Vulcans are slaves. They have been since they were conquered. Not inferior, just slaves. Spock was unique. The only human-Vulcan hybrid we'd ever seen. I took him in. That didn't mean I trusted him. Yet...
He proved himself intelligent, useful, and above all else, one of my men instead of anothers. There are reasons I've survived as long as I have, Spock. One of them is keeping the loyalty of those smart enough to stay under my command and mine alone.
The scene changed rapidly.
A trickle, then flood of information. Spock was on his knees, uniform in tatters, a dozen men staring down at him in a rough circle. Viewed from a distance away but close enough to be clear.
"Hasn't Captain Pike taught you a thing, you fucking slave? Worthless mind-raping scum. When you're told to do something, you do it." A handle was pulled out and with a jerk of the man's arm - Commander Dawson of the I.S.S. Armstrong, information crept in - a long glowing flexible beam of energy flared. A whip.
The hum from the energy was clearly heard across the distance, perhaps even louder inside the circle, but Spock didn't move. His hands laced together neatly in front of him, over his unguarded stomach, and he stared intently at the floor. Pike's mind provided a small note that the gloves had been discarded the second the Vulcan had walked onto the ship, as they now sat bared and vunerable.
Pike watched as the whip drew back, then bolted forward. He brought his arm up and bit back a cry of pain so strongly that he bit nearly through his own lip. The whip was curled around his forearm, which was now bleeding quietly heavily from the strike. He opened his eyes and glared death at Dawson, lips parted as the burning got worse by the second. He could smell the reek of his own flesh, hear it sizzling from the energy.
He jerked his arm back, pulling the handle from Dawson's grip. It fell to the ground, and before the energy fully died, Pike had his dagger buried in Dawson's gut.
"...He. is. not. a. slave." Growled in a tone of pure command. "Have I made my point?" And his wrist twisted the dagger.
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Date: 2009-08-14 11:03 pm (UTC)He proved himself intelligent, useful, and above all else, one of my men instead of anothers. There are reasons I've survived as long as I have, Spock. One of them is keeping the loyalty of those smart enough to stay under my command and mine alone.
The scene changed rapidly.
A trickle, then flood of information. Spock was on his knees, uniform in tatters, a dozen men staring down at him in a rough circle. Viewed from a distance away but close enough to be clear.
"Hasn't Captain Pike taught you a thing, you fucking slave? Worthless mind-raping scum. When you're told to do something, you do it." A handle was pulled out and with a jerk of the man's arm - Commander Dawson of the I.S.S. Armstrong, information crept in - a long glowing flexible beam of energy flared. A whip.
The hum from the energy was clearly heard across the distance, perhaps even louder inside the circle, but Spock didn't move. His hands laced together neatly in front of him, over his unguarded stomach, and he stared intently at the floor. Pike's mind provided a small note that the gloves had been discarded the second the Vulcan had walked onto the ship, as they now sat bared and vunerable.
Pike watched as the whip drew back, then bolted forward. He brought his arm up and bit back a cry of pain so strongly that he bit nearly through his own lip. The whip was curled around his forearm, which was now bleeding quietly heavily from the strike. He opened his eyes and glared death at Dawson, lips parted as the burning got worse by the second. He could smell the reek of his own flesh, hear it sizzling from the energy.
He jerked his arm back, pulling the handle from Dawson's grip. It fell to the ground, and before the energy fully died, Pike had his dagger buried in Dawson's gut.
"...He. is. not. a. slave." Growled in a tone of pure command. "Have I made my point?" And his wrist twisted the dagger.