Red Hands, White Knuckles
Title: Red Hands, White Knuckles
Rating: PG-13 (Gore)
Disclaimer: Don't own, don't sue, thank you.
Warnings: Just gore, and feral-ish Spock
Summary: Stripped of his logic, and to both of their surprise, Spock defends his captain fiercely.
The invitation to peaceful negotiations had been a trap. Jim had a sinking feeling it wouldn’t be the first time on their newly- appointed five year mission that would be the case.
His first officer crouched like a tethered beast in one corner of the room, flanks quivering, muscles shifting seamlessly in his pale neck as the surprisingly corded lines of his arms flexed, taut and ready. Spock was at the end of the inhumanly thick chains he was held down with, not straining them (no logic in that, if they’d already proven as indestructible as they looked, Jim thought with only a hint of hysteria) but focused with a frightening intensity upon the face of the ringleader, staring at him with the fascination of a child in a zoo; cruelly observing a pacing tiger or something equally as deadly, as unparalleled in physical prowess.
“He has been stripped of his precious logic. Vulcans are remarkably receptive to Orion hallucinogens; not the good part of ‘em, either.” His smile became sly, staring over at Kirk with a camaraderie on his face that did not belong there, not ever, teasing and lighthearted now that victory seemed within grasp. “I think we’ve all experienced smelling colors at some point- no, Vulcans are far too high and mighty for that. They simply get… magnified. Sentience gone, every little remaining emotion they try so, so hard to deny magnified to its zenith. Glorious- you’d be amazed how deeply violent such a condescending race turns out to be.”
Jim bit his tongue until it bled, trying beyond might not to boil over into thrashing and rage, insults that would get him- worse, Spock, killed.
‘Unfortunately so few tranquilizers are as potent on Vulcans- by the time your friend here woke up only his ankles were tethered.” He indicated Spock’s free, flexing hands, perched on his squatting thighs, balling and releasing with intent that couldn’t be interpreted as anything other than malicious, staring up at them like some starved berserker. “Ripped our bailiff’s arms right off, the poor bastard. Ah, the toils of getting stuck in night shift…” He sighed wistfully, flipping maroon hair out of his eyes and acting like he’d ever experienced anything other than the lap of luxury.
James knew the type. Spoiled rotten, convinced of his own superiority: the son of some duke or dictator. Ignoring the men still grasping his upper biceps with painful intensity, he snorted hatefully; he’d have to assume that latter lineage for this guy- what a fucking card.
Jim’s glare was hateful- not dislike, not disgust, not even rage: the kind of hate that people simply don’t have to experience anymore, so pampered and well off is the population. The kind of hate that makes your stomach churn in delicious almost-agony, and adrenaline pump so much that you’re holding every breath, muscles tense to the point of cramping, waiting for the opportunity to lunge. Jim’s, at the moment, was the kind that brought kings to riches or ruins.
“Drop dead.” These were the first words that came out of his mouth, and he was angry about it- not that he wanted to hold back, so torn was his composure at seeing the proudest man he knew dragged down to primeval urges against his will. No, Jim was angry because words were not enough, could never be enough to encompass the breadth of his loathing and prove his point. He wanted to forgo arguing, frustrated and hateful as he was, and scream himself raw; anything to loosen the tension, relieve the pressure, because words were not enough, not now. “Drop dead! Drop dead, drop dead, go climb a wall of dicks and choke on your own spit you FUGLY, REPULSIVE-“ The tone had been escalating dangerously throughout the entire speech, getting louder and louder until anything intelligible was indiscernible through the bellow that escaped, him, the sort where you can hear their vocal cords tearing, hear how and why no living thing should ever be given reason to scream anything like this.
“We’re getting our spunk back, are we? Seeing your boy alive put the fight right back into you- I like that, kid.” The guards, however, apparently did not, because the painful hands on his arms became vices, and the unexpected pressure caused him to bay in anguish.
Chains rattled. Spock had heard. Two steps closer, but not enough, never enough-
Not until they together again. Safe, again.
Everything from there happened too fast. Jim blinked blearily, trying to abolish tears of rage: and in that exact moment, everything went to hell. One of the by-standing personnel had gone over to Spock’s corner, attempting to subdue and cow him once more-
The rookie got much too close, before anyone could stop him. The primitive tricorder on the poor man’s shoulder swung to and fro unsteadily with each nervous step, Spock’s eyes trained on the thing as whatever planning abilities he had left in him at the moment whirred away. They guy had what looked like and old hand held tazer, and just before he could make it into shocking range Spock swiped at the leather strap around kid’s shoulder, yanking forward with single minded ferocity. The man didn’t stand a snowball’s chance in hell. Spock, what was left of him, knew it as well as everyone else in the room.
The nameless cadet began to tumble clumsily down, jerking and weaving for a few seconds in a futile attempt to remain upright before dropping like a rock-right on top of the furious Vulcan. Just in time to avoid being squashed, Spock reached up with his right hand and ran it rapidly down the face of his opponent, searching for a handhold, something to jerk the Doalthian’s trajectory away from where his ‘captive’ was tethered.
Spock found the man’s gaping mouth, fingers catching, grabbing his lower jaw; and tugged to the right. There was a repulsive, meaty ‘snap’ of bone, straight through to the marrow, and a series of smaller, wetter ‘pop’s as the veins were severed. The man’s jaw was hanging on by a string of muscle and cartilage now, wet red vines of tissue hanging, frayed and unduly severed from both the jaw and his head. It had the desired effect: Spock wasn’t crushed by the humanoid. He did not loosen his grip, however, the smaller man fell: severed teeth and chin remaining firmly in Spock’s grasp. The last, blood-sopping strings keeping head and jaw together tore off with the force of the fall.
