Title: The scorpions at his feet are stars
Summary: McCoy is a mover. Movers have no place on the fleet other than as convenient human shields.
Rating: PG-13
Notes: x-over with the movie Push (2009), which is about a group of superhumans who band together to take down a government agency. Some of the abilities featured are movers (telekinetic), watchers (clairvoyance) and stitches (psychic surgeons). This ended up being a lot more complicated than it had to be -sighs-.
Characters: McCoy, Spock Prime, Kirk, et al.
Disclaimer: I don't own anything, not even my snails.
Warning: May not make sense if you've never watched Push.
Word count: 2300+
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Stardate2258.7713:49:23
"Someday your gift will be of use to you."
McCoy administers the hypospray, his outer countenance calm and his mouth flavored with vomit. He wanted to laugh—a gift, what a joke. Only three people knew of his secret; one took it to his grave and the other divorced him for it. Still another is back in Georgia, wondering what has become of her son. And now, the old Vulcan before him, a claimant to a life he never lived.
He is supposed to be a stitch; it says so on his profile. There haven't been any reasons for doubt, not since he saved his then-wife from becoming another statistic in front of city hall.
"I don't know what you're talking about."
Ambassador Spock nods magnanimously, accepting his muttered response for the bullshit that it is. McCoy squirms uncomfortably. The feeling grows worse when the Vulcan takes pity on him and capitulates.
"You and I were friends once, good friends, as you have told me in your last moments."
"You also threw Kirk off the ship and tried to strangle him when he got his fool ass back on."
"Of course doctor." The ambassador inclines his head, an eyebrow raised in a frightening imitation of a certain commander they both know. "Forgive me; my memories are not what they used to be."
"If you know me so well, you understand why I can't go around telling anyone on this tin can."
In the twenty-fourth century, there is no greater social faux pas than mentioning the Great War. Augments are regarded as the crazy uncle no one talked about. Hunted to near extinction in the last century, it was only when human beings realized just how fragile they were against the rest of the universe that Augments were pardoned and granted a place in the society.
When his wife found out, his only option had been to join the Starfleet where the rigors of space turned a blind eye over to those with preternatural abilities. Kirk is such an example, a short-term watcher automatically banned from any game of chance but guaranteed a fast-track towards admiralty. Watching is considered a benign ability since the future is always changing—Jim explained once, liable to shift upon the barest of whim. A watcher's foresight means nothing if they do not recognize all the players.
He isn't so lucky.
A mover has no place on the fleet other than as cannon fodder and convenient human shields.
"Doctor," the ambassador places a hand over his shoulder. "It was not my intention to cause you undue distress." He realizes that he is trembling and jerks back, breaking the point of contact. Unconsciously, his hand brush against where the Vulcan's hand had lain, hot and prickly through the blue fabric of his uniform. "The doctor of my timeline experienced similar quandaries concerning his telekinesis but he recognized that there are times when his abilities are necessary in order to preserve life."
The alternate Spock gets off the bio-bed and rolls down his sleeves. He reaches out then seemed to think better of it. Instead, the Vulcan holds out his hand, the fingers parting down the middle to form a wedge. "Dif tor heh smusma old friend."
Stardate2258.9408:14:56
McCoy keeps busy.
There are plenty of things to do on a ship being outfitted for a five-year mission. He attends classes and the required seminars for the deep-space exploration. He approves, disapproves and chews out administrators over medical supplies. He even calls his mother once though he vows, never again, her disappointment still too raw and bitter for him to bear.
Sometimes, in the quiet hours of the night when his head refuses to soak in another word, he experiments with his power and hates himself for it afterwards, jumping at every slight noise and sound. In hindsight, McCoy recognizes that he is good at it—if such words can be applied to his situation. But he often feels frustrated for no adequate reason, a sense of dissatisfaction bubbling at the back of his mind.
One night, Jim returns to their quarters with a celebratory bottle of scotch. He absentmindedly floats the two glasses towards the crowing blond, dropping them when he realizes what he was about to do. Jim catches them in the nick of time, pressing him with worry and concern. These, he easily waves away, snatching back his glass and demanding a drink.
