Spock stood at the end of a too-long hallway. There were no visible light sources, but the strip was still, somehow, illuminated clearly enough for the Vulcan to see his superior officer standing at the opposite end.
"…Captain?"
The passages walls were a loud off-white, smeared over metal that ran for several hundred meters in front of him. No hallway in the Enterprise was this long, and this... bare. There were no automatic doors, no port windows, no wandering redshirts; only himself and his Captain, both standing on opposite sides of the corridor.
"Captain?" Spock asked again, desperation filling inside him. Why wasn't he answering? Could he not here him?
The Vulcan started down the hall, at first at a walking speed, than hurrying faster as a strange sense of impending danger urged him along. But all the while, the hallway stretched, putting his commander farther and farther in front of him. Much too far…
The hallway stopped elongating. Suddenly, gracefully, and without making a sound, James T. Kirk collapsed. His body arched in a beautiful way, and he gently fell to the floor. He never got up, never even moved to fix himself when his hair was flattened against his head and a violent red shot through it.
Even in death, Kirk remained the only one who could ever gain a reaction from the disciplined Vulcan. Spock dropped to his knees, searing tears pouring from his eyes, pain in his every bone and vein and muscle. He screamed into the black and white silence.
Vulcans rarely dream, and they'd never admit if they were feeling any fear or emotional distress, so every morning Spock of Vulcan awoke from the pain of losing his best friend to a faceless killer, his body on fire and his heart pounding, and shower, dress and report to first shift.