Fic: "Fear, Itself" (1/?) ST:XI/Doom Xover, R
An ST:XI/Doom crossover, written per 
vinniebatman's prompts. The awesomeness of this idea is all hers. I'm just filling in the little details to the best of my ability.
Fear, Itself (1/?)
Author:
beetle_comma_the
Fandom: ST:XI/Doom
Pairing: Eventually McCoy/Chekov, Spock/Kirk, but other pairings, as well.
Rating: R, so far
Notes/Warnings: Set post ST:XI by three years. Spoilers for ST:XI and for Doom. Violence.
Summary: The crew gets more than they bargained for on Leave.
Spock jogs deeper into the oldest part of the city, on the Captain's trail.
He has no way of knowing for sure which way the Captain ran, but his . . . instinct . . . tells him which turns to take and which to pass by. He slips through crowds of curious V'Plenniak, most with brightly dyed fur and tails, and the gaudy gold jewelry they seem to favor. But eventually, with some distance from the city center, the crowds thin and he finds himself in the suspiciously empty Old Warehouse District.
The V'Plenniak ambassador had discouraged the crew from leaving the city-proper for the out-lying suburbs or the Southern Sector, of which the Old Warehouse District was the largest part. It's one of the few places on V'Plenniak 5 that are a haven of civil unrest, home to crime, gangs, corruption, and, as the Captain calls them, 'Luddites.'
Spock is, above all else, a realist. To those inclined to live outside the law, even among the largely upright V'Plenniak, a high ranking Starfleet officer would be too tempting a target to pass up. The Captain, all unwitting, is probably running straight into the ungentle arms of kidnappers.
Worry and fear bubble up within Spock, too powerful to control. Not fear of the V'Plenniak, who nearly match Vulcans for physical strength, despite their modest stature (any two of them would be more than enough to overwhelm Spock). He fears only for the Captain who, in the middle of a discussion about the wares of a surly rug dealer, had suddenly looked as if he thought his life might be in danger and run off.
At first, thinking the Captain's actions were part of some obscure Human prank, Spock had refused to play along. But as minutes passed without the Captain's return, he began to grow . . . concerned.
The Captain's trail had been easy enough to follow using this logic: there was an easy-to-follow trail of surprised and amused V'Plenniak talking about the H'ooman bolting through their midst. Spock had supposed, with a dry sort of a amusement that briefly cut through his concern, that they'd soon enough be saying the same about him.
It wasn't until the environs of shops and townhouses grew more shabby and less populated, then turned into factories in various states of (dis)repair, that Spock remembered what the ambassador had warned about this Sector, and just what could happen to an unchaperoned, trouble-prone captain in an alien city. Especially in an unreasoning state of panic such as the one the Captain had exhibited.
Why the Captain should become so suddenly . . . frightened, and seemingly of Spock, is baffling. But the fear he'd seen in the Captain's eyes, in retrospect, was so unfamiliar, so incongruous, that it could be nothing but sincere. The Captain, for whatever reason, was mortally afraid of Spock. Why such a thing should be-and Spock has his suspicions about what's responsible for that fear, oh, yes-will have to wait until he can get the Captain back to safety. Preferably aboard the Enterprise, and under the care of Dr. McCoy.
There's a sudden shout, not too distant, but farther away than Spock prefers, since he's certain that the shout is none other than the Captain's.
Unable to prevent it, Spock experiences a surge of random rage that burns reason from his brain like sun burns off morning fog. It intensifies until his very vision is tinged slightly green.
He will not let his captain be harmed by these . . . giant, rainbow-colored lemurs, as the Captain tends to describe them. He will not let them so much as touch his Captain.
More turns that are as random as the Captain can be, and Spock knows he's on the right trail, because he can practically smell a mixture of sweat, fear, and sandalwood. The Captain should never smell of fear, and these V'Plenniak are responsible, Spock is certain of it-and that spurs him on faster. He means to catch up with the Captain and find someplace both hidden and defensible. And then. . . .
Spock is uncertain what then, only that he must find and protect the Captain-Jim before it's too late.
*
Jim runs and runs till it feels like his lungs are about to explode.
Then he runs some more.
He can feel the eyes of the V'Plenniak on him as he zips through the milling, brightly-colored crowds of Yranak, their capital city, uncertain of where he's running to, just that he has to run.
