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marlinspirkhall · 4 years ago

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Tomorrow Never Comes, Chapter 01: “Play Me”

For Non-AO3 Readers. Originally published on AO3. Written for the 2020 Star Trek Halloween Bang.

Artist: @idealisticcatastasis

Content warnings: Graphic Descriptions Of Violence, Other Archive Warnings May Apply.

Chapter 1 Word Count: 5,719 words

[Front Cover] [Chapter 1] [Chapter 2]

There’s a groan. Jim shifts, ever so slightly, and the overhead lights flicker on. The room is flooded instantly by a bright, neon green, as if every surface has been covered in ectoplasm from an old horror movie. He’s leaning against something hard, and he pulls away from it with a groan.

It’s a metal bathtub, set into the floor. Above him is a shower head, rusted with age, and the wall is in a similar state of disrepair.

He catches a glimpse of something on the floor. A streak of maroon runs round the outer edge of the tub, trails to the ground, covers the floor in a patch around his feet- and yet, there’s not a drop of it on him. He shifts, tentatively, and it flecks off the metal floor. Whatever it is, it’s been further discoloured by the lights overhead, and it takes him a moment to process it. Not brown, he realises. Red.

Something stirs his stomach. Most of it is darker, dried, but the puddle around him is only half-congealed.

He leans forwards, and grimaces. In the center of the bath, a message is scrawled in blood:

“Play me”.

A long, jagged arrow points to the center of the bath. Tangled in a mess of frayed wires is a single screen, slightly larger than a PADD. Dried fingerprints. For a split second, Jim considers showing his discovery to the others, but the moment passes.

He reaches over, and turns it on. It crackles to life. A video is already queued, and it plays automatically. He fumbles with the screen, almost drops it, because- the person on the recording- is him. He looks different on the recording, though. The saturation of green, washing him out; the strange way he watches the camera. An almost alien confidence.

“Now, I know what you’re thinking,” the recording says, with a smile. “You don’t remember making this video. But, I assure you; you did.” He glances away for a moment, somewhere offscreen, and his voice softens. “It should be safe- he never comes in here.” He straightens up, and turns back to the camera. “But, I’m getting ahead of myself.”

Jim frowns as the figure on-screen reaches for something unseen.

“Now, don’t panic,” says the recording. “I want you to remain completely calm.” There’s a glint of metal.

His eyes widen.

“Everything is going to be alright,” the recording says. He holds a hand out, flat, and raises the other. In one, quick motion, he brings the axe down. Thud. A wet, tumbling sound. A muffled moan, and a hiss. The sound distorts further as the camera is knocked to the floor, pointing up at the ceiling, and the screen is flooded by the bright, overpowering green.

Scuffling. A grunt of pain, then relief. The video shakes, and continues to tremble as the angle shifts, spins, and suddenly steadies. Jim notes the space where the trail of bloodstains ends. When he was recording, he must have placed it on the end of the bath.

His recorded-self blinks, and exhales shakily. His right hand is now wrapped in a towel; soaked through quickly by blood.

Jim stares down at his own hands. There’s not a scratch on them, and he still has all ten digits.

Past-Jim exhales, his face drawn with pain, and gives him a shaky smile. “Now that I have your attention,” he says, “Let’s start at the beginning.”

[INSERT: IMAGE: “Divider green knife”]

On the outskirts of Mars Colony Alpha is a large, concrete complex no-one discusses. A majority of the structure is buried beneath the surface, untold levels stretching beneath the dirt. Somewhere on the ground floor, James Kirk is onto his third book of the day. For the most part, he measures the days in books, and not the even, unbroken schedule of the guards.

The gymnasium is about the size of an indoor tennis court, claustrophobic walls painted shades of beige and grey which don’t quite agree with each other. The tops of the walls are set with small glass observation windows, the glass tinted just enough that you can’t be sure when someone’s watching you.

Some of the other inmates have formed small cliques, and Jim is reminded uncannily of high school. For his part, he keeps to himself, and takes up a space by one of the rowing machines. He’s so accustomed to ignoring the watchful gaze of the guards that it’s easy to pretend he doesn’t see the eyes across the room, studying him.

