Title: "Broken"

Author: tprillahfiction (2011)

Fandom: Star Trek: TOS

Rating: [NC-17]

Word count:  (approx) 17,000

Main Paring: McCoy/Spock

Other parings: K/S/Mc, McCoy/various, Kirk/various, Chapel/Rand

Genre: horror, hurt/comfort, A/U

Summary: The crew of the Enterprise are trapped into their own versions of hell. McCoy's POV. NOT an M/U.

WARNINGS: Torture, sex slavery, D/s and/or Master/pet, bondage, RAPE, non-con and/or dub-con. Drug use and abuse. Medical horror/dubious medical practices.

Beta: Notboldly50295.  All errors remain my own.

Disclaimer: Star Trek is owned by Paramount.

. . . . . .

Every day a little death,In the parlor, in the bed, In the curtains, in the silver, In the buttons, in the bread. Every day a little sting In the heart and in the head. Every move and every breath, And you hardly feel a thing, Brings a perfect little death.



He is somewhere underground. The air is different: heavy, damp. He shivers uncontrollably. The smell is clinical. Perhaps he is in a medical ward. He is nude, lying uncovered on an exam table. The metal feels icy beneath him-like a mortuary slab. A figure stands over him. He cannot see. Cannot identify the face. He reaches up. He's desperate. 'Help me--'

"The patient is ready for you."

He is startled awake by the monotone voice. On board the USS Enterprise, in his office, he yawns into his fist, eyeing the equally tired, forlorn figure in front of him. Their night has yet to be over. "I'll be right there."

The still very pretty young nurse nods curtly, and swiftly exits.

He reaches for his flask and with shaky hands, he opens up the top. The lid spins away from his fingers, clattering onto the deck. He doesn't bother retrieving it. The sting of the bourbon soothes as it goes down. Time to get to work. This patient won't be an easy one.

In Operating Theatre B, the naked, shivering patient lays strapped in on a shiny metal table. The young man is obviously terrified out of his mind and shrieking out various obscenities. The tirade is annoying to listen to but the young man is not going to be given what he is demanding. There's no time to be concerned. No sense in wasting a perfectly good medical gown on a junior officer. Laundry is expensive on board this ship. Well, it certainly isn't free. Preserving modesty or warmth is unnecessary for a mere junior officer. Not even an Alpha shift navigator.

"Mr. Chekov." He grabs a fresh scalpel from the assortment laid out for him on a metal tray. "I won't have you talking that way in front of my nurse. Appropriate decorum must be followed on board ship, even if one is a patient."

Holding up the scalpel, he points it directly down. He makes that first incision into the epidermis over Chekov's facial area, spreading the skin apart with his fingers.

Chekov screams.

"Please calm down, Mr. Chekov. This procedure won't take long."

Chekov quiets but continues to writhe. There is no time for this display.

"Okay?" Nurse Christine Chapel reaches over and wipes the sweat off his brow. He nods.

Blood and pus ooze out of the incision on the navigator's face. Nasty. "You have a bit of an infection here, Mr. Chekov. You should have come in sooner, rather than trying to hide from me. However, I've cleared most of it away."

"You're a butcher! I'll murder you. I promise you that!"

"No, I don't think so." He is humming an aria from 'Madame Butterfly' as he operates, drowning out any more screams. At the same time, he can't help but wonder, fantasizing how exactly might Ensign Pavel Andrevich Chekov deign to murder him. Would the young man come to him in the night, stealthily? Would Chekov asphyxiate him? Would the kid come alone, or with an accomplice? Would the navigator slice his throat to bleed out in his own bunk? Rape him first? God, that would hurt so.

Perhaps Ensign Chekov would simply ambush him in a level 7 corridor, so poorly lit these days. Maybe Chekov would thrust the knife into his heart, twisting it around. Maybe the kid would carve him up, pulling out his small intestines, arranging them just so. A ceremonial placement, just like a modern day Jack the Ripper. He can only imagine that when he is found three days later the stench of entrails would permeate the area like an old-fashioned slaughterhouse.

He shakes his head to clear the thoughts, prepares to close the incision himself. Usually he leaves Nurse Chapel to perform these tasks and finish up. His hands have been shaking something awful as of late.

He does feel it necessary to warn the navigator: "You haven't been very nice to me, Mr. Chekov. You keep moving around so much that you leave me little choice. Have to use the big stitches on you. It will leave a bit of a scar. I am very sorry."

Chekov, in response, grips the table as far as his restraints will allow and screams bloodcurdling epitaphs each time the needle slides in and out.


It is Nurse Christine Chapel's problem now to perform the required clean up and deal with releasing the patient.

He heads back into his office. He washes the dried blood away in the hand sink. He watches the dark red slowly fade down the drain. Watches the life-force deconstructing in the water.

He takes another good, long sip of Bourbon from his flask and sinks down into his office chair. The chair is hard, makes his bones ache, but there is no other chair that is comfortable. Not on board this ship.

During Mr. Chekov's operation he had found he had gotten an erection. It rarely will occurs these days. But, when it happens, it's the only thing that helps make him feel alive, unlike any other time on board ship. The operation with all of that screaming and whining and moaning might get to a man's dick. Witnessing the blade of the scalpel, forcing its way through the layers of epidermis, through tissues, is enticing, titillating. Seeing the patient strapped in and wonder he was aroused. There's nothing like that kind of power over a man.

He runs his thumb along his crotch. Perhaps when Nurse Chapel is finished in the theatre, she would be so kind as to suck him off.


An hour later and the office door slides open. It's not Chapel. It's Pavel Chekov, now wearing a terribly wrinkled uniform. It's quite unbecoming of a junior officer. The operation has left an angry red line on the face. The incision itself is puffy at the edges and crisscrossed with black thread. That was to be expected, but he can barely stand to even look at Chekov in this state. The kid is definitely unworthy to give anybody a blow-job. "May I help you?"

"You know what I want."

"I don't think I am inclined to give it to you. I did not appreciate your attitude in surgery and I sure as hell don't like it right now."

Chekov's mumbling something in return about how he's sorry. About how much pain he was suffering.

He might feel sorry for the navigator and he does wish to get rid of him. He unlocks the cabinet, the one holding the... special meds, hands Chekov a small container of CMT in powder form. "This will cost you, Mr. Chekov."

"I know." Chekov doesn't care. They never do. Chekov grasps it and pours out the contents. The kid cuts and snorts a line right then and there on the desk.

He grants the ensign just a moment for the narcotic's effects to take hold. "Seventy-five credits, please."

Chekov hands over the chip without even looking up.

Of course the charge goes through. Chekov wouldn't dare cheat him. He tosses the plastic back onto the desk. Chekov scoops it up and darts out.

There is still a tiny pile of white powder left over. How terribly untidy. He dips a finger into the pile and rubs it onto his gums.


He's finishing up some charting when his office door opens. Christine Chapel. Finally.

"Hello, Doctor." Chapel makes herself right at home, setting an ass cheek on a corner of the desk. It doesn't appear that she is wearing her regulation blue bloomers under that uniform. "Working hard, or hardly working?"

He studies her hourglass figure, those perky breasts, her long, sensual legs. He says nothing in particular.

She lowers her eyelashes, checking out his goods. He tilts his head a little. Beckoning. She knows. She comes over and undoes the top fastening to his pants. Chapel needs the credits so she's always happy to oblige.

Chapel's knelt down and is working him out of his underwear, when the Bosun's whistle sounds. He makes a soft grunt in frustration, reaches over and flips the switch. "McCoy."

"Bones. How about meeting me in my quarters for a drink?"

Chapel's moved underneath the desk, out of sight of the monitor as she continues working on his cock. "When, Jim?"

"Right now."

"Jim, look…" He tries not to gasp or make jerky facial movements. It has been said that Chapel can blow with the best of 'em. It has been said that she makes a man feel alive. He has yet to feel that way but he's trying. "I'm kinda busy down here."

"I'll bet you are. Meet me in ten minutes. Kirk out."

The monitor goes dark. He has no choice but to go. He'd better hurry.

He moves his hand to the back of Chapel's head, and shoves his dick down her throat.


It's occurred to him that everyone in the corridors appears lifeless. It's nothing unusual. For as long as he has ever known, it has always been that way. Obviously they are not truly deceased. They move quite readily down these poorly lit, grey pathways inside the belly of this whale. The skins show no sign of mottling. The bodies are not lying on his slab with organs waiting to be harvested. They have no odor. However, the crew are very dead-- rotting, decomposing--on the inside. It may simply be his imagination. Or maybe not.

He cannot remember the last time he has ever witnessed a crewman smiling, laughing, or playing a game. Least of all, himself. The last time he has ever played a game, it was in a dream, a most recent dream. He was playing chess with the Grim Reaper. The bony fingers moved the chess pieces on the 3-D board with a 'click'. It was four 'clicks' actually. One 'click' when it made contact with the piece, another 'click' when it moved its arm, another 'click' when the piece made contact with the board and yet another 'click' when the bone released the piece.

'Click, click, click, click'.

He'll never forget that sound.

Oh, there was a wager on the chess match, of course.

His soul.

Since then he has rarely slept through the night.


In the captain's quarters, Jim Kirk pours the amber liquid into two lowball glasses, and glances over at him expectantly.

He picks up Kirk's glass, takes the obligatory sip from it, and places the glass back down with a slight tap. They always perform this ritual even with the captain's private stock of booze. "It's clean."

Kirk dismisses him with a wave. "Wait a moment. Some of those poisons are slower acting."

He pulls out his type II scanner and runs it over Jim's brandy in a very deliberate move. "There's nothing in it."

