Jim had been chased many times in the course of his life.
Some of those times he looked back on fondly, like when he had been six and Sam chased him around their backyard in Iowa with thick dollops of mud in his hands – back when Sam was the largest thing in Jim's world, and a faceful of mud was the worst thing to fear. Some he recalled with exhilaration, like the times in his early academy days when those cadets who resented his name and smart mouth and pretty face enough to turn to violence had chased him across darkened grounds – back when Jim had let them catch him more often than not just for the thrill of the fight and the fizzing in his blood that said yes, he was alive, he was here.
Yet others he tried not to think about at all. Back when being on the run had been the furthest thing from fun or invigorating, and harsh breaths and pounding steps had been associated with the scent of burning flesh, the flash of deadly phaser fire and the sound of children weeping.
No matter how many times he had been chased, Jim never grew immune to its effects. To the way the adrenaline spiked through his veins and quickened everything from his heart to his thoughts. To the way the world sharpened – all angles and shadows and colours – beneath his direct gaze, and blurred chaotically just beyond it. To the way random details, such as the vivid red of a flower just before it was crushed beneath his boot, or the rough pull of bark beneath his fingers as he hauled himself over a log, jumped out at him with such burning clarity.
That been said, he reflected as he pushed his body across unfamiliar terrain with the material of his biosuit a suffocating pressure on his skin, being chased was - all in all – overrated. Without the epic background music, sound effects and changing perspectives used in holovids, it was mostly just sweaty and tedious and undercut by an exhausting current of fear.
His communication device crackled to life in his hand.
"Captain, there appears to have been a miscommunication during the course of the beam out. Please find a stable location in which to await emergency extraction."
Jim almost snorted at that – stable locations are a tad thin on the ground when you're being chased by cannibalistic science geeks - but he instead managed to huff, "No extraction, Spock."
Spock's response was swift and tinged with that edge he would always vehemently deny was frustration.
"Unacceptable, Captain, the situation on the surface-"
"I am well aware of the situation, thank you, Mr Spock," growled Jim as he swung himself over a large patch of what appeared to be rose bushes with thorns around seven inches long. "No extraction, that's an order. Stand by."
He clipped the communicator to his belt and turned his full attention to pulling ahead of his pursuers. However, this was easier said than done. The jungle that he was pushing his way through was becoming progressively thicker and more hostile, and while Jim was forced to temper his pace in order to avoid serious injury, his pursuers had not such qualms. They drove their bodies through thorns, branches and vines with a single-minded aggression that was chilling.
Jim became aware of a dull roar to his right, and quickly cut towards it, stunning a nearby infected as he did so. He knew that sound, and it could just be his salvation. He wasn't sure how much longer he could keep pushing his way through the jungle before the obstacles became insurmountable.
The dull roar grew louder. Jim quickened his pace, bursting forth from beneath the foliage into sunlight only to scramble madly to slow his pace as it became clear that the ground just ahead dropped off abruptly. What he had hoped would be simply a river was in fact a canyon. There was still a river, but the roaring waters were some forty feet below.
Jim peered over the edge of the drop, eyeing the number of protruding rocks below with morbid curiosity. He then retreated a few feet and considered. The crackling of underbrush a few metres away brought his head up, and he considered faster.
With a sigh, he ripped open the biosuit fastenings around his neck, thus allowing the hood and mask to hang at his nape. They were useless now, after all. He ran his fingers through his hair, checked the communicator on his belt to ensure that it was secure and then peered around hopefully, taking a few steps to the left, then the right as he scanned for other options. Any other options.
The first infected burst from the trees almost directly in front of him, sending him stumbling backwards. The man's strength was disproportionate to his average size as he attempted to claw Jim's newly-exposed eyes out. In the time it took to bring the guy down, another three had emerged a few metres to his right.
Jim took one look at their blank eyes and dripping mouths, and made a choice.
"Fuck this," he muttered decidedly, and with a few powerful strides, launched himself off the edge of the drop and plummeted towards the waters below.
He hit the water with incredible force, the jolt travelling from the base of his feet up through his spine and neck. For an instant, he was stunned, and hung entirely limp in the waters that churned and swirled around him. He was incredibly glad that he had taken a moment when he peered over the cliff's edge to memorise all the positions of the protruding rocks. Slamming into them with the amount of force he had hit the water with would have almost certainly killed him.
