Sometimes I wonder at myself for thinking this stuff up...

Thanks to all reviewers, past and future; my email is a mess and I check it pretty sparsely these days, so typically I find reviews too late for it to worthwhile right to answer reviews (you probably wouldn't even remember the story by the time I read them), but I do appreciate them nonetheless and seriously consider all comments. I do apologize for the time intervals between posts (I'm sort of terrible, I acknowledge this).

Hopefully I'll write more of this soon, but I know better than to make promises by now.

Disclaimer; I do not own Star Trek, nor any of the characters, technology, or other ideas therein. Furthermore, I make no money from this piece.


Pieces of the Mirror


Technically, Commander Spock was ready to be released.

Not released to duty, certainly. It had only been three and a half weeks since his return from the alternate-universe, and the long-term damage sustained there mandated a long recovery. He would need further physical therapy, rest, and so forth for a while yet. But modern medicine was a fantastic thing, and he was capable of maneuvering throughout the ship on his own power. Extreme fatigue and weakness, along with lingering chronic pains, were the worst issues - but his condition was stable, and it was encouraged for patients to be released to their quarters after a certain length of time, if possible.

Physically, he was still in terrible condition - but he didn't need to be a stellar athlete to move throughout a starship. No; the real issue was mental.

It sounded almost taunting, to say that of a Vulcan. But it was true. Though he had only received one 'flashback', the psychological effects were still apparent in his every breath. McCoy was leery of releasing him to interact with the crew, who could unknowingly trigger another scene.

But he also knew that Spock needed to do so at some point - and better have the flashbacks now, relatively soon after his return, than later when Command would question his fitness for duty.

So, he released Spock.

Kirk was by his side when Spock left Sickbay. When the two ensigns walking by froze in their walk, he glowered at the two until they remembered themselves and began walking again - twisting their necks as they went by, apparently transfixed at the horrible visage of their XO.

Spock pretended not to notice, and Kirk, likewise, said nothing.

They walked a slow, out of the way path to the Mess - Spock had declined the offer to go immediately to his quarters, uneasy as he remembered the resemblances between his and that of the alternate caricature of himself. Kirk seemed reluctant to press him.

On their walk the two passed a certain Lieutenant Fellows, who had the tact to keep his eyes firmly ahead, sparing only a polite nod and a brief widening of his eyes in involuntary reaction to the sight of Spock.

This time, indeed, it was Spock whose walk stuttered.

"Think this one's a mutt, too?" Fellows sneered.

"Yeah, McCoy confirmed him - papered mongrel, this one."

A contemptuous kick sent Spock reeling; he fell to the ground, gasping for breath, struggling to pull himself away on emaciated arms that trembled under the weight of his bones. He'd just managed a hand-and-knees position when a hand clutched at his hair, baring the Vulcan's neck with a savage twist.

"Know if he bleeds green, too?" Fellows asked.

"Sure 'nuff."

"Beating up a Vulcan," Fellows wondered.

"And one that looks like the slave-master himself," his companion crooned.

A stinging backslap, and then another swift kick left him curled around his abdomen, vision fading in and out.

"Captain won't be happy if we kill him.

"Or the Commander if he loses his fucktoy," Fellows snickered. "Not that this one looks like he'd put up enough of a fight to enjoy."

"Eh, Vulcans," the other dismissed.

"Think the captain would let me play with him later?" Fellows asked suddenly.

"Oh, probably..."

[The captain had].

Spock kept walking, fighting to ignore the memories. Kirk had noticed him falter, and and watched more carefully, which didn't help.

The Mess was much worse than the halls. It boasted at least two dozen crewmen, all chatting amiably or playing cards in some corner until the senior offices walked in. All at once the sound was sucked out of the room, quicker than vaccuum, and every eye was trained on the doorway.

More specifically, on Spock.

"A vegetarian!" Kirk crowed. "What kind of dandies are you in that Universe? We're not coddling you here, that's for sure.

An ensign upended a pail of bloody, mashed meat in the middle of the well-trod Mess floor.

"Eat up," said Kirk.

"Sit down, I'll grab the trays," said Kirk lightly. "Any preferences?"

Spock shook his head, slowly.

Taking the hint, a muted conversation arose, faint and distracted; cards changed hands randomly, the fortune of more than a few players changing dramatically. No one really noticed, or cared.

Spock himself shuffled stiffly to the closest empty table, lowering himself with the aid of a shaking hand clenched on the table-top. Even the effort of walking so far had exhausted him.

The stares really weren't helping.

"Fourteen days. Too long, even for a Vulcan - especially for a mutt like you. McCoy says you're starving, you know."

Spock was silent.

"We thought you might appreciate some diversity," said Kirk. "Ensign?"

Chekov ambled over, holding a plastic cage marked for Sciences.

In that cage were two white rats - dead.

"Since you're having trouble feeding yourself, I thought we might help," Kirk explained graciously.

