreet, but I think we both realise that ship has long sailed. Come on.”.

At those final words, they transport the hefty figure to the Medbay; fortunately, it is but a few metres ahead.

In the secluded confines of the ward, the Commander is at once placed onto a biobed, his form carefully settled atop the pearled covering. A few reversed steps, and the Lieutenant is positioned to allow the medical staff full access to her beloved courter. As monitor screens activate, displaying the patient’s vital signs in a mixture of animated images, numerical values and medical terminology, her misting coffee irises fixate themselves unto him, his strong body inert and seemingly helpless. The Vulcan’s visitations to this part of the ship have been extremely rare, further adding to the shock and disquiet of those proximate to him. And yet, the medicos perform their duty in a manner of relative calm, with all their years of training accumulating into a skilled professionalism.

With figures bustling around her, those eyes of hers retain their unhindered gaze onto the bed, and her mind abuzz with unease. There are, in her conscious, questions she so wishes to ask, queries within her heart of what ails he to whom she shares her love. Answers that, she is wholly aware, even the medicos do not presently possess. Yet, her heart and her mind cry out all the same.

One member of the medical staff who had sighted the Communications Officer’s outward display of unease, is the very physician who had assisted her in escorting the First Officer to the ward. With a mask placed upon the mouth of the Vulcan to supply his deprived body with vital oxygen, the good doctor approaches the distressed Uhura, to instil some consolation to a troubled mind.

“I know...I want answers too.”, a soothing palm is placed onto a slim shoulder, “I think I have a pretty good idea as to what’s wrong, but I won’t know for sure until I open him up...okay?”.

McCoy’s final word is uttered as a request for consent, as if the Lieutenant were a ‘next-of-kin’ for the Vulcan, to speak on his behalf when he is otherwise unable or incapacitated. In some way, perhaps she is. There is, in response, a quivering nod of her worried head, and with that a ‘green light’ is given for the physician to proceed.

From the granting of permission, there begins the preparation and early stages of surgery on the patient. With assistance from a member of the nursing staff, the doctor methodically opens the Commander’s now bare torso, in a procedure the lead medico hopes will provide him the answers for which he searches, also the subsequent diagnosis and treatment thereof.

... ... ...

The approximate length of time for such answers to at last reveal themselves is two hours. With the procedure’s completion, there comes the subsequent sealing of the open torso, and the confirmation of a physician’s hunch. Having anxiously and quietly endured outside of the medico’s path, the Lieutenant awaits the doctor’s discovery with concerned irises. Indeed, he does begin to approach her, moments after the Captain’s entrance into the ward, following his summoning by his good friend. The two are gently steered to a neighbouring empty biobed, beside which there comes a low voice from the physician.

“Tricorder scans gave me some indication as to what was happening...elevated heartrate, low blood oxygen levels...but, it wasn’t until I had a proper look with surgery that I had a better answer.”. He moves but a single step closer to his blond friend, glancing both at him and the Communications Officer as he continues.

His tone now is much lower than the moments prior.

“Jim, Spock’s just had a goddamn heart attack.”.

Chapter Text

There is from Uhura a small gasp, not overly loud as it escapes her taut throat, yet enough still to vocalise her shock. The eyelids of both herself and her Captain widen with the unsettling news.

“What?”, Kirk utters but a single word, surrounded by an aura of tense air.

“Yeah... Now, I know what you’re thinking...”, resumes the good Doctor McCoy, “Thirty is a little too young for someone to have a heart attack, especially with him being so damn healthy. I mean, he just had a physical last week, and everything showed green across the board, so to speak. Nothing from that examination gave any warning signs, no fat build-up, no plaque...not a damn thing. Fast forward to today, and that’s what I find when I open him up. The thing is, it’s not exactly fat or cholesterol, or the Vulcan equivalent. It’s something else.”.

“Do you know what it is?”, after intently listening, the Lieutenant locates her voice.

“By the looks of it, I’d say it’s artificial. We’re going to run some tests on his blood and this whatever-it-is to see if they’ll come up with anything. What I do know, is that there’s something weird going on.”.

“How long do you think it’s going to take?”, queries the younger man.

“About an hour or so.”, a quick glance at the patient as the doctor continues. “Might as well let you stay here; I can see that neither of you want to go anywhere. I’ll call you over when I’m done.”

“Thanks, Bones. We’ll keep out of your way. I’m hoping it’s something you can fix, but my gut tells me otherwise.”

With those words, the group is separated, and thus begins the next task for the physician. Incredibly focused, he collects the vital fluid from the unconscious patient, the thick moss-toned liquid flowing into a clear vial in tidy speed.

Two vessels now filled with blood, and the medico moves to a nearby counter, atop of which there sits a microscope and an analysis machine. Utilising stable hands, several drops of the green fluid are deposited onto a clear tile, and the doctor places the sample beneath the microscope. The other vial is secured within the chamber of the analysis machine.

As the machine works by his side in a low buzz, his focused irises stare into the eyepiece, studying the droplets below. So intent is he in his task that be barely blinks, and his breaths are deliberately shallow and steady. Whatever has brought his friend into this state, will be sought by him and he will force it to reveal itself. There is within him a dread – nay, an expectation – that there is a sinister element at play. The very notion is an unpleasant one, yes, but the current circumstances surrounding this occurrence seem to indicate precisely that.

After an hour and a half, and several final checks to compare data from the analysis machine, the physician at last has an answer. His mind now enlightened by fresh information and a new light cast upon the rather perplexing source of the Vulcan’s ailment, the doctor removes himself from the table. Approaching the two friends presently seated beside the patient’s bed, he quietly summons their attention.

“What did you find out?”, the Captain queries.

“Well...after some double and triple checking, now I know the ‘what’. I found a foreign substance in his blood, which no doubt is the cause of the build-up in his arteries, and therefore the heart attack. It’s some kind of poison, and it’s still in his system, so I can’t guarantee that he won’t suffer another one. As for the ‘how’...well, that still needs to be determined. I knew there was something real fishy about all of this, and I was right.”

“This was a deliberate attempt at his life.”, utters the Lieutenant, her mind and face both flush with a mix of sorrow and rage. “Who would do this? And why?”

“I wish I knew – “

A low sound emerges from the form atop the biobed, interrupting the physician and resulting in a rotating of heads.

“Hey, take it easy, pal...”, a helping arm is extended by the doctor, “...you had a heart attack a few hours ago. I thought you’d be out for a few more.”

“You...underestimate...Vulcan control, Doctor.”

“Yeah, well, I didn’t see much of this ‘control’ earlier.”

“Those were...extenuating circumstances.” A face of discomfort is made by the patient in his speech, as noted by those currently most proximate to him.

“Truthfully, I’m surprised you lasted as long as you did. Right now, you need to rest.”

“Be careful.”, comes the tender suggestion from the Lieutenant with a gentle hand upon his face, sighting yet another pained expression on the Commander.

"Gentlemen, Lieutenant...if I may...continue... I had overheard your...discourse. Despite Vulcan being...the place of my birth, I was often...tormented by a number of its citizens for my...human heritage. Perhaps, it is the same...in this case, albeit in the reverse."

"Spock, are you implying that someone deliberately hurt you, because you're half Vulcan?", the Captain’s quiz comes wrought with a deep concern.

"That is...precisely what I am implying, Captain."

"Xenophobia...”, a near scoff of rage from the physician at the very notion, “I thought we were past all that crap."

"Although I wish...that were the case, Doctor...however, if my home planet...is but one...example, then clearly we are not."

Chapter Text

Lividly glaring into the air in front of him, the Captain’s face is marked by lines of distinct rage. An individual on this vessel – a member of his crew – has deliberately caused harm to his First Officer, his friend. The probability of such a notion plays in one’s mind from time to time; perturbing as it is, it seems that there will be those who feel an aversion towards peoples of differing heritage. All of this, despite the efforts of generations past in acquiring the goal of peaceful co-existence; of a seemingly harmonious union of culture and creed. In this moment, following the occurrence of this very incident, those webs of strings which bound together the collective, weaving around each people and planet, now lie in tattered disarray against space’s dark void.

One soul within the ward in particular, is understandably brimming with ire: the Communications Officer, whose own ancestral past is tainted by that which now plagues the ship. The ghosts of injustices from bygone times haunt her still, churning the blood borne from her predecessors. Arduously they grappled against the iron hand which held them, until at last a unity was won. All of that, in the case of her half-Vulcan courter, it seems, has come undone.

Empathetic irises glance at the patient, who seems to shield himself behind a stoic facade, despite his pain. Yet, she can sense from him a dismay, seeping through a sliver in his shield. It seems that, even now, all the prejudice that had tainted his childhood, has now reared its tormenting head, and stalked him into adulthood. Her entire form quietly seething, her thoughts are broken by the voice of the physician.

“There’s not a lot I can do for him right now.”

“What do you mean?”, queries the blond man.

“Well, there’s this drug the Vulcans use to prevent heart failure – Benjisidrine. We used our last batch on an elderly Vulcan ambassador just a few days ago, he had a history of cardiac problems. Our next re-supply isn’t due until tomorrow. I can repair any damage done by the heart attack, but with the way this poison works, I’m afraid there might be more to come. I don’t know if he can hold out that long. We’ll try our best...hell, I’ll even try Adrenalin, but I doubt it’ll do much.”, a concerned glance at the patient, “With Vulcan gone, there might not be many Benji plants left to synthesize the drug.”

It takes only but a single moment for the spark of an idea to form within the mind of the Lieutenant. “The ship’s Arboretum...we could have a Benji plant there.”

“Let’s hope we do.”, adds the Captain, “I’ll ask Sulu, he knows that section inside-out.”. A quick glance at the friend on the biobed, “We’ll find the bastard who did this to you, Spock...the Benjisidrine, too.”. Now, his eyes shift back to the medico, “Bones, do whatever you can for him.”

With that, he signals to the Lieutenant, who gifts the Vulcan a final grasp of his hand and a peck softly planted onto his forehead. The two soon depart, intent on the fulfilment of their joint mission. A venture seemingly against time itself: to apprehend the one who caused such harm to their crewmate, and to acquire that which is needed to save him from further agony...and death.

“I’ll sure as hell try...”, murmurs the good doctor at the now barren doorway. His eyes soon travel back to the patient, whose face remains somewhat stoic, is still marked by an air of discomfort. “I’ll get you something for the pain, buddy.”, a brief pause is made, “Hey, uh...about those things I say sometimes...”

“Please...there is...no need to continue, Doctor.”, the patient interjects, leaving the physician only slightly perplexed, yet wholly sympathetic.

Trust, he now believes, has perhaps illuded his friend once more. A trust of people with which he serves; a trust which, in light of this recent incident, must be regained.

Ever thoughtful to the plight of the Vulcan, the physician glances at him still; this comrade - this friend - whose face is contorted and eyelids taut. And, soon the human quietly slips away, allowing the patient a few brief moments, lone as he is atop the biobed. A few moments for the medico to prepare a hypospray for the mitigation of his pain, all the while the space around them is occupied by the enduring rhythmical chirping of monitors. With the physician engaged in his task for a seemingly meagre period of time, the beeps from the Vulcan’s monitor seem to hasten their pace – a clear indication, this is, of an elevated heartrate. The moment his human ears detect this signal, the doctor hurriedly returns to his friend, an additional hypospray now within his grasp.

“I am...aware...of your...good...intentions, Doctor. With this...I entrust...my life to...your capable hands...”. A small grunt leaves the patient’s throat at his final word, his breaths now gasping inhales.

“It’s alright, buddy...I know you’re having another one.”, the doctor’s reassurance comes at the very moment an anaesthetic is injected into Spock’s neck. “We’ll take care of you.”

Chapter Text

As the Vulcan once again slips into unconsciousness, with his eyes rolling backward into shutting lids, the physician at his bedside pays no heed to the evening hour. He had not, during this trying day; only excepting, that is, of the time-sensitive condition and treatment of his friend. Time-sensitive, in the fact that if the greatly needed and currently unavailable Benjisidrine is not acquired within the following half-day, all hope may be lost for the patient. Of this, the medico is indeed aware. With a mixture of woe and sympathy and hope, he glances at the First Officer, whilst appropriate preparations are made to once more part the folds of flesh that veil his heart, and repair any damage done by this latest attack.

While the laser scalpel slices into the skin, a herald appears to the doctor. Not from the ship’s chronometer, but a man; one Doctor M’Benga, to be specific. He, whilst entering the ward’s opened door, is McCoy’s herald of the hour’s lateness. The fresher-faced medico soon approaches his colleague, and the biobed atop which the Vulcan lay. An air of professional concern surrounds M’Benga, marking its lines upon his face. He knows of Spock’s rather rare visitations to the ward, making his concern that much more justified. Now, he utters his inquiry at McCoy in a very low tone.

“What happened?”

“He’s just had his second heart attack. I had to put him under again...”. The reply from the fatigued associate causes M’Benga’s brow to furrow.

“How long ago was the first?”

“A few hours.”

“Strange...excuse me.”. M’Benga soon departs from his colleague and the patient in a contemplative silence.

The rather brief exchange did not hinder the surgery’s commencement, nor did it perturb the attending physician’s concentration.

Yes, Doctor McCoy is quite aware of the oddness to the Vulcan’s sudden awakening so soon after the surgery following his initial heart attack. However, due to the critical factor of time, and the careful utilisation thereof, he had not overly concerned himself with the ‘how’ in that regard. His focus had been more occupied with what it was that had afflicted his friend, how it had entered his body, how best to treat him... That is not to say that he wasn’t disquieted by the patient’s apparent regain of consciousness so quickly; it was merely that he hadn’t the time to investigate such an unusual occurrence.

With McCoy’s focus still fixated onto the patient, it is with the arrival of M’Benga and his keen mind that this particular riddle may soon be unravelled.

Whilst the Vulcan’s heart is undergoing repairs yet again, the fresh-faced medico traverses the ward’s sterile flooring. In mere moments, he approaches the bench adorned by the blood analysis machine; the very instrument his colleague utilised not long before. Such is M’Benga’s knowledge, that he is very much aware of McCoy’s usage of the machine in his medical investigation. This adherence to correct procedures is coupled with the professional synergy of both men.

His fingers now floating over the instrument, M’Benga glances back at his associate.

“You still have a sample of his blood in here, right?”, he queries.

“Yeah...looking for something specific?”

“As a matter of fact, I am.”

With a tiny trill and a mechanic thrum, the blood analysis device is once again activated by M’Benga’s stable hand. The fresh-faced physician places himself upon the chair to which the bench is assigned, his trained eye studying the additional sample that speckles a fresh dish in the microscope’s viewfinder. A series of instructions is entered into the analysis machine, again by the medico’s hand, thus informing the computer of what it is he now seeks.

... ... ...

Entering the bridge once more – after many hours of absence – the Captain and Lieutenant take the initiating steps of their joint plan. A rather fortunate element for Kirk’s part is the fact that Sulu is currently situated at the Captain’s chair, in temporary placement of he by whom the furniture is normally occupied. The blond man almost wonders if his crewmate had attended the gathering; that, however, is a query for another day. There is presently a much more urgent and serious matter to heed.

“Mr Sulu, I need you to look for something in the arboretum database – the Benji plant. I want to know if we have one aboard the ship.”, before the helmsman rises from the chair, the Captain halts him to utter his instruction in a hushed tone.

The plan must not be made aware to too many, in the likely probability that the Vulcan’s attacker is amongst those personnel currently stationed at the bridge.

