Chapter Text
You didn't like the pillow room. In a sense, it was everything you hated. Quiet, lonely, blank, and eye-searingly bright. It gave you too much to think about and far too little to actually do. You didn't like to sit and do nothing. You always had to move. To be. To exist.
Sometimes the days spent inside the pillow room were so long that by the time they let you out again, your fingernails would be gone.
Nail biting.
A compulsion you found comforting when the men in white left you alone with your thoughts for too long. If the pillow room didn't give you anything to do, you would find something to do, and typically, that thing was biting each and every single one of your fingernails off until there was nothing left to bite. Just raw, saliva-wet skin. Sometimes blood if you didn't work the nail off carefully.
It hurt, but you felt that if you didn't, the silence would hurt even worse.
In the pillow room, the sound of teeth on nails seemed to be the only thing good enough to drown the quiet out. You didn't get in trouble for it either, which was good. You rarely got in trouble so long as you listened to the strange men in white, and the Doctors, who took care of you.
None of them though—neither the men in white nor the Doctors—were quite like you. They were all tall and lithe with pointy ears and typically spoke in a language you didn't understand. You were terrified of them; they hurt you, treated you like an animal, so sometimes at night, you'd wake up in a sweat-induced frenzy and pet the edges of your blunt ears just to make sure you hadn't turned into one of them.
You couldn't remember how you got here. Some nights you were convinced you didn't and life had always been this way, but distant memories told you otherwise. Sometimes you dreamt that you came into this cold, white world screaming—fighting—struggling for life. You were running away, but you were never fast enough. They always got you in the end, and with that, you came to believe that there was more to life—to existence—than this.
You had something. You were something before this, you just couldn't remember. And what's scarier is that oftentimes you forgot that this was the case. You tried a long time ago to get the Doctors or men in white or even the pretty lady who fed you to tell you why you were here, but they always brushed the question off.
If you asked too many times or seemed like you were starting to remember things, you'd get in trouble, and the Doctors' punishments were rarely light.
They came in the form of thick, leather straps binding you to a rubber chair before they administered powerful and agonizing shocks of electricity to your head. And every time they did, you were certain a little piece of you was left behind in that chair. A piece you couldn't get back; couldn't remember.
Some nights you would lay in the pillow room, face up, and wonder if there were things about yourself that the electrical shock had made you forget. Your name. The color of your eyes. The faces of your parents. Had you ever known those things in the first place? You didn't know.
Your thoughts were becoming more and more tangled nowadays, and though you tried hard to pull them apart and decipher each of the pieces, you seldom succeeded.
You wished—you really wished you could remember.
Sometimes you would sit in the corner of your little white room, biting your nails as you tried desperately to grasp to the edges of these faint memories or dreams; whatever they were. Never-ending hours slipped by with every slow rock of your body as you sat there, never quite sleeping, just hoping. Hoping one day things might be different, and your mind would be clear again, and you would remember.
Despite your incapability to decipher your past from your present though, there were still things about this place you understood, and really, when you cut all the growing fog away, it was simple.
Your name, whether it was your real one or not, was S-Twenty-One. Your job was to sit here all day in the pillow room until the Doctors needed you for an experiment or study, and between the two, experiments were always the worse. It only took you a few years to figure out what the Doctors here were researching: medicine, diseases, cures, all of it. They needed test subjects to carry the diseases if they wanted to find a cure for them. Brains healthy enough to take apart before trying to put them back together again. Bodies to open and cut and rip and stitch and drug in the name of knowledge and science.
The experiments were invasive... brutal.
At night, when they thought you were sleeping, you'd lift your shirt and roll your white pant legs up just to see the scars and bandages the Doctors had left there over time. It was like a collection of bad memories, and each of them were grotesque. Some even had stitching still left in them, now grown a part of the scars. Others were still red, taut, and painful. A few even bandaged if they were serious.
Studies though... studies were easier. The exercise was simple. The Doctors would put you through a series of peculiar scenarios before sitting you at a table in a small, white room where the man with the glasses would ask you a list of unique questions.
The scenarios were always different. Sometimes they were easy, like petting a cat and asking you how that made you feel, but oftentimes they were... deeply uncomfortable. Once, the Doctors refused to feed you any food for a week. After the week had passed, they placed you in a room with another test subject who'd gone through the same malnourishment, given you both knives, and asked that you fight each other to the death. They told you that whoever won would get an extra serving of food.
