bakerstreet | The Attached Meme

[ ooc | So touch-telepathy without the touching. Let's do this. ]

[ ooc: Perhaps a mind meld inspired by murderous rage has lasting consequences? ]

Khan had no idea where he was. He couldn't see clearly, or hear anything at all. Was somebody still discharging a kill-setting phaser into him? Maybe he had suffered some profound and permanent nerve damage. He must have fallen to the ground.

Wrong sidewalk.

There was the bare-fisted Vulcan, and the energy-weapon carrying human. What happened to them? Something about a "tribble" but that wasn't right, and didn't neurological damage cause acute nausea? Or maybe Mr. Spock actually had fed Khan his own spleen and it didn't agree with his stomach? That wouldn't explain why Khan's entire body felt like it had been crushed between two beds of nails. Maybe he was a scrap of neural tissue that hadn't yet figured out it was dead?

Spock had let his human half reign free, and for that, it seemed he was suffering the consequences. Had he known there would be consequences, he'd liked to believe he might have acted differently, but that was a lie, and it wasn't even a comforting lie. Jim had died and all he had known in the hour after his captain's last breath was despair and rage. A shameful state for a Vulcan. And yet, when the emotions finally cleared, he found himself surprisingly free of guilt because Jim was alive. It seemed he wouldn't suffer any ill-effects from the spontaneous, madness-induced meld he'd performed on Khan to try to stun the augment.

Until he began to hear things. At first he assumed his shields had been damaged by the incident, and attempted to repair and strengthen them. Gradually, though, the voice became clearer and clearer. It wasn't possible. ...was it?

~ Khan? ~

Khan's thoughts were nowhere near coherent. For one, he had no idea what it was like to talk to someone in his mind. For another, he felt rather wretched physically, which was so unusual for him that it was profoundly disorienting.

Catastrophic brain trauma. Can they get blood with no brain? Culture a fragment of marrow from a bone shard?

In great contrast, Spock's thoughts were neat and orderly, but to someone unfamiliar with the extreme organization of a Vulcan's mind? It was likely overwhelming. He had multiple lines of cerebration happening at once; theories, solutions, observations.

Needless to say, the disorganization and incoherence of Khan's thoughts were an unsettling distraction.

~ There is no brain trauma. I only sought to stun you before you could crush my skull. I broke bone. Do you remember? ~

If Khan had any idea he was anywhere near a Vulcan's mind, he would have been even more confused. The room was spinning in a horrible violent blur and everything was pins and needles and broken memories and voices saying so many strange things. There were some numbers, nearby. Maybe if he could read them he could understand? Some were on the wall, some were on a screen, some were on the ID dangling off someone's coat. Were they related?

One, two. Seventy two. Thirty seven point three... twelve. Not twelve.

It was some sort of code? Broken code, like the broken bone. Leave it to a Vulcan to take a lyrical metaphor and interpret it literally.

~ Stop. ~

Even with his shields raised as high as he could get them, there was no escaping Khan's errant surface thoughts... or the fact that Khan was obviously picking up his as well. He took a deep breath.

~ You are in a Starfleet facility. ~

Is that such a surprise? No matter what I try, I just seem to end up right back in one or another of them.

If he tried to get the ID badge off the coat, maybe he could get a closer look... No, that didn't work. Now people were yelling. Again. And maybe that was some kind of alarm, but it sounded like it was underwater. Now the floor was touching his face.

What's happening? I thought everything had finally stopped.

~ I said stop. You must remain calm. ~

Khan probably shouldn't have been conscious. He was supposed to be in storage. The fact that he clearly wasn't didn't surprise Spock, not with all that he'd learned. There was a heavy pause, and then a flurry of incoherent words (all Vulcan), before:

~ I am coming to the facility you are in. ~

I'm not resisting. I simply tipped over onto the floor after trying to sit up.

Lying in a heap on the floor where he had fallen was a simple enough strategy, and it seemed to be working well enough. Everyone was afraid to go near him anyway.

I'm not where I'm supposed to be.

((ooc: care for a Kirk?))

[ ooc | Absolutely. ]

((OOC: I'm thinking 1 or 5...or 6 and just have it be natural or through a meld.))

[ ooc | Any of those work for me. /super helpful ]

Staring straight ahead became difficult, even on the Bridge where the view screen ought to have taken up most of his attention. There was a niggling problem in the back of his head, a voice he didn't really expect to keep invading his thoughts, but without any ability to turn it off, Jim chalked it up to being overtired and still recovering from that mission three days before. Telepathic aliens were something he'd had some experience with (thank you, Spock Prime) but he'd never been held so enraptured like that. If his first officer hadn't been on the away mission with him, Jim didn't know if he'd ever have broken free of their 'hosts.'

He'd thanked Spock, even after a sort of dizzying few moments where his entire life had become more or less available for Spock's study, and he'd thought that had been the end of it.

But the trouble was, Spock's thoughts and emotions had ripped through him too. And now...he couldn't seem to get the Vulcan out of his head.

He caught himself staring at the back of the commander's head again before he stood up. Time for a break. "Bridge is yours, commander," he grumbled.

Spock was not unaffected by the incident himself. It seemed that having to draw Jim out of the telepathic hold had created a (hopefully temporary) link between them. It was unusual, not to mention distracting, if only because Vulcans did not maintain telepathic contact with someone unless they were touching — or bonded as family or mates. Being a Vulcan made it somewhat easier to deal with the fallout; he'd raised his mental shields and spent more time meditating the past few days, but it didn't completely negate the fact that, every now and then, he picked up his captain's thoughts.

Like then, when he abruptly stood.

Turning his head enough to be able to see the blond out of his periphery as he headed for the lift, Spock finished the scan he was doing, stood, handed the conn off to Sulu, and followed after. He managed to catch up to him just before the lift doors slid shut and fell into place beside him, posture rigid, hands clasped behind his back.

"I request to speak with you."

"You are speaking with me," Kirk said, hands at his sides though shoulders just as rigid at Spock's general posture. He tried to force himself to relax, but he was just too tense, unconsciously mirroring his first officer without actually meaning to do so. "Deck Five," he told the turbolift and the doors opened almost as quickly as they had closed.

Spock followed him out into the corridor and Jim did his best not to purposefully alter his walking speed. It wasn't as if the Vulcan couldn't keep up, even if he decided to sprint down the hall instead.

"If it's about those duty rosters--" He knew it wasn't, but giving Spock, and himself, an out sounded good right about now. "I'm going to get to them. I promise. I'll have them uploaded to your PAD before the shift ends so you can rearrange them to your heart's content."

Frowning slightly at his captain's obvious attempts at deflection, Spock did something rare: he reached out and caught one of Jim's arms, fingers loosely curling over one bicep. "Please, Jim. We must speak." His eyes were dark but earnest.

Jim glanced to the hand on his arm as his stopped, jaw set. Jim. Not Captain. He'd learned to equate the use of his name and not his title to be the Vulcan's way of an attempted friendship connection with him, like he needed that demarcation like. The tone was a little worrying. "In my quarters," he promised, letting Spock take back his hand before they finished the journey. The door to his quarters opened for him and closed behind Spock, locking them in privacy.

Once the door closed, Spock resumed the stance he'd had in the lift, shoulders straight, hands behind his back. They had spent time in Jim's quarters before, playing chess and simply talking, but this felt... different, somehow. Perhaps because before they hadn't been linked, and before Jim hadn't been pointedly avoiding him while simultaneously staring him down when he thought Spock wasn't paying attention.

"The last mission," he began, only to pause and decide to take a different route. "Have you been experiencing anything out of the ordinary?"

For all of Spock's ability to adhere to a formal way of standing and communication, Kirk couldn't even manage it all the time when he was in dress uniform. He was naturally looser, generally more carefree. But today, he adopted Spock's rigidity like a badge...or because he suddenly couldn't help himself. It seemed the proper thing to do, which was a ridiculous thought.

Jim wet his lips, eyes only lifting towards Spock for a moment before he rejected his stands and plopped himself down in front of his terminal. Sensing his presence, the screen blinked into life hovering in the air over his desk. It illuminated his face in a blue glow.

"You...could say that. Melds don't usually have after affects do they? I mean the last time--" Which he couldn't talk about. Jim held his tongue, though surely, Spock knew by now of Spock Prime...and their meld. "Eh. Sorry. I'm just-- Did you do it wrong or something?"

Did he do it wrong or something? Spock knew it was illogical to be offended by that statement, but the fact that it was illogical didn't stop the curl of annoyance inside him, or the resulting lift of one slanted eyebrow. His posture straightened minutely, becoming even more rigid.

"The circumstances of our meld was quite different than any other. We were both under duress. Had the outside influences not been so adamant it would have been easier to break their hold on you. As it was, I had to go through them in order to reach you, and then I had to delve quite deeply."

Deeply hadn't been a word, before now, that particularly bothered him. Spock's admission, however, left him truly bothered and itchy. There was something about the way Spock's generally passive face contorted slightly that kept him from being able to swallow.

So what had he seen that deep down? Kirk's childhood? His pre-Academy coping mechanisms of heading to bars simply to start fights he didn't really have hopes of winning? What information had been exchanged?

"So... Did you leave something behind...?" Was there a piece of Spock in his mind now? Again, he felt that annoyance and knew he was not the source of it. Jim pressed his fingertips against the bridge of his nose. "I can feel you, okay? Like... Sorry for pissing you off about it, but I can."

The information from the meld was still in Spock's mind, safely tucked away. He hadn't examined it past the preliminary flashes when he'd first acquired it from Jim, and to be honest, until (if) Jim said he could, it would remain untouched. He had no desire to breach his captain's privacy any further than he already had.

At Jim's reaction to his annoyance, Spock flinched slightly. There was no point in denying being 'pissed off'; Jim could feel him, after all. He'd either let his shielding drop or the link was getting stronger somehow instead of weaker as he'd initially assumed it would with time.

"I... apologize," he began haltingly, some of the rigidity draining from his form. "The only way to know what has happened would be to meld again." A pause, before Spock added, "I have been able to feel you as well."

Edited 2014-03-23 08:29 (UTC)

Jim's face pinched in for a moment and he dropped his hand as his hand lifted. "I don't-- You don't need to apologize to me, Spock." It was just strange to see the other man's impassive face and still feel the often tumultuous emotions going on beneath the arching brow line.

Jim did the best he could to stay calm himself, unsure if they were feeding off of each other and what such a loop could do. Keeping himself calm, however, use to be so easy. Juggling the press of Spock's sporadic surface thoughts left him confused at best.

Another meld did seem the most logical-- Damn it. Kirk's eyes closed. "Yeah-- Okay. Um... Where should..." Standing up might not be the best way to deal with this so he gestured to his bed where they could sit together.

Spock's gaze darted to the bed when Jim gestured in it's direction. For a moment, it seemed he was going to say something. His lips parted, only to close just as quickly with a curt nod instead. Sitting was likely the better option. Melding was already a rather personal, intimate action; the setting made little difference. Moving to the bed, he sat down first, perching on the edge with his hands placed palms down on his thighs.

