Ordered Observation (Trek Mirror Universe)
Title: Ordered Observation
Characters: Mirror Universe Kirk, Spock, OFC
Disclaimer: Even in a mirror universe I seriously doubt that any of these characters would belong to me.
Word Count: 2479
Authors' notes: Partly based (in a small way) on a Twitter RP that I know, but mostly the figment of my fevered imagination. The idea came from a perverted dream I had that (unfortunately) ended before it got really interesting, so I went ahead and made the rest of it up LOL. Un-beta'd so any errors are mine.
The crawl space is small, dark and claustrophobic - if things like that bothered you. For someone like her, familiar with the shadows and isolation of Jefferies tubes and other hidden spaces within the ship, the space is more comforting than disturbing.
Crouched down and enclosed by the cool interior walls of the Enterprise, she knows that on closing her eyes and concentrating she’ll just be able to feel the thrum of the engines reverberating through the tritanium compound beneath her fingers. A second heartbeat - almost mother-like from the vague recollection she has of such things - which complements the staccato beat of her own. The ship - her ship - lending its own peculiar variety of support to her tonight, and though she would rather kill than admit it to anyone, she feels calmer whenever she can feel it.
This is her final assignment for the night. Her orders, like the two previous, are simple:
Observe. Report. Remain unseen.
She scoffs faintly at the last part of the message. Unseen is pretty much her forte - even with the additional handicap of being the ‘new girl’ on board and the usual expected suspicion that status brings with it. However she works hard, though never too hard, involves herself in the usual on-board scams and intrigue, and works at getting noticed just enough for the right and wrong reasons.
It’s not easy, but it works and to most people on the ship she’s exactly as she plays it.
To most.
The purpose of these late night assignments has never been explained to her, and she understands that in all likelihood she will never be told the reason for them. Part of her has wondered whether this is just a hazing technique used to test and categorize the skills of new crew members. However in this, as in all things she is here to obey without question; like the true daughter of the Empire she strives to be. Questions either get you killed or earn you a promotion - and she’s honestly not sure which would be worse.
A sound from the room she’s observing draws her attention from speculation back to the here and now. Tilting forwards on the balls of her feet, she makes subconscious minute adjustments to her position and weight distribution and peers, one-eyed, through the small opening in the wall.
Her target moves with a subtle athletic strength as he approaches the wall where the camouflaged hole is before he passes out of her line of sight. Not for the first time she mentally curses whoever decided the position of this particular spy hole as she tries - as silently as possible - to move to a second one less than a body’s width away.
She is too slow and catches only a flash of gold followed by black as the man removes his command and under shirts. Seeing the carelessly discarded fabric pool onto the floor she moves back to her original view point and settles back onto her heels to wait. She has lately become familiar with this one’s evening routine.
He has already completed his usual security sweep - which to her eyes is unusually lax, though it’s highly unlikely that she would ever be in a position to comment without giving herself away, and it’s even more unlikely that the person - or persons - that she reports to are that interested. It is after all this laxness that allows her to be here.
Though she has been assured to the contrary she still braces herself each time the sweep begins, ready to react at any sign of discovery. Regardless of the assertion that her crawl space is secure and undiscoverable she waits each time with baited breath until her PADD vibrates gently in her hands to display the same message that she knows is broadcast aloud by the computer, even though she cannot hear it from her secluded spot.
Waiting on her heels for the man to return a thought crosses her mind. Are there more niches like hers? Lairs where others are holding themselves still to watch and report? Considering the importance of the target it would make sense, but she’s canny enough to know that if the number of watchers rises, so too does the probability of discovery. And here - on this ship - as across the Empire - discovery means death.
If you’re lucky.
She tries not to dwell on the alternative even as a memory of blood, viscera and screaming voices rises in her mind. Echoes of a life before this that mean nothing and everything to her.
Blinking in an attempt to clear her vision her eyes open just as the man - James Tiberius Kirk, favored of the Empire - walks back into view. A towel now fastened low around his hips, the narrow strip of fabric barely covers his modesty - if such a thing were known to him. Hair damp and chaotic atop his head, his skin glistens with water droplets from his shower.
Water. A luxury on board a starship, but one she knows he takes advantage of regularly. As is his privilege, she has to remind herself, still feeling her eyebrow rise at the waste of resources especially as the rest of his crew has to settle with lacklustre dilithium powered sonic showers.
A status update request makes her PADD buzz again. The regularity of the requests has lately made her suspect that in the most part it’s a computer controlled channel, rather than human. She types in a brief response, her fingers finding the keys automatically on the darkened device rather than risk having any illumination escape.