At lunch, it’s the same. He eats quickly, and keeps one eye on his stalker. He’s certain he hasn’t seen him before. Judging from the eyebrows, he could be Romulan, though it’s impossible to tell for certain, as his ears are hidden by long, dark hair. Still, Jim thinks, it’d be unusual to keep a prisoner of war on this level; most of the people here are ex-starfleet.

On the way out of the dining hall, he doubles back on himself, and slams into the man. He grunts, and Jim keeps walking, until he has him backed into a wall.

“Why are you following me?” He hisses.

The man tilts his head and stares down at him serenely, his dark eyes glittering. His hair goes just past his shoulders, and has a slightly silky quality. Up close, he can see that the man lacks the forehead ridges typical of Romulans- it’s far more likely that he’s a Vulcan. Jim slumps a little, his grip growing slack, but the man doesn’t move a muscle.

“Hey!” A guard yells.

Jim releases him with a blink, and turns on his heel.

Footsteps follow him down the corridor.

“That was not an invitation to continue,” Jim says over his shoulder.

“I assumed you wanted an answer.”

“Well, you know…” He walks faster. “A little mystery brightens my day.”

“In that case, I apologise in advance for depriving you of your entertainment.” The man keeps astride of him easily, and Jim grits his teeth.

“Don’t worry, you get used to it around here.”

“Mm. A man of your talents must get bored easily.”

The corridor splits in two, and Jim takes the left path. “And which talents would those be?”

The man raises an eyebrow. “Your skill for decoding.”

“I’m flattered,” he laughs, “Though, that’s not what the academy called it.”

“Indeed. The academy had remarkably low tolerance for practical jokes.”

Jim slows. “Well, that all depends on the effectiveness of the joke.”

“Yes. Or, how well you cover your tracks.”

Jim snorts. “Well… Hypothetically speaking, of course-” he lowers his voice. “Why would you come to me? I wouldn’t be here if I was any good at that.”

“To respond in terms which are equally hypothetical- it is not a mistake you are likely to make again.”

“Ah; I get it-” a guard passes them in the corridor, and Jim gives them a cheery smile. “You want me to join the prison’s cipher team.”

The man nods. “That is correct. Though, the latest series of-” another guard passes- “Recreational puzzles would be presented to us in Klingon.”

Jim shrugs. “It’s possible, but I’d suggest a xenolinguist, instead.”

“Our search is limited to the confines of the prison-”

“Of course,” Jim gives him a searching smile. “You are an inmate, after all.”

“I always endeavour to remain discreet.”

“Oh; that’s a useful skill,” he comments, as they climb the steps to the dorm areas. “You’ll have to teach me some time.”

“If you’d like.” They climb the rest of the stairway in silence. At the top, the man lowers his voice. “It is unfortunate, when the government which incarcerates you falls.”

“And why’s that?” Jim breathes.

He quirks an eyebrow. “There’s no one left to overturn the ruling.”

“That’s true,” Jim murmurs, and heads for his door. “But I’ve only got three months left, and then I’m out of here-”

The man blocks his path. “Or, you could get out of here tonight.” He tilts his head a little, studying Jim intensely.

“What?” The corner of his mouth twitches. “With you and the cipher team?”

The man gives the slightest nod, and Jim considers it for a moment. It’s almost tempting. But, ultimately, whether he gets out today or tomorrow, there’s not much waiting for him outside.

He steps around him with an awkward smile. “Well, I’m sorry to disappoint you-” he pushes the door open, and steps inside. “But it seems that rumours of my intelligence have been greatly exaggerated.”

The man remains silent, yet there’s a flicker of amusement in his eyes.

“… Though, I’m still smart enough to do this.” Jim says in a breathy whisper, as he swings the door shut.

At evening’s meal, Jim once again feels a pair of eyes on him, and pays firm attention to his plate. The main structure of the meal greatly resembles beets, and- if he concentrates enough- almost tastes like it. Still, his attention is split, and, when he next glances up, the man is no longer there.

He frowns, and spears one of the roots.

And sees something from the corner of his eye.

He sits bolt upright, sliding backwards along the bench with a prologued glare at his unexpected visitor. The man is back; watching him with unsettling intensity.

“You move fast,” Jim grumbles, and quickly stuffs his mouth to excuse himself from conversation.

“Yes.” Not completely without manners, he remains standing; his hands behind his back in a posture which looks strangely familiar. It hits him suddenly, and he tilts his head at the man. At ease, he thinks, with a reluctant nod to the seat opposite.

