Blood Ties - part 6a/6
Title: Blood Ties
Rating: NC-17
Character/Pairing: Kirk/McCoy
Wordcount: ~26,600 words (this part) of ~112,000
A/N for this part: additional characters: OC - Caochladh demon, Pike
Previous parts, warnings, thanks, disclaimer and additional notes are to be found in the masterpost .
intriguing snippet: … he sits on the edge of the coffin and takes stock; he’s naked, it’s dark, and he has no idea what year this is though he senses a great deal of time has passed…
Blood Ties: Chapter 6
~
A little while, a moment of rest upon the wind, and another woman shall bear me. ~Khalil Gibran
~
Iowa, 2233
Jim dreams.
He feels suspended, safe, though he’s aware of loud, panicked voices close by. It’s as if he’s in two places at once, floating half-way between dreaming and reality - here and... somewhere else.
At the same time, while lying in his sarcophagus, he can feel the soil molded to his limbs, can smell its sweet, earthy scent though he’s not quite ready to open his eyes; And, simultaneously, in another, different place, he feels like he’s being shaken around, as if he’s travelling on a great sailing ship, buffeted by waves in a terrible storm, or perhaps it’s the ground around him moving, seismic activity making the box containing him shake and roll and shift.
He can hear a woman’s voice; it’s familiar but though he reaches and searches through his memory, he can’t quite place it; he knows it isn’t Leah, and sensing the considerable passage of time, tears well behind his eyelids, hot bloody tears for her, for Bones, who he fears he’ll never see again.
Then his mind floods with fear, thoughts which aren’t his but which trigger emotions within him, intense and real - run, run, gotta run - and he’s carried on the tide of fear, the need to survive, the desperate wrench this woman feels. It is as if he is experiencing the life, the fate of another, while inhabiting both bodies at once.
Later, he doesn’t know how long, for time loses all meaning when a vampire goes to ground, he’s still dreaming his dark, image-less dream with no color, no form, just sound and emotion lighting up every nerve ending.
And it feels like a giant hand holds him, squeezes around him with a grip so strong, so crushing, he worries he’ll be turned to dust; his body, first his head, then his shoulders, are being pushed and pulled, dragged out into the light and there’s nothing he can do to stop this. He’s clay being squeezed into a new shape, a new form, another life.
It’s then he understands - it is time for his soul to move on, to leave his undead body that has walked the earth for all these centuries, and it’s now due to inhabit another, a newborn - in the last moments of his existence, he is to be witness to his own reincarnation.
The roller-coaster’s over and he can hear the woman’s voice again, moaning and crying out in pain, determination coursing through him, through her, like they’re joined, two people but one life force, like she’s the one keeping him alive. He can’t move, he can’t open his eyes, then feels himself being held, cradled and rocked while hushed, efficient voices surround him, then warmth as he’s pressed against the same presence which cocooned him earlier, his skin against her skin, safe, alive.
But it’s all wrong.
He can hear her voice in his head, above him yet far, far away. “George, He’s beautiful-” and he opens his eyes, at once into the impenetrable black of his sarcophagus, and at the same time towards the warmth of his mother’s face, the face he knows so well.
Jim wants to tell her not to worry, he’s here now, he’ll look after her, she’ll be safe and they’ll make it, both of them will.
After so much darkness, it hurts to open his eyes, the brightness of her eyes reminds him of the sky that morning in Virginia so many years ago, when he first wore his enchanted ring, and her skin against his feels like the early morning sun, kissing and caressing, making him feel truly alive. He can’t tear his eyes from her tear-stained face, can’t stop looking and feeling as he draws in beautiful, cool air into his lungs, bringing oxygen to every part of him for the first time in ages of time.
Then he hears a man’s voice, one he hasn’t heard ever before but he knows, just knows.
“Tiberius, are you kidding me? No - that’s the worst…”
He shakes with her as she cries silent tears, as she wraps his tiny fingers in hers, and Jim can sense how scared she is, her grief, how she’s trying to hide her despair from his father.
He wants to look away, give in and hunker down in his box and see no more, just sleep for all time and leave the world behind.
Then he remembers what Bones said to him in the opium den in London, something he hasn’t thought of in all these years - when he accused Jim of being a taker of souls... demons such as yourself steal the lives of the unborn, how to give yourself strength you will take a soul from a babe before he draws breath.
Bones, Leo, L.H., his beloved Len and his beautiful Leah, he’s lost them all, he’s cried a sea of tears and he cries now. But the will to live is too strong, seeping into him from all the people surrounding his mother; hers and their need for him to survive lights him up; if he lives, it will make up for losing George who faces death bravely, who isn’t selfish like he is.
“I love you,” George says, and Jim echoes it too, “I love you-“
And he wants to, has got to try one last time, he needs to live on, to find Bones; he’s not ready to give up. In his box, Jim draws in his last ragged breaths, because he knows he must pull away, has to fight to survive, continue to live, and he whiplashes back, his soul leaving the child who temporarily houses it.
The last thing he registers is the look of agonized disbelief and horror on his mother’s face, her no, no, no, powerless to keep him with her.
He leaves her alone in space without her son, without her husband, the breath expelled from his lungs for the last time.
He shakes with rage, with how unfair it is, with the cruelty of what’s happened to her, and his part in it. And he wavers, regrets his action and tries to go back.
Live, live, he screams mutely - it’s your turn now…
But the world is cruel and Jim Kirk has one more life. He’s won.
Here’s one more soul he’s accountable for snatching away, one more mark against him.
There’s a flash of light and what sounds like a rumble of thunder as his whole dream’s swallowed up and Jim opens his eyes again. Lives again.
+++
He’s not breathing, of course he isn’t, but he’s shaking, life vibrating through him like music. He wriggles his finger tips, grabs at the soil that’s his bed, dry and spent now, and he opens his mouth to speak.
“Bones,” he whispers, like a tree creaking in the forest, the sound of a door opening.
Then he realizes what he heard is the lid above him shifting, programmed to respond to his voice just like Spock said it would. He reaches up and wedges his fingers in the gap, blinking against the light. He knows it’s night-time, but his vampire eyes can see well enough, the glow from the mouth of the cave would be imperceptible to humans, but he’s blessed, isn’t he?
The overpowering stench of ammonia fills his nostrils immediately - bats - how poetic.
He sets his mouth in determination and shoves against the lid, soil falling into his face from his hand and arms. He shakes it off and spits out any which falls into his mouth. Then he folds his legs awkwardly and uses his feet to push until the lid clatters to the ground with a deafening thud.
He stands shakily, and wonders how long he’s been here, and knows that Bones, Spock are long gone, dead and buried only they won’t come back like he did. Bloody tears fall from his eyes again, mixing with the earth left on his face and he shakes and moans like a dying man, not one who’s been given yet another chance.
Finally, he sits on the edge of the coffin and takes stock; he’s naked, it’s dark, and he has no idea what year this is though he senses a great deal of time has passed, no longer able to feel the connection with Leah which sharing blood gave him.
He runs his fingers through his hair, it’s grown long while he recuperated, and it’s dry, and reaches almost to his shoulders. He feels for his ring, remembers how they tried to saw off his hand, unable to remove it, and after all this time, his wrist has healed too.
Next his fingers explore his face and find no blistering or wounds of any kind; and while he slept, he’s grown a thick, wiry beard like a mountain man.
A scan of his arms and legs shows he’s lost a great deal of muscle; his skin feels soft albeit a little brittle, like leaves on the forest floor, fragile and easily broken still. He can feel his ribs protruding and his mouth’s dry and his stomach’s empty. Worst of all, his heart is heavy, filled with loss and pain and self-disgust - the aftermath of his dream, where he stole another’s life so he could walk again.
He needs to feed.
He steps out of his sarcophagus and leans in to search through the soil. At the foot is a pile of clothing and he unfurls the jeans, the long sleeved sweatshirt - they’re dry to the touch, stiff and parchment-like under his fingers. He doubts they’ll last long - he’ll have to get some new clothes from somewhere. He roots around some more and finds the violin and he leaves it there for now, unwilling to interrupt his pragmatic frame of mind with memories and more sadness he can avoid by touching it.
Then he remembers the bag of blood and frowns, knows it will be useless now, how it would only have lasted a few weeks at most. He decides to leave it be for the while, he needs to go outside, work out what to do next.
He makes for the cave entrance and the light breaking around the enormous rock placed across the entrance. He can’t smell Bones anymore, nor Spock, further evidence they’re long gone. He composes himself and plants his hands against the rock, pushes with all his might. It doesn’t shift.
“Fuck,” he says out loud, his voice echoing back at him. He tries again, leaning against the rock with his shoulder and it doesn’t shift in the slightest though there’s a fall of soil.
He returns to the sarcophagus and finds a flash-light; praying it will work so he can search the further reaches of the cave where Leah’s belongings were stashed. He remembers kissing her outside and swallows, shakes the memory away, aware he has to focus or he’ll end up no better than he was in the box, a prisoner in the cave waiting an age to die.
The flashlight doesn’t work, the power pack dead, like he should be but isn’t; he fucking outlasts everyone, everything, even the landscape, the cities.
Then he hears a flutter above him and grins - hibernating bats - the whole ceiling is covered in them.
He climbs onto the ledge of the sarcophagus and stretches out, not wanting to risk a leap while he’s so weak, his recovery untested. The poor creatures stir, but not quickly enough to avoid being grabbed by his eager fingers. He drains two instantly, wincing at the taste, then laughs, leaps easily to pick off half a dozen more, tossing their bodies aside without ceremony.
Now he’s ready to try the rock again, his cheeks temporarily flushed from the blood he’s consumed, his strength returning. This time he presses his back to the rock and feels it shift a little. He roars, manages a little more releasing another small fall of soil. He hears the tear of vines and takes a moment to gather his strength. He closes his eyes and channels the self-loathing and rage he felt in the last moments of his dream, the anger that he should live and a new born should die in his place, and he feels the demon’s fire wake in him, his preternatural strength stoked by blood and rage, his canines descending as his face stretches and transforms.
It’s enough; when he takes a run at the rock, it shifts sufficiently for him to squeeze past and emerge naked and exhausted into the darkness outside releasing a cloud of bats screeching and swirling into the sky.
He doesn’t know what he expects to see when he steps outside - he hasn’t dared think too hard about it, but he’s taken aback by the freshness of the air after the stench of the cave, so unlike the polluted and sterile post-nuclear air he left behind that fateful night. He knows where he is, of course, not far from Raccoon Creek; he drove here with Bones, less than a hundred miles from what was left of Iowa City.
There’s no moon, and he sees something he hasn’t seen in many years, tall pine trees silhouetted against a canopy of stars, brilliant and endless. They were mere saplings when he was last here, growing among the charred remains of Maquoketa forest; it’s indication enough that at least a hundred years have passed, as is the fact that he can see the stars at all, for the constant haze which obscured the constellations following the war has cleared. The landscape here at least has been healed by time, just as he has been.
He licks his lips, wonders what else he’s going to find out there, if the world’s still in chaos, who’s in fucking charge now, what other disasters and wars have befallen mankind while he was hidden away from harm?
At least the dirt track looks much the same; he remembers standing in this spot, playing the violin for Leah and his heart aches as he makes to return to the cave. He freezes when he sees a sign.
CAVES CLOSED UNTIL FURTHER NOTICE
containment of WNS fungal infection
Iowa National Parks, 2232.
Jesus, one hundred and twenty three years he’s been interred, that’s assuming the sign isn’t out of date. He touches the material it’s made from - a type of plastic that looks exactly like wood. Plastic hasn’t fallen out of favor then.
