A/N: So, this veered from the track I intended, but I think it turned out alright. Hope you enjoy it!
Disclaimer; I do not own Star Trek, nor any of the characters, technology, or other ideas therein. Furthermore, I make no money from this piece.
How long had it been?
A month, a year, a lifetime. Before, he would have known. Before, Spock had had an impeccable time-sense, down to the second, something that made his human crewmates smile in indulgent amusement -
He closed his eyes. Had they smiled? He couldn't recall, not really. He couldn't remember what they looked like, sounded like, without malice and cruel, biting disdain in their faces, in their voices - he couldn't remember -
How long had it been?
His eyes scanned the blood-stained cell almost automatically, but it was bare. Nothing to use to injure himself, and he was too weak to even try breaking his own neck, supposing he could get around the cuffs binding him to the wall. The walls and floor near him were padded (and covered in blood) after he'd tried bludgeoning himself to death one to many times.
Doctor McCoy, of course, had neutralized his psychic abilities; he couldn't even will himself to death, as was the Vulcan way…
Not Doctor McCoy, he reminded himself. Should I think of them as the individuals whom I know, it will be all the more difficult if I return -
'If'.
The realization chilled him, and, body trembling, he closed his eyes again. 'If'. When had he started doubting? Before, it had been 'when'. When they rescue me, when Jim finds me, when I am returned… Now even his 'if' was doubtful, more a desperate attempt to keep himself from spiralling into insanity, and to some extent, he knew it.
They weren't coming.
They weren't coming - and he would be trapped, in this twisted, sadistic universe of the Terran Empire, until they released him into death.
They woke him, as usual, early in the morning, before Gamma Shift. By now he slept curled in on himself, in the corner of the small brig cell, but still he flinched away and scrabbled backward to avoid their kicks. But it was the usual guard, today, and he had long since grown bored of taunting the Vulcan, so soon enough he was being dragged upright and pushed into the hall.
Spock blinked against he fluorescent lights of the hall, but the guard gave him no time to adjust. He was pulled along unceremoniously, but it didn't matter. His feet knew the way by now, even if his feet were little more than stumps of raw flesh by this point.
He barely noticed the cold steel biting into his skin as he was strapped down to the metal examining table. McCoy surveyed him with glee as the guards finished, and quickly told them to 'round up anyone in the rec rooms - this one will be fun!'
That did not bode well.
He had a chemical today, something the 'Doctor' had been experimenting with for days.
A security ensign who had been assigned to the task began distractedly asking a litany of questions Spock could not know the answer to - weapons capabilities of a ship becoming fast vague and unreal in his mind, or plots of the opposing empires that must have sent him to this reality. The questions were asked, but Spock didn't hear them, because they didn't matter, not really. They didn't do this for answers.
McCoy tipped back Spock's head, jerked down his chin, and forced the concoction into his mouth.
It was indescribable - a roiling, heaving mess of pain and fire inside his body, first pushing with impossible force on his skull, so much it must burst, so much he screamed and wailed and lost any slight semblance of control he'd managed to maintain. But the pain could not numb him, for then it changed, flooding through his blood, liquid fire choking him. He thrashed, bashing his back against the table, and heard laughter -
It was in his lungs, constricting him, squeezing, and he couldn't breathe, couldn't breathe, and he screamed without sound -
It was in his bones, and he shuddered and spasmed on the table in twitching agony, limbs no longer his own -
It was in his eyes, his eyes, he was being blinded, surely they would pop and burst from his skull and bleed down his face like tears -
It was in every joint, insidious, then growing, and he couldn't move, couldn't relieve it, and wetness flowed from his eyes -
The world faded away; there was nothing but the pain, fire and darkness surrounded by a constant shriek of sound echoing in the background.
Three hours later, when the effects had faded enough for him to stop screaming, he was taken down the hall again, now being dragged totally. Crewman in the corridors laughed at the sight of him, jeering, but he could barely care.
Today was rare; physically, his body had healed enough from past torments that he could stand the rough treatment of this universe's first officer.
The guards dumped him outside the doors, then left; this was not a public spectacle.
Painfully, he crawled forward. The room recognized him, opened to receive him.
His alternate self was waiting.
