Fic: "Fear, Itself," (6/?) ST:XI/Doom, Bones(Reaper)/Chekov, Kirk/Spock, R
Finally, more "Fear, Itself"! Previous parts den here. Merry belated Christmas, Veebs! Slowly, but steadily making progress :)
Fear, Itself (6/?)
Author:
_beetle_
Fandom: ST:XI/Doom
Pairing: Eventually McCoy/Chekov, Spock/Kirk, but other pairings, as well.
Rating: R, so far
Word Count: Approx. 2800
Notes/Warnings: Previous parts are here. Set post-ST:XI by three years. Spoilers for ST:XI and for Doom. Violence. Minor character death.
Summary: The crew gets more than they bargained for on Leave.
The space Sulu finds himself rushing into is some kind of abandoned warehouse.
The place is riddled with ancient-looking machinery, only some of it is broken down into safer, component parts. But among the machinery and parts are the bodies-oh, God-of members of the Enterprise's crew-on-leave. Some are twitching and curled into fetal position, but others are still, eyes staring unseeingly up at the dusty space between their bodies and the high ceiling.
And, among them, are the V'Plenniak responsible for the projectile weapons fire. They're converging on the area in front of the door in a semi-circle, not bothering to take evasive actions, even as Sulu, the Constable, and the others begin firing.
Phaser set to stun, Sulu begins picking off targets while his people lay down cover-fire. As the first of the V'Plenniak crumple to the ground, their partners in crime finally get spooked and begin to dive behind equipment and machinery and crates, some even retreating toward the back of the warehouse as Sulu's team and the constabulary advance.
But they don't give up. They peer out despite the phaser and projectile weapons fire and return fire themselves.
There's a cry to Sulu's left as someone gets hit (it sounds like Schulz) and goes down. Sulu's team and the constabulary also dive for cover, Sulu drawing the V'Plenniak fire while Oslo and Kirsch drag a body between them toward what looks like an over-turned vat.
Then Sulu's joining them, breathing heard and taking a glance at who he'd first assumed to be Schulz, but he's forced to look again, because Schulz is a security officer, not a science officer. And anyway, Schulz is crouching right next to Sulu, clutching her arm and swearing.
No, the crewmember Oslo and Kirsch have between them is most definitely not Schulz.
“Holy shit, it's the commander!” Sulu blurts out, and Oslo and Kirsch both shrug.
“I nearly tripped over him going for cover,” Kirsch says.
Oslo doesn't say anything. He's too busy leaning out from cover to fire. After a moment, Kirsch sighs, and does the same. Schulz, meanwhile, has ripped off a piece of her red (and getting redder) shirt and is trying to one-handedly tie a tourniquet around her right arm at the biceps.
“Here, let me,” Sulu takes over the job and gets it done in seconds. Schulz thanks him, then nods at Spock, who's still and pasty between them. There's a sluggish trickle of green coming from near his left temple and he looks more dirty and disheveled than they've ever seen him. More vulnerable, for none of them have ever seen him unconscious.
“He doesn't look too good,” Schulz states the obvious, then puts two fingers to Spock's neck. “His pulse is pretty even, though. He'll probably be fine if we get him to McCoy soon.”
“Make that M'Benga. McCoy was one of the crew on leave,” Sulu says, leaning around the vat to take a few shots, himself.
“Speaking of, there're only half as many or so bodies as there were crew on leave, Lieutenant,” Oslo rumbles in a voice like boulders rolling down a mountainside.
“Shit.” Sulu arms sweat off his face and totes up the implications. It's possible that the other half of the crew are dead . . . but that's unlikely. What's more likely is that there's a second location where the rest of the crew are being held.
Divide and conquer.
Which means once this firefight is over, they've got to do it all over again.
But first, they have to find the second location, which means interrogation, which means time that they don't have spent waiting for at least one kidnapper to spill his guts, so to speak.
“Looks like we've got a second location to find after this. Probably another fight, too. This is such a clusterfuck,” he sighs, and Schulz nods.
“I heard that,” she says, taking up her phaser again.
Sulu only hopes that security crew he sent around the back of the building give them an edge that tips the balance of this firefight in their favor. And soon.