From him.
He takes turns at random-being unpredictable is his specialty-until he's in a part of the city he recognizes from his own briefing as the Old Warehouse District, which is largely unused and a haven for gang-related crime. It's also a place the V'Plenniak Ambassador had warned his "new and exciting alien friends" to avoid if unchaperoned.
James T. Kirk is most definitely unchaperoned.
Sweating and panting, he stops at a street that branches off in two directions. One leads toward another square where he can just make out more of the multicolored crowds he'd just left behind. The other way leads deeper into the Old Warehouse District.
Well, shit, he thinks, torn. Then he's running again, looking for a place to hide, gang members be damned. The day Jim can't defend himself against some hoodlums (hoodlums much like he used to be and hang around with) is the day he lays down and dies.
Frankly, anything would be better than facing him. Having to face the betrayal implied by that look in his eyes. . . .
And so, Jim runs. He runs until one false step causes him to turn his ankle in a way it was never meant to go. He shouts, dropping to one knee, tearing his trousers and skinning his knee in the process. Then he kneels there, panting and shaking, until a distant burst of chittering laughter sounds. It's V'Plenniak in nature, but more darkly amused than their laughter tends to be. They are, for the most part, a brightly-colored, simple-seeming people. They tend to wear their hearts on what passes for their sleeves, and deception is relatively unheard of among them.
But there is, Jim knows, a difference between relatively and completely. So who knows how many V'Plenniak he has conspiring with him? They may be closing in on him-surrounding him even as he kneels here, favoring a silly sprained ankle. . . .
Still, it's several minutes before he can bear to put any weight on the ankle, and when he can, he limps onward, deeper into the maze-like warren that is the Southern Sector. He can feel him out there, somewhere, getting closer, murder or mutiny on his mind. Jim is tempted to contact Enterprise, but who knows how many of the crew might be conspiring against him? Who else could be siding with him?
Sulu and Scotty wouldn't. Uhura . . . is a coin toss. She and Spock have been broken up for nearly a year, but her feelings for him and vice versa probably still run deep.
Jim knows he could definitely count on Bones, but Bones is somewhere in Yranak-possibly being hunted himself. His unwavering loyalty to Jim may see him hurt, or worse.
A burst of rage and hatred of him, and fear for Bones gives Jim the energy, if not the speed to limp on despite his screaming ankle. But in a continuing streak of his amazing luck thus far, another random turn puts him in an equally random cul-de-sac with a wall higher than Jim could boost himself over even without a bum ankle.
"Shit-shit-shit," he mutters, backing up, meaning to find his way back to the branching street and to the square he passed. Not that he thinks to lose himself in the crowd, but at least he'd be able to puts some bodies between he and-
"Captain."
Jim whirls around, then starts backing up in the other direction. Spock advances, a sweating, disheveled mess. His face is a deepish olive-green from exertion and his eyes are very, very dark. Turbulent with some emotion Jim couldn't put a name to.
"I know what you want, but you're not gonna get it," he tells Spock in a voice that doesn't shake even though the rest of him does. "Not even over my cold, dead body."
Spock turns greener for a moment-even looks confused. Then his complexion and expression even out. "What I want is to get you back to the Enterprise. It is not safe for you to be here alone, Captain."
"What-and it's safe with you?" Jim snorts, his heart racing in time with the throbbing in his ankle and the stitch in his side. "I don't think so. So you can go fuck yourself, because you're not getting Enterprise. Ever. She's mine."
Spock blinks, and the Infernal Eyebrow, as Bones calls it, raises. "Captain, neither I nor anyone else have any interest in taking the Enterprise from you. You are thinking irrationally, and I believe the reason may be-"
"Don't bullshit a bullshitter, Spock. I've seen that look in your eyes before, that . . . possessive, take-no-prisoners look," Jim seethes as his back hits the wall. He hadn't even realized that he was still backing up. Or that Spock was still advancing. "During the Narada Incident, when your security team caught Scotty and me in the engine room, and frog-marched us to the bridge . . . I thought you were gonna kill me. Is that what you're willing to do to get the Enterprise back?"
"Captain, I have no wish to command the Enterprise again," Spock says softly. "Nor do I wish to harm you."
