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Chapter Text

Jim’s eyes crack open, and light filters in. Sensations start to re-enter his body, first noticing the gummy feeling as his eyelids blink a couple of times. The pain follows quickly, a sickly wave that originates from his forehead, his chest and waist, his whole body. Pushing his head off of the console in front of him, Jim gingerly touches the congealed blood from a cut on his forehead. Its not too deep and the bleeding has stopped, but the skin around it feels warm and swollen to the touch. The amount of blood on the navigation system is sickening and Jim knows his face must look even worse. Running his hands down his body, there are a few more scrapes, but Starfleet safety protocol must be doing something right because there are no serious injuries. The escape pod’s harness digs in cruelly at his shoulders and around his waist until Jim punches the release, and he slumps towards the downward-facing section of the crashed space vehicle.

Personally okay, Jim turns his attention to the readings on the screens in front of him. Most are flickering dangerously, ready to give. Life support failing and severely compromised, Jim reads. The pod is cramped, and the flickering of the lights and hiss of broken valves doesn’t make it more comfortable. Shaking his head to clear the cobwebs and focus, Jim accesses the trajectory logs from navigation. He already had a sinking feeling in his gut- and it turns into a stone as soon as the console beeps back and displays his current location. At least Vulcan was class M, and he wouldn’t have to worry about the environmental controls.

The fact that he could survive didn’t mean he wasn’t fucked, though. There was a reason that Vulcan was off-limits. Starfleet got the message years ago, after their third attempt at trying to get the planet to join the Federation. The Enterprise had had to remain just outside of the system while Jim and- here Jim’s mind stumbled, remembering Ensign Pollard. He had watched as shrapnel from their shuttle ran through the boy and pinned him to the deck. Leaving crew behind was never easy, but Jim had known that the young man was dead before he abandoned ship. Their mission had been a simple one, consisting of gravitational telemetry readings of 40 Eridani A, the sensors on the shuttle designed to pick up and record automatically. Space junk against completely inadequate shields was just bad luck.

Jim spent a few minutes gathering supplies, mentally categorizing everything he knew about Vulcan, mentally running over his desert survival training. He couldn’t stay here, wherever ‘here’ was. There was no way the Vulcan sensors missed an unidentified spacecraft hurtling towards the surface. All the hardware was unmarked, all the software designed to self-destruct. The only thing that could still implicate the federation was him. It was basically a game of keep-away for now, and Jim couldn’t help but wonder who would get him first. The Enterprise, or the Vulcans? He obviously hoped for the former.

Opening the hatch of the pod, Jim’s eyes instinctively squinted as daylight entered the cockpit, along with a swirl of hot air. Suddenly, the familiar smell of replicated air was gone and was replaced with a breeze that was dry enough to make his sinuses feel strange and tight. Baked earth and salt came in on the breeze, and Jim only hesitated for a moment before pushing out of the pod. After letting his eyes adjust, he stared out at the landscape in horror. Intellectually, he knew that Vulcan was a desert planet, with scrublands and grasslands being the most diverse ecosystems on the entire surface. The reality staring back at him was depressing. Sun-blasted earth stretched out in an even plain for as far as the eye could see, the hardpacked and cracked surface of the plain offering only minor variation. In the distance heat mirages shimmered, giving the impression that water pooled near the horizon. He knew that he could walk for ages and not reach those promises. The soil- if it could be called soil with the lack of life- was red-tinged and crumbled when he kicked at it with the toe of his regulation black leather boots. The sky, nearing sunset, was blue. It was not the same blue as earth. It was lighter, closer to white than the traditional baby blue of Iowa. In one direction, crouched low on the horizon stood a low range of mountains.

And the heat. The heat was oppressive, like a heavy wet blanket that came around to wrap around his shoulders, his head and his lungs. Jim could feel the air almost burn his throat on the way down, and a light sweat had already broken out on his body.

Jim took off his gold shirt, wrapping it around his waist and settled in the shade of the pod. He would wait for night, then set out. Meanwhile, he prepared an emergency transmitter. Activating it would attract unwanted attention, but he intended to leave it with the shuttle. At least the Enterprise would know someone survived after they came looking for them.

As the sun set, the intensity of the heat started to wane. It was becoming more bearable and still completely unsuited to human physiology. Jim wondered if he could get used to it over time, or if being on the planet would always be as difficult. He also noticed how heavy his body felt while he was waiting for night and a shortness of breath. Previous scans by the federation had shown the thinner atmosphere and higher gravity and Jim was clearly feeling it. Strenuous activity for any extended period of time could pose a problem.

After the sun was completely gone and a burnt umber twilight had settled heavily on the plain, Jim hefted the pod’s emergency kit over his shoulder. Pressing a few buttons, the emergency beacon hidden in the spacecraft started to blink, transmitting. Hopefully the Enterprise would pick it up soon, before either the Vulcans or this desert could get to him. Jim started walking towards the far mountain range in the gathering dark, the heat of the day slowly dissipating.

---
Jim travelled with the tricorder held out in front of him. A flashlight was too much of a risk, but the scanner could quickly warn him of any obstructions or lifeforms in the area. The flora and fauna of Vulcan was a complete mystery, and thankfully Jim hadn’t run into any yet. Without proper calibration, the tricorder would not be able to tell the harmless from the dangerous.

He walked and he walked. At one point he finally allowed himself a sip of his water from the emergency kit, his thirst long since having faded and his tongue feeling fuzzy and sticking to the top of his mouth. There were only four litres of water in the kit- it would only keep him going for a few days if rationed correctly. After the first few sips Jim forced himself to stop drinking, re-capping the water. His throat grated painfully after the refreshing mouthfuls had passed, and Jim scowled. He decided to bring up the contents of emergency kits to the admiralty at the next opportunity.

The travel was boring. The plain was flat and monotonous, and the desert did not give off a sound besides the sighing of the wind and the sound of his own gait. Jim wasn’t singing or speaking, intending to conserve moisture and keep his breathing deep and even. The lack of oxygen was already making his body heavy with fatigue, and Jim knew that he would need to rest. Jim thought about Bones as he chewed on a ration bar, knowing that his friend was going to have an aneurysm next time they saw each other, and smiled. It would be a relief to hear his bitching again, although Jim suspected that he’d be screened for melanoma for months because of this stunt.

One thing that this desert had going for it was the stars. They were in different positions than on earth, but Jim was used to that. The nature of his job meant that the stars were different for him every day. The extent of the plain meant the sky was completely unobstructed, leaving the pierced velvet to arch over his head in a literally breathtaking display.

Close to sunrise, Jim finally allows himself to collapse onto the ground, taking his first real drink of water since he landed. There was still no shelter in sight, but the mountains he was travelling towards were noticeably closer. Jim wasn’t sure what could be found there, but he certainly hoped for a spring of some sort. Wrapping his head in his undershirt and wearing the command gold to protect from the day’s sun, Jim falls asleep in the relative cool of the early morning.

---
Spock felt his mount shift underneath him. The day’s heat was reaching its peak, and I-Chaya was uncomfortable. They would water the animals again before setting out, since they had transported directly to this location. From where he pressed his palm into the dense fur, a thrum of excitement poured into his head. It was an excitement and anxiety that all sehlats knew well, that of a hunt. He sat at ease as he watched some of the lower ranking officers inspect the crashed spacecraft. It was picked up on their planetary sensor two days prior, coming in at uncontrolled velocity and landing in the yon-eiktra. The region was uninhabited for good reasons. Even Vulcans, as a desert people, require water to survive. His body’s thermoregulation was kicking in, controlling his body temperature and regulating moisture lost through respiration. He surveyed the desert and saw nothing but a flat plain.

The junior members of the hunting party were tagging the spacecraft for transportation back to ShiKahr, having finished the preliminary field examinations. Their reports were basic, explaining that the pod would not have needed a pilot, but evidence suggests that there was a humanoid there when it crashed. There was blood. Red blood, though that was the rule rather than the exception in the galaxy. The pilot must have set off into the desert on foot. With a two-day lead, they still could not have gone far.

Dismounting in one smooth move, Spock’s boots gently touched down onto the red mineral. His hunting party stood at attention, those analysing using scanners while his warriors held traditional lirpas in their hands. “At ease,” He said, making his way towards the shuttle, ducking his head inside. The technology was foreign, but not incomprehensible. The scientists at the VSA will do well with the new specimen. Reaching out and grabbing a loose fragment of the console, Spock straightens up into the heat of the day. The browned crust crumbles slightly under his fingertips as he brings it to I-Chaya’s nose. His sehlat huffs deeply a few times, trained to easily remember the scent. I-Chaya is getting old, but is still far too reliable to retire, and Spock would miss his companion.

He surveys his party with a cool gaze, eyes fixing on his second, T’Peyra, “If we are prepared to depart, please ready your mounts.” Her armour gleamed as she quickly ordered the transport of the scientists and the shuttle, making sure plenty of water was made available for the party of Sehlats to drink before they left. Spock swung back onto the wide saddle, watching with subdued approval as his small party of troops prepared to leave. The scientists had left in a swirl of a transporter beam, and his warriors were formidable. Their armour rested against their light robes, gleaming brightly where sunlight hit the aluminum alloy. They sit straight in their saddles, waiting for his order to depart. Their faces are fierce and proud, and Spock can feel a small curl of satisfaction in his stomach. He takes a moment to realize that the excitement of the day is interfering with his control, before T’Peyra salutes.

