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@vacantwar
Independent AOS Khan Noonien Singh— LOW/SPORADIC ACTIVITY as painted by Crow (they/them, 21+), GMT+8
Profile picture & header made by @fasciinating (ILY) Find me on @juramentum
Never and always around. Low social battery. Don’t expect much writing or activity, here mainly for fun. Duplicate friendly. Selective & open to OCs/AUs/crossovers.
About - Prompts - Headcanons
Rules under the cut.
‘Huh, interesting — your face seems to have evoked a sense of familiarity... but not quite... Tell me, have I threatened you before? Or is your semblance to another individual I previously encountered — and menaced — purely coincidental?’ — Some Lore shenanigans from @of-substandard-parts heh.
AN AUGMENT'S ABILITY TO RETAIN memories is a gift, although one that borders a curse, for it has amplified their penchant to vengeance. Within Khan, it has expressed impressively so, a grade above others. And he does not forget a face, but his perception is sharp enough to understand that the individual before him is not the same one he encountered prior.
in what way, he's yet to understand. Instead, he answers @of-substandard-parts with a question of his own. "Is there such thing as coincidence?"
Did she know better? That's worth contemplating as it precedes a choice that determines her standing: living, dead, in command or otherwise.
Fuck.
--Not quite under her breath, trapped somewhere instead behind the bone-white that flashes from behind her lips, parted in a grimace. Vega does halt at his words, knowing that her avoidance could only last for so long. Only, she'd wished it had been a bit longer, enough to reconcile the conflicting parts of her brain.
"Captain." With this, she turns to face him, summoning every ounce of willpower to keep her expression neutral, akin to the apathy that so often exalted her. And yet, she cannot meet his eyes, not directly.
"You look lovely today."
IMMEDIATELY, A BROW RISES TO HER... COMPLIMENT. For once, Khan is unable to decipher what, or where, that came from. It is often she would speak to him with snark and sarcasm, challenging him from the edges of his control, testing the thin boundary between captain and subordinate.
Today? Venom is absent from the bite of her words, and it is an odd thing to witness. More so to experience.
"...Interesting." His steady voice doesn't change, eyes boring holes into hers in spite of her refusal to meet them. "I should ask, before you decide to disappear once again. Why have you been vehemently avoiding my presence?"
"I ask because you were someone's son. Someone's child once. And I see a pain in you that I recognize in someone else." Her own son. In many ways that she'd never share aloud with anyone but her own thoughts they were similar. Both had lost people. Virtually a planet. Unique unto themselves. Dizzying intellect. Such great potential.
That would be where the similarities ended because her son- Spock, did have a heart.
A very human heart that he may live in denial of, but it was there. She couldn't say the same of the man before her who took lives as easily as he took breaths. Eyes flickered to follow his pacing then glanced to the ground as she spoke quietly.
Gently as if she would with a child. Ever since she had married Sarek she had been trained and prepared for a siltation like this. Wife to the Ambassador of Vulcan and mother of a child reviled for his mother she was always aware of the danger in her life and her son's. And now again as the new Ambassador which always hung on the fragile line of being taken from her. She intended to do what she could for Vulcan still while she was still in a position to do so.
"Prolong what may I ask?" Voice calm and quiet as she looked to him again reservedly drawing on her years of living as Vulcans did. "My life or this conversation? Please be specific. I would also request that you, however acknowledge that were you in Spock's position you'd have done the same. Wouldn't you have? Certainly to save your family."
Hands folded delicately in front of her, flat and distinctly. "Though I suppose that isn't quite true as my son doesn't murder innocents."
WHAT SOFTNESS MIGHT HAVE REMAINED in his bones have long decayed into something rotten, foul with the death of his men beyond the seventy-two that had made it with him for three long centuries. Whether or not a man who has nothing to lose is more dangerous than one who has everything to lose has always been a point of contention never quite agreed upon by all sides.
Yet now, he stands as the former, the figurative bones of his ribs flayed open for everyone to see the raw wound displayed in the coils of his fists. Dead, cold eyes, piercing her and through her.
"And what verdict do you think your earth's Starfleet had given me, and my men?" he challenges. "We, they were not innocents, as much as I am. The simple existence of augmented humans are criminal in twenty-third century justice."
He is blinded by rage, white-hot and searing red at the corners as he reaches for her to grab her wrist. His fist would no doubt leave a bruise, and yet, he does nothing more than this.