Kirk's quiet for a few moments. "How are you feeling? Any ill effects?"


The captain nods then finally imbibes from the glass himself, all the while giving it a wary glance.

Jim Kirk is an extremely paranoid man.

"Status report." On this ship, everyone speaks in a near whisper. It's simply the way things are done around here.

"Everything is as it should be, Captain. I performed a few surgeries... some experimentation."


"I will, however, require some fresh specimens."

"How soon?"


"Duly noted."

They take their respective sips of brandy. He remembers that Scotty used to drink with the captain quite regularly. Not anymore. Something must of happened between the two of them, though he cannot imagine what. Scotty had once mentioned that a friendship with Jim Kirk is like dancing with a chainsaw.

"Oh, Captain?"

"Yes, Dr. McCoy?"

"Ensign Chekov. The kid was a, uh, disrespectful patient this evening."

"Gave you some trouble?"

"I don't want to, uh, you know..." He motions with a hand.

Kirk flips a switch on his monitor. "Security. Locate Ensign Chekov. Hold him for me. Kirk out." He presses the switch again.

"Quite a screamer, that boy."

The captain asks: "Want to watch?"

He thinks about it for a moment. "I'll pass."


"Uh huh."

They drink on in silence for long, long moments. Neither one are men who tell, nor enjoy listening to, long tales of woe. He thinks perhaps they are perfect for each other.

"Happy Birthday, Bones."

He takes a huge swallow. "What?"

"It's your birthday. Isn't it? I mean, I looked it up."

He could not remember the last time anybody had wished him a 'Happy Birthday'. Fascinating. He stares into the inner nothingness. "Oh."

"Got you something."


"I ordered it to be delivered straight to your quarters."

His throat is suddenly, inexplicably dry. "Can't wait to see what it is."


Sure enough, there's a large shipping crate parked on the deck in his small, sparsely appointed cabin.

What appear to be air holes are punched into the lid. Perhaps the crate contains some kind of a pet. Had to be an extremely large pet, as the crate seemed able to hold a panther. He's sincerely hoping it's not a panther as he breaks the seal.

He sets the lid against the bulkhead. As soon as he gets a good look at what is contained wherein, he flips the switch on his monitor. "McCoy to Kirk."

"Kirk here."

"Jim...what the hell is this?"

"Don't you like your gift?"

He stares at the pathetic creature lying in the bottom half of the crate, limp, nude, save for a thick metallic collar secured around the neck and a heavy metal chain attached to that. It's wearing shackles too. Long, tangled, black hair hangs in strings from its head. It's bearded. Filthy. Its wrists are securely bound behind its back. It appears non-responsive. "It's dead, Jim."

"Oh, come now, Bones, it can't be dead. It was expensive. Maybe it's only sleeping."

"If it's sleeping, it sleeps like the dead."

"Nonsense, Bones. Give it a little kick."

"It? You bought me a man, Jim." He is not disgusted by this. It is simply an observation.

"Oh no. That's not a man. Your new pet is a Vulcan."

"A what?"


"Vulcan? Never heard of 'em." Something makes him think he should have heard of one, but he cannot remember… The creature's eyes jerk open breaking his reverie. "This thing certainly looks like one of us."

"Well, it isn't. Check out the ears." Instead, he's staring at the rather prominent male genitalia. It's huge compared to...well it's large. "It's a savage, Bones. An animal."

"Animal? What am I supposed to do with this animal?"

"Bones. Bones. I would have thought that blatantly obvious. Maybe now you'll leave your nurses alone."

"You fuck your underlings, too, Jim."

"Yeah, but I'm the captain."

The thing in his cabin is now staring right back at him. It's got deep, dark brown, soul searching eyes. They are unnerving him. "Where'd you pick up this thing?"

"Starbase 12. Some traders were selling off a whole family, seems like. They acquired 'em from the latest conquest of their home planet."

"Where's that?" He's still transfixed.

"Hell if I know, Bones."

The thing/creature/Vulcan/animal/whatever, suddenly shifts. Every time it moves, a rank odor emanates from the body. "Jim, it really stinks. It can be bathed, can't it?"

"Of course it can. But be careful."


"See how it's wrists are bound? Well, don't undo that, whatever you do. It can kill you with its bare hands."

"It can?" He feels himself becoming slightly aroused by this.

"Not like that. All its immense physical strength has been sucked dry. Now, it's got the strength of a woman. I meant, if it touches your face, it can kill you. With its own mind. They weren't able to get rid of that. So don't let its wrists free."

"Alright, Jim. Got it. Don't let it touch my face."

"Have fun, Bones. Kirk out."


He stands there, looking over his new acquisition. The creature bears this close scrutiny without a peep. "Well, well, well." He rubs his hands together. "I guess it's just me and you, isn't it."

The pathetic thing looks up again, rather morosely, which might tug on the old heartstrings, but only for a moment.

He reaches down and strokes the alien bearded chin. The skin is warm. Warmer than a human. He tightens his grip and it suddenly jerks its head away, the chain rattling at the sudden movement. He grabs onto the unruly beard again, even harder this time, yanking the alien's face back towards him. "Do not be frightened. I won't hurt you."

A dangerous animal is in his quarters. Maybe he should entice the thing to suck him off right now. Would the savage bite his dick off, leaving him to bleed to death? It's almost too delightful to think about. However, he hasn't checked it for any nasty diseases yet.

Pushing the face away, he debates whether or not to feed it now, or bathe it first. It is stinking up the place with its terrible body odor, but perhaps he'll feed it a little something, offer it a little kindness. It's probably weakened from its journey.

He heads over to the synth unit whistling: 'The Blue Danube', one of his favorite waltzes.

He slips in a meal card, waiting patiently. The only type of food available on this ship is soup and maybe some bread, reconstituted at that and the quality is variable. They don't get the newest machines on this ship and they do often break down. Having the position of Chief Medical Officer, he is extremely fortunate in this respect. He is able to choose what type of soup he wants. Only a handful on board can do that. He selects 'chicken'. Lots of protein in chicken soup. The Vulcan should eat that. Animals--brutal savages--devour meat, don't they?

Out pops out a tray with the steaming bowl and a spoon. He sets the tray on the deck and kneels down next to his pet. He is going to have to spoon feed it because it's tightly bound and he's slightly irritated at this imposition, but Jim did warn him not to undo the creature's bindings.

He just wishes the thing would quit staring at him like that.

He dips the spoon into the bowl, holds up some broth to the Vulcan's lips. It turns away. "Aren't you going to eat this? It's good. Eat it."

He holds up the spoon to the lips again. All the creature does is turn its face the other way, like an infant.

"What the hell's the matter with you? Eat it." Its constant refusal rankles him. He calmly sets the spoon back down on the tray. "Fine. Not hungry? Then, it's the shower for you."

He stands up, yanking on the Vulcan's hair so that it has to rise up also. He strips naked, pulls on the creature's hair again to lead it over to the fresher. It does go quite willingly in there with him and into the shower proper, so he doesn't have to pull on it any harder than necessary. Though he is tempted to, to see how the thing will react. Soon, some experimentation will be necessary.

The Vulcan is probably grateful for the bath, perhaps it hasn't had one in months. Smells like it hasn't. Who knows when it was captured?

He washes himself first, quickly. The water shower in most of the officer's cabins is one of the only luxuries on board this ship, though he thinks that sonic waves are more expensive than simply fitting the ship with recycled water. The creature simply stands there and waits. He pushes it under the water spray, shampooing its long, tangled, scraggly hair, soaping up the extremely thin body as well as he can. As he touches the alien thoraxic region, he feels its ribs protruding. The creature appears emaciated. It's no different than any of the 'enlisted men' aboard this ship, but slightly more so. It certainly appears 'all cock' as the thing's hips are tiny. He finds himself running a hand though the creature's ample chest hair before spinning the body around to wash the backside. He'll do nothing further to it at this point.

He rinses the both of them off then leads it out of the cubicle. He dries himself off with a large fluffy towel, securing it around his waist, then quickly dries off the Vulcan with a smaller, scratchier towel. Well, laundry is expensive and fluffy towels are unnecessary for an animal.

He pulls it by the chain over next to the lattice separating the sleeping area from the living area and secures the chain to that. He dons some night clothes and gets into his bunk, huddling underneath his thin duvet.

The naked Vulcan hunkers down on the deck. He watches it for a few moments, slightly amused. It does appear to be shivering after its shower and it is cold in here as per ships orders.

The soup remains there on the deck, next to the Vulcan. If it wants to eat in the night, it can lap it up like a dog.


He cannot move his head. There is a scurry of activity around him. He follows them with his eyes. He's desperate to find out what they are up to... they whisper to one another but he cannot hear they are gone...there's only the white ceiling to stare at, only the pounding of his heart to listen to.


He opens his eyes at the alarm. It feels like a million shards of glass are lodged beneath the lids. He rubs them and checks the chrono: 06:00. He's exhausted, like he's just performed in a triathlon. His arms hurt. It's cold. He sits up and glances over at the Vulcan. It's still where it's been chained. Not that he expected this thing to be able to escape, but it hasn't appeared to even shift its position, nor does it appear to have slept all night. It simply sits there, listless, crouched slightly, head dipped between its legs.

It hasn't touched its bowl of soup.

He shrugs, readies for his long, difficult shift ahead of him and exits his quarters.


"You're the angel of're the angel of're the angel of're the angel of're the angel of death!"

