It's Never a Crime to Spend the Day in Bed
Title: Nixaan Theta [2/?] No Restraint
(Yeah, I somehow doubt six chapters is going to cut it now *headdesk*)
Fandom: Star Trek XI
Pairing: Kirk/Spock pre-slash so far.
Rating: R
Summary: An away mission goes horribly, horribly wrong.
Warnings/Notes: All right, everybody still with me? Good. Shit's about to get real.
Jim is not a super hero, I think I mostly succeeded in making him very human and very fallible in this story, but I also believe that sheer force of will can lead to some pretty amazing feats. My head canon for Captain Kirk includes this trait in spades.
Fun fact: This was actually the second scene I wrote. Seeing as how it's chapter two I imagine you're rolling your eyes and going DUH - but! But, when I started this fic I wrote a section of what I thought of as Chapter 3 first, which led to this scene and bits of the next and from that the mission shakedown sprung. Of course Chapter 3 then became Chapter 4 and then merged with what I thought was going to be Chapter 5 thus leaving me with a whole other section to write. I reiterate: it kinda got away from me. *facepalm*
So yeah, if this jumps around a bit - that's probably why. I am in awe all of you amazing people who make plans AND stick with them when you're writing.
Part the First is here
Nixaan Theta
Part the Second : No Restraint
It was dark when he stirred, cold air lashing his skin through the strips of his shirt. His attempts to penetrate the black delivered no results. He wasn't even certain if his eyes were opened, no indication was given either way except that it hurt slightly more when he held them thus.
Where the hell? Right.
Prison. Nixann.
Where are my men?
He could hear dripping and hoped that it wasn't his blood. Visions of draining out, like one of the deer carcasses Frank had brought home on one of his many hunting trips, capered through his mind - dissonant edges coloured with manic glee and a bite of madness. He needed to focus. Free himself, find his men, get the fuck off this rock.
His body was one long scream, arms threatening to pull out of socket as he twisted in slow circles. He was strung from a length of chain looped around a solid steel bar running along the ceiling. There had been light when he'd been hoisted up.
A torch, maybe? The pungent scent of charcoal lingering supported that theory.
His legs dangled limply, bare toes brushing the cold concrete. His boots were gone, then. Cautious experimentation yielded that pressing down stopped his rotations but the increased strain on his shoulders jerked him into another spin when he spasmed.
He pushed the pain to the back of his mind and began a detached survey of the damage. His left foot was burning hot and pulsing thickly as the blood flowed into it. Possibly broken, there was a sense of wrong around his big toe that he didn't probe too deeply. There were various scrapes and bruises along his legs, registering as a low white buzz up to his right thigh where he'd been skewered by a long curved talon. The muscles had begun to stiffen and his attempt at bending his leg was met with the slow hot ooze of blood. He made a note not to try that again. The burning sensation surrounding the wound seemed to be spreading through his blood, he surmised it was likely some sort of fever resulting from an infection. His ribs seemed mostly fine, save for the lingering ache of bruises from meaty humanoid fists. He was shivering, fever making it difficult to discern if it were from cold or if shock was setting in. Bracing himself against the pulses of agony shooting across his shoulders, he bore his weight to the floor again. He could register the temperature differential clearly and dismissed shock from his diagnosis for now, sparing an abstract surge of gratitude for Bones' constant nagging drilling the procedures into him after one too many trips to sickbay.
He tilted his head up, a link of chain hanging between his wrists ghosting over his face. He flexed his hands, ignoring the thickly unpleasant lance of sensation spreading into his elbows.
Maybe if I? He rotated his hands and grasped the chain. Good. Got it. He put all of the strength and will he could muster into the grip and pulled up sharply, tightening his abs and using the momentum of his sharp swing to help curl his body up. Right leg extended, he able to hook his uninjured (yet, give him time) foot onto the bar and hoist his torso up, clinging like a drunken possum. Sweating and shivering with the effort he noticed that his thigh was bleeding sluggishly.
