A/N: I don't own the Mummy, but I would if I could cause I love it that much. Also I want to start on my other story again, but I felt I wasn't doing Alex as much justice as I could've, so I decided to rewrite that piece. Plus I owe my wonderful friend Sara the Christmas gift I've been promising her forever. She's done so much it's the least I can do, and I hope that she, and you all, enjoy it! I've been trying not to freak out about intricate plot and just let the ideas come, and I think with this story I've got a good basic idea, but I'll see where this mishmash of characters takes me. Either way it's gonna be fun for them, me, and hopefully you. Reviews ALWAYS appreciated! Here we go!

The first thing he noticed, once coming to, was the stench. It was almost like an Andorian had shit on his chest (don't ask) and then someone dumped a bunch of spoiled…something! on top of that, and then someone had topped that off with some type of excretion from some being or another—in this vast universe it was anyone's guess what exactly he was smelling.

And as he pondered over whatever disgusting scent was molesting his nose, Captain James Tiberius Kirk opened his eyes slowly, letting them adjust to the bright light that met them, and found that the light, was in a fact, a bright sun amidst a blue, cloudless sky. This sunappeared similar enough to his own sun back on Earth, but as a Starfleet officer, he knew that as much as it could be the Terran sun, there was an equal chance that it wasn't. He knew one thing for sure though: hedefinitely hadn't landed where he was supposed to, which was a class A planet called Fartune, only a few dozen light years from Earth. And given that Fartune's skies were a distinct shade of purple, wherever Jim Kirk found himself at this moment was definitely not Fartune.

Suddenly, Jim's view of this blue, Terran-like sky was obstructed by a familiar figure—to be specific, a half-Vulcan, half-human figure.

Well, at least he and Spock had beamed to the same location like they were supposed to, albeit the wrong one.

And as Jim's vision adjusted, he could see that Spock was clearly saying "captain" from the shape of his lips as Spock spoke, but it took Jim a few seconds to mire through the mental muck before he could actually put a sound to the wording.

Jim attempted at sitting up, slowly and feebly, and wondered why he was finding it so difficult, since beaming had never put the man on his ass before. Suddenly, a hand on the back of his uniform caught him by surprise, and he realized that his first officer had broken through that oh-so-steadfast physical barrier that Vulcans perpetually kept around them. Yeah, sure, American Terrans were known for their own need for space, but Vulcans basically required about an entire planet's amount of space between them and the beings they came in contact with.

Then again, a long time ago Spock's hands had been around Jim's neck, trying to choke him to death, so maybe this wasn't as odd as Jim thought.

As Jim reached stood up to his full height, he ignored the warm feeling that seemed to spread from the contact of where Spock's hand had just been, and decided instead to focus on their surroundings.

The duo appeared to be the only occupants at one end of an alleyway that, without the help of whatever sun was shining, would definitely be quite dim. And judging from the smell that continued to rudely permeate the air, it was dirty as hell.

At the other end of the alleyway Jim could make out the shapes of people, carts, and tents. Sounds drifted towards him and Spock—sounds of talking, laughing, musicbut the sounds were too distant for Jim to detect the language they were speaking. It looked to be a marketplace, wherever it was.

Jim turned to his first officer. "So, Mr. Spock. Do you have any idea where in the hell we are?"

Of course he meant it as a rhetorical question, and by Spock's unusual lack of answer and his continued fiddling with his tricorder, and from the even more furtive look on face, Jim suspected Spock did not, in fact, have any idea where in the hell they were.

Jim whipped out his communicator.

"Kirk to Enterprise."

Nothing. Not even static.

"Enterprise, this is Captain James T. Kirk. Do you copy, Enterprise?"

Still nothing.

"Enterprise!"

Not one sound.

Jim flipped close the communicator, cursing under his breath. He looked up to find his first officer had completely disassembled the tricorder on the ground and was attempting to rep-iece it together in record time, but to no avail.

Jim suspected his last piece of Starfleet-issued equipment wouldn't work either, but of course, there was only one way to find out: he pulled out his phaser and aimed at a small spot on the ground close to a large wall that made up one half of the alleyway. He prayed that if it did work no one down the street at the marketplace would notice a strange, red light flashing, or their weird dress, or Spock's ears, for that matter.