Jim imagined it was worse that way. The sound could only be compared to ripping denim, thick, loud and reluctant. When the tech was on the floor, writhing, with crimson pouring in obscene amounts straight out of his neck, Spock finally let the jaw drop with a gentle squish down to the dirty floor. The man was screaming something inhuman and agonized, sounding like a mix between boiling water and wailing babes as some of the blood dripped down his now gaping throat, the hole open for the world to see. His tongue had snapped off crisply, like taffy, along with his chin, and so any words that may have wished to some out along with the agonized cries were lost in a repulsive, unfettered gurgling. Spock stared for a few more seconds, coldly disinterested, before he deemed the writing being worthy of acknowledgment.
That acknowledgement came in the form of a large hand reaching over and swiftly shattering his solar plexus, ending the ruckus.
The Vulcan then rolled back onto his haunches, arranged himself in his previous position, and stared intently once more; decidedly iron based blood bathing his sleeves and dripping a messy trail down his shirt, flecks of meat scattered over his face and legs.
Silence fell for a few terrified seconds. Then one of the guards restraining Kirk let go abruptly, ran the four steps he could, and vomited acridly all over the floor. His tour guide, their leader, for all of his talk of ‘glorious violence’ and other self-important, tough guy sentiments, proceeded to stare at his first officer like he’d expected a tabby and found a tiger.
“What’s with the face? Guess if this is surprising, you must not’ve been here when nightshift guy got his arms torn off.” Jim should’ve been disgusted by the display. “Or did you think you were bluffing?” He should have been repulsed beyond words.
But he wasn’t. It was not right or moral or even entirely sane, but after the rest of his party had been slaughtered… it looked good, felt good, that they were getting retribution. Wrong, corrupted, unjust retribution indeed: but these were the rapists and murderers of this planet, the self important assholes with pockets to stuff and people to take advantage of.
Hundreds of years of human instincts dictated that he should be scared of Spock right now, too, but that wasn’t happening, either.
The authorative alien looked halfway between blind rage and repulsion.
---WeTryToHoldOn---
Some of Spock’s alien instincts and habits were stranger than others. This fact was being delineated in detail to Jim now that human expectations and Vulcan inhabitations had been temporarily pried from Spock’s calculative brain.
When, in attempted petty retribution for their fallen comrade, he’d been punched in the gut and thrown into Spock’s corner, Jim thought he’d be disemboweled. That Spock would have no inkling to his identity, or worse, remember him as the human who had deliberately insulted his mother and invoked his wrath. As he fell to the floor in the warm, dimly lit cell, he imagined Spock’s hand going through his chest, beating heart being ripped out in an almost comical explosion of gore.
…but that would be illogical. He’d probably just have his skull squished. Long past pride in the face of fear, emotional anguish and exhaustion, Jim was shaking like a leaf by the time he hit the floor, unwilling to look up for fear of glimpsing the cooling corpse deposited on the floor not three minutes ago. Spock’s footsteps, splashing in the blood to leave footprints on the dry sections of the ground, walked over to where James huddled, winded by the punch to his gut, with what slack was in the chains. Jim was well within the hybrid’s range.
He knew it. That bastard princeling knew it, too. Both of them were prepared (one with resignation and sorrow, one with devilish glee) for the death of the new captain of the starship Enterprise.
What happened next, however, no-one was prepared for. Leaning down with uncharacteristically soulful eyes, Spock placed both of his large, still lightly damp hands under Kirk’s arms, as one might do to a child, and gently picked him up off the ground with ease, holding him up to eye level (and, consequently, a few inches off the ground.) The Vulcan then leaned foreword, opened his mouth ever so slightly, curled his lip upward, and-
…breathed deeply for several intense seconds. If Jim had been at a loss with the situation before, he was completely baffled now. Spock’s hands, warm and gentle on his ribcage, flexed almost imperceptibly with every heaving inhalation. James hung limply, waiting with baited breath for whatever would happen next.
Seeming finally satisfied with the results of… whatever he’d been doing, Spock’s eyes snapped open. Reaffirming the grip on his captain, the drugged commander proceeded to walk Jim over to the nearest wall and lean him against it, wasting absolutely no time in kneeling down and ripping the bottom half of Jim’s left pant leg off, revealing a gash on his shin he’d gotten when trying to run the first time. He was so high on adrenaline and fear he hadn’t given it serious thought yet, and while it appeared to have bled horribly down his leg and into his boot, it was more superficial than anything. The injury had already begun to coagulate, browning spots of drying blood not at all aesthetically pleasing.
It then occurred to him that Spock hadn’t been there when he’d received the wound- and he had, to his knowledge, given no limp or indication that it was there; at least none obvious enough that his first officer, in this state, would recognize as human discomfort. With startling, unsettling clarity, it occurred to him that Spock had been smelling him for blood. It was… a protective gesture, thank every god out there, and maybe…
…maybe he’d come out of this alive. If he kept by Spock, whose inhuman strength and uncharacteristic brutality suddenly seemed a godsend in the midst of this guerilla civilization.
They’d be ok. As long as they stuck together, they’d always stay alright.