Bones is going to kill me if I die here.
The thought quirked his cracked lips into a smile as he tried to picture his friend in his place.
Damn it Jim, I'm a doctor not a circus performer! The wry mouth would be pursed in disgust and his shoulders would be hunched against the unreasonable demands of his friend and Captain. He'd do it though. Bones was good like that, when it came down the wire he knew his duty. Wouldn't stop him from bitching about it though.
Now what?
He gingerly inched his manacled wrists forward until he encountered the coil of chain. His grip was starting to slip and he was shaking with the effort of keeping himself wrapped around the bar. He was going to have to work quickly. Feeling his way along the chain, cursing the dark, he was pleased to find that the coils were not secured and that his guard had assumed Jim's weight and the coils themselves would be enough to keep him secured and docile.
Saying a quick thanks to the patron saint of reckless starship captains, his grin grew manically and he began jostling the chain, trying to work up enough slack to unwind it completely and give him free reign over the cell. Working with slow careful tugs he had managed to unwind the last of coils when his knee gave out and he slid off the bar.
The fall was a gentle whoosh through the air, ending in an abrupt clatter of clangs and moans.
The impact left him winded, staring into the blackness and tangled in a heap of chain. He waited in tense silence for any response to the clanks and the poorly stifled yelp that had accompanied his descent. The only sounds were the steady dripping he'd noticed earlier and his sharp hitching breaths.
Ow.
Now he could probably add a cracked rib or two to his damage summary. The stabbing pain in his side as he drew in breath was catalogued and pushed aside. He had mobility now, of a sorts. The chain dragged behind him, scraping the ground and sending reverberations of metal against concrete throughout the narrow cell. He stopped every few seconds to listen, resuming his slow shuffle to the edges of the room when nothing but the distant drip was heard.
His vision had adjusted to the point of allowing him to make out the shape of his limbs and the solidity of the walls. A thin band of not-quite black indicated the location of the door and he pressed his way against the wall towards it.
I have no idea what I'm going to do when I get there, of course. Can't break the chains, can I break the lock?
He patted his hip automatically, confirming the absence of his phaser and communicator.
Should've checked that first. Getting slow, getting stupid. Hot, itchy. How long have I been here?
His senses were muddled. He couldn't tell if it had been days or mere hours since he'd been captured. He wished Spock were here with him for a moment, knowing the instinctual internal time sense of his Vulcan heritage would be able to provide the answer. To the millisecond if he really wanted it. He wasn't hungry, but he suspected it was due more to the fever that was burning through him than a reliable indicator on the passage of time. He leaned heavily against the wall and worked his hands over the manacles, searching for the release mechanism and trying to imagine Spock's reaction when he got free.
Vulcans are too classy to say “I told you so”. Just. Well, he wouldn't say it out loud anyways, but those eyebrows were capable of transmitting volumes of disapproval.
Was right to leave him behind though. He's coming for me, had to have missed check in by now. He's coming. Gotta be ready, gonna need my help to rescue the men and get us the fuck out of here.
He let the promise of rescue from his Vulcan keep the fear at bay and continued to worry the raised connection of his manacles. His fingertips felt a soft indentation, anomalous with the closure and he worked a thumbnail into it, pressing down and in delicately. The soft snikt fell to his ears like sweet music and the clasp fell open, freeing him from the chains.
Guess they didn't get the transmission about my record. Can't hold Jim Kirk with the cheap stuff, my Nixaanite friends. His grin felt feral in the darkness and he shook the feeling back into his arms.
He hefted the restraints as a potential weapon should the guards return. They'd been rather neglectful of late, he mused. Perhaps it was time to show them what it was like to face a member Starfleet who wasn't unaware.
How had they known, anyways? The transport location was decided after we received our orders.
***
He could remember beaming off the ship with the security detail. Spock and Scotty had been there to see him off and wish him luck, or success if you were a Vulcan. The sensor scan had detected no unusual activity in the area and he'd boarded the Transporter with the security detail surrounding him. His call to energize had been given with a jaunty wave and he'd called out for Spock not to wreck his ship while he was away before the beam began it's information transfer.