They end up falling asleep at the foot of his bed, the other man's head pillowed against his stomach. McCoy sleepily raises a hand and with a twitch of his wrist, drapes a blanket over them.
Stardate2259.3101:44:49
"I thought this place was supposed to be safe!"
McCoy reams out the young ensign as he did his best to stabilize her. But despite his best efforts, she is dying, her skin paling as shock sets in.
"Sorry sir." The ensign croaks and he holds a hand over her mouth, quieting her when he hears the soft patter of footsteps in the grass.
Wolves—his mind supplies unhelpfully when he sees the viper-sleek forms stalking through the tall grass. They are foreign to him, unable to hunt by neither sight nor smell. But every once in a while, one raises its scaly head and lets out a dissonant cackle, bring them one step closer to the two officers hiding in the grass.
"Commander, Doctor." The ensign whimpers fitfully. "You have to go."
"What are you talking about Andersson?"
"I can hold them back while you run sir. You—"
"I'm not leaving you here." He replies gruffly, tightening the makeshift bandage over her broken ribs. He flinches when she lets out a hysteric giggle, her fingers blindly groping for his. McCoy takes her hand and squeezes hard, dropping a kiss on the knuckles to let her know that he is still there. Tentatively, she squeezes back and sniffles, a bloody froth bubbling at the corners of her lips.
"I'm done for sir. I know the score." She smiles, happy and girlish. "The only good Augment is a dead Augment."
"Not on my watch." He swears colorfully. The wolves trail closer, the grass falling behind them with the 'snick', 'snick', 'snick' of their claws. He can't move the ensign without risking additional damage. But staying means a certain death for them both.
McCoy stands up. It is laughable how easy it is to push Andersson back down, her breathing eased when he holds her bones together with a single thought. The young ensign stares at him wide-eyed, her mouth parted in jagged surprise. At that moment, she reminds him of Kirk, blonde and blue-eyed, too smart for her own good. "Don't you worry sweetheart," he promises, "you're going to be just fine."
The wolves fan their multi-faceted frills in his direction, the display utterly mesmerizing. When their leader roars its challenge, the smallest of the lot jumps brash and eager, its gaping maw dividing into three segments. McCoy braces himself and tosses it back, where it lands in a crumpled heap on the grass. It clucks delicately, limping to its feet and retreating with the proverbial tail between its legs. Confused, the others dance in their place, muscles rippling like hot wax beneath their skin.
"Well?" He snarls, daring them to step closer. "Come and get it."
Stardate2259.3111:04:28
The ensign dies anyways.
M'Benga calls the time and McCoy punches the wall. He locks himself in his quarters, unable to face Kirk. He starts to compose a letter for Andersson's family when he realized that no such contacts were listed. The ensign had been conscripted to planetary defense when her abilities manifested, the property of the United Earth at the tender age of nine.
While depleting his stock of bourbon, McCoy patches a call to Ambassador Spock on New Vulcan. The other man listens to his tale with far more patience that he thought possible. When he finishes, the Vulcan brushes his fingers against the screen and says quietly, "I grieve with thee."
McCoy hides his face in his hand and weeps.
Stardate 2260.01 04:12:38
The attack comes at the ass-end of the beta shift when everyone's been up for at least nineteen hours following an accident in the cargo area. He is about to close up Yeoman Lee when the ship rocks like a boat in the water, lights flickering and several trays and orderlies crashing to the floor. Nurse Zaman holds up a bloody hand, staring at the wound in rapt fascination.
"Get that cleaned up." He barks—"McCoy to bridge, what the hell's going on here?"
He needn't have asked. Soon, Chekov's heavily accented English filters through the speakerphones. Seven Klingon ships had suddenly dropped out of warp and had them surrounded. After a short transmission, they had fired on the Enterprise.
"All personnel are to head to the shuttle bay and evacuate."
McCoy turns around so fast it is a small wonder he doesn't give himself a whiplash.
"What? Computer, show our position on screen."
The computer sputters and loads the desired images. Immediately, Chapel's hands fly to her mouth, suppressing a gasp.
"Oh my lord."
