COLORS: Chroma
COLORS: Chroma
PRIMARY:
Carmine (red)
Members of Starfleet Security wear carmine uniforms.
And sometimes die for causes they hope are worthwhile.
For Security Chief Lazzaro Giotto, red is the color of efficiency, honor, and service. He knows this is not so for everyone - knows that for many, red speaks of danger and death. For them, red brings to mind the throbbing, crimson light of a ship on alert and seconds from disaster, or the brilliant splashes of Human blood, dripping from open wounds and pooling under broken bodies. He’s heard the whispered comments about “Red Shirts”- the superstitions that surround donning a red colored uniform. Yes, red means sacrifice, but it means a hell of a lot more than that to Giotto.
Admittedly, Security has a higher mortality rate than the other divisions, but that is to be expected. If they didn’t put their lives on the line - if they didn’t sometimes die fulfilling their duty - then others would perish in their stead. And that means Security would not be doing its job. Security Sector exists to protect. To preserve. To shield. And sometimes to die. They are the front line. The ones who take the brunt of all the hostile forces the universe decides to throw at Fleet.
Still, Giotto is no fool. He has seen too many Security officers killed needlessly because they were too slow or too stupid or too full of testosterone to think before they acted. He abhors such needless waste.
Apparently, James Kirk abhors it as well, for when he took over the Enterprise, he implemented some drastic changes in his security division. First, he recruited Giotto right out from under Starfleet’s nose. Giotto had been running core security at Starbase 12, and Kirk, apparently, had been shopping around for new blood to head up his security department. Something about Giotto’s file must have caught Kirk’s eye, for the security chief found himself facing Starfleet’s youngest captain - newly minted galactic hero, James T. Kirk - across a conference table aboard the Starship Enterprise.
“You took over as security chief on Starbase 12 two years ago,” Kirk had noted, his lean form casually draped across the chair. He’d used one foot to slowly shift the swivel chair back and forth while a finger drew meaningless doodles on the smooth top of the conference table. “Since then, both violent crimes and property crimes have dropped by eighty-four percent. That’s pretty impressive.” Startling blue eyes had flickered across his face, weighing, judging, revealing a keen mind disguised behind an insolent grin. “I might even think you were doctoring the reports, if certain little birdies hadn’t chirped that the word is out in the Orion syndicate. Starbase 12 is now considered ‘unfriendly territory.’”
Giotto had an instant distrust of “galactic heroes” but there was something about Kirk that told him that this kid was more than just Starfleet’s latest publicity stunt. Lazzaro hadn’t gotten where he was by being obtuse. He could read people, and read them well. Despite the youthful captain’s deliberate show of fatuous nonchalance, the man was no frivolous pretty boy, though he knew how to project that persona very well. Next to him, the Enterprise’s Vulcan first officer, Mister Spock, had sat primly studying Giotto with unblinking dark eyes. He might well have been carved out of stone for all the reaction he displayed. Giotto would not have wanted to face either member of this particular command team across a poker table.
On the other hand, Karl Hoffman, the burly, interim security chief seated at Kirk’s opposite side, had been an as easy to read as a holo-ad for a strip-club. He’d been broadcasting red-faced anger and resentment so loudly, Giotto had been surprised the fire alarms had not reacted to the level of furious heat in the room. Obviously, someone had assumed they were going to be given the Chief’s position permanently, and did not appreciate the possibility of Giotto being made head of security. Hoffman had spent the meeting looking like he wanted to come across the table and take Giotto apart, limb by limb.
Hoffman, or “Cupcake” as Giotto later learned, was just the type of thick-necked, hot-headed security officer that tended to get his limbs blown off before he’d been at the job long enough to learn restraint. If Giotto took the position, Kirk explained, Hoffman would be his second in command. That alone had almost made Lazzaro walk away from the offer. The idea of trying to keep a resentful pit bull on a leash was not something he relished. Then again, Giotto had not gotten where he was by backing down from a challenge. After all, promotion to Lieutenant Commander and security chief aboard a Constitution-class starship was quite a feather in one’s cap.
He decided he could handle Hoffman. Might even turn him into something useful, but Giotto insisted on making a few demands of his own. He wanted full control of security recruitment. No more positions filled solely upon physique. Bulging biceps and prodigious pecs could only get you so far. He wanted smarts as well - talented individuals who were adaptive, creative thinkers. He asked to implement advanced weapons training in a variety of disciplines, and unannounced emergency drills in all divisions (including Command) under multiple failure scenarios.
Kirk had seemed amiable to, perhaps even impressed by, all his suggestions. “You’re the expert in security,” he’d told Giotto. “Do what you need to do, but I want my ship to have the best goddamned security team in the fleet. And, by best, I don’t mean highest body count. I mean most efficient while not getting dead. Got it?”
Giotto had gotten it all right, and over the past fourteen months, he’s managed to come close to achieving that goal. Even “Cupcake” is coming along nicely, and the nickname, originally bestowed by their boy-wonder Captain, has gone from being a bone of contention to a badge of pride. Hoffman has become a true asset to Giotto rather than the liability the Chief first feared. Giotto predicts he will make a great security chief of his own someday - but that day is not quite here. The boy still needs seasoning.
Yes, Giotto is proud of his restructured security team. If they aren’t the best yet, they soon will be. He’s been actively courting the kind of officers he wants, recruits who not only have the physical prowess necessary, but also demonstrate the unique skills and mind-set to succeed at what Giotto considers to be the most difficult job aboard a starship. New recruitment protocols, a rigorous, multi-faceted training regime, and a series of unforgiving emergency exercises has managed to eliminate those who could not hack it, culling their numbers. Attrition has been high. Some have been disqualified. Some resigned. Of course, both are preferable to the ultimate method of determining fitness for the job, the unpredictable and often lethal dangers that confront them on the fringes of known space. Those who remain under Giotto’s tutelage have been honed and tempered into a security force to be reckoned with.
Honorable and efficient - and damn good. They should be. He’s been drilling the hell out of them. And now comes a moment of truth. Can they defend those they are sworn to protect? Can they keep themselves and their shipmates alive? Will they be the tight-knit team he needs them to be?
He watches as the initial team fans out across the chamber, their red uniforms standing out like bright jewels among the shadowy greens of the tech-foliage. They move in stealthy synchronicity, heading for their assigned points around the perimeter. Once in position, they turn back to back in order to provide cover fire if necessary. The secondary team darts straight up the middle, phasers pointing at the main structure - an informational gateway, as Mister Spock had referred to it - some kind of organic interlink with the biologically based technology of the planet. If Giotto were pressed to describe it, he would say it looks something like a melon sliced lengthwise - its brilliant green interior glistening and moist, lined with a web of fibers.
Whatever it is, it has Commander Spock now. The Vulcan is partially engulfed within the tangled, vine-like tendrils of the interface device, and seems unresponsive. Giotto holds back on the command to fire on the thing. He is no scientist, but he can tell that somehow the strange organic module has formed a physical connection with Commander Spock. Firing on it could injure or kill the commander.
Doctor McCoy and a couple science technicians begin running their tricorders over Mister Spock and the interchange pod, apparently seeking a way to release him. The captain is stalking the chamber, fists clenched, body vibrating with tension. Giotto keeps a close eye on him, ever watchful for threats. Regulations dictate that Kirk shouldn’t even be in the room - not until Giotto and his team declare it secure - which hasn’t been done. However, Giotto has long ago given up on trying to convince Captain Kirk of the necessity of following security protocols when it comes to his own safety. James Kirk makes his own rules about when and where he will allow security to do their job without bucking the system, and somehow that seems to work for him.