They'd reappeared within the dome instantly, his hand still lifted in salute. Everyone held still as the wave of vertigo that accompanied beaming passed.
One of the Ensigns (Ferris, his brain supplied drowsily and he began a limping pace to keep his blood moving) had been nervous abut his first away mission and had nearly phasered himself adjusting the settings. The shot deflected harmlessly into the ground and they'd made use of the disruption to acquire some rocky samples and tease the hapless Ensign mercilessly. They'd been taking tricorder readings when the surrounding crags erupted into a screaming throng of Nixannites.
The fight had been as brutal as it was brief. They'd been simply overwhelmed by the screaming tide of ferocious yellow aliens. A few phaser shots connected, illuminating the thick skins to a glowing shade of jaundice, but the Nixaanites seemed impervious to the default stun blast. It was supposed to have been a peaceful mission, they were not prepared to shoot to kill.
Jim had been defending a fallen Ensign when he was grabbed by the neck and flung almost casually back against a jagged shelf of rock. Dazed, a heavy boot held him still against the stone while he watched his security detail similarly disabled and surrounded by a dozen Nixaanites.
When the grunts and thuds of combat faded an alien, taller than the rest, had stepped forward. A mane of coarse white hair shot out from its head and the metal beads woven through it had clanged against each other as he moved in an unnatural glide to survey his captives.
“Kirk. Which one of you is Kirk?” The words had been a snarl erupting from a growl but it was recognizable as Standard. Jim had concealed his surprise at hearing his name and looked over his men. Proud Starfleet officers strewn about the grey rock, defeated beneath the looming shadows of the Nixaanites. Not one had made a sound.
The leader had observed their defiance with an air of dispassion. He strode to the nearest officer (O'Hara) and booted him savagely in the ribs with enough force to flip him onto his back. O'Hara had groaned weakly and curled his body into a tight ball against the pain. There had been flecks of blood at the corners of his mouth and Jim had been dimly horrified to note how closely the colour matched his uniform. Another hard kick to his back had elicited a pained grunt but no name escaped the clenched teeth.
The leg had been raised again, poised this time to crush O'Hara's skull.
“Stop!”
The leader had shifted the crushing motion to a gentler nudge and forced Ensign O'Hara to his stomach. Narrow green eyes had turned to Jim and travelled the length of his body, taking in the scuffed boots and torn gold command tunic before studying his face. Jim had used both arms to force away the foot on his chest, struggling to his feet in hopes of injecting some form of authority into his bearing. He'd met the cold gaze evenly and dared a step forward.
He maintained eye comtact as he was approached. He remembered being unsettled by the smoothness of the movements, the articulation of the knees seemed to offer a greater range of rotation and the alien had adjusted it's stride over the rocky terrain by angling it's legs sideways and continuing to step forward. The leader had stopped just outside of Jim's reach and loomed over him, a bald intimidation tactic that had him squaring his shoulders and tilting his neck to their eyes locked.
“You are Kirk.” It hadn't been a question.
“I am Captain James T Kirk of the starship Enterprise. We are here under orders of Starfleet Command representing the United Federation of Planets. A representative of your people is expecting a rendezvous in approximately one standard hour. By what authority did you attack us?”
He'd kept his voice level and commanding, the anger apparent only in the question.
The alien had turned to address it's fellows. “Take them.” He'd waved a hand to encompass the downed security team. “Kill them if they resist, we have the one we need.”
Jim had launched himself into the leader at that, throwing himself into the air and landing a driving double kick into it's back, propelling it forward onto it's knees. Scrambling to regain his footing, Jim had lunged for it's throat and succeeded in wrapping one hand around the windpipe before catching an impossible fist to his left temple. He had failed to notice that the bastards had an extra joint in the forearm. He had rocked back with the blow and two sets of alien arms were on him, pressing him to the ground.