“Benji plant, sir? That’s native to Vulcan.”

“I know... The Medbay needs it for medicinal purposes.”

“Aye, sir. I’ll get right on it.” The helmsman quietly departs from his temporary seating, making the journey toward the turbolift.

During this hushed exchange, the Communications Officer contrarily does not return to her own station; she instead travels to that of the Security Officer. Under the guise of a routine check of the console, she politely ushers aside the crew member positioned there. Uhura has indeed been trained in the maintenance and repair of her own console, also the duties of other positions within the bridge personnel, so her facade is at least believable. With the lesser crew member relieved of her post, she is soon advised by her Captain to retire to her quarters for “a good night’s sleep”. Yes, the hour is indeed late.

After the Security Officer is veiled by the turbolift’s closing doors, the Lieutenant settles into the console’s now vacant chair. The Captain soon appears at her side, his figure leaned against the seat in an attempt to shield from wandering eyes the screen at which Uhura now stares. Her deftly trained fingertips touch at the array of controls, entering into the computer her commands. The system heeds her instructions, displaying to her the visage of a room spattered by vacant tables and chairs. The timestamp in the image’s corner is of multiple hours prior to the present; a time that aligns with the moments before the birthday gathering.

“You’re thinking whoever attacked Spock found the right moment at the party?”, inquires Kirk upon sighting the recreation room footage; his eyes dart about the space behind them before his body shifts closer to the console.

“It’s just a hunch – “

“But it’s all we have going for us right now.”. His voice, already hushed, now takes on a much quieter tone, more so than when his speech began. “We’ll find who did this, Uhura, and they will answer for their crime. You have my word on that.”

The following thought is not uttered aloud, yet is almost shared between the two friends. Fuelled by a conjoint rage toward the one who harmed their Vulcan shipmate, this lone phrase forms within their minds as the Lieutenant’s eyes and fingers prance over the console in front of her.

Even if I have to kill them myself.

Chapter Text

With the effects of the meagre alcohol she had consumed the hours before long since dissipated, the diligent Uhura stares into the screen before her. No amount of late-hour blear can thwart her focused eyes; those irises, fixated onto minute details, seeking something – or anything – to lead her to the culprit. This task she had placed upon herself is indeed all-consuming, lengthy, meticulous...yet, her perseverance does not falter, not in this present hour, nor the next. It may be several long hours until all is revealed; of course, she knows, and presses onward all the same. The one who attacked her comrade – her courter – will be found. By her whole being this promise is made, to he whom she loves.

Even her Captain – who had remained at her side, and whose eyes study the same screen – is all but ignored by her. This is not out of rudeness, as she holds a great deal of respect toward him; instead, her apparent lack of heedfulness to his presence is an indication of the depth to her concentration. And yes, he too is absorbed by the images held within the small screen. Moreover, he also wishes to capture whomever had assailed his First Officer.

In an enduring silence, the two friends study the footage in the Security station monitor, each frame examined by unyielding eyes. Silence, with the exception of the happenings behind them, unheeded by their focused minds and fixated eyes. Those beeps and chirps of sensors, the pitter-patter of fingertips at controls, the hums and purrs of the ship herself, the sporadic and inaudible chatter of crew at their stations. Inaudible only to the officers at the Security station. None of the personnel in this space are aware of the task presently carried out by the two; as they are of the senior staff and bridge crews, no suspicions arise to the true nature of their task. No one queries, no one speculates. Their world goes on.

In a timeframe just shy of fifteen minutes, there is a tinny chirp from the communicator presently housed within the Captain’s uniform pocket. Upon glancing at the small device, he can discern a summons from the helmsman, with news of his task pertaining to the locating of a Benji plant. That very plant which is currently in limited supply; the plant whose essence is highly sought in order to properly save the First Officer from the grips of death. Despite Sulu’s apparent ignorance of the true nature of this portion of his Captain’s plan, he could still detect an air of secrecy in the voice of he who gave him this order. This, of course, prompts a sense of stealth in the helmsman’s silent summons.

“I think Sulu’s found something...”, begins the Captain, lightly tapping the shoulder of the Lieutenant, “you going to be alright here?”

“I will, Captain. Thank you.” The tone of Uhura’s voice is indeed thankful, yet her eyes do not shift their gaze from the screen.

To state that she is unwavering in her task would be something of an understatement.

... ... ...

The Captain arrives at the helmsman’s place of summons in excellent time, his journey to the arboretum hasty yet restrained enough to forgo any suspicious eyes. Kirk moves through the space, ignoring the exotic foliage as he brushes past. Exotic would be an appropriate term to place upon the flora housed within this part of the ship.

All manner of plant life is secured within these walls, native to a great number of planets, and sporting wide variances in shape and size and colour. This enclosed space is not merely for the purposes of aesthetics or leisure – it is also utilised for more scientific functions. Crew members learned in the field of botany study the specimens located here, and can often be spotted taking small samples on which to conduct experiments. The sample sizes are always as small as possible, to pose no threat to the longevity of the plants.

Within a few moments, the Captain sights the helmsman, who is currently situated alongside a large containment, a separate portion of the arboretum.

“Sir, that Benji plant you asked for...I found it.”, utters the helmsman, carefully placing the vital plant into a small pot.

“Excellent work, Mr Sulu.”

“I... heard the Commander wasn’t well at the party. How is he?”

Before a response is uttered, the Captain glances about the space, making certain that no other presence may hear. Their exchange had already been hushed, but now Kirk’s tone lowers even further.

“He was...attacked with some kind of poison. Right now, it’s not looking too great...”, he raises the newly-potted plant now in his grasp, “but this might just save his life.”

Chapter Text

With the plant in the clutches of the Captain, there begins the hurried venture through glossy corridors, the helmsman in tow. Their destination is of course the sterile walls of the Medbay. That very place where, unbeknownst to them, had momentarily become a scene of yet more suffering for their First Officer. Again, the steps the two men make are quickened; but again, no suspicions will be roused by their movements. And yes, the sparsely-placed wandering crew members take little notice of the plant or query as to why their Captain is in possession of the object. All that is faced by him are the stiff salutations performed by the bodies of those he passes. A sign of respect and servitude this action is, one that all Senior Officers face, and one that juniors and subordinates are expected to perform.

At last arriving at the ward, the two crewmates are taken aback by the scene unfolding in the pristine walls. For the helmsman particularly, the image that meets his eyes is indeed a perturbing one, and one that he had not witnessed before. There, on the biobed, lay the hapless Vulcan, his long figure mostly unclad and laid carefully atop the mattress. A mask is placed upon his face, of oxygen for his deprived blood. The most unwelcome sight is that of his open torso, with his heart barely visible to those now stood from afar. The emerald-toned organ beats a tad sluggish, enduring yet more repairs in this numbed unconsciousness.

This procedure occurs behind a frosted curtain, a sombre veil for the anesthetized patient. The Anesthizine had quickly taken affect, working itself into the blood from where it had been injected upon the surgery’s commencement. In this state, at least, the suffering First Officer is devoid of pain, his body wholly inert. Those glimpses his two crewmates had encountered were the result of a small sliver in the curtain’s hazy shielding. The attending physician – the Captain’s closest friend – clad in his surgical garbs, is stood with a slightly arched back, hovering over the patient in deep concentration.

Despite his apparently fixed gaze, he seems aware of the presence of those two crewmates who had entered the ward just moments ago.

“You better have some good news for me, Jim.”, he utters, with eyes unmoved from their gaze.

“Sulu located a Benji plant.”, comes the Captain’s response, as he approaches his friend.

“Well, at least that’s something. We’ll start synthesizing the drug right now.”

A glance upwards from his patient and a gesture of his head are all that is required for a proximate nurse to begin this task. The plant soon leaves the blond man’s grip, now to be carried to a bench by the nurse. The doctor is correct in his words: for the Vulcan, this plant brings at least some sliver of hope. And yet, there is still one element to consider: time. Of this, the medico is indeed quite aware.

“How long will it take?”, queries the plant’s former bearer.

“Hours...at least four or five, maybe more. With all that the poison’s done to him, I just hope we make it in time.”

At once, the synthesizing process is begun by the nurse, who of course is well trained in such a task. All the while, McCoy continues his delicate surgery on the Vulcan’s heart; perhaps a brief reprieve from its torment at the hands of the merciless poison. With nothing more they can do for their stricken crewmate, Kirk and Sulu take their leave of the ward in a silent woe. It is their hope, and that of the medicos, that their First Officer will at last be delivered from his suffering.

As for the process pertaining to the Benjisidrine’s synthesis, the nurse is quite aware that it is indeed a lengthy one. Moreover, all of the medicos are aware, each working on their part of Spock’s care. Much as they would like to, none of the processes can be rushed, lest there be a dangerous mishap.

With all their careful undertakings, it seems that time may be against them.

... ... ...

Throughout the surgery’s entire duration, and the Benjisidrine’s slow synthesis, M’Benga’s trained eyes stare into the enhanced image of the small green spot on its clear platform. Each molecule and cell, in all their busy animations, are observed by his sharp irises in his search for that which had escaped his fatigued colleague’s gaze. With time’s eventual passing, the secrets those cells had held now reveal themselves to him, and his theory is confirmed. Now, it seems, the layer which this mystery had added is unveiled.

It is at last with the surgery’s conclusion that M’Benga does approach his weary associate, who is currently deep into overtime hours. There is within the fresher man’s mind a new insight into that which ails the First Officer, and a concerned brow adorns his crown. McCoy, of course, sights this marking on his colleague’s face, having made himself well acquainted with the medico through the years.

"I can see that frown from a mile away.”, utters the fatigued physician. “You found something, didn’t you?”

“I did indeed. You saw how quickly he awoke from his previous surgery, yes?”

“Yeah, that sure as hell was weird.”

“Well, there’s a reason for that.”. M’Benga wades through the information newly presented to him. “The poison you found in his blood doesn’t just cause his heart attacks, it also contains some kind of neural disruptor. When a Vulcan is injured or under some kind of distress, they place themselves into a deep meditative state – almost comatose to outsiders – it’s called a healing trance.”

“I think I’ve heard of this. The poison is stopping him from doing that?”

“Unfortunately, yes. It’s preventing him from entering the trance and is forcing him awake. He can’t heal himself...or do anything, really.”

“Damn...”, McCoy ponders what else may be in store for his Vulcan friend. “He might have been lying when he said it was his ‘Vulcan control’.”

“Perhaps, but he could also have genuinely thought that’s what it was. The neural disruptor might have tricked him into thinking he still had control of his mind.”

As the two physicians glance apologetically at their stricken comrade, their minds seem almost to align in their conscious processors. A string of words within their thoughts, forming a single phrase; the phrase in itself brought about by a grim concern.

What else is going to happen to him?

Chapter Text

As with before, there is a tiny chirp from the communicator housed within the Captain’s pocket, moments after himself and the helmsman had departed from the Medbay. Whilst the pair travel through the luminescent corridor, he glances at the device now within his grasp, somewhat surprised at an apparent summoning of him by the Lieutenant. That very crew member who had been ardently scanning the birthday gathering surveillance footage with her keen eyes. Despite the seemingly lengthy and arduous nature of her task, it appears that she has already stumbled upon a clue. Or perhaps, the attacker themselves.

“That was Uhura...”, utters Kirk, “...let’s hope she’s found a lead.” With the device retuned to his pocket, he momentarily halts to swivel around and glance at the man by his side. “Mr Sulu, I know I can trust you. We’re probably going to need more of your help.”

“Yes, Captain.” Before their journey is continued, he goes on. “Sir, about Commander Spock...is he going to be alright?”

For the briefest moment, the Captain hesitates, almost uncertain of the answer. As if, despite all of his hope, there is a grave possibility that the Vulcan might not survive. That this ordeal may be too great, even for one so resilient as he. That there may be yet more threats to his very existence. For Kirk, the answer almost seems elusive; yet, he pushes it all aside, leaving only his hope.

“He will...you have my word.”
In hushed voices, they had spoken, and, with equally silenced steps, they journey to their destination.

... ... ...

In minutes, their brief trek is ended and the destination reached. Their place of summons is not of the bridge, nor the Security station housed therein, but is instead of the Captain’s ready room. This meagre yet apparently spacious venue has been the host of many gatherings of the senior staff, with mission discourse and issue resolution contained within. The entrance of this small space is tucked into a corner of the bridge, not entirely concealed yet all but ignored by most personnel situated within this section. That is, until such time as the space is needed.

Indeed, this is one such moment. The two soon approach their crewmate in the gleaming space, seated at a monitor placed upon the centre of an expansive table. In the white luminescence, she glares at the screen, awaiting her comrades. At once, they are in her proximity, and she begins to speak when their earshot is in range.

"I transferred the surveillance footage to this monitor. Enough time passed for my 'maintenance' of the Security station, so I brought the investigation in here."

"That's wise, considering we don't know if the attacker is on the bridge. Wouldn't want anyone finding out what we're doing.", comes the response from the Captain.

"I've been focussing on the table of cloud cakes - I made them just for Spock. They were the only thing he ate at the party. I'll also check the drinks table, despite pouring his drink myself.", adds the diligent Uhura, her final words tinted with a sliver of anger.

Quite possibly, she has placed upon herself a kind of guilt for what had been done to the Vulcan, that small yet perilous act occurred at the very gathering she had organised. Perhaps, the gathering should never have been brought about, the cloud cakes never prepared. Perhaps...

"Hey...don't be so hard on yourself.", Sulu gently interjects those intrusive thoughts. "This was not your fault."

"Agreed.", Kirk weighs in. "This...attack might have been in the works for a long time. There's no way any of us could have known."

"Thank you...both of you."

"Don't mention it, Lieutenant.", the helmsman adjoins. "We'll help you find the attacker."

"And we will find them...I promise you.", the Captain reassures his Communications Officer.

For the trio - the medicos as well - this seems quite a trying time. The Captain, particularly, is finding these moments rather taxing. He had thought that trust would be a non-issue amongst the souls positioned aboard this fine vessel. They are, after all is said and done, his crew serving on his ship. Young minds, bright and acute, devoted to this ship and her Captain. Or, that is what he had believed until this day. One amongst them had executed a callous deed against another - their own First Officer, to add. Such an act, by all his power, will not merely go by without penalty. This silent promise is made by him, by the medicos attending the Vulcan, by all those positioned within this ready room. The assailant will be pulled from their place of hiding, reparations will be had, and the victim will be restored. This last fact - this promise - as the trio stare into the screen, is one they now place all of their hope upon.

Their hope may soon begin to dwindle, however, with what may lie ahead. There is, unbeknownst to them, another plan conjured, another act to be performed. Another cruel deed.

As of this moment, all of the trust they once held now lies in tatters.

... ... ...

Seated at the meagre desk within the confines of his quarters, the young russet-haired man smirks at the small vial held by his fingertips. Its contents had long since been depleted, and the vessel subsequently sealed, no threat is posed to him as his digits toy with the object. With this initial part of his plan complete, his mind now begins to envisage the following step.

Within moments, he begins to assemble a fresh vial, in preparation for yet another task. Utilising a careful precision and a stable hand, a different chemical is flowing into the vessel. Sinister irises observe the liquid, as crystalline as its predecessor, fill the empty space. In hasty time, the vial is filled and sealed, soon to be placed onto the table. This is but a temporary position, until it is deemed ready for use.

