A/N: Thanks everyone for the comments and well wishes. I don't own any elements you recognize from canon. No profit made, no infringement intended.
I'm very excited to be doing another holodeck-style AU - I always want to keep pushing myself as a storyteller and trying different settings. I did listen to about forty hours of '80s music between writing and editing this chapter, which was a much better experience than the jazz fest I had with E5.17: Life in Monochrome. Speaking of which - if you squint, you'll notice a few recurring themes that may / may not be foreshadowing.
As with last time, I'm aware this is campy and ridiculous, but I'm hoping you all enjoy it even half as much as I did writing it. This is vaguely inspired by both The X-Files and Stranger Things. An attempt was made to make everything feel really ephemeral and fuzzy, like a dream or a horror movie. Some things are deliberately left open-ended. I think it's apparent that I've got a soft spot for murder mysteries; I write a lot of them for another fandom. I promise, the next AU will be something completely different!
Thanks to gammara for providing valuable insights about the '80s - I was a '90s kid, so I don't remember much! Unabashed ATP fluff ahead.
Season Six
Episode Eight: Life in a Small Town
Commodore Jonathan Archer's Personal Log, October 23rd, 2157: It's been quiet on the front lines recently. I'd never admit that within earshot of anyone, because when Hutch said as much during the morning briefing, Anna slapped him so hard I'm sure it was heard halfway across the ship.
"Are you quite sure?"
"I insist. You need this time."
"We could just use our quarters, sir. It's no problem if you..."
"Ensign," he interrupted. "Go have your anniversary dinner. We can go without the captain's mess for one night."
Dita suddenly had no further desire to object. She leaned forward, finally depositing the PADD she'd stopped by to deliver onto his desk. "Is that an order?"
He took one good look at his communications officer, her warm smile, her glittering eyes, the way she seemed to stand just a little bit straighter than normal. Jonathan had seen her entire demeanor change over the past few weeks; her husband, Lieutenant Singh, had finally seen his transfer to the Enterprise go through, meaning they were now living together for the first time in almost a decade. Arvind had spent the past few years on the beta shift crew in the engine room of the NX-03 Cochrane, and though he wasn't too specific, he knew that the changes that came along with Captain Pritchard's death had been some sort of motivator to leave. It didn't matter - he was charming and knowledgeable, and easily folded himself into the natural social order of Anna's brigade. They stepped right back into their routine, and for the Singhs, it was as if no time had passed at all.
That morning, they'd stepped onto the bridge only to find an enormous bouquet and a mountain of chocolates atop her station. It soon came out that of the fifteen anniversaries they'd had in their relationship, they'd only been together for three of them.
Jonathan immediately knew what he had to do, and acted quickly to make sure they could have a romantic evening of their own. Chef was more than willing to accommodate, and seeing as Arvind had effectively made every other man in a relationship on board look bad, he reached out to their newest engineer to ascertain exactly how he'd pulled off such a surprise.
He sent a message to T'Pol through their bond only seconds later, knowing she would be amenable to a change of plans. Really, they spent nearly every waking moment together - who was to say that he couldn't take one night to remind his lover, best friend, advisor, and confidante exactly how cherished she was?
T'Pol was, after all, a woman who knew exactly what she wanted. And he thanked God every day that she wanted him.
"That's an order," he said at last, mostly for Dita's benefit. She thanked him for perhaps the hundredth time that day, then beat a hasty retreat. He waited until he heard her footsteps trailing down the hall, then reached for the comm to ask Chef to pull a bottle of red wine.
The Captain had planned to assist with planned maintenance in the armory, but given the usual efficiency of Malcolm's crew, Jonathan knew he only had a few hours to prepare. He was sure that T'Pol was at least subconsciously aware of his plan; while she could shield her thoughts from him due to years of emotional suppression, he was an open book to her at all times. Still, he forged on, going to great lengths to tidy the room and toss handfuls of rose petals all around.
The science crewmen he encountered in the airponics bay had watched him curiously as he gathered his bounty, but didn't ask questions. Chef's stewards had similar amounts of discretion when he went to pick up their meals, and for that he was grateful. As he lit her meditation candles and dimmed the lights for a bit of ambiance, he couldn't help but look forward to a magical night in the company of the woman he loved more than life itself.
He felt her growing closer before she even stepped onto the deck, could sense her warmth and anticipation. When she stepped across the threshold into his quarters, he was waiting right by the door for her, and she instantly moved into the circle of his arms. Words were wholly unnecessary - they stood there in silence for a few moments until she exhaled and relaxed into him.
This was their home, their sanctuary, their safe haven. No matter what existed outside these four walls, they were together in the here and now, and that was more than enough.
"How was the armory?" He asked, though from her continuous stream of consciousness over the course of the past few hours he knew exactly how it went. Her frustration was palpable.
"Mr. Reed continues to test the patience of myself and his brigade. If he intends to double check my work behind my back, he should just complete the task himself."
Jonathan couldn't help but smile at that - years ago, Hoshi had checked her on that very same behavior, only for her to insist that she held her to such a high standard because she knew she was capable of achieving it. "Give him a break. Malcolm's just spinning his wheels. Once the Maelstrom rejoins the front lines, he'll have his hands full."
"In more ways that one."
His eyebrows flew up so fast they practically dented the ceiling. Sometimes her jokes were so unexpected and off-color they nearly went over his head. "T'Pol…"
She disengaged and moved towards the table, taking in the dinner for two, the flowers, the flickering candles, and the soft music playing from overhead. Ever so slowly, she trailed her finger against the back of the chair, as if inspecting it for dust, then turned to him, raising an eyebrow in silent challenge.
Before his brain could formulate an appropriate response, she was moving again, reaching into the closet and pulling a cascade of fabric out from her side of the wardrobe. Hooking the hanger over her shoulder, she disappeared into the bathroom, ostensibly to slip into something a little more comfortable.
When she reemerged, Jonathan had to remind himself to breathe. His bondmate was a vision in one of her favorite sets of robes, red and bronze, with a train that swept the ground. Knowing full well his attention was on her, she paused momentarily at the door, the corners of her lips turning up in the barest hint of a smile.
She knew exactly how to push his buttons, and damned if it didn't work every single time.
It was then he remembered the first time she'd worn that particular get up - they'd worked for hours setting up a good cop, bad cop routine for a particularly stubborn Retellian freighter pilot, all to discern the circumstances surrounding future First Monarch Kaitaama's abduction. Their charade had worked marvelously, and afterwards, he had congratulated her on her performance, all the while trying not to notice how the color of her dress set off the golden flecks in her eyes.
"Beautiful," he concluded at last, gesturing for her to join him at the table. She obliged, taking her seat sideways, never once breaking eye contact.
Jonathan Archer, you are the luckiest man alive, he told himself, wholly forgetting that she could hear him.
And I am the most fortunate Vulcan, T'Pol added, watching as he uncorked the wine and poured them both a healthy glass. She swirled the contents contemplatively, studying him through the smoke of the flickering candle. I am grateful to spend my days with you. My only wish is that they should never end.
As did he. Archer moved to grab his fork, then hesitated, taking her hand across the table. She startled, then intertwined their fingers so they could more easily share in their thoughts and emotions.
"I've been thinking," he began slowly, continually gauging her reaction. "And there's no pressure, you certainly don't have to say yes…"
"Jonathan." She knew all of this already. Of course.
He sighed deeply, running his thumb over her knuckles. Try as he might, he couldn't imagine a life without her - he suspected he knew that within the first few months of working together, his respect for her only growing every time she put him in his place or reminded him of the consequences of his actions. And yet, sometimes he played the opposite role for her. While he could be stubborn and impatient, she was composed and thoughtful, his counterpoint in every single way. With the war raging outside and there being no guarantee of them ever seeing Earth again, he wanted to make a home with her while he still could.
"We should knock down the far wall and combine our quarters," he asserted. The prepared arguments he'd laid out immediately sprung to the forefront of his mind. "And go public. Technically as the ranking fleet officer I can file the paperwork to sanction our relationship, but we ought to let Admiral Gardner know just in case. All things considered, I can't imagine he'd object."
That was to say, it would be foolish if he did. HQ had very few officers with previous battlefield experience, and removing them from the service or reassigning one of them was sure to not go over well. At the very least, Shran could be counted on to make a very angry call to San Francisco, and if there was one thing the brass tended to avoid like the plague, it was upsetting their most volatile ally.
Her expression was impassive for a suspiciously long time, and he felt nothing through the bond. Jonathan was fearful she would say no, but she eventually acquiesced, her eyes assuming a reassuring warmth he found comforting.
"It will change nothing on board the Enterprise," she said with an air of finality. He got the distinct impression that she didn't care about disappointing the High Command either, at least not anymore. The only members whose opinions really mattered - T'Pau and Soval and Kuvak - already had a positive impression of him. By and large, having no surviving immediate family, she also had no one left to disgrace. "The crew already knows."
This floored him, and he momentarily sputtered on his wine, narrowly avoiding staining his dress shirt. Of course he was aware of the rumors that abounded in the two years of their mission. Hell, Phlox had even confronted him about the latent sexual tension between them, during an evening in sickbay he'd rather like to forget. This time, he'd thought they'd been discrete. He'd thought they'd been subtle about spending every waking moment together, sleeping and eating and working together and never being seen apart...
Wait a minute.
"And just how do you know that?"
"I overheard Crewman Marceline telling one of our new EPS specialists that it was one of the worst kept secrets on the ship," she said rather nonchalantly, retrieving her fork and digging into her dinner. All the while, she kept one eye on his stricken, dumbfounded expression, wondering exactly how he hadn't known.
"Damn," he mumbled. "And that doesn't bother you?"
Perhaps years ago it would have, but these days, she felt inordinately close to their crew, more so than any Vulcan ought to be around a bunch of rambunctious, irascible humans. Their antics both frustrated and amused her, and she often saw them as children that she and Jonathan were tasked with looking after day by day.
This thought easily reached him, and he disengaged, sitting back to cross his arms over his chest. When they locked eyes, she saw nothing but love and devotion there, and she let it wash over her in waves.
"I had that dream again last night," Archer said quietly, and she leaned across the table towards him. It always warmed his heart to find her enthralled by his recurring fantasy, and because she seemed so eager, he was all too willing to flood her mind with images.
It always started with a little boy running towards him on a beach overlooking the ocean, as the sun drifted lazily behind the afternoon clouds. He would be laughing and calling out to him, and Jonathan would lift him up and twirl him around in the air like a shuttlecraft, delighting in his laughter and smile. With two feet back on the ground, their son would cling to his legs, and he'd ruffle his hair, only to discover that he had pointed ears.
Looking up, he would discover T'Pol standing there with their baby girl, both sporting that same detached, clinical expression with which he was always so captivated. His heart would soar at the sight of their beautiful family, but he would wake up before he could say anything. Most of the time, he would be so overcome with the love he felt for her that he would wake her up with a barrage of kisses, as he had that very morning.
It was beautiful and heartwarming and something they very much both wanted, and she wasn't afraid to tell him so. For the longest time, they had independently placed their careers above their relationships, but as she allowed herself to be swept up in devotion for this man, she realized that they could very easily have both. If she had anything to do with it, they would share a permanent home together one day, and fill it with adorable hybrid children.
After so long caught in the perils of war, T'Pol wanted nothing else.
"I wish I could dream as you do," she confessed. Due to her meditation regimen, her sleep was dull and colorless; excluding meetings with Trip in the white space, the last time she'd dreamed, she had been under the influence of a certain V'tosh Ka'tur, who had almost broken her before disappearing into the ether.
