fic: Captivity (1/?)
Title: Captivity (1/?)
Word Count: ~6500
Fandom: Star Trek
Characters/Pairings: ensemble; eventual Kirk/Spock
Summary: Prompted by st_xi_kink, here: AU. Twenty-seven years ago, Earth initiated war with Vulcan. Twenty-five years ago, the Vulcans won. Twenty-four years ago, humans became their slaves. Three years ago, Jim Kirk met Leonard McCoy. Today, they - among others - are wanted for their roles in the resistance.
Notes/Warnings: Okay, so for the entire fic as a whole, um, I'm predicting the following warnings: blood, gore, extreme violence, torture, terrorism, child abuse, dub/non-con, and character death; whether they'll just be implied or explicitly written, I can't yet say for sure. (For this chapter? Um, just a little bit of blood and some hints towards terroristic activities.) This is probably going to be a pretty long one... I've got a decently-sized outline written up, all that's left is to write it all out. I shall do my best.
One | Two | Three | Four
His breath comes out in short gasps as he runs, getting a thorough enough workout with his legs pumping and chest heaving, but he doesn’t relent. He can’t afford to, really. He isn’t running from anything in particular - he rarely is - it’s just that it’s dangerous in general to do this sort of thing. There’s a constant, over-looming threat present at all times.
It didn’t always used to be like that, and he can still remember when that was the case. When there was such a thing as freedom and being able to roam out, on one’s own, in an urban area - or any area, for that matter, whether it’s highly populated or sparsely or not at all, with great futuristic buildings or little shacks or just woods or whatever - in the middle of the night. Or in the daytime. Or evening, or morning, dawn or dusk or seriously, it never used to matter.
Now it has to be done at night. You can’t do it during the day unless you’re particularly good, and quite frankly, no, he is not even remotely close to being that good. He knows people who are. He’s going to see those people right now. It’s been a while since he saw them last; too long by their counts, and certainly too long by his.
It’s his own fault anyway, though, and he knows that. He’s the one that developed an attachment, a sense of gratitude that turned into a sense of being completely taken advantage of. Something that he hasn’t been able to shake off because he’s known it for like two thirds of his life by now, damnit, has it really been that long? It really has been… And, well, he’s working on trying to fix that now.
Through the few means that they have. With the few people that he knows - because it’s important to keep it small, just in case - with the few materials they’re able to get a hold of. He can help a little in that area. Not as much as others, but his expertise is more geared towards the middle stage of things, not the very beginning. There’s collecting, then there’s building, then there’s destroying. He does the building. And considering his lack of formal education, he is really freaking good at it.
There’s so much more he could have learned, though. And knowledge such as the kind he possesses could really have gone somewhere good. But oh well. Life is what it is, now.
Twenty-seven years ago an ununited Earth, habited by a petty, selfish, and greedy species, initiated a war that it had no hope in hell of winning. He’s not to blame for that. He was a child at the time.
Twenty-five years ago, Earth remained ununited, remained petty, remained selfish, remained greedy. And then it became indignant and pissy to boot. He was a part of that last bit, but then again, a child entering the stages of being a preteen; if there hadn’t been a war lost, he would have still found something to be indignant about. (Hell, even if they had won the war, he probably would have been indignant by that.)
It took a year to get any sense of control formed, and yeah, he’s partially to blame for that as well, but seriously - still just a child. It was exciting. He got caught up in the excitement. He got mellowed out pretty quick during that year, and it’s now, as he rounds the corner of a building, that he’s finally - finally - working on fixing that. It’s been a few years, actually, like a third of his life. It’s great that everything’s so divisible here, because in a year it won’t be, but regardless. Now there’s really a flow to things. Now they’ve really got something going. Now they’re really working towards something.
It’s not his first choice, but it’s the best one they’ve got, and damn if he doesn’t enjoy what he does.
Scott, Scotty to his friends, Monty to one person in particular, continues his headlong dash, trying to be as quiet as he possibly can. After years of doing this sort of thing, it’s possible, but not terribly easy considering just how much his legs ache and the fresh bruises decorating his torso in a motley of greyed colours and damnit, even without the running, it already hurts to breathe. This isn’t a good lifestyle. He should stop. He jumps over a bit of rubble in his path, landing awkwardly on his feet and fuck, he just did something to his ankle.
Still, that doesn’t quite matter because he hits the ground still running, his fingers scraping against a stone wall’s side because his path just went off on a slightly more diagonal route and it’s either his fingers or his entire side, and that would not be pleasant at this time. Or any time, really, but the beating is still fairly fresh, all things considered, so…
Scotty takes another sharp turn, looping backwards a little bit. It’s unnecessary and doesn’t get him much closer to where he needs to go but really, that’s exactly why it is necessary. If there’s any chance he’s being watched, any at all - and it’s possible even though he is pretty good at what he does by this point - then the more thrown off they can be, the better. He can’t afford to lead anyone else to the hideout. None of them can. That would spell the end.
Really, it’s amazing enough that they’re able to get away with as much as they do in this sort of society. Of course there were bound to be fugitives, no society where slavery is a natural part of life can really get away without them, he’s just amazed that he gets to be a part of it.
Maybe there are others out there doing the same sort of thing. Others who are just as good at keeping their shit covered up, of keeping the fight alive, that he just doesn’t know about them. He isn’t too good at keeping his shit covered up, though. None of them are.
That’s kind of the point.
The Vulcans may have won the war, may have taken over the entire planet, may have enslaved the majority of humanity - himself included, technically - but still, what he’s doing? Has them on their toes, as much as a Vulcan can be. They’re concerned. Though they’d never admit to it, they’re probably a little scared. He never thought he’d be the kind of person to get something out of it, but then again, he never thought he’d have his freedoms so freely stripped away. And so it goes.
The important thing is, he isn’t known. Two names are known but there are no faces to place to those names, not really, not for all of the careful documentation. Documents have a way of being destroyed…
Now at the outer limits of what constitutes for San Francisco nowadays, Scotty doesn’t bother to keep up the pretense of running about aimlessly. He curses his stupidity about taking the longest path - he has several ways of getting to their hideout, he needs to, he can’t take the same way twice in a row or anything like that, it’s too risky and in this case paranoia is a good thing - because he’s in far too much pain and he hasn’t eaten in three days and he was just smacked around two days ago for insubordination, and that’s never happened before, so what the fuck, and the sooner he gets to shelter and friendly faces and the bombs and other assorted explosives he’s so lovingly constructed, the better. The longest route was not a good idea.
Ahead of him is a hilly, albeit largely empty, expanse; far too close to the Pacific Ocean for their rulers and overlords to be comfortable with. It’s perfect, really. It’s beautiful and allows them to get away with so much. He runs, straight forward, a headlong dash, aiming to disappear in the mini-valley just a few hills ahead, when the ground suddenly pulls itself too far ahead for him to keep up with and everything shakes and he stumbles and falls and if his ankle wasn’t hurting before, then he envies the before because it’s just been smashed into a medium-sized rock he’d just been turning to veer around.
He falls to the ground and it’s only for a moment but it’s truly terrifying. He feels completely displaced and he can’t quite get back up, partially due to his exhaustion and aching lungs, partially due to being paralyzed in fear. His eyes are wide as he stays on the ground, sort of, hands and knees supporting him while he tries to breathe, his head hanging down and his eyes shut tight just in case there’s a follow up.
There isn’t but he remains like that for a few minutes, and thankfully he’s far enough away from what constitutes as civilization (a shitty one, though, because hi, yeah, he’s a slave, and he doesn’t deserve to be, not that anybody really does) that he can take this break without a greater fear crushing his heart than is already present.
Deep breaths, Scotty, you can do this, he tells himself, breathing through his nose and trying to avoid vomiting. It was nothing, just a little shake was all. It’s all over now. It’s okay. It’s rather disquieting actually considering how close he knows he is to piles and piles of explosives, and the earth shaking about beneath him can’t be any good for them. It’s more on the side of completely fucking dangerous, holy shit.