*
Suddenly the unimaginably strong arms holding him let go, and Radu drops to the ground, gasping for breath and scambling back from the thing, which easily keeps pace with him. It's back is to the sunlight, so Radu can't make out its features, but he can tell from it's shape it's H'ooman . . . or H'ooman-ish. It's much taller than any V'Plenniak, mostly furless, and of a more elongated shape, anyway.
“Stay back!” Radu coughs, waving a hand at it and hissing. But the thing keeps approaching, until Radu's back hits the wall of some building or other, and there's nowhere else to which he can scramble.
The thing stand above him, arms akimbo, for almost a minute before finally kneeling down in front of Radu, and leaning in to-get a better look at him? Eat him? Kiss him good-night? Who knows?
But this close, Radu can see its face better in the gaudy, late afternoon sunlight thrown off the wall. It's H'ooman, alright, with messy H'ooman head-fur, and wide, dark, angry H'ooman eyes. It's mouth is set in a wide, grim line.
“You,” it says, pointing at Radu, who starts, surprised to hear it say anything at all, let alone in his own language. “Child . . . know . . . where is H'oomans?” it asks, gesturing at its own face and body with a hand that's swollen and bloody. Nonetheless, Radu's fear is eclipsed by confusion, then both take a back seat to cautious understanding.
“The H'oomans are back there,” he says, pointing back the way they'd both come, and it growls, pounding one of its bloody hands on its thigh.
“No. No,” it says with strange calm, though with a slight tinge of hopelessness, now. “Many mores H'oomans. V'Plenniaks-“ here, it pauses, obviously casting about for the word it wants, and equally obviously not finding it. “”V'Plenniaks . . . take! Take H'oomans!”The H'ooman points back the way they came, then makes a circling gesture around them and shrugs. “Where?”
After a few moments of trying to figure out what it means, Radu thinks he has it. “The kidnappers took more H'oomans? And they're . . . keeping them someplace else? Someplace besides that warehouse? And you don't know where” He gestures back at the warehouse, then in the other three cardinal directions and shrugs, shaking his head.
The H'ooman nods warily. “Where?” he asks again, in tones more desperate than scary.
Radu shrugs and shakes his head again. “I don't know.”
The H'ooman growls again, leaning in even closer, searching Radu's eyes intently. It even sniffs him a few times. Then it finally, surprisingly sighs, it's broad shoulders sinking into such a dejected slump, Radu is surprised to feel sorry for it.
It hangs its head for a few moments, breathing hard, then stands up, clenching its swollen fists so tight, Radu can hear bones grind. It looks down at Radu, face in the shadows, once more.
“No safe,” it says gruffly, and Radu snorts. “Go be home.”
“No home to go be at.” Radu shrugs yet again, and slowly stands up, not wanting to spook the H'ooman with any sudden motion. “And it's not safe anywhere, alone.”
The H'ooman frowns, and Radu wonders how much it'd understood. Then it shrugs and turns away, stalking off down the street, away from the scene of its last adventure.
And that last adventure had seen some of Radu's own people dead.
Maybe, just maybe, their deaths were justified, if they were kidnappers-if-but what if the next V'Plenniak to die weren't kidnappers or other low people? What if, like Radu, they were out trying to find the cause of and stop all the deaths and dismemberments? What if they wound up on the wrong side of this H'ooman and unlike Radu, wound up dead?
Radu shakes his head. He can't allow that to happen. He doesn't want anyone else to die, especially over a mistake. And that includes these other missing H'ooman's. If this angry, super-strong H'ooman is right about there being others of its kind lost in the maze that is the Southern District, then it's unlikely that the H'ooman would find them on his own . . . and without killing more people.
Even now, it's possible the kidnappers had gotten word of what happened and were moving the H'oomans.
Anyway, it's what Radu would do, were he such a low person as to kidnap -mostly-harmless aliens.
Jumping to his feet, he scurries after the already distant H'ooman figure-it has a formidable stride, though considering its height and stilt-long legs, that's not surprising. When he catches up with it, it doesn't even look at him.
“Go be elsewhere,” it says firmly. “Elsewhere safer.”
