This is a mirrorverse fic. I'm going for a happy ending, but it's not meant to be a nice ride. For safety's sake I will tag each chapter. The first will likely be as brutal as it's going to get so here goes:
Implied child abuse, attempted rape, graphic violence, off-screen/implied torture, death of a few minor characters and dubious morality all around. I think that about covers it.
N.B. While I will be using the pagan calendar of holidays, these 'festivals' are not meant to represent reality in any way; as with everything else in the MU, it is hopelessly twisted.
!
!
!
!
Leonard was nine the first time he noticed the world was profoundly flawed.
It began with a girl, later his father would mockingly tell him that such was always the case, but at the time, Leonard knew only that she was a girl, that she was hurt, and that he felt compelled to help her.
He found her behind the hedgerow on the side of the road as he made his way home from another day of school. He was still turning over his lessons in the quiet of his own thoughts; the foundation of the first Terran empire was a complex subject, but much of the day had been consumed more by myths surrounding the empress than the actual facts of her rule. Leonard had dutifully repeated the phrases quoted at him, giving every appearance of enthusiasm.. The students who hadn't been so clever were probably still paying the price.
He knew was that he was late for supper, and father would be angry if his routine was disrupted. Having been on the receiving end of a backhanded slap more than once, Leonard was rushing home at full tilt when he first heard quiet weeping behind the hedge. He tried to ignore it at first, running past with nary a break in stride, but even twenty feet down the road and counting those quiet sobs still echoed in his ears; he found his feet turning back through no conscious choice of his own.
The Girl recoiled when he pushed the bushes aside and crouched, shading his eyes from the glare of the sun with one hand and steadying himself with the other.
"What're you crying for?" Enunciate, mama always said, but he wasn't home just now and no one would tell her if he didn't. Inconsequential rebellions like this kept him from much larger mistakes later much as he chafed at it.
Leonard was only more confused when she began crying even harder, curling away from him and farther into what shade the foliage afforded. Looking closer, he could see angry red scrapes criss-crossing her knees and bare feet peeking out from beneath a soiled gray dress. She was at most a couple years younger than he, with fly-away hair, reddening eyes and skin too pale to have seen much sunlight. No surprise if she spent all her time cowering in darkness, but he didn't say so.
"Hey, why are you cryin'?" It couldn't be those little cuts; even at her age The Girl should know better than to cry for minor nuisances.
Her voice was choked with tears and hoarse with weeping when she finally decided to speak. "Th-they took him. My puppy."
Awkwardly, Leonard reached out to pat her shoulder gently but she recoiled as though expecting a blow. "Who took him?" Pity more than curiosity colored his tone; if she had a chance of getting her whelp back she wouldn't have been hiding out here.
She sniffed, wiping her eyes on a dirty sleeve. "The other girls said if I can't look after him then I can't keep him." And she was crying again. What would it take to make her stop?
"Are you going to take him back?" He queried, suspecting the answer but wanting to hear it confirmed.
"No."
"Then stop cryin'. You need to wash before you go home." If he had ever dared show up at his own front door as ragged and dusty as this girl, he'd be whipped for certain.
"Come home with me. You c'n clean up there." Leonard wasn't at all certain of that, but he smiled anyway because it seemed like the kind thing to do.
The shock on her face should have been his first warning, and in years to come Leonard would curse himself for that novice mistake. At the time all he wanted was to stop a girl's tears before someone gave her a reason for them; he had seen enough suffering that day.
David McCoy was waiting when they reached the porch, and Leonard knew from the stink that this would be one of the bad days; he'd been at his bottle again.
"Where th'hell have you been? Your mother's been holding supper for your lazy ass. Get insi-" Leonard's father trailed off, craning to look at the girl behind him; he could feel her tense like a rabbit caught in a wolf's gimleted sights. Even then Leonard knew better than to show his fear like that, but he didn't dare take his eyes from his father long enough to tell her so.
"Get inside, boy!" His ears rang from a stiff cuff, but he shook his head, dodging neatly though he knew his father would see it as a defiance.
"I told 'er she could clean up here!" With effort, he kept his hands at his sides. If David thought for a moment he was trying to block, there would be a thrashing later.
The poor girl was shaking in her skin, and Leonard was beginning to regret the charitable impulse that had made him bring her home. His father swayed gently in the breeze, as though even that gentle pressure could knock him off his feet.
Leonard was shocked at the sheer weariness he saw writ in the David's face; he hardly even recognized this man as his father. That expression was new and unfamiliar to him, combining resignation, fear, something that might have been pride.
His father opened his mouth only to close it again, grinding his teeth in frustration. Leonard took a cautious step backward lest he resort to letting his hands do the talking. Something flashed across David's face, maybe regret or anger, Leonard couldn't be sure.
"Inside, then. Clean up. Both of you." He was gone.
