[FIC]: Spaceways and Crossroads; Pike, Sybok; Gen; PG
Title: Spaceways and Crossroads
Prompt: caught in a robbery (for hc_bingo)
Pairings: None.
Characters: Christopher Pike, Sybok
Words: 668
Rating: PG
Warnings/Tropes: None.
Summary: Sybok's got nothing left to do on this worthless lump of rock.
A/N: So I have a multitude of AUs in my head where Pike steps in to make somebody's life awesome at a time when it sucks. This is one of them, or a snippet, really. If I have time later I might extend it (to where I've already outlined).
Stealing the runabout had seemed like a good idea at the time, with so many good things going for it. Get off Gault. Go somewhere that's not a farming community. Get a life.
Except Sybok hadn't disabled the right camera on the right terminal in the middle of the night, and someone actually thought this craft valuable enough to report to Starfleet of all things. So there he had been cruising along towards the next settled star system, when his sensors tell him there is a Constellation-class starship, the Excalibur, coming up. And then they hail him.
He spends a minute and a half staring at the controls before he answers. He's regained enough sense over the years to know he can't outrun them, can't get to the star system before they do. He's fucked. Again.
After the runabout's pulled into the shuttle bay, Sybok doesn't say a word: not when the guards greet him outside the ship, not when he's manhandled into the brig, not when the warrant officer tries to get his statement. They put him in a cell, sparsely furnished (and almost as big as his attic room on Gault, which he is never going to see again), and leave him there for about an hour.
He hears the footsteps before the captain comes into view behind the forcefield: a handsome man, probably in his late thirties, with dark hair, an aura of leadership, and a vitality of mind that Sybok can feel (and want).
The forcefield drops, and Sybok's not sure what he wants so he presses himself back into the corner where the bench meets the adjacent wall, and the man stops and chuckles. "Scared?"
"No," Sybok replies.
"I thought Vulcans couldn't lie?" The man sits at the other end of the bench. "Christopher Pike." He extends a hand, and Sybok looks at it before giving it a slow shake with his own.
"Sybok."
"So what are you, Sybok? Vulcan or Romulan?"
Technically, Sybok thinks to himself, there's no real difference between them except which side of the galaxy they put their base. "I was born on Vulcan," he offers, cautious.
"Then why are you stealing runabouts off Gault?"
"Don't you have a file you can read instead, instead of waiting for me to lie to you?" Sybok snaps back, and while he expects Pike to look flustered, he smiles instead.
"None of it's going to tell me why you stole it."
"You expect me to tell you?"
"I think you want to," Pike says, leaning back against the wall. "A young man thinking the only way off a planet is to steal a ship in the middle of the night? This isn't the twenty-second century. You had other options."
"Like what? Save up and buy a ticket out? That's traceable - they can follow my money, my shuttle, where I'm going," Sybok stands and paces erratically along the small open space. "You don't understand anything. I needed to get off that fucking planet and this was the only way to do it and now you," he jabs a finger in Pike's direction, "are taking me back to mental degeneration and farming. Wheat farming! There's nothing to do-!"
He's getting a little frantic (he realizes later), which explains why Pike stands, grabs his flailing arms, and stops his pacing. "Do you want something to do?"
"I don't want to be shipped back to prison," Sybok corrects him, but he already feels dejected; he knows he's going back. His arms hang in Pike's grip.
"When was the last time you ate?" Pike asks as he slowly lowers and releases Sybok's wrists. Sybok shrugs. "Why don't we talk about this over lunch, and see what we can do about that."
Sybok looks at him, uncertain, but he is getting hungry, and lunch how sounds better than sitting around in this cell. He can't feel any disingenuous thoughts, either, though his ability to detect them has been slow to come back.
Whatever. It's not prison. "Fine."
Prompt: caught in a robbery (for hc_bingo)
Pairings: None.
Characters: Christopher Pike, Sybok
Words: 668
Rating: PG
Warnings/Tropes: None.
Summary: Sybok's got nothing left to do on this worthless lump of rock.
A/N: So I have a multitude of AUs in my head where Pike steps in to make somebody's life awesome at a time when it sucks. This is one of them, or a snippet, really. If I have time later I might extend it (to where I've already outlined).
Stealing the runabout had seemed like a good idea at the time, with so many good things going for it. Get off Gault. Go somewhere that's not a farming community. Get a life.
Except Sybok hadn't disabled the right camera on the right terminal in the middle of the night, and someone actually thought this craft valuable enough to report to Starfleet of all things. So there he had been cruising along towards the next settled star system, when his sensors tell him there is a Constellation-class starship, the Excalibur, coming up. And then they hail him.
He spends a minute and a half staring at the controls before he answers. He's regained enough sense over the years to know he can't outrun them, can't get to the star system before they do. He's fucked. Again.
After the runabout's pulled into the shuttle bay, Sybok doesn't say a word: not when the guards greet him outside the ship, not when he's manhandled into the brig, not when the warrant officer tries to get his statement. They put him in a cell, sparsely furnished (and almost as big as his attic room on Gault, which he is never going to see again), and leave him there for about an hour.
He hears the footsteps before the captain comes into view behind the forcefield: a handsome man, probably in his late thirties, with dark hair, an aura of leadership, and a vitality of mind that Sybok can feel (and want).
The forcefield drops, and Sybok's not sure what he wants so he presses himself back into the corner where the bench meets the adjacent wall, and the man stops and chuckles. "Scared?"
"No," Sybok replies.
"I thought Vulcans couldn't lie?" The man sits at the other end of the bench. "Christopher Pike." He extends a hand, and Sybok looks at it before giving it a slow shake with his own.
"Sybok."
"So what are you, Sybok? Vulcan or Romulan?"
Technically, Sybok thinks to himself, there's no real difference between them except which side of the galaxy they put their base. "I was born on Vulcan," he offers, cautious.
"Then why are you stealing runabouts off Gault?"
"Don't you have a file you can read instead, instead of waiting for me to lie to you?" Sybok snaps back, and while he expects Pike to look flustered, he smiles instead.
"None of it's going to tell me why you stole it."
"You expect me to tell you?"
"I think you want to," Pike says, leaning back against the wall. "A young man thinking the only way off a planet is to steal a ship in the middle of the night? This isn't the twenty-second century. You had other options."
"Like what? Save up and buy a ticket out? That's traceable - they can follow my money, my shuttle, where I'm going," Sybok stands and paces erratically along the small open space. "You don't understand anything. I needed to get off that fucking planet and this was the only way to do it and now you," he jabs a finger in Pike's direction, "are taking me back to mental degeneration and farming. Wheat farming! There's nothing to do-!"
He's getting a little frantic (he realizes later), which explains why Pike stands, grabs his flailing arms, and stops his pacing. "Do you want something to do?"
"I don't want to be shipped back to prison," Sybok corrects him, but he already feels dejected; he knows he's going back. His arms hang in Pike's grip.
"When was the last time you ate?" Pike asks as he slowly lowers and releases Sybok's wrists. Sybok shrugs. "Why don't we talk about this over lunch, and see what we can do about that."
Sybok looks at him, uncertain, but he is getting hungry, and lunch how sounds better than sitting around in this cell. He can't feel any disingenuous thoughts, either, though his ability to detect them has been slow to come back.
Whatever. It's not prison. "Fine."