(no subject)
Title: “And a Fighter By His Trade”
Fandoms: Star Trek: The Next Generation / Star Trek: Voyager
Characters: Chakotay, B’Elanna, Tuvok, Lore
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: Mild Violence
Word Count: c. 3,000
Spoilers: None
Summary: The rules are different here, out on the frontier.
Notes on the timeline, with respect to Trek canon: This fic occurs prior to the events depicted in TNG’s “Descent” and VOY’s “Caretaker,” which take place in 2369 and 2371, respectively. According to Memory Alpha, Chakotay resigned his commission in 2368 and Dorvan V was handed to the Cardassians in 2370. That places this fic somewhere between 2368 and 2369, or in the fifth or sixth seasons of TNG but pre- “Descent, Part One.”
Title comes from Simon and Garfunkel's "The Boxer."
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The rules are different here, out on the frontier.
They’re out on the very fringe of Federation space, at the furthest reaches of Starfleet’s influence, which seems to fade in proportion to how far one travels from Sector 001. Out here, Starfleet is nothing more than background static; a faint presence that is drowned out by the raucous noise that erupts from the bars every night and the deafening silence that descends upon the empty streets come morning.
The buildings in this particular town had been white, once; pristine and fresh. Years of neglect have turned them as grey as the people who inhabit them, or perhaps it’s the other way around - the town faded alongside its people.
Chakotay brings his crew here when they can manage it, between breaks in the fighting. More often than not they limp into orbit, Val Jean beaten but not broken, bruised down to her rivets and still reverberating with the shock of a hundred blasts from Cardassian weapons.
The planet is far enough on the outskirts of Federation space that no one will look for them here - or, if they do, the townspeople would never give up the Maquis. They’ve brought in good business over the years, and are equally discreet about the less-than-legal transactions that take place in shadowy corners of smoke-laden bars. The Maquis repair their vessel, patching her up with what materials they can find and a few that they must barter their meager resources for.
Daytime sees them tending to their ship; nighttime sees them in the bars, drinking and eating and, for the ones who can’t leave the battle out there, fighting. But occasionally, when the late afternoon sun is slanting through the trees, the crew gathers out behind one of the taverns, where years ago someone had erected a makeshift boxing ring.
Boxing is more than about keeping his crew fit and agile, Chakotay thinks as he spars lightly with B’Elanna on this particular afternoon. It’s an art form as much as it is brutal; a delicate science as much as a workout. It’s an outlet for the younger, angrier members of their crew; an acceptable way for them to channel their frustrations, and the skills learned will, Chakotay hopes, keep them alive to see another day.
To see another battle.
There’s also something comforting about a sport that is so bound by rules and regulations that it might as well have been a ritual. What rules do exist out here on the frontier are few and far between, and there are none where battle with the Cardassians is concerned.
But here, in the ring - here, tradition reigns.
This fight right now is mostly for show, a warm-up for B’Elanna and a chance for Chakotay to hone his skills, and it ends with B’Elanna pinning him to the floor of the raised platform. She helps him to his feet and Chakotay climbs from the ring, his spot taken by a former Starfleet ensign, trained in his own brand of sterile Academy combat and wholly unprepared for B’Elanna’s.
B’Elanna’s spot in the ring is usurped only when she goes up against Tuvok, the newest member of their cell, and he proceeds to outmatch everyone else. Chakotay makes mental note of this as he watches, for this is the first time he’s seen the Vulcan in hand-to-hand combat.
“If we ever take a fight planetside,” B’Elanna muses as she stands next to Chakotay, “I don’t want him far from my side.”
“Agreed.”
And then, when the rest of the crew has been exhausted, beaten, and bruised, a rumbling of weary voices urges Chakotay to, “Go on, Chief, show him how it’s done.”
B’Elanna grins at the crew’s suggestion and claps him on the shoulder. “Go on, Big Man. Let ‘em see that you’re human.”
