When he woke up, he was still lying on the floor, but this time, his wrists were tied together at the front.

Trapped. Anger swelled inside Spock and crashed into him like a tsunami. He purged it, threw it away unaccepted, and let reason overpower. Analyze. He spotted four empty hyposprays scattered on the floor and tried to discern what it was he was drugged with. His mind was clear, he felt the pressure of the deck underneath, but no textures, and he was so weak he could barely move. Perhaps, a neural paralyzer to render him unconscious, and a skeletal muscle relaxant, or rather, a neuromuscular blocker of sorts –

Doctor McCoy's hand grabbed his hair and lifted his head off the floor.

"Wakey-wakey, eggs and bakey," the mirrored doctor chided. He lowered himself beside, a thin blade glistening in his other hand.

"I happen to be an herbivorous being, which is why your rhetoric does not apply, at present," Spock said, struggling to keep his voice composed.

Doctor McCoy laughed a humorless laugh. The Vulcan was obviously trying to win some time to think as he lay there, crouched, on his side, with his hands tied where the doctor could see them. He was happy to oblige, although not for too long.

At last, the doctor thought as he let his gaze wander and savored the Vulcan's helplessness. How many times he was the one to lie like that, back at the I.S.S. Enterprise, in his quarters, and wish he'd never been born – because he knew that soon enough, Spock would come and thrash his mind up. How many times he struggled and got smashed into nonexistence, before he realized that fighting was futile. How much pain he had to heat up in a spoon and jet-inject himself with. How many tears he bled over every next glass of pure ethanol. And then, in this universe, he managed to scrape together what was left of his brain, make a show – and the roles switched all of a sudden, and now he was in charge. Power. There was so much of it, he felt bloated.

"If you intend to use me to release your Captain and companions," Spock said, a fistful of his hair still in the doctor's hand, "You will be disappointed. Mr. Sulu will assume command in my absence, and they will never jeopardize the ship on my behalf."

"Oh, you've always been such a smartass," doctor McCoy said, letting go of his head, so he bumped down, "But just think, why would I want Kirk free? To have the same shit all over again in your universe? No point in that."

"Then, with all due respect, you have only trapped yourself. We are known to have gone to your counterpart's quarters, and we will be located eventually."

This wasn't a threat, rather a statement, but the doctor was unimpressed.

"Let's have it clear, Spock: I know what I'm doin'," he said, stroking the Vulcan's messed hair, absently, "I'm not going back 'cause I won't last long there. And I'm not staying here, either, 'cause your people will get me soon. See? I know I'm a goner. But the point is, I'm not afraid, 'cause I'm taking you with me," he flashed a carnivorous smile, "I've been waitin' long enough."

The doctor's eyes flickered obscurely in the dim light, and the pupils were two tiny black dots in the watery-blue of the irises. His eyes were that of an animal, a demon, a – madman? Spock saw the doctor's face twitch randomly, and had to admit this was most probably the case. His reflexes were hyper-tense, his thoughts disordered, and his plan – clearly suicidal. The Vulcan shoved aside the shock at seeing the exact duplicate of his friend swimming in psychosis. Dismiss. Analyze. Whatever was the cause of the insanity, his plan was that of revenge. Presumably, the other Spock was the target he could not reach, hence the present situation.

"I fail to see the logic in putting the blame of my counterpart on me. I am not even remotely aware of what he might have done to you," Spock began, levelly.

That other Spock's voice vibrated in the doctor's perception, so familiar, so estranged. He gave the Vulcan a funny look.

"You really have no idea, do you," he said, amused.

"I do not," Spock said, contemplating the chances of getting some reason into the doctor and ending this peacefully. The chances were faint, but he decided to try, "As I said, I am a different person. But perhaps, if you informed me, our discussion would become more productive, do you not agree?"

The doctor snorted aloud.

"Discussion, huh? You green-blooded scumbags never discuss. Wanna know what he did? Why don't you just mind-fuck me and see for yourself?"

He grasped Spock's tied hands and pressed the numb fingers against his own jawline and temple, in a mock mind-meld. Spock tried to jerk away but couldn't, and he shielded himself mentally against the touch.

"That's the way you do it, ain't it," the doctor said, his grip tightening.

Spock closed his eyes in disgust, pure and intense. He tore the emotion away and purged it, although it was almost physically painful. Analyze. Forced melding, when applied methodically, was a viable cause of insanity. As it turned out, the abominable practice was the normal way for the mirror universe's Vulcans. And his counterpart – his own self, in a sense – was the one to drive the other doctor McCoy into madness.

"Doctor," Spock said, his eyes still closed, "I acknowledge your resentment, but believe me, I find the practice an utter disgrace. And this is another reason your revenge is pointless," he looked the doctor straight in the eye, "I repeat, I am not him."

McCoy grabbed him by the collar and pulled so close that they almost touched.

