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The worst part was that every fibre in me was screaming at me to do something.


I knew I couldn't.


I could see him there, on the other side of the glass, living and breathing still. I couldn't process the fact that I needed to just sit there, sit while he went from alive to dead. Sit and be useless. The concept of not saving him was utterly alien to me.


I knew I couldn't.


My legs collapsed from under me. I needed to scream at something, I needed something to scream at me, to hit me, break me, anything to stop this, this... stasis. The bile rose in my throat. I needed something to fight against, something to rage against. I felt like I was falling, clutching at the emptiness, powerless to stop myself, this.


All I could do was put my fingers as close to his as I could get on the other side of this screen, right there but in a place I could not reach. I made myself keep talking, but I couldn't even remember what I was saying as I said it, let alone make it be what I needed to say to him, what I'd always needed to say to him.


Something inside me stretched, stretched... and it snapped. He was slipping away, and there was that sudden final feeling of panic, of you can save him, you can save him, think of something, just break the glass and hold him, get him out of there, anything... and then it really was too late. Gone.


He had saved us all, of course he had. But his body was that cold few inches away from me, through the glass, alone, not Spock any more. I had failed, though the main part of me didn't quite believe that at the time. It was an impossibility, it couldn't be...


There was no Spock anymore.



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