Slowly, Scotty’s able to rise, clenching his knees in a hopeless attempt at getting them to stop shaking. He stays crouched, catching himself and his breath, huffing out soothing, encouraging words. After all, it’s too late now for anything to have blown up. It’s okay right now. Everything’s okay. Right now.
But if that happens again… And oh, it could, so very easily. There hasn’t been an earthquake in years, not since, oh isn’t that convenient twenty-seven years ago, and even though he knows this area is a little more prone to them, they’ve always known that really, they hadn’t thought they’d be starting up again. Not now.
This is not good and the sooner they can find a solution, the better. And that’s enough to get Scotty to snap out of it completely, jerking him from his daze of terror as he stands up completely, and then proceeds to… well, not run, because his ankle, but… briskly limp to where he needs to go. The ocean is before him, a pitiless empty blackness, and the sky is dark as well and completely clouded over, disgusting in pollution but useful for the lack of light it provides, so nothing is reflected.
He sneaks around the corner of a hill, bypassing the thicket because even though it’s closer, not when he’s in this state, he’s not going to work his way through that. Instead he keeps going towards the ocean, steadying himself as he starts walking downwards to ensure he doesn’t break out into a run against his will, and disappears.
His land is awkward because his ankle is busted up but he’s still able to remain upright, with only a little stumble, and coughing up only a little dust from where his feet gently hit the dirt in the entrance of the small passage that’s almost impossible to find in the hill, unless one knows where it is to begin with. And he should know. He helped figure some of this stuff out. Scotty gives a light cough, bringing his fist up to his mouth, before brushing it off and continuing onwards.
The walk is weaving but not particularly long and he continues to follow it, ignoring the side passages because he knows they’ll just lead to dead ends or the storage of something and that is hardly what he needs right now. No, what would be useful would be medical attention. And freedom. Medical attention first though, it’s the more realistic of the two.
It’s also the best they’re ever going to get. All things considered it’s stunning; had this been a more normal and, well, fucking free society like the world he’d been born into, then it would still be considered pretty damn good. They’re a lot of freaking geniuses, really; they have to be. In a place where they can’t get an education beyond that of a ten-year-old it’s a fucking miracle that they have a doctor. And someone who can construct such masterful explosives. If he does say so himself. And the doctor. Both are important, but if they’re to keep going, then the doctor might just be more so.
The doctor in question is sitting up against the smoothed-down dirt walls that have the occasional root protruding from them, his back up against the edge of an area they affectionately call the war room, because it’s their general place of meeting and conversation and discussion, business-related or not. Sometimes they eat there. It’s a good group area, is what he’s getting at.
McCoy’s eyes are open but he’s staring ahead of him at nothing, breathing evenly, but considering his still-hunched up legs, knees tight to his chest and arms wrapped around them, it’s pretty evident that he was as freaked by the earth’s tremors as Scotty was. He probably still is, considering that deadened gaze, all traces of panic gone - if there were anything to begin with, because if there’s one thing Scotty’s noticed about McCoy, it’s that he never seems to show outright distress; sure, he gets concerned over everyone’s safety and frequently bitches at anyone who has the audacity to get themselves hurt because goddamnit, it’s not like I have a lot to fucking work with here, but he never flat-out panics.
Still, everyone’s different, and they’ve all gone through different things, so Scotty just figures that McCoy has his reasons, same as he has his.
“Um,” Sulu clears his throat from a safe distance beside McCoy, causing McCoy to blearily blink his eyes and come back to the world, “hey, McCoy? I think you’re needed right now.” Beside him the small form that is Chekov nods vigorously, eyes still rather wide and body pressed right up against Sulu’s in fear. Sulu shifts his arm, pulling away slightly, quietly mumbling, “Sorry, Pav, but my arm’s falling asleep.”
Scotty gives an appreciative and somewhat affectionate smile in their direction, one that Sulu wearily returns, before turning back to the doctor. Technically he shouldn’t be referring to McCoy as a doctor because he isn’t really one - it’s impossible in this world for someone of their species - but he’s the closest thing they’ve got and McCoy likes calling himself one anyway and who is he to argue, really, who are any of them to do so; McCoy knows far more than they ever will.
By now McCoy’s eyes have come back to life and he’s come out of wrapping his arms around himself. He straightens himself out while looking over Scotty’s form from the distance between them, eyes roving all over and taking in every little bump, twist, discolouration that he can. Scotty figures he might as well make it easier for the man and starts to limp over.
McCoy’s gaze zeroes in on the pained ankle in question and immediately he snaps, “Don’t move.” It’s a bark of an order and enough to make Scotty freeze in his tracks, no questions asked, because for one thing he’s exhausted and the less moving he does the better, and for another thing, he can’t quite tell if McCoy is in one of his moods or one of his moods and he doesn’t want to chance it. So he stops and lets the doctor come to him.
“Alright,” McCoy says, easing Scotty to the ground, and Scotty gratefully takes the assistance, “let’s get you off that leg, first and foremost. Christ, Scotty, where the fuck were you when that earthquake happened?”
“On my way,” Scotty replies, feeling Chekov’s concerned but curious stare honed in on him. “I was just outside, away from the buildings, in the hills and there was a rock that wasnae where I was heading before but then there suddenly was and I smashed into it.”
McCoy murmurs to himself, gently pulling Scotty’s pant leg up and easing the boot off to get a better look at the swelling. “Well, then good thing it was just your ankle and not your head. We need those brains of yours.”
“Thank you, doctor. And what a fine job you put yours to as well, might I add.”
McCoy’s lips quirk upwards slightly and Scotty relaxes his own smile at that. He moves his hands back a little to keep himself supported and looks at what McCoy, not to mention Sulu and Chekov now, too, is looking at. McCoy lightly touches the bruised area, and Scotty sucks in a breath in response. “Guess that answers my question on whether or not that hurts,” the doctor drawls.
Scotty fixes him with a look. “You think?”
“Well I don’t know quite how much of a tolerance to pain you’ve built up by now,” McCoy snarks in response, and Scotty would have flinched if he hadn’t been too worried about falling over. The barb, and it’s definitely a venom-laced one without a hint of the gentle teasing that tends to accompany such remarks, pushes itself in deep and stings. All traces of levity disappear from Scotty’s face and he outright glares angrily at the doctor. McCoy matches it easily, narrowing his eyes as he takes in Scotty’s features. At least this time his face looks fine.
And it’s McCoy who drops the staring contest first, abashedly turning back towards the ankle in question, and murmurs, “I take it any other injuries on your person are not the result of the earthquake?”
Scotty relaxes. “No, they are not.”
“Do you need anything for them?” His voice is gentler now.
Scotty knows just how scarce supplies are. He knows it first hand and it’s honestly amazing that they even have as many explosives as they do now, and ones that strong, even, but he’s a definite miracle worker. Evidently, so is McCoy, because medical supplies are much harder to steal than anything they can use as a weapon of some sort and he has to keep using them because with the business they’re in, injuries are common. In the very world they’re in, injuries are common. And yet he still manages to keep them all together.
So he answers, “No,” because unless it was an absolute necessity, he wouldn’t dream of using anything of McCoy’s, and it’s far from an absolute necessity. Really - he was just smacked around a little. Vulcans may be three times stronger than humans, which may have made the injuries more extensive than say if McCoy had smacked him around, but it wasn’t anything to be completely concerned about. He’d been through worse and then he had asked McCoy for something, and McCoy had given it to him.
That’s why, despite his general distrust he exhibits when it comes to evaluating the health of the people he works on, McCoy takes him for his word and makes no move to dispute it. He doesn’t even take his eyes off of the ankle, instead watching his hands as they prod around it, with great care, and Scotty can appreciate this.
“When was the last time you ate?” he asks, bangs dipping in his eyes slightly with a shake of his head as he steps back and starts to rise.
“Not for a few days,” Scotty replies.