“Release my men,” he'd gritted out, “If you only need me, release them to the ship.”
The alien's smile has been a show of vicious fangs, it had bent close enough that Jim had been able to taste the fetid breath. “But perhaps I do need them Kirk, to keep you in line. They are worthless to me, can you say the same?”
Ferris, who'd been watching him with wide eyed disbelief, paled at the words. Jim sucked in his rage and spit into the smug face, taking a measure of satisfaction at the angry surprise as the alien had jerked back. The expression had neutralized and a huge hand had come down, talon extended and driven into the meat of his thigh. He'd screamed hoarsely as he was skewered and hadn't seen the blow that exploded against the side of his head and knocked him into oblivion.
After that, nothing. He'd woken in this cell, only dimly aware of his guard in a hazy light. There had been no questions, no taunts. He been left to hang in the dark, alone and shivering with no indication of why they needed him.
***
He stumbled in the dark and caught himself against the wall, restraints falling from numb fingers with startling volume, the cacophony ringing through his skull and making him wince. His fever was reaching critical and he wasn’t certain how long he could retain his coherence, though the patterns of light dancing across his vision were probably not a good sign.
Not gonna be much use to Spock like this. Dehydration, shock. Gotta get outta this. Think dammit.
He shook and tried to convince himself that he was directing the motions. The throbbing in his leg had subsided and he touched a hand to the wound and encountered a crust over the sticky warmth. A rush of dizziness caught him off guard and he slid to ground, dead weight resting awkwardly against the wall. It was easier to stay and bear the aching in his chest than it would be to correct his posture.
Just stay here a minute. Wait for Spock. Save my strength.
His laugh was a dry and shaky thing as he mused it was really his only option.
***
He drifted awhile in a half aware doze, consciousness floating on a stream of memories and vague concepts bubbling to the surface of his mind. Intangible things that evaded him when he tried to focus so he just let them crest over him and fade away passively. The steady dripping had become almost a comfort between moments of delirium, something to focus on beyond the interminable waiting and paroxysms of pain. He used them to time the intervals of alertness and monitor his condition.
By his nearest estimate, factoring in his initial knock out and subsequent black outs, he'd been imprisoned just over a day. The continued lack of hunger was worrisome, he was used to regular meals to a point where Bones had been threatening to ration his replicator credits. The silence from his captors was another point of concern, if they'd been so determined to capture him, why hadn't they come to question or taunt him? Not that he was yearning for torture and interrogation - despite what the crew might believe from his service record, he was no masochist. Still, a round of “Ha puny human you are helpless before our might!” was pretty much textbook for these kinds of things. Cue torture.
He'd never been tossed in a cell and ignored before. It was unsettling.
He still had no idea what was going on with his people and no means to find out. An alien interrogation session would at least provide him an opportunity to inquire after their welfare. Were they together or had they been separated and left dangling like he had been? Were the Nixaanites warming up for him by brutalizing his crew? Were they already dead? Restless with the increasingly dire possibilities parading in his head drove him to his feet again and he resumed his limping shuffle along the cell wall.
A distant scuff of boots against concrete caught his attention. He stilled and closed his eyes tightly in the blackness to isolate the noise and was rewarded when it sounded again, closer this time. And again. It stopped outside his door.
Adrenaline filled him and he ignored the discomfort of his stiff leg to move silently to where he'd dropped his chains. He lifted them slowly, taking great pains to not rattle them and alert the intruder to his freedom. He could hear his heart racing in his ears and anticipation was tingling his limbs with the need to act instantly, decisively. He hissed his breath out between his teeth and raised his arms over his head.
The door scraped open, thick metal scraping against stone deafening after the hours of near total silence. He was blinded by the influx of light and could only make out a tall silhouette against painful white light.
He swung down with all of his strength and connected sharply with a satisfying thud. The intruder crumpled to the ground gracelessly and he flashed his teeth in triumph. He took a moment to adjust his eyes to the light and looked down to his defeated opponent.