You were... horrified.
Both of you were extremely thin—your stomachs exceptionally empty—but you didn't favor the idea of actually killing someone over a meal. You tried to negotiate with the other subject, but their eyes were feral; both dead and hungry at the same time, and you knew that there was no other way out of this than to defend yourself.
The fight had been vicious.
You obtained a plethora of deep lacerations and stab wounds, but in the end, when the other test subject had climbed on top of you and attempted to choke you to death, you found the strength in your stomach to take your weapon and aim for the vein in their neck.
A river of blood flowed out, painting your chest and face in an unpleasant heat before they toppled over, dead.
You were stuck vomiting for the rest of the week. The slightest of memories moved your whole digestive system into a harsh recoil and you were nauseous all over again. That feeling as you took their life had been... moving. You didn't like it; weren't proud.
The look in their eyes when your knife had pierced their neck—that fierce determination slowly dissolving into a hallow glare—had been haunting.
To this day, you could still feel the warm phantom of blood coating your skin. The smell of hemoglobin intoxicating every inch of your lungs. It's disgusting and inescapable, and some days it gets so bad, you can't help but claw feverishly at your epidermis to chase the sensation away until the men in white are forced to detain you.
You try to scream and cry, begging them it won't happen again—that you'd brave through it the next time—but they never listen. You know what happens when you misbehave like this. They hold you down and forcefully inject a syringe through your neck that puts you to sleep in a matter of seconds, and when you wake up, everything is a blur and time passes by even slower. You can't move much. Your body is too numb, and your head, too lethargic. The lasting effects of the drug take several hours to wear off, and when it does, you're left feeling worse than before.
In comparison to the more violent studies though, the questions the man with the glasses asks you after aren't so bad. Sometimes your sessions only last a few minutes, other times, hours, but they're simple, so you find a strange peace in them. The cold chair beneath your thin white pajama pants soothes your body; the low hum of the equipment, your mind. Even his voice carried a cadence you found engaging and clear—clearer than anything.
The only time sessions with him were difficult was when your voice was too weak to work after several hours of screaming on an operation table. It used to happen on occasion back then, but as time went on, it seemed like your vocal cords were only growing more exhausted. When that occurred, you'd have to resort to writing your responses out on a bright, thin tablet.
Though it was a tedious and long activity, and your wrists often ached from battling against restraints, you knew how to write exceptionally well. That's how you knew there had been more to your life at one point.
No one here in this place had taught you how to write, this you were certain of, so surely you must've been someone before you were S-Twenty-One. You just... couldn't remember. But either way, your job here was simple. You listened to the Doctors, did as they said, and let them conduct their experiments and studies on you, and in return, they kept you fed.
That was your life for as long as you could remember, but today... today was different. Today was scary. Something changed—in the air, and in you.
⁘⁘⁘
Your morning started in the pillow room like usual, and you, in the corner trying to fend the silence away when the pretty lady came in to greet you. She was a lot like the Doctors and men in white, but she was kind... kinder than them. She smiled at you and talked to you in a soft voice, and whenever she got near, she was gentle.
She'd brought you a glass of milk and a nutrient pill this morning, but no food. You were disappointed.
The only reason the Doctors felt it was necessary to feed you solid food was if it were a requirement for a certain experiment or study, but lately, it was not.
"Good morning, nail biter," the woman smiled, the door sliding shut behind her as she went over to where you were on the floor, nuzzled into the foul smelling cushions that lined the ground, walls, and ceiling. Whether she could smell it too, you weren't sure. She never seemed to be affected by it, or you.
Typically the men in white came in with weapons and tasers when it was time to retrieve you for an experiment because on days that you knew the torture would be unbearable, you grew hostile and tried to attack them. You'd bite their hands and arms with all the power in your jaw, drawing out disgusting green blood, but they would never falter.
The pretty lady knew you had no reason to attack her though, so she never felt the need to be armed. You were docile when she visited, even if it would be so very easy to leap out and attack her, stealing her keycard and escaping—you never did. It just... didn't seem right. Whatever small amount of moral consciousness you had left in your body told you that attacking the pretty lady would hurt you more than it would hurt her.
