Chapel and Priest: Husks part 13-15
Thirteen: So you think I'm alone? But being alone's the only way to be.
This was not an interrogation, and Charlie was not a suspect, but to Chapel it sure looked like it.
“Right, Charlene has something she wants to tell you. Nobody here will react like Montgomery Scott. If they do they'll feel the force of my boot in their ass.” McCoy was his usual tactful self, Christine noted. “She's decided there's no sense keeping folks in the dark now, that's how things get blown out of proportion.”
Already small, Charlene was child-like in a green cut-moquette armchair, her feet folded beneath her and a white cotton handkerchief damp and limp in her hand. Her hair was unfettered by its customary tie, and sprang about her head in a halo, each lock separating into petals. Christine thought of illustrations of flower fairies she had on her bedroom walls as a child.
Seconds passed, Charlene's breathing slowed and she twisted the fabric around her fingers. At last she took in a deep breath, as though making her mind up to talk.
“When I was fifteen I contracted Cardassian Megalovirus. An error on my medical records meant I was never vaccinated.”
“But that's fatal in humans, nobody has ever - ” Christine was jolted; was Charlie telling them she wasn't human?
“I am human, if that's what you're wondering, and you are right, there is no cure. My parents were wealthy, very wealthy. They could buy a lot, but not a reprieve for me, so they did the only thing they could -
“They bought me a suit.”
“Sorry,” Uhura leaned in and touched the back of Charlie's hand, “How did that help? I'm confused.”
“She means they extracted her consciousness and put it in a bio-body, Uhura.” The nurse closed her eyes. Her fiancé, Roger had become a suit; albeit an early, crude model that didn't bear scrutiny beneath the skin. She didn't know until in a fight, Roger’s “flesh” peeled back to reveal inhuman innards. Bile rose in her gullet. Scotty's reaction was shock. Christine went through it all; denial, rage, bargaining, depression, but Roger's death meant she didn't have to face the acceptance stage, and she didn't know with confidence what her choice would have been.
Revulsion was the nurse's first thought. Charlene was a perfect model, indistinguishable from a human. She'd not been ill or injured in the years they worked together, but until now, Christine hadn't given it a thought.
“Are you indestructible? That is why you are an explosives expert?” Chekov's eyes shone with excitement.
“No, I'm very definitely destructible. I can self-repair much better than a real per - body, but beyond a certain level of damage, I will die. I think I became an explosives expert because it was dangerous. My folks wrapped me in cotton wool. I didn't want to be wrapped in cotton wool. It wasn't my choice to be like...this. I woke up from a coma and thought it was a miracle. It was only when I ran away from home at eighteen to join Starfleet that I found out.”
“They never told you? Oy! That is bad. What did you do when you found out?”
“Let's just say Starfleet have very good psychiatric rehabilitation facilities.”
“But now you are sick? Something is wrong with you?” asked the Kid.
“It's just something simple. A doctor at the silicone mines supplies me with a hypo of selenium and iron once a week; this body needs those minerals but can't absorb them very well. My parents told me it was medication I needed after the CMV, but now I know better. The mine's doctor, he doesn't ask questions. He's away for a few weeks and I ran out of my meds. Thought I could manage without them. Turns out I can't.”
Christine looked at McCoy, “This isn't in Charlie's Starfleet Medical file.”
“No, it isn't. Did Starfleet suppress this information on your records, Charlie?”
Masters nodded and bit her bottom lip. “And I didn't want people to be watching their backs. I'm a walking, talking felony, and my parents could be put in jail; they procured my body after it was made illegal. Starfleet have sheltered me so far, they even manufacture a yearly physical on my file. They are condoning something they themselves outlawed. I didn't want to make any false moves that draw attention to me,” her eyes flicked to Christine for a millisecond, “and there's still prejudice.”
McCoy was silent for some moments, arms folded, stroking his chin. “I can't condemn your parents, Charlie. If it was my Joanna, and I had opportunity, well, I can't say what I'd have done. I'm sure none of us can. But it was their risk to take, not yours. It's not illegal to be in possession of a bio-body if you didn't procure it, and you were a minor. Sorry, you know all this.”
Still delighted, Chekov asked, “Are you immortal, if you do not get badly damaged?”
“No, my body will age normally, my parents couldn't afford a perpetual replacement program. I am abnormally normal.”
A voice came from the doorway; it was deep and steady. “Who made your body, Miss Masters?”
“I think, Mister Spock, that we all know the answer to that.”
~~intermission~~
Fourteen: Below the ground's the only place to be
“Heck, don't worry about the idiot, Chekov, he's probably at Finnegan's getting full as a tick. I hope his hangover kills him.”
“Sir! You don't mean that! He was not himself.”
McCoy reached for his hat and opened the door. “Well son, you and Slim can do what ya want, I'm hitting the hay.”
But Chekov was worried. He dialled Finnegan's and got the manager in person. In the background, the noise of the bar made it hard to hear. “Mister Finnegan, I am looking for Mister Scott. Is he there?”