He sighs, knows he has to move on before day light, before he’s seen newborn and naked, with his arms streaked in dirt, his face covered in blood and tear streaks. So he squeezes back into the cave and gets dressed, picks up the bag of blood and the violin and gives the interior of the box one final sweep. He finds an envelope and tucks it in his pocket then he looks in the back of the cave. All of Bones’ boxes are gone and he wonders what must have been going through her mind when she returned to take them. Did she peek at him inside the box? Did she even come back? Perhaps someone else came to take them after she…
“Fuck it,” he says and leaves to head for the river.
+++
He leaves his clothes on the river bank and takes the violin and Bones’ blood and digs into the soft soil with his bare hands to bury them there. Then he has to speak a few words, like a prayer.
“Bones,” he says, clasping his hands in front of him, “I, dunno, I miss you, I guess. Still.”
He looks at the creek where he is, the water running round his ankles, at the leaf litter on the bank, the moss on the trees, and thinks about how they’re here, he’s still fucking here, and Bones, Leah, all of them aren’t. “I’m getting rid of the one material thing that means something to me, Bones. It’s symbolic, shows how I have to give something up, how if I took that kid’s life when it should have been me, the least I can do is really start afresh. Since it’s all I’ve got with me, it’ll have to be the thing I sacrifice. I’m returning it to the land and that’s kind of cool, right?”
He thinks about how it was back in New Orleans, how he surrounded himself with beauty, with priceless objects, meaningless things, even his violin, when the one thing that’s ever really meant anything in his life is gone: Bones - all of them. He feels tears starting again; it’s a good fucking thing no one can see him this weak, this pathetic.
“And I’m still here because I fought to be with you one more time. I don’t know if I’ll find you again - shit, couple of times, we bumped into each other - I didn’t even come to find you. It’s so fucking random, Bones, sometimes I wonder if maybe I missed seeing you in other lives, in the past, you know...” He kneels down in the water, ”but I promise you this, Bones - I’ve been given this one extra chance, and I’m not gonna waste it.
“I’m reborn, like new with another life ahead of me; that’s why I’m not taking anything with me when I leave this place. And...so, erm...he won’t have died for nothing - I’m going to try and give something back for once, atone for my past. And if I don’t find you again, I’m going to end it all for real this time, give this soul I stole back because... I don’t think I can fucking stand it otherwise. Immortal life’s nothing without you.”
He scrubs the back of his hand across his cheek, gazes at the blood on his knuckles and dips his hand in the water to return it white and pure to clasp his other hand until he finishes his prayer. “So…erm… farewell sounds like the right thing to say…”
He wades into the river till he’s standing chest high in the water, washing away earth and blood, like a newborn covered in vernix and amniotic fluid, till his skin is pure and white and fresh. He ducks down and then comes out spitting water - baptized. He’s aware the river’s cold but to him it’s refreshing, invigorating; the blood from the bats coursing through him, making him feel so damned alive and awake after a hundred years of sleep.
He can hear every sound in the forest, every heartbeat, can smell the cycle of life around him, of birth and death, a cycle he almost became a part of...then he stops still, senses on alert. He shakes his long hair away from his face, lowers his hands to his hips and submerges so only his eyes are peeking over the faint current.
It’s a deer, a doe, not a whitetail, but smaller, its coat a shaggy, mustard brown and not a breed he’s seen in Iowa before since most of the indigenous wildlife was wiped out by the nuclear devastation. He wars with himself, feeling conflicted about killing it because he really needs more blood and he’ll have to feed from so many animals where the blood of just one human would make the world of difference. He steps closer, overwhelmed by the need at least to see it up close; it looks so healthy, so fragile, so rare.
He reaches out a hand and their eyes catch - it’s enough to make the animal his. Rooted to the spot, the deer’s ears twitch but her body is utterly still, her breath escaping in a swirl in the winter air, as he compels and draws her in.
Jim wades through the water, and climbs onto the river bank, closer; he lays a hand on its neck and rubs gently. The deer’s eyes dart towards him and he chuckles; “Mixing my drinks would only give me indigestion, my friend,” he whispers.
Then he hears, “Oi, vampire! Step away from the deer!”
Startled, Jim freezes - fuck - it’s someone else out hunting. It’s too much to hope they won’t have a gun, surely, and he considers diving back into the river when...
“Raise your hands and don’t try any of that faster-than-a-speeding-bullet crap; I can move as fast as you can...”
Jim sniffs the air; the voice isn’t coming from a human, it’s a demon - he recognizes that scent, of hops and chalk and damned tree roots or something.
“Can I turn around?”
“Yeah go on; it’s got to be better than looking at your arse.”
When he turns, he feels a shudder of reflex fear - it’s a Caochladh demon, a male, the same kind that attacked him in the bar. Jim’s teeth descend and he growls in warning. This time it’s just the two of them and this demon’s pretty small for its type, and with only an axe in its hand, Jim’s certain he can take him even if he’s not back to full strength and won’t be until he feeds again.
“Hey, no need to get all bumpy on me, mate - long as you leave the deer alone, we’re fine, okay?”
“Take it - eat it, I’ll be on my way. I’m not looking for trouble.”
The demon’s red skin is almost black in the darkness and he holds still, axe by his side, dressed in a t-shirt, leather pants and big boots, his expression surprisingly calm for such a pugnacious breed. Then he smiles at Jim, all brimstone teeth and fierce indigo eyes.
“I’m not going to bloody eat it, vampire - it’s protected. By me.”
“By you...okaaay...this is a first. I thought you guys were killers.”
“Like vampires you mean?” The Caochladh grins - a frightening sight taking into account the sheer number of teeth. “I’m just taking the piss mate, don’t take it wrong; just doing my job; I’m the ranger in this sector,”
“Ranger?”
“Yeah. That weird or something?”
Where the fuck does Jim begin to classify weird in his long life? A demon employed by some kind of authority? Things must have changed big time. Maybe the worm has turned and the demons have taken over; maybe there aren’t any more humans.
Since the Caochladh doesn’t look like he wants to fight, Jim tries the friendly approach, smooth-talking until he can take the opportunity to run.
Jim lowers his hands,“I’m Jim, by the way.” The demon in him subsides, but he can still feel the stretch of his skin across his forehead so to assuage it, he adds, “And you’re British...”
“Yeah - I’m Cunoval,” the demon says, his eyes sparkling. “Fancy a drink? I’ve had a long night, covered a lot of acreage and, much as I’d like to kill you, I’d get into all kinds of shit if I did - plus it wouldn’t look good on my resume.”
He moves his axe into his other hand. It isn’t the usual antique weapon his kind are so fond of, but something sleek, modern and light-weight - part of his kit. Jim can make out lettering on his t-shirt, military green stretched across wiry, red muscle, tattoos snaking up his neck.
“I’m not looking for a fight unless you hurt the sambar, that is.” Cunoval half-turns away from Jim and gestures towards the sky. “Sun’s gonna come up in half an hour and you need to get indoors. Oh, and put your clothes on will you? You’ll frighten the wildlife.”
Jim nods. It’s too complicated explaining about the ring - they’ve only just met after all. He turns to release the deer from its thrall and sighs when it skitters up the bank, treading all over his clothes.
+++
Cunoval is a head shorter than Jim with a shock of thick, light-brown hair which Jim could swear is spiked up with product. The demon swings his axe playfully as they walk side by side through the trees at a normal human pace, despite the imminent sunrise.
“I patrol this sector at nights, have done for twenty-years. I could smell you in that cave and I wondered when the fuck you were going to get up, lazy bastard...” He chuckles and slaps Jim on the shoulder making him wince - fuck these guys are strong.
Jim waits for an opportunity to look more directly into Cunoval’s fierce eyes; he’s not tried to compel a demon, preferring in the past, to just go for their throats, or avoid them altogether, and he’s not sure he even can.
“You can’t,” Cunoval says with a grin, baring yellow teeth the size of a fucking grizzly. ”Compel me that is.”
“You can read minds?”
“One thing Starfleet’s shown us is that telepathic species are two a penny in the universe, you know that...”
“As a matter of fact, I don’t,” Jim says. Cunoval stops to look at him. “I went to ground for longer than I’d planned.”
“That explains the hair disaster. How long?”
“What year is it?”
“2233.”
Only a year longer than the sign he saw. “Jesus, I’ve got a lot of catching up to do...”
“First thing you’ll wanna know about, mate, is what went down this morning.” Cunoval starts walking again. Jim looks up and seeing a log cabin ahead, catches up with him. “One of our starships was blown up by an alien craft - a right cluster-fuck by the looks of things...” He stops outside the cabin, waves a hand, “Home sweet home.”
He watches as Cunoval rests his axe by the door, “All the rangers get their own cabin - main perk of the job.” He presses his thumb to a small, metal disc by the door and it swishes open making Jim jump. Cunoval grins at him. “Blimey, you have been away a long time. Come on, Robinson Crusoe, please won’t you come in? Feels like you’re part of the wildlife here, my responsibility you might say. I’m glad I caught you before you took off.” And he bows down and flourishes an imaginary hat like a consummate English gentleman.
Yeah, a very long time.
+++
“You’re gonna catch flies,” Cunoval says smoothly, stepping round Jim. “Lights.”
“Goddamn but I love technology,” Jim breathes out in awe. The cabin is deceptively small on the outside and is a nice, masculine mix of high tech and cavern comfort - perfect for a Caochladh. There’s a stone floor, two enormous, black leather couches, a gallery at one end - presumably the sleeping area, and a kitchen to one side. An entire wall is given over to a bank of screens and glass where dots of light flicker in response to Cunoval’s voice.
“Quite a bit of what you see is hologram,” Cunoval explains, wiping his feet on the mat. Jim does the same and then pads after him to the center of the open-plan space.
“It’s like something out of science fiction,” Jim says walking towards a screen which ripples like water under his touch, then boots up showing news feed.
“Nah, let’s not bother with that just yet - it’ll do your head in, Jim, seeing as you’ve been away so long. Computer, screens off.” Cunoval says hurriedly, “I’ll bung some music on. What are you into? And if you say ‘Bach to Beatles’, I’ll pull your head off.” Which amuses Cunoval a great deal, because he slaps his thigh and a rumble that sounds like a Blue Whale’s indigestion fills the room as he lets out his demonic laugh. “Computer, play the slow-comfortable-screw mix.”
Jim raises his eyebrows, then when ancient ‘four guys and a guitar’ music seeps out of hidden speakers, he smiles.
“Don’t worry, Jim, I don’t fancy you, it’s just my chill-out music. If you want something else, ask the computer.”
“No, I’m good - one thing about you British, you can bet your musical taste is cool.”
Cunoval beams. “It’s cold in here but I never put the heating on, seeing as I don’t need it anymore than you do - though it’s handy when I bring the ladies round.”
Jim grins.
“You want a drink? I’ve got beer, beer and-”
“Beer?”
Cunoval slaps him amicably on the back and moves to a glass screen which looks like an old-style microwave. “I’m just going to measure you up so stand still, just here.” He points and Jim moves forward a foot apprehensively. “Computer, tailoring programme, humanoid, earth male, how tall?”
“Six one...”
“Which would be...one hundred and eighty-five point four two centimeters,” Cunoval finishes. “I majored in maths,” he winks.
A circle of light descends from the ceiling and Jim sees an image of himself on screen as the computer computes his measurements. Cunoval types onto a key pad, and after some time there’s a whirring and a ping. Looking very pleased with himself he reaches in and pulls out a pair of faded jeans, a long sleeved blue t-shirt, and a denim jacket.
“That’s so fucking cool,” Jim says picking the clothing up. “No underwear?”
“You don’t look the type,” Cunoval says. “Fact of the matter is, I’ve yet to meet a demon that wears it - they may have tamed us, but they’re never going to take our balls, eh? We’ll sort out footwear later, after you’ve had a shower, alright?”
“Sure. What’s that one for?” Jim points to the ‘microwave’.
“It’s a food replicator, damned useful when you’re on a diet like mine?” Cunoval’s dark eyes sparkle, “Wanna see? You first though, what do you fancy?”
