A/N: Uh.
So obviously I haven't updated in over three years. I started this story when I was 14 and I'm now 21, but people kept reviewing and I just had to finish it. Better late than never, right?
It should be noted that I have gone back and edited previous chapters, removing as much of my dumb self-insert as possible. I couldn't take out everything or parts wouldn't have made sense, but I did what I could.
Anyway, enjoy.
As soon as the officers were brought back on board, three days after they had been beamed down to Xenoan, sickbay got to work.
"We're losing him—" Nurse Chapel cried as she reached for a defibrillator.
"Not yet, we're not," barked McCoy, running off to the other side of sickbay and rifling through drawers, throwing vials and papers and hyposprays to the ground carelessly and briskly. He fumbled, finally finding a guide to where he could find each and every antidote on board. He pressed a button and exclaimed, "Arsenic!" into the guide.
"Processing. One moment, please." The robotic voice of the guide was outdated, and the guide itself was ancient. Bones guessed that Starfleet hadn't thought finding antidotes for common natural poisons would be a common occurrence. It didn't matter, as long as the damn thing worked.
"Doctor McCoy!" called Chapel from across the ward.
"Do what you can, I'm trying! Damn thing—" McCoy cut off as the guide made a series of beeps.
"Arsenic antidote: Dimercaprol. Dimercaprol located in section 2B, subsection 5, in poison control area." The robotic voice droned, too campy for the doctor's taste. He tossed it back into the drawer from which it came, hoping for more than one reason to never see it again, and hurried over to the cabinets for poison control. Among thousands of tiny drawers, he found section 2B, poisonous metal elements, and opened the compartment, which held even more compartments. The fifth drawer on the left held a few small vials of dimercaprol as well as various other bottles for the removal of arsenic from the body and things to help with the recovery afterward. The doctor grabbed everything and ran back to his patients.
Chapel had managed to get Chekov's heart beating again, but he didn't look much better. McCoy swiftly prepared a hypospray with the antidote, and with a combination of delicacy and force, applied it to the least-bruised area on Pavel's neck that he could find, and immediately repeated the action on Scotty.
"Prepare for the procedures while I finish this," Bones ordered. He began to prepare some of the other things found with the antidote, including some vitamins and aluminum oxide, into more hypos. He was anxious and had enough—he felt as if he'd been in this situation for three years, and less than an hour had gone by.
Scotty let out a groan, followed by frantic beeps from the machines hooked up to him. Although obviously concerning, it didn't mean anything new—their conditions could remain unstable for days, even if the doctor did everything right.
"And who knows if I'm doing anything right," he thought to himself.
Spock woke up, having no recollection of having been knocked out, inside the same chamber where Scotty and Chekov had been. He was now shackled to the wall, standing in a dried pool of blood that was not his—red, and probably belonging to his fellow officers.
He was unharmed, for now. There was not a scratch on him. The Vulcan took a deep breath and evaluated his situation. They had clearly done this, somehow. It is possible they had some means of manipulating time or space, accounting for the strange customs and occurrences of the planet. It would explain how he could be in T'Ke's room one moment, and in a torture chamber the next. He realized that They knew he had figured them out.
What a strange, illogical thought. Why had his assessment of this situation been so outlandish? The probability of them having the ability to control time or space via some supernatural strength was near zero, surely. No, Spock thought, certainly he had simply been knocked out in a manner that affected his memory, and apparently his critical thinking skills. Then again, there wasn't a trace of green blood outside of his body anywhere. Though that did not necessarily mean that he was completely unharmed.
He was in danger, regardless. His hands were not free, but even if they were, he was certain his communicator had been confiscated. He would have to figure this out on his own.
Spock tested the shackles. He could actually probably break out of them, though he might injure himself trying to do so—although there would be no point in breaking the shackles if he could not break down the door.
He concocted several plans. Plan A: Wait until someone opened the door. The instant he heard someone beginning to open it, break free from the shackles, run, knock the guard or guards out, and make a run for it. Get back to the surface, assume someone from the ship would notice, beam aboard, leave the planet, and never come back.
That was the best case scenario and was highly unlikely, as an understatement. He wondered why he had even thought of it. Where was his logic?
