Feral
'Damn it, Uhura, people don't go missing, other people just stop looking for them!'
Lesser officers would have reprimanded McCoy for causing a scene on the bridge, but every officer knew exactly how he was feeling. The doctor was vocalising the thought they had held onto for the past two weeks.
McCoy had backed up against a wall, his arms crossed and seething furiously, glaring at the still, blue-clad figure seated in the Captain's chair.
Uhura's eyes were glistening with unshed tears as she stepped closer to McCoy.
'It's impossible to trace the transmission's origin.' She said, forcing as much calm into her voice as she could. 'We haven't picked up his tracking signal or rescue code. The bio-scanners don't register anything human on the planet's surface.'
'Well, maybe they've taken him somewhere. Underground, another planet, something.' McCoy said desperately.
'Starfleet Command has ordered us to abandon rescue operations.' Spock reiterated quietly. The words hung heavily in the air. 'That mission will be given to the USS Endeavour.'
'So we're just going to pretend this all didn't happen?' McCoy demanded. 'That Jim's communicator wasn't transmitting his screams for a good half an hour before we lost the signal?' he gestured angrily, a fist clenched tightly by his side. 'Jim is out there somewhere, and every second we waste-'
'It has been two weeks, doctor.' Spock's voice was commanding and stilled him quickly. 'If you have any information that could lead to the rescue of the Captain, please inform us.' At any other moment, McCoy would have accused the Vulcan of being an insensitive bastard, but right now, he was almost pleading, hoping.
McCoy relented, stepping back and scowling at the floor.
Uhura moved closer and placed a comforting hand on his shoulder, coaxing him to respond. Spock straightened in the command chair, but nodded her to continue.
'I'm sorry.' She whispered, her hand running up to rub the back of his neck. She pulled him into an embrace which he reluctantly reciprocated.
'I'm so sorry, Bones, I-'
McCoy sharply grabbed her wrist. He pulled her hand down from the side of his face and stepped back.
'Don't call me that.' He said scathingly. 'No one here calls me that.'
It was a demand and a threat. It was a fact.
The brutal truth of the statement caused Uhura's tears to fall.
Two months and two weeks later. Three months after loss of contact, Enterprise-time.
The planet's surface. Lieutenant Commander Birkson of the USS Endeavour.
Lieutenant Commander Birkson led his team through the thick bush, phasers warily scanning the area ahead, but no real threat detected.
A deep growl came from somewhere deep within the overhanging flora and Birkson spun, phaser trained on the shifting bush.
With a roar, a figure charged from the cover the plants provided it. A solid body landed on Birkson, knocking him to the ground. The phaser flew from his hand and landed in the mud.
Strangely, a fist collided with his jaw and he was sure he felt something break. Dazed, Birkson rolled his head up to see whatever was attacking him.
It was a man, shaggy hair and hardly clothed. The man roared again while Birkson attempted to roll free. He planned his move and grabbed the savage's wrist, beginning to flip him in a basic combat move.
The savage moved first, his legs gripping Birkson around the chest and spinning so he was pinned. The man's fists were raised. The counter-defensive position.
The blast of the phaser on stun rocked the man pinning Birkson. He slumped and slid to the side, landing heavily in the mud.
'Commander!' an Ensign called, shoving the phaser into the holster and helping him up. Birkson rolled free and stood, staring at his attacker.
His hair was raggard, looking like it was hacked off with a knife, the beard maintained similarly. The man shivered as rain began to fall in the dense forest, striking the leaves, mud and bare skin.
His chest was bare save for a strip of gold material hanging diagonally across him, a knife tied into the familiar coloured material. The black pants were faded and ripped, the dark, crusted stain of blood in far too many places.
The only other remnant of clothing on him was a black cuff from a Starfleet uniform on his left wrist, the gold stripes indicating a rank of captain.
Birkson flicked open his communicator.
'Birkson to Endeavour, patch a comm through to Captain Spock on the Enterprise. We found him.'
Yay! Another Star Trek fic! Seriously though, guys. Star Trek ate my brain.
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