There's Warmth On My Face That Isn't The Blood
Title: Nixaan Theta [6/?]
Fandom: Star Trek XI
Pairing: Kirk/Spock pre-slash so far
Rating: R
Summary: An away mission goes horribly, horribly wrong
Notes/Warnings: General warnings for this chapter: dramatic tense shift is dramatic, graphic violence (OMG! Shocking, I know) and... actually I think that's it. Huh.
Nixaan Theta
Part the Sixth : Undone by This
There's a texture to total darkness, a thickening of the air that makes it press close and lends it a tangible weight. He wears it now as he runs, passes through it like a film of ink that is staining him black. His footfalls echo, mixing with the sounds of pursuit and spurs him faster and faster still, echo-chase-echo-run, the clopping mantra in his mind is relentless. It drives him forward, drives him out.
He knows the twists are coming. He scents them, an opening here, solid rock there. Shifts in dust stirring ahead of him, sound waves bouncing back into his skull. He turns. He runs.
He echoes.
Inside him is more darkness. He's swallowing it as he flees and it snakes through him like a parasite, setting fire to his brain, until all he can hear is it pounding through his blood in time with the slap of his feet on the ground. He turns right and stops.
It is here. Closer now. Faster. Alive with him in the bowels of the earth. Nostrils flare to catch the musk of lizard. Of alien.
There!
He ducks and the air above him is sliced. Movement has a flavour, more dust spreading along his tongue, drying the roof of his mouth and forming flecks of foam at its corners. He can taste aggression now, sour sweat burning with rot. He returns it with his own spitting rage. He can taste madness, thick along his throat and oily with vomit. The coil of night in his belly winds into his spine and he falls. It wraps his nerves in agony, slowly, like a nightmare's caress; it rakes instead of soothes and he uses that to roll clear.
Solidity to his right, and warmth. He lashes out and tastes blood in the air before it settles on his lips. Savage triumph wars with horror. His yell is thunderous and his entire body thrums to the pulse of his heart.
Warmth over him again. Spasms rock him and he fights. Inside and out, he fights, twinning his fury to his pain until he can no longer distinguish between them.
This slash hits only empty air and he howls in disappointment. His enemy is grunting as it struggles to pin him in place. Twist, pull, thrash. He is free.
He runs.
There are no directions in the tunnels, only openings. He clings to the wall as he scrambles away, gouging into stone with unnatural strength. His gasps are too loud, they drown out the signs and he struggles for calm against the flood of instinct and fear. A high pitched keen alerts him an instant too late and the claws raking his back throw out more heavy iron blood.
It burns and ignites the rage. Spinning on his heel he lowers his shoulder and barrels into the thick patch of darkness, driving it back with a satisfying grunt and careening across the path into a wall. They are still a moment, tasting each other in the air. He can almost see the jut of fang as it gnashes towards his eyes.
He flicks his head away, dodging narrowly and cracks his head against the exposed cheek. Rocked by the impact, he throws himself clear before the next singing blow can connect, ripping the swaddle of cloth free from his splint. Weakly clasping the curve of cool metal, he stabs the air and loses his grip when it sinks in to a vulnerable tendon.
The scream threatens to burst his eardrums and he fights the urge to curl in and dampen the sound. He needs the sounds to know where to strike, the knowledge is instinct. Regaining his feet, he braces against the echoes, and waits.
Scraping claws on cold stone. Heat.
He dives for it, connects.
Plummets.
His hand, the wrong hand, smells like black, like musty earth and death. Alien. He screams when they collide with hard rock, feels the snap of teeth a hair away from his throat and is shaken loose.
He skitters across the ground and shudders into a crouch, nails striking stone, sending shocks into his arms.
The air whistles around him and he spins to intercept, fingers fixed into claws; he feels skin catch and rip as he is borne to the ground. It's too fast, too heavy. He finds purchase on the crags beneath him and lunges forward.