"What are you hiding?"
His expectations had been met, though she'd desperately desired to be anywhere else. Even if she hadn't been part of the initial scouting team, it was never enjoyable to witness consequences of their collective failure, regardless of how miniscule.
And, well, very few prefer the heat of the captain's ire.
Even now, having just arrived to the short briefing before return to the caves, Vega wishes to be elsewhere. This yet speaks of her unrest, the yearning to forgo (admittedly necessary) bureaucracy before diving into the unknown. A wild thing, untamed beneath the facade of her skin, or a wolf that desires to gnash its teeth again and again. She'd never been gifted with remaining idle.
"Captain," she greets, retaining a semblance of the reverence he is owed, and trying so very desperately to refrain commentary on his lack of spewing blood, "What is the plan?"
TO SAY HE'S APPRECIATIVE OF VEGA'S RESTRAINT would be an overstatement. Khan is content with taking his time, which he considers to be inclusive of his crew's (what is theirs, is his, to some degree—their lives and their loyalty especially), giving her nothing more than a furtive, beckoning gesture. Come.
With a swipe of his finger over the panel of the holo-display, the table before them comes alive with a three-dimensional portrayal of the caverns they've managed to map out so far.
"I will deploy three teams, us included, to enter the mines from three different points of entrance and plant explosives appropriately in order to block their immediate exits. From there, we will randezvous here," he says, zooming into a clearing, "where we will track deeper into the... hive. Whether we retreat or eliminate them on the very same outing remains to be seen."
The grip leaves him. But it’s too late, already having branded him like a ring of fire. Spock cannot extinguish his curiosity — he’s now aflame — hypnotized by bright and effervescent color, the color of red blood and invulnerability.
“ The twentieth century? ” That only spurs more questions, and Spock’s eyes flicker briefly to the dirt. He stows his blade, holstering it fluidly into his belt. If the augment desires peace, then finally, Singh shall have it. Spock is unmoored by violence no matter how fleeting it may be; an achievement in itself.
The Empire will be looking for him within a matter of hours. But Spock discards that information in lieu of this alluring treasure.
Let them come.
He may crumble their kingdom after all.
“ How have you remained hidden for so long? ”
HE HAS, SINGH THINKS, OPENED PANDORA'S BOX. If that small, mythical container of calamity were in the shape of a man; a vulcan captain who's come here at the behest of the Empire, then he may very well have cursed them all. His expression hardens as the wound closes entirely, staining his skin with blood with nowhere to go.
The path leading into the safety of Singh's home is not one easy to navigate. It is hidden between cliffs and through cavernous pathways, tucked aptly to hide from ships.
Inwardly, he apologizes to his people for what he is about to do, and who he is about to bring. Singh closes his eyes for a moment, and steels his heart.
"It appears you have been kept in the dark," he says. "We were not hidden for all three centuries. There was an agreement made between your Empire and my people. But I knew it would not last. Nothing does."
@fasciinating
“ so, you’re the one with the magical blood, huh? ” medical gloves pulled on with a snap, expression rapt with curiosity : he’s never heard of something like this before, not in all his years of medical work. of course, it isn’t like the other science officers aboard the enterprise hadn’t already taken samples for themselves to test and tweak ⸻ god fucking forbid he’s one of the first to learn about anything, on this godforsaken ship. it doesn’t mean, however, he can’t come and make discoveries for himself. “ you’ve probably been poked and prodded to hell and back, ever since you came aboard. unfortunately, i can’t say i’m not here to do the very same. but, it’s bloody amazing, what your blood can do. … probably been told that a thousand times since you came aboard, too. d’you mind if i … ? ” john’s gaze drops down to the other’s arm, a wordless question asked.
@vacantwar liked for a starter.
BEING LOOKED UPON AS IF HE'S NOTHING MORE than a mere specimen incites a flame of ire he tames with a shallow inhale. None of them should perceive the lapse of his control, however small, and insignificant. Khan gazes at him, this man who dons the same manner of uniform as the other doctor aboard. For a moment, he remains in his silence, comfortable with allowing the question to hang in the air.
