Jim had been on his feet for less than ten seconds when the girl he was aiming his best right hook at swung her phaser to the side, and with a swift upward motion, struck him with the butt of her weapon.
He grunted as the force of the blow knocked him sideways; damn she was strong, and not just for a girl. Bottles clattered to the floor as he leaned heavily on a nearby table, before grabbing one particularly thick one, and with his trade mark flourish, threw it at the girl's silken head.
The hollow dooong the bottle made as it ricocheted off the girl's left temple reminded Jim of church bells, or the flat echo of a struck gong. If the situation hadn't been so grave he probably would have laughed. Hell, the 'situation' was so damned crazy he almost did anyway.
Kirk watched with a solemn sense of triumph as the girl reeled onto the counter, her phaser slipping from slack fingers as she leaned over the sticky bar top. Jim wasn't sure, but he thought he heard her vomit, one hand cradling her head, whilst the other grappled for something out of sight.
Jim bridged the gap between himself and his attacker to pull Bones from his bar stool and deposit him in one of the squashy booths behind him. A voice in his head suggested perhaps apprehending McCoy's assailant before coming to his rescue, but Jim wasn't destined to learn that lesson just yet.
He got as far as winding one arm around his CMO's waist before the girl in the headscarf clubbed him with a pint glass. Whilst he lay sprawled on the floor, McCoy unconscious and half on top of him, he realised with vague amusement that he wasn't the only one in a punch up; the entire bar had descended into chaos. Once again, the odds were most definitely not in Jim Kirk's favour, he mused as he spotted more than three, (or was that six?) Klingons slinging it out with what may have been Andorians. Or Orions. Aw Hell.
L'T'Freja adjusted her headscarf (playing live action whack-a-mole with your own damned head will do that to a head dress) as she stood over a very bemused member of Starfleet, cradling who may or may not have been his husband drooling all over his nice gold shirt.
"Payback's a bitch," She half slurred half spat before scooping her fallen phaser off the floor.
For once, Arrienne was glad her partner was part Klingon; warning the bar maid of the same race that the nice Andorian in the corner was packin' some serious heat and harboring some real beef for the Klingon nation was the ticket to get shit started. What she hadn't anticipated was how quickly Klingons could become enraged; within seconds of L'T'Freja's information falling on willing ears, the air was thick with fists and glasses alike; tables fast over turned and knives flashing in what dim lighting there was.
Despite the melee, Arrienne cut a path to her target in record time.
Her prey had his back to her; he was reaching out to a red-clad female member of Starfleet, using his Vulcan strength to pull her towards him past Klingons and angry humans alike. She felt her mouth twist into a bitter, twisted smile as she pulled the syringe from the compartment in her sleeve.
"Fuuuuuuck," L'T'Freja moaned as she stuffed her scarf with ice to lessen the swelling she knew would be a lump in the morning. As if her forehead wasn't 3D enough. She gently poked the cubes into place before peering over the counter top.
Much to her annoyance, Mr Goldie Shirt refused to stay down. Now, L'T'Freja was no lightweight when it came to fighting. Despite the childish face and tendancy to squeal like a stuck pig when annoyed, she actually packed a mean punch.
And she'd given Kirk all she had.
What, is his skull fucking steel plated? she wondered as she watched the blond man slowly rise to his feet, Bones in tow. She snorted quietly when he stumbled, bouncing off an armored Klingon shoulder before laying his friend on the nearest unoccupied seat. The booth would offer adequate shelter and would also make sure the unconscious man would do himself no further harm.
Once he was sure McCoy was safe, Kirk turned his attention back to the bar. Make that three bars. Everything was swaying, flitting in and out of focus, and occasionally changing colour. Concussion. Great. Bet Bones has the mother of all hypos for this one.
Kirk watched as three girls in white headscarves vaulted over the bar, this time across the room from him, to then press a curved knife to Nyota Uhura's throat.