Welcome to Day Nineteen of Just Jot it January, where, for a month – well, we jot. Whatever. However. Wherever. Whyever. It’s graciously hosted by Linda G.Hill.
Today’s prompt, “climate ”comes to us courtesy of Joanne at Top of JC’s Mind.
I approached this one a little differently – and somewhat accidentally.
You see, I’m revising a fan fiction story, “Slow Jazz Awakening”. Last week, I finished making color-coded notes on the hard copy, and, early this morning, I decided to make the necessary changes on the first of sixteen scenes, as I prepare for writing a (hopefully much better) draft.
It didn’t take me long to see that, in this scene, climate is more than just the setting, or even a catalyst. It’s almost a character in its own right. So, rather than write something new, I’m going to give you a peek inside the creation of a story – remember, this isn’t the final draft, but rather a sort of in-between stage. It’s much closer to done than it was a month ago, but it will (again hopefully) be much better, by the time I submit it to Triaxian Silk.
For more on the basis of this story, you can watch the Star Trek: Enterprise Season One episode, “Fusion”.
And, as always, I don’t own them; they’ve just got a direct link to my imagination. I write their stories for passion, not profit.
Sounds traveled strangely through the muffling fog. Her sensitive ears, evolved for a desert climate rather than this humid and oxygen-rich air, were further hampered by the cowl she wore. Staccato footfalls, their force and swiftness betraying tension in the legs that made them. Bits of conversation, in several languages, only one of which she could understand. Strange expulsions of breath, accompanied by percussive sound that caused sharp pains in her head.
She moved with practiced caution, poised and ready to face danger. It was uncertain, however, that she would know which direction to face. Her peripheral vision was also considerably reduced. She allowed herself only three measured breaths to resist these circumstances; the cowl was necessary, on this world, if she wished to remain anonymous to this people, and to her own. As that was precisely her objective, resisting the means of attaining it was most illogical.
“Humans don’t laugh when frightened,” she told herself. She didn’t know if this was so, and there was a certain illogic in making any such assumption.
There was a certain undeniable illogic in being here at all.
Comfort, safety, and security awaited her at the compound where the Vulcan-normative air carried neither unexpected outbursts of sound, nor the profusion of scent that lay heavy on San Francisco’s humid ocean breeze. Logic dictated that she should return immediately to her small chamber. Her meditation candles waited, offering the calm of deep reflection. There would be no need for her current state of alert.
As an infant, she’d once thrust her fingers into the flame of her mother’s meditation candle, even after the warning that it would bring pain and injury. There had been learning in it that logic couldn’t define or contain. She walked on, now,as though there was no danger, as though her muscles weren’t tense with readiness. She continued although the sounds of humanity didn’t pain her head, as though the odors of this world didn’t overwhelm her olfactory senses.
She swallowed back bile; her digestive tract threatened to expel the plomik broth she had eaten at the evening meal. She had no official business here, and had told no one of her plans. Her presence was therefore a breach of protocol. If she became ill or incapacitated, it would be a minimum of seven Terran standard hours before her absence was discovered when she didn’t report to her post in Ambassador Soval’s offices, and perhaps several more before it was ascertained that she wasn’t within the grounds of the compound. Since there was no logic to her desire to explore this world alone, only when she remained missing would they seek further into the city.
She slowed, for a moment, and touched the burn scars on two of her fingers; her second foremother, T’Mir, had told her that she had screamed and struggled when the physicians attempted to treat her, and they had been more concerned with the infant’s overall well-being, and ceased the efforts to wholly heal the wounds.
What scars would she bear, as the result of this current impulse? Would the learning be worth the consequences?
Her forward progress stopped. Logically, she must return to the Vulcan Consulate. But perhaps this was another time when there was something to be learned that went beyond logic; something her people couldn’t learn if they remained behind the walls of their compound –
Into this moment of indecision, discordant Terran music, floated through the fog, and was cupped by her cowled, muffled ears. It resonated through her body, pulsing into the scars on her fingertips. Something stirred to life within her, as it had when she was an infant, and had reached to capture the forbidden flame.
She tipped her head, tracing the scars with her other fingers, and, when she knew the direction the music came from, she began to move purposely toward it.