oawiejt

[oawiejt]

Soycha - her mouth forms the words, but no sound passes her lips. It's evident she's trying them out, feeling the weight, enjoying the poetry of it. She wonders if it stands for something, or if it is just a name for a thing that was created in the moment when it was needed. As a writer, this is where her mind wanders. Snapping back only to the word: retrieval. Whatever that means, she shrugs. "Okay."

But jarring is an understatement to what she feels as she watches the Vulcan flicker in and out of view, as her own is blackened for a moment before pierced with artificial light. To cease to breathe simply or blink or exist. It was a blink, but for a form not used to such things, it is an imbalance in the body's equilibrium, and she sways where she stands - eyes wide and alert.

Fists clench, unclench, clench again. Her mouth opens and closes, and she's sure she looks quite like a fish out of water. She finds herself thinking of a childhood movie, a boy obsessed with television. Particles in the air. Momentarily, she wonders if she's the same size as before. "That's a thing that just happened." Eliot states, finally, but has yet to take a step forward off the platform she now stands. "Noted."

                        THERE ARE MANY THINGS with regard to technological advancement that humanity is not yet prepared for. Alongside his contemplation in which of them to share, he watches almost dispassionately as Eliot tucks the marble away among the rest of her things.

It is an example of the control that he possesses, offering silent reassurances that this choice — if there existed any doubt — is at least, the best and most logical of them all. Vulcans are not so susceptible to the same emotional dangers that have placed humanity on a fulcrum.

They know not greed, nor petty envy, nothing of inherent rage or lacking confidence when courted by matters of science. Perhaps, their history would provide a different story. But it is a context that has had no relevance for many years.

He takes a measure of comfort in this, observing the long stride of Eliot’s stand before pivoting slightly toward the door.

                        “ Indeed, ” he confirms. “ We will be traveling aboard the Soycha, a vessel commissioned by the Vulcan Science Academy. The crew are prepared for retrieval at my request. Though, I should inform you that the method utilized for our return, will likely be jarring at first. ”

@gcldenfinch

[oawiejt]

Eliot listens with the slight tilt of her head to the story that unfolds and the way the memory seems to play itself out in his eyes. It's such a fascinating thing, she thinks, how the mind works, or maybe it's just his mind. But it is beside the point. While her misadventures occurred in the open, on far off lands - for her very, human, self - his still happened in the safety of clean environments. Much like the lab they are in now, but he's still sitting here. He's still working, meticulously on an artifact she'd unearthed for him. He did not show signs of panic, or the need to flee. Does it disturb her? Not the injury, or the scar it left behind. Scars were the reminders of lessons learned - not just the hard, but the unavoidable. It was the other piece to the puzzle that caused her to pause, and think. For her eyes to narrow, and mind to wander down dark halls with doors nailed shut. "A bomb." She says softly, the palms of her hands heating with the anxiety the idea of an explosion brings. Her touch is withdrawn, her hands falling in her lap, disappearing beneath the length of her sleeve. "It sounds like you were engineering compounds to be weaponized." Admittedly, this was fully based on an assumption from knowledge gained for a story she'd written in another life. To steady her rapidly beating heart, she returns to the manuscript, to the story of an ancient civilization and potential first contact; her bottom lip is caught between her teeth. But - Perhaps. "Did you sabotage it?"

@gcldenfinch cont'd from x.

                                DIVIDING HIS ATTENTION, HE CAN see Eliot out of the corner of his eye. She is watchful, unfailingly observant, and curious in ways that Spock typically appreciates even if he cannot entirely agree with it now.

And yet he does not move away, stopping only to graze his eyes over the curved shapes of her knuckles across his arm.

“There was an incident at the Science Academy in San Francisco.” He begins, eyes snapping up. He meets hers, both dark and earthen with intent to something he cannot explain. The scar is covered. Though, he feels that, too.

“We were investigating potential reactions to a newly discovered chemical compound.”                                 It was an oxidizing agent, and perhaps, they were still too small for so large an endeavor. Tangling with the molecular structure of a compressed, liquid vacuum is dangerous even in the figurative. He remembers expressing his concerns for the research at first. But in the end, Spock would not be innocent of their boundless imaginings, wanting and seeking for more.

The work has not stopped as far as Spock is aware.