Edited 2014-03-24 01:14 (UTC)

Honestly, Jim didn't know that much about it, just that Vulcan hands were sensitive and...that made sense, didn't it? If they were touch telepathic, keeping their hands to themselves seemed about the proper way to go about things. No wonder Spock was very distant.

Wetting his lips, unsure of this, Jim steeled himself and tilted his chin downward slightly. "All right so... Uh... Just do it, I guess?"

There were very few species that truly knew about and understood the intricacies of Vulcan telepathy. Most information was speculation. It wasn't a weapon, although it could be used a one, had been used as one in the past, before Surak. It was inherently part of every Vulcan, deeply woven in their very DNA — and a Vulcan without telepathy might as well have been deaf and blind.

When Jim indicated he was ready (or as ready as he was going to get), Spock lifted one hand, carefully pressing his fingers to Jim's face, each fingertip over an individual psi-point. "My mind to your mind," he began. My thoughts to your thoughts.

He fell into Jim's mind with an almost disturbing ease.

Unlike words, thoughts came without any real linear pattern. One moment, Kirk was remembering a moment from childhood and the next, Khan was there. He was dying, then alive again. There was a bar where he hit on Spock's whatever Vulcans have instead of girlfriends. Pike. No Pike. Too much alcohol. Spock himself, so much older, so careful with Jim. His friend. His best friend. There had been a closeness there--

Jim struggled to hold onto that memory because it gave them a jumping off point. He fought like salmon in the streams on Earth, struggling to move forward against the current and pull some of Spock down into himself as well. A safety net. A blanket.

Eventually, their thoughts simply joined and it was like Spock had always been there. It was a comfort to be embraced, not pushed out.

I think I've forgotten how to sleep since... Since Khan.

The memories were a disorienting flash at first, one after another like a slideshow, only without any real order beyond whichever happened to be at the forefront of Jim's mind. He wasn't expecting Jim to latch on and try to drag him down. Most humans were psi-null. Even if someone understood telepathy, it was highly unlikely they would be able to react or even interact so ardently.

But Jim was reacting, was interacting, and Spock let himself be pulled in until their thoughts joined, merging like two different bodies of water.

The link was there. He could see it, glowing between them, bright and not at all fragile. Tentatively, gently, he plucked at the link and watched the subsequent ripples in awe. How...? Perhaps he had unintentionally left some of himself behind, but that alone wouldn't explain how the link had thrived all on its own, without the aid of himself or a healer.

I, too, have forgotten. You are not alone, Jim.

His own memories flickered around them, more controlled and concise than Jim's had been: He'd curled his fingers in against his palms, nails biting crescent-shaped marks into the soft, vulnerable flesh. He didn't feel the sting of pain, barely even registered that he was sobbing, breaths coming in harsh, ragged pants. His Vulcan heritage had failed him and his human heritage was a tidal wave of chaos, all of his careful controls shredded by the devastation that was Jim's death. Anger trickled through the devastation, tiny pinpricks of misdirected ire. The anger abruptly flared into a focused rage. Khan. Chasing Khan through the streets of London, fueled only by the need for vindication. Dark satisfaction when he broke the augment's arm.

I did not react so strongly even when... Even when his planet had been destroyed and his mother was lost. You compromise me.

You did try to kill me... The thought holds absolutely no animosity and the sudden memory of Spock choking the life from him over one of the consoles on the Bridge is something to laugh about now.

Spock had not had anyone to talk him through it, choked or not, when he went after Khan. And yet, Kirk had been witness to something he'd never even imagined could be possible.

The last few words of his first life, spent gazing up into Spock's tear-clouded eyes, had been whispered and tumultuous. As scared as Jim was, he'd needed Spock to be all right and they couldn't even touch.

Maybe that was where it started.

Maybe the Augment's blood inside of him was slowly changing him, or had changed him enough, to keep Spock close. Could it be his fault for all of this?

I keep taking advantage of you, don't I?

Shame-tinged amusement followed on the heels of that memory and Jim's remark.

You provoked me. As you often do.

He didn't consider what Jim did to be taking advantage. If Spock had more control — no, even then, he imagined he would bend over backwards for the human, no matter what the consequences. Consequences like the link, that he had no idea how to break, that he wasn't even sure he wanted to break. It wasn't up to him, though.

If you take advantage, then I allow it to happen. Jim, this link... is very similar to the bonding link between Vulcans. It is also stronger than I anticipated. I have had my shields up against it, so I did not realize until we joined.

As he spoke of the bonding link, a dim memory surfaced of a Vulcan girl just shy of seven years old.

There was almost too much information presented to him in Spock's memory push and Jim, with the limitations of a human mind, could not compartmentalize and analyze what he was seeing quite like the Vulcan could. However, a little effort and some trial and error, mixed with a little more creativity than Vulcans like to give themselves over to allowed him to replay the images slowly, like he was looking through data on a PADD.

His fingers even twitched slightly, a physical representation of what his mind was doing inside the shared space he and Spock had created between them.

A bonding link sounded fishy. How was it possible when one, Spock was only half Vulcan and Jim exactly no percent Vulcan? And about Uhura (and did that mean that Jim was going to have to look forward to whatever they did while alone)? And finally--

That girl.

Delving deeper, Jim saw her. T'Pring. The one Spock had been promised to until-- Well, he left Vulcan, likely, and started up his romance with their communications officer.

You forget; my mother was human, my father Vulcan, and yet they shared a bonding link.

He showed Jim a single thread, not nearly as bright or strong as the one between himself and Kirk — his connection to T'Pring, weakened by both distance and intent. It was no longer there, just a memory. She'd perished with Vulcan.

There was something deeper still, but Spock's shields were closed around it protectively.

Nyota and I are no longer in a romantic relationship.

Jim hadn't forgotten, he just thought that Spock's full-blooded Vulcan father had been able to do it... Or no, that was a lie. He hadn't even known that Vulcans telepathically bond before they mate. It wasn't in any of the books, Vulcans were secretive about their biology to a point where he remembered Bones flopping down on the floor one day and mentioning God damned side hearts! under his breath about a year into their stint at the Academy.

Where Spock's train of thought went, so too did Kirk's right up until he found himself blocked out. It felt raw and though he wondered if he could press into it still, he was immediately sidelined by Spock's admission.

"What?" It came out both physically and telepathically, that was how great his surprise had been. Wow. Sorry man.

And a jealousy that Kirk didn't even know he'd had faded.

Spock's fingers twitched against Jim's face at that outburst of surprise, and he raised his eyebrow again. Amusement rippled through the meld, then confusion when... something faded. Jealousy? Jealousy was not an emotion Spock had much experience with. Jealousy was illogical. Who had Jim been jealous of? Nyota, or —

He cut that thought short. It was a mutual decision.

Why? It wasn't exactly a question, more like a probing. The bond allowed for movements Jim didn't understand and Spock was understandably finding awkward to explain. There had been no bonding ritual, no tenuous start of a telepathic promise for eventual joining, and yet, here it was, quite accidental.

Jim immediately closed the question out when he realized what he was doing. This dance was impossible to navigate. He had two left feet.

Uh. So. This-- Us. Is it fixable? Did he want it to be fixed? Knowing it for what it was, couldn't it actually help them out? Relay commands, get through communication barriers-- Was that selflish?

Spock was aware of the human proclivity to gossip, to share more private information and as such he didn't take offense at Jim's question, simply let it go. Two left feet or not, he was still doing remarkably well, all things considered.

He hesitated when Jim asked if 'they' — if the link — was fixable. No, not fixable. If it could be removed. ...I do not know. Traditionally forged bonds can be broken by a healer, but at a cost. Because broken bonds were a wound; they festered and ached and eventually scarred over but an empty space was always left behind.

It made little sense for Kirk to lift his hand and mirror the touch (incorrectly) on Spock's face, but he'd done so, somehow, unfocused as his eyes were and living as he was in the bond rather than in physical reality for the moment. We're months away from any of your people, Spock, Jim thought, not testily, but in relief. Giving this up seemed impossibly wrong, but so too had sucking in his first gasp of air after Bones injected him with a serum of Augment blood.

And what if that had facilitated this whole mess? Made Jim susceptible? There were too many impossible questions.

I could ask you. Him. Spock knew about himself by now. Jim found no reason to hide it anyhow. The universe was not going to collapse. If anyone would know what all of this is suppose to mean-- Well two Spocks are better than one, right?

Spock is lucky, in a way, that he was not exterminated on the spot once captured by the creatures known as the Daleks. The fact that he was an unknown humanoid species meant that he was instead sent to their laboratories for experimentation and categorization.

Possibly dissection.

But first they had to find a way of interrogating him and so far, all of the usual threats and methods had not had any effect. But there was an experimental neck implant that they had been working on...why not test it now since they had such a captive test subject?

The implant was inserted by a Dalek who had been part of it's development. But he had no idea that the implant was not going to have the desired effect on the Vulcan. It was intended to give Daleks control over another species by controlling their minds. Instead, it connected Spock to the Dalek operator performing the surgery.

Da-leks are the superior spe-cies. All other spec-ies are inferior. They will be exterminated.

The Dalek's thoughts were a continuous mantra of its species. Cold, calculating, unemotional. They all thought as one. And at the moment oblivious that it's thoughts could be overheard by another.

Under other circumstances, Spock might have found his situation fascinating. As it is, he's trying to keep himself calm. Starfleet trains all its cadets ways to undergo interrogation and torture. Vulcans have an advantage in that, being more in control of their physiological responses, and the Dalek's interrogation techniques were rather lacking. At least, until they implanted something in the back of his neck, and he began to pick up thoughts that were obviously not his own.

Immobilized as he was, he couldn't turn his head to look at the Dalek. Instead he remained still, eyes closed, focusing on the dry mantra that was being repeated over and over again in his head. Also unaware that the link apparently went both ways.

~ If they held honor, they would be similar to Klingons. Attempting to exterminate all other species is illogical and impossible. ~

"It is not im-pos-i-ble," the Dalek scientis reprimands the prisoner. His fellow Daleks swinging their eyestalks around because they didn't hear the first part of that conversation. But the Dalek in question doesn't realize Spock's thoughts were not spoken aloud.

"Who came with you to this planet? You will tell us where you have hidden your ship." The Dalek trying to activate the implant to force Spock to talk as he slides forwards, eyestalk close in to Spock's face. "You will answer."

Opening his eyes, he stares at the Dalek for a moment, face completely impassive. Oh. The thought link went both ways. That was... perhaps something he could use to his advantage.

~ No, I will not. ~

...malfunction. Recalibrate.

The Dalek believing the error to be in the implant itself. A few minor adjustments should take care of that. Right? He can make the adjustments inside of his armor, actually strengthening the connection instead of reversing it.

"If you will not, you will be ex-ter-minated."