“Get him out of there!” Kirk spits at McCoy.
McCoy just shakes his head. “Jim, I don’t know how… I don’t know what the hell that thing is doing to him! Yanking him out of there might just make it worse!”
Giotto isn’t sure he approves of the familiar manner in which McCoy addresses the captain, but he’s learned that formality isn’t high on Kirk’s list of priorities, and the southern doctor is about as folksy as they come. Either way, it isn’t something under his authority, so he lets it go and focuses on the job at hand, securing the safety of all present.
Kirk swears and moves closer to where Spock is trapped. His blue eyes dart around the room, looking for some pattern, some detail that will help him free his first officer. Giotto too is assessing the chamber, seeking potential hazards as well as weakness. The room is massive, stretching up into patches of darkness, the walls formed of living tissue, plant-like and spongy, set with irregular bumps and protrusions - a “biologically based communications network,” had been Commander Spock’s assessment. Giotto doesn’t trust the open feel of the space. There is little cover, and that leaves them all vulnerable to attack. He tightens his hand on his drawn phaser, and signals his team to keep alert.
“Dammit, Spock,” Kirk hisses, and his voice is pitched low. Giotto is fairly certain the words are not meant to be overheard. “I told you it was too dangerous. I told you it wasn’t worth the risk, you stubborn fuck…” He breaks off and glances at Giotto, caught short by the sudden realization that he is speaking aloud. The corner of his mouth quirks slightly. “Best damn science officer in the fleet… means he can’t resist plugging himself into every biologically based I/O device that comes along, I suppose.”
Giotto wouldn’t know about that. In his opinion, the entire command crew of Enterprise is dangerously reckless, which makes his job that much more difficult. However, their collective disregard for safety protocols is offset by the fact they are also the most successful crew on record, so Giotto figures it all balances out. What could one expect when the captain of the ship was been given command after a series of audacious endeavors that bordered on insane?
McCoy and the two techs in science blue are discussing the best way to extract the commander. To Giotto, is seems they are arguing in circles. He hears several variations on, “Maybe we should…” and, “It might be possible…” and, “Perhaps if we….”
Apparently, the inconclusive nature of the discussion is getting to Kirk as well. “Just do whatever you need to do, but get him out!” he snaps, jabbing a finger pointedly in Spock’s direction. “Now!” Patience is not one of Captain Kirk’s particular virtues, and he is apparently nearing the end of his rather limited supply.
“Jim, we can’t just….”
But that is as far as McCoy gets.
There is some movement within the shadowed interior of the interface device, a shifting of the tendrils surrounding Spock. The Vulcan gasps. It is a soft sound, a bare inhalation with just a hint of a groan, but it echoes around the suddenly silent chamber with the impact of a grenade. All eyes are suddenly riveted upon the trapped commander.
Giotto knows pain when he hears it - and to hear it wrenched from a Vulcan…
Kirk responds with a sound of his own, something akin to a growl as he strides straight towards the interface module.
Giotto knows that single-minded expression and starts after him, intending to stop the captain before he does something rash.
But as Kirk reaches out to take hold of some of the filaments coiled around Commander Spock’s lean form, all Giotto has time to do is shout a warning, “Captain!”
Then Kirk yanks, and the situation goes nova.
SECONDARY:
Chlorochrous (green)
Vulcans bleed chlorochrous.
As do Vulcan-Human hybrids named Spock.
The color of Spock’s blood is green. Intellectually, Jim Kirk knows this. He took the required classes in xenobiology at the Academy. He understands about copper-based blood and Haemocyanin pigments.
But it still surprises him.
The sight of Spock’s blood.
The green of Spock’s blood.
Kirk used to think of green as simply… green. It was all the same to him. The green of an uncurling spring leaf, the green of the thestus birds of Omicron IV, the green of a tart Granny Smith, the green of an Orion girl’s …
Well, that was all before Spock. Before he really understood green. Now green has a myriad of shades and meanings.
There is the asparagus green tinge to Spock’s skin that sallows to a yellowish pear shade when he is ill.
The slight olive cast to his lips, which becomes more pronounced if he’s been tightening his mouth to hide vexation.
The bloom of jade green above his eyelids, that makes him look as though he’s been experimenting with cosmetics.
The mossy green of his nail beds at the end of long, elegant fingers.
The sage flush that blossoms on his cheeks and darkens his ear tips when he is “emotionally compromised”.
…and then there is the green of Vulcan blood.
Kirk watches now as a rivulet of emerald traces a path from Spock’s left nostril, slithering downward like a jungle snake.
Kirk’s hands clench into fists, and he whirls on McCoy and the science team whose ineffective jabberings are getting them nowhere. “Just do whatever you need to do,” he seethes, desperate and shackled by helplessness. “But get him out! Now!”
McCoy’s hands flutter over his tricorder, pressing buttons, flipping switches, seeking solace in the familiar. “Jim, we can’t just….”
And then Spock moans. It is a bare gasp of sound but it slams into Kirk with the force of a tsunami - because Spock doesn’t cry out in pain. Spock will barely admit to pain, even when a body slam from an muscle-bound Gorn warrior has broken both his legs. To hear his First in distress tears through the last of Kirk’s restraint.
Jettisoning everything he knows about protocols and safety factors, he reacts on instinct.
With a strangled snarl of frustration, he launches himself at the living interchange terminal which has Spock wrapped in its clutches. Grasping hold of two of the vines twined around his science officer, he braces his feet and jerks. Then yelps in surprise as the tendrils abruptly sprout spikes that tear into the flesh of his palms.
What the fuck?
He pulls back, gaping at the jagged wounds welling with blood. His inattention gets him ambushed by another creeper that swiftly uncurls and slaps him in the side of the head. He goes down hard, feeling the sting as the thorns lay open flesh across his cheek and forehead.
Okay, so not cool.
He rolls, allowing the momentum to carry him back upright. Pausing, he faces the module and considers, while carefully balancing on the balls of his feet. So far it is nasty-ass biological computer terminal, two. Heroic Starfleet captain, zilch.
Crap.
Another tendril strikes out and he dodges, ducking beneath it. Never let it be said he isn’t a fast learner. Once again, he seizes hold of the coils wrapped around Spock and heaves. “Let. Him. Go!” he hisses.
Behind him, chaos erupts. He hears Giotto shouting orders. There is phaser fire, but it is not directed towards the interface module. Something else is going on. He spares a quick glance. Security is trying to hustle McCoy and the others out while taking up defensive positions. Larger coils are erupting from the walls, flailing about and trying to strike the security officers. It looks like a couple members of the security team are down, but for the most part they are holding their own. Trusting Giotto to handle it, Kirk continues in his efforts to untangle Spock.
More thorns slice into his skin. He grits his teeth against the sharp edged pain and keeps going, his nails tearing at the fleshy pulp of the vines as he rips them away from his first officer. Blood trickles down the side of his face and begins to pool in his eye sockets. He tries to wipe it away, but only succeeds in smearing more blood across his skin.
This is not going well.
Someone punches him in the arm. Hard. There is no one there. He turns to find a large thorn sticking out of his triceps. Wonderful. With his luck, it is probably poisoned and will turn him into a zombie or something. He wrenches it free and tosses it over his shoulder. No time to worry about it now. He just hopes he doesn’t eat someone’s brains. At least not anyone he likes.
He dives back in, clawing at the coils. He manages to free Spock’s left side.