Plan B: Break shackles, break down the door—no, he had no means of calculating the weight and strength of the door. Though if the shackles were any hint as to the metal quality on the planet, he could have a chance.
Plan C: Wait until someone comes. Kill them. Steal their keys. Run. Spock shook his head, what kind of a plan was that? He would never do that. It was immoral, illogical. Why couldn't he think rationally? Something was wrong.
It was not like the Vulcan to be unable to think clearly. He reevaluated his situation. Were there any marks on his body? Did he feel any pain?
No.
He did, however, feel somewhat—floaty. Had he been drugged?
He heard the jingling of keys, and saw the knob of the door turn. He tested the shackles again and found that he had less control of his muscles than he did a few moments ago. He was not in pain, nor did he feel weak. He just felt off.
The door opened, and They entered. A look of confusion crossed their faces. "Why are you still alive?" asked one.
Spock stared. "Were you under the impression that I would not be?"
The beings stepped further into the chamber, away from the dim light of the hallway and towards the Vulcan. "You were administered the same poison as the humans—though I suppose it does not affect your kind in the same way."
He tried to think back to what poison had been given to the engineer and the ensign, but his memory was foggy, as was his grip on reality and the gravity of his situation. Try as he may, he could not find his aggressors intimidating in the least. Nor could he really care that they were there.
They stopped moving towards him. Spock could only barely see the outline of their dark fur against the blackness of the chamber. "You are unafraid?" One asked.
"Fear is illogical," Spock said, speech slightly slurred. Was he intoxicated? Was the so-called poison just chocolate? No, chocolate would certainly not have a negative effect on the humans. Then again, could it, if it was directly injected into the bloodstream? He tried to run some figures quickly, but failed. Spock was uncharacteristically unfocused. Whatever poison had been given to him evidently was not going to immediately kill him, but was clearly having detrimental effects to his critical thinking ability.
"Tell me," the Vulcan began. "Who precisely are you? T'Ke and the other natives are under the impression that you are gods—" Spock paused for a moment to catch his breath. "But you cannot fool me so easily." No, he was not intoxicated. The floaty feeling had given way to something else. He felt groggy, downright exhausted, and uncomfortable at worst. Surely if he survived this mission, Dr. McCoy would credit it to his green blood.
They looked at each other for a moment, then crossed their arms. "Very well," one began. "Since you are going to die anyway, it may be refreshing to speak openly with someone face to face about our history. The Capraeg people know us as Those Who Gave Us Fields, Drink, and Time. Gods. Although the worship of these gods has been in practice as far back as our historic records go, the duty of the High Priestess to speak with "Them" directly has only existed for 300 years or so. Possibly even less. Of course, the current High Priestess, T'Ke, believes that this practice has been around for all of Time—as does the rest of the Capraeg."
Capraeg—so that's the name of the native species. Spock had never heard it before.
"We were able to see all of your Time with T'Ke when we scoped into her memory—similar to what you call a mind-meld. She already informed you about our zodiac and how certain hours and minutes of the day cause changes in appearance at birth among other things. While many of these oddities are natural and true due to atmospheric changes—such as Capraeg born at 6:14 all being born with brown stripes on their hooves, others are not. Just superfluous rules created by us, for fun."
The other spoke now, "As I'm sure you have noticed, our fur and skin is far less colorful than the rest of the Capraeg. That is because we are blood related—there are about twelve of us, and there has been for 300 years. We are also the only ones of the Capraeg with the ability to scope a mind. Our ancestors were quiet and secluded; very few people knew who they were. They were constantly covered, waiting for the right moment to seize control of the civilization. They hatched a plan. They would sneak into the dwelling of the High Priest, wait for the moment of his prayers, and then reveal themselves as gods."
"Their plan worked. Soon after, they began to force the High Priest to depend more on religion. They convinced him that grass was too sacred to set foot on without proper preparation. He built an underground city. Our ancestors built this society."
"Our ancestors had a temple built for them, a rather fabulous dwelling, and through the High Priest forbade all Capraeg from coming anywhere near it, so they would not suspect. They created a family together. Through the generations, ideas were hatched and changes were made to make life a breeze for our family. You see, the move underground and the move away from technology and toward religion made it easy for us to make money. When sacrifices were made in the name of the gods or in the name of grass, when Capraeg died of natural causes, when criminals were put down, their bodies were left in a certain area above ground, where we would go, and remove their horns."