“S’haile Spock, preparations are complete,” She announces, the corners of her eyes crinkling as she smiles in a way that would be frightening to a weaker man.

Spock nods once, finally allowing I-Chaya to turn his head into the breeze where the scent from the shuttle leads. Without having to say a word, his company turns their mounts together in perfect formation, heading towards the Kei’i mountains on the horizon. The small curl of satisfaction in his stomach blooms into a fat flower of satisfaction and Spock allows himself a small smirk. The outworlder would soon be in custody, taken to ShiKahr for questioning and T’Pau would be pleased.

---
Jim stumbled on. It was his third night walking the desert, and not much had changed. It was slightly easier to breathe now, but thirst had taken all appreciation Jim could have of this fact. He was down to a single litre of water now, and the clawing thirst was his constant companion. It wrapped around his head making his thoughts fuzzy and slow, if he could think of anything other than the piss-warm bottle still tucked away in the emergency kit. He still walked with purpose, but his movements were tired. He felt like it was almost time for another sip, but the longer he could fight the temptation the more likely he would survive this desert. When he woke this evening, the foothills of the mountains were tantalizingly close, and he knew he could reach them tonight or tomorrow night. They might be just as barren, but he hoped. Hoped for some water, for something to eat that wasn’t the rations that were too dry for him to chew and swallow any longer. For some shelter from the sun. Despite covering himself every morning with his clothes, they were still only replicated cotton and 40 Eridani A cut through them like butter while he slept. His entire body was sunburnt, and Jim knew that he was losing moisture through the burns. In particular his shoulders smarted when his shirt shifted over the burns, and his head was burnt through his hair. He was in rough shape. And the Enterprise still hadn’t contacted him.

Pausing to take the water bottle out of the kit, Jim unscrews the cap, moving slowly, carefully. A few days ago he was far more reckless than he is now and has spilled a quarter of the second water bottle onto the hardpack of the desert. Watching the precious moisture sink into the red grainy soil had been an exquisite torture, and Jim had sobbed when it had sunk out of sight. A few days ago he still had not understood how thirsty he could be. A single, tiny mouthful later he recapped the bottle. He swirled the mouthful around for a moment, relishing how his tongue unglued from the roof of his mouth and how his cheeks slid against his teeth easily once again. Closing his eyes as he swallowed, he knew he was fucked.

He spent a few moments fantasizing about Earth and Iowa, where water pooled under the trees in the hedgerow, and a small creek ran by the back of their property. About the frequent rains, at least once a week. The bounty of water in the winter, great stores of water as snowbanks, as ice, as frost. He thought about being able to turn on a tap and getting a tall, cold glass- these thoughts were not helping. It just made the pain in his throat worse after the completely inadequate sip from the bottle.

Jim continued on, the mountains near enough that they blocked out the lower portion of the sky. He had covered many miles these past few nights and would be close by morning.

---
Spock’s party rose with the sun and camped at night. Their fires blazed against the press of the dark, fed by dried tough grasses from the fields near ShiKahr. Out here on the yon-eiktra there was not much to worry about, but as they approached the mountains the danger of predators increased as night fell. The scent grew stronger, I-Chaya and the other mounts huffing in excitement. They would come upon their quarry sometime the during the next day. They were all curious to discover what species of humanoid they were pursuing, as not many could withstand the desert like a Vulcan.

“Osu,” Stonn greeted him respectfully as he handed Spock some cooked rations, a mixture of high-energy vegetables quickly roasted over the flames. The others ate meat with theirs. “We are close, we will apprehend the outworlder within a day.” Stonn’s eyes shone with an excitement and a bloodlust. There was tradition surrounding this ritual. It would be quicker and easier to simply scan the desert and transport directly to the fugitive, more logical. However, Vulcans treasure tradition, and there were few things more traditional or ancient than a war party on the ride.

“What you say is true, may it bring us honour.” Spock had lightly meditated during the ride, calming the excitement he felt for the hunt. It would not do for him to lose his head, and his emotions were only smoldering; allowing him to answer Stonn with a blank face.

“I wonder what will be done to the outworlder after their interrogation,” Stonn mused aloud, making a few other members of their party send him grim smiles. “Perhaps we will be awarded another hunt,”

“Lethal authority next time,” T’Mara said, glancing around and seeing approving glances. She was re-braiding her hair, removing it from its many plaits and twists for the night. She was a peacock in ShiKahr but refrained from taking her jewellery and hair beads with her into the desert. Her armour was decorated in many lines of fine scrollwork, almost too faint to catch in the dark. The level of craftmanship would have cost a fortune, and T’Mara preened whenever it was complimented.

T’Peyra knocked against T’Mara’s shoulder affectionately. “Hopefully, but do not get too ahead of yourselves. Any opportunity to execute the outworlder will go to S’haile Spock. It is his right.”

Spock watched as Stonn lowered his head, scowling. The firelight danced a ring around his short cropped hair, bangs hanging straight over the man’s forehead. Spock knew that Stonn tried too hard, hiding his lack of control by adopting the same haircut as Surak. The lapse here was clear, but the younger Vulcan was often too eager during hunts or patrols, getting out of hand during battle or not preparing enough before. His main problem was his pride. Being proud and able to defend your status was important, but so was tempering the feeling. Aggressive pride was the downfall of communities and bonds, as taught by Surak. Spock knew Stonn would take this as an offence to his character but could do little to refute the statement as T’Peyra spoke the truth. Giving her a reproachful look, T’Peyra simply winked in response, running her fingers through her younger sister’s hair, helping T’Mara to untangle the mass. Rising from the fire, Spock adjusted his long robes before wishing his small party a good night. Tokav had already retired to his tent, and Spock did the same.

As he bed down, he heard Salok as he started to recite; one of the more bloody epics of the past. Spock smiled to himself, he knew his warriors and he knew how they dreamt of a fate as honourable as one of the ancient heroes. So eager to die, so illogical.
---
Jim had finished the water.

He had woken at sunset at the end of his third day, and had known that he couldn’t move on without hydrating. Finishing the bottle with little sips had felt like a death sentence, while the last drops clung to the interior of the clear plastic. But that wasn’t the worst news.

As the sun had set, Jim could see small sparks light up in the distance. It was impossible to tell how far, because perspective in this desert was destroyed by the monotony, but it seemed to be two campfires. It wasn’t the Enterprise crew, because his communicator was still silent, so it must be Vulcans. They were close.

Jim felt a shiver run down his spine involuntarily. Vulcan aggression was almost legendary, and they rivalled Klingons for the title of “most aggressive warp-capable species”. The difference being, the Vulcans didn’t conquer, just defended their planet and their space. They also would not co-operate. During his years as a cadet, Jim learned about the first federation mission to Vulcan. He couldn’t imagine the horror of a three-quarters massacred landing party, the remaining members severely injured, flinching when touched- with no memory of the incident. It is said that Captain Shao had had panic attacks for the rest of his career if someone would touch his face. The following few meetings had not failed as horribly, most likely due to a working translator, but the federation was still not welcome. Especially uninvited.

Jim really didn’t want to be caught.

He had noticed a cleft in the mountains, looking like a pass of some sort. He was already starting to climb, the ground rising in a shallow slope up towards the low peaks. It seemed a good a place as any, and Jim forced his feet to shuffle forward.

The climb only got worse, his sore legs scrabbling against the loose material of the hillside. His feet sent little rivulets of sand running backwards, his feet sliding more often than not a couple of inches. The thirst was background now, replaced by the annoying itchy feeling of his eyes whenever he blinked. Jim couldn’t think, but he could force a foot in front of the other.

The first time he falls, the air is knocked out of him in an aggressive whoosh. Rolling a few feet down the slope, his face digs into the red scree, and he mouths a curse. His throat is closed and not a single sound comes from his dry mouth. Getting up is difficult, but he does and continues on his way. The mountains are now towering over him, and he can see into the opening of the gorge. It is even darker, the light from the stars not penetrating because of the tall walls of towering stone.

He falls again. This time his arms need to be forced beneath him, forced to push his torso up. His arms and chest scream in protest as he levers up into a sitting position. His legs feel numb and rubbery when he mounts to his knees and then to his feet. His vision is tunneled on the entrance to the gorge. Get out of sight, get off this hill.

An irrational thought occurs to him, that just behind the turn of the gorge- there’s a pool there. A nice, beautifully cool pool of water. There he can drink. There he can rest. He doesn’t recognize it as irrational, and a new purpose drives his steps forward.

The third fall has Jim scrambling forward on his hands and knees, too weak to stand but not willing to give up on his oasis. He collapses a few feet into the cleft in the mountain, at first looking around frantically and then weeping bitterly. No tears come; his body simply wracked with sobs. Jim lets his head fall down to the pebbly ground, closing his eyes against the burning of the gritty sand as he falls unconscious.

Chapter Text

Spock motions for a halt before the hill of scree. The sehlats are huffing openly now, grunting and stomping their paws in excitement. Tokav’s mount even pops it’s jaw once, before the man calms the animal. The sound hits the mountain face and echoes back, sending a small flock of winged lizards flying from a high ledge. The sun shines through the thin membrane of their wings, highlighting the bones and capillaries in their purple skin. His companions circle around, while carefully watching for large predators. The le-matya is often nocturnal, but favourable terrain and easy prey may have them out.