Leonard knew better than to trust David's moods. He gestured to the girl to stay back while he craned his head around the door jamb, watching for a retreating back. Satisfied the man wasn't going to turn and set on him, he gestured to the girl to follow him in. She latched onto his hand desperately and Leonard jumped, shocked at the contact. He couldn't remember ever being touched by any of the other children at the school.
She followed him through the hallways of his home quietly so that his light steps and nervous breathing were the only sounds echoing in their ears, pausing briefly at each doorway to check the shadows and peer around corners before she would advance. Not entirely hopeless then.
He gestured to the cupboard where an assortment of first-aid supplies were kept: disinfectants and bandages of all sizes, sutures even. Not wise to go to the doctors in these parts for anything short of a mortal injury, and it bore thinking about even then. No telling what they might demand in return for their service. David McCoy saw to his family's care himself, and these throwbacks were the tools of his trade.
She carefully set about cleaning her scrapes while Leonard scrubbed his hands raw in warm water; he hated the dirt that collected beneath his nails and the small patches of grit on his hands. He was not satisfied until they were pink and sore, the nails ragged from his constant chafing.
Glancing in the mirror, he caught the girl following his movements with wary eyes. " 'M Leonard McCoy. What's your name?"
The question came out as a hushed whisper, and for some reason that struck him as fitting.
She was quiet for a long minute, until he began to think maybe she wouldn't answer at all and then- "Jocelyn Darnell."
She offered it to him as though it were some great secret, and many years later he would realize that was exactly what it had been.
Supper was a strained affair; he could feel his father's eyes on him, following his every movement, assessing every gesture. Eleanor only picked at her food, head bent. No matter how he tried to catch her attention she avoided him. That boded ill; typically she was all too ready to leap to his defense.
"Who was she?"
Leonard started, accidentally locking gazes with his father and just as quickly glancing away.
"I don't know." He shrugged nonchalantly, knowing that wouldn't be the end of it, hoping it would.
"You brought a stranger into our house. Someone you just met along the road?"
"She was hurt."
"It could've been you." It was times like these Leonard knew his father loved him despite everything. Despite everything, Leonard loved him too, and hated him in equal measure.
"I'm fine." He studied his food as though the answers to all his troubles could be found there, pushing peas around his plate until they were grouped neatly away from the meat.
"What if she had hurt you? What if she was only faking or was acting as a decoy for someone else, Leonard? Look at me when I'm speaking to you!" David's voice cracked with tension, his voice loud enough that even Eleanor started.
"She didn't hurt me. She doesn't even know me."
Silence fell once more, but his father had dropped his fork and was watching him intently, perhaps looking for a sign of remorse.
"I'm sorry. I won't do it again." He put some tears into his voice for good measure; that was usually enough to appease his father.
Leonard ground his hands into fists when David pushed back from the table violently, stumbling from the room with curses pouring from his lips.
"Len." He had to lean forward to hear his mama's voice, muted so as not to call the monster back.
"Your father's right, this once. You shouldn't be bringing strangers home. You shouldn't be stopping for them."
"But-"
"Your father's an important man in this sector; you know what that means?"
Leonard shook his head because it was what she expected of him, and she leaned a little closer. "That means some people might want his position, and the benefits that come with it."
He nodded dutifully, reaching out to sip at his drink. His mother lurched forward and grabbed his hand, squeezing it until the circulation was cut off. "You weren't made for this. We knew that, but you can't be a fool either, Len."
"Made for what?"
She pushed back from the table, gathering her dishes and turning her back on him.
"Made for what, mama?"
Obviously that was one of the questions he was not supposed to ask, or maybe shouldn't have to; either way she didn't bother to answer.
!
!
!
Leonard scowled at the image reflected in the mirror, combing his hair left then right, adjusting his shirt just so. Nothing would hide it; he was just going to have to make it through the day with a yellowing bruise spreading down the side of his face. He had thought that maybe after the ice and the pill mum had made him swallow it wouldn't be visible by morning. Luck was not on his side.
When he stepped out of his room, his dad was waiting for him- and he was 'dad' today, not 'father' or 'David'- his hands were steady and his eyes were clear of anything save regret as they lighted on his son's face. Nevertheless, Leonard couldn't help flinching when his dad reached for him.
"After school today I want you to come straight to the clinic. There are things I need to teach you and this is as good a time as any."
Leonard nodded soberly, avoiding his father's searching gaze; he couldn't bear that just yet.
Along the way to school, he stopped near the hedges to look for The Girl- Jocelyn. It wasn't likely they would ever meet again, but he'd been turning her problem over and over. All the children in the district attended the same center, meaning that if he looked hard enough he might be able find her.
Pity he didn't know the names of the girls that had taken her puppy; her instructors would probably side with her tormentors, but there was no rule that said someone else couldn't lend a hand. Sometimes it felt like the instructors were even encouraging rivalry between the students, pushing them to forge alliances and break them.
If you couldn't protect what belonged to you, then it was up for the taking, logically, he knew that. It just didn't seem right.
