Chapter Five, finally up. I apologize for the wait but I have finally--happily--completed my degree and am hoping to have more time to write for pleasure. Apologies for the typos in the last chapter. They will soon be rectified. Take the ones here with a grain of salt but most of all, please enjoy.
Progress always involves risks. You can't steal second base and keep your foot on first.
--Frederick B. Wilcox
Even with the memory—for it had to be a memory and not a dream because no dream was so detailed and so bright and so full—imprinted on his mind, he was uncertain as to who he was as he made his way towards consciousness. It attempted to escape him, to fling itself beyond his waning grasps but he clung to it with all the voracity of a child with a new toy. Bit by bit, mirroring his ascent into the physical world, he picked it apart, seeking facts and information he otherwise had been deprived of. The basics were glaringly obvious and he tucked them away in the safest points possible. The smaller ideas he poked and shoved into categories-- interesting, important, telling, clue-- and even things that seemed irrelevant ended up in the recycling bin of possible evidence.
In the end, before he tried to open his eyes, he'd come up with a high number of interesting truths. For one, he knew his name to be Captain James Kirk and that he worked for Starfleet and something called the Federation.
The man who was the doctor was a friend-- he'd known this previously, felt a closeness with him even more so than the man with the accent or the man with the pointed ears-- and a fellow soldier. His name was Bones but also Doctor McCoy.
More importantly, he knew that they'd all been in this house before their memories had been wiped, all attending some sort of party. It was the same house-- dirty, old, derelict but no doubt the same-- belonging to the twins or whatever had stolen their identities for a nefarious purpose.
They'd taken people and put them in the pictures? It sounded ludicrous but it was what he recalled them saying it as the world had blackened about him.
And they'd doomed him, McCoy and a number of others to wander because they hadn't eaten.
And he realized, as his body started to return to him, that none of it was enough. The urgency and nerves that had nearly consumed him in the memory filled him now as he lay still, very still, wrapped in blankets. He had to get them all out of here, he had to fix whatever the twins had started and he had to save the crew who'd unwittingly been sucked into this. There had to be something more that he was missing, he thought as he managed to twitch his fingers against the blanket twisted around his hand. The puzzle is there before you, a voice that was not his own whispered, now use your brain and solve it. Everything you need you already know. You just need to put it together the right way. He tried running through the memory again, ran his fingers over every detail in every category and found himself drawing a blank once more.
He needed someone to bounce ideas off of, someone to point out the tiny things he'd missed and help him twist the facts in a new fashion. This would require rejoining the coherent world and while he was partially there already, he vividly recalled his last interaction there and was loathed to return to it. The pain, the blood and confusion had not been conducive to anything more than writhing on a couch.
Contending against him with this was McCoy's and the beautiful woman's firm belief that he was delirious. They had both utterly refused to think he was correct and, begrudgingly, he admitted he could not hold it against them. It made more sense to assume that he was out of his mind than to concede that a bleeding, dying young man knew their names or what they'd worn when even they could not remember it. If he was in their shoes, he would not believe himself either.
Even so, he would try anyway if he thought he could find someone who would believe him. If he could convince just one of the four people he was with that the information he had was accurate, then he would not only have a sounding board for future speculations but also an ally. There was no way to win over Bones-- he already knew that-- and he wrote off the woman who seemed ready to agree with the doctor without question. This left the accented man and the man with the pointed ears. The man with the accent-- Blue, he decided, because that's what Bones called him-- also leaned towards McCoy's lead. While he did not completely discount Blue, he did not think he would be the optimal choice. That left only the man whom he doubted he would be able to reach if Bones had a say and even so, the man was so built on logic, he was uncertain that the man would listen to him unless he could show him.
His mind jerked back to the supposed torture, how the man had said he was trying to discover what was behind the mental barriers erected in his mind. If the man could do that, surely he could view the recovered excerpt of their past. That would be enough to convince even the greatest skeptic. And once the man was on his side, he would have the perfect person to help him analyze what had occurred, the perfect person to direct him towards the best course of action. Yes, that was what he would have to do. He would have to escape the doctor's clutches, however briefly, and make contact with the man. Hopefully with his revelation, Bones would back off long enough for them to discuss things.