But his right arm is beginning to burn, the fire flickering and spreading outward from the wound left by the thorn. Damn, it hurts. This is not good. Not good at all. His fingers begin to cramp and fumble as numbness sets in. It is more disturbing than the pain. Eventually, his fingers stop working altogether. He growls and soldiers on with his left hand.
Then someone is looming over him, getting close and intimate with his personal space. Large hands join his own, rending the tendrils.
He glances over a shoulder and grins at the bearded security officer towering above him. “Heya, Cupcake!”
Karl Hoffman has placed himself at Kirk’s back, covering him as he works. “Captain…” he replies, expression stalwart and daunting, like the good guard dog he is. “It looked like you could use some help.”
Kirk rubs again at the blood in his eyes. The taste of it is metallic on his lips. His right arm is now useless, hanging from his shoulder like a dead thing. “Yeah. Sure. Help is good. Thanks.”
He may not have giant brambles on his side, but he’s got the best security team in Starfleet, and that’s got to count for something!
Together, they rip at the vines.
TERTIARY:
Cyan (blue-green) &
Chartreuse (yellow-green)
The verdant Bio-tech of the planet currently designated M-221 leaks shades of green fluid when damaged, varying from cyan to chartreuse.
In his logs, Kirk will refer to the planet as Triffid Town, after some obscure literary reference only he understands.
However, Starfleet will officially adopt Nynar, after some obscure reference only they understand.
The biologically based plant tech of this planet is alive. When scorched by phaser fire, the living tissue bleeds thick, wet ichor which spatters the surroundings like impressionistic pointillism in a spectrum of greenish shades from yellow to blue.
For his part, Security Officer Karl Hoffman lacks the artistic eye to appreciate any of this. What Hoffman does know is that the fucking walls are shooting at them - some kind of sharp projectiles - fucking thorns!
He scowls and blasts another vine into green splatter.
F-ing hell.
They’ve whipped up a cluster fuck for sure. Seems like this kind of shit goes down all too often around James T. Man is bad-news bait.
He sees Strogolev take one in the throat and fall, arterial blood spattering those around him.
Damn. Right in the carotid.
Shit luck for Strogolev, Hoffman notes with detachment. He is too busy taking aim at another of the giant, thorn encrusted tentacles spouting from the walls to give his fellow security officer more than cursory attention. He burns the tentacle good.
Adios fucker.
The shot sends the vine thing slithering back into the walls, but not before it has swept Ensign Nnamani off her feet. The FNG scrambles up quickly, favoring her left leg, but otherwise seems okay.
Too bad about Strogolev though. He’d been a good drinking buddy on shore leave. But maybe the guy isn’t worm-food yet, because doc McCoy is suddenly there, skidding to his knees beside the fallen officer. He slips in the blood and lands hard on one hip, but that doesn’t stop him from jabbing an ever-present hypo into Strogolev.
Giotto is trying to herd McCoy and all other non-security personnel out of the chamber and away from the firefight, but the doc is having none of it. So instead, Giotto crouches beside McCoy and sets up suppressive fire. He catches Hoffman’s eye and gestures towards Kirk, who is still fighting with the thing that has Commander Spock. “Cover the captain!”
Hoffman nods his acknowledgment. He can’t see if Kirk is making any progress, but he can see that the captain’s hands are covered in blood. Not green blood though, so it isn’t the commander’s. Kirk must be injured. That is bad. Letting the captain get slapped and zapped never looks good in security reports. The Big Brass tends to frown on things like that.
He grimaces when Kirk takes a thorn in the arm. So not good. Those things might be poisonous. He really should get the captain out of here, but that’s not going to happen while Spock is still trapped - not unless he bodily picks the man up and carries him out. It is not the first time he’s been tempted. Still, as inconvenient as it may be for security, that is one of the things he’s grown to admire about his young captain. Kirk doesn’t leave men behind, and he certainly isn’t going anywhere without Spock. That’s just a given on the Enterprise so that means if Hoffman wants to get the captain to safety, he has to get Spock to safely. And he’ll do it, even if he has to rip that pod thing apart with his bare hands.
Carefully selecting the route that will expose him to the least amount of enemy fire, he advances towards Kirk’s location, and takes up a position nut to butt with the captain. This allows him to shield Kirk from the flying thorns and still assist in extracting Commander Spock. He reaches out to take hold of one of the strands wrapped around Spock. The vines are covered in sharp spurs.
Fuck.
Well, that explains some of the blood.
The captain shoots him look, white teeth flashing in a ghoulish grin. His face is painted in blood. His blue eyes mischievous. “Heya, Cupcake!”
There was a time Kirk’s use of that nickname would have left Hoffman wanting to tear the man a new one, but the name along with the irreverent young captain have grown on him.
“Kommt Zeit, kommt Rat, Karl,” his grandmother would have said. “With time comes insight.”
“Captain,” he replies. “It looked like you could use some help.”
Kirk has gone back to fighting with the fibers. What he lacks in brute force, he more than makes up for in sheer tenacity. “Yeah. Sure,” he pants. “Help is good. Thanks.”
Hoffman digs his safety gloves out of his utility pouch and offers them to the captain, but the young man shakes his head. “Naw. You use them. I’m already fucked. Bones will have to do a regen on me. He’ll be bitching about it for a week.”
Hoffman doesn’t feel right about using gloves when his captain is tearing his hands to shreds, but like Giotto, he has learned the futility of arguing with James T. Kirk. Only two members of the crew seem able to dissuade Kirk when he has his mind set on something, and as he is neither Spock nor McCoy, Hoffman doesn’t waste time trying; he just pulls on the gloves and gets to work.
They make fast progress. The gloves help, and of course there is the incentive of the shit storm at their back. Kirk wants Spock out of there, and Hoffman wants Kirk out of there, so there is no holding back. When the first of the thorns imbeds itself in Hoffman’s lower back, he grunts, and takes a moment to pull it free.
He frowns at the bright green spine in annoyance. “Shit. I’ve been hit.”
They have Spock mostly free now. Kirk has grasped Spock’s shoulder in his good hand and shaking him gingerly. Trying to rouse him, Hoffman supposes. The Vulcan’s eyes are dazed and distant. Kirk pauses long enough to shoot Hoffman a look he supposes is meant to be sympathetic. “It’ll burn. And then go numb. But…” the corner of his mouth twists wryly. “I’m still alive, so I guess that’s a positive.” He’s given up on joggling Spock, and has instead placed his hand along the Vulcan’s cheek. “Spock! Spock!” he whispers urgently. “I need you to wake up! Spock!” He slaps the Vulcan’s cheek lightly, leaving bloody hand prints in his wake. Hoffman finds himself unsettled by the mix of red and green blood painted across Spock’s face.
Kirk’s right about the burn. Like someone has poured acid on his skin. It hurts like a bitch, but it hadn’t seemed to slow James T. down any, and there is just no fucking way Hoffman isn’t going to live up to that same standard.
He has to repeat that vow when a second thorn buries itself in his thigh. He reminds himself he is just doing his duty, taking the thorns for Kirk, for his captain - he may be Starfleet’s golden boy, but unlike most shiny dicks, he is actually a damn good leader.
The commander seems to be coming out of it. He is blinking, slowly, like he is waking up from some dream. His lips move, but Hoffman can’t catch anything he is saying.
Kirk, however, seems elated. “Spock! You’re back!” Hand pressed against Spock’s cheek, he rubs one thumb over the corner of the Vulcan’s mouth in a gesture Hoffman finds disturbingly intimate.
“Spock?”
