Chapter three is finally up!
First, I'd just like to give a big thank you to everyone who has kept up with this story so far and to give a special thanks to TeamDKelley, Kayleigh-talitha, HannahPullings, Kimberleah, and Vegetaworshipper92 for your amazing reviews and help with this story so far.
The battle-ravaged landscape was eerily quiet. Smoke hung over the craters that mottled the landscape like chickenpox, still and stagnant, giving the landscape an almost diseased quality. The evidence of battle, of war, was everywhere, from the smoldering bodies and splintered armor and weapon fragments to the scarred and charcoaled ground. The familiar smell of death, decay, and the coppery tint of blood intermingled with the smog, choking McCoy. Slightly nauseated, he felt red hot bile rise in his throat, bringing a bitter taste into his mouth.
The smell of putricide, of decaying flesh and the grime and grit of battle was nothing new to McCoy. He'd been to enough battlefields and handled enough dead bodies to know what to expect. Being familiar with something and enjoying it however were two totally separate matters and there was absolutely nothing McCoy relished about battle.
Turning his gaze from the deserted battleground, McCoy nearly ran into the back of Spock, who had stopped apparently to survey the desolate killing grounds as McCoy had done only moments before. Wary eyes gazed all around and McCoy had the distinct impression that the Vulcan was looking beyond the mask of death and battle to something beyond, something not quite in his ability to perceive. A subtle chill shot down the good Doctor's spine, from his head to his toes, as if trying to warn him too of the phantom danger that lay behind rolling hills and smog. "Spock," croaked McCoy, not daring to raise his breath above that of a whisper. "What is it?"
"…" No response, the Vulcan merely raised a thin hand in the air as if to silence the doctor, keeping his gaze directly ahead.
McCoy however had never been known for his patience and given how circumstances had frayed his already rail thin nerves, wasn't about to change that fact. Temper flaring along with his voice, McCoy desperately resisted the urge to smack the answer out of the Vulcan. "Damn'it Spock, what do you see?"
"Doctor, I suggest we make ourselves scarce…and-" Whatever Spock had meant to say next was quickly drowned out by the roar of an explosion just overhead, sending a rain of cinders and debris down upon the two Starfleet officers. Fire bloomed like wildflowers all around them and for a brief moment, McCoy wondered if they had died and been cast into the fiery pits of Dante's Inferno themselves.
In a daze, McCoy stood, mesmerized by the dancing of the flames. Vaguely, he could make out black figures running through the smog and hear the screeching of fell voices over the din of the explosions. And then all of a sudden he was moving, being pulled through the fire and flames by a strong, steady arm. Glaring at the Vulcan, McCoy opened his mouth as if to make a snide remark about how he didn't need to be led by the hand like a small child when a sudden and deafening explosion tore them apart.
A white hot light filled McCoy's vision, blinding him even as the percussion from the explosion sent a sharp wave of agony, pulsating from one ear to the other. And just like that everything around him seemed to stop. The sounds of battle ceased to be and the visions of hell incarnate vanished in a white haze. The only things keeping him connected to the world at large; the smell of blood and smoke and the sensation of nearby fires casting an unpleasant warmth against his skin.
With a sickening feeling, McCoy felt himself sailing through the air like some sort of twisted human pinball. And just as soon as his brief reprieve began, it ended. Cold, hard stone met human flesh and bone as McCoy rolled to a stop, his already broken hand screaming in agony. Struggling through the pain to regain his breath, McCoy kept himself as still as possible, squinting his eyes shut as if to block out the waves of agony that rippled like a tide from his hand to his shoulder. The sound of battle returned gradually, muted by a faint ringing in his ears, eliciting a sense of relief from the doctor. As annoying as the ringing was, it was a heck of a lot better than losing his hearing altogether.
The cool feel of stone brought some measure of relief to McCoy's singed skin and – wait a second… Cool stone? What had happened to the heat? To the flames of battle? Daring to open his eyes, McCoy glanced around at his new surroundings. Dusty and old looking crates lay scattered about what appeared to be a long abandoned underground bunker. Over in a far right corner sat a desk, with similar boxes and containers scattered atop it. And about eight feet above him, and apparently where he had fallen through, was a decent-sized hole – the apparent entrance to the underground facility.
McCoy felt the ground shake as a nearby explosion sent dirt flying down the hole and onto his head. The shrieks of the Desmodians, clash of steel, and moans of the dying filtered down to him, reminding him of the peril he and Spock were in.
Spock. McCoy's heart leapt in his throat. Spock had been caught in the explosion with him. Dozens of scenarios flashed like wildfire through McCoy's mind: images of Spock lying broken and bleeding on the battlefield amidst the clash of the Desmodian tribes around him, images of Spock being torn limb from limb by winged demons, stabbed, beaten, mauled... McCoy shuddered, pushing such thoughts from his mind. He had to go back out there, back into the fray and find that green blooded hobgoblin because though he would never admit it to the Vulcan, he cared for him. Just like he did for Jim. Green blooded hobgoblins had a way of growing on a person after all, even snarky old doctors. Either that or McCoy was just growing soft in his old age.