This Spock reminds his companions about, assessing their readiness. Four sets of deep brown eyes met his steadily, while Stonn glanced away nervously when theirs had met. He will be dismissed once they return, his emotional responses making him shifty. “Remember, the outworlder must be taken alive. Dead, they are of no use. You will have your fun once they have been questioned.”

Spock organizes the marching order, with T’Peyra behind him, followed by Salok. T’Peyra has her lirpa in hand, with yellow ochre paint swirling up her strong arms, the olive tone of her skin close to glowing in the strong morning light. T’Mara and Tokav were next, followed by Stonn at the rear. It wouldn’t do to have him be overeager and ‘accidentally’ slip into a rage. Best to keep him away from the action.

Urging I-Chaya forward, the cool of the shadows slips over Spock’s back as he enters the mountain cleft. The rock that rises around them is a dark gray with streaks of oxidized iron striping the surface. The padding of the paws on the sand is almost silent, the tension in the air finally silencing the restlessness of their mounts. Spock has a momentary flash of triumph, seeing the crumpled figure laying on the ground, before a ripping growl comes from above.

Glancing up, Spock only manages to catch the landing of a le-matya directly behind him, jumping down from a ledge above as another rushes him from the front. Shouts issue from his companions as he hears the first tearing sounds of flesh tearing and the blunt end of a lirpa hitting, but he has no time to turn to properly assess the situation before the predator rushing him is there. The gray-green beast, its hide mottled to match the rocks springs towards them, its powerful legs bunching and thrusting it into the air. I-Chaya rears up to meet the opponent, almost throwing Spock off in the process. Spock readies his weapon as the two much larger animals snarl and snap at each other. The le-matya opens up a series of gashes along the sehlat’s shoulders with its serrated claws, while I-Chaya is snapping and biting at its face, revealing gruesome green flesh along the sides of its muzzle.

Both drop out of the feral embrace, wanting to circle but being unable in the narrow passage. Spock is too focused to determine how the battle behind is progressing, but he can see the slumped figure of the outworlder past the lithe body threatening him and cannot tell if they are still alive. His mount is preparing for another attack, and Spock leans forward, using the long reach of his lirpa to attack with the fan-shaped blade. Two strikes later, green blood is dripping lazily down the face of the le-matya, making the bared teeth colour slightly with mixed blood. The beasts charge forward once again, meeting and biting at each other, trying to reach a vulnerable area with either teeth or fangs. Spock stabs around the body of his pet, catching the writhing monster near the shoulder, closer to the chest. There is not sufficient force to deeply pierce the hide, and the cut does not go deep.

A hurtling weight hits Spock from behind, sending him out of the saddle, the dry and rocky ground not making for a comfortable landing. The lirpa is jarred from his grasp as he looks up to see another le-matya crouched on I-Chaya’s back, snapping at the back of his neck. The first le-matya takes advantage and rushes forward, claws extended. Spock jumps to his feet, his careful control on his emotions starting to crack. In the background behind the sound of collisions and fighting he can hear at least two of his companions screaming their fury as they fight. Spock takes out his blade, a gleaming half-sickle as he charges forward, sending a powerful swing at the first le-matya. As it leaps, the metal buries itself deep inside its gut, sending a spill of blood onto the red ground. Its shrill death cry is piercing to the ears, and Spock wrenches back his weapon.

Turning to look, the second le-matya is simply raising its head from its kill, ropes of viscous saliva and blood dripping from its grin. I-Chaya is slumped on the ground, the whites of his eyes darkened with blood, his breathing laboured. Spock again only has time to notice that his party is retreating to open ground before the weight of the le-matya is pinning him, claws inches away from his skin but held back by his shoulder plates. The stinking breath hits his face, smelling acidic and of putrefaction at the same time. In a last-ditch effort, Spock reaches up with his hand, trying to grab a hold of the nerve cluster near the neck, but the movement of the feline and the sinking of its teeth into his upper arm make it impossible. The pain is sudden and terrible, and Spock screams. Despite all his training with the Masters of Gol, fear shatters his peace, fragmenting his ordered thoughts. He continues to fight against the creature, closing his eyes. Spock’s movements become desperate, fighting to get the le-matya off of him.

A loud crack can be heard from above, and when Spock opens his eyes the beast falls limply on top oh him. Its neck is broken, and it is bodily shoved to the side by Stonn. Quiet has fallen inside the gorge, and only distant sounds of fighting can be heard upon the scree slopes outside. Spock can feel himself breathing- too fast- and consciously tries to slow it. Stonn is standing there, body covered in blood and face a twisted mask of rage and pain. Spock can tell one of his shoulders is dislocated, but Stonn still reaches out his good arm to Spock, lifting him off the ground and into his space.

Spock can sense trouble when he looks into Stonn’s eyes- they are swimming with emotion Spock doesn’t have time to untangle as Stonn whispers, “You,” His face twists. “Have not earned the honour. To lead me, to order me, to keep from me.” His teeth are grinding so hard that Spock can hear them, and the grip around his wrist is too strong to break. He can feel his blood dripping down his arm from the deep gashes of the predator’s teeth. Spock is not focused, unable to respond, just trying to figure out what the meaning of the words are in that order.

And Stonn doesn’t wait for a response. Spock feels a hit to the chest, knocking the breath out of him, followed by a strange invasion as Stonn runs him through. Spock coughs once, and falls. He stares up at Stonn in shock as the other Vulcan places a sandaled foot to his chest and pulls out the blade, letting the drops of green blood run off the length and patter onto the sand. After stowing the weapon, Spock can feel himself being dragged further down the gorge, around the nearest bend and dropped. The sky, far, far above him is marked with the tiniest wisps of cloud that he knows will never show this place any rain. His body is slowing, heading for a healing trance. Will Stonn finish him off? He hears another body being dropped next to him.

He sees Stonn one last time before he blacks out, looming over him and smiling. “For your human heart.” The spit Spock feels land on his face before his eyes slip closed only adds insult to injury.

-
When the trance fades naturally, hours later, Spock is shocked that he is still alive. His hand comes up to touch his chest, feeling a patch of puckered skin. His emotional shields are in tatters, and the potent betrayal he felt still occupies his mental focus. He takes a moment to check his status. Because he had been well rested, most of the damage is already repaired, only a slight hitch in his breathing to show that his left lung was not completely healed. Stonn’s spit had dried to a crust hours ago, as the sun looked like it was preparing to set. Rising up, Spock stumbles for a second over a body lying beside him. Pushing it over with his foot, Spock doesn’t recognize a member of his party and decides that this must be the outworlder.

The features indicate that they were Terran, and likely male. The skin of the face was reddened and irritated, drawn in a pattern of premature tiredness. Short golden brown curls were splayed against the sand, the stranger’s body limp and unresponsive. Not the problem right now.

Walking around the corner, Spock could fully appreciate the carnage the ambush had caused. He grieved for I-Chaya, who had obviously succumbed to the poison of the le-matya’s claws while Spock had been healing. The old sehlat was laying on its side, saddle and supplies still attached. Three le-matyas were bloating in the heat as well, but Spock saw no evidence of the rest of his party. He refused to think about what that meant. The slopes outside of the gorge had another dead le-matya, along with the sehlat of Tokav; gouged and ripped in places. Again, none of his party could be seen, so he gathered all the equipment he could from the dead mounts and walked back into the gorge. The sand clung to his sandaled feet where the pools of blood had not dried completely, making a black mud. He took a moment to notice that his communicator was missing. The numbness of sorrow was doing more to re-establish his control quickly than meditation could have.

Spock knelt near the stranger, checking his pulse. It was faint and fluttering, but still there. Guessing at severe dehydration, simply from the look of the cracked and parched lips, Spock grabbed the outworlder under the armpits, dragging him and the supplies further into the gorge. The light was fading quickly, and Spock knew the risks of this terrain.

The le-matya were not known to hunt in packs, and Spock guessed that the animals had been preparing to attack the prone stranger. Perhaps the scent of easy prey had lured them out into the daylight. He was too numb to feel relief that his mission might yet be completed by the sheer luck- or horrible misfortune- of interrupting that hunt. His duty to his family and him home was deeply ingrained in him, and he continued down the gorge.

Walls of rock continued to grow higher and higher above his head, and finally the caves began. Pockets of air, leftover from when these mountains were forming had created a complex and deep system of caverns and tunnels. Their sides were smooth and rounded, often connecting and branching from one another. Spock finds one suitable for their needs, as it is wide and deep, but all of the branches are too small for the desert predators. Starting a fire is a matter of moments, the grasses gathered off of the sehlats burning merrily. Spock continues to set up camp on the ever-present red sand before turning to his prisoner.

Spock begins to examine the humanoid, turning the body onto its back. He considers his options before bringing over one of his full waterskins, lifting the other’s head and slapping him, hard. Spock is gratified when the man tenses and tries to open his eyes that are glued shut by dried mucus and sand. Alive enough to respond. Shoving the neck of the bottle between his lips and pouring, the Terran is conscious enough to swallow. Spock gives him only a little, knowing how the body can reject water when it has gone without for a long period. He lets the man fall back to the sand, sputtering in a half-awake haze. Spock watches as the man reaches out, likely looking for the water, his hands stained red from the dust of the desert. Spock allows him a moment to adjust before allowing another small drink. When he pulls the drink away a second time, a small broken noise of protest comes from the man’s throat. After a third drink, Spock stands and walks away, leaving the man to rest.