Frantically Leonard sought the root of his problem, and after a few moment's consideration it leapt out at him. His parents were the only ones who had ever told him a thing was wrong, they were the only ones that had ever suggested there was some way he was meant to act for no better reason than that he was Human.
He was flawed, but it was not his fault. After meeting that torn up little girl, Leonard wasn't sure he would be better off without his flaws; not if it turned him into the sort of creature that could set children against each other for sport. He had the sinking feeling that this preoccupation with good and evil might be precisely what had ruined his father, and worse, Leonard realized that if he was not discreet it might well get the best of him too.
It was a heavy thought for a child, one that always lingered at the back of his mind, bending his back beneath the weight of it. Leonard learned young to keep his head down, but somehow he never managed the trick of keeping his mouth shut.
!
!
!
"James."
Jim turned slowly, knowing full well what was coming. A solid fist slammed into his gut and he doubled over, hacking and gasping, spitting dusty saliva from his mouth.
"Was it worth it, you little shit?"
Before Jim could draw the breath to respond in the affirmative, another fist connected with his side and he tumbled to the ground, scrabbling to avoid his mess.
"That car was worth a fortune. I could've been on the other side of the damn continent by now if you hadn't driven it off a fucking cliff." It was chilling, how quiet Sam's voice was, even now remembering not to draw undue attention.
"Quarry. Into a fucking quarry, you mean." Ever a stickler for accuracy, that was Jim. When accuracy was in his best interest, which judging by the look on his brother's face it was not. No regrets.
The next blow split his lip and Jim spat blood. Maybe a few regrets. Just a few.
"What the hell were you thinking? Are you stupid?"
That last was just too much for even his sparkling good humor. Jim lunged forward, catching Sam behind his knees and dragging him into the dirt. Before his brother could do more than yell with surprise, Jim laid into him, fists flying every which way, uncaring of where he struck so long as he did.
Sam bucked and Jim tumbled onto the ground again, ears ringing with the force of his brother's next blow. "Settle down! Fuck. Mom's going to kill both of us."
"She'll gut you first, I'm going to watch." Jim snarled as he pushed himself up carefully, running his tongue across dry lips. He was in a world of pain, but nothing was broken. If they could just straighten their clothes and dust off a little bit there was no call for mother to ever know. For all he knew, she was halfway across the galaxy.
She would find out, of course. No telling where she acquired her information, but Winona Kirk knew everything and anything that happened in this backward little town.
Sam sat across from him, chest still heaving as he wiped a smear of blood from his face. Jim felt a visceral surge of satisfaction at the sight; he was improving. Even a year ago he wouldn't have been able to catch Sam off guard like that.
Jim gained his feet first, still ready for a fight. There was no love lost between his brother and he. Sam probably would have taken the opportunity to whale on him a little more had he been first up.
James was tempted to do the same, but if Sam realized just how tired he was, the balance could quickly shift out of his favor. Wait. Just wait. There would be other opportunities.
He backed away as Sam rose, gathering up his bag from where he had dropped it in the dust. "If we take much longer Frank will come looking for us."
"After you." Kirk sneered. Younger he might be, but a fool he was not. Sam wouldn't have minded the loss of Frank's car half so much if Jim had still been in it. One classic car in exchange for the life of a promising younger brother? Fair exchange. Then he could make use of Winona's connections without worrying that she would see to providing for her favorite first.
Jim could have told him that was a stupid thought. If anything untoward happened to him and even so much as a hint of suspicion fell on Sam, he knew his mother wouldn't hesitate to dispose of him.
Eyeing him warily, Sam moved off, careful to keep a reasonable distance between them.
"When she comms you're going to tell her we had trouble at school. I helped you out. She asks for names, you're looking for Thomas Redman and Carol Thoreau."
Jim shook his head incredulously, "Why shouldn't I just tell her the truth: that you jumped me and I kicked your ass anyway?"
"You want to tell her you got jumped? That you're not half as good in a real one-on-one as you are in practice? Go ahead. Or you could give her the names of the top-scoring student and the director's son. You're in the top ten; one spot up will get you closer to top five. Winona will see you in top five if it kills you. And personally, I don't care if it kills you, so lady's choice."
"Sam." His brother turned toward him, walk slowing.
"Next time you say mom's name in that tone, I'll cut out your tongue." Jim grinned cheerfully, but he saw Sam's eyes follow his hands to his pockets.
Sam smirked, but he didn't speak another word. All to the better; Jim was busy calculating the odds of slipping anything past his mother's watchful eye and they looked slim at best. Better to come clean. It would mean extra work for him, hours spent drilling in whatever obscure form of combat she chose to teach, longer still listening to her expound on the importance of wariness. Family was dangerous, she would say, because loyalty was expected of blood and so betrayal was always a shock. Family ties were the perfect noose and better cut as soon as they showed signs of weakening.
Jim ran his tongue along the seam of a cut in his mouth, thinking on the problem of Sam in the quiet corners of his mind. Winona wouldn't be pleased, but as long as he cleaned up his mess she couldn't find fault with him. Not today, but soon.