He sits.

Jim swallows, and lowers his fork. “Let me guess,” he says, dully. “Your cipher team’s still one person short.”

The man nods, his face carefully neutral. “Our team leader will be disappointed.”

Something stirs in Jim’s stomach, and it’s not just dubious beets. “And… What happens then?”

The man almost smiles. “You need not concern yourself with it.”

“Uh huh.” Jim tries to remind himself to stay out of it. “But you didn’t come here to make small talk.”

“No.”

“You’re here to try and persuade me again.”

He blinks at him. A silent question.

“You’re going to tell me to

The man inclines his head. “I sound convincing so far.”

“I-” Jim laughs. “Son of a bitch.” He sits back in his seat. “That’s been your tactic all along,” he realises. “You were going to get me to talk myself into it.”

"It is not a tactic. You simply anticipated my arguments before I could state them.”

“And, if I hadn’t done that?”

He considers for a moment. “I would have attempted to make you see the logic in joining me.”

“Right,” Jim straightens up in his chair a bit. “You are a Vulcan, after all.”

The man holds his gaze for a moment, then raises an eyebrow. “Is that enough to persuade you?”

Jim smirks. “Maybe. But you know more about me than I do about you- I don’t even know your name.”

“Spock.”

“Jim. But; you knew that.” He smiles, and sets his hands on the table with a slap. “How many people are on your... Cipher team?” The cafeteria is busy enough that they could talk openly, but Jim enjoys the slow-blinks Spock gives him when faced with unexpected information.

“Two,” he says, finally.

Jim stares at him. He studies his expression for a trace of the humour he saw before, but, apparently, the man is deadly serious.

Jim leans forward. “Granted, I don’t know the nature of the puzzles you’re dealing with, but-” he lowers his voice “- That doesn’t sound like nearly enough.”

“You will only be present for part of the operation.”

“Alright. So how many people are involved in the entire operation?”

“That is a discreet matter.”

“As, I suppose, is the question of who you’re working for.”

Spock nods.

“Discreet.” Jim repeats, as he gives him an unsubtle once-over. “And they sent... You?”

“I am capable of remaining inconspicuous,” Spock says, with the slightest smile.

“Maybe so, but that doesn’t mean people won’t notice you.”

Spock frowns. “To what are you referring?”

Jim smiles, coyly. “I’m afraid that’s a discreet matter.”

Spock stares at the table for a moment, expression unreadable.

“You want to know if you can trust me,” he says, finally.

“Yes.”

“You can’t.”

Jim gives an amused huff. “That’s not a very convincing argument.”

“Nevertheless, it is the truth.”

“I get it. You prove your honesty, I trust you, I leave with you.”

“I am not attempting to manipulate you; I am simply running out of time.”

Jim frowns.

Spock’s hands shift slightly under the table. “My partner, Leland, is breaking me out tonight- me, and the best hacker I can find.”

Jim sits back “And, to think: I thought you chose me specially.”

A breathy, almost-laugh. “He did.”

“I’m flattered.”

He watches Jim. “I…” He jerks his head. “Was not supposed to offer you a choice in the matter.”

“… Less flattered,” Jim murmurs, as his eyes dart to Spock’s hands.

Spock’s mouth twitches, and he lays them flat on the table. “I have no weapons.,” he assures him.

Jim lets out a breath. “Do you need any?”

“Well-”

The cafeteria is plunged into pitch darkness. A murmur reverberates around them, and someone yells. Jim grabs at the table with one hand, and reaches into his pocket with the other. He searches for the familiar, smooth blade handle.

It’s not there. His heart pounds faster. It’s in my quarters, he realises, trying to stave off a blind panic.

After a moment, the emergency lights flicker on: a bright, unrelenting red.

Spock tenses, his face bathed in the light, and he stares at Jim helplessly.

“It’s okay,” Jim places a hand on his arm. “It’s just a power cut.”

“No; it’s not.” Spock stands, suddenly, and surveys the hall. His grip is tight on the back of the chair. “It’s Leland. Stay here.”

He takes a step forwards. Chair legs scrape as Jim scrambles to his feet. “Where are you going?” He hisses.

Spock fixes him with a look. “To stop him from killing anyone.”

“What-?”

“Return to your rooms!” Bellows a guard.