Spock realizes that he is in a uniquely complicated situation. He folds himself into position for meditation but just thinks. He is stranded without a mount between a desert and a mountain range, with limited resources. He is not even in his home province, but the one neighbouring his to the west. He has no mount, no communication, and just a vague idea of the nearest city. At least one member of his hunting party had betrayed him, and Spock would only allow himself to believe that the others thought he was dead. It was unfathomable that T’Peyra could betray him. Before Stonn had stabbed him, it was unfathomable that any of his companions would betray him. Could leave him for dead. He clenched his fists as sick hate filled his mind, as slimy and black as tar. He would have to meditate later, banish that feeling. If his controls were compromised it was unlikely that he would survive this ordeal.

To complicate matters even further, he now had a living captive outworlder with him, sick and dehydrated.

Spock allowed himself a brief moment to pinch the bridge of his nose when coughing interrupted his train of thought. He moved back over to the man, lifting his head and allowing a bigger drink. Spock watched in fascination as he noticed a light gathering of moisture had appeared on the man’s forehead. He was still semi-conscious, breathing heavily and barely moving. Spock ran his finger over the man’s face, gathering a touch of the moisture and examined it. He knew only basic Terran physiology but guessed this was perspiration; a highly inefficient form of thermoregulation.

Spock wet a corner of his tent canvas with water, and ran it over the man’s face, clearing his eyes of debris. After a few more rounds of drinking and resting, it was late into the night and the outworlder was sleeping soundly. Spock could feel the distress slowly fading from the man as he drank his fill, the discomfort obviously fading. His appearance was drastically different from when Spock had first seen the man, the skin of his face no longer sagging and tired but taut, as if the water had given him back years. It was fascinating.

He took the extra precaution of tying the outworlders hands before stoking the fire and falling into meditation, trying to order his thoughts.

Chapter Text

The morning dawned, banishing the shadows from the corners of the deep cave. Spock had not slept- his body could carry him for many more days before it became necessary- but emerged from his trance-like state to see the Terran curled as far from the glowing embers as possible. Listening closely for a moment, he could tell his breathing was deep and even, indicating a heavy sleep. Not a concern. Spock touched a hand to the center of his chest where a thin green slice of fresh skin was all that marked where Stonn had run him through. He felt no pulse. It was lucky that his heart beat in his lower side like a true Vulcan, rather than where Stonn had mistakenly thought it to be. Spock was weakened by the intense healing process, but could now look at the situation with a clear mind. Betrayed by a member of his own party and left for dead, he and the Terran were not in such dire straits. The mountain range they found themselves in corresponded to an upwelling of the aquifer, meaning water was at hand. What little food they had could last until they reached the nearest city- which Spock expected to be Vash-na, identified on their maps of the region at the outset of the hunt. A small mining village, it may not be equipped with the transportation facilities to move him and the captive to ShiKhar but it would have some form of vehicle to get somewhere more urbane. Still, the journey may take them over a week in bad weather.

The Terran stirred within a few minutes of Spock rousing. He watched as the built but flexible form of the man stretched his shoulders before rolling up and into a sitting position. Expecting a bleary expression, the sharpness in the gaze gave Spock a pause. This man was not to be underestimated and he was obviously trained for unexpected situations. The Terran, or human as they called themselves, was surveying the cave thoroughly.

The silence between the two men stretched on before the Terran asked, “Is this the usual morning after routine?” and pulled lightly at his bound wrists. A small smirk had crept over his face at the stoic expression that met him. Spock could hear a lingering raspiness in his voice, combined with the same sheen of perspiration from before. He estimated that the outworlder was adequately, if not comfortably, hydrated.

Spock did not answer the nonsensical question as he unfolded himself from where he sat to break their makeshift camp. Instead, he asked, “Why are you on Vulcan?” His standard was flawless, to account for a potential lack of a universal translator.

“Came to see the sights. I hear the food is just to die for,” the man said in a distinctly unhelpful manner. His mannerisms were sharp and lacking the desperation that Spock had been expecting. As much as a hunt excited him and his warriors, there was a satisfaction from capturing an enemy. There was usually fear in their eyes.

Spock carefully laid out the scavenged supplies from the sehlats’ pack. For him and the captive it was a few days worth of rations and the necessary gear, such as rope, dry tinder, and bedding. The tents would be too heavy to carry on foot, along with any extra weapons. Spock’s lipra was leaning in a corner with the dawn reflecting on the dusty fan of the blade. It would have to stay behind. Spock finally reached the supplemental phasers packed neatly at the bottom of the bag, wrapped in dustproof oiled cloth. He attached both holsters around his waist. “It was not a difficult question, human. What purpose brought you to my planet?” Spock let a touch of menace enter his voice, feeling dispassionate about the results, “Your continued health depends solely on your cooperation, and it would become much more convenient for me if it declined both drastically and quickly.”

The other man’s shoulders tensed, before he shot out a crude description of Spock’s mother and her puppies, in nearly passable Vulcan. Spock just lifted a brow. All reports indicated that the few Terrans they had encountered were highly influenced by threats, but he could sense that they would not work on this man. The steel in his gaze dared him to do his worst. Abandoning his questions for the moment, Spock stood and approached the seated man. He could see the bright wire of stubble on the man’s cheeks as he tilted his head up to watch him approach. He saw his foot fly up too late. Not making contact, it flung up a handful of the dry sand lining the floor of the cave. Spock managed to shut his secondary eyelids in time, protecting his corneas, but was temporarily blinded. Wiping the dirt from his face, he crouched in a defensive position and waited for the hit from the bound man. Instead he heard soft footfalls moving quickly out of the cave. Annoyed, he managed to crack open his eyes to watch the silhouette of the man exit. Muttering a curse under his breath, he set off after him.

The sun was higher in the sky, and the morning was beginning to warm. It was coming out of the hot season, and later it would be uncomfortable even for his Vulcan physiology. The human would be struggling even now. It was unlikely that he would get very far, even without considering the strain of the greater gravity and thin atmosphere. It took him less than a minute to catch up to the Terran, who was gasping for air as sweat ran down his reddened neck. It was completely illogical. There was no way this man had believed he could escape in his current condition and at such a disadvantage. There must be some ulterior motive to this bid for freedom that Spock could not understand. He had never seen nor met a Terran before, and the behaviour was confusing.

Trying to minimize the damage done to the man, he hit him low and rolled once they hit the ground. Springing to his feet while the human was gasping in the sand, he slung him over his shoulder. The man was heavy but manageable, and he trudged back towards the entrance to the cave. The man sputtered dust and his long hair out of his mouth, swearing bitterly. Spock brought him to the back of the cave, a much narrower area where any opportunistic le-matya would not be able to reach. He tied the human’s ankles, choosing not to trust his apparent physical state any longer, before grabbing him by the blonde curls and pulling his head back.

In advance of any other rude comments about his mother or her pedigree, Spock lifted the nearly empty waterskin to the man’s lips and commanded, “Drink.”
Glaring, the man had no choice- other than drown- as Spock poured the remaining third of the waterskin down his throat. Once he finished, Spock deftly flipped him onto his stomach and fastened his ankles to his wrists with a length of rope.

“Just leaving me for lizard food?” The human enquired calmly with a bit of humor in his voice. There was less of a rasp when he spoke, now that he had had a drink.

“I will return shortly, but I must get more water. The le-matya- the large lizard, as you say- is not active during the day. Even if one does wander in, I believe that you are far too tenacious to allow one to end your journey here.” Spock spoke as he re-wrapped his shawl to shield his shoulders from the sun. He left the man laying on his stomach, still complaining about being left tied and stepped into the early morning sun.

Trudging to higher ground, Spock peered around the scattered boulders and scree, the cliff sides rising high into the air. He considered as he walked. Although it would be safer to travel during the day, carrying the human had shown this would be impossible. His skin was feverish, scorching to the touch. The long exposure to the desert sun as he had slept had opened sun sores on the man’s shoulders, neck and face. He needed the dark of night and the cave to heal. Of course, if Spock was different, he would execute the man and be done with it. As an outworlder, his guilt was written by the unmarked nature of his vessel. Even if it was a genuine crash, their crew had foreseen this as an outcome. The High Council would logically reach this conclusion, and either have him jailed or executed. However, along with the discipline of logic, the teachings of Surak encouraged fairness between all. It would be disingenuous to execute the human without a trial.

Spock finally came across a patch of twiggy shrubs, huddled in the shadow of a rock outcrop. Higher in the mountain, they would become much more common. To a human eye, they would appear dead and dried but Spock understood that they dropped their leaves during the hot season. The transpiration rate was too high during the demanding months, and it was easier to conserve water without the fleshy structures. In a few weeks, the plants would produce new foliage once again. He dug into the ground with a multitool, exposing the fleshy rhizomes of the plant. Crushed, these would produce a useful salve for the human’s skin. Digging deeper, the mineral sand began to darken until he could tell it was nearly saturated. Water began to pool slowly in the divot. Spock placed the portable filtration and pump into the hole and attached it to the waterskin. It would take an hour or so to fill each of the four waterskins. In the meantime, he reached up and felt his hair. The ends were caked in blood, clumping in a very unpleasant way. Having it loose was also annoying. The human had even spent a moment chewing on it.

