Chapter 4: Meet Nyota…the One I Might have Hugged

Chapter's Quote: Yeah, I knew this attack on Kirk was nothing more than a release of a lot of pent up stress. Had there been a set of Chinese harmony balls around, I would have gladly used those instead.

So there I was. Running…and not paying much attention to anything but my own fears turned into a long stream of well-detailed daydreams.

Because of the set sun and cloudy night sky, the only visual help provided for my race to the street were scattered orbs of soft, orange light atop metal poles. My task of finding a suitable ride to Club Delirious had yet reached its end, so as I ran from dark patch to lit patch, my thumb scrolled down the iPod screen of listed options.

Yellow Cab Co. Promising. Cabbies Incorporated. Perhaps. Fab Cabs for the Traveling Stab. Umm…not so much…what exactly is a Traveling Stab?

"Miss Pike?"

Remember how my mind was centered mainly on fears of machine operated cabs and date rape (at some point it also played through some scenes of an old Quentin Tarantio movie about a woman sexually abused while in coma then got major revenge when she awoke)? Well these negative thoughts plaguing me, along with the backdrop of a dark night and me without a bodyguard named Shark, turned my reaction to one that belonged to a squirrel zapped by a taser one to many times.

I yelped, turned towards the person (the fun part of this was that, at the last second, I decided to round house kick them and lifted my right leg halfway up so I unintentionally impersonated a ballerina who tried but failed miserably). Because of my handicap version of a roundhouse kick, my left foot sneaker slid on the wet grass. This animated response ended with my face and front side kissing a recently mowed lawn.

Rewind and fast forward, in case you missed something: Person says my name. I, in one of my lesser moments of full mental capability, screamed, twirled, slipped, and landed face down in damp dirt and grass.

My forefathers would be so proud.

"Oh my!" another voice (not the one who said, "Miss Pike?") exclaimed at my performance.

As I picked my pathetic self up from the ground, the sound of feet hurrying over got louder and louder.

"Here," the person who I shocked, said, "Let me help you."

In a small attempt to redeem myself from the inescapable hole of idiocy that was my current state, I waved a hand of "no" and got to my knees; wiping a jacket arm over my face to clean away the pieces of grass and mist.

"No, thank you," I replied, "I'm fine."

"Are you sure? That fall may have sprained your left ankle, and the fall's force focused mainly on your frontal cortex."

I stilled my movements. Not because of what the person said (my ankle felt fine, and some unconscious time might do me good), but of who the voice belonged to.

Finally looking up at the helpful do-gooders, my eyes could not mistake the tall, pale figure illuminated in the orange glow of the lawn lights. His pointy ears, once again, a dead giveaway.

Gulp. "Commander Spock," I squeaked; my cheeks matched my voice's comfort level and began to feel hot despite the cool air.

"I apologize for startling you, Miss Pike," he said.

"Fine - It's fine - That's fine," I ridiculously stuttered as my mind screamed, You sound like a dork. Just shut up! Shut up!…Oh, and after this, avoid all possible contact with the Vulcan race. I feel it's for our own good to not appear like someone replaced me with a bowl of gummy oatmeal.

"You sure you're not hurt?"

Standing up to prove my top notch health, I came eye level with Spock's companion. Wow! For our race (human, I mean…really, you should have picked that up already), this chick was smokin. Unlike Spock's towering six foot-I'm-so-freakin-tall-it-intimidates-well-adjusted-girls-trying-to-run-across-lawns, this woman appeared to share my height of five foot seven. Her skin ran without blemish and spoke of African origins with its creamy ebony tones. The hair that framed her beautifully shaped face was also brown; long and smooth; curled a bit for a night out with her Vulcan date.

"Nope," I assured the pretty girl, "I'm-"

"-Fine," she finished the predictable reply and smiled kindly. Then with a glance to Spock, the lady clearly tried to send the message, "Sweetie, introduce me to the nice girl who just nose-dived into the dirt."

Apparently these two had hung out enough to read each other's looks, because Spock gestured between us and introduced me as Miss April Pike, a student who knew his mother and he met earlier this day. His companion I now knew was Nyota Uhura, a Starfleet cadet who he spent time with socially.

Eyeing their close proximity and how Spock's hand was at Nyota's lower back when he introduced her, I guessed there was more socializing going on than implied. A quirk of my eyebrow at her and Nyota's reply of a smirk hinted that she vouched for my guess at their relationship, and didn't have a problem with the way Spock voiced it.