“Well, vampire - booze and blood - the life of an ascetic,” he says with a grin.
Cunoval rolls his eyes. “What? Not even chocolate?”
“Hey, I may be dead but who doesn’t like chocolate?”
“Take a pew and I’ll bring you some over.”
Thirty seconds it takes. “Voila!” Cunoval says, bringing over a cup of blood. “I guessed o-neg, you look like a meat and potatoes kind of vampire.”
Jim feels a frisson of guilt and hesitates. It would be rude to say no. He takes the cup; it smells fucking delicious - exactly like human blood, and it’s warm, damn, it’s just what he needs.
“No one died?”
Cunoval laughs, “It’s a replicator, dude, ‘course no one died. Shouldn’t taste too bad, go on, give it a try...”
Jim takes a tentative sip and runs his tongue across his teeth. It’s the perfect temperature, tastes okay, and he can feel his cheeks, his skin warming already. “Fuck,” he says, taking a proper mouthful this time, looking at Cunoval’s grinning face over the rim of his cup. He swallows slowly, savoring it, then knocks back the whole cupful. There’s definitely something missing, his canines haven’t descended, his demon’s dormant still but the blood’s doing the trick, working through his system, fixing him up. The tang of salt and copper’s pretty good but it has no kick at all, like de-caff.
“Good?” Cunoval says.
“Yeah, but...”
“It hasn’t got the ‘essence’ in it, I know...”
The ‘ingredient’ which makes Jim hard every time, which brings the demon roaring up, which makes him feel complete - the essence - life.
“Yeah, I guess. Good though.”
“My turn,” Cunoval programs the replicator again and Jim watches in interest as he brings out a plate of brains, unwraps a plastic fork and sits on the couch.
“Human?” Jim says casually.
“Nah, we’re not as picky as you guys - this is buffalo, my favorite. Human brains are...how shall I put it... often very disappointing; dense in texture and full of stupid ideas. Not replicated ones, of course, but I never got a taste for them since they gave me a load of nightmares back in the day, so... I like my food simple too. ” Cunoval turns to look at him. “You know you smell like piss?”
“Bats,” Jim explains, eyes sweeping the screens on the wall.
“I fucking love bats,” Cunoval says between mouthfuls, his teeth gleaming with cerebral-spinal fluid. “Now if I thought anyone had hurt them, or maybe eaten one or two...I’d...” Jim swallows, realizes for the first time how irritating reading someone’s mind must be now it’s happening to him. Cunoval doesn’t finish the thought, instead saying, “The fungal infection’s pretty much gone but I left the sign on your cave - I didn’t want you eating any of the hikers if they poked around in that coffin of yours.”
“I like to think of it as a sarcophagus, but yeah, that wouldn’t have been...good.”
“Then I’d have to hunt you down, tear you limb from limb, you know...not very friendly.”
“So you were in there?”
“Yep. I thought I’d leave you to it; I know you lot go to ground sometimes and that you’d get up when you were good and ready.” He looks pointedly at Jim. “You’ll have to check into the rehabilitation office in Iowa City once you’re cleaned up, mate. They don’t like vampires wandering around un-chipped. You might be able to hitch a ride to the Re Kots colony when you get a few credits together.”
“What fucking colony?” Jesus. “And credits? I feel like my head’s going to explode.”
“Well, if it does, you don’t mind if I eat your brains? It’s been a while since I’ve had anything fresh if you know what I mean, though last time I tried Goth brains they were pretty dry and chewy.”
“That’ll be the whole dead part, I guess,” Jim says in relief.
“The Re Kots colony is on one of the Andorian moons - I’ll fill you in later. Grab another beer for us and we can watch the news feed - I’m a bit of a news junkie. Oh, hang on, maybe I need to prep you first; I don’t want your brains all over my rug.” He puts down his clean plate and says, “Computer, put together a synopsis of the past 100 years of Earth history. include key Starfleet landmarks, no wait... you want visual or would you prefer a nice piece of text?”
“I...I like to read...”
“K...computer, send it to the PADD, oh, and throw in a fashion update.” He turns to Jim. “Your hair’s crap mate, you know. If you could see yourself in a mirror... no offense.”
“None taken.”
+++
Jim sips more blood while Cunoval clips his hair and shaves him since he won’t be able to do it himself as well without much of a reflection. “This is the weirdest thing ever, and I’ve done some weird things in my time...” Jim says.
“What, a guy’s never shaved you before? You must have had your fair share of minions, acolytes and such...I thought you vampires always have to carry a shitty stick round with you.”
Jim smirks. “‘Course I’ve had a guy shave me, but you know, never a goddamn Caochladh. I had no idea that you all had this soft, squishy center.”
“Fuck off,” Cunoval says amiably, “you fangy wankers and your bloody prejudices.” He steps back and regards Jim. “Man, you’re beautiful under all that fur. Almost good enough to eat. Though you still stink - take a shower, be my guest.”
The bathroom’s pretty basic - an enormous john with a stack of PADDS by it, a floor-length mirror in which Jim can just about make himself out, and a shower with no apparent shower-head. He assumes it’ll be automatic, like the door was, and the water will flow once he steps in. He runs his hand through his buzz-cut and sure enough, he hears a low hum and instantly feels a pulse all over his body from every direction; not water though: sound waves or something; it’s like being on the inside of a giant’s vibrator he thinks, as the air around him seeps into his muscles as well as removing any residual dirt. He looks down at his feet which were covered in mud from his walk back from the river, and they’re soon white, spotless against what looks like slate tile, but when he examines it, is some kind of rubbery plastic.
Once he’s dressed, he has to make do with hoping he looks right, the mirror being no use at all - this is why he has a ‘look’, a uniform. If it works, he’ll go with it for decades - or in this case, centuries - going by the premise if it was good enough for James Dean, it’s gotta be good enough for an immortal.
“Where should I put these?” he says, rolling up his soiled clothing.
“Pop them in the recycler over there,” Cunoval says, pointing. “Now do your homework so I can put the bloody telly on. I’ll take a shower while you catch up. Oh, and help yourself to anything you fancy.”
+++
Jim drinks half a bottle of whisky while he reads the PADD. His spirits lift when he finds out how the post-nuclear chaos sorted itself out. He swallows when he see the Neo-Transcendentalists and their leader, Liam Dieghan, had a significant part in changing opinion. Jim’s resurrected into United Earth. He reads how the new-born space exploration program had evolved and produced a United Federation of Planets.
He’s leapfrogged from chaos to order and hope. The irony is that he was never happier than in those dark ages when he was with Bones, and has never felt more blank than in this shiny future, alone.
He opens another tab and reads about the Re Kots colony and decides instantly he’d rather be staked than end up there on a diet of replicated blood, and he discovers to his horror that once vampires leave this sun, while they can walk in daylight elsewhere, they also lose most of their powers, unable to compel, read minds, and weaker by half. It’s too fucking much to be brought to heel like that, to be impotent, to give up, well...everything he is. Yeah, he’s gonna keep his head down, no fucking way he’s going to ‘check in’ as Cunoval puts it. He’ll put his vampire stealth to good use and stay under the radar.
The couch creaks when Cunoval lands on one end, a fresh beer in his hand. Jim manages to save his whisky from spilling by lifting it above his head. “What the fuck are you wearing, man?”
“Latest Arsenal strip - nice, huh?” The demon’s in soccer shorts and t with a number 7 on the back. His red skin looks like he’s oiled it too. Quite the metro-sexual demon, Jim thinks. But...
“Red on red,” Jim muses. “I dunno, dude, it’s worse than my double-denim thing...”
“We’re both good-looking enough to carry it off, vampire, now shut up - I want to catch up on what’s been going on.”
+++
The USS Kelvin, under the command of Captain Richard Robau, and carrying a crew of eight hundred Starfleet personnel and their families, was attacked by an unidentified vessel close to the Federation-Klingon border.
Details are unconfirmed, but it appears Captain Robau was killed during the attack and the Kelvin’s first officer, George Kirk, assumed command before the Kelvin was destroyed.
Starfleet is not releasing further details at this time but it will say that Kirk ordered evacuation of the ship via shuttle craft thereby saving the vast majority of the crew. Names of the deceased will not be released until next of kin are informed.
The shuttles are currently rendezvousing with Starfleet rescue vessels. The whereabouts of Captain Kirk has not been verified. Reports that he was killed aboard the Kelvin are also unconfirmed. His wife, Lt. Cdr. Winona Kirk, believed to be expecting their second child, cannot be reached by this news station. It is not clear under what circumstances the Kelvin was lost.
Starfleet Command issued a statement that they regret to announce the loss of the Kelvin but, due to issues of security, are not able to release further details until initial investigations have been completed.
Run, run, gotta, run.
It’s only when Jim’s ten miles from Cunoval’s cabin that he remembers - he left Leah’s note unread in his old clothes. They’re in the recycler, gone, fucking disappeared into the ether, like George Kirk. That some part of her lives on in him through the blood she gifted him all those years ago is no comfort at all, for now his dream makes sense - he’s hijacked a life, taken the place of a child - the new James Tiberius Kirk who was meant for greater things - perhaps to follow in his father’s footsteps and become a hero one day.
Grieving and mentally exhausted, and soaked through from the chill rain, he collapses in the outer reaches of the forest.
When he heard the news, he took a moment to pick up his boots, then he just upped and ran, abandoning his host, Cunoval, without so much as a fucking word.
He heard the demon call after him, sounding surprised, shouting a bitter - “You’re welcome, mate...” after him as Jim leaped across the clearing.
His head’s pounding, memories from his dream of a flash, a storm, making him want to tear his eyes out, but he knows there’s nowhere he can run to and hide from himself, that the only way this will be over is if he removes his ring and stands in the sunlight, turns to ash to be blown away by the wind, scattered over the land he was raised in before he became a vampire.
He can hear the faint sound of traffic ahead and he lifts himself up limping towards it. His mouth falls open when he sees what’s ahead; ground and air-borne traffic heading to Iowa City in the rush-hour. The part of him that’s always loved machines notices with glee that despite the new shiny age, there seems to be a fashion for vintage cars from the twentieth century, old-style bodies but near silent engines, no emissions, they pass by holding a variety of what Cunoval called ‘sentient’ beings, many of whom would have been just simply ‘demons’ in his time; green and blue skin, and humans too, naturally, all skin colors, all part of the fabric of this diverse, brave, new world.
He walks on, parallel with the highway until he reaches a rest stop. He meanders through the parked vehicles and peers through their windscreens at computers, at the belongings strewn on the dash-boards, watching the citizens of the United Planets recharging their vehicles, buying snacks, and some running through the incessant, winter rain into the diner-style restaurant.
Following them in, the music’s electronic but he notes with satisfaction that despite instruments changing, what’s pleasing to the human ear doesn’t seem to vary so much over the years; there’s always the same form and structure, and the same affection for the bridge he thinks wearily.
He takes a seat in a booth and strokes the leather upholstery; it’s not leather, replicated maybe, like the fucking fake blood he drank in the cabin. He scans the other folk, some eating eggs, others drinking shakes, mostly human (on the surface at least, though he swears he can smell demons among them) and one or two eating strangely colored dishes - alien food obviously being as popular these days as ethnic foods were a hundred years ago.
All he can think about is blood. He’s gotten a grip and managed to crush his demon once he left the canopy of trees, not wanting to draw attention to himself - so his eyes are the ‘right’ color, he’s not all ‘bumpy’ as Cunoval put it. Trouble is, his skin’s so fucking luminous even on a gray day like this, he’s bound to come off as a vampire, and from what his friend led him to believe, there aren’t a lot of them left on earth.
“Sir?”
He glances up at the waitress and forces a thin smile. “Coffee?”