Before either of them can do or say anything else Chekov is on his feet, sprinting down one of the pathways running beneath the hills. Both Scotty and McCoy turn their heads to stare after him while Sulu slumps a little further down the wall, continuing to rest his back against it, and smiles lazily as he watches him go. “He’s fast, isn’t he?”
Scotty laughs and McCoy snorts, finishing his exercise of standing completely upright and stepping further back. “Well, I think I’ve got something I can use here,” he says, turning around and heading off in a different direction down towards the room where he sleeps; lives. Both Sulu and Scotty hear him growling as he leaves, “What I wouldn’t fucking give to be able to keep some fucking ice down here,” and once he’s disappeared, they grin at each other.
Sulu lets his back continue to slide down the dirt wall until he’s completely on the ground, his head propped up awkwardly. He raises himself up and moves over to Scotty. “So,” he says, still grinning as he crouches down to put them along the same eye level, “how are you?”
“I’ve been better.”
“But you’ve also been worse, right?”
Scotty blows air in Sulu’s face. “Yes, I have. Now stop fussing over me, that’s not your job.”
Sulu leans back and sits, crossing his legs haphazardly in an odd way of sitting Indian-style, with his knees raised too high above the ground. “Whatever,” he snorts. “There’s nothing wrong with asking. I’m allowed to be curious.”
“I suppose you are,” Scotty says, giving him another cheeky grin.
They sit in silence for a moment longer and then suddenly Chekov is back and has his arms outstretched, his hands in front of Scotty’s face, producing an offering consisting of a simple sandwich, composed of nothing more than two slices of bread, lettuce, and tomato slices. Scotty’s eyes widen at the sight, and his hand immediately lifts itself off the ground to snatch up at it.
He takes a bite and beams up at Chekov who’s still hovering beside him, watching him intently. “Magnificent,” Scotty gives his verdict, and Chekov beams back, a smile finally gracing his pale features for the first time that night, before he scuttles around Scotty’s outstretched legs to sit down next to Sulu. “Thank you.”
Sulu nudges Chekov in the side with his elbow and Chekov shoots him a look, but Sulu just nods at him. Chekov stares down at his feet and quietly replies, “You are welcome,” watching the older man finish.
McCoy returns just as the last bites are disappearing and rolls his eyes at the crumbs but says nothing, sitting opposite of Sulu and Chekov and right along the injured ankle. “Hopefully this’ll cool it down and decrease the swelling,” he says, beginning to apply a bit of the cream he’d brought out with him, delicately swiping it across the necessary areas.
Scotty sighs at the touch. “Yeah, I’d say it’s doing the trick.”
McCoy doesn’t reply, just keeps his focus on his work at hand, skilled surgeon’s hands applying it properly without causing too much pain in the process. Chekov watches him intently while Sulu’s gaze drifts more above McCoy’s shoulder and towards the entrance Scotty had come through.
McCoy finishes, wiping the remnants of the cream from his fingertips along Scotty’s leg as he reaches for the long strip of cloth he’d brought out with him. “Let me know if it gets too tight,” he says, and Scotty nods his promise.
The doctor stretches the bandage out and guides one end of it down to Scotty’s toes, wrapping it around the foot and working his way up, making sure it remains secure as he goes. It’s about when he’s starting to wrap it around the actual ankle when a new, brighter voice suddenly fills the cavern, with a bit of a laughing edge to it.
“Holy shit,” it says, as three pairs of eyes turn up to meet it and McCoy’s back stiffens just slightly before recognizing it and he relaxes and resumes bandaging Scotty’s ankle. “That was really close,” Uhura remarks, striding into the cavern with a grin on her face. It fades slightly when she sees the four figures gathered about the centre. “Hey, something happen?”
“Not much,” Scotty waves her off, then uses that hand to gesture towards his ankle, not that Uhura can see it properly because the back of McCoy’s head is blocking her view. “Just got a little roughed up by the earthquake,” he says lightly. “Nothing to be terribly concerned about.”
Uhura walks over to the group, stopping above McCoy’s shoulders and bending down to look at what he’s doing. “I dunno,” she murmurs, “looks bad to me.”
“Lucky you’re not my doctor, then,” Scotty replies, and Uhura whips her head over to glare at him, long ponytail flying in the opposite direction. “Is it that bad, Doctor?”
McCoy rolls his eyes and finishes up, securing the bandage with a little bit of tape, placed up against more cloth. “Bad enough to need this, not so bad that you won’t be able to walk again.”
“Ah, you see?” Scotty grins. Uhura glares.
“Bad enough that it has to be bandaged,” she chides, punching him in the shoulder as she waltzes past him, ignoring his indignant protests. She walks over to McCoy’s other side, getting a better look at the bandage. “How long is that going to have to stay on for?”
“Probably a week or two,” McCoy says, turning to look up at her. “Now what the hell were you so giddy about when you came in here?”
“I’m not giddy,” Uhura snaps, sitting down. “I think I was just running off of the adrenaline of having narrowly escaped death.” She looks back up from Scotty’s feet, grinning at the four boys around her. “It was really close, you know?”
“You’d better not turn into an adrenaline junkie. One of those is far too much already.”
“What happened?” Scotty asks, cutting in on the start of McCoy’s rant. “Everything alright?”
Uhura nods. “Oh, yeah,” she says, waving her hand off. “I’m fine. You know those overpasses that connect some of the older-style places? One nearly fell on top of me, that’s it. A few scratches, dust in my lungs, but that’s only to be expected. I’m perfectly fine. Fell out of the way in time… It was kind of undignified, but still, I’d take that over having my head smashed in.”
“Good choice, there.”
“Thank you.”
“Hey, speaking of adrenaline junkies,” Sulu pipes up, and Uhura turns to look at him, “you see Kirk out there at all?”
She shakes her head. “No, I didn’t,” she says, “and I would have noticed him. Crap, he isn’t here? That’s not good…” Her voice trails off on the last word and she nibbles on her bottom lip a little.
“I’m sure he’s fine, wherever he is,” Scotty remarks in a somewhat dismissive manner. “You know him. He’s always getting hurt and coming out on top just fine.”
McCoy rolls his eyes. “Yeah, that’s gonna catch up with him one day.” He sits up, moving to leave the group. “I’ll be right back. Wanna get that leg elevated.”
“Good idea,” Scotty says.
“That’s why I’m the doctor!” McCoy calls back over his shoulder. “If Jim gets here before I get back and he’s hurt, someone do me a favour and poke his eyes out so he finally won’t have an excuse to keep going out there.”
“Will do!” Uhura calls after him, grinning. She settles back down. “So, what’s up?”
“I don’t care what he says,” Scotty says as soon as he’s sure McCoy is out of earshot, sitting up straighter. “I’m going to have to be back on my feet real quick to give everything a once over, make sure that the earthquake didn’t trigger anything. The sooner the better.”
Uhura frowns. “The more you go on it, the longer it’ll take to heal. Besides, if nothing’s happened yet, then I doubt it will soon. Give it the two weeks.”
Beside her Chekov nods, and Sulu voices his agreement. “Yeah. Besides, if you’re that worried, Chekov can always look over everything.” Chekov nods again at this statement with a little more enthusiasm.
Scotty sighs at the concern. “Yeah, I know, but-“
“Yeah, no, you aren’t going on that thing that fast,” McCoy interrupts, carrying one of his thickest old-styled textbooks and a pillow. He places the textbook under Scotty’s foot first, then the pillow on top of it, letting Scotty’s ankle fall back against it. “I’ll watch you like a fucking hawk if I have to. Forget the explosives; you never know when you’re going to need to run. Let it heal.”
“Can’t I just get some crutches or something?”
“Do we even have crutches?”
“I dunno,” a new voice joins the conversation, and five sets of eyes instantly turn towards the young man making his way down the final bits of the passage, stumbling a little as he does so. Kirk shoots them all a brilliant grin in return. “Hey. Miss me?”
“A little, I guess,” Sulu answers after a pause while everyone else just stares.
Kirk lets go of the root that was protruding from the wall he’d briefly been using for support. “Good man,” he says. “Now hey, Bones, before you say anything-“
“What the fuck did you to yourself?”
