At some point in time, the universe had begun to shift around Captain James T. Kirk.

A space which had originally only been Jim-sized had been expanded, built upon, and slowly reshaped in order to accommodate another one beside him. A space which was distinctly Spock-sized. An increasingly shrinking part of Jim claimed utter ignorance of this change. Another was convinced that it would just be temporary. But he was only really thrown into stark, sharp, undeniably conscious awareness of it when he was faced with the sudden prospect of finding it irrevocably emptied.

He was across the bridge and on his knees next to his first officer before he'd ever realized he'd moved, turning him over and taking in with a kind of chilling horror the burnt flesh along one side of his face, oozing green and charred black. The internal com systems were down. He reached around, slinging one of Spock's arms over his shoulder and working his own beneath his legs, trying to be careful of his injuries…

"Captain," he heard Uhura say, a hand falling on his shoulder and squeezing too tightly. "We need you here. Everything's gone insane!"

"I have to -"

"I've got him," he heard Sulu say suddenly, and a moment later the helmsman was beside him, and then hands were working against his, unwinding him from Spock. He wanted to resist. He was stiff with shock, and the cold, silent feel of Spock's skin where it met the touch of his hands.

No more buzz.

If he wasn't breathing, Jim would have thought he was dead.

But he could hear the cries of the other injured bridge crew, and see the flashing lights, and knew that they were panicking. Everyone was panicking – everything was chaos. His ship had gone to hell in a matter of minutes, flying blind and with only Chekov's quick thinking and swift movements keeping them from rocketing apart again. So he let Sulu take Spock, looking up as he did into the other man's grim, horrified face, and knowing that he had to trust.

Because he couldn't leave.

"We need sensors and communications back," he said abruptly, his voice rough and sounding like it was a million miles away as he stood up. There was green blood on his hands. He moved over to the science station, forgoing the instinct to go back to this chair, and found his mind kicking into crisis mode. Step one, maintain their defense. Step two, assess the damages. Step three, repair the most immediate problems in order to enable the ship to free itself from danger…

He sent the rest of the seriously injured to sickbay, straight-off, and then with words that sounded like they were coming from somewhere else entirely assigned a gold-clad lieutenant to help Chekov maintain their shield modulations. Then he whipped underneath the science station and reached under until he found the emergency spanner, and unceremoniously ripped the melted console off, exposing the systems underneath the interface. The sensors were hooked up the most thoroughly to the bridge. He needed to find the branching-out point of the damage, and that would be dangerous, as everything was still crackling and flaring intermittently. Once he'd located the area, he could assign someone to fix it, but he wasn't letting anyone else mess around in this. "Weapons?" he asked, tracing the burnt systems to their source.

Someone answered to tell him that they couldn't tell if they were operational or not. He moved further down, ripping off another, less-damaged console top as he followed his path. Sensors. They needed to see.

The ship rocked again, and Jim nearly put his hand into a nest of wires that would have rendered him a very dead man indeed. He wished he knew more about engineering, he had a feeling this would be going a lot easier if he did.

"I think we're under fire, sir!" an unnamed ensign said. She'd taken Sulu's station.

They couldn't risk shooting blind, even if their weapons were working. "Uhura! Communications?" he asked, knowing he needed to get his ship organized again.

"We're scrambled, sir," she said, and there was a definite note of fear to her voice. There was fear to all their voices, except for Jim's, which was just strangely hard and sharp.

"Take your emergency vocal amplifier," he said. Fancy name for an electronic bullhorn, really. "Go through the decks. I want the Irri to stay contained and I want the sensors back…" he trailed off for a moment as he was burned again, but somehow didn't even flinch. "Get security to close off the lower levels and have engineering re-route power to make sure we don't lose the shields." They were probably the only thing keeping them alive. "Find out if transporters are working. If they are, we might be able to redirect sensors through their locking systems." The last he added with the same rough detachment as the rest. "Have the emergency shuttles readied, too. Grab anyone you need to spread word faster." At least the environmental systems and life support still seemed to be working.

He was smearing green blood on everything. On the sparking, spitting cables of his torn apart ship.

And then he found it. Overloaded. Almost completely melted. It was the connector that hooked up the bridge's system to the sensors, and he blinked, not really feeling hopeful but knowing there was hope that the sensors themselves could be restored if this one part was replaced.