He decided to braid it. Combing it as well as he could with his fingers, he started at the crown of his head and pulled tight. Adding his smooth dark hair piece by piece, he plaited hair until it reached the center of his back. As he waited for the moisture to pull itself from the ground, he fell into a light meditation.

Chapter Text

The fucking Vulcan came back after an hour or two. The long-haired bastard had left him trussed like a thanksgiving turkey, and the heat inside the cave was oppressive. Jim thought it was around the equivalent of midday. It was a dry heat, and even being in the shadows brought a scorching burn that made his breath come quicker and sweat bead on his forehead.

His captor was fast. Fast and strong. It would be dangerous to consider escaping on foot, due to both the environment and the obvious advantage of his captor. There were reports of the Vulcan’s physical strength but it was alien to experience it himself. This being that looked human and moved like a human was able to pick him up and toss him around like it was nothing. Not only that, his reflexes were quick and smart. The defensive position he adopted before was the best move, given the idea that Jim would attack. If Jim had really intended to escape, the only option would be to take out his captor.

He shuddered, wondering if his memories were compromised yet. Jim didn’t remember a slender but strong hand enveloping his face, but that did not mean it hadn’t happened. With a touch, they could enter your head. As a psi-null species, it was maybe the worst invasion Jim could imagine. Forcing yourself, mind and spirit into another person solely for information? Barbaric. Every time the Vulcan reached out to touch, including when he had grabbed the hairs at the back of Jim’s neck, he had expected it to be the last coherent thought for a while. The threat of mental invasion weighed heavily on his shoulders. Federation secrets lived in his mind, and revealing them to the Vulcan would not be ideal. Even if he did manage to make it out alive, Bones would kill him for sharing their pinky-promise secrets, intent be damned.

But there was more potential in his current situation than being stranded out in the desert. The Vulcan had supplies, food and water. If he were to somehow overcome his captor, he could wait it out until the Enterprise crew reached him.

The tall Vulcan removed the hogtie from his ankles before settling down next to the night’s embers with a small pot. It was insane to Jim how he could stand more heat emanating from the small coals. He rolled once again into a sitting position as the Vulcan mashed a red tuber into a paste with a small amount of water. The blood rushed uncomfortably back into his legs, sending pins and needles all the way to his feet. He felt no need to break the silence. It was clear what the Vulcan’s opinion of him was. The humiliating carry from earlier was evidence enough. Jim took the moment to really examine his captor.

Tall, with a lithe but strong build, the Vulcan looked powerful. His shoulders were all angles and planes, with the light cloth of the sun-proof wrap draped around his back. He had a single twining tattoo of Vulcan script circling his wrist, but the rest of his exposed skin was bare and slightly tanned. Scars and recently opened wounds were tinged the slightest shade of green, and Jim knew that this was because of the copper base of his blood, comparable to hemocyanin found on Earth. His long, dark hair had been loose before but was now tied up and away in a long braid, showing his proud forehead. His nose was long and straight, slightly downturned at the end, with the eyebrows swooping up and away. His most alien feature was his ears, pointed like something out of a fantasy novel.

Jim was still assessing as the Vulcan finished the peculiar concoction. It had oxidized to a dark purple, and looked like grainy playdoh. Jim only got a good look at it because the Vulcan was approaching with a glob of it in his hand.

“Whoa. Whoa, whoa. What is that, what are you doing?” Jim asked, scrabbling backwards with his heels until his back hit the wall of the cave. The Vulcan crouched before him, with an eyebrow partially raised. Jim raised his hands protectively in front of his face, but the Vulcan just batted them lightly aside before reaching for Jim. His thoughts racing a mile a minute, he could do no more than close his eyes against the oncoming attack.

All he felt was a hot fingertip smoothing a cooling paste across his cheek. Where the sun had blistered his face, the purple salve the Vulcan had made soothed the irritated flesh. Jim opened his eyes to see the other man kneeling close, comfortable in his position of authority as he spread the paste over his cheekbones, jaw, and forehead. The immediate relief was addicting. Where his face and most of his upper body smarted from the fresh burns, the purpleish paste felt like dipping into a cool spring on a summer’s day. It was a night of rain after a dusty week where the wheat started to turn a little too soon. Jim had to stop himself from nearly leaning into the fingers applying it.

Jim waited for a mental intruder of some sort, a foreign presence in his mind. He thought hard about nothing, projecting a black sheet over his conscious thoughts. This was the best that Starfleet training had to offer for protection against psychic species but there was no indication if it worked or not. Maybe the intrusion couldn’t be felt. It was impossible to know. The Vulcan’s expression didn’t change once, as if uncovering highly classified information, for example.

The Vulcan stopped at the collar of his thin command gold, and said, “I can help,” as a way of asking. Jim nodded, feeling strange and overwhelmed. He couldn’t remember whether his crew could locate him or not, and was suddenly unsure what his future might hold. The Vulcan lifted the shirt over his head, and simply pushed it down his arms to pool around his bound wrists. The reddened skin on his chest and the raised blisters showed where the rays of 40 Eridani A were far stronger than the replicated cotton. The Vulcan gently spread the paste over these areas, and the itchy, hot discomfort was replaced with the cooling sensation. Jim sighed, not until this moment recognizing the pain he had been in. The Vulcan finished applying the paste to his torso, focusing on the tops of his shoulders and the back of his neck before helping Jim slide back into the shirt.

He recognized he probably looked crazy with globs of playdoh sitting under his eyes, but the solace from the burns was enough to overcome the vain thought.

he other man gave him another drink, before telling him he should rest. It had been an eventful morning, but his body was still recovering. If he could not escape, it was smart to go along with this strangely humane Vulcan for now. He would hydrate and heal, and seize the opportunity to escape when it came. Now, it was dark in the cave, and his body was pulling him to sleep slumped against the cavern wall with a potential hostile crouched right in front of him.
---

Jim woke again with the Vulcan shaking his shoulder. The cave they were in was dark, and the supplies that had been spread over the floor had been packed into a large and small bag. His face was flat as he asked if Jim could walk, and although he felt stiff, Jim nodded. The Vulcan showed no signs of being pleased at this, just untied Jim’s wrists and handed him the smaller pack.

“Walk in front, and be aware of your surroundings. Defend yourself if the need arises, but understand-” and here the Vulcan reached out as quick as a whip and lightly grabbed a nerve cluster at the base of his neck. Jim felt a horrible numbness immediately take his nervous system, immobilizing his arms and legs before the other let go. Nothing else had to be said. Jim was secretly furious about this arrogant asshole, acting like a high and mighty cattle driver. He stood and felt the paste that had dried on his skin crack as he moved. He was thirsty, obviously, but was not going to show the weakness of asking for water. Instead, he lifted the smaller pack and moved to the mouth of the cave.

The rest had done wonders, and Jim felt his body moving almost easily. His neck and shoulders were sore, but his legs were strong and he could hold his back straight. The paste had left a numbing feeling on his skin, and he decided to let it flake off naturally rather than pick at it. He dug into his pocket as he began to walk in the direction that was pointed out to him, pulling out a Starfleet regulation ration bar. Unmarked. Even the act of chewing was glorious, his first meal in a day or two or whatever. He was hungry.

Walking at night in the mountains was vastly different than the hardpan of the open desert. Jim could hear noises beyond the sounds of their boots crunching or his heavy breathing. Small animals that were a bit too quick to see darted from underneath his feet occasionally, and eyes reflected back the low light coming from their tricorders that they held. The eyes seemed to belong to a wild cat-like animal, reminding him of the desert sand cats found on Earth. Pretty cute, overall. At least the Vulcan didn’t have night vision, as he seemed to need the low light just as much as Jim did to step carefully.

Any attempt at conversation was cut off, and for a good reason. After a few hours of walking, a high pitched rattling cry came on the breeze. The Vulcan stopped, listening. “A le-matya,” he whispered, “but far off. She sounds like she found her prey.” He whispered something in Vulcan. If lieutenant Uhura were here, she would have understood, but it was just a sigh and sharp consonants to Jim. During the brief pause Jim was handed the water and a lightweight ration of dried plant material. He couldn’t figure out what it was, but it tasted both sweet and peppery when he took a bite.

The rest of the night passed slowly. The Vulcan kept them on track, directing through the maze of tall cliffs in a relatively straight line. He was following a readout on his tricorder, so Jim assumed they had a specific destination in mind. He was lost entirely and didn’t even have a vague reference to what he would consider ‘north’. As the night wore on, the exhaustion came back to his body, slowing his movements. The paste fell off in small flakes and his skin felt tight and painful once again. He drank freely and as needed from the waterskin, knowing the other man could find more. Around dawn, they scouted a few tunnels before finding one narrow enough to suit their needs.

Jim’s hair was damp with sweat as he sat down the pack to begin unloading. The Vulcan kept him in his line of sight the entire time. He couldn’t quite tell if he was being watched, but he did get that distinct impression. His mind was working nonstop, and he had the thread of a plan. From what he knew, this was highly irregular. Why were they alone, and trudging through dangerous terrain? Who was this single stranger, and why were they so ill prepared. He could remember very little from the time he began his upward slog into the foothills, and cursed his own lapse in focus. Damn the dehydration.

