Caught like the fly in the spider's web, Kirk jerked awake with a heavy gasp. There was no moment of drifting between nightmare and waking, just a sudden blaze of white-hot that seared his retinas and forced him into opening his eyes and trying to breath in tainted air. Shadow-light-shadow turned his blurry vision into a sea of dark and color, like stained glass in the night
( ... )
"I have died willingly once," George rasped screamingly. "I returned." He closed his eyes, diving for the secret spot, closing his eyes and reopening them to blankness. Made it. Secret self, wait it out, can wait out the attacks on flesh, hold inside the information until escape, not let him know he doesn't have the information they're looking for. "Lt. George Samuel Kirk, 587-63AB59."
Ayel wants to tell him this, but he doesn't want to do him the honor of it. Not if he's the one, the reason, the cause of the long night in that place, for which he must never and can never forgive anyone.
He has seen. He will do the man this courtesy. He will remember.
(Hevam - human [derogatory]. OOC: sleep now. Class tomorrow, ffffuuuu. This is your permission to godmod me if necessary. Also: does this mean COUCH FOREVER? D=)
It sounded like his father's voice, but in such pain. Kirk's head dropped forward and his eyes closed, concentrating on everything but the vision that was failing him for the moment. The hum of a ship below everything else - he was on a ship that wasn't his own. His father's voice - George was in pain. Attacked?
Pain - his chest, his arms, his skin. It was trickling along in his blood, making it hard to focus. It took a long time in the mind-space to figure out why the feeling felt familiar. Drugs, a bad one. His medical records listed the million and a half things he was allergic to, specifically what could be injected into him safely. Someone had gotten him with something that was definitely not safe.
He opened his eyes again with eyelids that felt as heavy as bags of sand, and focused on a painfully slowly white blob floating above more darkness. A person, he was pretty sure.
"What?" Nero's voice dipped low, his expression coalescing into a hard, violent series of angles. His fingers twisted over the human's throat. The man answered in standard, repeated his name and designation. Before his third digit completed itself, Nero flattened his hand across the man's throat and squeezed. George's words choked off but his expression remained.
"No!" He growled against the Hevam, the coiled rage in his stomach flashing as he bore down. No became dhat and dhat became a mantra as he reflexively crushed the human's throat. He pulled back the knife, and his fingers gripped it with convulsive force.
Fuchsia and the cold of Klivam cells burned his skin, carded him through the folds of reality. The air was heavier. The knife flashed and, somehow, there was coherence enough in him to stay both his hands. His knife was inodium-silicate, for cutting lines held taut by the vastness of space, and it sank cleanly into the table alongside George Kirk's head. His tensed fingers uncoiled from the shell of this man and he watched
( ... )
A voice cut through the fetid air, cut straight through the fog surrounding his mind and shattered it into pieces as bright as pieces of candy and sent it skittering into the darkness. It was immediate and familiar, all too soon to have been forgotten or even smudged by the effect of time on the memory. It was a memory that sent a bolt of ice straight down to his heart and stopped it, making time stand still.
Or, it seemed, time go backwards.
His eyes flex, dilate, focus on the movement that is the Romulan's form shifting through the air, white-black in the fuchsia light. No. Fuck no. He thought to himself, unable to hide a moment of pure terror that shot through him. People coming back from the dead. Back from the dead.
Through gritted teeth, face turning into a mask of hatred. "Nero."
"It's been too long, or perhaps just long enough," Nero added conversationally.
Time was a slippery thing, particularly when one hovers through the dark where time and space commingle. He could feel the gaping passage of it, snaking through the chronometers and his skin. It was like a dream. As he eyed Kirk now, he could see the human's face pressed down against the bay floor of the Narada, could feel his hands wrapped around that throat and the taste of crimson victory. Why hadn't he-oh yes. He heard it as clearly as Kirk's voice.
Spock.
Nero leaned close, twisting his head and letting the blaring lights overhead pierce the wall of shadow he created. His smile was sharp, but the wide Hevam eyes couldn't see him...unless they could. His smile fell to an even slant of lip and grit of teeth.