He sent the lieutenant helping Chekov to engineering. They needed an engineer, and they needed the replacement parts. Now there were only three people on the bridge – himself, Chekov, and another ensign who was trying to establish just what could work. Jim moved to help modulate the shield frequencies. He was nowhere near as fast as his swiftly tiring ensign, but he managed all the same.

It seemed like a small eternity of numbers and numbness and the motion of his own burnt, stained hands before the lift open, and the lieutenant returned along with Sulu and an engineer who looked like he'd seen better days. Jim directed him curtly to the source of the problem, and then moved over to one of the computer consoles. If the systems were scrambled then it was likely the frequency of the 'shouting' device had affected the operating interfaces more than the actual hardware itself. This, Jim could deal with. This was programming. His first thought was to just completely shut down the entire computer system and then reboot it – always a standard. But a little more complex on a starship. If they shut down the computer system, they'd lose shields for at least thirty seconds.

More than enough time to get blown up by Klingon cruisers. Sensors were looking even more imperative.

There was a shock, a burst, a shout. He turned, and grimly noted that the engineer had badly damaged his hand. The man endured the pain, and Jim sent Sulu over to follow his instructions and help finish the repairs. He tried to figure out if they could reboot while still keeping the shields operating by isolating that part of the system, but with everything so damaged, even finding the right system to isolate was impossible.

Dimly, some part of his mind noted that they hadn't been shaken up by any further phaser fire. "Are external communications down?" he asked. The young ensign moved over to Uhura's station and checked.

"I think we're still broadcasting our interference noise," she said. There was a question – which of the things they'd done had actually stopped the assault on them? If any of them had? He was fairly certain it was the shields, but that could be coincidence.

Time to take a risk.

"Stop the transmissions, ensign. Slowly," he advised. The tension was thick in the air as his request was obliged, but there was no great shuddering of the ship, no resuming of the initial, devastating attack. "Good. Try and get a signal to the Nelson." They could only hope that the other vessel's external communications systems were working as well.

"Yes, sir," the ensign replied.

"How much longer until we can see if we have sensors back?" Jim demanded of the engineer and Sulu.

"Almost there, captain," the engineer replied stoically, his face covered in a sheen of sweat as he held his injured hand against himself. Dimly, Jim was aware that he should feel badly for the man. But he was flying on complete autopilot now – if he let himself feel bad at all, it would be like pulling a structural support from a tower.

There was something very chilling about the quiet of the bridge for the next few minutes. Because it was a crisis, and so there should have been a hundred things going on at once, and the sense of urgency was there. But with the systems down, the bridge became an almost useless place to be. It unsettled him – it was like having his hands cut off.

"Got it, captain!" Sulu declared, and then Jim was off again, moving to try and activate the sensors – internal, external, at least something. The interface system was still messed up, and he couldn't get a lot of it to read properly, but they were getting information – it was working.

They could finally start pulling their heads above the water now.

With determination, Jim prioritized finding out what was going on in the space beyond the ship as the most pressing need. He sent their engineer to sickbay – Bones was probably living in hell right now – and tried to see their enemies. It was a bit like fumbling his way through a dark room with a pin-light, since a lot of the data which came through wasn't translated from its base codes into a more interpretable form for him, but eventually he managed to assess that the Nelson was still out there. Status unclear, but there were also two fewer Klingon ships and a whole lot of debris.

The darker side within him hoped he'd get a crack at the one left.

"Any response from the Nelson?" he asked.

"I… can't really tell, sir," the ensign at communications confessed. Jim moved over to the station, but while it wasn't as damaged as others, Uhura had been accurate when she'd said it was fairly scrambled. It would take someone more familiar with it than either of them to figure out what the hell was going on.

"Go find Lieutenant Uhura," he instructed. "If she's still working on her assignment," which was likely, "take over for her." He should have had someone else do it in the first place, he realized, but Uhura was communications, so it had made sense to send her off to communicate.

"Sir," Sulu said, from where he'd returned to the helm. "Navigation is back online. Should I move us?"

Jim thought about it, but almost immediately shook his head. "We don't have any idea what condition the engines are in," he reasoned. He didn't want to kill anybody in engineering. Or blow up the ship. A warpcore breach would be just terrific now – they probably wouldn't be able to get the ejection system working.