The other Daleks look at each other then to the Dalek speaking to Spock. Something was not quite right here but they couldn't put their finger....erm...tentacle on it.

[ M/F for anything shippy. ]

[cross-canon totally welcome.]

"Not again." Mike groaned as he sat up, wincing, and fighting off flashbacks. The last thing he remembered was being pinned down yet again, a needle coming toward him, and now, just like before, he couldn't remember how much time had passed.

Instinct had him checking his ear, but the earwig was gone, just like his watch, and while he could feel the injection site and something at the back of his neck--

Goddamn it.

He shoved to stand up, looking around, and narrowed his eyes when he saw he wasn't alone in the dim cell. "Because they just have to go kidnapping everybody," Mike muttered under his breath and took the few steps between where he'd been and where his fellow captive was. A girl, he saw. Brown hair, generally dressed primly. This was going to make life interesting.

Crouching, he extended a gentle hand to her shoulder. "Hey. Hey, c'mon, wake up."

Simmons stirs groggily, the last of the sedatives clinging to her thoughts like taffy, thick and sticky. "Eurgh. Ward?" The puzzlement rolls off of her in waves, Why would Ward be..."

She scrubs a hand across her face, prying open eyes gummed shut and grainy-feeling, blinking the cell and the unfamiliar man beside her into focus. Reaction comes at a slight remove, adrenaline slicing through the lingering drug haze, and she flails backward, shoulder colliding with the wall as she manages something midway between seated and sprawling. "What-- Who are you? Where are we?"

The team Fitz where are they are they caught?

"Take it easy--" He raised a hand toward her to steady her, then raised both, showing himself (disturbingly) unarmed. He'd love to have a gun right now, or a knife, or something other than just his fists, but he'd make do as soon when the time came.

And then the realisation struck. He'd heard words in his head before, someone else's thoughts, but it wasn't like this, it was deeper, it was--

His hand practically flew to that sore spot at the back of his neck. "What the hell did they do," Mike growled, thoughts immediately turning to rage, pure rage as his head whipped toward the cell door. There were bars at a height that he could see through but he wasn't sure about her, and that was good enough because he was the one at the door, grabbing hold of the bars and looking out, almost daring anyone to be visible.

The fury, utterly alien and divorced from Simmons' own struggle to orient herself shocks away the last of the cobwebs, and forces a strangled gasp past her lips. She clambers to her feet, slowly, caution born half of instinctive wariness of this snarling stranger who moves enough like the operatives she knows that she's fairly sure she doesn't want to be a target, thank you, and half of stiffness that leaves her uncertain as to whether her legs will want to hold her weight just yet.

Dendrotoxin and something else, sedative, we really need to figure out how people keep getting hold of these things... flits across her mind, analysis half unconscious, even as she lifts a hand to probe tentatively at the back of her own neck.

The man's reaction had left her suspicious, but the hard, stinging lump that is not at all the ridge of a vertebra is unwelcome confirmation - though of what, exactly, she isn't entirely certain.

She draws a slow breath, steadying herself, and forces a sickly smile. "That is a very good question."

"Yeah, it is, and will you please stop thinking sciencey words at me? I'm about two inches away from falling into some flashbacks, here--" Beneath his words was an undercurrent of memory, far too close to the surface for his liking. A deep, dark, demanding voice growling, Merge with me, whispers of the name Karr, and, chasing it all, the feeling of safety in the single word Kitt. "--and I won't be any good to either of us that way."

Bastards, they knew, they had to know, they're going to die, okay, Mike, shut up, calm down, plan--

"So. So why did they pick you? Why did they stick you with me?"

He turned away from the door to ask that, giving her the space, giving her room, keeping himself near the entrance so that if he heard footsteps, he could act.

"I'm a scientist!" comes out somewhere between indignant and baffled, with a weary undercurrent of bloody operatives running through her thoughts. "I can't just not think about it, especially if we want any chance of getting this - this mess sorted out."

She folds her arms across her chest, the defensive gesture only serving to make her look younger than her years, and exactly as out of her depth as she actually is.

"I have no idea why they'd pick me."

It doesn't ring entirely true - SHIELD looms heavy in her mind, a collection of faces and a weight of secrets that she doesn't, mercifully, focus on clearly enough for anything specific to bleed through.

"Not unless they want something they can't get on their own. Or it's some sort of sick test."

That thought, he caught immediately and turned with his frown directed at her this time. "SHIELD. You're with SHIELD."

Shit fuck fuck shit no hell no can't have him--

"Do me a favour. Once we get out of here, forget you met me."

What if they have him--

Another deep breath and Mike turned back to the door. "Okay, so, they stuck a SHIELD agent and a FLAG operative in the same room with these things in our necks that are... at least transmitting thoughts and emotions, because I've got to tell you, I'm not going to hurt you, so you don't need to be afraid of me. Be afraid of whatever these people did to us."

"Scientist. I'm a SHIELD scientist. And we're not the bogeyman - I don't know who you're afraid of us having, but we don't go around just kidnapping people. That's nonsense propaganda."

Idealistic as she is, Simmons believes that with all her heart. Which doesn't make it even halfway true.

They're just very good at justifying it.

"Besides, if you want that...that thing out of your neck, we're your best bet. I doubt these people will give us access to a medical bay and the time to use it."

Even if we were clear on what they're meant to do. Oh, they'd better have files accessible.

He needed, he knew, to put Kitt out of his mind. If it was obvious just who he was, then eventually, they'd ask, and--

"Let me put it this way," Mike said quietly, his voice a little dark. "I've already met a SHIELD agent who tried to take him, so excuse me if I don't exactly believe you. Unfortunately, you're probably right about the surgery part."

He heaved a sigh and took a few steps toward her, extending his hand. Even in the dim light, the Army Rangers tattoo on his forearm was visible, sitting just beneath his elbow as it was. "So how about we call a temporary truce. Whatever SHIELD crap I hear from you, I won't tell. Whatever FLAG crap you hear from me, you won't tell."

Simmons hesitates for a moment, indecision writ clear in her expression even above the tattered edge it lends to her thoughts.

Skye wouldn't hesitate.

She gives her head a brief shake to dislodge the self-recrimination and her discomfort at so blatant a breach of protocol both, and reaches over to clasp his hand. Her gaze lingers briefly on the tattoo, drawn by the contrast between ink and skin. "All right. You have a deal."

She manages a smile, strained and wan, and squares her shoulders as she pulls away. "Right, so. Do you have any thoughts on how we're getting out of here?"

"Well, it depends." He looked over their surroundings, her clothes and his own, and took stock. "They took my belt, my wallet, my shoestrings, my knife, and my gun. I think they left you in about the same shape. No electric in here, no furniture, and the hinges are on the outside. And I'm betting you'd prefer it if I didn't kill our way out of here."

But his mind was already spinning out plans. They have to feed us sometime.

And once they opened the door, Mike could deal with it from there. It'd be easier if he could just down every one of them and make sure they couldn't get back up, but he could make do with unconsciousness.

Do I really seem that stupid?

Simmons bites the inside of her lip, wincing a little at the sting of the unconscious gesture, and shakes her head. "I'm SHIELD," she says quietly. "I might not be fond of the idea of leaving a trail of bodies behind us, but I'm not hypocritical enough to insist that our escape be bloodless. Besides, they kidnapped us, subjected us to medical experiment, and are planning to...I don't even know what they're planning to do. We're not the ones who started this."

Are we? What's the connection? Two organizations, both targetted. What's the connection?

Mike's verbal answer was easy enough. "I'm glad you don't care if I bust a few heads." It gave him a lot more freedom. It wasn't the FLAG way, but it was Mike's way and right now, Army Ranger meant more than FLAG operative.

But the answer to the second, unspoken, question came quick and instinctively. Tech. And he had no doubt that she heard that, and he let his reasons reel through his mind on that most obvious level. Rooms full of screens, government connections pirated, a shining black surface changing colour, changing shape, a voice--

It was the voice, though, that he squelched down.

"I bet they want to ransom us for information."

Simmons frowns slightly, brow furrowing in puzzlement. What--? half forms before she kills the thought, burying it under the same trained in protocols that keep her from going half-mad wondering at intel far above her clearance level.

It isn't that she doesn't ever want to know, it's just that she's learned not to ask.

"Too simple," she says, words coming a bit too rapidly, on the verge of sliding into babble. "They wouldn't need these for that, and they have to know neither of our organizations would treat it lightly, our being compromised." 'These' is punctuated by a vague gesture, from her head to his and back again. "Unless they can ransack our minds in an afternoon, the implants suggest a longer game. Which is truly, deeply disconcerting."

The image of a body, apparently unharmed but for the stain of blood leaching across the white of one eye surfaces like a soap bubble, laced with dull fear and quiet, simmering fury.

"These things..." He took a breath, shaking his head. "Yeah, you might be right, but these things aren't as... as nothing as you would think."

Mike paced away from the door, hands coming up to his temples to rub. There were subtle old scars there, subtle enough that it was likely she'd not noticed him and it would probably stay that way unless he pointed them out, but he could feel them under his fingers.

"It seems pretty benevolent now. I can think at you, you can think at me, we pick up some things that neither of us intends to share, but there it is anyway," he said, half-rambling, "but it gets worse. Like what if I keep getting angry, or you get scared, or I get stuck in a flashback. It isn't just one of us that's affected. It's both. It goes both ways. And what if they broadcast on a frequency that these things pick up. What if they start taking over?"

On those last two words, his voice tightened, belying that he knew more than what he was letting on - but he kept his thoughts tightly under control. Some things, she didn't need to know.

"It doesn't seem benevolent at all," Simmons protests, though any further argument is cut short with a spike of worry. She hasn't noticest the scars - in the dim light, it's unlikely she would, even had she known to look. She does notice the gesture, the near rambling - she's medic enough that her first thought is symptomatic.

She crosses the room to intercept the path of his pacing, one hand lifting to touch his shoulder in a silent request to stop. Her gaze searches his face - or rather, his eyes, searching for any hint of unusual pupillary constriction. As much as she can, without a proper light source. "Do you have a headache?"

In another situation, it would be ridiculous. Earnest as her concern is, it might be anyway.

His eyes, in this dim light, managed to pick up just enough to look red instead of their usual brown. Not unusual for him - something he's heard before, actually, but never something he was conscious of. And when she stood there in front of him, hand at his shoulder, he stopped, took a breath, and started to shake his head before he had to be honest and nodded. "Starting to. Probably just stress. Blood pressure. It happens."

The pain is part of the project, Mike, someone spoke in his memory, but he shoved it aside stubbornly. "Sorry. Like I said, flashbacks. Not my first tango with this kind of thing. Etcetera. And if that particularly loud thought hadn't been a giveaway, my name is Mike. Michael Knight."