Jim kicked out weakly in an attempt to reach the surface, and was able to snatch a gasping breath before the force of the current pushed him under once more. Again and again, he struggled his way to the surface only to be forced back down after a few hasty breaths. The physical strain, along with the limited oxygen, left him weak and light-headed, and he could do little more than go where the current directed him and push off the occasional rock that the water slammed him into. In the tumultuous world of spray and foam and fractured sunlight, he swiftly lost all sense of time and direction.
It could have been minutes or hours later when the force of the water began to ease, and Jim was able to settle into a position floating on his back. He dragged ragged breaths through his parted lips, allowing the sweet air to bring him back from the brink of unconsciousness. It was a few moments before he was able to flip back over and use weak limbs to kick and pull himself towards the shore.
The first touch of solid ground beneath his scrabbling hands had him huffing in exhausted relief. He use his arms to pull himself the last few feet, marvelling distantly at how thin and insubstantial they felt after fighting against the immeasurable force of the river. He collapsed with his lower legs still submerged, and revelled in the flush of warmth the strange suns bestowed upon his aching body.
Over the sound of rushing water and his own choked breaths, Jim became aware of a buzzing nearby. As his ears cleared and his heart rate slowed, the buzzing resolved itself into Spock's firm and determinedly un-frantic tones. "Captain Kirk. Captain, please respond. Captain…Jim."
The communicator. In the early days of his captaincy, after learning the hard way from a few messy missions, he had sat down and spent an invaluable few days tinkering with their design in order to ensure that they were all entirely waterproof. He unhooked the device from his belt.
With a final rough cough, Jim cleared his throat and grunted a rough, "Spock."
Brief silence, followed by a barely-audible exhale, made it down the line. Then Spock's voice resumed, sounding as modulated and efficient as ever. "If I may, Captain, what is your situation?"
"Bruised, wet and grumpy," muttered Jim, taking his moment of respite to resent the incredible balls-up the day had become.
Spock's unimpressed, "Captain", was echoed by a growled, "Jim" that could only have been produced by a very irate McCoy. Jim winced.
"Alright, sorry, just gathering my bearings. Keep your hair on."
It was a testament to how tense his First Officer must have been that he did not take this opportunity to deny the absurd human phrase. Jim got the message, and hastily scrambled to his feet in order to evaluate his surrounds.
"I can't be certain of my exact position. I'm a good few clicks North-West of the base, but I kinda lost track of the exact distance while in the river."
"The river?" interrupted Bones shrilly, but Jim ignored him.
"I'm still base-side, but I'm significantly closer to the foot of the mountains now. Two hours walk, maybe. Three, tops. Good news is, I've put some distance between me and the Lecter-wannabes back there, and they're unlikely to catch up anytime soon unless they take the cliff-jumping short cut."
"Cliff jumping," came McCoy's muffled groan, and the dull sound of what might have been someone's forehead striking a metal bulkhead repeatedly.
"Don't worry, Bones," chirped Jim cheerfully. "I'm intact."
A growing sting drew his eyes back to the jagged lines in the flesh of his inner forearm for the first time since the others beamed up, and he amended his answer to, "Mostly."
There was a brief pause.
"Captain," said Spock firmly, "Mr Scott has informed me that you gave him the order not to beam you out with the rest of the landing crew."
"That is correct." Jim paused, and then sighed audibly. "My biosuit's compromised, Spock."
There was a sharp inhale on the other end of the line that must have come from Bones. Spock was silent, and Jim could practically hear him assimilating this information into a range of existing calculations. If Jim knew Spock at all - and he liked to think that he did - he knew that the Vulcan had already drawn this conclusion from Jim's actions. It was only logical, after all.
"The compromise occurred while I was preoccupied with Mathers, after you pulled us aside," surmised Spock finally.
"Yes," affirmed Jim.
"And you did not tell me?"
Jim paused, choosing his words carefully. "I did not realise the compromise immediately. Once I had, it made little sense to delay the rest of you any further when only I was unfit for beam-out."
There was a strangled sound of frustration from Bones. Jim could practically see his fingers curling into claws. He was probably picturing them around Jim's neck. Spock was ominously silent.
"'Compromise' doesn't give me much to work with, Jim," spat Bones. "What kind of injuries are we talking about here?"
"It's just a scratch, Bones," Jim attempted to soothe, with very little success.
"I am the doctor, Jim. I will decide what constitutes a 'just a scratch'. Particularly when I know from long experience that you are about as able to gauge the severity of your injuries as you are to keep your bloody friends informed."
Jim flinched. "Bones, that's not-"
"Shut up, Jim. Just give me a rundown of injuries. And you had better be honest or I swear to God, savages or no savages, I will beam back down there and kick your ass."