Radu, trying to match it's stride, but in the end, having to scurry anyway, just to keep up, snorts again. “I've seen what you can do, H'ooman. I don't think there's anywhere safer than by your side. Besides,” Radu adds, and scurries a little ahead of the H'ooman. “You need a guide.”
“Guide?” Now the H'ooman looks at him. “I no understand.”
“Exactly. Which is why you need me.” Radu skips ahead a little, to the next intersection. He peers down all three directions, sniffing the air. The whole District, it seems, smells like H'oomans: too many chemicals, too much fabric, and very faintly, sun-warmed skin.
But straight ahead, that warmed-skin scent is sharper, with a strange tang to it. Something high and almost . . . curdled.
As if the H'oomans had been left in the sun for too long.
Radu doesn't know what that means, but it must mean something.
“This way!” Radu calls to the following H'ooman, glancing back to see if the H'oman is still following. It is. “C'mon! C'mon! It smells like a whole pack-um, group of H'oomans came this way. And boy, do they stink!” he adds, knowing the H'ooman won't understand enough to be offended.
He takes off at a run, literally following his nose like an animal-and why not? Lucky enough this day's been as windless and humid as any summer day, and that scents, whatever they may be, tend to linger for some time.
The H'ooman grumbles all the way, but follows.
*
“That is definitely phaser fire,” Joe says, his arms tightening around Riley, who laughs, low and nervous. “The cavalry has arrived.”
“Yeah, but if it's a standard security team, they're so outnumbered. They're fucked.”
“Maybe we could . . . help?”
Riley leans back to look Joe in the eyes. The man's completely serious. “Help how?”
“I dunno, maybe we could-“ Joe peers slowly, cautiously out from behind their cover, then ducks back in. “Shit, all I could see was phaser fire lighting up the place.”
“Then maybe we'd better stay out of the way and let the cavalry do its job,” Riley says hopefully. Because stupid idea or not, he'd follow Joe anywhere. But he really doesn't want to follow Joe into that.
Joe sighs and leans his head back against rusting metal. “It just feels . . . weird not being proactive. We don't even have our comm-badges.”
“Yeah, we don't . And we don't have phasers, so we'd just be getting in the way. We really should sit this one out.” Riley reaches up to trace the frown on Joe's handsome face, pleased when it turns into an almost-smile. “There'll be other firefights, trust me. We're in Starfleet.”
“I do. Trust you, I mean. With my life.” Joe's almost smile becomes a real, if strained and exhausted one. “And if you say we should sit this one out . . . I guess we'll sit this one out. But next time . . . we go in, phasers blazing.”
Riley smiles. “As per usual.”
Joe leans in and kisses him, quick and light. Then less quickly and lightly. . . .
And that's how the security team finds them, minutes later, after the firefight has come to a virual stand-still.
“Riley! Tormalen!” A harsh whisper sounds direcly across from them and they start apart. Crouched behind some rickety, holey boxes is the standard-sized security team of Macomber, Beckwith, Stinson, and Hong.
How they got through the firefight unscathed is beyond Riley. He's about to ask, when Macomber gestures at the back of the warehouse. “We made our own way in,” she whispers, then unholsters one of her phasers and tosses it carefully at them. Riley catches it. It's set to stun. Joe takes it, just in time for Riley to catch a second Phaser, tossed by Hong and also set to stun.
“Think you two can tear yourselves away from each other long enough to back us up?” Macomber's grin is hard and mostly humorless.
“Kev?” Joe's looking at Riley as if for approval, and Riley. . . .
Riley glances at the phaser, then back at Joe. More specifically at Joe's kiss-swollen lips. “To be continued?”
Joe smiles, then steals a final kiss. “Bet your ass.”
“Then what're we waitin' for?” Riley clears his throat, blushing at the knowing looks garnered from the security team. “Let's go get those unseleighe bastards!”
Macomber looks confused for a moment, then shrugs and gestures for her team to spread out and move forward.
Sharing one last glance, Riley crawls out from behind their cover, Joe following close behind.
*
They've been at a stand-still for over five minutes, during which there's only been sporadic fire.
Sulu's ready to tear out his own hair when the sound of phaser fire resumes-from behind enemy lines.
