Okay so I'm alive. Yes, I actually am! I haven't updated or thought of any of my other fics in like, two years. Wow.

So this is most definitely NOT MY OC. THIS IS NOT MY OC. This is my friend Shirai's OC that she was telling me about over the course of a week, and we talked practically non-stop about it. I am fondly remembering a discussion of various kinks that lasted for almost five hours. This story will hopefully end up really long, seeing as we thought of pretty much everything that could possibly happen from now to ST:ID, except the first movie. Meh, at least Shirai will be helping me with this, if not writing a few chapters. Yippee!

This is a KhanxOC story, if that's not your thing, then please leave. I will respond very publicly to flames, and hammer down on you with the force of a thousand super soldiers.

Remember: anonymity is cowardice.

Jora is pronounced with a Y sound, not a J sound. Yora.

Jora paused at the double doors. She didn't understand why somebody wanted this diplomat/politician dead, but she wasn't supposed to ask. She eventually found out anyways, but still. She supposed that because he was a politician, somebody somewhere who happened to have deep pockets wanted him dead. She didn't really care, she was just the one who had to kill the bitch.

How am I gonna do this, she wondered to herself, even though she already had a plan. The same general plan she had every time she assassinated a big guy, as she called targets of high social standing.

Stab the bitch in a broom closet. And she was wearing just the dress to do it. A slinky black thing with a slit up to her thigh, a low back, and just the right amount of cleavage to be killer. A necklace made of teeth from various animals-and a person or two- adorned her neck, and a small flower clip was in her hair. Maybe it would make her seem more innocent. But the teeth kind of ruined it, and the black stilettos she was wearing didn't help either. But whatever.

She shook her head, and opened the doors to the big room with hardwood floors filled with stuffy politicians with by-the-hour ladies on their arms. She made sure to stop by the door for two or three seconds, giving everyone a look that she knew said 'You bitches better make this worth my time.' She walked in, a swing in her hips, and started looking for her target. She wasn't given a picture, just a verbal description. Which in her mind, was a pretty fucking stupid move, but no one had come after her for killing the wrong person before, so she guessed it was okay.

Huge ass cheekbones was the first thing in the list. She surveyed the room, and located ten people who had prominent cheekbones. Only two of them were women. Damn, that was no help. Next thing was eyes. Blue and green with a little bit of brown. That left one woman and five men. Again, not a ton of help. Tall was next, over six feet tall. That left one. The woman.

Her target was supposed to be male. Goddammit. Maybe he was just late. Or the special secret guest that was showing up later this evening. Either way, she'd have a glass of champagne. What was this event even for, anyways?

Over the next hour, she saw four more men that could have been the target if not for one thing or another. One was the right height, the right cheekbones, the right hair (dark brown), but brown eyes. One had the right eyes, hair, height, but nonexistent cheekbones. Another had grey eyes and blond hair, and the last one was only 5'8". God fucking dammit, is it really so hard to just give her a picture to work with? Seriously.

Naturally, as soon as she thought that particular line of thought, the bastard walked in. He had those damn cheekbones, those gorgeous eyes, slicked back dark brown hair, was 6'1", and had the finest ass she had ever had the pleasure to lay her eyes on. It looked like he wasn't the special guest, but was an important person if the amount of people greeting him was any indication. He was shaking hands and greeting people left and right, but with a completely flat face, and his body language suggested he wanted to be there about as much as she did. He didn't have anyone on his arm, which was a good thing, as now she could 'rescue' him and it would only endear her to him. If she pulled it off right, this night could end early.

She waited a bit, watching him slowly become more and more annoyed with each handshake and business offer from an overweight politician.

She started walking over. A sexy prowl that would draw eyes and part crowds. She plucked two flutes of champagne from a waiter passing by, and powered her way over to her target. She heard his name from his admirers-which were many- and smiled. Before thinking that she was in deep shit if this truly was the man she had to kill. She would have to be careful not to leave a single trace, as people would be searching for his killer until the end of time. His death would make the history books. She shook her head. I'll deal with this later. She got close, still smiling, and lightly bumped him with her hip. His head whipped over, his mouth open to say something, but he was distracted by the drink held in front of his face.

"You look like you need a drink, Khan. Care to join me for one?" She quirked an eyebrow, amused at his expression. She could almost smell the confusion and then sudden realization over the smell of freshly waxed floors and old people in the room.

He blinked, then smiled at her. "Alright, I suppose it wouldn't hurt for a little while. This way, dear." The sexy idiot took her arm gently, and walked away from the group, the men nodding appreciatively at him and his apparent choice in women.

They walked to the edge of the room, an once in a secluded spot, the man downed the crystal flute in what appeared to be one gulp. "While I certainly appreciate the escape, I would be a lot more thankful if you had brought a bottle of bourbon instead of a glass of champagne."

Jora couldn't help it. She laughed. The knife felt heavy against her breast where she had hidden it. "I wish. But it would probably be half empty by the time I got over to you."

"Naturally," he smirked. "That's why I said bottle."

I like you, she thought. I'll keep you for a while... "So why doesn't the great and powerful Khan have a woman on his arm, hm? There's more than one reason why it's a good idea to have one." The corners of her lips pulled up in a smile.