He is blinded by a flash, truly seeing the twisted hatred and rictus of death for the first time before the white fills his eyes and his nostrils are flooded with charred flesh and ozone.
The weight above him is limp now, dead. He whimpers as he wrests free.
Silence.
The darkness is still and heavy.
He slinks to the wall, wrapped in cunning, sheathed in shadows, and waits.
“Kirk?”
The word is hesitant, tinged with disbelief. It triggers something beneath the urgency.
Recognition.
Kirk. He is Kirk.
He shakes as he fights to control the panic. His heart is racing and every instinct is screaming for him to lash out at this new threat. Drive fingers into flesh and fall into darkness. That is alien. That is not Kirk.
He seizes onto that fact and clings to his name like salvation.
He is Kirk.
He breathes in black and exhales his monster.
He. Is. Kirk.
Layers of himself returned as he remembered his ship, his mission and his crew. It was enough to rein in the primal fury.
Jim straightened away from the wall and turned towards the voice, burned blood and phaser fire hanging in the air like a subtitle. The sheet he had liberated from the lab was stiff with grime and rustled loudly as he drew the tattered remains close. He ignored the trembling in his arms as he reached out.
“Spock? Is that you?” His voice was shattered on the uptick, throat raw with the force of his screaming and the small thread of hope.
Another blinding burst of light pierced him. Jim startled back against the wall and tracked the flare to the centre of the pit, squinting tightly until he could adjust to the flickering glow. His companion stepped into the circle of wavering yellow, soft soles of the Starfleet issued boots barely scuffing the ground. The shirt was filthy and gaping tears had it hanging in loose strips about a slight frame, but he could make out the weave of red cloth beneath the dirt, as clearly as the phaser aimed directly at his heart.
“Ferris!” Jim reached out, a genuine smile spreading across his face, the first in what seemed like years. The relief flowed into him, unravelling a tiny section of the grief that had burned in his chest since finding the corpses of his crew. Had it really only been a handful of days? “You're alive!”
The phaser inched up to follow his movement with an unmistakable threat. Ferris' face was set in grim resolve as he considered his Captain.
Jim glanced down at himself and took in his blood soaked rags and twisted hand. The fingertips were worn to raw meat that glistened wetly in the uncertain light. Mildly concerned with the pervading numbness, he knew he should be feeling more than a few superficial twinges from the damages he'd taken in his flight, he noted it and stopped his advance to make a token effort to straighten his makeshift toga, covering the worst of his injuries.
He softened his voice, able to suppress the shudder building at the base of his spine and focus in on soothing his Ensign.
“Ferris? It's OK. I'm OK now. You saved me.”
The kid didn't blink, just continued standing at the edge of the flare's light, weapon at the ready.
“I'm going to need your help now, Ensign.” He was channelling Pike now, trying to interject enough calm authority to dispel what the kid had seen. Nervous sweat pricked the wounds across Jim's shoulder blades as he squared them. Ferris watched coolly, whatever he'd seen down here had roughed away the last vestiges of the wide eyed Ensign who'd beamed down with him. The mask of calculation didn't suit the boy and Jim had a healthy suspicion that the phaser was not set on stun.
Jim cast a sidelong glance at the fallen Nixaanite, taking in the gashed flesh from his own vicious attacks and the cauterized hole punched through its skull. He tried not to wonder if it had been one of the children Kiri'eee had spoken of with such quiet horror.
“There might be more of these things down here, Ensign. We should go.”
The hard gaze fell to the weapon and it shook slightly, as if buckling under the regard.
“I'm sorry.” Jim's heart tightened at the apology. If anything, the kid deserved a commendation. When they got back to the ship he'd make a special effort to hear his story, help him through the nightmares resulting from this clusterfuck of a mission. Hell, he'd order Bones to share the good stuff, if necessary.
“Hey, it's all right now, Ferris. Let's just get out of here.”