Alone. Showered. Usual Routine
Just as she presses send, the message automatically time stamped and encoded, she sees Kirk react to something she is unable to hear through the tritanium divide, tensing and becoming suddenly alert. She adjusts position - just in case she needs to flee - but continues to observe. The cause becomes clear almost immediately as Kirk’s gaze moves towards his door. He stands to pull a robe from the back of a nearby chair, towel discarded on the floor.
A visitor
She sends the message and waits.
In itself, a visitor is no cause for concern or curiosity. Word is that he has them regularly to his quarters for a myriad of reasons and it’s unlikely that anyone unwelcome would get past the Imperial guards stationed outside, or last long once inside. His pretty boy good looks conceal a tactician’s mind twinned dangerously with an uncanny cunning and luck. However it’s a deviation from the routine that she has observed to date, so it gets reported.
Kirk’s cautious manner as he conceals a knife within the sleeve of his colorful robe tells her that this particular visitor, though possibly welcome, is still unexpected.
The identity of the visitor is revealed and unable to withhold a sharp hiss of breath she finds one hand has automatically moved to her hip where the knife she owns would usually rest.
The Vulcan
Her hatred for the half-breed threatens her composure even as she watches Kirk relax in his company. Working hard to remain calm she concentrates on her breathing in an attempt to try and regulate her heart rate, aware that in an emotionally aroused state her observation skills deteriorate and that is just not acceptable.
The two men talk and although she cannot hear what either says the differences in them are clear to see. Kirk - the human - though usually more restrained than many of their common species appears almost childlike in comparison to his visitor with his changeable facial expressions and the gestures he uses whilst talking.
The Vulcan - she can’t bring herself to even think of his name - stands as usual to almost formal attention just within the Captain’s quarters. His face whilst mostly expressionless, still displays occasional flashes of a hard edginess. In contrast to Kirk, the threat from this man lies not in a disarming yet manipulative charm but in his near never-ending feral observation. As she watches them talk she imagines what it would feel like for one of her knives to slip between his ribs. She’s heard that a Vulcan’s internal physiology is different from a human’s, but is certain that if she’s ever given the chance she would be able to find his heart and end him. Clearly that chance would involve him being restrained and isolated from his guards. A highly unlikely scenario for someone like her but the mere idea still warms her insides.
The main conversation appears to have ended from what she observes as the tone of the visit changes to something less formal. Turning to face her direction, Kirk moves towards a low counter and pours two drinks. His robe, having been hastily tied at the Vulcan’s arrival, now falls open to the waist and she remains still, enjoying the view of his firm chest and abdominal muscles. A map of scars weaves its way over tanned skin, most of them fine as gossamer threads that look as though they might dissolve at a single touch though she can see at least two old thicker lines near his stomach. A dermal regenerator would probably remove them in a single treatment, but why waste a doctor’s time on such fine examples?
She tells herself to focus and pulls her gaze away from the Captain back into the room. Kirk’s back is turned away from the Vulcan, though the conversation is clearly continuing as his mouth moves with formed words that she can only catch indistinct impressions of. She was ordered merely to watch, not to serve as a lip-reader.
As she moves her gaze away from the lips of her Captain, she notes the Vulcan’s expression has changed. Far from looking uninterested as he did throughout the majority of the earlier conversation she sees an almost predatory expression on his face, his eyes narrowed marginally as his gaze roams over Kirk’s back, the fingers of one gloved hand moving as though stroking something. He almost gets away unnoticed too - the guard falling over his face just a fraction too late as Kirk turns to offer him a drink. The contrasting reactions amuse her - human delight and laughter versus Vulcan rigidity as the green skinned bastard declines and Kirk drinks both.
Her fingers pause on the PADD as the Captain moves close - very close - to his first officer. As green-skinned nostrils flare noticeably she remembers being informed at the Academy that Vulcans have incredibly sensitive olfactory systems and has to bite her lip to the point of pain to prevent her from laughing out at the man’s obvious discomfort at having his personal space invaded so boldly.
A golden skinned finger reaches out and touches the Vulcan’s gloved hand; a snaking, teasing motion so unexpected that it draws her gaze away from their faces for a moment. The hand twitches but isn’t withdrawn and she watches wide-eyed as the finger slides its way upwards to gently push at the over-shirt cuff before circling the exposed wrist bone.
The gesture is so minimal yet so intimate that for an instant she feels as though she’s on shore leave on Risa, spying on couples for kicks and feels an irrational flash of guilt that evaporates as quickly as it appears.
