As with many of their recent discoveries, it appears that comfort is not the priority for either of them. The room turns from one man's idea of Hell to the next, the red of the sands pulling vees around the backs of their legs like a tide that's decided to just roll in. It'd be an ideal sensation to experience on leave at any temperate ocean, but this challenge embodies neither.
And Spock isn't thinking, before he's immediately closing the gap between them just enough to seize Jim's forearm with one, pale hand. He's pulling him, knowing Jim will soon realize why it is he's doing this, his mouth flattening into a thin line as he runs through possibilities. There aren't many. But, the few that are available? Certainly worth the attempt.
"I have never attempted to exceed the Starfleet standard," Spock tells him, adjusting his grip. That isn't the most relevant bit of information, however. He knows that. He knows too that Jim will insist on assisting, but the challenge is only a challenge. If he loses, it means little to him. And more so, if it means only his own failure? Acceptable, he thinks.
"Captain, only one of us has to lose," he continues, pitching his voice above the roar of the water. He picks his way across the riptides rapidly forming about the middle of the room, dragging Jim alongside him. His grip is firm, just this side of bruising, but his bone density serves to anchor them both anyway. Against the rising tide and the sharp increase in erosion, Spock knows their chance to survive the challenge lies within the bounds of two point three standard minutes. By then, the current will sweep them both off their feet regardless of its relative shallowness.
Still, he knows better than to keep to corners and the direct center. He tracks the progression of fissures and stations them firmly in the singular location that appears safest. The current should pull in one direction once settled, thus cutting horizontal— he turns to face Jim, dark gaze piercing.
"The odds of my keeping afloat longer than you is approximately one thousand two hundred and thirteen point seven percent to one." There's a stubborn set to his jaw as he says it, a kind of perfect calm. "It is therefore logical—"
Whatever the argument, it quickly becomes moot. Water rushes in faster, fiercer. Spock can't suppress the chatter of his own teeth, the way his hand flexes about Jim's arm. There's no point in recalculating the odds as the LED lights at the far wall flicker and dim. The wall is bowing in. And then—
The water surges, impossible and heavy, up and over their heads.
no subject
And Spock isn't thinking, before he's immediately closing the gap between them just enough to seize Jim's forearm with one, pale hand. He's pulling him, knowing Jim will soon realize why it is he's doing this, his mouth flattening into a thin line as he runs through possibilities. There aren't many. But, the few that are available? Certainly worth the attempt.
"I have never attempted to exceed the Starfleet standard," Spock tells him, adjusting his grip. That isn't the most relevant bit of information, however. He knows that. He knows too that Jim will insist on assisting, but the challenge is only a challenge. If he loses, it means little to him. And more so, if it means only his own failure? Acceptable, he thinks.
"Captain, only one of us has to lose," he continues, pitching his voice above the roar of the water. He picks his way across the riptides rapidly forming about the middle of the room, dragging Jim alongside him. His grip is firm, just this side of bruising, but his bone density serves to anchor them both anyway. Against the rising tide and the sharp increase in erosion, Spock knows their chance to survive the challenge lies within the bounds of two point three standard minutes. By then, the current will sweep them both off their feet regardless of its relative shallowness.
Still, he knows better than to keep to corners and the direct center. He tracks the progression of fissures and stations them firmly in the singular location that appears safest. The current should pull in one direction once settled, thus cutting horizontal— he turns to face Jim, dark gaze piercing.
"The odds of my keeping afloat longer than you is approximately one thousand two hundred and thirteen point seven percent to one." There's a stubborn set to his jaw as he says it, a kind of perfect calm. "It is therefore logical—"
Whatever the argument, it quickly becomes moot. Water rushes in faster, fiercer. Spock can't suppress the chatter of his own teeth, the way his hand flexes about Jim's arm. There's no point in recalculating the odds as the LED lights at the far wall flicker and dim. The wall is bowing in. And then—
The water surges, impossible and heavy, up and over their heads.