Then the Shadow Falls

Summary: Three words: Star Trek noir. Set in the late 1940s, stubborn private detective Jim Kirk has to team up with the SFPD's equally stubborn detective Spock to stop a serial killer. Eventually features all characters, Kirk/Uhura/Spock. See ends of chapters for author notes.

Pairings: Kirk/Uhura/Spock triangle, very minor one-sided Chapel/Spock

Chapter One

Stranger on the Third Floor

(AKA Christopher Pike Never Rings Twice)

It was beginning to grow dark outside as I began my trek home, the potential peace of the mild summer night marred only by the sound of cars honking and people shouting in distance. One of the neon lights down the block outside my apartment building was flickering ominously in the dim light.

Actually, I lied. That light burned out six days ago, but it was still making that awful, annoying buzzing noise. It wasn't my problem to fix, but I was about to make it one. Maybe I could rearrange some of the wires on the side of the wall. Maybe I could rip the obnoxious sign off the side of the building altogether. My eardrums – and the rest of my head – could use a break.

The daily combination of smog and neon also left my eyes in a state of constant agony, reminding me just how far from the farm I was. Not that I was actually from a farm… let me start over.

James Tiberius Kirk is the name and sleuthing is my game. Well, job, but game is probably more accurate since I work for hire as a private investigator. Most of the time it's like a hobby, which is great since I don't have to put up with police regulations and officers breathing down my neck. Most of the time. There have been a few unfortunate repercussions due to my "reckless endangerment of" some "civilians," whatever that means. It's probably safe to say the local PD thinks I'm more trouble than about half of the cases that come across their desks.

The other half of the cases that come across their desks eventually come to me. Well, I exaggerate, but that's one of things I do best. My ego would suffer if I didn't fabricate the truth a little every now and then. Right now though, my workload is improving pretty rapidly. Lots of strange cases are beginning to accumulate, which is why I left the bar early for once.

I also had to account for time spent walking. That's right; I was walking down the street, in case that wasn't clear. Remember what I said about the police not usually sticking their noses in my business? Well they did last week – suspended my license and impounded my car after a high-speed chase gone wrong (in their eyes anyway). I caught the bastard, too, but somehow the doughnut-munching bum tailing me got the credit for it in the local paper.

Figures.

The glory thief situation left me pretty sore, but the car situation I can deal with easily. I'm already making plans to purchase a nifty motorcycle with the money from my latest cases, which I'm sure the boys down at the PD will appreciate even more.

A few more people I know will appreciate my new motorcycle would be the ladies in my life, of course. That's "ladies," plural for now, but I might be willing to change that soon. See, tonight, down at the bar, I met the girl of my dreams. Well, "saw" her is more like it, saw the most beautiful waitress in the world. The first waitress I chatted with wasn't half bad, a sweet little brunette that reminded me of Iowa, but the second one was the real deal. This gal was tall, dark and a total knockout. Seriously, I think she would give Josephine Baker a run for her money. She had this almost dangerous appeal, real mysterious, which would explain why my attempts to get to know her didn't exactly fly. I can't even remember what I said the three times I attempted to speak to her.

That's right, I counted the number of times I tried to hit on her. I'm a sucker already. I'll have to remember to ask my old 'friend' Gaila, another waitress and bar regular, to introduce us.

Here's the par t where I take a mental detour to explain something important. Don't worry, I'm sure it bothers you more than me, but this is pretty crucial. At least, I think it is, and it's my story, so I'm going to enlighten you.

Fact: My friend Gaila has green skin.

You didn't freak out yet, did you? Great.

Here's the thing – Gaila is an Orion. I know what you're saying to yourself right now; you're saying, "But what the devil is an Orion?" And this begins the really weird part of my explanation.

Last summer – 1947, for those of you keeping calendars – this alleged UFO crashed near New Mexico. The official story is that the military intended to recover the debris and… bodies, or whatever, from the scene and cover everything up (which, well, it's the thought that counts). Reportedly, they even had a name picked out for their dump site: Area 51. Isn't that cute?

As you can see, that definitely didn't happen. Some loose-lipped city-dweller snuck out to the scene of the crash and reported everything back at the printing press he conveniently worked for. Word spread before the government could react sufficiently, and pretty soon the whole world was talking about how absolutely nuts this American sucker was.

Only the thing was he was completely right. Most of the globe had to eat their words when real-life, honest-to-God ALIENS – not like immigrants, aliens from another planet – started showing up in Roswell. The ones that died sent some sort of signal to their mothership or whatnot before they bit the big one.

So then this race told another race about our planet Earth, and they told their friends, who told their friends… I stopped keeping track a long time ago of who told what race to go where, but the fact is, a bunch of supremely-evolved extraterrestrial have colonized and set up camp on Earth, especially in the United States. They also seem to love Canada, for which I don't blame them.

Isn't that incredible? We have aliens populating our country and we can barely make it to the frickin' moon! Admittedly, we're closer than the Soviets but that isn't saying a whole lot.

While the whole situation is little unsettling for most guys, I find myself inexplicably fascinated by all the different races and cultures. It's fun to be able to walk down the streets of San Francisco – which is already pretty diverse without the alien population – and see all the species and colors intermingle.

Also, alien women are totally gorgeous and totally dig earth guys, if you know what I mean. What, you didn't think it was all about that intermingle-y, "we are one" sap, did you? I think you know me better.

By now we've reached my apartment. I'll invite you up against my better judgment.

It's not like I had that much to drink tonight in the first place, and I made it up two flights of stairs without incident, so of course, now is the time my hands decide to develop butter fingers. I watched in mild horror as my set of keys fell between the cracks in the steps and returns to the first floor without me.