“Coming right up!” She leaves a menu and when he picks it up, it sparks into life, holographic images of the selections available, morphing and shifting in his hands. He taps the ‘appetizer’ section and another set of choices appears. It’s too fucking much, he’s overloaded. He can smell food but he doesn’t trust his senses anymore: everything’s different, and half of it is fake - how is replicated food even food? he wonders. He glances at the prices and again, none of it makes sense. Credits? Jesus.
He eavesdrops on the many conversations around him, watching through the window as a gorgeous, red 1960s style Corvette pulls up. His eyes follow the passengers, two women, a couple, walking hand in hand into the diner, until they take a seat in the booth behind him. More change - this is good, he thinks; progress isn’t just about new machines.
He remembers with a hitch in his heart how tormented L.H. was when they were together for that short time in London, thinking how things might have been different if L.H. had been able to stay with him, somehow gotten over his self-denial; if Bones hadn’t been a man of his time.
The coffee’s delivered and when the waitress leans in to fill up his cup, Jim looks up at her. “I’ve settled up,” he whispers, “and I left a generous tip.”
Her eyes widen and a look of calm passes her young features. “Would sir like anything else?”
“No, I’m good,” he lies, tearing his eyes away from the vein on her neck. It feels good after Cunoval’s acceptance of him that this is normal: he’s compelled someone, got what he wants - yeah this is how he’s always operated, using charm and violence to get his own way. He knocks back the scalding coffee in two gulps. “Great coffee; it’s real?”
“Oh, yes, sir - we only serve real coffee at Cedars.”
“I’ll be sure and tell my friends,” he smiles his cobra smile and adds, “forget me.”
She picks up the cup, looks past him, and turns away. No one gives him a second glance when the door tings behind him. Another vintage detail, he thinks. Cute.
He moves to the Corvette and scans its body work. It’s flawless, like him, and about as fake and out of place - just like his heart doesn’t beat, the car’s combustion engine has been removed and replaced with whatever the fuck they use to power vehicles these days. But it looks like the real deal even down to the vintage dash, though he can see a display panel just below the speedometer that’s all twenty-third century.
He clenches his hands, glances over his shoulder at the couple in the diner wondering how you even hot-wire something that has no wires. But through observing others get into their parked vehicles, his vampire hearing reveals that what he needs is a voice command. He turns back to face the driver’s door, mutters “sorry, ladies,” then changes his voice and mimics the driver’s voice exactly; his lips twitch when he hears the satisfying clunk of the lock.
He drives and drives, foot almost to the floor, until the landscape’s flat and featureless. He remembers a giant bomb crater not far from Riverside and, with no goal in mind other than to find out what’s there now, he pulls the car through a sharp forty-five degree turn, kicking up clouds of dust in his wake. He notices a light blink on the dash and the computer announces dispassionately, speed limit violation, traffic officer in vicinity.
“Computer, shut the fuck up,” he crows and turns up the volume on the music, grinning like a loon at the sense of exhilaration, how alive he feels after a hundred years of sleep. He can do whatever the hell he wants, he thinks as he unfastens the roof and whoops when it hits the tarmac behind him, bouncing into a field.
As he nears the crater, things start to look familiar; it used to be a sectioned off rad zone last century, but that’s not going to cause him any problem.
When he sees the traffic cop finally descend on him from the air like a vulture, all black and featureless, Jim hollers,“Fuck you, Robocop!” and laughs when the bastard tries to overtake him. He heads towards the very low-tech gates at speed, enjoying the rush and noise when they give easily around the Corvette, bursting open to let him through.
He considers going over the cliff edge with his foot to the floor, though he wouldn’t even go up in flames without a good old-fashioned fuel tank to stoke his pyre.
Then he thinks about George Kirk. Jim has no idea how he died - no one does yet - his dream showing him there was an inferno involved.
Suddenly, dying - ending it all - why it might be fitting for himself, feels like the most disrespectful act to George, to his wife and their son whose life he stole, to all those that lived and the countless Jim has murdered in his own pointless existence; he made a promise to Bones by the river, he...
With the edge of the ravine dead ahead, he slams both feet down hard on the brake, throwing himself from the door, his fingers gripping the cliff edge in the nick of time. He pulls himself up effortlessly, breathing a sigh of he knows not what - relief? Dismay? Fuck if he cares - he’s got hundreds more years ahead of him where he can untangle his motivation.
For now he has a more pressing problem, he realizes, as his eyes sweep up the cop’s leather clad legs.
Citizen? Seriously? Well, it makes a change from being addressed as ‘vampire’.
+++
Jim sits in a cell wishing that vampires had the power to melt walls with a look. Or these damned silicone cuffs around his wrists - it’s a good thing he doesn’t need to piss, he thinks, or this would prove an awkward arrangement the way they insisted on binding his hands behind his back. His ankles are tied too.
Now he awaits trial, the whole system incredibly, having become much more efficient since he last took an interest in these matters. They’ll rule on him by the end of the afternoon, they tell him.
He’s got an eye-shield on so he can’t compel anyone and they’re waiting for clearance before they inject him with a vervain suppressant. Cunoval didn’t mention that fucking bit of ‘progress’ did he? Jim refused to drink the container of blood they bought him, and remained silent when they offered representation. Until his trial, they say, he’s staying right where he is.
He should feel helpless, neutered; instead all he feels is blank. He remembers his great house in New Orleans; in those days he did whatever he pleased, followed any whim, killed at will and with impunity, and a part of him wishes he’d died then, that he’d left the goddamn party when the going was good, because this - this is so normal that he’s starting to think a society based on equality for demons, aliens, whatever...is a piece of shit. To kill a vampire, forget fire, silver and wooden stakes - now he knows he could die from boredom alone.
A cop comes to release him and once Jim’s ankles are untied, she points an actual ray-gun at him in case Jim tries something.
“Soooo...an Andorian...” Jim smirks. “That would be a first for me...bet you taste like Blue Moon ice-cream. Wanna give me a taste? You know, help me lose my cherry?”
“Mr Kirk, I suggest you desist from flirting with me as it may count against you in court.” Her antennae lean away from him then extend into a neutral upright position.
“Oh, but how can I help myself?” he tries to say smoothly, as another human cop puts a hand on his upper arm and leads him into a side room. “I can’t desist when you have such a hot, sexy accent,” he finishes over his shoulder, watching her very human-shaped ass as she glowers back at him until the door swishes shut, and he’s left alone in a small room, with one chair in the center and two more empty, against a wall.
“James Tiberius Kirk?” A life-size image appears on the screen - a judge?
“That’s me.” He shakes his head against the eye-shields but they’re secure. “Listen man, can I just go home?”
“We have your place of birth as Riverside, Iowa. That can be arranged in good time...”
“No, I mean, the eighteenth century home, when it was great being a vampire. Now, not so good.”
“Unfortunately we are unable to comply with your request.” The judge regards him impassively.
“What, you haven’t cracked time-travel yet? Now that’s a shame...”
He slides down in his seat and listens to the long list of misdemeanours. The judge says that since Jim’s been interred for so many years, since his crimes are against property and not the person, since he has not had the opportunity to ‘adjust psychologically’ to the expectations of their shiny fucking society - they have decided to be lenient with him. Fuck you very much.
He’s to be chipped before he leaves the building, undergo rehabilitation and visit a therapist, take vervain suppressants daily and undergo community service until he has paid for the damage incurred to the Corvette.
“Failure to comply means that you will be removed to Re Kots immediately.” What, and be a small fish in a big pond? No fucking way - so he says all the right things, winces when they inject him with vervain, blinks when they remove the eye-shields and manages not to punch anyone when they finally unshackle him.
In the interests of maintaining his image, he winks at the Andorian cop on his way out, though truth be told, he feels like he’ll never get it up again.
Along with his pack of vervain suppressant he’s supposed to take every twelve hours, he pockets the comm device and the credit chip they give him (both of which must be paid for by the end of the month) and glances at the card with the address where he’s to be granted lodgings for one week until he finds his own place and a job.
He stands on the steps and sniffs the air, yep there it is, exactly what he’s looking for - the scent of trouble - and he hops down the steps and heads to south-east downtown, to the wrong side of the tracks where he belongs.
+++
Jim finds a dealer within half an hour.
He’s not sure how he’s going to pay for the vervain antidote, not having figured out the credit chip thing yet, and sure that his spending will be monitored anyway, but when Jim mentions payment, the guy glances up both sides of the alley, slides his hand around Jim’s neck and guides Jim’s mouth to his throat.
Pressing his groin against Jim, he whispers, “Bite me, you fuck.”
Jim sinks his teeth into the offered neck, knowing the guy won’t bust him and he shows remarkable restraint, taking only a few mouthfuls, sighing in relief as the copper fills his mouth, lights him up, the fucking essence. This is what his body’s been craving since he went to ground and it’s like everything slides into place. His confidence returns, his sense of who he is even. The grief subsides because he’s a vampire, and that’s what vampires fucking do, they drink human blood, fresh, not from some fucking bottle. Whatever was he thinking?
He doesn’t know how he doesn’t finish the guy off, but something must have rubbed off on him from hanging out with Bones, Spock, Angel, Stefan: all those holier than thou bastards, and he pulls away, giving the bite wounds a sweep of his tongue to seal them up.
“How long’s this take to work?” he asks, wiping his mouth and grinning at the guy’s blissed out expression. Looks like he’s not the only one came in his pants. Thank you lord for fang-bangers; he’s never yet lived in a century where you couldn’t find humans following vampires around like drug addicts.
“Half an hour tops; they keep the vervain doses small, they’re worried vamps will build up an immunity if they increase it, so you time this right during the second half of the twelve hour cycle, it’ll work quicker. Only way they’ll know you’ve taken it, apart from the obvious, is if they take a blood test, and they avoid doing that between you and me. Not after the way vamps were treated back in the day, doesn’t look good.”
“Got it. How do you know so much about this stuff, man?”
“Most people would call me crazy, but I like vampires, is all.”
“Well thanks...you taste way better than that replicated shit - delicious in fact!”
“Thanks. Hey man, look me up if you ever need anything. If you ever need cash and want to sell some vamp blood, there’s Orion dealers use it as an aphrodisiac - unbelievable stuff.”
Brave new world my ass, Jim thinks.
+++
Jim takes the anti-vervain and wanders through the streets. Through open windows he can see ordinary folk doing ordinary things - sitting watching TV and waiting to eat their evening meals - it’s an epiphany when he realizes this isn’t what he fucking wants - he doesn’t want to be like them. The only thing they have he doesn’t, is companionship.
He celebrates the antidote’s effect by climbing up a four story building, ignoring the fire escapes but moving from window-sill to window-sill, or shimmying up drainpipes until he reaches the flat roof. He stretches out on his back and stares up at the stars wondering how he can get out there, away from this goddamn egalitarian planet with no place for him. Way things are, he’s gone from being a God to an offender, from top of the heap to pond-scum, and he doesn't like either option, though if he left, he’d stand no chance of ever finding Bones again. And he’d lose everything that makes him a vampire too, his ability to read minds, his ability to compel, to say nothing of his strength. Hell, he doesn’t know how to be any other way.
His comm pings and he pulls it out of his jeans pocket and grins when he sees who the message is from. He flicks to map view then mentally plots the most complicated sheer route, which will involve the maximum amount of vampire climbing and leaping.
He arrives at his destination exhilarated; suburbia looks much the same as it ever did; he’s in a broad cul-de-sac, all trimmed lawns and fancy bushes out front.
He cocks his head when the door’s answered.
“What’s this about a full body search?” he smirks, giving the Andorian cop his best irresistible look.
Her antennae twitch towards him and he fancies he detects a faint blush on her blue skin.
“Please, Mr. Kirk, won’t you come in?”
Well, seeing as he isn’t going to be leaving Earth anytime soon, he might as well make himself at home.
end of part 6a, onto to 6b
~
BONUS ART
Cunoval is played by Jamie Bell.
Amazing manip by norfolkdumpling who is too good to me, thank you, bb!
