[He isn't expecting that. She's always been the picture of control and poise, so seeing the strain in T'Pol's hands, thinking of the tension that he knows must have been there for her to do that, is something unsettling.

He decides that it's a fair move to warn her of his approach.] Are the results not to your liking? [He steps up alongside her research equipment, glancing over it casually as he tucks his hands behind his back in his prim, formal way.]

[Her head snaps around when she hears him, which was definitely a wise move. She turns back to the broken PADD, breathing in deeply and exhaling slowly.]

My attention has not been on this project for some time. [There's still a hint of that out-of-control energy in her voice, and she focuses on her breathing again, still not looking at him.]

What's the matter? [He stands at a reserved distance but still near, quietly regarding her. He know that Kirk has left, and the medical personnel with the most familiarity with Vulcan anatomy is gone. In a similar situation, it would be difficult for him.

He's never seen her quite like this. His first worry is a health concern, but he knows that it could be worse. It could be just this place getting to someone.]

[She ought to be able to say that nothing was wrong. She ought to be calm enough to say so without gritting her teeth. She ought not to have broken the PADD in the first place, but there is no denying that logic is somewhat out of her grasp at the moment. Her hands tighten on the counter, and when she speaks, she's practically grinding the words out.]

I have my doubts that my inmate will graduate with my assistance.

Oh.

[There's an element of disappointment in his voice- unlike T'Pol, he doesn't suppress everything, and that emotion will tend to leak considering he's been both an inmate and a frustrated warden. He crosses his arms and leans back against the nearest table.] I would believe then that it's unfair to you both. I believe that she can graduate, as she has an adversarial spirit and the nature of a dutiful and protective mother. However, there's a lot of hate and fear, there. And they are difficult to overcome.

[He wants to put a hand on her- on her straining hands, against her back, anything. That's how Nietzscheans console. But he knows it would be unwelcome so he doesn't.] And it's unfair to you to be this frustrated. I've never seen you like this.

I am certain that she could graduate, if she had any inclination to do so. [It comes out heated, anger in her tone, and that's a little frightening, maybe, but she barely hears it. Her knuckles have gone white, her fingers taking on a green tint with her blood.]

But she does not. She suggested I ask for another inmate, so that I can fulfill my deal. Her affection for children extends to mine, but not enough to begin to change.

[That part catches his attention. Children.

In all his time here there's also been T'Pol and he's an inherently selfish man as well as one that respects the space of an obviously private person, so he never asked why. The only exception being after his graduation, when she let him go to her family's house and leave the small bits and threads of DNA that eventually was woven into the child he is eager to one day return to. T'Pol has been stoic, unwavering (until now), but what would make her stay that long.]

Your children. [He says it with a furrow of his brow, a look of concern. And it's taking all of his effort to give her that space.

Children were a subject to get angry about, certainly.] What is your deal for, exactly?

Edited 2012-08-31 02:36 am (UTC)

[Were she still feeling particularly stoic - were she feeling particularly herself - she might have noticed the effort he put into keeping his distance. she might have appreciated it. Now, she found herself pushing away from the counter, abandoning stillness in favor of movement. If calming breaths did not work, she would try burning off the energy.

Pacing in a line parallel to the counter, she looked at him and away as she spoke, agitated. Understandably agitated.]

My daughter. Elizabeth. [Her eyes narrowed at the floor, stayed narrowed as she stopped pacing and looked at him, though her ire, her - emotion wasn't directed at him. She was trying hard to keep it from spreading.] My DNA was taken, without my knowledge or approval. Trip's as well. They created her. Kept her hidden. Kept her from us.

[She turned on her heel, paced away from him. How could they not have known? How could she not have realized?] Their process was flawed. They didn't know how to combine Vulcan and human DNA. They never meant for her to live, they would have made an example of her, of how interplanetary relations were wrong, of how the human genome could be - polluted, erased. They would have let every Coalition planet watch her die.

[Her hands clenched at her sides. She stopped again, this time facing the wall, her back to Rhade.] We rescued her, but we couldn't save her. Trip and I watched her leave us.

Edited 2012-08-31 03:51 am (UTC)

That's repugnant.

[Simply stated, and with all the contempt in the world. Unlike many Nietzscheans, Rhade's never been bound by standards of breeding. He still sees it as the primary motivator in the origins of social structure and between that, hunger, and fear the greater part of driving behavior. Many of his kind won't breed outside of their subrace.

He would have loved children with Una, or Beka. He has a daughter made just to be a daughter. But more than that, he wants his daughter. T'Pol and Trip were violated, in his definition of the term. Their genetic material used against their will- but they still wanted their child. They were making it their own. To lose it would be having had that happen to them for nothing.] It's an admirable cause. You're a good mother for wanting it. Your husband, is he seeking the same goal?

[Because he's seen Trip here long enough to go through many, many inmates.] ...Simply... [he stumbles over the word, and thoughts and realizations he doesn't want to have] changing inmates isn't going to help your situation, is it?