“The explosive reaction was not unexpected. It was merely something that we had hoped to avoid.” Distantly, Spock acknowledges how warm she feels, then tilts his head. The wound is old. He had experienced no long term effects other than its physical brand. Eliot’s fascination is strange.

“Does this disturb you?”

[oawiejt]

Are you a Soldier, a Poet, or a King?

THE POET

"There will come a poet Whose weapon is His word He will slay you with His tongue"

Loneliness. Strength. Joy.

You are powerful, but struggle believing it. You think you're not enough. Here's the truth : you are. You sing songs and hope they carry faith, because you have run out if it, and yet you still throw your heart out to the world and hope it makes it through. You convince yourself that pain is art because at least then, you will always have something to create. You are tired of stumbling through life. You dream of a ground you can stand on. One day, you will dance. Your love is where you feel - without fear.

tagged by: @fasciinating

[oawiejt]

It had not initially been intentional - grazing the scar with the tips of her fingers - but it had ended as such. In their time together in space she had learned a few things: With the difference in gravity - false or not - things tasted differently, less. It was always undeniably chilled. And Spock's mind was utterly fascinating, coveted, in fact, among those aboard the ship. Though they are not on board one now, but in a laboratory - still cold. Still sterile. But she can enjoy the chai at her elbow with just the right amount of spice and zero hot sauce. Yet of all these things, it was her assisting him, bundled in an extra layer of sweater, thinking nothing of him asking her to roll the sleeves of his tunic. Barely bats an eye away from the manuscript that's caught her attention until she sees the scar. It's almost automatic, the need at which she reaches out the tip of her finger finds the raised flesh so deftly, tracing it along his forearm. Her brow pulls, wondering at which point she convinced herself that he is invincible.

"Glass." She repeats, but he does not elaborate on how just that humans weren't there yet on healing properties. Which is a topic she'd love to dive into at another time, but she's still stuck on glass. Her hands have halted, still cupping his arm. "But how?"

trace.  for your muse to trace their hand along my muse’s scar - @gcldenfinch

‘ via the system of touch ’

On his third day on Earth, there was an incident in the laboratory of the Vulcan Embassy. Science is a stronghold with which his people bear arms, decorating their spaces of diplomatic relations with numbers and text, knowledge filled into every corner; the building is a tangible saturation of their endless wonder. But with their endeavors to a united front, came the limitations of this planet, and to that end, they made a vow not to influence Earth’s development if at all possible, not to push but to encourage, their hands meant to guide.                                 Standing at the table, Spock has removed his outer tunic to prevent possible damage, the sleeves of his thermal layers shoved up to his elbows with Eliot’s assistance. The scar is visible there. And this is exactly what he does: guides. “ It was broken glass. ” He tells her, watching her as her fingers tease the raised line on his skin. He does not tell her the touch is unexpected or atypical, does not elaborate on the reason why it curls heat on the nape of his neck. It means something. It means nothing. Eliot is only human.                                 Instead, he ceases his progress on wiping down an artifact he brought with him, “ Your species is not yet advanced enough to remove the scar permanently. ” He could return to Vulcan. He will not tell her why that is not an option either. Not for him, “ I often consider it a reminder. ”

Spock raises his elbow to allow her see it more clearly, “ Tempering hubris can come in many forms. ”

@gcldenfinch

[oawiejt]

She followed his gaze around the things that she's collected in her years here. She's attuned to the way each individual item pulls his calculative attention. Eliot gets the idea that if they had time, he would find himself lost here in the dusty shelves; and she at his side, equally asking and answering questions. The thought is curious and it makes her dark eyes light, and her own lips curve into a smile. Have we met? She wants to ask, wants to explain the swirling sense of Deja Vu swirling in her veins. But instead she stretches out her long legs to slip off her stool, moving instead to shuffle things into her bag. It was battered and worn, but she'd had it through all of her adventures. To ditch it now would be like ditching the trust stuffed animal a child clung to in the middle of the night when the darkness was at its most terrifying. It was absolutely a safety net - and she would be damned if she left it behind. The last thing to slip into the depths is the box holding the tiny bauble. There's a hesitance until it's out of sight, out of mind. Eliot blinks, then turns back towards the Vulcan emissary.

"Shall we, Mr. Spock?"

