Play the Devil
"And thus I clothe my naked villainy
With odd old ends stol'n out of holy writ;
And seem a saint, when most I play the devil."
-WilliamShakespeare, Richard III
I
McCoy wants to throw up. He hates this death trap wrapped in tin foil he's sitting in almost as much as he hates his ex-wife, and if it wasn't for Joanna there would be nothing stopping him from taking one of his less savory concoctions and hypoing himself. As it stands he has a newly motherless child to look after, and these are the cards he has been dealt. Join the Imperial Starfleet or Joanna would become a ward of the Empire. It wasn't as if he would ever get to see her again, but at least in this way he can protect her.
McCoy will make a name for himself and no one will dare harm a hair on her head.
"If you're trying to alert everyone on this shuttle craft to a potential injury or weapon, you're doing an extraordinary job."
McCoy freezes. When had he started rubbing his forearm? He's got two hypos hidden there; one is a particularly nasty strain of the Ankaran flu, and the other is a sedative strong enough to knock out a Gorn. He's a solid man; a glare is usually enough to dissuade unwanted attention, and when that doesn't work, a well placed hypo always does the trick.
McCoy gives the young man sitting next to him a warning glower. He could be attractive- he's got a strong jaw and nice eyes, but it's obvious he doesn't know when to keep his mouth shut; the kid is covered in bruises.
"Mind your own god damn business," he growls and turns to look out the window. That turns out to be a phenomenally horrible idea and he has to close his eyes for a few moments and remember how to breath.
The asshole sitting next to him scoffs. "You're going to have one hell of a time at the Academy if you can't handle a little joyride, sweetheart."
In an instant McCoy has a hypo decompressed into the man's upper thigh. "If you promise to keep your fuckin' mouth shut for the rest of the flight I will give you a stimulant. Sound good, kid?"
The man laughs, actually fucking laughs, as if McCoy hadn't just injected him with 30 ccs of melorazine. "I think you hit bone," he says with an impressed smirk, his voice starting to slur. "But fine, fine, have it your way," he says, as if promising to remain silent for the rest of the flight.
Which of course he is; McCoy doesn't administer anything to wake him until they've docked in San Francisco.
McCoy gets through the majority of his first semester with out any problems. There had been, of course, a few incidents, but McCoy knew that was just par for the course. A new academic year means the possibility of new allies and even more enemies. The first month or so of the school year is understandably a blood bath as young cadets are eager to cement a place for themselves on the food chain and older cadets are desperate to maintain theirs.
As a doctor, McCoy enters the Imperial Academy with a bit of weight behind his name to begin with, but it is his lack of ambition (and even more lack of command track courses) which helps to keep him under the radar,. Although that does not stop him from being noticed by a few of his fellow classmates.
A Xindi-Primate surgeon, Pirna, one of the few cadets who, like McCoy, had a previous degree under her belt, had not wanted the added competition in her intermediate xenogastrology class. She had attempted to strangle him in the communal freshers and McCoy had been so perturbed ("Can't let a man just enjoy his god damned shower can you?") that he had snapped her neck.
Another cadet, Williams, had been more interested in McCoy's ass than his position and hadn't taken no for an answer. McCoy had felt a twinge of guilt for what ever poor bastard would have to clean up the blood, but people needed to learn not to proposition him while he was familiarizing himself with Tellarite surgical instruments. Tellarites had exceedingly tough skin; the knife had cut through Cadet Williams' carotid artery like warm butter.
But other than those few minor hiccups McCoy's semester is going well, and after a particularly grueling double shift at the clinic he decides to treat himself to a few drinks at a bar close to campus. He sits with his back to the wall and tries his best to exude an aura of leave me the fuck alone but it does nothing to dissuade the three meatheads who approach him.
"Shoulda just taken it like a good little bitch, McCoy," the one in the middle says. "Willaims' father ain't too happy you killed his son."
"Fuck off," McCoy snarls. "Williams had it comin'."
Two of them reach for their weapons but before they can grab them McCoy has a hypo in both of their necks. They fall to the ground, dead, but before he can reach the last cadet he's got McCoy cornered, a phaser centered on him, point-blank.
McCoy is just about to grab the man's wrist and snap it before he can so much as think about shooting him, but there is no need. The man's throat has just been slit by another cadet.
McCoy recognizes him as the annoying brat from the shuttlecraft and wonders if he's still pissed he'd been put to sleep.
"Guess it's a good thing I've been keeping tabs on you, huh Bones?"
McCoy sits back down, intent on finishing his drink, but he does not forget to grab the hypo he's got strapped to his thigh. It's his last one.
He narrows his eyes, sizing the man up. Admitting to stalking him has raised about twenty red flags, but there isn't a trace of malice in his big baby blues. Not that that really means anything; the Imperial Starfleet is full of fresh-faced psychopaths. Still, his stance is relaxed. If he wants to attack McCoy he isn't going to do it right away.
McCoy takes a gulp of his beer; it's gone warm by now. "Go find someone else to follow around, kid."
The man smiles and takes a seat across from him. "Name's James T. Kirk! But you can call me Jim."
A muscle twitches in McCoy's jaw. "Listen, kid, I don't take too kindly to being bothered when I'm trying to drink a god damn beer, so if you don't have any pressing business with me or a god damned medical emergency, I suggest you go the fuck away before I hypo you again, alright?"
Kirk laughs; it's an eerie, hallow sound. "You're a mouthy son of a bitch, aren't you?"
McCoy rises to hypo him, but Kirk is too fast. In an instant he's got McCoy pinned to the wall, hypo lying innocently at their feet. Kirk tsks at him, shaking his head. "That was cute the first time, Bones," he says, voice dangerously low. "Don't try it again."
"Get the fuck off me!" McCoy tries to buck him off but Kirk has both hands trapped above his head and a knife pressing into his neck.
"I'm going to keep this simple, doc," he says smiling as he starts to draw blood. "Pike is going to give me the Enterprise and you, you lucky dog, are going to be my CMO."
McCoy spits in his face. "I'll be damned if some little boy is going to tell me what to do," he says through grit teeth. "Back the fuck up, Jimmy."
Kirk laughs again. McCoy thinks he is going to see red if that cocky motherfucker opens his mouth one more time.
The younger man releases him and takes a step back. "Be seeing you, doctor," he says with a mock salute and turns to leave, being mindful of the bodies on the floor.
"The hell you will!" McCoy yells after him.
Kirk stops and turns back to face him. "I'm not going to force you, Bones," he says with a smile that doesn't quite reach his eyes. "You need me, and when you figure that out I'll be waiting."
TBC