“I was speaking with George,” Nero began slowly. “And he was...less than helpful..” He motioned blithely over his shoulder at Ayel and heard as he set the container of coolant-thinner on the floor. Nero made a nondescript hand motion and Ayel
( ... )
The voice was surprisingly smooth, almost without accent, clean and almost good to listen to. Another situation, almost place, might have led to such different circumstances then what had happened that had not only changed Nero's entire life but had forged this universe.
But that was then, this was now. Now was everything that wasn't wanted, everything that had gone horribly wrong.
It took a moment of working his throat to be able to growl out more then the single word, "Never good..." Had to talk, had to keep Nero from going back to his father. Fuck, what had they pumped him full of? "Never good to see one's work undone." He lifted his head, glaring to where he thought Nero's black eyes were in the shadows covering the other's face.
“No...it isn't.” The human is staring somewhere over his shoulder. His eyes weaving slow, inconsequential patterns, following the ebb and flow of the Klivam heat soaking in the walls. Nero's eyes narrowed as his focus tightened-Kirk didn't know he was watching the air, he couldn't see.
“Which is why I need the console code.” He was not a man who relished repeating himself, and his voice was edged in glass. “Unlike you Starfleet Hevam, I finish what I start.
Bastard... It was so difficult to focus, to bring two thoughts together. "...Finished you. Not... my fault the universe decided... you would need to die a second time." Kirk got out slowly but his voice stayed strong, muscles bulging slightly against the cords that held him up. His hands and arms had long lost feeling.
He wasn't even going to mention any sort of code. He wasn't going to tell them anything. Not only because he wouldn't as a Captain of the Federation... but because he had someone he had to live up to. Another man that had survived Nero's torture.
...what happened? How did I even get here? Can remember... can remember... an emergency... sickbay... Only drifts, flickers of imagery passed in his mind, as if they were having trouble getting past some barrier that should never be there.
Nero didn't fight the smile that threatened to unhinge his jaw, encouraged him to devour the human whole. Some of the Narada pulsed in him, quiet and thrumming. Perhaps it was the walls, sliding in, bearing down against the light and silence. The space between him and Kirk was sharper, cleaner. There was a perverse intimacy here, as Kirk was forced to think alongside him, to share words wrapped in fuchsia and seething hate.
“Rhuissa,” the word is almost tender, a tepid mixture of warmth and icy cold, creeping up from his throat. His hands reach and settle, sharply, against Kirk's head, pulling it up and forcing his eyes into direct light. He had been hoping, and his luck had held-Kirk was not willing to submit so easily. His fingers ground against the sides of the man's head, the pulsing surge of his meandering thought was like a juddering heartbeat beneath his skull.
“You killed my crew,” Nero explains softly. “It was Eihva's birthing day today, she had shift off. She survived the prisons, she was strong.” His grip shifts to the
( ... )
The arm fell limp and cold between them, making Kirk's body sag very slightly forward and to the side but held up by the rest of the wire biting into his stomach, legs, feet, and what would be incredibly painful on his left arm if he could feel it. He had little choice but to stare up at Nero's face, marking the tattoos that framed Nero's expression, those penetrating eyes. He wondered if his own were as fuzzy as his mind felt. Full of fur, yea, something like that...
...crew... did Nero actually give a shit about his crew? Prisons... what did that fucking mean? Good, they were dead. How many were alive now?
"...the code..." His voice drops, barely a whisper even for a Romulan's sensitive hearing. Kirk mutters something too quite to hear, his eyes dropping lower, to Nero's mouth.
Nero watched him, kept a keen eye as the breath slid between Kirk's teeth, inflating him halfway like an oxygen balloon. The exhalation is less words than air, but Nero can taste them. Clear and clean, formed around a thick tongue that doesn't speak the words of the world. His eyes widened slightly, his grip on the limp arm tighter as he moves it away, lowers it into the space between them.
