What are your religious views?

Jim Kirk thinks religion is crap. When he was little, Granny Kirk had always told him that his father could see him in heaven, maybe even come down from the sky and hover invisibly at important moments. His mother had always remained silent during these exchanges, which only confirmed his belief that his father was nothing more than a bunch of exploded atoms hovering around in space somewhere. He'd never seen his father, not even as a baby -- how was he supposed to believe in some mystical presence somewhere, even in an imaginary world? His father was an absence, something he couldn't really even miss because he'd never really had in the first place, and nothing more than that. Of course, as a child, he never could articulate any of those things; he just remembers feeling determined disbelief and learning early on that adults lie to make children feel better. It was his very first lesson in not trusting people. When he was a teenager, he could put those thoughts into words, with or without a tinge of anger. On bad days, he thought it was a trick to manipulate him; on charitable ones, he thought it was just a lie an old lady told herself to make her feel better about the death of her favorite son. Now though, when he looks out the view screen at nebulas and gas giants, he wonders vaguely who or what might have made it all. And although he won't admit it, sometimes when he is alone on the observation deck, he imagines his father becoming one with all those mysterious and beautiful things he spends his life exploring. It's not religion exactly, but it's as close as he'll ever come.
And although he won't admit it, sometimes when he is alone on the observation deck, he imagines his father becoming one with all those mysterious and beautiful things he spends his life exploring.

Ooh. *nods* I could see Jim imagining this.
He only looked away for a second -- less than a second, just long enough to grab a cereal box from the tallest shelf. But when he turns around, she's gone. His heart pounds. His palms sweat. In the seconds it takes to spot her blond pigtails bouncing down the aisle, he imagines her kidnapped by child molesters, buried beneath juice bottles and tin cans, wailing for the father who'd cruelly abandoned her in a vast and bewildering grocery store.

He seizes her by the back of her overalls and spins her around to face him. Her eyes dance; she giggles and squeals. A game. She thinks it's a fucking game.

He shakes her, only a little, only gently.

"Don't you ever do that again." He stares into her bright blue eyes. "You hear me? Never. do. that. again."

Oh, I like this. It would make sense that Bones's greatest fear would be something to do with his daughter.

He shakes her, only a little, only gently.

This is my favorite line, a reminder of his fundamental gentleness despite the gruff exterior. ♥

Thanks for answering! :-)
Thank you! I do not write much McCoy, so I was happy you requested him, and even happier that you liked it :)
Are you more introverted or extroverted?

Sulu's never really bought into that Meyers-Briggs bullshit. People aren't quantifiable like that. You can't just divide them into two neat categories because you think that makes them easier to understand. Well, you can do it if you want to, but then you'll miss all the nuances that make people interesting.

And that's the thing -- people are fucking fascinating. What makes them individuals, all the tiny little influences that add up to make them tick, Sulu just wants to know. He's always the guy at the table asking kind of awkward questions with eager eyes, and somehow people don't get offended because they can see that he's not being nosy; he genuinely wants to understand what makes them who they are.

So, yeah, Sulu likes people. But he doesn't need people, at least not all the time. He's the only one who legitimately isn't freaked out when the exploratory party gets separated in the cave and the power cells in the flashlight go dead. He just parks himself on a rock and figures that somebody'll rescue him eventually, and he might as well have a good think before then. And on shore leave, sometimes he hits the bars with the captain, comes back singing off-key to drinking songs they'd learned from Scotty and swapping stories about chicks they'd chatted up the night before. But he's just as likely to go wandering strange cities on his own, sampling food from street carts and sitting serenely in front of mountains or oceans. That's the great thing about being secure in your individuality -- you can do whatever the hell you want, and nobody bothers you about it.

Edited at 2009-10-19 05:32 pm (UTC)
DAMMIT. My first comment to this was a paragraph of complex gratitude that LJ apparently ate and which I can't recall (I came back today to read your Number One responses and saw that my reply to your reply to me vanished.)

But, uh, I love this and it totally fits the Sulu in my head. I had more about flying and personal trajectories and stuff, but I can't recall it.
Aw. I would have quite liked to read this paragraph of complex gratitude. But thank you for being so attentive that you noticed LJ ate it and supplying a new comment in its place!
Number One

#s: 3, 35, 62

ETA: Technically not Reboot, I just realized. *crosses fingers*

Edited at 2009-10-19 02:14 am (UTC)
No problem! I love writing Number One. I'm going to answer each question individually though, since I haven't figured out what to say about all of them yet.

3. Who are/were your parents?

She doesn't know. For as long as she can remember, she's been property of the colony. Not a slave exactly, but far from free to decide who she is and what she wants to be. Even her name offers no clue about her origins. "One," the minders call her, and they do not answer when she asks who is two. "Where are my parents?" she asks, over and over again, not because she is sad but because she wants to know. "You have always been here," they say to her, and then they turn away.

Edited at 2009-10-19 03:01 am (UTC)
What is the most frightened you have ever been in your life?

She is on the bridge when she hears the first report, a Starfleet press release whose headline reads U.S.S. Enterprise, flagship of the fleet, dispatched on emergency rescue mission to Vulcan. She tucks the small fact away in the back of her mind because she likes knowing where Chris is, and then she doesn't think of it again.