"Your DNA, your fingerprints, your eye retina," he whispered in Spock's face, "The way you look, the way you talk, move, think, it's the same. There's only one thing that makes all the difference: circumstances. Circumstances made him the way he is. And he, with his goddamn identity issues, was the circumstance to make me how I am," he broke off the tirade and looked Spock up and down, "Just think, what'd become of you if you two were changed at birth?"

Spock didn't know the circumstances. He knew nothing about the Empire, or that they had to murder their superiors to achieve their rank, or that the peaceful negotiations with the Halkans, here, were about to turn into a bloodbath, there. He could only judge by how the landing party's counterparts behaved, but that was quite enough. The mirror universe's circumstances, whatever they were, magnified and perverted their character into a sick caricature. Jim's pride became his counterpart's arrogance. Mr. Scott's rustic charm was crooked into the other's barbarism. Lt. Uhura's assertiveness morphed into common bitchiness in her reflection.

The moment that other McCoy mentioned identity, Spock knew what would become of his own insecurities, twisted in the mirror. And he understood that the doctor might be right. Under those circumstances, he would probably hate himself enough to disrupt a human's sanity, just to feed his own assorted complexes.

McCoy watched Spock closely, and saw the understanding in his eyes. Now he got it, alright. The doctor hauled him off the floor and pushed him onto the chair with unexpected strength. He then stepped back and observed the Vulcan, twirling the stolen scalpel between his fingers, head cocked to the side. Spock kept silent. The paralyzer was wearing off, he could tell it because he sensed the doctor's cold, painful grip and cringed as his back hit the chair. He was recovering his tactile sensation, but the relaxant was still potent. He could not fight, his movements were too slow, the muscles still in atrophy.

Doctor McCoy was well aware of that. He approached Spock, slowly.

"I'm a doctor, not a telepath," he said, his voice low, "But I think I can give you a pretty clear idea of what it felt like, to me."

Spock tried to speak but the blade was at his neck instantly, its edge sharp and cool against the skin under his left ear.

"You try to do anything stupid and say goodbye to your carotid artery," the doctor said, leaning closer to Spock.

He gripped Spock's jaw, professionally, to force his mouth open. The moment his teeth unclenched, the doctor pressed his lips against Spock's and pushed his tongue inside.

Spock's first instinct was to bite that tongue off, but the scalpel at his carotid reminded him not to. Surely, he had kissed before, but it was never like that with the women he knew. McCoy was deep, penetrating, shameless, as he was recreating the sensation of a forced mind-meld by the means of his body. He wouldn't let go, and Spock practically choked. Acknowledge: rage. The emotion squeezed the blood vessels in his temples, revving his heart up, almost making him growl. Accept. Dismiss.

The mirrored McCoy brushed his lips across Spock's neck and bit his ear. He let go of Spock's face and slid his hand down under his uniform tunic. Spock felt it climb upwards, until it reached his chest and gave his right nipple a painful pinch. Spock lifted his tied hands in an attempt to defend himself, but he was too docile, and the doctor simply slapped them off. Acknowledge: fury. It made his mouth curve into a bare-teethed scowl as doctor McCoy ripped his tunic in two. Accept. The doctor's lips went down Spock's bare chest, and he bit his other nipple and circled his tongue around it. Accept. His fingers traveled down, rested on Spock's knee, crawled slowly higher up along his thigh. Accept. He moved higher, caressingly, almost lovingly. Dismiss. Dismiss!

He slid his hand between Spock's legs and stopped there. The Vulcan let out a choked gasp. He was hard, painfully, and he didn't even realize it until the doctor's fingers closed on his erection and gave it a teasing squeeze. Spock shut his eyes tight as the doctor rubbed him, slowly, through the fabric. Acknowledge: hatred. He felt it wrap around him in all its dreadful blackness, and could not find the strength to either accept or purge it anymore. Other emotions flurried, in a legion – shame, disdain, humiliation, indignation, hurt, confusion, despair, and he lost count of them as they overflowed. The other McCoy stuck the scalpel behind his belt, gripped Spock's hair and kissed him, deep and hot. His fingers were light and nimble over Spock's crotch, and the Vulcan suddenly felt his half-atrophied hip muscles twitch in response. Acknowledge... acknowledge what?

He felt the mirrored McCoy undo the button and slide his hand inside his uniform pants. The Vulcan's back arched, hips jolted forward, every numb muscle suddenly sprang alive and contracted. Was it panic that electrified his body? Or was it the mere physical sensation of the other man's touch on his naked flesh? He couldn't distinguish between the bodily and the mental as McCoy's hand moved up and down along the length of him, tightened and loosened the grip. Spock threw his head back and tried to think, to distract himself somehow, but the thoughts took the wrong course. He imagined his friends on the other side of the mirror, and what the other Spock could do to his Jim, his Scott, his Uhura. His McCoy. Suddenly, the image of Bones McCoy floated into view, smirking wolf-like. Suddenly, it was the original doctor that dug his teeth into Spock's neck and moved his hand faster, tantalizingly. The thought horrified him, and he tried to snap out of it, and failed.