This next deed may be a tad risky to him, given its setting; yet, he remains patient, like a hunter stalking prey, or a spider in its webbed tunnel awaiting a precise moment. Yet, in his mind’s recesses, there lies a notion, a fact that he cannot veil. The synergy of the crew and the keenness of their minds are quite apparent to him. It is indeed rather likely that his actions would have caught the eyes of his superiors.

In spite of some of his apparent caution, however, he is uncaring of any repercussions he may soon face. As his hand reaches for his PADD, the air seems heavy with a malevolent tone.

Chapter Text

Initially hailing from a bustling corner of London's western side, an infant boy's parents had made the joint decision to relocate. It seems that this dense locale of people and noise and commotion had finally proven too much for them to bear, particularly with what seemed to be a rather sensitive child.

Several years further into his life, he had begun to settle, possibly due to exposure to outer stimulation during his schooling. His parent's closely-shielded wariness and unease of non-humans had been subsequently - and subtly - trained into his young mind, seeping into his subconscious like a slow-kindling fire. This learned trait saw him through his formative years, a mild influence to his timid and closed nature, bleeding into his outward demeanour from time to time. He had occasionally run into strife with other students, but with those happenings being so rare, a mild reprimand and refresher class was all that had been required. That is what it had seemed, anyway.

Throughout his childhood, he had been raised mostly in seclusion by introverted parents, in a meagre township with a small populace. Remote is but one term to ascribe to such a town, its location forged along rocky plains in Ireland’s cold north. Despite all of the expansion in population and housing of other portions of the globe, this small piece had remained seemingly untainted, partly untouched by the hands of industry in order to preserve its wonderfully pristine state. Some instances of current technology can be sighted here and there – hover vehicles for one – but not as prominent as one would expect from places such as London or San Francisco. Being cities of major importance, those two locales would of course be much more densely populated and possess much greater examples of technological achievement. As for this little township, it is not the sole instance of its kind; many more are scattered across various parts of humankind’s home. Locales such as this are deemed necessary for the globe’s preservation, much like the vast rainforests, and it is for the benefit of the planet that these parts be left alone.

Like many raised in such enclosed places, the young boy and his family had little contact with outsiders – that is, those hailing from other planets. On close observation, one might infer that this family could have been quite wary of peoples not of Earth, with such non-existent contact. This inference is most surely true, in the case of this family.

With such a guarded development, it was indeed quite a mild shock when the boy – now a teenager – wished to enlist in Starfleet. Having displayed incredible aptitude and high grades throughout his schooling, perhaps it was not as big a surprise as it should have been. The boy was brilliant, and wanted to go further.

... ... ...

Once admitted to the Academy, he had at once begun his diligent study, entering into the required general courses and then majors of his choosing. After settling into Academy life, his elected areas of study had included Biochemistry, Quantum Chemistry, Exochemistry, Engineering and Theoretic Engineering. An interesting range of subjects indeed, qualifications from which could effortlessly have landed him in the Engineering or Medical or Science sections of any starship. And yes, all classes he had passed with the highest grades of his peers. Despite his excellence in these fields and his high intelligence, he had somehow flubbed his way through Interspecies Ethics and Interspecies Protocol, only achieving average grades from these classes. This latter fact could have only been brought about by his secluded upbringing.

For some, the following years may seem trying; others, exhilarating. However, for this cadet, one would say the next several years had been taken in his stride.

... ... ...

As with the multitude of those who came before him, a cadet still in the prime of his youth wanders out of the Academy gates. Youth, in his case, may be an understatement; his age at graduation only bested by that of a young Pavel Chekov, dubbed a “whizz kid” by his colleagues aboard the Enterprise. And, while many cadets appease themselves with the best possible grades they can attain, an admirable goal in itself, this particular student may be labelled an “over-achiever”.

Yes, his peers would strive for whatever level of greatness they can grasp; yet, this young man had allotted himself a tier above. His mind – his every waking moment – would be occupied with his studies. Some would call it determination, others an obsession; that is, if one had become well enough acquainted with him. No friends had been made during his years at the Academy, human or otherwise. Barely an interaction had been engaged with him, aside from the sporadic group assessments in which he was required to participate. If one had taken note of his apparent - albeit very mild - wariness towards his fellow Earth-born students, then one would have probably spotted the same level of caution with those of a different species. That latter may seem odd, with interspecies relations being the Federation’s vanguard. That could merely amount to the reclusive nature of this cadet, as none – human or not – had ever “gotten to know” him.

Moreover, while many cadets would relax or even recreate in their free hours – little as it is at times – this student would not. Even the brilliant cadet Nyota Uhura – a high achiever in her own right and a linguistics expert – would attend the local tavern not far from campus grounds to “unwind” with acquaintances and alcoholic drink after lengthy hours of study. There is no strict regulation against such activity, particularly when study remains unhindered. And yet, in spite of this fact, this particular young man had steered clear of any and all such ventures, utilising the time solely on his studies. One might ponder if he even allowed himself sleep; if one came to know him well enough, that is.

While most – if not all – cadets depart the Academy gates with a swell of hope, this russet-haired cadet instead fuels his determination further. His years of fervent study have at last rewarded him a posting on the Federation’s flagship vessel.

None could foretell what he might carry out in the year to come.

Chapter Text

After a length of time has passed, the russet-haired ensign makes a glance at the chronometer in his quarters. The hour is ripe and a moment now arises for the following task.

Having occupied himself with notes written into his PADD – as well as crew rosters, of which he conveniently acquired – he soon departs from his desk. Perhaps, the acquisition of such information is to aid his avoidance of encountering certain day shift officers. And yet, even if on some odd chance that he does run into the most minor of hiccups, or even become sighted, he still will not care. So long as his task is completed, it does not matter what fate has planned for him.

With the newly-filled vial removed from its placement upon a proximate table, a journey is made toward the room's exit. As the cylindrical vessel is housed in his pocket, he leaves his quarters in an air of sinister silence.

... ... ...

While the trio continue their study of the footage, something odd is caught by their attentive eyes. A lone figure, clad in his Science blues, glances about the room. That, however, is not what has their gaze. They observe him, shifting his position from one section of the space to another; all the while, making several glances toward two of the event's attendees. The officers in question are the First Officer and the gathering's organiser herself. Through the screen, she observes him almost watching them as they take their share of foodstuffs, seemingly unheeding of the eyes upon them. To be watched so carefully with all the activity around them seems a tad...unnerving.

"Did you see that?", queries the helmsman to Uhura. "He keeps looking directly at you and the Commander."

"Why is he watching us?"

"That's...Ensign Waterford.", comes the Captain's response, upon squinting at the image before him. "He joined a year ago."

"I don't like this.", utters the Communications Officer.

"Something definitely doesn't feel right.", now Kirk begins to feel uneasy.

Indeed, within the frame is the young officer, adorned by a tunic of crisp cerulean. As sighted by the eyes of the trio, he seems rather out-of-place at the gathering, having not attended other such events. Whilst they observe, he appears to alter his placement yet again, once the Vulcan and his courter have departed from the cloud cake table. While the couple partake in the beverages of their choice, the suspicious ensign seems to hover above that very table they had occupied moments before.

"What's he doing?", yet another query from Sulu.

In silence, Uhura's hand reaches for the earpiece she had brought with her. The device had merely been sitting atop the desk in front of her, awaiting her need of it. That time is now. Her eyes are not once removed from the screen as the gadget is secured in her ear. With all eyes fixed onto the monitor still, she listens.

Amongst the event's happenings, her innate hearing soon detects something. Thankfully, the mixture of sound is at a lower volume – much tamer than its predecessors – due to her deliberate planning. A small portion of footage is rewound by her hand upon the monitor's touch interface, the frames repeated over and again. Yes, there it is: a tinny clink of some form of metal, occurring twice during the ensign's occupation of the table.

Moreover, not only is a sound caught by her, an action is sighted by her also – and by the men at her side. Within those repeated frames, the team spot the hand of the ensign in motion, a hand shifting to a pocket. An object unveiled and in a hover above a single cloud cake – the very top piece of the bundle, and the second pastry to be consumed by the Commander himself. Utilising the interface once more, she increases the magnification of these frames, to better her view of those movements, and the footage is rewound again. At last, the screen reveals to the trio what had transpired in the hours before, and the assailant sighted. Their diligence, it seems, has finally offered its reward.

In confirmation, the footage is soon sped by her to a specific moment – that moment at which the Vulcan had begun to fall ill.

"That's it...we found him.", she then removes the device from her ear, and glances toward the friends by her side.

"Should I gather a security team, sir?". It seems the helmsman is ready to strike.

"No, we'll handle this ourselves.", replies the Captain, who then shifts back to the Lieutenant. "Where's Waterford now?"

A new set of commands is quickly tapped into the interface by her deft hands. As the information is displayed before her, the eyes soon begin to widen. The Vulcan's attacker is on the move.

"He's in the corridor, Sir."

"Any idea where he's headed?", apprehension now marks the eyes of the Captain.

"He's moving directly towards the Medbay...", in mere seconds, that fact is revealed by the monitor, and Sulu is the one to respond.

With haste, the trio depart from the screen, fearful of what may soon transpire. In their minds is a lone word, a crude personification of the alarm they now feel.

Shit...

Chapter Text

As fast as their limbs carry them, the trio make for their intended destination. That supposed place of healing that harbours their First Officer. That place in which some degree of suffering had been housed. And yet for the Vulcan, as his assailant inches closer to his target, it now seems apparent that more is to come. Through those gleaming corridors, the minds of the three pursuing shipmates are very much abuzz, with both adrenalin and concern. 

What new trials will be placed upon him? What further suffering must he endure at the hands of his attacker? How much pain must his already tested body be put through? How close to his own death might he come? And, what of the medicos – those weary souls tending to him? Will they be able to free him from death’s grip, or will this final test push their limits?

Or, will fortune offer the Vulcan’s saviours a well-earned reprieve, and the assailant captured in perfect timing?

So much now is reliant on just how fast they can run. 

... ... ...

The walls surrounding the ensign - and the air circulating therein - is sterile and pristine as it should be, as it always is. Yet, there may as well be a dark fog given off his form, a taint in the air in his immediate vicinity. Such is the nature of his deed, yes. If he has within his heart - his conscience - any qualms pertaining to his task, any 'change of heart', his steps would become heavy, hesitant, upon the smooth flooring. However, there are no such things within his mind, no such twinges of any kind of feeling as his destination draws near. No remorse, no hesitation for what he is about to do. Already, there had been much suffering placed upon his victim, and yet it may not have been enough.

So, with determined steps, he comes that much closer to his target.

Like a baneful apparition, that same air follows the ensign as his intended destination soon enters his view. With the ward's entrance drawing near, he can sight the personnel housed within. It seems, as per luck or careful planning, that the medicos - in a rather skeletal grouping, with such a late hour, it is night shift after all - appear quite occupied in their respective tasks.

There have been various members of the crew through that very door - sporadically coming and going - for differing reasons throughout the day time shift. Of course, into the night shift as well. Some had entered the ward with feelings of unease - a nagging headache, restlessness and sleep's elusiveness - mostly mild, yet still causing negative effects upon their duties. A rested and attentive crew is an effective one, yes? Peak well-being results in peak performance and morale.

And then, there had been those few crew members entering the ward in order to perform a duty. Maintenance of the instruments utilised by the medicos is of high importance - such equipment is vital to the health of the crew. Quite literally, lives are dependant on those devices and equipment and the maintenance thereof.

The young officer can almost effortlessly utilise the guise of either option to veil his intentions from the medicos. Or, perhaps, a mixture of both. A crew member entering the ward to perform a maintenance check on equipment and receive treatment for a merciless headache is indeed an interesting notion. And yet, perhaps it is "too much". The guise he has chosen as the shield for his task is the former: equipment maintenance. It is through this guise that he will have free reign within the confines of the ward, to go about as he pleases. Donned in his Science blues, he is clearly not of the Engineering department, yet it is known that he possesses thorough training within that field. So, his act might not be too "far-fetched".

As he moves through the doorway, all that is required from him is a simple phrase uttered to the nurse who first meets his gaze. The phrase which initiates his act.

"I'm just going to take a look at your tricorders, to make sure they're in good order."

At once, the nurse heeds his words with a nod and guides him to where he needs to be. It almost seems, well...too easy, as they say. Without an additional thought, she parts ways with him, allowing him the space to complete his "task", and she returns to her own.

Not a great deal of time - nor effort - is required of him in order to carry out his act. Yet, he prolongs the duration of it, actively going over a small bundle of medical tricorders, to ensure his performance is convincing. With each member of the Medbay staff occupied by their own respective duties, this aspect is not too burdensome. Of course, the scanners themselves are treated with high regard by the medicos - the ill-handling of such devices is detrimental to their duties and patients - and their condition remains untainted. None of the devices suffer faults of any kind. All is as it should be.

The performance soon comes to an end, and all tricorders are returned to their respective housing. His next move is now upon him. Aware of the bustle of the medicos, he maintains some distance from them, and by them he is duly ignored. This plan is so far going well. Gliding through the rows of biobeds, he feigns checking the condition of the monitors attached, glancing at and around. His apparent stealth rewards him with the staff paying almost no heed to his movements. It seems they are far too busy to overly concern themselves with someone who is checking their equipment.

It is within moments that he at last closes in on his victim. The Vulcan's long form is stilled atop the biobed, still clearly in the grips of unconsciousness. The monitor above shows that his vital signs have stabled for the time being, a hopeful sign for those tending to him. Yet, he is not completely saved from a grim fate. A vial of Benjisidrine is still required to liberate him from death's cold grasp. The completion of the drug’s synthesis is unfortunately still some time away, having passed its infantile stages not long ago. All the medicos can do is monitor the patient...and wait.

These latter facts, and all those regarding the drug, are unknown to the ensign. So, he forges onward.

Chapter Text

Much like the birthday gathering all those hours ago, he chooses the most opportune moment to execute his plan. Again, the russet-haired ensign dips a hand into a trouser pocket, to exit a second's fraction later grasping yet another small vial. A vessel near identical to the very one which had been previously utilised. And again, there comes the shifting of sinister irises and the now all-too-familiar tiny clink of metal. This particular vial, however, differs from its predecessor in one small way: its unique design almost acts as a kind of hypospray in function, only much smaller in size. It injects its payload into the target via a near microscopic entry point. More difficult to detect, and suitable for stealth. A rather fitting item for this very task, indeed. Once more, it is done, and within a few short moments, the object is returned to its previous housing.

With vial in pocket, he takes a few moments to observe the substance's effect upon his target. As he feigns another monitor check, there is one fact that presently remains unknown to him. He is not the only crew member to utilise stealth during this short timeframe. Whilst travelling to this very ward, the Captain had secretly transmitted a communique to the medico in charge, with McCoy making his vocal response in the privacy of his office.

"Yeah, someone came in a few minutes ago, Jim."

>"Damn...keep an eye out. We'll be there soon."<

"Will do. Thanks for the heads up."

As the covers of both communicators close, near simultaneously, the minds and hearts of the devices' owners almost seem to fall into a shallow pit. A pit of unease. And, those same minds echo an identical thought...

Let's hope we're not too late.

Yet, fate has now decided otherwise as it swings its pendulum to the assailant. In a swift motion and a single moment, he takes a lone step away from his victim and swivels his form to once more face the ward's door. How he longs to hover over the patient and observe his handiwork further...but, like those pursuing him, and those tending to the Vulcan, time is against him. Time is not to be trifled with.

As he approaches the doorway, his ears detect an altering in the tone of that very equipment tracking the patient's vitals.