A few minutes later, the turbolift doors opened to reveal an Uhura who looked like she'd just run a mile. "I saw Spock," were the first words out of her mouth, and they caused Jim to freeze up. "He's stable."

Very slowly, Jim offered her a nod. He couldn't deal with it right now. He'd managed to avoid even thinking his first officer's name since he let Sulu cart him off the bridge, and if he started down that road, something told him he'd make for a pretty shitty captain in a hurry. Nevertheless, he felt some of the hollowness inside of him fade away a little bit.

"We need to get through to the Nelson. They might know more about what's happening, and whether or not we can lower shields," he replied.

Uhura's expression shifted a little, as if she wasn't sure what to make of him, but then she moved over to her station and swiftly got to work.

Jim moved back to the sensors, and started trying to get scans of the internal systems, to figure out what was going on within the ship now. If two of the Klingon cruisers had been destroyed then it stood to reason that the Enterprise had been fired on first, and the Nelson had somehow – hopefully – managed to avoid attack. Or at least the kind of attack which they'd just suffered through. At that point, he didn't care how much he disliked the Nelson's crew, he would sing their praises for months if they helped get them out of this mess.

The sound of the turbolift opening again caught his attention. He looked over, and was surprised to see Ensign Mercado stumble in. She had a bruise the size of a grapefruit on her face, and going off of the way she was moving, that wasn't her only injury. "Captain," she said. "The locking systems on all the doors have failed – the Irri are loose."

Jim considered this. After a moment he decided that, yes, this qualified as the single worst mission they'd had since the Narada incident.

"What are they doing?" he asked.

Mercado sagged a bit against the nearest wall. "Going insane."

"You'll need to be more specific, Ensign," he said, maybe just a little harshly, but Uhura had started to pop some of his 'autopilot' bubble, and now he was beginning to feel it. "Are they running around trying to kill people? Smashing things? Fighting one another? What?"

"All of that, sir," Mercado admitted, looking a little cowed. "We – Security, I mean – tried to stop them, but they're not even acting themselves at all. We've… several were shot, and there have been casualties, sir." She swallowed, hard, and looked decidedly shaken at that.

Casualties.

It would have probably been naïve to think they'd get through this without any.

Either way, this issue clearly required his immediate attention. They'd never fix anything if there was a group of homicidal aliens on a murderous rampage to contend with. He wasn't entirely certain what he could do, but given that he'd lost his leadership over them because they thought he was dead, then maybe his being alive would have an effect. A complicated, long-term messy effect, and it wouldn't accomplish much if they were too crazy to realize. But he couldn't think of anything else.

"Uhura," he said. "Keep trying to get through to the Nelson. Mr. Sulu, I'm giving you the bridge. Use your best judgment." It was, in the end, the only advice he could really give the other man. Then he got a phaser off of Mercado – barely charged, but better than nothing – and made his way from the bridge, instructing the ensign to stay behind and catch her breath, since she looked on the verge of collapse.

Some of the emergency lights in the corridors had failed. It gave his usually bright ship an uncannily dark feeling as he headed for the cargo holds.

It didn't take him long to track down the location of the problem. He could hear the phaser fire from well away, in addition to cries of alarm and a dull, erratic pounding which reverberated slightly through the deck. He flattened himself to one side of the corridor as a streamer of orange-red light erupted through the air ahead of him, firing from around a bend in the passage. There were shouts – he made out a few words, 'get down' and 'fuck' and other such common phrases for when the shit had hit the fan.

He had to assume, since Ensign Mercado had made it to the bridge, that he was coming around on the 'friendly' side of the fight. Which meant that the Irri had somehow gotten their hands on at least one phaser.

Brilliant.

On the off chance that Mercado had gotten to the bridge by shimmying through the life support system, and had neglected to mention that fact, Jim moved as quietly as he could to peer around the corridor and take stock of the situation. Immediately, he decided that he was going to recommend his security team for some kind of commendation when they got out of this. Somehow they'd managed to remove the doors from several of the smaller storage rooms, and had used them to create a blockade, keeping the Irri from progressing further into the ship. The doors, the walls, and the floor around them were scorched black with phaser burns, and he could see three uniformed bodies from where he stood – two on his side of the barricade, and one on the other. There were also two dead Irri. But he knew there were probably more beyond his view, because he could only count six security personnel holed up behind the doors. Giotto was one of them.

