STARLIGHTSULU: ❛ LET NOT MADNESS TEACH US ( and fear reach us )
“ Your words, not mine Doc. ” Banter, if you could call it that came easy to the young pilot, returns just as quick as the words fed forward. A glance back, and Sulu can’t help but think that despite it all: the complaints, the irritation, the annoyance well expressed; Bones too, would be the type to leap forward — perhaps, not so much without looking. Caution strong, directs action, but knowledge gained over the years has made one thing definite: space, and all it holds has a danger they’d eventually have to face.
Despite thermally regulated suits, there is the nip of the cold felt; sharpened threads that poke at pockets, malleable and fluid. Not much concern there — suits weren’t perfect; did the job well enough ( everything had it’s limit ) — better than carrying a pack filled with nuclear material. To cast away thought and shake off sense, Sulu straightens, rolls shoulders back, an inhales, and then an exhale.
Steps forward, the crunch of snow between his feet, there’s relief when he hears the news. Fifteen minutes. He can do that. A glance around. This would’ve been easier with a snowboard, he thinks. Ah, I miss home comes the thought — freedom and leisure in that brief period, to have one’s own adventure ( with a little less death in the risk factor ).
“I listen to music,” he starts, mild offense at the question ( though he knows no insult’s meant ). “ Depends what you’re looking for. Are we talking about something you’d hear on a car radio, or a karaoke room? ”
Karaoke? Now if that isn’t an interesting image to see. He pictures a dark room with garish, colorful lights orbiting the walls and the ceilings, its occupants standing and cheering over empty cups, while a certain pilot wails out a few off-key notes. Even enveloped in layers of fabric, his shoulders can be seen moving in suppressed amusement. The doctor can’t help it -- it’s just too damn funny imagining the normally stoic Sulu singing karaoke.
“I never accused you of not listening to music. But I guess what we both define as music might be debatable.” He turns to the other man, the moonlight illuminating the smirk all too present on his face.
Even with its moon hanging high in the star-dappled night sky, there is not much light on Rel-A’Valra. Correction: there is not a lot of helpful light on Rel-A’Valra. The soft glow of the moon is magnified by the expanse of white fields, disorienting and misleading to how the brain perceives its surroundings. There are shadows where there shouldn’t be shadows. His eyes catch edges where there are none and misinterprets inclines as flat land. It makes walking on its own very difficult, but nonetheless, he continues carrying the conversation.
“And now, karaoke isn’t something I’d expect from you, Mr. Sulu. You do much of it or do you mean singing in your shower?”
Occasionally, he stumbles--each mishap followed by a string of curses--foot digging deep into a deceptively flat mound of snow. Still, McCoy prefers the slight embarrassment over the awkward silence between two colleagues. It’s already deafeningly quiet as it is.
“’Cause if you don’t suggest any songs, I’m gonna start singing 99 Bottles of Beer.”
snowghoul
germansingergirl
tangentwithtanner
titsay
