A/N: I swear I will never do this again, but this is a fragment of Chapter Six sobbbbb. I didn't want to leave the last chapter like that before I left so here's a slightly better place to leave off...maybe? It's not much, but hopefully this will get you guys through that slightly awkward last ending.

UPDATE WHEN I RETURN.

edit: I'M BACK. WITH THE FULL CHAPTER. SWEET BABY WIFI HOW I HAVE MISSED YOUR LIFE-SUSTAINING FLOW. I have never truly appreciated modern conveniences so much. In case you're wondering, I'm writing this all on Google Drive, so while it is convenient and I can pull it up on my iPad and stuff, it is not so convenient when lacking wifi.

If you see any errors anywhere, btw, shoot me a PM with the chapter, scene, and typo and I'll fix it up. I've only given these a brief glance before posting because I'm too impatient ahaaaa. I've been trying to catch them as I go along, so hopefully some have been fixed already.

Well, the story is starting to wind down a bit. Some action, some shooting...slight violence, so I suppose I'll throw up an M warning. Also, warning for feels towards the end. Just saying. :(

WARNING WARNING WARNING WARNING there. That should suffice.

Chapter Six

They progressed through the alien forest, the sound of their footsteps muffled by a strange silver moss underfoot. The light filtering through the canopy was a pale lavender, dappling the metallic trunks in dancing lights. The root system of the tall, stripped trees was shallow and sprawling, covering the ground in rolling waves and ripples. Dr. McCoy was the first to stumble over the uneven land, uttering an alarmed cry. Spock reached out and snagged the man's elbow before he could completely topple over, receiving a gruff mutter of gratitude in return for his assistance. He did not mind; it was the doctor's way.

His mind was on other matters, in any case. Running beneath his thoughts, a constant nagging reminder just below the surface of his mind, was anxiety. He was worried about Jim. Vulcans did not worry, as it was illogical to feel concern over events in which one could not anticipate nor affect. However, he had already contradicted enough of his people's ways to understand that there were a great deal of things that Vulcans were not supposed to do, but somehow managed to accomplish anyway. He supposed this could be due to his mother's human bloodlines, but dismissed that as nonsensical. Emotions could not be transferred through blood, after all.

Jim walked beside Sulu, who led the group, oblivious to the duress of his First Officer. He was gesturing as he spoke, most likely outlining his plan for infiltration. Garrett, the elder of the two engineers, had laid out schematics constructed from Carol Marcus's description, collected in a second interview prior to their departure, and the team had pored over the plans, making suggestions and discarding ideas until a skeleton plan, which Jim claimed would flesh itself out when the time came, had formed. Personally, Spock was not pleased by the lack of detailing in the crude strategy, but had been forced to comply by a sheer lack of time, resources, and alternatives.

Spock reached out automatically, catching McCoy once more as the doctor slipped and began to fall. "Damn it," the older man growled, struggling to regain his balance. "I'll never leave the ship again!"

Spock did not reply, his mind still occupied. McCoy gave him a long look, following the direction of the Vulcan's gaze towards the front of the group. He sighed heavily. "You shouldn't worry over him too much, you know." Spock blinked, looking quickly at the doctor. Had his face betrayed his thoughts?

"Yeah, I know I should be the last one to say that, seeing how I gripe and throw fits whenever he gets hurt," McCoy continued, "but Jim's his own man, Spock. He knows what he's doing." He paused. "Well, most of the time."

Spock did not know what to say. He was becoming swiftly acquainted with the fact that he could not prevent Jim from doing what he wanted. There was too much of him to keep from the world. I was foolish to think that I could be the one. But even if he knew he could not protect Jim, as the captain himself had said, he could try. It was the least he could do, after all. "I will attempt to...not worry, then, doctor."

The forest was thinning slightly, a large clearing in sight fifty meters ahead. The group drew to a halt and gathered together, watching as Sulu tweaked with the whirring navigator. "It's just up ahead," the pilot said, voice low. "The entrance should be set into the ground. A hatch of some kind."

