Disclaimer: I do not own Star Trek or any of its related universes.
Everyone sees what you appear to be, few experience what you really are.
Enlist.
It took a moment to suppress the desperate desire to snort with laughter. Never, in his entire life, had Jim Kirk witnessed such incredibly obvious, heavy handed manipulative reverse psychology bullshit.
That alone was cause for derision, but to try it with him? Coming from a Captain? It was the funniest fucking thing he'd seen all night and that included the Fleet apes who'd made a pass at him earlier.
Four against one and the idiots had still limped away bleeding, dragging one member of their ill-fated group between them who was no longer capable of individual mobility.
If Jim hadn't been well on his way to wasted already, they wouldn't have gotten away at all, much less landed enough hits on him to make his face a fright mask of blood and bruises.
"Not interested," Jim said, when he was certain his voice wouldn't shake with hilarity.
Pike didn't so much as twitch at this unhesitant rejection of both himself and the organization he stood with. Jim could admire that in a man, that unflappability, under different circumstances, but not now.
Not with a commander of the Empire staring him down with a possessive kind of want, not with said commander offering—offering, the mind boggled at anyone with power like Pike's offering anything—instead of ordering.
Clearly, something was up. In the gaping void of space up because Jim didn't buy this setup for a moment.
The first time he set foot in the state of his childhood—fucking Iowa, he couldn't stand the place—and there just happened to be a bunch of newbie Cadets on break milling around the closest bar to his family's farmhouse—fucking Iowa—okay, he might buy it, but the sequence of events that followed after?
Nope. Not a chance. It all reeked of orchestrated coincidence and Jim saw that kind of thing coming from a mile away. He wasn't an easy mark and he'd be damned if he took the bait like one.
"Your father – " Pike started and Jim couldn't help it, he really couldn't even if he were so inclined to hold his tongue.
" – is dead," Jim finished for him, grinning the careless grin of one who had nothing to lose.
It was so…sad, in a pathetic kind of way, how everybody thought his dad was a pressure point of his. He'd never even known the suicidal bastard, was he supposed to have formed some emotional dependency from the womb?
Or maybe, because Pike didn't strike Jim as stupid even if he was an amateur manipulator, he knew something the others who assumed the same thing didn't. Something of his mom's mental state. How she was unstable in a bad way.
That could be a potential issue.
"He's dead," Jim repeated, just to see that strange flicker in Pike's eyes again. There and gone so fast Jim had trouble identifying it the first time around. "No reason to get sentimental about it."
And there he was. Jim had trouble concealing his triumphant burst of glee. The real Pike was coming out to play and, oh, this was a worthy opponent.
His eyes were like ice, hard and cold, even though his relaxed posture never changed. His hands on top of the table were still—in plain sight, where Jim would see him going for a weapon before he did it—and the rhythm of his breathing didn't falter. The pulse in his neck, throbbing just above the collar of his uniform, was steady and calm as it had been since he sat down.
But something was different. Somehow. The eternally patient paternal façade had drawn back just far enough for the predator lurking underneath to peek out. Jim knew it immediately. Like recognized like, after all.
Here was where they differed. George Kirk meant little to nothing to Jim, but mentioning him had triggered Pike. Interesting, since he had brought him up, perhaps not thinking Jim would turn on him so quickly.
The real question, the one that had Jim burning with destructive drive to find out, was why?
"Your father," Pike said conversationally, dangerously smooth, "was a credit to the 'verse. He preserved over eight hundred assets, including you, and eliminated a dangerous threat to the Empire as his final act after a career of faithful service and unwavering ruthlessness in the face of rebels and insurgents."
Jim had an issue with being referred to as an asset, but let it go for the moment. He was paying very close attention both to what Pike said and what he didn't say, covering his focus by leaning back in his chair and waving his empty glass at the bartender for a refill.
"We should all aspire to be as useful as he," Pike finished. "The Empire's armada secures – "
"Are you done?" Jim interrupted pointedly because he knew the beginning of a recruitment spiel when he heard it.
Pike was done giving away information he could use. The rest would be sanctioned propaganda, which was a waste of time and energy to listen to.
"Yes," Pike sighed heavily and if his eyes weren't still sharp as a finely-honed blade, Jim might have thought he was tired. "I'm done."
"Well, I'll guess I'll see you…never, actually," Jim did chuckle then because he was an asshole at heart and he liked the way Pike's shoulders went stiff. Probably instinctive reaction to insubordination.