"Then why're you chasing me? If you don't want my ship, or want me dead, why the hell won't you leave me alone?" Jim demands.
The Eyebrow, again. "Because I believe you are unwell, and it is neither in your best interest, nor in Starfleet's to let you wander around the streets of a foreign city in your state."
"And what state would I be in, exactly?"
"Fear. And extreme paranoia."
Jim laughs raggedly, his hands braced on the crumbly wall behind him. He has little chance of evading Spock in a dead-end, but he means to be ready should such an unlikely possibility present itself. "Just because I'm paranoid doesn't mean you're not after me. The two aren't mutually exclusive."
Spock inclines his head, conceding the point. "But fear, Captain? After three years, do you really fear me?"
"I-" Jim frowns. "I don't trust you."
For a moment, he could swear Spock looks . . . hurt. Which doesn't jibe with what Jim's instinct has been shrilling at him since the marketplace. If Spock were as cold-blooded as he'd seemed in that eternal moment, then Jim's distrust shouldn't phase him at all. It could only be expected, in fact.
It doesn't add up at all, but it doesn't have to. Questions and answers can wait until Jim is back on the Enterprise and Spock's in the brig.
In the meantime, Spock steps closer still and Jim presses back against the wall, ready to dodge past and hobble out of the alley as quickly as he can. Which isn't going to net him much, seeing as he's half-lame and Spock has all that Vulcan speed and strength on his side.
But Jim won't go down without a fight. He refuses to make it easy for the bastard.
"I have no wish to harm you, Captain," Spock says again, his arms out as if to block Jim from darting around him, his eyes focused and intent. He's only a few feet away, now, and moving closer still. "Let me prove it to you."
"You can't!" Jim fakes left, dodges right, and gets grabbed around the waist and slammed back against the wall for his troubles. The wind is knocked completely out of him and he coughs, groaning and about to double over so he can retch up everything he's ever eaten. But Spock is holding him upright, trying to make eye-contact.
"Get it over with," Jim pants outs, avoiding whatever there is to be seen in Spock's eyes. "Do it and have done."
Spock's brow creases and he seems like he's about to reply. Then he hangs his head for a moment, dark hair obscuring darker eyes.
When he looks up at Jim again, he smiles-actually smiles, in itself a disturbing, disturbing thing-then raises his hand almost faster than Jim can process.
And likewise, almost before Jim even has time to recognize the difference between the backhand he expects, and the butterfly-light finger-patterning on his face he gets, he's gone. Lost in the dark intensity of the meld.
*
H'oomans are, Grantha Ebdelak the de facto leader of V'Plenniak First decides, hideous things.
Tall, narrow, and almost bald, pigmented in various shades of brown, and completely lacking in anything resembling a tail, they're oddness personified. The planet they evolved on, E'Arth (even their planet is oddly named) must be even odder than they are. Grantha shudders at the thought of such strangeness tainting his people.
But whatever else these H'oomans are, they're certainly easy to round up after a dose of Kellemak 856. It'd been difficult to countenance Dr. Korvak's claims that the illegal-but-plentiful airborne spore which, when distilled, made the V'Plenniak higher than silak on its mating flight, creates quite the opposite reaction in the H'oomans. Instead of mellow euphoria, it causes hallucinations, paranoia, extreme fear, and, in strong enough doses, a psychotic break with reality.
("Don't ask me how I know," Korva had said shiftily, her eyes everywhere but Grantha's face. "But it's even more fascinating in practice than in theory. At least until the H'ooman attempts tp kill itself."
Grantha had grabbed the doctor by her piebald, wattled neck and hauled her close. "But that's not going to happen with these H'oomans, correct?" Korva shook her head no so fast, it seemed in danger of falling off her neck. "Good. The plan is to make an example of them by killing them publicly, not by presenting the Federation with an unexplained mass suicide.")
Thankfully, the good doctor had managed to get the doses just right. The H'oomans' paranoia and fear made them easy to herd. Grantha's second in command Renik had intercepted three of them cowering together in an alley near the East Sector of Yranak. Grantha, himself, caught two just on the edge of the Old Warehouse District and the aptly-named Undertown. The rest of the Firsters had averaged one or two H'oomans each between them.