In the end, however, it is Tuvok who is humbled, when Chakotay finally manages to sweep his legs out from underneath him and pins him to the platform. It’s the hardest fight he’s had in a long time, that Chakotay will admit, and they’re both panting at the end of it. And Chakotay, who no longer has the luxury of thinking of himself as young anymore, knows that he will ache down to his bones come the morning.
“Good fight,” he says to Tuvok as he helps the Vulcan to his feet. He turns to the rest of the crew. “Good job, all of you. Head back to the ship; get some rest tonight. We leave in the morning.”
“Coming?” B’Elanna asks as the rest of the crew moves off. He shakes his head.
“Not yet.”
She nods in understanding and leaves. It’s been too long since he’s had solid dirt beneath his feet; too long since the air he breathed came from the trees and not from a filter. And he hasn’t seen a proper sunset since his last night on Earth, the day of his resignation from Starfleet.
Chakotay stretches, pulling at aching muscles as the shadows of twilight lengthen around him, and then slowly starts to unwrap the dressing from his hands.
“Impressive.”
Chakotay, startled, whirls at the unexpected voice. A man is standing on the other side of the ropes, casually leaning his weight on them, an amused smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. The light is fading quickly from the horizon, but even in the growing darkness Chakotay can tell that he’s pale, unnaturally so, and Chakotay’s also sure that when the stranger turns his head his eyes flash yellow in the dying sunlight.
But Chakotay says nothing more than, “Thanks,” and continues to pick at the wrapping on his left hand. The man hauls himself up onto the platform and then climbs nimbly over the ropes so that they are standing in the ring together.
“For a human, that is,” he adds.
Chakotay runs his eyes over the man’s features, taking in the aquiline nose and piercing eyes. There’s something at once recognizable and alien about him. His face is familiar but his stance is too loose; his gait, easy and confident.
A computer file, read long ago in his academy days, drifts across his mind, and Chakotay feels his heart leap into his throat as he finally puts a tentative name to a face. His brain kicks into high gear, planning an escape, because they had been so careful, and it doesn’t get to end like this. He takes a step backward, ready to bolt for the ship, but the stranger flashes a grin that temporarily throws Chakotay off his footing, because that is an expression he’s never had chance to see on Lieutenant Commander Data’s face.
“I’m not my brother,” the stranger says, correctly reading Chakotay’s thought process. “I’m also not Starfleet. And I would say don’t worry, but, well... that would be a lie.”
“From what I’ve read,” Chakotay tells him stiffly, “you’ve never had an issue with lying before. Lore, isn’t it?”
Lore arches an eyebrow. “Careful, Commander. Insolence will get you nowhere."
“It’s Chakotay.” Chakotay finishes unwrapping his left hand and moves on to the right, his skin crawling as Lore takes a step closer. He drops his gaze to his hands, watching the movements his fingers have performed hundreds of times before, the hairs on the back of his neck standing on end. He can feel Lore’s steady gaze on him, and tries to ignore it. But it is too intense, and the air between them too thick. Chakotay looks up, and chocolate eyes lock with yellow.
“Mm. Yes, I know. Chakotay of Dorvan V.” Lore’s fingers dance down the front of his dark jacket, undoing the fastenings. He slips out of it and tosses it over one of the ropes, revealing that underneath he’s wearing a black shirt with sleeves that end halfway down his biceps. “A world that could any day be handed to the Cardassians, should the Federation sign their treaty. Isn’t that right?”
“Why do you care?” Chakotay asks tightly. He takes off the final bit of wrapping and drapes it over the ropes. He should leave, that he knows, but curiosity - just barely - overrides his reflexes.
It’s a mark of how deeply Starfleet’s teachings are ingrained in him, even months after his resignation, because Chakotay’s first instinct is to alert the authorities. Authorities, what authorities, his mind taunts, and Chakotay bites the inside of his cheek in frustration. Foolish, that his knee-jerk reaction is moral indignation when he himself makes his living now as a terrorist. And what regard has Starfleet ever had for him, he wonders bitterly, and for his people?
“I don’t.” Lore brushes his knuckles against his nose, regarding Chakotay carefully, and then says, “Fists only; avoid the face.”