“Aw fuck, Spock. Why didn't you say something?”
Next
Master Post here
(Yeah, I somehow doubt six chapters is going to cut it now *headdesk*)
Fandom: Star Trek XI
Pairing: Kirk/Spock pre-slash so far.
Rating: R
Summary: An away mission goes horribly, horribly wrong.
Warnings/Notes: All right, everybody still with me? Good. Shit's about to get real.
Jim is not a super hero, I think I mostly succeeded in making him very human and very fallible in this story, but I also believe that sheer force of will can lead to some pretty amazing feats. My head canon for Captain Kirk includes this trait in spades.
Fun fact: This was actually the second scene I wrote. Seeing as how it's chapter two I imagine you're rolling your eyes and going DUH - but! But, when I started this fic I wrote a section of what I thought of as Chapter 3 first, which led to this scene and bits of the next and from that the mission shakedown sprung. Of course Chapter 3 then became Chapter 4 and then merged with what I thought was going to be Chapter 5 thus leaving me with a whole other section to write. I reiterate: it kinda got away from me. *facepalm*
So yeah, if this jumps around a bit - that's probably why. I am in awe all of you amazing people who make plans AND stick with them when you're writing.
Part the First is here
Nixaan Theta
Part the Second : No Restraint
It was dark when he stirred, cold air lashing his skin through the strips of his shirt. His attempts to penetrate the black delivered no results. He wasn't even certain if his eyes were opened, no indication was given either way except that it hurt slightly more when he held them thus.
Where the hell? Right.
Prison. Nixann.
Where are my men?
He could hear dripping and hoped that it wasn't his blood. Visions of draining out, like one of the deer carcasses Frank had brought home on one of his many hunting trips, capered through his mind - dissonant edges coloured with manic glee and a bite of madness. He needed to focus. Free himself, find his men, get the fuck off this rock.
His body was one long scream, arms threatening to pull out of socket as he twisted in slow circles. He was strung from a length of chain looped around a solid steel bar running along the ceiling. There had been light when he'd been hoisted up.
A torch, maybe? The pungent scent of charcoal lingering supported that theory.
His legs dangled limply, bare toes brushing the cold concrete. His boots were gone, then. Cautious experimentation yielded that pressing down stopped his rotations but the increased strain on his shoulders jerked him into another spin when he spasmed.
He pushed the pain to the back of his mind and began a detached survey of the damage. His left foot was burning hot and pulsing thickly as the blood flowed into it. Possibly broken, there was a sense of wrong around his big toe that he didn't probe too deeply. There were various scrapes and bruises along his legs, registering as a low white buzz up to his right thigh where he'd been skewered by a long curved talon. The muscles had begun to stiffen and his attempt at bending his leg was met with the slow hot ooze of blood. He made a note not to try that again. The burning sensation surrounding the wound seemed to be spreading through his blood, he surmised it was likely some sort of fever resulting from an infection. His ribs seemed mostly fine, save for the lingering ache of bruises from meaty humanoid fists. He was shivering, fever making it difficult to discern if it were from cold or if shock was setting in. Bracing himself against the pulses of agony shooting across his shoulders, he bore his weight to the floor again. He could register the temperature differential clearly and dismissed shock from his diagnosis for now, sparing an abstract surge of gratitude for Bones' constant nagging drilling the procedures into him after one too many trips to sickbay.
He tilted his head up, a link of chain hanging between his wrists ghosting over his face. He flexed his hands, ignoring the thickly unpleasant lance of sensation spreading into his elbows.
Maybe if I? He rotated his hands and grasped the chain. Good. Got it. He put all of the strength and will he could muster into the grip and pulled up sharply, tightening his abs and using the momentum of his sharp swing to help curl his body up. Right leg extended, he able to hook his uninjured (yet, give him time) foot onto the bar and hoist his torso up, clinging like a drunken possum. Sweating and shivering with the effort he noticed that his thigh was bleeding sluggishly.
Bones is going to kill me if I die here.
