Will You Still Love Me
Chapter 1 – Fool
She looked out from her balcony over London city with a disapproving gaze dressed in a midnight blue nightdress kept warm by a thin white fleece dressing gown. The year 2258 may have had all the lights and technology but it lacked the passion of earlier centuries. Though she had the awareness to know she had romanticised such figures she still could not help but wish for a twenty-third century man to be full of ambition akin to Alexander the Great, Richard the Lionheart or Napoleon. Men of this day and age were boring, mundane and not worth her time unfortunately.
Brooding on being born in the wrong era she sipped at her morning coffee from her apartment balcony. Paint flecked her hands, whether from the night before or this morning she could not tell, probably both. She was dedicated in her hobby of creating and collecting art and considering her occupation she had time for such distractions. Even now she sat a PADD on her lap, sketching away on the screen a concept of Flavius if he had lived in the twenty-third century. She preferred traditional methods but she could not deny that modern inventions made it easier at times.
Closing the image down she decided it was best to head to work. While her role was not all that important it did not stop her from being scolded when late. Marla McGivers was a Historian which she loved dearly. Her passion was for ages past and that she could spend all day losing herself in texts or identifying things from eras she would much prefer to live in was a blessing but there were the downsides.
Being a Historian for Starfleet meant she had two options. Be a rather useless member of one of those massive starships out exploring deep space and tolerate a crew loathing your ineffectual existence or work in a somewhat more dangerous field. Marla had opted for the latter after some particularly unpleasant life experiences aboard various starships.
As such the young, pretty red head worked for some of the highest ranked members of Starfleet at Kelvin Memorial Archive. She was rarely a part of the secret schemes of the Section 31 London base beneath however though she was privy to its existence. Her historical knowledge was hardly ever called upon and mostly she worked as if she had no knowledge of the meticulous designs below instead assisting the unknowing with their searches for innocent information within the Archive.
She barely touched her face with make up as she pinned her long red hair up and away from her face and neck in a fashion that was both comfortable and practical. She was not one to care for appearances as she never met anyone worth caring for.
She donned the dark grey uniform of the Archives and was well on her way, PADD in hand. Entering her workplace she only cast a quick glance towards the elevator where one man was being scanned to grant access below. She had only been given clearance a few times to do the same to assist in identifying old relics that had made it into space. It didn't really bother her though as she had no interest in designing new technology or discovering it.
Briefly she chatted with one of her colleagues before taking a position at her help desk. She began her day with an enjoyable read of the details of Leif Eriksson. She knew it all by heart of course but that never stopped her from reading it. It was much later in the day when she was interrupted.
"Lieutenant McGivers. We need your expertise." A foot soldier declared entering the particular Archive Marla had disappeared into after aiding someone in their search for information. She tried not to be visibly irritated knowing that was frowned upon but she couldn't help her annoyance with so many interruptions.
She was escorted to the base below, rushed past rooms filled with things that she could question the morality of if she cared to. Before she knew it she was in a rather barren room with a large screen. Word was sent that she had arrived and soon she was staring into the eyes of one intimidating Admiral Marcus.
"I'll make this quick Lieutenant. I have an image of a man I want you to identify for me." The Admiral instructed with that rather commanding voice. She could almost admire him. Almost.
All thoughts of her opinion of the high ranking Starfleet official vanished however when the next image showed on screen. She instantly recognised the man displayed before her, her breath catching in her throat in awe. Was this a new image they had found or had they found him? She had to bite her tongue to stop herself from asking as she knew she would not be answered and displaying her strong desire to be a part of whatever they were doing if it was him would most likely instantly have her separated from the matter entirely. The fact they consulted her at all suggested they were in a hurry to proceed with whatever it was they were doing, deeming it easier to confer with her than to search databases themselves. She took a moment to compose herself as best she could intending to impress the Admiral and encourage the idea that she should be a continued liaison for whatever it was they were doing.
"Khan Noonien Singh." She declared looking over the Indian man with approval. Of all the powerful and ambitious men from the past he was the last to live before men became mundane and lifeless. There was the smallest probability that image could be of him, alive or at least well preserved in the twenty-third century. After all, he and eighty-four other augments had simply disappeared after the Eugenic Wars, for all history knew he could have somehow survived. Not that this was common knowledge but she had a passion for this kind of thing.
"What can you tell me about him?" Admiral Marcus enquired waking Marla up from her dazed dreaming. She hesitated wondering what the Admiral would do if he knew who the man was. Superior men breed superior ambition and that might be something for Starfleet to balk at. If there was any chance to aid her historic idol she would have to imply to Marcus that Khan would be a great asset. She wasn't even certain if they had found him in the flesh let alone alive but 'what ifs' demanded she plan for the possibility. For the first time in her life she wanted desperately to be a bigger part of something she usually found tedious.
"He was the man behind the Eugenic Wars. The result of selective breeding and genetic engineering to create the perfect soldier. He proved to be more than that however and became the leader of a time of peace until his more violent allies destroyed those plans." She explained briefly. She put her hands behind her back and squeezed them in her attempts to remain composed wanting desperately to ask a million questions. Admiral Marcus seemed to be considering her words, weighing them against a decision.