"Again." The command was sharp as he leaned in, very nearly leaning his right ear against Kirk's forehead. The hand on his chin directs him up, tight grip encouraging him to speak.
The drugs were not nearly strong enough to stop him from knowing this wasn't going to be a good idea. They were plenty strong enough for him not to give a shit. "...the code... is..."
His eyes lifted. Right in front of him. A new idea bloomed immediately, almost enough to make him laugh.
"...is... fuck. you."
And Kirk shifted just enough to bite down as hard as he could on the thick flesh of one already damaged Romulan ear. He held on like a dog, even growled.
The pain drove all thought from his mind, a spike of absolute white-hot clarity puncturing his temple. Kirk's words drove past him, the light was gone, and he gaped blankly. His throat was raw and open, his teeth gritted tight and painful, as he came back to himself.
He seethed, wordlessly, and dropped the limb to strike at the side of Kirk's head. The jolt flared pain across his senses and, to his credit, Kirk remained unmoved. Nero fisted his hand in the human's hair, digging his fingers into the meat of his jaw like talons, and forced his teeth to part.
Nero pulled himself free with a deep hissing growl and surged forward, snapping all his tension into one rippling motion. Kirk's head struck the crate behind him with an audible crack and, as Nero's eyes focused on the human, he scowled. He released the creature abruptly and stood, pacing back toward the wall, his ear leaking warmth in a steady stream.
"Emael wanarae thlhem ch'gemaen," his voice was cold, pragmatic, and his hands clutched reflexively at his side as the darkness
( ... )
The taste of copper filled his mouth and his mind, choking and thick on his tongue. It was stronger then human blood, which due to his own bullheaded stubborn nature he had tasted his own plenty of times in the past. It tasted so very green in all of the wrong ways, unnatural and wrong and alien. The feeling of flesh between his teeth was far from unknown as well, even in remotely similar circumstances. Flesh, it seemed, was pretty universal. Thick and stagnant, like biting into raw meat, little give under his dull human teeth
( ... )
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Ayel wants to tell him this, but he doesn't want to do him the honor of it. Not if he's the one, the reason, the cause of the long night in that place, for which he must never and can never forgive anyone.
He has seen. He will do the man this courtesy. He will remember.
(Hevam - human [derogatory]. OOC: sleep now. Class tomorrow, ffffuuuu. This is your permission to godmod me if necessary. Also: does this mean COUCH FOREVER? D=)
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It sounded like his father's voice, but in such pain. Kirk's head dropped forward and his eyes closed, concentrating on everything but the vision that was failing him for the moment. The hum of a ship below everything else - he was on a ship that wasn't his own. His father's voice - George was in pain. Attacked?
Pain - his chest, his arms, his skin. It was trickling along in his blood, making it hard to focus. It took a long time in the mind-space to figure out why the feeling felt familiar. Drugs, a bad one. His medical records listed the million and a half things he was allergic to, specifically what could be injected into him safely. Someone had gotten him with something that was definitely not safe.
He opened his eyes again with eyelids that felt as heavy as bags of sand, and focused on a painfully slowly white blob floating above more darkness. A person, he was pretty sure.
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"No!" He growled against the Hevam, the coiled rage in his stomach flashing as he bore down. No became dhat and dhat became a mantra as he reflexively crushed the human's throat. He pulled back the knife, and his fingers gripped it with convulsive force.
Fuchsia and the cold of Klivam cells burned his skin, carded him through the folds of reality. The air was heavier. The knife flashed and, somehow, there was coherence enough in him to stay both his hands. His knife was inodium-silicate, for cutting lines held taut by the vastness of space, and it sank cleanly into the table alongside George Kirk's head. His tensed fingers uncoiled from the shell of this man and he watched ( ... )
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Or, it seemed, time go backwards.
His eyes flex, dilate, focus on the movement that is the Romulan's form shifting through the air, white-black in the fuchsia light. No. Fuck no. He thought to himself, unable to hide a moment of pure terror that shot through him. People coming back from the dead. Back from the dead.