"Perhaps," Pike allowed, pushing his chair back from the table and rising to his feet.
Jim watched his hands settle back by his sides, a little surprised when he didn't reach for the phaser strapped to his sash. Jim's eyes narrowed imperceptibly. His not standard issue sash. Gold as it should be, befitting his rank, but the texture to it was wrong.
Pike cleared his throat and Jim abruptly realized as his eyes jerked away to meet Pike's amused gaze that, shit, staring at the man's dick could lead to someplace he did not want his night to go. Careless. Stupid.
But, the calculating part of his mind that never stopped working the angles whispered, better he thinks this of you, better to let him use you just the once, than let him know that you are paying close enough attention to catch his modified attire.
Jim had gone through huge swathes of his life being underestimated.
He'd grown to prefer having the advantage of being thought of as weak, as small, as stupid.
He really liked to see the surprise on people's faces when they found out that their helpless victim wasn't so helpless. Or much of a victim.
It helped, being underestimated, more than most people thought or surely more people would do it especially because—much to Jim's unending disgust at his own genetics—he really was small for his age. And he had been physically weak when he was younger.
It had helped him in the Pit.
Now, facing Pike and the weight of the Empire behind him, Jim would need all the help he could get.
He slumped a little more in his seat, curved his shoulders inward, lifted his mostly empty glass to (deliberately) partially obscure his best smirk. He wrapped his tongue around a sliver of ice as it slid closer to the rim and pulled it into his mouth.
Pike was still watching, considering how he wanted to play this new development. If he didn't end up dead in an alley, Jim would count the night as a victory.
Had to be careful now, Jim thought, as he tilted his head back to look Pike in the eye, raised a brow, and mock-saluted him with the glass in his hand.
Almost, but not quite, a challenge. Not quite a dismissal or an invitation. A dare, maybe, ball's in your court. Or Pike would think it was, and Jim enjoyed those little deceptions. Not too much push or pull. Not outright submission or a show of dominance. It was a clever game of smoke and mirrors and Jim always won.
Think you have me, think you own me, when in fact, I own you.
Jim was very, very good when operating within that grey area of no jurisdiction. Partially because it was infrequent that anyone noticed he was moving before they looked down and realized, suddenly, they'd been crippled and by then it was too late.
Pike leaned forward and put a hand on Jim's shoulder. It was a knee-jerk reaction to reach for the extremely sharp bit of metal in his boot and thrust it into the man's jugular, get too close got to pay the price, but Jim restrained himself by firmly telling his twitchy fingers to calm the fuck down, it was part of the plan.
"Shipyard dock. Shuttle of new recruits leaves at oh' seven hundred," Pike rasped in his ear. "Hope to see you there."
Jim blinked as Pike gave his shoulder a squeeze, straightened up, and then walked smartly with the heels of his boots clicking across the floor to the door, which he exited through without looking back.
The bartender discretely swapped out his glass for a full one. Jim raised it to his lips and took an absent sip, gin and strawberry flavor flooding his tastebuds with sweetness and a touch of biting alcohol.
Now that had been downright suspicious. Honestly, it was like they weren't even trying anymore.
Jim put his drink down and stared at the sloshing red margarita mix, thinking hard.
Perhaps that had been the point? But no. Mind games were all very well and good, and Jim could paranoia himself into circles as well as the next guy, but…
Pike had already tried the genius throwing his life away slant, caustically admitted to accessing his Empire-sealed records—and why not, it wasn't as if Jim could do anything about it—which meant he'd know other things too.
He'd have had Jim's entire history (what he'd thought was Jim's entire history anyway) to plan a strategy around, so he'd have known that wouldn't be the most ideal tactic to take, trying to turn Jim's mind against him, unless he didn't have any other options.
He did, obviously, because he'd first tried the honor-to-the-Empire garbage and when that hadn't worked the your-father-was-a-hero-I-dare-you-to-do-better, appeal to his sense of competition, shtick. Which, please.
Then there had been the genius-throwing-your-life-away slant and then the grossly sentimental attempt to drag his father's accomplishments into it. Jim didn't owe any dumb dead bastard anything, no matter what he had done.
He didn't owe anything to anyone, period. He'd made a point of it for years. Going into debt, literally or favor-wise, was just a shitty idea all around.
Jim picked up the salt shaker, shaped—ironically—like a starship and turned it over in his fingers, mentally deconstructing everything Pike had said, had not said, had done, had not done.
Pike hadn't taken the bait. Why?