Hindsight being twenty-twenty, Jonathan wished he'd done something about it, wished he had employed the correct legal precedents to get the justice she deserved instead of just sending them away. It was one of the biggest regrets of his life, and he knew she understood. All the same, he wanted to make this evening special for her, so he couldn't help but ask.
"Would you like me to describe some more of my dreams?"
She shook her head slowly from side to side, then planted her elbow on the table and reached out to him, extending two fingers in his direction. Meeting her gesture, he gradually curled into them, comforted by the sparks of electricity shooting up his arm. An idea was forming - he could tell that much - and seeing as she was in a mischievous mood, he was all too willing to entertain it.
Jonathan lost track of how the hours passed from there - long after dinner was consumed and the bottle of wine was empty, they wound up in the center of the room, swaying to the music. Though Vulcans ordinarily didn't dance save for it being a part of some tedious ceremony, T'Pol seemed to be quite taken with the waltz, and allowed him to lead, gracefully moving through the steps, all the while looking up at him with the moon and the stars in her eyes.
Everyone who ever said Vulcans lacked passion was wrong in every sense of the word, he thought. Later on, long after they had shared in their love, they found themselves cuddled up in bed, convalescing and reminiscing in one beautiful moment they never wanted to end.
But it had to - his eyelids were growing heavy, and she had all but melted into him, her head and shoulders providing reassuring weight against his chest. Jonathan knew she was listening to his heartbeat in an attempt to prepare herself for sleep; before he could stop himself, he reached out to push a lock of her hair behind one delicate, pointed ear, wishing he had the flexibility to reach it with his lips.
I love you, T'Pol, he reminded her silently, running his fingers up and down the length of her spine.
She turned her head and regarded him sleepily, something he found inordinately adorable. And I cherish you, she countered, just in case he'd forgotten. Are you ready?
Ever so carefully, their hands intertwined, and though he didn't exactly know what she had in mind, Jonathan went willingly, and allowed sleep to overtake them.
Warmth.
Warmth, light, and a soft breeze tousling her hair, gently coaxing her out of her slumber. Having spent most of the past two decades in space, T'Pol had almost forgotten what real sunlight felt like, but as the rays drifted across her cheeks, she had to acknowledge that she missed it, that after so long she needed to be bathed in it more than she needed the air she breathed.
Gradually, the warmth turned into a Vulcan-like heat, and she shifted around in her seat, creating an odd friction with the material beneath her. They were moving at a stately pace, following the dips and curves of the landscape, creating a hypnotic side-to-side motion that soothed her aching spirit. She opened her eyes to behold none other than her bondmate at the wheel of a very old-fashioned mode of transportation.
It was one of those clunky, mid-twentieth century Earth vehicles, the kind that still ran on fossil fuels, shaped like a brick and just as maneuverable and graceful as one. The smell of burning oil set her stomach on end, but she willfully ignored it, choosing to focus on his easy smile and the contentment coming off of him in waves.
Jonathan once told her that he often dreamed in color, and she had to say she was not disappointed. The lush foliage all around them was dense and green, trees lining both sides of the road and hanging low overhead. Natural shade was complemented by fragrant white and purple flowers that grew along the curb, and the road ahead was narrow, as if it was only ever made to accompany one car at a time. The internal environmental controls must have been malfunctioning, because it was still sweltering even with all of the windows down. From the speakers, a man was singing over a stringed instrument and fiddle. His words were filled with static, and she surmised they must be picking up on it from a distant station operating on an amplitude modulation frequency. Still, she sighed deeply and laid back on the headrest, allowing all of the tension to flow out of her like water.
There was little doubt now; she was in Jonathan's dream, and it was more beautiful than she could have possibly imagined.
"Where are we going?" She had to shout to be heard over the music, but he seemed to hear her with ease.
"I have no idea," he confessed, then reached for her hand. "Isn't that just great?"
Great indeed. Even outside of the waking world, his presence filled her with such assurance that for once she didn't care that they didn't have a plan. Let his subconscious do the driving for once - T'Pol was just as enthusiastic to get to know her bondmate on a deeper level as the day she'd met him.
They drove in silence for quite some time, just enjoying each other's company and admiring the towering vistas and rolling hills. At one point, they passed a sign off to the right side of the road.
ENTERPRISE - 5 MI.
She cut a bewildered look towards him, only to be dealt a wry smile. Before she could probe into that discovery further, the radio was all but drowned out by the sound of a throttling engine. Somewhat taken aback, she craned her neck around just to see a car overtake them in the left lane and pass with ease, shooting off into the distance around a blind curve. The sudden motion had only afforded her a passing glance at the driver, sporting a pair of wrap around sunglasses and a loose-fitting leather jacket. The music pounding through their speakers was what surprised her the most - the beat was straining and frenetic, anchored by wailing guitars and a woman's raspy voice.
That was one artist Jonathan recognized, thanks in part to Trip's fixation with music of this era.
"Blondie," he said, mostly to himself. Something stirred in his memory, deep and irrepressible.
They drew closer and closer to town - first three miles, then two, then one, until a ramshackle collection of stone and clapboard buildings appeared on the horizon surrounded by flat, one-story homes set along ridges and treelines. Even at a distance, he could see people milling about the streets and smoke curling out of chimneys. Immediately, he knew exactly when they were.
Jonathan pressed down on the accelerator, and they crept up on the car ahead of them. His companion was fleetingly grateful his driving skills appeared to have improved since their last outing in 21st century Detroit, and hoped for her sake he could retain them.
A larger sign, laden with the town name and a variety of icons touting a bygone era of American ingenuity, was fast approaching. The bottom edge of it very nearly skirted the ground, so much so that neither vehicle spotted the car parked just beyond it until it was too late. In a split second, it weaved out into the road just in front of them, laying on the sirens and flashing lights and coaxing the car in front of them to a screeching halt. The music skipped, then died altogether.
"I've got a feeling this is our first stop," Jonathan announced somewhat rhetorically, bringing their car to a gentle stop on the curb some distance away.
Before she could say anything, he was out of the driver's seat, coming around the passenger's side and opening her door. T'Pol willingly took his hand and stepped into the grass, taking a moment to gain her bearings.
It was then her attention was drawn to their attire; they both wore loose fitting suits, his slate gray, hers pinstriped, which were much too baggy and formless to be practical. Self-consciously, she reached into her pockets and drew the crotch of her pants from her knees up to its proper position, causing Jonathan to laugh.
His amusement aside, T'Pol could tell he was a bit uncomfortable, pulling at his tie before undoing the top button of his dress shirt entirely. Over his shoulder, the occupant of the nearest vehicle emerged, squinting into the summer sun. Her eyes were drawn to his khaki uniform, the enamel star pin on his lapel, and the honest-to-God pistol strapped to his belt.
"Is that…" Archer began, but trailed off. A second look confirmed that it definitely was their first officer, that his likeness had indeed intruded into his dreams, that at the moment he sported a rather anachronistic mustache.
Jonathan wanted to have a long conversation with whoever told him that was a good idea.
She was off before he could stop her, eagerly gaining on the scene unfolding before them. He could tell T'Pol was curious, and because her interest only narrowly challenged his own, he charged after her, gaining on her with renewed enthusiasm.
Malcolm made a big show of walking around the side of the vehicle, placing his hand on the back tail light before sidling up to the driver's side. "Do you have any idea how fast you were going?"
His target leaned against the door, adopting a conversational tone and treating him to a warm, broad smile they knew all too well. "You know, I'm not quite sure. What did that fancy radar device of yours tell you?"
He frowned, suddenly deathly serious. "This isn't a joke, Miss Taxa. The speed limit is forty-five through here. I can't keep giving you warnings, no matter how good your excuses are."
"It's not an excuse," she insisted, whipping off her sunglasses and tossing them into the ashtray. Sure enough, the electric blue eyes were still there, even though they were presently accentuated by heavy eyeliner. Her hair was feathered and teased back into a half-ponytail, curling over her shoulders in what amounted to a faux mohawk. It was so very much different from her usual appearance that they were both taken aback. "I've got to be back at the pawn shop at three to take over for my brother. He's got a doctor's appointment."
"You should have left the city earlier."
"I was picking up merchandise, and my contact was running late." She paused, giving him a searing once over. "Actually, I do come through here at the exact same time twice a week. I'm starting to think you've got nothing better to do, that you just sit here and wait for me."
Malcolm laughed, cold and mirthless, though that twinkle in his eye was back. "Don't flatter yourself. What kind of merchandise?"
"Does that fall under the purview of the police department?"
"It does now."
"Do you have a reason to search my car?"
"I might. The last time I found an unregistered firearm in your trunk, and there's a distinct odor of marijuana coming from your person."
"Are you sure you haven't been smoking?" She gestured all around her, waving her hands in the air. "This is a convertible, Sheriff. I don't know how they do things back in jolly old England, but…"
"Excuse me," T'Pol interrupted with a stunning amount of aplomb, and he took a giant step back. "You look like the man we've been looking for."
Or like he'd been caught with his hand in the cookie jar, Jonathan mused, stepping forward and taking the lead.
"Agents Archer and T'Pol, FBI," he declared, reaching into his pocket and producing a bifold containing his identification. His bondmate seemed confused, but mimicked his gesture, holding it up well into his line of sight.
Government agents? She questioned, thoroughly bewildered.
Why not? Jonathan countered. As they watched the wheels turn in Malcolm's head, he added: When was the last time we went on a big adventure together where there were no stakes?
This made for a good point - every time they'd had the occasion to go on an away mission for the past few years, it either meant their almost certain demise or a horrifically dull diplomatic summit with foreign dignitaries. Truthfully, T'Pol trusted no one more than her bondmate, and seeing as they were presently cuddled up in his bunk, she was more than willing to allow him to guide them into the unknown.
"Welcome to Enterprise," Alira said automatically, turning around in her seat to offer her hand. If she was up to no good, she was doing a hell of a job acting natural.
"Thank you. I wish we could be here under better circumstances." Her willingness to play the game warmed Jonathan's heart even farther.
Another car coasted past them, and Malcolm's eyes followed it, taking slow, measured breaths. He was wrestling with his conscience or perhaps something more treacherous, but eventually found the proper words. "As do I. If you'll just follow me towards city hall, we'll get the matter settled."
A flicker of hope dashed across Alira's expression, and she couldn't help but smile just a little bit wider. "Am I free to go, Sheriff?"
He very clearly didn't want this to be the case, but was forced to acquiesce.
"You are, but I'm telling you, this is your last warning." At last, he turned away from her, and she heaved a very visible sigh of relief. Ever so slowly, she eased back onto the roadway, flashing them a grateful thumbs up as she resumed her journey.
There was a beat or two when no one said anything; Malcolm regarded them with a prodigious frown, hands perched on his hips. "You've got to excuse me, I've had to arrest that woman more times than anyone else in this town. I swear to you, sometimes I think she's..." He caught himself, then brushed past them and headed for his cruiser. "Well then. Shall we?"
Within the city of Enterprise, the cars and buildings and street lights all appeared so real that T'Pol momentarily forgot they were in a dream.
She could hardly believe all of this had been constructed from Jonathan's subconscious; they'd certainly been forced to sit through enough of Trip's movie nights to form a passable mental image of twentieth century Earth, but even the details were impeccable, down to the warmth of the sunlight on her skin, the muffled voices of residents that rather reminded her of their crew, and the way the very air seemed to shimmer, as though someone had placed a sepia filter in her line of vision.