Through gritted teeth, face turning into a mask of hatred. "Nero."
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Time was a slippery thing, particularly when one hovers through the dark where time and space commingle. He could feel the gaping passage of it, snaking through the chronometers and his skin. It was like a dream. As he eyed Kirk now, he could see the human's face pressed down against the bay floor of the Narada, could feel his hands wrapped around that throat and the taste of crimson victory. Why hadn't he-oh yes. He heard it as clearly as Kirk's voice.
Spock.
Nero leaned close, twisting his head and letting the blaring lights overhead pierce the wall of shadow he created. His smile was sharp, but the wide Hevam eyes couldn't see him...unless they could. His smile fell to an even slant of lip and grit of teeth.
“I was speaking with George,” Nero began slowly. “And he was...less than helpful..” He motioned blithely over his shoulder at Ayel and heard as he set the container of coolant-thinner on the floor. Nero made a nondescript hand motion and Ayel ( ... )
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But that was then, this was now. Now was everything that wasn't wanted, everything that had gone horribly wrong.
It took a moment of working his throat to be able to growl out more then the single word, "Never good..." Had to talk, had to keep Nero from going back to his father. Fuck, what had they pumped him full of? "Never good to see one's work undone." He lifted his head, glaring to where he thought Nero's black eyes were in the shadows covering the other's face.
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“Which is why I need the console code.” He was not a man who relished repeating himself, and his voice was edged in glass. “Unlike you Starfleet Hevam, I finish what I start.
"Give it to me."
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He wasn't even going to mention any sort of code. He wasn't going to tell them anything. Not only because he wouldn't as a Captain of the Federation... but because he had someone he had to live up to. Another man that had survived Nero's torture.
...what happened? How did I even get here? Can remember... can remember... an emergency... sickbay... Only drifts, flickers of imagery passed in his mind, as if they were having trouble getting past some barrier that should never be there.
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“Rhuissa,” the word is almost tender, a tepid mixture of warmth and icy cold, creeping up from his throat. His hands reach and settle, sharply, against Kirk's head, pulling it up and forcing his eyes into direct light. He had been hoping, and his luck had held-Kirk was not willing to submit so easily. His fingers ground against the sides of the man's head, the pulsing surge of his meandering thought was like a juddering heartbeat beneath his skull.
“You killed my crew,” Nero explains softly. “It was Eihva's birthing day today, she had shift off. She survived the prisons, she was strong.” His grip shifts to the ( ... )
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...crew... did Nero actually give a shit about his crew? Prisons... what did that fucking mean? Good, they were dead. How many were alive now?
"...the code..." His voice drops, barely a whisper even for a Romulan's sensitive hearing. Kirk mutters something too quite to hear, his eyes dropping lower, to Nero's mouth.
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"Again." The command was sharp as he leaned in, very nearly leaning his right ear against Kirk's forehead. The hand on his chin directs him up, tight grip encouraging him to speak.
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His eyes lifted. Right in front of him. A new idea bloomed immediately, almost enough to make him laugh.
"...is... fuck. you."
And Kirk shifted just enough to bite down as hard as he could on the thick flesh of one already damaged Romulan ear. He held on like a dog, even growled.
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He seethed, wordlessly, and dropped the limb to strike at the side of Kirk's head. The jolt flared pain across his senses and, to his credit, Kirk remained unmoved. Nero fisted his hand in the human's hair, digging his fingers into the meat of his jaw like talons, and forced his teeth to part.
Nero pulled himself free with a deep hissing growl and surged forward, snapping all his tension into one rippling motion. Kirk's head struck the crate behind him with an audible crack and, as Nero's eyes focused on the human, he scowled. He released the creature abruptly and stood, pacing back toward the wall, his ear leaking warmth in a steady stream.
"Emael wanarae thlhem ch'gemaen," his voice was cold, pragmatic, and his hands clutched reflexively at his side as the darkness ( ... )
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