!
!
Jim's opportunity came far sooner even than he expected; on the day of his eleventh birthday, in fact. With Winona off planet and Frank not particularly interested in seeing to the care of his adopted sons, it was once again left to the Kirk boys to find their own means of entertainment.
The stream wasn't more than a few miles from their home, and Jim crowed exultantly when he beat Sam to its banks by a matter of seconds. They had been here before, alone and in company; Jim vaguely remembered his mother throwing him in when he was four years old and telling him if he did not swim he would drown. He had hated her for that at the time, but he had since accepted the value of the lesson and was grateful to her for teaching it so thoroughly. In such small but telling ways did Winona betray her love for him.
Jim bolted across a small embankment of stones, slipping on the wet surface and cutting his hands on the jagged edge of the rocks. Behind him, Sam laughed raucously, "Watch it, Jim. If you fall in, I'm not pulling you out." Despite the laughter, Jim knew every word was true. Sam was a bully and an opportunist; he made his own way, and that made him dangerous.
Jim smiled back over his shoulder, waiting for Sam's laughter to die. "C'mon, Sam. Let's swim. The deep water isn't far, why don't we race to see who's best? Loser has to tell mother about the car."
"That's your bad luck, I wasn't the one driving."
"She won't think so. If you hadn't tried running, I never would have taken it."
Sam's expression turned calculating, "What's in it for the winner?"
"Besides not having to tell mom? Winner gets one favor he can call in anytime."
They both knew the significance of that; credits were uncertain, not everyone could be bought so cheaply; power was an illusion easily lost. A favor could become anything in time. Another lesson Winona Kirk had taken great pains to teach her children.
"Let's go."
Jim wasn't sure whether he wanted to grin in triumph or cough up everything he had eaten for breakfast and then some at the thought of what he planned. He settled for trailing after his brother, considerably more subdued.
Sam's bright eyes followed Jim as he stepped to the edge of the deep water, careful not to stand too close lest the dirt crumple beneath his feet. The current was treacherous here, and the water was strewn with rocks and debris. If he were pulled in unexpectedly it would mean the death of him; conversely if Sam were to take the fall, no one would blame him for not daring to attempt a rescue. Jim was depending on it.
It really should have occurred to him to wonder why Sam had changed his mind about the bet so fast; he should have thought about what Sam stood to gain. As the younger brother what favor could he possibly repay? Jim had been too consumed with guilt to ponder these things, too relieved that Sam had not guessed his motives. It came as a surprise when Sam's palm thudded into his back with enough force to knock him that crucial inch forward, and as he had feared the ground gave beneath his feet.
Jim flailed in the water, legs thrashing frantically to keep him afloat while his boots weighed him down. His small body collided with the unforgiving rocks as he was swept down-stream, fingers reaching for any hold. He screamed when his nails were pulled from his skin to leave it ripped and bleeding. He could hear Sam laboring to keep up, whooping savagely. Stupid fool, he could not keep pace with the force of the water; he would have no way of knowing if Jim lived or died.
The latter was looking increasingly likely.
His boots caught on a submerged branch and Jim took a final, desperate breath before he was pulled beneath the surface. There was no time for thought, sheer panic guided his hands to the grasping branches, pulling at his boots until he could feel his feet slipping free; thankfully the water had numbed his hands so that he did not feel the destruction of his own flesh in the attempt. He sucked in freezing water as he pushed himself onward, lungs aching and head already dizzy but blessedly in control of his movement.
Jim pushed himself sideways, forcing himself to the bank with a strength born of terror. He could have wept with relief when his hands found the solid turf of the embankment, digging into the dirt and roots to haul his battered body out of his would-be grave. He allowed himself precisely a minute to sob into the earth, uncaring of the smears on his face or the blood on his hands; he was alive, and if he did not deal with Sam now that wasn't going to last long.
Jim raised his head, glaring blearily downstream, Sam was searching the water far ahead, scanning for any signs of a battered corpse. With effort, Jim pushed himself to his feet and staggered closer, hardly daring to breathe.
Sam was so caught up in his moment of victory he didn't hear his brother creeping closer, didn't hear the shift of earth when Jim grasped a rock and pulled it from its place. Some sixth sense alerted him at the last minute, made him turn his head just enough that Jim's rock caught him on the temple. His body fell to the earth lifeless, but Jim continued to smash his face until the flesh and bone was pulverized into a shapeless blob. His body had ceased to twitch, and that horrible rattling, bubbling sound in his throat had long since ended when Jim pushed Sam's corpse into the river and watched it wash away.
For over an hour, Jim simply stared at the spot in the water where his brother had gone under. The guilt was stripped away, and the anger was gone now too; he only felt empty, hollow in a way he wasn't sure anything could fill ever again. Then fear set his hands to trembling as tears gathered in his eyes; Winona would be furious.