He stands over the patient strapped into the biobed: A young red shirted specialist. He checks the chart. Ah, Berkeley. Lt. Simon Berkeley, who has suffered a head injury from a fall in Engineering. He places the hypodermic needle once again to the neck. The face jerks as the needle pricks the skin, then slides into the protruding vein. He presses down on the plunger. Just a little more. "Oh, come now, Lieutenant. Angel of Death? You don't really mean that."

"No...Oww...I can see you. You're the angel of death: Malach Hamavet."

"Malach Hamavet. I rather like the sound of that sobriquet, Lieutenant."

"You have a scythe...a black robe...I can see you." Even on the table, the lieutenant speaks in a near whisper. He has to admit he likes this officer, the young man knows how to obey decorum. Even if the words the young man speaks are rubbish, the kid is still respectful.

"Hallucinations. Merely a side effect of the Diamorphine. You'll be just fine. Relax."

"Yit'gadal v'yit'kadash sh'mei raba..." The patient begins before fading away. A loud beep emanates from the biobed. Flat line.

He jots down some notes in his mediPADD. He whistles a bit of: 'Madame Butterfly'.

"What was he saying, Doctor?" It is Dr. M'Benga, who appears alongside to stare down at the fresh corpse.

"He was saying...the Mourner's Kaddish in Hebrew." The doctor knows.


"Mourner's prayer."

"Ah. For who?"

"Presumably himself." He turns to M'Benga. "Who else?"

He watches M'Benga's Adam's apple bob as the junior doctor swallows hard. "Who ever heard of saying a mourner's prayer for himself?"

He does not answer that. "I have stated in my report, the patient suffered serious complications during surgery to repair serious head trauma. Note, Diamorphine is not to be used to treat head trauma, unless I command it."

"Understood, Dr. McCoy."

"Transport this corpse below decks."

"Right away."

He turns to go. " more thing."

"Harvest his eyes?"

He nods.


'Le-petite mort': French for 'the little death'. A metaphor for orgasm. It can refer to the spiritual release that comes with orgasm or to a short period of melancholy or transcendence as a result of the expenditure of the life-force. The feeling whereof is caused by the release of oxytocin in the brain after the occurrence of the orgasm. It does not always apply to sexual experiences. It can also occur when some undesired thing has happened to a person and has affected them so much a part of them dies inside.


He's standing with his three colleagues, observing though a one-way mirror. They are watching their subject: A young female yeoman. She is locked into an observation room. A baby lays in a cradle next to her in the room, crying.

"Is the subject the child's mother, Dr. McCoy?"

He turns to eye M'Benga, then turns back to the subject at hand. "The yeoman is not the child's mother. This child is not real. It is simply an android."

"It appears real in every way, Dr. McCoy."

"Of course. I designed it myself."

Dr. Sanchez queries: "Is the female subject a mother?"

"Unknown. That knowledge is not necessary to perform the experiment."

"But Dr. McCoy, all variables must be considered."

"Not that one." He purses his lips.

"Of course. Of course, Dr. McCoy. As you wish."

They continue to watch dispassionately, yet intently as the woman picks up the child, tries to console it. She is unsuccessful, no matter what she does: Singing, pacing, a bottle given to feed, nothing helps. The child continues to cry.

Dr. M'Benga asks: "What is the purpose of this experiment, Dr. McCoy?"

"I would think that would be quite obvious. It is to see how long the woman can last without strangling the child."

Dr. M'Benga coughs suddenly. "Does the subject know the child is an android?"

"She does not."

At that, Dr. M'Benga abruptly exits the examination area.

He watches the man go. "Continue on with the experiment."


Nurse Lia Burke stands in front of him, tear tracks visible on her face. He shakes his head reproachfully at the girl. She'd been helping herself to some of that Cocaine he had locked away...for experimental purposes.

"Please, Dr. McCoy. I needed it. Please. I can make it up to you."

She sits on his desk, lifts up her uniform skirt, pulls her bloomers and panties aside to show him her pussy. Spreads her legs a little.

He licks his lips. "If you insist, Nurse."


The Vulcan is still in the same position as it had been when he'd left it in his quarters fourteen hours ago. Maybe it senses what's about to happen to it. Or maybe not. He doesn't know or care which.

All shift, this thing locked up in here, helpless, dependent, bound up in chains, awaiting his return, made his dick twitch constantly. Would the Vulcan make little moans like Nurse Burke did? Feel so tight inside like she did? Burke had to stretch so wide to accommodate him, but she managed.

First things first. He'd brought along his type II scanner. He kneels down and scans the alien genitalia. Other than the extra ridge on the glans and the bizarre light green hue the penis and testicles appear to be shaped almost exactly like a human's. The creature also has a prostate gland. Not that it matters, but that little tidbit could be... fascinating.

It possesses no sexually transmitted diseases, or none that he could be made aware of, which might have of surprised him, once upon a time, surely the Vulcan has been fucked plenty by any and all previous owners.

He sets the scanner down, strips completely nude, dropping the used laundry onto the deck. The Vulcan looks up at him. Instead of turning away, it's staring into his eyes, as always.

He doesn't know if he wants to shove his dick down its throat or fuck it in the ass first. He unfastens the chain from the lattice and pulls the already conveniently naked Vulcan over to the bunk. It goes along quite willingly. That is a bit disappointing, but it's much easier if it does. He pushes it down on the bunk face first, ass up, smashing its head down.

The Vulcan only lets out a soft grunt at this, but again, makes no attempt to scramble away. Its wrists, as always, are locked securely behind its back.

He shoves a dry, searching finger into the anus. Gonna need lube. Leaning over, he pulls out a tube from the drawer from his night stand. He pours out some oil onto his fingers then slides a slick finger into the rectum. Nice and warm.

In one thrust, he pushes his dick all the way inside. It's tight and takes a bit of effort. It's hot, even hotter than any human could ever be. Burning. Fire. The sensation requires some getting used to. The Vulcan is taking all of this, quietly, the breathing remaining even and controlled even when its ass is being owned. He thrusts into it hard and even harder. As hard as he can. His own balls are making a slapping sound against the firm, dry, alien skin. It doesn't take long to come, squirting deep inside.

He leans over the smooth back to recover, trying to catch his breath. His stamina is non-existent these days, apparently.

He feels the Vulcan sinking underneath him, down onto the bed.

And this is only the first time.


Lieutenant Uhura swings around in her seat. "Distress call coming though."

"From?" asks the captain.

"Passenger transport ship: 'The Explorer' traveling en route to Minerva 7 from Terra 2."

"Ship's complement?"

First Officer Kor delivers a report from the Library/Science station scanner: "Twenty officers and crew. Passenger load of four hundred, Captain."

"Put it on audio, Lieutenant."

"Aye sir."

"Enterprise, we require medical supplies, we are suffering from a deadly virus, we are out of required inoculations, help us, help us, help us..." There is static then the signal is lost.

Kirk sits in his chair, chewing on his thumb. He appears to hesitate.

Commander Kor asks: "Orders sir?"

"Dr. McCoy. Order a medical team to report to transporter room--" Kirk suddenly stops, rubbing his forehead. "Uh..." He squints suddenly, winces, closes his eyes.

"What are your orders, Captain?"

"Doctor." The captain hesitates again.

"Captain?" Kor asks him again. "What are your orders?"

"Lock phasers on target, Mr. Sulu. Commence firing bursts on my command."

"Aye sir."


All hands on the bridge watch impassively as 'The Explorer' brightens and disappears from the sky.

Captain Kirk is suddenly muttering to himself something which sounds like: "My God...there were over four hundred lives on board that ship."

"Is there a problem, Captain?" Commander Kor asks.

Kirk winces again, holds up a hand then smiles grimly, sweat glistening on his face. "There's no problem at all. Better this way. Can't have them spreading their space viruses, their nasty disease... anywhere else. Don't you agree, Bones?"

"Of course, Jim. The drugs are much too expensive to waste." He didn't feel much like beaming aboard that ship, anyway, too much paperwork to process them, although, they might have been useful for...

"You have done the correct thing, Captain," Commander Kor replies. "You know that."

"I know. I know."


He heads into the main assembly room. It is large enough for a capacity of two hundred persons. Today is the monthly medical inspection of the security detail. One of his duties as Chief Medical Officer is to weed out the undesirables, the weakened, the 'walking dead' as they call them. He is flanked by Drs. M'Benga, Sanchez and Jones as he strolls down the line. Like the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse, they are.

He stops at one. "Name?"

The poor soul does not meet his eyes. This young man is thin, much too thin. "Garrison," the young man whispers. One always whispers aboard this ship.

The young man is shaking. Obviously this one is unworthy to serve on security detail. He will be dealt with.

He points at the young man and snaps his fingers. M'Benga nods and they walk on.


"How's your new pet coming along, Bones?"

"Oh, it's fine." They are having their evening drink in the CMO's office. He has performed the scanning of the brandy, drank from Jim's glass, proclaimed it poison free. The usual ritual.

"Wearing you out?"

"At little." He takes another sip of his own drink. "Jim."

"Yes, Bones?"

"Why did you hesitate on the bridge this morning?"

Jim flicks his gaze away. "I had a splitting headache."

"Need something for it?"

"Yeah, I think maybe I do."

He reaches over to his locked cabinet, opens it, fetches a small vial, handing it over to Jim. The captain sits there, holding the vial and staring hard at it.


The sandy haired head snaps up. "Yes?"

"Aren't you going to take it? I did just prescribe it."

"What is this?"

"What do you think?"

"What will it do to me?"

He pulls the vial out of the captain's grasp and puts it away. The captain is a very paranoid man. He slides over a pill instead. "That is simply aspirin." The captain looks at the pill, finally picks it up, puts it into his mouth and swallows. They wait for a few moments for the drug to take effect. "I thought, uh, maybe you were having some difficulty making a command decision, Jim. You were about to beam me over there."