Smiling, gestures to his team to get ready for-well, anything-and counts to three before leaning out to get the lay of the land.
When no one takes a shot at him-when, indeed, the projectile weapons fire seems to be fired at a target that's very much not Sulu's team or the constabulary-Sulu creeps out from cover and zigzags his way forward, toward other clumps of machinery and crates, and around the sometimes twitching, sometimes catatonic bodies of crewmembers.
Behind him, the rest of the team moves silently and spread out. Across the warehouse, the constabulary is doing the same. So far, the projectile weapons fire is still focused toward the back of the warehouse.
I love it when a plan comes together, Sulu thinks grimly as he and his team reach the enemy's first line of defense and the real skirmish begins.
*
The soured-H'ooman scent becomes thick enough to cut with a knife, by the time Radu realizes he's in a part of the District that even he tries to avoid. In the middle of the day, too, let alone at sunset.
“What?” The H'ooman following him asks when Radu stops. Radu gestures around them. “Not safe,” he says simply. The H'ooman frowns, then sighs. He looks hard at Radu and points to the ground at Radu's feet.
“Stay,” he commands, and Radu huffs, crossing his arms. But the H'ooman's already striding off toward one of the many abandoned and condemned buildings that litter the District. He kicks in the door-which proably wasn't locked, anyway-and disappears inside. Radu notes the way the entire building shakes and groans, and stays, as commanded.
About a minute later, the H'ooman comes back out with what looks like a . . . crowbar.
He presents this item (ancient and rusty) to Radu without ceremony. Radu takes it questioningly. The H'ooman rolls its angry, dark eyes and mimes swinging and hacking at something or someone several times.
“Oh!” Radu understands suddenly. He clutches the crowbar a little tighter, feeling rust flake under his palms. But underneath that rust, at least, is sturdy iron.
He nods at the H'ooman and swings the crowbar a few times, himself, and the H'ooman makes a hard, amused grimace that reveals square, white teeth.
It's smiling, Radu realizes. So he returns the grimace, revealing his own less-square, less-white teeth. It snorts, and sticks out an arm as if to say, after you.
Glancing around, then turning South, Radu clutches at the crowbar and, squaring his shoulders, takes a deep whiff of the air . . . then leads them silently into the heart of the Southern District.
TBC
Fear, Itself (6/?)
Author:
_beetle_
Fandom: ST:XI/Doom
Pairing: Eventually McCoy/Chekov, Spock/Kirk, but other pairings, as well.
Rating: R, so far
Word Count: Approx. 2800
Notes/Warnings: Previous parts are here. Set post-ST:XI by three years. Spoilers for ST:XI and for Doom. Violence. Minor character death.
Summary: The crew gets more than they bargained for on Leave.
The space Sulu finds himself rushing into is some kind of abandoned warehouse.
The place is riddled with ancient-looking machinery, only some of it is broken down into safer, component parts. But among the machinery and parts are the bodies-oh, God-of members of the Enterprise's crew-on-leave. Some are twitching and curled into fetal position, but others are still, eyes staring unseeingly up at the dusty space between their bodies and the high ceiling.
And, among them, are the V'Plenniak responsible for the projectile weapons fire. They're converging on the area in front of the door in a semi-circle, not bothering to take evasive actions, even as Sulu, the Constable, and the others begin firing.
Phaser set to stun, Sulu begins picking off targets while his people lay down cover-fire. As the first of the V'Plenniak crumple to the ground, their partners in crime finally get spooked and begin to dive behind equipment and machinery and crates, some even retreating toward the back of the warehouse as Sulu's team and the constabulary advance.
But they don't give up. They peer out despite the phaser and projectile weapons fire and return fire themselves.
There's a cry to Sulu's left as someone gets hit (it sounds like Schulz) and goes down. Sulu's team and the constabulary also dive for cover, Sulu drawing the V'Plenniak fire while Oslo and Kirsch drag a body between them toward what looks like an over-turned vat.
Then Sulu's joining them, breathing heard and taking a glance at who he'd first assumed to be Schulz, but he's forced to look again, because Schulz is a security officer, not a science officer. And anyway, Schulz is crouching right next to Sulu, clutching her arm and swearing.