[She'd been managing, containing the anger, fighting it back - until his question. It explodes out of her, and though she rarely vocalizes her anger with the Admiral, she feels it very, very strongly.]

I have had six inmates. Trip has had seven, and every time we manage to make progress the Admiral sees fit to remove them from the ship. As if assigning them to us at all was a mistake.

[She doesn't feel like a good mother. She feels like someone who didn't know she wanted to be a mother at all until she held her daughter, until she watched Elizabeth die. She turned, casting about for something to throw - which could be fairly dangerous, given the setting.]

Edited 2012-08-31 05:17 pm (UTC)

[This time he moves forward, he quickly catches her by the wrist before she can do damage, because he's seen these motions before. He uses the grip to pull her closer and put an arm around her, having to take advantage of his strength in this situation because Vulcans are a little bit of a surprise.]

You're going to do something you regret if you keep going.

[There's more than one meaning to that, though he doesn't intend it that way. But it's true; it goes far beyond lab equipment, or dedications of marriage. It goes even beyond her health.

But for the moment he's going to hold onto her before she does damage in the lab, very practically, and dimly satisfy that need to console her.]

[She struggles, even lets slip something like a growl as she struggles between logic and control and emotion. She wants to break things, to suspect the very worse, and why shouldn't she? They are on a prison ship of some of the worst that the multiverse has to offer. What good is there here?

It's a long, long few moments before she stops, before she can close her eyes and find some logic in his words. Eventually she stops trying to break free, stops trying to turn over a table.]

I'm sorry. [She's embarrassed, but not ashamed; she's learned a lot about human emotions, about emotions in general, and she has a reason to feel a little illogical.

But no reason to be violent, and she's glad Rhade was here to stop her.] Thank you.

Ahaha...how about the dining room, Brother Gaheris?

Edited 2012-09-03 10:20 pm (UTC)

[This.

Is not going to be simple.

At all.]

I find the dining room a suitable location. I'll be there in a few minutes. [And he's off, with her file in hand and a force lance in his holster. He goes to sit down at one of the tables and wait for her, going over the contents over and over.]

[Mariska takes her sweet time getting to the dining room. When she arrives, she peeks in from around the corner; seeing him sitting there, she extends her hands. A large flock of artificial butterflies swarms him, eventually settling gently all over his body. On that note, Mariska makes herself known, sauntering up to him, flashing her fingers in a peace sign with a crafty grin.]

Ahaah! Brother Gaheris...greetings.

[Butterflies.

Besides his face being the portrait of bemusement, he sits up a little more stiffly in order to peruse what it says about her.] I suppose, for a start, I should get your own recollection of events. Tell me about your life and what led you to your current state.

[Mariska nods towards her file. The butterflies begin to fade and dissolve into the air.]

What can I say that you don't already know, Brother?

"The very ink with which history is written is merely fluid prejudice." One account will not be like the other, even in tone. [Mark Twain is out of his usual vein of reference but Churchill's stance on history was less appropriate here.]

[She takes a seat beside him, and if he didn't notice her foul body odor before, he certainly will now.]

My life was nothing special, heh. I lived on a farm, part of a commune. We grew our own food, sewed our own clothes, and everyone, ahaha...loved each other.

[The implication is both that they all cared about each other, AND that there was a lot of free love going on.]

I spent a lot of time searching for true enlightenment. Opening my mind with meditation, chanting and hallucinogens...I ended up opening it waaaaay too much one day and had a bad trip. Ran straight into a combine and got torn to pieces, ahahaaaa...

[To illustrate, she tugs at the crude stitches holding one arm together.]

[He eyes go wide for a moment at the scent, and he bats a butterfly away from his face. And then he notes her tugging on the stitches.] Yes, I can see. [He assures her, before furrowing his brow and looking more intently at his file. Free love? He has no problem with. None whatsover. Not even the use of hallucinagens, as it was her body and if wished to poison it she could.

And afterwards, you became what you are now.

[She leans in, nearly conspiratorial.]

Listen: there's this gas in Rotten World. It carries a virus. You breathe it in, and just like that--

[She snaps her fingers.]

--you're a zombie. In certain people, those of us with rock in our souls, the virus mutates...and we get some groovy fringe benefits, ahaha. Greater intelligence, mystical powers...fluency in Latin!

[When she speaks again, it's in perfect Latin:]

Isn't it just too far out?

And you consider this state of being superior to your former state of being. [The latin, out of her, is a little creepy, but it does help him understand where she's coming from. He doesn't agree, but understanding advantages he can do.]

And those without the appropriate souls?

Of course, Brother. Anyone would, ahaaaa...

[Mariska waves away those concerns with a sweep of her hand.]

Just zombies. Strength, speed, infectious bite.

I'm quite fond of what I currently am. [He sits up a little straighter.] So, not everyone you would kill would turn into what you are.

Edited 2012-09-06 01:39 am (UTC)