It was like looking into a mirror, but a horrible, distorted mirror. Aside from the obvious beard, still there was something wrong about him - a darkness in his gaze, a hungry cast to his frame. There was nothing peaceful about the Vulcans of this universe, he had learnt. Surak they had listened to, but they had listened because he had fought the feudal kingdoms and won allegiance of the world, and he had mandated callous logic from his bloodthirsty subjects. For Vulcans, it was the only way to survive - they had to maintain their logic to stay ahead of the rest of the galaxy, to conquer.
'Conquer' had many diverse meanings.
His alternate counterpart had all the drives of ancient Vulcans, and in his personal life few reasons to ignore them - Surak's teachings, here, preached calculated analysis, and a lack of emotional regret or care that could hamper them, weaken them.
Lust, when not compromising, was expected to be purged; and purged it was. His counterpart did not trust any of the human's so near him, unless he meant to kill them immediately after, and would not risk the loyalty of his Vulcan subordinates by adding such a duty to them.
Spock, by now beaten and passive, was a perfect receptacle for his flames.
The next stop after alternate-Spock's quarters was the bridge.
He kneeled beside the captain's chair, silent, while the captain carelessly stroked his blood-matted head. The captain always seemed pleased by this, sitting up straighter as though it were validation and testament to the greatness of his position, that his people could torture a pacifist into submission.
Of course, to the rest of the world he was just another Vulcan - a broken, broken Vulcan.
After, he would be brought by the captain (and whoever the captain ordered to drag him) to the mess, where he would lay falling in and out of consciousness at the feet of the man identical to his closest friend. Eventually, the captain would toss food on the floor, and order him to eat. Meat, always raw, bloodied meat, ever since he had erred and revealed himself to be a vegetarian. Sometimes, it would be drugged, or spoiled, or strange and disgusting substances were added, but not eating would mean time in the booth, or McCoy, or, worse yet, he would be distributed among the crew for their enjoyment.
He bent his head to eat.
At times, especially when McCoy was 'experimenting', he would be ill, and he would have to eat that, too; but today, though his stomach rebelled, he kept control.
From the mess hall, the Vulcans retrieved him.
They needed practice, after all, and certainly would not trust using each other, and so he sat as each, one by one, kneeled before him, hands on his face, and scoured his mind, twisting and mutilating every thought, tainting every memory with darkness and fear, and with every new meld he wondered will this be the one, will they drive me mad, I hope they shall make me mad let me forget let my mind go blank forever -
They never did.
The humans would retrieve him, then, dragging him to the gym, and he would be target practice. Some days they used fists, others knives, whips; sometimes they merely chased him with an agonizer, or would beat him down and restrain him, glorying in their might over his spent body.
This day was one of the worst. He limped away as best he could, and was pulled to the floor, where he curled to avoid crushing fists and feet. Crawling, a cry of pain escaped him as a foot fell on his twisted, mutilated hand. A knife plunged by his head, and he rolled away quickly, heart pounding, and they were all around him -
One ensign seemed intent on cutting off his remaining ear - the left had already been sliced mostly off, leaving only a small remnant. Another, armed strangely with a long needle, settled for sadistically piercing him with as many holes as possible, and green blood leaked onto the floor. Scars were added to his mangled body as the ensigns managed to pin him and start peeling away skin, but they would not kill him, never that, they would not give him the mercy -
At the end of the day, he was dragged back by guards, and tossed into the brig-cell, where his wrists were forced into cuffs. Chains covered in a strong but soft material led to the padded wall.
Closing his eyes, he beat his head with all his strength against the wall, as he did every night - to no avail. Despite being painful, he could not gain enough force to harm himself. His wrists chafed under the rough metal cuff, but even the chain was not strong enough to injure himself with. Resigned, he slumped on the floor, awkwardly, and closed his eyes.
There was no escape.
He woke to a soft material under him - and that meant only one thing.
He had fallen unconscious in the quarters of his alternate self.
His eyes snapped open.
A blur, a shape moving toward him. With a strangled cry, he scrambled back, and found himself falling. There was a sickening crack as his head struck the floor.
"Bones!"
Footsteps, loud and urgent. Scrambling backward, his back hit something, and he curled up again, burying his head into his legs and covering it with his arms.
There was silence.
"…Spock?"
It was the Doctor, and his heart quickened. But he'd been in a bed, not on the table - sickness went through him. They'd combined their games, now -
"Bones, is he - "
The voice trailed off.
