"If you would excuse me," the elderly Vulcan said to the Andorian who had led him here, and the woman bowed out immediately, all too glad to let Spock tend to what lay behind the door. A moment of fear-soaked anticipation stilled his hand before he raised it to the keypad, stiff fingers tapping out the code to open the medically-locked door. Immediately he was met with a feral, aggrieved howling, an animal noise that clawed at his mind and shattered his defenses. It took every ounce of strength in his old body not to sink to his knees, the screaming Vulcan woman before him projecting so powerfully- t'nash-veh sa-telsu wilat tor au hal-tor hal-tor, rai, rai, hal-tor sarlah pla' sarlah pla' rai- that he felt an immediate desire to flee the room.
Instead he forced himself closer to the screeching woman, a profound pity filling him at the sight of her. Her dark, strong-jawed features bore no resemblance to those of any Vulcan, too filled with agony and madness to even open her eyes, and the bruises and abrasions that mottled her flesh only served to reinforce her animalistic image. He stepped forward a moment before she tipped herself off the bed she had been coiled upon, landing on the floor with a clatter of cables and medical instruments as she knocked over a table. The woman didn't even seem to notice, too enveloped in the agony in her head to register any physical injuries. Spock quickly and deftly shut off the alarms that threatened to blare at her abrupt departure from the bed, and sank into a crouch before her. It was customary for one to ask for permission before initiating a meld, but customary was a laughable word now. He paused only to utter the traditional words- sheer habit, nothing more- before pressing his fingers to her temples and losing himself in an ocean of chaos.
Spock was no mind-healer, and certainly no expert when it came to melding. His experiences with T'Pring could barely be called melds, between the undisguised loathing she sent his way (it really should not have been a shock when she invoked koon-ut-kal-if-fee) and the way she shielded herself from him. This...this was a disaster. A war zone. He had seen decimated planets in more order than this woman's mind, and it tore at him as he gradually struggled to piece her back together into some semblance of a Vulcan. A name jumped out at him that froze him in his tracks, and when he finally surfaced from the meld- her screams had abated into wretched sobbing- he did not stand but instead sank backwards onto the floor, a terrible, terrible guilt rising inside him like a feral le-matya about to strike, slicing into his throat and threatening tears- tears, for pity's sake. Her name, though, he knew that name. Her name was T'Mani.
Oh, he knew that name. Vague memories from his childhood of a stoic-faced woman he could not find it in him to equate with the wreck before him rose up, but more than T'Mani herself was in his mind, her son was. What had he done? He studied her strong jaw and wide nose for a few moments longer before his faint semblance of denial crumbled. She looked so much like the son she would never have, and Spock wanted once again to flee from what he had caused.
Lieutenant Commander Tuvok had perhaps never been Spock's favourite Starfleet officer- he had been remarkably dense about the Klingon alliance proposal- but he could not deny that there had been a certain camaraderie between them on the few occasions they had met. They had very much connected over shared pains and doubts that they had suppressed as children, and of course Spock would always hold affection for a member of the crew that had rescued James and Doctor McCoy from the Klingon penal colony, regardless of the fact that Tuvok had protested the unauthorised rescue. They had shared memories and perhaps even a tenuous kind of friendship, often exchanging amusing (although they would never admit that they had been amused) tales of the bizarre feats their Terran crewmates had achieved. Tuvok had very nearly smiled when Spock regaled him with a tale of the way Chief Engineer Scott had managed to transport two hundred and seventy tribbles onto a Klingon vessel before fleeing at Warp 5. They may have disagreed often, but Spock could not have said they were not friends; two of the very few Vulcans to serve in Starfleet.
He tried not to think about how there would be even fewer now.
Spock somehow managed to shove himself unceremoniously against a wall, letting the structure do what his spine no longer could, and began to compile a death count. First was Captain Richard Robau. Then George Kirk, senior (oh, what had he done?), the crew of the forty-seven Klingon Warbird ships destroyed by the Narada, the crew of seven Starfleet vessels (save the precious few who had managed to flee in escape pods), and then the millions- millions- of his own people he had lost on Vulcan. And all those who would now never be born, never even be conceived of in the wildest dreams of their broken parents. He added to his count the other things he had damaged- thousands of shattered Vulcan lives, their minds screaming for their torn bonds to come back. And- insignificant in the grand scheme of things, but all too agonising for Spock's already broken heart- the life of James T. Kirk as it should have been. He once would have said that his captain's history was not one he would wish on anyone (the fear in Lieutenant Riley's eyes was not an expression Spock ever wished to see again), but in some ways he had- yet again- made things worse.
Spilled over memories from a hasty meld rose in nauseating fashion once again- what could possibly have driven the charismatic captain he knew to nights spent in beds and bottles, a pioneering revolutionary reduced to a drunken playboy. Broken knuckles and black eyes swam in his vision disconcertingly, and it was almost as if a memory's fist really did connect with his cheekbone, shocking the elderly Vulcan back into his own mind to finally notice the eyes of T'Mani on him, coherent at last.