"Thank you for your assistance Lieutenant. You can return to your regular duties." The military man declared before the screen shut down. Marla visibly displayed her disappointment as she was escorted back to the Archive above. She sat at her desk nearly in tears wishing desperately to be a part of whatever was going on wherever it was occurring. With a dissatisfied sigh she disappeared into one of the break rooms with her PADD to draw. Her concept abandoned, she instead enjoyed sketching the last great man to live.
He knew darkness and pain. He knew words, how to breathe, how to think. But his knowledge seemed strained, like it was missing something. The ache in his head was only matched by that of his body. He felt like he could hear other people speaking. Someone was saying a name. It wasn't his name, was it? What was his name?
"John? John can you hear me?" A commanding voice called. Suddenly alert he opened his eyes. Blinding light filled them and he remained still as he waited for his vision to adjust. "That's it, John. Welcome back." That same voice continued. He stared at a ceiling that did not feel familiar, a world that seemed foreign. Did ceilings always look like that? It was metal; a lot of things around him were metal. He opened his mouth attempting to ask where he was though his voice would not cooperate. The pain of his body was slowly receding though the ache in his skull was persistent. "Your eyes should adjust to the light in no time." That same stern tone explained again. He began to sit up, attempting to speak again.
"Where…am I…?" He finally asked quickly glancing around the strange room and then towards the even stranger man. He had a strict look and was obviously military though he did not recognise the uniform. From the expression on the man's face he was a friend or at least pretending to be.
"Home, John. You've come home." The man answered his question. 'John' turned around to sit on the side of his bed not even recognising his own name. "You won't remember it. You won't remember much of anything. But my name is Alex Marcus and I've been your friend for years." The older man explained.
"Alex…and I'm…John?" He enquired as the pounding in his head increased as if unable to absorb this information, rebelling against it with agony. How could his own name feel so foreign to him?
"John Harrison. A Starfleet Lieutenant. Six months ago you were critically injured on a mission to the Klingon homeworld. Brain trauma that should have left you catatonic for life. But the best surgeons in Starfleet, and the fact you're the toughest bastard I know, brought you back." Alex continued to clarify but all of it was unfamiliar. He could recall nothing. Not his name, not his mission, not these Klingons. Any attempt at searching his memory met with dark emptiness. He placed his hands over his ears, tangling his fingers in his hair as if that would stop the pounding of his skull and the overflow of information that did not feel right.
"I don't know who I am." He declared in frustration. As bizarre as the world around him was, he would come to discover that his face was even more unfamiliar. The man in the mirror was a stranger. He would look at him without the slightest hint of recognition. Sharp features, white skin, blue eyes or were they green? His eyes had never been that light, had they? Dark hair that he kept slicked back though a clump on the right side seemed to disobey this command, rebelling against it every chance it got forcing him to run his hand through it every now and again. He dressed usually in a grey suit jacket like shirt with a blue hexagon pattern on the front. Grey pants and combat boots to finish the ensemble though occasionally he wore the black sweater with the Starfleet logo on it. That was something he could hardly believe he forgot. A symbol of what was meant to be his whole world.
With each new day he found himself needing to learn what one thing was or another. If he had questions, Alex would answer them or explain anything that seemed new. Some things came to him quickly, others not at all. It was ridiculous the notions that seemed to elude him. Some of it was the most basic of modern technology. Older things seemed to come to him more easily though nothing was difficult. Admiral Marcus was not wrong in describing him as a genius he could arrogantly admit. Even without his memories he seemed quite adaptable to any situation. Then there were his dreams.
They kept him awake, pouring over his file in the Starfleet databases each time he awoke from a delusion in a world foreign to the one he lived in during his waking hours and yet the world of his sleep seemed oddly familiar, more so than the one that he constantly questioned. As he searched his records he noted that there was something off about his dossier never mind that he had no life away from the job that was apparently his passion before his injury or so Alex had told him. It felt like cheap fabrication.
If Starfleet truly was his only life before it was what he returned to. He was told by his old yet new friend that his work had been everything to him and regardless of the truth of that statement before, it definitely was now. He worked on upgrading the systems, designing weapons, helping plan and direct the continued construction of the USS Vengeance. As the months drew on his dreams would become headaches during the day and flashes of images, of people he did not know would play before his eyes. They were the memories of someone else or at least that was how he felt. When he approached Alex about them he was told they were memories of past missions but that never sat right with John. His entire existence felt fictitious in a way. Was that what it was like to have amnesia? If so then he had a debt he had to pay with these 'Klingons'.
Months had past and the only things reminding Marla that Admiral Marcus had ever approached her with an image of a man she desperately wanted to meet were her paintings. She had at first poured over all the information she had pertaining to Khan Noonien Singh. She had studied the rare images of his face and gone mad with sketching and painting. But with no further word she was now at the stage of putting her works in her storage room, leaving only a few out to join the artworks on the walls as permanent fixtures.