Jim placed the bedrolls he had been carrying deeper into the cave, away from the kindling fire. He was carrying significantly less than the other man, and no other technology than his tricorder. Along with the bedrolls, there were a few light ration bars like the one he had consumed earlier. Pretending to cough, he slid one of the bars into the waistband of his pants. His movements were casual, and he hoped the Vulcan didn’t notice. Jim hated having food be used against him. There was no indication of it yet, but as time passed Jim knew how a food shortage could bring out the worst in people.

He sat back and drank a few more mouthfuls of water, watching the Vulcan prepare more of the burn salve. They were going to rest here for the day, and the Vulcan had not spoken to break their silence. It seemed like he could go forever without speaking or even changing his expression. Stoic indifference filled his face even as Jim cleared his throat and said, “So am I a free man tonight, or are we doing the whole barbaric prisoner thing again?” Trying his hardest to be both charming and not too confrontational, he smiled and raised his wrists jokingly.

For a moment, the Vulcan just looked him dead in the eye before looking back at the small aluminum pot and the mashed paste. “I do not believe it will be necessary, nor beneficial to your recovery.”

“Well that’s a relief,” Jim says, with an exaggerated sigh. “Usually you're supposed to ask first, but I guess I can forgive you.”

“I feel no remorse, and I did not apologize. Your pardon means nothing to me.”

“A man of humor, I see. So what is that? It could give aloe a run for its money.” He gestured at the paste in the small pot. The red tint the roots were originally was slowly diffusing to deep purple.

The man sat still for a second, his brow slightly furrowed before he answered, “It is the root of the ukurashka plant. I have inferred that ‘aloe’, as you say, is some form of Terran remedy but how would it participate in a physical race for monetary compensation?”

The serious look on the Vulcan’s face made Jim chuckle. This made the other’s brow furrow even more. “Nevermind,” he said, “It’s just a saying. Anyway, what are we doing out here in the middle of nowhere? Thought I’d be in some basement by now, spilling my guts and signing like a canary.” He did it on purpose this time. Jim’s smile widened as the little frown of confusion deepened to light frustration as the Vulcan tried to understand the human idioms. If he couldn’t get rid of him, he might as well fuck around. The way the other used standard was precise. Calculated, even. Every word seemed to be weighed before it was spoken to reflect the most accurate statement he meant to produce.

The Vulcan did not answer. Instead, he came close with a small amount of the salve held in his hand. Jim let him apply it to his face without raising his hands from their lax position on his knees. He didn’t know why this Vulcan was helping him, but he would be a complete idiot if he fought it. Where the paste was still stuck in small flakes to his skin from the previous morning, the other man just roughly brushed them off, making Jim flinch once or twice. These areas were calmed by the relief offered by the balm. When they were almost finished, Jim made eye contact with the Vulcan and said, “What should I call you?”

“Spock is my given name.” Finished with the application, the Vulcan- no, Spock stood to move away.

Laying a few more chips on the table, Jim said, “Well Spock, you can call me Captain Kirk.”

Chapter Text

Spock’s mental shields were fraying at an alarming rate. Daybreak was a blessing, as the disruptive human curled onto his side and began snoring. Although many Vulcans subscribed partially or wholly to the teachings of Surak, the common courtesy of touch telepaths was far more ancient. Controlling which emotions were shared, and particularly during unwanted contact was a skill he had learned as a child. Along with the unneeded and confusing chatter, this Captain Kirk had no control. Despite the amused exterior with a touch of bravado, there was a sick fear eclipsing everything else while Spock had been doing nothing else but helping. The fear tore at the edges of his calm, making him believe he was feeling this stranger’s emotions. Once the contact was broken, he could recognize to whom they belonged to but his careful composure was rumpled.

He meditated the morning away, and only left to gather more water during the hottest part of the day. The spindly branches of the ukurashka were much more common, and interspersed with squat grey plants that did not look much different from the rocks underfoot. Water was close at hand after he had dug down, and the waterskins filled at a far greater rate than before. He took the time to gather a few of the grey plants, along with a few more of the red tubers. Kirk was in the same position as when he left, and he set to dicing up the small cacti. They were a good way to supplement a limited diet in this harsh environment, and they tasted particularly good stewed. Of course, like everything else on Vulcan, it had the potential to kill. An enzyme found in the skin of the plant would disrupt animal cellular membranes, eventually leading to catastrophic organ failure when eaten raw.

Spock brought the memory of the fear to the front of his mind once more, turning it and examining it from each side. His emotions were calm with a small curl of regret. At first, he had felt remorse. It was an emotion that came much more frequently to him than his peers. Once, T’Preya had mocked him for his often sorrowful nature over events out of their control. Baring her frenzied smile once during a hunt, she had called out, “S’haile! I can feel your remorse. It is just a Krovil! It is illogical to feel for this animal.”

And yet Spock did. His heart ached for the mammal lying in the dust of the Forge, its eyes rolling as it took its last breaths. It would feed his house and his warriors for their celebration of Tokav’s successful bonding, but now Spock knew it felt the fear and desperation of oncoming death. He belatedly shielded his sorrow, likely only sensed due to their heightened emotional states.

Banishing the memory, Spock shook the dust from his clothes as he stood. Despite the regret at causing his prisoner such mental distress, it was useless to feel sorry. He owed the man no explanation to what was happening or their destination. Spock also had a feeling that providing Kirk with that information would encourage another escape attempt.

A Captain. Or, apparently a captain. A Terran Captain and the deliberate obfuscation of the shuttle, what little he had seen of it, was all pointing to Federation presence. Spock could not understand their persistent need to meet and observe Vulcans. Their intentions held no sway in Vulcan society, such as their aspirations for interplanetary trade and politics. Vulcan curiosity was moderated by the importance of their independence and reluctance to share their ways. In accordance, it had been made very clear to the Federation that Vulcan should be left alone. And yet, strangers were constantly falling from the sky.

---
The two of them held the same pattern for the next few days. Spock watched as Kirk’s skin gradually healed, first peeling and falling with the dried paste applied every morning. The pink new skin looked strange to Spock’s eyes. He knew their biology was different, but the green tinge he was so used to was missing. Scraped knees, split lips, and battle wounds were always a dark and mottled green. Spock idly wondered what bruises would look like diffused in a blush pink, like the new skin.

Another side effect of the healing was the almost constant stream of banter from Kirk. When they were not walking, he filled the air with talk of useless subjects. He never pried again into where they were going, or even seemed to be gathering information of use. It was perplexing. Despite Spock's best efforts, he found himself drawn into conversation with the prisoner over and over.

“The bats look a bit like Kermit.” Kirk said off handedly, rehydrating his ration of makar. After watching the human eat it in potentially the worst way ever the first time, Spock had shown him how to simmer the dried bar until the compacted mushrooms and tubers unfolded. It made a much better meal than the dried bar.

The statement was so nonsensical that Spock did not reply. From his experience so far, the human would either elaborate, or drop the subject completely. Apparently speaking the thought into existence was enough this time, as he lapsed into silence and began to eat. Frustration bloomed at the base of his skull. “Explain.”

Kirk turned a victorious smile to Spock, and he realized with a subdued growing horror that the sentence was bait. “The lizard bats that sleep in here. They look a bit like Kermit,” Kirk said as an explanation, barely elaborating on his thought process.

“The lizard bats,” Spock replied flatly. He glanced up from where he was busy repairing a tear in his long, loose pants. They had caught on a sharp point of rock during their trek last night. Sure enough, a small flock of Aylak were roosting in the cracks of the ceiling. The caves were becoming more scarce and ragged as they traveled. Soon they would be camping once again in the open, and Spock limbs were heavy with exhaustion. He needed rest before he could keep day-long watch, and yet he did not trust Kirk enough to let his guard down.

“Yeah, those. Look at their faces. A bit pinched, like there’s a hand in there controlling what they say. If they were green it would be a perfect resemblance.” His smile had changed, to a have a slight turn of mischief. It reminded him vaguely of T’Mara when she was badgering her elder sister or their aides, trying to get an emotional rise. For amusement, perhaps.

“I have no frame of reference of which you speak,” Spock said.

“No, I guess not,” Kirk sighed. “It was a kid’s show that aired a couple hundred years ago. The resemblance really is striking.” He mused for a second before continuing, “What do Vulcan kids do for fun? If they’re all like you it's probably like tearing the wings off butterflies or something.”

Spock took a moment to digest the statement. “Vulcan children do perform entomological dissection as part of their standard curriculum, but recreational activities are dictated by personal taste.”

“Personal taste? I have yet to see a personality.”

Taking offense, Spock retorted, “Your frame of reference is minimal, and expecting myself to be a comprehensive sample of Vulcan culture is short sighted at best.”

Kirk raised his hands in a placating manner. “Sorry, sorry. Fine, what did you like to do as a kid? Barring entomological dissections, that is.” Careful to maneuver around cultural traditions, his house, and any other sensitive information, Spock related a few tales from his younger days.

Specifically, he told of learning to play the lute- “I took piano lessons! Worst teacher I ever had, she would rap my knuckles if I missed a key.”

Practicing meditation and Suus Manha- “Martial arts? That makes sense. I’ve done a bit of Jiu Jitsu and Judo, but I’m really good at fencing.”

And of rebuilding outdated tech into working communicators and holo projectors. Kirk was fascinated by his description of how he was able to break down an old audio and video projector to be rebuilt as an archaic sensor. “How old were you again?” He asked.

“I was 6.72 vulcan years of age, which would be approximately 6.04 Terran years.”

