-XXX-

2258

"It's impossible," Khan says flatly. "I cannot do it within the deadline, with the amount of materials I have received. I still need to go through testing –"

"Your people," Marcus says delicately.

At this, Khan freezes over his microscope. He does not speak, but waits for the admiral to go on. Marcus, sensing the tension, smiles with razor-sharp thinness.

"I should just like to remind you that their well-being is entirely dependent on you. Though, I am sure you've not forgotten…."

The Augment's hands lower to the counter. They grip the ledge tightly. "Understood, sir," Khan grounds out slowly.

"I am glad we have reached some…clarity." Marcus lingers for a few moments before marching from the lab.

When the Augment is certain the admiral is in the elevator, the stone counter crumbles beneath his hands, leaving two fist-shaped grooves within the otherwise straight edge of the lab counters. Khan slams his fists down, leaning heavily, breath rasping. Every threat against his family left him a little more shaken. Their vulnerability was Marcus's leverage.

This was not the first time Marcus openly threatened the still-sleeping augments. And it shall not be the last.

"Someday," he promises himself. But a braver, darker side of him asks, "Why not today?"

-XXX-

The plan comes to him at night. He's just finished the latest weapons order Marcus had issued – an improved laser structure for the short-range shuttles. It was one of the smaller projects he had been assigned, yet stressful nonetheless. To calibrate the damn beams is no walk in the park. But he finishes, sending his section 31 supervisor a comm message assuring him a demonstration in the morning. Then – the scheming.

Taking on the whole of Starfleet – not to mention associated organization and planets – is quite the task. One that Khan has his doubts about. Though he once ruled the whole of Asia, he never dealt with any kind of true uprising or overwhelming conflict, save for his removal from power. And then, it had been him and all of his comrades. It shall be only him, for now.

The first place to strike is Section 31, naturally. The archives here in London will do nicely, especially considering their significance in Marcus's greatly-anticipated intergalactic war with the Klingons. Striking the very heart of his weaponry will surely get the message across. The question is…how? He needs leverage. He needs inside help.

Revenge is not the primary goal. He acknowledges this as he walks to his apartment from the lab. But to sprinkle in a bit along the way, well, no one could begrudge him that.

He'll have his family back. Sooner, rather than later.

-XXX-

I'm back in London after another long weekend in the States, visiting my parents. Business with the Starfleet archival offices dictates that I be present about twice a month to sign and officiate various records of my dealing with alien cultures. My parents know this, and blatantly pressure me into coming home for a few days. Ever since the recent encounter with the Narada and the Enterprise's infant crew, they've been especially edgy. My mother nearly fell to the ground weeping when I showed up on the stoop the first time since returning from my brief mission on the Union. She didn't calm down until she's held me on the couch sobbing for roughly an hour. My father crept around the kitchen hurriedly making jasmine tea, carrying in the tray, then perching on the nearest armchair with a warily stern expression upon his face. Following this I was lectured for another twenty minutes.

"I was fine," I told them incredulously. "Seriously, never a moment in danger."

Except that one time I was assigned to an exploration crew where one man died and three were injured.

It was common sense to not tell them about Khan. No need to worry them further when they were both already incredibly nervous about my work. I reassured them it would be sometime before I went back outside of the Earth's atmosphere.

"Do not be foolish, Alya Nejem!" my mother warned. "The Enterprise crew went out thinking nothing of it, I'm sure, but a good number of them died –"

My father shushed her, thankfully, before I could explode.

I would dread these returns were it not for the fact that following these less-than-exciting meetings with Starfleet and less-than-tranquil-visits with my family I oftentimes saw John. He was my contact in London – the person I used to keep track of me when I traveled. When I was in university my father advised having someone to text to inform when I made it home, so that someone would know when to expect me. Being the only person I knew in London, John was that person.

The morning after I return we're scheduled to meet up for coffee and a walk. It's late autumn, so still a little chilly, but the parks are lovely and fresh air would be welcome after a long day of travel. So I put on my royal blue pea coat, winding the cream-colored scarf Luta sent me from a recent trip to Aldebaran III around my neck. I pack my leather messenger work bag, planning to head to the East London University Library after our walk. Lacing my boots – I have a grand tendency of tripping which is only amplified when I am around John Harrison, who has a long stride that is difficult for me to match.

He's not at the bench when I arrive. Surprised, I sit. After several minutes of waiting, I pull out some paperwork to browse. Getting lost in the small print, I forget to watch out for John.

A presence appears at my side with a sight heat and pressure that drags me away from my text. Holding two paper cups, John sits calmly beside me, looking out on the park. Being only about nine, it's relatively empty. His crystal eyes follow a small group of runners before switching to a youngish guy walking a large Dalmatian, to a mother pushing a fussy baby in a stroller, to a grander tending to some tulip blubs. Without looking at me he offers one of the cups. I sip tentatively. Coffee, with the appropriate amount of cream and sugars.

"Thank you."