The thought quirked his cracked lips into a smile as he tried to picture his friend in his place.
Damn it Jim, I'm a doctor not a circus performer! The wry mouth would be pursed in disgust and his shoulders would be hunched against the unreasonable demands of his friend and Captain. He'd do it though. Bones was good like that, when it came down the wire he knew his duty. Wouldn't stop him from bitching about it though.
Now what?
He gingerly inched his manacled wrists forward until he encountered the coil of chain. His grip was starting to slip and he was shaking with the effort of keeping himself wrapped around the bar. He was going to have to work quickly. Feeling his way along the chain, cursing the dark, he was pleased to find that the coils were not secured and that his guard had assumed Jim's weight and the coils themselves would be enough to keep him secured and docile.
Saying a quick thanks to the patron saint of reckless starship captains, his grin grew manically and he began jostling the chain, trying to work up enough slack to unwind it completely and give him free reign over the cell. Working with slow careful tugs he had managed to unwind the last of coils when his knee gave out and he slid off the bar.
The fall was a gentle whoosh through the air, ending in an abrupt clatter of clangs and moans.
The impact left him winded, staring into the blackness and tangled in a heap of chain. He waited in tense silence for any response to the clanks and the poorly stifled yelp that had accompanied his descent. The only sounds were the steady dripping he'd noticed earlier and his sharp hitching breaths.
Ow.
Now he could probably add a cracked rib or two to his damage summary. The stabbing pain in his side as he drew in breath was catalogued and pushed aside. He had mobility now, of a sorts. The chain dragged behind him, scraping the ground and sending reverberations of metal against concrete throughout the narrow cell. He stopped every few seconds to listen, resuming his slow shuffle to the edges of the room when nothing but the distant drip was heard.
His vision had adjusted to the point of allowing him to make out the shape of his limbs and the solidity of the walls. A thin band of not-quite black indicated the location of the door and he pressed his way against the wall towards it.
I have no idea what I'm going to do when I get there, of course. Can't break the chains, can I break the lock?
He patted his hip automatically, confirming the absence of his phaser and communicator.
Should've checked that first. Getting slow, getting stupid. Hot, itchy. How long have I been here?
His senses were muddled. He couldn't tell if it had been days or mere hours since he'd been captured. He wished Spock were here with him for a moment, knowing the instinctual internal time sense of his Vulcan heritage would be able to provide the answer. To the millisecond if he really wanted it. He wasn't hungry, but he suspected it was due more to the fever that was burning through him than a reliable indicator on the passage of time. He leaned heavily against the wall and worked his hands over the manacles, searching for the release mechanism and trying to imagine Spock's reaction when he got free.
Vulcans are too classy to say “I told you so”. Just. Well, he wouldn't say it out loud anyways, but those eyebrows were capable of transmitting volumes of disapproval.
Was right to leave him behind though. He's coming for me, had to have missed check in by now. He's coming. Gotta be ready, gonna need my help to rescue the men and get us the fuck out of here.
He let the promise of rescue from his Vulcan keep the fear at bay and continued to worry the raised connection of his manacles. His fingertips felt a soft indentation, anomalous with the closure and he worked a thumbnail into it, pressing down and in delicately. The soft snikt fell to his ears like sweet music and the clasp fell open, freeing him from the chains.
Guess they didn't get the transmission about my record. Can't hold Jim Kirk with the cheap stuff, my Nixaanite friends. His grin felt feral in the darkness and he shook the feeling back into his arms.
He hefted the restraints as a potential weapon should the guards return. They'd been rather neglectful of late, he mused. Perhaps it was time to show them what it was like to face a member Starfleet who wasn't unaware.
How had they known, anyways? The transport location was decided after we received our orders.
***
He could remember beaming off the ship with the security detail. Spock and Scotty had been there to see him off and wish him luck, or success if you were a Vulcan. The sensor scan had detected no unusual activity in the area and he'd boarded the Transporter with the security detail surrounding him. His call to energize had been given with a jaunty wave and he'd called out for Spock not to wreck his ship while he was away before the beam began it's information transfer.