"No time. I just returned from a trip to India. That, and most of them don't know when I need to have help stepping away from those insects." His face twisted into a sneer, and Jesus take the wheel if that didn't make him all kinds of sexy. "As much as I loathe to admit it, there's no polite way to tell them to sod off." His face relaxed back into that same neutral expression. Which was still hot, but that sneer was downright sexy.

"No, there's no polite way to do it, but there are several things a woman can do to get you out of it." Hook... Jora painted a thoughtful expression on her face. "Like, for instance, what I just did. I have to thank you as well, I can't even convey with words how much I hated them looking at me like a piece of chocolate cake they wanted to eat." She scoffed. She wasn't lying about that. "So I believe that we can arrange a mutually beneficial acquaintance this evening. I'll do my best to be an escape route, and you have an excuse to glare freely at people." She took a sip of her as yet untouched champagne. Line...

He scrutinized her, a calculating look in his eye."What's in it for you? What do you have to gain from this?"

"I have a sexy man on my arm who will probably glare at everybody who dares stare at my ass, and somebody to talk to all evening. I know none of these people." She glanced at the crowd of people still by the door. Some of them were conversing jovially, but the others were standing around, not really doing anything. Jora guessed that they were at this stupid event in the first place because of a possible business venture with Khan.

She could see the wheels turning in his head, his eyes steely and strong from above her head. Damn he was tall. What was that thing they say about tall men? Damn.

He came to a decision. "Alright." His voice was deep and gravelly. "You may know my name, but I do not yet know yours." Sinker.

She smiled.

"My name is Jora."

The night went well from then on. Not particularly for Jora, but to anyone else's perspective, it was a beautiful night. She wasn't to be denied, however, she was having a wonderful time. She and Kha-the target- were laughing about how the girls were getting frustrated with their buyers, and had perpetually bored looks on their faces. No one was saying anything though, and as the sun was finally setting (the event had started at four in the afternoon of all times) a few people started to leave, as it was an acceptable time to retire with their ladies of the night. Dinner had been served at 6:00, and was quite enjoyable as they no longer had to hide the ongoing conversation they had been having about various musics.

Khan played the piano, and Jora admitted that she would love to see him play in the future. They had then slipped outside for a few minutes- well, Jora had taken his hand and dragged him, she'd seen brilliant colors from out the window, and knew that this sunset would be worth seeing. And it was. She had run out onto a stone veranda that overlooked the gardens behind the building. She realized now that it was more of an estate, but whatever. The overhang was covered in ivy, and the air was crisp. But the sky stole the show.

The sky was a brilliant shade of orange, with delicate streaks of paler orange and deep red. The sun didn't hurt to look at, and was only just beginning to slip over the horizon. She looked over at the man who hadn't struggled when she pulled him along with her. The light washed over his face and his hands, illuminating the skin with a golden kiss.

The knife felt like an anchor, dragging her down underwater where she could no longer breathe. Leaning against the railing, staring out at the sunset, which was turning more red than orange with clouds transitioning from pale orange to a deep purple, she thought about the pros of killing him.

I could get those stupid people off my back for now, her forehead creased. But it won't be for long. If I kill him I know it'll hurt me, but I don't know why as he's kind of an asshole. She glanced over at him again. He was staring blankly at the sky. Yup, asshole. And If I don't kill him?

They'll kill me.

But not if I run.

Is it worth it though? I'll never even see that bastard again if I run. And my stuff, too. This is a fucking quagmire.

Her thoughts were interrupted. "You look like you're trying to kill that cloud with your brain." That stupid idiot.

"Maybe I am. Or maybe not." She looked over at him for the third time, only to find her was much closer than he was before. Surprised, she took a small step back, which reminded her that yes, there was indeed a railing there, her lower back supplied, and yes, he did indeed step closer, not quite touching her but less than a hair's width away in some places.

And damn her heart for beating faster. Damn him and his cologne and his perfectly tailored suit. Damn he smelled good- wait what's he doing, what?

The fucker had taken a lock of the inky hair near her face, pinching it between his fingers, then twirling it around an index finger. Suddenly that same hand-warm to the touch, with callouses from something that she couldn't determine because she was a bit distracted by the fact that skin-to-skin contact triggered hormones and nerve endings and left her with the classic zing that signaled that a very hot and strangely, oh so strangely likable person was touching her. She found herself leaning into his touch a little. Fuck, it was going to be hard to kill him. If she even could. It was all muscle under that suit. Which probably meant that the callouses were from fighting. Damn that was hot and really bad luck for her.

His deep voice made another appearance, and she cold almost feel it resonating in her chest with every word he spoke. That, paired with the smell of a Bay Rum cologne- not the most expensive but still damn sexy- and his eyes staring into her soul from a few inches above her own line of sight, was a recipe for how to make Jora jump somebody. "They say..." And ooh, if that didn't make her feel weightless. "...that every time an artist dies," his eyes reflected the light of the sunset in the most beautiful way, "God lets them paint the sky that night to say goodbye." He smiled then. "Somebody's watching.

"Shall we give them a show?"

Okay so hello. Once again, this isn't my OC, I can't really take credit for anything except a few ideas and actually writing it down. I don't own Star Trek, and this goes for all chapters from this point onwards.

Question of the day: If you could go anywhere in Earth's past, speak to anybody, where would you go and who would you talk to?