Thriller (prt 1)
"It's close to midnight, and something evil's lurking in the dark..."
Bleary-eyed, he moved. It was blindly across the cabin, running a hand along the smooth wall for guidance until his fingers sunk into the slit that notated the bathroom door.
God, he was hungry.
It was just moments before that he laid twisted, tangled in the thin sheets, his body in sleep seemingly contorted in impossible ways. Feet stretching so tense that his toes clicked. He'd shot up suddenly, eyes wide like burning stars, his heart batting into his ribcage like a frenetic bird in its death throes. Ripped from sleep into the dark reality of his quarters, his lungs pulsed to seize the breath that seemed strangely lost.
He'd pulled his legs from the angry snarl the blankets had formed, confused around the contours of his body. Bare feet pressed onto the floor and he felt ridiculous amounts of heat drain from him as the cool ground challenged his internal temperature.
His felt uneven.
He would have been alerted had the shipwide equilibriic stabilizer malfunctioned, so that sick feeling lingering in the pit of his stomach was in his head. It was like centipedes crawling in his intestines, tiny legs twittering in his gut.
"Augh," he groaned, stumbling dumbly in the dark, stepping into his bathroom, his hand roaming the wall searching for the light sensor. The lights flickered on dimly at first to aid the familiarization of tired pupils, and as he looked up he expected to see the (far from chipper) face of one, Captain James T. Kirk.
He didn't.
Jim's eyes shot open, circles exploding with surprise like a white dwarf expanding at an inexplicable rate. He reeled back in shock, colliding with the far wall as his mind struggled to process the ---reflection? in the glass. His exclamation of astonishment was cut short by his impact with the pointed end of the door.
Teeth. Hideous elongated teeth and wide golden eyes. Horrifying yellow spots circulating a tiny black center.
He blinked.
Hard.
Walking quickly to the sink, he held fast onto the glass. Opening his eyes, he expected to confront the projections of his taxed and weary mind---
His clenched chest relaxed, although his heart thumped inside, belying his trust in the inexplicable change of mood he experienced as he saw himself. It was certainly him. Jim, staring back at him with bedeviling accuracy.
A little worse for wear, sure, --- they'd only just returned a day ago from an exhausting mission on Lycania,--- but it was Jim nonetheless.
"A little punch drunk," he commented, his voice waking from sleep, croaking tiredly in his throat. He rubbed his eyes, inwardly suspicious a few moments more before dismissing the senseless illusion, crediting it to a taxed mind and aching body.
Slapping his cheeks one after the other he turned on the faucet, splashing his face with the cold water, ignoring the ship's standard for using sonar-cleaning methods. Sometimes all you needed was a little slap in the face. He stretched his sore muscles, pulling his arms back, twisting his neck to hear the bones pop, letting out a relieved sigh as his body groaned in gratitude. He caught sight of the ghastly looking bruises spoiling the complexion of his chest, like rotten, gorging flaws on the skin of a peach. The few minor injuries on his back were impossible to see, but he knew they were there because he felt a terrible burning where Bones had rubbed that awful salve into their gaping mouths.
There had been violent hand-to-hand combat, as he and First Officer Spock, along with a small landing party, had engaged with a group of natives. They had visited Lycania on a purely experimentational excursion, attempting to collect samples of the curious fauna species verrweri which apparently contained many medicinal properties crucial to the ailing shapeshifting race Moaj from planet Moajk in the Alpha Quadrant, a Federation planet.
Not unexpectedly, their presence was not welcomed by the native Lycanians, and when discovered, their camp was attacked in a primitive version of an ambush. It had been their goal to avoid the several large tribes of a mostly developing population, all which roamed the planet's dense forests. The Federation was neither hated nor loved in this part of the Badlands and it was not considered wise to incite anything to irritate this delicate balance.
However, their brief nighttime mission (conducted after dark because the verrweri was a nocturnally blooming flower) was interrupted when the small party was detected by what appeared to be some type of native rangers. The angry group had set upon them, using the thick forests as cover, brandishing red-fire swallowed sticks and whipping them aimlessly at the crewmen.
The natives had yet to discover sophisticated technology and so they were barred from brandishing their phasers.
Jim noted retrospectively he and his crew were cursed out with sophisticated enough swears words. He questioned the validity of the Starfleet's definition of the Lycanians as a population "pre-cognitive advancement, in both language and social structure."
They were forced to fight hand-to-hand with the natives, their primitive weaponry and strange accompanying beasts. Some kind of jagged-boned canine-like creatures which leapt with as much ferocity as they hissed. Jim looked sorely at the angry animal which attacked him, after much deliberation (fighting) had persuaded the untrained natives to back off, and stand for a parley. It appeared similar enough to all the others, gripped by its master by a leathery collar. Yet Jim seemed to have noted it was somewhat different from the others, as it had a strangely disconcerting posture, its gaze slightly misaligned with its face.
Lt. Uhura had translated the Lycanian's primal dialogue and Jim had informed them of their purely peaceful intentions.