No, the crewmember Oslo and Kirsch have between them is most definitely not Schulz.
“Holy shit, it's the commander!” Sulu blurts out, and Oslo and Kirsch both shrug.
“I nearly tripped over him going for cover,” Kirsch says.
Oslo doesn't say anything. He's too busy leaning out from cover to fire. After a moment, Kirsch sighs, and does the same. Schulz, meanwhile, has ripped off a piece of her red (and getting redder) shirt and is trying to one-handedly tie a tourniquet around her right arm at the biceps.
“Here, let me,” Sulu takes over the job and gets it done in seconds. Schulz thanks him, then nods at Spock, who's still and pasty between them. There's a sluggish trickle of green coming from near his left temple and he looks more dirty and disheveled than they've ever seen him. More vulnerable, for none of them have ever seen him unconscious.
“He doesn't look too good,” Schulz states the obvious, then puts two fingers to Spock's neck. “His pulse is pretty even, though. He'll probably be fine if we get him to McCoy soon.”
“Make that M'Benga. McCoy was one of the crew on leave,” Sulu says, leaning around the vat to take a few shots, himself.
“Speaking of, there're only half as many or so bodies as there were crew on leave, Lieutenant,” Oslo rumbles in a voice like boulders rolling down a mountainside.
“Shit.” Sulu arms sweat off his face and totes up the implications. It's possible that the other half of the crew are dead . . . but that's unlikely. What's more likely is that there's a second location where the rest of the crew are being held.
Divide and conquer.
Which means once this firefight is over, they've got to do it all over again.
But first, they have to find the second location, which means interrogation, which means time that they don't have spent waiting for at least one kidnapper to spill his guts, so to speak.
“Looks like we've got a second location to find after this. Probably another fight, too. This is such a clusterfuck,” he sighs, and Schulz nods.
“I heard that,” she says, taking up her phaser again.
Sulu only hopes that security crew he sent around the back of the building give them an edge that tips the balance of this firefight in their favor. And soon.
*
Suddenly the unimaginably strong arms holding him let go, and Radu drops to the ground, gasping for breath and scambling back from the thing, which easily keeps pace with him. It's back is to the sunlight, so Radu can't make out its features, but he can tell from it's shape it's H'ooman . . . or H'ooman-ish. It's much taller than any V'Plenniak, mostly furless, and of a more elongated shape, anyway.
“Stay back!” Radu coughs, waving a hand at it and hissing. But the thing keeps approaching, until Radu's back hits the wall of some building or other, and there's nowhere else to which he can scramble.
The thing stand above him, arms akimbo, for almost a minute before finally kneeling down in front of Radu, and leaning in to-get a better look at him? Eat him? Kiss him good-night? Who knows?
But this close, Radu can see its face better in the gaudy, late afternoon sunlight thrown off the wall. It's H'ooman, alright, with messy H'ooman head-fur, and wide, dark, angry H'ooman eyes. It's mouth is set in a wide, grim line.
“You,” it says, pointing at Radu, who starts, surprised to hear it say anything at all, let alone in his own language. “Child . . . know . . . where is H'oomans?” it asks, gesturing at its own face and body with a hand that's swollen and bloody. Nonetheless, Radu's fear is eclipsed by confusion, then both take a back seat to cautious understanding.
“The H'oomans are back there,” he says, pointing back the way they'd both come, and it growls, pounding one of its bloody hands on its thigh.
“No. No,” it says with strange calm, though with a slight tinge of hopelessness, now. “Many mores H'oomans. V'Plenniaks-“ here, it pauses, obviously casting about for the word it wants, and equally obviously not finding it. “”V'Plenniaks . . . take! Take H'oomans!”The H'ooman points back the way they came, then makes a circling gesture around them and shrugs. “Where?”
After a few moments of trying to figure out what it means, Radu thinks he has it. “The kidnappers took more H'oomans? And they're . . . keeping them someplace else? Someplace besides that warehouse? And you don't know where” He gestures back at the warehouse, then in the other three cardinal directions and shrugs, shaking his head.
The H'ooman nods warily. “Where?” he asks again, in tones more desperate than scary.
Radu shrugs and shakes his head again. “I don't know.”
