#L1STEN, An Independent Portrayal Of The Twelfth Doctor, As Created In The Bbc's ᵈᵒᶜᵗᵒʳ ʷʰᵒ

EDIT OF H. SULU. MUTUALS CAN REBLOG.

   Weep, little lion man

                         You're not as brave as you were at the start

                        selective. kelvin timeline focused. crossover friendly. dash only

credit to @fasciinating

⸻one never knows how loyalty is born. ”

spock & nyota, madmen au

The vastness of space was harrowing as it was inviting. She stood there, not more than four foot two, her small button-nose pressed against the window, where she took a great deep breath as the two amber eyes setting behind thick glasses invited in the abyssal darkness running endlessly to forever-and-a-day and beyond. That darkness, however, was also consuming. Consuming in a way that it became a vivid awareness starting as a cold feeling in her toes, that crept up her legs and knobby-knees like a spindly legged spider. An awareness that told her something very old and very slow moved out in that sprawling void. She dearly loved space; but this was ancient space where strange things lurked in the bones and dust of long dead stars and systems. Pushing back from the window, she looked down the long narrow white hallways, the calm blinking lights on the panels of the wall split a joyful grin across her face, following a dreamy kind of impulse to idle left down the corridor – occasionally giving her high-top, cherry red sneakers an intentional squeak for the sake of the sound alone. After a seemingly arbitrary wander, she had arrived at a rather large arch. Each door panel had a frosted window, with a very long and important looking panel next to it with a constant stream of information, leaving her with a keen feeling she should go inside. 

The doors opened with the pleasant sound that reminded her of paper sliding against paper; revealing behind them a room that did not disappoint her expectations. All manner of soft white light illuminating even brighter floors, walls and counters. Instruments with great silver knobs and dials, glass jars and beakers of every shape and size containing materials and liquids of every color in the rainbow, and some colors she was certain she had never seen up close with her own eyes. It was perhaps one of the most magnificent rooms she had ever seen or at the very least was certainly amongst her top ten favorite rooms she had ever been in.

An interesting thread of thought of favorite rooms entertained her while she peered closely at what had appeared to be a sentient kind of liquid, undulating in a closed jar, when she noticed two great, earthy brown eyes peering through the same jar on it’s opposite side.

She did not scream (she was, afterall, very brave – which she knew to be true, because everyone in her family had said so), but rather gasped sharply and covered her mouth to avoid more sounds coming out of it, and stepped to the side so she could see clearly to whom the eyes belonged. A boy.

A Vulcan boy.

She almost stated this very fact. She had the impulse to state a great many facts just then, because she knew more about the planet Vulcan than anyone in her class.

Even Junior Thomas, who claimed he knew everything and he didn’t even know the difference between the Vulcan Ambassador to Earth, Sarek, and Surak the Vulcan who (as she believed) invented logic. He was so stupid. And she was right. And she should say it. And she did. And then sometimes her teacher had to write a letter home to her mother for being unkind.

She resisted sharing any of this information with him with a tremendous effort on her part, for she was profoundly curious and fascinated by a great many and all things Vulcan, as it was one of her most favorite subjects in the whole galaxy to discuss with anyone willing to listen (and very occasionally the unwilling). She had only ever even seen, in person, a very few Vulcans and normally they were there to have very serious and grown-up conversations with her parents.

Vulcans were very grown up.

The boy hadn’t even spoken and she could tell that he was very grown up.

“Hi!” She winced, noting the over excitement in her own voice.

“Hello,” she began again, a little more seriously, in an attempt to try and sound more adult.

“My name is Nyota Uhura and three facts about me are that I really love space, Carl Sagan is my favorite scientist, and I just turned nine years old.”

Gingerly, Nyota rocked on the balls of her feet hoping with a great tremendous leap of her heart that he would be interested in looking at the Carl Sagan hardcover book in her backpack, complete with full color pages of planets. It was a very old book that her grandfather gave her for her birthday and it was currently her third most favorite thing she owned.

@fasciinating

@wcrpbubble

I've never played a more perfect card in the 10 years I've been playing this game

If you use an AI program to write your replies why the fuck are you even in the PRC?

                      ⸻ LIVE LONG & PROSPER.