Chakotay lets out a disbelieving huff of laughter once his mind catches up with the odd segue. “I won’t fight you.”
“Wise choice, considering I am better than you.” Lore grins. “But you’ve never been one for making wise choices, have you, Commander?”
Chakotay bristles. “I resigned my commission for my people, and for my home.”
“And where is your home now, Chakotay of Dorvan V? Where are your people?” Lore rocks back on his heels, light on his feet. “I can adjust my strength so that it is comparable to that of a human your height and weight.”
“Why would you do that?”
“I enjoy a challenge.” Lore smirks. “You’ll lose, still, but not nearly as badly. You’ll probably even come out of this alive.”
A jolt goes down Chakotay’s spine, and he can feel adrenaline start to thrum through his veins. “I don’t believe you.”
“Good. You shouldn’t.” Lore adopts the traditional boxer’s stance, bringing his fists in front of his chin. Chakotay finds himself responding; sense-memory, his body reacting automatically to the sight of another’s preparatory stance. Lore gives a sly smile. "I'm told I can be quite... perilous to one's health."
It’s Lore who moves first, feinting right and jabbing left, but Chakotay predicts his move and counters it. They circle one another, trading light blows and feints. They’re testing the waters, learning weaknesses and favored moves. And then the dynamic changes, the crackle in the air between them telling Chakotay that Lore’s finished feeling him out. His next blow comes from the left, and Chakotay's instincts take over.
Worn from the previous fights, it isn’t long before Chakotay is breathing heavily, his shirt clinging to his back anew as sweat runs down his spine. Lore shows almost no outward signs of their exertions, but in the moments when Chakotay’s mind isn’t blank with the dance of the fight, he swears that the android is near-panting.
When Lore goes to throw his next punch Chakotay ducks under it, catching him around the waist and putting all of his weight behind the throw because he’s been picturing the leaner man - machine - as being built more solidly than he. But Lore proves as light as any human of his size, and Chakotay has overcompensated, which throws him off-balance. Lore has also predicted Chakotay’s move, and so as he goes down he pulls Chakotay with him. They hit the floor of the platform, hard, and here Lore has the advantage of agility. He shifts quickly so that he is pinning Chakotay to the platform with a knee on his chest and a hand at his throat, squeezing just enough so that Chakotay’s heart slips out of sync for several frightening beats.
“Don’t think that’s a legal move,” Chakotay wheezes at him when his breath returns.
“And yours was?” Lore asks, smug.
“No.” Chakotay takes what deep breaths he can with Lore leaning on his chest, and notices that Lore is doing the same. The android hasn’t moved, however, and so Chakotay chances answering another question that has occurred to him. He feels for Lore’s wrist, the one not attached to the hand around his throat, realizing that such a brash move might be his last, with the way that Lore’s fingers tighten reflexively. But Lore remains still - his gaze, unblinking - until Chakotay withdraws.
“You have a heartbeat.” It thudded under the pads of Chakotay’s fingers, elevated, as real as any he’s ever felt. Something darkens behind Lore’s eyes, but that smirk never fades.
“An effective way of cooling and lubricating my systems,” he explains. “The breathing also functions as thermal regulation.”
“Your creator went through a lot of effort to make you appear human.”
“But not quite human enough,” Lore says, still wearing that eerie not-quite smile. He withdraws swiftly, moving away while Chakotay picks himself up off the ground. “Why do you suppose that is? I pass as one on the first glance, but certainly not on the second. And there is always a second.”
“Who are you?” Chakotay bursts out suddenly, because this is too surreal. He tells himself that it is a product of the frontier, that a Maquis and a madman should meet in the ring over such a civilized sport. This is a land of blurred lines and fading boundaries.
The rules are different here.
In the time it takes Chakotay to go from one blink to the next, Lore has closed the distance between them. He seizes Chakotay by the throat, slamming him against one of the posts and holding him there. Chakotay coughs as the breath is knocked from his lungs and he automatically wraps a hand around Lore’s wrist, trying to pull him off. But the android’s grip is steel, and the pseudo-muscles in his arm feel taut as metal rods beneath Chakotay’s fingers.