The colour is unusual enough to provoke a flare of unease, and Simmons spends a moment longer than is strictly necessary examining his eyes. Long enough to ascertain that it's just an unusual pattern in the iris - or, if not, it's something she's never seen before. She steps back, dropping her hand away, and frowns up at him. "Or it's a side effect of the device of unknown origin interfacing directly with your central nervous system. I don't see anything amiss, but if it gets worse, or if you start feeling ill, let me know straight away."

Not that she could do much, with no med kit and an empty cell, save shout at their still-mysterious captors.

The rest processes a moment later, and her eyes narrow. "When you say 'this kind of thing', you don't just mean the captivity, do you?"

"No. Even though that's not new, either." The expression on his face wasn't pleasant - part wry, part dark. "At least we're not being waterboarded, which I will work not to show you, but I'm a few years out of practice with the whole keeping-my-thoughts-to-myself thing."

A few years and a nice amnesiac block which liked to waver in and out at its own happy little convenience, it seemed. Memories leaking through when he really didn't want them--

"Old governmental project," he said instead. "Black op. Probably blacker than SHIELD knows about. I can't tell you much about it because, thanks to that project, I don't really remember much about it. But I was an Army Ranger, so I can get us out of here as soon as they open that door."

A flash of realization bursts across the surface of Simmons' mind, not so much new data as something she'd been very carefully, if not entirely consciously, not thinking about. Regardless of the intended purpose of the implants, as torture devices they would be virtually unparallelled.

The magnification of recursive feedback alone would be astronomical...

She shakes her head sharply, hitching an unsteady breath. "Well, there's an apalling thought. Let's hope they do open the door before we need to find out just how creative they might be."

"And let's hope that you don't get the feedback of when they start hammering on me," Mike murmured. "So, since I'm going to change the subject, how about you give me your name since I gave you mine?"

Something nice and calm, something that would let him brace for when he started hearing footsteps outside in the hall.

Simmons blinks at him in surprise, the look fading into one of chagrin as she realizes that no, she really hasn't introduced herself yet. It's not that she doesn't have manners, it's just that they're incredibly easy to misplace.

Especially when there's kidnapping involved, which still isn't really something she's used to.

"I'm sorry. I'm Jemma Simmons. Not that anyone really calls me Jemma, except for my mum and dad. And Fitz, sometimes."

Fitz. You'd better be all right.

"Fitz, huh? Think he'll care if I co-opt your first name, or do you answer better to Simmons?" He was careful to keep a lid on the flirting. Now was not the time or the place, no matter how natural it was for him to drop straight into the usual flirtation. Now was the time to wait, to listen, to see if he could hear anyone approaching.

If it took too much time, he'd kick the door out, he decided. Surely he could get enough leverage in the right spot for that to happen.

"You're making fun," Simmons accuses, though in truth, it's almost a relief. Bickering and banter is enough a part of her everyday life that it's come to signify normalcy - or, at least, the absence of looming mortality.

"Call me what you want. Being inside each other's heads is intimate enough to put us on first name basis by anyone's standards."

She crosses her arms again, tight across her abdomen, willing herself silent and still. Her thoughts are harder to quiet, and she turns them toward cataloging the likely contents of a medical lab, and their utility in an escape attempt.

"Then call me Mike." The name 'Michael' still put a face in his mind that he wasn't sure about. He might actually have to talk to him if he got out of this.

Her mental cataloging was actually something of a comforting litany as he paced, this time more slowly, more calmly, across one side of the cell. "If I hand you a gun, will you freak out?" he asked, making his own plans. It was one thing to be able to have one gun, but if he could count on her to at least carry one and hand it over when he needed it, that would be better.

"I'm not afraid of guns," Simmons replies, looking up from the patch of floor she's been using as a mental background with a slight frown. "Unless you point one at me, but really, that's just common sense. I've had very little occasion to use one outside of a test range, but I won't panic if I have to handle one, and I won't shoot myself, or you."

She just isn't entirely sure, if it came down to it, how capable she would be of consciously and deliberately shooting anyone else, either. Nonlethal weaponry is one thing, but actual bullets can't be taken back.

He nodded, filing that away. "I'm not going to ask you to shoot anybody," he said. "But I will ask you to hand me guns as we go. They'll be armed somehow, I'm sure, since my tattoo isn't exactly invisible, and it'll take less time to switch guns than it would to scavenge ammo and reload since this isn't a video game." But there were other possibilities. "If they don't have guns, they'll have tasers or something like that, and that'll actually be more troublesome. I hate getting tased, but if I can get you a knife, the handle should insulate you from the current and you'll be able to cut the wires."

[It started three days ago, with an 0-8-4. The object itself was cigar-shaped, metallic and ominous. It looked to May like a missile, and it lived up to her expectations by detonating, splattering everyone and everything in a decent radius with a clear viscous substance they couldn't then, and haven't now, identified. The telepathic connection manifested overnight, affecting the entire team in pairs: Fitz and Ward, Coulson and Skye, May and Simmons. They're following quarantine procedure on the Bus, until they get this figured out.

In recent hours, Simmons has probably learned more about the plane than she'll ever need to know. May's been thinking extensively and frequently about aircraft controls, flight instruments and avionics; strictly and deliberately controlling the direction of her thoughts. It probably isn't altogether flattering that she feels the need, but she's using the same techniques she would to resist interrogation. Paranoia is the wrong word for it, largely because she doesn't give that much indication of having anything to hide, but she's guarded.

This morning, she curbed a thought about the importance of protecting Coulson. It felt dutiful, probably wasn't suspicious; not an inordinate amount of concern to have for an old friend. With her it's sometimes impossible to draw a clear distinction between personal and professional. In case anyone's betting otherwise, she's got emotions. Her frustration is only natural for the situation. She's angry, too, but not about this. It isn't the type of anger that surges up in reaction, more like a vast undercurrent, something she holds as a constant. It's unclear how much of that is a lingering effect of the Berserker staff, and how much she's carried for longer.

Simmons stands the best chance of resolving this situation, and May doesn't want to be a distraction. She had some limited success quieting her thoughts with tai chi, earlier. It's a shame she can't do that all day. She's expending an awful lot of mental effort to keep her walls up, and that can't go on forever. She's been listening, too, to the inward process of Jemma's work, and although she doesn't understand most of what she overhears, she knows the answer to her question before she asks.]

Any progress?

[Three days since the 0-8-4. Two days since they'd awoken, no longer alone in their own heads. Simmons has been immersed in her work almost exclusively following the latter, breaking only to eat and sleep, and even then only under an internally recited list of all the physiological reasons that doing otherwise would be unproductive.

In terms of scientific progress, in terms of the time it takes to identify an unknown pathogen, let alone an unknown pathogen of potentially alien origin, it hasn't been that long. Subjectively, it feels like forever, and not only because of the unfamiliar thoughts, the unfamiliar emotions - and the guilty certainty that her own thoughts are twice again as intrusive, lacking both the strict control and the depth of training to keep them directed.

Simmons knows the protocols for infected cargo, and there has been an internal clock ticking down from the moment quarantine went into effect, the quiet certainty that they are running on borrowed time. Even if it's only one person to one person, even if there were no chance that the links could spread further if given time and proximity to flourish, the pathogen's too dangerous to risk wider exposure.

She's buried the doubts under formulae, drowned them with neurochemical pathways and neuroimaging and real-time brainwave readings, but they're still there in the quiet moments, strengthened by every dead end.

Last night, she dreamed of plague. Tonight, she'll probably dream of infected navigational equipment.]

None.

[She forces a smile, sickly and half apologetic. Her own thoughts can't be comfortable company, and for her own part, she feels like a voyeur every time a wait cycle disrupts her concentration enough for her to be consciously aware of what's leaking through the connection.

Even if most of it is more than she'd ever wanted to know about how planes function.]

I can tell you precisely what symptoms we have, and what the likely cause for each one is, but isolating the primary effects of the pathogen is - is like piecing together a jigsaw puzzle blindfolded.

((Be prepared for a lot of angry surface thoughts.))

[How does some unwanted brotherly bonding time sound? I can start if you're up for these two.]

[ ooc | Unwanted brotherly bonding time is best time. ]

[Thor couldn't know he was alive, that would not only be difficult to explain, but it would also shoot (or rather, beat) holes in his plans. Thor's reaction to his death had been touching, to say the least, and sending his 'son' off with his 'almost good blessing' was his way of reciprocating. Something or another lead him back to Midgard, and he couldn't quite put his finger on why this item made him uncomfortable. It had fallen from the night sky without much sound, landing itself in the desert, just as a certain Asgardian had arrived, minus the bifrost. So, investigating it was probably the safest thing to do for now. Allying himself with his brother, though Thor was unaware of his identity, as he hid in the form of one of his new friends, was the easiest way to keep track of the son of Odin while he did so.

What he didn't count on was the device humming to life and striking both of them with a beam of light as they approached. Wonderful. When he woke, he resumed his illusion of the scientist with the rage complex, rubbing his neck. The artifact seemed all but animate now, leading him to wonder if maybe it had all just been very bad timing. No, if they hadn't been struck by the artifact, then what had hit them? It had to be the device in front of them.]

Thor. Hey, buddy--[He reached out to shake the god by the shoulders. We don't have time for you to slumber like the overgrown child that you are.]--wake up.

[ For a brief moment in the span between unconsciousness and consciousness, he could have sworn he'd heard Loki — but when he opened his eyes, Banner was there, not Loki, because of course Loki was dead. Groaning, Thor sat up, looking around before he remembered where they were and what they were doing. The artifact... It had struck them with some kind of light and throw them a good distance away. ]

Are you all right?

[ With the force of that shock, I am rather surprised he hasn't changed. Thor looked the scientist up and down, attempting to check for injury. He knew the human was strong, but they knew absolutely nothing about the artifact. ]

[When Thor began to awaken, he directed his gaze back to the artifact. Something about this device... He didn't like it at all. He wasn't looking when Thor spoke, nor was he looking when Thor didn't speak, yet he still heard his voice. And because he wasn't looking, he didn't realize that Thor hadn't actually said anything.]

Yeah, I'm--I'm okay. Just, y'know, a little shaken up. [Banner stood, brushing off his clothing and settling his glasses back on the bridge of his nose. Thor's examination would reveal no discernible injuries.] Thanks for the concern, but the big guy's under control right now. [I'm not thick enough to simulate his rage on you, brother. That would be a disaster neither of us can afford. They were probably both lucky the real Banner wasn't here. Thor was right, that jolt would have probably set the unstable monster off.]

What about you? [He cast a glance back at the God of Thunder.] You're pretty invincible, right? But who knows what that thing did to us until we can figure out what it does.

[ Thor didn't immediately think anything of Banner's comment about 'the big guy'; it was easy enough to assume he might be concerned, all things considered. But then there was that second remark. Brother. Loki's voice, not Bruce's. Had he imagined it? Was the artifact playing tricks on him?

You died in my arms. Why am I hearing your voice, brother?