The H'ooman growls again, leaning in even closer, searching Radu's eyes intently. It even sniffs him a few times. Then it finally, surprisingly sighs, it's broad shoulders sinking into such a dejected slump, Radu is surprised to feel sorry for it.
It hangs its head for a few moments, breathing hard, then stands up, clenching its swollen fists so tight, Radu can hear bones grind. It looks down at Radu, face in the shadows, once more.
“No safe,” it says gruffly, and Radu snorts. “Go be home.”
“No home to go be at.” Radu shrugs yet again, and slowly stands up, not wanting to spook the H'ooman with any sudden motion. “And it's not safe anywhere, alone.”
The H'ooman frowns, and Radu wonders how much it'd understood. Then it shrugs and turns away, stalking off down the street, away from the scene of its last adventure.
And that last adventure had seen some of Radu's own people dead.
Maybe, just maybe, their deaths were justified, if they were kidnappers-if-but what if the next V'Plenniak to die weren't kidnappers or other low people? What if, like Radu, they were out trying to find the cause of and stop all the deaths and dismemberments? What if they wound up on the wrong side of this H'ooman and unlike Radu, wound up dead?
Radu shakes his head. He can't allow that to happen. He doesn't want anyone else to die, especially over a mistake. And that includes these other missing H'ooman's. If this angry, super-strong H'ooman is right about there being others of its kind lost in the maze that is the Southern District, then it's unlikely that the H'ooman would find them on his own . . . and without killing more people.
Even now, it's possible the kidnappers had gotten word of what happened and were moving the H'oomans.
Anyway, it's what Radu would do, were he such a low person as to kidnap -mostly-harmless aliens.
Jumping to his feet, he scurries after the already distant H'ooman figure-it has a formidable stride, though considering its height and stilt-long legs, that's not surprising. When he catches up with it, it doesn't even look at him.
“Go be elsewhere,” it says firmly. “Elsewhere safer.”
Radu, trying to match it's stride, but in the end, having to scurry anyway, just to keep up, snorts again. “I've seen what you can do, H'ooman. I don't think there's anywhere safer than by your side. Besides,” Radu adds, and scurries a little ahead of the H'ooman. “You need a guide.”
“Guide?” Now the H'ooman looks at him. “I no understand.”
“Exactly. Which is why you need me.” Radu skips ahead a little, to the next intersection. He peers down all three directions, sniffing the air. The whole District, it seems, smells like H'oomans: too many chemicals, too much fabric, and very faintly, sun-warmed skin.
But straight ahead, that warmed-skin scent is sharper, with a strange tang to it. Something high and almost . . . curdled.
As if the H'oomans had been left in the sun for too long.
Radu doesn't know what that means, but it must mean something.
“This way!” Radu calls to the following H'ooman, glancing back to see if the H'oman is still following. It is. “C'mon! C'mon! It smells like a whole pack-um, group of H'oomans came this way. And boy, do they stink!” he adds, knowing the H'ooman won't understand enough to be offended.
He takes off at a run, literally following his nose like an animal-and why not? Lucky enough this day's been as windless and humid as any summer day, and that scents, whatever they may be, tend to linger for some time.
The H'ooman grumbles all the way, but follows.
*
“That is definitely phaser fire,” Joe says, his arms tightening around Riley, who laughs, low and nervous. “The cavalry has arrived.”
“Yeah, but if it's a standard security team, they're so outnumbered. They're fucked.”
“Maybe we could . . . help?”
Riley leans back to look Joe in the eyes. The man's completely serious. “Help how?”
“I dunno, maybe we could-“ Joe peers slowly, cautiously out from behind their cover, then ducks back in. “Shit, all I could see was phaser fire lighting up the place.”
“Then maybe we'd better stay out of the way and let the cavalry do its job,” Riley says hopefully. Because stupid idea or not, he'd follow Joe anywhere. But he really doesn't want to follow Joe into that.
Joe sighs and leans his head back against rusting metal. “It just feels . . . weird not being proactive. We don't even have our comm-badges.”
“Yeah, we don't . And we don't have phasers, so we'd just be getting in the way. We really should sit this one out.” Riley reaches up to trace the frown on Joe's handsome face, pleased when it turns into an almost-smile. “There'll be other firefights, trust me. We're in Starfleet.”
