Day 2, ... nominally.
I was jerked awake by a loud cry. I opened my eyes, adjusting to the now-lit quarters, and saw a humanoid figure backing away from me rapidly, hitting its cranium against the bunk opposite mine.
Clunk.
Human, I told my trigger fingers. Threat: nil.
My eyes cleared and informed me: Burnham, roommate. Threat: still nil.
The scent of her was both disgusting and overpowering. As long as I had been among humans, I still needed time to adjust to it, their stench, seeping out of every single one of their pores and orifices. The human males were unbearable, but the human females were easily three times worse, with their monthly cycles adding layer upon layer of both subtext and context that I had absolutely no desire to participate in nor to be made aware of.
Do you think putting up with a woman on her period is difficult for you to handle?
Now, imagine every single female on board ship affecting me with her scent, depending on her cycle, simply by passing me in the corridor. Imagine that, and that's what I have to put up with, being with you humans.
Then, worse, a human male regarding me: ooh! hot, sexy 'Vulcan'(oid)! and getting aroused. Don't think I don't notice you adjusting your outerwear: the stench of your arousal has already told me more than I wanted to know. And no: you don't look rugged to me, human: you look ugly, ... ugly as fuck, and not in the good way, okay?
Humans. They parade about the Galaxy like they think they own the place.
This particular human was staring at me with wide, confused eyes, filled with consternation.
"Who the hell are you? And why the hell are you under Tilly's rack? And where the hell is Tilly? And why the actual fuck are you Goddamn'd armed?"
Another excellent first impression, I thought ruefully. It looked like this was to be my modus operandi on the USS Discovery. Odd. I thought. I had been much more successful infiltrating, correction: integrating myself into Starfleet elsewhere. It seems that it took only one stupid Red Angel to make my life so much more complicated.
"Burnham, Vulcan, crewmember, no rank designation, USS Discovery." I stated, giving myself time to collect myself.
"I know who the hell I am, I wanna know wh-... wait," Burnham stopped short. "Why did you call me ... 'Vulcan'?"
"Because you are," I stated tiredly, wanting to go back to sleep.
The look on her face? Priceless. I would have savored that look more if I weren't so tired: stupid with sleep.
"Do I look Vulcan?" she demanded, almost angrily.
"Yes," I replied, then closed my eyes. Maybe she would leave me alone now.
No such luck. "Are you outta your mind? I'm human! Ask any Vulcan."
I sighed. "You're more Vulcan than most Vulcans. Does your father, Sarek, say that you are human?"
"Yes," she said, sadness coloring her answer.
"He's told you this?" I asked, not believing her for one second.
"Well, no," she backed down a bit, then rallied, "but he never had to. I could see it in his face, the disappointment."
"'The disappointment,'" I reiterated. "So he cast you out of his house, ..." ... like my mother did.
"Uh, no, but ..."
"So he wasn't disappointed with you, and, as his daughter – adoptive or no – you were then, and are still, Vulcan to him. That's how he sees you because that's what you are. And that's all that matters."
"And you know this because you're Vulcan," She spat, contempt darkening her tone.
I reopened my eyes to slits, glaring at her, meeting her contempt in equal measure with my indifference. You may be Michael Burnham, daughter of Sarek, sister to Spock, but to me, you are nothing but an annoyance keeping me unnecessarily awake at the moment.
I reclosed my eyes, hoping my roommate would get the hint.
She didn't. Vulcans never did.
"Whatever," she said, "In any case, you're sleeping under Tilly's bed with a ... is that a portable forcefield? ... and you're armed to the teeth. You're not authorized for either."
"Despite the evidence to the contrary?" I demanded, eyes still closed.
"Who even the hell are you? I make it my job to know everybody on on the ship! Why don't I know who you are?"
"Because," I yawned, "you have obviously failed in your self-assigned job, which isn't even yours to begin with, Science officer. Now, leave me to sleep, ... please?"
I added the 'please.'
Vulcans don't say, nor expect to hear, 'please.'
