A lightening storm in space…a rarity.

One I would prefer we were not witnessing, as the atmospheric discharges and the occasional thunder that accompanies them is skewing all scientific readings, impulse engines, and control consoles aboard the USS Enterprise..something we are currently striving to right, so that we might bypass it.

But as deft digits move at my station, the source of the storm cannot be located. A danger, should we not gain proper control of ship functions. An anomaly.

One we find ourselves in the very middle of…


~ by Sochya on April 26, 2011.

6 Responses to “Reflections”

  1. Rapid pulse in my side, breath hot as I run.

    They are going to kill him.

    I must protect the Captain, but my motives are far from noble.
    If the Assassination Party led by Hikaru Sulu, is successful, I will find myself in Command of this vessel. Seconds, perhaps…mere minutes then I can expect the same fate as the one I strive to keep from Jim Kirk.

    My teeth clench as I shove him ahead toward the transporter room perhaps our only hope. I turn for a moment to strike at our pursuers when I hear Kirk shout. I am propelled toward the pad, as I witness the assassination of James Tiberius Kirk.

    We lock eyes for one final moment as he locks in unknown coordinates. My arm outstretched toward the scene: Sulu driving his dagger into Kirk’s spinal column.

    It is my last visual display before the blackness of transporting.

    • A wave hits the ship and power flickers, systems going down with a cold, sinking feeling falling over the bridge, breaths held, but before any panic is able to rise in the Terrans, full power returns, and with it…ship functionality.

      The Captain requests status reports as I endeavor to pinpoint the source of the storm…

      A crease develops between elegantly shaped brows when readings return indicating that no trace of the anomaly remains. The lightening storm is if it had never existed.

      I turn at my station, lips parting to inform the Captain…only to be interrupted by a comm from the Transporter Deck and Mister Scott, informing us that we ‘really need to see this’.

      A glance is shared with sharp blues and we rise, giving the conn to Chekov and stepping together into the turbolift. Folding my hands behind me, I relay to Jim my discovery just as we arrive,only to trail into..perhaps internal shock at who I witness upon the landing pad.

      • It appears I have sustained substantial injury. I clutch the back of my head behind my right ear,striving in vain to retain my equilibrium.I reach for my dagger as my destination is unknown, perhaps even to he that sent me.

        When the particles have settled, I do, in fact stagger-backwards. It is Scott-but how can this be? He leaps to his feet and we both shout the name of the other. It is then that I vaguely register his lack of proper Federation Militant Attire, no badges, no sash…arms covered. Sulu’s men seem to have gone, perhaps to dispose of Kirk’s corpse.

        I stumble again, in attempt to dismount the pad and demand Scott’s Agonizer, when the doors open.

  2. “He is injured,” I voice, seemingly impassive as begin to gather myself, stepping forward as the Captain comm’s for medical.

    He, I had stated, but I may has well have stated ‘I’…for this individual could very well be my twin in all aspects save for beard and somewhat mussier hair.

    The Vulcan is armed, disoriented or not as I approach him, and so I am cautious. “You are not in danger here,” even, calming tones as I study him and his imbalance.

    “We are procuring aid for you, you are injured.” Now was not the time for ‘hows’ or ‘whys’.

    • There is a slight waver to…the voice of the Other Vulcan in the transporter room, as he speaks with authority befitting our obvious biological and intellectual advantage over those present.

      He approaches, and it is as though a reflective glass comes forth. Living, breathing…oddly comforting.

      “Dewk’a-Sasu.” I address my country-man, sheathing my dagger as I incline my head. I feel a thick trickle and touch my hand to my head, resulting in covering it in emerald blood.

      I promptly lose consciousness.

      • My mind is alight with curiosity, theories, interest over the next few hours following the Strange Vulcan’s arrival and prompt delivery to sickbay.

        Doctor McCoy manages to stabilize him, dermal regenerators set up over bandaged injuries, two set up over his head, where the most damage appeared to reside. He has been placed in a private section of medbay, weapons removed. We can only wait…his consciousness is required should we desire answers of any variety.

        By personal request, I remain seated in a chair by him, observing through an intelligent gaze as his chest gradually rises and falls.

        He had responded to me in Vulcan, had lowered his weapon in my presence. Should it result that he does not speak Terran…then it is only logical I be the individual he wakes to.

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