Night 50: M101-M110 Hallway
Weapons in hand, Heat was out in the hall the moment the doors opened. There had to be something, a scent in the air that might alert him to the presence of one of Landel's creations. His hunger wouldn't be denied for another night. Though he was still without his flashlight, that didn't really matter. His other senses should be enough to find
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It was quieter down this way, which - considering their reasons for being here - didn't exactly provide Kirk with a whole lot of comfort. On the other hand, it made this as good a time as any to bring up his concerns about Spock. Somehow Kirk doubted that he would've told Bones about it on his own. Like himself and the doctor, Spock seemed like a man who preferred keeping his personal life private.
Normally, this was something Kirk would respect. But while he didn't doubt that Spock could do his job, he knew from his own mind-screw incident that whatever had been done to them didn't end just there. Bones had spent the last several nights in Spock's company, and was a doctor to boot. If anyone would know what to look for...
"It was another nighttime 'experiment'." Kirk moved down the hallway, counting off the door numbers as he passed. "Before you arrived here. Several prisoners ended up... experiencing the deaths of someone they'd known. Out of nowhere, almost without warning, they would incur the same wounds, and then die in the same way." At M108, he stopped, but met Bones' eyes instead of opening the door. "Spock... was one of them. He reappeared the next morning - he remembered what happened but was otherwise physically fine. If I hadn't seen it for myself... I wouldn't have believed it to be real."
Only the quietness of his voice hinted at what that night had been like.
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"He was experimented on? And neither you or Spock thought it important to let me know this ahead of time?!" he exclaimed, aghast. McCoy fixed him with a glare, and put his hand on the door, more to stop the captain from trying to open it the next chance he got. "Jim, I need to know this sort of thing! The crews' health is my responsibility. I don't care if the staff took care of his wounds, and I don't care if he's half-Vulcan, you don't go walking off an experience like that!"
McCoy looked like he was on the verge of completely telling him off, but was also doing his best to calm down and think it over. He was undecided on who to get angry at, Jim or Spock, for the lapse in common sense. These experiments weren't to be taken lightly. These people had no sense of ethics, patient rights. And from what Jim was telling him, this was the most horrific one yet. Spock liked to assume his Vulcan half would take care of everything, but there was a very human part in there. Worried, McCoy reviewed what he'd witnessed of the man the past few days.
The First Officer had looked healthy as a horse. Looking at him, it was hard to imagine that they'd actually replicated a death. Spock hadn't shown any signs of external injuries, or anything hinting of an internal one, but knowing his Vulcans, he'd probably act like a severed arm wasn't a big deal either. He'd seen the evidence of Vulcan control personally back during that Deneva business. The scans had showed that Spock had been suffering a massive amount of pain from the creature linked to him, and yet he'd managed to suppress the agony after awhile, enough to function and think straight. If he did have any internal injuries, he could be covering them up.
Then again, it could be like the captain, Spock had been given accelerated healing.
Jim hadn't said just how bad the wounds are. He'd only said that Spock had died, but not the manner. There was another alternative, that it had happened all in the mind. Normally, McCoy would have said it impossible, or failing that, very difficult to kill someone like that. He wasn't any expert at telepathy, that was more Spock's specialty, but he knew the brain to be a powerful piece of equipment, and with it, a cussed stubborn survival instinct to go with. Vulcans were probably even more stubborn about it than the standard human.
It was just a theory, and he couldn't believe it would ever be sanctioned by any right-minded authority, but if you could make the brain believe it was that badly hurt, it could shut itself down, create its death. With enough manipulation, a perfectly health person might believe themselves into their own death.
This wasn't exactly familiar territory. McCoy wanted a look at Spock's neural pattern especially, but that wasn't looking possible without equipment.
Horror at what the facility had done warred with anger at them and the two officers. The doctor took a breath to cool off. He spoke again. "What kind of wounds are we talking about? Was he showing any abnormal behavior after? Anything else you feel like sharing, captain?"
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By their second year at the Academy, Bones had found a way to get notified every time "Kirk, James T." was admitted to medical services - a gesture which he'd assured Jim had less to do with concern and more with not wanting to be liable if his young friend passed out from a concussion while they were out. Kirk had known he was full of crap, of course. Even when he deliberately tried to hide his injuries, Bones had a way of sussing it out anyway. One would be mistaken to think from his prickly bedside manner that Leonard McCoy didn't care or pay close attention to his patients - even while on the bridge, powwowing with the rest of them on how to take out Nero, Bones had known exactly what was going on in his sickbay.