"It's been corrected. I did follow standard operating procedure, Bones."

"Yes. Eventually."

"So, I did the right thing. You know that."

"I know." He stares down at his own hands. They are shaking.


"Why won't you eat?"

It is a rational question. He'd chained the pet to his desk so that it sits at his feet while he finished up some work and ate his dinner. He's got Beethoven playing: 'Moonlight Sonata'. He has been kind enough to also call up a bowl of hot chicken soup for his pet. He had knelt down to spoon feed it, but the damned thing wouldn't touch it.

"What about some water? You want some water?" He holds up his own water glass to the mouth. It hasn't taken in any liquids since its arrival.

The Vulcan turns away at this too.

Enraged, he slaps the creature, the head snapping back with the blow. He throws the glassful of water in its face, slams the now empty glass on the table; it smashes, the sound loud in the silence. The Vulcan simply kneels, does absolutely nothing in its own defense.

"Why do you make me do that to you?" There is of course no answer. It's a few moments before he calms down. Water drips from the Vulcan's beard and hair onto the deck. He shakes his head at that, feels guilty but uncertain as to why he now feels such remorse. It's just a stupid creature. Maybe it's those brown eyes that constantly stare deep into his psyche. Almost as if the creature wants to tell him something.

He fetches a hand towel from the bathroom, attempts to press the towel against the creature's face, to dry it. The Vulcan pulls away, giving out another grunt.

"I just want to help you. What's the matter with you?" He scoops up his type II scanner, kneels in front of the Vulcan, runs it over the entire body.

He studies the readout and collapses down onto his heels.

The Vulcan's jaw is broken.


He's digging around in sickbay, quickly gathering up for his surgical kit the things he will need, shoving it all into his black leather pouch. He chews on the inside of his cheek in frustration.

He never inflicted those injuries on that Vulcan. Those have to be from its previous owner. So, due to his haste, he has been fucking the thing repeatedly, for days, with a fractured and dislocated jaw. No wonder it won't eat.

This infuriates him; he's not certain if he wanted to be the one to inflict any and all damage but it's never occurred to him to even bother checking the rest of the body for the fractures beyond the anus for injuries or disease. He had been too damned eager breaking in his new 'fucktoy'. This isn't the first time he's been in trouble for medical practices. Hence why he was even on board this ship, the lowliest ship in the galaxy, inviting scorn and abuse from others when the 'Enterprise' insignia is visible on a uniform. The insignia is usually hidden from view, if they mix with any others in Fleet.

"Preparing to practice some dentistry, Dr. McCoy?" It's Dr. M'Benga. The man is always terrified of him. He can't imagine why.

He holds up a pair of pliers, snapping them in M'Benga's face. He tries to imagine those delightful little cries as he's yanking out pearly white teeth, one by one. M'Benga's eyes widen at that and to toy with M'Benga's fear...mostly...he slides his hand down his blue velour shirt all the way down to the tight pants. He never can hide the hardening length down there, when it happens, and M'Benga's eyes obediently follow the hand.

"I'll, uh, leave you to it." M'Benga swallows and swiftly walks away. Once upon a time, he might have been moved to follow M'Benga. Corner him. But now...

He simply shrugs and turns back to collecting supplies.


He yanks the Vulcan over to the bunk without a word, pushing it down to sit there. He pulls the articles out of his medical bag, fingering the hypodermic needle. He dabs his thumb on the sharpness, feeling its prick...

He presses the smooth, metal circular hypospray to the Vulcan's neck, instead. He lowers the now limp body down, turning it over onto its back.

Since the wrists are secured behind the waist, this makes the body lay tilted at an awkward angle. He supposes he will have to remove the binding after all. He flips the body over again, hesitates, then with a surgical laser he cuts through the metal cuffs and shackles. He will just have to figure out how to re-secure the Vulcan later.

Flipping the body over once again, he re-scans the jaw. This procedure will take hours. He pulls out a dental regenerator, holds it directly adjacent to the right cheek and sets to work.

After a while, midway though, he tilts the head back and opens the mouth to delicately access the jaw from the inside. The teeth are missing in most of the upper left quadrant, which will require implant surgery. He slides a stabilizer into the mouth which must remain temporarily.


In the interim, while he has waited for the Vulcan to awaken from surgery, he's cut its hair short in his best approximation of a Fleet service haircut (well, he's a doctor, not a barber) in a sudden urge to get rid of the creature's tangled rat's nest. He had also removed its unruly beard and applied a beard repressor. There is a selection of green contusions and a few small healing cuts that are now visible on the smooth, chiseled face. He most emphatically did not inflict those either. He sets to work healing them all.

Cleaned up, the thing on his bunk almost appears civilized. Almost. The now very visible pointed ears are rather graceful. The lips, bow shaped, are beautiful. He runs a finger along them.

The Vulcan is always freezing in his quarters. Granted, it IS cold in here, however, the temp on this ship is non adjustable. He contemplates, then slides a pair of sleeping pants onto the Vulcan's hips and attires it in a long sleeved, V-necked, cotton shirt.

A little while later the Vulcan finally opens its eyes. It looks around then down at its own now clothed form on the bed.

"Yes. You're back in Hell, also known as my quarters. I'm sorry."

The Vulcan sits up on his elbows, squinting at him, then raises a delicately slanted eyebrow in what appears to be surprise.

"I let your wrists free. But you aren't going to do anything to me, are you?" Let's see if he can trust the thing not to run away or attack him.

The Vulcan glances at its now freed wrist then strokes its own, now smooth face.

He reaches over to slide his fingers into the mouth to pull out the mouth guard. "You've been out for awhile. I operated on your jaw. You should be alright to eat now." The Vulcan oddly appears to somehow understand him. He pulls the chain from the bed, leads it over to the table. The Vulcan moves to sit at his feet, like always, but he stops it. "No." He indicates the chair opposite the table. "Sit here." As the Vulcan now has the appearance of a civilized person, he can't seem to bear making it sit at his feet anymore. He walks to the synth unit, calls out: "I'm afraid all we have to eat is soup around here."


He spins around at the raspy voice. "What?"

"Plomeek," the Vulcan repeats.


"Shaya-tonat." The Vulcan's words are slightly slurred as there are the missing teeth to take into account. "Itar-bosh nash-veh." The Vulcan points to its jaw.

The alien will not stop talking. Maybe it's all just gibberish. Or maybe it possesses some modicum of intelligence but he cannot be certain as to what extent. He simply assumes he can be understood. "I'll replace your teeth later. Let that jaw heal."


"Listen, I don't have any idea of what you're trying to say, so it might be better for you to shut up."

It's pointing at its jaw again, perhaps it means to thank him or maybe something hurts. "You're welcome?" The Vulcan nods. Fascinating. The creature has continually utilized either a nod, an affirmative in response to the question or a shake of the head in the 'negative'. "You DO understand me."

The Vulcan nods again, more animatedly this time. It opens his mouth and appears to be attempting to form more words. The face is now contorted in its efforts, but seems ultimately unable to.

"You might have trouble speaking for awhile. You did have a nasty fracture. Are you in any pain?"

The Vulcan shakes his head, for which he takes as a 'no' and points at its throat. "Eeit-caye nash-veh."

There might be a universal translator still lying around. There is. It's at the desk. He begins to calibrate it, sits back down on his bunk next to the Vulcan and puzzles over the selections. "Language?"

The Vulcan points to itself.

"I don't know what that means."

It's holding out a hand motioning for the translator, so he hands the smooth silver tube over. It makes the calibrations and turns it on.

"Doct--" Before the Vulcan can finish the word, it winces in obvious immense, bone crushing pain, making a strangled cry out.

"Try it again." The translator is working perfectly, it should be able to translate the Vulcan. He watches. His prick, he has to admit, jumps at the sight of the alien in pain, but he'll ignore that for now. "What are you trying to tell me?"

"Doc--" The Vulcan falls off of the chair and collapses onto the deck.

He kneels down and yanks the Vulcan up by the chain from where it's doubled over. The breathing's labored. "Alright, alright...calm down."

They sit on the deck together for long moments until he's acutely aware he's actually comforting it. He's got his arms wrapped around the thing and its hands at the same time are clutching his shoulders. He abruptly pulls away.

Undaunted, the Vulcan is furiously motioning to him, making an apparent universal sign for writing. He lunges towards his desk, picks up a mediPADD and hands it over. It's making a heroic attempt to write on the PADD, presumably in Standard, but also, even with its face contorted (most frightfully) the Vulcan cannot maneuver the stylus to write a word.

"What's the matter with you? Did somebody do something to you?"

The Vulcan finally nods.

"Let's start with this. Do you have a name?"

It nods again.

"Well...What is it?" He's prompting the Vulcan with an impatient hand gesture. This feels irritatingly like playing a silly old fashioned parlor game of Charades but it would be nice to call it something other than: 'Hey you'.

It opens its mouth but no sound comes out.

"Tell me your name."

"Sss--" The Vulcan is grimacing something awful.

"Try it again."

The Vulcan hesitates. "S--" It is overcome with pain, falling to the deck again in convulsions.

His curiosity is definitely aroused, along with his body. He waits for it to recover. "Pathetic piece of shit. Can't even say your own name. I suppose I'll have to give you a name."

The Vulcan morosely nods a 'yes'.

But first, he's so aroused from all of this, he can't stand this goddamned pussyfooting around anymore. He hauls the Vulcan to his bunk, bends it over, yanks down the beige sleeping pants to expose the ass. He scrambles for the lube, hurries up and gets himself slicked up.