𝙲𝙾𝙼𝙼𝙰𝙽𝙳𝙴𝚁 𝙼𝙸𝙲𝙷𝙰𝙴𝙻 𝙱𝚄𝚁𝙽𝙷𝙰𝙼

ᴛʜᴇ ꜰɪʀsᴛ ᴍᴜᴛɪɴᴇᴇʀ ᴏꜰ sᴛᴀʀꜰʟᴇᴇᴛ

𝑻𝑯𝑬 𝑭𝑰𝑵𝑨𝑳 𝑺𝑷𝑨𝑪𝑬 𝑶𝑫𝒀𝑬𝑺𝑺𝒀 𝑜𝑓 𝑴𝑰𝑪𝑯𝑨𝑬𝑳 𝑩𝑼𝑹𝑵𝑯𝑨𝑴 - 𝑎 𝑠𝑡𝑜𝑟𝑦 𝑠𝑢𝑛𝑔 𝑖𝑛 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑘𝑒𝑦 𝑜𝑓 𝑟𝑒𝑑 𝑓𝑎𝑐𝑒𝑑 𝑠𝑐𝑟𝑒𝑎𝑚𝑖𝑛𝑔 & 𝑒𝑚𝑜𝑡𝑖𝑜𝑛𝑎𝑙 𝑟ℎ𝑎𝑝𝑠𝑜𝑑𝑦；𝑎 𝑡𝑎𝑙𝑒 𝑤ℎ𝑖𝑠𝑝𝑒𝑟𝑒𝑑 𝑖𝑛 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑠𝑝𝑎𝑐𝑒𝑠 𝑏𝑒𝑡𝑤𝑒𝑒𝑛 𝑓𝑎𝑙𝑠𝑒 𝑝𝑟𝑒𝑡𝑒𝑛𝑠𝑒𝑠．

．．．𝑙𝑒𝑡’𝑠 𝑓𝑙𝑦

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－ 𝘛𝘩𝘦𝘳𝘦 𝘸𝘢𝘴 𝘢 𝘩𝘰𝘭𝘦 𝘪𝘯 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘱𝘭𝘢𝘤𝘦 𝘩𝘦 𝘰𝘯𝘤𝘦 𝘰𝘤𝘤𝘶𝘱𝘪𝘦𝘥； 𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘴𝘱𝘢𝘤𝘦 𝘪𝘯 𝘩𝘦𝘳 𝘭𝘪𝘧𝘦 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘴𝘩𝘦 𝘢𝘷𝘰𝘪𝘥𝘢𝘯𝘵𝘭𝘺 𝘸𝘢𝘭𝘬𝘦𝘥 𝘢𝘳𝘰𝘶𝘯𝘥． 𝘖𝘯𝘤𝘦 𝘦𝘹𝘪𝘴𝘵𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘢𝘴 𝘢 𝘷𝘪𝘣𝘳𝘢𝘯𝘵 𝘴𝘸𝘢𝘵𝘩 𝘰𝘧 𝘳𝘦𝘥； 𝘣𝘳𝘪𝘨𝘩𝘵 𝘸𝘪𝘵𝘩 𝘤𝘶𝘳𝘪𝘰𝘴𝘪𝘵𝘺 𝘪𝘯 𝘦𝘺𝘦𝘴 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘢𝘭𝘸𝘢𝘺𝘴 𝘣𝘦𝘵𝘳𝘢𝘺𝘦𝘥 𝘵𝘰𝘰 𝘮𝘢𝘯𝘺 𝘦𝘮𝘰𝘵𝘪𝘰𝘯𝘴 – 𝘰𝘯𝘦𝘴 𝘩𝘦 𝘩𝘢𝘥 𝘤𝘭𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘳𝘭𝘺 𝘳𝘢𝘵𝘪𝘰𝘯𝘢𝘭𝘪𝘻𝘦𝘥 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘴𝘵𝘢𝘮𝘱𝘦𝘥 𝘥𝘰𝘸𝘯 – 𝘚𝘱𝘰𝘤𝘬 𝘯𝘰𝘸 𝘴𝘵𝘰𝘰𝘥 𝘣𝘦𝘧𝘰𝘳𝘦 𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘴𝘪𝘴𝘵𝘦𝘳 𝘴𝘰𝘮𝘦𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘰𝘧 𝘢 𝘴𝘩𝘢𝘥𝘰𝘸．

HER BROTHER HAD LOOKED HOLLOWED OUT.

𝘓𝘰𝘴𝘵 𝘵𝘰 𝘔𝘪𝘤𝘩𝘢𝘦𝘭 𝘸𝘢𝘴 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘣𝘰𝘺 𝘸𝘩𝘰 𝘤𝘢𝘮𝘦 𝘵𝘰 𝘴𝘢𝘷𝘦 𝘩𝘦𝘳 𝘪𝘯 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘥𝘦𝘴𝘦𝘳𝘵； 𝘴𝘵𝘰𝘭𝘦𝘯 𝘣𝘺 𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘮𝘢𝘯， 𝘣𝘶𝘳𝘯𝘦𝘥 𝘴𝘰 𝘷𝘪𝘰𝘭𝘦𝘯𝘵𝘭𝘺 𝘣𝘺 𝘭𝘰𝘴𝘴 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘴𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘪𝘯 𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘣𝘭𝘰𝘰𝘥 𝘸𝘢𝘴 𝘵𝘶𝘳𝘯𝘦𝘥 𝘵𝘰 𝘫𝘢𝘨𝘨𝘦𝘥 𝘣𝘪𝘵𝘴 𝘰𝘧 𝘨𝘭𝘢𝘴𝘴 – 𝘣𝘭𝘦𝘦𝘥𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘩𝘪𝘮 𝘧𝘳𝘰𝘮 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘪𝘯𝘴𝘪𝘥𝘦．

