Before the dawn [SF Medical facility]
Your aptitude tests are off the charts, so what is it? You like being the only genius level repeat offender in the Midwest? Maybe I love it… are we done here? I'm done…Your father was captain of a starship for twelve minutes. He saved eight hundred lives. I dare you to do better. Four years? I'll do it in three. Do you have any idea what a pain in the ass you are? I think so, sir. You think the rules don't apply to you. Some of them shouldn't- There's greatness in you, but not an ounce of humility. You think you can't make mistakes, but there's going to come a moment when you realize you're wrong about that, and you're going to get yourself and everyone under your command killed. They've taken Enterprise away from you, Jim… They're not going to listen. I'm not going to listen. You don't respect the chair.
They've given her back to me, Jim…You're going to be my First Officer. Because I believe in you.
I don't know what to say.
It's going to be okay, son.
It's going to be okay, son. The same snippets of memories replayed themselves as Jim slowly groped his way back toward consciousness. He had no sense of time or how many days were going by as he floated, dreaming. The nightmares came and went, the old ones now and then but most often the surrealistic, crystal-clear memory of that day, the questions he'd raised. The conference room exploding, people he knew and respected, people he …cared about. Injured. Dying.
Pike was dead. He knew when he saw Spock's face, but still he had to kneel down and reach out, his hand unsteady as he checked for a pulse, but it was too late. Jim was too late. He howled over and over again, the agony never lessened by repetition, by seeing the scene playing out another and another time. It was always fresh and sharp, the pain of losing another father figure. The only one he'd actually known.
Maybe George Kirk would've stood by him and stood up for him, knocked him on his ass when he needed it. Jim would never know. But Christopher Pike had done all that and more. He'd believed in Jim, even when Jim had kept letting him down. He'd somehow seen things, seen greatness in Jim that he couldn't find in himself, not until the end.
And in the end he'd been scared, angry, confused… all of the things Spock had mentioned feeling when he'd melded with Pike in those last moments. But he'd known, at the last, what to do. That to allow his crew to die was unacceptable if there was another way.
He hadn't expected death to be quite like this, though. And there were voices now, too, muffled but familiar. He'd expected to be alone… and if the voices belonged to who he thought, he was going to have a serious conversation with them about what the hell they thought they were doing there. Being dead.
They've given her back to me, Jim…You're going to be my First Officer. Because I believe in you.
I don't know what to say.
It's going to be okay, son.
It's going to be okay, son. The same snippets of memories replayed themselves as Jim slowly groped his way back toward consciousness. He had no sense of time or how many days were going by as he floated, dreaming. The nightmares came and went, the old ones now and then but most often the surrealistic, crystal-clear memory of that day, the questions he'd raised. The conference room exploding, people he knew and respected, people he …cared about. Injured. Dying.
Pike was dead. He knew when he saw Spock's face, but still he had to kneel down and reach out, his hand unsteady as he checked for a pulse, but it was too late. Jim was too late. He howled over and over again, the agony never lessened by repetition, by seeing the scene playing out another and another time. It was always fresh and sharp, the pain of losing another father figure. The only one he'd actually known.
Maybe George Kirk would've stood by him and stood up for him, knocked him on his ass when he needed it. Jim would never know. But Christopher Pike had done all that and more. He'd believed in Jim, even when Jim had kept letting him down. He'd somehow seen things, seen greatness in Jim that he couldn't find in himself, not until the end.
And in the end he'd been scared, angry, confused… all of the things Spock had mentioned feeling when he'd melded with Pike in those last moments. But he'd known, at the last, what to do. That to allow his crew to die was unacceptable if there was another way.
He hadn't expected death to be quite like this, though. And there were voices now, too, muffled but familiar. He'd expected to be alone… and if the voices belonged to who he thought, he was going to have a serious conversation with them about what the hell they thought they were doing there. Being dead.