“Ach, well, well, well, it's yourself Pavel. Now, I think he's here, wait a minute now, no, he was here, but he left. Oh, he was on the batter something terrible, mumbling about his life being a sham. I sent him home with a couple of his pals, they said they'd put him and the dog in a taxi. How are ye lad? Enjoying the work?”
Govno, Finnegan could talk for Ireland. “Yes, good, good sir, but what time did Mister Scott leave?”
“Oh, I don't know son, let me have a little think...” Chekov's knee shook with frustration, “it was about a half past twelve.”
A very bad feeling uncurled in the teenager's gut. “But who took him home? Did you know them? What did they look like?”
“Well now, I don't think I've seen them here, they weren't regulars. One of yer men was big, with dark hair I think, the other one was smaller and blond, or was it red, no-oo, eh, blond, yes, definitely, I think. De ye know them? Is something wrong? Is it a mystery? D' yous need some help?” That was the last thing the Russian wanted from Finnegan; the big Irishman was a clot of Kremlinesque proportions, although he was a useful source of information, so the agency needed to stay on his good side.
“I might need help later, I will call you, thank you sir.” Chekov ended the call. Twelve-thirty was almost two hours ago. He dialled Charlene and was greeted by snuffly sobs.
“Scotty, Scotty, is that you?” The audio kicked in a second or two before the visual, her face was streaked with tears and she still wore her day-clothes, the usual sharp creases of her shirt blunted.
“No, I am sorry Charlie, it is me. I wanted to know if Scotty was back home, but I can see he is not.”
“No, not yet, or Porthos. He must have taken him to some dive. I'm such an idiot, I should have told you all, trusted you. I'm so, so sorry. I screwed up and I'm going - I'm going to - to lose Scotty.”
“Well, I think it is cool! He is the screw-up. We will find him, Charlie. Please, try to get some sleep.”
**
What “friends” took Scotty home? Chapel didn't recognise the descriptions either, but she had an idea. “We can track Porthos, Scotty had him chipped when he kept getting lost in the hangars. He's listed in our database like a crewmember, you can track him from there. It might help. Damn dog can be tracked, but we can't.”
“Yes! Christine! We can do zat!” He punched the air and they both fired up a screen. Chekov found Porthos in two seconds, and zoomed into a map to find his location. “He is in an alley behind Aldrin, at the junction of Kelvin.”
“What in the hell is he doing there?” Chapel tapped on her desk with a stylus. “That neighbourhood is so bad if you pay your rent two months in a row, your landlady calls the cops to find out where you got the dough.”
Something was off. Porthos' location dot wasn't moving; even sitting and waiting for his master, he could never keep still. It seemed like he was asleep. Why would he be asleep in an alley? Chekov looked at the link for life-signs, his mouth dry as dust. He didn't want to click on it; if he didn't look at Porthos' health, that meant he was fine; no news was good news. Heavy-limbed, he pressed a finger to the screen, his brain cursing his hand.
“Christine, please can you look up the resting pulse of a beagle?”
When she answered, her voice was quiet and small. “I have Porthos' medical record. His resting pulse is 75.”
“B'lyad! His pulse is only 42.” Jabbing at his comm, he got a grumpy McCoy.
“What in the hell, I just got in bed, you pest. Whaddaya want?”
“We have found Porthos -- he is injured in an alley.” Chekov fought the urge to shout at his boss. “He could be dying. Something is not right, Scotty would not leave him like that.”
“Location?” The voice was softer now, and Chekov relayed the information. “I'll get Spock, and Charlie. Prepare to beam us there, it's best if we go to him first.”
“Yes sir.”
**
McCoy wasn't having his molecules shaken like a gin fizz in the wee hours for Scotty. The drunken Scotsman could fend for himself, but Joanna's eyes when he told her their old dog had to be put to sleep still haunted him, and he couldn't face the Kid under similar circumstances. His call for backup was prompted by a hunch that something was afoot; he had a bad feeling this was no cocktail party.
A panting, piebald body lay on its side in a doorway, and the second the shimmer of the transporter ended, McCoy was on his knees, uncaring of the gum, cigarette butts and grime. Porthos' head twisted and he tried to lick McCoy's hand, his tail flicking in pitiful recognition as the doctor ran a scanner over his flank. “Cracked ribs, minor tear to the left lung, he's lucky it's bleeding slowly.”
“Will he be OK?” Charlene rubbed Porthos's ear, crouched down with the doctor.
“I'll give him something for the bleeding for now; Christine can treat him when he gets back to the office.” McCoy flipped his communicator while applying a hypo to Porthos' femoral vein. “Chekov, one small one to beam up, keep him immobilised after Christine treats him. If his temperature goes outside of 100.5°F to 102.5°F, make sure to let her know.” Sparkling, the transporter beam bore the injured party away and McCoy unfolded, his joints creaking, to see Spock crouched by the door in imitation of his own earlier pose.
“There are scratches at the base of this door. They are at a commensurate height to the marks Porthos's claws would make if he was in a prone position. In addition, I have traced dog-hairs on the cobbles back some twenty yards. The animal appears to have crawled some distance; he has performed admirably.”