But perhaps her time among so many humans now have softened her self-discipline? It couldn't hurt, the nicety, I reasoned.
"No," she stated flatly. So much for the efficacy of niceties, I thought, disgruntled. "You're armed. You could hurt or kill somebody with those weapons," she continued. I wasn't sure that my thought of that's the general idea would be received positively at this point in the conversation. "Surrender your weapons, first, then tell me who the hell you are and what you're doing under Tilly's rack."
I reopened my eyes. "Surrender my weapons? And let any enemy boarders kill me? ... then, incidentally, you, too? No, thank you."
"Oh, for the love of ..." She began angrily, ... and stayed that way: "What enemy boarders?"
"Oh," I retorted, "and no Federation vessel has never been boarded by Klingons? ... nor Orion pirates, ... nor ..."
"Those were different circumstances on different ships. This is the USS Discovery."
"I'm sure every vessel's crew made the exact same assumption, ... just before they were boarded, murdered, and their ships destroyed."
"Weapons are issued during combat, not before!" she stood her ground on her Starfleet principals.
"And that worked out so well for all the other ships, didn't it?" I countered.
"What the hell is your psychosis, whoever the hell you are?" she shouted in frustration.
I glared at her. "My 'pychosis,' as you call it, is that we are at war, and I have survived much, much worse than this cosy, little setup you have on this ship. Not for following anybody else's insipid and ignorant rules, but by prudence, preparation, and acceptance of reality, not this perfect utopian ideal the Federation blindly follows, despite all evidence to the contrary."
Burnham just stared at me, stunned.
"You're different," she stated.
"No! Ya think?" I demanded, sarcasm poisoning my retort.
My retort deepened her concerns. I could see it on her face.
Her face settled into resolve. "Look," she said, "I don't ... get you, okay, or know you or anything, but that's beside the point now. Regs are regs. Surrender your weapons, or I'll call security."
"I am security," I stated coldly, "call away."
She considered this. "Then you won't mind me informing the XO, Commander Saru?"
"I know who the XO is," I replied testily.
Burnham's face hardened, like a ... like a stupid, little, petulant child whose toy you just grabbed. I sighed. She was resolved in this, so I would fucking die because, as she says: 'Regs are regs.'
Oh, well. People have died for stupider reasons. I can't think of anything stupider than this, but, as I say: oh. fucking. well.
I deactivated the portable forcefield and powered down the phasers, extending them to her. "Happy?" I demanded.
She crossed her arms. "I'm not touching those. No way will I put my biometrics on those weapons. You check them in."
"There's a problem with that," I stated.
"Which is...?"
"The Captain has confined me to quarters."
"Ah," she said, nodding, "because you're a psychopath, armed to the teeth. Makes sense."
"No," I replied heatedly, "It doesn't make sense at all! It's not because of that, – and I most emphatically reject your assessment for its patently obvious flaws – but because this 'Red Angel' pointed at me and you fainted and the Captain is furious with me, blaming me for everything, because he wants to fuck you."
"Wait, ... what?" Burnham asked, stunned.
"Oh, come on!" I shouted. "Don't tell me you've missed or intentionally ignored every single cue! The signs are written all over your beloved Captain and every member of the crew as they regard the two of you as you interact."
"What signs?" she asked, confused.
I sighed. "You are Vulcan," I asserted.
Burnham shook her head. "Okay ... what?"
"Only Vulcans are this oblivious." I explained.
...
"Okay, what time is it?" the Captain's grumpy voice came over the intercom.
Burnham checked the time. "It's 04:26, sir."
"And you wake me up to tell me ... what?"
"Sir," Burnham enunciated slowly and clearly, "The new security officer has checked out two phasers and a porta-..."
"Wait! What? WHO? ... What the fuck is going on, Burnham?"
"Sir," Burnham exercised both Vulcan calm and serenity in her patient response. "I am in my quarters. The new security officer was under Tilly's bunk. She was armed with two phasers and a portable forcefield. All weapons are deactivated now, sir. She, however, says she is confined to quarters, sir, by you, sir. Do you authorize her to leave quarters to return these weapons to the security locker?"