The sex is getting easier each time.


"Why won't you ever fight me?"

He has to admit he'd like a little bit of struggle. He does like 'em a bit feisty and he did undo this thing's wrists so you'd think it would at least try something. It never does. He treats this creature deplorably--even for his own standards--but this creature makes him feel such intense rage. It brings so much out of him, but he can't figure out why this stupid Vulcan meekly accepts everything he dishes out. It lets him fuck it till it's raw. The hands are pressed against his bunk, ass tilted up, lets him pound into it until that nasty green blood in its veins is seeping right out of the rectum.

Surely it could try to resist but yet it lets him yank it over to the shower, lets him drench it with water, lets him hold its face under the stream till it surely cannot take a breath, lets him do every goddamned fucking thing to it, doesn't try to escape or fight back... fuck this scum fucking piece of shit... why doesn't it fight back?

"Why? Why? Why?" he's panting out. It DOES feel so goddamned good to take everything out on this Vulcan--shove his dick into it, fuck his come in deeper with every round. Just like it makes him feel absolutely alive to take his fists and smash it- it seems the only time he can really feel is with this creature. Those green bruises are only from him, now.

He pushes the thing to its knees. The thing obligingly opens up, puts the mouth on his cock, hollowing out its mouth, green tongue lashing out and tonguing him on the backside. The resultant orgasm is so intense that he's completely undone, He's boneless now. He slides down the Vulcan's warm, wet body, now overcome with tears. He finds he's sobbing hysterically.

Is that the Vulcan holding him, comforting him?

He's barely aware of what's happening...

Why does he have to go this just feels so good to cry hysterically and be held in this shower stall, under the water stream. How dare the Vulcan make him feel this way.

He'll punish it later but for now he just wants to be held.

Like this.




He sits in his office, taking a much needed sip of his brandy. His hands are shaking even worse today. "Give me a brief history of the planet Vulcan."

"Unable to comply."

"Why not, computer?"

"All data requests must be made though the Library/Science station."

"Override it. Chief Medical Officer's order, Stardate: 3.456.12."

"Unable to comply."

He chews on the inside of his cheek. He bites too hard this time. There's a metallic taste of his own blood.


His dataPADD has been moved. That means it's been touched, read, messed with. It's unbelievable. He must have accidentally left it within the Vulcan's reach. His pet has been chained to the lattice partition, secured as usual, he'd made certain of it, but it still has that damned radius of freedom. "You been touching my other belongings while I've been on duty?"

The Vulcan looks up at him, staring deep into his eyes. It nods.

"Do I have to restrain your hands again? You are not to touch anything in here. This is MY quarters. Understood?"

He almost wishes it had pissed or shit in the middle of the floor, just so he could push the pet's face into it. It never did, too dignified for that apparently, the Vulcan simply waits for him to give it bathroom breaks, every couple of days or so.

He rains blow after blow with his fists upon the body, just to make sure the thing really does understand and learn from its mistake. The Vulcan takes it all, unflinchingly.

Afterwards, it lays there, unmoving, on the floor, bleeding green from a cut under the eye.

Exhausted and spent, he leans over and picks up the PADD. There is some sort of scribbling of alien script on the screen. He makes a move to erase it, till the alien suddenly cries out: "Ei-caiet."

"Shut up."


"I thought you couldn't write." He stares at the script.


He walks over, kicks the Vulcan as hard as he can, in the ribs. "Shut the fuck up."

Shoving the PADD under his arm, he briskly exits his quarters.


"Uhura, I need your help." He wastes no time with a preamble as he enters the communications officer's quarters. She is relaxing on a velvet couch. He wonders how she managed to sneak that on board and tries to ignore the silky red nightie she's got on.

Uhura scowls at him. "Dr. McCoy, you know as well as I do, nothing's free around here." She beckons him closer.

"What do you want?"

She puts a hand on his chest. Uhura has always been one of the smart ones: Resisting his advances, staying away from the sickbay, never ever messing around with any booze or drugs. She's too good for this ship. "I want you to fix Mr. Chekov's face. Properly this time. I have to look at him on the bridge all day. The sight of him makes me want to throw up."

"You know my hands shake."


"Alright, alright. Consider it done."

"What do you have here?"

He hands her the PADD and sits down on the couch next to her. "Translate this for me."

Uhura studies the writing for a minute. "First symbol says: T'Khasi."

"T'Khasi? What's that, a name?"

"It's the planet Vulcan."

"Vulcan? Do you know anything about Vulcans?"

"Not much. Just the language. Very obscure. Who wrote this?"

"Never mind, just read the rest of it."

She does. "They're numbers."


"Yes." Uhura makes a notation on the PADD in standard. "It's got the same amount of digits as override code." She is always vibrant, beautiful and alive, no matter how long she serves aboard this tin can. It's very rare. He's attracted to her life-force.

"Override code? Thank you." He wishes he could kiss her, but kissing is taboo on this ship. He stands up.

"Chekov!" she calls out as he exits.


"Computer...override code: 3.445666784." He taps his stylus against the edge of the monitor.

"Acknowledged. Waiting."

"Summary of planet...T'Khasi."

"T'Khasi, one of two planets orbiting 40 Eridani. In Earth Standard Dialect, the planet is known as Vulcanis, or Vulcan. Planet's inhabitants are referred to as Vulcanians or the more common usage term of: Vulcans. Highly intelligent, civilized. Race is dedicated to logic. Vulcans follow a vegetarian or vegan diet."

"Wait a minute, computer. Clarification requested. Vulcans are vegetarians?"


"For physical reasons or cultural?"

"Cultural. Following the Surakian discipline of eschewing most types of physical violence. The Rihansu, an offshoot of the T'Khasi, are known to engage in the consumption of animal meat and animal products."

"Fascinating." He sucks absently on the end of the stylus. "Computer, continue summary."

"Most T'Khasi are touch telepaths."

"Really? Computer, can this particular alien life form read my mind when I'm in physical contact with him?"

"Unable to correlate data."

"Identify common Vulcan sexual or mating practices." Once again, he taps the stylus against the side of the monitor.

"Vulcan sexual practices are unknown."

"Alright, then. Give me a few sample Vulcan given names. Male. All beginning with the letter 'S'."

"Sarek, Sonak, Selek, Surak, Stonn, Sook, Sorel, Sotan, Socat, Soto, Sliik, Sartel, Spock--"

"Stop. Repeat that last one."



He strolls silently (it's always silently) down the corridor, arriving in front of the captain's quarters. Normally he would never stand here, uninvited, but--

The doors swoosh open.

Jim Kirk is on his bunk, naked, presently engaged in sexual activity with an equally naked Yeoman Rand and Nurse Christine Chapel. Actually, Chapel is going down on Rand.  Chapel's tongue is sliding along the other's clit. Jim is simply watching them, calmly, reclined with arms folded behind his head.

Nurse Christine Chapel is a member of the medical section--his nurse. He should feel anger at that. At Jim using his own nurse for sex, making her perform like a trained flea. But he does not feel anything. He just stands there blankly watching the two girls engaged in oral copulation.

"Hi, Bones. You joining in?"

Normally he would, normally he'd be on Chapel like a maggot on a meat wagon. He'd normally get aroused watching her. "No...uh...not tonight Jim."

"You sure?"

"Yeah, uh, shouldn't you be on the bridge, Jim?" He's still standing in the doorway, gazing dumbly at them.

"Commander Kor's in charge up there. I'm not needed up on the bridge, Bones."

He has his first inkling, something isn't right. Not at all, right. "Commander Kor?" He's puzzled for a moment. That doesn't sound at all correct. Commander Kor is an enemy. Or maybe not. At the very least someone else is supposed to be their first officer. He dreams of another in science blues. Long, slender arms with a double stripe on the wrists. But he cannot see the face, cannot fathom who it is. He shakes his head, sees spots for a moment. He must be tired. He winces from a sharp pain at the base of his skull. "I'm going to bed."

"There's a bed right here, Bones."

"No, mine."

"Ah, you'd rather fuck your silly little pet."

He winces at another sudden sharp pain at the base of his skull. "I'm going to sleep, Jim."


Now I lay me down to sleep, I pray the lord my soul to keep, and if I should die before I wake, I pray the lord my soul to take...

The angel extends its hand. He grasps it. Holds on tightly. It's warm, comforting, he's not afraid. Why should he be afraid, the angel is but a boy. He only hopes his family has laid golden coins upon his eyes. He'll take anything. He hasn't got enough for the journey. He must have enough for the journey. The ground is rough underneath his bare feet. They walk for some time in the silence. They stand on the edge of the water. Water so black, it's like ink. Water so calm, it's like glass. A boat approaches, rowed by a man with a lantern, the light cutting through the fog.

"Twenty-five shillings," whispers the man. One always whispers around these parts. "Twenty-five shillings for passage. No more, no less."

He searches his pockets. There is nothing. "I haven't enough. I am sorry."

"No," whispers the man. "I am the one who is so very, very sorry. My sisters will feed on you and for that I will weep."


They never discuss why they're on board this ship. The twists and turns, the graveyard spiral their respective lives have taken to arrive here, nobody knows. They simply drink and make small talk. But he's going to ask. There are things that need to be asked. "Jim…"



"You don't look very well."

He hesitates. "No. I, uh... I don't feel very..." He trails off, looks at his shaking hands. "I don't know." He simply feels dead. Like the 'walking dead' he selects every month. No strength to live. Simply waiting to be chosen. That's what he is, just waiting to be chosen.

"Want something for it, Bones?"


Jim slides a small glass vial across the desk. "Take it."

He recognizes the vial, it's the RU584 that he gives to the captain. "No, Jim, I don't..."