Pushing himself to a stand, he brushed a bit of sand off himself. ] I'm fine. We need to get this somewhere it can be safely examined. [ Assuming they could get close enough to move it at all. ]

[Thor's voice invaded his thoughts again, this time, however, he whirled around on the blonde, his mouth slightly agape with widened eyes. Had he heard that right? And why did it sound like a comment not meant for anyone's ears? As if it had been an internal thought not meant for voice. This was mad. Madness. Absolute insanity, but... Why are you hearing my voice? You can't possibly hear me... can you? No, of course you can't, I'm simply being paranoid.]

Uh--yeah. [Well, that was certainly eloquent. He needed to shake off this shock and slight worry, because it was unjustified. Of course Thor couldn't actually hear him... Focus, Loki.]

Examined and hopefully shut down. I hate to admit, we might want to give Stark a call, unless you think you can lift it. [It stood nearly six feet and probably weighed as much as a small car.]

[ That left no doubts. He was definitely hearing Loki.

But how? Perhaps I need to return to Asgard... His body was not returned, he was not properly lain to rest. I am sorry for that, Loki.

Giving a slight shake of his head, he tried to put his thoughts aside, returning his attention to the artifact. It was big, but he was fairly certain he could lift it, just so long as it didn't repel them again. ]

No, there's no need to call Stark.

[ Thor took a few steps closer, until he was standing right in front of the artifact. Reaching out he ran his hand down its surface; it glimmered faintly, but didn't do anything else. ]

Strange. This is not Asgardian.

[Oh, now don't be hasty brother! You're needed here, are you not? Your woman--Jane Foster, was it? She needs you here. You needn't worry about the likes of me. He didn't know how or why, but if Thor really could hear him, he needed to keep up the Banner farce more than ever. However, it was terribly distracting!]

No? Huh. Then I wonder where it came from. [Of course it's not Asgardian. Were it that simple, we would not be in this predicament. He may be able to use this to his advantage. Or so he hoped.]

No feedback or anything? So, it hit us with some kind of--well, I'm starting to wonder if it was actually an attack. I thought it might have been a defence of some kind, but now I'm not so sure.

[ Thor didn't look back at Banner, eyes narrowing on the artifact instead. There was something strange about the way the thought voice was responding; it was almost like Loki was right there, could hear his spoken voice as well.

We are not in a predicament. You are not here. You are supposed to be dead. Or was that another falsehood?

He hadn't thought so at the time, but given Loki's nature, it wouldn't really surprise him. Thor turned his head enough to be able to see Bruce out of his periphery. ]

Where shall I take it? It will be easier for me to fly and meet you there.

[Inwardly, Loki flinched. Just what COULD Thor hear of his thoughts? All of them? Judging by that response, he would say 'yes'. All of them. Time to tread more carefully...

We are, dear brother. You are hearing my... voice in your mind, are you not? I would call that a predicament if ever there was one. I may no longer be with you in life, but my soul can soon rest easily in death if I am to see you are doing well. Did I not die for you, brother? It was not to appease our so-called father.

Oh, he was so in trouble if this continued on. Was it this device, perhaps? Why now could Thor share thoughts with him and how does he turn such a power off? How does he play Banner while simultaneously keeping Thor away from the truth while they share some kind of mental link?]

My uh, lab. That temporary one I called you from. That should work for now. [The walk back might give him time to think this through a little more carefully.] I'll see you there. [Or so he thinks.]

[ You did not die for me. I am no fool, Loki.

Hefting the artifact over one of his shoulders as if it weighed no more than a pound, Thor turned toward Banner, nodding once. His gaze swept up and down his form once more, this time not in search of injury but mere observation. ]

Yes. Be careful. We still do not know what this device might have done to us.

[ With that, he pushed off the ground and launched himself into the air, shooting in the direction of the lab. ]

[It took you this long to grow out of that childish gullibility? That wasn't necessarily meant to make it to Thor, but he wasn't going to worry if it did. It was the truth, after all. You--

Banner staggered as he watched Thor's form take off. It wasn't long, at that speed, that he felt his head swim with dizziness and nausea churned his stomach. He dropped to his hands and knees, the illusion flickering, but not yet breaking. It took everything he had left not to let it fall completely. Was this some violent side effect? Was it his new distance from the artifact? Or was it the sudden space between himself and Thor?]

[ Thor himself was about a mile away when he was hit with the very same dizziness and nausea, and the next thing he knew he'd dropped out of the sky and was sprawled in the desert sand with the artifact thrown several feet away. Groaning, he squeezed his eyes shut tight, trying to fight of the vertigo suddenly assaulting his senses.

What's happening? Bruce... Loki. ]

[Loki groaned and dropped to his side in time to see thor fall from the sky. He pushed up with a struggle, beginning to run, with a swaying stagger, in the Asgardian's direction until he heard Thor's voice in his head again. He wasn't worried. But his pace did slow. If it was that easy to be rid of Thor, he wouldn't have made it as far as he did.

Good to see you aren't dead. Divided concentration in combination with the waves of nausea and vertigo continued to effect the illusion around him. He needed to make it back to the artifact-- It isn't the artifact. It's Thor. Had it been the artifact, Thor wouldn't have been struck as well.]

Edited (Image code broke on my phone because I suck.) 2014-03-23 16:21 (UTC)

[ The wave of vertigo seemed to ease some, enough that Thor opened his eyes and rolled onto his side in order to push himself to his hands and knees. He was distantly aware of Bruce running toward him. Was the man... flickering? No, that had to be part of whatever he was suffering from just then. Letting his head drop, he lifted one hand to press it to his forehead. He could still hear Loki.

It's not me. I have no control over... this, whatever this is. ]

[R-right, of course. Well, as soon as you figure it out, please do share. Because honestly? He isn't even sure he really understands it. What was the purpose of such a device? I can't make any sense of this new connection...

Meanwhile, he's still making his way to Thor across the expanse. Still trying to uphold his illusion. Still being a deceiver. He should have just left this device alone and let Thor handle it with his new little mortal friends, but curiosity had gotten the better of him, and now he was paying the price.

Why do you always make my life difficult? Oh wait, no, he's supposed to be dead. Even after it's expired! Will I never be free of you? Nailed it.]

((ooc: I know, wrong time line, but do you have any objections?))

[[ooc: I'd love to rp off your Kirk, so not at all! Would you prefer they ran into each other before or this is a first time their time lines have encountered each other?]]

((OOC: Awesome! How about some standard form of ionic storm and boom, one young Captain in the wrong timeline? Or Bones could come to him. Also amusing.))

((ooc: Sounds good to me, maybe on an away mission?))

So here he is, staring at people in familiar uniforms who stare back at him without familiar faces. Jim's faced these situations before and his hand is already on his communicator. "Uh. Hi there. Sorry, wrong transporter room," he says, trying to be a little sing songy about the way he speaks, as if the accident is really nothing major at all. As if ending up in some other ship's buffer happens from time to time.

It isn't.

It doesn't.

"Didn't know any other Federation ships were this far out," he says, and goes to step off of the platform only to have two security officers intercept him. Jim's eyes narrow. "It's all right, fellas. My name is Captain James T. Kirk of the USS. Enterprise. Go ahead. Look it up. I'll wait."

The transporter chief behind the console blinks at him and then at the man in medical or science blues standing to his left. When he speaks, it's in a Scottish accent. "What'll you have me do with 'im?"

McCoy was right in the middle of glancing again at the PAD, at all the files that were gonna need updating after this trip - particularly those megaflora near the oasis, especially after that bout of solar flares. Considering the outposts in this area relied on it heavily as an antibiotic, it was going to be a world of trouble if they found it suddenly poisonous-

He never got further. McCoy had looked up just then when the transporter came to life. A familiar outline materialized with an equally familiar hum. McCoy started to breath that silent sigh of relief every time that thing didn't go haywire, then froze when the shape solidified.

This was Jim, but not his version. The Captain was about as baby-faced as he'd been when they'd first met. At least that much was obvious from the start, unlike last time. For one second, he almost checked to see if he was going to have a younger Spock with him. He hoped to God he didn't see a beard on him. Dealing with anything like that hell had been plenty.

He was certain it was him though. Only Kirk pulled that amount of smart ass and smooth charm, like he'd only gotten off at the wrong floor. It reminded him of that first meeting; Kirk had been laid out, shoulda been getting bed rest for the next several days, and McCoy had walked in on him mid-flirt with a nurse with ten years on him and half-way dressed to leave. When Kirk turned that devastating smile on him and tried wheedling to let him out early, cranking up the charm all the way, McCoy knew he had trouble on his hands. The worst part was that he'd almost given in too!

Running into another universe once is more any sane man should have to go through, McCoy thought sourly, and the less you did it, the better. Or time travel. Time travel was something else a man could happily live his entire life without. It was either those possibilities or this was his Captain, aged down and hopefully not aging further with each hour.

McCoy leaned in towards Scotty, speaking under his breath. "I'm taking him to sick bay. Can you post some security outside and find Spock?" He gave the transporter pad a dour look. "And it might be a good idea to check that thing."

He turned towards Kirk, tucking the PAD under his arm. "I'm not having you waiting on that pad, blocking it up. Come on."

Edited (typo) 2014-03-19 00:40 (UTC)

Sick bay? Sick bay sounded like a bad idea. He glanced between the two men with a morbid sense of curiosity about him and narrowed his eyes ever so slightly when he just so happened to overhear 'Spock' in the mix. The hard sounds of his first officer's name were sort of ingrained in his brain. That was not his choice. He always got too caught up in his arguments with Uhura and she was very fond of overusing the Vulcan's name.

Annoying.

He side eyed security and and strode towards the man talking to him with a look he recognized and eyes he knew even better.

"Time travel now?" Yeah, that probably could have been louder, but not much. The personnel in the transporter bay all glanced at one another and Kirk zipped his lips shut with a smirk and a finger waggle at his best friend. Funny, he thought to himself. Almost got me. Clever trick. How did they find a guy that looked so much like Bones might a few decades in the future? He bet Scotty was behind this.

He was going to take away his shore leave! Not that Scotty would mind. His chief engineer seemed to be a little bit in love with the Enterprise. He'd take away his tech manuals then!

Resolutely following 'Bones' to the sick bay, Jim glanced at the unfamiliar hallways with a growing sense of discomfort. Something wasn't right at all. He knew every class of ship in the fleet and this didn't really match any of them.

McCoy looked at him sharply when Jim blurted out that out, almost the very moment he'd thought it. Then again, with everything they'd gone through and how close he was to the Captain, coming to a similar conclusion was bound to happen. Glad one of them thought there was anything funny about this. Maybe in that sense that if anyone was going to root out the strangest damned things to happen to a person, it was going to be the Enterprise.

The doctor led the way, keeping half an eye on him as he headed for the closest elevator. With any luck, Spock would be found and they'd come at the problem from two sides, while he silently went on hoping there wasn't a life-threatening deadline to Jim's "condition".