They'd reappeared within the dome instantly, his hand still lifted in salute. Everyone held still as the wave of vertigo that accompanied beaming passed.
One of the Ensigns (Ferris, his brain supplied drowsily and he began a limping pace to keep his blood moving) had been nervous abut his first away mission and had nearly phasered himself adjusting the settings. The shot deflected harmlessly into the ground and they'd made use of the disruption to acquire some rocky samples and tease the hapless Ensign mercilessly. They'd been taking tricorder readings when the surrounding crags erupted into a screaming throng of Nixannites.
The fight had been as brutal as it was brief. They'd been simply overwhelmed by the screaming tide of ferocious yellow aliens. A few phaser shots connected, illuminating the thick skins to a glowing shade of jaundice, but the Nixaanites seemed impervious to the default stun blast. It was supposed to have been a peaceful mission, they were not prepared to shoot to kill.
Jim had been defending a fallen Ensign when he was grabbed by the neck and flung almost casually back against a jagged shelf of rock. Dazed, a heavy boot held him still against the stone while he watched his security detail similarly disabled and surrounded by a dozen Nixaanites.
When the grunts and thuds of combat faded an alien, taller than the rest, had stepped forward. A mane of coarse white hair shot out from its head and the metal beads woven through it had clanged against each other as he moved in an unnatural glide to survey his captives.
“Kirk. Which one of you is Kirk?” The words had been a snarl erupting from a growl but it was recognizable as Standard. Jim had concealed his surprise at hearing his name and looked over his men. Proud Starfleet officers strewn about the grey rock, defeated beneath the looming shadows of the Nixaanites. Not one had made a sound.
The leader had observed their defiance with an air of dispassion. He strode to the nearest officer (O'Hara) and booted him savagely in the ribs with enough force to flip him onto his back. O'Hara had groaned weakly and curled his body into a tight ball against the pain. There had been flecks of blood at the corners of his mouth and Jim had been dimly horrified to note how closely the colour matched his uniform. Another hard kick to his back had elicited a pained grunt but no name escaped the clenched teeth.
The leg had been raised again, poised this time to crush O'Hara's skull.
“Stop!”
The leader had shifted the crushing motion to a gentler nudge and forced Ensign O'Hara to his stomach. Narrow green eyes had turned to Jim and travelled the length of his body, taking in the scuffed boots and torn gold command tunic before studying his face. Jim had used both arms to force away the foot on his chest, struggling to his feet in hopes of injecting some form of authority into his bearing. He'd met the cold gaze evenly and dared a step forward.
He maintained eye comtact as he was approached. He remembered being unsettled by the smoothness of the movements, the articulation of the knees seemed to offer a greater range of rotation and the alien had adjusted it's stride over the rocky terrain by angling it's legs sideways and continuing to step forward. The leader had stopped just outside of Jim's reach and loomed over him, a bald intimidation tactic that had him squaring his shoulders and tilting his neck to their eyes locked.
“You are Kirk.” It hadn't been a question.
“I am Captain James T Kirk of the starship Enterprise. We are here under orders of Starfleet Command representing the United Federation of Planets. A representative of your people is expecting a rendezvous in approximately one standard hour. By what authority did you attack us?”
He'd kept his voice level and commanding, the anger apparent only in the question.
The alien had turned to address it's fellows. “Take them.” He'd waved a hand to encompass the downed security team. “Kill them if they resist, we have the one we need.”
Jim had launched himself into the leader at that, throwing himself into the air and landing a driving double kick into it's back, propelling it forward onto it's knees. Scrambling to regain his footing, Jim had lunged for it's throat and succeeded in wrapping one hand around the windpipe before catching an impossible fist to his left temple. He had failed to notice that the bastards had an extra joint in the forearm. He had rocked back with the blow and two sets of alien arms were on him, pressing him to the ground.
“Release my men,” he'd gritted out, “If you only need me, release them to the ship.”
