So it had come to her attention that she was once again a goddamn hostage.
Bloody hell she cursed as she blew out a breath of frustration.
She was pissed off beyond belief and burying the clawing fear coursing through her veins she blocked out her panic through sheer force of will ; a deep breath steadying her mind.
As Jim looked around, squinting in the dim flickering light - she sighs as she once again tugs on the ropes which had been wrapped around her wrists. The pipe she was currently attached to whirred to life with vibrations every twenty seconds or so, the hairs on her arms prickling and standing on edge with each burst of sensation.
The clang-clanging sound of her tugging against it a perfect replica of the banging headache which had crept up on her after the torrent of abuse she had thrown at her kidnappers. The shouting and over-use of profanity-laden words leaving her throat dry and hoarse.
First things first she had to find the exit and get the hell off this rust-bucket.
In the top most corner of the room – a crude twentieth century security camera panned the expanse of her cell, a small window directly beneath it showing the flashing of streaking stars as they travelled at warp. In the right hand corner a bucket lay on its side, a sludge of slime forming a puddle around the base as it ebbed ever so slowly over the rim. The contents of which Jim definitely did not want to investigate further.
To the left of the room a cot lay upside down, the straw filling of the mattress beneath it blackened by decay and age. She gives a ridiculous snort at the thought of sleeping while she was in this mess.
The door she was looking for pulses with the blue glow of a containment field, the static shock of the electric currents running through it a clear warning to avoid touching it or to suffer the consequences.
''Are you comfortable my dear?'' she hears a crackly, tinny voice ask her. The tone laced with humour and she growls beneath her breath as she recognises the voice.
''Yeah, just peachy thanks.'' She sneers at the camera - the chuckle emanating from the intercom system setting her teeth on edge.
''You left me no choice, Captain Kirk. Your inferior mate was in my way. He had to be disposed of. Now that he has been removed from our lives, perhaps now we may start again, the two of us. Together.''
''I would rather – and I mean this from the depths of my soul that is itching to kick your ass – DIE – than ever consider being yours.'' She spits in disgust.
Jim hears a long suffering exaggerated sigh and braces herself for the consequences of her quick temper.
''So be it. We will do this the hard way then. It may take weeks, it may take years but in the end I always get what I want.''
The intercom falls silent and she allows herself to experience a small shiver of fear before shaking her head to rid herself of the emotion; her command training kicking in automatically once the moment has passed.
How in the hell did this asshole find her again?
She estimates that they've been at warp four for two days. Some innate clock inside her mind subconsciously counts down the minutes since she was forcefully separated from her crew.
From Spock.
No-one has disturbed her. Not a sound has been made outside of her containment field. Only the hum of the ship and the vibration of the machinery she has been tied to gives her something to focus on.
The lights have been kept off, some form of punishment she assumes – sensory deprivation if she recalls correctly and she huffs with humour as she looks towards the exit.
The containment field's blue glow - a steady pulse of light shining on her face every few seconds- was bright enough to illuminate the entire room and its decrepit state; ultimately making their 'torture' ineffective and downright bloody stupid.
Jim shivers slightly – the dress she had been wearing the night of the charity event has been reduced to nothing more than a dirty piece of cloth flapping loosely around her limbs. She had gotten rid of her shoes the moment she had been tied up; thinking that if the chance to run presented itself it would be a hell of a lot easier to do so barefoot than in three inch heels…then again if she had her hands free it would be a treat to stick those treacherously pointy heels right in the former Prince's eyes and watch him squirm.
When she got out of this mess there would be hell to pay. She would maroon him on planet Hoth where Spock had dumped her and she would revel in the knowledge that he was being chased by creatures and dangers unknown who would love to tear him limb from limb.
Jim tugs uselessly on her bindings again – CLANG – the pipe creaking ominously as it gives way about an inch before settling back into place. If she had had her full strength she would have been celebrating but since her body had taken to growing weaker and more fragile with each passing week the further along she got into her pregnancy she didn't want to over exert herself in case she harmed her child.
She was disgusted by the beads of sweat that appeared on her forehead, the shaking of her muscles and the longer she struggled the more hopelessness crept in. It would take a force of greater strength than her own to dislodge the pipe and break free. Rather than waste energy and effort on something she was fast coming to realise was futile – she instead sat back down; leaning her shoulder against the wall as she tried to think of another way to escape.
The containment field gave a loud burst of noise before suddenly vanishing with a crack and in its place goon one – her torturer from the last go round – stepped through her cell door and smirked.
Jim watched him with narrowed eyes - teeth baring in a sneer of warning as she watches him approach her. She lashes out at him with her legs, a kick intending to remind him of the time she had kicked him squarely in the family jewels and she saw him hesitate before roughly reaching down and grabbing a fistful of her hair.
''Get up! The master wants to see you. Although why he would be so enamoured with a wretch like you is beyond me. Back on Borellus we could've had the pick of the finest females our land had to offer. It wasn't until you showed up that our master lost all sense!'' he vehemently snarls and Jim whimpers as the grip on her hair tightens.