Much like the previous incidents, there is a change in the patient's heart rate; this very occasion, however, is different. Whereas before, the elevation of the organ's rhythm was gradual, it is now much more abrupt, and the patient's eyes are jolted open in response. And, once again, the Vulcan's ailed form is gasping for air.

There is an instantaneous rush of bodies, a scramble to the patient's aid, whilst the assailant closes in on his exit. Confusion and a great unease befall the medicos, as frightfully abrupt as the victim's altered condition. The attacker does not swivel his head, nor change his expression through the hurried mess. He merely utilises his ears to focus on all that is transpiring behind him. And, horribly sudden as the few moments prior, yet another change occurs within the patient. His heart's rhythm now seems to reverse, and not at a reasonable decline; the manner in which the organ's pace slows is far too drastic for the well-trained medicos to forgo their concern. Such extreme changes in heartbeat will undeniably cause a great deal of damage to the rather vital organ. With a heart rate dropping at a worrying speed, the patient once again begins to gradually slip into unconsciousness. All of these woeful scenes take place in only moments. It is all too fast for the almost defeated medicos.

Just shy of the Medbay door, it seems the attacker's freedom is guaranteed. And yet, with one uniform boot halfway into the corridor, his escape is halted. Heeding the instruction of his friend, the chief medico's hand grasps at the young ensign. A fury marks the face of McCoy, and his hand grips the young officer's arm likewise. The assailant is mildly taken aback, yet his own face does not alter; his facade must still be maintained until the physician's true intentions are revealed. However, the assailant suspects that the true nature of his task has been unveiled. Perhaps, fate's pendulum has once again moved; this time, it may have shifted out of his favour.

"Hey!"

"Ah, Doctor...how may I help you?" The ensign's tone is surprisingly calm, despite the physician's bark.

"What are you doing here?"

"Checking a few tricorders - "

"Bullshit. What's in your pocket?"

Without a response, the medico dips a hand into a pocket of the junior officer's regulation slacks. That very pocket currently housing the vial he had just used. And there it is, discovered by the doctor and brought into view, grasped by a furious hand.

"What the hell is this?"

"That's just my medication, I carry it with me - "

"Nice try, kid...", despite his usage of such wording, the doctor is still quite furious. As he should very well be. "I've got your damn medical file...you don't need medication."

The young officer then concedes to the fact that nothing he can proclaim, no story or facade his mind can conjure, will fool the man standing before him. A man who just happens to be the ship's Chief Medical Officer. His cover, it seems, is blown.

The ensign has been found out, and his accusers will soon be faced...as will the consequences of his deeds.

As the young officer is forcibly moved back into the depths of the ward - no resistance is made from him, as his defeat has been realised - the physician takes a moment to utter one final phrase to the ensign. Not only as a warning, but as a threat as well.

"You are not going anywhere...the Captain is on his way."

Indeed, it is within the following moments that the assailant's pursuers arrive, to at last confront the one who had attacked their First Officer.

With a rage marking each face of the newly-arrived trio, the Captain is the first to speak.

"Ensign Waterford, you are under arrest for - "

"Yes, I did it...", a proclamation is made by the younger man. "I attacked that...Vulcan. How pretentious they are in their 'superiority', with their precious logic. I spit on them. What a fool his mother was to share a bed with one...she is no human to me."

Throughout the attacker's bigoted tirade, the victim lay there still. Not yet within the grips of unconsciousness, the Vulcan had heard the brief performance, and within him there swells a rage. An endless fury for the one who would dare insult his mother. Yet, in mere moments a comatose state takes him, and his sluggish irises are veiled by falling lids, as his vitals continue to decline.

Whilst the assailant grapples with his captors - and unbeknownst to him - a plan is formulated by the Chief Medical Officer, as M'Benga prepares the patient for yet another round of surgery. With a swift thrust of a hypospray into the neck by the steady hand of McCoy, the attacker slumps into the arms of his pursuers. And, with a toss of the emptied spray, the chief medico utters one final phrase to his commanding friend.

"Get him out of my damn sickbay, Jim."

Chapter Text

With a sluggish unveiling of drowsy irises, the young officer begins to awaken. Fifteen minutes have passed since his placement within a lone cell of the ship’s brig, almost twenty minutes since his capture. The chemical which was utilised by the Chief Medical Officer indeed bears some lasting effects upon the ensign, having already rendered him unconscious so quickly after its administration, and resulting in his current state of clouded vision and a dulled head. This substance had clearly been selected carefully by the trained medico for a specific purpose, and that purpose had been fulfilled.

As his eyes eventually correct themselves, his head follows his gaze whilst it moves about the surrounding space. His containment is of decent size – quite spacious for a single detainee – and brimmed with bright ambience; almost too much for his adjusting eyes.

After taking the few short minutes to process the young man, the Captain and his colleagues had opted to await the detainee's awakening. During this time, the captors had acquired PADDs so that they could each file a report on the situation, a task required for any such happening. Due to the rather serious nature of this incident – nay, attack – this is one of many regulations that the Captain will wholly abide by.

Indeed, while it is known that he wilfully disregards some of the Federation's rules and orders of his superiors – in order to minimize the risk to a single crew member's safety in some cases, to neutralise threats in others, or to simply 'play by his own rules' – this is an exception. The life of his First Officer has been jeopardized due to the bigotry of one man, and the Captain will see to it that no other crew members will suffer the same. Such horrid prejudices have no place aboard his ship.

Moreover, the two crewmates presently accompanying him – and with them the rest of the crew, to be sure – possess a strikingly similar mindset, in a parallel of his own. The alliance for which they all work is meant as a harmonious one, a welcoming for multitudes of species and creeds; 'strength in unity', so goes the idiom. These people – the personnel aboard this vessel – are much more than mere co-workers; this is a family, in a way. And, such a family would in turn become rather protective of its members. This fact is particularly true for the vessel's First Officer, a lone Vulcan serving amongst a predominantly human crew. An individual who had already lost so much and suffered such great heartache, that for him to endure more would be cruel, unacceptable. It may just break him. Suffice it to say, none of this new family deserve such pain, least of all the Vulcan, hence the need to protect him – and each other.

The Captain soon turns to gaze at his two companions, the face of each officer marked by the early signs of fatigue. Their sleep schedule – and the initiation thereof – is much overdue, and their bodies in turn do well to show it. So much already had they done for him – with him – with nary a rest or reward, sans the sleep they may soon receive, and of course the justice for their comrade. And yet, a reward is not what they seek, no salutation, no 'pat on the back'; none of that is what they're after, none dwell within their mind's recesses. For all that they wish to achieve – the Captain included – is for the assailant to pay for his crimes, and for their crewmate to return to them...alive.

This latter statement may not be guaranteed, with the Medbay's recent chaos, and – unbeknownst to the trio – what may soon transpire. Of course, they could even be mildly aware of this, yet dwell on such possibilities they dare not.

Of their hope, one final thread remains, and to it the trio cling thusly.

The weariness within their eyes and minds and bodies very much taken into consideration, the Captain quietly offers his comrades a proposal. In a low tone, he extends to them an invitation to the rest they so greatly need, the sleep that their bodies now crave. This instruction is not only offered as a commandant to his subordinates, but as an officer to his fellow crewmates...and moreover, as one friend to another.

"You look pretty beat...", Kirk’s eyes shift to both crewmates as he speaks, "...why don't you get some rest. It's been a long day."

"What about you, Sir?", the helmsman makes his reply out of concern for his captain, a sentiment echoed by the face of the Communications Officer.

At the commandant's nil-response – with his gaze momentarily shifting to the detainee – the Lieutenant quietly brings him out of whatever thoughts may have occupied him. Housed within his cell, the assailant observes his captors as Uhura speaks.

"Captain?"

"I'll be...turning in soon." He cannot help but admire the concern his crewmates have for him, a trait shared by the vessel's remaining personnel, and one that he had become accustomed to. "Thank you...both of you...for everything. You've done great work today; try to get some sleep, alright?"

Indeed, the officers' regard for his wellbeing is mirrored by the Captain himself, and his tone reflects that very sentiment. It is a more gentle tone, yet not overbearingly soft; brimmed with sympathetic undertones, warm and caring. Almost as if he were addressing close family, siblings even; perhaps that is how he perceives his crewmates, particularly after such a trying day.

"Thank you, Sir.", comes the helmsman's reply. With a brotherly pat of the arm from his superior, Sulu soon departs to make the journey to his living quarters.

The very moment the Communications Officer begins to follow suit, she is halted by a gentle pull at her arm.

"I know you're worried about him...", the Captain begins quietly, "...they're doing everything they can. Right now, the only thing we have going for us is our hope and faith in the Medical staff. He's going to be okay, somehow, deep down, I just know. Take care of yourself, okay?"

While Kirk’s speech may not be much in such a brief moment, with no shallow promises contained therein, the words moisten the Lieutenant's eyes all the same.

With a glaze in her eyes and a fog in her mind, she gives her commandant – her friend – a nod in solidarity. In spite of her concern for the Vulcan, she too knows that somehow, he will be saved. Within her heart, she knows. Unbeknownst to her, however, that may soon change and hope might just cling to the weakest of threads.

The brief discourse over, she departs from her captain, to return at last to her living quarters. In her weary haze, the ship's ambience currently seems a tad too overbearing, with walls and floors too bright and gleaming as she traverses the winding corridor. Despite her mildly sluggish pace, she manages to gain on the helmsman, who had only departed a few short moments prior. With fatigue taking him as well, his pace is a near match for her own. As that space between them shortens – and almost as if he can sense her proximity – he soon halts and begins to swivel to face her.

"You okay?", there is a brief pause in his journey as he speaks, an interlude which ends upon her arrival at his side; and so, Sulu moves again, to traverse the corridor with her.

Possibly due to fatigue or tattered emotions – or a mingling of both – there is a delay in the Lieutenant's reply. It almost seems to be a kind of hesitation from her, as if she were in the midst of a search for words. Communication and correct phrasing are part of the daily tasks Uhura performs, yet all of that seems to escape her in these brief moments. Perhaps, for the shortest of timeframes, her keen mind may not be as sharp as it would normally be. Or, after the completion of her latest task, her mind requires a short reprieve, to shut off for a fraction of time...to rest. Much like the majority of personnel aboard this vessel, she is only human, and her mind – astute as it is – needs to break away from duty. With plentiful somnolence, it will of course reboot and return to it's regular astuteness.

"I'm just...tired." Her responding tone is marked by fatigue, yes, much like her crewmate's initiating query; but, also wandering thoughts.

In a single flash, her mind's eye conjures images, both in a recall of recent events, and what may lie ahead. It is jarring, indeed, in spite of her weariness and the hope she clings to, and her eyes are momentarily veiled by the hasty closing of lids in some attempt to quell such thoughts. Almost as if he can discern her mind's brief wanderings, the helmsman brings forth a notion to her.

"We can stop by the Medbay if you want to see him."

Uhura’s entire form nearly halts in its tracks. That is not to say that the notion hadn't wandered her own mind. Yes, she would wish to pay a final visit before she retires for the night; yet, by the same token, she would not want to become an obstacle for the medicos. After all, is it not they who are tending to him? For them to have the space and peace to do their duty is vital. Although, perhaps her crewmate's notion is only for a view from afar, away from staff.

Yes, Sulu’s tone suggests that is what he offers, a quick glance to ease her mind. A peek through a window, so to speak. For all they know, the pair might witness a split second of the Vulcan in the midst of surgery, his inert form laid peacefully on the biobed. No pain, no more strain upon his heart – at least, for this present time. The regular motions of his unclad chest whilst he breathes, with physicians hunched over his open torso as they once again repair his heart.

And what of the Benjisidrine? That very drug needed to stave off the complete failure of this vital organ? It still has a ways to go until it becomes fully synthesized, so what will the medicos do in the meantime? With all of their knowledge and training in their field, they will find a means to do what needs to be done. To save him. An alternate method, a 'temporary fix', perhaps. No matter happens, they will find a way. These people are some of the best in Starfleet, and they will not easily give in to defeat.

"I...thank you." There is, in her voice, a tone of gratitude, marked also by a meagre curl in her mouth.

"We'll have a quick look, okay?"

His words confirm what she had suspected. They will pay the ward a fleeting visit, then depart as if they had not come at all. With a gentle touch at her arm and a weary smile in reassurance, the two friends continue onward.

Nothing, however, may ever prepare them for what they will soon witness.

Chapter Text

Having momentarily swivelled to glance upon the Communications Officer as she departed, the Captain turns once more. With his view now directed at the line of cell blocks before him, he finds that the prisoner had moved. Whereas just moments prior, the detainee had been stood upright, gazing at his captors; now, he is placed upon a lone article of furniture within his confines. This rectangular piece may best be described as a clever composite of bench and bed. As it ultimately serves a dual purpose, this item is an appropriate addition for such a small space.

With the prisoner positioned on the opposing side of the furniture – his eyes aimlessly fixated upon the cell's rear wall – the Captain cannot view his face. There is no way to discern what expression the younger man may possess, what thoughts he might have. And yet, it seems clear that anger might not be what the man now feels. Anger toward his captors, that is. He had known all along, that his actions may catch up to him. And they did.

"Have you come to berate me, Captain?" Not altering his placement in the slightest, the detainee speaks. "To tell me how disappointed you are that a promising young officer would dare carry out such deeds?"

"I'm not here to have a conversation with you."

The prisoner almost seems to taunt the Captain, to get a rise out of him, perhaps. Indeed, Kirk feels an anger toward him, for his deeds, yes...but also for the manner in which he now flaunts his responsibility for such acts. Yet, the Captain's face had remained almost deadpan during his rapid response.

"Oh? Then, perhaps, you're going to remind me of why I'm in this cell...why you captured me."

"You, ", the Captain's tone begins to show some of his anger, "are going to stand trial for the attempted murder of – "

"Murder?" At last, the attacker rises from his position and swivels to meet his captor's eye. "My purpose was not to murder...him, Captain. I only sought to cause him suffering."

Rage swells within the Captain, like a dam near bursting its banks. In a clamping of fists and a gritting of teeth, he hastily swivels away from the prisoner. He will no longer engage with this man, and rightly so. The attacker seems to take pride in his deeds – too much, perhaps – and Kirk will not stand for it. He soon makes for the brig's exit, not without giving a quiet order to a guard first.

"I don't think he'll try anything, but I want to know the moment he does."

"Aye, Sir."

With that, the Captain finally leaves, not knowing of the fiendish grin upon the prisoner's face.

... ... ...

"That asshole really threw a spanner in the works, God fucking dammit!" The words barrel from McCoy's mouth in a spit of fury.

This latest alteration of the victim's condition has wreaked its havoc upon the already-stretched medical staff, and of course, the patient himself. In a parallel to the Captain's rage, the Chief Medico's entire being is teeming with it. Moreover, the remaining crew – some of whom hail not from Earth – are, to put mildly, on edge with the recent attacks upon their First Officer. Those that are privy to these events, that is. With the acquisition of the attacker comes a mild relaxing of the captors and medicos prior warrant of secrecy. That is, the medicos do have an oath to the abiding of patient privacy. Yet, some of the staff themselves are not of human heritage, as per the rather diverse range of trained individuals that Starfleet has to offer. And yes, the staff within the walls of the brig may also be acquainted with the reasoning behind the assailant's imprisonment. Particularly with the reports filed by his own captors.

Within human and non-human crew, there is indeed an anger toward the attacker; and yet, in some, there is an inkling of disquiet, of fear. A worry for who else the assailant may have harmed, either prior to these events or at later times...had he not become exposed, that is. The notion is rather unsettling.