He took a step and stopped immediately; cold grey eyes snapped back to him and the phaser was, once again, levelled at his chest. Sick certainty wrestled with his confusion, and he flinched against the betrayal levied with the next words.
“No. I'm sorry, but I can't let you leave here alive, Kirk.”
Master Post
Previous
Next
End Notes:
(now with extra whine)
Sorry for the shortness cathesput! I promise the next one will be longer XD
Ah, part the sixth. Waaaaay back when I first started writing this thing, it was only going to be six parts. This would have been it for us and I would be celebrating the completion of another fic (My twelfth!) You may remember me laughing hysterically about this in previous sections. I'm calmer now and can look back, from the wisdom granted by time (I am such a slow writer *facepalm*) and shake my head in gentle amusement. Life lesson learned: I am NEVER posting a WIP, ever again. In fact, when this thing is done (I'll say in another five chapters so you can laugh at with me when that doesn't work out) I intend to spend an entire month writing nothing but porn and schmoop and fluffy one shots. For strictly therapeutic purposes. >:3
The idea for this scene is what prompted this story to derail itself from the simple five and one I had intended (remember that? When this thing had a format? I AM STILL GENTLY AMUSED) and morph into the sprawling monstrosity we have today. In fact, I can tell you the exact day this thing went sideways (because I am freak that dates my notes). The entry on November 20 reads as follows: FUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUCK! (I am not kidding, I use OpenOffice and it has helpfully saved that exclamation into its autocomplete recognition. Isn't technology grand? :D ) Should I change the title? *snicker*
ANYWAYS - thanks, again, to everybody who is sloughing through this one with me. (All ten of you - HI GUYS! XD) I've never written SRS horror before, it really does mean a lot that you're willing to give this a chance! UNDYING LOVE, of the bold variety, to my charming cheesecake of cheer, the encouragement and unflagging enthusiasm (AT THREE AM~!) were invaluable.~<3 I think I went ahead and picked up that gauntlet. Did you need it back? ;)
/chatty bastard
Fandom: Star Trek XI
Pairing: Kirk/Spock pre-slash so far
Rating: R
Summary: An away mission goes horribly, horribly wrong
Notes/Warnings: General warnings for this chapter: dramatic tense shift is dramatic, graphic violence (OMG! Shocking, I know) and... actually I think that's it. Huh.
Nixaan Theta
Part the Sixth : Undone by This
There's a texture to total darkness, a thickening of the air that makes it press close and lends it a tangible weight. He wears it now as he runs, passes through it like a film of ink that is staining him black. His footfalls echo, mixing with the sounds of pursuit and spurs him faster and faster still, echo-chase-echo-run, the clopping mantra in his mind is relentless. It drives him forward, drives him out.
He knows the twists are coming. He scents them, an opening here, solid rock there. Shifts in dust stirring ahead of him, sound waves bouncing back into his skull. He turns. He runs.
He echoes.
Inside him is more darkness. He's swallowing it as he flees and it snakes through him like a parasite, setting fire to his brain, until all he can hear is it pounding through his blood in time with the slap of his feet on the ground. He turns right and stops.
It is here. Closer now. Faster. Alive with him in the bowels of the earth. Nostrils flare to catch the musk of lizard. Of alien.
There!
He ducks and the air above him is sliced. Movement has a flavour, more dust spreading along his tongue, drying the roof of his mouth and forming flecks of foam at its corners. He can taste aggression now, sour sweat burning with rot. He returns it with his own spitting rage. He can taste madness, thick along his throat and oily with vomit. The coil of night in his belly winds into his spine and he falls. It wraps his nerves in agony, slowly, like a nightmare's caress; it rakes instead of soothes and he uses that to roll clear.
Solidity to his right, and warmth. He lashes out and tastes blood in the air before it settles on his lips. Savage triumph wars with horror. His yell is thunderous and his entire body thrums to the pulse of his heart.
