A/N: The inspiration for this one-shot came from a prompt that said "Write a story from the point of view of someone who committed a murder today, but don't mention the murder." This immediately came to mind. I didn't ENTIRELY stick to the prompt, I think, but that's what got me started, anyway. This is from the point of view of Lon Suder after he committed the murder in episode 16, season 2, "Meld." I don't know why, but I kind of felt like getting in his head a little bit and trying to write about what I thought HE might be experiencing, because so much of the episode was comcentrated on what Tuvok was doing. It turned out better than I thought it would, and I'm actually pretty happy with the result. It was really cool to get into his head for a little while, too. It's definately darker than my normal tone, but what the heck. I had fun. Anyway, I hope you guys enjoy reading it as much as I did writing it.
Sensations of a Sociopath
Guilt. He supposed that's what he should be feeling right now. At least, everyone else seemed to think so. They had found him out after all, even after all of the care he had taken to hide it.
Rage. It boiled up in him at the thought, a red haze clouding his eyes and his mind. He took a breath and tried to suppress it once more. Failing that, he drew back his fist and slammed it into the wall of his cell.
Pain. It dimly registered through the red mist in his brain, traveling up from his hand. He had probably broken something, but it didn't matter. Nothing mattered, not now; nothing but the anger burning through him, dumping adrenaline into his veins. He jumped up and began to pace around the tiny chamber, trying to burn off some of the restless energy consuming him. It didn't work. It never did.
Apprehension. He supposed he ought to be feeling that, too. He didn't know what they were going to do to him. They might just decide to execute him, thanks to their limited options out in the Delta Quadrant, but that didn't really matter, either. Maybe they'd just keep him in the brig until they made it back to the Alpha Quadrant, then turn him over to the Starfleet brass. He didn't care one way or the other. It's not like he had anything to go back to, even assuming he survived the trip there.
Irritation. This would all have been so much easier if they hadn't figured it out. His already-ignited temper flared again briefly. If it weren't for that stupid Vulcan, he wouldn't even be in here. No one else would have known…
Derision. He smirked. The Vulcan always thought he had to be right, didn't he? He liked to know the why's and how's of everything, unless of course it didn't fit in with his carefully ordered, logical little world. Then he went in pursuit of the "truth" until he was satisfied. Well, he was just going to have to be UN-satisfied this time, because there simply WAS no logical explanation.
Calm. He tried to slow his heart rate and settle his thoughts. He tried everything that every one of his many councilors had told him over the years. None of it helped to ease the tension making his every muscle quiver with the urge to run, jump, chase, hurt, KILL. He let out a savage yell and threw himself at the force field across the entrance to his cell, felt it flicker for a moment, then hold.
Fear. He could sense the fear rolling in waves from the ensign assigned to be his guard. He grinned and let loose with a slow, menacing chuckle. "Scared, boy?" he asked, perching gingerly on the edge of his cot as if any hasty movement would cause him to shatter. Ever so slowly, he shifted so he was lying down, then he closed his eyes and, to all appearances, went to sleep; his mind, however, was furiously flickering from thought to thought, trying almost frantically to make a plan, to find a way to escape this prison before he went mad with the need to act.
Relief. A rush of it sped from his guard as the doors to the brig hissed open. A minute later, the prisoner found out why.
Cold. It was the only way he could describe the sensations from the newcomer, though it really had nothing to do with temperature. It felt like a soothing balm to his raw nerves, though he loathed its source with every part of him. He loathed the coldness, too, even as he allowed it to soothe him. He hated that the only way for him to feel it, this relief from the burning and searing flames of the anger consuming him, was to feel it secondhand from this other. He was incapable of helping himself, of controlling himself long enough to gain that kind of relief on his own.
Envy. So far the only way he had found to cool the burn on his own (cool it, never eliminate it. That would be far too much to ask) was to express the emotions causing it. Unfortunately, these emotions could only be expressed one way: through violence. The temporary (oh, yes, always only temporary…) sensation of relief he felt after giving in to these urges had long since eclipsed any remorse he felt after the deed was done.