What McCoy couldn't explain was the growing sense of unease going down his back, less anxiety and an expectation he'd find a knife in his ribs like when they'd been on that other Enterprise and more like he'd walked into somewhere that should seem familiar but wasn't. McCoy tried to cover it up by leading Jim towards the elevator at a brisk pace. He pushed the button, then turned to him. Lord, he was never going to get used to looking him in the face and seeing him like this.

"So what's the last thing you remember?"

Since when did turbo lifts have levers? Jim's stomach kept right on sinking the moment the doors whooshed shut and didn't open up again a moment later. These things shouldn't take so long. He had no idea that the intrusion of a single Romulan ship in his timeline where none had existed here could have propelled technology so fast. It had been a muse to so many, even without getting any glimpse of it. The idea alone had sparked a new Renaissance, had changed so much.

Spock Prime never really bothered to fill him in on his past. He still had Jim believing that it would rip time and space apart! Bastard.

What is going on here? the Captain wondered, lights trailing over his face before the lift stopped and the doors slid open. He almost didn't follow the medic out. Disquiet had taken the place of curiosity and wonder and he had stopped thinking, halfway down the corridor, that people were laughing as they watched him.

"My first officer and I were collecting samples of a plant my CMO wanted with a few junior botanists. I heard you mention Mr. Spock. I'd like to speak with him."

McCoy looked at the handles for a moment as if surprised to find them there, then silently gave himself a tiny shake - the lift handles were just about every starship and he'd probably given every single one on the Enterprise a death grip thanks to all the red alerts over the course of this mission.

He studied the younger Jim out of the corner of his eyes, from the way he stood to the way his jaw kind of squared itself when he was thinking something over.

A sense of disgruntlement went through him that for once wasn't his when it came to Spock. Bastard.

...What the devil?

He almost didn't notice the security Scotty had posted near sickbay. Several of the crew passed by, not laughing like he had suspected they would, but minding their business. Made sense, he thought. It wasn't like they had met Jim when he was younger, so none of them were going to think twice about a young man in gold coming down the hall.

That sounded about right, except Spock had come up a few hours earlier. Possible memory lapse of a few hours? McCoy filed that away with the tiniest of frowns.

"The commander will be down as soon as he can," McCoy said, putting the PAD down on a counter. He motioned Jim to follow him into one of the single rooms, away from the two other patients sharing the main area. He motioned to the bio-bed, pulling up a stool. "In the mean time, I want you to sit tight. Have a seat."

"The commander--" So. This was the Enterprise. But not the Enterprise. This was a joke of an older crew, but not a joke either. Though he did sit down, Jim held out his hands like he was going before a potential firing squad and turned decidedly bluer than usual eyes up at the doctor. He didn't like the disquiet. He didn't like the silence or the feeling that he knew this place without knowing it.

The Captain was a genius. Reckless, idiotic, philandering, manipulative, yes, but still a genius. There was a reason that he was the youngest Captain in Star Fleet and it didn't have a lot to do with charm. You couldn't charm a Vulcan. He knew. He tried. He just needed a moment to sort out the facts here.

Transporter trouble. Spock onboard already but had not been with him on the transporter pad. Bones' eyes. Scottish chief of engineering--

Spock Prime came to mind a moment later and with it came a groan more like McCoy's than his own.

Jim half-fizzled and then laid back in a huff, getting mud all over the bio-bed. He almost snapped at himself for that and let his legs hang over the edges instead to spare the equipment any more contamination. "I really hope your me didn't end up on my ship or my you is never going to let me live it down...especially if I get a receding hairline or a pot belly by this point," he said in an attempt to be funny. It didn't entirely work for either of them.

Edited 2014-03-19 12:33 (UTC)

Now that he was looking at him, up close and personal, McCoy could see that there were some differences. Eye color for one - seeing blue instead of brown, on top of having a younger version of Jim here was enough to make uneasy, that same twist of disquiet that came with seeing that other Spock's beard. So far, at least, this one didn't seem bloodthirsty.

Or he was waiting for an opening, he thought grimly. McCoy wished he hadn't thought it just then, but after too much time spent in that other universe, it was hard to shake that feeling like you had to watch your back.

So this likely was another Jim, so at least he didn't have to deal with Jim aging back down to nothing, which was the only plus he could see here. More brushes with other realities. Good lord. McCoy wanted to sigh. They were barely into the first week of this month and here he'd begun to think they were out of the woods when it came to finding trouble head first. That just maybe this month might be a quieter one.

McCoy got settled on the stool, smoothing back his hair and rubbing wearily at the back of his neck. He'd signed up for this, and most of the time he enjoyed the mission, but there were days - and this was one of 'em- where it aged a man early. He was in his forties going on sixty at this point. Jim (any universe's version of him) needed to come with a warning; may be hazardous to your health and add ten years to you.

"Don't worry about getting it dirty, we can sterilize it," He said absently. He leaned over, jotting more notes down, then gave him a Look. "I hope I don't let up on you, you need it. My version of you doesn't have any of those yet - 'course you could do with watching your health more before you get them. You aren't going to stay in your twenties forever.'

Fingers threaded together and settled over his chest, blue eyes or no, Jim looked like he always did at rest. There was something so stiff about him when he thought and though anyone that didn't know him might assume that this was the spitting image of a carefree captain without a care in the world, McCoy could see him for what he was, deeper down. Good captain could make the stress of it seem effortless, though their brains could never stop working, not even for a moment.

The smile on Jim's face was fleeting. "You keep threatening to take bacon out of my diet," he said before sitting up again. Restless and for good reason. He was about to open his mouth again when the door slid open and the third Spock he had met so far in his short life strode in with his arms clasped behind his back. There was something wary in Jim's eyes towards the Vulcan, who greeted him with a single raised eyebrow. "Took you long enough," he said, an attempt to be cheeky underlying something far more subtle.

Spock looked Jim over and turned to McCoy. "Doctor? A word?"

Now that riled Kirk up and he slid down off of the bio bed. "If you're going to talk about me, you might as well do it in front of me," he bristled.

Good god, they have had that look like they'd rather be anywhere else but sickbay, like two seconds lying down was going to cost them the ship. Jim might look like he was completely relaxed, but McCoy knew him well enough to know otherwise, just from that tension in his shoulders and hands. He wanted to be up and about, not sitting idle.

"That's not all he'll get you with if you continue with the way you're goin'," McCoy said with some relish. Talking about another him like he was a stranger and not him was still never going to get old. But if their version of him was McCoy at all, he only needed two guesses as to how he'd react.

With the faint relief at seeing Spock show up, was the uneasy feeling that it certainly took the Vulcan long enough. He'd just been thinking that. He needed Spock a lot earlier, but there you had it. McCoy shot the younger Jim a sharp look. Sit down. "If you're really James Kirk and a Starfleet officer, you'll understand why we gotta follow the proper procedures."

McCoy stood up, locking the PAD in a drawer and stepped outside with Spock. Always the optimist, the doctor started with, "I hope you're not going to tell me that's our Jim, or our universe is melding into theirs or one of them is imploding, or we're never getting our Captain back."

With a nose turned up at the locked desk drawn and a niggling sensation in the back of his head that he actually knew how to get into it, Jim snorted at the older versions of his friends and crew and settled back on the bed. His eyes just scanned the unfamiliar-familiar ceiling, attempting to discover why, exactly, he thought he knew every inch of the sickbay and yet, obviously did not. This wasn't his ship. His ship was a piece of art. This one seemed two generations behind.

Once secluded away from prying ears or eyes not quite the right color, Spock resumed his typical stance, feet apart and hands behind his back to gaze down at the doctor.

"Preliminary scans do not show similar circumstances to those in which we had previous encounters with parallel universes, doctor." Quick and to the point. That's our Spock. "That being said, his biological scans do not seem entirely accurate with those in the database. You, however, would be the expert on that particular fact. The margin for error is roughly two percent, which I believe is also the same marginal different between chimpanzees and humans. There is one other thing of note. This Jim Kirk's delta brain waves are impossibly high...as are yours. I have requested a sensor diagnostic to be performed immediately."

If it weren't for the fact that he was exactly where he should be and Spock was right here, McCoy would have given in to the need to pace, to look around and check and double check everything was as he left it, because there was something mighty funny about this ship-

McCoy had a brief moment of relief. He could knock some of those worst-case scenarios off. Spock, of course, was quick to find some way to take a dig at humanity any time he found a chance. A frown started on his face. Course they could always start examining what percent of similarity Vulcans and humans had. Of course a connection proven at all or had much basis, since Vulcans were from what he'd seen, an entirely different species, but it was a way to take a dig at Spock having that pesky human fifty percent to him.

Besides, what had Vulcans come from? Those lizard things he saw skittering near the arena? For Jim's sake, McCoy kept a lid on it. Barely.

"What? Why do I need a scan? I've been on the ship the entire time," McCoy got out. He kept his voice down - the walls could be damned thin when they wanted to be. He didn't bother to hide the aggravation. "And why the devil did you request a scan on me behind my back?"

"Standard procedure, Doctor," Spock said with as much respect as his otherwise emotionless voice could muster. "Anyone in the vicinity of the malfunctioning transporter had been required to undo scans, performed in the transporter room once the malfunction was detected. In this case, Mr. Scott triggered the scan. Doctor, as of now, you and this version of the Captain have nearly identical delta wave functions. I would advise more testing."

There was a movement, slight as it was, of the Vulcan's eyes towards the room at McCoy's face just before the door opened.

It turned out that Jim hadn't had to rely on thin walls. He could more of less sense the words as they were said, the indignation of the unwarned scan, and the implications of it. Jim was no longer smiling or cocky. He had no stomach for it. "Figure it out, Spock. Whatever you need to do, do it," Jim said, taking the reigns because he was still on the deed to this ship, age appropriate or not.

[ooc: couldn't pass this one up, what scenario should we try for?]

[[ooc: maybe either 1 or 5?]]

Gem had been by Dr. McCoy's side during the whole away team mission to the new planet. She had prided herself on being a good assistant when he needed another hand. If maybe a slightly distracted one when it came to the flora of the planet. She had picked a few of the prettiest flowers, offering them to McCoy.

Not knowing they had a few chemical properties that were a bit unexpected.

It didn't really kick in till they were back on board the ship. Gem had gone off towards her room...and collapsed on the way, feeling very ill the farther she had gotten from Dr. McCoy. Something was not right. One of the Ensigns found her and notified sickbay at once.

Edited (sorry, adding stuff) 2014-03-19 06:25 (UTC)

He could get used to having an assistant like Gem around; her abilities made her an incredible asset to the team when it came to the science department, and he'd think her a damn natural, with or without those abilities. On top of having that intuition, she was naturally curious about all the new things to see and do, and sometimes it helped remind them all that what they did wasn't ever going to be run of the mill.

McCoy had been right in the middle of getting settled in when someone was rushed into sickbay. He had only just put the tricorder down when the call came. The doctor came striding out of his office.

"What the devil happened?"