Town hall was at the end of the main drag surrounded by a flourishing park, populated by barking dogs and laughing children. The front facade was built in a poor imitation of the classical style, all plaster columns and a sagging staircase that led right up to a pair of swinging double doors. Rectangular environmental control units hung out of every window, and the moment Jonathan reached forward to open the door for her, the sweltering heat of the building's interior hit her with force.
Having been raised on a desert world, T'Pol was quite comfortable, though she could tell Jonathan was suffering. Malcolm led them right to a water cooler and availed both of them with a comically small paper cup.
"Air conditioning's fried," he said apologetically. "Though we've got our best man working on it."
Jonathan drank greedily, wiping his sweat-stained brow on his sleeve. "And who would that be?"
"The mayor considers himself quite adept at that sort of thing." Malcolm frowned, then leaned in to whisper: "He's a bit of a space cadet, but you didn't hear that from me."
T'Pol was starting to see where he was going with this, though by that time, she was well and truly distracted by the framed photographs and newspaper clippings hung along the wall. Many of them were wilting and curling in the heat, the frames studded with condensation. She had to stand on her toes to read most of them, squinting at the faded typescript.
"A little tribute to the town's history," he explained and came to stand right over her shoulder. T'Pol was drawn to an old black and white image of early settlers, clad in breeches and suspenders, their expressions dour and taut with exhaustion. These were men of the earth, who had carved a home out of an impenetrable forest and tamed the wilderness, just as ancient Vulcans had done to the desert millennia ago.
Though, if the finest accomplishments of the settlers of Enterprise truly were a centennial celebration and several particularly large lode discoveries from the outlying mines, she surmised that they might be looking down upon the last gasp of rural America.
"How many people live here?"
"Give or take a couple thousand. It's gone down in recent years." Malcolm beckoned for them to join him, and together they proceeded down a corridor anchored by flickering fluorescent lights. For one long moment, the only sound around them was the click of their shoes on the warping linoleum. "Ever since the chemical plant shut down and the cattle drive moved back west, all we have are the mines. Stay long enough, and you'll hear the opening bells for the evening shift."
"We intend to," T'Pol assured him, studying the hand-painted lettering on each of the frosted glass windows they passed. Department of Motor Vehicles. Vital Records. Justice of the Peace. The residents had consolidated much of the local government into one building, and there was some aspect of efficiency to that she appreciated.
"I take it you're not from around here, Mr. Reed?" At his strained expression, Jonathan pressed on: "How did you wind up here?"
Soon they reached the end of the hallway, and he turned on his heels to face him. The next few moments were unbearably tense as he pondered an appropriate response to that question.
"Tell me, Agent Archer, was your father in the military?"
He shrugged. "Sort of."
"Then you know the half of it," he concluded rather cryptically. Stepping aside, he ushered them through a door marked Office of the Mayor, and said no more.
There, the floor was covered in some ancient carpet, green as an emerald and stained as anything. No less than a dozen box fans had been set up around the room, all angled inward, and a blaring radio was positioned on a coffee table in a cozy sitting area populated by sagging armchairs and a rather sad-looking couch.
They rounded a corner to behold a rather cluttered desk space, standing guard beside a separate doorway leading into a long corridor of offices. Jonathan spotted a pair of rather large headphones and a waving maneki-neko, not dissimilar to a miniature one a certain communications officer always kept at her station.
Once Malcolm dinged the bell, Hoshi emerged from the adjoining corridor almost immediately, greeting him with a warm and genuine smile. She wore a flowered dress and a pair of low heels, her hair curled into a pristine side ponytail. At first, she moved to give him a companionable hug, which he looked none too enthusiastic about returning, but hesitated the moment she laid eyes on their unexpected guests.
"Miss Sato, these agents are with the feds," he began, and her demeanor instantly changed. Having spent years working closely with her, T'Pol immediately recognized her withdrawing within herself.
"I'm Archer, and this is T'Pol." They flashed their badges once more, and her smile returned, albeit somewhat forced.
Swiftly, she stepped behind her desk and turned away from them, rustling in a nearby open file cabinet. "I take it they're here about the…"
"Yes," he replied tersely. "So if you could just retrieve those case files, we'd be very much obliged."
She took a deep breath, tapping her fingernails against the cold metal. Finally, she snapped her fingers, pointing across the countertop. "You know, it's always something with you, Sheriff. Find this, file this, call Washington, record this deposition…"
"Hoshi is our county clerk," Malcolm interrupted, keen not to let her get carried away. "I daresay the entire city would fall apart without her."
Seemingly unsatisfied by what she'd found, she took a step back and dove so far into another cabinet that her entire upper body disappeared. "That's not an exaggeration. Who knows what they'll do when I graduate."
"We're not worried. You know what the mayor always says…"
"Once you're here, why would you live anywhere else?" Finally, she emerged with her bounty, three-ringed binders stuffed with papers and parchment and assorted evidence bags. Without preamble, Hoshi reached up and dropped them on the countertop, causing her entire desk to shake. "I could probably make him a list."
The first binder was covered with various case numbers and classified stamps, but no degree of decoration could hide its identity, handwritten in thick red ink.
RECORD OF SUSPICIOUS DEATH, INVESTIGATION ONGOING. HUTCHISON, JACK ALEXANDER. D. May 5, 1985.
Our helmsman, T'Pol thought somewhat rhetorically, and began to flip through the pages.
Jonathan, meanwhile, was trying his best to appear casual. "What are you studying?"
"I'm this close to a dual Ph.D. in linguistics and cultural anthropology. Just as soon as I finish my thesis, that is." She shook her head, and at that moment, the music from the radio soared in pitch, slipping into a driving rock number. "This was meant to be a temporary assignment from my research advisor; I've been studying the regional accents and folklore in the area, but the moment I set foot in this town, I knew it was special. I guess you can say something's keeping me here."
A cold draft sluiced through the room from the air conditioning unit in the window, and Jonathan shivered involuntarily.
As fate would have it, the doors leading to the back corridor swung open, and what he saw was such a shock to the system he was very nearly bowled over.
His best friend stood there plain as day with his hands propped on his hips, studying them as though they were some heretofore unnatural curiosity. Trip's hair was much longer in the back, curling around his shoulders, and he held a toothpick between two halves of a rather prodigious smile. A sleeveless shirt unbuttoned to the base of the sternum led into a pair of ripped jeans and cowboy boots, and though he did look ridiculous, Jonathan had to admit he perfectly fit the scenery of a dying town populated with characters only his imagination could produce.
"How the hell are ya?" He surged forward, taking T'Pol's hand and shaking it enthusiastically. "The name's Charles Tucker III, but folks call me Trip. I'm the mayor around these parts. You must be those federal agents Mal called around about."
The choice of words certainly wasn't lost on either of them, but Jonathan introduced them without missing a beat. "We'll be conducting interviews with all of you at some point during this investigation. Do you have any theories as to how these two men died?"
"Of course," Trip said. He made an attempt to sidle up to Hoshi and lean across her desk, only to be shooed away under the pretense that he was tracking mud all over the carpet. Sure enough, his footsteps were visible for all to see. Catching a glimpse of her flirtatious smile, he forged on: "Yuris was a case of spontaneous human combustion, and Hutchison was attacked by the Howler."
"Come again?"
"I said, Yuris was a case of…"
"No, the last part." Beside him, Malcolm rolled his eyes so far back into his head he was surprised he didn't hurt something.
"Don't tell me you've never heard of it?" At their bewildered expressions, he reached forward and jostled his friend's shoulder. "Mal, I told you I'd allow the feds here under one condition. They are from the paranormal unit, right?"
"Our expertise lies in debunking the supernatural, not lending credence to unfounded local folklore," T'Pol said, completely nonplussed.
"Listen, this thing is real. It's like a bear, with huge fangs, glowing red eyes, and horns like the devil. My dad saw it clear as day near one of the old mines on the outskirts of town. Hella wicked looking, if you ask me." For the sheer absurdity of what he was telling them, Trip seemed awfully convinced of it, his sincerity palpable.
T'Pol, to her credit, didn't miss a beat. "We will do our due diligence to uncover the truth. If you could record the approximate location of where your father…"
"It's in there," Hoshi said wearily, punctuating her reassurance with a massive sigh. "Along with every other ditz in town who's heard, seen, or smelled the Howler as it roams the mountains."
"You know, I'm surprised at the two of you." Trip shook his head. "Listen, everyone you're going to meet here is an open book. Go anywhere you want, talk to whoever you like. I promise you, we've got nothing to hide."
That's exactly what someone who had something to hide would say, Jonathan mused, and T'Pol couldn't agree more.
"I'd be more than willing to guide you around town," Malcolm added, giving them the distinct impression he would prefer them to be escorted.
"I assure you, there's no need." T'Pol gathered the binders and clutched them to her chest, taking a moment to make eye contact with every single one of them. When no one displayed any visible tells, she took a step back. "You will be contacted should we have any further questions."
As they burst back into the hallway, they could barely make out Trip's imploring voice: "And where will you go?"
"Back to the scene of the crime," Archer shouted, and then the door closed between them.
As luck would have it, their first stop wound up being the only grocery store in town.
"We should probably get a map," he acknowledged sheepishly. There was little doubt his subconscious would guide them wherever it wanted to go, but if they wanted to stay on track, they needed a game plan.
T'Pol cut him a rather subdued glance he could only interpret as concern. For her benefit, he added: "Wouldn't want to drive that old clunker straight down an abandoned mine shaft, would we?"
The bell secured to the door chimed as they stepped over the threshold. Elevator music played from overhead, but other than that, the store was deathly silent. Try as he might, Jonathan couldn't spot a single customer from his vantage point.
The shelves were stocked with unfamiliar products, all swathed in gratuitous packaging and neon colors. T'Pol trained her gaze on the cash register and made a beeline for it, determined to get to the bottom of the mystery with the kind of unyielding efficiency with which she approached damn near everything else in her life.
Whoever sat behind the counter was unaware of them, hiding their face behind a dog-eared copy of Vanity Fair. Even though they were sitting, T'Pol could make out a pair of leggings and an oversized sweater, one side pulled to expose a bare shoulder. Her sensitive hearing picked up the popping of chewing gum, and a wave of revulsion hit her stomach with force.
"Excuse me," Jonathan said quietly, only to be thoroughly ignored. He tried again and again, until finally the magazine lowered by a fraction of an inch.
He would recognize that short crop of red hair anywhere - their chief engineer presently sat before them, sporting blue eyeshadow and a pair of sparkly hoop earrings. Anna looked rather bored already, which wasn't too far off from her normal demeanor.
"Can I help you?"
"We're wondering if you know anything about the death of Jack Hutchison." To jog her memory, he reached down and retrieved a can of soda from the rotating rack, placing it on the countertop.
"Hutchison…" She trailed off, her voice upturning in the approximation of a question.
"Tended bar next door?"
"Doesn't ring a bell."
A candy bar joined the stack. "He worked there up until six months ago."
"I'm sorry, I don't…"
This time, it was a tawdry tabloid spouting the latest celebrity conspiracy and case of alien abduction in some far-flung part of the nation. "That's funny. You're listed as the one who found him dead in the back alleyway of this store."
That sure got her attention. Anna finally set aside her magazine and leaned across the countertop, studying them with haughty disdain. "And what about it? You two cops or something?"