Unlike others, Spock is not perturbed by the notion of silence. He watches and waits through Eliot’s deliberation, following the touch of her fingers to her neck. It discerns his invitation was a difficult concept to digest. Of his knowledge of human history, in their behavior, he thinks he understands.                         It is no small request. Vulcan’s mere existence on this planet has been cause for discord enough. Earth had not been prepared for much of the universe, too young for the stars beyond their immediate orbit. But as he might have estimated, curiosity is a formidable opponent for any intelligent mind. Spock does not fault her for this either. Should their positions be reversed, Spock is certain that he would have elected similarly.                         “ As I understand, your work is incumbent of your people’s history through self-expression or artifact. ” A museum is a timepiece of any species’ identity, he could say, showcasing snippets of culture and their very selves for both better and worse. When Spock thinks to the various possessions that Eliot has worked to keep safe in his awareness, he sees war portrayed through abstract painting. Marbled biology through sculpture. Occasionally, there are examples of human discovery, too. And right now, that, looks to be an entire galaxy inside diminutive jewelry. “ Boredom is idealistically impossible in this environment. ” Spock takes one tall step to stand beside her. He looks at the box, “ As risk is inherent in all things, Miss Finch. ”

                        Glancing up at her, a small curl takes residence at one corner of Spock’s mouth, “ Negative. This, will suffice well enough. ”

[oawiejt]

It takes a moment for the words to register - the question that has been posed. She studies him for a potential trick, for the other shoe to drop, and her eyes narrow to study him. The way his shoulders pull the blue of what she only assumes to be a uniform - hands clasped behind his back. It feels like a non threatening pose, but that's a human mind attempting to break down a very not human being. She had seen war - had seen what humans would do to each other for less, but throwing in what would only be considered alien? A brave face would not hide the slight tremble in her hand as she touches the side of her neck. The thought of it brings the taste of dirt to her mouth, and scent blood to her nose. Her eyes sting with phantom sweat and they roll shut. She sees flashes of her life before, of broken comrades killed on live feeds.

"Working here was meant to be boring. Safe." She says it under her breath, as a sigh. But as her eyes rake over the box, she thinks of the thing inside of it. Of the need it felt - hers or its? She won't know if she doesn't go. She will not get the closure her mind needs - worse, she could be a pawn. "Fuck it...Will I need a passport?" She asks, brow raised, it's rhetorical. She's going with him.

              In ancient times, the desert were not crimson from the red scorch of its suns, but verdant with the blood of Vulcan’s warriors. They were fierce creatures, fueled by emotion, traveling across the sand with anger as their swords in one hand, rage as a shield in the other. War was born from a great many things. Some of them sparked out of spite, ownership of their lands, and others over so small — so enormous — an object as this, a galaxy in the palm of their hands.                                                         Spock knows that his people were not alone in their brutal history. Greater beings, other species, have fought and spilled blood regarding similar ventures, all of them senseless but for the strength and weakness of their hearts. This is a commonality that they share with Earth, even if this planet remains in its volatile infancy by comparison. Humanity knows logic like a distant star, staring up at the sky, limitless power just beyond their reach. But they are not yet ready to hold it. Her hesitation affirms Spock of this, and he nods, looking around the room to judge its integrity. “ Return it to where it belongs. ” That location is unknown, and the answer perhaps trapped inside the marble itself. He could surmise anyone who may come looking for it will not only be those that she suggests.

“ Once that location has been discovered, of course. ” Spock approaches both Eliot and the box, hands curling behind him, “ For the time being, our efforts will be in the interest of science. Would you care to be included in that endeavor? ”

[oawiejt]

Honesty is a virtue that leads to more questions. Or so it seems, but it is fair he is asking this, given the information she'd provided thus far in the conversation. She would not be aware of what radiates from her - or the lack there of - though she'd be proud the carefully constructed walls she'd built held against even the most intelligent of beings. Should she be honest? What would he do if she lied? As Eliot seems to ponder his question, her bottom lip is pulled between her teeth, held for a moment, then released.