Spock interrupted. "Doctor, perhaps-"
"You can shut up as well, hobgoblin. If we've established he's not in any immediate danger from attack or drowning, then we have time for me to do my damn job and give the man a medical assessment. Or the best version of one that I can manage from up here." McCoy's voice was heavy with frustration and poorly-hidden worry, and that more than anything motivated Jim to co-operate.
"Alright, Bones. Alright." Jim swiftly stripped the biosuit to his waist, and evaluated the wound in his arm. It was deeper than he would have liked, though the bleeding had slowed to almost nothing. He had a moment of hoping there were no potential contaminants in the water, before remembering that that ship had more or less sailed.
"Three lacerations on my inner left forearm, longest of which is just under five inches. No more than a quarter-inch deep at their worst." He paused for a moment, rolling his shoulders and doing a quick full-body evaluation. Then he continued.
"Minor bruising to my torso. Slight strain in my left knee. Nothing broken, no other cuts or scrapes."
"Are the lacerations bleeding?" demanded McCoy.
"Barely," replied Jim. "I've got some strips on me that'll do as bandages. I'll strap it up as soon as I've given it a clean."
McCoy sighed heavily, and Jim closed his eyes at the defeat in his friend's voice when he said, "Yeah, do that. Not really much else I can do from up here 'cept tell you to keep it clean and take things easy. Sorry Jim."
"S'alright, Bones. That's quality medical advice right there. And you know I'm more the 'heal-as-I-go' type anyway."
McCoy snorted. "Do I."
There was a slight shuffling noise, and then Spock's voice emerged from the communicator once more. "Mr Scott is attempting to determine your exact position, Captain, but the residual disturbance from the storm may cause a delay in the process."
The pointed nature of Spock's statement made it sound as if the delay would be of very short duration if he had anything to do with it, and indeed, he continued with a clipped, "1.2 hours at maximum."
Jim smiled tiredly. "Sounds good, Spock. You're Acting Captain, as I'm sure you know. Obviously your priority is to keep whatever's going on down here contained, but I imagine you'll be collecting samples, working on a cure?" His voice grew sad as he thought of the twisted faces of the infected scientists. "Lotta sick people down here, Spock. There were children…." He trailed off.
"Affirmative, Captain," stated Spock firmly. "We're working on modifying a few unmanned research drones now. We believe they will be able to collect samples from the planet surface and keep them contained within airtight capsules upon return to the Enterprise. Every precaution will be taken, but we will find a cure for whatever is afflicting the surface population."
"You're sure?" said Jim worriedly. "There will be no risk to the crew?"
"None, Captain."
Spock's voice gentled almost imperceptibly as he added, "I will ensure that the crew remains safe." His tone then firmed pointedly. "All of them."
Jim smiled, though his throat tightened slightly. "I trust you, Mr Spock."
"Captain," began Spock, sounding somewhat strained, and Jim knew what was coming.
"I can't be beamed aboard, Spock," interrupted Jim firmly. "Not until we know how this thing is transmitted, and whether I've been infected. Let's face it, though, with my luck I most certainly have."
Jim heard McCoy sigh in the background. "Just be careful, Jim. You say we need to find a cure for the people down there? Well, that's on you too. The longer you can keep going and keep us updated on any symptoms, the more information we have to bring this thing down. Don't go throwing yourself into any stupid situations."
Jim made a face at McCoy's blatant attempts to manipulate him into looking after himself, but he only said, "Me, throw myself into stupid situations? Why, Bones, it's like you don't know me at all."
McCoy grumbled half-heartedly. "Just stay safe, Jim."
"I will," he replied seriously. Then he straightened up and rolled his shoulders determinedly.
"Well, you both have science stuff to do, and I have a home-base to set up. I'm thinking I'll head towards those mountains and find myself a safe spot for the night. No over-sized wildlife for me to worry about, right, Spock?"
"Only the base inhabitants, Captain," stated Spock.
"Thanks for the reminder," deadpanned Jim. "I'll check in every two hours-"
"Every hour," interjected Spock firmly, and Jim nodded reluctantly.
"Every hour, then, and I'll let you know if I pick up anything useful along the way. Kirk out."
Kirk took a few moments to wash and bind the wound on his forearm, and drink his fill from the river. Then, with the communicator and his phaser stowed safely in his belt, and the upper part of the biosuit strapped firmly about his waist so as not to hinder his movement, Jim struck out towards the looming blue-black mountains.