"FBI," T'Pol replied tersely, and they flashed their badges in tandem. She automatically stood and began to move towards the back of the store with astonishing speed, and just like that, her customer service voice was fully in place.
"Have the snacks, they're on the house."
"Really, there's no need…"
"I insist." Her smile was broad, emotionless, and slightly reminiscent of the Cheshire cat. "Is there anything else I can do for you?"
Archer cut a wry glance towards T'Pol. "Just a map, and we'll be on our way."
"Of course," she said sweetly. Taking a deep breath, she bellowed out into the ether, causing them both to jump: "Ethan!"
Novakovich was there in an instant, dressed in a trucker hat and a pair of overalls. He seemed to be bouncing on his toes with excitement, though he went to great lengths to ignore them. T'Pol was taken aback - with the space between them and the nearest hiding spot, there was no way he could have snuck up on them.
"Get these people a map. I've got a feeling they're going to be doing a lot of driving." She popped the latch of the back door, attracting their attention, and when they glanced backward, he was still standing there, holding a bulky trifold boasting detailed depictions of the county roads.
Archer visibly startled, but accepted his gift, affording him a decorous smile. They followed Anna into the alleyway, and the door slammed shut behind him.
"I found him right here, just as I was closing up for the night." She carefully traversed the gravel between them and the nearest building, which seemed to be abandoned and boarded up. Sure enough, they could still spot the remnants of a chalk drawing to one side of the dumpster and halfway across the wall. "It was probably between eleven and midnight."
T'Pol was making quick work of the crime scene description written in Malcolm's immaculate script, backing up until she could get a sense of the entire area. Several red and orange splotches had been colored in with a light hand, as well as dimensions and approximated angles of impact.
She wished they had even half the audio and visual surveillance that were present on a starship.
"Was he already dead when you found him?"
"Big time. I'd say more of his guts were on the ground than in his stomach." Anna relayed this to them with perfect nonchalance, as though they were discussing the weather. "He had these big claw marks in his chest. I'm telling you, a human couldn't have made them. Not even with a scythe or some other farming implement."
A wind rustled through the trees, affording them a brief reprieve from the oppressive heat. In the distance, he heard the trilling of birds from somewhere up the ridge. "That's the conclusion the state coroner made as well. Did he have any reason to be around here that night?"
"Not that I know of. He wasn't working, but someone said they saw him go into the pawn shop." Anna gestured two doors down, and something clicked in his mind.
"Who said that?"
"I did," she answered automatically. "Saw it with my own two eyes."
"And do you believe Mr. Hutchison was killed by the Howler?"
This time, her reply was so swift and confident there was no room left for ambiguity.
"Of course. What other conclusion is there?"
About twenty minutes later, they found themselves lingering around their vehicle, heads bent together, whispering in hushed, furtive tones.
"Something's going on here," Jonathan said vaguely, much to her chagrin.
"That much is obvious." The officers they knew were logical, scientifically minded individuals, who normally wouldn't dabble in the paranormal. Perhaps this was a projection of Jonathan's fear of the unknown, something he so often felt but rarely acknowledged. "Perhaps we should make arrangements to see the body."
"Really, T'Pol?"
"Unless you believe the experience would be too emotionally taxing for you," she challenged, earning a look of consternation.
"Now wait just a minute…"
He pointed a finger towards her and then trailed off, his eyes going wide.
Ever so slowly, she followed his gaze over her shoulder, then gradually knelt down with him until they disappeared around the side of the vehicle.
Through the pane glass window, Ethan was busily restocking the shelves. Believing he couldn't be seen from the outside, he began to move faster and faster until his upper body was a complete blur, making quick work of the box at his feet. He kicked it, then reappeared several meters away, setting to the next task.
Another customer was fast approaching his aisle, but the second the crewman stepped into view, he slowed to a leisurely pace, doling out a wave and a friendly smile.
Then time dilated, slowed, then restored to normal, sending them both hurrying down the sidewalk.
Taxa Pawn was an established family business stuffed to the brim with glittering flights of fancy. It quite reminded Jonathan of a dragon's hoard; there was scarcely room to walk around the rows of display cases, the jewelry and antiques catching his eye at every turn. He caught a glimpse of dozens of handwritten price tags, as well as a few young Denobulans that all skittered out of their way as they forged deeper into the building.
Alira seemed to have been expecting them. She sat behind the register with an unlit cigarette dangling between her fingers, toying with the horn of a bleached cow's skull with her other hand. The sight was unexpectedly macabre, and she tore into them without giving them even a moment to breathe.
"Did the Sheriff send you? I swear, that man's had it out for me from the second he moved here…"
"Don't worry," Jonathan assured her, then leaned against the counter, affecting a conversational tone. "How long have you owned the place?"
She looked at him warily, but supplied him with an answer. "Almost two years. Took over from my mother."
"And where is she now?"
"Hell if I know. She ran off with the milkman and left me and my stepfather to raise my eight younger siblings." Alira laughed ruefully, rubbing her forehead. "The crazy thing is, I don't think I blame her at all."
"You don't?"
"That's right, and if you spend more than a few days in this place, you won't either."
T'Pol reached out and began to run the length of a suspended gold chain between her fingers. "What about this stepfather of yours?"
"He works at the school, teaches science to the elementary students." That signature smile of hers was back, though it was tempered by a menacing flash of something in her eyes. "But I get the feeling you're not here to learn about my family history."
That they weren't. Knowing how duplicitous she could be when she wanted, Jonathan decided to take a different approach. He began to pace the length of the display case, admiring the handguns for sale. "What can you tell me about the local superstitions around here?"
"Depends. How much time do you have? A month, a year?"
"How about foxfire?" T'Pol asked, and this seemed to catch her attention. "You are counted among the locals who blame a fireball coming down from the sky for the death of one Mr. Yuris. If I'm not mistaken, he was a colleague of your stepfather's."
For one long moment, the only audible sounds were the whirr of the air conditioning and the whisperings of her siblings, seemingly everywhere and nowhere. Alira took a moment to steady herself before replying. "They go by many names, you know. Miss Sato's from Japan, where they're known as kitsunebi. There's the Brown Mountain lights down southeast, and Sheriff Reed would call them will-'o-the-wisps. I've met Mr. Yuris. He was such a kind, patient man - I can't imagine he just burned to a crisp and left nothing behind."
"Spontaneous human combustion is quite rare," T'Pol acknowledged. "If there's foul play involved in his death, rest assured we intend to get to the bottom of it."
"About that...we've heard that shortly before his death, Jack Hutchison was seen entering this pawn shop." As soon as he said that, he knew he'd hit the jackpot - her stunned expression told him everything he needed to know.
"He did, and he stayed about two minutes before walking right back out that front door."
"What did you talk about?"
She laughed, shaking her head. "Don't laugh at me."
"Why would we?" T'Pol asked, perfectly deadpan. "Is something amusing?"
Alira ignored that question and forged right on. "Jack and I are in the same D&D group. He wanted to let me know he couldn't make it that next Saturday. Something about going back into the city to visit his mom."
T'Pol glanced back at him with questioning eyes, and he held up a placating hand, indicating he would explain everything later. "Did you see him after he left?"
"No, sir."
"What about what you heard - any signs of struggle?"
"If I had, you would've known for sure." She hesitated, then leaned across the counter towards him, feigning familiarity. "Forgive me for saying so, Agent Archer, but I find it hard to believe something like this could've happened here. Say what you want about Enterprise, but this is not an exciting town."
Something about that stirred something deep within him; this decade was known to be the last blissful interlude before the horrors of the Eugenics Wars and World War III. In the same manner, he wished he would have slowed down and enjoyed the time between their conflicts with the Xindi and the Romulan Wars. But seeing as he was powerless to do so, he forged on, knowing full well he was doomed to look ceaselessly back into the past.
"Can anyone account for your whereabouts that night?"
"I closed up right after he left. It's a three minute drive back to my house, where I live with nine other people. You do the math."
Jonathan nodded, taking a step back. "If we have any further questions…"
"I'll be around," she said, with an entirely reassuring smile.
They quickly took their leave of her; at the last possible second, T'Pol glanced back just in time to see her retrieve her cigarette, snap her fingers, and set it alight with what appeared to be an orange flame that leapt up from her thumb.
Through the bond, she told him exactly what she'd just seen, but he didn't reply, turning swiftly to study Alira's convertible parallel parked against the curb.
"Do you think someone raising eight children on a shopkeeper's salary could afford such a car?"
As a matter of fact, she didn't, and T'Pol immediately knew there was something afoot. She meant to reply, but she didn't have the time to even formulate her own conclusions. The sun slipped out from behind the lazy afternoon clouds, and she turned to it like a sunflower, squinting into the light.
On cue, a patrol car turned the corner and began to drive down the main drag, at such a pace that was much too stately to be casual. The low beams flipped on, and as he drew nearer, they were able to make out a pair of dark sunglasses and a well-pressed khaki uniform. His gaze was searing, probing, and utterly inscrutable.
"Kelby," Jonathan said gravely, forming his own conclusions. "Malcolm's deputy."
En route to the school, they found themselves trapped in a gridlock traffic jam heading up the two lane highway winding into the mountains.
Even in the golden light of the afternoon, the heat was oppressive; a fine, translucent fog seemed to rise from the treetops and curl into the dips and valleys. They continued to inch forward, occasionally passing into areas of shade, silently willing the line to move faster.
In the distance, a siren sounded, shrill and eerie, and the opposite side of the road was suddenly filled with miners going off shift. A few crewmen seemed to have the right idea, stumbling down the hill in stilted, halting steps with their lunch pails under one arm and their helmets under the other. They were covered in mud and grime from head to toe, and there was little doubt in Jonathan's mind that this was a treacherously hard life that most residents of the town were forced to lead.
"Do we have enough fuel?" T'Pol asked, leaning over to study the dashboard. He knew she was referring to their little Bonnie and Clyde escapade they'd had to pull to fill their tank the last time, and cut her a long-suffering glance thinly disguised by amusement.
"It's not much farther," he promised. "Just a couple hundred meters."
The town school was an ancient and dilapidated building, the side paneling multicolored and peeling from many repeated white washings. An ancient bell tower over sat silent and untouched. Every window seemed to be shut tight, and the view from within was obscured with an eclectic mixture of curtains and accordion blinds. Jonathan drove their vehicle over the gravel lot and parked as close as he possibly could, taking great care not to choke on the oppressive clouds of dust they'd churned up along the way.
Close at hand, a raven was perched on a signpost. The moment T'Pol stepped out of the car, she locked eyes on it, and knew that it was staring back.
Back on the road a car honked and the bird fled its position forthwith, seeming to shoot straight up in the sky and disappear. She took a deep breath to steady herself and trundled after him across uneven ground.
They weren't sure if anyone would be there to greet them, but oddly enough, they found the doors unlocked. Jonathan stepped over the threshold first, and when he found that he wasn't being followed, he reached back and extended his hand towards her.
"Come on. It's just a dream," he assured her. All the same, she was rattled, knowing full well they were venturing deep into the darker regions of his subconscious. But because she loved him, every part of him, from his sunny disposition to his deepest ingrained self-doubts, she went willingly, following him into the near darkness.
Inside, the floors were littered with pencils and stray papers, and every door was thrown open for ventilation. Having grown up attending a school not unlike this one, Jonathan recognized that class was out for the summer, and they gradually wound their way around the corridor until they located their next witness.