The leader, a cross-eyed giant of a man had shouted something which sounded like hideously angry sobs from his throat. He was a total hunk. Complete with hanging spit strings clinging to his jaw.
"It says we are trespassing," the Lieutenant dictated.
Jim stood sturdy and reasonable. "Inform him that the treaty signed by the feudal emperor Nesferatu gives express permission to Starfleet science inquiries to enter and gather samples from all non-farmland countryside in Lycania."
Uhura spit back the almost disgusting sounding language in an answer which seemed to stump the giant being.
He looked at Jim with his ill eye, a white orb which seemed to look all over Jim's surface but not in. He grumbled something that sounded lionlike, directed at the young captain.
"He says for our own safety we must depart." Uhura watched as the hulking life form gestured wildly to the sky, which peeked out in dark navy emptiness from the surrounding throat of trees. "He says tonight is the wrong night."
Jim resisted the urge to make a face. He looked at the hostile individual and all his similarly-sized (and equally attractive) cronies, with a warm, placating smile. "We're nearly finished here, aren't we, Mr Spock?"
"A number of samples to facilitate Starfleet's inquest have been sufficiently procured, Captain." His first officer spoke from a comfortingly close distance behind him.
"See?" Jim offered the hunched, greasy monster a hard clap on the arm, which may as well have been a flittering butterfly. "No harm done."
Uhura translated and the hulking man narrowed his eyes, turned and shouted something to his companions who slowly started to move off like boulders moved by a slow stream. He looked back at Kirk, grumbling something else from deep in his chest.
"Keep clear of the moors," Uhura spoke in a breathy tone, as she exhaled, watching the figure turn away, he and his pack disappearing into the dark of the woods as surely as if they hadn't come out at all.
Chekov wished they had simply said this without first needing to attack them, but since when did that count for anything. He looked around, trying to spot the captain's figure through the fog that clogged the forest floor.
"Illogical," stated the impressively unperturbed Vulcan. "I have previously completed a thorough biological sweep of the ecology of the entire planet. There is no need to avoid the aforementioned geological location unless time or disinterest dictates otherwise."
"Thank you, commander Spock," Jim said, acknowledging the obscene amount of detail the Vulcan put into every one of his duties. He was stepping over their supplies and stopped walking in the path of the one beam of starkly bright moonlight to pierce to the forest floor, a silver sword thrust through the canopies of the trees. His teeth glinted eerily white, catching the reflection of the moonbeam as he announced, "Let's pack up people," and flipped open his tricorder, hailing Scotty. "Do what you do best, Mr Scott."
Mr Scott beamed them up.
Jim stared into his very blues eyes, still heavily exhausted from the work of taming angry and wild brush (try vines the width of his leg and tree trunks as big as his ego). Spock had led them forward, ever graceful even, annoyingly, when being smacked in the body by branches with a vendetta. The hours of labor in the dark, hauling up decomposing fallen tree trunks so that Spock could gather the petals from the tiny mossbed-growing verrweri, were giving him a hard time.
Finished with this, he slammed his hand tiredly to the light, killing it, and dragged his feet back to bed.
He stretched in a purely feline way before laying back down.
He forgot the ignorable discomfort in his stomach as he closed his eyes, trying very hard to get back to sleep.
Jim started awake again, as 'morning' was simulated on the Enterprise, sitting up as if someone had shouted directly in his ear.
Running. In his dream there was running and snapping, probably of branches--- he couldn't know. Flashes of dark interspersed with the lingering presence of a heavy moon above him.
He'd be needed on the bridge soon. He slid out of bed, bending his arm back to scratch his itching wound. The salve worked with the reproduction of cells and promoted platelet function, allowing minor human injuries to heal remarkably faster than naturally possible.
However there was something curious about that crescent shaped gash along the inside of his shoulderblade.
It wasn't healing.
"Chekov, detail coordinates regarding proximity to nearest spacedock," Jim said, looking over to the young Russian from his chair on the bridge.
"Appreximitly fouwr point two parsecs, Keptin Kork," the ensign answered dutifully.
Jim scratched behind his ear absently.
God, he was so hungry.
"Thanks, Chekov," Kirk responded. He hit a button on his control console. "Captain's Log: Supplementary. Stardate 10.21." His unoccupied fingers found a place to scratch in his sideburns. "Scientific inquiry on Lycania a success. Samples stored safely in biochamber in lab level. Minor confrontation on-planet. No substantial injuries." He couldn't think of anything else to add, the mission had gone smoothly. "Kirk out."
He heard the soft steps of Lt. Uhura approach him from behind. She was glancing down at her PADD, probably about to relay to him a series of transmissions her console had picked up overnight, as she did every morning.
"Captain," her clear, feminine voice began, her brown eyes sweeping up from the small screen. "I---oh dear god!" her astounded exclamation shocked Kirk to attention, as well as several other members of the bridge team.
Kirk bent his brows at the look she was giving him. "Is there—a problem, Lieutenant?" Her searched her wide brown eyes with his own blue ones.
