Out of the smoke emerged a tall, husky figure wielding a large and incredibly intimidating gun. Khan noted that it was a weapon he had designed and he could feel his blood begin to bubble. As the figure drew closer, Khan's blood was boiling at a fever pitch. He was sure he would explode from the inside out and his fists crashed against the glass as he bellowed in utter pain and rage.

"Well, well, son, so we meet again," Admiral Marcus said in a smug voice, a disturbingly calm smile on his face as he walked up to Khan's chamber.

There were so many words Khan wanted to say in that moment, so many actions he wished he could take. He longed to lay his hands on the man, tear skin into shreds, gouge out eyes, pull teeth, rip hair, snap bones - but instead he was trapped like a fly in a jar. It was not supposed to turn out this way. This was not how he had envisioned his reunion with Marcus. Trapped with his source of help unconscious on the floor. It was so pathetic, so incredibly humiliating, that no words came to him. Just screams. Gut-wrenching, heart-aching screams. His entire body was in tremors.

"Not so super now, are you?" Marcus asked, tone mocking pity. He tapped on the glass gently and laughed when Khan's powerful kick left the chamber undamaged.

"Thanks for your help, son. My ship is beautiful. Couldn't think of a better designer. She really is flawless. I'm sorry for firing on all of you but I couldn't help but show her off a little. What do you think of your work?" And the Admiral stretched his arms out, pointing to the smoke filling the room and the bits and pieces of metal lying around in disarray. "This is her when she yawns. I've yet to see her when she roars, but I gotta admit that I am impressed. Can't blame you for being a cocky little bastard. You are smart. But you aren't smart enough. You thought you could fuck with me, huh? First with the torpedoes trick, then with your petty little temper tantrum over at Section 31 and again at our official meeting? Well, I've got news for you. Nobody fucks with me and gets away with it! My ship could destroy the Enterprise and everyone on board in a matter of seconds, you know that. But that would have been all too easy. This way…this way's more fun. You know what I'm going to do now, son? I'm going to enlist some of the crew onboard this pussy of a ship. I'm going to threaten them on pain of death to help me. With their help, I am going to go to the torpedoes and I am going to bring all 72 of them here. And then I am going to destroy each and every torpedo while you sit there watching, trapped and helpless. And finally, just to make it clear that it was a mistake not to blow you up on Kronos like I instructed, I am going to go back to my ship so I can destroy the Enterprise…I'm going to suck the life out of her section by section…slowly and painfully."

Just as Marcus was about to turn, his eyes fell on the heap of golden hair and nightgown on the floor. Marcus' face filled with a sad horror and he threw aside the weapon in his hand as if it were suddenly smouldering hot. "Carol," his words came out in a choked whisper. "What in God's name?" Then he was kneeling over her, pulling at her golden hair to find the bump on her head where weapon had met scalp. She wasn't supposed to be here. How had she gotten on board? He had told her to stay away from Starfleet…to stay out of his life and his affairs. Marcus' breathing was laboured against the smoke and his emotions. He coughed heavily.

Khan saw the hurt on Marcus' face. The Admiral obviously cared about Carol in some twisted way and, though Khan did not understand why, he wanted to take advantage of it. Despite the fact that he was still trembling uncontrollably, he finally found the inner strength to form words. "Carol is helping me. She knows what you have done." He let his words fall heavy and thick.

For a moment, the room was silent save for the call of the ship's alarm which continued to echo helplessly through the hallway. In the next second, Marcus' laughter filled the empty spaces with a hollow sound, one that teetered on the edges of hurt and disgust.

As the Admiral was moving to stand, his eyes fell on the woman's name tag: CAROL WALLACE. His entire body tensed up and he quickly tore the name tag from her nightgown, throwing it across the room into the smoke. For a second, he looked like he may strike the unconscious girl a second blow but, instead, he stood on shaky feet and muttered towards her unconscious form, "To hell with you and your mother."

Khan was initially pleased with the raw hurt that Carol's presence and his words seemed to cause Marcus. But at Marcus' latest utterance, Khan's eyebrows furrowed in confusion. To hell with you and your mother? The superhuman's eyes fleeted over the Admiral's face, from his sharp features to his icy eyes - eyes that reminded the superhuman of Carol's. And then a wave of vertigo washed over Khan as he came to a sickening realization. A memory hurtled into his mind, clear and vivid and horrifying. Pictures that he had seen once, when he was building weapons for the Admiral. The first, a photo of a very young Marcus hand in hand with a beautiful lady. Underneath the picture, words were scrawled in cursive: Alex Marcus and fiancé Teresa Wallace. The second, a photo of a young Marcus holding a golden-haired toddler in his arms. Underneath this picture, too, were words scrawled in cursive: Daddy and Daughter Carol on Father's Day, 1986.

The woman who now lay unconscious at his feet - the woman who he had allowed himself to grow fond of - was the daughter of Admiral Marcus.

An excruciating pain ripped through Khan and he keeled over, feeling violently nauseous. With a sweaty palm, he clutched at his heart. It thumped madly against his chest and he swore that it was breaking in utter outrage. But through the blinding pain, he saw Marcus retreat back into the smoke and his emotions shifted. Marcus was going to destroy the torpedoes. He had to do something. He was desperate, frantic, in sheer panic. So he did the only thing he could do. He backed up to the farthest corner of the wall and he ran.

He ran hard, harder than he ever had before, so that his skin ached, his hair pulled at his temple, and there was a deafening noise in his ears as the wind rushed past him. The glass was coming ever closer. He took a deep breath. He was going to break through. He had to. There was the power of a hundred well-built men in his run. He let out a Herculean bellow and he was soaring, soaring until…his face hit the glass, lips splitting open and sending blood shooting in every direction. His world went black for a moment as he fell to the floor. But he could not give up. He jumped back onto his feet and punched and punched and punched and punched the glass, pouring every ounce of anger into his fists, not stopping for a breath even when his vision blurred from exhaustion. He called for help, his screams so powerful that the walls around him shook and his lungs felt they would tear in two. But his efforts were futile. He could no longer hear frantic activity and he realized that, in the aftermath of the attack, everyone had congregated in three rooms aboard the ship: the bridge, the operating room, and the engine room. No one would hear his cries. With a final punch of defeat, he crumbled to the floor in a heap, shamelessly sobbing, his throat turning dry and sore.

But then there was a noise next to him and he sat bolt upright to find Carol looking at him wearily, fingers pressed against her temple.