sample
Spock stands in the sensoriums, and has found himself in something of a quandry. This place, these sights-- he knows they are not real. He programmed them himself, from memory. He stands on the volcanic surface of Vulcan. Lava fields swell around him, a thin film of sand spraying across the igneous landscape. He can feel the searing heat, it causes his face to dapple with perspiration. The smell is profound; a thick, suffocating tar smell. The rock shifts under his feet as the molten torrents shift in flow.
And yet, none of it is real. It is perhaps real someplace, though, the memory is subjective. Which ought he to trust more? His mind, the constant reassurance that this is illusion and nothing more, or rather that which is instinctual, his sense and all those sights, sounds and smells that swell around him.
A figure blinks into existence next to him. He had not commanded his mother present, yet the ship had deigned for her to be there.
"Beautiful, isn't it?" She says.
"That would depend on one's concept of beauty," Spock raises a casual eyebrow, "Humanity tends to lean toward a more fragile distinction. Your people would regard a temperate meadow under sunshine over this landscape. They would deem this barren."
"My people," she replies, "Don't define themselves simply by a single ideal, but rather by the culmination of all. There are those of us who will find no more beauty than this... with you, here."
"I must admit that I never could fathom why you chose this planet as your home, mother." His voice falters slightly at the end. No, he never could, and he's not so certain that this is his home either.
Before he can continue, the terrain, the very world around him phases out and back into existence again. When it returns, it is the plush interior of the Enterprise's bridge. The Captain sits, perched casually as always, in his chair.
"Spock, my good friend, what do you make of this?"
And yet, none of it is real. It is perhaps real someplace, though, the memory is subjective. Which ought he to trust more? His mind, the constant reassurance that this is illusion and nothing more, or rather that which is instinctual, his sense and all those sights, sounds and smells that swell around him.
A figure blinks into existence next to him. He had not commanded his mother present, yet the ship had deigned for her to be there.
"Beautiful, isn't it?" She says.
"That would depend on one's concept of beauty," Spock raises a casual eyebrow, "Humanity tends to lean toward a more fragile distinction. Your people would regard a temperate meadow under sunshine over this landscape. They would deem this barren."
"My people," she replies, "Don't define themselves simply by a single ideal, but rather by the culmination of all. There are those of us who will find no more beauty than this... with you, here."
"I must admit that I never could fathom why you chose this planet as your home, mother." His voice falters slightly at the end. No, he never could, and he's not so certain that this is his home either.
Before he can continue, the terrain, the very world around him phases out and back into existence again. When it returns, it is the plush interior of the Enterprise's bridge. The Captain sits, perched casually as always, in his chair.
"Spock, my good friend, what do you make of this?"