Vang'radam
The floor ushered him back and forth, wound him round the center chair with voices and static at his heels. His muscles burned red and green beneath his skin, twisted up with work and anger. Two. Two. Of...of them on his ship. Spies, betrayers, and Ayel was chasing them around, catering, scraping to them as though they weren't the very basis of their grief.
His hand caught a Klivam console and the metal resounded in space, sent splintering noise that scattered the silence, dashed it with pain. Ayel spoke like Spock now, sounded Thaessu and borrowed, had lost that edge of orange that laced his words.
No, that wasn't quite right. It flickered, in and out, back and forth. He was leaking it across, sharing it with Spock. It wasn't right. Not at all.
His feet carried him, moved a straight path that wound circles and steps in his mind. The walls were the walls, except when they weren't.
His hand caught a Klivam console and the metal resounded in space, sent splintering noise that scattered the silence, dashed it with pain. Ayel spoke like Spock now, sounded Thaessu and borrowed, had lost that edge of orange that laced his words.
No, that wasn't quite right. It flickered, in and out, back and forth. He was leaking it across, sharing it with Spock. It wasn't right. Not at all.
His feet carried him, moved a straight path that wound circles and steps in his mind. The walls were the walls, except when they weren't.