Warmth over him again. Spasms rock him and he fights. Inside and out, he fights, twinning his fury to his pain until he can no longer distinguish between them.
This slash hits only empty air and he howls in disappointment. His enemy is grunting as it struggles to pin him in place. Twist, pull, thrash. He is free.
He runs.
There are no directions in the tunnels, only openings. He clings to the wall as he scrambles away, gouging into stone with unnatural strength. His gasps are too loud, they drown out the signs and he struggles for calm against the flood of instinct and fear. A high pitched keen alerts him an instant too late and the claws raking his back throw out more heavy iron blood.
It burns and ignites the rage. Spinning on his heel he lowers his shoulder and barrels into the thick patch of darkness, driving it back with a satisfying grunt and careening across the path into a wall. They are still a moment, tasting each other in the air. He can almost see the jut of fang as it gnashes towards his eyes.
He flicks his head away, dodging narrowly and cracks his head against the exposed cheek. Rocked by the impact, he throws himself clear before the next singing blow can connect, ripping the swaddle of cloth free from his splint. Weakly clasping the curve of cool metal, he stabs the air and loses his grip when it sinks in to a vulnerable tendon.
The scream threatens to burst his eardrums and he fights the urge to curl in and dampen the sound. He needs the sounds to know where to strike, the knowledge is instinct. Regaining his feet, he braces against the echoes, and waits.
Scraping claws on cold stone. Heat.
He dives for it, connects.
Plummets.
His hand, the wrong hand, smells like black, like musty earth and death. Alien. He screams when they collide with hard rock, feels the snap of teeth a hair away from his throat and is shaken loose.
He skitters across the ground and shudders into a crouch, nails striking stone, sending shocks into his arms.
The air whistles around him and he spins to intercept, fingers fixed into claws; he feels skin catch and rip as he is borne to the ground. It's too fast, too heavy. He finds purchase on the crags beneath him and lunges forward.
He is blinded by a flash, truly seeing the twisted hatred and rictus of death for the first time before the white fills his eyes and his nostrils are flooded with charred flesh and ozone.
The weight above him is limp now, dead. He whimpers as he wrests free.
Silence.
The darkness is still and heavy.
He slinks to the wall, wrapped in cunning, sheathed in shadows, and waits.
“Kirk?”
The word is hesitant, tinged with disbelief. It triggers something beneath the urgency.
Recognition.
Kirk. He is Kirk.
He shakes as he fights to control the panic. His heart is racing and every instinct is screaming for him to lash out at this new threat. Drive fingers into flesh and fall into darkness. That is alien. That is not Kirk.
He seizes onto that fact and clings to his name like salvation.
He is Kirk.
He breathes in black and exhales his monster.
He. Is. Kirk.
Layers of himself returned as he remembered his ship, his mission and his crew. It was enough to rein in the primal fury.
Jim straightened away from the wall and turned towards the voice, burned blood and phaser fire hanging in the air like a subtitle. The sheet he had liberated from the lab was stiff with grime and rustled loudly as he drew the tattered remains close. He ignored the trembling in his arms as he reached out.
“Spock? Is that you?” His voice was shattered on the uptick, throat raw with the force of his screaming and the small thread of hope.
Another blinding burst of light pierced him. Jim startled back against the wall and tracked the flare to the centre of the pit, squinting tightly until he could adjust to the flickering glow. His companion stepped into the circle of wavering yellow, soft soles of the Starfleet issued boots barely scuffing the ground. The shirt was filthy and gaping tears had it hanging in loose strips about a slight frame, but he could make out the weave of red cloth beneath the dirt, as clearly as the phaser aimed directly at his heart.
“Ferris!” Jim reached out, a genuine smile spreading across his face, the first in what seemed like years. The relief flowed into him, unravelling a tiny section of the grief that had burned in his chest since finding the corpses of his crew. Had it really only been a handful of days? “You're alive!”