The implication being, thought the doc, that Scotty hadn't. “Damn that Scottish Palooka! If he's gone and gotten himself whacked, I'll kill him.” McCoy ran his hands along the door frame. It was waxy with grease, chipped and left unpainted for many years, and with no opening mechanism on the street side. Behind him, the alley was crowded with squat dumpsters, hunkered down in the dark. Who knew what they contained…dismembered body parts of unidentified beings?
This was an area fancy folk only strayed into by accident, to be relieved of their credits, their identity, and often, their lives. Every surface was slick. He'd bet a dime to a dollar that an analysis of the cobbles beneath his feet would reveal layers of criminal activity, stained with blood, body-fluids and laser-pistol residue. If the neighbourhood was a person, it would be a sharp con-artist, disguised as a poor, unwashed, helpless tramp. “Scotty's behind that door.”
“Affirmative, doctor;I believe the evidence points to such a scenario. In addition, Porthos's injuries do not suggest an innocent explanation.” Spock stood. A human man would probably brush down his pant legs, but the Vulcan was oblivious, concentrating on the task in hand and fiddling with the controls on his tricorder.
“What is this place, Mister Spock?” Charlie rubbed at her red eyes, all the usual fight in her damped down.
“Administrative records have it down as a store-room. Readings indicate, however, that the building extends substantially in depth below street level.” Spock opened his communicator and asked Christine to search for the public plans of the address, and they waited for a minute.
“Only a small basement, not the depth you're reading, sir.”
Christine never called him sir. McCoy was sure Slim had a crush on Spock. “We'll beam in. Just one to begin with, in case it's an ambush.”
“As I am the strongest, I shall beam down first. If Mister Scott requires medical attention it would be wise for his physician to remain undamaged.”
Jim would have argued with Spock; just stupid heroics. In McCoy's experience it was best to agree with the Vulcan. Less people got hurt that way. “Right Spock, tell us when the coast is clear. Either that or run like hell.”
With a hand on the phaser beneath his jacket, Spock crouched down on one knee, flipped his communicator and called Chekov.
“Energise.”
~~intermission~~
Fifteen: We must brave this night and have faith in love
For the first time in his Starfleet career, Commander Montgomery Scott was properly frightened. Those nice lads offered to put him in a taxi, but when they got him outside the bar, he felt the burn of a hypo to his neck, then this. He was completely paralysed, being dragged along, the toes of his shoes scraping on asphalt. One of the men shouted at Porthos to get lost; Scotty could hear the persistent click of his claws behind. Through winding alleys and back streets, he tried to count the turns, to memorise the lefts and rights, but his addled brain wouldn't work and his view of the graphite road was so poor in the dark that he might as well be blind. All he knew was the neighbourhood was bad, smelling of rancid food, sweat and cheap perfume.
Strip-joint music, shrill shouting and foul language assaulted his ears. To compound his misery, he'd made a complete tit of himself with Charlie and the whole crew, and it seemed like he might never have the chance to apologise. What was he doing stomping off like a toddler and banging doors? If these goons were just taking him somewhere to give him a doing, they didn't have to come so far. From his lowly vantage point, he had time to reflect on his behaviour, and his reflection looked pretty shabby. He could see it in a puddle as his captors stopped for breath, hatless, drooling and pie-eyed; aye, Scotty, you're a right catch, man.
“That damned dog is still behind us.” The shorter man swore at the beagle.
“I'll get rid of it -- we're almost there.” Scotty's stomach lurched and he felt his body jump as the brutish man's leg jerked back. Its connection with Porthos' flank felt to the engineer like he'd been kicked himself. A high-pitched yelp pierced his heart and he knew if he'd been conscious, he would have turned into a berserker. If he ever got through this, that bastard would regret the day he messed with Montgomery Scott; he would autopsy the arsehole alive (possibly through his arsehole) and give him his kidneys to wear as earrings.
Fog took over Scotty's brain, and when he became aware once more, he was laid out on a bed, wearing a thin gown. Still immobilised, he could only see vague bright light through his closed lids, and listen. The smells were clean and sharp, and the cool drift of breeze on his exposed arms and legs caused saliva to pool behind his teeth. Hospitals always gave him the creeps, especially those seemingly designed to treat healthy people. They were the worst.
A middle-aged man's voice; “Body-shape and height looks about right, we might have to increase his nutrients for a few weeks though, or just say the client's been on a diet.”
A younger woman's voice, as if she was checking off a list. “New teeth, very minor jaw reshape, iris re-pigmentation. No distinguishing marks to remove. He's in good shape, internal organs excellent, no signs of abuse, amazing considering the condition we found him in. It's remarkable how much he looks like him, we don't usually collect like this, but the guys did good, said they saw him and the resemblance hit them like a ton of bricks. Luckily he was plastered at the time. I had to check to make sure he wasn't related. Shit, that would have been embarrassing.”
What in the Milky Way was going on? It sounded like he wasn't going to die. Which was a bonus.
“How was the gene-work?” The man again.