"Nice to meet you, Nyota," I held out my hand and smiled; silently praying my attempt to seem friendly and not use her official title of Cadet Uhura would pull through. Spock by himself was trouble for my nerves, but Spock plus Nyota, I had a feeling, wouldn't cause me to stutter and trip on lawns as much.

Her smile never wavered a moment as she shook my hand, "Likewise, April."

Score!

"Are you in a hurry somewhere?" Spock asked after his girlfriend and I finished the initial bonding ritual of a handshake.

"Yeah!" I shouted; causing Nyota's eyes to widen. My volume and her reaction never registered. My mind too focused on replaying Fisha's phone call, passing out, and Hepburn/Parrot girl telling me their location.

"Sorry to seem rude, but I have to get to Club Delirious right now!" I got ready to run again but the in my head yelled, Hey idiot! You don't know where Club Delirious is, remember?

This moment of clarity did nothing for my decorum in front of Spock and his pretty pal.

"Dang it!" my seethed, less loudly than before, and slapped my forehead. By now one of three possibilities were taking place: 1) Fisha was puking her guts out in a unsanitary bathroom with her fellow chug-a-lugs cheering on the sidelines, 2) Blond flyboy was really the sex offender my Negative-Nancy side molded him out to be and was taking advantage of this after school special no-no, or 3) my BFF was dead.

Yes, more (and less extreme) possibilities existed, but the adrenaline pumping through my veins kept everything calm and logical at bay.

"What's wrong?" Nyota asked. That sweetheart of a lady felt the need to share in my distress. If hugging came naturally for me, I would definitely have given her a squeeze.

I replied, "I have no idea where Club Delirious is."

"Oh! I know that," Nyota exclaimed; appearing ready to jump up and down like a Scottish Terrier, "It's out on Marina Boulevard. Before you hit San Francisco Bay, there's a clump of bars and clubs cadets like to relax at. Club Delirious is the newest one there."

Spock added, "Do you require our help for a ride there?"

"No thanks," I called back; already in a sprint towards the street. My fingers highlighted the number of Yellow Cab Co.


Twenty-eight bucks in cab fare later, I stepped out onto Marina Blvd. As expected, the street was lit up by headlights, club and bar sign lights, street lights, lights from inside the establishments, and one girl's violently pink dress that was manufactured with more wiring than fabric. The once quiet night, at the Academy, was replaced by rap and hip hop shivering the cars passing by and parking; from inside the clubs and a few bars, I picked up music types from salsa to blues.

After paying the cabbie, I speed-walked over to the sidewalk (never trust car drivers who choose to drive near places that serve drinks with names like Sex on the Beach and Broken Down Golf Cart) and felt very much like the lama in the cow herd among the many cadets and their scantly dressed dates. Under the dulled music, there held a constant stream of clicking high heels to the sidewalk's cement. Skirts of all kinds coming to and fro; some waiting in lines outside the few red-roped off clubs, and others laughing far too loudly at whatever attempt at a joke her Starfleet escort just made.

Not saying there weren't any female cadets or male common folk around, but my belittlement towards the walking, drunk tramps and their lusting flyboys immediately overtook ninety percent of my attention.

Due to my choice of clothing (jeans, sneakers, my black shirt with an accomplished Rubric's cube pictured on it, and green jacket), I doubted I'd find anyone humble enough to point out Club Delirious.

Time to break out the iPod once again (it's like my light saber…only less deadly…as long as I don't throw it at your head).

"You got to be kidding me!" I yelled at iPod once it announced its uselessness due to no wireless connection, "In this day and age? Seriously?"

My logically brain (the side that failed to save me from hitting the ground face first earlier), got a head start on my rising anger. Before I could loss self-constraint and become the girl-dork waving her iPod around, muttering about the failures of technology as she tried to locate wireless bars, my brain cooked up another idea to try out.

In the loudest Barbie-dream-house voice manageable, I said over the crowd, "Like, OMG! Where the hellion is Club Delirious? I'm like completely lost!"

Those nearest started walking away from me with noticeably more thrust in their speed, but some dingbat (obviously not in eyesight of my shabby appearance) hollered, "It's the place kitty corner to Nick's Drinking Hole, babe! With the funky letters."

With the funky letters…didn't understand that portion of the clue.

"Hey sexy, you want some company?"

Sexy?…This guy really had no idea of who he talking to and how I was dressed, so naturally I pretended I didn't hear him (and positioned my knapsack so it was in prime swinging-slash-hitting perverts position).