"What's wrong? You prescribe this to me."

"You're not a doctor. I never take--" He winces. His sharp pains in his head have returned. "I never take what I prescribe."

"What's the problem?"

"The problem is…I don't know. I just don't...want to be here."

"None of us wants to be here." That was true. The Enterprise was the lowest of the low. "You know that."

"I know."

Jim takes a sip of brandy, studies him from across the desk. The captain has very striking hazel eyes. "It's better this way. You know that."

"I know. I know." The doctor opens the vial, pours the contents out on the desk. Very untidy. He does a line of it.


His head is still spinning. "Yeah."


His head is still spinning as he fucks his pet brutally in the shower.


It could be said he is fascinated by eyes.

Blue. Green. Hazel. Brown. The more vibrant the prettier.

He has been developing a serum that changes or enhances a human's eye-color. Why? Well, he supposes eventually the serum will become medically necessary. It must, one day. His own are blue, but fading into grey. He would like to boost the color to an intense blue, but not yet. More experimentation is necessary.

He'd injected the first version of the serum into a test subject, who shrieked hysterically, most distastefully, most horrifically at the burn, then accidentally stumbled into his special room.

The room, with the wall of eyes. Eyeballs.

"They look like butterflies" the subject had said. "Tacked onto the bulkhead." The subject was not blinded by the serum, but the eyes had turned a cold grey. Not quite so pretty anymore.

"Butterflies? Yes. I suppose it's somewhat like a butterfly collection."

He remembered he'd snapped his fingers at M'Benga. The doctor had frozen a moment, then lead the subject down below decks.

Somehow the memory doesn't seem so pleasant anymore.


"I've been..." He knows Kirk is surprised at him. "I've been having these dreams, Jim."

"What kind of dreams, Bones?"

He swallows. "They're nightmares, more like. It's horrible."

"About what?"

" name it, Jim, I've had it. I wake up shivering."

"Well, this ship is cold. Like a freezer in here, sometimes."

"Shivering in fear, Jim."

"Like your patients?"

He swallows. "Yeah, I suppose so. It's just that the dreams have been getting worse...more vivid...since..."

"Since when, Bones?"

He thinks about it for a moment. When he awakens from his nightmares, the Vulcan always is sitting cross-legged on the deck, watching him. "Since you gave me that pet."


He is standing in front of the medical observation room. Watching the young yeoman. Since she strangled what she had thought was a baby, she'd been sitting in a stupor. He was meant to 'take care' of this one. That was his orders. Send her down below, to the horrible smell that awaited. What was it they had once said about 'roach motels', they check in but they don't check out? That was the 'Enterprise', a giant roach motel.

His hand hovers above the controls, then with a fist, he punches the release button.

The door slides open to allow him entry into the med chamber.

He stands in front of the subject, impassively for a few moments. He kneels down in front of her.

Finally he speaks. "It wasn't real."

She appears not to acknowledge his words or even his presence.

"It wasn't a real baby. I'm sor--" Inexplicably his voice cracks at that. It never has before. "I'm very sorry."

She finally looks into his eyes. "It wasn't real?"

"No. It was just a test. A cruel test, admittedly." His hand comes up to rub her thigh. "If you want I can erase the memory of what happened."

She nods slowly.

His headache is returning. Never before has he let a test subject off this easy.




"Do you know anything about Vulcans?"

"Just that they're akin to animals, Bones."

"No, no, no. Vulcan is a--" He swallows thickly. "Vulcan is a highly developed planet."

"Highly developed? I don't think so."

"Jim, the inhabitants of Vulcan are extremely intelligent, more so than a human."

"If that's what you want to believe."

"Jim, Vulcan and Earth are only around 16 light years apart, yet I've never heard of a Vulcan before you brought one on board. Don't you think that's odd?"

Jim takes another sip of brandy. "I suppose."

"That's all you have to say?"

"Don't fall in love with a savage, Bones." Jim gives him a warning glance.

"Not ever gonna let that happen, Jim."

"Good. Drink your drink."

They drink in silence for long, long moments. Jim appears to enjoy only the silences, but he must... "Jim, don't I have a specialty in Xeno-biology?"

"I don't know.  Do you?"

"I can't remember.  It's just odd, Jim. I asked the computer for some data and--"

"About what?"

"Vulcans, Jim.  What do you think?"

"Why would you do that?"

He gives Jim a look. "Because, I was curious. I am a scientist--"

"All data requests must go though the Science/Library station, our first officer, Commander Kor. You know that."

"I know." He shakes his head. "But--"

"But what?"

"Why does it have to go though Commander Kor? Everything has to go though Commander Kor. Why is that?"

"That is according to regulation."

"I thought our mission was to seek out new life forms and alien civilizations."

"Where did you hear that?"

"Jim, our mission. Isn't it...isn't it to--?"

"I follow standard operating procedure and if you knew what was best for you, you'd do the same." Jim's face has cooled into a slightly sinister blank slate. "Is that understood?"

"Perfectly, Sir."

Jim Kirk studies his glass. "Why haven't you drunk your drink?"


It would be safe to say that he has never liked Commander Kor. There's something about the officer that is odd. Not he would never breathe a word about it to anyone, not safe you see. But the times he's had to repair countless female crew after a 'liaison' with the man is enough to disgust him. He does have morals.

One time he shared a turbolift to the bridge with Kor.

He will never do that again.



"Yes, Bones?"

"You're in my dreams, too."

"What dreams?"

"The ones, I've told you about."

"I don't remember you telling me about any dreams."

"I've been dreaming, Jim. About you."

"Me? What am I doing?"

"You're hurting me."

"Hurting you? I'd never do that. I'm your best friend. You know that, Bones. You know that."

"I know." He scratches his head. Jim is his friend. Jim would never hurt him. He knows that.

"So there you go." Jim takes a sip of the brandy. Jim is eager as always to get back to the silent drinking.

"Jim...wait." He holds up a hand. "Listen to me. You're sticking things into my brain...and into--" The anonymous victim laying beside him in the dreams suddenly has a face and a name. "Into... Spock."

"Spock? Who's that?"

--suddenly he's there again...

on a table...

a hand forcing a probe through his ear canal,

thrusting into the brain...

help me..please help me...oh god it hurts... please stop…please…please…stop--

"Who's that, Bones? Who's Spock?"

"My pet." The doctor wipes the sweat off his brow. "Spock."

"You named it 'Spock'?"

"Him. It's a him."

"A what?"

"A 'him'. Spock is not an 'it', Jim. He's a him. A man. A person."

Jim laughs at that, an odd staccato, forced sound. It's been awhile since he's heard anyone laugh like that.

He won't sleep that night.


As predicted, he cannot sleep a wink that night and takes it out on his pet. No one will say that the Chief Medical Officer is getting soft. Then he spends the rest of the morning repairing what he'd done.


He can't remember when he and Jim first met. It feels like he's always been aboard this ship. Doesn't remember a time when he lived on Earth. Doesn't remember his youth. Maybe they erase your memories when you first come aboard this ship. Wouldn't put it past Fleet.

He does dream though, of another life and the Enterprise is the pride and joy of something called the 'Federation' a flagship. Something to be proud of. Not like this.


He hears a faint crash and wanders out of his office in curiosity. It's Dr. M'Benga, using the CMO's personal lab when the man should have been using the community lab. The man is bleeding profusely from a gash in his wrist, a deep wound. There's a drip, drip, drip sound onto the deck. A red pool is beginning to form at his feet. Splatters of blood are darken on the satiny blue med tunic.

M'Benga blanches when he looks up. "It's you."

"Of course, it's me." He ambles closer. "It is my lab. Isn't it?"

"Yes, Doctor." M'Benga is trembling. The brown eyes are wide. The throat tightens, swallows.

"Here..." He comes even closer. "Let me help."

M'Benga's got his hand clamped over the bleeding gash now, the action is obviously only a feeble, temporary fix. Surely a physician should know that. "I'll be alright."

He watches calmly as blood is now spurting though M'Benga's fingers. M'Benga backs away, finally hits the bulkhead.

He of course, has now cornered the skittish man, placing his hands on either side of the shoulders, trapping him in. "You've severed the ulnar artery."

"I know."

"So you don't have much time."

"I know." M'Benga smiles at this. A rare, true smile.


He's thrusting the needle in, sliding it through the layers, pulling it out and the black thread along with it. The beads of sweat are turning into rivets, running down M'Benga's smooth face. His blood spattered medical tunic is wet at the armpits. The man is still bleeding, though a smaller wound. If one doesn't work quickly, M'Benga will bleed out within the hour.

M'Benga's gritting his teeth from the pricks of the needle. Those beautiful, straight, teeth.

He keeps piercing and threading away.

M'Benga keeps right on bleeding. A shame that he'd hit that ulnar. Pesky artery. Making a terrible mess all over.

"Let me..." M'Benga gasps.

The doctor halts. "What?" He's suddenly reeling at this. Wasn't a doctor meant to help, not hurt? What was he doing? He panics for a moment, till his training kicks back in.

"Let me... die. Please."


"A... fresh specimen... for your experiments...isn't that right...Dr. McCoy?"

No. Something isn't right. He immediately lays down the needle and thread--those ghastly ancient torture devices-- picks up a regen device and starts to close the wound up properly.

Suddenly the familiar pain in his head takes hold. His hands shake uncontrollably. He drops the regen device. It clatters to the deck. He follows.


"Dr. M'Benga bled to death in my arms," he announces to his pet, upon entry to his cabin. "I tried to save him, but something stopped me." He realizes he's sobbing out this news.

