Chapter Text
Three Days Prior To The Departure Of The U.S.S. Enterprise's Five Year Mission In Deep Space
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I was alone.
Darkness spread over the surface of the ceiling, broken only by tiny blue intervals in the shape of strategically placed lights. What little I could make out of my surroundings consisted of a curved roof, sterile walls, and the odd, shadowy impression of light reflecting against glass in the dark.
The estranged organ in my chest beat with anticipation, tempered by fear, questions for which I had no answer, possibilities with poor end results.
"I'm sorry Mrs. Thompson, but her prognosis is increasingly negative."
I heard a distant noise, and my breath caught, laying useless in my mouth, as the oxygen wasted away in the depths of a still throat. Muscles tensed, life organ pounding, adrenaline seeping into my arteries, as my brain ceased to function correctly. Synapses crackled across an ancient, primal part of the cerebral, and overpowered reason with the urge to run, as far and as fast as I could. Out of this forbidden enclave, away from this building, this city and its people. Away from this useless hope, of meaningless x-rays, pitying faces, hospital rooms, and sterile lighting. To get away from E.R. elevators that play funeral music, the doctors cold, sympathetic face. Funeral plans and pre-ordered flowers, for a girl who was already dead in their eyes.
"The cancer has already metastasised in the brain. I'd say she has six months to live, maybe more, maybe less."
"How much more? Nine months? A year?"
"Unlikely. It would take a miracle."
"A miracle?"
"A miracle."
My chest was tight, suffocating, but no longer did tears spring up at these broken record conversations, no longer did I scream and yell when I came back from yet another hopeless surgery. What once felt like stepping on razor blades was now simply numb, mottled tissue. Too scarred to stop my feet from falling in empty hallways, white lights burning into my brain.
I exhaled, expelling the memories into the air around me, but they simply hung in place, awaiting a moment of silence to play up again. A never ending slide show of grief, the same, reoccurring questions, now a constant sound track to accompany and remind. I made a half hearted attempt to shut them out, but it was futile. There was no mute button for the brain, no rewind button for life. No off button for emotions that once left me breathless.
I allowed my gaze to settle on the sardonic display that decorated the room, acknowledging the seventy three, living beings, that lay side by side. Frozen coffins, sitting in neat little rows and columns. I almost envied them- suspended, perhaps indefinitely, they still had one another. Even in this living death, they were not alone.
I pushed this thought to the back of my head, because it was useless to dwell among these shallow graves, when every moment that passed, was another I couldn't take back. Just as useless as replaying the same what ifs and whys.
Shall we begin. That voice was the monotone of my dreams, the monster beneath the bed, the embodiment of hatred and savagery. It was mocking, enraged, anticipatory. It was chaos, triumph behind blue eyes, all eyes turned towards the imminent threat. Spock, rigid, faced with this ultimatum.
He would kill me without hesitation.
I couldn't afford to care.
My eyes fell upon the face of an unknown subject. The expression was still, eyes closed, a flurry of short cut, blonde hair, and a handful of freckles sprayed across his cheeks. He couldn't be more than 25 or so, and within the confines of the cryo-tube, I could almost forget that he was a 300 year old exile. Almost. Allowing my gaze to linger a second longer, I turned away, presenting my eyes to the entirety of the hanger. One down, seventy two to go.
My path was painted with footsteps, but the search was short. I passed down the first row, trying not to look to closely at the breathless bodies laid to rest.
But there was no way to forget them. An older woman, with long, pin straight black hair, and mocha skin. A man, with ear length, curly brown hair, and a fair complexion. Another man, with a square jaw, a slight stubble, and these amazingly bright, ginger locks.
I inhaled, sharp like a Swiss blade, cutting oxygen in my lungs to their screaming distaste.
The face was flawless, soft, new. Undamaged and delicate. Her hair was a light, honeyed brown, subtle blonde highlights frozen still, but a single strand pressed into her cheek, separated from the slightly wavy mane. Bangs that had grown too long almost completely covered her eyes, tiny brown freckles dusted lightly over her face, and she had the smallest scar on her bottom lip. Her left hand was curled into a small fist against her chest, and it took me several seconds to realise her fingers were clasped around a tiny gold cross.
"It's time to pray, El. Close your eyes, and don't peek."
"I won't, K."
"Promise?"
"I promise."
"Fine, I'll start then."
"Now I lay me down to sleep,
I pray the Lord my soul to keep,
If I shall die before I wake,
I pray the Lord my soul to take."
I opened an eye, withholding a laugh at her, eyes squeezed tightly shut, nose crinkled, as she finished the prayer.