With the patient almost prepared once more for surgery, the Chief medico shares a glance at his colleague, and his friend. During the short outburst, M'Benga had not flinched one iota.

"Sorry, I just – "

"Never be sorry, Len." M'Benga's own voice is calm, parallel to his colleague's tone after a lengthy inhale. "I feel very much the same way."

The two physicians are indeed human, with all of their inherent emotions and reactivity, yet there is nary the space for the usage of such things. Their duty – and their patient – await their trained hands and focused minds. These two medicos, and their remaining staff, can 'switch off', so to speak, and work objectively. That is their duty, that is what they are trained into. For the sake of their patients.

"He's ready, Doctors." The task's end happens only a few moments after the physicians' speech, with a nurse informing them post-haste.

"And so are we...let's go back in." McCoy is the one to respond, and as he and M'Benga had already made their own preparations for the upcoming procedure, they begin almost instantly.

As the laser scalpel breaks the patient's skin once more, the medicos are unaware of the two crew members heading their way.

Chapter Text

Grasped by deftly trained fingers, the instruments within the physicians' hands move near effortlessly, gliding over their respective target areas as if they were wands and the medicos were magicians. Perhaps, that is what they need at this desperate time: some kind of otherworldly sorcery, divine intervention...luck. In silence, the doctors weave their medical magic in a perfect synergy. This may just be the final time such a procedure will be performed on the patient, and they will see to it that the task is completed with utmost accuracy. No task by the medicos is done in a half-baked manner, not with lives dependant upon their skill. To do so would be, quite literally, deadly. The patient's life is in the best of hands.

Barely passed the surgery's initiating stages, there is yet another drastic change in the Vulcan. Over the ward's regular trill of monitors, there is now a single unending drone. It is what the medicos had feared: his heart has stopped. That very organ which had already endured so much, has at last given up. With the ceasing of this rather vital organ, there is a fresh dread within the ward's existing ambience. And it is hefty.

"Oh no you don't...", murmurs the ward's chief officer.

McCoy's words are indeed a spit at the poison and its creator thereof, but also contain an alternate tone, one which is directed at the victim himself.

Don't give up on me yet.

In a moment's utmost miniscule fraction, the two physicians formulate a plan. A means to pull the Vulcan from death's grasp. Their adept minds and immaculate synergy are brought together in perfect coalescence. M'Benga is the first to speak, to initiate the plan.

"While we've still got him open..."

"...manual heart massage?"

"Yeah."

"Alright, I'll leave you with that." At once, the chief medico departs to rid his hands of the now green-stained gloves, to hastily make for a nearby cabinet.

"The Benjisidrine still needs time to finish synthesizing." M'Benga's hand instantaneously enwraps the patient's heart, and in quick yet regular rhythms, the organ is compressed then relaxed.

"I'll get the Cordrazine."

"He's going to need a lot."

"Yep, fifty ccs should do it." A hypospray is briskly filled by McCoy, with that very drug. It is a final-resort method, this and his colleague's heart-pumping hand, but it seems the only thing left for them. Crude, desperate, yet hopefully effective.

With the hypospray's entire load injected into the patient, there is little the Chief Medical Officer can now do. Without becoming an obstacle for his associate's hand – a hand trained in the physiology of Vulcans – he instead observes the screen above the patient's bed. To await the monitor's confirmation that their plan would succeed.

As if their thoughts had momentarily become one, a phrase enters the minds of them both.

Come on, Commander.

... ... ...

It is at this very moment, that two of the vessel's bridge crew arrive. Those same crew members who had played a part in the capture of the First Officer's attacker. For a few short moments, the pair witness the distressing scene, with the eyes of Uhura in particular growing wide with the sheer direness of it all. Her companion also shares with her this sense of dread, and his face in turn is marked by it. This is not what they had expected, not at all what they would have ever thought to view. Yet, here it is, laid before them in all of its dismal display. Their remaining hope, and the very life of their crewmate, now lay spread across a fragile thread.

With their brief visitation seemingly stretched further by their shock at the scene before them, their eyes are met by those of the chief medico. McCoy indeed sights his crewmates, peeking through the window at which they had positioned, and to them he sends an expression. Not of irritation at their presence, but of his desperation. The sweat upon his brow and the glare of his eyes are telling of the urgency to this situation's development, and the need to save the Vulcan. There is, however, a meagre sense of hope within his eyes. A hope in the positive outcome for this last portion of the procedure. Over and again, his mind will recite, almost like a mantra...

It will work.

That, too, is what his eyes convey to the crewmates at the window. Not a word uttered, or mouthed in silence, only the visage marking his face.

"Spock..." The Lieutenant's teary utterance is a mere whisper, her eyes bleary with both fatigue and heartache.

"There's nothing we can do."

The helmsman's words may not be necessary, as his crewmate is indeed very aware of that fact. Yet, his accompanying gentle touch upon her arm is a means to pull her away from whatever temporary fog she is held by. And, of course, it works.

In moments, they make their departure, and soon find themselves in the open corridor once more. The two crewmates halt just shy of the ward's entrance. This is where shock takes a hold of the weary Uhura, and her comrade offers his sympathy and consolation. As a friend.

"I'm sorry... I can stay if you want to talk."

"I... I think I just want to be alone right now."

Although Sulu would want to remain by her side whilst she travels to her quarters, to be the tunic onto which she can weep, he is heedful of her choice. He does not think any little of her during these moments; this is a woman of strength, yet that is not all that she is. While he may not yet know of the jeopardy to a loved one's life and the pain that brings, he can still gift her his compassion. With the vulnerability of the Vulcan, there also comes a vulnerability in the Communications Officer. And, the helmsman in turn can empathise with her. To share in her grief, perhaps.

A sliver of a moment before she parts from him, and while mindful of her choice of privacy, he offers one final notion to her. One that she would initiate, if she so chooses.

"I'll keep my communicator nearby, just in case."

Whether she accepts his offer or not, is wholly dependant on her own volition and none else. It is there as an option only. Time to process these events in private solitude in her mind is what she needs, and this he knows. So, upon her eye of acknowledgement, the two depart from one another. Thus begins the Lieutenant's lone journey to her living space; a room shared by herself...and the Vulcan.

... ... ...

It is, upon her arrival at the living space and the door securing behind her, that the threads of her emotional restraint unravel. With slim fingers grasping the cool dining table, she lets herself go, droplets of her sorrow marking the smooth surface. This past day has been trying indeed, but those final moments had broken her.

This is indeed a woman who can be cold and logical if the need arises, yet also not averse to display her fire and passion. Who has sensitivities of her own, that rise to the surface. This does not make her feeble or weak...only human.

And as those tears fall, there comes the display of her humanity.

Chapter Text

Once the helmsman arrives at his own quarters, he wearily performs his nightly ritual, with ablutions completed and uniform discarded to the wash basket. A fresh set will of course adorn him come the morning. Late as the hour is, that time will soon approach him. As per his parting words to his comrade, his communicator is placed upon the table beside his bed. Should his friend choose to call him, he will of course attend her summons, no matter the hour. To lend her his ear. And his kindness. 

... ... ...

With all that Uhura had witnessed a bane to her mind's eye, images of which repeat over and again, peace will indeed become hard to obtain. The visage, for her, is a rather unsettling one: the patient's halted heartrate; the pallidity of his hapless form; the attending medicos in a hasty scramble to tend to him; the stilled heart in the trained hand of the physician, the fingers of which spattered by blood in their attempt to stimulate the organ, to save the Vulcan...from death. 

Will all of those efforts be in vain? Time – an element almost at its end for the patient – and perhaps hope, will soon tell. 

Her mind soon traces back to the moments before her departure from the brig, and those words spoken by her captain. Although his parting words had been somewhat brief, still there was a weight in them, and still they meant so much. His speech had been an assurance for himself, yes, but also for her. 

He’s going to be okay...

A life not yet taken by the cold hands of death, but seemingly so close, and dreadfully so.

...somehow, deep down, I just know. 

That oh so infamous “gut feeling”, telling of the final clutching at hope. 

Take care of yourself...

And the friendship, with its faltering beginnings, now bloomed into one of deep respect and kinship and...family. That final phrase could easily have been uttered to anyone, with some degree of concern indeed; yet, the manner with which he had used it carried a deeper sincerity. 

With a quivering hand and the unveiling of her irises, the Communications Officer inhales an uneasy breath. And soon, in faltered motions, she slowly makes her way to the washroom. Her sole task being that of preparing herself for rest. 

... ... ...

Within the sterile walls of the Medbay, minutes almost seem to drag on. For the medicos and their arresting patient, time is indeed rather crucial. The drone of the equipment signalling the victim's inactive heart only exemplifies the feeling of time's slow passing, the grimness of the situation and the staff's desperation. Air inside this space is indeed brimmed with a sense of urgency – the longer his heart remains dormant, the closer he becomes to inevitable death. Every one of the personnel here know this...implicitly. 

... ... ...

Sleep does not arrive easily for the weary Communications Officer, with all that she just witnessed plaguing her mind. Thoughts run rampant in her subconscious, a mix of imagery from the Medbay's chaos and what may well be inevitable. There is a probability that the Vulcan might not be revived, and all the tireless efforts of the medicos would all have been in vain. Death, as the idiom goes, might just be around the corner. 

Almost tempted to pay one final visit to the ward, she halts herself. There is not much at all that she can do, sans becoming an obstacle for the bustling medical staff. She knows, all too well, that the patient is in the best hands of the ship – the fleet, even – and that every ounce of training and skill and hope will be utilised to the utter maximum in order to save him. To bring him back to her. 

With a lighting of incense and the unfurling of a rug, she employs the very ritual that he performs at night. A deep meditative state might just quell her thoughts and still her mind, so that she may achieve even a fraction of peaceful sleep. Her mind, and body in turn, must be rested enough to perform her duties come the morning; there may still be much to do, tasks to complete and an investigation to conduct. She cannot afford to endure a sluggish body and dulled mind. For him, she needs to be alert. 

Apparently earlier than she had anticipated, the incense is completely extinguished. Perhaps, time had escaped her during her meditation. With one final inhale, she rises from her placement, to make for the bed. Just before she reaches it, however, a notion crosses her mind. Grasping at a cerulean-toned item, she finally positions herself beneath the covers. Held taut by her is a uniform tunic once worn by the Vulcan, and still carrying a tiny inkling of his residual scent. It may not be much, but perhaps enough to offer her comfort. 

As those slivers of the aroma's remnants waft into her nostrils, the garment is brought closer, a cushion against her face. Soon, there is a meagre dampness upon the fabric, borne from quiet weeping. The meditation may have calmed her thoughts, but nothing may truly stop her feeling. With a mix of incense residue and her lover's scent, her weeping slowly begins to ease as drowsiness takes hold. One final squeeze of the tunic by her arms, and her mind makes a single phrase before slumber takes her. 

Come back to me.

Chapter Text

At last, in a wondrous spattering of hope, the drone from Spock’s monitor vanishes. With the awakening of the patient’s heart, comes the return of the equipment's regular rhythm. The physicians’ hastily-acted plan of Cordrazine’s hefty dose and M’Benga’s trained hand conglomerate in the revival of the vital organ...and the patient. That grimly thick air now seems to dissolve, and the medicos in turn exhale their relief. They had won this small battle with their patient. His life has been restored. 

“Atta boy, Spock!” The chief medico does not hide his elation at all, with sweat on his brow wiped by a cloth.

McCoy’s colleague, too, lets out a lengthy breath, with his own face swabbed by a nurse. All is well...for the moment, of course. The Cordrazine may only do so much for the Vulcan, with the Benjisidrine not yet completed. There is, however, another probability: the chemicals which began these perilous events.

The two physicians exchange the briefest of glances – marked of course by relief, but also of an inevitability.

“There’s a good chance all of these chemicals are still swimming around in his body...”, begins the chief medico, promptly returning to his comrade’s side.

“And we still have work to do.”

As time is still rather a crucial factor, the medicos waste none of it in the continuation of their patient’s surgery. There are no minutes or seconds squandered in their due care of the First Officer, with damage to his heart still in need of their trained hands.

A small battle won, indeed...but there is yet more that needs to be done. The crew members who had captured the assailant, however, are oblivious to this latest part of the Medbay’s happenings. None more so than the bereaved Communications Officer herself.

... ... ...

It takes the Benjisidrine an additional two-and-a-quarter hours to reach its full synthesisation, the rather vital drug at last ready for its patient. Its completion had unfortunately extended a tad past the physician's estimate, however; a factor that could not have been avoided. Yet, the administration of Cordrazine had bought some time for the drug, and in turn, the medical staff. With the heart of the First Officer repaired for seemingly the final time, all that is required now is a scan of his blood. A search for any remnants of the chemicals that had harmed him. And, of course, the Benjisidrine itself, along with some well-needed rest. Both for him, and the physicians who had tended to him.

As there is no telling of what the attacker's drugs may do when the Benjisidrine enters his system – whether they counteract it or not – the blood scan needs to be quite thorough. Even the very first dose of the harmful substance might still have a negative effect upon the Vulcan, despite it entering his blood many hours ago. Of course, those effects might not be as severe, with most of this dosage already dissipated; there is still a risk all the same. And, yes, there is the secondary drug to consider, being much more recent and of a slight variation to its predecessor. It is for all of these very reasons, that the medicos must conduct their search.

The scan is conducted post-haste, with due diligence and care, by a member of the nursing staff. This task is performed under the instruction of the chief medico, whilst both he and his colleague finalise their patient's surgery. Of course, the nurse knows the correct procedures all the same, and that there is not much use in squandering precious minutes. Hence, the medico's order coming so early; whilst the physicians seal the entry made for the surgery, in fact. With a final closing of flesh by dermal regenerator, the surgery is fully completed.

In a turn of fortune, and good timing, the blood scan as well is completed. The fortune being, of course, the scan's findings: even the most recent attacking chemical is shown to have mere trace amounts remaining in his body; the earlier variant had already diminished completely. The medical staff find this rather odd, as substances normally remain in a patient's blood for much longer periods of time. Perhaps, the assailant designed these drugs in such a way that they leave their target's blood – faster than others – after dealing their damage. A mild detection avoidance, maybe. This discovery is both odd and intriguing, yes; yet, it is another relief for the medicos.

There is, however, yet another twist of fate, another possible outcome of these events. One that may not manifest itself until a future timeframe. Despite the repairs of the Vulcan's heart completed by the collective trained hands of the physicians, there is a degree of risk from the strain caused by the attacker's chemicals. A probability that, with all that the organ had endured, there will be issues that may very well arise when he approaches the more advanced years of his life.

Indeed, here is a rather unique individual who, due to part of his physiology, is capable of enduring more than many of the personnel with whom he serves; yet, that does not make him invulnerable. Not in the slightest.

For, even one such as he would have a limitation of what he can endure, a point at which his body can bear no more. Perhaps, this may well be a fact of which his attacker could be aware, and why he was not as angered by his capture as one might have thought.

His goal was to cause his victim a great deal of suffering, and that is precisely what he had achieved. 

Chapter Text

Morning's early hours begin to approach, seemingly far too soon for a particular group of the bridge personnel. With the present setting being that of a starship of course, there is no natural herald for the arrival of the new day. No sunrise of gold and orange glow, or whatever spectacle one's home world may gift. Here, in this locale of metal and glass and cold ambience, the vessel itself is the signal of the morning. It is with the chirp of a computer and a glance at a chronometer, that one is made aware of the day's arrival. A herald made of technology, as it were, and a rather fitting one at that.