"How was your trip home?"

I sigh. "It was…a trip."

He does not inquire further, though his lip quirk in amusement.

"And your weekend?"

John sips his tea. "It was a weekend."

I smile into my cup. From the corner of my eye I can see his lips tug up. We sit in companionable silence for a while, enjoying our warm beverages, watching the park's other occupants. I replace my papers in my bag, arching my back against the bench as I stretched slightly. "Shall we walk?"

-XXX-

They took several turns about the park. They did not speak excessively, though a conversation occurred between long pauses. The primarily focus was on the recent decimation of Vulcan. Alya expresses regret and sorrow at the loss. John has less to say on the subject – he understood losing one's people, but he was indifferent to weighing in on the matter. He is especially annoyed, however, when she begins to discuss the Enterprise.

"I know the chief medical officer, Leo McCoy. He's a good man," she sighs. "I am glad he made it through okay. It's terrifying. Starfleet wasn't made for battle. I mean, all of the ships have defenses, but it's a primarily peacekeeping organization."

Her words have an affect on him – the grip he's maintained on his cup tightens dangerously.

"They'll probably begin thinking more like a military body than exploratory or peacekeeping," she continues sadly. "I can only imagine what they're doing right now in weaponry and defense development."

"Indeed."

"This just changes so much…."

She has no notion. No idea what those higher up on the totem pole are planning. Since the incident, the pressure upon him to make more innovative weapons had increase. The hours he spent in the engineering lab had greatly risen. He dreamt of blue prints, formulas, molecular explosions….when he wasn't dreaming of his family.

He'd dreamt of them, in his long sleep upon the Botany Bay. Which only made waking up all the more terrible.

"…is it just me? Or do you feel it too?" Alya peers up at him. Her dark eyes are utterly liquid. Khan looked down at her blankly before replying, too lost in his own furious thoughts, before replying.

"Yes," he answers impassively. "Yes, I have."

-XXX-

John has been quite adamant that I do not meet him at his place of work. It's annoying, because he's invaded mine often enough. He is a little less strict about coming to his home, though I've never been -not that I have been searching for an invitation to either – he's occasionally allowed me to meet him outside of the building. It's a tall, narrow apartment building, quite old, stark in its simple appearance of brick and thin windows.

Still, I am surprised when asks that I meet him there after already making me wait. We're supposed to be having dinner, but he'd messaged me saying he would be late. An hour past when we'd arranged to met, I receive a message on my comm asking that I come to his flat – we'll leave for the restaurant from there.

Altogether, I've been in London for nearly seven months now, with five of those months being spent getting to know Mr. Harrison – formerly Singh – over a variety of walks, coffees, and dinners. We're getting along nicely enough. Though, I don't think we're making any friends with natives. I can't say I mind too much. Bar hopping and girls' nights out tend to be a little too distracting for my taste. Harrison keeps me at a nice arm's length and I do likewise (attributing my caution to knowledge of his past, though I've no clue what excuse he uses for me). I don't mind keeping thing that way.

Which is why I come to his flat with a tinge of annoyance on my lips. "He said work kept him late, Alya," I scold myself mentally. "Give the fellow a break."

The halls are just as exciting as the exterior – white, with florescent lighting likely from the last century, industrial carpeting. I trail along until I come across number 115. I knock, but the door opens before I can even lower my hand.

A disheveled John Harrison stands in the threshold. His hair is all out of sorts, shirt askew, but the worst is his eyes – gleaming of fury. They're a slate blue-grey, like storm clouds above the ocean. I almost take a step back. Blinking, I lower my hand.

"Hello –"

He turns without a greeting, merely grunts, stalking away. I step inside. The apartment is nearly as barren as the rest of the building. White walls, a pair of windows lining the furthest, no curtains, merely blinds. No pictures or anything. He's got a couch, a comm unit, a radiator, and little else. A few books lay stacked on the floor beside the couch, which is beige and boring and looks like it belongs in a low-end doctor's office. There's a kitchen to my right, which is spotless (likely a result of lack of use rather than cleanliness). He doesn't even have dishes in the sink. Finally, there is a dark hallway, which I assume leads to a bedroom and a bath. It's where John has disappeared off to, leaving me in the front room, confused and wary. He's not even turned any lights on aside from one under-the-cabinet thing that emits a soft white light, but leaves the rest of the space fairly dim.

All in all, it's a grim setting. I cannot blame him for working long hours, taking long walks, or avoiding entertaining company. It's a miserably place. Not even a bachelor's pad, more like the temporary living space of a disaster survivor. Impersonal. Sad.

"John," I call. There's no answer. I remove my coat, hat, gloves, and scarf, opting that removing my shoes is just a little too familiar for the moment. Again, I call out, a little louder. No reply.

I try again. "Do you still want to go? I mean, it's getting late…we could stop by a pub but…you seem a little out of it. I can go..."

Not even a sound. Frowning, I moving cautiously down the darkened hallway. On the left there is a door that's half-open. I push it with my foot before slipping in.