She sat at the lab bench nearest the door with her back towards them, her legs crossed at the ankle under a blush colored pleated skirt. Her ruffled blouse was rolled up to the elbows, and she wore a pencil behind one ear, chewing on the eraser of a different one as she scrutinized her notebook.
"Miss Cutler," T'Pol said gently. Liz reacted as though she'd been stung, gasping and clutching her hand to her chest as she whirled around.
Her delicate features were offset by a heavy pair of wire-rimmed glasses - she fleetingly remembered hearing her tell a science crewman that she'd had her vision corrected as a child, that she'd been blind as a bat before that. The difference was subtle, yet apparent, and she found herself soothed by the continued presence of her protegee.
"You scared me," she admonished, sliding off her stool to greet them. Jonathan returned her overture of a handshake carefully, studying her expression for any hint of misgivings, but coming up empty. "I suppose you must be those federal agents that Sheriff Reed sent for."
"Archer and T'Pol. Is this your classroom?" It was a bit of a daft question, but served as their excuse to enter, studying the diagrams along the wall boasting the phases of cellular mitosis and the water cycle. A dozen lab benches were lined up towards the back, crowded with beakers and test tubes, and further still the desks were arranged in orderly rows facing the blackboard. It was all very soft and welcoming, and the afternoon light toned everything with a warm glow.
"That's right." She stepped aside, and her eyes followed them as they circled the room. "Every high schooler wanting to graduate has to come through me."
"And the other kids?"
"That starts across the way." Liz carefully approached the window and leaned against the glass. It was then Jonathan realized that the school was shaped like a U, with two long corridors that bracketed a playground and a community garden. He caught a glimpse of a figure moving around across the way, a man dressed in a sweater vest and jaunty matching tie, who briefly paused to wave at her.
She smiled, then crossed her arms and turned her back towards the window. It was then he noticed the vases of well-maintained flowers underneath the sill, and managed to put two and two together.
"Tell me about Mr. Phlox."
"Well, the little ones love him. He's got all these creatures, and he takes them out foraging in the hills. I get the feeling that the seventies weren't very kind to him, but he really is such a sweet man..." Liz trailed off, realizing what he meant. "You want to know what happened with Mr. Yuris."
"You've got to admit, it's not everyday a teacher is found dead in the halls of his own school," he said rather nonchalantly, at the very moment T'Pol started to rifle through her desk drawers.
She shook her head, reaching behind her to retrieve a cluster of purple azaleas, weighing her words carefully. "Well, it was the last day of classes, and Phlox offered to take me into the city to see a movie. I'd never been before, and he brought me flowers, and you see…" Realizing what that sounded like, she backtracked rapidly. "It's not what you think. We're colleagues - that's it - and we wanted to celebrate getting through the year before summer school started."
Archer shook his head, indicating it didn't matter to him either way, and she continued, somewhat haltingly this time. "We were on our way back and he was going to drop me off at my house, but I realized I forgot my keys. Even from the parking lot, we could hear screaming."
"And so you ran towards the noise?"
"Yes, people were shouting and arguing, but I didn't recognize their voices. So I grabbed the revolver from my glove box and went to investigate."
"But you didn't call the police?"
"The phone was inside the building anyway," she said plainly, as though it had been obvious. "Anyway, we burst through the front door into the middle school wing and caught a glimpse of him from behind. There was no one around, it was almost pitch black, and the moment I called out his name he turned to me and burst into flames."
The very mental image was terrifying to him; Jonathan had seen many a crewman die, but never in such a violent and gruesome manner.
"How long ago was this?" T'Pol's voice startled him, and he glanced back just in time to see her slip something into her pocket.
"About a week. I assume that's why you're here. The crime scene is still roped off, you know. I've told this same story to every other policeman in the county."
"I don't doubt it." Jonathan resumed his circuit of the room, coming to a halt near a series of half-filled cardboard boxes stuffed with all means of scientific curiosities. It seemed to him that she was packing away for the summer term; her supply closet stood open, cluttered and stuffed to the gills. "A lot of the people in town think he was carried away by foxfire. Do you agree?"
Her laugh was warm and melodious, and the sound was so familiar he was momentarily taken aback. "Please, Agent Archer. I'm a woman of science. There's no doubt in my mind it was spontaneous human combustion. They found no traces of accelerant or ignition sources, so it wasn't self-immolation. I can't explain the shouting and I certainly didn't see anyone leave, but if a lick of flame comes into contact with subcutaneous fat…"
"It burns vertically in what's known as the wick effect," T'Pol concluded. "While I acknowledge that it's a distinct possibility, Mr. Yuris misses several other classical risk factors for SHC."
"You know what they say - stranger things have happened." Seemingly satisfied with that, she resumed packing, starting with her notebook and then a whole stack of graded exams. This seemed to indicate that the conversation was over, but T'Pol wasn't going to let her go that easily.
"I understand that you, Phlox, and Yuris once worked for the Maelstrom Chemical Plant." She unclipped the binder she'd been carrying and displayed her profile, flipping up the photograph there so she could see her work history. Liz startled, but didn't stop moving for a second. "Could you tell me what was made there?"
"I'm afraid I can't tell you much. Myself and the former employees are bound by a non-disclosure agreement."
"Most of them no longer live here," Jonathan said. "Not even the operators. Why is that?"
She shrugged. "Why do people do anything? If you must know, we were mainly focused on pesticides. I was their staff entomologist, and after years of working in the private sector, I decided to try something completely different."
"You must have given up a lot to stay here."
"Some would say not enough." What was meant by that, he didn't know, but T'Pol seemed adamant to get them out of there as quickly as possible.
"Thank you, Miss Cutler." She took one step towards the door and Jonathan followed. "We'll call if we have any more questions."
Liz nodded and smiled reassuringly, then watched them go, waiting until she heard their footsteps echoing from all the way from the end of the hallway. Satisfied that she was alone, she leaned against the wall and crossed her arms, then commenced loading the box with the well-practiced flick of her index finger.
Slowly, a handful of test tubes slid off the table and floated midair towards the ground, settling down onto the cardboard with not even so much as a sound.
They found the scene of the crime back towards the main entrance, right where she said it would be. Jonathan fumbled around on the wall until he could locate a light switch, then flipped it on, exposing what appeared to be Yuris's final resting place.
There was a dark scorch mark on the tile, about a foot and a half across, teardrop shaped on one end, as if his entire person had been ignited from the front. The corridor stopped in a dead end there, only compounding in their confusion.
Both knew there was no way someone could have sent him on fire and slipped out without being noticed.
The soot was waxy and noxious, indicative of the wick effect T'Pol had described just a few moments earlier. Ducking underneath the yellow tape, Jonathan knelt beside it, rubbing it between his fingers. According to Sheriff Reed's files, the analysis had turned up carbon and some stray organic compounds - perfectly consistent with a person being burned alive.
"I found something," T'Pol announced, then displayed what she'd taken from Liz's desk.
It was a large old-fashioned skeleton key made out of wrought iron, certainly from another time and place. She turned it this way and that, forcing it to catch the light so he could see the three letters carved there.
MCP. Maelstrom Chemical Plant.
"T'Pol, you can't just go around stealing things," he chastised. "I'm sure we'd need a search warrant, or at least a judge to say…"
"This is a dream," she reminded him. Suddenly distracted by something, she turned and sank to her knees, running her finger on the seam between the floor and the wall. He joined her forthwith, studying the residue she collected.
It was instantly recognizable - Jonathan had very keen memories of his great-grandfather, one Jack Archer, sitting by a roaring hearth in his cabin in upstate New York. He was an old, wizened man whose grandfather had fought valiantly in North Africa during the Eugenics Wars. Though by that time tobacco had fallen out of vogue, he never did quite kick the habit. As a child, he would often scramble to find him a light, listening all the while as he detailed the horrors of armed conflict, how one always had to keep their wits about them and maintain compassion in the face of even insurmountable odds.
"Cigarette ash." The material crumbled and fluttered away, disturbed by an unseen breeze.
T'Pol had yet to be treated to that particular childhood memory, and was deeply confused by his discovery. "You don't smoke, Jonathan."
"No," he acknowledged, rising to his feet and extending his hand. "But we know someone who does, at least in this reality."
As luck would have it, they tracked Alira's car all the way down the base of the mountain to a diner on the outskirts of town, which they'd either been too distracted or not observant enough to notice on the way in.
This too, was a relic of another time - the outside was all rounded awnings and chipped chrome finishings, with a flickering neon sign which had also seen better days. It proclaimed that this establishment was known as Julia's, and went on to expound on the fact that they were open twenty-four hours a day.
The sun was only just beginning to set, but already, every seat seemed to be taken. That didn't matter - they weren't there to eat, just as much as the Romulans weren't cutting their way through the Beta Quadrant just for a bit of sightseeing.
Within, the floor was tiled in a black-and-white checkerboard pattern, the smooth red upholstery of the booths and barstools giving way to white tables and a matching countertop that stretched the length of the back wall. Somewhere, music was playing, and their eyes were drawn at once to the end of the row, where an ancient, squat machine was blaring the best of the doo-woppers out of its tinny speakers.
That's a jukebox, he mused through their bond. I've only ever seen one in a museum.
"There's a first time for everything," she whispered, feeling the eyes of just about everyone in the restaurant on them. The conversation around them softened, but didn't stop entirely. Self-consciously, she looped her arm through his, laying her fingers insistently in the curve of his elbow. Together they marched right up to the counter and leaned against it, trying and failing to attract the attention of several crewmen moving about in the kitchen.
Why are we here, T'Pol?
To see the owner, she explained. In her deposition, she noted something curious about the Maelstrom Chemical Plant. I am positive this will be of interest to you.
Whoever said Vulcans didn't have a flare for the dramatic would have to be duly invited to view the living antithesis. T'Pol was absolutely living for this, even though she would never say as much out loud. He made a mental note to introduce her to Poirot and Holmes and Marlowe when they rejoined the realm of the living.
One of the waiters moved to attend to them, but Julia intercepted him, turning on her heels and leaning across the countertop as far as she could go. T'Pol could feel her eyes sizing them up, but she did not waver.
"Is there a problem?" It was a similar way to which Anna had greeted them back at the grocery; Jonathan had a distinct feeling word of their arrival in town had spread far and wide, and a majority of the townsfolk didn't take too kindly to the feds poking around.
"Not at all, Miss Hammond." T'Pol flashed her badge, then mirrored her posture, a swift motion that took them both aback. "I was wondering if you could reiterate what you told the local police force about the events of May 28th."
"The night that teacher died?" Her question was so loud it reverberated throughout the small space; there was a moment where one could've heard a pin drop, then conversation returned in force. T'Pol nodded, encouraging her to continue. "Well, it was a pretty slow night. I was locking up and taking out the trash when I saw it."
"Saw what?"
"I'm getting to that." She exchanged an exasperated glance with a passing waiter, who smiled sympathetically. "Anyway, I'm carrying this huge trash bag in front of me, and I can't really see where I'm going, but once I get within earshot of the dumpster, I start hearing something growling and clawing at the ground."
Behind them, the doors opened once again, and Jonathan cast a skittering glance at Malcolm and Kelby. His eyes followed them right past Trip and Hoshi, who were cuddled up in a booth sharing a milkshake, right to the table at the very far corner of the room. He leaned back ever so slightly, just enough to catch a glimpse of a leather jacket and a shock of blonde curls.