“-it wasn’t my fault and I’m a victim of circumstance. I’m sure you were aware of the earth suddenly lurching out underneath your feet as well, so you know I didn’t do this on purpose, yeah? Yeah. You do. You might want to, um, get that thing and do whatever it is you do, I dunno, you do, go do that,” Kirk rambles, waving his arm about absentmindedly.
Bones stands up for the fourth time within just a few hours, not even grumbling under his breath this time as he stalks back to his room in search of more bandages and an antibiotic. Everyone else simply gawks at their leader’s right arm, wearing a very ripped sleeve that’s mostly gathered itself around his wrist now, soaked in the blood emanating from a long gash starting near his shoulder and swooping down to come to a fine point just below the crook of his elbow. The sleeve’s remnants are sticking to his skin and there’s still a small amount of blood dribbling up through the cut.
Kirk takes in everyone’s stares. “What?”
“You’re bleeding,” Sulu states. Scotty cranes his head back further to get a better look.
Kirk glances at his arm. “So I am.”
Uhura gets up to take a closer look at it. “You didn’t leave a trail here, did you?”
Kirk glares at her. “No, Uhura, I did not leave a trail of very noticeably human blood to the hideout we’ve been very secure in for the past three years. Come on. That’s what the sleeve was for. That’s also why I took so long to get back here. Trying to make sure that nothing dropped from me to the ground.”
Uhura tilts her head downwards to look at the few newly-settled drops of blood staining Kirk’s jeans. “It doesn’t hurt to ask,” she shrugs.
Kirk follows her gaze. “… Yeah, okay, you’ve got a point. Still. Rest assured that everything’s alright.”
“Of course it is,” McCoy snaps, returning with what he needs. “It always is. Sit down over there,” he continues, jerking his head in Scotty’s direction. “Make life a little easier for me.” Kirk beams up at him but complies and McCoy follows, frowning. Uhura sighs and examines the ground where Kirk had just been standing.
“So how’d that happen, Jim?” Scotty asks, nodding at the long wound as Kirk sits down next to him.
“’So how’d that happen?’” Kirk mimics, looking pointedly at Scotty’s wrapped and elevated foot and ankle. “Come on, man. It was an earthquake.”
Scotty shakes his head while McCoy works on removing the very wet fabric remnants from Kirk’s wrist. “No, this is a much more understandable injury than that is. Come on, yours has a story behind it.”
Beside him Chekov nods eagerly and Kirk catches the motion and throws his head back in exasperation. “Oh, not you too. Come on. I was out. Doing research. I fell. Rolled down a rocky hill. My arm got a little sliced open. It’s hardly interesting. Don’t say anything,” he then snaps, turning his head back around to face McCoy.
McCoy raises an eyebrow at his friend but sidesteps the subject a little by instead asking, “So it’s safe to assume that the rest of you is thoroughly banged up and I need to give you a complete examination, is what you’re saying?”
“I-What? No. That’s not necessary.”
“Where were you?” Sulu interjects, and Kirk turns his head back around to face him. “I mean, to get that smashed up, and to take so long to get back here. What were you doing?”
“Ah,” Kirk says, “yes. Well. To answer that, I’ve got both good news and bad news. Which do you want first?”
“Good news,” Uhura says, rejoining the group and sitting by Scotty’s side, in front of Kirk’s feet while McCoy is further off down the side, working on Kirk’s outstretched arm, and Sulu and Chekov sit on Scotty’s other side. “That way we can prep for the bad with less to distract us.”
Kirk grins at her. “Makes sense. Okay. You know that area up out past the Twin Peaks? You know, we were looking at those homes of-Okay, yeah, you know, you were the one who mapped it out in the first place. Well. I was about there when it struck, in a beautiful location to see them come crumbling down. So hey, nature might have fucked up my arm and given Scotty a crappy ankle, but at the same time, it saved us from having to use ammunition to destroy them ourselves. That’s good, isn’t it?”
“You know if any of the bastard Vulcans inside get killed?” McCoy gruffly asks from his side, head still bent over the arm.
“No, I wasn’t close enough to tell. Buuuut,” Kirk continues, dragging out the word happily, “due to my location, I think I might have found a power generator. You know. The kind they use for lasers and gates and shit to keep their slaves in. Or us out, depending on how you want to look at it, I guess.” He makes to shrug but McCoy forces his shoulder back down so Kirk just sits there with a bemused look on his face.
At this both Scotty and Chekov are suddenly completely enraptured, leaning forwards, and Chekov pipes up, “Just one?”
Kirk grins at him. “Yeah, I only saw the one underneath that layer of rock, but I’m willing to bet that there are more close by. It wouldn’t be logical to have it all spread out when you could so easily increase the power and have a strong connection of shields guarding high councilmen’s homes, right? And I wouldn’t be surprised if they’re all fairly easy to unearth, now that we have an idea as to where they are.”
“And then we could really get in there, instead of skulking about the outside,” Sulu says, the growing excitement evident in his tone. “Really fuck some shit up.”
The smile on Kirk’s face quickly fades away and is replaced by a frown. “Yeah, I’d love to, but that brings me to the bad news.”
“Which is…?” Uhura asks, prodding.
“You know that cocksucker Sarek?” Kirk asks, and a collection of ‘yeah’, ‘of course’, and ‘no shit, you retard’s answer him. As one of the highest councilmen in the Vulcan rule over Earth - not to mention the fact that he is the highest-ranked residing in the San Francisco area and responsible for the general location as a whole - he’d been at the top of their hit list for quite some time, as a largely unapproachable figure, but one that it was absolutely vital to take down. “Yeah. Um. You know he lives about there. Somehow everyone around him suffers at least a little bit of damage, but his place remains completely intact and as sturdy as ever.”
“So he’s got stronger shields,” Scotty murmurs, turning his gaze downwards. “Possibly on an entirely different system, ones that would take us too long to bypass…”
Kirk nods. “Yeah, I’d say that’s probably the case. And, uh, I think he might have a kid.”
The sentence makes McCoy stop wrapping Kirk’s arm up momentarily, but then he launches back into his work. It’s silent for a moment while they all take the time to digest the idea, and then Uhura asks, “Do you know how old?”
Kirk shakes his head. “Honestly, I’m not sure. It’s definitely something we’re going to have look at, though.”
Everyone except for McCoy nods in agreement. It’s true that they’re a small resistance force, but they’re a deadly one as well. When it really comes down to it, none of them really have any qualms about killing any Vulcan that stands in their way, and there are no limits placed on any of the elected officials as targets, except for one. If they get the chance, they’ll torture, they’ll slaughter, and they already regularly blow up important buildings in the Vulcan regime, typically with those who run them still inside. But the one thing they’ve all resolved not to do is to hurt any kids in the way, even if they are Vulcan. Part of it is due to the fact that all six of them had been stripped away from their own parents at very early ages and never really had the best childhoods themselves; part of it is to prove that despite the fact that in order to get anywhere in this resistance they’ve had to become cold and brutal, they’re still human, and they won’t let the desire for revenge infest them the way it did the Vulcans.
Someone as high as Sarek’s status requires a complete obliteration. The entire area around his home, surrounded by other high-ranking Vulcans, requires complete obliteration. They need to be able to set off a massive display of fireworks. So far, everything had been looking up. They had been well on their way to something, with ammunition well stockpiled, confirming locations of where to set up the bombs to ensure for maximum destruction, ensuring that none of the highest-ranking officials had anyone else in their lives that they had to watch out for. But most of the officials had been old enough that it was hardly a concern; at least, they were sure about this. Sarek was a little younger, though.
If the kid is old enough - and it isn’t unusual that he would still be living in his father’s house, considering his father’s status - then things would be able to go on as previously planned. If it was younger, though, then…
“… Fuck,” McCoy says, tying off the end of the bandage, summing up everyone’s thoughts. “Fuck.”
“Yeah, we’re definitely going to have to get this sorted out, as soon as possible,” Kirk replies, running his free hand through his hair.