Jim turns, but Spock has already disappeared. Cursing, he hurries in the direction he left, being buffeted between the crowd. He weaves his way down the corridor, and the lights begin to flicker overhead. He curses, and moves faster.

The lights fail as he’s half-way up the stairs, and he grips the handrail for support. The only source of light which remains are strips of bioluminescent paint which line the floor, tingeing everything in a faint blue-green. He stumbles to the top of the stairs. The few people who had returned to their cells wander out again, muttering amongst themselves, and the guards are nowhere to be seen. Jim reaches his room, out of breath, and leans against the wall, gasping.

He should just stay here. He should just lie on his bed, and wait for the situation to be resolved. Instead, he reaches into his mattress, and retrieves the small, fold-out knife. He runs his fingers over the handle for a moment, and then slips it into the pocket of his jumpsuit.

Downstairs, Jim skims his hand along the wall, to help navigate the pockets of darkness. The material is unusually coarse, like concrete with too many air bubbles trapped inside it, and there’s a scream up ahead. Heart pounding, he begins to move a little faster, passing the usually-secure area around the turbolift. Three inmates are clustered around it: two humans and an Andorian, bickering amongst themselves as they attempt to rewire the lock.

There’s shouting up ahead.

A guard stumbles into view, shouldering a phaser rifle. Jim freezes- but their attention is elsewhere, staring at something unseen. A yell echoes down the corridor, and it’s lit up by a flash of red, then blue, as the guard falls to the floor.

Jim grits his teeth, and he pokes his head round the corner.

The corridor is covered in debris, flakes of plaster and brick which used to be the exterior wall. At the other end of the corridor, guards and escapees are firing at each other indiscriminately, and Jim doesn’t stick around long enough to find out if the weapons are set for stun. He simply retrieves a flashlight from the fallen guard, and slips through the gap in the wall, out into the self-contained atmosphere of the prison dome.

Outside, an alarm blares. His nose wrinkles. The air is thinner here, and slightly metallic. Recycled. He begins to walk uphill, figuring that the slight incline will help him find Spock- if that’s still his goal. Still, he doesn’t see how he’s going to make it much further without him.

Still moving, he cranes his neck upwards. In the darkness, it’s hard to tell- the flashlight beam won’t reach that far- but he can just make out a large hole in the glass above him.

As if someone has smashed their way in.

The gap has been sealed by the self-repair protocol: a thick layer of fast-drying plastiform. He picks up the pace, pointing his flashlight at the ground as he comes over the crest of the hill-

A runs bang-slap into the side of a dark grey shuttle.

“Drop the weapon!” A voice growls behind him.

Jim blinks, and steps back from the metal surface. “No… It’s just a flashlight,” he stammers.

Something is pressed to the back of his head. The barrel of a phaser.

“Then drop the flashlight,” the voice growls. “A phaser blast at this range… That’s not something you come back from.”

The flashlight slips from his hands, and his heart pounds. He turns his head slowly.

“Don’t move.”

In the glare of the shuttle lights, Jim can’t see much, but he can just make out a pair of eyes, staring him down.

“Leland-?” Jim realises, as something hard crashes into the back of his head, and he crumples to the ground.

Jim wakes up at the back of the shuttle, lying on one of the stiff benches Starfleet was fond of calling ‘beds’. His head throbs, and he pushes himself up on his elbows with a slight groan. “What…?”

As he sits up, a thin blanket tumbles from his shoulders, and he feels immediately colder. Spock sits in one of the seats facing him, his gaze fixed on the wall, and Leland sits in the pilot’s seat. Jim stares at the back of his head, eyes bleary. He has short, dark brown hair, and a dark grey uniform.

Leland turns to him, and Jim spots a dark Starfleet badge on the front of his shirt. He throws Spock a questioning look, but he keeps his eyes fixed straight ahead, his lips pursed.

Leland smiles. “Hey, Jimbo-”

“It’s Jim.”

“- James,” Leland waves a hand. “I’m sorry about pointing a phaser at you back there.”

Jim gives him an awkward nod. “It’s… fine. But-” He rubs the back of his head. “You do know those things have a stun setting, right?”

Leland smiles. “Well; I had no idea who you were.” He glances at Spock. “Tell him.”

Spock looks up. “He had no idea who you were,” he says, robotically.