Rating: NC-17
Character/Pairing: Kirk/McCoy
Wordcount: ~26,600 words (this part) of ~112,000
A/N for this part: additional characters: OC - Caochladh demon, Pike
Previous parts, warnings, thanks, disclaimer and additional notes are to be found in the masterpost .
intriguing snippet: … he sits on the edge of the coffin and takes stock; he’s naked, it’s dark, and he has no idea what year this is though he senses a great deal of time has passed…
Blood Ties: Chapter 6
~
A little while, a moment of rest upon the wind, and another woman shall bear me. ~Khalil Gibran
~
Iowa, 2233
Jim dreams.
He feels suspended, safe, though he’s aware of loud, panicked voices close by. It’s as if he’s in two places at once, floating half-way between dreaming and reality - here and... somewhere else.
At the same time, while lying in his sarcophagus, he can feel the soil molded to his limbs, can smell its sweet, earthy scent though he’s not quite ready to open his eyes; And, simultaneously, in another, different place, he feels like he’s being shaken around, as if he’s travelling on a great sailing ship, buffeted by waves in a terrible storm, or perhaps it’s the ground around him moving, seismic activity making the box containing him shake and roll and shift.
He can hear a woman’s voice; it’s familiar but though he reaches and searches through his memory, he can’t quite place it; he knows it isn’t Leah, and sensing the considerable passage of time, tears well behind his eyelids, hot bloody tears for her, for Bones, who he fears he’ll never see again.
Then his mind floods with fear, thoughts which aren’t his but which trigger emotions within him, intense and real - run, run, gotta run - and he’s carried on the tide of fear, the need to survive, the desperate wrench this woman feels. It is as if he is experiencing the life, the fate of another, while inhabiting both bodies at once.
Later, he doesn’t know how long, for time loses all meaning when a vampire goes to ground, he’s still dreaming his dark, image-less dream with no color, no form, just sound and emotion lighting up every nerve ending.
And it feels like a giant hand holds him, squeezes around him with a grip so strong, so crushing, he worries he’ll be turned to dust; his body, first his head, then his shoulders, are being pushed and pulled, dragged out into the light and there’s nothing he can do to stop this. He’s clay being squeezed into a new shape, a new form, another life.
It’s then he understands - it is time for his soul to move on, to leave his undead body that has walked the earth for all these centuries, and it’s now due to inhabit another, a newborn - in the last moments of his existence, he is to be witness to his own reincarnation.
The roller-coaster’s over and he can hear the woman’s voice again, moaning and crying out in pain, determination coursing through him, through her, like they’re joined, two people but one life force, like she’s the one keeping him alive. He can’t move, he can’t open his eyes, then feels himself being held, cradled and rocked while hushed, efficient voices surround him, then warmth as he’s pressed against the same presence which cocooned him earlier, his skin against her skin, safe, alive.
But it’s all wrong.
He can hear her voice in his head, above him yet far, far away. “George, He’s beautiful-” and he opens his eyes, at once into the impenetrable black of his sarcophagus, and at the same time towards the warmth of his mother’s face, the face he knows so well.
Jim wants to tell her not to worry, he’s here now, he’ll look after her, she’ll be safe and they’ll make it, both of them will.
After so much darkness, it hurts to open his eyes, the brightness of her eyes reminds him of the sky that morning in Virginia so many years ago, when he first wore his enchanted ring, and her skin against his feels like the early morning sun, kissing and caressing, making him feel truly alive. He can’t tear his eyes from her tear-stained face, can’t stop looking and feeling as he draws in beautiful, cool air into his lungs, bringing oxygen to every part of him for the first time in ages of time.
Then he hears a man’s voice, one he hasn’t heard ever before but he knows, just knows.
“Tiberius, are you kidding me? No - that’s the worst…”
He shakes with her as she cries silent tears, as she wraps his tiny fingers in hers, and Jim can sense how scared she is, her grief, how she’s trying to hide her despair from his father.
He wants to look away, give in and hunker down in his box and see no more, just sleep for all time and leave the world behind.
Then he remembers what Bones said to him in the opium den in London, something he hasn’t thought of in all these years - when he accused Jim of being a taker of souls... demons such as yourself steal the lives of the unborn, how to give yourself strength you will take a soul from a babe before he draws breath.
Bones, Leo, L.H., his beloved Len and his beautiful Leah, he’s lost them all, he’s cried a sea of tears and he cries now. But the will to live is too strong, seeping into him from all the people surrounding his mother; hers and their need for him to survive lights him up; if he lives, it will make up for losing George who faces death bravely, who isn’t selfish like he is.
“I love you,” George says, and Jim echoes it too, “I love you-“
And he wants to, has got to try one last time, he needs to live on, to find Bones; he’s not ready to give up. In his box, Jim draws in his last ragged breaths, because he knows he must pull away, has to fight to survive, continue to live, and he whiplashes back, his soul leaving the child who temporarily houses it.
The last thing he registers is the look of agonized disbelief and horror on his mother’s face, her no, no, no, powerless to keep him with her.
He leaves her alone in space without her son, without her husband, the breath expelled from his lungs for the last time.
He shakes with rage, with how unfair it is, with the cruelty of what’s happened to her, and his part in it. And he wavers, regrets his action and tries to go back.
Live, live, he screams mutely - it’s your turn now…
But the world is cruel and Jim Kirk has one more life. He’s won.
Here’s one more soul he’s accountable for snatching away, one more mark against him.
There’s a flash of light and what sounds like a rumble of thunder as his whole dream’s swallowed up and Jim opens his eyes again. Lives again.
+++
He’s not breathing, of course he isn’t, but he’s shaking, life vibrating through him like music. He wriggles his finger tips, grabs at the soil that’s his bed, dry and spent now, and he opens his mouth to speak.
“Bones,” he whispers, like a tree creaking in the forest, the sound of a door opening.
Then he realizes what he heard is the lid above him shifting, programmed to respond to his voice just like Spock said it would. He reaches up and wedges his fingers in the gap, blinking against the light. He knows it’s night-time, but his vampire eyes can see well enough, the glow from the mouth of the cave would be imperceptible to humans, but he’s blessed, isn’t he?
The overpowering stench of ammonia fills his nostrils immediately - bats - how poetic.
He sets his mouth in determination and shoves against the lid, soil falling into his face from his hand and arms. He shakes it off and spits out any which falls into his mouth. Then he folds his legs awkwardly and uses his feet to push until the lid clatters to the ground with a deafening thud.
He stands shakily, and wonders how long he’s been here, and knows that Bones, Spock are long gone, dead and buried only they won’t come back like he did. Bloody tears fall from his eyes again, mixing with the earth left on his face and he shakes and moans like a dying man, not one who’s been given yet another chance.
Finally, he sits on the edge of the coffin and takes stock; he’s naked, it’s dark, and he has no idea what year this is though he senses a great deal of time has passed, no longer able to feel the connection with Leah which sharing blood gave him.
He runs his fingers through his hair, it’s grown long while he recuperated, and it’s dry, and reaches almost to his shoulders. He feels for his ring, remembers how they tried to saw off his hand, unable to remove it, and after all this time, his wrist has healed too.
Next his fingers explore his face and find no blistering or wounds of any kind; and while he slept, he’s grown a thick, wiry beard like a mountain man.
A scan of his arms and legs shows he’s lost a great deal of muscle; his skin feels soft albeit a little brittle, like leaves on the forest floor, fragile and easily broken still. He can feel his ribs protruding and his mouth’s dry and his stomach’s empty. Worst of all, his heart is heavy, filled with loss and pain and self-disgust - the aftermath of his dream, where he stole another’s life so he could walk again.
He needs to feed.
He steps out of his sarcophagus and leans in to search through the soil. At the foot is a pile of clothing and he unfurls the jeans, the long sleeved sweatshirt - they’re dry to the touch, stiff and parchment-like under his fingers. He doubts they’ll last long - he’ll have to get some new clothes from somewhere. He roots around some more and finds the violin and he leaves it there for now, unwilling to interrupt his pragmatic frame of mind with memories and more sadness he can avoid by touching it.
Then he remembers the bag of blood and frowns, knows it will be useless now, how it would only have lasted a few weeks at most. He decides to leave it be for the while, he needs to go outside, work out what to do next.
He makes for the cave entrance and the light breaking around the enormous rock placed across the entrance. He can’t smell Bones anymore, nor Spock, further evidence they’re long gone. He composes himself and plants his hands against the rock, pushes with all his might. It doesn’t shift.
“Fuck,” he says out loud, his voice echoing back at him. He tries again, leaning against the rock with his shoulder and it doesn’t shift in the slightest though there’s a fall of soil.
He returns to the sarcophagus and finds a flash-light; praying it will work so he can search the further reaches of the cave where Leah’s belongings were stashed. He remembers kissing her outside and swallows, shakes the memory away, aware he has to focus or he’ll end up no better than he was in the box, a prisoner in the cave waiting an age to die.
The flashlight doesn’t work, the power pack dead, like he should be but isn’t; he fucking outlasts everyone, everything, even the landscape, the cities.
Then he hears a flutter above him and grins - hibernating bats - the whole ceiling is covered in them.
He climbs onto the ledge of the sarcophagus and stretches out, not wanting to risk a leap while he’s so weak, his recovery untested. The poor creatures stir, but not quickly enough to avoid being grabbed by his eager fingers. He drains two instantly, wincing at the taste, then laughs, leaps easily to pick off half a dozen more, tossing their bodies aside without ceremony.
Now he’s ready to try the rock again, his cheeks temporarily flushed from the blood he’s consumed, his strength returning. This time he presses his back to the rock and feels it shift a little. He roars, manages a little more releasing another small fall of soil. He hears the tear of vines and takes a moment to gather his strength. He closes his eyes and channels the self-loathing and rage he felt in the last moments of his dream, the anger that he should live and a new born should die in his place, and he feels the demon’s fire wake in him, his preternatural strength stoked by blood and rage, his canines descending as his face stretches and transforms.
It’s enough; when he takes a run at the rock, it shifts sufficiently for him to squeeze past and emerge naked and exhausted into the darkness outside releasing a cloud of bats screeching and swirling into the sky.
He doesn’t know what he expects to see when he steps outside - he hasn’t dared think too hard about it, but he’s taken aback by the freshness of the air after the stench of the cave, so unlike the polluted and sterile post-nuclear air he left behind that fateful night. He knows where he is, of course, not far from Raccoon Creek; he drove here with Bones, less than a hundred miles from what was left of Iowa City.
There’s no moon, and he sees something he hasn’t seen in many years, tall pine trees silhouetted against a canopy of stars, brilliant and endless. They were mere saplings when he was last here, growing among the charred remains of Maquoketa forest; it’s indication enough that at least a hundred years have passed, as is the fact that he can see the stars at all, for the constant haze which obscured the constellations following the war has cleared. The landscape here at least has been healed by time, just as he has been.
He licks his lips, wonders what else he’s going to find out there, if the world’s still in chaos, who’s in fucking charge now, what other disasters and wars have befallen mankind while he was hidden away from harm?
At least the dirt track looks much the same; he remembers standing in this spot, playing the violin for Leah and his heart aches as he makes to return to the cave. He freezes when he sees a sign.
CAVES CLOSED UNTIL FURTHER NOTICE
containment of WNS fungal infection
Iowa National Parks, 2232.
Jesus, one hundred and twenty three years he’s been interred, that’s assuming the sign isn’t out of date. He touches the material it’s made from - a type of plastic that looks exactly like wood. Plastic hasn’t fallen out of favor then.