"I swear to you, this thing has fangs and red eyes, and it's about as big as a bear. I'd know all about that - my dad once fought one off from our cabin. It looks at me and I look at it and I swear it's about to lunge out and kill me, before it just turns and runs off into the night."
"And you believe this creature to be the Howler?"
"I mean, what else could it be? Hutch was killed a few weeks before that, so that proves it was in the area." She shrugged. "Before you ask, I was the only one here, so there's no one who could corroborate my story. Travis left about an hour before that."
The man in question had been trying his best to hide his face at the pass, though he was doing a pretty poor job at it. He made no attempt to depart the kitchen to greet them, preferring to stay exactly where he was.
"Where were you that evening, Mr. Mayweather?"
"Down at Alira's. It was D&D night," he admitted somewhat sheepishly.
"Who's in your group?"
Travis's eyes rolled up and to one side, in a clear move T'Pol had singled out with her human crewmates to tell when one of them was lying. "Myself, Taxa, and Novakovich. Formerly Hutch. Sometimes one of her sisters, or the guys from the bar, or Deputy Kelby."
"Really?" Jonathan joined her in leaning across the counter, fully aware of how they mirrored each other. "You mean to tell me that Taxa lets a policeman into her home?"
It did sound completely implausible, and Travis must've realized it, because he completely glossed over that. Julia quickly came to his rescue. "You know, about ten minutes after I caught the Howler rooting through our trash, I did see something weird coming from the direction of the old factory."
"What did you see?" T'Pol made a big show of flipping open her notebook and turning to a new page. He found himself entirely taken by how seriously she was taking this entire thing.
"About five or six box trucks ripping down the side of the mountain at max speed. They've got some balls, I'll give them that. You can't even get up the road when it snows." She frowned, furrowing her brows, then snapped her fingers. "That reminds me! Travis, do you remember that night with that lady on the roller skates?"
"No," he replied instantly, turning back towards the grill.
"Oh man - it was Amanda from up the street, right after Christmas. She must've hit a spot of black ice, or not known how to stop on those things, because she careened right out into the street in front of an oncoming car." Julia paused for the benefit of T'Pol, who was taking frantic notes. "He swerved and lost control and almost smashed her right into our far wall. Travis was right there, and he pushed her out of the way, then stopped the car with his body."
"With his body?"
"That's right. Just put his fist out and punched the whole front bumper in. When Misha from the towing service showed up, there was a Travis-shaped indentation in the front of the car. Never seen anything like it, but then again they say adrenaline lets folks accomplish things they normally couldn't." She took a deep breath, fully unaware of the stricken expression behind her. "I'm not a great storyteller. You had to have been there, but trust me, it was totally bitchin'."
"Totally bitchin'," T'Pol repeated, perfectly deadpan, with such bewilderment that it was all he could do not to burst out laughing.
"I'm sure it was," Jonathan said. He reached out and wrapped an arm around her shoulder. "Thank you, Miss Hammond. We'll be in touch."
Together they moved towards the back of the restaurant towards the jukebox - it seemed as unassuming a place as any to have a conversation, and Jonathan couldn't deny his innate curiosity. He located a quarter in the pocket of his suit, then chose a song at random, watching as the inner machinations selected a record and popped it into position. Behind them, Malcolm and Alira were exchanged in a rather intense conversation, much to the discomfort of their companions.
"I'm only going to tell you one more time - you can't park in the reserved spots. They're there for law enforcement only, and if you..."
"Are you going to fine me, Sheriff? Give me a ticket?" She made him wait while she took a rather indulgent sip from her soda, then lit into him again. "I'm sure it's going to look great on my wall along with all the other ones."
At that moment, Ethan skittered away, heralding a call for him from the counter. A hand shot out, holding a telephone attached to the wall, and he quickly tended to it. When he became aware of Jonathan's eyes on him, he turned away, and his whispers grew all the more frantic.
They continued to go back and forth for some time, all the while Kelby looked like he wanted to crawl out of his skin. He knew T'Pol saw it too - he was twitching and sweating and breathing heavily. The Reeds were entirely oblivious to it, perfectly content to continue their verbal sparring until Ethan returned to the table, informing them that they needed to go, they needed to go right now.
"It's my brother," he said vaguely. "There's a problem at home, and…"
"Say no more." Alira slid out of her seat, fumbling for her wallet and tossing a few dollars onto the table. Then they were off, and none of them could miss the twinkle in her eye at having bested him again.
In the new and relative silence of this corner of the restaurant, Jonathan and T'Pol turned away, still keenly aware of what was going on around them. Momentarily distracted from his date, Trip pointed his index finger and curled it inward, beckoning the town's intrepid crime-fighting duo to their table.
If this were a starship, Jonathan knew exactly what their next step would be.
Once outside, he automatically reached for where his PADD would be, only to find that it wasn't there. Instead, his fingers closed around the map, which he handed to T'Pol.
He watched for a few seconds as she struggled with the great collapsing mass of paper, which tented her entire upper body and nearly overwhelmed her, then came to her rescue, grabbing the opposite edge and holding it out in front of them both. It was then he remembered he wasn't as young as he used to be - even under the floodlight and the sunset, he was having trouble making sense of the complicated mass of roads and hiking trails that lead through the mountains.
Jonathan resolved that if the two of them could command a fleet, lead a crew, and keep the ship from falling apart as they flew through any number of spatial anomalies, they should easily be able to read a damn map.
They eventually managed to locate the library - though it did take a wrong turn or two - and encountered their communications officer just as she was closing up for the night. Flashing their badges, they assured her it would only take a few minutes, and though she didn't look the least bit convinced, she stepped aside to let them in. Following them as far as the reference section, she turned on a few lights and retreated to her desk, occasionally sneaking glances at them from a distance.
For a minute or two, they wandered among the stacks, desperately trying to make sense of everything around them. The library back at Starfleet Training Command was no more of a collection of consoles maintaining thousands of databases; on the rare occasion he needed to study on the run, he'd simply interface his PADD with the computer and be on his way. As a result, he was woefully inexperienced with the Dewey decimal system, and it took some time to find what they were looking for.
Settling into a wobbling table at the farthest corner of the room, they set down their bounty, momentarily choking on the significant amount of dust it kicked up. Reflexively, he pulled out her chair and slid in beside her, flipping through a tome on recent industrial disasters.
"Chemical releases were really common in this century; regulations were less strict, and a lot of corners were cut," he explained, finally locating what he was looking for. Punctuating his find by striking the page with his index finger, he slid the book in her direction. "All large scale engineering disasters, resulting in birth defects, life-altering injuries, and thousands of deaths."
"And you think that something similar is happening here?" She sounded fairly incredulous, even as her expression remained impassive.
"That's what my gut is telling me. The people of this town are getting exposed to something. People don't just get the ability to move at super speed." He sighed, ruffling his fingers through his hair. The oppressive heat of the afternoon hadn't dulled significantly, and even in the dimly lit library, it was sweltering. "I know this is a dream, but I still need to rely on my instincts."
She was quiet for an indeterminable amount of time, then closed the distance between them to take his hand. "This may surprise you, but I agree."
"Really? No other brilliant theories?"
T'Pol fully ignored him, reaching into her pocket to retrieve the skeleton key. "Whatever we're looking for lies on the other side of this door."
"You sound confident." But then again, he'd never really known her to be anything else.
Whatever she meant to say was lost in a hail of broken glass. Immediately, they startled, rising to their feet and heading towards the source of the noise, stopping once they were within shooting distance of the door. Dita was screaming absolute bloody murder, shrieks which gradually dulled into whimpers and ragged breathing. She seemed frozen in fear, completely unable to move. T'Pol called out to her, encouraging her to back away and give them room to work.
The moment she glanced back at them, her legs were pulled out from under her and she was pulled forward, striking her head on the hardwood floor as she was dragged out into the street. Her final cries for help were drowned out by growling and the sickening sound of claws against flesh, and even though he knew it wasn't real, a twinge of terror rippled down his spine.
Before he could stop her, T'Pol was running, brandishing her unfamiliar weapon, quite literally into the belly of the beast. He followed her without pause as far as the front door, taking in the smashed glass and what little remained of their communications officer.
Dita was no longer whole, but reduced to body parts littering the foyer and the sidewalk, producing a trail of blood leading up the road. It was horrific, gruesome, and the lumbering, hulking mass disappearing into the shadows left little ambiguity as to what could have done this.
"Dear God," he mumbled, feeling faint. "I can't believe it's real."
They were both seized by the powerful need to do something; their car was somewhere back on the main drag, and Dita was well beyond saving. Jonathan knew they must have been in the deepest stage of REM sleep, because usually if he experienced something terrifying in his dream world, he would wake up immediately. It had been a time-honored tradition since the Xindi War, which had been the source of many a nightmare in recent years.
The ensuing silence was cut by the backfire of an engine coming down the hill. A rumble and a sputter, and an ancient pickup truck lumbered into view, driven by none other than Hoshi Sato. She pointed at them and then jerked her thumb towards the trunk, and there Trip was, in all his mulleted, cutoff wearing glory, holding a sawed-off shotgun with both hands.
"Get in!" He shouted, and they needed no further encouragement.
Hoshi peeled off like the hounds of hell were on her tail, and perhaps they were - about halfway up the hill, Jonathan realized they should have thought twice about hopping in the back of a pickup with a stark raving mad hillbilly, one who didn't know to keep his weapon aimed at the ground.
They lost the pavement as soon as they turned off the main drag, and the ground was so rough, the grade so steep, that every part of him was shaking. The metal of the trunk was vibrating at such a frequency that he was sure they were about to be liquefied; even T'Pol looked like she was about to vomit.
"That's my problem, darlin'," Trip shouted, bringing his face at level with the window. "I'm too nice. I let people walk all over me. Give an inch, they take a mile. Mark my words, once I get around to it, they'll regret being so careless."
"I won't dispute that," Hoshi replied, whipping her head around to face him. She was roaring through hairpin turns and overhangs without guardrails at breakneck speed, even though she could easily lose control at any moment. Jonathan reached out and seized T'Pol's hand, squeezing with all his might.
"Would you mind telling us what the hell is going on?" He asked, somewhat rhetorically, and Trip shook his head. Surprisingly, he'd yet to sit down throughout the ride, preferring to ride out the hills and dales like he was surfing.
Their mayor didn't have time to respond; two more corners, and they came upon the smoldering wreckage of a patrol car, almost completely wrapped around the trunk of a massive oak tree. This time, Hoshi slowed, just enough so they could confirm that the driver's side door was open and it was unoccupied.
"We should call the Sheriff," T'Pol shouted, and it was more of an order than a suggestion.
The pickup sped off again, nearly tossing Trip out of the back. He righted himself, then assured her: "Mal's the last person we need right now."
"Are you telling me you're planning on taking down the Howler with that?" Archer indicated his shotgun, which looked so old and rusted through that it might fall apart at any second.
"Of course, it's just like hunting snipes," he replied nonchalantly, and nudged him with the barrel. "Ever caught one of those, city boy?"
Floodlights were only just starting to appear on the horizon, anchored to massive distillation towers and smokestacks and reactors that poked through the tree line. He could tell they were fairly high up into the mountains; the truck was flying through many successive waves of low-hanging fog, with no intention of slowing down.
T'Pol had that kind of tense, scrunched up face she often adopted whenever she was formulating a plan. Opening his mind to her, he was assaulted with a rapid-fire stream of consciousness, and knew without a doubt she was just as bewildered as she was.