Jim dropped low and made his way over, the motion attracting attention and causing one of the Irri to open fire on him. He rolled and skidded, and a hand clasped his arm and pulled him completely free of the immediate line of danger.

"Captain," Giotto said grimly.

"Have any gotten out?" Jim asked without preamble. He needed to know if there were Irri running around the ship beyond this point.

"No," the security chief replied with conviction. "We've had to shoot down about ten of them, though. Phasers were set to stun, but it seems to hurt them more than you'd think. They took down about a dozen of my officers in the first wave. I don't know if all of them are dead, but they're beyond reach right now. We tried reasoning with them. They aren't even talking – either locking them in worked them into a worse state than we'd thought, or something set them off. I think it was that sound that came with the first attack. Afterwards we started hearing pounding, before the doors opened, but it's been too much of a madhouse to tell anything for certain."

The run-down came to an abrupt end when there was another pounding sound, and then Jim stared at the barrier of doors in shock as something struck them with a sharp 'bang', setting his teeth on edge and making his ears ring as he nearly jumped out of his skin.

"What the hell was that?"

"Cargo container," Giotto replied. "They've been taking turns flinging them at us when they find them."

Jim considered this. "Good," he said. The security officers looked at him like he was crazy, and he elaborated. "The Irri tire quickly. If they're flinging containers it will take a lot of energy out of them."

"So that's what you think, Captain?" a lieutenant whose name he couldn't recall asked him. "We should wait them out?"

"I'd rather have them collapse from exhaustion than kill them," Jim reasoned.

"Which is fine so long as they don't bring down the barrier, but those containers are making a dent," Giotto pointed out. "And there's enough of them doing it so that they don't all get worn down."

"Then we should find other ways of tiring them out," he concluded. The security chief was right, as sturdy as the Enterprise's doors were, the cargo containers weren't exactly slouches, either, and he could see that some of the barricade had already been worn down. His mind started working in overtime for a solution.

"Sickbay," he concluded.

"What?" Giotto asked, looking at him like he'd grown another head.

Jim ignored it. "I've got a plan." Clearly, he wasn't going to be able to talk his way through this one, as he'd initially hoped. The Irri weren't in a chatty mood, and he hadn't even seen Roon. "I'll be back," he assured his security officers, and then got ready to move again. He was staid a moment by another grip on his arm.

"Listen," Giotto said. "We need reinforcements and more phasers. They're nearly out of charge, but so are we, and if we can't get any shots in there's nothing to stop them from just rushing us."

Jim wordlessly handed over the phaser he'd taken from Mercado. Not much, but they'd be better off with it then him. "I'll send who I can," he assured the man. "Just hold them off a little longer."

Then he ran.

He made record time to the medical bay, passing several very frightened-looking officers enroute. One he sent to track down a weapons locker, with instructions to retrieve several phaser rifles and take them to the cargo deck, the others he just sent straight down unless they were doing something else of pressing importance to the ship.

When he got to sickbay, he learned that his earlier assessment had been correct. It was hell.

He forced himself not to look for Spock. It took an almost physical effort, like ripping something out of him, but he did it. There wasn't the time, and if he… there wasn't the time. Instead he bee-lined straight for Bones' office, which was, in the hectic chaos of emergency medical care, naturally empty. He could hear his friend's voice shouting, and had to push through the activity of nurses and aids as people with burns and broken bones and other injuries were tended to at a frantic, prioritized pace. He all but ripped open the drawers of the CMO's desk, rifling through the contents until he found a tricorder, a hypospray, and something which he didn't recognize the name of, but which had several components that caught his attention.

It took him twenty minutes to take them all apart. It took him another twenty minutes to reshape them into what he needed, and even then, he knew it was fast, sloppy work. But it would do.

He intended to just grab the first medical officer he spotted as soon as he left the office, but as that person so happened to be Bones, he guessed it was fate. He almost got thrown off when he reached over and grabbed the distracted and frantically working CMO. "Goddammit, there's no time for – Jim?" he started, clearly shocked at seeing the captain.

"I know there's no time, Bones," Jim replied. "I need something. The Irri have broken loose from the cargo holds. They've gone crazy. I've got a plan, but I need something strong. Something that can spread through the air and knock them out." Ordinarily he'd try and use the ventilation systems for this, but obviously, that would be extremely touch-and-go.

Bones gave him a look, then shook his head. "I don't got anything like that, Jim," he was informed. "All my sedatives need to be injected."