Jim was chewing his lip, an intent glint in his eyes. Spock recognized the look; it had been there when he had first stormed onto the bridge, demanding to be heard and acknowledged. It had been there when he had convinced Spock to go through with a plan that had a less than 4.3% chance of success. And it was here now, as a meager team of fifteen prepared to subdue and capture no less than forty smugglers in their own territory, in addition to the rescue of twenty scientific researchers, most of whom had probably never held a weapon of any sort in their lives.

If nothing else, however, Jim Kirk had plenty of experience in the unlikely, impossible, and improbable. "Right," he was saying now, gazing at the clearing without truly seeing it. "Right. Here's what we're going to do..."

…

Hank was new at this. He had started out his relatively short life with reasonable promise. Average-looking, but not too bad, either, smart enough to get by in school. He wasn't altogether sure, really, how he had ended up on this planet-Leo something. All he knew was that it was the ugliest color he had ever seen.

Starfleet had rejected his application, he recalled, with a hot flush of mortification. His best friend Tony from school had made it, was probably a lieutenant somewhere. And then there was Hank. With his shitty luck, Tony would be the one to bring him in if the operation ever busted.

Not that it would, of course. Hank yawned widely. He was on lookout now, with an older man. Russell, he thought. Or Randy. No, it was Russell, he was sure. With two Ls. They sat beneath the surface hatch with rifles tucked under their arms, just in case an emergency that would never happen occurred. It was stupid, really, Hank thought. There was nobody anywhere near that could stumble on the bunker. Only the traders knew, and they wouldn't bring any trouble to the door. Those scientists had, though. Bad luck, for them. Of all the places they could have landed their stupid research ships, they had to land here, and look what happened to them. Fate must have had it in for them, is all. Hank yawned again and Russell looked over, irritated. "Stop that, noob," he growled. "That shit's contagious, you k-"

Something rattled against the hatch. The two men looked up, startled. The rattling sound happened again, like something had bounced across the hatch. "The hell was that?" Hank demanded in a hushed tone, unnerved.

Russell grunted. "Branch or something. It gets windy up top." But he didn't sound so sure.

Another skittering sound. Hank squeezed his rifle, scared to hell but unwilling to admit it. "That ain't no branch!" he insisted, his voice shriller than he would have liked.

"Then get your ass up and go see what it is!"

"You go."

"The hell-why should I go? You're the one with all the damn questions. I told you it was a branch, didn't I?"

"That wasn't no branch."

"Then what is it, huh? Skeletons? It's skeletons, that what you're saying?"

Hank blinked. "Well, no, I didn't think it was skeletons."

"Then go look for yourself, smartass!" Russell gestured with the butt of his rifle. Hank stood reluctantly, knowing this conversation would only keep going if he stayed, and clambered up the ladder, his rifle strung across his shoulders. "You watch out in case it is skeletons," he called down, suddenly ridiculously worried. He hadn't seen any animals in the area, but maybe they only came out sometimes. Hell, with his luck, it'd be a bear. A big ole bear that could rip his head off and-

He unlocked the hatch with shaking fingers and lifted the hatch slowly, arms straining under the weight if the metal slab. He opened it just a crack, so he could look out and slam it shut if he needed to.

He didn't see anything. No skeletons. No bear. But there wasn't a branch, either.

"Don't see anything," he told Russell, raising the hatch higher and stepping right up onto the top rung of the ladder to get a better look around. The clearing was empty, the skinny trees swaying a little near the top. Hank shrugged, and stepped onto the ground, letting the hatch lean open. "Hank, you get back down here," Russell called. Hank pretended that he hadn't heard. The air was good here, better than it was underground, and he hasn't been out since the day that blondie scientist disappeared. They hadn't ever found her, though they had had to shoot two more of the researchers before the others were rounded back up into their containers. Pity. She was the prettiest one-

A branch snapped and Hank whirled around, rifle swinging wildly for the source of the sound. "Russell," he breathed, heart suddenly in his throat and strangling his voice. "Russell, get up here."

"Huh? What's that you said?"

"Russell," Hank squeaked, backing away on shaking legs.