His decision reached, he allowed his body and mind to fully connect. Physical sensation smashed into him with a fierce determination that almost blew his mind away. He did not hurt, surprisingly, beyond the dull throbbing of his damaged feet. His head felt surprisingly normal though a bit tight, as though something had been pressed about it. In fact, everything felt as though it was bound in one large piece of cloth. It was as though he'd rolled about at night and his sheets had twisted around him except he could not find an escape. He pressed with his fingers and toes but the cloth stayed in place. It stretched a bit beneath his pressure but overall retained it shape.
He took in a deep breath, forcing himself to remain calm, and found that it had spread over his face as well. Something hit him forcefully across the chest, not painful, but spread out. It knocked the air from his lungs which was bad because he was a step from screaming for help. Another blow came, across his legs this time, and a third, onto his left arm. It aligned itself with whatever had surrounded him and pinned him, forcing him to lie still, to be compliant. A fourth dropped onto his face, blocking out his air, and he renewed his fight against his restraints. A fifth and sixth chained him further to wherever he was-- he realized it was damp, cool and not pleasant-- and by the time the seventh hit, he was starting to wonder if maybe this was an intricate torture created by the twins themselves to prevent him from achieving his goals.
It certainly was effective if nothing else. His body, though not hurting as it had before, was weak, tired and incapable of any extended motions. Voices sounded far above him, barely audible over his distressed breathing, the words unrecognizable to his ears. They argued, he noted as he wheezed, vehemently, not hearing him as he tried to call out to them. His thoughts, twirling about in circles, half-destroyed by panic, got lost somewhere between their conception and his mouth so that his words were shadows of language. But, it did not matter; soon the voices were gone, fading away and he was left bound and weighted and alone. His fingers were claws straining for freedom and his fear had given him strange bursts of strength but he did not think it was enough. He was suffocating, dying, so close to discovering who he was and--
His finger found a hole in the fabric, touching dampened soil. A second finger escaped the same way and then a third. With work, he managed to force them all through until even his wrist was brushing against the ground instead of fabric. It was hope given back to him in a flash and instead of the usual draining effect of relief, he felt a surge of life which bolstered his movements. Focusing his attentions on progress, he twisted his arm so that his hand touched the mixture of dirt and fabric over his lower trunk. Precision was his friend as he dug under the grit and began to peel away the linen, dictating dexterity he did not fathom possible as worn as his body was. It had him pull, tug, twist, move and finally, procured an end to the fabric.
During this process, he'd gained freedom for his arm up to his elbow and loosened the overall grip of the cloth on his body. Rolling out was not as easy as he'd've thought it would be mainly because as he pulled one way and forced his body another he discovered a wall in the way of his movement. Surprised but not deterred, he switched tactics and tried moving the opposite direction only to find another solid area. Wherever he lay restrained his movement to barely his shoulder width across. A perfect fit, he deduced, his stomach clenching for some reason buried in his subconscious. It forced him to check his movements as he continued and wrestle harder against the forces working against him. By this point, he was gasping and his chest was tight with more than just fear of not escaping.
His face suddenly came free and he gulped in fresh air with gusto. About him, deep brown dirt dripped down in tiny avalanches, marbled in color by strains of stones and tiny, withered grass roots. It rose upwards, leaving him with a rectangular window of the darkened sky above him. Tiny pinpricks of light decorated the vast deep blue space and despite everything, he wondered at it like a child, letting out a soft sigh at it's beauty and the expounding comfort it gave him. It felt like home up there and, maybe it was if a Starship was truly a ship that sailed within the greatness of space. His breathing evened out slowly until he could almost intake air through his nose in a peaceful, at rest manner.
His next actions in disentangling his body were slower, more careful and less worried. Every time a binding fell away, he paused to look up at his freedom so that the stars could fuel his escape. By the time he had both arms free and was unwrapping in a deft, calculated manner, he'd firmly placed himself on the appropriate path for seeking answers. The panic was gone as were most of his concerns about failure and success; he would win, no matter what the costs and get back to his home in the air. He would save all of those people who had vanished and the people with him right now. It was his duty.
He shoved the sheet-- for once it was completely separated from him, he concluded it had the same look as the coverings over the furniture in the house-- into a corner and with trembling legs gained his feet. Vertigo had him staggering, bouncing off the walls and feeling a bit nauseated but he felt surprisingly okay once the head rush ended. He could see clearly, hear accurately and while he would win no endurance runs, he felt confident that he could hunt down the man with the pointed ears.