Spock blinked hard, fighting against the poison and trying to grasp what these monsters were trying to tell him.
"You see," one went on, "while the rest of the Capraeg moved farther away from technology, we, in our seclusion, moved closer to it. We discovered the intergalactic web system. We found infinite information. We learned about Starfleet. We learned about Klingons. We learned about black holes and blackbirds and the black market. People really seemed to like material made from horns and hooves. We made special arrangements with other species. We would leave horns in one specific area of the surface and they would trade with us. Only we and a very select few Capraeg were allowed on the surface anyway. It was a flawless plan."
"At least it was, until we had to call off one of our trades after discovering a human colony on our fields."
Spock was beginning to understand it all. These inbred Capraeg only had regard for themselves.
"Our clients were furious. But they hated humans. They said if we could massacre them and record it and send the file to them, we would be forgiven for calling off the trade, and could resume the trade at a later date."
The female smiled. "They even said we could travel with them for some time, and see other worlds. So I suppose when it came to recruiting T'Ke and the other Capraeg to go on a religious crusade against the human settlers, we got a little carried away."
"Our clients will be glad, however, to hear that we did not manage to kill the Vulcan quickly. Certainly they would like to see you tortured as well." The male added, stepping closer to him.
Spock's heart rate began to pick up. It all made sense now. Perhaps the Capraeg were not naturally violent, but had simply been brain washed. Not that it mattered—all that mattered was finding a way to survive and get back to the Enterprise. Mr. Scott and Ensign Chekov were safe—well, safer, and Spock's mission was finished. Could he escape? "Are you aware," he began. "Of Starfleet's prime directive? As advanced beings with modern technology, forcing a species to regress to a near-primitive lifestyle and harvesting their remains for monetary gain is in full violation of said directive." Spock paused for a breath again, his health not failing him but certainly not helping him either. "While Starfleet may not be able to condemn you for your actions against your own people, your fully-informed decision to slaughter the human colony will irrefutably cause you to be detained, perhaps even executed—"
"That won't be necessary." A new voice interrupted. A familiar voice. The color drained from the faces of the two false gods, for T'Ke had heard every word.
Night—by this time, Spock had been in T'Ke's dwelling before discovering them, and Doctor McCoy and the rest of sickbay had been working for nearly twelve hours.
Hypospray after hypospray. IVs. Stimulus to keep their hearts beating. Stimulus to keep them breathing. Other medical personnel had been called in, for this was almost certainly the most difficult case of McCoy's life. Younger, less experienced medical staff administered hypos and did tasks such as fetching tools and applying cool, damp towels—cleaning Scott's and Chekov's wounds, and clearing the sweat off of McCoy and Chapel. Although mundane, these tasks were all completely necessary in order to save the two officers.
"I don't know what we're going to do if First Officer Spock is in this kind of condition," one of the medics confessed to another. "We're stretched too thin as it is."
"We can worry about Spock when he gets here," McCoy barked to the young medic. "Right now I need all of your attention on the two almost dead patients right in front of you!" He was almost shaking, but suppressed it as best as he could so as not to further harm Scotty, who he was currently working on. The rest of the medical team had just managed to stop the bleeding.
"I'm sorry, sir."
Nurse Chapel was taking care of Chekov, who had not made a sound or a movement since the last array of hyposprays. Neither had the engineer. Christine was unsure if this should calm her or make her more nervous. They both, however, appeared to no longer be in pain. At least she had made them comfortable.
The engineer coughed, releasing a spray of blood.
"Christine, we have to focus on the internal damage now—their lungs—" Leonard stammered as another blue shirt wiped blood from his face.
Chapel had begun to slow. She began to set up a piece of equipment and waited for it to calibrate. As she waited, she turned to McCoy. "Doctor," she began in a tone of quiet acceptance. "Do you really think we can save them?"
McCoy looked at her, then looked at the clock again. He continued working as he surveyed the faces of his team. Absolutely no bedside manners. After less than half an hour, his crew had already lost all hope. When this was all over, he'd have to have a long talk with all of them. "I'm a doctor," he grunted. "Not a god. But dammit, that doesn't mean I won't try." He grimaced. "And that goes for all of you!" yelled the doctor.