"How are we today? Exceptional, adequate, or unsatisfactory?"
You looked up at her, the outline of her body slightly foggy until it grew clear and you saw her smile, as radiant as ever.
"Adequate," you croaked, watching as she leaned down to your level and offered you the milk and pill. You reached out and took them mechanically. The pill you popped first, using the milk to wash it down until the glass was empty.
You tried to be unbothered by the vacancy that remained in your stomach thereafter, but with such an unreliable meal schedule, it was hard to get used to it. The pretty lady seemed to tell, and she smiled at you pitifully as she took the glass from your hand and stood to her feet.
"The Doctor will see you shortly. He's discovered a new treatment he'd like to test out on... optic trauma recovery."
You felt your stomach lurch at the word. When the Doctors needed to test a new treatment theory, they'd have to injure you with whatever they were treating first. A broken wrist, a concussion; once it was a punctured lung, but optic trauma? A chill ran up your spine and your fingers were back between your teeth to gnaw at the broken pieces of nail. The pretty lady had tried to reach out and stop you, but halfway through the action, she paused and withdrew her hand.
"Apologies," was all she said now as she stood and continued to look down at you, smiling sadly. "Know you will be helping many people. I like to think being informed of the experiment's contents beforehand may aid with mental preparation."
It did not, but you knew she meant well.
"Be well. I will return tonight to deliver your second nutrient pill," she told you now before leaning down to briefly pet your head. You leaned subconsciously towards the touch, hungry for the warmth in her fingers.
The woman didn't touch you often, but when she found it in her heart to do so, you were more than welcome to the sensation. It was thrilling and soft, warm and lovely.
When she left, you felt especially empty though. You always did.
⁘⁘⁘
The Doctor and his men in white came to retrieve you just like the woman had said, and you were terrified; already shaking from the shoulders down. This was especially true when you heard the mechanical lock blip and the door slid open a second after.
Adrenaline was coursing through your veins faster than electricity.
You gripped your fists shut, turning them white as you searched for an opportunity to attack them, but you didn't find one. There were three men in white, all armed with tasers and a neck restraint they would use to lead you along without letting you get too close.
It felt tighter than usual today as they jostled it over your head and tugged you out of the pillow room, which you found yourself loving on days like this. That stupid, cushiony prison was the only place you felt truly safe from all the Doctors and their horrible experiments.
It was cruel, really. To see such a horrible place as something to be appreciated. Yet somehow, even that they managed to snatch away from you.
The power struggle between you and the men had been vile.
You tried to fight them, to run back to your haven of safety, but after the first couple of taser zaps to the neck and chest, you gave in and let them drag you along towards the operation room. The room where they tested all their subjects.
It was medium in size, cold, and probably the darkest room in the whole facility with a single, yellow light source hovering above the medical table placed in the center of the floor. That's where they put you; hands, legs, and head strapped down to it with leather restraints that smelled and felt like old blood and rubbing alcohol.
You didn't bother to struggle after that. It would only be a waste of energy, you told yourself as the light above you grew brighter and a pair of white boots squeaked across the floor towards your table.
The Doctor stood over you a second after, and in his hand, he balanced a small, steel mallet you couldn't help but eyeball in horror. Whether or not you knew fighting was pointless, it didn't stop the intense trembling that overtook every inch of your body.
While you were busy staring, he looked over his shoulder and called, "Nash-veh would spo' wuh padd. Khreya volik veh dungi nam-tor vimevilau. Palikau pitoh kitaun," to a nearby nurse. She nodded her head in response and stepped forward, handing him the small tablet between her arms which he obliging accepted.
He looked it over for a few seconds, his finger dancing across the screen until he set it down and placed an ophthalmic speculum over your head to hold one of your eyes open. That seemed to make everything feel so much worse.
Your whole body, from your arms down to your legs, were writhing in discomfort as you watched him lift the mallet to your face and aim like it was the most natural thing in the world to do.
For a split second, you could've sworn you could see yourself from the outside. The Doctor's back and shoulder obstructed the view of your face, but in slow motion, you watched him lift the mallet beyond the side of his body, pause, and strike.