And this, of course, is precisely how the Captain awakes. There had been some degree of difficulty in the initiation of his slumber, despite his apparent level of fatigue; and yes, in almost a mirror of that experienced by his Communications Officer. His method of self-calm had differed from hers – reading ship reports on his PADD – yet the outcome had been the same. Now, he rises from his bed, to ready himself for the day.

Moreover, to prepare himself for what may lie ahead. There are still questions that require their due answers, information to gather. Those queries, of course, are for one specific man: that crew member now residing in a cell of the brig. What else may he be veiling from the Captain, from everyone? Plans to attack another member of the crew? An accomplice, perhaps; or, was he acting as a single perpetrator?

There could be a chance that the prisoner will choose silence, to not give his captain any further information. Yet, as with his prior verbal exchange, that may seem unlikely. Kirk, indeed, knows this.

Due to the apparent amount of pride the assailant had shown in their previous encounter – pride in his deeds – the Captain does not await the upcoming discourse with any kind of enthusiasm. Yet, it must be done, the queries must be answered. For the advancement of the investigation.

In slumber's residual blear, he makes for the washroom. Whilst he completes his ablutions, his mind gathers itself, conjuring his queries for the prisoner.

... ... ...

The Communications Officer, too, softly awakens from her slumber. While the amount of rest she had received might not be deemed enough, it will have to do. It may just be sufficient for the upcoming hours, and the tasks to which she will attend. Her silent weeping the hours prior had left their markings upon her face, and the tunic onto which she held. Now dry, the tears had cemented themselves onto the cloth still, a hardened blotch left in their wake. In due time, the garment will be cleansed, the bereaved marks washed away, and the fabric made new once more. As will her face, of course.

Padding silently into the meagre washroom, and with cool water cupped by her hands, that is precisely what she does.

Now adorning a crisp uniform and a fresh face, she soon begins to make the journey toward the living quarters' exit. Her steps are made with an air of determination, regulation boots firm against the soft flooring, as she travels to the door. This, in spite of the residual inklings of her fatigue. Work needs to be done, and she will see to it that it does.

With her destination now closing in, she halts herself. A glance is made toward the cerulean tunic currently draped over a lounge chair, placed there by her own hand. She almost has half a mind to visit the garment's owner once more. Indeed, she is unaware of the Vulcan's revival and improved condition; yet, in her heart, there lies a smidge of hope. There had been no summons from the staff tending to him, no personal communique from either physician bearing sorrowful news. That, at least, is deemed a good sign. Perhaps, she could call the medicos herself, to hear from them directly that he had been saved. Perhaps...

Her musings are abruptly broken by a subtle chirp. With the small device lifted from its placement upon the doorway's side table, her hand brings it into her view. A glance at the communicator discerns for her a call from a member of the medical staff. The very souls that she had just been thinking of had almost seemed to read her internal musings.

Tapping on the device, there now comes a voice, tinny in its emergence, yet still evident as owned by one of the physicians. The voice is bereft of any physical form, yet its familiar tone brings out fresh emotions within her. By the tinny voice of the chief medico himself, a brief phrase is uttered. A bundle of words, quiet in their delivery, yet still a subtle altering of her face do they bring. Her lip curls upward and her eyelids veil her irises, with her entire form exhaling her relief at the words from McCoy.

"He's going to be alright."

Chapter Text

As the Captain gradually makes the journey through gleaming corridors toward the brig, he finds himself confronted by a notion. Much like his Communications Officer, he too wishes to pay a visitation to the Medbay. It is, after all, his duty to be kept abreast of the wellbeing of his crew; the personnel aboard this fine vessel are, in fact, under his care, so to speak. He has a responsibility to all of them, to ensure their safety; even his second-in-command – that very crew member situated within the ward – and who has a charge of his own. With the Medbay itself not too far from the brig, a visit may not seem too much of a stretch. It won't take too much from his current duty.

With nearly a change of his present trajectory, there is a subtle chirp emanating from his trouser pocket. It is almost as if the chief medico can hear his thoughts as well, as that is from whom the summons originates, that is the name on the communicator now clasped in the Captain's hand. It may be a tad unusual for the physician to address his captain in such a way, as he would much rather deliver his report in person. Yet, there is a reason for his present method of summons.

"Talk to me, Bones."

"I'm not going to take too much from you, Jim, but we got the Benjisidrine in time. Right now, Spock's resting. He'll be out for a while, but he'll be okay. Now, Jim, " his tone is a tad gruff, a mix of fatigue and residual ire, "you bring the hammer on that son of a bitch."

With the medico's final words, comes the end of their communique. It was almost a granting of permission, per se, for the Captain to visit the brig. Almost, as in his presence is not required in the Medbay, the information that he needs – and seeks – in that regard is now with him. As his regular duty shift does not begin for another ten minutes or so, and there is no urgent summons or emergency to tend to, he can divert himself away from the bridge for the moment. For now, the Captain's chair can wait. And so, he stays on his present course, so to speak. Towards the brig.

... ... ...

While the tone within this part of the vessel is normally tainted with a kind of unease, it is presently brimmed with an unseen and unforgiving fog. From the floor to the walls to the ceiling above, there is a tense air wafting about, more so than usual. Only once had the ambience become this unnerving, in times past, and a much more ruthless prisoner had been placed within. Such perilous times, yet thankfully put behind them all; not without some degree of loss and sacrifice, of course. And, it is through a newly disquiet air that the Captain now moves.

With a heft to his chest almost compressing onto him, and a mind laden with queries, he soon approaches the attacker's cell. For all his preparations and training and prior experience, there may be no foretelling of what he might soon hear. The prisoner might have attempted to predict what his interrogator may ask of him, and conjured his responses thusly. After all, as displayed by the execution of his deeds – those acts which have placed him here – he seems rather methodical in the motions of his mind. No one but he would know of the lengths to his planning, the careful concocting of chemicals, how many failures there may have been until the right one was made. This is a man of high skill and intellect, a man of a scientific mind. The responses he makes to his captain's questions should, theoretically, reflect that. And, despite his intellect, it is his bigotry that becomes his downfall.

"Why did you attack him?" In a near mockery of his Captain's voice, the prisoner is the first to speak.

Naturally, the superior officer is a tad perplexed at the words. Yet, he does not respond; there is no time, as the assailant continues.

"Is that not what you're going to ask me, Captain? What would you say if I refused to answer? To give you only silence? What would you do then?"

"I would assume that you were covering for someone. That you had an accomplice." The Captain opts to entertain the assailant, just for now; until he receives the information he needs.

"Oh, there was no 'accomplice', Captain. I am but a lone wolf stalking his prey."

For the manner in which the prisoner speaks, it seems quite apparent that silence is not what he had opted for. He is, however, toying with his interrogator. Not at all amused, Kirk will play along.

"And what other conclusion would you draw, given the answer I just offered?"

"You're also not working for anyone. No accomplice, no superiors."

It almost seems as if, by this exchange, that the assailant is in control. That it is he who now takes the lead, who steers his interrogator into his own questions. This should not be how it all unfolds, and the Captain knows. Particularly since he is the interrogator, he is the superior officer. The course of this exchange may have been inevitable, yet the Captain needs to steer the control back to himself.

"You might already know that I'm going to ask this question, but how do I know what you're telling me is true? How do I know you're not lying to me?"

"There may not ever be a credible answer to that question, only that – "

"I'll have to take your word for it." The time soon approaches for the interrogator to begin his duty shift, to place himself upon his chair at the bridge. Time has been reclaimed for his First Officer, but not for his interrogation. Yet, time has not been squandered here.

"Again, you're wondering why I did it, why I attacked him. Tell me, did you mourn with them as their planet imploded? Did you shed a tear? When others wept, I laughed. I revelled in their destruction."

"They were innocent people...a peaceful race – "

"Peaceful? No non-human will ever taste peace."

As the prisoner swivels away from his captain, it seems apparent – clear as day, in fact – that the abundance of hatred he had buried and veiled has at last broken to the surface. Like a shark in motionless waters.

After a moment to calm himself, with the tense air escalating instantaneously, the prisoner makes a silent exhale. His eyes are fixed onto the wall now, whilst the Captain's own eyes remain on him. The superior officer finds himself contemplating where so much disdain had originated, what brought the younger man to become so hateful of non-human species. To regard some of the Federation's own members – and allies, and even those not within the armada – as somehow lesser beings, despite the coalition's ideal that all peoples within its borders are equal. Perhaps, he perceives non-humans as some kind of threat; a threat to whom, though? A threat to humankind?

Another thought occurs to the Captain: was he coached into this hatred? And, who had conditioned him? If that may be the case here, the Captain might almost pity him. That pity, however, might not reach too far. The belief and actions of this man contradict everything the Federation stands for, everything it had strived for. Any inkling of pity Kirk may have for the man quickly disappears. Particularly considering how he had attacked his First Officer.

"By your silence, Captain, ", the prisoner's tone is low, surprisingly bereft of the anger it had moments ago, "may I assume that your questioning is finished?"

"We're not done here. My presence is needed on the bridge. I'll have more questions for you later."

The Captain now swivels his form at the utterance of those final words. Without additional words or glances to the assailant, he takes his leave of the brig, and a fresh journey is made. And, while he may not yet have all the information he needs, it might eventually come to light.

All in due time.

Chapter Text

With dark eyes fixated onto the screen in front of her, the Communications Officer's fingers move deftly over the controls as she works. Since her duty shift had begun several minutes ago, she is naturally placed at her station on the bridge, and her hands enter each command and flick each switch with all the dexterity and skill of one who had spent much time at this console. And with a great deal of prior training, of course. 

Currently, she is in the process of making a communique to Starfleet, to inform the appropriate commandants of the unfolding of recent events. The intentional attack of this vessel's First Officer, the apprehension of the assailant and the physical condition of the victim. The investigation and interrogation of the incident and perpetrator and the due processes thereof. Yes, reports had been filed upon the attacker's capture, but additional input is needed, as well as instructions from the appropriate persons regarding the next course of action. 

As with anything regarding Starfleet, there are procedures in place that need to be adhered to and followed, and correct channels contacted. So that everything remains good and proper, and with an air of professionalism. 

And yet, as her hands move about the console, there is a kind of disquiet behind her dark eyes. 

While it is true that she, amongst her comrades, feels a deep rage toward the assailant, hers is of a more personal nature. The attacker's intended target is one to whom she is particularly close, and harm that has been placed unto him is also unto her. This is the soul that she had chosen, to whom she would inevitably be bound, whose life is near forfeited...and she will not have it. 

It is with one final command entered, her task is complete. For now, that is. And now, whilst she awaits the appropriate response, a verbal report is needed for the Captain. Delivered in a stable tone, Uhura makes certain that her friend and commanding officer is kept abreast of this present status. 

“Captain...” 

And yet, he does not seem to respond. He may have heard her, but his mind might not have registered the summons he was given. 

In his chair, which he had duly placed himself minutes before, he sits in almost a daze. His eyes glare vaguely at the screen before him, as if in some kind of fog. No doubt he is preoccupied with his questioning of the prisoner, the answers that he gave and the ones that still need to come to light. At least, the attacker will finally answer for his crimes, and his victim will soon recover. 

However, there is still a degree of disquiet within the Captain. 

“Captain?” The voice of the Communications Officer breaks through the fog, bringing him back to the situation at hand. 

“Yes...Uhura?” 

His eyes meet her at last, and she gestures for him to come over. In a moment, he approaches, and her eyes return to the console. The communique that she had just sent is put into view, for her captain. 

“I’ve notified Starfleet on the situation.” 

“Thank you, Lieutenant.” 

After viewing the screen, he then exchanges a kind of half-glance with her, his eyes not quite making full contact. This is not out of disrespect, however; more of an affirmation of his heeding to her words. 

While she may not fully empathize with captaincy and all the pressures and responsibilities thereof, she can at least sympathize with him. Being a key member of the bridge personnel – a senior officer – she has obligations and pressure of her own. 

And with that, her eyes speak their words to him, and divert themselves back to her work. All the tasks pertaining to the Chief Communications Officer aboard this fine vessel, the flagship of the fleet. 

Some time later, far from the quarter-way point of their rather uneventful duty shift, the Lieutenant receives an alert on her screen. It seems that her message has been heeded and Starfleet has given their response. With quick fingers moving about the console, the message is opened and subsequently read. The instructions contained within are straightforward: the accused is to be transported to the nearest starbase to await trial. This procedure is rather standard, and the instructions will be forwarded to the Captain. And of course, acted upon thusly. 

“Captain, “, she begins quietly, “I have a response.” 

At her summons, the Captain again rises from his chair, to make for the Communications console. And yes, the message on the Lieutenant’s screen is read and understood accordingly. As clearly indicated by the nod of his head and the words he speaks to the Communications Officer. 

“Tell Starfleet we’ve received their message. Start making those arrangements too.” 

His tone had been firm, authoritative, a far cry from its befuddlement from before. As for his final statement, Uhura of course knows just what those “arrangements” entail: the summons of the shuttle bay. A vessel is to be made ready, in due time, for this upcoming venture...and its occupant. With her hands moving once more, she heeds his order. 

“Yes, Captain.” 

As the most proximate starbase is some light-years away, there may be ample time for the proper readying of a shuttle craft. Also, time enough for Uhura to notify the base’s commanding officer, whoever that may be, of the vessel’s upcoming arrival. And, of course, for prison officers and other staff to make arrangements of their own. 

... ... ...

What had begun as an “uneventful” duty shift, has now become something more. Crossing paths with this fine vessel, is a wayward comet, travelling through space on its unending journey. What a spectacle to witness, with the trail of ice and dust particles left in its wake, made aglow by reflected light. And, as the crew marvel at this sight – an event not many humans, or otherwise, had ever witnessed first-hand – Uhura finds herself thinking of one of their own. Her mind wanders off, so to speak, wishing that the Vulcan were here to gaze upon this visual delight...with her. No doubt, he would find the spectacle to be fascinating...as well as pleasing. The thought brings a tiny smile to her face, yet also an inkling of woe. 

‘I wish he was here.’ 

Not at all straying from its intended course, the ship almost follows the comet, if only for a short time and from a relatively safe distance. The crew, of course, have an exceptional vantage point with which to view this spectacle, and naturally take their full advantage of it. And soon, the two part from each other, with the comet following its own path in the great expanse of space. The spectacle is over. 

After this momentary lapse in their routine, the crew return to their respective duties. 

Eventually, this duty shift nears its end, with all tasks complete for the daytime hours, and all crew members depart from their stations. They will of course be replaced by the next rostered shift, the crew of which have readied themselves for the tasks ahead. 

With her shift now over, the weary Communications Officer rises from her seat. The officer to now commandeer the station had already arrived, along with the others, so the transition to the next shift is smooth, almost fluid. Efficient, even, as it needs to be. As Uhura departs from her station, a thought crosses her mind. And, it just so happens to be the same thought she had many hours ago, before the start of her duty shift.

With that thought lingering, she steps into the turbolift. 

Chapter Text

In a few moments, she emerges from the turbolift once more, the gleam of the corridor meeting her eyes. Now multiple decks below her prior setting, she makes the relatively short journey to her intended destination. The previous time that she had traversed this section of corridor, she had been overwhelmed with sorrow and fear. The fear of losing him. And as she approaches the Medbay again, this time the feeling is different. No more is the route tainted by woe or dread; this time, it is brimmed by relief. 