Word Count: ~6500
Fandom: Star Trek
Characters/Pairings: ensemble; eventual Kirk/Spock
Summary: Prompted by st_xi_kink, here: AU. Twenty-seven years ago, Earth initiated war with Vulcan. Twenty-five years ago, the Vulcans won. Twenty-four years ago, humans became their slaves. Three years ago, Jim Kirk met Leonard McCoy. Today, they - among others - are wanted for their roles in the resistance.
Notes/Warnings: Okay, so for the entire fic as a whole, um, I'm predicting the following warnings: blood, gore, extreme violence, torture, terrorism, child abuse, dub/non-con, and character death; whether they'll just be implied or explicitly written, I can't yet say for sure. (For this chapter? Um, just a little bit of blood and some hints towards terroristic activities.) This is probably going to be a pretty long one... I've got a decently-sized outline written up, all that's left is to write it all out. I shall do my best.
One | Two | Three | Four
His breath comes out in short gasps as he runs, getting a thorough enough workout with his legs pumping and chest heaving, but he doesn’t relent. He can’t afford to, really. He isn’t running from anything in particular - he rarely is - it’s just that it’s dangerous in general to do this sort of thing. There’s a constant, over-looming threat present at all times.
It didn’t always used to be like that, and he can still remember when that was the case. When there was such a thing as freedom and being able to roam out, on one’s own, in an urban area - or any area, for that matter, whether it’s highly populated or sparsely or not at all, with great futuristic buildings or little shacks or just woods or whatever - in the middle of the night. Or in the daytime. Or evening, or morning, dawn or dusk or seriously, it never used to matter.
Now it has to be done at night. You can’t do it during the day unless you’re particularly good, and quite frankly, no, he is not even remotely close to being that good. He knows people who are. He’s going to see those people right now. It’s been a while since he saw them last; too long by their counts, and certainly too long by his.
It’s his own fault anyway, though, and he knows that. He’s the one that developed an attachment, a sense of gratitude that turned into a sense of being completely taken advantage of. Something that he hasn’t been able to shake off because he’s known it for like two thirds of his life by now, damnit, has it really been that long? It really has been… And, well, he’s working on trying to fix that now.
Through the few means that they have. With the few people that he knows - because it’s important to keep it small, just in case - with the few materials they’re able to get a hold of. He can help a little in that area. Not as much as others, but his expertise is more geared towards the middle stage of things, not the very beginning. There’s collecting, then there’s building, then there’s destroying. He does the building. And considering his lack of formal education, he is really freaking good at it.
There’s so much more he could have learned, though. And knowledge such as the kind he possesses could really have gone somewhere good. But oh well. Life is what it is, now.
Twenty-seven years ago an ununited Earth, habited by a petty, selfish, and greedy species, initiated a war that it had no hope in hell of winning. He’s not to blame for that. He was a child at the time.
Twenty-five years ago, Earth remained ununited, remained petty, remained selfish, remained greedy. And then it became indignant and pissy to boot. He was a part of that last bit, but then again, a child entering the stages of being a preteen; if there hadn’t been a war lost, he would have still found something to be indignant about. (Hell, even if they had won the war, he probably would have been indignant by that.)
It took a year to get any sense of control formed, and yeah, he’s partially to blame for that as well, but seriously - still just a child. It was exciting. He got caught up in the excitement. He got mellowed out pretty quick during that year, and it’s now, as he rounds the corner of a building, that he’s finally - finally - working on fixing that. It’s been a few years, actually, like a third of his life. It’s great that everything’s so divisible here, because in a year it won’t be, but regardless. Now there’s really a flow to things. Now they’ve really got something going. Now they’re really working towards something.
It’s not his first choice, but it’s the best one they’ve got, and damn if he doesn’t enjoy what he does.
Scott, Scotty to his friends, Monty to one person in particular, continues his headlong dash, trying to be as quiet as he possibly can. After years of doing this sort of thing, it’s possible, but not terribly easy considering just how much his legs ache and the fresh bruises decorating his torso in a motley of greyed colours and damnit, even without the running, it already hurts to breathe. This isn’t a good lifestyle. He should stop. He jumps over a bit of rubble in his path, landing awkwardly on his feet and fuck, he just did something to his ankle.
Still, that doesn’t quite matter because he hits the ground still running, his fingers scraping against a stone wall’s side because his path just went off on a slightly more diagonal route and it’s either his fingers or his entire side, and that would not be pleasant at this time. Or any time, really, but the beating is still fairly fresh, all things considered, so…
Scotty takes another sharp turn, looping backwards a little bit. It’s unnecessary and doesn’t get him much closer to where he needs to go but really, that’s exactly why it is necessary. If there’s any chance he’s being watched, any at all - and it’s possible even though he is pretty good at what he does by this point - then the more thrown off they can be, the better. He can’t afford to lead anyone else to the hideout. None of them can. That would spell the end.
Really, it’s amazing enough that they’re able to get away with as much as they do in this sort of society. Of course there were bound to be fugitives, no society where slavery is a natural part of life can really get away without them, he’s just amazed that he gets to be a part of it.
Maybe there are others out there doing the same sort of thing. Others who are just as good at keeping their shit covered up, of keeping the fight alive, that he just doesn’t know about them. He isn’t too good at keeping his shit covered up, though. None of them are.
That’s kind of the point.
The Vulcans may have won the war, may have taken over the entire planet, may have enslaved the majority of humanity - himself included, technically - but still, what he’s doing? Has them on their toes, as much as a Vulcan can be. They’re concerned. Though they’d never admit to it, they’re probably a little scared. He never thought he’d be the kind of person to get something out of it, but then again, he never thought he’d have his freedoms so freely stripped away. And so it goes.
The important thing is, he isn’t known. Two names are known but there are no faces to place to those names, not really, not for all of the careful documentation. Documents have a way of being destroyed…
Now at the outer limits of what constitutes for San Francisco nowadays, Scotty doesn’t bother to keep up the pretense of running about aimlessly. He curses his stupidity about taking the longest path - he has several ways of getting to their hideout, he needs to, he can’t take the same way twice in a row or anything like that, it’s too risky and in this case paranoia is a good thing - because he’s in far too much pain and he hasn’t eaten in three days and he was just smacked around two days ago for insubordination, and that’s never happened before, so what the fuck, and the sooner he gets to shelter and friendly faces and the bombs and other assorted explosives he’s so lovingly constructed, the better. The longest route was not a good idea.
Ahead of him is a hilly, albeit largely empty, expanse; far too close to the Pacific Ocean for their rulers and overlords to be comfortable with. It’s perfect, really. It’s beautiful and allows them to get away with so much. He runs, straight forward, a headlong dash, aiming to disappear in the mini-valley just a few hills ahead, when the ground suddenly pulls itself too far ahead for him to keep up with and everything shakes and he stumbles and falls and if his ankle wasn’t hurting before, then he envies the before because it’s just been smashed into a medium-sized rock he’d just been turning to veer around.
He falls to the ground and it’s only for a moment but it’s truly terrifying. He feels completely displaced and he can’t quite get back up, partially due to his exhaustion and aching lungs, partially due to being paralyzed in fear. His eyes are wide as he stays on the ground, sort of, hands and knees supporting him while he tries to breathe, his head hanging down and his eyes shut tight just in case there’s a follow up.
There isn’t but he remains like that for a few minutes, and thankfully he’s far enough away from what constitutes as civilization (a shitty one, though, because hi, yeah, he’s a slave, and he doesn’t deserve to be, not that anybody really does) that he can take this break without a greater fear crushing his heart than is already present.
Deep breaths, Scotty, you can do this, he tells himself, breathing through his nose and trying to avoid vomiting. It was nothing, just a little shake was all. It’s all over now. It’s okay. It’s rather disquieting actually considering how close he knows he is to piles and piles of explosives, and the earth shaking about beneath him can’t be any good for them. It’s more on the side of completely fucking dangerous, holy shit.