He sighs, knows he has to move on before day light, before he’s seen newborn and naked, with his arms streaked in dirt, his face covered in blood and tear streaks. So he squeezes back into the cave and gets dressed, picks up the bag of blood and the violin and gives the interior of the box one final sweep. He finds an envelope and tucks it in his pocket then he looks in the back of the cave. All of Bones’ boxes are gone and he wonders what must have been going through her mind when she returned to take them. Did she peek at him inside the box? Did she even come back? Perhaps someone else came to take them after she…
“Fuck it,” he says and leaves to head for the river.
+++
He leaves his clothes on the river bank and takes the violin and Bones’ blood and digs into the soft soil with his bare hands to bury them there. Then he has to speak a few words, like a prayer.
“Bones,” he says, clasping his hands in front of him, “I, dunno, I miss you, I guess. Still.”
He looks at the creek where he is, the water running round his ankles, at the leaf litter on the bank, the moss on the trees, and thinks about how they’re here, he’s still fucking here, and Bones, Leah, all of them aren’t. “I’m getting rid of the one material thing that means something to me, Bones. It’s symbolic, shows how I have to give something up, how if I took that kid’s life when it should have been me, the least I can do is really start afresh. Since it’s all I’ve got with me, it’ll have to be the thing I sacrifice. I’m returning it to the land and that’s kind of cool, right?”
He thinks about how it was back in New Orleans, how he surrounded himself with beauty, with priceless objects, meaningless things, even his violin, when the one thing that’s ever really meant anything in his life is gone: Bones - all of them. He feels tears starting again; it’s a good fucking thing no one can see him this weak, this pathetic.
“And I’m still here because I fought to be with you one more time. I don’t know if I’ll find you again - shit, couple of times, we bumped into each other - I didn’t even come to find you. It’s so fucking random, Bones, sometimes I wonder if maybe I missed seeing you in other lives, in the past, you know...” He kneels down in the water, ”but I promise you this, Bones - I’ve been given this one extra chance, and I’m not gonna waste it.
“I’m reborn, like new with another life ahead of me; that’s why I’m not taking anything with me when I leave this place. And...so, erm...he won’t have died for nothing - I’m going to try and give something back for once, atone for my past. And if I don’t find you again, I’m going to end it all for real this time, give this soul I stole back because... I don’t think I can fucking stand it otherwise. Immortal life’s nothing without you.”
He scrubs the back of his hand across his cheek, gazes at the blood on his knuckles and dips his hand in the water to return it white and pure to clasp his other hand until he finishes his prayer. “So…erm… farewell sounds like the right thing to say…”
He wades into the river till he’s standing chest high in the water, washing away earth and blood, like a newborn covered in vernix and amniotic fluid, till his skin is pure and white and fresh. He ducks down and then comes out spitting water - baptized. He’s aware the river’s cold but to him it’s refreshing, invigorating; the blood from the bats coursing through him, making him feel so damned alive and awake after a hundred years of sleep.
He can hear every sound in the forest, every heartbeat, can smell the cycle of life around him, of birth and death, a cycle he almost became a part of...then he stops still, senses on alert. He shakes his long hair away from his face, lowers his hands to his hips and submerges so only his eyes are peeking over the faint current.
It’s a deer, a doe, not a whitetail, but smaller, its coat a shaggy, mustard brown and not a breed he’s seen in Iowa before since most of the indigenous wildlife was wiped out by the nuclear devastation. He wars with himself, feeling conflicted about killing it because he really needs more blood and he’ll have to feed from so many animals where the blood of just one human would make the world of difference. He steps closer, overwhelmed by the need at least to see it up close; it looks so healthy, so fragile, so rare.
He reaches out a hand and their eyes catch - it’s enough to make the animal his. Rooted to the spot, the deer’s ears twitch but her body is utterly still, her breath escaping in a swirl in the winter air, as he compels and draws her in.
Jim wades through the water, and climbs onto the river bank, closer; he lays a hand on its neck and rubs gently. The deer’s eyes dart towards him and he chuckles; “Mixing my drinks would only give me indigestion, my friend,” he whispers.
Then he hears, “Oi, vampire! Step away from the deer!”
Startled, Jim freezes - fuck - it’s someone else out hunting. It’s too much to hope they won’t have a gun, surely, and he considers diving back into the river when...
“Raise your hands and don’t try any of that faster-than-a-speeding-bullet crap; I can move as fast as you can...”
Jim sniffs the air; the voice isn’t coming from a human, it’s a demon - he recognizes that scent, of hops and chalk and damned tree roots or something.
“Can I turn around?”
“Yeah go on; it’s got to be better than looking at your arse.”
When he turns, he feels a shudder of reflex fear - it’s a Caochladh demon, a male, the same kind that attacked him in the bar. Jim’s teeth descend and he growls in warning. This time it’s just the two of them and this demon’s pretty small for its type, and with only an axe in its hand, Jim’s certain he can take him even if he’s not back to full strength and won’t be until he feeds again.
“Hey, no need to get all bumpy on me, mate - long as you leave the deer alone, we’re fine, okay?”
“Take it - eat it, I’ll be on my way. I’m not looking for trouble.”
The demon’s red skin is almost black in the darkness and he holds still, axe by his side, dressed in a t-shirt, leather pants and big boots, his expression surprisingly calm for such a pugnacious breed. Then he smiles at Jim, all brimstone teeth and fierce indigo eyes.
“I’m not going to bloody eat it, vampire - it’s protected. By me.”
“By you...okaaay...this is a first. I thought you guys were killers.”
“Like vampires you mean?” The Caochladh grins - a frightening sight taking into account the sheer number of teeth. “I’m just taking the piss mate, don’t take it wrong; just doing my job; I’m the ranger in this sector,”
“Ranger?”
“Yeah. That weird or something?”
Where the fuck does Jim begin to classify weird in his long life? A demon employed by some kind of authority? Things must have changed big time. Maybe the worm has turned and the demons have taken over; maybe there aren’t any more humans.
Since the Caochladh doesn’t look like he wants to fight, Jim tries the friendly approach, smooth-talking until he can take the opportunity to run.
Jim lowers his hands,“I’m Jim, by the way.” The demon in him subsides, but he can still feel the stretch of his skin across his forehead so to assuage it, he adds, “And you’re British...”
“Yeah - I’m Cunoval,” the demon says, his eyes sparkling. “Fancy a drink? I’ve had a long night, covered a lot of acreage and, much as I’d like to kill you, I’d get into all kinds of shit if I did - plus it wouldn’t look good on my resume.”
He moves his axe into his other hand. It isn’t the usual antique weapon his kind are so fond of, but something sleek, modern and light-weight - part of his kit. Jim can make out lettering on his t-shirt, military green stretched across wiry, red muscle, tattoos snaking up his neck.
“I’m not looking for a fight unless you hurt the sambar, that is.” Cunoval half-turns away from Jim and gestures towards the sky. “Sun’s gonna come up in half an hour and you need to get indoors. Oh, and put your clothes on will you? You’ll frighten the wildlife.”
Jim nods. It’s too complicated explaining about the ring - they’ve only just met after all. He turns to release the deer from its thrall and sighs when it skitters up the bank, treading all over his clothes.
+++
Cunoval is a head shorter than Jim with a shock of thick, light-brown hair which Jim could swear is spiked up with product. The demon swings his axe playfully as they walk side by side through the trees at a normal human pace, despite the imminent sunrise.
“I patrol this sector at nights, have done for twenty-years. I could smell you in that cave and I wondered when the fuck you were going to get up, lazy bastard...” He chuckles and slaps Jim on the shoulder making him wince - fuck these guys are strong.
Jim waits for an opportunity to look more directly into Cunoval’s fierce eyes; he’s not tried to compel a demon, preferring in the past, to just go for their throats, or avoid them altogether, and he’s not sure he even can.
“You can’t,” Cunoval says with a grin, baring yellow teeth the size of a fucking grizzly. ”Compel me that is.”
“You can read minds?”
“One thing Starfleet’s shown us is that telepathic species are two a penny in the universe, you know that...”
“As a matter of fact, I don’t,” Jim says. Cunoval stops to look at him. “I went to ground for longer than I’d planned.”
“That explains the hair disaster. How long?”
“What year is it?”
“2233.”
Only a year longer than the sign he saw. “Jesus, I’ve got a lot of catching up to do...”
“First thing you’ll wanna know about, mate, is what went down this morning.” Cunoval starts walking again. Jim looks up and seeing a log cabin ahead, catches up with him. “One of our starships was blown up by an alien craft - a right cluster-fuck by the looks of things...” He stops outside the cabin, waves a hand, “Home sweet home.”
He watches as Cunoval rests his axe by the door, “All the rangers get their own cabin - main perk of the job.” He presses his thumb to a small, metal disc by the door and it swishes open making Jim jump. Cunoval grins at him. “Blimey, you have been away a long time. Come on, Robinson Crusoe, please won’t you come in? Feels like you’re part of the wildlife here, my responsibility you might say. I’m glad I caught you before you took off.” And he bows down and flourishes an imaginary hat like a consummate English gentleman.
Yeah, a very long time.
+++
“You’re gonna catch flies,” Cunoval says smoothly, stepping round Jim. “Lights.”
“Goddamn but I love technology,” Jim breathes out in awe. The cabin is deceptively small on the outside and is a nice, masculine mix of high tech and cavern comfort - perfect for a Caochladh. There’s a stone floor, two enormous, black leather couches, a gallery at one end - presumably the sleeping area, and a kitchen to one side. An entire wall is given over to a bank of screens and glass where dots of light flicker in response to Cunoval’s voice.
“Quite a bit of what you see is hologram,” Cunoval explains, wiping his feet on the mat. Jim does the same and then pads after him to the center of the open-plan space.
“It’s like something out of science fiction,” Jim says walking towards a screen which ripples like water under his touch, then boots up showing news feed.
“Nah, let’s not bother with that just yet - it’ll do your head in, Jim, seeing as you’ve been away so long. Computer, screens off.” Cunoval says hurriedly, “I’ll bung some music on. What are you into? And if you say ‘Bach to Beatles’, I’ll pull your head off.” Which amuses Cunoval a great deal, because he slaps his thigh and a rumble that sounds like a Blue Whale’s indigestion fills the room as he lets out his demonic laugh. “Computer, play the slow-comfortable-screw mix.”
Jim raises his eyebrows, then when ancient ‘four guys and a guitar’ music seeps out of hidden speakers, he smiles.
“Don’t worry, Jim, I don’t fancy you, it’s just my chill-out music. If you want something else, ask the computer.”
“No, I’m good - one thing about you British, you can bet your musical taste is cool.”
Cunoval beams. “It’s cold in here but I never put the heating on, seeing as I don’t need it anymore than you do - though it’s handy when I bring the ladies round.”
Jim grins.
“You want a drink? I’ve got beer, beer and-”
“Beer?”
Cunoval slaps him amicably on the back and moves to a glass screen which looks like an old-style microwave. “I’m just going to measure you up so stand still, just here.” He points and Jim moves forward a foot apprehensively. “Computer, tailoring programme, humanoid, earth male, how tall?”
“Six one...”
“Which would be...one hundred and eighty-five point four two centimeters,” Cunoval finishes. “I majored in maths,” he winks.
A circle of light descends from the ceiling and Jim sees an image of himself on screen as the computer computes his measurements. Cunoval types onto a key pad, and after some time there’s a whirring and a ping. Looking very pleased with himself he reaches in and pulls out a pair of faded jeans, a long sleeved blue t-shirt, and a denim jacket.
“That’s so fucking cool,” Jim says picking the clothing up. “No underwear?”
“You don’t look the type,” Cunoval says. “Fact of the matter is, I’ve yet to meet a demon that wears it - they may have tamed us, but they’re never going to take our balls, eh? We’ll sort out footwear later, after you’ve had a shower, alright?”
“Sure. What’s that one for?” Jim points to the ‘microwave’.
“It’s a food replicator, damned useful when you’re on a diet like mine?” Cunoval’s dark eyes sparkle, “Wanna see? You first though, what do you fancy?”
