[The Enterprise, lower engineering decks] [Open]
The lower engineering decks of the Enterprise were empty, silent except for the low, distant hum of the ship's life support systems.
Until the silence was broken, in a brilliant flash of light, by a loud thump, quickly followed by the anachronistic rumblings of a combustion vehicle's engines.
More specifically, those of a classic 1967 Buick Riviera, which now stood amongst the gleaming, state-of-the art 23rd century technology, sticking out like a sore thumb.
The Enterprise's air filtration system picked up a notch do deal with the unexpected clouds of exhaust smoke that suddenly filled its interior.
Inside said Buick, Leonard Nimoy, actor, writer, photographer, slowly began to open his eyes. The impact had slammed him straight against the car's window, leaving him a little dizzy, and more than a little confused, head still spinning from the abrupt displacement.
He looked at the man he'd been about to kiss before everything had turned white. Blinked and shook his head, as if that would dispel the vision in front of him.
It didn't. Bill was still Bill, alright. But where, a second ago, his seventy-eight years on earth had been clearly visible in every line on his face, he now looked precisely as he had when Leonard first laid eyes upon him, forty-three years ago, on the set of Star Trek.
Leonard's jaw dropped in amazement. And then, for the second time in one day, his own voice ringing oddly unfamiliar in his ears, he expressed his feelings on the matter in the only way he could:
"What the FUCK?!"
Until the silence was broken, in a brilliant flash of light, by a loud thump, quickly followed by the anachronistic rumblings of a combustion vehicle's engines.
More specifically, those of a classic 1967 Buick Riviera, which now stood amongst the gleaming, state-of-the art 23rd century technology, sticking out like a sore thumb.
The Enterprise's air filtration system picked up a notch do deal with the unexpected clouds of exhaust smoke that suddenly filled its interior.
Inside said Buick, Leonard Nimoy, actor, writer, photographer, slowly began to open his eyes. The impact had slammed him straight against the car's window, leaving him a little dizzy, and more than a little confused, head still spinning from the abrupt displacement.
He looked at the man he'd been about to kiss before everything had turned white. Blinked and shook his head, as if that would dispel the vision in front of him.
It didn't. Bill was still Bill, alright. But where, a second ago, his seventy-eight years on earth had been clearly visible in every line on his face, he now looked precisely as he had when Leonard first laid eyes upon him, forty-three years ago, on the set of Star Trek.
Leonard's jaw dropped in amazement. And then, for the second time in one day, his own voice ringing oddly unfamiliar in his ears, he expressed his feelings on the matter in the only way he could:
"What the FUCK?!"