He examined his hands, the blood on his shirt, the rips in his skin; he could lie, say that Sam had fallen into the water while they played, that he had tried to go in after him and nearly been killed. He certainly looked battered enough, and Sam wouldn't be there to contradict him.
Jim made his slow way home, shoulders heaving with sobs and silent screams he did not dare to voice.
!
!
!
The days Leonard spent at the clinic assisting his father were some of the most peaceful he had ever known or ever would again. There were many times throughout the years when he would look back to those days and almost regret the path he had chosen, when he would wonder what might have happened if he had been allowed to become no more than a country doctor. It was only a pleasant fantasy; Leonard knew if he had a choice he would never have taken another way.
When David had first brought him to the clinic on the slow evenings after school he had been worse than useless. Vital equipment ended up misplaced whenever he tried to help organize his father's work area, PADDs left out where curious eyes might pry. His stomach had roiled at the sight of blood every time David asked his help in seeing to an injury, and he had nearly fainted the first time he had helped his father set a bone. The years of discipline and closeness with his father had done much to harden him though.
David no longer set him to menial tasks, instead it was his duty to follow after his father and observe while David treated a multitude of injuries, some with the cutting edge of medical technology, others with tools Leonard cringed to think of.
When he was fifteen, David had finally invited him to assist in surgery. He had flatly refused to make use of the non-invasive lasers, instead he had cautioned Leonard that some work required a personal touch, that machines could never hold half the sensitivity of a man's hands for all their vaunted steadiness. He had pulled a scalpel from its place among his dated equipment, sharp and gleaming despite its age.
David said the scalpel had belonged to his grandfather, and he had made extensive use of it during the war for things Leonard didn't like to think on. David had polished, sharpened, and honed the cruel steel himself, and now that task would fall to his son as it had fallen to him so long ago.
Watching his father work with that cruel implement was a revelation; far from the disgust he had expected to feel at seeing a person's flesh torn apart and put together again like so much cloth, Leonard found he liked the hypnotic effect of light playing across the blade every time David adjusted its angle just so. The contrast of scarlet blood to stainless steel was arresting, and that sickened him until he turned away, glancing back only when David murmured directions.
When at last he had finished, David passed the besmirched blade to Leonard, and there was such a smile on his face as he did so that Leonard had to fight an almost overwhelming urge to find a dark corner and hide; he half expected his father to cut him as he pressed it into his palms.
"This is yours, Leonard. Take care of it, you're going to need it." Leonard flinched when David raised a hand, relaxed when he only rested it on his shoulder in a rare display of affection. He gloried in the brief touch, reveled in his father's approval no matter how little deserved it was.
Leonard considered the blade, wondering where exactly he was supposed to keep it without so much as a sheathe to keep it from cutting into his flesh. David said old lore held it was unwise to wield a blade that had already tasted its wielder's blood; rank superstition, Leonard thought, but David never kept a blade that had nicked him, rare as those occasions were.
Inspiration struck and he bolted for the locked cabinet, inputing his entry key; David looked on almost fondly as he pulled a roll of medical tape from its place as well as a few gauze pads. He slipped the scalpel carefully into the gauze and taped the makeshift sheathe to the inside of his wrist where it could be concealed beneath his sleeve and yet within reach should he need it. His father only smiled, and for the first time in years Leonard felt they understood each other perfectly.
The predicted crisis came nearly two years later, when another student, Olsen, and a few of his cronies attempted to trap Len in the bio lab after the others had all slipped out. Leonard cursed himself a blue streak; he knew better than to be caught alone in an enclosed space, but he had been so caught up in examining images beneath the electron microscope that he had forgotten to pay attention to his surroundings.
Warned by some instinct he couldn't put a name to, Len glanced up just in time to see Olsen slinking closer to him, no more than five feet away.
Never run, David said. Only prey ran, and it was a predator's nature to pursue, so instead Leonard calmly gathered up his PADD and wiped down his work area as though the other student wasn't steadily encroaching on his space. From the corner of his eye he could see a smirking Nancy trying to cut off his exit; he hopped the counter at his side and made for the door anyway, smiled disarmingly when she stepped into his path.
"You mind moving? You're taking up the whole door."
"You have a free period, right? So what's the rush? Olsen and I were thinking we should get to know you a little better, seeing as we're going to be lab partners this year." She tipped her head to a boy Leonard didn't recognize, "Charlie said he's never really met you either."
"That's a crying shame, but I don't have time to play this game, so why don't you step aside and we'll learn everything we need to know about each other while we work?" His false smile vanished, replaced with a threatening snarl that he hoped would do the trick; Leonard honestly didn't want to hurt these stupid kids, but if he allowed them to push him around it would send the wrong message to his peers and he'd end up fresh meat for their torments.
"No." Nancy dodged his backhand as the two boys rushed him, grasping hands pulling at his clothes, pushing him back into the door. Understanding dawned, and Leonard silently damned himself for a fool; these pigs thought they were going to turn him into their little fuck-toy, and once they finished there would be worse from the other students. He couldn't let that happen.