“… It’s okay.” Jim glances between them, trying to work out the shift in the atmosphere while still nursing a headache.

“It’s not okay!” Leland insists. “We’re a team now, so we’ve got to trust each other.”

Jim closes his eyes. “Yeah, sounds good,” He murmurs. He leans his head back against the wall.

“Really?” Leland asks. “Because you don’t sound that enthusiastic.”

“I’m just-”

Leland snaps his fingers twice. “Spock?”

“You don’t sound that enthusiastic,” Spock says, dutifully.

“Alright,” Jim exhales, and glowers at him. “It’s just: if we’re a team, then I’d prefer to know who I’m working with. I mean; you can’t be Starfleet.”

Leland turns back to the viewscreen, and fixes his gaze on space.

“Or, maybe you could tell me what we’re doing-?”

“Relax. I’ll tell you the specifics when you get there.”

“But-”

Leland begins to hum to himself, and Jim’s gaze flicks to Spock. He, too, remains silent.

He surveys the shuttle. There are about six seats in total- seven if you count the bench- and everything is a dark grey. Whoever designed the interior was a utilitarian, not an artist.

There’s a pile of clothes at the back of the shuttle, and Jim notes that Spock, too, has changed into what appears to be a modified Starfleet uniform. He doesn’t recognise the badge, and wonders if they can really have gone through such an extensive redesign in six months. It’s sleek, all-black, identical to the one Leland is wearing. The last he’d heard, Starfleet didn’t even exist anymore.

He rifles through the pile of clothes at the back of the shuttle, and changes into a pair of jeans and a red plaid jacket, feeling immediately warmer. As he swaps out the grey jumpsuit, he removes the knife from it, and slips it into his jeans pocket instead. Spock watches this without comment, but quickly looks away when Jim meets his eyes

Jim studies the tense way that Spock holds himself. His hands are tucked away, arms folded just a little too tight across his chest. The shuttle’s internal temperature is probably only programmed to account for human standards, and he knows Vulcans are accustomed to warmer temperatures. Wordlessly, he reaches for the fallen blanket, and holds it out to him. Spock stiffens, and fixes his eyes on it. He doesn’t seem to want to make the first move. Jim leans forwards, and drapes the blanket over his shoulders in one smooth motion.

Jim drifts off. When he next wakes up, the ship is orbiting a purple-blue planet covered in rivers and forests. The readout says it’s M-Class, but it appears to be deserted- no civilisation of any kind, with the exception of one, very faint, signal.

“What is this planet?” Jim asks.

Leland barely looks up. “Heirin.”

“I’ve never heard of it.”

“You wouldn’t have. This is Klingon space.” He nods to something out of the port window. “There’s an outpost on that moon which monitors most of the traffic in this system.”

Jim looks up sharply. “And they just let us wander in?”

“The magnetic disturbance from the asteroid belt on the other side of the system should have masked our signatures. Besides; they’re not on the look out for a little ship like this.”

Jim searches the skies in the direction indicated. “Let me guess; this is going to be our little hacking project?”

Leland gives him a look. “We want you to shut down the outpost via remote link. Heirin is just going to be our base of operations.” He grins, and sets the shuttle on a landing path on the night-side of the planet. Jim watches the tops of the purple-leaved trees get closer, and

“And, when the Klingons find out about it?” Jim asks.

“Relax. It’ll be a long time before they can find someone brave enough to investigate.”

Jim folds his arms. “Klingons aren’t famous for their cowardice.”

“No, they’re not,” Leland hums. “But, for this planet, they’d make an exception.”

The shuttle continues to descend, flying over the purple-leaved trees and passing over vast swathes of pink fields. They cross over a wide river, flying low over a forest which looks distinctly greener than the others they’ve passed so far. Up ahead, a tall structure rises from the trees.

It’s three three stories tall, and made mostly of dark metal. A gap in the center suggests that part of the building has since fallen away. They land in a clearing, to the right of it. Jim steps out of the shuttle, and surveys it from this new angle, as Leland and Spock unload a case of supplies from the back.

“Where’s the server room?” Jim asks.

Leland arches an eyebrow. “You don’t need to see it yet. Relax a little.”

“Right… but you do have one, right? This place looks pretty broken down, and I can’t hack a Klingon outpost from this distance with your shuttle alone, no matter how high-tech it is.”