Spock had heard the exclamation from the Lieutenant and stood at attention, approaching the two of them in case he needed to mediate some kind of human conflict. However, surprisingly, what he saw caused the Vulcan to twitch a brow up instead of speak, looking at the captain in the Vulcan equivalent of the same peculiar way Uhura did.
Jim frowned, "What, do I have simulated broccoli product stuck in my teeth?"
"No, captain, just--- " Uhura spoke, a confused tone to her voice, which juggled protocol with genuine discomfort. "What--- happened to your face-?" Jim made an expression that clearly was meant to define her as crazy, and looked to Spock.
"I must concur with the Lieutenant, sir. Your appearance does deviate from its usual norm, however I suggest that any minor superficial change in your outward appearance is not important nor interesting enough to be commented on in such an excitable manner," Spock informed. Jim reached for the PADD, not having the slightest clue as to what they were going on about, and Spock handed him over Uhura's datapad, not for reporting, as she normally would, but so that he could see his reflection.
Jim's eyes widened, his hand instantly coming to comb over his jaw where he had a short beard and thicker…? sideburns.
"Perhaps personal hygiene was not a priority this morning," Spock commented, without a hint of humor, and returned to his station.
Jim looked up to Uhura. "I must have forgot to shave," he said, trying to convince himself more than her. Not knowing how he could have blanked on that. He must be more tired than he thinks.
"Yes, sir," she responded, and without another lingering look at his unexpected facial hair, proceeded to detail her findings.
Jim was starving. He was more than happy to excuse himself from the bridge at the appropriate time and find his way down to the mess hall, where Bones happened to be standing at the replicator, attempting to get some semblance of acceptable cuisine.
"Hey, Bones," Jim greeted and the doctor turned to greet him, only to do a dumbfounded double-take.
"Good god, man," he began.
"I know, I know--" Jim assuaged, "I forgot to shave this morning."
"This morning?" McCoy questioned, his tray still waiting patiently in front of the food replicator which, of course, was acting up again. "It looks like you've been living in isolation on a Klingon colony for the past year and half."
"Ha-ha, very funny, " Jim conceded, and although perpetually weary of McCoy's medical gaze, amazingly didn't notice the way the doctor's eyes lingered on him longer than they needed to. He waited in front of the adjacent replicator.
The doctor's stare only left his friend's face when he heard an unappealing splock and looked down at his tray. "Goddamnit," he lifted a hand in frustration. "The blasted replicator is on the fritz again," his disgusted eyes fell on the uncooked meal in front of him. "I asked for well-done, not a live cow." He looked distastefully at the piece of steak, rare, and turned to tilt his trash into the receptacle shoot.
Jim's eyes fell on the meal, "Hey, hey!" he exclaimed, stopped McCoy with a hand, "What're you doing? That's a perfectly good dinner," he then proceeded, inexplicably, to pick up the piece of bleeding steak and take a bite of it.
His eyes shut in satisfied bliss.
McCoy blinked. "I thought you liked yours medium-well?"
"Since when?"
The next morning Jim woke much the same way as the previous nights, heart-racing in his chest, fingers clenching the sheets, sweat lingering in a cool strip down his back and chest. It was becoming less peculiar, and he figured it was an unfavorable result of some anxiety regarding an upcoming mission.
Walking groggily into his bathroom, he looked up.
"Ho--!!" Jim stumbled back, hitting his back yet again into the door, cringing painfully. His bared his teeth at the discomfort, but his eyes were locked firmly onto the image in the mirror.
He leaned in extremely close, so close his nose bumped the glass, hands on his cheeks. He had shaved the night before, hoping to avoid a repeat of the past day. But, much to his dismay and shock, on his face now, was the very same beard he had shaved off the night before--- perhaps even a little longer, and a little thicker, but that could surely have been his imagination.
He tilted his head up and saw the hair under his throat. Twisted his head to the side to see his sideburns grown out once more.
"What is going on here--" the captain asked through his teeth, not knowing whether to be intrigued or concerned, brows coming together as he felt the soft hair on his upper lip. He reached for his razor, eying the offending growth.
Dropping the razor into the sink he leaned back.
He huffed a startled sound, his eyes caught on his hands. His fingernails…they had grown out in just the same manner as his beard had. He brought them closer to his face, his eyes growing wider.
He felt that sick feeling in the center of his gut again. He shut his eyes, strangely off balance for a moment.
Suddenly that little sick feeling turned into a violent, ferocious ache, and Jim had to physically force himself to stay up by putting an arm on the glass barricade of his sonar-shower. His eyes were crinkled shut and the bloom of blood in his cheeks made a vein pop in his forehead. He gasped for breath, his eyes opening.
The next thing he knew he was on the floor, his eyes opening foggily to see Spock above him, kneeling above him to be precise, holding his head up with one slender Vulcan hand.
"What happened?" asked Kirk with barely comprehensible diction.
Spock already had his tricorder pressed to his mouth. His black eyes were peering at the captain, their trajectory unmoving. Speaking coolly he said, "Doctor McCoy to the captain's cabin immediately." He snapped it shut.