𝘚𝘱𝘰𝘤𝘬 𝘰𝘯𝘤𝘦 𝘸𝘢𝘴 𝘭𝘪𝘨𝘩𝘵， 𝘴𝘵𝘦𝘢𝘥𝘺 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘣𝘳𝘪𝘨𝘩𝘵 – 𝘢𝘴 𝘵𝘳𝘶𝘦 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘢𝘴 𝘳𝘦𝘥 𝘢𝘴 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘴𝘬𝘪𝘦𝘴 𝘢𝘣𝘰𝘷𝘦 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘤𝘳𝘰𝘸𝘯 𝘰𝘧 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘪𝘳 𝘩𝘦𝘢𝘥𝘴 ． ． ．

𝘚𝘬𝘪𝘦𝘴 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘳𝘢𝘨𝘦𝘥 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘣𝘶𝘳𝘯𝘦𝘥， 𝘣𝘶𝘵 𝘯𝘰𝘸 𝘴𝘸𝘢𝘭𝘭𝘰𝘸𝘦𝘥 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘭𝘰𝘴𝘵 𝘵𝘰 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘦𝘵𝘦𝘳𝘯𝘪𝘵𝘺 𝘰𝘧 𝘢 𝘴𝘤𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘮𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘷𝘰𝘪𝘥； 𝘢 𝘱𝘭𝘢𝘤𝘦 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘧𝘦𝘭𝘵 𝘯𝘰𝘵 𝘶𝘯𝘭𝘪𝘬𝘦 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘩𝘰𝘭𝘦 𝘚𝘱𝘰𝘤𝘬 𝘭𝘦𝘧𝘵 𝘣𝘰𝘳𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘳𝘪𝘨𝘩𝘵 𝘵𝘩𝘳𝘰𝘶𝘨𝘩 𝘩𝘦𝘳 𝘮𝘪𝘥𝘥𝘭𝘦， 𝘔𝘪𝘤𝘩𝘢𝘦𝘭 𝘸𝘢𝘴 𝘴𝘪𝘮𝘱𝘭𝘺 𝘢𝘧𝘧𝘰𝘳𝘥𝘦𝘥 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘱𝘳𝘪𝘷𝘪𝘭𝘦𝘨𝘦 𝘰𝘧 𝘩𝘢𝘷𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘯𝘰𝘵 𝘧𝘦𝘭𝘵 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘭𝘰𝘴𝘴 𝘰𝘧 𝘢𝘯 𝘦𝘯𝘵𝘪𝘳𝘦 𝘸𝘰𝘳𝘭𝘥 𝘴𝘪𝘹 𝘣𝘪𝘭𝘭𝘪𝘰𝘯 𝘵𝘪𝘮𝘦𝘴 𝘰𝘷𝘦𝘳 –

- AND OVER.

𝘛𝘩𝘰𝘶𝘨𝘩 𝘪𝘵 𝘸𝘢𝘴 𝘱𝘦𝘳𝘩𝘢𝘱𝘴 𝘮𝘰𝘳𝘦 𝘢𝘱𝘵𝘭𝘺 𝘱𝘶𝘵 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘪𝘵 𝘸𝘢𝘴 𝘢 𝘱𝘭𝘢𝘤𝘦 𝘸𝘩𝘦𝘳𝘦 𝘔𝘪𝘤𝘩𝘢𝘦𝘭 𝘩𝘢𝘥 𝘤𝘢𝘳𝘷𝘦𝘥 𝘩𝘦𝘳 𝘣𝘳𝘰𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘳 𝘧𝘳𝘰𝘮 𝘩𝘦𝘳 𝘩𝘦𝘢𝘳𝘵； 𝘭𝘦𝘵𝘵𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘪𝘵 𝘣𝘭𝘦𝘦𝘥 𝘰𝘶𝘵 𝘰𝘷𝘦𝘳 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘳𝘦𝘥 𝘴𝘢𝘯𝘥𝘴 𝘰𝘧 𝘢 𝘱𝘭𝘢𝘤𝘦 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘺 𝘰𝘯𝘤𝘦 𝘤𝘢𝘭𝘭𝘦𝘥 𝘩𝘰𝘮𝘦．

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ɪɴᴅɪᴇ . ᴅɪᴠᴇʀɢᴇɴᴛ . sᴇʟᴇᴄᴛɪᴠᴇ . ᴄʀᴏssᴏᴠᴇʀ/ᴏᴄ ꜰʀɪᴇɴᴅʟʏ . ᴛᴡᴇɴᴛʏ+