They popped over the final ridge, and seconds later, a pair of blinding headlights flipped on behind them. Someone was laying on the horn, and Trip was screaming and waving at them to be quiet, shut up, stop making noise for the love of God, but it didn't seem to be working.
Suddenly Hoshi lay on the brakes, sending them skidding out on a flat, dirt-packed lot. They momentarily struggled to discern who had snuck up on them through the considerable dust they'd kicked up.
That accent, though, was unmistakable.
"Are you trying to get us all killed?" Malcolm hissed, appearing through the fog toting a pistol in each hand. He stepped right up to the much taller man with no intention of backing down.
"The opposite, I assure you," Trip replied dryly. "And I don't know what you're planning to do, but…"
"I tracked the creature up into the hills. It's killed two more people tonight."
"So you do believe me."
"Insofar as I know whoever or whatever is murdering the citizens of this town is somewhere in the near vicinity, yes."
"Give it a rest, will ya? What do you think it is? Three grown men in a monster suit?"
Hoshi killed the lights and yanked the key out of the ignition. Her eyes were wide, her voice cautioning. "Trip…"
Jonathan shushed them, forcing them to still, listening into the darkness. Sure enough, it was there, a deep, reverberating hum coupled with distant shouting. He didn't need to ask if they heard it; their expressions were reassurance enough.
His bondmate's keen Vulcan hearing picked up on something else. T'Pol reached out to Trip, who obliged, passing his flashlight into her hands. Step by step, agonizingly slowly, she began to move into the tree line; he could feel anxiety rolling off of her in waves.
"Show yourself," she demanded coolly, evenly. "And I will not shoot."
There was a rustling, and series of hushed whispers, and then Alira emerged, followed shortly by Travis. They were scratched up and bruised and bleeding, as though they'd gone a couple rounds in the hour or so since they'd seen them. Malcolm moved to apprehend them, but she cautioned him with a wave of her hand, her eyes wide with fear.
"Don't come any closer. I don't want to hurt you." He could've been mistaken, but he was fairly sure she was weeping, tears rolling in great rivulets down her cheeks.
Malcolm reached out to placate her, but immediately pulled back. Within about a meter radius of her person, the air was searing hot, so blistering he was sure he'd been burned. Even Travis was standing clear out of the way, opening and closing his fists as if he could fly off the handle at any moment.
"Tell me what's going on," he said softly, in a futile attempt to calm her down. "I might be able to help you."
She opened her mouth to speak, but Trip cut her off, apparently too frustrated to live this charade any longer. It was very clear (at least to the townsfolk assembled) that they were very close to being found out anyway. "It's really simple. Just give a few minutes of thought to why people like Yuris and Cutler and Phlox would move out to a place like this with all those big fancy scientific degrees."
It could have been his eyes playing tricks on him, but Jonathan was pretty sure Alira was shimmering, the exposed skin of her face and neck glowing a soft red, becoming more intense by the second. At the moment she was speechless, utterly horrified, and had to turn away from them before it could become obvious.
"We have to capture him," Travis said, intent on hurrying them along. "If we don't he's going to kill again."
Those words sent chills racing up his arms, and Jonathan glanced upwards, noticing for the first time the full moon. He rapidly did the mental math of how much time had passed since Hutch's death and that night - thirty days.
Perfect timing.
As if on cue, they heard the rustling of leaves and twigs being crushed underfoot; there was a great deal of snarling and growling, and then a massive beast clambered across the open space, its black fur matted with blood and heaven knew what else. It seemed to pay no mind to them, singular in its objective, and a second later, it was followed by an indistinguishable blur that rustled the trees and sent birds soaring out of their perches into the sky.
Travis was off in an instant. Malcolm tried to stop him, to beg him to slow down and formulate a plan, but he placed one hand on his chest and sent him flying through the air. It could have been ten or twenty meters; Jonathan was so momentarily stunned that he nearly missed when he collided with the trunk of a nearby tree, arms and legs akimbo, screaming out in pain.
That was all it took. It started in her fingertips, then her fists, then up to the shoulder and down her torso, until Alira was nothing but a blinding, searing human fireball. He caught a glimpse of her eyes a moment before she vanished behind the flames, and knew instantly she was terrified, that she had very little control at all. It didn't matter - they parted like the Red Sea for them, and then they were gone, traipsing onto the property of the old Maelstrom Chemical Plant.
The fence melted and warped ahead of them, and their path was nothing but one continuous scorch mark across the grass. Before anyone could tell her otherwise, T'Pol stole forward into the darkness.
A simple loss of control, she advised him rather vaguely. That was all it took for Yuris to die.
But that means…
They lied to the county detectives. They lied to us both.
The facility was a sprawling industrial complex which had long since fallen into disrepair. Every available surface seemed to be crumbling and rusting through, and as the breeze whistled through the tanks and electrical lines, it contributed to the low drone that filled the air and set their bones to vibrating. The obvious culprit, though, were the dozens of box trucks lined up on the loading docks, being filled assembly-line style by dozens of soldiers in military fatigues.
Bending over at the waist, T'Pol stole silently around to the side door of the warehouse, where she was none too surprised to find a Travis-shaped hole punched into the siding. Next to it, a great section of the metal had been melted away, leaving nothing but a noxious puddle of building material at their feet.
"They're in the building," Hoshi advised breathlessly, keen on staying as close as possible. "Towards the back."
"How do you know?" Jonathan rasped.
She met his eyes with tremendous fortitude and noticeable sadness. "I know."
Her hands closed around the skeleton key she'd stolen from Cutler's desk - with a little bit of shaking and jostling, it fit, and the latch turning in the door sounded deafening to her overexposed senses. Within, the cargo containers all around them were sparsely lit by a narrow line of fluorescent lights, and thankfully, there was no one in sight.
Malcolm reached out and grabbed her arm, perhaps to caution her, but whatever he was about to say was drowned out by the sound of a blood-curdling scream somewhere in the distance. The Howler was seething, and then someone went flying upwards, hitting the ceiling before falling like a rag doll towards the ground.
The impact echoed through the great empty space like a gunshot.
"We've got to trap them in here. There's an electric fence around the perimeter, but it'll need to be enabled remotely." Trip gestured towards a nearby ladder, which was retracted into a walkway halfway up the side of the wall. Through the railing and the boarded-up windows, Jonathan saw a twinge of light from within, and his stomach immediately contorted in knots. He wanted to ask exactly how he knew, what he knew, but the mystery was unraveling so swiftly now he thought he might understand soon enough.
"Can we trust you?"
His question seemed to take them all aback - after so long of lying to the local police force, lying to the county and state, the answer should have been a resounding no. Malcolm was righteously outraged, though at the moment he looked more fearful for the fate of his deputy. He passed a spare weapon to Hoshi, barrel down, and she put one in the chamber in a much too practiced motion. His honesty in that moment hit them with all the force of an antimatter explosion.
"Does it matter?"
They scrambled up the ladder and onto the upper level; the door was protected with one of those infernal electronic locks, and rather than mess around with it, he retrieved his handgun and drove right through the latch. Even though he'd shot antique weapons before, the recoil took him completely by surprise, and he nearly dropped it through the grating at their feet.
The only illumination within was a single bare bulb at the center of the room. Every square inch of the walls and the floor was covered with paper, endless reams of diagrams and figures and handwritten equations. Together they searched for a control panel, a switchboard, anything, only to come up woefully empty.
It was a great deal of trepidation that Jonathan realized they only had one option: an ancient, hulking, ugly gray behemoth that dared to call itself a computer.
The interface was simpler than any console aboard Enterprise, but he was almost nervous to touch it for fear of it falling apart. Purely out of instinct, he pressed a round button on the monitor and the entire instrument jolted to life, whirring and grinding and clicking in a way that took them both by surprise. A small silver disc appeared in the center of the screen and proceeded to rotate over and over again, agonizingly slowly, and every second they waited felt like a punch to the chest.
Meanwhile, T'Pol was rustling around in the papers underfoot, scrutinizing what she found and tossing great handfuls everywhere. Just when he thought he was about to lose his mind waiting for the damn thing to load, she passed a sheet into his line of sight, forcing him to take a good, long look.
It was a meticulous log of dosages and chemical cocktails, a treatment regimen of some kind, coupled with a haphazard medical diagram of a woman in repose, various injection sites labeled with curled arrows stretching the length of the paper.
SUBJECT FOUR, someone's handwriting declared. SUSTAINED AND CONTROLLED SPONTANEOUS HUMAN COMBUSTION.
"Taxa," he breathed, holding it up to the light. Someone had written a monetary amount, five digits or greater, in the top corner before erasing it with utmost care.
He had to admit it was incredibly fitting - for the longest time, she'd harbored a burning rage over the death of her father, which only festered over years and decades. Although somewhat absolved by her admission of involvement with the Section, he knew she still struggled with her explosive temper, railed against whatever instinct told her to abandon everything she held dear and burn it down until there was nothing left.
There were others close at hand. Subject Ten was blessed with infallible super strength, Subject Sixteen with motion enhanced by localized time dilation, and Subject Twenty-Three with something called lycanthropy.
Travis had the tendency to diminish his pain - even during the early days of their mission, he gained the reputation for being a persistent smiling face, the one everybody else turned to whenever they needed a listening ear. No one knew just how long it had been since he opened up to someone, and Ethan was similar. He was constantly on the run from the memories of several very traumatic early missions, including the Battle of Azati Prime and his near-death experience with hallucinogenic pollen on Archer IV, and still struggled with self-doubt after so long in space.
And then there was Kelby - many of Trip's former brigade certainly had looked upon him as a monster when he took over engineering, simply because his methods were so drastically different than how they department had run for years. Sure, he was gruff, unsentimental, and a little rough around the edges, but that didn't mean he needed to be ostracized or reviled.
Jonathan realized exactly what his subconscious was doing to the people he knew, turning them into caricatures of their most base instincts, forming it around what he knew from firsthand experience and what he read in their personnel reviews. He wondered exactly what that said about him, but didn't have time to give it much thought. The screen finally flickered to life, revealing a row of tiny white lettering and four tiny boxes, no doubt awaiting a passcode.
Her hand reached out and brushed his away. Her lithe fingers danced over the keys there, studying which numbers seemed more worn than the others. Satisfied with her findings, she procured a wayward pencil and began to scribble on a scrap of paper, forming possibilities in neat little rows.
"Twenty-four combinations," she asserted, ever the mathematician.
"And how many chances do we have before it locks us out?"
"Less than that," T'Pol admitted. Pushing the paper into his line of sight, she tapped one of the sequences and encouraged him to get to work.
With each successive entry, his desperation only grew. After a few tries, a countdown emerged with tries remaining, right up until they only have one left. Knowing one was just as good as the other, he selected one at the end and began to punch in the numbers slowly, praying for a miracle.
Just as he pressed down on the final key, the screen went dark.
From behind them, the door slammed, and they turned just in time to lock eyes with none other than Elizabeth Cutler. Though there was raging chaos going on outside, she appeared perfectly unbothered, leaning against the wall and studying them with great interest.
A marbled hunting rifle was balanced in the crook of her elbow, but she didn't seem to pay much mind to it. She smiled warmly, a gesture which didn't make it to her eyes. Perhaps sensing they weren't going to talk first, she broached the suffocating silence between them: "Might I ask what you're doing here?"
"Might I ask why you are performing gene therapy experiments on the residents of this town?" T'Pol, as usual, was taking no quarter.
