The mess hall hummed with the usual chatter of the crew, the clatter of trays and utensils blending with the low murmur of conversations. You sat with the rest of the team at your usual table, the familiar faces of Uhura, Sulu, Chekov, Kirk, McCoy, Scotty, and Spock around you. The table was a mix of easy banter and unspoken tension, the latter lingering in the air like an uncomfortable weight. The last few weeks had been... difficult. The crew member who had been ridiculing Spock for so long had only grown bolder after Captain Kirk’s warning. You could feel it, the strain, the tiny cracks in the camaraderie, the uneasy quiet that would fall whenever the topic of Spock came up.

Spock himself, ever the stoic Vulcan, kept his distance from the rising undercurrent of hostility. His calm demeanor was unbroken, but you knew better than to think he wasn’t affected. His gaze occasionally flicked to you—just enough to remind you that he was there, that he was still watching, even if he wasn’t showing it. Uhura, always perceptive, gave you an occasional glance, her brow furrowed in concern. McCoy was grumbling about something—probably one of Scotty’s latest engineering mishaps—and Kirk was his usual confident self, attempting to keep things light, but you could see the exhaustion in his eyes too.

And then there was him. That crew member. The one whose words were getting worse with each passing day. As he passed your table, muttering another of his vile comments about Spock, something in you snapped. The tension, the frustration, the helplessness of watching your friend endure this... It all boiled over.