The team picked up the pace in quiet agreement.
The High Priestess had tears in her fluorescent orange eyes. They did not move. They did not breathe.
"T-T'Ke~ltin—we—" the female began. She stood taller. "We commanded you to wait in your dwelling!"
"Enough!" T'Ke screamed. "You have toyed with my emotions! You have disturbed the natural order of my people! You have deceived the Capraeg for your own personal gain! And you have poisoned this innocent man." Her voice cracked, and she fell to her knees, her face buried in her hands.
"High Priestess, I beg of you, you are clearly under the influence of this alien's mind tricks!" The male pleaded.
T'Ke looked up at him, fire in her caprine eyes. "You dare to continue your façade?" She rose. "I've already sent for the guards. We'll just wait and see what my people think of your treachery…" She walked towards Spock and, with a key that had been around her neck, removed his restraints.
"Are you alright?" She asked.
"I am alive," Spock stated, dizzy. "The poison seems to not have the same effect on me as it does on humans—but be that as it may, I would still appreciate an antidote, if you know of one."
"Of course—the guards carry it on them in case a prisoner gets ahold of the poison and attacks them." T'Ke explained through her still-flowing tears. "They should be here any moment."
On cue, the guards arrived. Large and menacing, similar to minotaurs, but with purple tufts of fur. T'Ke spoke to them in her native language. They looked confused at first, and then hurt. The two false gods spoke in their native tongue as well, first commanding, then pleading. Then the guards looked furious. T'Ke approached them, and they handed her a vial. The guards and the gods continued to converse desperately as T'Ke brought the vial to Spock. He drank it down, unsure of what the effects would be with his physiology. Had he been thinking logically he would not have taken an unknown antidote—but too late for that now. He would have to wait and see when he got back to the Enterprise—which it seemed he most certainly would be doing. A pleasant thought. His heartrate began to return to a normal pace.
Suddenly, the guards lifted the false gods by the scruff of the necks, out of the chamber. T'Ke followed and signaled for Spock to come as well. He took a moment to stretch and breathe, then followed. Out of the chamber, out of the prison, into the town square. A signal was sounded. The two unorthodox Capraeg were led onto a platform, now handcuffed, with the guards standing behind them. Capraeg old and young poured into the square—hundreds, if not thousands. T'Ke stood on a large rock and addressed her people. She spoke for ten minutes, and the crowd grew more and more agitated. Gasps and cries were heard. Suddenly one person screamed something, and the words were echoed by another. Then another, until it became a chant. The mob drew closer to the false gods, who had looks of sheer horror on their faces.
Then Spock turned away, for the mob had begun to quite literally tear them to pieces. Parts of them flew through the air. He decided to run, away from the square and towards the rickety elevator which had taken him down beneath the planet. He could still hear the screams for mercy from Them. He could feel the raw emotion, the horror, the heartbreak, the rage. It was far too much. There was no point in reasoning with a group of people so illogical.
Out of breath and worn out from poison, Spock arrived at the elevator. There was one operator, a confused female teenager whose horns had just begun to grow in. Spock took a moment to collect himself, and was about to attempt to communicate with the girl when he saw her kneeling on the ground. He turned, and saw that T'Ke was behind him.
"You…wish to leave?" She asked, stained with red blood and her own tears.
"Yes," Spock began, thinking much more clearly now. The antidote was already taking effect. "My mission is complete, and now I must return to the ship."
"Then…all you said, about humans?" T'Ke's eyes grew large, showing her grief.
"I apologize to have lied to you," the Vulcan explained. "But there were not many options available to save both of my crewmen as well as myself."
"I see," T'Ke resigned, heartbroken. "I shall accompany you to the surface." She murmured her native language to the elevator operator, and they both boarded. The machine began to move upward. "What shall become of me? And of my people?"
Spock hesitated. "I will ensure that the Capraeg people will not be held responsible for their crimes against the colony, and that Starfleet will not interfere with Xenoan again—you have the option to continue your civilization as it is, or to move back above ground and advance. The decision is yours."
The rickety elevator was more than halfway to the surface, and the priestess whimpered. "My entire life—my entire culture—all of it, lies. All lies…what am I to do, Spock?" She looked into the Vulcan's eyes, which immediately moved away from hers.