"I don't know, she just collapsed in the hallway," the ensign was saying, putting Gem down on a table. It was then that she opened her eyes, confusion painting her features. She was not in sickbay a moment ago. Her mind trying to explain the lost time as she tried to remember what had happened.

The nausea, the feeling of being lost, too far away....and then the floor coming up at her.

Something must be wrong. At least her friend McCoy was here, she brightened when he came into view. A true friend that never gives up, her surface thoughts betraying the name she had given to McCoy since she could not speak herself. Even her thoughts are not exactly words, more impressions and strong emotions.

Lord. The worry that surged through him was sudden and intense; there was a lot science didn't know about empaths and especially ones of Gem's species. Strangely enough there was also an odd sense of nausea in his throat, so brief that he wondered if he'd even felt it.

He hoped to God something hadn't in injured her on the mission. MccCoy stuck his hands in the steri-field nearby, then reached for the field reader tube, leaning over her and letting the sensor run. The concern was clear on his face, despite the fact she was conscious and seemed in a good mood. You didn't just collapse and get on with it.

The problem was that empath or not, McCoy himself had no such luck. Sometimes it felt like he had to resort to asking twenty questions, because when it came to telepathy or anything like it, he didn't have a lick of talent for it. Maybe a knack for drawing telepathic intrusions, but at least he couldn't get in anyone's head himself. "How are you doing?

She felt better. Like nothing had ever happened, McCoy probably wouldn't find anything unusual with his scanning equipment. Nothing wrong physically...

Her face tented with worry, the emotion fully realized in her own mind. Something's wrong, it must be. My friend is worried too. Her expression shifting to a more questioning one. Am I alright? Are you alright? I want everything to be okay.

{For character info and kinks, please see his journal. c: }}

It's unwarned. A searing flash of green light, a flood of nausea so swift Onyx barely restrains his lunch. He stands, and floor seeming to shift beneath him, and he steadies himself on the table. Quick look, no coin...waitress hasn't returned he can't leave.

...Yes. His jaw clenches. Yes he can. On the napkin he writes in pen, You've earned extra, then leaves the café with slow care he's loathe to afford. Outside, in this little town square, Onyx finds a bench and sits, hangs his head and rubs his temples, his sigh terse and heated.

'The impact's worn off a bit,' he thinks, 'but...may no one need die today.' A clench of fear, sudden tensing in body and mind alike. 'A meeting...I didn't check the calendar. That'd be worse--!'

Another lurch, hand automatically at his mouth. Just when he thought it was fading...

Kaede's glad that he hasn't eaten much today. After getting some stares from an impromptu dive for the bushes (thank god he kept the bile down...) he shakily stands up. Maybe those weird words he heard are just his imagination?

(Maybe I've caught the flu?) he wonders. (I don't have a fever, though. And I know nothing I ate caused it.)

Sighing, he wanders down the sidewalk, only to pause as the feeling starts to abate, and he stops when he sees a strange person with an eye patch.

And the ill feelings are gone. He smiles very briefly in greeting. (He-llooooo, sexy!) "Ah. Hey there, and pardon me. Are you busy?"

(I feel better, anyway. Thank god. I'd have to miss work and classes....)

Flu? He blinks. Doesn't remember anyone saying that, never mind he doesn't recognize the voice...brains are odd. Even as the nausea lessens, his thoughts focus on that light. Not a picture flash or sun glare. Saigon rolls couldn't have hit that hard, poison wouldn't be that instant... 'Still, my life's not worth risking. I'll make it up to them.'

He clicks off his phone and pockets it, looks up as Kaede approaches.

"You're in luck - my whole day's open! Something you need?"

Onyx's smile is soft. What he's hearing in his head matches this guy...not enough to believe, but weird as this is, it's a minor inconvenience. Onyx's, ah, happy to assume he misheard that 'hello' comment and say nothing of it.

(What the hell. I keep hearing shit. I don't have anything to make up to anyone....)

"Not exactly." He tilts his head just slightly. (I should just say it already.)

"Forgive me for being forward? But I think you're adorable. Wanna hang out?"

(I wonder how he is in bed. With a body like that, I bet he's pretty great~)

'Adorable...that's a rare one.' But after a moment Onyx stands.

"Nothing to forgive, and thank you for the compliment besides. Chance you're hungry, we could snack - the saigon rolls are worth more than their price."

He supposes there're weirder circumstances to meet someone...and as Onyx talks, he looks towards the café, if in a shoddy attempt to turn any possible attention away from his small grimace.

'It is him, isn't it? ...Still. Could it have been planted, a trigger pulled? If it was someone, do they stay? Did they leave?'

Not in hang out mindset nope.

"No, thanks. I felt a little nauseated earlier. I don't think I could handle being in a cafe right now. But would you object to walking around with me?"

(All those smells are bound to drive me crazy - tasty or not.)

...

(What the hell I keep hearing things!? "Him"? "Planted"?! LALALALA I CAN'T HEAR A THING LALALALA SOMEONE MAKE IT STOP AM I GOING CRAZYYYYYY???! WHAT THE HELL!)

All the while, Kaede's expression is very calm. As if nothing's happening on the inside. "My name is Ueda, Kaede, by the way. Pleased to meet you."

Welp, that mental ear-plugging snares Onyx's attention and he just...kinda slowly looks back at him, eyebrows raised a bit. 'He hasn't figured it out yet? He's been listening, hasn't he?' And with the contrast of thoughts and face...Kaede reminds Onyx of himself. That is never a good thing. He laughs.

"First and last already? Ken - pleasure's mine. And given your aversion, we'd best go left - never mind it's only appropriate, but the beach's that way. Mostly sea to smell then..."

Aaand he walks. 'Let it sink in...hope it will, that is.'

"Huh?! I didn't..."

Ohhh. It dawns on him, and he huffs, hunching his shoulders as he follows.

"The sea doesn't always smell like roses by comparison." He stuffs his hands into his pockets, huffing a little. But just as quickly, his tone turns a little more gentle. "But, thanks."

Onyx laughs again. "Not a fan, then? I only suggested it to see if you'd pick up on what I actually said. You're welcome, though. And I...hope you don't correlate a fine body with a finer experience - helpful as it is, there's no substitute for skill."

He's still worried, though. Has a semblance of a plan imagined in images - get the footage, hopefully a face, call the man whose life is locating...Onyx smiles to himself, slows so Kaede can walk beside him instead of behind. 'Never thought I'd want security to function...'

Yeah, kinda forgot for a moment they can hear each other's basic thoughts.

"Hmm, so it goes both ways? Neat. Ah. So that means you heard my thoughts."

He wonders if it can convey pictures, but since he doesn't see any of the pictures in Onyx's, Onyx probably can't see the very lewd depiction of Kaede being very forthcoming with his skillful tongue.

...Wait.

"Security? Do you mean like financial stuff or something?"

It's good he doesn't - he'd consider putting out his other eye and becoming a wise master of martial arts.

"Cameras."

Onyx stops walking and withdraws one of his phones, dials and waits, careful to keep his thoughts on elevator music because...precaution, like the pictures had been.

"Yes, Sir Gent? Open the windows of Sunrise Café - we're in need of the owner of a green flash." A pause, and Onyx's small smile twists, his patience moments from break. "Would you like to meet his sister?"

A silence, he sighs, content, and thanks whomever he's on the line with and cuts connection. Onyx, uh, doesn't say anything because how Kaede reacts will determine part of how he treats him here on out. All his stupid little tests annoy the hell out of his coworkers, for sure.

...What.

(...What. A green flash? ...Sister? ....????) Utterly confused, Kaede forgets for a moment that his thoughts are audible to Onyx. Well, "Ken".

But he was trying not to pay attention to the phone call. It would be rude to. He doesn't even recognize that it's probably a code.

"...You say confusing stuff." Not that he minds.

'Well. Disappointing.' Good job being weird, Onyx. He looks at Kaede, a brief confusion, then scratches his nose because...because.

"Just before the nausea, there was a green flash. As it's unlikely to be something the cafe routinely inflicts upon its customers, I say the source is someone. They're reviewing footage from the security cameras - I'll get a call back with the - pardon - flasher's location and name, whom we'll meet and...persuade to change us back to normal. Sound like a date?"

Plan, Onyx. Plan.

[Not the worst day ever, but in the running for top ten...]

[He isn't expecting it, who would be? Natsuno taking a walk and something splashing on him from overhead. Not just him, but another man who is coming from the opposite direction.

The first thing he does after pushing his hair out of his eyes is look up to see if he can spot the culprit. When he doesn't, he turns and glances at the other man.]

Are you alright?

[Whoever that was, I'm going to find them and break something. Natsuno seethes internally.]

Edited 2014-03-20 02:34 (UTC)

[Given the size of his bangs, Edgeworth takes a little longer to recover from having been doused from above by what he first assumes to be diluted vinegar, to judge by the smell. He doesn't look particularly pleased with this development even as he, too, looks up to no avail, not having seen Natsuno do so first.]

(It seems that not only is my dignity under assault, but I'm hearing things as well.)

[Regardless of all the evidence of his annoyance, however, the prosecutor ultimately responds to the stranger curtly:]

I'm fine, thank you.

[The smell isn't pleasant and all he wants to do is wash it out of his hair and his clothes for that matter.

He blinks at him when he speaks.]

But you just said you were hearing things. Didn't you?

[I didn't hear anything.]

[A bit of unease creeps into Edgeworth's thoughts, though his face simply firms into a glare.]

I said nothing of the sort!

(I am not such an open book as Wright! How on Earth could he have guessed that I thought such a thing, and to what end could he be playing such mind games with me as to suggest that it was not in fact confined to my internal monologue?!)

[His eyes widen a little as it dawns on him what's going on.]

Didn't you?

[He closes his mouth and offers instead a telepathic thought or two, just to see if he picks up on it.]

[I'm not really the type of person to play mind games, really. If you're hearing this, know that I think I'm hearing your thoughts. This is an unusual circumstance for me. I hope he can't see secrets...]

[The last thought is a bit of an accident.]

[As Natsuno's mental message registers in Edgeworth's mind, the latter's unease starts to grow into fear. His face changes little, but his glare breaks as he can't quite keep his emotions out of his eyes.]

(But... but that's entirely impossible! It has to be!)

[...But before that train of thought can get far, it's interrupted by that unintended addendum -- something that calls the mental image of a strangely-shaped glowing jewel to the surface briefly, along with a feeling of discomfort.]

[He exhales and shakes his head a little.]

[I've learned nothing is impossible. I don't know what that is though. This is a serious problem though, what should we do about it?]

I think we should go somewhere a little more conducive to a private conversation.

(To begin with, I need to get my wits about me.)

[He pauses to force himself to calm down; while his emotions don't go away, they at least are soon contained enough to no longer be derailing his thought processes. He then looks around while digging a small plastic bag out of an inner blazer pocket.]

(Everything begins with evidence.)

Given the correlation, we ought to take any samples of this liquid we can while the opportunity remains.