Located at the voice's guessable origination was where Nick invited people into his Drinking Hole. I started over that way and searched across the busy street to see if there were any funky letters making themselves known. To my surprise, flickering off and on in several neon colors, a hologram of giant letters took turns spelling out parts of Club Delirious (think glow in the dark pastels meet strobe light meet bubble letters).

"Huh, dude was right," I said with a touch of awe "Those letters are funky."

Good aspect of Club Delirious: no red velvet rope (so even people sporting the Rubric's cube could get in without rebuff). Other good aspects of Club Delirious: none.

Music so loud I'm pretty sure my eardrum started leaking. People here, people there, people everywhere. I didn't mind people (as long as their stupidity left me alone), but I couldn't count the number of degrading looks and sneers I received; mostly from clones of the high-heeled women outside (these too decided to step out of their houses in sparkly kitchen rags that covered only the basic of anatomy).

Call me anti-social all you want; I honestly failed to understand how anyone could feel relaxed (or clean) in a dance club atmosphere. Pushing through loads of people, my feet literally stuck at the floor once or twice (I blame the Orion male swinging his arms around; knocking over two of his pals' drinks…apparently there was an orchestra around looking to him for the beat). Anyway, past the bar with its sticky floors, I ventured through the gyrating, howling, lusting crowds drinking and dancing (so close to one another I wouldn't be surprised if someone went home with a disease they didn't come here with).

Out of the drugs, sex, and rock n' roll philosophy, rock n' roll was the only one I sought after on a Friday night.

"Excuse me. Pardon me."

People. People. People. All shapes, colors, and (unfortunately) smells. The one uniting factor was what they all had on their minds: sex. I knew this not only from the dancing and touching (people here apparently left their personal bubbles at the door), but one of them extended a hand of generosity…literally.

A hand grabbed my butt and voice that stank with alcohol said over the music's 'Oh yeah/ Shorty yeah/ You so hot baby yeah', "Hey farm girl, wanna party?"

"I have the runs."

Hand gone. Farm girl dodged yet another unneeded situation.

Finally (about the time I hit deafness and my eyes saw blurs instead of people and laser lights), I located the restrooms near a cushioned sitting area. Stepping over people searching for their bubble gum in someone else's mouth (apparently Club Delirious catered to the romantic in everyone as well as our natural tendency to break dance), I'd almost made it to revolving door leading to the ladies' room when-

"Hey, it's March!"

In all his wobbly, uncoordinated glory, holding a half-glass of some clear liquid that fizzed (and probably could knock a baby elephant off its feet) in one hand and the other arm wrapped around a some girl nice enough to lick his ear clean, blond flyboy/suspected sex offender called over to me. Carefree smile painted on his arrogant, drunk face.

"I know you…you," he struggled to point at me (noodle arms…another sad side effect of boozing on too much booze). Detaching from hooker he was destined to spend the rest of his life with, Cadet Jim Kirk began his trip and tumble through the crowd to me

"Flyboy," I seethed with a murmur. Huffing through my teeth (added a growl or two), I stomped over and grasped Kirk by the elbow.

A bit too harsh. No…okay, yes. Did I wake up the next morning filled with regret. No way! You want to get drunk. Go ahead; your liver is your business. But no one endangers my friend for a couple shots of Captain Morgan and kisses from someone with a sixty percent chance of holding a card to the Herpes Club.

"Where is she?" I yelled; my shaking him having more effect than it should due to his weakened state.

"Stop it…who?" he slurred and pulled me off.

"Fisha!" I screamed; that logical part of my brain on temporary sabbatical, "Fisha! Your date. Met her earlier at the Academy. Jaloxian chick – green hair…skin white as pearls – (Pause) – Does any of this ring a bell in your stupid, blond head!?!"

Squinting his eyes to concentrate (apparently brain power wasn't one of this guy's better abilities), my helpless helper finally recognized what I said actually had meaning. "Fisha…the Jaloxian babe," then his eyes fixed more on me, "And you're her friend March."

Again with the March. Did this guy honestly believe someone looked at a baby girl and said, "Dear, let's name her March. That way, she'll be condemned to the life of an outcast before hitting puberty."?

I corrected him, "April."

"Right, April…I meant that."

Sigh. Looking past his lack of character, and focused now on the reason I paid twenty-eight dollars to end up in this orgy of vices.

"Kirk, I need you to listen," I ordered and stared hard into those baby blue eyes to maintain his attention through the fog of drunk, "Where did Fisha go? She might not be okay, so I really need to find her."

"We were drinking," he explained with some struggle (drinking?..really?...thank you so much, Jimmy, I never would have guessed that without your vital help), "Fisha started feeling sick."