For the longest five seconds of your life, you felt like the world was unraveling like the loose threads you pulled from your shirt when it ripped. Massive black and white stars danced across your vision and a blunt pain spread through your skull, ripping a raw, white scream from your chest that seemed to hurt twice as much as the mallet.
Everything was burning. Everything was too much.
Your whole body rattled like a shockwave—terrified—fighting desperately against the restraints as the Doctor placed the tool aside and began to take notes.
When only half the world came back into view, you looked at the doctor and felt a putrid anger bubble in your gut. He seemed so unaffected. So calm.
You wanted to break the leather straps binding you to the table and take that mallet, smashing it a dozen times over into his face to see how he liked it.
You hated him... you hated him so much. Him and those stupid pointy ears and his vile, green blood.
Narrow red streaked down the side of your face now as the Doctor placed his tablet aside and started the treatment process.
First, he scanned your injured eye with a small device, making sure to note that this was indeed a basic trauma injury before he took a wet cotton pad soaked with medicine and bandaged it tightly to the affected area. You were shocked, and that only seemed to make you more upset.
For such a painful problem, the solution was insignificantly easy.
When it was over, he scanned you one last time and sent you on your way.
You could barely stand straight. Several men in white had to carry you out, but before they could even cross the room's threshold, you heard a shrill blaring fill every centimeter of the air, burning it like fire. You clasped your hands over your ears, shutting your good eye to try and keep the noise out.
"Nemut. Etek ma rai dvel hi tor sashitau t' wuh hasausu heh stron!" one of the men holding you yelled. You flinched at the sound, and the Doctor responded with a desperate phrase you didn't quite catch.
All of a sudden, several people were running down the halls, yelling frantically, and both men in white handed you over to a nurse who fumbled to grab you by the arms. Opening your eye, you watched several of the Doctors frantically scrape their research materials into plastic bins, trying to collect them all as quickly as possible.
"Nem-tor au tor wuh pa-tukh tuhlek heh sashitau t' au!" one of the men told the nurse, and she nodded, leading you out as the chaos developed into mass hysteria.
Things only seemed to get stranger from there out. On your way down the hall, something... happened.
The ground—the whole ground—it moved. Vibrated right beneath your bare feet, and your heartbeat escalated. All of a sudden, someone else's hands were on your arm and you turned around to see the pretty lady standing there.
"Nash-veh'll el'rek au," she told the nurse.
You didn't quite understand what the phrase had meant, but based on the way the nurse had paused to hand you over, you could only assume she'd offered to take you off her hands.
All of a sudden, the world, though loud, fell on deafened ears.
For a single moment in time, things didn't seem so dire as you looked at her, and she looked back, smiling sadly as always. "Hello, nail biter," she quietly spoke, leading you onward at a gentle but hurried pace.
She was taking you back to your pillow room. You could tell, you recognized these particular hallways. "I am aware that you may be frightened. It is good to be frightened. A young Terran told me that once. He said frightened keeps you alive. You too are Terran, so it must mean something to you," she paused, but you had a feeling she wasn't waiting for an answer. Her hands were shaking against your arms, and for the first time in your life, you saw what your pretty lady looked like when she was scared.
The emotion barely showed in her complexion, after all, most of the pointy-eared beings experienced little to no emotion, but pretty lady was different. She smiled and laughed, and right now, in her eyes, you could tell she was terrified.
"I want you to listen to me closely, nail biter. Something scary is about to happen, but do not be afraid. When I return you to your chambers, I want you to hide in the furthest corner and remain very quiet."
You knew she meant business when she used the word "very". The word was a non-concise adverb, and after so many years of living among these green-blooded aliens, you noticed they refused to use arbitrary adverbs when they spoke in English.
"I do not want you to make any noise until everything has gone quiet. Do you understand me?"
You understood what she was telling you, but you didn't understand why. You wanted to know. Wanted to know why she was telling you these things; wanted to know why she was so scared, but something told you that neither of you had much time, so you disregarded your questions and nodded anyways.
"Good," she smiled, pressing her keycard to the pillow room's lock. When the door slid open, she coaxed you inside but made no attempt to follow.
Instead, she looked around for a second and blinked frantically when all the lights began to flicker. That seemed to mean something to her, but to you, it was only strange.