“Shit. And I thought I was a boy genius.” He paused for a second before saying, “Nothing like I thought you’d be.”

Spock understood, but decided not to answer. Despite their more frequent conversation, nothing had changed. He would return Kirk to ShiKhar to face trial for planetary trespass both to fulfill his duty and remove the potential black spot on his reputation from being defeated by Stonn. It was an aspect he had yet to consider for his return but would require some though, and soon.

Conversations began to flow more easily between the two in the morning before Kirk slept and as they prepared to head out. Spock knew it was because of his exhaustion that he found himself participating, his hold on his emotions and impulses increasingly difficult to hold. They spoke of the climate of their homes, the various flora and fauna seen as they traveled, even the origins of the bedding fibers. Kirk had called it cotton, when it was a much longer staple of fiber, artificially spun from pulped biomass.

Their situation came to a head three days later. When the two men had set out, Kirk had asked about the change in the air. It was just as dry and hot, but the air felt charged. The smell of baked earth and salt had given way to something entirely new. Peering up, the stars that had been an ever-present companion were almost completely blocked out. “A lightning storm,” Spock said, “Oncoming. It is likely that it will bypass this range while it is still thin. It will be upon us presently.” The captain gaped a bit and hurried to keep up with Spock, who was already striding away. “Rain? I can’t believe it rains here. Is it flesh-meltingly acidic or something, or can I grab a shower? I fucking reek.” Spock allowed a curl of amusement to shape his face before banishing the thought and making the human walk in front of him. “Precipitation falls rarely in this continental region, which is a regrettable situation for my olfactory receptors.” “I can't help sweating in this heat, asshole.” “I quote, ‘You said it, not me’. The clouds above are sand and dust.” “Statically charged, then.” Kirk said, picking his way through the stones littering their path. “Indeed. However, the storm may have unpredictable consequences in these mountains. Metropolitan areas take windstorms into account and are engineered to funnel excess sand to containment areas away from the city. I am afraid we do not have that level of control.” “What are you saying?” There was a note of audible apprehension in Kirk's voice. “It is impossible to determine if any suitable shelter will be buried in a drift of sand, or if the passage will remain clear overnight.” They were five days out from the start of their journey, and their pace was much slower than originally anticipated. The healing trance had taken more out of him than he had originally believed, and Spock’s mind was fogged with tiredness. It was likely due to his lingering injuries that the fortnight he could normally spend without sleep was almost halved. His entire focus was needed to watch Kirk walking ahead and his own footing. He could see the small golden hairs on the back of Kirk’s neck, standing straight up in the charged atmosphere. It was likely that Kirk would decide to run during the night, and any twitch in his defined shoulders could indicate the first-

A ripping growl split the night above them. Spock's head shot up in tandem with Kirk’s as a small le-matya dropped from above, lightning fast. Spock lunged forward, placing a palm to the center of Kirk’s back and shoving as hard as possible. The man flew forward as the grey-green beast hit Spock high on his back, snapping with its jaws at the back of his neck. He thought briefly about his misfortune of suffering two similar attacks in a single week as he popped the clasp on his holsters, pulling out the phasers. Set to kill, he raised one above and behind his back. He pressed the barrel firmly into its flank before hitting the trigger, sending the concentrated burst of phaser fire sinking into its trunk with a sizzle. The animal let out a strangled cry, before latching onto Spock’s shoulder, whipping its head back and forth savagely. Its movements became sluggish, but not before opening a gaping wound on his upper back and shoulder, coupled with the deep gashes where its claws had dug into its back. With the last of his strength, Spock heaved the animal off of his back and heard it thump heavily onto the ground.

The entire attack had taken only seconds and the belated fear smashed through his mental shields. He could feel his body dragging him down into a trance, but the cold feeling in his fingertips coupled with the escape of the human left him with a deep sense of despair. He would die out here, in mountains far from his home, without anyone knowing why or how he had gone. Of course his warriors and likely his house already thought him dead. His unbonded status had left him vulnerable, which Stonn had taken advantage of. As he slipped slowly into darkness, he reached out desperately one last time to the withered and curled link to his father’s mind, realizing too late that there was nothing there. He cried out as he fell into unconsciousness.

---
Jim was freaking out, but only a little. Spock had neutralized the threat but even looking at the graceful form of the predator laying slumped on the ground sent a shiver up his spine. He didn’t know if it was the same animal they heard on their first night of travel, but would bet it was the le-matya Spock had spoken of. Its feline head was covered in a scaled skin, giving it a reptilian cast. Its jaws were dripping with verdant blood.

“Fuck,” Jim whispered under his breath. He hesitated uncharacteristically. He had the rations. He could run. Right now, be away from this gruesome scene and his captor in a matter of minutes. He knew by now that they were alone out here, for a yet obscured reason separated from any Vulcan chain of command. Whatever waited for him at the end of their journey he definitely did not want to face.

But. He looked at the prone Vulcan, his blood seeping into the sand. Jim shook his head as he instead rushed towards the man, lifting him under his good arm and hobbling away. The wind howled around him in the narrow canyon, the lower edges of the whirling sand clouds obscuring the cliff tops. The blood, once gushing out of the tear had receded to a slow trickle. Jim wasn’t sure about how much blood was actually in a Vulcan, but he was certain he had lost far less than the three to four litres needed to exsanguinate a human. The Vulcan was also much heavier than he looked. Spock was a few inches taller than him, but much more lean. Jim stumbled a bit, but proceeded under the unexpected weight.

His ankles stumbled and twisted on small rocks hidden in the dark. The sky above began to stutter with uneven bursts of lightning. He continued determinedly, peering through the dark in search of a suitable cave. Getting under cover was most important right now. He did not know if the scent of blood would attract another attack, but with Spock’s dead weight slowing them down they would not be as lucky if another opportunistic le-matya appeared.

What Jim kept coming back to with his latest stupid decision was the calm dignity that Spock had possessed during the early days of their travel together. While he had been a whirlwind of caution, anger, distress and even fear, the Vulcan had only taken actions to help him. Help him heal and recover. A grudging respect had grown out of the lack of mistreatment from what he had originally believed to be a brutish culture, similar to the Klingons, but smarter. Dirty hair, escaping from the tight plait tickled the side of Jim’s face. He reached up and quickly tucked it behind the pointy ear before spotting an entrance small enough to protect them.

He dragged Spock’s dead weight to safety before heaving him to the ground. Doing a quick medical assessment, Jim felt out of his depth. Not only was he not a doctor, but Vulcan physiology was foreign to him. The blood flow had slowed and stopped unexpectedly. Maybe the clotting agents were much stronger than human platelets? There was no way to be sure. In addition, the pulse felt much quicker than his own, but could simply indicate a fundamental difference between them rather than a symptom of the injury. The strangest of all was the peace on Spock’s face. His breathing was easy and he looked to be only sleeping, despite the severity of the injury.

Their small medkit was rudimentary at best. There were a few bottles marked solely in Vulcan, in addition to clean bandages. Jim exclaimed in frustration over the lack of a medical tricorder, or even a simple dermal regenerator. Not knowing what else to do, he cleaned the wound as best he could with clean water and wrapped it in bandages. He wasn’t even sure if one of the bottles contained antiseptic. The last thing he wanted was to make it worse with his clumsy ministrations. He knew McCoy would never laugh at him for his field dressings in the heat of the moment, but he did find fault with his minimal dressings every time a mission went wrong and Jim continued on without proper medical help.

Figuring that it was all he could do for now, at least until Spock woke to help him with his own care, Jim decided to finish setting up their camp. Before he stood, he brushed more of the long strands of hair off the Vulcan’s forehead. It was burning hot, a fever that would damage a human brain in a matter of hours. He jerked his hand away, startled at the touch. Shaking the sensation out from his fingers, he grabbed one of the phasers at Spock’s hip, along with both of the tricorders. He had no idea how long the Vulcan would be out, and he had work to do.

Chapter Text

Hours later, Spock was still lying on the floor of the cave as close to comatose without being dead as Jim could figure. He had concluded that getting the Enterprise crew down here as quickly as possible was his best option for saving the Vulcan. Jim did not want to think about why he felt the need to save his captor. Or maybe Spock was the captive now? It surely couldn't be out of any sense of loyalty or closeness. That was his relationship with his crew, for fuck’s sake. The few days and superficial conversations passed with the other man did not even amount to a working relationship. A random Vulcan hogtying him in the desert shouldn’t count as crew. This was just… altruism. Despite his other motivations, Spock had saved Jim’s life, and he was simply returning the favour. If anyone could work a miracle on foreign biology and save Spock's life, it was Bones.

The parts of a disassembled tricorder were placed neatly in front of where Jim was working, little twists of wire and sections of plastisteel laid out on cloth to protect them from the red dust. He had also scrapped one of the phasers that had been held by Spock. The transformer required to generate the firing potential in the weapon was superior to the few dinky ones in Jim's environmental scanner. Assembling the AM transmitter was the easy part of the process. Isometric Bajoran crystal oscillators are standard in all Starfleet tricorders, being much more precise and durable than any crystal oscillators produced on Earth. Integrating it into such a simple circuit was a moment’s work.

What Jim found himself cursing over now was the formation of a long antenna. The electrical dust storm was raging in full force outside the cave. Bright, intermittent flashes of lightning illuminated his work better than the meagre grass fire ever could. He was twisting the short lengths of gold coloured wire he had liberated end to end, planning on dragging it outside to lift towards the heavens. Jim just hoped that the Enterprise was still scanning for him.