The Vulcan’s eyes seem to clear just a fraction in response to the captains’ voice. “Ji… Ji… m. I ca… can… n… not…”
“Don’t worry,” Kirk assures him. “We got ya!” He slips his good arm around the Vulcan and starts trying to pry him out of the pod. The commander makes a strange groaning sound and shudders, his eyes sliding closed again.
“What the hell…?” Kirk frowns and pulls his hand from behind Spock’s back. His fingers are tangled with fine, green filaments. He takes Spock’s weight, carefully tilting the Vulcan forward, and Hoffman can see the lacework of fine threads that stretch between the commander and the wall of the interface module. Eyes round, Kirk cautiously lifts Spock’s uniform shirt and undertunic, exposing bare skin. The filaments have burrowed into the Vulcan’s body, forming a web-like connective lattice between him and the pod.
Hoffman grunts in disgust. That is so fucked.
Kirk himself seems a bit at a loss. He tugs cautiously at some of the threads, and they slide free while Spock jerks in his hold. “Oh, shit!”
An understatement, Hoffman thinks.
The green strands in Kirk’s hold flail weakly, then try to dig into his skin. He yelps and drops them.
Hoffman’s leg is starting to go numb, the detached feeling slowly spreading downward. This is taking too much time. “Captain, he says firmly. “We have to move, now.”
“Right,” Kirk agrees, snapping himself back into command mode. “Spock, time to go.” He takes a firm grip around Spock’s waist, braces himself, and bodily hauls his first officer out of the pod. Spock cries out and trembles, then collapses, nearly taking Kirk down with him. Hoffman reaches out to steady them both. Kirk is staggering under the Vulcan’s weight, and Hoffman remembers that Vulcans have a higher body mass than humans. Expression set, Kirk starts to totter across the chamber with Spock, but with only one working arm, he can’t get a firm grip. The two are unbalanced, and Spock is dead weight, his feet dragging behind him.
Hoffman stays close, trying to keep them covered, but at this rate, they are going to get smoked out here.
“Captain,” he asserts, “We can move faster, if you let me take him.”
He does not actually give Kirk time to consider, being fairly certain he will decline, but rather horns in and takes the Vulcan out of Kirk’s grasp, hoisting the commander over his shoulder in a fireman’s carry. Kirk looks as though he is about to protest, but then a lashing creeper tries to eviscerate both of them, and they are too busy defending themselves to worry about proprietary rights.
They are half way across the chamber when Hoffman’s leg gives out. It has gone lifeless and no longer wants to support him. He collapses to one knee, nearly dislodging his hold on Spock.
Kirk is beside him in an instant.
“Leg’s gone.” Hoffman tells him as Kirk takes a grip under his elbow and tries to lever him to his feet. However, with only one working arm, the captain proves unable to lift the combined weight of Hoffman and the unconscious Vulcan. Spitting out a few muttered words Hoffman recognizes as a fusion of Andorian and Klingon profanity, Kirk takes a stance at Hoffman’s side. He spins and twists, shooting sporadically as he tries to cover both Hoffman and his first officer.
“You’d better take him,” Hoffman grunts, shifting his hold on the Vulcan in order to hand him over to the captain.
He does not get the chance.
As usual, Chief Giotto is on top of things. There is a spat of suppressive fire and two security officers jog to their aid. Well, Morrell jogs. Z-nam’T’eh’s approach is closer to a slither. They ease Spock out of Hoffman’s grip and scurry towards the exit. Kirk takes a couple abortive steps in their wake, then turns and crouches down beside Hoffman. “Come on, Cupcake. Time to get the hell outta Dodge.”
“You go on, sir,” Hoffman tells him striving for stoic and telling himself there are worse ways to die than by sacrificing yourself to save the shit-hot Enterprise command team.
Kirk shakes his head and slips an arm around Hoffman’s waist. “Sorry Lieutenant. We’re getting out of here together, so you can either help me, or I’ll just drag you by your dick. Which is it going to be?”
Once again, Hoffman feels fortunate that he agreed to remain aboard Enterprise when Kirk was given the captaincy. It had been a near thing, as Hoffman’s initial impressions of Kirk had been less that flattering. “Kommt Zeit, kommt Rat,” indeed.
“No need for that, sir.”
With a grunt, Hoffman throws an arm over the captain’s shoulders, leans heavily against him, and uses his good leg to heave himself upward.
He has just one good leg. Kirk, only one working arm. Between them, they manage to stagger, hop, and shuffle past the pair of red-shirts guarding the chamber opening and beyond - to the relative safety of a corridor formed by an arched thicket of tangled vegetation. The smell of plantlife is ripe and moist around them, like the heavy air of the botany greenhouse on Enterprise. Medical personnel descend upon them like flies, easing them apart. Kirk hands Hoffman into their care, but somehow manages to discourage the hovering med techs from checking him out, waving their scanners and hypos aside impatiently. Hoffman sees him gaze further down the corridor, where a knot of fevered activity indicates the presence of McCoy and some techs tending to Commander Spock. Kirk’s fists clench, and he gnaws on his lip for a moment before turning away and striding over to Chief Giotto. Hoffman can’t hear what is being said, but both men are stiff with tension.
“Here, this will help.” A throaty feminine voice pulls his attention and he turns to the woman crouching down beside him. There is a hiss; a hypo is presses against his arm. He recognizes Chapel, a tall, aristocratic blonde who serves as McCoy’s head nurse and all around XO in Sickbay. “It will neutralize the anesthetic agent in your system.”
The numbness immediately begins to fade, replaced once again by a burning sensation. He grunts in discomfort and Chapel gives him a wan smile while patting him lightly on the arm. “I know, but it will pass quickly. Just sit here for a minute. You’ll be fine.”
Kirk and Giotto are engaged in rapid-fire discussion, but the young Captain keeps shooting fleeting glances towards his CMO’s position. Their swift exchange ends with a curt nod from Kirk, who slaps Giotto on the shoulder and heads swiftly towards McCoy. His path takes him past Hoffman who is stretched out across the corridor, his legs impeding traffic. Embarrassed, Hoffman tries to pull his lower limbs out of the way, but he hasn’t yet regained full control, and his movements are spasmodic and ineffective. Kirk never slows, but hops over him easily. However, rather than hurrying past, he stops and squats down beside the security officer.
“Hey, how are you doing?”
Hoffman blinks at him in surprise. “Sir?”
“You took two of those things. How are you feeling?”
Hoffman has no doubt that Kirk is exceedingly anxious to get to Commander Spock, yet here he is taking the time to check in with him. “I’m fine, sir. They said it will pass in a few minutes. I’ll be ready to go back in if you need me to.”
Kirk smiles, and reaches out to squeeze his shoulder. “No need for that. We’re pulling out of here as soon as Commander Spock is stable.” His gaze darts towards the injured first officer and back. “Thanks for your help, by the way.”
“Just doing my duty, sir.”
“And doing it well, too.” Another quick squeeze, a flash of a grim smile, and then he is gone.
Hoffman watches him go, leaning back against the tangle of vines and listening to his Oma’s amused voice in his ear, “Remember I told you so, Mauschen. Kommt Zeit, kommt Rat.”
Glossary: (With thanks to the various internet sources, and a bit of artistic license.)
g = German
msp = Military speak
FNG - (msp) Fucking New Girl (or Guy)
Kommt Zeit, kommt Rat - (g) With time comes insight
Mauschen - (g) little mouse
Oma - (g) grandmother
shiny dicks - (msp) officers higher up in the military ranking system
COLORS:Luminosity
PRIMARY:
Carmine (red)
Members of Starfleet Security wear carmine uniforms.