“Good. Excellent in fact. No pre-disposition to any major cancers, or mental disorder.”
Aye, well that was nice to know. When he was being made over to pretend to be someone else.
“Very good, get him prepped for a wipe.”
Scotty's stomach dropped several storeys. The man wasn't talking about a bed-bath. Repulsive, cold, jellied fingers rubbed at his temples, leaving slug trails that went frigid on his skin, and he felt something rubbery pressed up against the gel. Goose flesh rose on his limbs. Where was Charlie? He wanted Charlie. He needed to move.
Another hypo at his neck, and the dark descended. In his mind, his limbs flailed, he raged against the dying of the light. In reality, he was a waxwork.
*
Awakening, he found himself back at the agency, in the good office with McCoy opposite him, looking pensive. Thank the good Lord, he'd been rescued. Still in the gown, he wondered why they hadn't given him clothes. How long was he awake?
“Thanks for getting' me, I thought I was on the way out there. I'm freezing, man. Any chance of gettin' me some clothes? I know I made a right arse of mysel' earlier.”
For an age, McCoy stared, not speaking. “D' you think you deserve clothes, Scotty?”
That was odd, Bones was thrawn, but not normally prone to vindictive fits. “Eh, look, I'm sorry, can I see Charlie?”
“Charlie isn't here, she's gone.” Cold, hazel eyes continued to stare, and the doctor picked up a stylus and played it between his fingers in a miniature majorette's twirl, never shifting his gaze. “She left. She was very, very upset.”
“Where is she? What happened to Porthos?” Scotty felt like he was five years old, gripping onto the chair with cold hands, his legs swinging. When his grandmother died, his dad took him into his study and sat him down and he knew something was very wrong, that his mother was acting funny. Was she angry with him? At five, he didn't understand the tight feeling in his belly or why he suddenly needed the toilet, and wanted to run away when his father hadn't said a single word.
At six, he had a dream he was in a roller coaster and the restraining field failed, catapulting him into space and throwing his body onto a hard surface eighty feet below, slamming him awake. He'd bawled the house down until his dad came running as if a banshee were after him. Afterwards, he'd lain in bed, a fine sheen of sweat drying cold on his skin.
Wait, his legs swinging? His feet always touched the ground in this chair. He watched his bare feet dangle then looked up at McCoy. There was nobody at the desk. At his back, he heard a floorboard creak.
“Well, what have we here? One ex-boyfriend.” Around the chair, lithe as a python, slithered Charlie. What could he say? Nothing. Say nothing, that was best, so he watched her retrieve a bentwood chair and set it opposite him, facing away so she could sit astride the seat and lean her arms on the back. Unfortunately for Scotty, his brain made his mouth open against his better judgement. What came out wasn't big, and it wasn't clever. It was small, and it was petty.
“So, when we shagged, did you only respond because you were programmed to?” Where in hell did that come from?
“I see you're living up to the stereotype of your sex. You find out your girl's got a bio-body and the first thing you think of is whether robo-girl faked it. What an asshole. You can go screw yourself in future.”
Tears welled in Scotty's eyes, “Ah, shite, Charlie. I dinnae know what made me say that; it was stupid.”
“I just told you why you said it. You hurt me. I never want to see you again as long as I live. You're a narrow-minded bigot.”
“Now Charlie, that's no' fair, you could have told me sooner.” Right was on his side there - wasn't it?
“Would you have gone out with me if you knew? Really?” Her eyes were lasers, burning through the trite platitude on the tip of his tongue, and maybe just saving him.
“I - I don't know.” He put his head in his hands, then lifted it, clutching at the threads of his relationship, “But we've got to be together. Please, I don't know what to do to make it better. Tell me and I'll do it.” Whatever it took, Scotty wanted them to be friends at least, or did he just want to convince the others, by her friendship, that he wasn't a total bawbag?
“McCoy took care of it. You're getting a transfer. We won't have to work together.” A vixen, she arose, pushed the chair aside and prowled from the room, her head high.
Wobbling, he limped after her into the front office; Chapel wasn't at her desk, neither was Chekov. Where was Charlie? The outer door was locked and he couldn't get out. A Padd sat at a haphazard angle; it was covered in a thick layer of dust. The entire office was covered in dust. In a frenzy, he yanked open drawers; all empty. Frantic, he jabbed the main comm button. A tinny voice spoke out. “This line is terminated...this line is terminated...” It was so cold, he pulled the thin gown tight behind him, trying to cover the gap at the back. “This mind is terminated...this mind is terminated...” Far back in the comm channel sound mix, he thought he could hear Spock's voice. Scotty sat in Chekov's cobwebbed place.
The sweat on his skin dried cold.
~~intermission~~
Awesome fanmix With our Rain Washed Histories by
i_am_32_flavors
Beautiful character art by
theoreticalpixy
[ Part 1-3] [ Part 4-6] [ Part 7-9] [ Part 10-12] [ Part 13-15] [ Part 16-17] [ Part 18-end]
Scotty-isms
Doing: beating
Pie-eyed: drunk
Thrawn: stubborn
Bawbag: scrotum
This was not an interrogation, and Charlie was not a suspect, but to Chapel it sure looked like it.