Typing an update she watches as the Vulcan’s lips curl back to reveal his teeth, head moving fractionally as if he is tasting the air around him in an almost reptile like manner. And though she is almost certain that there’s an increase in the amount of white showing in his eyes, she isn’t anywhere near close enough to tell whether the darkening of his irises is due to a shadow falling on his face or full blown arousal. Not that she wants to get close enough to be able to distinguish the cause.
But she is curious. Emotionless Vulcans? She begs to differ…
As she continues to watch she knows that Kirk has spoken only when the Vulcan shakes his head, the stone-like mask falling over his features again. She has to clamp a hand over her mouth to stifle the unexpected giggle that bubbles in her throat as she watches the Captain’s expression change from teasing to… pouting. Not a wholly unattractive look, she admits but it momentarily reduces him to the status of a petulant child. An unmistakeably aroused petulant child as he steps away from his visitor.
Even as an observer she can see the mood quickly sober as the Vulcan moves backwards slowly towards the door and although she doubts - from the reactions of both men - that this is the first interaction of this kind between them she marvels at the fact that anyone would turn the Captain down and hope to leave unscathed.
The doors close behind the Vulcan and Kirk moves out of view to another part of his quarters. She would check the time on her PADD but can’t risk even the possibility of a small amount of light showing to do so. She quickly summarizes what she has observed and is shocked enough when her PADD buzzes a moment later that she is unable to catch it before it falls to her feet. As she scoops it up silently she is alert but there is no reaction in the room in front of her. The device either made less noise than she believes when it fell, or Kirk is otherwise… occupied.
Checking once more through the small opening, she satisfies herself that he isn’t there and covers the hole with the palm of her hand to hide any light whilst opening the message on her PADD.
She’s stunned as she reads and then re-reads, a knot of something - fear and possibly excitement - twisting in her belly. Her hand is still covering the hole and she stares at it; unwilling to move it and look as she’s just been instructed to.
Finally her curiosity wins out, and she leans forwards to press an eye to the aperture. A chair has been dragged directly in front of her viewpoint and sitting there, PADD in hand and cheeky, satisfied grin on face is Kirk. Her brain unusually processes these things first before the other, perhaps more salient fact.
As per his message which she has just received, Kirk is bored with receiving mundane status reports about his security - or lack of it. He’s also horny, fully naked, and according to his message wants to “entertain her as a reward for all the boring nights she’s had to endure”.
If she was going to die for this, she thinks to herself as she grins and settles, at least she’ll die entertained.
Characters: Mirror Universe Kirk, Spock, OFC
Disclaimer: Even in a mirror universe I seriously doubt that any of these characters would belong to me.
Word Count: 2479
Authors' notes: Partly based (in a small way) on a Twitter RP that I know, but mostly the figment of my fevered imagination. The idea came from a perverted dream I had that (unfortunately) ended before it got really interesting, so I went ahead and made the rest of it up LOL. Un-beta'd so any errors are mine.
The crawl space is small, dark and claustrophobic - if things like that bothered you. For someone like her, familiar with the shadows and isolation of Jefferies tubes and other hidden spaces within the ship, the space is more comforting than disturbing.
Crouched down and enclosed by the cool interior walls of the Enterprise, she knows that on closing her eyes and concentrating she’ll just be able to feel the thrum of the engines reverberating through the tritanium compound beneath her fingers. A second heartbeat - almost mother-like from the vague recollection she has of such things - which complements the staccato beat of her own. The ship - her ship - lending its own peculiar variety of support to her tonight, and though she would rather kill than admit it to anyone, she feels calmer whenever she can feel it.
This is her final assignment for the night. Her orders, like the two previous, are simple:
Observe. Report. Remain unseen.
She scoffs faintly at the last part of the message. Unseen is pretty much her forte - even with the additional handicap of being the ‘new girl’ on board and the usual expected suspicion that status brings with it. However she works hard, though never too hard, involves herself in the usual on-board scams and intrigue, and works at getting noticed just enough for the right and wrong reasons.
It’s not easy, but it works and to most people on the ship she’s exactly as she plays it.
To most.
The purpose of these late night assignments has never been explained to her, and she understands that in all likelihood she will never be told the reason for them. Part of her has wondered whether this is just a hazing technique used to test and categorize the skills of new crew members. However in this, as in all things she is here to obey without question; like the true daughter of the Empire she strives to be. Questions either get you killed or earn you a promotion - and she’s honestly not sure which would be worse.
A sound from the room she’s observing draws her attention from speculation back to the here and now. Tilting forwards on the balls of her feet, she makes subconscious minute adjustments to her position and weight distribution and peers, one-eyed, through the small opening in the wall.