"I do not know you," she managed in a valiant attempt at the flat-toned emotional control she usually employed. Her Standard had returned to her, but Spock doubted that her logic would survive her ordeal.
"No," he said, pushing himself to his feet. "You do not,"
He moved towards the door, and T'Mani did not interrupt him as he keyed it open once again and exited. He managed to intercept a harried-looking doctor rushing past. "T'Mani, the woman in this room, has recovered enough to have her physical injuries seen to,"
"Right," said the Terran distractedly, ducking into the room around Spock, who managed to find his way into the common area of the relief ship.
The doctors all looked just as haggard and frightened as the Vulcans, and Spock abruptly wondered if a single one of them had ever seen a Vulcan lose their composure before. If not, he was surely to regale those in the common area with a display. His shaking legs gave out underneath him and he sank into a chair, a single quiet point amidst the chaos, and felt once again the overwhelming need to do something to release this awful, awful pressure building inside him, these emotions all bottled up at once, vivid and intoxicating but toxic and wrong, agony personified. A quick choked breath was all he could let out, and he wondered how he was supposed to return to normal when he had ruined so much, destroyed so much. In that moment he cursed the Jellyfish, cursed the Narada, cursed every single circumstance that had led to the red matter being in the wrong place at the wrong time.
"Sir? Are you okay?"
A lesser man would have flinched; Spock wasn't sure how there could be a lesser man than he at the moment, but regardless he managed not to flinch as he lifted his eyes to see the red-clad alien standing before him. He took a moment to register the officer's yellow eyes and mane of hair, the tail flicking behind her, and he laughed at the ridiculousness of it, that of all people this was who the universe seemed to have sent to comfort him. Such metaphors were certainly not sound, but perhaps for now he could justify it. The woman looked alarmed at the sound of his laughter- if she had not seen a Vulcan lose his composure, she had certainly not seen one laugh. "Sir?"
"I will be fine, Lieutenant," he said, blurted, even though he probably should have noted that he had no reason to know her rank in this world and thus shouldn't have used it. Too late, in any case. The Caitian tilted her head.
"Eh, Ensign, actually," she said, offering a pitying look mingled with confusion. "Are you alright? Can I help you?"
Such strange faces were provoking such disproportionate responses in him. Learning that Lieutenant Commander Tuvok would never live pained him. Seeing Lieutenant M'Ress- an officer he had rarely interacted with outside of professional situations- was somehow calming despite everything. He knew she had often manned the Science station while he participated in away missions, but such an arrangement had kept them out of eachother's paths. And yet seeing a member of his beloved Enterprise's crew safe, healthy and as same as she'd ever been was a balm to his raw emotions, a reminder that not everything was in tatters around him. Another slight wry smile lifted the corners of his lips. She was still breaking regulation by not wearing her uniform boots.
"Sir?"
"Would you sit with me a while?" he found himself asking, and the stunned Caitian obeyed, dropping into the chair opposite him as the crew raced back and forth around them.
"Of course, sir. My name is M'Ress,"
Where had this politeness come from? Maybe his memory was faulty- it had been over a century- but he didn't recall the Caitian officer being so well-mannered. Perhaps it was a trait drilled into her at the academy but lost with time, like so many other things.
"It is lovely to make your acquaintance, M'Ress," he said slowly, mind drawn back to the importance at hand. He should be helping with the howling Vulcans in the medical rooms, putting what he had broken back together as best as he could. Instead he was sitting here arbitrarily talking to a crew member he had never bothered to spend time with in his past life. In all honesty, brutal as it might be, M'Ress had very little logical importance to him. He made to stand.
"Don't," M'Ress said suddenly, reaching out to grab his hand- a faux pas Spock rather hoped would not be repeated as he felt a sudden blur of emotions that weren't his own- worry, fear, this isn't what I expected when I joined Starfleet, pity. He jerked his hand away more forcefully than was necessary, and the Caitian's ears tilted in the way Spock vaguely recognised as mortification. "I'm so sorry," she blurted at him, and he regarded her impassively. "Really, though, I'm trying to help. Is there anything I can do?"
He found himself looking at the hand she had touched him with, found himself illogically wishing that it had been a yellow sleeve with three stripes instead. He longed for the sense of camaraderie he had felt so long ago on the bridge of the Enterprise, a sort of brotherly affection between the bridge crew that was warm, comforting, familiar. As guilty as it made him feel, he didn't want to talk to M'Ress. He wanted to talk to James. He looked up again to meet M'Ress' anxious yellow eyes. His voice was sour in his mouth but he spoke anyway.
"Would I be able to send a subspace message from somewhere on this ship?" he asked her, and she paused, clearly thinking.
"Yes," she said, standing. "Follow me,"
He trailed after her, trying not to think of what he had broken but instead what he might be able to fix.
M'Ress left him alone and he stared at the screen of the device, wondering just what he could say when he had destroyed so much.