“Right, Charlene has something she wants to tell you. Nobody here will react like Montgomery Scott. If they do they'll feel the force of my boot in their ass.” McCoy was his usual tactful self, Christine noted. “She's decided there's no sense keeping folks in the dark now, that's how things get blown out of proportion.”
Already small, Charlene was child-like in a green cut-moquette armchair, her feet folded beneath her and a white cotton handkerchief damp and limp in her hand. Her hair was unfettered by its customary tie, and sprang about her head in a halo, each lock separating into petals. Christine thought of illustrations of flower fairies she had on her bedroom walls as a child.
Seconds passed, Charlene's breathing slowed and she twisted the fabric around her fingers. At last she took in a deep breath, as though making her mind up to talk.
“When I was fifteen I contracted Cardassian Megalovirus. An error on my medical records meant I was never vaccinated.”
“But that's fatal in humans, nobody has ever - ” Christine was jolted; was Charlie telling them she wasn't human?
“I am human, if that's what you're wondering, and you are right, there is no cure. My parents were wealthy, very wealthy. They could buy a lot, but not a reprieve for me, so they did the only thing they could -
“They bought me a suit.”
“Sorry,” Uhura leaned in and touched the back of Charlie's hand, “How did that help? I'm confused.”
“She means they extracted her consciousness and put it in a bio-body, Uhura.” The nurse closed her eyes. Her fiancé, Roger had become a suit; albeit an early, crude model that didn't bear scrutiny beneath the skin. She didn't know until in a fight, Roger’s “flesh” peeled back to reveal inhuman innards. Bile rose in her gullet. Scotty's reaction was shock. Christine went through it all; denial, rage, bargaining, depression, but Roger's death meant she didn't have to face the acceptance stage, and she didn't know with confidence what her choice would have been.
Revulsion was the nurse's first thought. Charlene was a perfect model, indistinguishable from a human. She'd not been ill or injured in the years they worked together, but until now, Christine hadn't given it a thought.
“Are you indestructible? That is why you are an explosives expert?” Chekov's eyes shone with excitement.
“No, I'm very definitely destructible. I can self-repair much better than a real per - body, but beyond a certain level of damage, I will die. I think I became an explosives expert because it was dangerous. My folks wrapped me in cotton wool. I didn't want to be wrapped in cotton wool. It wasn't my choice to be like...this. I woke up from a coma and thought it was a miracle. It was only when I ran away from home at eighteen to join Starfleet that I found out.”
“They never told you? Oy! That is bad. What did you do when you found out?”
“Let's just say Starfleet have very good psychiatric rehabilitation facilities.”
“But now you are sick? Something is wrong with you?” asked the Kid.
“It's just something simple. A doctor at the silicone mines supplies me with a hypo of selenium and iron once a week; this body needs those minerals but can't absorb them very well. My parents told me it was medication I needed after the CMV, but now I know better. The mine's doctor, he doesn't ask questions. He's away for a few weeks and I ran out of my meds. Thought I could manage without them. Turns out I can't.”
Christine looked at McCoy, “This isn't in Charlie's Starfleet Medical file.”
“No, it isn't. Did Starfleet suppress this information on your records, Charlie?”
Masters nodded and bit her bottom lip. “And I didn't want people to be watching their backs. I'm a walking, talking felony, and my parents could be put in jail; they procured my body after it was made illegal. Starfleet have sheltered me so far, they even manufacture a yearly physical on my file. They are condoning something they themselves outlawed. I didn't want to make any false moves that draw attention to me,” her eyes flicked to Christine for a millisecond, “and there's still prejudice.”
McCoy was silent for some moments, arms folded, stroking his chin. “I can't condemn your parents, Charlie. If it was my Joanna, and I had opportunity, well, I can't say what I'd have done. I'm sure none of us can. But it was their risk to take, not yours. It's not illegal to be in possession of a bio-body if you didn't procure it, and you were a minor. Sorry, you know all this.”
Still delighted, Chekov asked, “Are you immortal, if you do not get badly damaged?”
“No, my body will age normally, my parents couldn't afford a perpetual replacement program. I am abnormally normal.”
A voice came from the doorway; it was deep and steady. “Who made your body, Miss Masters?”
“I think, Mister Spock, that we all know the answer to that.”
~~intermission~~
Fourteen: Below the ground's the only place to be
“Heck, don't worry about the idiot, Chekov, he's probably at Finnegan's getting full as a tick. I hope his hangover kills him.”
“Sir! You don't mean that! He was not himself.”
McCoy reached for his hat and opened the door. “Well son, you and Slim can do what ya want, I'm hitting the hay.”
But Chekov was worried. He dialled Finnegan's and got the manager in person. In the background, the noise of the bar made it hard to hear. “Mister Finnegan, I am looking for Mister Scott. Is he there?”