His pet--the half-Vulcan, Spock--simply undresses him.

He feels his bloody uniform being removed. Allows himself to be propelled into the shower. He faintly remembers the warning from Kirk, the savage could kill him with his bare hands, but far be it, the hands are always used to take care of him. He feels Spock washing him, then drying him gently but thoroughly. He feels himself put to bed and the covers placed over him.

The Vulcan goes to sit cross legged in his corner, as usual.

Then later when he's tried to sleep but can't the Vulcan simply comes to him. So he can take his woes out on it. Never fights back. Just takes what is given.

Except this time the he says to the Vulcan: "I'm so sorry…"


He pulls out another pair of underwear, uniform trousers, blue velour shirt, another pair of boots, and throws the entire ensemble at Spock. "Put this on. Hurry up."

Spock slides off the sleeping clothing and attires himself obediently in the proffered uniform, it fitting the Vulcan's form perfectly. He stands, now proudly, putting his hands behind his back. In the science blues he's now broadcasting a confidence that belies the reality of his situation. Maybe in another time, another place, he might have made a striking, highly competent officer, instead of the pitiful, bruised sex slave he really was.

He fingers the chain attached to the collar around Spock's neck. Not that anyone would actually care if the Chief Medical Officer had a pet, nobody on board this ship cares about anything. Still he feels somehow, the entire assemblage- the collar and chain- needs to go.

He pulls out the laser from his medkit.


They're walking down the Enterprise corridor together, the doctor and his pet, when suddenly it hits him.

Déjà Vu. They've done this a million times before. Walked these corridors together. Him in silky medical scrubs, Spock in science blue velour boasting a double commander's stripe. Of course it's a double stripe, the Vulcan is the First Officer, the Exec. To be more specific, Mr. Spock is half-Vulcan, half-Human. Fascinating.

They're debating, arguing even. He doesn't know what about. They've walked together a thousand times, a million times, a million-million times. Except Spock is an equal. More than. They're carrying on a discussion. Like they've done a million times before.

Spock's reaching over to touch his arm. Telling him something, but he cannot hear.

He shakes his head of the image and leads the silent, obedient Vulcan pet of his into the lift.


"Jim." He grips his brandy glass. "Do you ever feel like...something...something is wrong?"



"Nothing is wrong, Bones. Nothing ever is."

He puts his hand to the back of his head, winces. "Oh…I thought maybe you-"

"Nothing is wrong, Bones. You know that."

"No, Jim. Something. I can't put...I can't put my finger on it. Sometimes, I feel like you and I, and Spock don't belong here, not like this."

"Spock? Who's that?"

"My pet, Jim. I named him 'Spock' remember?"

"Oh." Jim swirls the brandy. Stares into the center of it. "Right, Bones."

He isn't listening. He's throwing up into the waste receptacle.

The captain merely sips his brandy and watches impassively.


He leads Spock into the quiet Sickbay. He motions over to one of the biobeds. He pushes the Vulcan to then lie down, the Vulcan, of course, obliges. Never does this alien resist him. Never has. "You don't fear me. You never fear me."

He could do just about anything to this pet of his and it would follow along blindly. Stupid Vulcan.

He reaches over to the shelf and picks up a hypo.


Nearly finished.

He places the last tooth implant, the incisor. "Alright. Bite down for me."

"Shaya Tonat."

"Yeah, yeah. Whatever that means." He studies his handiwork as the Vulcan speaks. Perfect. His pet-—Spock- now has a set of beautiful teeth, a perfectly healed jaw. If only he could help the man converse in Fleet standard without agony--

The doctor winces in pain once again.


He is sitting at his desk, when the first officer, Commander Kor walks though his office doors.

He raises an eyebrow at the intrusion.

"I heard, Doctor, that you were having a little…trouble lately."


Later on he cannot remember what it is that Commander Kor had visited him for, for the life of him. (Or was it the death of him?)


He's standing in front of Jim's quarters again. The doors open obediently and the voice calls out: "Come."

He steps through the doors. The captain is in bed, once again with Yeoman Rand and Nurse Chapel. The three regard him, mildly.

"Bones. How about joining in?"

He is already removing his tunic, trousers, boots, socks, underwear. His fingers, still shaky, appear to move of their own accord. "Sure." He feels neither dread nor is he elated at the situation.

"I'm glad you're feeling better, Bones."


He's aware he's naked. On top of. Thrusting into his head nurse--but it's been said by many a murderer: when they stab a body, it feels like stabbing a pillow. This feels like nothing. Absolutely nothing.


There's been a ship-wide announcement via Fleet orders. Shower times are to be contained within three minutes. The new regulation applies even for the Enterprise most senior 'officers'. He wonders if the captain has to suffer three minute showers before being cut off. It is simply one more indignity to bear.

The ship is going to wind up stinking like the hold below decks.


He is standing under the shower spray, thinking of time. Time is running out.

His head is bent forward when he feels the warm, familiar hands on his back. The hands are like coming home, but most importantly, he can feel them as they make contact with his body. Unlike being inside Christine Chapel, who--no insult meant to the girl--should have felt warm and tight and alive, but he felt absolutely nothing.

The hands wash his hair gently. The fingers work his scalp. Wash his body equally gently. Then the hands are massaging his shoulders. Somehow it seems as if the water is running longer than three minutes.  That Vulcan must of reprogrammed something. But, the Vulcan isn't intelligent enough to perform such a task. Is he? Maybe another time, First Officer Spock might might have had a class 7 computer rating, one of the highest in Starfleet-Starfleet? Sounds like something to be proud of. Like the Enterprise was a vessel to be proud of, an honor to serve aboard her.

He stops thinking when the hands guide him out of the stall. The fingertips guide sleeping pants and a shirt onto his body. They lead him over to his bunk. Set him down. Push him to lie down. The hands pull the coverlet over him, up to his chest. Were it not somewhere else, it might be said that he was being 'tucked in'. But this wasn't--shouldn't be--  This is merely to ensure he is not uncomfortable. It's always freezing cold on this ship--and these quarters are no exception. He hears footsteps and knows that the Vul--Spock is sitting down on the deck, cross legged as usual.

The doctor lays back on his bunk, stares up at the bulkhead ceiling. "Spock." It's always a whisper, has to be, but it is jarring in the deadly silence.


He knows the idea is ridiculous but he fantasizes for a moment that Spock might have actually voiced his first name. Maybe it's a beloved Vulcan version of the name his mother gave him. A woman he cannot even remember. She must of given him the name at birth. He struggles to remember who she is, what she must of been like, but for all he knows she is dead.

"It's very cold. Would you...?" The familiar headache is returning but he is not giving up. However, he rephrases the request: "Come here." It's said a little more roughly. Perhaps viciously. (But always in a whisper.) "Come here, right now."

As usual, Spock comes to him. Readies himself for the act of penetration.

He touches the Vulcan's nude chest, almost caressing the hair beneath his fingers. The body is warm beneath his hands. "Wait. Put something new on to sleep in. It's cold."

Spock hesitates for a moment, then goes to the wardrobe as ordered.

He motions for Spock to crawl under the coverlet next to him. However, he cannot bring himself to pull the Vulcan into his arms. He stops short of that. He wishes he could. He craves to hold Spock in his arms or perhaps bury himself in Spock's arms. He dismisses these cravings as ridiculous. He wonders when he started behaving so infantile. The pet is present merely to keep him warm in his bunk. He should have thought of this solution earlier. It is cold in here.


He awakens and finds he has actually slept, a full night's sleep. He yawns and attempts to stretch, panics a moment, then relaxes as he realizes he's enveloped in Spock's arms. He's partially on top of the Vulcan, clutched so very tightly, almost with a desperation.

Spock isn't sleeping, however, he's staring down at him with a curious light in his eyes. Who knows how long the Vulcan's been doing that? Just staring at him. It's unnerving.

His morning erection is poking into the Vulcan's thigh. He could spin the man around right now and fuck him, but he doesn't. He just sits up with the throbbing erection, gets out of bed, and heads to the fresher to pee. It's a difficult feat with a stubborn tumescence. He steps into the three minute shower.

It's ice cold. Must be Fleet orders again.

But, he masturbates anyway.


For weeks now, or is it months, it's a similar occurrence every 'night'. Upon retiring, he summons the Vulcan into his bed. The Vulcan never comes uninvited.

Every 'morning' he wakes up, cuddled tightly, in the Vulcan's arms. Every 'morning' instead of fucking the life out of his pet, he heads into the bathroom to ready for his shift. He fucks his own hand before the ice cold three minutes are up.

They have breakfast together. Spock tries to communicate with him via sign language sometimes.

Every morning Spock whispers something to him that he sometimes fancies is some sort of an endearment: "Ashayam." Or something like that. Who knows what it means. Some Vulcan gibberish. He just looks forward to hearing it before he leaves for his shift every day and every evening when they go to bed.

He looks forward to coming back. He wonders what the Vulcan gets up to while he's gone, in the prison of which is the Chief Medical Officer's cabin, while the Chief Medical officer goes to his shift on the larger prison, known as 'Enterprise'.


Nurse Burke stands in front of the doctor's desk. She trembles. "I need--" She breaks off, her quivering lip cannot even form the words, then: "It." Breathed, always in a whisper.

It's the Heroin she's craving, of course, he doesn't remember who'd gotten her hooked on the ancient stuff in the first place. Maybe it was him, maybe Sanchez. She's always willing to pay for it with her body.

He nods and gets out the hypo. He shoots her in the arm.

This is different than the norm. She has questions in her eyes. She rubs her shoulder.

The doctor informs her: "That, my dear, is an anti-addiction hypo."