Hauling himself painfully to his feet, McCoy squinted around the small bunker, staggering his way over to the small desk. He'd be damned if he was going back out there without a weapon to defend himself with. Not that he'd probably pose much of a threat to a hulking bat-creature nearly twice his size even with one but it would make him feel a heck of a lot better.
That's when he heard it, the sound of someone, or something dropping with a dull 'thump' into the bunker just behind him. Fear rippled through McCoy, making his heart pound and the hair on the back of his neck stand on end. Grabbing the nearest weapon in sight, which in this case happened to be an old metal rod of sorts, McCoy wasted no time and swung the object at his ambusher in a wide arc, only for it to stop short of its intended target in the vice-like grip of –
"Spock!" Letting the rod drop to the ground with a dull clank, McCoy stared in disbelief at the Vulcan for a minute before flashing Spock a rare and genuine smile, clapping him on the shoulder with his good hand. "You green blooded hobgoblin, you're alive!"
Stiffening slightly at such a personal gesture, Spock raised a quizzitive eyebrow. "I would fail to see how I could be anything else Doctor, seeing as how-"
"Really Spock, you are impossible you know that?" McCoy interrupted with a roll of his eyes.
"As you say Doctor," Spock replied with all the patience of an adult trying to reason with an illogical child. "You were not hurt in the explosion or the fall were you?"
McCoy shook his head. "I'll live. Just a few bumps and bruises that I'm sure will feel even lovelier later on. What about you?" McCoy asked, gesturing to what appeared to be a gash on Spock's forehead. "Want me to take a look at that?"
Touching a hand to the cut as if noticing it for the first time Spock gave a slight grimace, his hand coming away with green blood. "It isn't a serious injury Doctor, it can wait. First we need to see about getting ourselves out of here. There's no telling how long this shelter will be able to withstand the explosions from the battle or how long we can remain undetected by the Desmodians."
"You mean they don't even know we're here?"
"Affirmative. You were knocked into this bunker here quite fortuitously before the Desmodians even took to the battlefield."
"I don't know if I'd call getting blown halfway to kingdom come and thrown several feet into a bunker fortuitous but then again I can be quite illogical as you're so fond of reminding me," McCoy chided in response. "But how did you manage to slip past the winged terrors out there? There must be hundreds of them."
"Approximately five hundred or so," Spock agreed with a grave nod. "As for myself, I managed to disguise my presence, using the smoke and the smog as camouflage. While looking for you, I managed to find this shelter and slip into it, undetected. The Desmodians are too busy fighting amongst one another for now to have noticed our presence, but I fear that when the battle ends we may be discovered."
As if to echo the gravity of Spock's words, a rather violent explosion shook the tiny bunker, sending several pounds of dirt cascading on top of the two companions. Coughing and choking on the dirt and dust filled air, McCoy nodded his head. "Alright…Spock, I'm in… Better to risk a shot at freedom than sit around and wait to either be buried alive or skewered by some fuzz-ball with an axe." Not that McCoy particularly relished the thought of stepping back out onto the front lines again, because he sure as hell didn't, but the mere thought of sitting here in uncertainty, with the threat of death by premature burial or by human shishkabob, didn't exactly seem like a delightful prospect either. Not to mention, the Captain was still out there somewhere…or so McCoy hoped. Bending to retrieve his trusty metal rod from where it had fallen under the desk, McCoy froze, his gaze fixed in stunned fascination by an object under the table.
Noticing McCoy's hesitation, Spock cast what passed as a look of mild concern at the good doctor. "Doctor, is something wrong?"
For a moment McCoy couldn't find the words to speak and when he did, they came out in a breathless whisper, barely audible over the din of the battle. "Spock…I think you're going to want to take a look at this."
Raising a questioning brow, Spock knelt down alongside McCoy and glanced under the desk. Immediately, Spock realized the reason for McCoy's disbelief, for lying long-forgotten beneath the unremarkable desk was a small, mechanical object, far beyond the current technological capabilities of the Desmodian race as a whole.
"Is that what I think it is?"
"It would certainly explain a few of our questions from before," Spock mused, picking up the small device and holding it before his scrutinizing gaze.
"How old would you say it is?"
"Judging by it's make I would say it is at least thirty years old, if not more."
Locking eyes with Spock, McCoy asked, "If that's true, then what in the world is an old model, Starfleet issue phasor doing all the way out here?"
The stinging grip on Kirk's ankle was released only to be replaced by the sick sensation of falling. Kirk's stomach continued to do somersaults along with his body as he continued to fall end over end in the endless darkness, into a black pit that had no end…
It was eerily true, Kirk mused wryly, how a five second fall could seem like five lifetimes. It was almost as if all he'd ever known was the sickening sensation of plummeting end over end in a pitch black abyss. How quick a lifetime could seem and how never-ending a death could be. But no, he wasn't dead yet. And he wouldn't be any time soon if he could help it. He was after all James Tiberius Kirk, the verifiable Harry Houdini of Starfleet.