It had sounded like the captain, but couldn't be the captain - he didn't sound like that, never like that, voice soft and hushed and almost worried.
"Spock?"
His alternate self was there as well, then - what torture could the three of them devise together? The mere thought made a shudder wrack through his body, and he waited, barely breathing.
Nothing happened. There was quiet, except for the occasional beeps and whirrs of quiet Sickbay machinery. But he heard breathing; there were two others in the room with him. What were they waiting for?
Perhaps they rejoiced in his terror. But that would only last a moment, they were not patient -
"Bones - "
"Just give him a moment, Jim."
That was the doctor's voice, but too gentle, careful.
"Bones, I don't think he knows where he is."
"Of course he doesn't," the doctor replied. "Hell, he wasn't even awake when we found 'im. Doesn't help that the damned universe was so close to ours - " he stopped, took a breath. His voice lowered, cautious and coaxing. "Spock - you're back home, on the USS Enterprise. We retrieved you two days ago. Can you hear me?"
Jim's breath hitched, like he was about to mention Spock's mutilated ears and had stopped himself.
Spock kept his eyes closed, but his mind was whirling with half-formed hopes and half-formed fears.
Surely this could not be real - but -
"Spock."
It did not sound like the mirror-McCoy -
Heart pounding, he opened his eyes.
It was bright, and he flinched, adjusting to the pristine surfaces of Sickbay - pristine in a way the ISS Sickbay never was, because what did it matter if a few ensigns gained infections in surgery? They were easily replaced, after all -
But, on the USS Enterprise -
"Are you with us?"
In front of him was the captian… but, in a simple gold command shirt.
…That was Jim. Jim, not the callous mirror-Kirk who watched him with cold eyes and laughed at his humiliation. Mirror-Kirk did not look at him like that.
"J-jim?"
His voice stuttered, and he winced; but Jim looked elated, a wide grin lighting up his features. "Oh, thank god," he said, relieved.
Spock stared.
Jim held out a hand.
Spock was pulled to his feet - or what remained of them - and pulled into a rough embrace, tight and gentle at the same time.
"Jim!" McCoy scolded. "Careful! And get him off his feet, damnit!"
"Sorry," said Jim, unfazed. He nudged Spock onto the bed. Struck silent with shock, the Vulcan sat.
McCoy's tricorder whirred over him. He grunted, dissatisfied, and fussed with some instruments.
It started to sink in. He was home. Back in his own universe. No more daily rituals of torture - no more sessions with the doctor, or the booth, or the Vulcans, or anything - he had freedom and his old friends and conditions and rights and comforts - he would sleep in his own bed and wake gently to a computer reminder and eat sweet fresh fruits in breads before going to shift and he would sit at a station side by side with friends who respected him and he would have freedom, freedom to do what he liked when that shift was done, he would have protection under the law, he would have -
It was too much - he was trembling again, but this time trying desperately to hold back joy, and bitter-sweet feelings - grief for time and innocence lost, and relief for the end of that hellish spectacle -
He stared at Jim, helplessly, his friend smiling gently, and behind him he heard McCoy grumbling, so familiar -
"Damn fools, what were they thinking, setting up this equipment for Vulcan normal - have to do everything myself, isn't the seventeen hours in surgery enough, those lazy half-assed - "
Despite himself, something burned behind his eyes, and his lips twitched upward mutinously.
"morons, the lot of them, who the hell is recruiting for the 'fleet these days anyway - "
Free, he was free, and more than that he was home -
"I have half a mind to call up headquarters and report every single one of them - "
He wouldn't be hurt again -
"Not that those lazy-arsed bureaucrats would spare us a thought, we're just risking our lives every goddamn day - "
He closed his eyes, trying desperately to keep control and something half between a laugh and sob threatened to escape him.
He was FREE!
" - the entire Empire's going to hell, I swear - "
The world froze.
…
Slowly, in silence, Spock turned to stare at McCoy, eyes wide with terror.
McCoy blinked at him, then scowled. "Aw, shit."
"Damnit, Doctor, I wanted more time!" Kirk snapped. His eyes were hard. "Who knows if we'll manage to trick him again."
Nonononononono -
Kirk looked at him, lips quirking. "Ah, well. Was fun while it lasted."
NO!
Spock should have recalled his earlier observations -
Some things were universal constants.
He should have realized that, in any universe, his friends were excellent actors.