“Well, vampire - booze and blood - the life of an ascetic,” he says with a grin.
Cunoval rolls his eyes. “What? Not even chocolate?”
“Hey, I may be dead but who doesn’t like chocolate?”
“Take a pew and I’ll bring you some over.”
Thirty seconds it takes. “Voila!” Cunoval says, bringing over a cup of blood. “I guessed o-neg, you look like a meat and potatoes kind of vampire.”
Jim feels a frisson of guilt and hesitates. It would be rude to say no. He takes the cup; it smells fucking delicious - exactly like human blood, and it’s warm, damn, it’s just what he needs.
“No one died?”
Cunoval laughs, “It’s a replicator, dude, ‘course no one died. Shouldn’t taste too bad, go on, give it a try...”
Jim takes a tentative sip and runs his tongue across his teeth. It’s the perfect temperature, tastes okay, and he can feel his cheeks, his skin warming already. “Fuck,” he says, taking a proper mouthful this time, looking at Cunoval’s grinning face over the rim of his cup. He swallows slowly, savoring it, then knocks back the whole cupful. There’s definitely something missing, his canines haven’t descended, his demon’s dormant still but the blood’s doing the trick, working through his system, fixing him up. The tang of salt and copper’s pretty good but it has no kick at all, like de-caff.
“Good?” Cunoval says.
“Yeah, but...”
“It hasn’t got the ‘essence’ in it, I know...”
The ‘ingredient’ which makes Jim hard every time, which brings the demon roaring up, which makes him feel complete - the essence - life.
“Yeah, I guess. Good though.”
“My turn,” Cunoval programs the replicator again and Jim watches in interest as he brings out a plate of brains, unwraps a plastic fork and sits on the couch.
“Human?” Jim says casually.
“Nah, we’re not as picky as you guys - this is buffalo, my favorite. Human brains are...how shall I put it... often very disappointing; dense in texture and full of stupid ideas. Not replicated ones, of course, but I never got a taste for them since they gave me a load of nightmares back in the day, so... I like my food simple too. ” Cunoval turns to look at him. “You know you smell like piss?”
“Bats,” Jim explains, eyes sweeping the screens on the wall.
“I fucking love bats,” Cunoval says between mouthfuls, his teeth gleaming with cerebral-spinal fluid. “Now if I thought anyone had hurt them, or maybe eaten one or two...I’d...” Jim swallows, realizes for the first time how irritating reading someone’s mind must be now it’s happening to him. Cunoval doesn’t finish the thought, instead saying, “The fungal infection’s pretty much gone but I left the sign on your cave - I didn’t want you eating any of the hikers if they poked around in that coffin of yours.”
“I like to think of it as a sarcophagus, but yeah, that wouldn’t have been...good.”
“Then I’d have to hunt you down, tear you limb from limb, you know...not very friendly.”
“So you were in there?”
“Yep. I thought I’d leave you to it; I know you lot go to ground sometimes and that you’d get up when you were good and ready.” He looks pointedly at Jim. “You’ll have to check into the rehabilitation office in Iowa City once you’re cleaned up, mate. They don’t like vampires wandering around un-chipped. You might be able to hitch a ride to the Re Kots colony when you get a few credits together.”
“What fucking colony?” Jesus. “And credits? I feel like my head’s going to explode.”
“Well, if it does, you don’t mind if I eat your brains? It’s been a while since I’ve had anything fresh if you know what I mean, though last time I tried Goth brains they were pretty dry and chewy.”
“That’ll be the whole dead part, I guess,” Jim says in relief.
“The Re Kots colony is on one of the Andorian moons - I’ll fill you in later. Grab another beer for us and we can watch the news feed - I’m a bit of a news junkie. Oh, hang on, maybe I need to prep you first; I don’t want your brains all over my rug.” He puts down his clean plate and says, “Computer, put together a synopsis of the past 100 years of Earth history. include key Starfleet landmarks, no wait... you want visual or would you prefer a nice piece of text?”
“I...I like to read...”
“K...computer, send it to the PADD, oh, and throw in a fashion update.” He turns to Jim. “Your hair’s crap mate, you know. If you could see yourself in a mirror... no offense.”
“None taken.”
+++
Jim sips more blood while Cunoval clips his hair and shaves him since he won’t be able to do it himself as well without much of a reflection. “This is the weirdest thing ever, and I’ve done some weird things in my time...” Jim says.
“What, a guy’s never shaved you before? You must have had your fair share of minions, acolytes and such...I thought you vampires always have to carry a shitty stick round with you.”
Jim smirks. “‘Course I’ve had a guy shave me, but you know, never a goddamn Caochladh. I had no idea that you all had this soft, squishy center.”
“Fuck off,” Cunoval says amiably, “you fangy wankers and your bloody prejudices.” He steps back and regards Jim. “Man, you’re beautiful under all that fur. Almost good enough to eat. Though you still stink - take a shower, be my guest.”
The bathroom’s pretty basic - an enormous john with a stack of PADDS by it, a floor-length mirror in which Jim can just about make himself out, and a shower with no apparent shower-head. He assumes it’ll be automatic, like the door was, and the water will flow once he steps in. He runs his hand through his buzz-cut and sure enough, he hears a low hum and instantly feels a pulse all over his body from every direction; not water though: sound waves or something; it’s like being on the inside of a giant’s vibrator he thinks, as the air around him seeps into his muscles as well as removing any residual dirt. He looks down at his feet which were covered in mud from his walk back from the river, and they’re soon white, spotless against what looks like slate tile, but when he examines it, is some kind of rubbery plastic.
Once he’s dressed, he has to make do with hoping he looks right, the mirror being no use at all - this is why he has a ‘look’, a uniform. If it works, he’ll go with it for decades - or in this case, centuries - going by the premise if it was good enough for James Dean, it’s gotta be good enough for an immortal.
“Where should I put these?” he says, rolling up his soiled clothing.
“Pop them in the recycler over there,” Cunoval says, pointing. “Now do your homework so I can put the bloody telly on. I’ll take a shower while you catch up. Oh, and help yourself to anything you fancy.”
+++
Jim drinks half a bottle of whisky while he reads the PADD. His spirits lift when he finds out how the post-nuclear chaos sorted itself out. He swallows when he see the Neo-Transcendentalists and their leader, Liam Dieghan, had a significant part in changing opinion. Jim’s resurrected into United Earth. He reads how the new-born space exploration program had evolved and produced a United Federation of Planets.
He’s leapfrogged from chaos to order and hope. The irony is that he was never happier than in those dark ages when he was with Bones, and has never felt more blank than in this shiny future, alone.
He opens another tab and reads about the Re Kots colony and decides instantly he’d rather be staked than end up there on a diet of replicated blood, and he discovers to his horror that once vampires leave this sun, while they can walk in daylight elsewhere, they also lose most of their powers, unable to compel, read minds, and weaker by half. It’s too fucking much to be brought to heel like that, to be impotent, to give up, well...everything he is. Yeah, he’s gonna keep his head down, no fucking way he’s going to ‘check in’ as Cunoval puts it. He’ll put his vampire stealth to good use and stay under the radar.
The couch creaks when Cunoval lands on one end, a fresh beer in his hand. Jim manages to save his whisky from spilling by lifting it above his head. “What the fuck are you wearing, man?”
“Latest Arsenal strip - nice, huh?” The demon’s in soccer shorts and t with a number 7 on the back. His red skin looks like he’s oiled it too. Quite the metro-sexual demon, Jim thinks. But...
“Red on red,” Jim muses. “I dunno, dude, it’s worse than my double-denim thing...”
“We’re both good-looking enough to carry it off, vampire, now shut up - I want to catch up on what’s been going on.”
+++
The USS Kelvin, under the command of Captain Richard Robau, and carrying a crew of eight hundred Starfleet personnel and their families, was attacked by an unidentified vessel close to the Federation-Klingon border.
Details are unconfirmed, but it appears Captain Robau was killed during the attack and the Kelvin’s first officer, George Kirk, assumed command before the Kelvin was destroyed.
Starfleet is not releasing further details at this time but it will say that Kirk ordered evacuation of the ship via shuttle craft thereby saving the vast majority of the crew. Names of the deceased will not be released until next of kin are informed.
The shuttles are currently rendezvousing with Starfleet rescue vessels. The whereabouts of Captain Kirk has not been verified. Reports that he was killed aboard the Kelvin are also unconfirmed. His wife, Lt. Cdr. Winona Kirk, believed to be expecting their second child, cannot be reached by this news station. It is not clear under what circumstances the Kelvin was lost.
Starfleet Command issued a statement that they regret to announce the loss of the Kelvin but, due to issues of security, are not able to release further details until initial investigations have been completed.
Run, run, gotta, run.
It’s only when Jim’s ten miles from Cunoval’s cabin that he remembers - he left Leah’s note unread in his old clothes. They’re in the recycler, gone, fucking disappeared into the ether, like George Kirk. That some part of her lives on in him through the blood she gifted him all those years ago is no comfort at all, for now his dream makes sense - he’s hijacked a life, taken the place of a child - the new James Tiberius Kirk who was meant for greater things - perhaps to follow in his father’s footsteps and become a hero one day.
Grieving and mentally exhausted, and soaked through from the chill rain, he collapses in the outer reaches of the forest.
When he heard the news, he took a moment to pick up his boots, then he just upped and ran, abandoning his host, Cunoval, without so much as a fucking word.
He heard the demon call after him, sounding surprised, shouting a bitter - “You’re welcome, mate...” after him as Jim leaped across the clearing.
His head’s pounding, memories from his dream of a flash, a storm, making him want to tear his eyes out, but he knows there’s nowhere he can run to and hide from himself, that the only way this will be over is if he removes his ring and stands in the sunlight, turns to ash to be blown away by the wind, scattered over the land he was raised in before he became a vampire.
He can hear the faint sound of traffic ahead and he lifts himself up limping towards it. His mouth falls open when he sees what’s ahead; ground and air-borne traffic heading to Iowa City in the rush-hour. The part of him that’s always loved machines notices with glee that despite the new shiny age, there seems to be a fashion for vintage cars from the twentieth century, old-style bodies but near silent engines, no emissions, they pass by holding a variety of what Cunoval called ‘sentient’ beings, many of whom would have been just simply ‘demons’ in his time; green and blue skin, and humans too, naturally, all skin colors, all part of the fabric of this diverse, brave, new world.
He walks on, parallel with the highway until he reaches a rest stop. He meanders through the parked vehicles and peers through their windscreens at computers, at the belongings strewn on the dash-boards, watching the citizens of the United Planets recharging their vehicles, buying snacks, and some running through the incessant, winter rain into the diner-style restaurant.
Following them in, the music’s electronic but he notes with satisfaction that despite instruments changing, what’s pleasing to the human ear doesn’t seem to vary so much over the years; there’s always the same form and structure, and the same affection for the bridge he thinks wearily.
He takes a seat in a booth and strokes the leather upholstery; it’s not leather, replicated maybe, like the fucking fake blood he drank in the cabin. He scans the other folk, some eating eggs, others drinking shakes, mostly human (on the surface at least, though he swears he can smell demons among them) and one or two eating strangely colored dishes - alien food obviously being as popular these days as ethnic foods were a hundred years ago.
All he can think about is blood. He’s gotten a grip and managed to crush his demon once he left the canopy of trees, not wanting to draw attention to himself - so his eyes are the ‘right’ color, he’s not all ‘bumpy’ as Cunoval put it. Trouble is, his skin’s so fucking luminous even on a gray day like this, he’s bound to come off as a vampire, and from what his friend led him to believe, there aren’t a lot of them left on earth.
“Sir?”
He glances up at the waitress and forces a thin smile. “Coffee?”