And sometimes die for causes they hope are worthwhile.
For Security Chief Lazzaro Giotto, red is the color of efficiency, honor, and service. He knows this is not so for everyone - knows that for many, red speaks of danger and death. For them, red brings to mind the throbbing, crimson light of a ship on alert and seconds from disaster, or the brilliant splashes of Human blood, dripping from open wounds and pooling under broken bodies. He’s heard the whispered comments about “Red Shirts”- the superstitions that surround donning a red colored uniform. Yes, red means sacrifice, but it means a hell of a lot more than that to Giotto.
Admittedly, Security has a higher mortality rate than the other divisions, but that is to be expected. If they didn’t put their lives on the line - if they didn’t sometimes die fulfilling their duty - then others would perish in their stead. And that means Security would not be doing its job. Security Sector exists to protect. To preserve. To shield. And sometimes to die. They are the front line. The ones who take the brunt of all the hostile forces the universe decides to throw at Fleet.
Still, Giotto is no fool. He has seen too many Security officers killed needlessly because they were too slow or too stupid or too full of testosterone to think before they acted. He abhors such needless waste.
Apparently, James Kirk abhors it as well, for when he took over the Enterprise, he implemented some drastic changes in his security division. First, he recruited Giotto right out from under Starfleet’s nose. Giotto had been running core security at Starbase 12, and Kirk, apparently, had been shopping around for new blood to head up his security department. Something about Giotto’s file must have caught Kirk’s eye, for the security chief found himself facing Starfleet’s youngest captain - newly minted galactic hero, James T. Kirk - across a conference table aboard the Starship Enterprise.
“You took over as security chief on Starbase 12 two years ago,” Kirk had noted, his lean form casually draped across the chair. He’d used one foot to slowly shift the swivel chair back and forth while a finger drew meaningless doodles on the smooth top of the conference table. “Since then, both violent crimes and property crimes have dropped by eighty-four percent. That’s pretty impressive.” Startling blue eyes had flickered across his face, weighing, judging, revealing a keen mind disguised behind an insolent grin. “I might even think you were doctoring the reports, if certain little birdies hadn’t chirped that the word is out in the Orion syndicate. Starbase 12 is now considered ‘unfriendly territory.’”
Giotto had an instant distrust of “galactic heroes” but there was something about Kirk that told him that this kid was more than just Starfleet’s latest publicity stunt. Lazzaro hadn’t gotten where he was by being obtuse. He could read people, and read them well. Despite the youthful captain’s deliberate show of fatuous nonchalance, the man was no frivolous pretty boy, though he knew how to project that persona very well. Next to him, the Enterprise’s Vulcan first officer, Mister Spock, had sat primly studying Giotto with unblinking dark eyes. He might well have been carved out of stone for all the reaction he displayed. Giotto would not have wanted to face either member of this particular command team across a poker table.
On the other hand, Karl Hoffman, the burly, interim security chief seated at Kirk’s opposite side, had been an as easy to read as a holo-ad for a strip-club. He’d been broadcasting red-faced anger and resentment so loudly, Giotto had been surprised the fire alarms had not reacted to the level of furious heat in the room. Obviously, someone had assumed they were going to be given the Chief’s position permanently, and did not appreciate the possibility of Giotto being made head of security. Hoffman had spent the meeting looking like he wanted to come across the table and take Giotto apart, limb by limb.
Hoffman, or “Cupcake” as Giotto later learned, was just the type of thick-necked, hot-headed security officer that tended to get his limbs blown off before he’d been at the job long enough to learn restraint. If Giotto took the position, Kirk explained, Hoffman would be his second in command. That alone had almost made Lazzaro walk away from the offer. The idea of trying to keep a resentful pit bull on a leash was not something he relished. Then again, Giotto had not gotten where he was by backing down from a challenge. After all, promotion to Lieutenant Commander and security chief aboard a Constitution-class starship was quite a feather in one’s cap.
He decided he could handle Hoffman. Might even turn him into something useful, but Giotto insisted on making a few demands of his own. He wanted full control of security recruitment. No more positions filled solely upon physique. Bulging biceps and prodigious pecs could only get you so far. He wanted smarts as well - talented individuals who were adaptive, creative thinkers. He asked to implement advanced weapons training in a variety of disciplines, and unannounced emergency drills in all divisions (including Command) under multiple failure scenarios.
Kirk had seemed amiable to, perhaps even impressed by, all his suggestions. “You’re the expert in security,” he’d told Giotto. “Do what you need to do, but I want my ship to have the best goddamned security team in the fleet. And, by best, I don’t mean highest body count. I mean most efficient while not getting dead. Got it?”
Giotto had gotten it all right, and over the past fourteen months, he’s managed to come close to achieving that goal. Even “Cupcake” is coming along nicely, and the nickname, originally bestowed by their boy-wonder Captain, has gone from being a bone of contention to a badge of pride. Hoffman has become a true asset to Giotto rather than the liability the Chief first feared. Giotto predicts he will make a great security chief of his own someday - but that day is not quite here. The boy still needs seasoning.
Yes, Giotto is proud of his restructured security team. If they aren’t the best yet, they soon will be. He’s been actively courting the kind of officers he wants, recruits who not only have the physical prowess necessary, but also demonstrate the unique skills and mind-set to succeed at what Giotto considers to be the most difficult job aboard a starship. New recruitment protocols, a rigorous, multi-faceted training regime, and a series of unforgiving emergency exercises has managed to eliminate those who could not hack it, culling their numbers. Attrition has been high. Some have been disqualified. Some resigned. Of course, both are preferable to the ultimate method of determining fitness for the job, the unpredictable and often lethal dangers that confront them on the fringes of known space. Those who remain under Giotto’s tutelage have been honed and tempered into a security force to be reckoned with.
Honorable and efficient - and damn good. They should be. He’s been drilling the hell out of them. And now comes a moment of truth. Can they defend those they are sworn to protect? Can they keep themselves and their shipmates alive? Will they be the tight-knit team he needs them to be?
He watches as the initial team fans out across the chamber, their red uniforms standing out like bright jewels among the shadowy greens of the tech-foliage. They move in stealthy synchronicity, heading for their assigned points around the perimeter. Once in position, they turn back to back in order to provide cover fire if necessary. The secondary team darts straight up the middle, phasers pointing at the main structure - an informational gateway, as Mister Spock had referred to it - some kind of organic interlink with the biologically based technology of the planet. If Giotto were pressed to describe it, he would say it looks something like a melon sliced lengthwise - its brilliant green interior glistening and moist, lined with a web of fibers.
Whatever it is, it has Commander Spock now. The Vulcan is partially engulfed within the tangled, vine-like tendrils of the interface device, and seems unresponsive. Giotto holds back on the command to fire on the thing. He is no scientist, but he can tell that somehow the strange organic module has formed a physical connection with Commander Spock. Firing on it could injure or kill the commander.
Doctor McCoy and a couple science technicians begin running their tricorders over Mister Spock and the interchange pod, apparently seeking a way to release him. The captain is stalking the chamber, fists clenched, body vibrating with tension. Giotto keeps a close eye on him, ever watchful for threats. Regulations dictate that Kirk shouldn’t even be in the room - not until Giotto and his team declare it secure - which hasn’t been done. However, Giotto has long ago given up on trying to convince Captain Kirk of the necessity of following security protocols when it comes to his own safety. James Kirk makes his own rules about when and where he will allow security to do their job without bucking the system, and somehow that seems to work for him.
