The next time the creatures arrived, they had found a new strategy. Dragging both Jim and Spock out of the cage, one alien held Kirk as the others strapped Spock down and began a fresh wave of torture on the Vulcan's already broken body. They're killing him, Jim thought desperately, fighting with the last remnants of his strength to get to Spock, and failing pathetically, wriggling like a fish on a hook in the muscular, reeking arms of the orca-creatures. "Spock," he choked out. "Stop- let him go, stop-"

This only seemed to amuse the aliens, who continued with their methodical, precise cuts to Spock's torso, drawing pleasure from Jim's pleas.

It then occurred to him that they expected this to hurt- that they were expecting Jim to talk if Spock was being injured.

He fought harder against his captor, his breath coming in painful, tight sobs, his vision blurred with tears that he refused to let fall. He twisted painfully in the creatures arms, screaming into its blank face. "I don't know anything! None of us do, let him go- stop it, you're fucking killing him you bastards-please-"

The alien shoved him, hard, and he hit the slippery floor in a messy, agonised heap. He was lifted, groggy, as the creatures switched his place with Spock, strapping him securely and beginning to etch patterns on his skin with their jagged, filthy knife. It burned, white hot and urgent, Jim fighting nausea at the overwhelming pain on his battered body. Dimly, as if through a wall, he heard Spock's voice- nothing like his usual, methodical monotone, but harsh, guttural- begging those creatures to stop hurting Kirk. He bit his lip hard to avoid screaming, not wanting to panic the Vulcan further, and eventually, mercifully, he passed out with the effort and the pain.

Each morning after that brought fresh horror; each of them once again brought out and tortured in turn in front of the other. Spock could barely scream any more, his throat hoarse and torn from his previous ordeals. Jim bit through his own lip in the attempt to stay silent. Their wounds became infected. Only McCoy was partially spared; the aliens seemed to have forgotten about him after his apparent feeble-mindedness, allowing him to cower in the corner of their cage in relative peace most days- if you could call it that, his eyes wide and scared as his two best friends were systematically torn apart, unable to help and do what he was supposed to. To the aliens, he was clearly deemed unnecessary, the non-platonic bond between the Captain and his first Officer their priority for destruction.

After several days, they resorted to drinking the water that pooled in the corner of their cage from the stalactite above. It was filthy, it stank, and it made them all retch until they were shaking and tears streamed down their cheeks, but it was water and it was the only thing keeping them alive.

In their cage one night, all shaken and hungry, they began to talk among themselves. Jim found himself disgusted that he had adjusted to the smell.

"So they clearly think we know something about…whatever it is they're so worked up about."

"Jim, we cannot even comprehend what it is they are describing," Spock whispered through a cracked, parched mouth. "They believe the Federation to be … destroying their home world, invading it…this is impossible as the planet is not charted on our maps as of yet. I do not have a hypothesis."

"Well it seems like they are pretty convinced," McCoy coughed from the floor. "I don't know, Jim. How can we figure anything out while we're stuck in here?"

"Can we bargain with them?" Jim wondered aloud. "Are they open to reason?"

"I believe not," Spock replied. "I did attempt that course of action."

"They just think we know something and they're willing to kill us to find out, huh?"

"Indeed."

"Right then. We have to get the hell out of here."

"That had occurred to me, yes."

McCoy snorted. "Do please tell me how you plan to do that."

"I haven't worked that part out yet."

Jim twisted in his chains, painfully; this round of torture had been particularly brutal and he bore several deep wounds and burns on his torso that McCoy had only been able to partially heal. One wrist was also fractured; sharp, stabbing agony throbbing through it every time he moved. His lip felt hot and swollen. He faced McCoy as fully as he could.

"I swear Bones, we'll get out of this alive," he promised, low and furious.

McCoy shrugged, non-committal and vacant. Spock cleared his throat painfully.

"If it were anyone but you saying this, Captain, I would doubt them. As it is, I cannot help but believe you."

"Why Spock, that was almost human of you," Jim tried to grin, his heart warmed to hear Spock's affectionate tone of voice. He struggled around to face the Vulcan, worried about him; he was in a bad state, his whole body bruised and battered, his face drawn and a sickly yellowish colour. He wished desperately that he could touch him; hold him and make it all better. "Spock-" he began, but the Vulcan shook his head. "I know, Jim. I always know."

"Get a room," McCoy groaned from the grimy floor, and Jim huffed out a short, pained laugh. "Shut up, Bones."

"You gonna make me?" he replied, but there was little real humour in it- his broken hand was hot and agonising.

"Bones, I think I have a plan- What do you have left in your medical bag?"

They did not sleep, instead working on the flimsy, desperate plan that they hoped might get them out alive.