Frustration. He didn't ASK to be this way! He didn't need this…this PRESENCE in the back of his head all the time, whispering to him, pressuring him, pushing him into violence, driving him mad. He wished he could silence it, stuff it into a little box, lock it up, throw away the key, and leave it there forever. Sure, the killing made him feel better for a little while, made the whispers quieter, easier to bear, but they always returned, forcing him to do more, increasing his desperation to be rid of it once and for all.
Annoyance. A noise was intruding on his reflections. How…unpleasant. It was almost like the ceaseless buzzing of a particularly irksome insect, except that he could make out words if he pushed hard enough past the haze. It took so much effort to care, though, and he only caught a little of what was being said. IT was the terrified little ensign assigned to guard him, speaking to the newcomer, the cold one, the loathsome Vulcan. The guard was telling the Vulcan about his prisoner's misbehavior, punching the wall and yelling. Interesting. A spike, a little flare of heat, of feeling, that broke through the emotionless cold for an instant. It only lasted for a moment, barely long enough for the prisoner to recognize it as worry, before it was suppressed and pushed down under an even thicker layer of cold logic.
Amazement. How was the Vulcan able to do that? He just tamped down his emotions like they didn't even exist. They weren't even acknowledged, just…poof. Gone, covered over and buried so deeply that even an empath couldn't find them anymore. It was incredible. He wondered how such perfect domination of one's faculties might be achieved. Certainly this man didn't have to kill just to stay sane.
Detachment. While he was thinking about this amazing self-control and the method by which it was obtained, he dimly registered someone, probably the Vulcan, speaking to him. He even thought he might have responded, but he really wasn't sure. He was mostly unaware of what was happening until, vaguely, he felt fingertips pressed to his temples and words being repeated over and over.
Intrusion! Suddenly there was yet another presence in his head. Instead of whispering to him, though, this one exuded the same cool, clinical logic that he felt from the Vulcan. He realized that the other man must have initiated a mind meld. Se he wanted to see the inside of his head, did he? All right, then. The prisoner let down all of his barriers, allowing the Vulcan to see everything that he had ever seen, felt or done, not fighting or holding anything back. He showed the other the dark presence that was there in his head telling him to hurt and kill. He felt the cold begin to weaken and fracture until finally it split wide open and he could sense the Vulcan's horror.
Interest. He had finally broken down the infamous Vulcan composure, allowing him free reign to search the other's mind in turn. He knew exactly what he was looking for, though, and immediately seized and examined any memories pertaining to the learning and establishing of emotional control. It seemed so easy when he was looking at it here…
Discomfort. He experienced the disconcerting feeling of being picked up and heaved out of a sort of door. Suddenly he was back in his own mind. The whispers were still there, but he immediately felt a difference. Now HE had the advantage. He clamped down on the ruthlessly, the way he had seen the Vulcan do to wayward emotions in his memories.
Elation! It was working! It was still present, and he knew it probably always would be, but now he was able to mute the voices at will so that they faded to a dull accompaniment of white noise behind his thoughts.
Concern. Now that the voices were dealt with, he came back to himself, only to realize that he was lying on the floor with the Vulcan next to him. What had happened during the meld? He attempted to stand up, only to find his arms gripped forcefully by his guard. "Mr. Tuvok, sir, wake up!" the young ensign cried, distressed.
Composure. With his new hold on his emotions, he felt his mind clear for the first time that he could remember. "Here, boy, let me help you." The ensign jumped, startled, but released him, and the two men hauled the unconscious Vulcan upright. "We ought to take him to sickbay."
Reluctance. The ensign hesitated for a moment. "I really don't think that I'm allowed to let you out of the brig," he muttered.
Vexation. He quickly subdued the burst of annoyance, once again marveling at his ability to do so, and attempted to reason with the young man. "Let's just call this an extenuating circumstance, shall we? He needs to be taken to the Doctor." After another brief hesitation, the other man nodded, and together they managed to carry Tuvok to Sickbay. During the walk, though, all the former prisoner could think about was what he could do now that he was free to live without the voices telling him how to act. What wonderful new sensations would he be able to experience now, without the haze clouding his mind throughout the day…?
A/N: So...let me know what you all think? Reviews are wonderful! Thanks for reading!