Who shall I say is calling?
There was a lot for him to worry about, given the size of his world now.
Staring at the ceiling again, seeking some flaw or irregularity for what felt like the 5,032nd time, Kirk drifted in and out of sleep, though the two states varied little from one another. He was still weak, though the solid food he'd eaten had a nutritional as well as psychological effect. It was a toss up whether being fed protein shit through a tube was more or less dehumanizing than the feeling of utter, bestial focus with which he attacked food now, but he preferred the latter. At least animals were alive.
McCoy had taken everything with him when he'd finally smirked his way out, and Kirk had seen nothing since. No McCoy, no Chapel, no Pike. No fork--McCoy was far too intelligent for that. Just Kirk's oversized clothes and a room that represented the bare minimum of livability--a cell with a biobed and a chair built into the wall. McCoy's chair. Kirk could move about it. He could relieve himself. He could lie or sit on the floor or bed. That was it. Still, he could walk, and while he wasn't the sort to be actively grateful for such mercies his body appreciated it even as it protested his every movement. The movements got easier, and at this stage circuits about the small room constituted actual exercise. He had so much to recover. Still, he refused to believe anything had permanently damaged the potential to regain the strength he'd once prized. He could remember how to fight.
He could remember other things, too, he'd probably never do again. He tried not to think about them. Think of it, he thought, like any other amputation. A loss of function. But one he could hide. You lose your right hand, you learn to kill with the left. He could--
Fuck.
For awhile he thought Pike had really known what he was doing. He was finished. Not even a man anymore, a eunuch, an extra in some contraband Orion vid. Pike had ruined him without visibly marking him as such, to the outside world. He'd ensured Kirk's defeat just as surely as if he'd left him languishing in the brig. His fevered, starved brain could not help but latch onto what he instinctively believed, anyway; that there was something vital, basic to his manhood, about that bit of flesh, and that Pike had robbed him of his very self.
He wandered through that void for awhile, his self-pity strong enough that he was not in any actual danger of losing self, his self-preservation eventually dragging him up to examine the only other point in his newly-circumscribed life.
McCoy. He'd never given him too much thought before, another sadist on a ship rife with them. Maybe a little sneakier than the rest. More subtle. But both Pike and McCoy had implied that Kirk's fate was strongly linked to his, now, and as much as that fact alone made his spirit rebel he had to agree. His choices, right now, were to try to hang himself with his sweatpants--there was nothing to attach them too, naturally--or wait for McCoy to spill what he wanted.
Opportunity, McCoy had said. For the life of him, Kirk couldn't fathom what that could be. The only opportunity he had was to live instead of dying, to take a shitty deal or none at all. To roll over for Pike or to be McCoy's new fucktoy, in whatever form that took. McCoy had said other things, things Kirk was too muddle-headed or ignorant to understand.
Well. He'd taken the shitty deal before, and come out ahead. These things weren't permanent. There was something gentle in McCoy's particular brand of fucked-upedness that Kirk didn't trust. But it was something a tactile nature like Jim Kirk's had difficulty resisting, even in this world.
He was hungry again.
Staring at the ceiling again, seeking some flaw or irregularity for what felt like the 5,032nd time, Kirk drifted in and out of sleep, though the two states varied little from one another. He was still weak, though the solid food he'd eaten had a nutritional as well as psychological effect. It was a toss up whether being fed protein shit through a tube was more or less dehumanizing than the feeling of utter, bestial focus with which he attacked food now, but he preferred the latter. At least animals were alive.
McCoy had taken everything with him when he'd finally smirked his way out, and Kirk had seen nothing since. No McCoy, no Chapel, no Pike. No fork--McCoy was far too intelligent for that. Just Kirk's oversized clothes and a room that represented the bare minimum of livability--a cell with a biobed and a chair built into the wall. McCoy's chair. Kirk could move about it. He could relieve himself. He could lie or sit on the floor or bed. That was it. Still, he could walk, and while he wasn't the sort to be actively grateful for such mercies his body appreciated it even as it protested his every movement. The movements got easier, and at this stage circuits about the small room constituted actual exercise. He had so much to recover. Still, he refused to believe anything had permanently damaged the potential to regain the strength he'd once prized. He could remember how to fight.
He could remember other things, too, he'd probably never do again. He tried not to think about them. Think of it, he thought, like any other amputation. A loss of function. But one he could hide. You lose your right hand, you learn to kill with the left. He could--
Fuck.
For awhile he thought Pike had really known what he was doing. He was finished. Not even a man anymore, a eunuch, an extra in some contraband Orion vid. Pike had ruined him without visibly marking him as such, to the outside world. He'd ensured Kirk's defeat just as surely as if he'd left him languishing in the brig. His fevered, starved brain could not help but latch onto what he instinctively believed, anyway; that there was something vital, basic to his manhood, about that bit of flesh, and that Pike had robbed him of his very self.
He wandered through that void for awhile, his self-pity strong enough that he was not in any actual danger of losing self, his self-preservation eventually dragging him up to examine the only other point in his newly-circumscribed life.
McCoy. He'd never given him too much thought before, another sadist on a ship rife with them. Maybe a little sneakier than the rest. More subtle. But both Pike and McCoy had implied that Kirk's fate was strongly linked to his, now, and as much as that fact alone made his spirit rebel he had to agree. His choices, right now, were to try to hang himself with his sweatpants--there was nothing to attach them too, naturally--or wait for McCoy to spill what he wanted.
Opportunity, McCoy had said. For the life of him, Kirk couldn't fathom what that could be. The only opportunity he had was to live instead of dying, to take a shitty deal or none at all. To roll over for Pike or to be McCoy's new fucktoy, in whatever form that took. McCoy had said other things, things Kirk was too muddle-headed or ignorant to understand.
Well. He'd taken the shitty deal before, and come out ahead. These things weren't permanent. There was something gentle in McCoy's particular brand of fucked-upedness that Kirk didn't trust. But it was something a tactile nature like Jim Kirk's had difficulty resisting, even in this world.
He was hungry again.