She soon passes through the entrance of the ward, sterile walls within so seemingly quiet. Compared to the events of before, all that frantic chaos, it would be. 

Her eyes finally meet him, on the same bed as he had been during this entire ordeal. The medico hovered over his unmoved form greets her with a glance, and she in turn exchanges the gesture. Upon her approach, the medico takes temporary leave of the patient, so that she may be alone with him. 

With her hands placed upon the rim of the bed, she just stares at him. Into him, as if searching him. He is, of course, in a deep slumber, his body finally receiving the rest it so desperately needed after such an ordeal. Such a harrowing ordeal, with death nearly taking him, and all at the hands of one man. For now, at least, death has been defeated. 

And she just watches him, so apparently peaceful as he lay on the bed. His body on the way to recovery, his mind seemingly unaware of the recent chaos it had endured; the chaos that she had borne witness to. Those images flash in her mind like a bolt of lighting, causing her eyelids to close momentarily. Even in such a restful state, it still pains her to view him like this, with all that he had endured. Even though she knows that he will be alright. 

For a time, she remains there, hovering over him just as a loved one would. As eager as she is to feel his embrace once again, she knows that his rest and recovery come first. And so, with a hand grasping his, she leans closer, gifting his forehead a gentle kiss. To offer him her warmth and her farewell. Now is the time for her to return to her living quarters, to rest her own body for the upcoming day. So, with one final glance, she takes her leave, stepping onto the open corridor once more. 

As she enters the turbolift yet again, another thought crosses her mind. She recalls the friend who had offered his ear to her, to talk to; to be the tunic onto which she could weep, if she ever felt the need to. Whilst she could very easily go directly to her quarters, she instead opts to alter her destination, just slightly, as the turbolift doors open. 

With the evening still fairly young, she makes the journey towards the living quarters of one Hikaru Sulu. 

... ... ...

The helmsman, of course, answers the summons of his door, its chime ringing quietly through his living space. His face, while curious as to who would visit him at this hour, softens at the sight of the Communications Officer. For a brief moment, he gives her the space to speak, and yet for that fraction she remains silent. Until, that is, her face alters and words emerge at last. 

“Can I come in?” 

“Uhura, of course.” With that, his tone is as soft as his face, whilst he gestures for her to enter the space, stepping aside as he does. 

So, she moves through the room, not paying much heed to any decorations or adornments housed within. It is almost as if she were in a daze, from jumbled emotions and fatigue. Yes, that will render anyone to such a state. 

And, of course, Sulu pays heed to her motions. 

“You want to sit down?” He almost brings forth a chair for her. 

“No, I just–”, she halts, her face changing once more, swivelling to view the friend who let her in. “He’s going to be okay, Sulu...”, and then it all comes crashing over her. Everything – all her fatigue and her relief – is all released. 

And, instantly, she is wrapped by that friend, embracing her as she weeps. 

“He’s going to be okay.” The words are repeated as she clings to her friend. 

“Oh, Uhura...that’s wonderful news.” 

For a few moments, they remain there, with all the warmth of a deep friendship flowing through them. Her relief and fatigue have all coalesced into the tears she weeps, but there begins another: gratitude. It shines through the tears, and she now glances upward to meet the eyes of her friend. 

“Thank you.” 

“I didn’t do anything–”

“You did; you helped save his life. And you’re here...watching me cry.” A small chuckle escapes her with that last statement, as her face is wiped by a hand. 

“You okay? Do you want some water?”, queries the helmsman, as tender and caring as before. 

“No, thank you, I think I'm just tired. I know it's still early, but I need to get some sleep. I'll let you do the same. Goodnight, Sulu.” 

“Same to you. And Uhura,”, he continues, just as she starts to turn, “please, call me Hikaru.” 

With a smile and a glance, she now begins to make her departure, leaving behind the friend who had offered her comfort. Leaving with his kindness. The moment she reaches the door, he takes one final chance to speak, one final offer.

“If you need to talk, about anything, I’m here.” 

Her response isn’t with words, but with a glance back at him, and a small smile to show her appreciation. 

As he watches the door close after her, his own relief marks his face. And now, he makes the journey towards his bed, even with the night still apparently young. He glances at the communicator that still sits atop a bedside table, having been placed there so many hours before. 

And, there it will remain, for the friend who had just departed. If she ever needed a friend’s ear. 

... ... ...

Now within her own living quarters, the weary Communications Officer makes for the washroom. Upon traversing past the bed, however, she makes a glance at the space where she had slept. Where she had held the tunic to her tears. That garment is still draped over the same lounge chair as before, and she now finds herself reaching for it. The tunic still carries a tiny aroma of its wearer, and she lets that aroma waft into her nostrils. 

With the tunic now placed onto the bed, her journey to the washroom is resumed. 

At last, her face is made fresh from the water that had cleansed it, and in a few minutes she emerges. A fresh set of night clothes donned, she can now meet the comfort of the bed and well-deserved sleep. 

And again, she clutches at the cerulean tunic. This time, there are no tears. This time, sleep comes much easier. 

Chapter Text

A fresh morning arrives, and she awakes with her body now much better rested. She is spritely, eager to take on any task that may await her, with all the energy of one who had a very rewarding sleep. All her morning rituals and ablutions are completed with a newfound vigour, and she is now ready for the day ahead. 

As for the tunic she had clutched during her slumber, well, that requires the attention of another. Her duty uniform has already been placed in a basket awaiting to be cleaned, but the Vulcan's tunic is still on the bed. She glances at it, carefully taking it and placing it into its very own basket, separate from everything else. The Lieutenant takes care with the garment as she moves it, mindful of the tunic itself and its owner. With the Vulcan presently in recovery from this most recent bout of surgery and harrowing cardiac arrest, it may be sometime before he is released from the Medbay. Because of this, Uhura is almost tempted to wash the garment for him when she does her own clothing. Out of respect for the tunic and love for its wearer, and because of the tears that had marked it. Yet, as the Vulcan is very particular about the manner in which he washes his clothes, she will leave the tunic aside for him to wash whenever he is ready. For this, there is no haste, with all that he had been through. No matter how long it waits, the garment will still be there. 

With one final glance around the space, she is assured that everything is in order. And with that, she departs from her quarters. A fresh duty shift awaits. 

... ... ...

As she is presently quite early for the start of her shift, a detour is soon made. Her destination is the same as the night before, and little does she know of what awaits her there. 

And as she once again steps through the doors of the Medbay, she meets the form of the one she seeks. Albeit, in an altered state. He is, of course, still strewn onto the same biobed as before, yet the difference from then until now is obvious. No more is he in an apparently deep slumber, but awakened with eyes observing all around him. Even though he is fully conscious, the fatigue still clearly marks his eyes, the leftover crevices of his ordeal. 

Her heart almost trips over itself, a mild skip of a beat, and her body near leaps forward. Having just endured the ordeal of multiple heart attacks and subsequent surgeries, she is surprised to view him so awake. Yet, as she begins to move, steady and composed, she cannot veil the grin now marking her face. To view him like this is a good sight indeed. Progress has been made. 

She is, one might add, almost beaming. 

That grin and that beam continue as she soon approaches. And, as she draws close, he notices her, his tired eyes moving with the turn of his head. While he does not display the delight he might feel with her presence, his eyes almost give him away. She knows, deep within her heart, that he is glad to see her, just as she is glad to see him. 

For a few moments, not a word is uttered between them, each basking in each other's presence. At last, she is by his side, and their eyes speak their relief. That he may suffer no more. 

Quietly, he whispers her name, and that is all she needs to wrap herself around him. She can at last feel the warmth of his body against hers. Such a welcome sensation for the arms that embrace him, and for the chest nestled against his. And, he in turn returns the gesture, long arms encasing her. 

The moments that they remain like this, brief as they might be, almost seem unending. 

And as they hold each other taut, there begin words softly spoken, and carried with them a warmth and a gratitude. Through that tone he often uses with her, that wonderful tender tone. 

"It is...very pleasing to see you." 

The smile she gifts him, so close to his cheek, is one that he can feel, even through the slightest contact. How it warms them both, comforts them. And now, she begins to speak, softly and quietly, only for his ears to hear and none else. 

"You're going to be alright." 

While he may have already been informed of this by the medicos, she still tells him all the same. Her arms hold him tighter, the feeling brought forth by her words. And these words may not only be a reassurance for him, but also for her. 

Now, the embrace begins to make its end, with her arms around him loosened, and her face moved out of its position. Their eyes meet and gaze unto each other, and again she makes quiet speech to him. 

"How are you feeling?" 

"I am, as one might put it, 'on the mend'." 

The smile she now gives is much broader than before, and her crown soon nestles against his. And one final phrase from her, with their eyes closed simultaneously. 

"I'm glad. So very glad." 

After revelling in the contact yet again, her head begins to pull away. With not one single glance at a chronometer, she knows that her duties soon await her. The moment that his eyes open once more, she makes one final utterance of her departure. 

"I have to go to the bridge now. But I'll come back later, okay?" 

To her softly spoken words, his response is a simple nod; he knows of the importance of duty. Yet, neither truly want to depart; to remain here and bask in the joint warmth of comfort and love may be a tempting notion. Oh, but he of course would not dare keep her from her duties of Chief Communications Officer. And she in turn would not wish to disrupt further the medicos who tend to him. And leave him to rest. 

So, the visitation has ended...for now. Until the next, he will await her. No matter what may unfold, she will stay true to her word, and visit him again. 

For now, the bridge awaits her, and that is where she makes the journey. 

Chapter Text

Traversing through the corridor, and metres away from the Medbay, the Lieutenant almost walks into the path of her Captain. Kirk had not been summoned or brought this way for any reason, other than his own will. He had, on this early morning, chosen to pay his own visit to the ward. None from the medical staff had called him upon his First Officer’s awakening, so he is presently unaware of that fact. A fact that he will soon encounter.

Uhura, with still the same elevated mood, greets her Captain with a smile. Eager to begin her tasks, she does not stop for lengthy conversing, yet her demeanour is friendly all the same.

“Morning, Lieutenant,”, greets the Captain.

“Captain.”

Her smile, accompanied by a courteous nod, continues as she darts past him. Only a few steps away from him, he takes a final chance to speak, his tone still modest.

“See you on the bridge.”

She responds with a wave of a hand, soon disappearing around a corner. And, to this, he makes a grin, and a small chuckle. Because he knows full well of her dedication to her work.

And soon, he steps through the doors of the Medbay.

Upon entering the sterile space, he meets the figure of Doctor M’Benga, who has just finished with tending to a patient. Having sighted the Communications Officer’s visit the moments before, he had opted to give her the space to be with a loved one. Of that, she would be grateful.

There is, as far as the Captain can discern, apparently no sight of this department’s commanding officer. It seems that, possibly due to reports filed in his office or an insistence from his colleague to get some hard-earned sleep, that McCoy is presently not within this part of the ship. That is, as far as Kirk can tell, anyway.

Whatever the case may be, the Captain is assured that the Medbay is in very good hands.

And now, M’Benga approaches his Captain, and begins to speak once he draws near.

“They truly are a remarkable people...”, he utters. “Incredibly resilient, but not completely invulnerable. None more so than him.”

It is clear, with a gleam in his eye, that the medico has a deep respect and admiration for the Vulcan people. This sentiment was not merely brought about by M’Benga’s study in their medicine and physiology, but also the time spent amongst them. A resilient and proud people, yes, but full of culture and ancient knowledge. And it is at this sentiment, that the Captain makes a sanguine expression upon his face. Such a stark contrast to the sentiments displayed by the prisoner; and a very welcome one at that.

“I’m just glad he’s finally going to be okay.”

Kirk’s words come from the relief and assurance that his First Officer is at last on a steady path to healing. He had, whilst uttering his response, not averted his gaze from the form on the bed. The friend who, even at a distance, appears much better than before. Albeit, a tad fatigued.

Soon, M’Benga speaks again, oblivious to his Captain’s internal musings.

“I realize you might be keen to get your First Officer back, but he’ll be out for a while I’m afraid. There’s still a lot of healing to do, and maybe more surgery to his heart. While he’s recovering well, I’ve still put him on permanent bedrest, here in the Medbay, then eventually his quarters. Then, when he’s fit enough, light duties. It may be sometime before he returns to full active duty.”

“He can have all the time he needs,”, replies the Captain. “After everything, he deserves it. Possibly more than anyone.”

At the Captain’s glance toward him, the medico makes his response with a nod. And then, Kirk begins to make his departure from him, with a shake of the doctor’s hand.

“Thanks, M’Benga.”

Now, the Captain makes his way toward his First Officer, who of course straightens himself for his commanding officer. Out of respect.

“At ease, Spock...it’s just me.”

“Of course...I must apologise; I may have been neglecting my duties for sometime–”

“I’m going to give you one order:”, there is a jovial tone in Kirk’s words, “stay here. Don’t do anything. Don’t even think about work. Until the doctor tells you otherwise. The bridge will still be there.”

“Yes, Captain. Thank you.”

As the Captain makes his farewell with a grin, the Vulcan replies with a simple nod, in his usual collected manner. Yet, as Kirk can detect, there lies something beneath that stoic shell: an understanding. A brotherhood.

And whilst he turns, that grin remains.

The bridge, and all those duties, will wait. As long as it may be for Spock to return, the ship will wait.

Soon, the Captain approaches the bridge, where he will once again meet the Communications Officer.

... ... ...

Seated at her station once more, the Lieutenant's face makes an odd form. Borne out of confusion, her face crinkles even more as she stares at the screen. There is a message here, sent sometime during the night-time hours, yet with specific instructions: to be viewed by only herself...and her Captain.

Reading through the text before her eyes, she can discern that the message originates from the same individual as the day before. The same individual who had responded to her message all those hours ago.

Why had they waited so long to give further instructions? Why such a delay, when she had given sufficient information via appropriate channels? Perhaps, a new light has been shed, one that she had not become aware of. Or maybe there had been a sudden — yet delayed — change of plans for the investigation.

Whatever the reasoning, she is duly required to inform the Captain.

Just moments after placing himself into his chair, his ears pick up a quiet summons from the Communications station. Rising again, he promptly makes his way over. Upon Uhura’s gesturing, he reads the message that had been kept open for him. And now, his own face makes a shape not too dissimilar to hers.

“You’re kidding me...”, Kirk murmurs.

He almost reads the text a second time, to be sure that there is no mistake. Of course, there is none.

In short, the message that now befuddles both officers contains a new set of instructions regarding their investigation. There are now additional orders to be adhered to: the prisoner is to be questioned no more. Neither the Captain nor any other officer are to interrogate Spock’s attacker, until he is taken to a nearby starbase. It is there, that an investigative team will question him. Afterwards, as per the prior message, he will stand trial. And that, as they say, is that.

Kirk still had his own questions — as, no doubt, would Uhura — for the assailant, yet orders are orders.

“Tell them we acknowledge.”

His order had been given with a lengthy breath, a sigh of frustration. With him placed beside her, Uhura can sense that frustration. In fact, she feels it also. Bureaucrats often have a tendency to alter their stance on certain decisions, and this fact has been true for a millennia. Even in an organization such as Starfleet. It is indeed very frustrating, but an unfortunate reality.

Veiling her own annoyance, the Lieutenant heeds her Captain’s order with a level tone.

“Yes, Captain.”

And yet, as her commanding officer returns to his chair, a small sigh escapes her, and an inkling of her annoyance breaks through. With swift movements of her fingers, the reply is sent. It is done.