“Ach, well, well, well, it's yourself Pavel. Now, I think he's here, wait a minute now, no, he was here, but he left. Oh, he was on the batter something terrible, mumbling about his life being a sham. I sent him home with a couple of his pals, they said they'd put him and the dog in a taxi. How are ye lad? Enjoying the work?”
Govno, Finnegan could talk for Ireland. “Yes, good, good sir, but what time did Mister Scott leave?”
“Oh, I don't know son, let me have a little think...” Chekov's knee shook with frustration, “it was about a half past twelve.”
A very bad feeling uncurled in the teenager's gut. “But who took him home? Did you know them? What did they look like?”
“Well now, I don't think I've seen them here, they weren't regulars. One of yer men was big, with dark hair I think, the other one was smaller and blond, or was it red, no-oo, eh, blond, yes, definitely, I think. De ye know them? Is something wrong? Is it a mystery? D' yous need some help?” That was the last thing the Russian wanted from Finnegan; the big Irishman was a clot of Kremlinesque proportions, although he was a useful source of information, so the agency needed to stay on his good side.
“I might need help later, I will call you, thank you sir.” Chekov ended the call. Twelve-thirty was almost two hours ago. He dialled Charlene and was greeted by snuffly sobs.
“Scotty, Scotty, is that you?” The audio kicked in a second or two before the visual, her face was streaked with tears and she still wore her day-clothes, the usual sharp creases of her shirt blunted.
“No, I am sorry Charlie, it is me. I wanted to know if Scotty was back home, but I can see he is not.”
“No, not yet, or Porthos. He must have taken him to some dive. I'm such an idiot, I should have told you all, trusted you. I'm so, so sorry. I screwed up and I'm going - I'm going to - to lose Scotty.”
“Well, I think it is cool! He is the screw-up. We will find him, Charlie. Please, try to get some sleep.”
**
What “friends” took Scotty home? Chapel didn't recognise the descriptions either, but she had an idea. “We can track Porthos, Scotty had him chipped when he kept getting lost in the hangars. He's listed in our database like a crewmember, you can track him from there. It might help. Damn dog can be tracked, but we can't.”
“Yes! Christine! We can do zat!” He punched the air and they both fired up a screen. Chekov found Porthos in two seconds, and zoomed into a map to find his location. “He is in an alley behind Aldrin, at the junction of Kelvin.”
“What in the hell is he doing there?” Chapel tapped on her desk with a stylus. “That neighbourhood is so bad if you pay your rent two months in a row, your landlady calls the cops to find out where you got the dough.”
Something was off. Porthos' location dot wasn't moving; even sitting and waiting for his master, he could never keep still. It seemed like he was asleep. Why would he be asleep in an alley? Chekov looked at the link for life-signs, his mouth dry as dust. He didn't want to click on it; if he didn't look at Porthos' health, that meant he was fine; no news was good news. Heavy-limbed, he pressed a finger to the screen, his brain cursing his hand.
“Christine, please can you look up the resting pulse of a beagle?”
When she answered, her voice was quiet and small. “I have Porthos' medical record. His resting pulse is 75.”
“B'lyad! His pulse is only 42.” Jabbing at his comm, he got a grumpy McCoy.
“What in the hell, I just got in bed, you pest. Whaddaya want?”
“We have found Porthos -- he is injured in an alley.” Chekov fought the urge to shout at his boss. “He could be dying. Something is not right, Scotty would not leave him like that.”
“Location?” The voice was softer now, and Chekov relayed the information. “I'll get Spock, and Charlie. Prepare to beam us there, it's best if we go to him first.”
“Yes sir.”
**
McCoy wasn't having his molecules shaken like a gin fizz in the wee hours for Scotty. The drunken Scotsman could fend for himself, but Joanna's eyes when he told her their old dog had to be put to sleep still haunted him, and he couldn't face the Kid under similar circumstances. His call for backup was prompted by a hunch that something was afoot; he had a bad feeling this was no cocktail party.
A panting, piebald body lay on its side in a doorway, and the second the shimmer of the transporter ended, McCoy was on his knees, uncaring of the gum, cigarette butts and grime. Porthos' head twisted and he tried to lick McCoy's hand, his tail flicking in pitiful recognition as the doctor ran a scanner over his flank. “Cracked ribs, minor tear to the left lung, he's lucky it's bleeding slowly.”
“Will he be OK?” Charlene rubbed Porthos's ear, crouched down with the doctor.
“I'll give him something for the bleeding for now; Christine can treat him when he gets back to the office.” McCoy flipped his communicator while applying a hypo to Porthos' femoral vein. “Chekov, one small one to beam up, keep him immobilised after Christine treats him. If his temperature goes outside of 100.5°F to 102.5°F, make sure to let her know.” Sparkling, the transporter beam bore the injured party away and McCoy unfolded, his joints creaking, to see Spock crouched by the door in imitation of his own earlier pose.
“There are scratches at the base of this door. They are at a commensurate height to the marks Porthos's claws would make if he was in a prone position. In addition, I have traced dog-hairs on the cobbles back some twenty yards. The animal appears to have crawled some distance; he has performed admirably.”
