Just a short little ficlet. A mirror-verse Tarsus ficlet. Happy, right?
Enjoy.
(Disclaimer: I do not own Star Trek, nor any of the characters, places, concepts, or other aspects produced therein; I make no profit from this work.)
"One, two…
"Three, four…
"I know what you're look-ing for…"
James Kirk froze.
The old rhyme, sang slowly in a weak voice, was the first sound of life he had heard in days on the barren world of Tarsus IV. Not daring to leave his hiding place, a hollow under a collapsed house, he edged as far as he felt prudent and stared through the wooden splinters of the destroyed structure to peer out into the fading dusk.
"Five, six,
Seven, eight,"
You know you can-not wait…"
It was a young girl - ten, perhaps. He didn't know how she had survived. She was lean - no, more than lean. She was positively skeletal, bony edges pushing against taut, beaten skin. Her shirt was in tatters, and her bony ribs were clearly visible. Her dirty, blood-encrusted feet moved wincingly.
And still she sang.
"Nine, ten,
"It's that time again,
"Time to out your knives, men…"
She was… beautiful.
Ethereal, in fact, if in a disturbing way. She was horrific and dazzling all at once. With lean, cat-like grace she picked her way through the debris. Her eyes were clouded and shining all at once, grief-stricken but filled with life. And, yes, perhaps there was a madness lurking there, but did it matter? She loved life, kept on living, kept on singing.
"And when the time has come and gone
"And when the blood has dried;
"And when the parapets have fal'n
"Let's see whose at your side…"
He knew the song. A little children's ditty, but one with meaning. What, indeed, was left after bloodshed? What was left when you killed for such senseless reasons?
What was left, after… this?
He sighed.
The girl stopped.
Her hair was matted against her head, but white and bright against her dark skin. She looked about herself with glowing blue eyes, curious, but unafraid.
She was on Tarsus IV, and she was unafraid.
And she was still singing.
Slowly, gently, her lips barely moving, the words reached him on the breeze.
"Oh who is at your side, men,
"Whose inn-o-cence remains?
"Oh who is at your side, men,
"Who's wholesome heart retains…"
Who, indeed?
After all this death…
She was so thin.
And James had food.
There was a long silence. And then, for the first time in twelve days, he shifted aside the battered covering, and rose from his safety into the light.
The ground was barren; the grass had died with everything else. Above her, the sky was an eerie red - he'd never adjusted to the skies here, and now would never associate it with anything but blood.
But her eyes were as blue as the sky.
She looked at him, and she smiled, and again she sang;
"Oh who is at your side, men,
"Who's wholesome heart retains…"
Her voice was lovely and lilting, a songbird in Hell, and he smiled.
"Hello," he said, and his voice was dry and raspy after all this time. He swallowed through chapped lips. "My name is James T. Kirk."
She smiled, stepped forward, placed out her hand in welcome.
He moved.
It was over quick.
He watched the blood pool around her body, and bent to wipe his knife against the ground.
What remained, indeed?