His hands were pinned above him, Charlie's nails digging into an unprotected wrist. He glanced up in confusion when he realized there was something protecting the other; Leonard smirked though his pulse was hammering and his mouth was dry, adrenaline pumping through his system and making him tremble minutely.
"Better let me go. I'll kill you if you don't. I swear I'll kill you."
Olsen smashed a fist into his cheek, leaving his ears ringing, distantly Leonard could feel the other boy tugging at the fly of his pants and renewed his struggle, growling desperately when Olsen forced a leg between his own. If he could just get to that fucking blade-
"Olsen, he's got something." Mercifully all motion ceased, and Leonard could have wept with sheer relief.
"What is it?"
"Don't know, something tucked in his sleeve." For a split second, Charlie took his hands from Leonard's wrists-one second was all he needed. Olsen howled when Len's forehead smashed into his nose, stumbling back with his hand pressed to his bleeding face; Leonard yanked the scalpel from concealment before Charlie could do more than land a fist in his gut. He doubled up to vomit on the floor, gasping for breath, blade held close.
"Touch me again and I'll cut off your fingers, Charlie." He pinned the other boy with a furious glare, eyes bleeding into a sparkling blue that would have been beautiful but for the circumstances that had provoked it.
Charlie backed away, and Len congratulated himself on a job well done- only minor injuries sustained. Nancy gaped at him, her sleeve pressed to Olsen's face protectively.
"I'm leavin'. You better tilt his head back, it'll help the bleeding."
He pressed the release and the door slid open, Leonard stepped out to into the deserted corridor, slipping his scalpel back into its place. David always said that once a blade had cleared its sheathe its wielder mustn't put it away again until a life was taken. Leonard knew the threat was enough to keep him safe, he wasn't sure he could ever have his father's ruthlessness in him.
Until that damned fool Olsen rushed him, and filled with adrenaline-fueled desperation Leonard turned and planted the scalpel directly in his throat. He watched in horrified fascination as Olsen sank to the floor, hands pulling feebly at the object embedded in his neck, eyes staring up at Len pleadingly. In all his days, Leonard never could forget that frightened, confused gaze; it haunted him every morning when he awoke and every night when he laid down to sleep.
He still could not regret what he did next. With Nancy's frantic screams ringing in his ears and Charlie's broken pants echoing in the hallway, Leonard drew the blade from the other boy's throat, twisting it savagely before he kicked the corpse away. He strode to Nancy and wiped the blade across her tunic, sickened at what they had forced him to do, knowing he must carry it to its natural conclusion.
Leonard turned and walked away as though he hadn't just taken his first- and last, he prayed- life.
!
!
Words could not express Leonard's growing horror at what he had done, yet the other students eyed him with new respect when he sat down to lunch. Some few chose to congregate at his table, simpering and smirking. He had no appetite, but forced every morsel down as though his life depended on it. The afternoon was a blur, just impressions of light and sound and feeling. He didn't truly come back to himself until he lay on his own back porch, weeping brokenly until his mother slipped out to gather him up and push him inside, cooing softly and offering meaningless words of comfort.
"Quiet, Leonard. It's over and your safe. That's all that matters, Len. That's all that matters." But she was crying too, and he could hear the ragged edge of desperation in her voice as though she too needed convincing. He pulled the scalpel from his sleeve and threw it away, uncaring where it landed so long as he didn't have to see it again. He stripped away the tape and gauze, unmindful of the sting.
For long hours he stood there, holding onto her like she was the only thing left in his world, weeping until his throat was raw and he couldn't draw the breath for a proper sob. His head pounded viciously, worse than he ever remembered feeling, and he didn't resist when she dragged him over to a chair and pressed a cold cloth to his face, not speaking now, only comforting with her presence. He slipped into oblivion, and was grateful for the short respite it provided.
It was dark when his father shook him awake, seated on the arm of Leonard's chair; his face looked drawn and haggard, but Len was sick anew to see the relief in his eyes when he spoke.
"I din't think you had it in you, Len."
"I wish I didn't." His voice was still hoarse, and though his shoulders shook with an aborted sob, there were no more tears for him to shed.
"I wish you you didn't have to." David choked out, "But I'm glad you're the one that came home. I want you to remember that, no matter what happens next."
Alarms sounded in Len's head, the small-hairs on his neck prickling with a sense of urgency. "What d'you mean?"
"Things like this don't go unnoticed, Len. We've drawn a lot of attention to this family, and I think this might be the final blow. I think you might have to serve a penance."
A frisson of fear shot down Leonard's spine. "Why? It's happened before. I've seen it!"
"Olsen was fast-tracked for Starfleet academy, Leonard. They lost a recruit today, and they'll want another. I hope they take you; the alternative is charging you with destroying imperial property." David cleared his throat, a shaking hand squeezing Leonard's shoulder. "That could mean treason, Leonard. I won't let that happen, understand?"
Leonard nodded, not entirely convinced but desperately wanting to believe the lie.