His confidence included getting out of the hole which was, he discovered upon standing, rather deep. His eyes were level with the puffs of green grass above so that he could view the surrounding landscape in a limited fashion; there was nothing nearby for him to grab onto other than the short foliage. Latching onto some of the grass on the edge, he worked at scrabbling upwards, bare but bandaged feet attempting to find leverage on the dusty and crumbling walls. His first attempt was unsuccessful but a positive learning experience; the grass tore up as he applied weight but digging his phalanges into the dirt both in the hole and underneath the grass kept him from falling completely backwards. A second attempt, this time using his digging prowess, proved to be the proper way of doing things and he scaled upwards inch by inch, the night darkened surroundings becoming more real as he got his body into them.
The trees, dark sentinels of the landscape, became individuals instead of a blackened conglomeration, and the house, a great towering mass stood out near them, flickering lights in its windows. Between the two stood a rundown building which had a solitary glowing light in it and he directed himself that way as he pulled his legs up under him and took a moment to orient his tired body. He knew that this had to be the shack the man was being held in; sensed it deep inside himself and followed it with confidence that should not have been his.
Getting to his feet was more difficult than it had been down in the hole. He nearly tumbled back in when his body started swaying but managed to trip forward instead. His feet, only distantly painful before, had built up their protests and were now writing him a list of wrongs that he'd enacted upon him. Shifting from foot to foot and wincing, he wondered if the rest of his body would soon follow suit and waited for more symptoms to set in; but he was gratified to discover that still, his biggest burden was exhaustion even if a flicker of a headache was threatening. Taking this as another sign, he started his journey to the shack, eyes drifting between the silent woods and the house, hoping that neither man nor beast would emerge to stop him.
He refused to let his mind wander from the task at hand, distantly aware that if he thought too hard about what was in the woods, or in the house he would lose his concentration and falter. He also avoided the tickling worries about the hole itself, about why he'd been down there and who had been burying him alive. Those would not only distract him but bring back the oppressive claustrophobia of being trapped in a hole, in his mind, in a dangerous situation; and he had no time for any of that. So, he let his eyes fixate on the light, his mind stand firm on it's position as the savior Captain and physically, let his feet savor the dewy coolness of the grass.
The shed leaned slightly to the left and it's door appeared jammed. He twisted the handle and pushed but it did not open. There was a low crunching noise from it and the sound of wood straining against metal as the frame cracked against the pressure he exerted but the door did not budge. He pulled away, studying it and the flickering light he could see behind the misted windows, and found he was low on ideas of how to get in. The most obvious one, opening the door and waltzing through, had not worked and his next involved hobbling back ten steps and crashing into it with all his might. The latter of the two lacked common sense but he figured time was of the essence and cleverness ought to be saved for a different date. Creeping backwards, he judged the distance between himself and the door carefully, wondering if he could get up enough speed to make this at all effective when the door opened on its own. He blinked at the figure, blackened by the light shining behind it.
"They said that you had died and hypothesized it was my fault," the man informed him, surveying his dirty appearance with a critical eye. "They would not listen to my explanations. However, it appears that they have mistaken your condition as dead when you are merely dirty. Clearly, their minds are flawed."
The first thing that came out of his mouth did not negate this statement nor remotely imply to his intentions. "If you can get out, why are you letting them keep you in there?"
"It is a comfortable enough shelter and they have provided me with sustenance," the man said, his eyebrows twitching. "I see no reason to force myself on an aimless journey when I can easily, and somewhat comfortably, survive here until I discover what has happened to me."
It made sense. "Oh." Then he shook his head clear and forced focus. "Listen, I need your help."
"Explain," the man said but he appeared intrigued.
For a moment, Kirk remained silent, trying to judge the man's character one last time. The cold, quiet indifference still stretched over his features but Kirk could spot the different emotions about his eyes and eyebrows as though they had carefully settled all of their might in that singular place. This was definitely the right person to talk to. "I think I know what happened to us."
"Us? Are you suggesting that we have all experienced the same phenomenon?"
He nodded. "It's logical, isn't it? None of us remembered who we are, or what we did, or how we got here, right?"
"You employed the use of past tense," the man picked apart the sentence. "Am I to assume that this has somehow changed?"
His lips twisted a little and he let his teeth show in a combination snarl and smirk. "I remember... a little. Not everything but some of the things." He took a tentative step forward, remembering the accented man's statement about his screaming, aware that this could be a truly painful experience. But it was necessary, for so many reasons, one of which was that the man may have created the hole in the first place. He could tear down the rest of the barriers. "You said you could take memories, right? Go ahead and look for yourself. That way it's not hearsay-- it's knowledge."