"If I should live another day
I pray the Lord to guide my way.
Amen."
My voice echoed hers, and we both looked at one another, her dark, chocolate coloured irises staring into mine. I brushed a hand over her cheek, and smiled.
It had been a long time since I smiled like that.
The girl couldn't have been more than 10 or 11. She was someone's daughter, perhaps someone's sibling. A friend, a child, a life. This tiny little bud preserved by the frost of winter. Never to grow old, simply rotting beneath the ice. It made me ache for something familiar, something I could depend on.
But the only thing I could truly depend on was me, and familiarity was a luxury I could no longer afford. The bittersweet flavour of blood and rain lay ashen in my mouth.
I tore myself from the unknown girl, tore myself from old memories and what I once had. Banished emotion to the dark enclaves of my chest, and stepped away from the constraints of their pull.
He was next.
His expression was far less dangerous then when conscience, almost vulnerable, if not for the ferocity and savagery scorched into my mind. Malicious. Cold. Calculating.
I'd stopped being afraid of the little things when El had been diagnosed with Alveolar soft part sarcoma, an extremely rare form of cancer, that had spawned in her left lung, and spread to her brain and kidneys before it could be caught. Little things like death, like pain, like ego. I had nothing to prove, and almost as much to lose.
I recalled, briefly, how it all began, closing my eyes, fingers tightening around the handle of a Beretta 92. It was old fashioned, practically a family heirloom, but it functioned, and I trusted it- Daniel had showed me how to shoot it when I was younger.
The first sign of something wrong occurred when El, short for Eleanor, was seven. A small swelling was discovered on the side of her chest during a regular check-up. An x-ray revealed a small, benign tumour in her lungs, and was operated on immediately. The surgery was a success, and she recovered within a week or two.
However, two years later, during the second week of August, El began to experience pain in her midriff. We thought nothing of it, until blood showed up in her urine. A visit to the Children's hospital revealed that malign growths had damaged both of her kidneys. The right was in danger of going septic, and had to be removed, while the left could no longer release insulin properly, and she was treated for Type-2 Diabetes.
We knew that something more malicious was at large when, three months after the surgery, my nine year old baby sister had a Gran Mal seizure, and broke her spine in between T8 and T-9- paralysing her from the waist down. A CAT scan revealed that she had probably contracted the cancer when she was around three. It progressed slowly, metastasising gradually until it was too late. I was told it was such a rare, slow sarcoma, that it was hard to diagnose. It sounded like an excuse.
The gun had grown slippery in my hand, a slight quiver in the back of my throat, but I held it back, releasing the gun so I could wipe the sweat from my fingers.
This is for you El.
I pressed a hand to the glass, gaze blank, yet I felt resolve tying the noose tighter around my neck, and my pale fingers slid to where Khan's eyes starred sightlessly. My eyes skirted to the panel that directed the functions of the cryo-tube, and the feeling hit me in the stomach. Not fear, no, nothing that logical. Even in this desperate situation, the thrill of this could find me- It was my addiction, my drug, my high. It was also my undoing.
"What happened Kyle?"
"Nothing E.T.. Go to bed, you have school tomorrow."
"So do you, you're not going to bed."
"I'm older than you. Besides, I'm going to bed as soon as I wash my face off."
"Mom left your dinner out."
"I'll put it away. You can have it for lunch."
"What will you eat?"
"I'll get something at breakfast."
"Kat?"
"Yes E.T.?"
"Why do you always let them hurt you?"
"... Who are you talking about, El?"
"The people who beat you up. You try to hide it from Mom and me, but I can tell. My teacher called them Bug-gies."
".... Do you mean 'bullies'?"
"Nope. Buggies."
"Well El, I don't let the bul- buggies hurt me. I fight back. But there are too many of them. One man can't stand against the world."
"Don't worry Kat, I'll stand with you."
"I know you will ET. "
This is for you.
My eyes narrowed into determined slits, fingers pushing into the panel, my mind replaying the movements in my head. I'd been there when they released the Captain from the cryo-tube used to preserve his cognitive functions and cerebral matter, I'd seen how it was done. And when I saw something, I rarely forgot it. Even from a young age, I'd been told by my doctor that I have a condition called Hypermnesia, which is smart-people speak for a really good memory. I remembered the smallest details, such as the colour of trim on the Indian wall-rug hanging in the east wings anaesthetise mixing lab at the Royal Children's hospital.
Turning my gaze to the 'super' humans frozen grave, I ghosted a finger over the execution panel, which would release this creature into the modern world, like freeing a wolf to run among sheep.
I pressed it.
I was alone.
But not for long.
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