Again, it's a pretty desolate room. One bleak window this time, along with a bed that claims the wall adjacent to the door, which has only white sheets with a white comforter. A desk claims the other wall. Here there are a few more books, along with some papers, mechanical odds and ends – a though he's been building something. Some clothes lay on the floor, but the room is devoid of anything personal.

He stands before the closet door. Just…staring. I near, only to recoil when I see his fists – both curled, shaking slightly from the force of a rage I have no wish to know.

"Are you alright?" I ask quietly.

Nothing. I take a step forward. The tremors increase, then pause. I reach out. One hand touches his shoulder. He stills. I come closer. That's when I see the blood.

With his hair falling around his face, I'd not seen the dark liquid that slashed his cheek. I gasp. My hands rise to cup his face, in the process turning him towards me. We're incredibly close, uncomfortably so, but my shock won't let that register.

"What happened?"

"Accident at work," he murmurs.

-XXX-

Snapping the neck of the security officer in front of that young physicist to make his point was perhaps not the best of decisions. It ultimately resulted in him being at the receiving end of a few stunner blasts, along with a few well-placed kicks from the head of security. Besides that, Marcus had been furious – though, not furious enough to carry out any particular threats against the augment.

Even as he'd walked home, he fumed, though he kept the rage relatively contained until he'd made it past the threshold of his apartment. After messaging Alya, however, the fury unsealed itself quite easily; looking around the meager living space reminded him of his days in India, which only served to remind him of his hate. He almost exploded.

"They. Will. All. Burn."

Then Alya had arrived – long before he'd been able to get any kind of a grasp upon himself – and he left her to prepare for dinner. She helped. She always helped. Alya reminded him that they were not all scum, they were not all cockroaches to be squished beneath his heel. Some were like his mother. Some were like her. So, he left her alone in his living room to calm himself, alone, in his bedroom. But then she had followed….

Her fingers gently skirt the surface of his skin, feeling along the line where sticky dark blood crusted his pale face. It started just at his temple, moving down until it was nearly level with the end of his nose. Though, it is not so bad. Where there had been a wound and an ugly bruise a half-hour ago, the skin was clear, save for the dried blood. She make a soft noise of surprise, and he remembered that ordinary humans did not heal as he did. She seems to remember this too, and makes to draw her hand away. He caught her wrist before she can distance herself. Her other hand rests flatly against his chest; being so close, she has no other option. Khan can practically see her stream of thoughts as she registers the motion – which had been very fast – along with their current proximity.

Testing the waters, she meets his eyes and tugs back. He does not relent. Expressionless, he holds her against him, keeping the wrist locked in midair. A mid panic arises within Alya, her eyes growing wide. Every fluttering heartbeat – "Oh, she is anxious," - he feels. In his anger, he is hyper-sensitive.

"What happened?" she whispers.

The timeline flickers through his mind. Another inspection of his work by Marcus, another threat against his family, the snide little physicist remarking upon his selection of steel grades for the newest round of torpedo prototypes, the security office jabbing him in the ribs, his blood pounding so loudly he doesn't even hear the bones snapping nor the physicist screaming or the others running into the room. The feel of eight phasers set to stun impacting him with generous blasts. A few swift kicks in the ribs, face, groin. Being lead to the central comm unit in the head engineer's office to speak to Marcus. Watching bruises fade from his chest as he stood in the bathroom. Washing off the blood and spit. Fists tightening as he exited the building. Imagining something that would set them all ablaze.

All of this falls upon him in mere seconds. He cannot even think to explain to Alya. She cannot know what Marcus has planned for him, what her precious Starfleet has done – - His hands tighten dangerously. She squeaks at the increase in pressure. Catching himself, Khan looses his hold, dropping their combined limbs to rest between them a little more comfortable.

One thumb finds her pulse. It settles there, focusing on the pace. As he steadies, so does she.

"What happened to you?" she asks again. "What accident? Khan –"

His name slips out and to his surprise, her heart rate spikes again in panic. But he does not react, maintaining steady eye contact.

"There was an explosion." "That's one way of putting it." "I'm fine."

She is entirely unconvinced. "Are you certain?"

He occupies himself with her hand, the one he still has by the wrist. "Completely," he tells it, tracing the lines of her palm. Her skin is warm. Soft. There is muscle, but little wear. No callouses. All of his women in his family have callouses, burns, scars, and the like. "Dinner?"

Alya hesitates. "We don't have to go out. We can order something, if you want, and stay in. You seem a little…stressed. I don't think going out would help much."

He allows her to order Chinese, then perch upon the couch. He settles on the other end, and makes her tell him of her day. Alya readily provides a distraction until the food arrives, then continues to keep the conversation light as the night goes on. She leaves after nearly three hours. He's almost sorry to see her go.

-XXX-

A little fluffier this chapter, but we do see some progress in the plot. Thoughts? Reviews would be lovely!