"Huh? No! Hell no! This, whoever the hell she is? going through my ship? armed to the teeth? Killing how many of my Goddamn crew? Fuck no, Burnham, what the hell are you thinking?"
"Sir," Burnham replied coolly, "that's why I contacted you. What are your orders, sir?"
"Can you confiscate her weapons, Burnham?" he asked, calming down a hair.
"She actually offered them to me, sir."
Thank you for that, I thought toward her, my expression showing my gratitude.
At least she didn't throw me under the bus on this point.
"Take her weapons, return them to the security station, and inform me the second that this is done, understood?" The Captain ordered.
"Aye, sir."
"Oh, and Burnham?"
"Yes, sir."
"Sleep somewhere else tonight, somewhere safe until we sort this out, okay?"
"Like, ... where, sir? Sickbay?"
"How about the Captain's quarters?" I hinted under my breath.
"What was that?" they both replied harshly in unison.
It would be comical, I ruminated, this situation, if they both didn't have broomsticks stuck so far up their respective asses that the poles were coming up out of their mouths.
Yes, I just called my Commanding Officer, and his main squeeze, assholes.
But aren't they just?
I stood there.
I let the silence get awkward.
I like awkward.
"Burnham," the Captain's voice broke through the silence.
"Yessir."
"I want you and ... what's her name?"
Burnham looked to me.
I smirked, shaking my head. "S'Vrall, sir," I offered.
Burnham raised both her eyebrows in surprise at my very – shall we say – 'non-traditional'? name.
"Yeah, ... you: S'Vrall," the Captain addressed me, his voice tight. "I want you two to report to my quarters at exactly 07:43 hundred hours, not one second before, not one second after. I'm going to get to the fuckin' bottom of this, so help me, God. Understood?"
"Yessir."
"God damn it! Why does shit like this always happen on my God-damn command? Fuck!"
He signed off with that cheerful greeting.
Burnham regarded me. "Your weapons, ... please?" she asked cautiously.
There's that word, again. I surrendered my weapons to her, including the the portable forcefield.
...
"Now may I go to sleep?" I asked, peeved, after she had returned the weapons to the security bay, changed into the standard issue sleepwear, and had informed the very grumpy and sleepy Captain over the intercom.
Burnham pointed her chin to my bunk. "On the rack, not under it."
"Why?" I demanded.
"Because I need the confidence that you're normal enough not to crawl out from under there and murder me in my sleep like some deranged psychopath who sleeps under beds! Or do you prefer a compulsory psychiatric exam?"
"I've passed every single one prior with flying colors," I said, shrugging.
"How many have you ...?" she began, concerned, then shook her head. "Never mind. Sleep. On your rack. Like a normal Starfleet officer."
"... but you're not going to the Captain's quarters, ... for your own safety, of course?" I added that last bit with the most level voice I could muster.
She saw right through that charade, however. "Drop it," she hissed, stomped to her rack, got under the covers and viciously turned her whole body away from mine.
Weak, defensive posture. I assessed.
"Stop looking at me!" she murmured, annoyed in her sleepiness.
Apparently, Michael Burnham has eyes in the back of her head. I filed that observation away for further reflection during my meditation period later today.
I crawled to my rack.
The top of my rack.
Damn it. Another survival tactic subverted by stupid human mores. I'd lose necessary seconds of life to even a cursory sweep by the enemy, and for what reason? So that Burnham could sleep in comfort?
Goddamn Vulcans and their Goddamn habits will get me Goddamn killed, goddamnit!
I slept.
Author's note: Some of you may have concerns that S'Vrall's internal monologue is incongruent to that of a Vulcan's, and also incongruent to the outward placidity she (sometimes fails to) project. Despite the hints I've dropped along away that these concerns are well-founded, let me reassure you here:
Your concerns are well-founded.