Drabble request 1!
Aug. 6th, 2005 08:54 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
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kapera, who requested ST: Voyager, anything concerning Janeway.
Er, hope y'don't mind angsty gen.
~~~
Tuvok: Admit it! Part of you feels as I do. Part of you wants him to die for what he did.
Janeway: No part of me feels that way.
Tuvok: Liar!
~~~
Of course, she wanted to tell him, her raging, broken Vulcan. Of course I want that bastard dead.
They were too far out for betrayal. Too deep in the wastes to turn upon each other, to run cannibal down the smooth-polished corridors, to succumb to the endless stars. Tales of space madness circulated the mess hall as they hadn’t since the days of the first far explorers, and there were reasons she snarled when the Maquis raised their old heads, dared to suggest that her ship be less Starfleet. That was the heart of the uniform--friendship, cooperation. Sometimes late at night she'd wake up from nightmares and want it blaring, urgent as a hull breach, on every console. Friendship. Cooperation.
But because she loved them, all her people, she could not force it upon them.
The thought of Seska made her stomach churn, gave her nightmares of sleek smooth skin sprouting Cardassian scales and hissing, You'll never get them home. And then that great argument over the negotiations with the Kazon; and then, just a week ago, the realization that somebody, somehow, was leaking to Culluh and the Nistrim. Traitors. Backstabbing traitors. And then, out of nowhere, out of the deep shadows of psychosis, the murder. One of her crew dead at the hands of another. No motive. No rational explanation. The greatest treachery, the most brutal backstabbing of all.
The days since the murder had been hellish, like riding tachyon waves or circling a black hole. Dealing with Tuvok's results from the investigation, organizing the memorial service, settling a savage fistfight between two Maquis and a posse of enraged Starfleet engineers. Spending a sleepless night composing, word by agonizing word, what she might say to those three sisters a galaxy away should she ever have the chance. Watching Tuvok, friend and rock and pillar, torn apart by whatever mad thoughts that traitor had implanted in his brain. And, oh, she was glad he was too far gone to ask her why she hadn't yet visited Suder down in the brig. Because what lie could she give him then? She knew she couldn’t face him. She knew she couldn’t look into those dead black Betazoid eyes without wanting to reach out and throttle him, crack his treacherous skull against the wall. Because he'd killed one of her crew. Because he’d killed one of her family. What captain wouldn’t want him dead?
But there were things she could not say, because she loved them, because she loved Tuvok, even as he screamed like a banshee behind the forcefield.
~~~
kapera, who requested ST: Voyager, anything concerning Janeway.Er, hope y'don't mind angsty gen.
~~~
No Part of Me
Tuvok: Admit it! Part of you feels as I do. Part of you wants him to die for what he did.
Janeway: No part of me feels that way.
Tuvok: Liar!
~~~
Of course, she wanted to tell him, her raging, broken Vulcan. Of course I want that bastard dead.
They were too far out for betrayal. Too deep in the wastes to turn upon each other, to run cannibal down the smooth-polished corridors, to succumb to the endless stars. Tales of space madness circulated the mess hall as they hadn’t since the days of the first far explorers, and there were reasons she snarled when the Maquis raised their old heads, dared to suggest that her ship be less Starfleet. That was the heart of the uniform--friendship, cooperation. Sometimes late at night she'd wake up from nightmares and want it blaring, urgent as a hull breach, on every console. Friendship. Cooperation.
But because she loved them, all her people, she could not force it upon them.
The thought of Seska made her stomach churn, gave her nightmares of sleek smooth skin sprouting Cardassian scales and hissing, You'll never get them home. And then that great argument over the negotiations with the Kazon; and then, just a week ago, the realization that somebody, somehow, was leaking to Culluh and the Nistrim. Traitors. Backstabbing traitors. And then, out of nowhere, out of the deep shadows of psychosis, the murder. One of her crew dead at the hands of another. No motive. No rational explanation. The greatest treachery, the most brutal backstabbing of all.
The days since the murder had been hellish, like riding tachyon waves or circling a black hole. Dealing with Tuvok's results from the investigation, organizing the memorial service, settling a savage fistfight between two Maquis and a posse of enraged Starfleet engineers. Spending a sleepless night composing, word by agonizing word, what she might say to those three sisters a galaxy away should she ever have the chance. Watching Tuvok, friend and rock and pillar, torn apart by whatever mad thoughts that traitor had implanted in his brain. And, oh, she was glad he was too far gone to ask her why she hadn't yet visited Suder down in the brig. Because what lie could she give him then? She knew she couldn’t face him. She knew she couldn’t look into those dead black Betazoid eyes without wanting to reach out and throttle him, crack his treacherous skull against the wall. Because he'd killed one of her crew. Because he’d killed one of her family. What captain wouldn’t want him dead?
But there were things she could not say, because she loved them, because she loved Tuvok, even as he screamed like a banshee behind the forcefield.
~~~