A/N: First, I am SOOOO sorry it has taken three weeks to get this story updated! Please forgive me! It was that "perfect storm" combination of crazy busy times at work and writing troubles...another one of those chapters that got more drafts than my thesis. Oof. As always, a big thank you to all my readers (especially everyone who reviewed; please keep them coming!) and to my awesome beta Lina-Baggins for her helpful suggestions (and putting up with my obsessive rewriting).

Just FYI, there's more swearing in this chapter than usual. Kirk's stressed. And no, I don't own anything. :(

Seventh Circle

Chapter 6

The lock clicks and the door swings open. Three phasers are leveled on the group: one on Spock, one on McCoy, and one to keep Kirk from trying anything rash. One of the aliens raises a gnarled fist and beckons to the captain. Kirk's shoulders straighten automatically and he glances back at Bones.

"Don't go anywhere," he quips dryly to the doctor, clapping Spock on the shoulder as he strides confidently out into the waiting knot of Janusians. Two of them immediately flank Kirk, while the other sticks a phaser into his back and gives him a none-too-gentle shove forward.

He hardly cares. It's as if something inside him has snapped. Kirk is done with this bullshit. He's had enough of groping around in the dark; of useless theorizing and endless debating. It's time for answers, and he's going to get them no matter what it costs him, no matter what they do to him. His captain's swagger returns without conscious volition as he is prodded down towards the ominous door.

At least Kirk himself is finally paying for getting them all into this mess. Despite his mounting dread for whatever the Janusians have waiting for him, the heavy knot of guilt clutching at his insides eases slightly at the thought. Involuntarily, he glances back at the cell behind him. Bones has joined Spock at the bars, his worried frown doing little to help Jim's nerves. Thankfully he cannot make out Chekov. Kirk doesn't think he could handle seeing the knowing terror reflected in the kid's eyes right about—

Strong hands suddenly pinion his arms. Another hand tugs a black bag over Kirk's head, plunging him in to instant suffocating darkness. His composure vanishes with his sight. He yells in instinctive panic, struggling with all his considerable might against the vice grip on his arms.

"JIM!" Bones bellows, alarmed by this unexpected development. His voice is muffled by the cloth and the frantic pounding of blood in Kirk's ears.

The door slams. His writhing body is unwillingly propelled onward. Suddenly, one of Kirk's arms breaks free. He lashes out blindly, his fist landing with a satisfyingly sickening crunch and evoking a grunt of pain from one of the guards. The fervid joy of taking action, of finally striking back is worth the vicious retaliatory blow to Jim's solar plexus. All breath knocked from his body, he falls hard.

The stone floor bites cruelly into Kirk's knees as he tries to force air back into his lungs. The black cloth sucks against his face with every breath, pulling claustrophobically against his mouth and nose. He can't see… can't breathe. Blood roars in his ears as his heart races frantically. Some distant intellectual part of his brain is telling him he's fine- he has plenty of air, he is not suffocating- but his body doesn't believe it. His breath comes now in shallow, rapid gasps, bringing the clinging fabric with it. Bright lights begin to pop before his sightless eyes, reminiscent of the pinpoints of stars in the vacuum of space.

But no, he's here, hyperventilating like some rookie cadet on his first ride out of atmosphere. A random memory of Bones springs to mind; Bones, unshaven and angry, arguing with someone about his irrational fear of flying. Bones would rip him a new one if he could see Jim's cowardice now… what about his crew! How could he expect them (people like Chekov, for god's sake!) to face danger and death on a daily basis if Kirk can't even keep himself together? Furious hot shame at his weakness burns through his panic like a phaser blast.

GET A FUCKING GRIP, JIM!

Rough voices are shouting at him, hands shoving him onward. Kirk ignores them and focuses on battering back his fear. The black hood begins to suck less against his face; the tension knotting his muscles eases slightly. Slowly the pounding of his heart returns to a more normal, though still elevated, rate. The panic fogging his mind ebbs away and is gradually replaced by cold, purposeful clarity.

Hard hands bind his wrists. Kirk resists as best he can, but there are three of them and only one of him. He tugs at the bonds as soon as they release his hands, testing their strength. He notes that they are some kind of rope, yet tied tightly enough that he cannot slip them off. A scraping noise assaults his ears, the sound seeming more acute without the use of his eyes. His head jerks instinctively towards the noise, nearly colliding with that of one of his captors. Kirk can feel the alien's hot breath near his ear, even through the opaque fabric of the hood.

"Sit," a gravelly, heavily-accented voice snarls in Kirk's ear.

"I'd rather stand."

The unyielding seat of a chair is brutally slammed into the backs of Kirk's knees, causing them to buckle and dumping him into it. Cursing, he tugs at his bonds again. The room, wherever it is, has become eerily silent. The only noise is the sound of Kirk's breathing in his ears and the soft creaking of his chair as he tries to work at the ropes.

The hood covering his head is abruptly yanked off. Surprised, Kirk starts and nearly upsets the chair as light stabs mercilessly at his eyes.