You wanted to grab her wrist and take her with you. You didn't understand. In fact, all your life you felt like you'd done nothing but fail to understand, so just this once, you wanted someone to be straight with you... tell you the truth.
She did not.
Those large, pretty brown eyes of her's regarded you sadly one last time as she reached out and pet your head. Instinctively, you leaned in.
"Know you will be saving many people," she told you now, her voice barely above a whisper. "Whoever finds you, they will not look like us. Trust them. They will help you, and you will help them, and maybe..." she paused to unclip her keycard from her belt and shove it into one of your hands. "Maybe this will end. Be well..." she quickly blurted before stepping back as the door slid shut, separating you from her, and her from you. An intense darkness swallowed you whole, and you barely realized the lights in the pillow room had shut off until it was too late and you were already inside.
You stepped away from the door, one foot after the other until your back hit the far wall and you slid to the ground, nuzzling yourself into the corner. The sounds that supervened were petrifying. You could hear nurses screaming as blaster fires pierced the air. Patients were begging for their lives. Doors were being thrown open in the distance, followed by the intense rapid blasting of a weapon.
The havoc lasted for hours, and just when your ears were beginning to ring, all the shouting and yelling and fighting and screaming came to a gradual standstill. One by one, the voices were choked out of existence and it went quiet.
You didn't move, but your head slowly perked up to listen. The intense placidity that followed was like a cold day in hell or the first couple of seconds at the end of a war.
You're not quite sure if it's over, or if you're safe, so you wait. Carefully listening... barely breathing.
You didn't know what to do. Time laid heavy on your hands, until, out of nowhere, the distant drone of footsteps echoed from down the hall and the spell was broken. The terse serendipity, interrupted.
You angled your head towards it, the pretty lady's keycard held tightly in hand as you heard the doors several corridors down begin to open one by one. Someone was speaking, you realized, but they were too far away to make out the words. They were jumbled and mellow; almost inquisitive... cautious.
Your whole body locked up as the figures drew nearer—door after door, sliding open and closed until a pair of boots stopped purposefully in front of yours. You held your breath, watching it with a horribly intense curiosity. They didn't move for some time, and for a moment, you thought they might leave until a soft humming came from the other side of the wall and the door swept open, revealing a distinct pair of characters.
The action was so quick, you barely had a moment to register what was happening. The dim, flickering lights the open door had welcomed in were strangely intense, and you winced, turning your face away as someone stepped inside. The floor dipped a little ways from you, and you held your forearms over your face as the instinctive reaction to beg them not to hurt you ebbed at the back of your throat. Yet, no matter how hard you tried, the words wouldn't come out.
It was hard to breathe, and for once, the air turned thin.
It changed.
"Bozhe moy..." one of them muttered, and you peered at them from beyond one of your forearms. The light no longer seemed like such a big deal anymore as you tried desperately to see their face. The torchlight pointed at you made it difficult to focus, but after a few seconds of squinting and straining, the details became clear and they lowered the light to gape at you. Pretty lady had been right. They didn't look like them.
They looked like you.
"Capt'in! We found someone!" they yelled, and you moved away, eyes hanging on the wall as you placed your fingers between your teeth to bite a pair of nails no longer there to bite. Loud thudding approached the room and an additional pair of figures appeared in the doorway; their silhouettes stark against the dying fires outside. You glanced at them, too afraid to stare, but wary enough to look.
They were tall—a lot taller than you—imposing like giants.
You shrunk into your corner, suddenly desperate for distance, but that only seemed to encourage them. They stepped forward and you eased backward; resembling a frightened animal now. They were still for so long, you were convinced they were preparing to attack until one of the figures in the doorway seemed to take notice of your quivering shoulders and immediately lifted their hands in an act of surrender.
That made you feel... uneasy. You'd never seen anyone take up such a vulnerable position like that. Especially in front of you.
You stared at them, unblinking, like the seconds it took to do so was ample time for them to drop the façade and kill you. You weren't sure what to think of the peaceful hand gesture, but one thing was for sure. You didn't trust these people no matter how much they looked like you.