Sipping her morning coffee she stared at her latest work, the image of this man surrounded in a sea of passionate red. What she would give to meet him in person, to speak to him. She wondered what it would be like to know a man who desired to rule the world so much that they could actually achieve it. She shivered just at the thought.
If Admiral Marcus had truly found Khan somewhere out in deep space Marla wondered if she had made the wrong decision to abandon the path of her occupation aboard starships. She had nearly been assigned to the USS Enterprise at one point. From what little knowledge she absorbed in relation to the somewhat infamous ship and its new captain, they got into the kind of situations that possibly would have had them finding whatever it was that the Admiral had discovered.
But thinking of such things would only leave her downhearted and would be terribly counter-productive. There was no point in 'what ifs' when she didn't even know what she was missing out on. It was like wondering about other experiences in her life that had changed her even if only slightly. She had always been a weak woman who wore her heart on her sleeve though she tried hard to keep a poker face. She would pretend to be strong but the right word and she'd crumble. Perhaps that was why she adored these men so much. They were everything she was not. She aspired to be a woman they would take a second glance at and after her few incidents out in space she had to say she had made some progress towards that goal. Not a lot but some or at least she liked to tell herself that.
Deciding it was too early in the day to do a self-analysis and pick herself apart; Marla finished her caffeine and went back to her bed to read on her PADD. She had called in sick, notifying work so she could mope at home for the sake of disappointment. A day of solitude in her dwelling was exactly what she needed and it was much nicer than being bothered by the insistent people who always needed help to find something. She hated how they approached her like the task was difficult. But that was just her aggression towards being interrupted. A part of herself she rarely liked to think about because then she could no longer live in denial.
John had learnt much about himself in the months since he had woken. Not much about his past unfortunately and what he did know he didn't trust but he had learnt his capabilities. He was strong, able to assist in manual labour for construction, he retained knowledge easily and was adept at problem solving. Technology was something that came as easily to him as breathing not to mention charisma. People seemed to be drawn to him, admiration and respect an expression he frequently observed on opposing faces. He attempted at times to manipulate others because of this, to see how far they would go for him. They would do anything if he requested it. Of course some times he got that last part wrong but he was only human. Words and suggestion could only go so far.
When he approached Alex with the proposition of sending him to Praxxis alone, for a moment he felt his old friend would not permit it. But with some clever wording, the insistence that his personal transporter needed testing and an emphasis on doing the Klingons some harm he managed to persuade Admiral Marcus to let him go unaided. He was quickly learning that the Klingons were a bit of a weakness when it came to his old friend who wasn't very good at hiding his stance on the alien race if he was even trying.
That was how John had ended up on Praxxis, his association with Starfleet obscured by the black loose hood with the baggy collar he pulled over his black sweater and then the added modern trench coat. He was at the mining facility having placed the last bomb in position. He was calculating for any chance of failure when overwhelming pain seared through his skull dropping him to his knees. Images flashed before him; smog, fighting, people dead on the ground. Memories of a past mission, memories of someone else but not his memories. They could not be John Harrison's memories.
When the attack stopped and he returned to reality he found a patrol group had located him, the leader pointing a gun at his face. From the shadow of his hood John looked up at the small group of four. Alex had not given him much in the way of physical training. He had permitted it of course but he seemed to have a hesitation towards Harrison and combat, like a doubt that John could not explain no matter how much he analysed it.
"Now you die." The warrior stated in his native tongue. John had learnt the language as he prepared for the mission so he understood clearly. He tilted his head almost in pity for the man who had no idea what he had just stumbled into. In a split second John had removed the Klingon's gun from his grip.
"Fool." He simply declared before slamming the weapon so hard into his attacker's head that he snapped the neck. The next soldier he shot in the chest, dodging fire from the other two in a stylistic flip before hitting one in the chest with his appropriated weapon so hard he broke ribs and punctured organs, incapacitating his opponent.
John took out his final target by taking a knife from the unknowingly dead man and swinging it through his throat with an animalistic growl. He took a moment to look over the group of four on the ground dead, dying or injured beyond comprehension. His breathing and heart rate had not even increased. He found it pathetic.
Abandoning the blade John used his personal transporter to beam to Kronos in an area he had deemed safe from patrols at that time. He pulled out his PADD to check the countdown, noting only ten seconds to go. Harrison then looked up at the moon to observe his work come to fruition irritatingly dissatisfied.
The explosions sent veins of fire across Praxis and in the same instance images came to his mind, memories came to him. He had been amongst such fire and destruction before, covered in the blood of his enemies. As the moon crumbled in flames before him he focused on the image of himself, of who he truly was.
"My name…" He stated in awe, eyes wide but not looking at the present. While he truly returned to who he was and saw the lies Admiral Marcus had told he watched impassively as his work was completed.
"I remember my name." Khan declared. He considered his crew and Admiral Marcus' obvious plans to use him. Rage began to boil in his blood threatening to overwhelm him but the tactician's mind the black haired man had been designed for knew he could not let emotion control him. If he was to locate and save his people Khan needed to be cautious. To work with the one man he wanted to tear apart.