Security ensigns pinned down his arms. Others around the room, watching casually, jeered; this was entertainment for them, grand entertainment. According to McCoy, morale had gone up nine percent since his arrival...

Chop, chop, chowck. Furious chopping, hacking, and messy squelches were heard as Spock was pinioned on his back. Starvation had left him weakened, but at two weeks from his capture he still held the sparks of hope, and he bucked and writhed like an eel under the cursing security, without avail.

Chekov came back into his line of sight, a bloody clump of wet red meat and stained fur clutched in one hand as a guard pried open his mouth.

"Let no one say we aren't hospitable," Kirk declared. "No one goes hungry on my ship."

Kirk placed a tray in front of him, then sat by Spock's side. Spock stared at the replicated Plomeek soup blankly.

"That alright?" Kirk prodded.

"I believe this dish is vegetarian - perhaps it is more to your taste?" enquired the bearded Spock.

Spock looked at him with disbelief - then scrambled away, writhing in pain and trying not to betray himself with a scream as half a gallon of boiling Plomeek soup was thrown to scald his shoulders.

"I think he preferred the meat," observed McCoy.

" - Yes. Thank you."

They ate in silence.

Spock couldn't stomach much; even the relatively bland Vulcan fare turned his stomach. But he waited until Kirk had finished, and both rose.

"...Gym?" Kirk suggested. "McCoy's exercises..." He trailed off.

Spock could not accurately convey how much he did not want to revisit the gym, but all alternatives seemed worse; he nodded out of pure reflex, and regretted it immediately, but did not dare raise his doubts.

So they continued to the gym. As they left, and the doors slid shut behind them, Spock's keen ears caught snatches of the conversations that broke out in the Mess.

"My god, can you believe it - "

"How awful - "

"His ears - "

"Poor bastard - "

"He looked so small - "

"Should he be out of Sickbay?"

"How long was he gone?"

The entrance to the gym was much a repeat of the Mess. The recollections were just as unpleasant.

"Target practice, men!" Giotto barked. "Hit the Vulcan - nonfatal wounds, or McCoy will be after your blood next.

"Lets try practicing for low tech worlds - pick up a spear."

Weight machines - running mills - the combat area...

"A special game tonight! First one to cut yourself a Vulcan ear will get a day off. Daggers or butterknives only - three days off if you can take it with a butterknife..."

Mirrors, so the crew could examine their postures and movements for fault...

Spock pulled hopelessly against his bonds - a token protest - then sagged bleakly, staring at his reflection from his prone position on the floor, insides going cold at the sight of the line behind him.

"How many people get to say they've fucked a Vulcan?" A lieutenant taunted. "No cozy brothel rooms here, though - you lot better keep your cock in if your bits ain't big 'nuff to make this 'un scream."

And, blessed Other, the crew themselves -

"Wonder if Vulcans can cry - "

"I'll use his fucking blood for paint - "

"Look, look, I plucked off his nails - "

"Has a real set of lungs, doesn't he?"

"Torture's a fine way to end a bad day, isn't it?"

"God, this thing never gets boring - "

"Watch how he tries not to scream - "

Spock only waited until most of the room had at least pretended to stop paying attention, then said, "...Perhaps I will just retire, after all."

Kirk seemed entirely unsurprised. "Alright. I'll walk you there."

It was rather unnecessary to clarify that point; he seemed quite determined to hover over Spock. Pacing the painfully familiar route back to their quarters, a trickle of growing unease started mounting. Kirk himself seemed aware of it, on some level, his eyes tightening, lips drawing to a thin, worried line. But he said nothing; Spock thought, far from the first time, that he was truly fortunate to have a friend who understood him so well.

Kirk seemed uncertain, for a moment, if he should follow Spock inside; then, decisively, "I'll see you tomorrow - sleep well."

"And yourself," Spock murmured, automatically. The doors slid shut, and he was alone.

Alone, in darkness. Alone, in a room that reeked of old torments. He exhaled, slowly, breathing deep, and slowly went forward, stopping to stare at the scarlet sheets covering his bed - remembered having his back to it, his front, while a heavy weight pressed down on him, hot breath puffing against his ears, cruel fingers burning, seeking, tearing -

He methodically tore away the sheets, then curled on the bare bed in full uniform. He stared blankly at the next wall, breathing deep, eyes glowing through the cold night without closing.

Maybe the memories would fade in time, but for now their shadows lingered, plucking at his skin with icy whispers of times left behind, known only to him - a world that no one else could conceive of, and that existed, for all intents and purposes, solely in Spock's mind and memory. Was that insanity?

One day all the horrors of that time might fade, in a decade or a century, and be something remembered distantly or recurring in the darkest of dreams. For now, though, he remembered, and must endure.


"Dreaming permits each and every one of us to be quietly and safely insane every night of our lives."

-William C. Dement