Spock regretted to admit to himself that he did not really have much sympathy for the woman. The fact that two false gods had convinced her to massacre an entire colony did not change the fact that she not only enjoyed it, but clearly did not regret it either. Then again, these feelings could also just be intensified by the stress on his body and mind caused by the poison.
"I suppose you will have to start over." The Vulcan said without even so much as looking at the Capraeg leader. "Work with your people and begin anew." He was beginning to think the psychic abilities of the Capreag went beyond the mind-meld, as Spock now felt T'Ke's range of emotions—fear, heartbreak, and utter loathing. The Vulcan conceded: "If you really feel you need assistance, I can contact Starfleet and let them know the natural order of your society has been compromised, and they may consider sending an ambassador to ease your transition."
The Capraeg leader smiled through her tears in agreement, and the elevator arrived at the surface. Another young Capraeg assisted Spock and the woman onto a stepping stone, looking somewhat horrified at the sight of blood on the Priestess. T'Ke reassured the servant in her native tongue, and then led Spock down a path of stepping stones. She hesitated, and then stepped onto the grass, choosing to walk on it out of spite and malice to her false gods. Spock remained on the stones as T'Ke handed him back his missing communicator, which had begun beeping.
Dawn. Somehow, Spock had been on the planet for nearly twenty four hours.
"Captain!" Squeaked Èprouvé at the mission ops console. "Officer Spock is on the surface of Xenoan!"
Kirk jumped out of his chair. "Uhura, establish a connection immediately."
"He is with that woman—the leader who communicated with us before", the ensign informed him.
"Enterprise to Spock—this is Captain Kirk to First Officer Spock—come in, Spock!" Kirk pleaded.
"Spock here, Captain." The Vulcan's voice through the communicator sent the entire bridge into relief and joy. "Ready to beam aboard."
Jim signaled to Uhura, who contacted the transporter room. "Copy that, I'll meet you there, Spock. Kirk out—Èprouvé, you have the comm!" Kirk ran as fast as he could to the turbolift, then to the transporter room, where Spock was just being materialized. Kirk caught his breath as he waited for his Vulcan friend to fully form, then rushed forward to him.
"Spock!" the captain exclaimed breathlessly, filled with relief—then he stopped, and got a better look at his First Officer. Kirk looked horrified. "What—"
"Is something the matter, Captain?" Spock asked, genuinely surprised, and perplexed. He had not been harmed on the planet in any visible manner that he was aware of, and he felt no external pains.
"Spock, you're—you're covered in blood, are you alright?" Kirk reached out and put his hand on his friend's arm.
The Vulcan looked down. Indeed, he was surprised to see that he was definitely covered in blood. Not only blood, but bits of flesh with clumps of fur attached as well. The blood was red, and while it was not his, it was certainly unpleasant to find. It was probable that all that remained of them had found its way onto Spock's shirt.
"I am quite alright, Jim." Spock told the captain. "I was poisoned with the same chemical as Ensign Chekov and Engineer Scott, but it had little effect on me, and I was given an antidote as well. Otherwise I was completely unharmed. Now, I think it is wise that we contact Starfleet—"
A newer medical officer ran in with a hypospray. He was a young man, who was clearly bothered by the sight of Spock covered in blood. He ran up to the officer, "I'm terribly sorry, sir," said the medic. "But I'm under direct orders from Dr. McCoy."
Spock looked at him, and without another word the medical officer had jabbed him with a hypospray, and he was out cold.
Hours later, the Vulcan woke up in sickbay.
"Oh, good, you're awake," exclaimed a familiar voice. The next thing he knew, Spock had a small flashlight being shone in his eyes by Dr. McCoy. "How are you feeling?"
Spock searched for a word as quickly as possible. "Unharmed," he concluded.
Leonard checked his blood pressure. "Jim told me you were poisoned," he said as he worked. "Nothing was really showing up on my scanners, though, and you don't seem to be showing any signs of damage."
"I was given an antidote on the planet, as I told the captain." Spock explained. "Why did you find it necessary to—"
"I assumed you would be injured and knew you would put up a fight to come down here, so I told that kid to make you come if you looked wounded." McCoy recounted. "Damn fool didn't know Vulcans had green blood. But he's real sorry."