Slowly, Scotty’s able to rise, clenching his knees in a hopeless attempt at getting them to stop shaking. He stays crouched, catching himself and his breath, huffing out soothing, encouraging words. After all, it’s too late now for anything to have blown up. It’s okay right now. Everything’s okay. Right now.
But if that happens again… And oh, it could, so very easily. There hasn’t been an earthquake in years, not since, oh isn’t that convenient twenty-seven years ago, and even though he knows this area is a little more prone to them, they’ve always known that really, they hadn’t thought they’d be starting up again. Not now.
This is not good and the sooner they can find a solution, the better. And that’s enough to get Scotty to snap out of it completely, jerking him from his daze of terror as he stands up completely, and then proceeds to… well, not run, because his ankle, but… briskly limp to where he needs to go. The ocean is before him, a pitiless empty blackness, and the sky is dark as well and completely clouded over, disgusting in pollution but useful for the lack of light it provides, so nothing is reflected.
He sneaks around the corner of a hill, bypassing the thicket because even though it’s closer, not when he’s in this state, he’s not going to work his way through that. Instead he keeps going towards the ocean, steadying himself as he starts walking downwards to ensure he doesn’t break out into a run against his will, and disappears.
His land is awkward because his ankle is busted up but he’s still able to remain upright, with only a little stumble, and coughing up only a little dust from where his feet gently hit the dirt in the entrance of the small passage that’s almost impossible to find in the hill, unless one knows where it is to begin with. And he should know. He helped figure some of this stuff out. Scotty gives a light cough, bringing his fist up to his mouth, before brushing it off and continuing onwards.
The walk is weaving but not particularly long and he continues to follow it, ignoring the side passages because he knows they’ll just lead to dead ends or the storage of something and that is hardly what he needs right now. No, what would be useful would be medical attention. And freedom. Medical attention first though, it’s the more realistic of the two.
It’s also the best they’re ever going to get. All things considered it’s stunning; had this been a more normal and, well, fucking free society like the world he’d been born into, then it would still be considered pretty damn good. They’re a lot of freaking geniuses, really; they have to be. In a place where they can’t get an education beyond that of a ten-year-old it’s a fucking miracle that they have a doctor. And someone who can construct such masterful explosives. If he does say so himself. And the doctor. Both are important, but if they’re to keep going, then the doctor might just be more so.
The doctor in question is sitting up against the smoothed-down dirt walls that have the occasional root protruding from them, his back up against the edge of an area they affectionately call the war room, because it’s their general place of meeting and conversation and discussion, business-related or not. Sometimes they eat there. It’s a good group area, is what he’s getting at.
McCoy’s eyes are open but he’s staring ahead of him at nothing, breathing evenly, but considering his still-hunched up legs, knees tight to his chest and arms wrapped around them, it’s pretty evident that he was as freaked by the earth’s tremors as Scotty was. He probably still is, considering that deadened gaze, all traces of panic gone - if there were anything to begin with, because if there’s one thing Scotty’s noticed about McCoy, it’s that he never seems to show outright distress; sure, he gets concerned over everyone’s safety and frequently bitches at anyone who has the audacity to get themselves hurt because goddamnit, it’s not like I have a lot to fucking work with here, but he never flat-out panics.
Still, everyone’s different, and they’ve all gone through different things, so Scotty just figures that McCoy has his reasons, same as he has his.
“Um,” Sulu clears his throat from a safe distance beside McCoy, causing McCoy to blearily blink his eyes and come back to the world, “hey, McCoy? I think you’re needed right now.” Beside him the small form that is Chekov nods vigorously, eyes still rather wide and body pressed right up against Sulu’s in fear. Sulu shifts his arm, pulling away slightly, quietly mumbling, “Sorry, Pav, but my arm’s falling asleep.”
Scotty gives an appreciative and somewhat affectionate smile in their direction, one that Sulu wearily returns, before turning back to the doctor. Technically he shouldn’t be referring to McCoy as a doctor because he isn’t really one - it’s impossible in this world for someone of their species - but he’s the closest thing they’ve got and McCoy likes calling himself one anyway and who is he to argue, really, who are any of them to do so; McCoy knows far more than they ever will.
By now McCoy’s eyes have come back to life and he’s come out of wrapping his arms around himself. He straightens himself out while looking over Scotty’s form from the distance between them, eyes roving all over and taking in every little bump, twist, discolouration that he can. Scotty figures he might as well make it easier for the man and starts to limp over.
McCoy’s gaze zeroes in on the pained ankle in question and immediately he snaps, “Don’t move.” It’s a bark of an order and enough to make Scotty freeze in his tracks, no questions asked, because for one thing he’s exhausted and the less moving he does the better, and for another thing, he can’t quite tell if McCoy is in one of his moods or one of his moods and he doesn’t want to chance it. So he stops and lets the doctor come to him.
“Alright,” McCoy says, easing Scotty to the ground, and Scotty gratefully takes the assistance, “let’s get you off that leg, first and foremost. Christ, Scotty, where the fuck were you when that earthquake happened?”
“On my way,” Scotty replies, feeling Chekov’s concerned but curious stare honed in on him. “I was just outside, away from the buildings, in the hills and there was a rock that wasnae where I was heading before but then there suddenly was and I smashed into it.”
McCoy murmurs to himself, gently pulling Scotty’s pant leg up and easing the boot off to get a better look at the swelling. “Well, then good thing it was just your ankle and not your head. We need those brains of yours.”
“Thank you, doctor. And what a fine job you put yours to as well, might I add.”
McCoy’s lips quirk upwards slightly and Scotty relaxes his own smile at that. He moves his hands back a little to keep himself supported and looks at what McCoy, not to mention Sulu and Chekov now, too, is looking at. McCoy lightly touches the bruised area, and Scotty sucks in a breath in response. “Guess that answers my question on whether or not that hurts,” the doctor drawls.
Scotty fixes him with a look. “You think?”
“Well I don’t know quite how much of a tolerance to pain you’ve built up by now,” McCoy snarks in response, and Scotty would have flinched if he hadn’t been too worried about falling over. The barb, and it’s definitely a venom-laced one without a hint of the gentle teasing that tends to accompany such remarks, pushes itself in deep and stings. All traces of levity disappear from Scotty’s face and he outright glares angrily at the doctor. McCoy matches it easily, narrowing his eyes as he takes in Scotty’s features. At least this time his face looks fine.
And it’s McCoy who drops the staring contest first, abashedly turning back towards the ankle in question, and murmurs, “I take it any other injuries on your person are not the result of the earthquake?”
Scotty relaxes. “No, they are not.”
“Do you need anything for them?” His voice is gentler now.
Scotty knows just how scarce supplies are. He knows it first hand and it’s honestly amazing that they even have as many explosives as they do now, and ones that strong, even, but he’s a definite miracle worker. Evidently, so is McCoy, because medical supplies are much harder to steal than anything they can use as a weapon of some sort and he has to keep using them because with the business they’re in, injuries are common. In the very world they’re in, injuries are common. And yet he still manages to keep them all together.
So he answers, “No,” because unless it was an absolute necessity, he wouldn’t dream of using anything of McCoy’s, and it’s far from an absolute necessity. Really - he was just smacked around a little. Vulcans may be three times stronger than humans, which may have made the injuries more extensive than say if McCoy had smacked him around, but it wasn’t anything to be completely concerned about. He’d been through worse and then he had asked McCoy for something, and McCoy had given it to him.
That’s why, despite his general distrust he exhibits when it comes to evaluating the health of the people he works on, McCoy takes him for his word and makes no move to dispute it. He doesn’t even take his eyes off of the ankle, instead watching his hands as they prod around it, with great care, and Scotty can appreciate this.
“When was the last time you ate?” he asks, bangs dipping in his eyes slightly with a shake of his head as he steps back and starts to rise.
“Not for a few days,” Scotty replies.
Before either of them can do or say anything else Chekov is on his feet, sprinting down one of the pathways running beneath the hills. Both Scotty and McCoy turn their heads to stare after him while Sulu slumps a little further down the wall, continuing to rest his back against it, and smiles lazily as he watches him go. “He’s fast, isn’t he?”