They sat in darkness for hours, David's hand firm on his shoulder, fingers digging into his skin until he was sure it would bruise. He didn't care, David's touch kept the violent tremors at bay, kept him from sicking up on mother's freshly polished floor. Every knock of a tree's branch against a window had them both jumping, breath catching in their throats.
And then came the knock at the door.
"Dear God," David whispered, and Leonard knew this time it was both a plea and confession.
David rose from his seat, whispering a command for the lights. He strode for the door slowly, but there was no hesitation in his steps. Leonard felt more than heard his mother enter the room and come to stand behind his chair.
The door opened to reveal a grim-looking salt-and-pepper man, lines of worry etched as deeply on his face as his scars. "Doctor McCoy?"
"Yes?"
"Christopher Pike. I am here on behalf of the imperial fleet."
"Come in." David's voice was firm, he made it seem almost a command; Leonard had never admired him more than in that moment.
Pike turned and gestured to someone unseen before stepping into the house. He was followed by an older man, white-haired and stern, whose dark eyes locked on Leonard's form immediately.
"Is this Leonard McCoy?" The unidentified man questioned.
"The same. Who're you?" Leonard snapped, not caring for the tone of this meeting at all, more frightened than he'd ever been; there was ample cause.
The man didn't smile, but his features softened into something that might have been amusement or pity or some strange mixture of the two. "Philip Boyce. I'll be your adviser at the academy."
So David had been right, they were here to take him. Leonard stood slowly, nodding to their unwelcome guests. "I'll pack."
"It's not that simple." Pike cut in, and Leonard could see genuine regret in his expression. "Leonard McCoy, do you deny that you have killed one Micah Olsen?"
"No." Dread sent tingles of coldness racing across his skin.
"Then I am also here to see your penance carried out."
"Penance?" Leonard's mother choked.
Boyce broke in, "He killed a cadet, ma'am. Normally he'd have to die for it. Leonard's file is quite impressive though; the admiralty expects he could make something of himself in the fleet, but someone has to pay for it."
Pike and Boyce both turned to David. "As his father, it would normally fall to you." Pike murmured.
"I expected as much." David's voice was strong. "Shall we take this outside, gentlemen?"
"No!" Leonard cried out, surprised when the softer voices of the two officers joined his.
"Doctor McCoy, as Leonard was the offending party, council has decided that it is his obligation to carry out the penance." Pike's voice was subdued, but his eyes locked on David's resolutely.
swayed and Leonard scrambled to catch her just in case; David appeared a bit unsteady on his feet himself. What the hell were they saying that he didn't understand?
Boyce glanced to Pike before speaking, "Furthermore, the council has requested a demonstration of the boy's skill, to be assured that they are not wasting resources on an asset that may be compromised."
"Dear God." David murmured again and Pike's grim frown only deepened. Leonard could feel the blood rushing from his face, didn't want to know what could make this man feel any compassion for his father.
"Leonard McCoy, you will demonstrate your fitness by removing David McCoy's skin; it is your especial aim to extend life as long as you possibly may."
He couldn't do it. It took Len a few moments to realize he had spoken the thought aloud.
Boyce answered his words before Pike had opened his mouth. "Leonard, if you refuse to comply with orders it will be accounted mutiny. You are officially imperial property; you have been since you took out Olsen. The punishment for mutiny is summary execution; there will be no trial, and your family will share in your sentence as co-conspirators. That is not the choice you want to make."
David was pulling him out of the house and toward the transport before Leonard could even answer. "Let's go to the clinic, Len, this last time."
!
!
It was done. It was over. Leonard stared at the grass beneath his feet; every time he blinked bright scarlet flashed before his eyes, images he knew would never leave him. He couldn't feel the grief yet or the rage, he knew it was coming, but for now all he felt was bone-deep exhaustion.
Leonard staggered to a tree a few feet away, leaned against it until he could feel his equilibrium returning. Thankfully, Boyce had pushed him from the room as soon as the awful task was done, suggested he take in some fresh air to clear his head.
The crunch of dead grass beneath boots made him raise his head; Pike stood before him, solemn and subdued. Leonard hated him with a passion, more so even than Boyce. He had watched and done nothing, stood there and observed passively, never flinching even when the broken screams hit their crescendo.
Leonard shied away when Pike reached out to him, swallowed when the man grasped his arms and shook him harshly. "You need to snap out of this and go to your mother."
"She doesn't want to see me. She'll never want to see me again." Leonard knew it to be true, how could his mother bear to look at him when he could hardly stand to be himself? This was a stain that would never wash clean.
"Bullshit. She's family. Family watches out for family."
"Like I did my father?" Leonard growled, wrenching viciously from Pike's grip.
Pike's lips thinned, "You made the only choice you could, McCoy. It was the smart one." Leonard noticed he didn't say 'right'. Here was another man that knew the difference- poor bastard.
"Not the only." Leonard snarled.