A hand tapped his shoulder and he turned around. He caught a glimpse of pale skin and-pointy ears?-then there was white pain flaring between his neck and shoulder and he was out before his rifle struck the ground.

Russell squinted up at the circle of sky. "Hank!"

There was no reply. Damned kid, running around like a headless chicken. Russell grumbled under his breath as he pulled himself up the ladder. He poked his head up out of the hatch. Opened his mouth to squawk out, "HAN-GARK!"

He was dragged out by the collar of his shirt and there was Hank, hogtied on the ground, but where was his rif-something smashed into the back of his head and he hit the ground.

…

Jim, panting slightly, lowered the rifle. It'd been a while since he'd had to bash someone like that. "There."

"Good hit, sir," Sulu praised, bending down to cuff the second smuggler.

Spock merely raised an eyebrow...smugly. Jim was learning to read his little signals, the subtle movements of his face that weren't exactly expressions. Jim jutted his chin out defensively. "What? Not all of us are super-Vulcans, okay?"

They left the smugglers tied to a tree and descended through the hatch, Jim now dragging along one of the rifles and Bones clutching tightly to the other, looking distinctly uncomfortable with the arrangement. Jim had talked him into taking it, saying that if he wouldn't shoot anyone, he could at least whack them over the head with it.

The ladder ended in a circular room, with a lift on one side and two doors on the other. Jim made for the nearest door, waving one of the key cards he'd lifted from the two smugglers. The door beeped and slid open, revealing a narrow, grayish-white corridor. The other door opened to a similar corridor. Garrett pulled out his schematics again, scanning the makeshift map frantically. "We've gotta go down, sir, that's all I can tell you. The Wallace girl said they were on the third level, but she said their heads were bagged until the bottom floor."

Jim chewed a fingernail absently. This wasn't going to be good, either way. He looked at the door on the left, then at the door on the right. "Right," he murmured. "We'll have to split up."

He waited for an objection from a certain overprotective Vulcan, but Spock blinked once and said nothing. "Mr. Spock, take your team down the left corridor. Try to avoid any confrontations if you can: go for stealth. The hostages are your top priority. My team, with me down the right. Sulu, you take point, I'll cover our asses." He glanced at Spock. That should be satisfying, right? Spock was gazing at him intently, eyebrows lowered over his dark eyes. Why wasn't he saying anything?

Jim forced himself to look away, tossing the spare key card to Spock. "Let's go."

…

Spock led his team down the corridor at a brisk trot, phaser armed and set to stun. McCoy was second, his heavy medicine bag bouncing as he struggled to not gasp for air. Spock admired the man, in a grudging sort of way. He had his own kind of strength, the strength to protect and heal, and Spock sometimes wished that he could claim the same for himself. But now, he was a hunter, silent and strong and filled with dark purpose. He would not seek out altercations, but neither would he shy from one. Every smuggler he now saw as a potential threat, a danger that could not be left wandering. With Jim out of his sight, anything could happen.

He would simply not let anything happen.

The first smuggler they came across had enough time to emit a strangled sound of surprise before Spock tagged him in the chest with his phaser. "Leave him," he barked, when one of the engineers bent to roll over and cuff the man. "He is not our problem." The sooner they retrieved the hostages, the sooner he could find Jim.

The next two hostiles did not go down quite as easily as the first. One managed to loose a shot with a phaser certainly not set to a nonlethal level. Fortunately, it missed the entire group, leaving a blackened scorch mark against the concrete wall inches from McCoy's head. The doctor loosed a half-shriek of alarm and clubbed the unfortunate smuggler around the head with his commandeered rifle.

"Well done, doctor," Spock complimented, wrestling the other smuggler to his knees and neatly administering a pinch to the neck. "An excellent swing."

"Damn right." McCoy hefted the rifle onto his shoulder, looking distinctly pleased with himself.

Garrett kept up a running commentary as they went, his schematics all but plastered to his face. "Left," he would gasp occasionally, or, "Down these steps. No, not all the way, turn right at the landing."

