[Lenore can be uncharacteristically playful when she's happy. She's almost surprised to find how happy she feels, sitting here with Spock, of all people, but here she is, playing table soccer with him with bits and pieces of chocolate wrappers.
If only Jim could see them now...]
As a matter of fact, yes. For all that this crew is staffed with a bunch of geniuses, sometimes I wonder if they'd know how to wipe their own asses without instruction.
[She would love to trust the crew to follow simple directions, but the whole reason for the antibiotic-resistant bacteria epidemic that threatened global population numbers in the early 22nd century was people not following their doctor's orders.
She looks down at their hands, eying Spock's slightly green-tinged fingernails, and finds herself blurting out,] I killed my father.
[Appalled at herself, she snaps her mouth shut with an audible click, pulling her hands back to herself as she closes her eyes and ducking her head down a little like she could just will the words back into her mouth. But she can't, so she has to explain, obviously, or Spock will go around thinking she's a murderer, so she forces herself to open her mouth and continue.]
He was dying. He'd been dying, for months; a long, slow, drawn-out death I wouldn't wish on anyone. [Perhaps it's a good thing she's drunk for this conversation. It makes it easier to speak the words, but there is the awkward truth that it also makes it easier for her to cry about it, even after all these years. At least her eyes feel bone-dry right now.] Pyrrhoneuritis. I tried so hard to find a cure before he died, but he was withering away right in front of me. He begged me to end it for him, and I refused.
Eventually, I gave in. All I was doing was prolonging his suffering. So I gave him an overdose of morphine, the real stuff, not the synthesized version, and I watched him die.
[She lets out the barest wisp of a laugh, something harsh and hollow sounding that almost gets swallowed up in her throat before it makes it past her lips.] My colleagues discovered a cure three weeks later.
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If only Jim could see them now...]
As a matter of fact, yes. For all that this crew is staffed with a bunch of geniuses, sometimes I wonder if they'd know how to wipe their own asses without instruction.
[She would love to trust the crew to follow simple directions, but the whole reason for the antibiotic-resistant bacteria epidemic that threatened global population numbers in the early 22nd century was people not following their doctor's orders.
She looks down at their hands, eying Spock's slightly green-tinged fingernails, and finds herself blurting out,] I killed my father.
[Appalled at herself, she snaps her mouth shut with an audible click, pulling her hands back to herself as she closes her eyes and ducking her head down a little like she could just will the words back into her mouth. But she can't, so she has to explain, obviously, or Spock will go around thinking she's a murderer, so she forces herself to open her mouth and continue.]
He was dying. He'd been dying, for months; a long, slow, drawn-out death I wouldn't wish on anyone. [Perhaps it's a good thing she's drunk for this conversation. It makes it easier to speak the words, but there is the awkward truth that it also makes it easier for her to cry about it, even after all these years. At least her eyes feel bone-dry right now.] Pyrrhoneuritis. I tried so hard to find a cure before he died, but he was withering away right in front of me. He begged me to end it for him, and I refused.
Eventually, I gave in. All I was doing was prolonging his suffering. So I gave him an overdose of morphine, the real stuff, not the synthesized version, and I watched him die.
[She lets out the barest wisp of a laugh, something harsh and hollow sounding that almost gets swallowed up in her throat before it makes it past her lips.] My colleagues discovered a cure three weeks later.
I...did not handle it admirably.