Just when it seemed as if he surely would have to strike bottom at any second, everything stopped. Again, Kirk could feel the painful pressure of the Desmodian's claws as it dangled him by his ankle. Hands dangling below his head, and Kirk felt one hand brush against the cold, grating stone of what he assumed must be the dungeon floor. Inches. He'd been inches from becoming a bloody stain on the cavern floor. Refusing the urge to shudder, Kirk recollected his wits about him and cast what he hoped was a withering glare up at where he thought his captor might be, earning him a gravely laugh in response.
"You can try putting on a high and mighty face all you want Captain but I can hear your heart pounding away in your chest. It's making quite a symphony in there you know."
"And you can taunt me all you want," Kirk spat back, "but it won't make a difference. You can drop me all you want, break every bone in my body, but you won't break me."
"But of course," the Desmodian hissed. Kirk could almost hear the sneer in its voice. "That's what they all say in the beginning before they show themselves for the sniveling dogs that they are. And much as I would love to prove you wrong, I'm afraid that our Commander would like to see you."
Without warning, the Desmodian took off into the air, Kirk still dangling firmly from the creature's grasp. How long the flight lasted Kirk couldn't quite judge, but what he was acutely aware of was how the Desmodian would swing him to and fro in the air, cackling softly as it went. Or how it would occasionally, 'lose' its grip on Kirk's ankle and let him fall a few feet before catching him again.
Through the darkened landscape, Kirk could vaguely make out a dim light in the distance, a beacon in the night. Trying to keep himself focused and to distract himself from the Desmodian's nauseating antics, Kirk pooled all of his will, his last reserves of strength into focusing on that light. In some part of his mind Kirk wondered at the light. On such a dark and dour planet whose sole inhabitants were themselves creatures of darkness, such a simple thing as light seemed so foreign and…out of place. Surely the Desmodians had no need for light? But if that were the case, why then was the light there? Whatever the case, Kirk was certain he would find out, for the Desmodian seemed to be taking him straight towards the source.
The light as it turned out, was a simple fire. Bright enough to light what appeared to be the inside of crude throne room located within another roofless cavern of sorts. From his vantage point in the air, Kirk could make out the forms of a dozen or so heavily armed Desmodians, who eyed him with a combination of hungry eyes and sneers. When he inclined his head to get a better look at the figure on the throne however, the Desmodian carrying him plummeted at an angle towards the ground, tossing him rather roughly into a puddle of grime at the foot of the throne.
Spitting dirt and grime from his mouth, Kirk shook his head, attempting to get his bearings. Before he fully had a change to recover however, a white hot pain seared through Kirk's abdomen as the Desmodian from before kicked at his ribs with a steel-toed boot. "Get to your feet worm!" The creature growled in evident disgust. "Stand up and pay your respects to the Commander!"
"That will be quite enough Durgeth!" Came a harsh and oddly female sounding voice. "I told you to bring him to me unharmed, not toss him about like so much trash!"
"But-"
"I said enough!" The female barked again. "That is unless you want to receive the Punishment."
Kirk wasn't sure if he had hit his head harder than he first thought on that last landing but he swore that when his Desmodian captor, Durgeth, next spoke, there was a slight quaver, a slight hint of fear to his voice. "Yes Commander. It-It won't happen again."
"Good," the woman Commander replied. "Now, I want all of you out of my chamber. I wish to speak with the prisoner in private." Vaguely, Kirk was aware of the shuffling of feet and the clank of armor and weapons as the Desmodian guards made their way out of the chamber, shutting the door behind them with a resounding clang that seemed to echo endlessly off the stone walls. With a sickening sensation, Kirk felt the eyes of the Desmodian Commander upon him and wondered briefly if it was a good or a bad thing that she had demanded to speak to him alone.
Not waiting for an invitation, Kirk rose to his feet, raising his eyes to meet those of the figure seated upon the throne at last. The figure it turned out was that of a human or at least humanoid-looking woman in her fifties or sixties. Crude armor encased her figure and a hefty-looking broad sword hung by her side. Her ice blue eyes met his brown orbs, sending a chill shooting down his spine. Something about those eyes, the general lifelessness, the malice hidden deep within them, filled Kirk with an uneasy feeling of dread.
"You have a strength about you Captain, a certain defiance," the Commander replied with a smile that did not quite reach her lifeless eyes. "That's good. I like that in a man. My, though you do look surprised. I, as you no doubt already assumed am the Commander of the Desmodians. Although back on Earth, I was known as Helen, Helen Connor."
Sorry about the cliff-hanger ending again but I just love them so much. As always please read and review! I'm always looking for new ways to improve as an author so if you have any comments/ideas/suggestions, please let me know. I have some fresh new ideas and hope to have chapter four up soon, so stay tuned.