The alien's smile has been a show of vicious fangs, it had bent close enough that Jim had been able to taste the fetid breath. “But perhaps I do need them Kirk, to keep you in line. They are worthless to me, can you say the same?”
Ferris, who'd been watching him with wide eyed disbelief, paled at the words. Jim sucked in his rage and spit into the smug face, taking a measure of satisfaction at the angry surprise as the alien had jerked back. The expression had neutralized and a huge hand had come down, talon extended and driven into the meat of his thigh. He'd screamed hoarsely as he was skewered and hadn't seen the blow that exploded against the side of his head and knocked him into oblivion.
After that, nothing. He'd woken in this cell, only dimly aware of his guard in a hazy light. There had been no questions, no taunts. He been left to hang in the dark, alone and shivering with no indication of why they needed him.
***
He stumbled in the dark and caught himself against the wall, restraints falling from numb fingers with startling volume, the cacophony ringing through his skull and making him wince. His fever was reaching critical and he wasn’t certain how long he could retain his coherence, though the patterns of light dancing across his vision were probably not a good sign.
Not gonna be much use to Spock like this. Dehydration, shock. Gotta get outta this. Think dammit.
He shook and tried to convince himself that he was directing the motions. The throbbing in his leg had subsided and he touched a hand to the wound and encountered a crust over the sticky warmth. A rush of dizziness caught him off guard and he slid to ground, dead weight resting awkwardly against the wall. It was easier to stay and bear the aching in his chest than it would be to correct his posture.
Just stay here a minute. Wait for Spock. Save my strength.
His laugh was a dry and shaky thing as he mused it was really his only option.
***
He drifted awhile in a half aware doze, consciousness floating on a stream of memories and vague concepts bubbling to the surface of his mind. Intangible things that evaded him when he tried to focus so he just let them crest over him and fade away passively. The steady dripping had become almost a comfort between moments of delirium, something to focus on beyond the interminable waiting and paroxysms of pain. He used them to time the intervals of alertness and monitor his condition.
By his nearest estimate, factoring in his initial knock out and subsequent black outs, he'd been imprisoned just over a day. The continued lack of hunger was worrisome, he was used to regular meals to a point where Bones had been threatening to ration his replicator credits. The silence from his captors was another point of concern, if they'd been so determined to capture him, why hadn't they come to question or taunt him? Not that he was yearning for torture and interrogation - despite what the crew might believe from his service record, he was no masochist. Still, a round of “Ha puny human you are helpless before our might!” was pretty much textbook for these kinds of things. Cue torture.
He'd never been tossed in a cell and ignored before. It was unsettling.
He still had no idea what was going on with his people and no means to find out. An alien interrogation session would at least provide him an opportunity to inquire after their welfare. Were they together or had they been separated and left dangling like he had been? Were the Nixaanites warming up for him by brutalizing his crew? Were they already dead? Restless with the increasingly dire possibilities parading in his head drove him to his feet again and he resumed his limping shuffle along the cell wall.
A distant scuff of boots against concrete caught his attention. He stilled and closed his eyes tightly in the blackness to isolate the noise and was rewarded when it sounded again, closer this time. And again. It stopped outside his door.
Adrenaline filled him and he ignored the discomfort of his stiff leg to move silently to where he'd dropped his chains. He lifted them slowly, taking great pains to not rattle them and alert the intruder to his freedom. He could hear his heart racing in his ears and anticipation was tingling his limbs with the need to act instantly, decisively. He hissed his breath out between his teeth and raised his arms over his head.
The door scraped open, thick metal scraping against stone deafening after the hours of near total silence. He was blinded by the influx of light and could only make out a tall silhouette against painful white light.
He swung down with all of his strength and connected sharply with a satisfying thud. The intruder crumpled to the ground gracelessly and he flashed his teeth in triumph. He took a moment to adjust his eyes to the light and looked down to his defeated opponent.
“Aw fuck, Spock. Why didn't you say something?”
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