“Coming right up!” She leaves a menu and when he picks it up, it sparks into life, holographic images of the selections available, morphing and shifting in his hands. He taps the ‘appetizer’ section and another set of choices appears. It’s too fucking much, he’s overloaded. He can smell food but he doesn’t trust his senses anymore: everything’s different, and half of it is fake - how is replicated food even food? he wonders. He glances at the prices and again, none of it makes sense. Credits? Jesus.
He eavesdrops on the many conversations around him, watching through the window as a gorgeous, red 1960s style Corvette pulls up. His eyes follow the passengers, two women, a couple, walking hand in hand into the diner, until they take a seat in the booth behind him. More change - this is good, he thinks; progress isn’t just about new machines.
He remembers with a hitch in his heart how tormented L.H. was when they were together for that short time in London, thinking how things might have been different if L.H. had been able to stay with him, somehow gotten over his self-denial; if Bones hadn’t been a man of his time.
The coffee’s delivered and when the waitress leans in to fill up his cup, Jim looks up at her. “I’ve settled up,” he whispers, “and I left a generous tip.”
Her eyes widen and a look of calm passes her young features. “Would sir like anything else?”
“No, I’m good,” he lies, tearing his eyes away from the vein on her neck. It feels good after Cunoval’s acceptance of him that this is normal: he’s compelled someone, got what he wants - yeah this is how he’s always operated, using charm and violence to get his own way. He knocks back the scalding coffee in two gulps. “Great coffee; it’s real?”
“Oh, yes, sir - we only serve real coffee at Cedars.”
“I’ll be sure and tell my friends,” he smiles his cobra smile and adds, “forget me.”
She picks up the cup, looks past him, and turns away. No one gives him a second glance when the door tings behind him. Another vintage detail, he thinks. Cute.
He moves to the Corvette and scans its body work. It’s flawless, like him, and about as fake and out of place - just like his heart doesn’t beat, the car’s combustion engine has been removed and replaced with whatever the fuck they use to power vehicles these days. But it looks like the real deal even down to the vintage dash, though he can see a display panel just below the speedometer that’s all twenty-third century.
He clenches his hands, glances over his shoulder at the couple in the diner wondering how you even hot-wire something that has no wires. But through observing others get into their parked vehicles, his vampire hearing reveals that what he needs is a voice command. He turns back to face the driver’s door, mutters “sorry, ladies,” then changes his voice and mimics the driver’s voice exactly; his lips twitch when he hears the satisfying clunk of the lock.
He drives and drives, foot almost to the floor, until the landscape’s flat and featureless. He remembers a giant bomb crater not far from Riverside and, with no goal in mind other than to find out what’s there now, he pulls the car through a sharp forty-five degree turn, kicking up clouds of dust in his wake. He notices a light blink on the dash and the computer announces dispassionately, speed limit violation, traffic officer in vicinity.
“Computer, shut the fuck up,” he crows and turns up the volume on the music, grinning like a loon at the sense of exhilaration, how alive he feels after a hundred years of sleep. He can do whatever the hell he wants, he thinks as he unfastens the roof and whoops when it hits the tarmac behind him, bouncing into a field.
As he nears the crater, things start to look familiar; it used to be a sectioned off rad zone last century, but that’s not going to cause him any problem.
When he sees the traffic cop finally descend on him from the air like a vulture, all black and featureless, Jim hollers,“Fuck you, Robocop!” and laughs when the bastard tries to overtake him. He heads towards the very low-tech gates at speed, enjoying the rush and noise when they give easily around the Corvette, bursting open to let him through.
He considers going over the cliff edge with his foot to the floor, though he wouldn’t even go up in flames without a good old-fashioned fuel tank to stoke his pyre.
Then he thinks about George Kirk. Jim has no idea how he died - no one does yet - his dream showing him there was an inferno involved.
Suddenly, dying - ending it all - why it might be fitting for himself, feels like the most disrespectful act to George, to his wife and their son whose life he stole, to all those that lived and the countless Jim has murdered in his own pointless existence; he made a promise to Bones by the river, he...
With the edge of the ravine dead ahead, he slams both feet down hard on the brake, throwing himself from the door, his fingers gripping the cliff edge in the nick of time. He pulls himself up effortlessly, breathing a sigh of he knows not what - relief? Dismay? Fuck if he cares - he’s got hundreds more years ahead of him where he can untangle his motivation.
For now he has a more pressing problem, he realizes, as his eyes sweep up the cop’s leather clad legs.
Citizen? Seriously? Well, it makes a change from being addressed as ‘vampire’.
+++
Jim sits in a cell wishing that vampires had the power to melt walls with a look. Or these damned silicone cuffs around his wrists - it’s a good thing he doesn’t need to piss, he thinks, or this would prove an awkward arrangement the way they insisted on binding his hands behind his back. His ankles are tied too.
Now he awaits trial, the whole system incredibly, having become much more efficient since he last took an interest in these matters. They’ll rule on him by the end of the afternoon, they tell him.
He’s got an eye-shield on so he can’t compel anyone and they’re waiting for clearance before they inject him with a vervain suppressant. Cunoval didn’t mention that fucking bit of ‘progress’ did he? Jim refused to drink the container of blood they bought him, and remained silent when they offered representation. Until his trial, they say, he’s staying right where he is.
He should feel helpless, neutered; instead all he feels is blank. He remembers his great house in New Orleans; in those days he did whatever he pleased, followed any whim, killed at will and with impunity, and a part of him wishes he’d died then, that he’d left the goddamn party when the going was good, because this - this is so normal that he’s starting to think a society based on equality for demons, aliens, whatever...is a piece of shit. To kill a vampire, forget fire, silver and wooden stakes - now he knows he could die from boredom alone.
A cop comes to release him and once Jim’s ankles are untied, she points an actual ray-gun at him in case Jim tries something.
“Soooo...an Andorian...” Jim smirks. “That would be a first for me...bet you taste like Blue Moon ice-cream. Wanna give me a taste? You know, help me lose my cherry?”
“Mr Kirk, I suggest you desist from flirting with me as it may count against you in court.” Her antennae lean away from him then extend into a neutral upright position.
“Oh, but how can I help myself?” he tries to say smoothly, as another human cop puts a hand on his upper arm and leads him into a side room. “I can’t desist when you have such a hot, sexy accent,” he finishes over his shoulder, watching her very human-shaped ass as she glowers back at him until the door swishes shut, and he’s left alone in a small room, with one chair in the center and two more empty, against a wall.
“James Tiberius Kirk?” A life-size image appears on the screen - a judge?
“That’s me.” He shakes his head against the eye-shields but they’re secure. “Listen man, can I just go home?”
“We have your place of birth as Riverside, Iowa. That can be arranged in good time...”
“No, I mean, the eighteenth century home, when it was great being a vampire. Now, not so good.”
“Unfortunately we are unable to comply with your request.” The judge regards him impassively.
“What, you haven’t cracked time-travel yet? Now that’s a shame...”
He slides down in his seat and listens to the long list of misdemeanours. The judge says that since Jim’s been interred for so many years, since his crimes are against property and not the person, since he has not had the opportunity to ‘adjust psychologically’ to the expectations of their shiny fucking society - they have decided to be lenient with him. Fuck you very much.
He’s to be chipped before he leaves the building, undergo rehabilitation and visit a therapist, take vervain suppressants daily and undergo community service until he has paid for the damage incurred to the Corvette.
“Failure to comply means that you will be removed to Re Kots immediately.” What, and be a small fish in a big pond? No fucking way - so he says all the right things, winces when they inject him with vervain, blinks when they remove the eye-shields and manages not to punch anyone when they finally unshackle him.
In the interests of maintaining his image, he winks at the Andorian cop on his way out, though truth be told, he feels like he’ll never get it up again.
Along with his pack of vervain suppressant he’s supposed to take every twelve hours, he pockets the comm device and the credit chip they give him (both of which must be paid for by the end of the month) and glances at the card with the address where he’s to be granted lodgings for one week until he finds his own place and a job.
He stands on the steps and sniffs the air, yep there it is, exactly what he’s looking for - the scent of trouble - and he hops down the steps and heads to south-east downtown, to the wrong side of the tracks where he belongs.
+++
Jim finds a dealer within half an hour.
He’s not sure how he’s going to pay for the vervain antidote, not having figured out the credit chip thing yet, and sure that his spending will be monitored anyway, but when Jim mentions payment, the guy glances up both sides of the alley, slides his hand around Jim’s neck and guides Jim’s mouth to his throat.
Pressing his groin against Jim, he whispers, “Bite me, you fuck.”
Jim sinks his teeth into the offered neck, knowing the guy won’t bust him and he shows remarkable restraint, taking only a few mouthfuls, sighing in relief as the copper fills his mouth, lights him up, the fucking essence. This is what his body’s been craving since he went to ground and it’s like everything slides into place. His confidence returns, his sense of who he is even. The grief subsides because he’s a vampire, and that’s what vampires fucking do, they drink human blood, fresh, not from some fucking bottle. Whatever was he thinking?
He doesn’t know how he doesn’t finish the guy off, but something must have rubbed off on him from hanging out with Bones, Spock, Angel, Stefan: all those holier than thou bastards, and he pulls away, giving the bite wounds a sweep of his tongue to seal them up.
“How long’s this take to work?” he asks, wiping his mouth and grinning at the guy’s blissed out expression. Looks like he’s not the only one came in his pants. Thank you lord for fang-bangers; he’s never yet lived in a century where you couldn’t find humans following vampires around like drug addicts.
“Half an hour tops; they keep the vervain doses small, they’re worried vamps will build up an immunity if they increase it, so you time this right during the second half of the twelve hour cycle, it’ll work quicker. Only way they’ll know you’ve taken it, apart from the obvious, is if they take a blood test, and they avoid doing that between you and me. Not after the way vamps were treated back in the day, doesn’t look good.”
“Got it. How do you know so much about this stuff, man?”
“Most people would call me crazy, but I like vampires, is all.”
“Well thanks...you taste way better than that replicated shit - delicious in fact!”
“Thanks. Hey man, look me up if you ever need anything. If you ever need cash and want to sell some vamp blood, there’s Orion dealers use it as an aphrodisiac - unbelievable stuff.”
Brave new world my ass, Jim thinks.
+++
Jim takes the anti-vervain and wanders through the streets. Through open windows he can see ordinary folk doing ordinary things - sitting watching TV and waiting to eat their evening meals - it’s an epiphany when he realizes this isn’t what he fucking wants - he doesn’t want to be like them. The only thing they have he doesn’t, is companionship.
He celebrates the antidote’s effect by climbing up a four story building, ignoring the fire escapes but moving from window-sill to window-sill, or shimmying up drainpipes until he reaches the flat roof. He stretches out on his back and stares up at the stars wondering how he can get out there, away from this goddamn egalitarian planet with no place for him. Way things are, he’s gone from being a God to an offender, from top of the heap to pond-scum, and he doesn't like either option, though if he left, he’d stand no chance of ever finding Bones again. And he’d lose everything that makes him a vampire too, his ability to read minds, his ability to compel, to say nothing of his strength. Hell, he doesn’t know how to be any other way.
His comm pings and he pulls it out of his jeans pocket and grins when he sees who the message is from. He flicks to map view then mentally plots the most complicated sheer route, which will involve the maximum amount of vampire climbing and leaping.
He arrives at his destination exhilarated; suburbia looks much the same as it ever did; he’s in a broad cul-de-sac, all trimmed lawns and fancy bushes out front.
He cocks his head when the door’s answered.
“What’s this about a full body search?” he smirks, giving the Andorian cop his best irresistible look.
Her antennae twitch towards him and he fancies he detects a faint blush on her blue skin.
“Please, Mr. Kirk, won’t you come in?”
Well, seeing as he isn’t going to be leaving Earth anytime soon, he might as well make himself at home.
end of part 6a, onto to 6b
~
BONUS ART
Cunoval is played by Jamie Bell.
Amazing manip by norfolkdumpling who is too good to me, thank you, bb!