[ It isn't to say that the night is any easier than the day is.
No matter the influence, Spock's body is one geared to habit. When he does sleep (and sleep he does in fits and starts), the periods are brief and heavy. Made small in the darkest corners of his newly outfitted premises, Spock drifts not unlike a Terran feline. Curled over his own knees, cheek pressed to the crown of bone, he mumbles soft and incoherent things. He dreams, the rapid movement of his eyes beneath their lids insensible and feverish.
Where it is Peter is confined, Spock has made certain he is without the ability of easy escape. Situated within his periphery, it is an unusual option for a Gnosia to take, but then the situation itself is peculiar. Spock has never been one to be boxed by any such parameters and confines, a singular since the day he was born. His own existence is abomination to some, miracle to others.
But, what experience does that beget? When one is so closed by nature and nurture and culture, how does that begin to shape a person? ]
[ There is a house set up high upon a hill. The night flowers are sweet whilst they are in bloom, but you (Peter? Spock?) are awake. You watch the spill of stars along the cusp of the horizon, the darkness heavy and velvet without the light of a moon.
Your father's estate is spacious. Sterile, geometric. Alien in its architecture with wide, sweeping windows. You find yourself following the creaking floorboards, which you know do not creak to the ears of a Human. But, you are (not) Human. You are (not) Vulcan.
A shape moves swiftly down the stairs. Young, girlish. Rounded ears. She carries with her a rucksack. Your voice is caught in your throat, but it seems more than that. It seems as though the words are disconnected. Your mind knows the shape, but your tongue is useless. It cannot (will not) form them.
You come to the top of the stairs. Do you follow? Do you seek another path? ]
hostage situation (night mode).
No matter the influence, Spock's body is one geared to habit. When he does sleep (and sleep he does in fits and starts), the periods are brief and heavy. Made small in the darkest corners of his newly outfitted premises, Spock drifts not unlike a Terran feline. Curled over his own knees, cheek pressed to the crown of bone, he mumbles soft and incoherent things. He dreams, the rapid movement of his eyes beneath their lids insensible and feverish.
Where it is Peter is confined, Spock has made certain he is without the ability of easy escape. Situated within his periphery, it is an unusual option for a Gnosia to take, but then the situation itself is peculiar. Spock has never been one to be boxed by any such parameters and confines, a singular since the day he was born. His own existence is abomination to some, miracle to others.
But, what experience does that beget? When one is so closed by nature and nurture and culture, how does that begin to shape a person? ]
[ There is a house set up high upon a hill. The night flowers are sweet whilst they are in bloom, but you (Peter? Spock?) are awake. You watch the spill of stars along the cusp of the horizon, the darkness heavy and velvet without the light of a moon.
Your father's estate is spacious. Sterile, geometric. Alien in its architecture with wide, sweeping windows. You find yourself following the creaking floorboards, which you know do not creak to the ears of a Human. But, you are (not) Human. You are (not) Vulcan.
A shape moves swiftly down the stairs. Young, girlish. Rounded ears. She carries with her a rucksack. Your voice is caught in your throat, but it seems more than that. It seems as though the words are disconnected. Your mind knows the shape, but your tongue is useless. It cannot (will not) form them.
You come to the top of the stairs. Do you follow? Do you seek another path? ]