Leland stares at him for a moment, his expression suddenly sombre. “If I told you where it was, what’s to stop you from shooting me?”

Jim gives a little huff of laughter. “I can think of many reasons, Leland, but number one would be: I don’t even have a phaser.”

Leland laughs in return. “Yeah?” He hands him one. “Well, you do now.”

Jim stares down at his hands in surprise as Leland begins to move towards the stronghold, whistling.

‘What the fuck is wrong with him?’ Jim mouths, but Spock only stares at him.

“Cosy,” Jim comments, as he hauls the first crate into the central hall. Everything about the stronghold speaks to Klingon architecture, but the interior has clearly been redecorated by humans. Large rugs and carpets cover sections of the floor. A wide sofa and two arm chairs sit on one side of the room, with a dining table on the other side.

He prises the top off one of the crates, and peers inside. It contains numerous phaser power-packs. “I don’t think we’ll be needing all of these,” he says, with a nod to the far wall.

An innumerable collection of weapons adorn them, of Terran and Klingon origin. They’re assembled with seemingly little order, hung at irregular intervals by nails hammered into the wall. Five bat’leth’s, a crossbow with a laser, and a gin'tak spear. There are others, too- Romulan, Andorian- things he can’t quite place.

“Whoever was here left in a hurry,” Jim says.

“Or, they never left at all.” Spock says quietly.

On the opposite wall is a large fireplace, comprised of neat, pink stone. The Mantelpiece almost looks like granite, although it’s much smoother. The material is probably local. A single staircase stands to the left of the fireplace, ascending through to the next level. The dining table sits to the left of this, just in front of the windows.

Jim wanders through a set of glass doors, and out onto the balcony.

A Veranda wraps around the second level of the stronghold, seemingly an afterthought: unlike the rest of the building, it is fashioned from a pale, beige wood. It doesn’t resemble any of the trees he’s seen on the planet so far, and he wonders if it’s been imported. He could almost believe it was built by humans, but the pillars follow the trappings of Klingon architecture: angular, wooden supports, slotted into reinforced bases. Still, it could all have been done in an attempt to mimic the existing styles. The one anomaly is a single, spiral staircase just off the center of the platform.

He keeps walking until he gets to the end of the allotted area. There’s a second, smaller communal area attached to the Veranda, fashioned from the same imported wood. Tattered banners adorn the walls, a dusky red: The emblem of the Klingon empire. Three triangular spikes jut out of a ring of white, and Jim stares at the symbol, rooted to the spot, realising for the first time that he’s deep in enemy territory.

In front of the flags is an alcove, which someone has evidently attempted to make comfortable by adding flimsy red cushions. Still, if this was intended as a place to sleep, he can’t imagine it would suffice, because, despite all its comforts- and the ceiling overhead- it is still, technically, exposed to the elements.

There are more pillars laid out in front of the alcoves. As he goes further into the area, his eyes widen, and he stops walking.

“Leland?” He calls over his shoulder.

There are footsteps as Leland approaches, and surveys the carnage in silence.

Blood stains the base of the pillar, some red, some magenta, and the cushions have been scratched up. There are places where the furnishings have been ripped away entirely, and one of the cushions is a deeper red than the others; a carpet placed over a strategic place on the floor. A single blade lies on one of the scuffed-up cushions. It’s Klingon: the blade is shaped like an arrow, with a decorative line cut out of the center. A d’k tahg.

Leland approaches it with interest, and Jim spies a bloody handprint on the wall.

“I thought you said The Klingons never came here,” Jim breathes.

“Worried?” Leland grins, and reaches for the discarded d'k tahg. He twirls it between his fingers before adding it to his belt, a glint in his eye. “Don’t worry; by the time we catch their attention, you’ll be gone.” He claps him on the shoulder, and moves back along the balcony. Jim breathes shallowly, the feeling of foreboding intensifying.

They return to the shuttle via the spiral staircase, and finish unloading the supplies. Everything comes in unmarked boxes, but Jim assumes that the rest of this must be food- although, if anyone is the type to pack more ammunition than food, it’s Leland.

Jim leans on a crate. “You still haven’t told us what this place is, exactly.”

Leland shrugs. “I thought it was self-evident: An abandoned Klingon stronghold.”

“But why is it abandoned? They can’t have forgotten about it,” he says, with a nod to the pylon on the roof.