Scotty laughs and McCoy snorts, finishing his exercise of standing completely upright and stepping further back. “Well, I think I’ve got something I can use here,” he says, turning around and heading off in a different direction down towards the room where he sleeps; lives. Both Sulu and Scotty hear him growling as he leaves, “What I wouldn’t fucking give to be able to keep some fucking ice down here,” and once he’s disappeared, they grin at each other.
Sulu lets his back continue to slide down the dirt wall until he’s completely on the ground, his head propped up awkwardly. He raises himself up and moves over to Scotty. “So,” he says, still grinning as he crouches down to put them along the same eye level, “how are you?”
“I’ve been better.”
“But you’ve also been worse, right?”
Scotty blows air in Sulu’s face. “Yes, I have. Now stop fussing over me, that’s not your job.”
Sulu leans back and sits, crossing his legs haphazardly in an odd way of sitting Indian-style, with his knees raised too high above the ground. “Whatever,” he snorts. “There’s nothing wrong with asking. I’m allowed to be curious.”
“I suppose you are,” Scotty says, giving him another cheeky grin.
They sit in silence for a moment longer and then suddenly Chekov is back and has his arms outstretched, his hands in front of Scotty’s face, producing an offering consisting of a simple sandwich, composed of nothing more than two slices of bread, lettuce, and tomato slices. Scotty’s eyes widen at the sight, and his hand immediately lifts itself off the ground to snatch up at it.
He takes a bite and beams up at Chekov who’s still hovering beside him, watching him intently. “Magnificent,” Scotty gives his verdict, and Chekov beams back, a smile finally gracing his pale features for the first time that night, before he scuttles around Scotty’s outstretched legs to sit down next to Sulu. “Thank you.”
Sulu nudges Chekov in the side with his elbow and Chekov shoots him a look, but Sulu just nods at him. Chekov stares down at his feet and quietly replies, “You are welcome,” watching the older man finish.
McCoy returns just as the last bites are disappearing and rolls his eyes at the crumbs but says nothing, sitting opposite of Sulu and Chekov and right along the injured ankle. “Hopefully this’ll cool it down and decrease the swelling,” he says, beginning to apply a bit of the cream he’d brought out with him, delicately swiping it across the necessary areas.
Scotty sighs at the touch. “Yeah, I’d say it’s doing the trick.”
McCoy doesn’t reply, just keeps his focus on his work at hand, skilled surgeon’s hands applying it properly without causing too much pain in the process. Chekov watches him intently while Sulu’s gaze drifts more above McCoy’s shoulder and towards the entrance Scotty had come through.
McCoy finishes, wiping the remnants of the cream from his fingertips along Scotty’s leg as he reaches for the long strip of cloth he’d brought out with him. “Let me know if it gets too tight,” he says, and Scotty nods his promise.
The doctor stretches the bandage out and guides one end of it down to Scotty’s toes, wrapping it around the foot and working his way up, making sure it remains secure as he goes. It’s about when he’s starting to wrap it around the actual ankle when a new, brighter voice suddenly fills the cavern, with a bit of a laughing edge to it.
“Holy shit,” it says, as three pairs of eyes turn up to meet it and McCoy’s back stiffens just slightly before recognizing it and he relaxes and resumes bandaging Scotty’s ankle. “That was really close,” Uhura remarks, striding into the cavern with a grin on her face. It fades slightly when she sees the four figures gathered about the centre. “Hey, something happen?”
“Not much,” Scotty waves her off, then uses that hand to gesture towards his ankle, not that Uhura can see it properly because the back of McCoy’s head is blocking her view. “Just got a little roughed up by the earthquake,” he says lightly. “Nothing to be terribly concerned about.”
Uhura walks over to the group, stopping above McCoy’s shoulders and bending down to look at what he’s doing. “I dunno,” she murmurs, “looks bad to me.”
“Lucky you’re not my doctor, then,” Scotty replies, and Uhura whips her head over to glare at him, long ponytail flying in the opposite direction. “Is it that bad, Doctor?”
McCoy rolls his eyes and finishes up, securing the bandage with a little bit of tape, placed up against more cloth. “Bad enough to need this, not so bad that you won’t be able to walk again.”
“Ah, you see?” Scotty grins. Uhura glares.
“Bad enough that it has to be bandaged,” she chides, punching him in the shoulder as she waltzes past him, ignoring his indignant protests. She walks over to McCoy’s other side, getting a better look at the bandage. “How long is that going to have to stay on for?”
“Probably a week or two,” McCoy says, turning to look up at her. “Now what the hell were you so giddy about when you came in here?”
“I’m not giddy,” Uhura snaps, sitting down. “I think I was just running off of the adrenaline of having narrowly escaped death.” She looks back up from Scotty’s feet, grinning at the four boys around her. “It was really close, you know?”
“You’d better not turn into an adrenaline junkie. One of those is far too much already.”
“What happened?” Scotty asks, cutting in on the start of McCoy’s rant. “Everything alright?”
Uhura nods. “Oh, yeah,” she says, waving her hand off. “I’m fine. You know those overpasses that connect some of the older-style places? One nearly fell on top of me, that’s it. A few scratches, dust in my lungs, but that’s only to be expected. I’m perfectly fine. Fell out of the way in time… It was kind of undignified, but still, I’d take that over having my head smashed in.”
“Good choice, there.”
“Thank you.”
“Hey, speaking of adrenaline junkies,” Sulu pipes up, and Uhura turns to look at him, “you see Kirk out there at all?”
She shakes her head. “No, I didn’t,” she says, “and I would have noticed him. Crap, he isn’t here? That’s not good…” Her voice trails off on the last word and she nibbles on her bottom lip a little.
“I’m sure he’s fine, wherever he is,” Scotty remarks in a somewhat dismissive manner. “You know him. He’s always getting hurt and coming out on top just fine.”
McCoy rolls his eyes. “Yeah, that’s gonna catch up with him one day.” He sits up, moving to leave the group. “I’ll be right back. Wanna get that leg elevated.”
“Good idea,” Scotty says.
“That’s why I’m the doctor!” McCoy calls back over his shoulder. “If Jim gets here before I get back and he’s hurt, someone do me a favour and poke his eyes out so he finally won’t have an excuse to keep going out there.”
“Will do!” Uhura calls after him, grinning. She settles back down. “So, what’s up?”
“I don’t care what he says,” Scotty says as soon as he’s sure McCoy is out of earshot, sitting up straighter. “I’m going to have to be back on my feet real quick to give everything a once over, make sure that the earthquake didn’t trigger anything. The sooner the better.”
Uhura frowns. “The more you go on it, the longer it’ll take to heal. Besides, if nothing’s happened yet, then I doubt it will soon. Give it the two weeks.”
Beside her Chekov nods, and Sulu voices his agreement. “Yeah. Besides, if you’re that worried, Chekov can always look over everything.” Chekov nods again at this statement with a little more enthusiasm.
Scotty sighs at the concern. “Yeah, I know, but-“
“Yeah, no, you aren’t going on that thing that fast,” McCoy interrupts, carrying one of his thickest old-styled textbooks and a pillow. He places the textbook under Scotty’s foot first, then the pillow on top of it, letting Scotty’s ankle fall back against it. “I’ll watch you like a fucking hawk if I have to. Forget the explosives; you never know when you’re going to need to run. Let it heal.”
“Can’t I just get some crutches or something?”
“Do we even have crutches?”
“I dunno,” a new voice joins the conversation, and five sets of eyes instantly turn towards the young man making his way down the final bits of the passage, stumbling a little as he does so. Kirk shoots them all a brilliant grin in return. “Hey. Miss me?”
“A little, I guess,” Sulu answers after a pause while everyone else just stares.
Kirk lets go of the root that was protruding from the wall he’d briefly been using for support. “Good man,” he says. “Now hey, Bones, before you say anything-“
“What the fuck did you to yourself?”