Silence.

"And then she went to the restroom?" I questioned; hoping to jog his memory faster.

"Uhhh…"

"Oh come on." Don't know exactly why I dragged blond Flyboy along into the ladies' room with me.

The bright, florescent lights above the mirror made both of us wince, and the screeches of shocked girls we interrupted from glossing up their lips didn't help. Leaving Kirk at the sinks, I dodged the perfumed stamped racing to escape the scary scenario of a boy in the bathroom (seriously, were these girls all recent graduates of a non-coed school?) and began pushing toilet stall doors open.

Three stalls down, the door's swing halted when a pink sequin, mini-dress covered bottom, protruding up in the air, got in the way. Because of my presence when UPS dropped off this dress from a few months ago, I didn't have to notice the turquoise hair and white skin to know who was curled awkwardly up against the toilet.

"Fisha!" Dropping to my knees beside my best friend, I placed my hands on her scrunched torso and tried to gently turn Fisha over to lay her on the ground face-up.

Kirk's voice hovered above the two of us, from where he stood right outside the stall. "Shit," he state softly; the situation dragging him unkindly out of alcohol buzzed world.

Once Fisha laid straight on the black, tiled floor, I searched her face of evidence from whatever was wrong. Her eyes and face were unmoving and calm as if asleep, sweat created a second layer over her facial skin and visible chest, but what stuck out the most was the orange goo trailing out the corners of her mouth. If Fisha had vomited earlier, this orange substance was what came out.

Jaloxian blood is orange, a creepy, grim reaper voice creped from the dark regions of my mind and reminded me.

"She's not breathing."

Attention immediately back on Kirk.

Before I could ask him to repeat what I clearly heard, Flyboy explained in a not-so-drunk tone, "Jaloxians breath through their skin. When they start to suffocate, the color turns to gray."

Looking back at Fisha, the shifting color of her once pearly white skin to eerie gray became significantly noticeable to me. Letting go a short sob (by now, my cool was packing up to go stay with my logic), I placed a hand over my mouth and took a couple deep breaths through my nose.

"We need to call an ambulance," I said to Kirk; my voice unsteady and eyes still on Fisha's horrific form. The vision of her vivacious club dress offset by the deterioration of her body became blurrier as salty water filled my eyelids.

Way to go April. Fisha's at death's door, and you picked this moment to become a pile of useless girly slog.

Roughly wiping the tears from my eyes, I turned back to Kirk to repeat my statement about an ambulance. No need, though, since he already held a cell to his ear.

Wow. Blond Flyboy do-it decorum in sticky situations hope-scotched him ten points above his previous score of total imbecile.

"Bones," Kirk finally got an answer from the other end, "I need…yes I know what time it is."

Bones? Bones was not an ambulance service hailed to come save Fisha. This wasn't good. Now I had to kill Kirk for his certain stupidity and selfishness in dire situations.

"What are you doing!?!" I screamed (my natural intend to remain calm no longer housed anywhere in the shell of my body), "Get off that darn phone and call an ambulance!" As I pushed myself to my feet and lunged at Kirk like a rabid bobcat (teeth bared and all), he backed up and held a hand out to stop me from scratching his baby blue eyes into nothingness.

Yeah, I knew this attack on Kirk was nothing more than a release of a lot of pent up stress. Had there been a set of Chinese harmony balls around, I would have gladly used those instead.

"I don't know what's wrong with her," he's voice tired, confused, slightly unsober, and more than slightly distracted due to my continuous attack at him, "She's – Would you stop that! – She's Jaloxian."

Unbelievably, in the midst of my screeching and screaming at this guy (honestly, I have no idea why security hadn't showed up yet to drag us both out), I picked up the voice on the other end of Kirk's phone ask, "What are her symptoms exactly, Jim?"

Assault of the crazy woman ceased.

One thing I know I'll always recognize for the rest of my life was the voice of a professional in the field of medicine. Their geriatric words and passionate yet serious volume of voice (they learn all this at secret orientation lessons then make a blood oath never to reveal it) are a dead giveaway at hours of learning about ways people get boo boos then treating them firsthand.

"I don't know…" Kirk admitted to medical practicing Bones, "She's not breathing. Other than that…"

Clearly the alcohol consumed by this man still blocked a decent amount of coordination and problem solving skills within his usual arsenal. Aware that time was being cut off by the seconds, I pushed his blocking arm aside and grabbed the cellular device from his other hand.

"Hey!"

"You're drunk; therefore useless!" I shot back.