"It's okay. We're not going to hurt you," one of them spoke. An adult male, you recognized, and you lifted your head to listen intently to them. Their voice... it was strange. Colorful and full of emotion, it filled your body with something warm and uncertain. Like the sensation you got when the man with glasses spoke to you, only, this was better. You were so entranced by his first statement, you barely realized he'd continued. "We want to help you. Can you tell us your name?"
Name... You furrowed your brows and looked at him now, truthfully, for the first time. The one speaking was far more visible than the others due to the color of his shirt and hair. Both were gold, like the medical lamp that hung over the operation table in the room, only, it didn't make you feel as grossly uncomfortable.
It'd been a long time since someone had asked you a question like that. "What's your name?" it was so foreign, yet so familiar. You had no answer though, so you didn't say anything. The stillness carried on.
The man in gold pointed at himself now and you tilted your head, confused.
"My name is Kirk," he explained. Ah, you thought. It was a fitting name for a face like that. "We'd like to help you if you'll let us. We mean no harm, see?" he turned to his comrades, gesturing they lower their small weapons, and they did.
For a second, you quirked a brow at him. The man in gold must've been a very important person or incredibly powerful... maybe both.
When you didn't immediately respond, he considered you sadly. It was an unusual face to have directed at you. Sadness. You could've sworn you saw pretty lady behind those eyes for a moment, and you shivered, relishing the phantom of her hand still lingering on the crown of your head. You missed it... you missed her.
You wondered what might've become of her now as the man in gold turned to the figure behind him, the one you'd yet to distinguish between the four. Something about him.
It didn't feel right. He gave you chills more viscous than the operating room did on its coldest day, but why?
"Mr. Spock," the man called Kirk spoke. "If you will, contact Mr. McCoy and let him know we have a patient for him."
"Affirmative, Captain."
Something slimy crawled up your back just then and your head snapped towards the voice. Things became clearer faster than the speed of light and you saw it... you realized what was wrong with him.
That voice. That body language. Those ears.
Your eyes grew ten sizes larger and everyone turned to look at you as something critical clicked in your brain.
Hatred.
Vile, hot, distilled animosity. It warped your whole face into something wild: a cross between rage and horror. Then you spotted it. The opening you had been looking for—an opportunity to attack. Their weapons were lowered to the ground, and the man in gold was standing away from the pointy-eared alien just enough to remain unharmed.
Time came shuddering to a pause and the world turned quiet for the last time in a long time.
"Captain," the alien began, his eyes briefly turning towards the golden man, but you never heard the rest. You got to your feet, pushed yourself off the wall with all the strength you had, and used the momentum to grapple the alien's waist and take him to the ground. Based on the way he tumbled, nobody had been expecting you to react this way.
You got on top of him, your legs boxing in either side of his chest as you wrapped your hands around his neck and attempted to slam the back of his head into the ground. You wanted to break him; to crack his skull into a million tiny pieces. All you could see was red. You were so angry. So frustrated. You wanted to kill him.
Slamming his head into the ground worked the first time, but by the second, he'd already managed to get his own hands around your wrists, working hard to pry them off. They wouldn't budge. You were using your broken fingernails to dig into his skin, yet somehow, aside from the slightest bit of surprise in his eyes, he didn't seem all that affected.
You hated that. You wanted him to be scared. To feel pain... to be hurt. You would've even settled for discomfort, but none of that was working.
You could hear pleading coming from the people behind you now. Hands trying to force you off of him, but you didn't listen; didn't comply. You were immovable like time itself. Nothing was going to stop you from fracturing his brain on the cold, hard ground beneath your bodies.
Ready to strike, you lifted the alien's neck a second time, your eyes boring into his tranquil gaze when suddenly, you found yourself hesitating.
It was his eyes. You were so startled by them you didn't know what to think, but when you looked at him, you realized they were... sorry. You might've even thought apologetic. Killing him didn't seem so appealing anymore. You were too appalled to move.
Surely this disgusting creature was only tricking you, but you'd never seen anything so disturbing. You stared for so long, the hesitation eventually ended and the world came flooding back full force. You were grounded all over again. Uncertain. But something was clear.
There was a split second of fear that filled your chest as one of his hands unexpectedly snaked from your wrist to the base of your neck. You looked at him, confused, and he looked back with this expression like he understood it. Without warning, the world caved in and went dark, and for the first, in a very long time, your dreams were quiet and all that was left was you.