Dammit, Jim! I can practically hear my friend's words of wisdom now. Don't worry; I'm sure Bones will come into play later since I don't know many doctors and I seem to require frequent medical attention. Right now I'm a tad more concerned with the person attempting to break into my apartment.

That's right, someone is breaking into my apartment, or at least that's what it looks like. Why they would choose a seedy apartment on the third floor belonging to a nearly-broke PI from Iowa, I haven't a clue. Well, I guess the "from Iowa" part doesn't usually work in my favor in any situation, but in short, my digs aren't exactly the nicest.

"Hey! Hey you!" I shouted into the shadowed half of the narrow hall. "Don't think I can't see you!"

I couldn't see worth a damn. The guy must have recognized my bluff because he didn't appear to be in a hurry to go anywhere.

"If it's a fight you want, it's a fight you'll get," I muttered threateningly, aiming to make my voice sound authoritative.

Imagine my surprise when a voice of actual authority answered me back.

"You really are your father's son, you know that?"

I reeled back a step, like this stranger had just punched me in the stomach with his booming voice. Seriously, I hope he didn't wake any of my neighbors; I get enough noise complaints here without his help.

Of course, now I knew this is no stranger. As I walked closer, I could distinctly make out his silver crew cut, and the lines on his face which were quite at odds with his crisp, police uniform.

"You are George and Winona's boy, aren't you?" my distinguished guest asked when I was standing in front of him, looking me up and down, not in an unfriendly way.

"Captain Pike," I finally addressed him, resisting the urge to throw him some sort of improvised salute.

To say I was dumbfounded was an understatement. Captain Pike – the Christopher Pike – was standing in the hall outside my apartment, waiting for me.

Here's another interesting fact for you; Pike used to be on the police force with my dad back in Iowa. I'm not sure of all the nitty-gritty details since my dad was killed in the line of duty the day I was born and Pike took off for San Fran shortly after, but from what I've gathered they were pretty close.

The respectable (if not exactly hospitable) man brought me back to reality by clearing his throat. "James, what I'm here to tell you is of the utmost importance. Is there somewhere we could speak more privately?"

Nodding, I reached for the knob before remembering I was locked out.

"This is probably private enough," I stated, straightening back up. Sure, my neighbors could be busybodies on occasion, but I seriously doubted they would suddenly take an interest in my affairs at this time of night. Besides, this was as good as I was going to get.

Pike's expression changed, a semblance of amusement soon replaced with his usual stoic gaze. "All right then."

Honestly, the best thing I was hoping for was another cease-and-desist notice. I wasn't entertaining any hopes of getting an apology for the glory hog episode.

"The San Francisco Police Department needs your help, Mr. Kirk."

All right, I definitely wasn't expecting that.

"Excuse me, sir," I asked, seconds away from bursting out laughing, "are you sure you have the right guy?" because, really, there must have been at least one other James Kirk somewhere, anywhere, in the U.S. The only other explanation was that this was part of some elaborate prank that the rest of the tricksters at the station put their captain up to, which was even harder to imagine possible.

"If I were to go into your apartment, how many murder cases would you have on your desk right now?"

Apparently Pike was the one asking the questions in this scenario.

"Four," I responded, swallowing a lump in my throat as if I were the guilty one in every case.

"And how many do you usually have?"

"Zero," I replied honestly. What was he getting at?

Pike sighed and looked at a point beyond but relatively near my head. "So I suspected."

"Excuse me, sir," I began again, "but what gives you the right to come in out of the blue here questioning my business?"

I sincerely hoped he would choose not to answer that query.

All the answer I received was a curiously arched gray eyebrow. He was going to say something about my dad again, I just knew it.

Instead, Pike surprised me by jumping straight to the facts. Cop or not, you have to admire the fact that he doesn't beat around the bush.

"Six boys have been murdered, all high school-aged."

"Six boys?" I repeated, struggling to put what should have been simple facts together.

Of course Pike spelled it out for me.

"Four of the six families have hired you to investigate." I was too floored to speak, he continued. "Apparently, they were fed up with the police taking too long, even though we have our most valuable detectives on the case. Additionally, our leads are slim to none. In some ways, we're lucky we were even able to connect all six cases."

I nodded, slightly shamed by the last sentence since I hadn't even been able to connect four obviously similar cases. I tried not to let it get me too down, though.

"James, I realize that under normal circumstances, my detectives would be less than thrilled to be working with a private investigator such as yourself, but I think I speak for the entire police department when I say we could use an extra pair of experienced hands on this case. Surely we can work past our differences…"

I let this sentiment hang in the air for a moment to suggest that I was still unhappy about my car being impounded.

"At least tell me you'll think about it," Pike said at least, fixing what assumed was his version of a tough-yet-fatherly gaze on me.

"I'll consider it," I said, daring to look him square in the eyes.

If this response surprised Pike, it didn't show on his calculated face. He merely nodded and walked away from me toward the stairwell at the end of the hall.

"Do you think you could throw my keys up to me from the first floor?" I yelled after him.

Pike turned back to me, his forehead wrinkled and his expression unreadable in the shadows, then resumed descending the first flight of stairs.

A/N: I'm going to apologize up front for out-of-character-ness. It's been a while since I've seen the movie, and even longer since I've watched the original series. If you catch anything extremely off, do let me know and I'll try to fix it. Also, my update periods are going to suck because, honestly, I'm usually pretty lazy and on top of that I'm starting classes soon. However, I know that's a lame excuse, so stay tuned!