Leland grins. “The Klingon’s know about it, but they avoid this planet like the plague. There are a lot of… Superstitions attached to this place,” he says, cryptically.

“What; are you going to tell us a scary story?” Jim folds his arms.

Leland smiles. “I might. But you’d need to gather some firewood... Scary stories are best told around a campfire.”

Jim hesitates, and thinks of the nice, warm-looking fireplace in the cabin. Still, he wouldn’t mind the chance to explore- and to get away from Leland for a while.

“Fine.”

Spock stands stiffly, perhaps from the cold, and Leland turns to him. “Go with him, Spock. Make sure he doesn’t get… Lost.”

Jim spreads his arms wide. “It’s a big planet. Where am I gonna go?” He bellows over his shoulder. His voice echoes off the trees.

The bark of the trees here are tall and green, and he’s reminded, suddenly, of the moss back on Earth. The thought is accompanied by a familiar gut-punch, so he instead focuses on the plant life which surrounds them. The trees are surprisingly thin, despite their great height. He’s so busy craning his neck that he stumbles on something hard. He braces himself on a nearby tree, and Spock comes to a sudden stop behind him. The rock he tripped on is covered in a thin layer of bioluminescent fungus. The mushroom itself is a bright, sickly shade of green, though the light that it emits is more pleasant, soft lime.

Behind him, Spock shuffles restlessly, so Jim steps to the side. They make fleeting eye-contact as Spock takes the lead, treading a path through the untouched undergrowth. Though he’d never admit it, Jim feels a small thrill of adventure. He remembers the days when he wanted to join Starfleet; the promise of exploring the unknown too tempting to resist- before The Unknown came to kick their ass.

Jim watches the back of Spock’s head, and wonders what’s going on in there. The man he’d met on Mars Colony and the man in the shuttle were two very different people, which he’d initially blamed on Leland’s influence. Still, there’s something unsettling about Spock’s continued silence.

“So, tell me,” Jim says. “Why were you in that prison? Leland couldn’t do his own dirty work?”

Spock barely glances at him. “He would have been recognised.”

“I’m sure.” Jim trots alongside him. “But, you being in there- that wasn’t just a cover, was it?” He studies Spock’s profile as they walk, trying to work out how close he is to the truth.

A cyan light shines off Spock’s face, and still, he says nothing.

“C’mon,” Jim swipes a branch out of the way. “A guy like you should have made Captain in what, five years, maybe six?”

Twigs snap underfoot.

“That was your goal, was it not?” Spock says, finally. “To become the youngest Captain in Starfleet history, on a bet?”

Jim straightens up a little. “How did you know-?”

“-And the reason you thought it necessary to cheat on The Kobayashi Maru.” He raises a brow pointedly, and sets off towards the woods at a fast march.

Jim slides on loose stones as he hurries after him. “You knew Captain Pike,” he realises.

“Yes.”

“So, it wasn’t your aspirations which landed you here. A mistake, then?” A branch catches in Spock’s hair, and ricochets back into Jim’s face. “Ow!” He hisses.

Spock glances back. “A mistake.”

Jim glowers at the back of his head, and rubs his jaw. “I’ll say,” he mutters.

“Perhaps-” Spock halts without warning “-We are both here for reasons outside our control.”

Jim rubs his nose.

“- As you said earlier; it is a big planet.” Spock turns to him. “Big enough that it is not entirely inconceivable that you could make it back to the shuttle without Leland’s notice.”

Jim blinks at him. “I’d need the keys for that,” he says, finally.

“You would,” Spock says, neutrally. “And you would find them, in my pocket.”

“I wouldn’t get very far.”

“Perhaps. But, the treatment Klingons give their prisoners is likely to be kinder than Leland’s.” He turns to keep walking, but Jim grabs his elbow.

“And, what; you want me to strand you here with him?”

“Preferably not. But, whoever leaves will have a greater chance of escape as long as the other keeps him distracted.”

“Then- why not you?”

“I am responsible for bringing you here.”

He chuckles softly. “Perhaps. But I chose to come. And I’m not leaving without you.”

His eyes dart to him. “Then you are a fool.”

Jim grins. “And I thought it was obvious.”

[Front Cover] [chapter 1] [Chapter 2]

#star trek fic #tomorrow never comes #spirk fic #spirk #star trek aos

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