“Get him out of there!” Kirk spits at McCoy.
McCoy just shakes his head. “Jim, I don’t know how… I don’t know what the hell that thing is doing to him! Yanking him out of there might just make it worse!”
Giotto isn’t sure he approves of the familiar manner in which McCoy addresses the captain, but he’s learned that formality isn’t high on Kirk’s list of priorities, and the southern doctor is about as folksy as they come. Either way, it isn’t something under his authority, so he lets it go and focuses on the job at hand, securing the safety of all present.
Kirk swears and moves closer to where Spock is trapped. His blue eyes dart around the room, looking for some pattern, some detail that will help him free his first officer. Giotto too is assessing the chamber, seeking potential hazards as well as weakness. The room is massive, stretching up into patches of darkness, the walls formed of living tissue, plant-like and spongy, set with irregular bumps and protrusions - a “biologically based communications network,” had been Commander Spock’s assessment. Giotto doesn’t trust the open feel of the space. There is little cover, and that leaves them all vulnerable to attack. He tightens his hand on his drawn phaser, and signals his team to keep alert.
“Dammit, Spock,” Kirk hisses, and his voice is pitched low. Giotto is fairly certain the words are not meant to be overheard. “I told you it was too dangerous. I told you it wasn’t worth the risk, you stubborn fuck…” He breaks off and glances at Giotto, caught short by the sudden realization that he is speaking aloud. The corner of his mouth quirks slightly. “Best damn science officer in the fleet… means he can’t resist plugging himself into every biologically based I/O device that comes along, I suppose.”
Giotto wouldn’t know about that. In his opinion, the entire command crew of Enterprise is dangerously reckless, which makes his job that much more difficult. However, their collective disregard for safety protocols is offset by the fact they are also the most successful crew on record, so Giotto figures it all balances out. What could one expect when the captain of the ship was been given command after a series of audacious endeavors that bordered on insane?
McCoy and the two techs in science blue are discussing the best way to extract the commander. To Giotto, is seems they are arguing in circles. He hears several variations on, “Maybe we should…” and, “It might be possible…” and, “Perhaps if we….”
Apparently, the inconclusive nature of the discussion is getting to Kirk as well. “Just do whatever you need to do, but get him out!” he snaps, jabbing a finger pointedly in Spock’s direction. “Now!” Patience is not one of Captain Kirk’s particular virtues, and he is apparently nearing the end of his rather limited supply.
“Jim, we can’t just….”
But that is as far as McCoy gets.
There is some movement within the shadowed interior of the interface device, a shifting of the tendrils surrounding Spock. The Vulcan gasps. It is a soft sound, a bare inhalation with just a hint of a groan, but it echoes around the suddenly silent chamber with the impact of a grenade. All eyes are suddenly riveted upon the trapped commander.
Giotto knows pain when he hears it - and to hear it wrenched from a Vulcan…
Kirk responds with a sound of his own, something akin to a growl as he strides straight towards the interface module.
Giotto knows that single-minded expression and starts after him, intending to stop the captain before he does something rash.
But as Kirk reaches out to take hold of some of the filaments coiled around Commander Spock’s lean form, all Giotto has time to do is shout a warning, “Captain!”
Then Kirk yanks, and the situation goes nova.
SECONDARY:
Chlorochrous (green)
Vulcans bleed chlorochrous.
As do Vulcan-Human hybrids named Spock.
The color of Spock’s blood is green. Intellectually, Jim Kirk knows this. He took the required classes in xenobiology at the Academy. He understands about copper-based blood and Haemocyanin pigments.
But it still surprises him.
The sight of Spock’s blood.
The green of Spock’s blood.
Kirk used to think of green as simply… green. It was all the same to him. The green of an uncurling spring leaf, the green of the thestus birds of Omicron IV, the green of a tart Granny Smith, the green of an Orion girl’s …
Well, that was all before Spock. Before he really understood green. Now green has a myriad of shades and meanings.
There is the asparagus green tinge to Spock’s skin that sallows to a yellowish pear shade when he is ill.
The slight olive cast to his lips, which becomes more pronounced if he’s been tightening his mouth to hide vexation.
The bloom of jade green above his eyelids, that makes him look as though he’s been experimenting with cosmetics.
The mossy green of his nail beds at the end of long, elegant fingers.
The sage flush that blossoms on his cheeks and darkens his ear tips when he is “emotionally compromised”.
…and then there is the green of Vulcan blood.
Kirk watches now as a rivulet of emerald traces a path from Spock’s left nostril, slithering downward like a jungle snake.
Kirk’s hands clench into fists, and he whirls on McCoy and the science team whose ineffective jabberings are getting them nowhere. “Just do whatever you need to do,” he seethes, desperate and shackled by helplessness. “But get him out! Now!”
McCoy’s hands flutter over his tricorder, pressing buttons, flipping switches, seeking solace in the familiar. “Jim, we can’t just….”
And then Spock moans. It is a bare gasp of sound but it slams into Kirk with the force of a tsunami - because Spock doesn’t cry out in pain. Spock will barely admit to pain, even when a body slam from an muscle-bound Gorn warrior has broken both his legs. To hear his First in distress tears through the last of Kirk’s restraint.
Jettisoning everything he knows about protocols and safety factors, he reacts on instinct.
With a strangled snarl of frustration, he launches himself at the living interchange terminal which has Spock wrapped in its clutches. Grasping hold of two of the vines twined around his science officer, he braces his feet and jerks. Then yelps in surprise as the tendrils abruptly sprout spikes that tear into the flesh of his palms.
What the fuck?
He pulls back, gaping at the jagged wounds welling with blood. His inattention gets him ambushed by another creeper that swiftly uncurls and slaps him in the side of the head. He goes down hard, feeling the sting as the thorns lay open flesh across his cheek and forehead.
Okay, so not cool.
He rolls, allowing the momentum to carry him back upright. Pausing, he faces the module and considers, while carefully balancing on the balls of his feet. So far it is nasty-ass biological computer terminal, two. Heroic Starfleet captain, zilch.
Crap.
Another tendril strikes out and he dodges, ducking beneath it. Never let it be said he isn’t a fast learner. Once again, he seizes hold of the coils wrapped around Spock and heaves. “Let. Him. Go!” he hisses.
Behind him, chaos erupts. He hears Giotto shouting orders. There is phaser fire, but it is not directed towards the interface module. Something else is going on. He spares a quick glance. Security is trying to hustle McCoy and the others out while taking up defensive positions. Larger coils are erupting from the walls, flailing about and trying to strike the security officers. It looks like a couple members of the security team are down, but for the most part they are holding their own. Trusting Giotto to handle it, Kirk continues in his efforts to untangle Spock.
More thorns slice into his skin. He grits his teeth against the sharp edged pain and keeps going, his nails tearing at the fleshy pulp of the vines as he rips them away from his first officer. Blood trickles down the side of his face and begins to pool in his eye sockets. He tries to wipe it away, but only succeeds in smearing more blood across his skin.
This is not going well.
Someone punches him in the arm. Hard. There is no one there. He turns to find a large thorn sticking out of his triceps. Wonderful. With his luck, it is probably poisoned and will turn him into a zombie or something. He wrenches it free and tosses it over his shoulder. No time to worry about it now. He just hopes he doesn’t eat someone’s brains. At least not anyone he likes.
He dives back in, clawing at the coils. He manages to free Spock’s left side.