Now, looking over their pitiful red, gold, and blue-clad catch, Grantha huffs. The H'oomans are all huddled together, jibbering about whatever insane dreams trouble their waking. Their murmurs, cries, and occasional screams rebound off the walls of the abandoned warehouse that is the Firster headquarters, but the bought cooperation of the local gangs has ensured that there will be no one to hear the screams, let alone investigate them.
Everything's come together according to plan.
At least Grantha thinks so until Ossik, Ula, and Todok come in dragging one flailing, wailing H'ooman, and one very still body.
"Sir," Ula says in her chittering voice. Her fur is standing up, making her seem nearly twice the size she actually is. "We think this one-" she nods at the wailing H'ooman, who gets shaken roughly by Ossik. "Is their leader. This one-" a nod at the body she and Todok dragged in "-must be its mate, for the fight he put up when we tried to grab the other one."
"Hmm." Grantha strokes his magenta chin-fur, making a mental note to mention this to Korva. Such information would make her day, and more importantly might serve the Firsters in the future. "Is it dead, Ula?"
"No, sir. But we had to beat it unconscious to subdue it. This one's been howling like a skinned delesk ever since." Ula shrugs, her fur fluffing out even more.
Grantha paces over to the unconscious H'ooman and looks it over: dark head-fur lays straight across a narrow brow, but doesn't cover sharply pointed ears. "This one's ears are different-"
The wailing H'ooman tries to break free when Grantha reaches out to examine an ear. He's screaming something in silly, slippery H'ooman-tongue, his sky-colored eyes murderous with rage and frustration.
"How quaint," Grantha sneers, deliberately poking the unconscious H'ooman's ear. It doesn't so much as twitch, but its leader-mate loses its head completely, thrashing, trying to break free. Ossik rolls his eyes and casually backhands the H'ooman. When it sags, also unconscious, he hisses laughter and drops the H'ooman to the floor like garbage.
"Weaklings," he churrs. "And they think to impose their laws on us."
"Not for long, they won't. Once we make an example of these ones," Todok grumbles. He's a man of few words, but when he does speak, it's always the plain truth, which Grantha respects.
Odd aliens from an odd world, bringing oddness to V'Plenniak . . . it's not to be tolerated. Todok is indeed correct: these Humans will make a fine example.
TBC
vinniebatman's prompts. The awesomeness of this idea is all hers. I'm just filling in the little details to the best of my ability.
Fear, Itself (1/?)
Author:
beetle_comma_the
Fandom: ST:XI/Doom
Pairing: Eventually McCoy/Chekov, Spock/Kirk, but other pairings, as well.
Rating: R, so far
Notes/Warnings: Set post ST:XI by three years. Spoilers for ST:XI and for Doom. Violence.
Summary: The crew gets more than they bargained for on Leave.
Spock jogs deeper into the oldest part of the city, on the Captain's trail.
He has no way of knowing for sure which way the Captain ran, but his . . . instinct . . . tells him which turns to take and which to pass by. He slips through crowds of curious V'Plenniak, most with brightly dyed fur and tails, and the gaudy gold jewelry they seem to favor. But eventually, with some distance from the city center, the crowds thin and he finds himself in the suspiciously empty Old Warehouse District.
The V'Plenniak ambassador had discouraged the crew from leaving the city-proper for the out-lying suburbs or the Southern Sector, of which the Old Warehouse District was the largest part. It's one of the few places on V'Plenniak 5 that are a haven of civil unrest, home to crime, gangs, corruption, and, as the Captain calls them, 'Luddites.'
Spock is, above all else, a realist. To those inclined to live outside the law, even among the largely upright V'Plenniak, a high ranking Starfleet officer would be too tempting a target to pass up. The Captain, all unwitting, is probably running straight into the ungentle arms of kidnappers.
Worry and fear bubble up within Spock, too powerful to control. Not fear of the V'Plenniak, who nearly match Vulcans for physical strength, despite their modest stature (any two of them would be more than enough to overwhelm Spock). He fears only for the Captain who, in the middle of a discussion about the wares of a surly rug dealer, had suddenly looked as if he thought his life might be in danger and run off.
At first, thinking the Captain's actions were part of some obscure Human prank, Spock had refused to play along. But as minutes passed without the Captain's return, he began to grow . . . concerned.