The implication being, thought the doc, that Scotty hadn't. “Damn that Scottish Palooka! If he's gone and gotten himself whacked, I'll kill him.” McCoy ran his hands along the door frame. It was waxy with grease, chipped and left unpainted for many years, and with no opening mechanism on the street side. Behind him, the alley was crowded with squat dumpsters, hunkered down in the dark. Who knew what they contained…dismembered body parts of unidentified beings?
This was an area fancy folk only strayed into by accident, to be relieved of their credits, their identity, and often, their lives. Every surface was slick. He'd bet a dime to a dollar that an analysis of the cobbles beneath his feet would reveal layers of criminal activity, stained with blood, body-fluids and laser-pistol residue. If the neighbourhood was a person, it would be a sharp con-artist, disguised as a poor, unwashed, helpless tramp. “Scotty's behind that door.”
“Affirmative, doctor;I believe the evidence points to such a scenario. In addition, Porthos's injuries do not suggest an innocent explanation.” Spock stood. A human man would probably brush down his pant legs, but the Vulcan was oblivious, concentrating on the task in hand and fiddling with the controls on his tricorder.
“What is this place, Mister Spock?” Charlie rubbed at her red eyes, all the usual fight in her damped down.
“Administrative records have it down as a store-room. Readings indicate, however, that the building extends substantially in depth below street level.” Spock opened his communicator and asked Christine to search for the public plans of the address, and they waited for a minute.
“Only a small basement, not the depth you're reading, sir.”
Christine never called him sir. McCoy was sure Slim had a crush on Spock. “We'll beam in. Just one to begin with, in case it's an ambush.”
“As I am the strongest, I shall beam down first. If Mister Scott requires medical attention it would be wise for his physician to remain undamaged.”
Jim would have argued with Spock; just stupid heroics. In McCoy's experience it was best to agree with the Vulcan. Less people got hurt that way. “Right Spock, tell us when the coast is clear. Either that or run like hell.”
With a hand on the phaser beneath his jacket, Spock crouched down on one knee, flipped his communicator and called Chekov.
“Energise.”
~~intermission~~
Fifteen: We must brave this night and have faith in love
For the first time in his Starfleet career, Commander Montgomery Scott was properly frightened. Those nice lads offered to put him in a taxi, but when they got him outside the bar, he felt the burn of a hypo to his neck, then this. He was completely paralysed, being dragged along, the toes of his shoes scraping on asphalt. One of the men shouted at Porthos to get lost; Scotty could hear the persistent click of his claws behind. Through winding alleys and back streets, he tried to count the turns, to memorise the lefts and rights, but his addled brain wouldn't work and his view of the graphite road was so poor in the dark that he might as well be blind. All he knew was the neighbourhood was bad, smelling of rancid food, sweat and cheap perfume.
Strip-joint music, shrill shouting and foul language assaulted his ears. To compound his misery, he'd made a complete tit of himself with Charlie and the whole crew, and it seemed like he might never have the chance to apologise. What was he doing stomping off like a toddler and banging doors? If these goons were just taking him somewhere to give him a doing, they didn't have to come so far. From his lowly vantage point, he had time to reflect on his behaviour, and his reflection looked pretty shabby. He could see it in a puddle as his captors stopped for breath, hatless, drooling and pie-eyed; aye, Scotty, you're a right catch, man.
“That damned dog is still behind us.” The shorter man swore at the beagle.
“I'll get rid of it -- we're almost there.” Scotty's stomach lurched and he felt his body jump as the brutish man's leg jerked back. Its connection with Porthos' flank felt to the engineer like he'd been kicked himself. A high-pitched yelp pierced his heart and he knew if he'd been conscious, he would have turned into a berserker. If he ever got through this, that bastard would regret the day he messed with Montgomery Scott; he would autopsy the arsehole alive (possibly through his arsehole) and give him his kidneys to wear as earrings.
Fog took over Scotty's brain, and when he became aware once more, he was laid out on a bed, wearing a thin gown. Still immobilised, he could only see vague bright light through his closed lids, and listen. The smells were clean and sharp, and the cool drift of breeze on his exposed arms and legs caused saliva to pool behind his teeth. Hospitals always gave him the creeps, especially those seemingly designed to treat healthy people. They were the worst.
A middle-aged man's voice; “Body-shape and height looks about right, we might have to increase his nutrients for a few weeks though, or just say the client's been on a diet.”
A younger woman's voice, as if she was checking off a list. “New teeth, very minor jaw reshape, iris re-pigmentation. No distinguishing marks to remove. He's in good shape, internal organs excellent, no signs of abuse, amazing considering the condition we found him in. It's remarkable how much he looks like him, we don't usually collect like this, but the guys did good, said they saw him and the resemblance hit them like a ton of bricks. Luckily he was plastered at the time. I had to check to make sure he wasn't related. Shit, that would have been embarrassing.”
What in the Milky Way was going on? It sounded like he wasn't going to die. Which was a bonus.
“How was the gene-work?” The man again.
“Good. Excellent in fact. No pre-disposition to any major cancers, or mental disorder.”
