Warning: Contains serious spoilers from Star Trek into Darkness. Do not read if you have not watched. I own nothing.
Radiation
His flesh is burning. It's like he's floating in acid, or drowning. Every breath is a new wave of pain. But he struggles on; all that matters is his task. He holds on to the importance of his mission as he forces himself to climb, to keep climbing, even in this searing agony.
Reaching the top brings both relief and a brand new twist of fear. He doesn't have to keep going for much longer – but he doesn't have much longer. He pushes that thought to the back of his mind (because he isn't done yet) as he kicks the ugly block of metal that just had to be here, in this space flooded with radiation. The kick produces a miniature blue spark; it is not enough, but it's a start. He kicks it again, again, again. All there is, all there ever will be, is this task and the pain; both hand in hand.
Finally he kicks it and it works, but he doesn't have time to savour his victory because he's falling; blasted backwards by his success. As he crashes down into the ground he barely registers the pain, because it's got nothing on the radiation. He feels himself slipping under the surface.
It would be so easy to pass out, right now, just to let it all stop. Holding on is so difficult. It's like he's hanging off of a building, by one hand; feeling the lactic acid building up and burning his muscles and knowing that at some point, minutes or seconds away, he has to let go. But he doesn't want to let go yet. He doesn't want this emptiness to be the last thing he sees.
He's at the door, and he's not quite sure how he got there. He lies against the ground, slowing his breathing. Movement is too much. Now, in these last seconds, there is time to think about the absurdity of what he's done.
He must be a Kirk through and through; self-sacrifice obviously runs in the family. He wonders if he'll get a special memorial; if he'll be a well-known story like his dad. It's not really a comfort, somehow.
This is it.
Christ.
He doesn't think he can do this. He doesn't want to die. He's so afraid. Alone, afraid and angry, like Spock said Pike was in his last moments. He dwells on Spock, wishing the Vulcan was there with him like he was for Pike. And then, as he imagines Spock against the door, the man himself appears.
The conversation between them is slow, and he can barely follow it in his pain addled state. The things they say to each other slip away in his mind as soon as they are said or heard.
He tells Spock that he is scared. He wants Spock to tell him his secret of how not to feel, because feeling nothing must be better then all this pain and fear and loss. Spock tells him that he is failing, failing at not feeling, because Jim is dying.
He's dying. He's Jim Kirk, and he's dying. There will be no long friendship between Spock and him. There will be no five year space mission. No aging. Nothing else for the rest of his life but this agony.
This, alone, is his legacy.
He puts his hand up on the plastic between him and Spock; the separation between dead men and those who must go on. Then he lets go, and gives into the pain.
His last thought is of the fields of Iowa, strong and yellow in sunlight; far away from any fear.
I hope you liked it! I just saw the film and wrote this down afterwards – this whole scene had a really strong impact on me (especially because of the similarity to Wrath of Khan). I was literally sobbing in the cinema… Anyway, please leave a review letting me know what you think.