He couldn't distance himself, couldn't analyze, couldn't label what he felt. And just like the mirrored Spock, he could not accept what was happening.

He lost control over his body, and now his mind was coming undone before his eyes. Spock gazed up at his tormentor, wild-eyed, panting, struggling for every breath. Ruined. The uncontrollability shook the immaculate, fine-tuned mechanism of his brain, and was ripping the circuits apart, sadistically, one by one. Spock tried to override, stab back, destroy, but McCoy squeezed him harder, and he trembled bodily, as if he was electrocuted.

"No one allowed you to come, you lizard," the words lashed through his compromised consciousness, and it stopped abruptly, making Spock groan and bury his head in hands.

The doctor stepped back and looked at the Vulcan. He sat there, lolling back and forth, his tunic ripped open, teeth marks and kiss marks all over his neck. Knees pressed shakily together. Doctor McCoy grabbed him and threw onto the bed, face-up. Spock crunched abdominally, trying to shield himself as the doctor climbed after him and forced his thighs apart.

"Lemme see your face," the doctor said and drew the scalpel. He wouldn't bother with dress-undressing, he'd just cut and rip the clothes where needed and finish him. And then, maybe, nick his throat before the pancuronium solution metabolized completely.

The Vulcan was still covering his head.

"I said, hands off your mugshot, you green-assed imbecile," the doctor snapped.

He bent over to get hold of his wrists, forced them away, and froze.

A tear rolled out of the corner of Spock's eye and fell onto the bed covers.

He had cried before when mind-melded, or drugged, or when a more powerful telepathic mind had him in its power, but those tears weren't his. This one was, and this one was the bitterest. Just how fast has the logic evaporated, leaving him alone with that hateful, insecure humanness. Just how little it took to drive him out of control, leaving nothing of his wholeness and integrity. He was losing himself, and couldn't hold it back anymore.

Doctor McCoy let go off him and sat on the edge of the bed. He searched Spock's face, but the Vulcan cried no more. He just lay there quietly, legs spread, hardness bursting his uniform pants from the inside, and awaited his own destruction. The doctor looked at him, and didn't do anything.

Something ticked inside the broken mechanism that was Leonard 'Sawbones' McCoy. Deep down his disrupted psyche, where everything was wretched and terribly wrong, something suddenly put itself right. He looked at this other Spock, the same man as his own executioner, and knew he couldn't do it. He would not.

"Bridge to Mr. Spock. Mr. Spock, acknowledge."

The doctor stood up and walked to the other McCoy's cupboard. He took a bottle of what looked like absinthe, uncorked it and took a long swig.

"Bridge to Mr. Spock, come in please."

Doctor McCoy paced around the room, bits of shattered glass squeaking underfoot. That other one was at his full power, and he cracked already, and yet the doctor couldn't make himself break the Vulcan altogether – he didn't even want to. Emptiness spilled all over him, like sawdust, and he embraced it. He was left unavenged, and somehow, it felt right.

"Mr. Spock, please acknowledge. Mr. Spock, where are you?"

The doctor walked over to the intercom panel and jabbed his scalpel into it, repeatedly. The blasted thing spat out some sparks and went quiet. In the quietness, he heard the bed creak as the Vulcan was raising unsteadily to his feet.

Spock made a step, and then another one. He thrust and wrenched his wrists, and tore the cord that tied them. Breathing heavily, he approached the mirror-McCoy, grabbed him by the throat and raised his other clenched hand for a strike. Kill. Smash that face into the skull. Obliterate. Blunt fury was pulsating uncontrollably in Spock's veins, and now that the drugs wore off, it was his dismembered consciousness, his exposed humanness that sought revenge. Through the fog of bloodthirst, he saw the doctor smile faintly. He didn't even try to defend himself.

Salt still stinging under his eyelids, Spock looked at the doctor and couldn't believe what he saw. The canine bare-teethed grinning was gone, the round face was perfectly sane, if only a little weary, stained with hurt and – unmistakably – regret. It was the look that the original doctor had, sometimes, when a patient was lost and he could do nothing about it, but blamed himself all the same. This time, it was no illusion, Spock knew. Somewhere inside, this lunatic was still Leonard H. McCoy. The same man across the two realities. The man whom no circumstances could break.

This sobered him. Spock loosened his grip on the doctor's neck, hesitated for a moment, and then pinched the sinus at its base. McCoy's eyes widened, his whole body jerked into stiffness and then relaxed. Spock caught him as he started to collapse and carried over to the bed, unconscious. He then took off the ripped clothing, shuffled through the other doctor's drawers, and got dressed in one of his tunics. It was too small, but it was better than nothing.

There were people bustling in the corridors, calling out for Spock. He lifted the mirrored McCoy's limp body off the bed, unlocked the doors, stepped outside, and set off to carry him to the brig. He didn't analyze his feelings. He shoved aside the horrible mess that was piling up inside of him, for later consideration.