The Captain's trail had been easy enough to follow using this logic: there was an easy-to-follow trail of surprised and amused V'Plenniak talking about the H'ooman bolting through their midst. Spock had supposed, with a dry sort of a amusement that briefly cut through his concern, that they'd soon enough be saying the same about him.
It wasn't until the environs of shops and townhouses grew more shabby and less populated, then turned into factories in various states of (dis)repair, that Spock remembered what the ambassador had warned about this Sector, and just what could happen to an unchaperoned, trouble-prone captain in an alien city. Especially in an unreasoning state of panic such as the one the Captain had exhibited.
Why the Captain should become so suddenly . . . frightened, and seemingly of Spock, is baffling. But the fear he'd seen in the Captain's eyes, in retrospect, was so unfamiliar, so incongruous, that it could be nothing but sincere. The Captain, for whatever reason, was mortally afraid of Spock. Why such a thing should be-and Spock has his suspicions about what's responsible for that fear, oh, yes-will have to wait until he can get the Captain back to safety. Preferably aboard the Enterprise, and under the care of Dr. McCoy.
There's a sudden shout, not too distant, but farther away than Spock prefers, since he's certain that the shout is none other than the Captain's.
Unable to prevent it, Spock experiences a surge of random rage that burns reason from his brain like sun burns off morning fog. It intensifies until his very vision is tinged slightly green.
He will not let his captain be harmed by these . . . giant, rainbow-colored lemurs, as the Captain tends to describe them. He will not let them so much as touch his Captain.
More turns that are as random as the Captain can be, and Spock knows he's on the right trail, because he can practically smell a mixture of sweat, fear, and sandalwood. The Captain should never smell of fear, and these V'Plenniak are responsible, Spock is certain of it-and that spurs him on faster. He means to catch up with the Captain and find someplace both hidden and defensible. And then. . . .
Spock is uncertain what then, only that he must find and protect the Captain-Jim before it's too late.
*
Jim runs and runs till it feels like his lungs are about to explode.
Then he runs some more.
He can feel the eyes of the V'Plenniak on him as he zips through the milling, brightly-colored crowds of Yranak, their capital city, uncertain of where he's running to, just that he has to run.
From him.
He takes turns at random-being unpredictable is his specialty-until he's in a part of the city he recognizes from his own briefing as the Old Warehouse District, which is largely unused and a haven for gang-related crime. It's also a place the V'Plenniak Ambassador had warned his "new and exciting alien friends" to avoid if unchaperoned.
James T. Kirk is most definitely unchaperoned.
Sweating and panting, he stops at a street that branches off in two directions. One leads toward another square where he can just make out more of the multicolored crowds he'd just left behind. The other way leads deeper into the Old Warehouse District.
Well, shit, he thinks, torn. Then he's running again, looking for a place to hide, gang members be damned. The day Jim can't defend himself against some hoodlums (hoodlums much like he used to be and hang around with) is the day he lays down and dies.
Frankly, anything would be better than facing him. Having to face the betrayal implied by that look in his eyes. . . .
And so, Jim runs. He runs until one false step causes him to turn his ankle in a way it was never meant to go. He shouts, dropping to one knee, tearing his trousers and skinning his knee in the process. Then he kneels there, panting and shaking, until a distant burst of chittering laughter sounds. It's V'Plenniak in nature, but more darkly amused than their laughter tends to be. They are, for the most part, a brightly-colored, simple-seeming people. They tend to wear their hearts on what passes for their sleeves, and deception is relatively unheard of among them.
But there is, Jim knows, a difference between relatively and completely. So who knows how many V'Plenniak he has conspiring with him? They may be closing in on him-surrounding him even as he kneels here, favoring a silly sprained ankle. . . .
Still, it's several minutes before he can bear to put any weight on the ankle, and when he can, he limps onward, deeper into the maze-like warren that is the Southern Sector. He can feel him out there, somewhere, getting closer, murder or mutiny on his mind. Jim is tempted to contact Enterprise, but who knows how many of the crew might be conspiring against him? Who else could be siding with him?
Sulu and Scotty wouldn't. Uhura . . . is a coin toss. She and Spock have been broken up for nearly a year, but her feelings for him and vice versa probably still run deep.
Jim knows he could definitely count on Bones, but Bones is somewhere in Yranak-possibly being hunted himself. His unwavering loyalty to Jim may see him hurt, or worse.
