His first reaction is-- repressed. She does not, he thinks, mean this as a slight. He takes a moment to answer, reordering his thoughts. "Not always," he says carefully. If she wants to press, nothing is stopping her.
"Yeah." What else was there in the world? She'd waited impatiently for every new message from her father when he was away on a trip to a planet in their system, all while she grew up near enough to the Academy to use its greenspace as her own personal backyard. There'd never been an expectation that she'd go herself, but if she hadn't, she has no idea what she would've done instead. "What'd you want to do before that?"
Her question is unexpectedly gentle, neither barbed nor knowing. The interest seems... casual, as one would ask an acquaintance. It is satisfying, in a way, to remember that not everyone has Vulcan's particular baggage with his career choice.
"For a time I entertained the notion of joining the Vulcan Expeditionary Group."
There's a sort of default in Starfleet - or there is for Kristin, who assumes her choices are generally the default regardless of context. If you aren't exactly drinking buddies with someone, and they're from a sufficiently different species or culture, talk about Starfleet first. Everyone has their work in common, even when what they do is completely different. From there, you branch out into whatever else comes up, and you're slightly less likely to end up in a brawl.
(It took her some time to get the hang of it, back when she was a new recruit.)
So she makes a noise of acknowledgment, and there's a moment or two of quiet in the salt-smoky air before she asks, "What happened?"
He is amused to find no bitterness clouds his mind at her question. There is a fascinating quality of enjoyment to explaining this painful incident to someone bereft of Vulcan's general context, of Sarek's legacy, of his mother's.
"You didn't get in. Or you decided against it." With a little shrug. She'd put money on the former - not becase of Spock, just because that's usually the story when Starfleet was someone's second choice.
That's a tone she catches, even if she doesn't know its exact meaning, and it's why she doesn't ask why. (See, even Lieutenant Ortega's got a sense of tact at times. It's for individuals, when they've earned it.) Instead, she breathes out. "The orientation was that bad, huh."
Spock's mind invariably conjures an image of Sarek's face, deeply disappointed, stern. He disregards it just as quickly. "Then it would behoove us to get you back to them in one piece."
Outside, the wind picks up. Spock shakes his head. "You should sleep. Vulcans can go longer without rest."
"No rush. Día de los Muertos isn't for months." And that's all she's going to say about that. He picks up as much without needing his face ground into it, and the wind fills in the gaps. If the storm's going to end any time soon, it's going to be a sudden stop; the snow isn't slowing at all, at the moment.
At the offer, Kristin shrugs. "I can go for a while. Let's sleep in shifts."
"I'll nap later." She'd never gotten around to setting down her phaser, and now she's scrambling to her feet with it pointed into the mess of snow outside. "What can you tell me?"
"Fuck." A phaser's unlikely to do much, under the circumstances. She doesn't stand down, though - or flinch, when some unseen chill descends in the cave. The wind hasn't changed direction, but something has dampened what warmth the moss had thrown. "It's coming our way."
The cold only intensifies. Spock stands, one fluid motion, and reaches out with his hands, fingers splayed toward cold nothingness. "Hold your fire," he says to Ortega.
"I'm holding it." She's not putting the phaser down, but she hasn't fired. From the corner of her eye, she watches Spock attempt to touch the...whatever it is. There's nothing there, around his hands, and yet something's glowing.
If she weren't looking at it, it wouldn't make sense. Even looking at it, it doesn't. "Cuidado."
Cold mist swirls around them. Spock tries to touch the center of the creature's mind, get an idea of its unease. "My mind to your mind," he says, "my thoughts to your thoughts."
There is confusion in the darkness, something like curiosity, and- pain. So much more pain than he could have ever expected. Spock staggers back, and he screams.
"Spock -" she shouts, and if the creature were corporeal, maybe she would've fired on it. (Probably she would have fired on it.)
Instead, she rushes over to him, phaser shoved in its holster as she reaches out to steady him. There's a sickly familiarity to putting an arm around him, one that has nothing to do with Spock himself. "What is it? What's going on."
"Pain," he drawls. It's the only salient fact, the only information worth sharing.
The mist thickens, pushed deeper into the cave by another gust of howling wind. It makes the skin tingle, makes the senses sharpen and stretch. Spock tries to clear his mind, but keeps coming back to that anguish- "pain, Ortega."
It's not enough to go on. What's she supposed to do with an icy mist that got hurt? But she can feel the hairs on her arms rising, as much from the eeriness as the chill, and maybe that's as close as she can get to feeling what he does. Childhood stories of La Llorona wandering the night - that's what it's like.
Whatever it is, it doesn't mean them harm. She closes her free hand around Spock's elbow, telling herself it's to keep him on his feet. "How do we stop it?"
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"Did you?"
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"For a time I entertained the notion of joining the Vulcan Expeditionary Group."
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(It took her some time to get the hang of it, back when she was a new recruit.)
So she makes a noise of acknowledgment, and there's a moment or two of quiet in the salt-smoky air before she asks, "What happened?"
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"Why do you assume something 'happened'?"
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Outside, the wind picks up. Spock shakes his head. "You should sleep. Vulcans can go longer without rest."
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At the offer, Kristin shrugs. "I can go for a while. Let's sleep in shifts."
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The wind howls, and... no, that isn't the wind. Spock shifts into alert, beginning to stand. His tricorder begins to beep. "Something is outside."
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If she weren't looking at it, it wouldn't make sense. Even looking at it, it doesn't. "Cuidado."
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There is confusion in the darkness, something like curiosity, and- pain. So much more pain than he could have ever expected. Spock staggers back, and he screams.
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Instead, she rushes over to him, phaser shoved in its holster as she reaches out to steady him. There's a sickly familiarity to putting an arm around him, one that has nothing to do with Spock himself. "What is it? What's going on."
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The mist thickens, pushed deeper into the cave by another gust of howling wind. It makes the skin tingle, makes the senses sharpen and stretch. Spock tries to clear his mind, but keeps coming back to that anguish- "pain, Ortega."
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Whatever it is, it doesn't mean them harm. She closes her free hand around Spock's elbow, telling herself it's to keep him on his feet. "How do we stop it?"