Work Text:
He wakes slowly, cold and confused; when he blinks his eyes open all he sees is white. "Easy," a male voice says in English. "Take it easy for a moment."
Not a voice he recognizes, but he can't place where he might be, let alone who might be talking to him. The last thing he remembers--he frowns, trying to place it. Darkness, he thinks, dark and unknown, and he can't remember why or what he was doing, even who he was with.
A woman's face floats into his mind, dusky skin and dark hair and a tiny mole by her right eyebrow. She's important, he knows, but he can't remember. He closes his eyes, willing himself to focus. He just can't--
"Rani," he whispers, his voice hoarse and cracked. Rani, his queen, his wife--where is she? Where--
She died. She died and he had to flee with his family, and the memories come crashing down on him, one after the other; wars and politics and being forced into exile, off Earth, in hopes of...what?
Khan licks his lips, slowly sits up. "What year is it?" he asks, feeling unsteady as a newborn. The light hurts his eyes, his whole body aches, and he knows without looking around that whoever woke him it was not one of his family. This room smells of chemicals, antiseptic; the temperature is too low to be comfortable. He looks around, sees white machines and gray-clad people, marks one in particular as the leader—tall, paunchy, balding. Khan could take him down in an instant, should it come to that, but for now he bides his time.
“It’s the twenty-third century,” the balding man says, walking over to the table where Khan sits. “2259.”
Khan says nothing, taking it in. “What planet is this?” he asks finally.
“It’s not,” the man says. “This is a space station orbiting Jupiter.”
That might explain why the gravity feels a bit off, the air a bit stale, although Khan has honestly no idea whether his senses can be relied upon or not. He stands up carefully, moving through a series of stretches to loosen his muscles and flex his wings, taking stock of his body. Cold, yes, and stiff from centuries of not moving, but overall he finds himself in adequate shape for the circumstances. “My family?” he asks, meeting the balding man’s eyes.
He gets a sympathetic smile that makes him want to break the man’s jaw. “We haven’t been able to revive them yet,” the man says. “To be honest, we weren’t sure we could revive you.”
Lies, or partial truths at best. Khan doesn’t look away from him, even as he takes in the other two people in the room, likely both scientists or doctors. He could take this man down, but to what purpose? “Who are you?” he asks instead.
“Admiral Alexander Marcus,” the man says. “I’m in charge of Starfleet, our world’s military and science corps.”
Ah. Best not to kill him now, then. “When will you revive my family?” Khan asks politely.
“Not just yet,” Marcus says. “I need your help on something first, to be honest.”
“I know nothing of this century,” Khan says. “What could you possibly need from me?”
“You don’t know modern technology,” Marcus agrees. “You can learn. You know war, you know how to fight. You know tactics on a level no one else in this century does. The Federation—it’s a multiplanetary government—it has a war coming, and without your help we could very easily lose it, Khan.”
First use of his name, and it might be designed to startle him but it doesn’t. If any records of their time survived…well, there was ever only one ruler with wings. “So my family are hostages until I help you,” he says, calmly, not looking away from Marcus’s eyes.
“I’d hate to put it that way,” Marcus says.
Khan’s mouth twitches in what isn’t a smile. “And if I refuse?”
“I don’t think you will,” Marcus says.
“Admiral, I don’t take kindly to orders and I don’t negotiate with hostage takers unless the situation absolutely demands it,” Khan says. “I fail to see any incentive in this scenario for my assistance.”
“You will,” Marcus says quietly. He nods at one of the techs. “Take him to section 31.”
Khan doesn’t bother resisting the cool injection in his throat, and doesn’t fight the blackness that takes over his vision. He knows this Marcus, knows his character; he has fought him, killed him dozens of times over. The game they will play will not be pleasant…but in the end, he will win.