There was the slightest downturn of lips, the slightest dip of the man's eyebrows. He too stepped forward so that there was barely five feet between them and clasped his hands behind his back. "How did you recall these things and why has no one else?"
"I'm not sure," he admitted. "I thought that maybe you did it. It's like there's a tiny leak in the blockage. Or maybe I'm just special."
"I could not touch your mind through the barriers, no matter how hard I tried. Whatever has happened I was not the cause," the man replied. "And your second option is both irrelevant and non-conclusive. There must be a better explanation."
"That I don't have," Kirk told him, closing the distance between them. "Look at it. Maybe you can figure something out. Right now, I think you are the only person that will believe me and I need your help." He placed emphases the last sentence, threw in some of his feelings-- most especially the isolation, the desperation, the concern-- and waited for the outcome.
The man shifted his weight, not rocking but steadying himself. He straightened his already ramrod posture and studied Kirk with a razor sharp intelligence that made Kirk rock back in turn. Kirk tried to focus on the upper section of the man's face so he could get a read on his emotions but discovered that the man had fixated the mask over that section as well. It was like having a staring contest with a particularly talent statue who took no prisoners, only secured it's position as non-blinking champion. A minute passed, then two and Kirk broke away first, shifting his gaze to the area just beyond the man's head. The man, meanwhile, allowed his hands to drop to his sides and blinked.
"You behave on impulse and emotion," he observed softly, "like the others in the house. You do not strive to find reasonable solutions with basis in facts but rely on what makes you... feel right. I do not agree with this behavior nor do I think that my technique in finding answers will be conducive to your explorations. While I admit to needing facts as to what has happened, I cannot determine how the two of us will work well together and therefore, I conclude that it will be counterproductive for us to try."
He had not expected this entirely, only basically, and he had not designed a good response. He let his mouth run away from him. "Well, how about you take a poke inside my head and we'll figure out an understanding as time goes."
"A plan put together at last moment fails ninety five percent of the time," his companion said as though it explained everything.
"Then let's hope our plan is the other five percent." He stepped closer. "Do it. You'll never know until you try."
A hand lifted up towards his face but hovered inches from him. The man's eyebrows dipped. "I find your logic to be either non-existent or not equatable to the form I am used to. Your optimism and hope are unfounded and your decisions, wild."
"Then we'll make an excellent team," he quipped. "Because you're disgustingly reasonable." And he let the fingers settle on his cheek and temple, feeling a surge of the familiar and a sudden return of the headache. His nose felt wet again. "Hurry up before they figure out your smarter than you look." Which they he referred to, he was uncertain.
"Appearance and intelligence do not correlate," the man replied. "Do not fight me."
And whatever he started, the tiny part of Kirk's mind that survived the on rush of confusion, annoyance, self-disgust and red-hot white daggers of pain, wished this man had not started it. It was not just the pain; it was the myriad of images that swept his vision and brain combined with so many emotions-- at the forefront debilitating frustration-- that crushed what little will he had and had him screaming. He wasn't sure he was physically doing so because he had lost the bond with his physical body. Everything was focused in his consciousness, overwhelming it, stomping it, prying; the man was shuffling through what little he could recall as though he was pulling the pages of a book. Maybe it was gentle but if it was, he would not want to see a violent use of this ability. This invasion in and of itself was so overwhelming that anything greater would destroy him.
Then he gasped, collapsing to his knees, his face so damp it dripped onto the moonlit grass and ran down his neck, into his collar. Worn but whole boots staggered backwards and soon the entirety of the man followed, ass planting onto the ground. In the pale light, Kirk could vividly see the shock on his face accompanied by shining liquid on his upper lip. His lips formed a definite frown and he drew his hands up to support his head, hiding his features from Kirk. Kirk watched him for a moment more but then became absorbed in his own issues, including the dark dripping from his nose and the shuddering weakness in his body.
His head bothered him now, as it had not when he'd woken up from his disturbing grave experience, though it did not come close to what it had been when he was in the house. He let his head bob down to rest against his knees, both regretting his decision and being inordinately pleased with the results. It was obvious to him that the man had found whatever memories he'd recalled or he would not be sitting there stunned, probably bleeding as Kirk did whenever a new image struck him. Step one achieved, he congratulated himself, now to get everyone convinced and don't lose your head in the process. He hoped it felt like a bigger deal than it actually was.
"Fascinating," a hoarse voice murmured. "Truly fascinating."
And then, "Holy shit."