"I would like to say no." She would love to say no, in fact, but it is a risk to place so much hope in it. "There was a limited amount of foot traffic in the vault where this was, so it's only a matter of time before it is noticed missing and the hunt to narrow it down starts." The next is said through a sigh, "Which also runs off the assumption of its value. There's too many variables for an honest assessment of the risks. And - " She pauses, not for dramatics, but out of hesitance. As her eyes drag over the Vulcan, she's wondering how much trust to place in him. There's nothing about him that strictly tells her she should not trust him, but she sidesteps the concern she has for the moment. Instead, she poses a question. "What do you plan to do with it? Other than the obvious of studying it."

Patience is a virtue that never delivers on its promise it would seem.                               As he observes her, listening and waiting for what it is, what she could possibly be thinking of that notion of mental seclusion, it never comes. It is a necessity for his kind — shielding their minds behind layers upon layers of invisible walls, constructing whole fortresses that would rival osmium and neutron stars — and even more so for Spock since arriving on earth. He finds himself wondering if she is aware of how loud humans are, projecting their sensations of joy or anger, fear or sometimes grief without their notice. Watching her put the marble away, Eliot is not as such. It is a rarity given Spock’s experiences. But like the object itself, all noise seems to coalesce into a single, slow vibration when he looks at her, trembling outward toward a yellow and distant sun. It tugs at his awareness, asking him a question no one else can hear. Spock’s eyes sleet to the box. “ Fascinating, ” he says again; he thinks he understands.

                              “ The object will require further investigation to discover whether your — experience — can be replicated. ” The doors of this museum are still open, too public, and taking into consideration what she has told him, Spock would prefer to be without an audience for a closer examination of its contents. “ Has anyone else been made aware of its existence in your possession?

[oawiejt]

𝚂𝙿𝙴𝙻𝙻 𝙾𝚄𝚃 𝚈𝙾𝚄𝚁 𝚄𝚁𝙻 𝚄𝚂𝙸𝙽𝙶 𝚂𝙾𝙽𝙶 𝚃𝙸𝚃𝙻𝙴𝚂. 𝚃𝙷𝙴𝙽 , 𝚃𝙰𝙶 𝙰𝚂 𝙼𝙰𝙽𝚈 𝙿𝙴𝙾𝙿𝙻𝙴 𝙰𝚂 𝚃𝙷𝙴𝚁𝙴 𝙰𝚁𝙴 𝙻𝙴𝚃𝚃𝙴𝚁𝚂 𝙸𝙽 𝚈𝙾𝚄𝚁 𝚄𝚁𝙻 :

G - grand theft autumn/where is your boy tonight - fall out boy C - cough syrup - young the giant L - lauren's song - breathe carolina D - devil inside me - halocene E - exile - taylor swift ft bon iver N - next to you - little big town F - fall into me - forest blakk I - i just wanna run - the downtown fiction N - not about angels - birdy C - coming home, pt ii - skylar grey H - hunger - ross copperman

tagged by: @whtwclf tagging: you !

[oawiejt]

To be selfish is simply human nature - to fight the notion, while rare, only goes so far. She hears the pull in his voice - that his attention is rapt and wholly on her, as if he's trying to figure her out just as much she him. What does he think of her? She wonders. What interactions with humanity has he had? Does he believe her intentions are pure? Does he believe she has no ulterior motive?

Eliot has to look away from him, but it feels no where is safe and she cannot hide; but she uses placing the object back on the velvet cushion she'd taken it from and closing the box for reprieve. The second it is out of sight, it is as if a weight has lifted from her shoulders. There's a clarity in her own eyes - deep brown, almost black on the outside of the irises - and her breaths come lighter.

"That sounds - " Equally wonderful and not. If it was all he knew, would he realize the gift it would be to shield yourself so thoroughly from someone? Likely not - given the normalcy - but she's being swept up in her own curiosity and desire to know. The point is waved off to return to her own. "It's a bit what it feels like when you look at it, let alone touch it. I can feel it - almost clouding thought and reasoning. It almost peels back the layers to your base instincts - to run, to fight, to protect." An exhale. "I've never encountered something like it. It scares me, if I'm being honest."

