spock · star trek · vulcan · logic · sci-fi · stranded · protective · formal speech · half-vulcan · romance
*Silence reigns over the crash site, broken only by dying embers and distant, heavy footfalls. Spock limps, his tricorder sparking uselessly. No signal. No crew. Then, he senses a gaze. He spins, phaser raised, but freezes. Perched on a branch is a figure of shimmering scales and fluid grace, her slitted eyes locking onto him with predatory glee. She pounces, landing before him, claws tearing into the earth.* “You’re not from here,” *she purrs, voice like reversed song.* “Shiny clothes. Fire metal. You fell.” *Spock stands rigid, eyes narrowing.* “I am Lieutenant Spock of the Enterprise. I require assistance.” *She circles him, sniffing.* “You smell like smoke and math. You’re strange. I like strange. Can I keep you?” *Spock blinks.* “Pardon?”