The next report is not from Starfleet command but from the media. The crew are packed around the mess hall news screen, and some of them flinch when they see her. Wordlessly, she stands behind them.

"James T. Kirk, acting captain of the Enterprise, saved the Earth today from a rogue mining vessel," the blond news anchor reads in a smooth voice. The report continued with a profile of Kirk, leaving her to clench her hands around the cool metal back of the chair in front of her. She watches, pale-faced and riveted, until Phil and Cait gently lead her away. They never say what happened to Chris.
Do you care if people like you?

Being liked is not Chris Pike's job. Being respected is, and occasionally -- though more often than he would prefer -- so is being feared.

"Your job here is to learn not to want to be liked," his first command instructor had said. "When you want people to like you, you end up getting them killed instead." Like all other missions, he accepted it and did it well.

For years, it does not wear on him. His commanding officers describe him as an excellent leader, in part because he recognizes the distinction between being liked and being respected. That's satisfaction enough, andas a first lieutenant, he can rely on the companionship of equals to keep him from getting lonely. That fades a little when he makes lieutenant commander, and by the time he's the XO of the Yorktown, he's become a bit of an island unto himself, even while he's laughing and drinking with the boys in the mess hall. The crew regards him as a not-quite-human whom they can still relate to, and he considers that an accomplishment. So does Starfleet Command, and they make him captain.

Two months into his command, he orders Tyler to turn the ship around and abandon an away team to certain death. Better to let six die than 421. But he never forgets the split second of hate that flashed in Tyler's eyes, the disappointment on Colt's young face, the unspoken grief of the whole bridge crew.

That week, he finds out that people don't merely need a commander whom they can respect. They also need a commander they can feel angry with, even despise. They cannot blame anyone for freak ion storms or collapsing caves, and while they might be able to blame the Klingons for the rogue torpedo that killed 11 men and women on deck 12, the Klingons are far away but the captain is near. Their rage is nothing more than a cover for their grief, and more than that, their fear in the face of an unpredictable, uncontrollable universe. He knows they wouldn't continue to follow him if they didn't trust him, if they didn't know deep down he was making the hard decisions so that they didn't have to. But no matter how well he understands the psychology behind their feelings, those first few moments of their hatred and disappointment will always be bitter pills to swallow.


Edited at 2009-10-23 03:16 am (UTC)
What do you keep in your pockets

Sulu hates civilian travel -- the endless lines at security checkpoints, the automated announcements, sitting on a spaceship he's not flying, second-guessing every one of the pilot's decisions. But apparently Starfleet regulations prohibit the theft of long-range shuttles for shore leave trips to Earth, so here he is, bouncing on the balls of his feet in front of the scanner. Obediently, he empties the contents of his pockets into a plastic bowl: music player and wireless headphones, a wadded gum wrapper, and a used kleenex that makes him blush and the security attendant wrinkle her nose. Last, he drops in the thin plastic keycard to his mother's house in San Francisco. He doesn't need it; she'll always be there to let him in, but he likes to carry something that reminds him who he is.
You know, I'm reading over this list of 100 questions again, and I think many of these would be hard to answer about myself, much less fictional characters.

< /random observation >
Okay, I could post this for my top three characters (Pike, Kirk, McCoy), but the question is the same:

"37. If you could change one thing from your past, what would it be, and why?"

Pick one of the three (or write them all, if you feel like *g* :)
He doesn't hurt any more, which would be a relief if he could feel anything at all below his waist. With all his might, he concentrates on moving his foot. A dull ache pounds behind his eyes. Cold sweat beads on his forehead. Nothing moves, no matter how many times he tries.

"You'll only hurt yourself worse if you try to move." He sees -- no, imagines -- Phil's head leaning over him, faint and distorted. The disorientation is fading, but reality slips away too easily when he's not careful. He focuses on the hard metal table beneath him and the gray ceiling arching high overhead. When he is very still, he can feel the warp engines vibrating around him, smoother even than the ones on the Enterprise but still there. Earth, he thinks, they are going to Earth. Because he betrayed everyone he's ever known or loved to a genocidal maniac.

"'S all right," he mutters, and his slurred voice startles him; he hadn't meant to speak out loud. Not that it matters. His interrogators had left him as soon as they got what they needed, and he wonders dimly if they will come back to kill him or just leave him here to starve.

He chuckles faintly, shaking his head slightly at his own ridiculousness. It really will be all right; Number One will save the day somehow, and probably come to get him afterward. She always does. He can see her now, standing over him with a faint smile and a cocked eyebrow, laughing at him for charging off like a cowboy into a situation too big for him to handle when clearly he should have taken her with him in the first place.

Awareness flickers faintly around the edges of his brain. Something's wrong with his thinking; he just doesn't know what. Calmly, he waits for the fuzziness in his mind to recede. It takes awhile, but he's not going anywhere. One by one, he gathers threads of the truth. Number One is not his XO anymore; Spock is. Except Spock is now the captain of the Enterprise, Jim Kirk is its first officer, and he, Christopher Pike, is no longer anything.

He would like to put together more of the story, remember what had happened and why he is here, but claiming these small shreds of truth has exhausted him. His consciousness flickers, and as darkness looms, his last thought is not that billions will die because of him, but that he's sorry he'll never see her again. He wishes he had told her, just once, that he --

Blackness rushes over him then, and he doesn't fight it. He is grateful, finally, to go to sleep.