A burst of rage and hatred of him, and fear for Bones gives Jim the energy, if not the speed to limp on despite his screaming ankle. But in a continuing streak of his amazing luck thus far, another random turn puts him in an equally random cul-de-sac with a wall higher than Jim could boost himself over even without a bum ankle.
"Shit-shit-shit," he mutters, backing up, meaning to find his way back to the branching street and to the square he passed. Not that he thinks to lose himself in the crowd, but at least he'd be able to puts some bodies between he and-
"Captain."
Jim whirls around, then starts backing up in the other direction. Spock advances, a sweating, disheveled mess. His face is a deepish olive-green from exertion and his eyes are very, very dark. Turbulent with some emotion Jim couldn't put a name to.
"I know what you want, but you're not gonna get it," he tells Spock in a voice that doesn't shake even though the rest of him does. "Not even over my cold, dead body."
Spock turns greener for a moment-even looks confused. Then his complexion and expression even out. "What I want is to get you back to the Enterprise. It is not safe for you to be here alone, Captain."
"What-and it's safe with you?" Jim snorts, his heart racing in time with the throbbing in his ankle and the stitch in his side. "I don't think so. So you can go fuck yourself, because you're not getting Enterprise. Ever. She's mine."
Spock blinks, and the Infernal Eyebrow, as Bones calls it, raises. "Captain, neither I nor anyone else have any interest in taking the Enterprise from you. You are thinking irrationally, and I believe the reason may be-"
"Don't bullshit a bullshitter, Spock. I've seen that look in your eyes before, that . . . possessive, take-no-prisoners look," Jim seethes as his back hits the wall. He hadn't even realized that he was still backing up. Or that Spock was still advancing. "During the Narada Incident, when your security team caught Scotty and me in the engine room, and frog-marched us to the bridge . . . I thought you were gonna kill me. Is that what you're willing to do to get the Enterprise back?"
"Captain, I have no wish to command the Enterprise again," Spock says softly. "Nor do I wish to harm you."
"Then why're you chasing me? If you don't want my ship, or want me dead, why the hell won't you leave me alone?" Jim demands.
The Eyebrow, again. "Because I believe you are unwell, and it is neither in your best interest, nor in Starfleet's to let you wander around the streets of a foreign city in your state."
"And what state would I be in, exactly?"
"Fear. And extreme paranoia."
Jim laughs raggedly, his hands braced on the crumbly wall behind him. He has little chance of evading Spock in a dead-end, but he means to be ready should such an unlikely possibility present itself. "Just because I'm paranoid doesn't mean you're not after me. The two aren't mutually exclusive."
Spock inclines his head, conceding the point. "But fear, Captain? After three years, do you really fear me?"
"I-" Jim frowns. "I don't trust you."
For a moment, he could swear Spock looks . . . hurt. Which doesn't jibe with what Jim's instinct has been shrilling at him since the marketplace. If Spock were as cold-blooded as he'd seemed in that eternal moment, then Jim's distrust shouldn't phase him at all. It could only be expected, in fact.
It doesn't add up at all, but it doesn't have to. Questions and answers can wait until Jim is back on the Enterprise and Spock's in the brig.
In the meantime, Spock steps closer still and Jim presses back against the wall, ready to dodge past and hobble out of the alley as quickly as he can. Which isn't going to net him much, seeing as he's half-lame and Spock has all that Vulcan speed and strength on his side.
But Jim won't go down without a fight. He refuses to make it easy for the bastard.
"I have no wish to harm you, Captain," Spock says again, his arms out as if to block Jim from darting around him, his eyes focused and intent. He's only a few feet away, now, and moving closer still. "Let me prove it to you."
"You can't!" Jim fakes left, dodges right, and gets grabbed around the waist and slammed back against the wall for his troubles. The wind is knocked completely out of him and he coughs, groaning and about to double over so he can retch up everything he's ever eaten. But Spock is holding him upright, trying to make eye-contact.
"Get it over with," Jim pants outs, avoiding whatever there is to be seen in Spock's eyes. "Do it and have done."
Spock's brow creases and he seems like he's about to reply. Then he hangs his head for a moment, dark hair obscuring darker eyes.