He is in an elegantly furnished room. Soft blue-gray curtains cascade from many windows, glowing with the cool white light of the Janusian sun. Rounded furniture, richly upholstered in deepest red, is neatly arranged around a large central space where his chair is positioned, facing an impressive executive desk.

Before the desk stands a woman.

She is one of the most striking women he has ever seen. Tall and curvaceous, with skin so dark as to be nearly teal, she is completely unlike the pale blue, willowy Janusian women. The greenish tint of her skin brings out the red tones in the auburn of her well-tamed curls. Judging from the smug authority she exudes as she slinks towards Kirk's chair, there is only one person she can be.

Their real captor.

The person who ordered Chekov's torture and Giacomo's grisly death.

Instantly infuriated by the realization, Kirk surges forward. He nearly makes it to his feet before gray-skinned fingers clamp onto his shoulder and wrestle him back into the chair, chest heaving. Unperturbed by his helpless wrath, her large golden eyes appraise him with regal, almost aloof interest. Despite his fury, Jim is suddenly conscious of his own scruffy appearance: hair dirty and tousled, gold uniform scuffed with grime from the cell floor and smeared in places with Chekov's blood.

"At last," she says, in a low, melodic voice that seems to wrap itself around and relish every syllable. "James T. Kirk."

It takes every ounce of self control he possesses to get a grip on his temper. "Captain," he corrects crisply, forcing his face into a humorless crooked smile with a trace of that patented Kirk charm.

She laughs, a musical sound with a sinister note that sends a chill down Kirk's spine. Her sensuous lips curve into a smile as she replies. "Of course…Captain."

He forces himself to hold her unsettling golden gaze. Her pupils are oddly round, though her eyes are the usual size and color of Janusian eyes. She studies his face intently, running a glistening fingernail delicately along the bruise across his cheek left by Dopey's earlier blow. Kirk shies away instinctively from the unnervingly gentle touch.

The edge of the teal-skinned woman's mouth quirks slightly in amusement at his discomfort. She straightens regally, now focused on the aliens flanking the captain. Kirk can see them stiffen slightly, and glancing to either side, notices they appear to be standing at attention.

"Who is responsible for this?" she demands, her tone now icy cold, as she indicates the bruise on Kirk's face. Her eyes narrow as the three gray-skinned guards stare silently forward without responding.

Kirk cranes his neck, squinting up at his captors' faces. To his great satisfaction, one of them is sporting a fist-sized mark around one crimson eye. "That would be… him," he says, indicating Dopey with a jerk of his head.

"Thank you, Captain," she replies, quite deliberately raising her other hand and revealing a small phaser.

The beam sizzles centimeters from Kirk's ear as she fires, the sudden rush of superheated air causing him to jump in his seat. He just manages to bite back a HOLY SHIT! as Dopey's lifeless body hits the floor a moment later, smoke rising softly from the holes burned into his chest. Kirk glances from side to side. Neither of the other two Janusians have moved.

"He was not to be touched except on my order!" she hisses at them furiously. "Do not make me remind you again." Her nose wrinkles at the body on the floor. "Now leave us, and take that with you."

Obedience is immediate. The two guards bow before impassively seizing the body of their comrade and disappearing from the room. Her eyes swivel back to Kirk, who abruptly rearranges his features from shocked to neutral. She chuckles again lowly, before continuing as if nothing had happened.

"Your holograms simply do not do you justice, Captain," she says lightly, amusement creeping in to her voice. "I must say I much prefer the real specimen."

Kirk glares back, heart pounding, but determined to at least seem unintimidated. "Are you in charge here?"

She meets his glare with a coy smile. "Was I not quite what you were expecting, Captain?"

"Let's cut the crap," he snaps, throwing two days' pent-up anger and frustration into his steeliest command tone. "Who the hell are you, and what the hell do you want from us?"

The woman cocks her auburn head, her full lips curving into a half-smile that does not reach her predatory eyes. "As you wish. Who I am is not important. The fact that I am in control should be sufficient." She has started to circle Kirk's chair now with a sort of feline grace, phaser prominently displayed in one delicate hand. "But you may call me Lilith. You wouldn't able to pronounce my true name."

Her perfectly tailored garment clings strategically as she walks, the pale iridescent material shimmering in the cool light. Imagining what Bones would say if he found out Jim was checking out the enemy, Kirk keeps his eyes forward. Why can nobody on this damned planet give a straight answer?

Lilith has finally completed her circuit and stands before Kirk once again. "I've been waiting for you for a long time."

Kirk tugs at his bonds again out of sheer frustration and is heartened to notice that they have loosened infinitesimally. He raises an eyebrow coolly at her statement, trying to play for time to work at the ropes. "Well, you've got me now."

Lilith reaches out with another lacquered talon and tips his chin up to study his face again. He can't help shuddering at the touch. Her fingers feel as if they suck the warmth from his skin. "No, I still don't quite have you, James Kirk…but it will be interesting to see how long it takes."

"Was that supposed to make any sense?"

She continues, still infuriatingly coy, as if he had not said anything. "To answer your second question, Captain, whoever said I wanted anything from you?"