And then he speaks, extending his arm yet again (and how easy it would be, he thinks, to turn his wrist and break this man's arm, but he doesn't, of course; he is here to comply). "And what is it that you believe you might be able to find?"
ooc / i'm in love with that thread re: prions and vulcan mind-sickness and the exploration of new vulcan's fragility @fasciinating nobody can do it like you, i KISS
Pavel understands the gesture for what it is, an order—come. sit.—and needs no further invitation. His steps are measured and even, soft against the hardwood floor, and the moment he crosses the threshold, he feels like he's been pulled into another world that exists parallel to the one they'd just left in the hallway.
Fighting the urge to look at everything he can is harder than he thought. He has to settle for a brief glance at one of the papers on the Marshal's desk as he settles into the chair—incident reports, likely with information from last week's attack. There's a number there that makes Pavel's chest ache.
Khan's stare rips through him, threatens to pick him apart to pieces small enough to feed to the stray dogs outside, but Pavel refuses to allow himself to buckle and fold under the sheer weight of it. His hands rest idly on his lap, his back is straight, and as he returns the look, more certain than ever now that this is all a test in which he cannot let himself fail, his resolve flares like a sunburst behind his eyes.
This should be simple—it is a test about him, an area in which he should be intimately familiar with the subject material.
It feels anything but.
—What do you have to lose?
What do I have to lose?
Nothing, Pavel thinks, and then, paradoxically—everything.
To try—nothing.
To fail, in any sense of the word—
"My home," he says, throwing his hands out to his side to indicate the room, the shatterdome, the people within its walls he's come to know over the years, new faces and old alike. "The efforts of the people who took me in when I was fourteen and gave me a place to stay and a team to be part of."
But will the Marshal think this is enough? It is all I have.
Pavel's stare hardens. "I have—the faith of the people I am close with to lose." I will not disappoint them. "You have seen my file; I have nowhere else to be that isn't here. So, I will be a pilot, because then I can repay them for everything. To be a hero"—Pavel waves his hand dismissively—"so what? If people never learn that I will pilot Dawnbreaker, fine. Fame, I do not want this."
He places his palms on his knees and squeezes slightly, unaware of what he's just shared in the heat of the moment. "I don't want to lose my chance to be helpful."
SATISFACTION ISN'T WHAT HE WANTS FROM Chekov's response. To be satisfied means there is nothing more he wishes for; to have his ambition simply be sated, and wanting of nothing. Khan is seeking for a seed, one to germinate and grow, cultivating it until it becomes rooted as one of the foundations for the next generation that will come after him.
He watches the cadet's expression steel itself into the shape of conviction, grasping at the sliver of chance that he's extended by the word he spills. They're not quite tempered yet into a blade, but soon. In time.
It is good enough that he has something to lose, for now. What he must learn next is how to lose them. Nobody becomes a pilot without sacrifice, no; there is always a price to pay, and regardless whether or not they think it's of equal value, the world will take what's due.
"Dawnbreaker." Amusement haunts that name, imperceptible, layered beneath the familiarity of it in his mouth. "Very well."
This is precisely why he'd brought them here, in the privacy of his office; so he might have the chance to hear Chekov's thoughts without restraint and away from prying eyes. To announce that his aim is, of all, the Dawnbreaker, brings forth something in Khan that borders the need to challenge more than he initially intends.
"Tomorrow, meet me at the training hall at 0600. We'll see whether your declaration is of courage or something foolhardy and naive."
" Indeed, " he breathes, allowing his inquiry to fade from him even if his curiosity stays firm. Spock has yet to complete his evening ablutions, searching for his tunic as he does, and should it be Khan's preference, then he can further allow that preoccupation to continue. He sees no harm in it, " Have you come from the labs? "
A SMALL HUM CONFIRMS SPOCK'S QUESTION. Khan angles himself better to face Spock, sat on the chair with a PADD he's abandoned in favor of the sight before him; yes, the preoccupation is to his preference. The expanse of Spock's skin and lean figure are very much needed reprieves from data and charts.
"For the night," he says. "There is not much to do now, but wait."
ooc / now tell me why the fuck i can only write crazy things at crazy hours
He had not forgotten this.
But succeeding Khan into the lab, Spock cannot prevent his own watching, submitting quietly to a moment of remembrance as he observes the augment in what was always Khan’s element. It is intriguing to him, the contrast — constant, since the beginning — a man of war emboldened and passioned by science, transformed.
Side by side, Spock frees himself from his material things, emptying his robes of his communicator and keycard, the thin thread of jewelry around his neck. Silver glints under the harsh and vibrant lights, and he is careful to curl the chain, coiling it in his palm before he sets it into the locker.