Her target moves with a subtle athletic strength as he approaches the wall where the camouflaged hole is before he passes out of her line of sight. Not for the first time she mentally curses whoever decided the position of this particular spy hole as she tries - as silently as possible - to move to a second one less than a body’s width away.
She is too slow and catches only a flash of gold followed by black as the man removes his command and under shirts. Seeing the carelessly discarded fabric pool onto the floor she moves back to her original view point and settles back onto her heels to wait. She has lately become familiar with this one’s evening routine.
He has already completed his usual security sweep - which to her eyes is unusually lax, though it’s highly unlikely that she would ever be in a position to comment without giving herself away, and it’s even more unlikely that the person - or persons - that she reports to are that interested. It is after all this laxness that allows her to be here.
Though she has been assured to the contrary she still braces herself each time the sweep begins, ready to react at any sign of discovery. Regardless of the assertion that her crawl space is secure and undiscoverable she waits each time with baited breath until her PADD vibrates gently in her hands to display the same message that she knows is broadcast aloud by the computer, even though she cannot hear it from her secluded spot.
Waiting on her heels for the man to return a thought crosses her mind. Are there more niches like hers? Lairs where others are holding themselves still to watch and report? Considering the importance of the target it would make sense, but she’s canny enough to know that if the number of watchers rises, so too does the probability of discovery. And here - on this ship - as across the Empire - discovery means death.
If you’re lucky.
She tries not to dwell on the alternative even as a memory of blood, viscera and screaming voices rises in her mind. Echoes of a life before this that mean nothing and everything to her.
Blinking in an attempt to clear her vision her eyes open just as the man - James Tiberius Kirk, favored of the Empire - walks back into view. A towel now fastened low around his hips, the narrow strip of fabric barely covers his modesty - if such a thing were known to him. Hair damp and chaotic atop his head, his skin glistens with water droplets from his shower.
Water. A luxury on board a starship, but one she knows he takes advantage of regularly. As is his privilege, she has to remind herself, still feeling her eyebrow rise at the waste of resources especially as the rest of his crew has to settle with lacklustre dilithium powered sonic showers.
A status update request makes her PADD buzz again. The regularity of the requests has lately made her suspect that in the most part it’s a computer controlled channel, rather than human. She types in a brief response, her fingers finding the keys automatically on the darkened device rather than risk having any illumination escape.
Alone. Showered. Usual Routine
Just as she presses send, the message automatically time stamped and encoded, she sees Kirk react to something she is unable to hear through the tritanium divide, tensing and becoming suddenly alert. She adjusts position - just in case she needs to flee - but continues to observe. The cause becomes clear almost immediately as Kirk’s gaze moves towards his door. He stands to pull a robe from the back of a nearby chair, towel discarded on the floor.
A visitor
She sends the message and waits.
In itself, a visitor is no cause for concern or curiosity. Word is that he has them regularly to his quarters for a myriad of reasons and it’s unlikely that anyone unwelcome would get past the Imperial guards stationed outside, or last long once inside. His pretty boy good looks conceal a tactician’s mind twinned dangerously with an uncanny cunning and luck. However it’s a deviation from the routine that she has observed to date, so it gets reported.
Kirk’s cautious manner as he conceals a knife within the sleeve of his colorful robe tells her that this particular visitor, though possibly welcome, is still unexpected.
The identity of the visitor is revealed and unable to withhold a sharp hiss of breath she finds one hand has automatically moved to her hip where the knife she owns would usually rest.
The Vulcan
Her hatred for the half-breed threatens her composure even as she watches Kirk relax in his company. Working hard to remain calm she concentrates on her breathing in an attempt to try and regulate her heart rate, aware that in an emotionally aroused state her observation skills deteriorate and that is just not acceptable.
The two men talk and although she cannot hear what either says the differences in them are clear to see. Kirk - the human - though usually more restrained than many of their common species appears almost childlike in comparison to his visitor with his changeable facial expressions and the gestures he uses whilst talking.
The Vulcan - she can’t bring herself to even think of his name - stands as usual to almost formal attention just within the Captain’s quarters. His face whilst mostly expressionless, still displays occasional flashes of a hard edginess. In contrast to Kirk, the threat from this man lies not in a disarming yet manipulative charm but in his near never-ending feral observation. As she watches them talk she imagines what it would feel like for one of her knives to slip between his ribs. She’s heard that a Vulcan’s internal physiology is different from a human’s, but is certain that if she’s ever given the chance she would be able to find his heart and end him. Clearly that chance would involve him being restrained and isolated from his guards. A highly unlikely scenario for someone like her but the mere idea still warms her insides.