In normal circumstances, no doubt Bones would've already learned of Spock's incident and performed a check-up himself. Following up on the crew's health was part of the captain's duties too, and Kirk just... hadn't thought of it beyond that one conversation immediately after Spock had "died," not with everything else that immediately followed. He shouldn't have let it slip his mind, but he hadn't yet spent years learning and internalizing all the different parts of his role - although, he imagined that, had the course of his life gone uninterrupted, having Bones as his freakishly efficient CMO would've made up for his inexperience.
But nothing about their present circumstances was normal, and the four of them really only had each other to rely on when it came to the well-being of the crew. Bones only had them to rely on. He was right, they should've told him about this before now. But Kirk, being James Kirk, couldn't completely let go of that need to come out on top of every argument.
"I expected Spock to have told you by now," he answered calmly. And probably if Spock had had any intention of letting Bones know himself, he would've, but Kirk was apparently right about his first officer's reticence. When wasn't Kirk right about something?
He folded his arms, eyes closing briefly as he remembered. It had been awhile ago, but it would be awhile more before he forgot everything which had happened. "It was two nights before you'd arrived. Before the... attack... Spock mentioned feeling a sudden drop of temperature, and appeared to see something neither myself nor Mister Chekov could detect. We then heard and felt a series of explosions hit the building, but when I ordered us to move, I could already see the bruises appearing out of nowhere on Spock's skin. He suffered... broken bones and internal bleeding all over his body, like he was..." Kirk fell silent for a moment, but quickly continued: "He was dead within a matter of minutes. The next day, Spock reappeared and reported himself to be uninjured and suffering from no abnormal side-effects. As far as I can tell, he hasn't seemed any different since then.
"And my hand is bruised from punching a hard surface about an hour ago," Kirk added. Despite the seriousness of the subject, there was a rueful, somewhat forced smile as he regarded the other man. "Bones. Can we continue this inside?"
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Jim actually looked astounded that he'd been told off. Like he'd just been rapped across the knuckles by a school marm for drifting off, not neglecting to mention that his best friend had been experimented on. And expecting Spock to do the logical thing here? Spock could be as bad as he was, and when it came down to this matter, the two tended to enable each other. Normally it was taking incredible risks, but it also covered a reluctance to admit when they'd been injured.
"Mr. Spock's got as much common sense as you when it comes to his own health. Absolutely none," McCoy snapped. "You're both goddamn fools."
None of this fit with anything he'd seen before. Maybe the encounter with the Empress' son, Clark had been injured, all internal damage, but a gut feeling was saying that they weren't involved on this level. Jim was saying that there was bruising, broken bones that he could see. Those observations already didn't fit in with the Kaleiyan related injury.
He wouldn't have believed it if it'd come from any other person. In fact, he was still hard pressed to believe it: Spock had looked about the same as ever, sunny Vulcan out look and all. No indication of any emotional trauma, which knowing a Vulcan, was repressed deep down, and not a single sign of physical trauma. He was going to track Spock down the next moment he got, check him out and try and squeeze it out of him. Spock needed help. Maybe he seemed fine now, but you didn't just keel over out of the blue.
McCoy frowned at Jim getting smart with him. This wasn't the time or place. Despite that, he found himself already taking the captain's hand in his own instinctively. He appraised it for a moment, then let it drop.
"You'll live," he said gruffly. "I'd like to check Spock out sometime. Last I checked, you weren't a doctor."
Frankly, he was perfectly happy to continue this conversation out here, but he obliged, moving his hand away from the door.
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"I'll be sure to warn him," Kirk answered wryly.
He flexed his right hand after Bones let go of it, already having known that he would be fine but somehow reassured nonetheless by the assessment. The little pops of pain that came with every movement seemed duller already, and he used that same hand to push open the door to M108.
Even before shining his flashlight into the room, Kirk expected it to be empty. Still, he held onto that small thread of optimism anyway: maybe Chekov had slept through the raised voices outside, maybe he had other reasons for not stepping out when he heard them, but a quick scan revealed no one inside. Of the two beds and chairs, the set on the right side showed no signs of recent use - not that that meant anything.
"Chekov mentioned that his roommate disappeared a couple of nights ago," said Kirk as he headed inside to quickly poke around the righthand desk. If the ensign did have whatever it was Landel had hinted at, most likely he would've found it already, but it didn't hurt to check. "It sounded as though it was preceded by the same signs I mentioned to you earlier, from the 'primer' that used to be on the bulletin."