Within the two officers, there is a shared hope that such delayed instructions won’t happen again.

Chapter Text

For some of the crew, the rest of the day might not be as busy as it could be, with no wayward comets or anomalies to analyse this time. Even so, their regular duties keep them occupied as always, the running of a starship requiring multiple hands and acute attention. And the Communications Officer, with constant transmissions and signals to detect, intercept and decipher, she is always in a state of activity. 

There is, amongst all else, one transmission she detects that carries a high priority. It is, more to the fact, a notification from the nearest starbase, that the appropriate personnel have been assembled and ready for the arrival of the flagship's latest detainee. With the message read and Captain thusly — and discreetly — notified, the Lieutenant makes her response. And now, the shuttle craft that had been on standby now receives new instructions from her, to be made ready to embark upon this journey.

Now with her newfound energy, the day is over before she knows it. 

Another duty shift is done, and soon she finds herself within the Medbay once again. 

“I saw you come in this morning, thought I'd leave you alone with him. You know you can visit whenever you want...I'll save a chair for you. And if there's anything you need, I'll be here.” 

That voice, which now resides by her side, belongs to Doctor McCoy. He, amongst all others, is glad that his patient is recovering well, his body healing at last. And as Uhura glances at the medico, she can see that feeling written all over his face. Her eyes close briefly, and a smile accompanied by a nod of her head is made, to acknowledge what he had spoken. To appreciate his gesture. The gesture of yet another friend. Yes, the good doctor may have a rather crusty demeanour, but within there lies a true kindness. Kindness for the lives he cares about...and more. 

“Thank you, Doctor.” 

With a gentle touch to her arm, he departs from her, giving the space to her. And in turn, she once again makes the journey toward Spock’s biobed. 

And, once again, they feel each other’s warmth. 

The chief medico soon draws near to his esteemed colleague, who is stood to the side of the ward, away from ear’s reach of the couple. M’Benga glances at the patient in particular, his mind seemingly somewhere else. In a glance to his associate, McCoy speaks in a mildly chipper tone. 

“He’s doing well; great, actually...” Then he sights an odd expression on his colleague. “I know that face...what is it?” 

And yet, the man does not respond, his eyes and, mind in turn, apparently fixated on something. Something specifically regarding the First Officer himself. It is true Vulcan physiology is far different from that of a human, more resilient to some degree, yet... 

...not completely invulnerable.

“M’Benga?” 

Still, the medico stares at his Vulcan patient, a notion brought to the forefront of his mind. That notion being the possibility of long-lasting effects resulting from the heart attacks and the drug that caused them. This is a topic both doctors had touched upon, yet M’Benga can’t seem to quell the feeling. 

After giving the pair ample space — and precious time — together, the good doctor begins to make his approach. His mind conjures the words he will soon use; he would not wish to add to the burden of Uhura’s already worried mind, of course. And yet, he needs to inform her, so that she — as well as the medical staff — will be prepared for what may occur. 

Cautiously and politely, he ushers her to the side, and does just that. 

“His recovery is progressing better than expected, but with all that his heart has been through...there's only so much a heart can take, even one such as his. What I'm saying is that there may be some permanent effects. It might not be until months or years from now that symptoms begin to show...or maybe they won't. I hope that that's the case. But, if you notice anything that causes you concern, don't hesitate to call.”

... ... ...

“I sure could use a drink”, begins McCoy, at last pulled away from the ward. “Pour you one?” 

The medico’s peer and friend, the good doctor M’Benga, is seated at the rather lengthy bar table of the ship’s recreation room. His hand signals to McCoy the moment his glass is sufficiently filled. And then, the chief medico fills a glass for himself. The two had come here for a breather, before departing to their respective living quarters. With such trying days and little rest in their wake, this break is much needed. And as the medical needs for each member residing within this fine vessel are dependant upon these two men — not to mention the entire medical staff — such breaks may be difficult to come by. So it is not at all selfish for the medicos to relish these quiet moments when they do arrive. 

“You spoke to her about side effects, didn’t you?” The chief medico takes a gulp of his beverage. 

“I did, yes.” 

“Was gonna do that myself, save you the trouble.” 

“It’s not an easy conversation to have, Len.” M’Benga sips at his drink, and glares at the liquid swishing about in the glass. 

“Yeah, I know...all part of the job.” 

“I’ll tell Spock next time he wakes up”, offers M’Benga, with a nip of his drink. 

“It’s alright, I’ll handle it. Speaking of...that was a hell of a good job you did during surgery. Manual heart massage is no easy task.” 

“Well, the situation required more drastic measures.” 

“Yeah...too dicey for my liking. Almost lost him. But,” the chief now takes a sip, “we didn’t...thanks to you.” 

A small chuckle emerges from M’Benga, and a glance made downward. The liquid grasped in his hands almost glares at him, its warm hues a swirling mirror. 

“I think we have the Benjisidrine to thank for that.” 

“Yeah, that too, but...” 

McCoy’s speech fades away, masked by another gulp of alcohol. 

“You did mighty fine back there, M’Benga”, continues the chief medico. “You’d make a hell of a Chief Medical Officer.” 

McCoy’s colleague now seems flabbergasted, that last statement almost catching him off guard. While the chief is showing some effects from the alcohol, there was much sincerity in his words. 

“You’re not going to quit...are you?” M’Benga, despite no others in the room, leans forward and almost whispers the words. 

“No...you’re not getting rid of me that easily.” The phrase is almost hollered to the empty space. “But, if...”, McCoy trails off a tad, “you’d be a force to be reckoned with. Here’s to you, Doctor.” 

“And here’s to you, Doctor.” Their glasses make contact with a hearty clink, the liquid inside swooshing merrily. 

“Here’s to Spock.” 

And so, with McCoy initiating, and more happy clinking of glass, the salutations continue. M’Benga now makes his response. 

“And to Uhura.” 

clink

“And to Sulu.” Now, McCoy... 

clink

“And to Kirk!” ...and then M’Benga. 

clink

“And here’s to the goddamn Enterprise!” 

McCoy makes the final toast with a wondrous bellow, and the drink glasses make one last heartily clink. With alcohol swimming and swishing gleefully in their vessels, the two men burst into drunken laughter. And that hollering laughter echoes all around the empty room. 

Chapter Text

Later, a lone crew member sits quietly within their dorm. The night-time hours begin to grow long, deathly silent as they drag on. In these dark hours, all seems so quiet, so...lonesome. And that feeling is marked all over the eyes and the face of the young officer, whose crisp uniform sits proud atop an adjacent chair. The garment catches the crewman’s eye, breaking them from their wondering thoughts. So worrisome had their musings been, snatching their mind like baited fish, holding them captive. How the thoughts had taken them, clawing and grasping so harshly that nothing else had mattered. Nothing seemed to hold any importance anymore.

And now, as those eyes glare at the uniform, the thoughts linger still. Those eyes, of wondrous iridescence, almost like a nebula, agleam with the lineage of their home planet, remain dulled. The former vibrancy of their eyes seem dissipated, blurred, like an image out of focus.

Upon their graduation from Starfleet Academy, there was much pride and wonder, both within them and their kin. So much hope and so much exploration had awaited them, so much at which to marvel.

A fantastic future was ahead of them; it still is, if these thoughts — these destructive thoughts — can be quashed.

And, now those thoughts begin to turn. The events of recent days had brought many to become fearful.

Some, through that fear, may soon take matters into their own hands.

... ... ...

The day-time begins to roll around, its early hours marked by scores of chronometers. Sleep had come and gone for this young officer, their opalescent eyes still sporting that same dullness from before. Those same destructive thoughts which continue to linger. Destructive not of the self, however, but of another. Fear had brought this forth, fear of what might be. It is this fear that now drives this crewman, indigo hands grasped together.

And, while others may share an inkling of this same feeling, none endure it as strong as this individual. Yes, those of non-human lineage may be concerned at the very least, they push forward, placing their faith within Starfleet’s judicial systems. That justice will prevail and the culprit rightly penalized. There may even be more such persons of a similar mindset, yet few in numbers. And all of that, is what non-human crew members cling to.

Not this young officer, however.

What if, by chance, the assailant had his escape? What if he had attacked another, and another? Who would have been chosen as his next target? Such things can — and will, as per the fear-drenched mind of this lone crewman — happen.

And, it is by such questions and mistrust and fear, that this bright young officer will be driven. To act, and by their own hand, measures will soon be taken.

... ... ...

Here, aboard this fine vessel, reside scores of crew members. People of differing creed and lineage, spread across multiple divisions. And while the occupants may be predominantly human, there are of course those who hail from other worlds. Much more distant homes, from star systems very far from one another. And yet, here they all are, as part of a large family. People of varying body shape and skin tone, some with an abundance of fur, some with features entirely different from all others. All wonderfully diverse, and displaying the true ethos of the Federation.

And this young officer, with indigo skin and eyes of many colours, ears almost like the gills of an Earth fish — with a protective shield — is but one example. Their duty shift is upon them, and their uniform, crimson-hued and crisp as the day it was made, soon adorns them.

Yet, unlike their colleagues, their shift does not begin with the elated spirits of one eager to start work. Those same nagging feelings linger.

While the subject of their mind’s musings had a plan of his own, this officer soon conjures their own plan.

And, it is with that plan brewing, that they make their way to Engineering.

Chapter Text

Ligg Meraak will forever carry a piece of their home with them — within them. A world filled with water and wonder, not unlike the home of the I’Qosa. And yet, this world is quite different from I’Qos; much different. Unlike the cool blue of the all-encompassing ocean and vibrant colours housed within the sister planet, Ligg’s home may seem “dull” to more judgemental eyes. Resembling that of the swampy areas of Earth, Pyre’a sports hues of mossy greens and murky reds and browns. The planet is indeed, a large swamp in space. And while not as vibrant as I’Qos, it still holds fascination all the same.

As for the people of this world, while they do possess physical attributes similar to the I’Qosa — being aquatic, that is — their features are again rather different. For one, their tails and gills are a tad smaller, as are their fins and head adornments. Their skin, also, is vastly different in some aspects: there are no vibrant hues of pink or blue on these people, yet the only similar trait in this regard is a shade of indigo. The eyes of the I’Qosa are a glossy silver-black; yet the Pyre’ans sport much lighter eyes, like an Opalite. The two peoples, while many light-years apart, can almost be seen as galactic cousins. Cosmically related, despite the great expanse dividing them; almost like the Vulcans and Romulans, or even the Romulans and Remans, only much more distant. This proves that the universe can seem small at times, while also being quite vast. Almost like that old Earth idiom “it’s a small world”.

Hailing from Porahk D’el, a region named “cool waters” in the tongue of their people, Ligg is already quite accustomed to cold air. This portion of the wetlands is closer to the northern seas of Pyre’a, where sunlight cannot completely reach. And yet, the area is not quite arctic, and not quite humid. Cool, as the title aptly suggests, but not icy. Opposing this, is Porahk V’ol, or “warm waters”, located further south of its cooler sister region. This area sports higher humidity due to moisture particles in the air. A human might refer to this region as “muggy”, like the peak of a summer day.

The name of Ligg Meraak was not given upon their hatching. As per the custom of their people, names carry a particular meaning, and are chosen at a certain early stage of their life cycle, when their unique personality begins to show. In the case of Ligg Meraak, their name is “quiet one”, as clearly observed by their parents, they have a rather reserved demeanour. That name, and trait with which it lies, moves with them through their path in life.

... ... ...

Having just hatched from their pod, it seemed very early that Ligg had a keen eye, watching and observing and absorbing everything around them. Their world was vast and new, enticing them to learn and explore.

That innate curiosity had followed them through their life, making them known as a quiet achiever, even since their early development years. They had often been found deep in their studies, alone in the learning centre, gaining knowledge on how the world works around them. Science, engineering ("mechanics", as the Pyre'ans had referred to it), mathematics...all of these subjects had been chosen and excelled by the keen young Ligg, making them a top-tier student, and ready for the next stage in their path in life. An enlistment in Starfleet — the first of their species to do so.

It is no surprise, really, that upon their recruitment, that Engineering had been their chosen division. And now, after moving through the years at the Academy, they find themselves aboard the flagship of the organization. The Federation's finest vessel, the USS Enterprise. Truly a dream come true, for this young Pyre'an.

Chapter Text

As the indigo-toned officer traverses the corridor, the footwear adorning them makes a much different sound from that of other crew members. To add, these are not boots in the human sense, more like foot coverings. The sound emanating from this footwear is much more muted — extremely so — even on hard flooring. An alternate material had been required and garments tailor-made for this officer — tunic and all. Certain materials have their fair share of adverse reactions on some of the crew, and garments need to be made accordingly. With this young officer, the tunic and pants do not need much of this treatment; the hardened scales and thick flesh are more than capable of handling any fabric. Yet, their "feet" require something softer — their "feet" being more like fins, that is. These extremities are not hardened like human feet, — or any land-faring person — so an alternate form of footwear is needed. With this, they can walk with relative ease. 

Adding to this, as their eyes are highly adapted to darker ambiences, — like murky waters — the high gleam of the ship may be too much for lengthy periods. So, a unique set of eyewear has been made and fitted. For the sake of their wellbeing. 

As for the rest of their uniform, a simpler approach had been taken. The material is silken, smooth, a light touch to their hard scaled flesh. Well-fitted to their lithe form, the tunic and pants feel rather pleasant, even with more rigorous movement. Being the lone member of their species to begin a career in Starfleet, this uniform — uniquely crafted — is worn with pride. 

And as with any other officer, there are multiples of the same uniform, to keep fresh for each day. This applies to senior and junior officers alike. For the clean face of the Federation to remain on display. 

With their journey toward Engineering almost at its end, they pass the Tellarite they had been courting these past few months. 

Some rather impassioned nights had been shared by the pair, after the declaration of their joint attraction had been made. And of course, a slight prompting from this indigo-toned officer's closest friend. Another member of the Engineering team, hailing from the south-eastern part of Australia on Earth. With him, there comes all the Australian slang and unique phrasing, all delivered with the thick accent that goes with it. Our young aquatic crew member finds this all rather endearing, albeit befuddling at times. 

Regarding this officer's Tellarite courter, the boots covering his hooves come to a halt. The footwear makes a distinctive sound upon the flooring, one that this crew member finds pleasant. He shares a glance with the officer, an all-knowing glance, with eyes speaking a silent and secret language. One might even call this "bedroom eyes". The glance causes our young officer to almost blush, having viewed the Tellarite in all his natural glory. The uniform adorning his form is almost a tease for the officer, draped over his rotund figure so lightly fitting. One example is the tail hidden beneath his tunic, a site of many pleasurable fondling. Such thoughts come drifting into the junior's mind, memories of nights well spent. Ah, but these thoughts shouldn't take their hold, lest certain feelings begin to arise. This current setting is not the time nor the place for that. 

And so, a returning glance and courteous nod is shared, and the pair move onward. 

Until tonight, my love. 

Ah, but what of their plan? Their momentary distraction had caused a shift in their mind. All they had been feeling, all they were conflicted about seemingly dissipates into a temporary void. How could they truly carry out such a deed when there is someone awaiting them? Someone who cares for them and loves them with every portion of himself. Fear had clogged their mind, disrupted their regular thought patterns, disregarded the one who matters the most. The one they hold at night, and who holds them. What of all that? 

Perhaps... 

Perhaps, what they had intended to do might not be the best course of action. Yet, that feeling, that fear which took them so harshly, still remains.