Nobody exactly expects command to drop on them straight out of academy, but I like it. Maybe it's destiny, with everything the older Spock told us before he clamped the lid on that timeline. I don't know. I'd like to think I'd tell destiny to shove it if it wasn't going my way.

But it is.

I've got a knack. People need a captain who can bend the rules, break them, when it really matters. When the pointless red tape starts to wrap around and choke. Spock disagrees totally. That's how I know I'm right.

I love command. I hate the filler work. Seriously, if that Yeoman brings me another thing to sign this shift, she and I are walking down to the nearest airlock and sending the thing on a cold, lonely mission.

Then maybe she'll let me walk her home.

Eh. She doesn't come back. That thought had gone from nails raking chalkboard to pretty interesting in a few seconds' fantasy, but no joy.

Maybe I'll bother Spock.

"What are you doing, anyway?"

He's sitting at a console, absorbed in something. No answer. It's quiet. I know he heard me.

"Spock."

"Captain?" It's testy. Oh, don't give me 'Vulcans don't get testy.' This one does.

"What are you doing?"

"Attempting to reconstruct something from memory."

It's like playing the 'Why' game. No reason an adult can't indulge now and then.

"What?"

"A rogue transmission that has eluded trace. You will receive my full report along with--"

"No. No more reports. Let me see." Up out of the chair I come. The helmsman's ducking a grin, and I don't mind. A good game of Poke the Vulcan needs spectators. I didn't know it was possible for Spock to get even stiffer, but there he goes.

"...if you insist," he sighs as I lean over him, and yes. Yes, I insist. He adjusts the display, letting me see the whole thing. Looks like someone sneezed the letters onto the screen. He's having to draw, not type. There's only a few lines, or hundreds, depending on how you look.

"I can almost make out..." English.

My head feels a little fuzzy for a second. The screen blurs. I lean in further. Squint. Blurring it.

"I'm very captainly in real life," someone whispers. ...might've been me.

"Clarify, sir?" Spock's looking at me for that one. I don't know why I feel sick. Head's swimming.

Why's he looking at me? Out of the corner of my eye, whatever he's drawn almost seems like it's... crawling.

"'Real life', Captain?"

I rub the back of my neck.

"Are you all right?"

I blink. No idea why I've got a fuzzy head. Might be better off if that Yeoman doesn't come back; if anything else is fuzzy, my rep would go up in flames.

"Think I'm a little... short on sleep. Sorry, Spock."

Yeah, yeah. Look surprised, Spock. Sometimes I have to drop an apology in there. Keeps him on his toes.