When he looks up at Jim again, he smiles-actually smiles, in itself a disturbing, disturbing thing-then raises his hand almost faster than Jim can process.
And likewise, almost before Jim even has time to recognize the difference between the backhand he expects, and the butterfly-light finger-patterning on his face he gets, he's gone. Lost in the dark intensity of the meld.
*
H'oomans are, Grantha Ebdelak the de facto leader of V'Plenniak First decides, hideous things.
Tall, narrow, and almost bald, pigmented in various shades of brown, and completely lacking in anything resembling a tail, they're oddness personified. The planet they evolved on, E'Arth (even their planet is oddly named) must be even odder than they are. Grantha shudders at the thought of such strangeness tainting his people.
But whatever else these H'oomans are, they're certainly easy to round up after a dose of Kellemak 856. It'd been difficult to countenance Dr. Korvak's claims that the illegal-but-plentiful airborne spore which, when distilled, made the V'Plenniak higher than silak on its mating flight, creates quite the opposite reaction in the H'oomans. Instead of mellow euphoria, it causes hallucinations, paranoia, extreme fear, and, in strong enough doses, a psychotic break with reality.
("Don't ask me how I know," Korva had said shiftily, her eyes everywhere but Grantha's face. "But it's even more fascinating in practice than in theory. At least until the H'ooman attempts tp kill itself."
Grantha had grabbed the doctor by her piebald, wattled neck and hauled her close. "But that's not going to happen with these H'oomans, correct?" Korva shook her head no so fast, it seemed in danger of falling off her neck. "Good. The plan is to make an example of them by killing them publicly, not by presenting the Federation with an unexplained mass suicide.")
Thankfully, the good doctor had managed to get the doses just right. The H'oomans' paranoia and fear made them easy to herd. Grantha's second in command Renik had intercepted three of them cowering together in an alley near the East Sector of Yranak. Grantha, himself, caught two just on the edge of the Old Warehouse District and the aptly-named Undertown. The rest of the Firsters had averaged one or two H'oomans each between them.
Now, looking over their pitiful red, gold, and blue-clad catch, Grantha huffs. The H'oomans are all huddled together, jibbering about whatever insane dreams trouble their waking. Their murmurs, cries, and occasional screams rebound off the walls of the abandoned warehouse that is the Firster headquarters, but the bought cooperation of the local gangs has ensured that there will be no one to hear the screams, let alone investigate them.
Everything's come together according to plan.
At least Grantha thinks so until Ossik, Ula, and Todok come in dragging one flailing, wailing H'ooman, and one very still body.
"Sir," Ula says in her chittering voice. Her fur is standing up, making her seem nearly twice the size she actually is. "We think this one-" she nods at the wailing H'ooman, who gets shaken roughly by Ossik. "Is their leader. This one-" a nod at the body she and Todok dragged in "-must be its mate, for the fight he put up when we tried to grab the other one."
"Hmm." Grantha strokes his magenta chin-fur, making a mental note to mention this to Korva. Such information would make her day, and more importantly might serve the Firsters in the future. "Is it dead, Ula?"
"No, sir. But we had to beat it unconscious to subdue it. This one's been howling like a skinned delesk ever since." Ula shrugs, her fur fluffing out even more.
Grantha paces over to the unconscious H'ooman and looks it over: dark head-fur lays straight across a narrow brow, but doesn't cover sharply pointed ears. "This one's ears are different-"
The wailing H'ooman tries to break free when Grantha reaches out to examine an ear. He's screaming something in silly, slippery H'ooman-tongue, his sky-colored eyes murderous with rage and frustration.
"How quaint," Grantha sneers, deliberately poking the unconscious H'ooman's ear. It doesn't so much as twitch, but its leader-mate loses its head completely, thrashing, trying to break free. Ossik rolls his eyes and casually backhands the H'ooman. When it sags, also unconscious, he hisses laughter and drops the H'ooman to the floor like garbage.
"Weaklings," he churrs. "And they think to impose their laws on us."
"Not for long, they won't. Once we make an example of these ones," Todok grumbles. He's a man of few words, but when he does speak, it's always the plain truth, which Grantha respects.
Odd aliens from an odd world, bringing oddness to V'Plenniak . . . it's not to be tolerated. Todok is indeed correct: these Humans will make a fine example.
TBC