She tilted her head to one side, as if she had no idea what they were talking about, then reached out with her thumb and index finger. Slowly, as if by magic, the papers they'd been studying formed into a neat pile and flew away horizontally, settling into her waiting hands. The barrel of the rifle settled into the floor, and it was then Jonathan noticed that she'd pulled the plug from the computer from all the way across the room.
"Ah, yes." She laughed. "I suppose I should reintroduce myself - there's really no harm in that. I'm Subject Two."
"So Subject One…"
"Our dear Mr. Phlox. I suppose you could say that he's been blessed with the ability to make people disappear." Liz gestured towards another unoccupied chair at the far corner of the room. "Sit!"
"Miss Cutler…"
"I said sit down!" Before he could react or even reach out to her, T'Pol was swept off her feet and thrown halfway across the space, landing in her seat with an appreciable thud. She looked dazed but no worse for wear; Jonathan reached for her gun, only to discover that it wasn't there and both of their weapons now lay at this mysterious scientist's feet.
"Do the people of Enterprise know what you're doing to them?" He challenged, but her smile was unmoving.
"Of course, Agent Archer. They've all been compensated fairly." Reaching out, she welcomed another handful of diagrams from one of the heaps on the floor. "You'll be glad to know this has been going on for years, that we've got dozens of subjects all over town. The owner from that diner is probably next; I'd sure like to give her subdermal magnetism, or maybe turn her into a human lightning rod…"
"What leader do you serve?" He demanded. Several successive attempts to stand were thwarted by what felt like a pair of strong hands on his shoulders. "What country?"
"Ours," Liz replied calmly, flashing her credentials. "At least indirectly. This is just par for the course. We've known for a long time that the enemy is attempting to enhance their soldiers. We need to be prepared for every eventuality if we want to win."
The Cold War. He was honestly shocked he didn't think of it earlier. If they were here on the Mayor's invitation - and he was almost certain they were - it made sense that Trip would make a big fuss over requesting the paranormal unit, seeking to explain away the recent mysterious deaths by any means necessary.
That also meant that Malcolm didn't know; honestly, he should have suspected as much. This whole dream was starting to look like a metaphor for the Maelstrom's antics in the Alpha Quadrant, which had resulted in a self-imposed blacklisting from the Bajoran system. Jonathan had read through the report multiple times and wanted to reach out to the senior staff personally, but always failed to find the words. In some respects, he understood exactly why they'd done what they had, but in others, he knew they'd been irredeemably reckless.
So reckless, in fact, that innocent people could have been killed. As they still might be.
As they had been in this dream.
"You know, every Saturday when our subjects come in for treatment, they always tell me the same thing," Liz mused, as a hail of gunfire erupted from outside. She remained leaned against their only means of escape, unmoving. "That I have no idea what it's like growing up here, feeling like you have no escape. In exchange for a few minutes of pain every week, we give them a steady income for the rest of their lives. I assure you, the benefits far outweigh the consequences."
"What about when Taxa lost control of her abilities and fried your colleague? I take it the two of you weren't at the movies that night after all."
T'Pol could instantly tell Jonathan had struck a nerve, and dug in a little deeper. "Was he Subject Three? Pity he couldn't defend himself."
"Yes, a pity," she agreed, her expression glacial, her eyes glassed over. They knew she was still rapidly trying to justify her actions, mostly for her own benefit, and the way it so mimicked their own behavior after a particularly stressful mission physically pained him. "I'll tell you this much - you have two options. You could leave now and write up your report about strange and unexplained happenings up in some little podunk town no one cares about. The whole operation will be packed up by dawn, we'll take Kelby with us, and you have my word we won't be back."
"Somehow I don't think that's worth very much," he said, and his words were met with sheer consternation.
"We could also do this the hard way. I have a feeling that's more up your alley." A flick of the wrist, and the rifle rose vertically into her grasp. It was an intimidation tactic more than anything, and T'Pol wasn't falling for it.
Taking advantage of her momentary distraction, she stood and began to close the space between them, fighting the invisible hands against her with her superior Vulcan strength. They were at an impasse for a moment, grappling and thrashing, until she tore free and broke into a sprint.
A second before her hand closed over her throat, the walkie talkie clipped to her lapel sprung to life. Liz deftly dodged her and together they tumbled to the floor in a tangle of arms and limbs.
"One to Two," Phlox said, then when she didn't reply, repeated it over and over again. T'Pol managed to overpower her and press both knees into her back, pinning her to the ground. He went to assist her, meaning to cuff or restrain her in some way, only to find himself on the receiving end of a rather pointed glare.
"Release me," she growled, leaving no room for confusion. "Or we're all going to die."
They complied, and she finally reached for the receiver. "Two here."
"He's escaped."
Breathless, Liz stumbled to her feet, putting a good deal of distance between them. When she spoke again, her voice was wavering uncontrollably: "What do you mean he's escaped?"
The thunderous rush of footsteps underneath them told her everything she needed to know.
Jonathan had never moved so fast in his life. On the ground level, there were soldiers everywhere, some nursing their wounds, others lying suspiciously still. He looked around for anyone they'd entered the plant with, but came up empty; Liz seemed to forsake everything else and burst through an opening in the wall, where a door had all been blown off its hinges.
They joined the throng of armed soldiers venturing into the darkness. Outside the walls of the warehouse, the night was so deep and all-encompassing he feared they would be swallowed by it. The very fringes of his vision were blurring, which usually indicated the dream was losing coherence, that he was very near to waking up, but he couldn't just take a pause and let nature take its course.
The crowd led them to the other side of the plant facing away from the town, so they could see the endless blanket of stars, unblemished by streetlights for miles. A great deal of the mountainside was on fire, originating from a long, barren swath of ground where even the trees had been torn up from their roots.
It was then he realized they were standing at the threshold to a wildfire that was likely to run away out of control.
He reached out and grabbed the collar of a passing soldier, shouting: "Call the fire department!"
The young man startled, then tripped over himself on his way back into the building. Jonathan broke out into a run; spotlights and beacons appeared over the hills, more than likely belonging to one or more aircraft, but at such a distance, it was impossible to tell. Somewhere, someone was screaming mixture in with guttural howls and moans, growing louder and louder by the second. Eventually, the ground bottomed out into a sprawling meadow, and the combined chaos of the flares and gunfire and flashlights bobbing around momentary blinded him.
Scorched earth ended unceremoniously in the middle of the field, where Taxa remained crouched down with her hands pressed tightly over her ears. She was perfectly unharmed, with not even a single hair on her head singed. He gained on her until he could get within shouting distance, then slowed to a crawl, realizing she was shaking with every fiber of her being.
At her feet, across the front of her jacket, and all around her, lay the fractured and charred remains of what he could only assume had once been a man.
"I told him not to get close to me," she cried mournfully, once she'd become aware of his presence. Jonathan wanted to comfort her, but knew it was neither the time nor the place. Employing a sideways step, he broke out into a run, ignoring how her shout echoed into the darkness: "I told him!"
The soldiers had apparently circled the beast in the middle of the meadow, guns drawn, slowly advancing on him in a smooth, calculated motion. Somehow they'd managed to cuff Ethan, but Travis had seemingly escaped, standing perilously close to the creature who had one been sheriff's deputy, begging them not to shoot, begging them not to kill him.
Across the circle, he made eye contact with Trip. The entire side of his face was painted with blood, and that thousand yard stare he presently wore was something with which he was intimately familiar. Hoshi clung onto his arm as though he was the final life preserver on a sinking ship, her eyes wide with horror.
Suddenly T'Pol was at his elbow, and together they looked up as the overhead spotlights grew nearer and nearer. Some kind of aircraft was descending upon them, and rather than the whirr of helicopter blades, it sounded like a shuttle or some kind of fusion engine. The shouts of the soldiers were gradually drowned out one by one until they could hear nothing else, and then the lights were on them, burning with the intensity of a million suns.
Stunned and momentarily dazed, T'Pol jolted awake in bed, wholly unsure of when and where she was.
Jonathan's eyes fluttered open, and she saw her own trepidation mirrored in his expression. Struggling to slow her runaway pulse, she disentangled their hands and rolled off his chest onto her back, her every movement imbued with catlike grace despite the panic coursing through her veins.
For a minute, perhaps two, neither said anything. Somewhat self-consciously, T'Pol drew the blankets up to her chin and studied the ceiling, trying and failing to shield him from her racing thoughts.
There was little doubt their foray into dream sharing had led to one of the most intense experiences of her life. The scenery, the mystery, and the danger had all felt so real that she could have sworn they were really back on United Earth almost two hundred years in the past. No amount of literary description or visualization could have replicated it.
She wondered exactly what their shared subconscious was telling them about the people they knew. In such uncertain times, with the enemy pursuing them from one quadrant to the next, she often wondered who exactly they could trust. Even before the Reeds came clean about their mutual involvement with Section 31, she'd suspected Alira of some kind of malfeasance, an instinct that proved to be prophetic. Still, there had to be some kind inherent contamination due to Jonathan's influence - for once, she didn't feel like investigating it, perfectly willing to let things be, only if for the night.
"What happens next?" T'Pol demanded, only to be greeted by a rather sleepy chuckle. Turning her head to one side, she confirmed her suspicions: not only did Jonathan appear perfectly nonplussed by the rapid conclusion to his dream, he was amused at her expense.
That was something that simply would not stand.
"I don't know," Jonathan confessed, making a wild grab for the thermos he kept on the bedside table. He overreached and wound up pushing his PADD onto the floor, then surrendered, settling back into his pillow.
T'Pol wasn't nearly satisfied enough by that answer. "If we fall asleep now, would we be able to resume the story?"
"No. I mean, I don't know. Sometimes." He sighed, which turned into a crooked smile as Porthos trundled up the bed to curl into his side. The beagle was rewarded with a scratch behind the ears. "It depends."
Jonathan glanced at the chronometer on the wall, confirming that only about ninety minutes had passed since they settled in for the evening. Even so, he felt more rested than he'd felt in months - and he was positive that T'Pol had something to do with it.
She might not have done it visually, but he could feel her frown in the back of his mind clear as day. In the low light of his cabin, he was drawn to the translucent whites of her eyes, her mussed hair, and her full bottom lip barely downturned into the vaguest hint of a frown, just begging to be kissed.
"You had fun, didn't you?" All things considered, he didn't blame her. He couldn't suppress the thrill he'd felt at masquerading as an agent, hunting bad guys, and uncovering a mystery.
Truthfully, T'Pol had no idea dreaming could be so pleasurable, given her only other experience with it had ended so horribly. She was seized by the overpowering need to do it again, to invade Jonathan's subconscious and join him on whatever adventures the depths of his brilliant mind could conceive.
Slowly, as if in a trance, her hand tracked across the comforter towards him. Their fingers intertwined again, and as one they sighed in contentment.
She loved him, desired him, needed him and trusted him so completely that it was difficult to imagine anyone, human or Vulcan or otherwise, could have experienced such devotion before. Their love was once in a century, millennium or eon, and though the very fabric of the universe was threatening to fall apart around them, T'Pol allowed herself to relax completely into the moment, the final barriers of emotion held through their bond slipping away one by one.
Soon, she drifted off to sleep, soothed and comforted by Jonathan's embrace.
End of Episode Eight
Next time on Enterprise…
Episode Nine: This Chosen Darkness
Following a routine repair job, Enterprise's away team is hunted by a Romulan commando through a sentient forest. Out of options to supply the front lines, the Coalition weighs a deal with the Orion Syndicate.