The Captain was dead.

No. That wasn't enough.

Jim was dead, and Spock felt an echo of a pain he would never experience, that wasn't even his to remember, deep within his mind as though it was past rather than potential future. The young bond between them, new and tenuous and tenacious, was broken, snapped like an overwrought guitar string, the note left discordant and cold. Then it was gone, the vibration of it thrumming through Spock's mind like an obscene heartbeat for another fraction of a moment before it, too, ended, and left Spock in utter, intolerable silence.

Jim- his Jim- was dead, lay beyond his reach, beyond any help he could give; the thick, cold glass between them already clearing of the fog that had been Jim's breath and that was now only the last particles of his life, dissipating into the mechanical atmosphere of the ship he had loved and fought for so dearly.

Soon, the door would open. Soon, he would be able to tend to his Captain; to tell him everything he should have been able to before their bond was broken forever. There had not been enough time-there could never have been enough time to say all that he needed to. Soon, Spock could thread his fingers through that mess of hair once more, could inhale his familiar, vibrantly there scent one last time; and prepare his body for what must come next.

Soon, but not yet.

There was something he must do, first.

At many points in his life, Spock had fought for control over his anger. At many points he had been successful, keeping the rage, the pain and the hopelessness at bay with meditation, with exercise, or with simple stubbornness.

Now, however, he allowed the rage to come, even welcoming it as it washed his emptiness away in pulsing red fury, coating every molecule of his being in utter, primal hatred for the one man who he could-who he would-make pay. The pounding of his anger filled the space where Jim should have been, the thudding, rushing pulse drowning out his loneliness and his despair for a brief, beautiful moment. He drowned in it, only one word piercing the haze of his mind.

"Khaan!"

The fury would sustain him long enough to see Khan die, long enough to make sure that bastard knew that every punch, every vicious blow, was for Jim and that he would suffer as much as Spock had for what he had done. It would be small revenge; not fitting or right or even half way enough for someone as extraordinary as Jim; but it was all Spock could give him now. He wanted to make Khan bleed more than anything in the universe right now; wanted his fists to be painted in crimson- assuming that mutated bastard even bled like a human. He wanted to see each punch, each connection of his fists spray blood, covering him like war paint, smeared across his skin like Jim's blood was smeared over his soul.

Then, of course, he would turn himself in, allow the authorities to do as they wished with him- after all, what joy could be had in becoming a fugitive without the surety of everything being all right in the end, without the arrogance of Jim to keep them all safe? After it was done, Spock would accept the punishment.

But until then, he would stop at nothing to see his vengeance finished.

He hoped Khan would run, would fight against his death, just so that Spock could see the moment his hope and his strength failed him. He wanted desperately to see fear in those dark, arrogant eyes just once. Once would be enough. Once would satisfy him that Khan knew exactly what it was to be human, to be vulnerable, to be scared before he died.

Spock was ready.

Hopefully, Khan wouldn't be.