"Then think," Jim prompted. "I just need something to take them down without killing them all!"

"Jesus, I don't know! I've barely had five minutes to get acquainted with their physiology. I could give you something that'd work on humans, but for all I know it could just make them vomit, or it could kill them!"

"Bones," Jim said sharply. "I'm not asking for a miracle here. But you're a genius – so make your best fucking guess and I'll live with it! That's an order!"

That seemed to work. He couldn't tell if it was the actual words or his tone of voice, but the doctor's expression hardened even further, and he dragged Jim over to one of the ransacked medical equipment lockers. Muttering darkly under his breath he pushed past several containers until he'd retrieved a few vials of something bright and red and acidic-looking, despite its colour.

"Here," he said, shoving the vials at Jim. "Don't you breathe anything of it in. It's a paralyzing agent, it temporarily disables the brain's signals to your muscles. I just hope to hell it doesn't kill them all."

"Me too," Jim admitted, and then he turned to leave. But his crew came before the Irri.

"Jim," he heard Bones say, causing him to pause for a moment, wondering if there was more. "About Spock…"

"Tell me later," he said abruptly, earning himself a look of confusion.

"But…?"

"I can't, Bones," he admitted. "If I stop now, I might not start up again." It was a hard thing to own up to, but he knew it was true down to the very core of his being.

Fortunately, all his admission earned him was a brief, understanding nod, and then he was off again, pushing through the throngs of sickbay and racing, patchwork device in one hand and dangerous medical substance in another, for the turbolift. Running with scissors had nothing on Jim Kirk.

The lift wouldn't start.

Cursing darkly he tried the controls several times, and realized that either the system had failed or, more likely, engineering had redirected power for some reason. It had already been forty minutes – he couldn't afford to waste any more time. So he secured his device in the waistband of his pants – nothing else for it, really – and slipped the vials into his pocket before he opened the emergency hatch at the bottom of the lift, and worked his way onto the hard, round rungs of the shaft's ladder. He was a little more sharply aware of the pain in his limbs and hands as he climbed, his burns protesting their abuse against the cold metal.

After the vials clinked dangerously against one of the rungs the first time, Jim moved them from his pocket to his mouth. There'd definitely be no going back if they broke there, but it was less likely they would, so he just tried not to think about what would happen if he suddenly lost control of his muscles while he was hanging onto a ladder suspended over several decks' worth of a drop. That kind of thing was easy for him, though.

Now that he thought of it, he and potentially deadly falls had a fairly extensive relationship.

Still, it was a good thing when he came to the access hatch for the right deck, and he worked one arm under the ladder and reached over to press in the emergency override codes for the opening.

It was a little awkward when those didn't work.

A dark suspicion worked its way through him as he entered in his captain's override, instead, and got the door to slide apart at last. He pulled himself through the opening and onto the deck, and then halted, taking in the sight surrounding him.

After a quiet second, he closed the opening to the shaft and locked it again.

He had to move Ensign Mercado's body to get to the controls. She must have decided she was fit enough to go back and help the rest of the security team during his absence. There were several phaser burns along her chest, and more on her back. It looked like someone had managed to get the security systems to work again, because the locks were functioning now. Mercado – probably using Giotto's codes – had enabled the ship's quarantine system to shut down the turbolifts, if he was backtracking her actions at the controls accurately. No small feat, all things considered.

That probably meant the Irri had broken past the barricade, and security was trying to contain them to the deck, at least.

The ensign couldn't have been more than twenty. She was young, like most of his crew. He'd have to write to her family. Just like he'd have to write to everyone's family, those horrible condolences which no one wanted to get.

Forcibly, he put it from his mind. There wasn't anything for it now.

He turned, ready to start down the corridor, and hoping that the entirety of the rest of the security team was alive.

Roon was standing at the other end.

Jim started, and froze. He hadn't heard anything, hadn't seen any movement out of the corner of his eye or gotten that 'eyes on the back of your neck' feeling, and was utterly shocked, then, to see the Irri there. Just standing, still and quiet. He could have been doing it the entire time. For Jim, who was normally very aware of his surroundings, the thought was jarring.

There was a phaser rifle in one of the Irri's hands. Which didn't bode well, especially given that Jim was unarmed.

"You are not dead," Roon said at length.