“-it wasn’t my fault and I’m a victim of circumstance. I’m sure you were aware of the earth suddenly lurching out underneath your feet as well, so you know I didn’t do this on purpose, yeah? Yeah. You do. You might want to, um, get that thing and do whatever it is you do, I dunno, you do, go do that,” Kirk rambles, waving his arm about absentmindedly.
Bones stands up for the fourth time within just a few hours, not even grumbling under his breath this time as he stalks back to his room in search of more bandages and an antibiotic. Everyone else simply gawks at their leader’s right arm, wearing a very ripped sleeve that’s mostly gathered itself around his wrist now, soaked in the blood emanating from a long gash starting near his shoulder and swooping down to come to a fine point just below the crook of his elbow. The sleeve’s remnants are sticking to his skin and there’s still a small amount of blood dribbling up through the cut.
Kirk takes in everyone’s stares. “What?”
“You’re bleeding,” Sulu states. Scotty cranes his head back further to get a better look.
Kirk glances at his arm. “So I am.”
Uhura gets up to take a closer look at it. “You didn’t leave a trail here, did you?”
Kirk glares at her. “No, Uhura, I did not leave a trail of very noticeably human blood to the hideout we’ve been very secure in for the past three years. Come on. That’s what the sleeve was for. That’s also why I took so long to get back here. Trying to make sure that nothing dropped from me to the ground.”
Uhura tilts her head downwards to look at the few newly-settled drops of blood staining Kirk’s jeans. “It doesn’t hurt to ask,” she shrugs.
Kirk follows her gaze. “… Yeah, okay, you’ve got a point. Still. Rest assured that everything’s alright.”
“Of course it is,” McCoy snaps, returning with what he needs. “It always is. Sit down over there,” he continues, jerking his head in Scotty’s direction. “Make life a little easier for me.” Kirk beams up at him but complies and McCoy follows, frowning. Uhura sighs and examines the ground where Kirk had just been standing.
“So how’d that happen, Jim?” Scotty asks, nodding at the long wound as Kirk sits down next to him.
“’So how’d that happen?’” Kirk mimics, looking pointedly at Scotty’s wrapped and elevated foot and ankle. “Come on, man. It was an earthquake.”
Scotty shakes his head while McCoy works on removing the very wet fabric remnants from Kirk’s wrist. “No, this is a much more understandable injury than that is. Come on, yours has a story behind it.”
Beside him Chekov nods eagerly and Kirk catches the motion and throws his head back in exasperation. “Oh, not you too. Come on. I was out. Doing research. I fell. Rolled down a rocky hill. My arm got a little sliced open. It’s hardly interesting. Don’t say anything,” he then snaps, turning his head back around to face McCoy.
McCoy raises an eyebrow at his friend but sidesteps the subject a little by instead asking, “So it’s safe to assume that the rest of you is thoroughly banged up and I need to give you a complete examination, is what you’re saying?”
“I-What? No. That’s not necessary.”
“Where were you?” Sulu interjects, and Kirk turns his head back around to face him. “I mean, to get that smashed up, and to take so long to get back here. What were you doing?”
“Ah,” Kirk says, “yes. Well. To answer that, I’ve got both good news and bad news. Which do you want first?”
“Good news,” Uhura says, rejoining the group and sitting by Scotty’s side, in front of Kirk’s feet while McCoy is further off down the side, working on Kirk’s outstretched arm, and Sulu and Chekov sit on Scotty’s other side. “That way we can prep for the bad with less to distract us.”
Kirk grins at her. “Makes sense. Okay. You know that area up out past the Twin Peaks? You know, we were looking at those homes of-Okay, yeah, you know, you were the one who mapped it out in the first place. Well. I was about there when it struck, in a beautiful location to see them come crumbling down. So hey, nature might have fucked up my arm and given Scotty a crappy ankle, but at the same time, it saved us from having to use ammunition to destroy them ourselves. That’s good, isn’t it?”
“You know if any of the bastard Vulcans inside get killed?” McCoy gruffly asks from his side, head still bent over the arm.
“No, I wasn’t close enough to tell. Buuuut,” Kirk continues, dragging out the word happily, “due to my location, I think I might have found a power generator. You know. The kind they use for lasers and gates and shit to keep their slaves in. Or us out, depending on how you want to look at it, I guess.” He makes to shrug but McCoy forces his shoulder back down so Kirk just sits there with a bemused look on his face.
At this both Scotty and Chekov are suddenly completely enraptured, leaning forwards, and Chekov pipes up, “Just one?”
Kirk grins at him. “Yeah, I only saw the one underneath that layer of rock, but I’m willing to bet that there are more close by. It wouldn’t be logical to have it all spread out when you could so easily increase the power and have a strong connection of shields guarding high councilmen’s homes, right? And I wouldn’t be surprised if they’re all fairly easy to unearth, now that we have an idea as to where they are.”
“And then we could really get in there, instead of skulking about the outside,” Sulu says, the growing excitement evident in his tone. “Really fuck some shit up.”
The smile on Kirk’s face quickly fades away and is replaced by a frown. “Yeah, I’d love to, but that brings me to the bad news.”
“Which is…?” Uhura asks, prodding.
“You know that cocksucker Sarek?” Kirk asks, and a collection of ‘yeah’, ‘of course’, and ‘no shit, you retard’s answer him. As one of the highest councilmen in the Vulcan rule over Earth - not to mention the fact that he is the highest-ranked residing in the San Francisco area and responsible for the general location as a whole - he’d been at the top of their hit list for quite some time, as a largely unapproachable figure, but one that it was absolutely vital to take down. “Yeah. Um. You know he lives about there. Somehow everyone around him suffers at least a little bit of damage, but his place remains completely intact and as sturdy as ever.”
“So he’s got stronger shields,” Scotty murmurs, turning his gaze downwards. “Possibly on an entirely different system, ones that would take us too long to bypass…”
Kirk nods. “Yeah, I’d say that’s probably the case. And, uh, I think he might have a kid.”
The sentence makes McCoy stop wrapping Kirk’s arm up momentarily, but then he launches back into his work. It’s silent for a moment while they all take the time to digest the idea, and then Uhura asks, “Do you know how old?”
Kirk shakes his head. “Honestly, I’m not sure. It’s definitely something we’re going to have look at, though.”
Everyone except for McCoy nods in agreement. It’s true that they’re a small resistance force, but they’re a deadly one as well. When it really comes down to it, none of them really have any qualms about killing any Vulcan that stands in their way, and there are no limits placed on any of the elected officials as targets, except for one. If they get the chance, they’ll torture, they’ll slaughter, and they already regularly blow up important buildings in the Vulcan regime, typically with those who run them still inside. But the one thing they’ve all resolved not to do is to hurt any kids in the way, even if they are Vulcan. Part of it is due to the fact that all six of them had been stripped away from their own parents at very early ages and never really had the best childhoods themselves; part of it is to prove that despite the fact that in order to get anywhere in this resistance they’ve had to become cold and brutal, they’re still human, and they won’t let the desire for revenge infest them the way it did the Vulcans.
Someone as high as Sarek’s status requires a complete obliteration. The entire area around his home, surrounded by other high-ranking Vulcans, requires complete obliteration. They need to be able to set off a massive display of fireworks. So far, everything had been looking up. They had been well on their way to something, with ammunition well stockpiled, confirming locations of where to set up the bombs to ensure for maximum destruction, ensuring that none of the highest-ranking officials had anyone else in their lives that they had to watch out for. But most of the officials had been old enough that it was hardly a concern; at least, they were sure about this. Sarek was a little younger, though.
If the kid is old enough - and it isn’t unusual that he would still be living in his father’s house, considering his father’s status - then things would be able to go on as previously planned. If it was younger, though, then…
“… Fuck,” McCoy says, tying off the end of the bandage, summing up everyone’s thoughts. “Fuck.”
“Yeah, we’re definitely going to have to get this sorted out, as soon as possible,” Kirk replies, running his free hand through his hair.