But his right arm is beginning to burn, the fire flickering and spreading outward from the wound left by the thorn. Damn, it hurts. This is not good. Not good at all. His fingers begin to cramp and fumble as numbness sets in. It is more disturbing than the pain. Eventually, his fingers stop working altogether. He growls and soldiers on with his left hand.
Then someone is looming over him, getting close and intimate with his personal space. Large hands join his own, rending the tendrils.
He glances over a shoulder and grins at the bearded security officer towering above him. “Heya, Cupcake!”
Karl Hoffman has placed himself at Kirk’s back, covering him as he works. “Captain…” he replies, expression stalwart and daunting, like the good guard dog he is. “It looked like you could use some help.”
Kirk rubs again at the blood in his eyes. The taste of it is metallic on his lips. His right arm is now useless, hanging from his shoulder like a dead thing. “Yeah. Sure. Help is good. Thanks.”
He may not have giant brambles on his side, but he’s got the best security team in Starfleet, and that’s got to count for something!
Together, they rip at the vines.
TERTIARY:
Cyan (blue-green) &
Chartreuse (yellow-green)
The verdant Bio-tech of the planet currently designated M-221 leaks shades of green fluid when damaged, varying from cyan to chartreuse.
In his logs, Kirk will refer to the planet as Triffid Town, after some obscure literary reference only he understands.
However, Starfleet will officially adopt Nynar, after some obscure reference only they understand.
The biologically based plant tech of this planet is alive. When scorched by phaser fire, the living tissue bleeds thick, wet ichor which spatters the surroundings like impressionistic pointillism in a spectrum of greenish shades from yellow to blue.
For his part, Security Officer Karl Hoffman lacks the artistic eye to appreciate any of this. What Hoffman does know is that the fucking walls are shooting at them - some kind of sharp projectiles - fucking thorns!
He scowls and blasts another vine into green splatter.
F-ing hell.
They’ve whipped up a cluster fuck for sure. Seems like this kind of shit goes down all too often around James T. Man is bad-news bait.
He sees Strogolev take one in the throat and fall, arterial blood spattering those around him.
Damn. Right in the carotid.
Shit luck for Strogolev, Hoffman notes with detachment. He is too busy taking aim at another of the giant, thorn encrusted tentacles spouting from the walls to give his fellow security officer more than cursory attention. He burns the tentacle good.
Adios fucker.
The shot sends the vine thing slithering back into the walls, but not before it has swept Ensign Nnamani off her feet. The FNG scrambles up quickly, favoring her left leg, but otherwise seems okay.
Too bad about Strogolev though. He’d been a good drinking buddy on shore leave. But maybe the guy isn’t worm-food yet, because doc McCoy is suddenly there, skidding to his knees beside the fallen officer. He slips in the blood and lands hard on one hip, but that doesn’t stop him from jabbing an ever-present hypo into Strogolev.
Giotto is trying to herd McCoy and all other non-security personnel out of the chamber and away from the firefight, but the doc is having none of it. So instead, Giotto crouches beside McCoy and sets up suppressive fire. He catches Hoffman’s eye and gestures towards Kirk, who is still fighting with the thing that has Commander Spock. “Cover the captain!”
Hoffman nods his acknowledgment. He can’t see if Kirk is making any progress, but he can see that the captain’s hands are covered in blood. Not green blood though, so it isn’t the commander’s. Kirk must be injured. That is bad. Letting the captain get slapped and zapped never looks good in security reports. The Big Brass tends to frown on things like that.
He grimaces when Kirk takes a thorn in the arm. So not good. Those things might be poisonous. He really should get the captain out of here, but that’s not going to happen while Spock is still trapped - not unless he bodily picks the man up and carries him out. It is not the first time he’s been tempted. Still, as inconvenient as it may be for security, that is one of the things he’s grown to admire about his young captain. Kirk doesn’t leave men behind, and he certainly isn’t going anywhere without Spock. That’s just a given on the Enterprise so that means if Hoffman wants to get the captain to safety, he has to get Spock to safely. And he’ll do it, even if he has to rip that pod thing apart with his bare hands.
Carefully selecting the route that will expose him to the least amount of enemy fire, he advances towards Kirk’s location, and takes up a position nut to butt with the captain. This allows him to shield Kirk from the flying thorns and still assist in extracting Commander Spock. He reaches out to take hold of one of the strands wrapped around Spock. The vines are covered in sharp spurs.
Fuck.
Well, that explains some of the blood.
The captain shoots him look, white teeth flashing in a ghoulish grin. His face is painted in blood. His blue eyes mischievous. “Heya, Cupcake!”
There was a time Kirk’s use of that nickname would have left Hoffman wanting to tear the man a new one, but the name along with the irreverent young captain have grown on him.
“Kommt Zeit, kommt Rat, Karl,” his grandmother would have said. “With time comes insight.”
“Captain,” he replies. “It looked like you could use some help.”
Kirk has gone back to fighting with the fibers. What he lacks in brute force, he more than makes up for in sheer tenacity. “Yeah. Sure,” he pants. “Help is good. Thanks.”
Hoffman digs his safety gloves out of his utility pouch and offers them to the captain, but the young man shakes his head. “Naw. You use them. I’m already fucked. Bones will have to do a regen on me. He’ll be bitching about it for a week.”
Hoffman doesn’t feel right about using gloves when his captain is tearing his hands to shreds, but like Giotto, he has learned the futility of arguing with James T. Kirk. Only two members of the crew seem able to dissuade Kirk when he has his mind set on something, and as he is neither Spock nor McCoy, Hoffman doesn’t waste time trying; he just pulls on the gloves and gets to work.
They make fast progress. The gloves help, and of course there is the incentive of the shit storm at their back. Kirk wants Spock out of there, and Hoffman wants Kirk out of there, so there is no holding back. When the first of the thorns imbeds itself in Hoffman’s lower back, he grunts, and takes a moment to pull it free.
He frowns at the bright green spine in annoyance. “Shit. I’ve been hit.”
They have Spock mostly free now. Kirk has grasped Spock’s shoulder in his good hand and shaking him gingerly. Trying to rouse him, Hoffman supposes. The Vulcan’s eyes are dazed and distant. Kirk pauses long enough to shoot Hoffman a look he supposes is meant to be sympathetic. “It’ll burn. And then go numb. But…” the corner of his mouth twists wryly. “I’m still alive, so I guess that’s a positive.” He’s given up on joggling Spock, and has instead placed his hand along the Vulcan’s cheek. “Spock! Spock!” he whispers urgently. “I need you to wake up! Spock!” He slaps the Vulcan’s cheek lightly, leaving bloody hand prints in his wake. Hoffman finds himself unsettled by the mix of red and green blood painted across Spock’s face.
Kirk’s right about the burn. Like someone has poured acid on his skin. It hurts like a bitch, but it hadn’t seemed to slow James T. down any, and there is just no fucking way Hoffman isn’t going to live up to that same standard.
He has to repeat that vow when a second thorn buries itself in his thigh. He reminds himself he is just doing his duty, taking the thorns for Kirk, for his captain - he may be Starfleet’s golden boy, but unlike most shiny dicks, he is actually a damn good leader.
The commander seems to be coming out of it. He is blinking, slowly, like he is waking up from some dream. His lips move, but Hoffman can’t catch anything he is saying.
Kirk, however, seems elated. “Spock! You’re back!” Hand pressed against Spock’s cheek, he rubs one thumb over the corner of the Vulcan’s mouth in a gesture Hoffman finds disturbingly intimate.
“Spock?”