At least he was speaking, much to Jim's surprise, given how unrepentantly aggressive the other Irri he'd seen had been behaving.

"No," he confirmed. "That was a trick."

Roon shifted, moving so that the phaser rifle was aimed at him. Jim got ready to dodge if he had to. "Why?"

He swallowed, and wondered if he should lie. But this was already enough of a mess as it was. "I told you before that my people are different," he said. "I had no intention of leading you when we fought. I only wanted to talk. So we needed a way to make you their leader again, in order to keep you from dying when we sent you back to your world."

There was a tense, silent moment as the two of them regarded one another.

"…I do not understand," Roon said at length. "But I think that is true for many things now. I am sorry for Mercado. She was good." After a long moment, then, he slowly moved the phaser rifle so it wasn't aimed directly at Jim anymore.

"Did you kill her?" he asked.

The tall Irri frowned, his gaze darting sideways. "I do not know," he admitted. "The shouting scrambles our minds, makes it so we are angry. It was meant to scramble the minds of our enemies, before we used it to shout vessels from the sky."

Giotto's theory held up, then.

"It did not help that we were angry already," Roon added, and his tone was accusatory and puzzled and, Jim thought, a little overwhelmed as well. "We would have followed you. Why did you not wish this?" the Irri asked with apparent anxiety.

Jim didn't really think he had time for a huge dissertation on ethics. It hadn't really gotten through the first time, anyway.

"I could try and explain, but I think we'd just end up going in circles," he reasoned. "Look, Roon, all I want to do is see you and your people safely back on your planet. Without getting anyone else killed." Was it possible the other Irri had calmed down enough to stop shooting and attacking as well? He didn't hear any phaser fire, but that could mean any number of things.

Roon frowned, and his eyes did his aggressive, horizontal blink, but he made no other move. "You would trap us there again," he said. "Where we wait death anyway."

True. But he was pretty sure, now, that between ship-crashing weapons and dilitium deposits, the Federation was going to take more than a little interest in Pyrius IV. "It's your homeworld," he pointed out.

"It is dying."

"…I know."

The phaser rifle was raised again. "I could kill you," Roon said. "Master this ship, and go very far away."

Jim let out a heavy breath. "It wouldn't work," he assured the Irri leader. "The rest of the Federation would come after you. Besides, I don't know if you've noticed, but the ship is fucking busted now. As clever as your people are, I doubt you'd be able to repair it." He shifted the hand holding the medical vials, ready to fling one across the corridor if need be.

Roon swallowed, still blinking horizontally. But then, to Jim's surprise, he shifted his grip and dropped his weapon. It landed on the hull with a clatter. "I am tired of killing anyway," he professed.

After a moment's consideration, Jim took a step forward, moving across so that he stood a little closer. He could see that the Irri was, indeed, quite tired – physically and emotionally. It was quite a change from the cheerful figure of sickbay, or the aggressive one he'd met on the Klingon cruiser.

"That's lucky," Jim said. "I didn't exactly want to die, either."

He asked, then, about the other Irri and the rest of the security team. Apparently Roon was the first one to come back to his senses. He'd been 'shouted' at before, and so had something of a resistance to it, but most of the rest of his people didn't. They were still wildly unstable. The security team had barracked themselves into a storage room after they'd managed to shut down the turbolifts. Irri had been taking weapons off of the fallen officers left and right, and when the security team became too difficult of a target, they started firing on each other. Roon suspected there were less than a dozen of them left.

After all of the effort they'd put in to avoid getting people killed…

He pushed that thought aside, because there was nothing he could do with it. Instead he loosely explained to Roon about his plan to incapacitate his people with the device he'd rigged together, and the nerve toxin helpfully provided by Bones.

The Irri agreed to lead him to where they were, reasoning that it would probably be better for Jim to knock them out than to let them tear each other apart. The guns had let them do a lot of killing without expending a lot of energy, so they still had steam to burn, and right now, apparently, they were burning it on each other.

He knew they were getting close when he heard the pounding.

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Author's Note: Of course, all you lovely people know Spock's going to survive, especially if you've read 'Good Times'. Unless that was Ghost Pon Farr…

And wow! More than 3000 reviews! Also, more than 3000 reviews before I got my first strictly negative one, so that's pretty damn sweet. We've got a bit more Captain! action to go, but the sheer K/S-ness coming up afterwards should make up for it.