The phaser inched up to follow his movement with an unmistakable threat. Ferris' face was set in grim resolve as he considered his Captain.
Jim glanced down at himself and took in his blood soaked rags and twisted hand. The fingertips were worn to raw meat that glistened wetly in the uncertain light. Mildly concerned with the pervading numbness, he knew he should be feeling more than a few superficial twinges from the damages he'd taken in his flight, he noted it and stopped his advance to make a token effort to straighten his makeshift toga, covering the worst of his injuries.
He softened his voice, able to suppress the shudder building at the base of his spine and focus in on soothing his Ensign.
“Ferris? It's OK. I'm OK now. You saved me.”
The kid didn't blink, just continued standing at the edge of the flare's light, weapon at the ready.
“I'm going to need your help now, Ensign.” He was channelling Pike now, trying to interject enough calm authority to dispel what the kid had seen. Nervous sweat pricked the wounds across Jim's shoulder blades as he squared them. Ferris watched coolly, whatever he'd seen down here had roughed away the last vestiges of the wide eyed Ensign who'd beamed down with him. The mask of calculation didn't suit the boy and Jim had a healthy suspicion that the phaser was not set on stun.
Jim cast a sidelong glance at the fallen Nixaanite, taking in the gashed flesh from his own vicious attacks and the cauterized hole punched through its skull. He tried not to wonder if it had been one of the children Kiri'eee had spoken of with such quiet horror.
“There might be more of these things down here, Ensign. We should go.”
The hard gaze fell to the weapon and it shook slightly, as if buckling under the regard.
“I'm sorry.” Jim's heart tightened at the apology. If anything, the kid deserved a commendation. When they got back to the ship he'd make a special effort to hear his story, help him through the nightmares resulting from this clusterfuck of a mission. Hell, he'd order Bones to share the good stuff, if necessary.
“Hey, it's all right now, Ferris. Let's just get out of here.”
He took a step and stopped immediately; cold grey eyes snapped back to him and the phaser was, once again, levelled at his chest. Sick certainty wrestled with his confusion, and he flinched against the betrayal levied with the next words.
“No. I'm sorry, but I can't let you leave here alive, Kirk.”
Master Post
Previous
Next
End Notes:
(now with extra whine)
Sorry for the shortness cathesput! I promise the next one will be longer XD
Ah, part the sixth. Waaaaay back when I first started writing this thing, it was only going to be six parts. This would have been it for us and I would be celebrating the completion of another fic (My twelfth!) You may remember me laughing hysterically about this in previous sections. I'm calmer now and can look back, from the wisdom granted by time (I am such a slow writer *facepalm*) and shake my head in gentle amusement. Life lesson learned: I am NEVER posting a WIP, ever again. In fact, when this thing is done (I'll say in another five chapters so you can laugh at with me when that doesn't work out) I intend to spend an entire month writing nothing but porn and schmoop and fluffy one shots. For strictly therapeutic purposes. >:3
The idea for this scene is what prompted this story to derail itself from the simple five and one I had intended (remember that? When this thing had a format? I AM STILL GENTLY AMUSED) and morph into the sprawling monstrosity we have today. In fact, I can tell you the exact day this thing went sideways (because I am freak that dates my notes). The entry on November 20 reads as follows: FUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUCK! (I am not kidding, I use OpenOffice and it has helpfully saved that exclamation into its autocomplete recognition. Isn't technology grand? :D ) Should I change the title? *snicker*
ANYWAYS - thanks, again, to everybody who is sloughing through this one with me. (All ten of you - HI GUYS! XD) I've never written SRS horror before, it really does mean a lot that you're willing to give this a chance! UNDYING LOVE, of the bold variety, to my charming cheesecake of cheer, the encouragement and unflagging enthusiasm (AT THREE AM~!) were invaluable.~<3 I think I went ahead and picked up that gauntlet. Did you need it back? ;)
/chatty bastard