Aye, well that was nice to know. When he was being made over to pretend to be someone else.
“Very good, get him prepped for a wipe.”
Scotty's stomach dropped several storeys. The man wasn't talking about a bed-bath. Repulsive, cold, jellied fingers rubbed at his temples, leaving slug trails that went frigid on his skin, and he felt something rubbery pressed up against the gel. Goose flesh rose on his limbs. Where was Charlie? He wanted Charlie. He needed to move.
Another hypo at his neck, and the dark descended. In his mind, his limbs flailed, he raged against the dying of the light. In reality, he was a waxwork.
*
Awakening, he found himself back at the agency, in the good office with McCoy opposite him, looking pensive. Thank the good Lord, he'd been rescued. Still in the gown, he wondered why they hadn't given him clothes. How long was he awake?
“Thanks for getting' me, I thought I was on the way out there. I'm freezing, man. Any chance of gettin' me some clothes? I know I made a right arse of mysel' earlier.”
For an age, McCoy stared, not speaking. “D' you think you deserve clothes, Scotty?”
That was odd, Bones was thrawn, but not normally prone to vindictive fits. “Eh, look, I'm sorry, can I see Charlie?”
“Charlie isn't here, she's gone.” Cold, hazel eyes continued to stare, and the doctor picked up a stylus and played it between his fingers in a miniature majorette's twirl, never shifting his gaze. “She left. She was very, very upset.”
“Where is she? What happened to Porthos?” Scotty felt like he was five years old, gripping onto the chair with cold hands, his legs swinging. When his grandmother died, his dad took him into his study and sat him down and he knew something was very wrong, that his mother was acting funny. Was she angry with him? At five, he didn't understand the tight feeling in his belly or why he suddenly needed the toilet, and wanted to run away when his father hadn't said a single word.
At six, he had a dream he was in a roller coaster and the restraining field failed, catapulting him into space and throwing his body onto a hard surface eighty feet below, slamming him awake. He'd bawled the house down until his dad came running as if a banshee were after him. Afterwards, he'd lain in bed, a fine sheen of sweat drying cold on his skin.
Wait, his legs swinging? His feet always touched the ground in this chair. He watched his bare feet dangle then looked up at McCoy. There was nobody at the desk. At his back, he heard a floorboard creak.
“Well, what have we here? One ex-boyfriend.” Around the chair, lithe as a python, slithered Charlie. What could he say? Nothing. Say nothing, that was best, so he watched her retrieve a bentwood chair and set it opposite him, facing away so she could sit astride the seat and lean her arms on the back. Unfortunately for Scotty, his brain made his mouth open against his better judgement. What came out wasn't big, and it wasn't clever. It was small, and it was petty.
“So, when we shagged, did you only respond because you were programmed to?” Where in hell did that come from?
“I see you're living up to the stereotype of your sex. You find out your girl's got a bio-body and the first thing you think of is whether robo-girl faked it. What an asshole. You can go screw yourself in future.”
Tears welled in Scotty's eyes, “Ah, shite, Charlie. I dinnae know what made me say that; it was stupid.”
“I just told you why you said it. You hurt me. I never want to see you again as long as I live. You're a narrow-minded bigot.”
“Now Charlie, that's no' fair, you could have told me sooner.” Right was on his side there - wasn't it?
“Would you have gone out with me if you knew? Really?” Her eyes were lasers, burning through the trite platitude on the tip of his tongue, and maybe just saving him.
“I - I don't know.” He put his head in his hands, then lifted it, clutching at the threads of his relationship, “But we've got to be together. Please, I don't know what to do to make it better. Tell me and I'll do it.” Whatever it took, Scotty wanted them to be friends at least, or did he just want to convince the others, by her friendship, that he wasn't a total bawbag?
“McCoy took care of it. You're getting a transfer. We won't have to work together.” A vixen, she arose, pushed the chair aside and prowled from the room, her head high.
Wobbling, he limped after her into the front office; Chapel wasn't at her desk, neither was Chekov. Where was Charlie? The outer door was locked and he couldn't get out. A Padd sat at a haphazard angle; it was covered in a thick layer of dust. The entire office was covered in dust. In a frenzy, he yanked open drawers; all empty. Frantic, he jabbed the main comm button. A tinny voice spoke out. “This line is terminated...this line is terminated...” It was so cold, he pulled the thin gown tight behind him, trying to cover the gap at the back. “This mind is terminated...this mind is terminated...” Far back in the comm channel sound mix, he thought he could hear Spock's voice. Scotty sat in Chekov's cobwebbed place.
The sweat on his skin dried cold.
~~intermission~~
Awesome fanmix With our Rain Washed Histories by
i_am_32_flavors
Beautiful character art by
theoreticalpixy
[ Part 1-3] [ Part 4-6] [ Part 7-9] [ Part 10-12] [ Part 13-15] [ Part 16-17] [ Part 18-end]
Scotty-isms
Doing: beating
Pie-eyed: drunk
Thrawn: stubborn
Bawbag: scrotum