But alas, Jim need not worry, as his phaser wouldn't fire one shot. In fact, it wouldn't even turn on.

"What the fuck?" Jim said under his breath, re-pocketing the now-worthless weapon.

"Captain, this situation is highly illogical."

"You don't say, Mr. Spock."

Spock ignored his sarcasm. "While malfunctions within some equipment may be expected, the probability of the entirety of our equipment malfunctioning, and the probability of us beaming to a place other than our perfectly calculated trajectory, is less than 2 point-"

"You know what, Mr. Spock? Under normal circumstances I'd love for you to spew numbers and statistical facts at me from those pretty little lips."

Spock's eyebrow raised in its characteristic fashion, and Jim realized exactly what he'd said. Shit.

"But, uh, for right now, that's not gonna help anyone. You uh, you got it?"

Spock looked like he wanted to protest, and Jim swore he saw a slight twinge of green in Spock's cheeks, but the moment only lasted a second, and Spock closed his mouth, his expression unreadable, as usual, turning away from Jim.

"Instead," Jim said, completely maintaining his composure. "We're gonna figure out how in the hell we're supposed to disguise ourselves, including your ears—no offense— with what limited resources we have which is…"

Jim looked down.

"Dirt."

Jim looked up.

"And a wall."

However, Jim need not worry about needing to disguising the pair with dirt and a wall, as suddenly something much more pressing became his concern. Specifically, the automobile that had suddenly rounded a corner and was heading right for him.

The alleyway itself was only about a car's width, which Jim quickly discovered as he attempted to run towards a wall. But it was to no avail—the impact of whatever hit him was great. He looked up, expecting to find bloodied metal, but instead found Spock, who was holding onto Jim's shirt. Within a microsecond Spock threw Jim, who landed a few dozen feet away, his head barely missing the wall, he noticed.

As Jim feebly looked up, he saw Spock throwing all of his weight into the car, which dented—dented—inward, in a sound that was almost as unpleasing as the smell of burning rubber mixed with the shitty smell already in the alleyway.

Naturally whoever was driving the car turned it and Jim, his vision going blurry again, could hazily make out three people exiting the vehicle, which resembled a 1930s Terran car. Expensive. Classy. Dented.

Jim looked over to Spock, who was now in a crumpled pile in front of the car. He made a move to stand up, to go to his first officer, but even the simple task of attempting to pull himself up caused all of his muscles to scream.

"Bloody hell, this is what I get for taking a shortcut through here!"

Despite the intense pain Jim was experiencinghe now suspected he'd cracked a few rib's thanks to Spock's otherworldly grip—he could tell the person yelling was male, and had an accent that sounded like Earth's British accent. So maybe they had landed on terra firma.

"Jonathan, didn't I tell you not to go through this way? But noooooo, you had to protect your precious new baby by taking a few cheap shortcuts, and you just killed a guy!"

Male. American. Angry.

"Oh you two! There's only one way to determine the injuries, and that is by getting. Out. Of. The. Car!" By the sound of this British woman's voice, and the strange pauses, Jim suspected she was shoving someone else out of the vehicle who was in her way.

A moment later, he found himself face to face with a pair of concerned hazel eyes belonging to a very pretty, petite, brunette woman. Her style of clothing matched his assessment of a 1920s-1930s look on Earth.

"Please, do not worry, we will get you the medical assistance you need as soon as possible."

"Oh good god!"

Behind this woman Jim could see a man waving his hands like a lunatic as he surveyed the damage to his car.

"Brand new, brand bloody new and this has to go and bloody happen! And i don't have the money to fix this! All my share of the gold is gone! What the hell am I supposed to do, Evie, considering you won't give me one more dime! "

Jim in that moment decided he wasn't a fan of this guy, who appeared to care more about metal than man. Jim had been a drunk in his life, a cheater, a sex-crazed student, sure, but at least he knew the value of life. He decided right then that whenever he felt better he'd probably give this guy a punch in the fucking jaw.