The main conversation appears to have ended from what she observes as the tone of the visit changes to something less formal. Turning to face her direction, Kirk moves towards a low counter and pours two drinks. His robe, having been hastily tied at the Vulcan’s arrival, now falls open to the waist and she remains still, enjoying the view of his firm chest and abdominal muscles. A map of scars weaves its way over tanned skin, most of them fine as gossamer threads that look as though they might dissolve at a single touch though she can see at least two old thicker lines near his stomach. A dermal regenerator would probably remove them in a single treatment, but why waste a doctor’s time on such fine examples?
She tells herself to focus and pulls her gaze away from the Captain back into the room. Kirk’s back is turned away from the Vulcan, though the conversation is clearly continuing as his mouth moves with formed words that she can only catch indistinct impressions of. She was ordered merely to watch, not to serve as a lip-reader.
As she moves her gaze away from the lips of her Captain, she notes the Vulcan’s expression has changed. Far from looking uninterested as he did throughout the majority of the earlier conversation she sees an almost predatory expression on his face, his eyes narrowed marginally as his gaze roams over Kirk’s back, the fingers of one gloved hand moving as though stroking something. He almost gets away unnoticed too - the guard falling over his face just a fraction too late as Kirk turns to offer him a drink. The contrasting reactions amuse her - human delight and laughter versus Vulcan rigidity as the green skinned bastard declines and Kirk drinks both.
Her fingers pause on the PADD as the Captain moves close - very close - to his first officer. As green-skinned nostrils flare noticeably she remembers being informed at the Academy that Vulcans have incredibly sensitive olfactory systems and has to bite her lip to the point of pain to prevent her from laughing out at the man’s obvious discomfort at having his personal space invaded so boldly.
A golden skinned finger reaches out and touches the Vulcan’s gloved hand; a snaking, teasing motion so unexpected that it draws her gaze away from their faces for a moment. The hand twitches but isn’t withdrawn and she watches wide-eyed as the finger slides its way upwards to gently push at the over-shirt cuff before circling the exposed wrist bone.
The gesture is so minimal yet so intimate that for an instant she feels as though she’s on shore leave on Risa, spying on couples for kicks and feels an irrational flash of guilt that evaporates as quickly as it appears.
Typing an update she watches as the Vulcan’s lips curl back to reveal his teeth, head moving fractionally as if he is tasting the air around him in an almost reptile like manner. And though she is almost certain that there’s an increase in the amount of white showing in his eyes, she isn’t anywhere near close enough to tell whether the darkening of his irises is due to a shadow falling on his face or full blown arousal. Not that she wants to get close enough to be able to distinguish the cause.
But she is curious. Emotionless Vulcans? She begs to differ…
As she continues to watch she knows that Kirk has spoken only when the Vulcan shakes his head, the stone-like mask falling over his features again. She has to clamp a hand over her mouth to stifle the unexpected giggle that bubbles in her throat as she watches the Captain’s expression change from teasing to… pouting. Not a wholly unattractive look, she admits but it momentarily reduces him to the status of a petulant child. An unmistakeably aroused petulant child as he steps away from his visitor.
Even as an observer she can see the mood quickly sober as the Vulcan moves backwards slowly towards the door and although she doubts - from the reactions of both men - that this is the first interaction of this kind between them she marvels at the fact that anyone would turn the Captain down and hope to leave unscathed.
The doors close behind the Vulcan and Kirk moves out of view to another part of his quarters. She would check the time on her PADD but can’t risk even the possibility of a small amount of light showing to do so. She quickly summarizes what she has observed and is shocked enough when her PADD buzzes a moment later that she is unable to catch it before it falls to her feet. As she scoops it up silently she is alert but there is no reaction in the room in front of her. The device either made less noise than she believes when it fell, or Kirk is otherwise… occupied.
Checking once more through the small opening, she satisfies herself that he isn’t there and covers the hole with the palm of her hand to hide any light whilst opening the message on her PADD.
She’s stunned as she reads and then re-reads, a knot of something - fear and possibly excitement - twisting in her belly. Her hand is still covering the hole and she stares at it; unwilling to move it and look as she’s just been instructed to.
Finally her curiosity wins out, and she leans forwards to press an eye to the aperture. A chair has been dragged directly in front of her viewpoint and sitting there, PADD in hand and cheeky, satisfied grin on face is Kirk. Her brain unusually processes these things first before the other, perhaps more salient fact.
As per his message which she has just received, Kirk is bored with receiving mundane status reports about his security - or lack of it. He’s also horny, fully naked, and according to his message wants to “entertain her as a reward for all the boring nights she’s had to endure”.
If she was going to die for this, she thinks to herself as she grins and settles, at least she’ll die entertained.