A/N: Here's entry number two for this week. Boy, my Muse sure has seen fit to pound on McCoy of late… ;-)
Sink or Swim: McCoy
He licked his lips, tasting blood, one eye already starting to swell shut. Get a grip, McCoy, he admonished himself silently, watching carefully as his opponent circled, looking for an opening, or a moment of weakness. Everything is riding on you; it's time to sink or swim, he reminded himself. There was so much at stake – not only his life, but those of his two companions. He spared a glance at Jim and Spock, bound to a tall pole atop a substantial pile of wood. If he failed, not only would he perish, but the two men whose lives he was responsible for would be immolated as surely as the Earth orbited Sol every 365 days.
No matter the outcome, he'd never forgive Spock for allowing him to be placed in this situation; where the survival of the three of them was dependent on his skill in hand-to-hand combat. I'm a doctor, not a street-fighter, he thought darkly as he backpedaled quickly to avoid a lunge by his opponent. How had Spock not detected the natives? The Vulcan always knew; was always cognizant of their surroundings when they beamed down to an unknown world. How had his tricorder failed to register the six well-armed men who had taken them prisoner?
The Universal Translator had still been trying to process the unfamiliar alien language, not having much to go on as the three of them had been marched in silence to the native's village. At a few words from the most ornately-adorned being there – their chief in all likelihood – Jim and Spock had been instantly whisked away by two burly guards and summarily lashed to the as yet unlit pyre. He had been dragged to a small, oblong arena of sorts, obviously meant to do battle with a rather menacing-looking warrior located at the opposite end, a noisy throng of villagers, including women and children, gathered about the perimeter.
Nearest he could figure, they had inadvertently trespassed on ground that was sacred to the indigenous tribe. The only way to make restitution for their transgression was in a one-on-one fight with their top warrior, both combatants armed only with the physical gifts their individual deity had seen fit to bestow upon them. And if he wasn't mistaken, the native God had granted his opponent considerably more strength than he himself had.
Despite that, it was paramount that he come out on top in this struggle, for their very survival depended on it. He wasn't completely sure, but based on gestures made by the leader before the start of the contest, it seemed that if he won, the three of them would be deemed benevolent spirits, sent by the Creator to consecrate the final resting place of their honored dead. If he lost, well then the members of this native contingent would have succeeded in banishing a triad of evil spirits who had come to desecrate the graves of their most revered warriors. The primitive hand-signals left no doubt as to the fate that awaited the three of them should he fail to defeat his opponent.
He suspected the chief had chosen him from among the three because he differed the most in appearance from the general populace. The Enterprise men were all pale by comparison, their skin many shades lighter than that of their captors, all of whom had dark hair cut in a similar style to Spock's, a stocky build, oversized ears, and brown eyes. Granted, Jim's ears were small and his eyes were hazel, but they did appear to be a soft, muted shade of brown depending on the light. Kirk's build did most closely match that of their adversaries, and while Spock was thin, there was a quiet aura to the Vulcan that radiated power. McCoy had none of those qualities, and his icy blue eyes immediately set him apart from everyone around him. No doubt that's why he'd been selected – to the native inhabitants he must be the epitome of a demon or something. That or their leader had selected the weakest-looking of the three of them, hoping to insure a victory for their champion.
These thoughts were interrupted as he dodged a blow to the head, catching one in the ribs instead, forcing the air out of his lungs in a definitive whoosh. He swung blindly at his opponent, his fist connecting with nothing but recently-vacated space as his ochre-skinned opponent danced just out of reach.
Visions from his combat training course at the Academy crowded his brain as he saw his well-muscled attacker gathering himself for another assault. Granted, at the time he had not paid much attention; entering Starfleet as a physician pretty much guaranteed that he would not be on the front lines as a fighting man, but he strove to remember something – anything – that would help him defeat his opponent and thus spare the lives of his two friends. Over the chants and taunts of the natives, he could hear Jim shouting, but it was as if his CO were trying to communicate with him in Greek – or Rigellian – the words total gibberish. He couldn't spare an ounce of concentration to focus on what the captain was saying. To do so would almost guarantee the scantily-clad warrior before him the chance to use the moment of inattentiveness to his advantage, leading to the doctor's ultimate demise.
In his head, he went over the weak points in human anatomy – the hollow at the base of the throat, the temples, the knees, the eyes, the instep, and of course the genitals. What are the odds they'd be the same for this species? he thought dourly, certain the Vulcan could calculate them in a millisecond.
Instinct took over (that and a strong desire not to wind up beaten to a bloody pulp) as the people's champion lunged at him again. Sidestepping quickly, he slammed a booted foot into the alien knee, continuing the downward motion, raking over the inside of the leg, his heel finally landing on top of the man's bare foot.
Letting out a grunt of pain, the man was momentarily thrown off balance. Seeing his chance, McCoy grabbed one of the arms, twisting the palm of the hand upward and behind the broad back, forcing his opponent to his knees. Keeping the arm fully extended and applying steady pressure at the wrist, he placed a hand on the elbow, prepared to bend the joint in a manner that it was not intended to go if necessary. If the man struggled now, the arm was sure to break, in several places.
The chief then leapt to his feet, shouting something the UT still refused to render, and the man below him went limp, sinking face-down to the ground. McCoy maintained his hold on the arm, eyeing the group warily. The leader approached the combatants slowly, unmistakably signaling for McCoy to release the downed man. Casting a look of uncertainty at the captain, a nod of affirmation caused him to let go of his adversary. Taking a few steps backward, he was dumbfounded as the man rose to his knees, head bowed before the chief, eyes closed, his demeanor one of complete submission.
The leader drew a long blade from a sheath attached to his back, raising it above his head. Muttering a few words, the translator finally provided a comprehensible equivalent for one of them: death. Instantly aware of the chief's intention, McCoy shouted, throwing himself over the hunched form, totally unaware of or unconcerned with the danger to himself, his only goal to preserve the life of the man who minutes before had been his enemy.
The chief stopped, wide brown eyes meeting angry blue ones. After a moment the leader sheathed his weapon, extending his hands to each of the men before him, grinning widely. Apparently the doctor's natural impulse to protect the defeated man had been correct.
McCoy grasped the outstretched hand, returning the grin and then gesturing to his two companions. Clapping his hands, the chief barked out hasty orders, another word finally registering in his brain: freedom. Jim and Spock were instantly released, making their way quickly to McCoy's side.
"Bones, are you all right?" Kirk asked, a hand on the doctor's shoulder, concerned eyes searching the bruised and bloodied face.
"Yeah, it's all superficial; no long-lasting trauma," he said, sparing his captain a comforting grin, which melted away as his eyes met the Vulcan's.
"Most impressive, Doctor. I had calculated the odds at nine to one in favor of the native warrior."
"Yeah, well it just goes to show what a little Southern determination, coupled with being scared shitless, can accomplish. No thanks to you, I might add. How the hell did they get so close to us in the first place without your tricorder picking them up?"
Spock chose not to respond, an eyebrow raised in a combination of confusion and embarrassment.
"You're just lucky I was able to remember a few moves from the combat training course at the Academy otherwise your gooses would have been cooked for sure."
Kirk could only laugh. "Well done, Bones," he said, clapping his CMO on the shoulder. "For once, you saved our hides in a knock-down, drag-out fistfight." Kirk was positively beaming.
"Well, don't get used to the idea," McCoy said in a huff. "This'll be the first and last time if I have my druthers."