McCoy might be an old country doctor, but even he knew that missing half the starboard side isn't a good thing.
He doesn't recall running afterwards, doesn't remember how he got out of the medical bay until he sees the shadows on the viewscreen of Deck C. He raises a hand and presses it across the screen, enveloping the entire width of the warship's wings. It magnifies the images at his command, the enemy ship and the six birds-of-prey lying in wait.
The screen fogs, its surface colder than his skin. He hears the tinny voice of Jim ordering a complete evacuation and makes a decision.
The impact, when it hits, feels like a dream. The shield collapses in a few seconds but for McCoy, it seems as though the moment lasts for eons. He isn't sure if he blacks out but suddenly he is on his knees, then his back. Blood churns in his mouth as the tiny capillaries burst and bruise inside of him. The last thing he sees is the nebulous stretch of space as his hand reached for the stars.
Stardate 2260.01 04:12:38
The bridge is a mess.
"...The shields are still down!"
Kirk tries to see, tries to reach for the bright glimmer of a future that isn't there. Uhura hails the Klingons on every frequency imaginable. Instead, U.S.S Tomobiki responds, a day away by maximum warp.
His first officer turns to him with an unreadable look and he knows what Spock is about to say before he even says it.
"Captain..."
"No! Out of the question! Scotty! How long until warp?"
"Thirty-seven seconds captain!"
The flashforward hits him like a fist, a ship wailing in distress before disintegrating in the dead of space. U.S.S. Tomobiki arrives too late to find anything except a field of debris, the culprits long gone with no proof left that the Klingons had breached their tentative alliance. Jim takes a fortifying breath of air—"...we're not going to make it."
"The enemy ship is preparing to fire!"
Dependable, reliable Sulu calmly begins the countdown.
"Brace for impact in 9, 8, 7..."
Strangely, in the face of death, all Jim can think about is Bones and how right he had been. Space is disease and danger wrapped in darkness and silence indeed. They are all going to die out here and his CMO won't get the pleasure of rubbing it in his face. He can't help but smile as the mounted phaser on the Klingon warship burns bright like glow stick—and inexplicably, the future changes.
He gags, the remnants of a long-forgotten lunch violently clogging his trachea. When his vision clears, he sputters out,
"Security! Locate Doctor McCoy!"
"2... 1..."
The bridge crew braces for impact all except Kirk who jumps to his feet and runs towards the door. A sudden cry holds him back and he turns around, seeing the dazzling halo around his vision as the photon torpedo inched towards them.
Impossible, the photons travel at a sublight speed. There is no way they can all be seeing it on screen unless...
"Warp drives online!" Chekov cries excitedly. The seven Klingon ships melt behind them like smears on a windowpane. Kirk can only feel dread.
"Bones..."
Stardate 2260.07 20:27:13
"You know what they'll do to him if this gets out?" Jim's voice is flat, toneless. It has been weeks since they found McCoy unresponsive beneath the viewing screen on Deck C. M'Benga, the acting CMO, and the others tossed around words like trauma, brain-damage and long-term recovery. They review records and agree; moving on such a scale had never been done before. The map of McCoy's head is like a storm cloud, angry reds delineating the cool blues and greens. Chapel and Zaman had done all they can do to heal him, the rest is up to time.
The ambassador stands on the other side of the bio-bed with a defeated air, his fingers carefully tracing the line of McCoy's naked skull. Bones is bald—Jim thinks numbly and the thought crowds out everything else. The alternate Spock responds,
"Your government will seek to incorporate him into the Terran defense forces. My doctor feared as much."
"They'll tear him apart." Kirk snaps. "You knew what would happen."
Despair marring his normally impassive face, the Vulcan shakes his head.
"I would not have given him counsel had I known what he was about to do."
"Get out." He says, dangerous and low. Ambassador Spock nods and leaves without a single word. Jim lets out a sigh akin to a sob and wraps a hand around McCoy's wrist, thumbing the lazy pulse and holding it against his head. Plaintively, he asks, "I would have understood, why didn't you tell me Bones?"
But McCoy remains silent and still, nestled in the cacophony of biosignals as Jim held his hand.