To Spock's unease, they did not encounter any more of the smugglers. By his count, there should be well over thirty left, yet their journey down had not consisted of more than two altercations. Therefore, they must have been alerted to the presence of Jim's offensive force and had siphoned off to wherever the confrontation was taking place. He refrained from using his communicator to try and contact Jim, as the latter would most likely find it inconvenient to answer in whatever his current circumstances were. Lack of information was causing an agony of indecision in the pit of his stomach.

They finally reached what seemed to be the last flight of stairs, their footfalls ringing up the narrow shaft and shaking the precarious steel steps. Spock motioned for silence at the bottom, back pressed against the closed doors. There was a round window by his head and he inched to the side, his right eye peering through the glass.

They had indeed reached the third level. From what he could tell by his constricted view, they were in the corner of a large storage level, with shelves and cases of contraband piled nearly to the high ceiling. The towering stacks formed aisles and corners, similar to a labyrinth. It would not be easy to locate the shipping containers, assuming they were even all in the same place. Spock resisted the urge to sigh in frustration and looked away from the window, resting his head against the door as he thought.

"We will have to split up," he reluctantly concluded.

"No offense," said McCoy, clearly intending the opposite, "but that is the worst idea in the history of bad ideas. It's bad enough that we had to split from the main group. Once more would be suicide."

"I agree, Commander," said one of the security officers. "There's only seven of us and a whole lot of them."

"It is not an ideal situation," Spock admitted, "but there are three shipping containers to locate in a short amount of time. We do not know how many smugglers remain, nor the number of hostages still alive. In any other case, I would never suggest dividing our force, but a smaller group can move faster, quieter." He held up his communicator. "One member of the group will remain in contact with the other at all times and sound the alert when the hostages are located."

McCoy reluctantly nodded. "All right. I'll take Big and Heavy here." He indicated two of the security. "And, what the hell, you. Boy Scout." He gestured at the younger of the two engineers.

Spock nodded and keyed open the doors. "You watch yourself, Spock," McCoy said quietly as he passed. "Jim's not the only one I worry about." His normally aggrieved expression now carried a serious edge. Spock could suddenly see how he and the captain had become such close friends. To his surprise, he felt no twist of sour emotion at the thought, merely a resigned acceptance. "I will do my best, doctor."

McCoy snorted, in a derisive manner not similar to Jim, and departed.

Spock took his two remaining men and jogged off in the opposite direction. He heard sounds of conflict as soon as he stepped foot into the warehouse. Muffled shouts and firing phasers, accompanied by distant crashes and heavy thumps. Jim's force must have reached the level. He forced himself to remain intent on the task at hand: searching for the hostages. He had to control his pace, lest he leave the humans with him behind. They were moving too slow, something was happening out there, he needed to be there.

He was relieved when his communicator finally went off, McCoy's voice crackling, "Spock, we've got them! Sending the coordinates now-"

Spock tossed his communicator to Garrett. "Find Dr. McCoy and assist with aiding the hostages."

The engineer fumbled the communicator, startled, and cupped it in both his hands uncertainly. "Sir? Where will you be?"

"I will be with the captain." He took off, barely registering a faint, "Aye, sir." The shelves blurred as he finally broke into his true speed, his heart pumping furiously in his ears. Jim. He had to find him, had to make sure.

…

It was mayhem. The smugglers had been waiting for them; someone above must have managed to trigger an alarm before Jim's team took them out. Jim was covered in sweat and grime, his shirt ripped in at least five places from phaser grazes. He was sure the skin beneath was badly burned and was hurting a bitch, but his blood was up and boiling and now it was war.

He was crouching behind a steel crate, trying to catch his breath. He could see Sulu taking cover behind a shelf, a cut across his cheek oozing blood down his face. He caught the pilot's eye and signaled that he was heading over.

Sulu shouted an okay that Jim barely made out over the sounds of battle. He took a deep breath and ran over, bent low to avoid the flying beams. He rolled to a stop next to Sulu, adrenaline coursing through his veins. "A hell of a plan, Captain," Sulu muttered, firing through a gap in the shelf and neatly taking out one of the smugglers.

