A/N: After recently rewatching a certain awesome movie, I found my mind wondering about all the Vulcans off-planet when their Homeworld was destroyed. Certainly not all would have the extremely strong bond that (I'm sure we all assume) Spock and Kirk have/had/will develop. What would they feel? The pain of their bondmate? Confusion? Nothing at all? The general consensus is, of course, that the bond is in place for many biological reasons, those of protection of one's mate at the forefront of my mind as my fingers began typing without my consent.
Thus, Vuron's story began to unfold before my eyes. What I'd intended to be a short romp in the mind of a minor staff member of an offworld Ambassador has gotten a tad out of hand... and now he demands his story be shared. Please forgive the slow-ish build. Sometimes he dictates calmly, sometimes he yells, so I can't quite predict how long each chapter will be, let alone how long the finished product.
Rated M for future violence and erm... predictable Vulcan biological complications. Also queer-ish relationships, and varying responses to those issues, because there's plenty enough hetero stuff out there as it is.
Star Trek is of Gene Roddenberry/Paramount Studios/JJ Abrams. I own none but this work and non-canon characters within. Work published for shared fun, not profit.
Enjoy!
Vuron's hand hesitated imperceptibility, the tea within the coarse metal goblet sloshing before coming up to his lips. He glanced sideways at his compatriots; he expected the subtly quirked eyebrow in query to his obvious sign of distress. Instead, pain stained each of their faces.
The way the Klingons carried on across the mediation table, none noticed the seemingly dramatic change in the Vulcan ambassador and his staff.
How any could miss...
The screams. Terror. Pain. Fear. Vuron's own lungs burned for want of air. Vertigo threatened to turn his stomach, sucking him down, down, into an endless pit of...
Emptiness.
A void so empty and deep nothing could escape. Not light, nor hope, nor life.
Ambassador Sranak allowed himself a slightly longer blink than normal, picking up his end of the discussion with no pause at all; his only concession that yes, he too sensed something dramatically wrong.
Discussion continued well into the night. Bids for mining rights here, travel routes there, compensation if an agreement was broken.
Vuron found himself grinding his molars. The emptiness inside ate at his belly.
"I think we have achieved as much as can be expected, for today," Sranak finally declared.
T'Luminareth actually sighed in relief. The Klingon council members about them stared at her. She pushed herself out of her chair first, nodding a curt bow and excusing herself from the room.
"Hmm... yes. We shall return to our discussions tomorrow."
"Of course, Chancellor Ka'Tra. Have a pleasant evening."
The rest of Sranak's staff followed at the proper distance behind the ambassador. If only the last man in the group noticed the clenched hands, the tightened shoulders, all the better.
T'Luminareth, their mining expert, awaited them at the shuttle that would return them to their apartments. She had regained her composure. A tenuous grip, perhaps, but she remained calm while they returned.
Mindful of the Klingon pilot, they remained silent. The perfect picture of Vulcan composure.
The serving woman that opened the door for Sranak was a completely different matter.
T'vei, a meek, older woman who had gone mostly grey faced Sranak at the door. Her eyes were swollen, skin puffed and shockingly green. Even her nose tinted green from burst capillaries. Her cheeks so pale, what little blood in her face stood out like a beacon.
She sniffed, keeping what little control she had, and stepped out of the doorway so the Ambassador and his staff could enter the building.
Vuron, as the Ambassador's security officer, entered last, closing the door behind him.
"Ambassador," T'vei's voice somewhere between professional and plea. Her eyes glimmered tellingly.
"Yes, T'vei."
"They're dead sir. They're all dead."
Vuron swallowed, his mind searchingly returning to the great hole in his self.
"Please, explain yourself."
"The bondmates. All of our bondmates. My... my husband. They're all gone."
The four other servants appeared from the darkened hallway. All showing the pain of grief. Sunken eyes. Squared or dropped shoulders. Wringing hands.
"Surely not all," T'Phev, the Amabassador's secretary, protested.
Sranak turned between each of his staff members. Vuron could see just as plainly as he. They all suffered the same pain.
"What has happened," T'vei pleaded.
"There must be a logical reason... ideas?"
"Some kind of forcefield?" T'Luminareth offered hopefully. "Blocking us off from our mates?"
"To what purpose?" Vuron returned.
"Set us off balance. On the defensive. These Klingons are warlike in the extreme. If they sought a way to instigate-"
Sranak shook his head. "No. They have no knowledge of our touch-telepathy. Or any comprehension of how powerful the connection with our bondmates."
"Assuming they did," T'Sai, who solely served as their psychological and physiological doctor on this diplomatic mission. "How would they accomplish this block? They are barely capable of spaceflight. Their sciences are devoted to destruction. I have seen no evidence in research in psionics."
Sranak nodded sagely.
"Then that leaves us with two rather distressing theories. A targeted attack on us, and thus our families. Or..."
The silence at the second option curled around the emptiness they all felt.
"Where was your bondmate?" Sranak asked T'vei.
"Vulcan. With our children."
"T'Luminareth?"
"Serving on the Behemoth. Dry dock on Vulcan."
He posed the same question to each individual in the room. Over and over the same answer. Vulcan. Vulcan. Vulcan. Home.
"I sensed..." Vuron responded, when Sranak finally turned to him. "I sensed falling. And lack of air."
The others looked back and forth. Seeking confirmation. The long, empty stares.
"Screaming," T'Sai finally said. It only made sense she would have one of the stronger connections. "Minutes of screaming, and running, before..." She closed her eyes. Trying to remember. Not wanting to. "Possibly an evacuation?"
The statistical chance that all of their bondmates were not stretched across the entire planet were astronomically low.
"Planet-wide evacuation?"
T'vei finally did sob aloud. She covered her mouth, as if to take back the surge of emotion. No one would look at her. All in their own private hell.
"Mr. Vuron, please try to open an emergency subspace channel to Vulcan. We must ascertain the facts before we speculate farther."