“Who am I?” Lore hisses. Their faces are inches apart; Chakotay can feel the other’s warm breath ghost across his face. “I am the monster that haunted your childhood stories. I am everything you were ever taught to fear and quite a few things you weren’t.”
“Don’t... flatter yourself,” Chakotay gasps. “I never... believed in monsters, and everything I ever feared... died with my father.”
Lore snorts. “My hand around your throat, and still your foolishness knows no bounds.” He brushes his thumb across Chakotay’s throat, at once tender and threatening. “Who are you, Chakotay of Dorvan V?”
Chakotay doesn’t answer, and tells himself it’s because he can’t, not with Lore’s hand constricting his airflow. Lore lifts his chin, studying him, and then drops his hand abruptly. Chakotay sags against the post as Lore moves away, suddenly brisk, the fury in his face disappearing almost at once as he changes tracks. “You’re one of the few in this fight for the principle, not for mercenary gain or the thrill.”
Chakotay knows that, now, they aren’t talking about the boxing. He wheezes, “Problem with that?”
“They’re going to sign that treaty.”
“Maybe,” is all Chakotay will grant him, though loath as he is to admit it, the android is right. It could happen tomorrow; it could happen next year. But someday, Chakotay is going to wake up to find his homeworld signed away to the Cardassians; bartered away, as one did with livestock.
Lore’s lips twitch. He continues as though Chakotay hasn’t spoken. “You’re a proud man, yes, but you’re practical as well.” He lifts his eyes to the sky, briefly. “I’ve a ship in orbit. She’s served me well, but these past few months haven’t been kind to her. She’ll need some repairs.”
“You expect me to help you with that,” Chakotay says in disbelief.
Lore fixes him with a level gaze, all amusement gone from his face. “I need someone who won’t ask questions - or who can’t afford to. I daresay you Maquis fall into that latter category.”
“What makes you think you’ll get help from us?” Chakotay snarls.
“Because you may be part of the most successful Maquis cell, but that doesn’t mean you haven’t sustained heavy losses and that you couldn’t benefit from some added tactical knowledge,” Lore says. “You can’t afford to turn down help, and you also can’t afford to bring me to the attention of the authorities - because it would mean giving you up as well.”
“So, what? Our - limited - resources for your... strategies?” Chakotay snorts. “The only thing you’re successful at engineering is mass murder. Doesn’t seem like a wise deal to me.”
“I think we’ve already established just how wise you are, Chakotay.” Lore braces his hands on his hips. “I’ve been executed and resurrected; beamed into space and left to rot. Let’s not also forget that they’ve yet to build a cell that can hold me.” Lore spreads his hands. “Yet here I stand before you today. What does that tell you?”
“That means nothing,” Chakotay snaps. “You’re a murderer, and you’ll get no help from me.”
“Save the indignation,” Lore says in exasperation. “How many Cardassians are dead because of you?”
“The situations are different. I don’t take pride in my crimes.”
“And I don’t call mine crimes.” Lore shifts on his feet, preparing to walk away, but pauses. “Besides, it’s not the support of the Maquis that I need - just yours.”
And then there is a glint, a sudden flash that Chakotay can’t react to in time, and he feels the blood trickling down the side of his face before the white-hot pain blooms up his cheek. Lore is putting away the dagger as Chakotay, stunned, brings his fingers up to the fresh wound. Blood rushes down his neck and snakes beneath the collar of his shirt; the wound is deep, and will scar.
“And that,” Lore says, his voice low, “is for if you were thinking about ever forgetting me.”
“Why me?” Chakotay asks when he finds his voice again, feeling blood seep between his fingers as he holds his hand to the gash.
Lore snorts, and opens up a panel on his forearm. He manipulates the circuitry underneath with a few flicks of his fingers. “Because you weren't going to stay." He glances up at Chakotay, and his lips twist into a smug smile. "Not until I said perilous.”
And then Chakotay blinks, and Lore is gone.