Time and care is of the essence; Spock is quick to discard his conflict with the Enterprise for more productive matters. Khan’s admission cleaves between the thoughts that take its place, vanishing beakers and scans and months of tests for surprise.
He veers to look at Khan, snapping his attention upward, “ You had considered an additional aggravator. ”
It is not a question. Though, it conjures several dozen others as his eyes teeter, absorbing that information and following along without reticence to explore it. He heads to the nearest console immediately, retrieving documents of the mineral composition of Uhz-Ah’Rak, trade manifests, and supply deliveries.
“ I will run a formula of comparison between both worlds. ” His fingers fly across the panel, “ Perhaps, we can utilize common compounds to simulate stimulation of adaptive immune responses. ”
SLIGHT LAPSES WITHIN PROCESSES is both to be expected and avoided, to a degree that will not invite failure of negligence. Khan has long learned from old mistakes of the 20th century, and those of the 23rd during the time he spent as John Harrison (a name he spits in his mind, the mere thought of it scorning him momentarily) under the forced employ of Section 31.
One thing, however, remains the same despite being separated by stretches of time: hubris. The weakness of man, and their downfall.
Khan treads the line, a fine balance between arrogance and confidence; to many, his conviction is sinister. But to the people of New Vulcan, it may very well be salvation. Built of titanium steel and carbon, he stands perfectly beside Spock as he locks the door of his locker.
"Adaptive immune responses against prions are absent in humans," he adds, tucking his chin before he gestures toward the decontamination chamber and begins to walk. "To my understanding, the unique copper-based physiology of vulcans provide an edge against this threat. Finding proof is one aspect—and fairly easy."
He recalls the medical evaluations of afflicted individuals and the list of symptoms: memory degeneration, ataxia, reports of impaired vision, inability to reach restful, meditative state and the loss of emotional control beyond observed capacity. All of this could very well be attributed to the breaking of k'war'ma'khon. And yet.
Prions, if his theory stands accurate, may exacerbate the illness. Especially taking into account the possibility of sporadic, or inherited, proteinopathy.
Pale mist ejects from the embedded spouts within the chamber, enveloping their bodies before receding into the vents by their feet.
"It's their stable aggregates which will prove to be challenging. Denaturation is difficult, even on tools, the risk of contamination is high. If it is true that vulcans have somehow contracted or carry dormant prions, reversing the damage..." Khan trails off, waiting for the door to open.
"...Hm."
“Never can true reconcilement grow where wounds of deadly hate have pierced so deep...” — Lucifer, Paradise Lost
An independent, canon-divergent, & semi-selective roleplay blog of Lore as seen in Star Trek: The Next Generation. — Penned by Parker.
ooc / staring at my drafts brain cell bounce
NULLSEVEN / "Choices have consequences."
Khan flouts a confidence that Spock cannot disseminate from arrogance. The eyes and ears of a king, a warlord from ancient times with both those things emblazoned across a kingdom made of stone. It makes his chest burn with annoyance — a flash of something he knew once, verdant and angry — and his innards twist, pushing firmness into Spock’s hands as he plucks a phaser from the wall.
“ Inadequate. ” He has heard that before, and it is a bold, cunning assertion that Khan voices if only to create unnecessary discourse, teetering Spock off balance.
In his hands, the trigger of the phaser weighs temptingly against the curve of his pointer finger. But all too cognizant of that movement, Spock forces himself to curl his palm around the middle of the entire weapon for it, willing his own hands to listen. He shoves it after a moment into the holster strapped around his thigh.
He is in control.
No one else.
“ Your efforts to dissect me are wasted. It would be prudent to focus on the task at hand. ”
CONTROL IS A FRAGILE ILLUSION, and its shards will impale those who wield it too harshly. This lesson is one Khan himself has yet to learn in whole. The both of them seem to wrestle with that idea—and feeling—as if any less would be considered insufficient.
Spock is, to him, a man who is attempting to balance two impossible things. Not a simple mixing of water and oil, but to force opposite magnetic poles together, holding them by sheer force alone.
A maddening act.
Khan's eyes hone in on the one, lean finger, so disciplined over the trigger and yet infected by this thought Khan's decided to plant like a seed. Bury it in the soil of Spock's mind. His lips twitch.
"I am more than capable of doing multiple things," he states, treading in long steps to approach the same locker, "Mister Spock."