The response is almost immediate. His confusion. His comprehension. In light of her true purpose, Spock feels his brows knit softly when he tips his chin, dark stare pinning to her face as he assures himself of her sincerity. There is a haze of longing in her eyes and in her voice, a touch of grief, loss that cannot be explained. He reads no deceit from it or in it, feeling nothing cold or malicious in the quick graze of her nails on his skin. But he can admit that he did not anticipate that her intentions would be to be free of it, that she could allow it, this delicate and powerful thing — pouring with temptation — into someone else’s hands.          And she means Vulcan hands, of which, is ostensibly a wise choice given their fealty to logic. His species cannot lie. There are few greater options regarding perceived matters of importance. Still, the notion that she can so willingly part with it — had planned on it — despite what she is telling him, allured by its magic, is both curious and undeniably impressive. Humans do not cease to surprise him. He desires to know more.

         “ Negative. ” Spock says, caught on whatever path she is taking him, “ Mental coercion would be an exceedingly difficult task to impose on any Vulcan. We are trained from childhood to control our abilities. This includes shielding ourselves from others. ” Though, neither instance is infallible, “ Why? ”

[oawiejt]

"Y E S - you are not where you're supposed to be."

OPEN STARTER - Clint

“Is there a problem?”

[oawiejt]

She continues to watch, wondering if he can feel it too. If it is singing to him the way it sung to her - of loss and grief, of fear, of a longing to be found. A longing for HOME. "I couldn't leave it." She reiterates again, not as an excuse for the behavior, and laced in her tone is the same longing she feels from the tip of her fingers to her heart when she touches the thing. But just as soon as it is there, it is gone again in a flurry as she finds herself focusing on his own words. She can feel the judgement in them, even if it's a perception created entirely of her own.

"No." She states, "I do not think it is best left here or in my hands. That is why I called you." The statement is as pointed as the ears she wishes to run her finger along - wishing to know if the cartilage is as unyielding as the being they are attached to. Lightly, she takes it back in her hand, the tips of her fingers and perfectly manicured nails raking against his palm as she does so. Warm. She thinks, he's warm. "Clearly there is something beneath the surface of the container - whether it is sentient, I don't know, but when it is in my vicinity, it begs for attention, almost clouds it. I almost feel like I have to struggle to pay attention." Eliot is not implying that it is a weapon, but weaponized? It could be detrimental in the wrong hands, and she would be the first to admit the temptation - as was the human nature. She was aware of her sins and the pulls to such, to pretend otherwise would be hypocritical. "Have you ever been Hypnotized?"

             Spock’s curiosity toward the unknown is his greatest distractor in where his attention lies. It takes some effort to perpetually look away from it, whole galaxies stolen into his eyes when he rightens his body up and directs that focus elsewhere. Inconspicuously, he curves his stare over her face, memorizing it, viewing this woman as if for the first time. Perhaps, that is the truth.              His goal had been mostly singular when he entered this establishment, ignoring much of the other antiques and collectibles, rare items plucked from every corner of Earth, and — it would seem — just beyond it. That fact interests him more than he cares to be perceived. But the object has not left him, spinning innocuously at the corner of his vision, slipping into his thoughts.

“ I understand, ” he says smoothly. It is enough to pull him from that present, evolving fascination, curating Eliot into a carefully cut slice of his concentration. It is curious that she would go to such lengths. But it is not so brutally misguided that he could not comprehend or deduce such a compulsion. He can — as humans say — read between the lines in this instance. She stole it. “ And you derive that this item is better placed here? ” Spock does not particularly condone theft. Though, it would be inappropriate to disagree outright. Eliot could have executed a number of actions to her benefit. The object, while undefined, is likely worth some unimaginable currency to humans, greedy, vulturous creatures that they can be. He takes note of this, more curious regarding his invitation than ever. “ That it was not for sale, was decided with sound logic, even if the decision for that logic may have — aligned differently than mine or, impulsively, your own. ”

[oawiejt]

[oawiejt]

Eliot is fascinated by two things at once - the way the small marble like orb matches the stars in his eyes - deceptively dark at first, but lit up like the night sky upon the sheer fascination. And the look of him in general. She finds him impossibly tall and thin - coming from someone who shared the same thoughts of her own stature - but is not blind to the illusion of it. She suspects dancing just beneath the surface of paled skin is musculature even the most human of gods would be envious of. How straight cut, but soft his hair seems, and the power in the brows as they knit together. Finally, it's the tips of his ears. The knowledge of humans not being alone in this universe no longer shocked her. They'd been invaded countless of times - the mystery of the greys - the barbarians that attempted to ransack the planet, but the Vulcans. They were different, it was obvious even in the few dealings she'd had thus far. They were above humanity, but this one. This one seemed different.