The Vulcan’s eyes seem to clear just a fraction in response to the captains’ voice. “Ji… Ji… m. I ca… can… n… not…”
“Don’t worry,” Kirk assures him. “We got ya!” He slips his good arm around the Vulcan and starts trying to pry him out of the pod. The commander makes a strange groaning sound and shudders, his eyes sliding closed again.
“What the hell…?” Kirk frowns and pulls his hand from behind Spock’s back. His fingers are tangled with fine, green filaments. He takes Spock’s weight, carefully tilting the Vulcan forward, and Hoffman can see the lacework of fine threads that stretch between the commander and the wall of the interface module. Eyes round, Kirk cautiously lifts Spock’s uniform shirt and undertunic, exposing bare skin. The filaments have burrowed into the Vulcan’s body, forming a web-like connective lattice between him and the pod.
Hoffman grunts in disgust. That is so fucked.
Kirk himself seems a bit at a loss. He tugs cautiously at some of the threads, and they slide free while Spock jerks in his hold. “Oh, shit!”
An understatement, Hoffman thinks.
The green strands in Kirk’s hold flail weakly, then try to dig into his skin. He yelps and drops them.
Hoffman’s leg is starting to go numb, the detached feeling slowly spreading downward. This is taking too much time. “Captain, he says firmly. “We have to move, now.”
“Right,” Kirk agrees, snapping himself back into command mode. “Spock, time to go.” He takes a firm grip around Spock’s waist, braces himself, and bodily hauls his first officer out of the pod. Spock cries out and trembles, then collapses, nearly taking Kirk down with him. Hoffman reaches out to steady them both. Kirk is staggering under the Vulcan’s weight, and Hoffman remembers that Vulcans have a higher body mass than humans. Expression set, Kirk starts to totter across the chamber with Spock, but with only one working arm, he can’t get a firm grip. The two are unbalanced, and Spock is dead weight, his feet dragging behind him.
Hoffman stays close, trying to keep them covered, but at this rate, they are going to get smoked out here.
“Captain,” he asserts, “We can move faster, if you let me take him.”
He does not actually give Kirk time to consider, being fairly certain he will decline, but rather horns in and takes the Vulcan out of Kirk’s grasp, hoisting the commander over his shoulder in a fireman’s carry. Kirk looks as though he is about to protest, but then a lashing creeper tries to eviscerate both of them, and they are too busy defending themselves to worry about proprietary rights.
They are half way across the chamber when Hoffman’s leg gives out. It has gone lifeless and no longer wants to support him. He collapses to one knee, nearly dislodging his hold on Spock.
Kirk is beside him in an instant.
“Leg’s gone.” Hoffman tells him as Kirk takes a grip under his elbow and tries to lever him to his feet. However, with only one working arm, the captain proves unable to lift the combined weight of Hoffman and the unconscious Vulcan. Spitting out a few muttered words Hoffman recognizes as a fusion of Andorian and Klingon profanity, Kirk takes a stance at Hoffman’s side. He spins and twists, shooting sporadically as he tries to cover both Hoffman and his first officer.
“You’d better take him,” Hoffman grunts, shifting his hold on the Vulcan in order to hand him over to the captain.
He does not get the chance.
As usual, Chief Giotto is on top of things. There is a spat of suppressive fire and two security officers jog to their aid. Well, Morrell jogs. Z-nam’T’eh’s approach is closer to a slither. They ease Spock out of Hoffman’s grip and scurry towards the exit. Kirk takes a couple abortive steps in their wake, then turns and crouches down beside Hoffman. “Come on, Cupcake. Time to get the hell outta Dodge.”
“You go on, sir,” Hoffman tells him striving for stoic and telling himself there are worse ways to die than by sacrificing yourself to save the shit-hot Enterprise command team.
Kirk shakes his head and slips an arm around Hoffman’s waist. “Sorry Lieutenant. We’re getting out of here together, so you can either help me, or I’ll just drag you by your dick. Which is it going to be?”
Once again, Hoffman feels fortunate that he agreed to remain aboard Enterprise when Kirk was given the captaincy. It had been a near thing, as Hoffman’s initial impressions of Kirk had been less that flattering. “Kommt Zeit, kommt Rat,” indeed.
“No need for that, sir.”
With a grunt, Hoffman throws an arm over the captain’s shoulders, leans heavily against him, and uses his good leg to heave himself upward.
He has just one good leg. Kirk, only one working arm. Between them, they manage to stagger, hop, and shuffle past the pair of red-shirts guarding the chamber opening and beyond - to the relative safety of a corridor formed by an arched thicket of tangled vegetation. The smell of plantlife is ripe and moist around them, like the heavy air of the botany greenhouse on Enterprise. Medical personnel descend upon them like flies, easing them apart. Kirk hands Hoffman into their care, but somehow manages to discourage the hovering med techs from checking him out, waving their scanners and hypos aside impatiently. Hoffman sees him gaze further down the corridor, where a knot of fevered activity indicates the presence of McCoy and some techs tending to Commander Spock. Kirk’s fists clench, and he gnaws on his lip for a moment before turning away and striding over to Chief Giotto. Hoffman can’t hear what is being said, but both men are stiff with tension.
“Here, this will help.” A throaty feminine voice pulls his attention and he turns to the woman crouching down beside him. There is a hiss; a hypo is presses against his arm. He recognizes Chapel, a tall, aristocratic blonde who serves as McCoy’s head nurse and all around XO in Sickbay. “It will neutralize the anesthetic agent in your system.”
The numbness immediately begins to fade, replaced once again by a burning sensation. He grunts in discomfort and Chapel gives him a wan smile while patting him lightly on the arm. “I know, but it will pass quickly. Just sit here for a minute. You’ll be fine.”
Kirk and Giotto are engaged in rapid-fire discussion, but the young Captain keeps shooting fleeting glances towards his CMO’s position. Their swift exchange ends with a curt nod from Kirk, who slaps Giotto on the shoulder and heads swiftly towards McCoy. His path takes him past Hoffman who is stretched out across the corridor, his legs impeding traffic. Embarrassed, Hoffman tries to pull his lower limbs out of the way, but he hasn’t yet regained full control, and his movements are spasmodic and ineffective. Kirk never slows, but hops over him easily. However, rather than hurrying past, he stops and squats down beside the security officer.
“Hey, how are you doing?”
Hoffman blinks at him in surprise. “Sir?”
“You took two of those things. How are you feeling?”
Hoffman has no doubt that Kirk is exceedingly anxious to get to Commander Spock, yet here he is taking the time to check in with him. “I’m fine, sir. They said it will pass in a few minutes. I’ll be ready to go back in if you need me to.”
Kirk smiles, and reaches out to squeeze his shoulder. “No need for that. We’re pulling out of here as soon as Commander Spock is stable.” His gaze darts towards the injured first officer and back. “Thanks for your help, by the way.”
“Just doing my duty, sir.”
“And doing it well, too.” Another quick squeeze, a flash of a grim smile, and then he is gone.
Hoffman watches him go, leaning back against the tangle of vines and listening to his Oma’s amused voice in his ear, “Remember I told you so, Mauschen. Kommt Zeit, kommt Rat.”
Glossary: (With thanks to the various internet sources, and a bit of artistic license.)
g = German
msp = Military speak
FNG - (msp) Fucking New Girl (or Guy)
Kommt Zeit, kommt Rat - (g) With time comes insight
Mauschen - (g) little mouse
Oma - (g) grandmother
shiny dicks - (msp) officers higher up in the military ranking system
COLORS:Luminosity