She feels the pipe move, the screech of metal on metal giving her an idea and pretending to comply as he drags her onto her feet- she manoeuvres herself until she is positioned right over the weakest spot of the pipe.
Using the force with which he was pulling her up with, she flings her body towards him with all her strength – breaking free. The pipe splinters and shatters - her still bound hands form fists as they strike upwards. The momentum of her body making her collide sharply with his nose.
He hollers loudly as he stumbles backwards; clutching at his face and she has no time smirk or whoop in glee before she bends low to the ground sweeping his legs out from underneath him with another deadly kick.
The sound of his skull hitting the floor gives her a sense of euphoria and satisfaction that she would most likely have to examine in further detail in her counselling sessions.
She jumps from her crouched position, her legs charging up for her final strike and as predicted he starts to sit up, his eyes glassing over from the concussion he has surely received. Jim moves behind him- wrapping her legs around his waist before throwing her bound hands around his neck and pulling back sharply. Her intention is not to kill the lumbering idiot but to simply subdue him.
Although god help her she had enough reason to put him out of his misery as her mind supplied her with snippets of their time together.
He clumsily and frantically fumbles at the rope around his neck, his eyes bulging from their sockets, the double ridges on his forehead becoming more pronounced as the blood rushes to his head; a motley dark purple tarnishing his brown face. He thrashes his body wildly from side to side in his attempts to throw her off and loosen her grip around his airway. She clings to him and ignores the way her back scrapes the floor, the way her elbows smack into the ground and how her muscles tremble with adrenaline.
She starts to count back from a hundred, her teeth clenched tightly; eyes shut under the onslaught of his fury.
After what felt like an eternity she starts to notice the first signs of his defeat and ultimate surrender. His breathing - once the loudest sound in the room – became no more than panicked stutters of breath as his mind no doubt raced for a way to suck in vital air. His arms flailed and fell limp to the ground, the thrashing of his legs turning into a scuffle and scrape of boots on the floor.
The startling quiet of the room was unnerving, the sounds of gasping breaths and wheezy lungs fighting for air which had echoed and bounced across the room a minute ago were suddenly gone. Jim painstakingly pushed him off her, the effort almost proving too much as she grunted in pain. Stretching her legs out slowly, the strain from holding him in place having made all her muscles bunch up and cramp in my places she didn't even realise she had.
Half-heartedly she opened one eye and looked over to goon one who was face down on the floor and reluctantly she leaned her left hand over and placed it on his neck to check for a pulse… Good the dumbass was still breathing she thought with mixed feelings and reckoning she had about ten minutes before more minions came to check up on them she did her best to get back on her feet and out the bloody door before more trouble came her way.
Patting him down for any weapons, she found nothing but a knife and a key card which would hopefully grant her access to all sections of the ship. She placed her thumb on the tip of the knife and hummed as it dented her skin.
The goon obviously wasn't into keeping his weapons in good condition and she fiercely wished she had a phaser in her hand as she approached the exit. She flips the blade upside down between her tied wrists and as fast as she was able - cut the cords till they frayed and split open, dropping to the ground with a dull thud.
She kept her arm low, knife at the ready as she peeped her head round the frame of the door, the metallic and rusty smell of the ship emanating from what must be the engine room.
Steam vents periodically let out gusts of white plumes along the corridor and the occasional yell of an engineer could be heard over the machinery noise.
No time like the present.
Keeping her back to the wall and taking it slow, her bare feet scraping across the grimy floor, she stops to activate the containment field behind her – locking her away her idiot escort.
She watches the hallway intently and with a bit of time and a rather large dose of luck she ducks and weaves towards the engine room entrance, letting each steam vent erupt before moving on to avoid the next. It's laborious, tiring and extremely tedious being quiet she thinks.
If she had her weapons on her she would have loved to go in guns blazing – teaching them all a lesson on who NOT to ever, ever fuck with.
She crouches and crawls towards the railings in front of her, the balcony overlooking a vast engine room which contained a minute warp core in comparison to the enterprise. Scotty would laugh himself sick at the sight. She quickly does a head count.
Five men in total; their backs turned to her. Each man deeply engrossed in their jobs, the occasional shouts of ''affirmative'' and ''status'' being hollered between them. She dearly wishes she could fight them but biting down hard on her lip she sneers at them instead as she shuffles quietly on all fours towards the next door which would hopefully contain a ladder which would lead up and into the crew quarters.
Once again she had no grand master plan of escape. She would try to be as sneaky as possible, using the darkness of the ship to her advantage, locate a shuttle or escape pod and hijack the damn thing to get away.
She knew when to pick her battles and fighting a throng of armed men who were superior in strength due to their species whilst pregnant is not something smart Captains did – or in general for that matter.