“I do. Trust you, I mean. With my life.” Joe's almost smile becomes a real, if strained and exhausted one. “And if you say we should sit this one out . . . I guess we'll sit this one out. But next time . . . we go in, phasers blazing.”
Riley smiles. “As per usual.”
Joe leans in and kisses him, quick and light. Then less quickly and lightly. . . .
And that's how the security team finds them, minutes later, after the firefight has come to a virual stand-still.
“Riley! Tormalen!” A harsh whisper sounds direcly across from them and they start apart. Crouched behind some rickety, holey boxes is the standard-sized security team of Macomber, Beckwith, Stinson, and Hong.
How they got through the firefight unscathed is beyond Riley. He's about to ask, when Macomber gestures at the back of the warehouse. “We made our own way in,” she whispers, then unholsters one of her phasers and tosses it carefully at them. Riley catches it. It's set to stun. Joe takes it, just in time for Riley to catch a second Phaser, tossed by Hong and also set to stun.
“Think you two can tear yourselves away from each other long enough to back us up?” Macomber's grin is hard and mostly humorless.
“Kev?” Joe's looking at Riley as if for approval, and Riley. . . .
Riley glances at the phaser, then back at Joe. More specifically at Joe's kiss-swollen lips. “To be continued?”
Joe smiles, then steals a final kiss. “Bet your ass.”
“Then what're we waitin' for?” Riley clears his throat, blushing at the knowing looks garnered from the security team. “Let's go get those unseleighe bastards!”
Macomber looks confused for a moment, then shrugs and gestures for her team to spread out and move forward.
Sharing one last glance, Riley crawls out from behind their cover, Joe following close behind.
*
They've been at a stand-still for over five minutes, during which there's only been sporadic fire.
Sulu's ready to tear out his own hair when the sound of phaser fire resumes-from behind enemy lines.
Smiling, gestures to his team to get ready for-well, anything-and counts to three before leaning out to get the lay of the land.
When no one takes a shot at him-when, indeed, the projectile weapons fire seems to be fired at a target that's very much not Sulu's team or the constabulary-Sulu creeps out from cover and zigzags his way forward, toward other clumps of machinery and crates, and around the sometimes twitching, sometimes catatonic bodies of crewmembers.
Behind him, the rest of the team moves silently and spread out. Across the warehouse, the constabulary is doing the same. So far, the projectile weapons fire is still focused toward the back of the warehouse.
I love it when a plan comes together, Sulu thinks grimly as he and his team reach the enemy's first line of defense and the real skirmish begins.
*
The soured-H'ooman scent becomes thick enough to cut with a knife, by the time Radu realizes he's in a part of the District that even he tries to avoid. In the middle of the day, too, let alone at sunset.
“What?” The H'ooman following him asks when Radu stops. Radu gestures around them. “Not safe,” he says simply. The H'ooman frowns, then sighs. He looks hard at Radu and points to the ground at Radu's feet.
“Stay,” he commands, and Radu huffs, crossing his arms. But the H'ooman's already striding off toward one of the many abandoned and condemned buildings that litter the District. He kicks in the door-which proably wasn't locked, anyway-and disappears inside. Radu notes the way the entire building shakes and groans, and stays, as commanded.
About a minute later, the H'ooman comes back out with what looks like a . . . crowbar.
He presents this item (ancient and rusty) to Radu without ceremony. Radu takes it questioningly. The H'ooman rolls its angry, dark eyes and mimes swinging and hacking at something or someone several times.
“Oh!” Radu understands suddenly. He clutches the crowbar a little tighter, feeling rust flake under his palms. But underneath that rust, at least, is sturdy iron.
He nods at the H'ooman and swings the crowbar a few times, himself, and the H'ooman makes a hard, amused grimace that reveals square, white teeth.
It's smiling, Radu realizes. So he returns the grimace, revealing his own less-square, less-white teeth. It snorts, and sticks out an arm as if to say, after you.
Glancing around, then turning South, Radu clutches at the crowbar and, squaring his shoulders, takes a deep whiff of the air . . . then leads them silently into the heart of the Southern District.
TBC