"The only choice that would have preserved you and your mother. That's your first duty, McCoy: look out for those under your care. And right now, that is your mother."
"'S that the 'fleet's official position?" Leonard sneered.
"To hell with them. Take care of your own and to hell with the rest, it's the only way this works."
Len doubled over, vomiting again. The tears rose up faster than he could contain them, and he fell to his knees. A monster. He was a fucking monster. And this man would have him believe that was exactly what he was supposed to be, that it was the only way to pull through.
To hell with the empire, he'd said. Well to hell with Christopher Pike and Philip Boyce; he wouldn't play their fucked up game. This was the last time he would allow himself to be backed into a corner. There would be no more killing, with or without orders; there would be no more torture, and anyone that said otherwise could go straight to hell.
Pike and Boyce both held to the illusion that in order to fight the monsters one must first become one. At his young age, Leonard had learned something they probably never would: that was precisely what the monsters wanted others to believe, the only way of perpetuating their unnatural version of life. He was done with it, and if it took his last breath he'd see their whole world crumble around their ears.
!
!
!
Jim stepped carefully around the creaky floorboard just beyond the door; he'd been out late tonight watching the older kids at their games and learning the way of it for when his time came. Winona had managed to keep him close for months since they had moved into town, but he had slipped free this evening while she worked on her PADD. It was the perfect night for reconnaissance; the Samhain vigils had been set, and Jim had ventured close enough to see the 'festivities'. He'd been very careful not to draw so close that he might be pulled into them.
He knew better than to think Winona was asleep now, he hoped that maybe if he stepped lightly enough she would fake it anyway.
No such luck. Winona sat at the small table in their modest kitchen, not a single light on, with a bottle of whiskey near to hand; he could hear the sound of her muffled sobs from where he stood in the door. Jim approached her slowly, careful to make plenty of noise; Frank had made the mistake of surprising her once not too long ago. Winona didn't believe in warning shots. He laid a hand on her shoulder and squeezed gently. "I'm home."
Her hand reached up to clasp his, sharp nails filed to a point dug into his pale skin. "George." She sniffed, "I-"
"Not George. Jim." On any other night he would have played along with her alcohol fueled confusion, but he knew this scene was his fault tonight and he'd rather deal with her in drunken sorrow than sober fury.
Her voice was still hoarse when she answered; "James Tiberius Kirk. You will be the death of me." He could see her tears shining on her cheeks by moonlight, but none gathered in her eyes any longer.
"I take it you've learned everything you wanted to know?" She laughed bitterly, nails scratching until he felt the sting of skin parting. "More?"
Jim had been expecting some sort of retaliation besides a night of solitary drinking; a few slurred curses and maybe some broken dinner plates were the norm if she was especially worried. After the incident with Sam she had even… his mind shied away from the thought even as his fingers traced over concealed scars.
This easy acceptance raised his hackles; it was exactly how she had greeted the news of his brother's untimely demise and he suspected that once more it would prove to be the calm before the storm.
"You're not in trouble, Jim. Not tonight. If you think you're old enough to take responsibility for your life- or death-I'm not going to stop you." Her eyes glinted oddly in the sparse light, and he was tempted to raise the lights, but then she would assume that he feared her. After what he had seen tonight, he was not sure he could any more.
Jim glanced suspiciously at the whiskey bottle; it was true that Winona could hold her drink but to be this articulate was strange. She herself had taught him to watch for any inconsistencies, odd behaviors that might indicate an approaching betrayal.
"It was very enlightening." Jim's face twisted with disgust; the scenes he had witnessed tonight were about as far from enlightenment as he could conceive of: rampant debauchery, careless slaughter… he had narrowly dodged several grabbing hands himself and did not care to think what might have happened otherwise. Samhain was a ritual of rebirth, but that necessitated death first.
"Enlightening!" Winona threw back her head and laughed bitterly, "I'm glad you thought so." Her mood shifted like quicksilver and he could see the tears slipping free to run down her cheeks again. "Go to bed, Jim. Leave me alone."
"M-"
"Leave." The sharpness of her tone cut short anything he might have said in his defense, he climbed the stairs quickly and dimmed the lights in his own room.
Sleep was the last thing on his mind and certainly not his intention for all that he did crawl into bed. Images danced through his head of bonfires and feasting and games. The bonfires had been funeral pyres for those unlucky enough to be caught outdoors after sunset. "Games" was a tame word for the entertainment Jim had witnessed out there; less than half the participants had seemed to in any way enjoy the proceedings. He wondered what the criteria was for those given to the fire and those to the games.
The deciding factor for those who enjoyed and those who suffered was obvious enough; the strong preyed upon the weak- the 'weak' being defined as anyone without connections, without power or wit or strength, without defense.
Jim made a decision then, one that would guide him for many years to come; he must not be weak, he must not permit even the perception of it. Having decided this, he found sleep came more easily to him than it had in all his sixteen years. Some might have said it was the sleep of the innocent, peaceful and undisturbed, and they would have been dangerously mistaken.