Blessedly there is a ladder as she nears the platforms edge and giving a quick glance over her shoulder she steadily begins to climb. The biting coldness of the metal bars beneath her feet making her clench her teeth- the metal akin to ice that burns with prolonged contact.
There is no hatch as she reaches the top and she pauses a moment to catch her breath and wipe at her brow before sticking her head up to check if the coast is clear.
The section of the ship she had entered was decorated with ghastly green paisley designs on the walls, the fraying red, scuffed up carpets pulling up in the corners – a good thing for muffling her steps but equally as bad for her because it would take her longer to notice someone approaching.
She was definitely on the crew deck. She lifts herself carefully out of the hole, her knees coming to land in the scratchy carpet as she places a hand on the wall to steady herself as she stands.
She holds her breath, her body seizing up tight as she hears laughter emerge from the end of the passage, the clinking of dishes and glasses scraping tables, the wooden thunks of seats being moved around. The mess hall. Her stomach grumbles loudly and she swallows down the saliva that pools in the back of her mouth at the thought of a coffee or a bite to eat.
It's been almost three days without food or water – for her and her baby. Sensory deprivation may not have worked but starvation will certainly do it.
Tarsus flits through her mind and she angrily shakes her baby-brain again as she refocuses on her task of escaping.
Remember Jim! No fighting! We are all cool and calm stealth personified and Spock would totally kick your ass after giving birth for brawling and letting other men touch you!
She manages to pass three rooms without incident - hiding once behind a wall mercifully wider than her body as someone leaves their rooms and walks the other way.
From what she can see there are no passcodes needed to enter them and looking down at her bloodied and bruised feet she decides that one detour is definitely needed. She slips into an empty room, knife at the ready, aching knees slightly bent in preparation for an unexpected attack as she cranes her neck this way and that checking all her corners before straightening out and heading for the nearest closet.
Well… beggars can't be choosers she sighs as she lifts up a grey dark stained shirt up to the dim light. She manages to scrounge up some ill-fitting pants that hang low on her ass but secure enough not to slip down and luckily the hems stopped at her ankles. She knew without looking that the boots lying about the floor would be far too big for her.
She debated staying bare foot but as she whipped off the tattered remains of her evening dress - she tore pieces off and stuffed them into the toes of the boots - her feet slipping in easily. Tying the laces as tight as they could go she knocked the front of each boot on the floor testing and gauging their weight.
Horrendously ugly... but she could walk or run in them without too much bother.
She spots a few pieces of fruit on a platter next to the cot and grabs one bringing it to her mouth with speed before Bones' voice all but shrieks at her to 'Put that goddamned piece of fruit down you IDIOT! Who knows what eating alien fruit could do to someone with as many allergies as you have!'
She throws it down with frustration and taking the tiniest sip of water in the glass next to the platter, hums with relief as her dry throat is partially quenched.
She catches sight of her reflection and pauses to take herself in. She's covered in grime but otherwise more or less unscathed except for her feet. She nods at her reflection as she has done so many times before aboard the enterprise and rolling her neck once she ties her hair back with a flourish, settling her mouth into a grim line and carrying on.
She needs to find the shuttle bay and get out of here with no one knowing she had even escaped.
For Spock.
For their child.
It was a curious thing to be both dead and alive. Existing and non-existent all within the same breath. He could not determine whether he had crossed over to the afterlife that the humans he had met had so frequently spoken of and if so, how disappointed they would be to discover that nothing was what would be found on the so-called other side.
Nothing but darkness.
A void which no light could penetrate, no sound could be heard and yet somehow his own thoughts seemed to echo around him, loud and unnatural. He struggles to recall how he came to be here. It was a most unnerving sensation to look down and where he would expect to see his legs and feet, instead he saw nothing.
To feel – an anathema to his kind in the first place - an ache in his chest and yet when he goes to touch the spot he finds he has no arms or hands with which to soothe the wound. He comes to the conclusion that it is just his consciousness, his katra if you will - that is lingering.
Floating calmly amongst the nothingness. Logically he assumes his body must have expired. His heart must have ceased to beat and yet he could not understand why his katra would linger here in this desolate place.
He struggles to grasp onto his logic, his sense, his awareness of self.
He floats aimlessly through the darkness in despair. Something terrible has happened. He knows not his own name but he knows what he is, what land he has come from – yet he cannot stop the relentless, panicked feeling that there is another's name whom he should know.
Another soul that should be drifting alongside him.
A glint of gold catches his unseeing yet seeing eyes and with arms stretched out, hands wading through nothingness he makes it close enough to see that the unidentified glint of gold was a rope.
A rope that hangs down seemingly from nowhere, beautifully and intricately braided. With apprehension he places a single finger on the thread.
JIM!
He does not give a further thought to anything else. Not they why's or the who's or how he came to be here. All he can feel, all he can breathe is this name.
A litany of 'jimjimjimjim'. He will climb out of this void, crawl through this darkness if he must. He would find this Jim.
His reason for living.
For existing.
His everything.