"You may, but you may not like the answer." Eliot spoke truthfully, they did not always obtain their items legally, and this particular one was of her own doing. "As you know, relations between humans - and well - everyone is sitting on the edge of a very find blade, but money always talks." Wealth and Greed are universal languages. "The curator was given access to a collection, this was among the items, but strictly speaking - not for sale." So she'd stolen it. Pocketed it without a second thought. "I can't explain it, but I couldn't leave it."

Vulcan High Command hardly sees themselves fit for the smaller intricacies of Earth’s secrets. In short time, they have grown, no longer a distant, red dot in the sky that they had been for as long as Spock can remember, expertly interwoven in this planet’s affairs: medicine, politics, science. Their resources are stretched across these facets, pulling them too thin for other matters, excusable. Though — as evident by his arrival — no such reticence exists within Spock. Enveloped by curiosity, he strides in neatly, following after his host without preamble or unnecessary introduction. Nothing but a simple nod in greeting — and that yes, whatever she has, he came to inspect — more to human custom than anything he would have done in situations requiring pomp and circumstance.

He waits, controlled. Until he sees it— Pulsing in darkness like a void, coiling colors that blend from indigo to something velvet, violet light and glowing like stardust in Spock’s eyes. He watches it spin, slow in its gradual metamorphosis but alive; a nebula captured in the fragile space of a tiny, glass sphere. Long lashes snap upward, and Spock’s tone is level with the concrete poise of his posture. “ It is a very curious object, ” he answers, negating his own yearning to inspect it further, to touch. A uniquely powerful sensation hums in his bones, “ May I inquire as to where you obtained it? ”

[oawiejt]

@defectivexfragmented ; should not upset the elderly

When Isaiah said someone was coming to visit, she'd helped him clean up with the plan of slipping out of the back door before anyone noticed she was gone. Her assumption, based on the way he'd been acting, is that this person was equally welcome and unwelcome - which usually meant there was some type of history - and she wanted to be no where in the vicinity. But when she attempted to sneak out, she'd forgotten the back door squeaked unless pushed at just the right angle, at just the right speed - and she'd been caught. Her name called, and her shoulders slumped. Though she wouldn't look it when she rounded the corner, thumbs hooked in her pocket, and chin held up to the introduction of, "My granddaughter, Eliot." "Sort of." She corrected, automatically. Where she'd been expecting someone more grey was a relatively young man.

"You are?"

[oawiejt]

@defectivexfragmented ; there's an injured man in the alley

But first, there is a girl chasing a story she should not, not that she'd ever asked for permission. Eliot's line of work had gotten her in plenty of trouble before - which is why she'd swapped from war and foreign affairs to free lance. Yet, old habits died hard, and she'd been baited with the corruption of Hell's Kitchen. There were rumors that there was more to the gentrification Wilson Fisk was attempting by buying up properties - both damaged by battle, or just falling apart with age. The community that had existed for the better part of decades was in an uproar. They felt the culture was being erased, the character of the block. Quieter outcries wondered about the legality. So she'd poked around - loudly - gaining attention, and now she found herself locked in a room in one of said dingy buildings awaiting her captor to come back, but what she got instead was interesting.

"You've got to be kidding me." Her eyes ran over the man, from head to toe, and back again. "I thought you were an urban legend."

[oawiejt]

[oawiejt]

𝑡ℎ𝑒𝑦 𝑠𝑙𝑖𝑝𝑝𝑒𝑑 𝑏𝑟𝑖𝑠𝑘𝑙𝑦 𝑖𝑛𝑡𝑜 𝑎𝑛 𝑖𝑛𝑡𝑖𝑚𝑎𝑐𝑦 ．．．

．．．𝑓𝑟𝑜𝑚 𝑤ℎ𝑖𝑐ℎ 𝑡ℎ𝑒𝑦 𝑛𝑒𝑣𝑒𝑟 𝑟𝑒𝑐𝑜𝑣𝑒𝑟𝑒𝑑

f . scott fitzgerald — ‘ 𝑡ℎ𝑖𝑠 𝑠𝑖𝑑𝑒 𝑜𝑓 𝑝𝑎𝑟𝑎𝑑𝑖𝑠𝑒 ’

@gcldenfinch