It hadn't been because he didn't want it. Oh no, he had wanted it. But he didn't take it.
A few grains of salt escaped the tiny starship. Jim gave it a shake without thinking and got a small stream going, white grains falling like miniature hailstones to the tabletop and creating a slow growing mound.
Because he had been after something better. Because by taking the bait, he compromised the likelihood of achieving the greater goal? Reasonable. Sensible.
Jim placed the salt starship back by the black pepper starship and stared at the pile of spilled salt like it held the answers to the universe. He took another drink from his glass, condensation cold and wet on its side.
He didn't like this, didn't like where his current train of thought was leading him. Liked it even less because he was fairly certain that it was the right one.
The greater goal had to be connected to Jim somehow. It was the only explanation.
Something he would have to give willingly. Or something that was better when given willingly, perhaps.
The only thing that might be affected by Pike fucking him, voluntarily or otherwise, was Jim.
Jim flicked the mound of salt and sent grains flying everywhere. A mess. A disorganized, unmanageable mess. Bad luck all around. He might have to go find a ladder to walk under or a mirror to smash just for kicks.
Extremely problematic.
More so, that the entire purpose behind their conversation—the point—what Pike wanted—was Jim enlisting.
Something serious was going down. Bigger than him. Jim didn't like things that were bigger than him, or, at least, things bigger than him that he couldn't control.
"Bartender!" Jim called. "Can I get a hangover cure or a sober up or something over here?"
He wanted to be clear headed for this.
"Twenty credits." The bartender emerged from the back room, a bottle in each hand. "Seems a shame to cut the night short."
"Tell me about it," Jim scoffed, fishing the proper amount of credit chips out of his pocket. Fucking Pike. Fucking Empire. Fucking Starfleet. "That's always how it goes, don't it? Ruining fun and crushing dreams everywhere they go."
"You fuckin' said it," the bartender agreed.
Jim looked at the table, the salt, and then swept the whole lot of it to the sticky floor. Presto, good as new.
What was wrong with this picture? Jim wondered, wanting to cackle like the madman he was; some villainous stereotypes were stereotypes for a reason.
Everything. Absolutely fucking everything.
"Hey, you know where I could get access to a computer terminal around here?" Jim asked as an idea occurred to him, blindingly brilliant in its simplicity.
"Yeah, sure." A sly smile crossed the bartender's face. "Five credits."
Jim grinned back razor sharp, teeth bared and still bloody from his brawl. "Two."
He got into a public library with minimal fuss because the first night guard he came across was fond of Jim's pretty, pretty eyes.
That, and a pointy object inserted into a man's mouth coupled with a formless voice humming threats behind him worked wonders with cooperation efforts.
Jim had a drive that stored a terabyte of data on something rather cunningly disguised to look like old fashioned dog tags. It was the next best thing to indestructible.
A terabyte was perhaps excessive, but Jim was equally fond of overkill as he was of pragmatism and he'd carried the thing around a chain on his neck for years without ever needing a replacement or more space.
He loaded a program from the USB drive to the computer, composed a quick e-message, attached a different program to the e-message, and sent it off to lie in wait of some unsuspecting user to activate it.
In and out, five minutes.
Damn, but he did love a clean job.
The next morning, at seven o'clock sharp, Jim stepped onto a shuttle.
He tossed his keys to the engineer who'd complimented his bike—might as well go to someone who'd appreciate it—and nodded at Pike, the roiling of his stomach kept entirely off his face at the man's smug, satisfied look.
That was a problem to be dealt with later.
Not because of you, Jim thought viciously. Never because of you.
The only thing he enjoyed more than seeing his own plans succeed was watching others fail. And he was going to see to the destruction of this one personally.
Jim's split lip ached when he saw the four Cadets—still, unfortunately, alive—more or less in one piece and glowering at him. He beamed at them, fuck you too, darlings, and took the first empty seat he found.
The safety harness stuck, which was a bit embarrassing, but Jim got it situated in short order. Less amusing was the looks the other Cadets were giving him.
Jim knew what they saw. He always did.
He looked beaten.
Worn down and filthy and stinking like the floor of a dive where the others were freshly pressed and chipper-eyed and clean. He looked weak. He looked like fresh meat, like a washout already, like a dumb country hick.
That was okay though.
Jim smiled at his now fellow Cadets, the rueful lost little boy look he'd perfected years back, and received malevolent hungry stares in return.
He liked to be underestimated.
Quote at the beginning is from Machiavelli's The Prince. Please leave a review on your way out.