SULU.
“ yes, sir. ” a nod, before he turns to face the viewscreen.
like a slow chord in a piece well rehearsed, fingers reach and press with steady rhythm. he plays that tune with natural gift — instinct, and a comfort in which he’s settled in. eyes sharp, the pilot looks ahead. not long now.
maneuver critical ; numbers illuminate the corner of screen — the russian waits, his hands steady. his voice is calm ; soothing in a sense. he gives the orders : impulse then, and the use of thrusters. now. he’ll handle it from here.
breath comes, and not a moment too early, or late. shoulder loosen from their tense form as he stabilises her behind the moon. a success. and he nods towards the navigator. good job. head turns then, towards the captain. expecting, almost.
“ — i’m with you? ”
AS GENTLE AS EXPECTED. fingers splay across a hand rest , body pushed from the captain’s chair with ease. a fluid movement , ANTICIPATION runs cool shivers down his body. an almost FOREIGN FIXATION. he can only withhold seeping vexation for so long , before it bursts from vulcan veins and suffocates surroundings within an unbridled grip. A QUESTION reels him back in , an expecting beckon. it was illogical to pursue vengeful thoughts ——– a duty , ACTING CAPTAIN , called to him.
‘ yes , mr . sulu. i have heard of your combat experience. should we need to defend ourselves , your assistance will be of great help. captain kirk should return shortly ——– mr . chekov will alert of our depart. ‘ a nod towards sulu is all he offers , his steps readily carrying him to the transport room.