Spock would have pressed further, but McCoy was not smiling. He was not joking, or trying to lighten the mood. He looked tired. Tired did not actually even begin to describe how McCoy looked. Spock sat still and let him run his tests.
"It was real foolish of you to go down there," the doctor muttered.
Not wanting to push McCoy, Spock conceded: "Perhaps." He looked at the clock. He had beamed aboard four hours ago. Surely the ship was far away from Xenoan by now.
The Vulcan recalled the moments before he was energized. T'Ke had begged him to stay. She told him he was welcome back on their planet whenever he so chose. Thankfully, he was aboard the ship again before he had a chance to respond. He would take pleasure in never returning to Xenoan or the Capraeg people again. He took a deep breath as McCoy checked his lungs.
"Doctor," he began. "Mr. Scott and Ensign Chekov?"
Leonard sighed. "They're still alive, for now." He put down his tools. "We've been working on them for nearly twenty four hours. We were able to get them to a stable condition about an hour ago, but that may not last."
Spock wanted to look over to the other end of sickbay, but there was a curtain blocking his view. The only patients seemed to be Scotty, Chekov, and himself.
Sulu had been discharged the previous day as soon as Mr. Scott and Chekov were brought in. On McCoy's orders, however, he had not returned to duty.
"Have you been sleeping, Doctor?" the Vulcan asked carefully. Bones shot him a look.
"I got five hours or so," he admitted. "I don't have much of a choice, Spock. But things have calmed down. I'll take a break when Nurse Chapel returns." The doctor stood up and stretched his neck. He exhaled and gazed off toward the curtain partition. "Alright, Spock, you're fine. You can return to your quarters and get some rest, but if you'd like to make a report to Starfleet or visit the bridge first, you can. Just don't go back to work until tomorrow, just to be safe. Come back before dinner so I can check some things again, then you'll be clear."
Spock rose from the bed, relieved for this situation to be nearing its resolution. It certainly was a long and painful mission. "Thank you, Dr. McCoy. I hope that you will be able to rest soon."
"Likewise," the CMO said with a small smile, hands clasped behind his back. "And I'm glad to see you back in one piece. I'm sure Scotty and Chekov will be grateful as well." Without another word, McCoy walked over to the partition, and disappeared behind it.
The Vulcan took a deep breath, then took his leave to change his still-blood stained shirt.
One month later, Ensign Pavel Chekov returned for duty on the bridge. Engineer Scott followed him up, to say hello. They received lots of smiles, and Chekov took his seat next to Sulu. Kirk flashed them both a lopsided grin. The Enterprise and its various missions certainly had not been the same without them during that time.
Even after Scott and Chekov had physically recovered, which had been a long and arduous process, McCoy had to work through their emotional damage. The things they had seen and the things that had been done to them had been detrimental to their mental health. The Capraeg had all but destroyed them.
"How are you feeling, Chekov? Scotty?" Kirk asked, leaning back.
"Glad to be back, keptin!" chirped the navigator.
"Better than ever, sir!" the Scotsman replied in a joyous tone, flashing a smile to Spock, who nodded in acknowledgement.
"Well, everyone's back, safe, Starfleet has some officers dealing with Xenoan," mused the captain. "It looks like this whole debacle is finally over."
"It does seem that way, sir," Spock replied.
"In that case—I think it's time we go on a little excursion." Kirk said, "Chekov, set a course for the nearest planet cleared for shore leave, we are going to celebrate."
"Aye aye, keptin!" Chekov responded excitedly. And with that, their calamity with the Capraeg people and with Xenoan had officially come to a close, and the crew of the starship Enterprise was able to continue on their five year mission, unsure of what awaited them next. The starship leapt forward, away from the dark past and towards the unknown.
A/N: IT'S DONE. A KINGDOM OF HATE, 2009-2016. GOOD LORD. Anyway, I'm never doing this again. I do have plans for future fics but I don't promise anything, and if I do they will be one-shots. Thank you all for bearing with me through these years. I'd also like to take a moment to acknowledge the death of Leonard Nimoy, may he rest in peace. I think he had an amazing influence on all of us. Live Long and Prosper.