"Well, it's working so far," Jim pointed out. Half the smugglers were stunned already, slumped all over the floor. He counted maybe ten still left, but it was difficult to tell in this chaotic environment. He hoped that Spock and Bones had managed to get the hostages out by now, while his force was distracting the smugglers. He glanced up at the tall racks around them. "I'll try to get up top, take some of them out from above."

Sulu grunted a half-answer, firing again, and Jim left him, running for one of the shelves that he thought he may be able to clim-

A searing pain pierced his thigh, sending him stumbling and finally skidding on his side. The floor was cold and sticky against his cheek. His vision was swimming, spots of black drifting and threatening to overwhelm him completely. Jim shook his head groggily, clearing some of the spots, and managed to push his head and chest off the floor. His leg looked bad. Real bad, if the amount of blood gushing out of it was any indication.

He felt a rising tide of derision bubbling within him, threatening to spill out in a wave of unhealthy giggles. This...this wasn't happening. He had to-he had to do something. Get somewhere.

"...Jim..."

Was that his name? He was dizzy, couldn't tell, couldn't see. His hands were moving on their own, clamping down on the wound, trying to staunch the flow of blood. So much red...staining his hands, pooling on the floor. It trickled through his fingers, his own heartbeat betraying his efforts. He gritted his teeth, tore a strip from his fraying and charred shirt, pressed it again his thigh as best as he could.

"...Jim!"

Stop shouting. He had to stop the bleeding. The blood made his fingers slippery, soaking the rag in seconds. Pain, dull and throbbing, radiated up through his hip, pulsing down his numb leg. So much blood...

"Jim!"

Spock?

He looked up dizzily. A pale blur of a face in the distance, running towards him. Phasers flashed through the air, running figures black in the flickering light. Spock. Spock was coming for him. Sheer relief nearly floored him again.

And then he saw it. The figure behind Spock, taking cold, detached aim with an armed phaser. The world snapped into sharp and blinding clarity. The air was ice running through his veins, every breath suddenly heavy and painful. "No!" he shouted, his throat tearing in fear. Spock faltered, half-turning to see-

It happened in a moment, only seconds, yet it seemed to take an eternity. He saw Spock stumble, his eyes widening. He was close enough for Jim to see the spray of green erupt from his chest, every emerald droplet sparkling in the lighting. He could hear his own voice dimly through the thudding of his heartbeat, saying words, calling out...there was pain, terrible, stabbing pain in his heart, his soul. His leg was nothing next to this agony.

Spock fell to his knees, face twisted in almost comic disbelief. Isn't this ironic?

"No, no, Spock, don't-"

His eyes met Jim's for a long moment before they fluttered shut and he slumped forward on the floor. Time rushed forward, filling the air with screams and curses and noise. All he could see was Spock, lying there in a growing puddle of green blood.

Jim strained forward, dragging himself forward. A body careened into him, stumbled over his twisted leg. Pain flared for a moment, sharp and ugly, and he gritted his teeth and kept going. "Spock," he gasped. "No...no, wait, you can't-"

And then arms were wrapping around him, holding him back, pushing him down. A voice, fast and urgent, muttering, "No, Jim. Don't move. You're hurt-"

"Bones, you have to-Spock-"

"Jim-"

There were figures bending over Spock, obscuring him from Jim's view. He twisted desperately in Bones's grip, hating him for keeping him there. He was breaking, couldn't they see? They were killing him. He needed to go to him-he needed to-Spock-

A hiss and a painful prick in his neck. "No," he slurred, vision turning to mush. His hands scrabbled at Bones's. His face felt wet, even though he hadn't cried in years, no, it couldn't be.

"Sleep, Jim." How could he? It hurt, it hurt so bad.

Sleep.

And his world, whatever was left of it, melted away.

A/N:...

Oops, my hand slipped and suddenly there is sadness. Is it bad that I couldn't decide who to shoot and ended up shooting both...?

Well, one chapter left, guys! Haha...ahaaaaaa...

OTL