The idea of broadcasting an AM radio signal had started to grow when Spock had told him about his childhood engineering project offhandedly. If the pointy-eared bastard could make a sensor while he was barely out of diapers, Jim figured he could rig a transmitter with his years of Starfleet training. There was a catch, though. Anything he put out to his allies in the sky could certainly be picked up by the Vulcans.

“Fuck,” Jim said as his finger slipped, opening a small wound on the tip of his finger with the end of the wire. A drop of blood oozed slowly out as he stuck it in his mouth. The antenna was around five feet long, and he was running out of wire quickly.

He was placing his bets on a low-frequency radio transmission. Electromagnetic waves would work the same no matter where he was in the universe; he just hoped that Vulcan sensors had the same weaknesses as Human-made ones. If that were the case, random outgoing radio waves may be ignored as environmental noise caused by the lightning storm. The less this transmission looked like a communication attempt, the safer it would be.
He checked Spock’s pulse. Through trial and error, Jim had found that he could find it at both Spock’s neck and wrist, but found that it was far simpler when he pressed his flat palm against Spock’s side. It was marginally faster than a human pulse, but Jim figured it must be normal. He couldn’t even pinpoint why he was checking. Just because it had been stable since his injury did not mean it was normal for Vulcan physiology. He began twisting wires again.

At seven feet long, Jim ran out of wire. It would have to be enough. He walked the loose end out of the cave. The clouds had descended from above, and stinging sand whipped at his exposed cheeks and nape. It was almost impossible to see more than a few feet in front of him. He could feel the harsh grains moving gently along the ridge of his spine as his shirt flapped in the wind. Gooseflesh erupted across his body as he slapped at the crawling sensation. Focus, he thought. Scaling the rock outside of the cave was easy. Although hard to see, there were plenty of craggy hand- and foot-holds. He didn’t have to go far before reaching the end of his wire. He jammed the end of the makeshift antenna into a small crack, pointing it directly up at the hidden and unfamiliar stars before jumping back down to solid ground.

Scrambling back into the relative safety of the cave, Jim picked up his dinky spark-gap transmitter and began tapping two ends of the wire together, briefly completing the circuit before breaking the connection once again. He smiled as he tapped out the classic S.O.S. It might take a matter of minutes for the radio signal to reach the edge of the galaxy, wherever his crew had decided to crouch and wait. He tapped out the same simple pattern of dots and dashes again and tried to picture the invisible electromagnetic waves that were carrying his message. It started as a cascade of electrons from the tricorder dilithium battery, being passed along in a short burst every time he touched the ends of the wire together. From there, it hit the transformer and came out the other side many times more powerful, simply by creating a magnetic field. Going through the crystal oscillator, the electric current would be dramatically transformed into radio waves, of an amplitude and frequency similar to the lightning caused by a sand and wind storm. From there, these waves would pass up and out of the end of the antenna, waving thoughtlessly in the space between the atmospheric molecules, alongside everything that his eyes perceive as light.

-... --- -. . ... / -.-. --- -- . / .--. .. -.-. -.- / -- . / ..- .--. / -- --- - .... . .-. ..-. ..- -.-. -.- . .-.

The storm was getting worse. Much worse. Even in the furthest reaches of the cave, he could feel the fine grit of the flying sand coating his nostrils and the surface of his eyes between blinks. Jim felt like he was quickly running out of time. He went over to the prone form of Spock and shook him once, twice.

“Spock. Spock. Wake the fuck up.” The planes of his pale face remained expressionless. “I don’t know how to deal with this shit,” he muttered to himself. Jim took his admittedly tattered command gold and soaked it with his canteen, wrapping it tightly around his nose and mouth. He repeated this process with the unconscious Vulcan and only half hoped that the partial waterboarding would wake the comatose man. He hunkered down to wait and periodically sent out another distress signal to the stars as the storm worsened further outside the mouth of the cave.

---

Spock woke violently when a crash of thunder seemed to erupt almost next to his ear, sending him shooting up into a sitting position. He braced himself instinctively for an impact that never came. He could feel a vicious snarl twist his lips as he strained his eyes to see in the dark surrounding him. The sound of howling wind and seething sand was all he could hear, and the dark was an almost physical presence, moving ever so slightly against his exposed skin with the air currents. He held his defence, poised, until lightning flashed once more and illuminated the cave for a fraction of a second. The campsite was still, the human captain slumped against the wall, his head tilted back.

Spock could feel the muted roar of agony in his shoulder as he rolled his head from side to side, feeling the barely-knit tissue flex. His truncated healing trance would not cut it this time. He took a second to breathe in the dark, and the fabric of his mask fluttered against his lips as he threw together a semblance of order in his mind. He needed sleep, he needed meditation, he needed a deep-tissue regenerator. What he did not need was to be trapped in this salan-mazhiv, a seasonal dust storm, with a Terran hundreds of miles from anywhere, dead on his feet.

Thunder rumbled once more, vibrating his skull and putting his teeth on edge. He walked over to where Kirk had been resting and crouched beside him. Only a slight brush of the fingers was needed for the other man to wake, grunting and striking forward with his arms on instinct.

Spock couldn’t see Kirk, and let the strike hit him. It pushed him back a pace, his body weakened. “Captain, please refrain from injuring me further,” he croaked. His dry throat grated.

“Shit Spock, sorry. I didn’t know you were up.” Kirk rose, his hands resting gently against Spock’s forearms, as if he were ready to support him if he fell. “Sit down, do you need some water?”

Concern passed from the palms of the human’s hands, pressing into Spock’s skin and against his control. His judgment was running sand through loose fingers. Usually, his mind marched like an endless plain of ivory dunes, shaped to mathematical precision by relentless winds and the force of gravity. His emotions shifting only minutely. Now, it was as if some unknown seismic force had shaken his desert of logic, leaving him lost without a landmark to rely upon. He pulled away from Kirk’s hands, trembling ever so slightly. “Yes,” he said.

Kirk passed him the waterskin, half empty. “I’m glad you’re up, but we might be fucked anyway. The storm doesn’t seem to be getting better anytime soon.” Spock couldn’t see his face, and was glad for the invisibility the darkness gave him as well.

After swallowing and clearing his throat, Spock asked, “How long have I been unconscious?”. Thankfully, his voice sounded as impartial as always.

“Around six hours. I honestly couldn’t tell if you were going to wake up after that. Here, sit.” He could hear Kirk shuffle slightly, presumably making room along the cave wall for him to sit.

Lowering himself gently, Spock rested his back against the cooled rock. “The storm may continue for days,” He took the light waterskin that Kirk handed him, lifting his mask for a mouthful. “Evacuations are occasionally needed from outlying townships. I cannot overstate how dire our situation has become.”

A moment later, the human beside him broke the heavy silence with a muffled chuckle. “Dramatic,” he said, laughing to himself.

“I am not being dramatic,” Spock explained, “I am simply stating the reality that we find ourselves in.”

“You know, I never really thought you would be melodramatic. Like, it would be above your stone cold persona to say something like calamitous, lamentable, and grim.”

“I do not recall saying those words specifically. However, they do describe our fate adequately. Furthermore, I do not have a persona, whether that be ‘stone-cold’ or otherwise.” Spock stood abruptly, his tall frame filling space in the little cave as he stretched his arm and shoulder, testing whether his muscles had reattached properly during his trance. He felt trapped in this place with the human. Anger- frustration- was bubbling up inside of him, and he felt the need to pace. Spock was not accustomed to feeling so helpless.

Kirk quieted, hearing the strain evident in Spock's voice. Spock stood for a moment and turned to walk deeper into their shelter to meditate. He noticed a slight glimmer out of the corner of his eye. Spock traced the length of the wire with his eyes, which he followed to the entrance of the cave.

Suddenly, his rage spiked. The human had assembled some form of device while Spock had been in a trance, the purpose unknown. Spock felt his emotional control, already strained, shatter as this likely betrayal. All of his bottled emotions boiled over as he whirled towards the man still sitting against the wall.

This time, Spock was precise in his attack. He lunged forwards, the steel muscles of his legs pushing him at a speed that the human couldn't hope to match. Spock grabbed a fistful of the front of his dingy white undershirt in his fist, yanking the alien closer, cotton ripping. The outworlder was gasping, the thin fabric of his golden shirt outlining the shape of his lips, his open mouth.

Pulling him up and off the floor of the cave, Spock slammed the outworlder against the curved stone of the wall. He heard the other's breath leave him in a heavy exhale while his hands were scrabbling at the pillar of Spock's wrist. Nails were biting uselessly into the flesh of his arm and pain was screaming through his entire body from the multiple injuries Spock now bore.

Their eyes locked as Spock raised his other arm, fastening his free hand around his captive's throat, at first pinning it against the stone before starting to press.

In the outworlder's eyes, and oozing up through the outworlder's skin, rancid fear invaded Spock's psyche. The instinct of the hunt took over, encouraging the hard press of his hand against the other's throat. He could feel a quick, fluttery pulse and some of the last gulping breaths before the alien's airway was sealed. The face was reddening, the eyes turned pleading-

Light. Light surrounded the two figures, illuminating their rudimentary camp. Spock realized, too late through his mental haze, that it must be the pull of a transporter beam. He was too occupied to care.