Despite the AWOL status of his navigator, Kirk's voice was even, his walk confident. He had to believe that there were warning signs. He had to believe that the person who wrote the primer knew what they were talking about. He had to believe in what he'd told Chekov that night: that if there was anything to be done to prevent a prisoner from simply vanishing, then there was no goddamn way Kirk would let it happen to one of his men.
He snapped the desk drawer closed again, having found nothing interesting. "So Chekov must've headed out already."
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"Warn him and he'll find a way to worm his way out. He'll argue the sanity right out of me," he grumbled, following him inside.
The room didn't look at all different than his. Sure enough, there wasn't any sign of the ensign. No note or anything he could see but there wasn't any reason to leave one. If he'd followed Kirk's orders, then it was fairly routine to carry it out. What they'd find on their own might not be, but leaving a note didn't seem necessary. It'd imply he expected to get checked in on. Maybe even trouble.
Chekov obviously wasn't here.
"We'll have to wait for tomorrow's check in," he gently touched the desk drawer, but didn't touch the belongings. "Did he or that primer of yours happen mention what might have happened to people who disappeared?"
Doubted it, but it was worth asking. He'd been thinking something along the lines of experiments, escape, or death. Maybe just dumping them all back where they were found, although that was asking too much.
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"On the bulletin, it's called getting 'released'. At first, I thought it was just a euphemism to get past the censorship." He looked up at the other McCoy, but his face still seemed to be considering something as he continued: "But now I think there's more to it. They get brainwashed and let go, but they're still stuck in this world... this version of Earth."
It wasn't a coincidence that Bones had visited on the same day they'd lost contact with Chekov. And if it wasn't a coincidence, then it was almost a warning.
Kirk stepped away from the desk, the distant thoughtfulness gone, and was all purpose and determination again. "Let's get moving," he ordered, already halfway to the exit, but pulled up short outside when his coat pocket emitted a sudden burst of static. Kirk took his radio out and turned so Bones could hear the message too. Not "Jill" this time but "Marc", the same man Spock had spoken to Doyleton, the same one who had told him that the planet they stood on now was the same one he'd left before boarding the Enterprise.
When the broadcast cut off, Kirk pulled the radio away from both their ears, wincing at both the noise and the way it echoed in the dark hallway. It sounded as though someone didn't want Marc revealing too many secrets, but he'd still had time to say enough.
"Rings," Kirk repeated. "Is that the 'reward' Landel mentioned earlier?"
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If she'd arrived here after, he'd have seen her. Wouldn't he? It's a big institute and you know it, he thought. A lot of patients here. McCoy didn't think he could miss his daughter, but with this many people here and the constant shuffling around, he easily could have. That left him with a new problem, one that complicated things a lot. Even if they found a way off this rock, there was still Joanna. Since she wasn't a "patient" (anymore?), it wasn't going to be so easy to just call everyone together on that bulletin board. He had to find her again.
He hurried after Jim, out into the hallway. "If that turns out to be the case,Jim, there's a problem," McCoy began urgently. He was cut off the the radio squawking to life. The doctor's mouth snapped shut.
It looked like that friend of hers had gotten help, and for that, he was glad. At least something good had happened recently. There wasn't one more death here.
The broadcast wasn't a long one. Neither was it exactly enlightening.The doctor lifted the first aid kit, opened it enough to reach for the mentioned ring, and drew it out. It was still red and unremarkable.
McCoy didn't put it on. "This thing?"
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They should have stayed in the room. They'd have been safe there, in one of the few places the monsters didn't go to. But they hadn't stayed inside, which meant they were fair prey to things like the predator approaching on soft feet.
A subtle, low growl started up behind the closest patient, quiet enough to be difficult to pinpoint where it was coming from, but that didn't last for long. Both men would have only had enough time to realise the noise meant they weren't alone anymore before it rose to an inhuman shriek and the cat propelled itself from the shadows to try and latch onto the closest of them.
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He wanted to ask where it would take Bones and Spock, but he wasn't so fixated on whatever this creepy new tool entailed that he'd forgotten the earlier urgency in Bones' voice. Kirk looked up from the ring, and back to his friend's serious face. "You said something about a problem...?"
McCoy didn't get the time to answer. A strange low noise overlapped with Kirk's last word, and he had barely a second to wonder about it before something slammed into him. Something alive - he heard the shrieking animal(?) sounds, felt the soft-hard warmth of it as it clamped down on his left arm, and was caught enough off-guard that he stumbled and fell, hitting the ground with a pained groan.