Another gentleman was crouched next to the yelling man, looking over Spock's still form.

"Would you relax, Jonathan?" he said. "We can talk about your choked bank account later, but right now, Evie's right; we gotta see if this fella's alright."

Jim watched as the American man put two fingers to Spock's neck for a minute before shaking his head. "Or even alive."

Suddenly, the guy froze, a weird "huh?" sound coming from his mouth.

"Wait a second...how in the hell does this guy have…pointy ears?"

Okay, time to get over to Spock. Jim attempted, once again, to get up and over to his first officer, but this second bout of pain at the very least matched the first one, and Jim cried out as pain licked inside his chest and on his side.

"Please, take it easy, it's alright, sir!" The woman—Evie, as the American angry man had called her—grabbed his shoulder to steady him.

"Spock," Jim managed to wheeze out, ignoring the pain that came with using his voice.

"What?"

"My friend. I have to…Is he okay?"

Jim allowed Evie to hold onto his arm as he hobbled over towards Spock, and as he approached and took in his first officer, the color drained from his face. Aside from the green tinge of Spock's skin, indicating possible bruising, Spock might as well have been sleeping in a heap on the ground.

Which could be a really good thing.

Or really, really bad.

The American man leaned his head towards where he incorrectly assumed Spock's heart would be. He listened for about five seconds then shook his head again, looking up at Evie and making eye contact for the first time with Jim.

"I don't hear anything, Evie. Buddy, I'm sorry to say but I think your friend is—"

"No! No, here, let me. Can you?" he asked Evie, indicating he needed help being lowered to Spock's body.

"Yes, of course!" She gently eased him down, and he continued to ignore the screaming his own body seemed to be doing.

He pressed his ear to Spock's side. And it was now that this British man, this Jonathan, took the opportunity to speak directly to Jim for the first time.

"Oi, mate, are you drunk? Cause I'm pretty sure that isn't exactly where—" But Jonathan was cut off by a sharp sound from Evie's mouth which clearly indicated that he better shut the hell up right then. Jim appreciated the gesture as he continued to listen, feeling his first officer's warmth underneath his cheek, and after a few seconds that felt as if they stretched beyond normality of time, heard the strange flutter of a half Vulcan heart.

He breathed a sigh of relief, and even felt some warm tears escape his eyes.

"He's alright," Jim said, looking up to the three. "He's breathing."

"Oh thank goodness!" Evie said, continuing her hold on Jim's shoulder to steady him.

"Okay, great, he's alive, we've established that," the American man said. "But I uh, I think the more pressing question now is why the hell this guy's got a heartbeat coming from his torso."

"Rick!"

"What? i mean yeah, a year ago, this might've seemed more strange to me, but still."

"RICK! Please, time is of the essence here!"

"Fine, fine!"

Jim watched as Rick, the angry American man, scooped his arms under Spock's frail form like it was nothing, and placed Spock in the back of the automobile.

"And where exactly are we supposed to take him, Evie?" Rick asked. "Cairo hospital's gonna take one look at this guy and commit him. Or hang him. They hang people around here for a lot less." Something in his voice told Jim this guy knew that from experience.

"We'll figure out what to do. In the meantime, let's just take him home with us. I've got plenty of bandages and clean cloth, and in the meantime we'll figure out exactly what to do next."

"What? Are you insane? Did you see what that man did to my car? Imagine what he could do to any of us? Imagine what he's bloody capable of next?"

"Jonathan, would you please, please shut the hell up about your damn car!" Rick sighed and turned to Evie. "Alright, but you're sewing that shut," he said, pointing to Jim's leg. Jim looked down and noticed an open wound that he hadn't until that moment.

Now, Jim was an officer. Jim was a fighter. Jim was a fucking badass. But somehow, in that moment, with all of the pain, and all of the "Where in the hell are we?" drama, and the fact that his first officer might be dying, the sight of a fresh trail of sticky blood coming down his leg was the last straw.

And as Jim felt his knees buckle, he could swear he heard the British man actually say "bullocks," before everything went black as night.