Tears stream down her eyes. He's not certain if he's actually done her a favor or not. He understands that the Heroin helped things remain bearable on board this ship. But maybe if she's clean, she could possibly carve out a better life for herself. Get off this ship. Maybe not, but he's willing to help her try.

She dives into his arms and he holds her close for as long as she needs, before she runs out of his office.

He spends the next hour grabbing his head in agony.


It's an evening like any other, except now he simply lets Spock hold him right away, rather than bothering with waking up that way. The physical contact helps him sleep (mostly) through the night. The terrible dreams have lessened. He's got 'Madame Butterfly' on. Beautiful. He drifts off in the Vulcan's arms.


He is suddenly awakened by the swoosh of his cabin door, then the heavy footsteps in the dark. Someone's come around the lattice. Now they're standing at the foot of his bunk. He calls out: "Lights."

Lights up and the captain is visible in the shadows. The chrono reads: 22:00. "Jim?"

"Awww," says the captain. "All snuggled up with your little pet." The captain smiles grimly. It does not reach the hazel eyes.

"Jim." It's a croak. "Something I can help you with?"

"Just…wanted to…" Another nasty smile. "See how things were going…with your gift."

"Jim." He clears his throat. He feels the Vulcan move and out of the corner of his eye, he spots him slide out of bed and drop down to sit cross-legged on the deck. "Maybe, we'll have a drink tomorrow." The hair is raising on the back of his neck. "I'll tell you all about it."

"You've been different lately, Bones. Haven't been my friend."

"Haven't I?"

"Uh huh."

He flicks a glance to Spock, then back to Jim.  "Oh."

"I know how you can make it up to me."


"I want to sample your gift."


"I want to fuck it." The captain yanks on Spock's arm, pulling the Vulcan towards him.

"Him, Jim. Spock is a him."

"Sure, Bones. Whatever you say."

He swallows. It feels like his tongue is stuffed with sawdust. His brain is equally stuffed with cobwebs. "I don't--"

"What, Bones?"

He looks down and sees the erection forming in Jim's crotch. "I don't..." He arises from his bed and pulls the Vulcan out of Jim's grasp. He keeps himself between them. Perhaps he's protecting the Vulcan. They're all crammed in together in this small cabin. "I don't… think so."

The captain laughs. It's a most horrible sound. It brings chills down the spine.

"No, Jim." The headache is returning, pounding in a Morse code, maybe it's saying 'I love you', or 'SOS'. The pounding is now like an old friend. He brings a hand to his neck, then to the trickle of fluid from his nose. Funny, in this low light with the dancing shadows, it nearly appears to be blood. "I'm not going let you do that."

"Why not?" Jim's tone is predatory, teasing, calm. "Why do you get all the fun? I bought him. Technically he belongs to me."

"Jim, you can have anybody on board this ship. Leave him alone. Spock doesn't belong to you or me. Nobody owns him. He doesn't belong here. Not like this. None of us do. Don't you realize that?"

"What have you been smoking, Bones?"

It's an odd feeling knowing that he is committing suicide simply by denying the captain. He could be tortured to death for this. But his whole existence on this ship has been a torture--what was the difference?

But instead, the captain laughs again. "I'll watch your little slave fuck you."

"Not my 'slave', Jim. His name is Spock."

"Spock." The captain suddenly winces in pain. "Spock." Jim winces again. "Dammit."

"Don't wear yourself out, Jim. It's alright."

"Disrobe, Bones." Jim starts pulling off his own uniform. "Now."

He sighs, complies, nods at Spock to do the same.

"The Vulcan isn't hard, Bones." Jim's indicating, almost clinically, Spock's very large, very soft penis.

"I've never seen him get hard, Jim."

"Really? Fascinating." Jim sits down on the bunk, makes himself at home, leans back, folding his arms behind his head. "Maybe you'd better suck on it. Fluff the Vulcan up a little."

He shrugs, pushes Spock down to sit and kneels down in front of him. He runs his hands along the warm thighs. All the times he'd fucked the Vulcan he'd never bothered touching Spock's penis. Somehow, this act seems more humiliating for his hapless captive. He squeezes the legs, looks up into the brown eyes as sort of an apology, but is amazed at the permissive expression there. "I'm so thrilled to be involved in your little live porno show, Jim," he grits out, still enraptured by Spock's eyes.

Jim's hand is fingering his own testicles. "Start sucking, Bones."

He has never sucked cock before, isn't certain if he is even doing it correctly, but he must be as the Vulcan appendage springs to life quite surprisingly. Fuck, it's monstrous. He pulls his mouth away. "Jim, if you think this Vulcan dick is going inside me, you have another thing--"

"You're mouthy today, Bones. Not sure I like that. Get on the bed. Come here."

He crawls on all fours towards Jim, who reaches out, drags him the rest of the way across the bed, turning and holding him securely.

"Which way shall the Vulcan fuck you? How about face to face? That way you can look at your beloved pet as he's drilling into you." Another ghastly chuckle. He can feel the vibrations on his back as Jim continues to hold onto him.

He knows this is going to hurt, this first time, with a huge dick like that, but there's no choice involved. He's going to get fucked whether he likes it or not.

Spock prepares him in much the same way as as he has done to the Vulcan, albeit much gentler, using more lube and much more thoroughly. The sensation of the slim fingers inside his rectum feels better than he expected. It makes him feel alive, especially when the fingers graze his prostrate, eliciting an unwitting groan from his lips.

"You like that, don't you, Bones," Jim says, from seemingly far away.

The fingers finally slide out of him and he grits his teeth as the Vulcan lifts up his legs to rest on the lean shoulders, then pushes the blunt head of his penis through the tight ring. It hurts, he's gasping, but he realizes this is making him feel more real, more human than he's ever felt. Slowly the immense length sinks into to him, not stopping until it bottoms out. He's filled, spread wide, opened up. He tilts his head back to rest against Jim's chest, hears a giggle, his head jerks forward, and he burns his gaze into Spock's. It feels unbelievably good, to be entered and thrust into like this. Spock is still very gentle as he's taking him. Jim reaches down and grabs onto his cock, jerking it hard.

He comes much more quickly than he expected to. With a soft sigh from his mouth, warm, white semen spurts from the head of his cock across his belly. Jim lets go of his softening cock, slides his fingers into the mess on his belly and sucks on them. At this point Spock does something odd, he joins the fingers of his left hand with his. He glances down at their intertwined hands. Now it feels like there's no one else right now in the universe but the both of them. Jim seems to disappear. He feels content to go along for the ride until he feels the Vulcan climaxing deep within him. Spock makes no noise, simply stopping his thrusts.

"Did the Vulcan come?" the captain wants to know.

"Yeah, Jim," he can only pant out. "Spock's done."

"My turn." The captain pushes Spock off, swapping places. "I want you on all fours, Bones."

He barely notices Jim sliding a smaller, human cock into his rectum, slippery now with Vulcan come. His and Spock's hands are still intertwined, he's got his mouth mere centimeters from the bow shaped lips underneath him. He desperately wants to kiss them. It's taboo. He tries to, but it's almost as if he's prevented from doing it. So he simply bites down on the side of the Vulcan's neck as the captain thrusts hard and fast into him. Jim finishes rapidly. He wonders if the captain wants a round two, but Jim dresses calmly in his uniform and exits the cabin, leaving him and the Vulcan laying there. Spock is touching his chest with butterfly touches, small caresses, searching his face with worried brown eyes.

"I'm alright." He smiles at Spock as he says this. "Wasn't so bad. Are you okay?"

Spock nods. Says something in Vulcan.

He eyes Spock hesitating, then splaying the fingers, reaching them towards his face. Ah. The Vulcan is going to murder him. Jim had warned him of this. Somehow that makes him laugh. He hasn't laughed in years. "Go ahead."

The fingers land on his temple.


His breathing increases tenfold. /Spock? What's happening?/

/We are trapped. This is a construct. This is not real. We are not on the Enterprise./

/Where are we? Where's Jim?/

/Commander Kor has us imprisoned…has engaged... the mindsifter…/

/Oh my God, Spock. I'm so…goddammit… I'm so sorry. I can't believe I hurt you so. I can't live with what I did to you. The horrors I inflicted upon you-my patients, like I was some witch doctor...I can't…/

/Unreal. All of it. You, myself, Jim. We are trapped in an alternate world, an alternate Enterprise./

/It can't be. It seems so--/

/Listen to me. This is fantasy. This is a torture by the Klingons. We are merely living out a hellish existence created by them./

/How do we…how do we get out of this?/

/I do not know. Time is of the essence. You are dying./

/Help me./ There's a muffled cry out. /Please./

/I am attempting to do so. I must go, temporarily--/

/No! Don't go. Don't leave me. Dear GOD, please don't leave--/

The contact is broken as quickly as it is established. He suddenly has no memory of what has just occurred, just that he's in his pet's arms. "Did you…do something to me?"

The brown eyes are downcast.


He's in surgery, repairing Chekov's prior treatment. He's fixing the scars with a protoplaser. He finishes, satisfied with his work. Now Chekov has smooth, unscarred skin, achieved painlessly.

"Thank you, Doctor," Chekov says, crying.

He is unable to acknowledge. He clutches his own head, gasping as he crumples to the deck.

Spock appears in the sickbay, with the captain. The captain has a hand to the back of his own skull.

He is barely aware, when Spock bends down, presses the warm lips to his own...

...and suddenly he's gasping, awake, nude, being held up by Spock. Jim is next to him. They are underground.

"Jim, Spock?" McCoy croaks. "Is it really you?"

"Doctor," Spock says. "Welcome back."



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