"What the hell-!" Luckily, his coat absorbed the worst of the impact, but Kirk still had both hands full (one holding his flashlight, the other the ring) as he tried to fight the creature off.
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It had found its own prey already, it seemed, and the sudden tang of blood on the air had his mouth watering. If they weren't careful, it might become difficult to differentiate patient from animal. No matter what Landel thought, or how often he got away with forcing Heat to do things against his will, the demon was sure that he was at least still at the top of the food chain here.
A roar from the red-head accompanied the cat's own cries as he dove at it with both clawed weapons. The attack was just as animalistic as the creature's had been, and the two men were ignored in favor of his target. That he'd be helping them in the process of tonight's hunt didn't even matter. He refused to lose himself to his demon here, though one might assume from looking at him that he already had.
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"Jim!" he cried out. Jim was on the ground, trying to shake the thing off.
There wasn't much time to think. He didn't want to hurt the thing, but there weren't too many options. Nothing to startle it anyway. The doctor rushed forward, managed to get his fingers digging into the scruff of the creature's neck, and was doing his damnedest to pull it off him. It only occurred to him after he'd gotten a grip on it that it could easily tag him with its teeth or claws.
An almost inhuman roar came behind him. McCoy silently swore up and down. It was just their luck, he was stuck trying to wrangle this blasted thing off and these things apparently came in pairs. He was going to get claws into his back any moment now-
It didn't happen. Something humanoid, with a shock of red hair, came blurring past and landed on the animal. McCoy nearly lost his grip on the creature.
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The cat growled deep and feral in its throat at that, the blood helping to drive its hunger. So much so it had all but forgotten the second patient, who made himself known when he made a grab for the back of the cat's neck. The cat's jaw clenched tighter with that, stubbornly refusing to let go of the prey it had, its hind legs kicking at Kirk's stomach in an effort to do more damage.
Soon enough it would do enough damage it could leave this one and take out the foolish human trying to grab it, then it could--
A blur of movement accompanied by a roar hit it suddenly, wrenching the cat free of Kirk's arm (though leaving a few rotten teeth buried into the fabric). It snarled and twisted around, trying to catch a hold of the thing attacking it and fight back.
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Ignoring the grinding pain of its jaws, Kirk shoved at it with his other arm, but all this managed to do was to save his throat from getting shredded when it lashed back. If Kirk had the presence of mind to be thankful for this, it was lost in the blinding white agony which now crisscrossed his torso. "Augh, mother-!" The rest of the swear choked in his throat as something slammed his stomach and knocked the air out of him.
Still fighting past the pain, Kirk was barely aware of his body going limp from the multiple attacks, but he did feel it when the weight of the creature was suddenly off of him. There was barely a half-second of relief before his mind caught on to the roaring happening somewhere above him, mingled with the screams of the thing which had attacked him.
"Bones," he gasped.
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One flailing limb was caught in Heat's jaws, sharpened teeth finding purchase and digging deep. This one had been unlucky, choosing this hallway to do its hunting when this territory belonged to a greater beast. Transforming even his arm would have made the process all the easier, but there was no need to waste the energy here. He didn't need the demon's form to attack with the demon's voracity. The clawed weapons alone would do, though he figured he could have taken the creature with just his hands.
The meal was pulled to the side, out of the way of anyone else who might try to rob him of it (instinctual - he was the only one of his kind here) and away from the smell of human blood that was just as tantalizing, if not more so, than the decaying monster he sought to devour. It was only a very small part of him, that little bit of remaining restraint, that kept him focused on Landel's creation.
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The doctor strained, dragging him several feet back from the fight before he let him down. Jim wasn't fat, but he was packing enough muscle weight to make it no easy thing to drag him solo while he was wounded. Ideally he could have gotten him further off, but he needed to check the wounds first.
A glance back showed that the patient (a male?) was bodily pulling the cat away from them, seemingly undisturbed by the smell of rot and blood coming from it. He couldn't get a clear glimpse of his face just yet. He'd yet to see a patient that would run to another's rescue like that, and even though he was thankful for it, he couldn't say he liked the idea of this man running headlong in like that.
He had to move fast while the animal was distracted. He turned back to the captain, tearing the shirt the rest of the way off. Blood stained Jim's torso and his arms. Not immediately life-threatening, but bleeding out and possibly infected. He hurriedly opened the first aid kit, and snapping on gloves, probed the wound. Ragged around the edges, some teeth caught in the fabric..
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