Giving Kirk the view of my back, I held the cell to my ears. "Whoever this is," I said as I dropped once again to Fisha's side, "My friend is a Jaloxian female, age 26. Her skin is turning gray from lack of oxygen, she's been sweating profusely, has been unconscious for at least - (checked Pooh Bear wristwatch) - eighteen minutes, and there's evidence that she's vomited blood. She's not on any medication other than the usual Jaloxian vitamins, and I'm pretty sure she's not currently sexually active (I glanced behind to double check that Flyboy didn't look carnally satisfied…he appeared tired and intoxicated but nothing else). Now tell me what's wrong with her." Then I took a deep breath to get back some of my own oxygen.

Pause. Though I picked up a sigh and slight mumbling.

"Ah," Bones verbally snapped his fingers at a mental revelation, "Did you check her ears?"

"Her ears?"

"Yes. Check them for more blood."

"Okey dokey," I conceded slowly; beginning to second-guess this guy's medical affiliations (meth dealers have been known to sound like doctors). Bending over Fisha's still face, I brushed aside her turquoise hair, moist and cool from sweat, and felt something warmer and stickier than the hair. Peering closer, I saw trails of orange blood stained from the inside of Fisha's ear to the back of her neck.

"Hypers," I let my reaction escape at the sight of the icky and unexpected symptom, "Yep, she's bleeding from the ears."

"What?" Finding a way to become an even greater nuisance, Kirk placed his grand amount of upper body weight (muscular figures weigh more than they look, people) on the placement of his hands on my shoulders and leaned over to get a better look. The part of this I really enjoyed was the mist of alcohol smelling breath that carried from his mouth down to my nose.

Bones saved his buddy from my elbow slipping behind and finding Flyboy's kibbles n' bits by moving on to another question. "Has she had any earth alcohol tonight?"

"I don't know," I replied, "I don't partake in Fisha's illicit hobbies…most of the time."

"We traded drinks," the heavy drunkard's breath hit my sense of smell again.

"Huh?" Twisting over to face Kirk, I saw his pretty face express new revelation.

"Earlier," Kirk continued voicing his thought; thankfully, this included standing up straight again (I rolled my aching shoulders and dubbed the injury as heavenly punishment for not getting at Fisha about her partying), "I ordered a mojito and Fisha got a different drink…I don't remember (pay thanks to that mojito for the memory loss, Flyboy)…some drink from her planet. I think she mentioned someone never letting her drink cocktails from earth…An allergy that she might-."

I audibly gasped. That person Fisha mentioned, who never let her order earthly drinks at bars, was me.

"Listen," Bones explained from his end, "We need to get your friend to the Academy hospital. Bleeding at the ears is a definite sign of a brain seizure in Jaloxians. She's probably allergic to earth alcohol. Females of her species with a certain blood anomaly react almost fatally to our type of-"

Alcohol, I finished mentally. At an unrecorded date in my past, I read an article about this blood anomaly and mentioned it to Fisha. In return she digressed that her aunt and a few of her sisters knew they couldn't drink earth's alcohol. This exchange led to a near psychotic mission, on my part, of keeping my friend from ever consuming our alcohol. Because I don't go to bars and keep Fisha busy with other (less dangerous to our brain cell growth) activities, her reaction to earth alcohol never came up as a problem.

Later I would ask her where she left her naturally given, self-preservation instincts as she left the dorm room tonight.

"-I'll meet you and Jim at the ER!" then came a dial tone signally that my brain had missed the final part of what Bones said. Chance had it that I missed the instructional part of our conversation (note to self: learn to mentally wander off at times when my attention is not crucial to the life of my best friend).

"Wait!" I yelled at no one, "What did you say?"

Snatching the cell back from my grasp, Kirk started dialing and said, "Bones wants us to call an ambulance and meet him at the emergency room."

Finding no need to put in a word of argument, I closed my mouth and looked back at Fisha's ashen face. In a rare act of companionship (yes, I'm well aware of my antisocial tendencies, but my friend was dying so exceptions could be made) my hand reached over and grasped onto her thin wrist; my thumb stroking her cooling skin.

"This is Cadet James T. Kirk. I need an ambulance. There's a Jaloxian woman here who ingested alcohol and is experiencing fatal results."

My mind barely registered how Flyboy's voice rebirthed; now sounded more Tom Cruise's A Few Good Men than earlier's Risky Business Tom Cruise.

AN: So sorry for the beyond late update. Please review and review and then tell others to review! I love them and appreciate them and cuddle them…um, not so much that last one.