[Starting, apparently, by wringing his bangs out into the bag.]

We can find someplace to discuss the matter further afterward.

[I completely agree. Logic is what's important.]

[Natsuno is willing to do the same of his hair, although much of the liquid is actually down the back of his shirt.]

I looked, but I never saw anyone. [Or sense them either.]

(How can one claim to value logic while believing in supernatural senses?)

[As soon as the question comes to mind, dread manifests to block off an answer. In turn, the prosecutor pushes both down alike with a shake of his head.]

Nor I. I presume you were the first to look, then. There is the possibility, however, that we may find something if we can only make our way up there.

[Edgeworth seals the small plastic bag as he speaks.]

[It's a long, unpleasant story.]

[He turns his attention back at the building, shielding his eyes from the sun. His mouth is set in a firm line.]

It looks like an apartment building, that would be my guess.

[Maybe there's a drain pipe around here...]

Then we should speak with the landlord, should he be available, in order to investigate.

[Edgeworth glances up and shields his eyes himself at Natsuno's thought of a drain pipe.]

(For the liquid to have come from such a source, it would need to have been blocked or broken -- something more easily judged from the roof.)

[...Not that Edgeworth seems to like the idea of being on a roof with no fence or railing, but the fear there is much less desperate and more easily outweighed by determination to find the truth.]

We can't possibly know from which apartment it came from, unless it came from the roof.

[He looks around for that drain pipe. Seeing it, he sighs a little. The things that come up sometimes.]

[I could go up the pipe to the roof.]

That's not necessarily the case. I don't recall hearing a window closing. Do you?

[Edgeworth looks to see whether any of the windows in the immediate area above them are open.]

[As for the thought of climbing, that prompts an incredulous look.]

(Would that not be incredibly dangerous?!)

I didn't hear anything.

[He gives the other man a bit of an exasperated look.]

[There isn't much to worry about. Even if I fall, I won't be seriously injured. Well, I might be, but it will mend rather quickly.]

[For some reason, the images of a teenaged girl and a partly-burning building spring to Edgeworth's mind.]

Delusions of invincibility will get neither of us anywhere! If we're to investigate the roof, we should do so properly.

[And with that, Edgeworth starts for the door to the apartment building.]

Delusions?

[He lets out something of a humourless laugh and a memory of his own surfaces of a boy sinking his teeth into Natsuno's neck. Naturally this is accompanied with a sudden rush of fear at the memory, although he pushes it aside rather quickly.]

I can assure you I'm not delusional, but I have no qualms about doing it your way.

[Edgeworth shudders at Natsuno's memory -- not to mention the brief surge of emotion that accompanied it.]

(Does he actually believe such a thing happened?... That's ridiculous. He must be mistaken...)

[Edgeworth shakes his head, then opens the door and steps inside...]

[...only to stagger to one knee and clutch his head with one hand and his stomach with another.]

Nnggh... ugh, wh-what?...

[If only that was the case. When he staggers, the same ill feeling strikes him and Natsuno lets out a little groan.

He was fine to stay out there and wait, but he finds himself leaning against the side of the building in agony.]

[What happened? What did you do?]

Gnngh... I-I didn't do anything! (Except...ngh, this is preposterous, and yet...)

[Edgeworth crawls back outside, then toward Natsuno. Sure enough, once much of the distance is closed, the feelings of sickness and disorientation quickly fade away.]

(What just happened? Was it because I removed myself from the area where the liquid landed?... No, that can't be the case, or he wouldn't also have been affected. It's almost as though...)

[The headache is definitely not appreciated, but the fact it stops when he comes closer makes Natsuno frown.]

[A telepathic link and a proximity issue? Just what landed on us?]

[It's a few slow breaths as the sting leaves his head and he groans lightly.]

Honestly, what a thing to happen. We're going to have a problem then. At least one.

[Edgeworth carefully climbs to his feet.]

Verily. Apparently, this investigation is far more critical than we first realized.

(It's as though our minds have suddenly become both interconnected and interdependent -- but could a simple liquid possibly do such a thing simply by being splashed upon two people crossing paths, or are we missing the true catalyst?)

[If I were to guess, I would say we are missing something, something important. I'm not sure what the liquid does, or how it fits into everything but we can't at least deny what's happening here.]

[It's possible Edgeworth may feel his frustration on the matter. He takes a deep breath, then another before sighing.]

I should introduce myself if this is going to take some time. I am Natsuno Yuuki...or Koide. Whichever is fine.

(I don't want to believe this, and yet...)

[If Natsuno is frustrated, Edgeworth is deeply unsettled.

The introduction leaves Edgeworth blinking in bewilderment.]

(How am I supposed to retain formality under such conditions?)

Miles Edgeworth.

[Aside from it being a formality, I thought you might be curious as to what my name was. How do you wish to proceed? I'll begin by saying I cannot enter that building. Just one of the many problems I mentioned.]

A pleasure, Mr. Edgeworth.

[He crosses his arms over his stomach, leaning against the wall again. He's trying to think of some kind of solution. Anything they do has to be together, right?]

(I mean that it's more proper to refer to most people by their surname unless they request otherwise or fail to provide it.

There must be a fire escape... but I can't believe such a thing is necessary. If there were only time to simply learn the number one must dial to reach the landlord...)

[Outwardly, Edgeworth simply nods in response to Natsuno's spoken words.]

Edited (Errors) 2014-03-20 08:22 (UTC)

[He tilts his head a little, confused.]

[You're welcome to attempt it, but I cannot enter private property, at least not without being invited by someone who lives there. Unless this is your building of residence, we'll need to come up with something else. Or perhaps this investigation is a lost cause when we should be figuring out what this liquid we collected is.]

I wasn't suggesting you drop decorum or anything like that. Feel free to address me by my surname.

Edited (Oops, coding.) 2014-03-20 08:35 (UTC)

[The (Prove it,) that drifts through Edgeworth's head at Natsuno's claim of inability to enter private property without an invitation is reflexive. As the younger one goes on to suggest that the investigation might be a lost cause, the prosecutor bristles with deep offense.]

I refuse to accept that there is no way we can approach this investigation -- particularly not given the resources I have at my disposal.

[As he speaks, he pulls out his cellphone from another inner blazer pocket.]

(The detective may not be the ideal person for the job, but he'll have to suffice.)

[It is easy enough to prove. Natsuno pushes off the wall without comment and walks up to the door of the complex. Before he can get his hand on the door, he stops. Having found the barrier, he leans against it, leaving several inches between his body and the door. A somewhat effective trick.]

What kind of resources do you have at your disposal?

[Now that sounded interesting. A detective? Just who is this man?]

[Edgeworth stops just before dialing as Natsuno demonstrates the presence of an apparent barrier that he himself did not experience -- and he knows full well that no one put something transparent there in the interim. Under the circumstances, the prosecutor's brain breaking is probably quite perceptible. Sorry, Natsuno, it'll be a bit before your questions about him are answered.]

[He sighs a little bit and straightens up, leaning against a visible wall instead as he waits for him to regain his senses.]

[It's a good thing I didn't lead with, 'Hey I'm Natsuno and I'm a vampire'. Well, a Jinrou anyway.]

[Since it's daylight and all, it's probably best to qualify that. He'll try and quiet his thoughts for the moment, so Edgeworth can recover from what he knows is some very sane shock.]

[Edgeworth makes a few undignified choking noises before his mind finally processes things enough for it to register horror at the idea that there could somehow be such a thing as a vampire. As if the situation weren't nonsensical enough as is...]

This... this is a nightmare. That has to be the only rational explanation...

[...Oddly, while fear does seem to be registering, it's not actually directed at Natsuno himself.]

Not one of my worst, but yes. It certainly feels that way.

[You should try to calm down. I have no intention or inclination to hurt you. This other circumstance should worry you more than me. A strange directive, I know. I can only give you my word after all. You look like you need a cup of tea or something like that. Standing here isn't getting us anywhere.]

(It does seem as though you mean no harm, and yet the implications...)

[Vague glimpses of memories that clearly disturb the prosecutor crest the surface of his mind -- a murder trial with a vague case from the prosecution and a defense centered on an insanity plea, an article in which the police were accused of having relied on a spirit medium and falsified a case based on her accusation... fresher memories of another, different murder case, in which the victim is that same alleged spirit medium, centered around a mountain temple and the motive established for the killer relied on her not being a fraud... Edgeworth is quick to push these aside with memories of the former case finally being solved, however.

The last two thoughts on Natsuno's part only seem to frustrate Edgeworth.]

(Don't patronize me! I know full well that I can't afford to be so weak!)

[I'm not patronizing you. Realizing there are things like me in this world is...]

[He can't help but remember how he discovered it. The feeling that he's having a nightmare, unable to move on a futon on the floor. A girl with pink hair sliding out from under the bed upon which the boy who bit him is sleeping. She bares her fangs and bites him. When the spell breaks and he jumps to his feet to check on his friend, there's nothing there. He takes relief in the knowledge it's a nightmare, just a nightmare. He seems calmer with this knowledge until another memory surfaces, running up the stairs in the same house to his friend's room where his family has found him dead, puncture wounds on his neck.]

Edited (Ahaha, I fail. Sorry. :D) 2014-03-20 19:04 (UTC)

[Oddly enough, having a "murder" to think about seems to help Edgeworth focus.]

(Was nothing done to verify the truth of the matter? Had I taken such a case, I would work on the assumption that the apparent cause of death was staged. To accept a supernatural explanation so easily and indict someone on that basis would be the height of irresponsibility!)

[He sighs a little bit, nodding.]

[His death wasn't considered murder. At first the people in town considered it to be some kind of epidemic. People would get sick, anemic really, and a few days later they would die. Unfortunately, as I said, it's a long story. Some people were Risen and came back as unnatural beings, most remained dead. Then again, some of the people they killed first were the police and those working in the town offices, so no one would be alerted to the fact people were dying daily.]

[It really was an ingenious plan when it came down to it, but shortsighted and poorly executed.]

[The concept of the dead not staying dead causes dread to briefly resurface in Edgeworth's mind, but the idea of policemen and other government officials being targeted first results in a cold fury overtaking that.]

(And you're certain of this how, precisely?)

[The person I was working with, Dr. Ozaki, was keeping very close track of who died and who disappeared. Especially at the beginning when he considered it an epidemic of sorts. One of the first people to die was the patrolman he was about thirty-two or so? He told me it reached the point that during the day there were no workers in the city offices, and to file his death certificates he had to go at night.]

It really is a long story. I have no problem discussing it, but here isn't a very good place.

Nor is now a very good time.

(We've wallowed in our respective pasts for entirely too long. I can only hope that either the truth of the matter has yet to escape, or this is in fact just a nightmare -- preferably the latter.)

[Edgeworth dials a number on his cellphone with practiced speed and grace.]

...Detective, I have two tasks for you. I have a sample of an unknown substance for you to bring to forensics, and I need to obtain permission for myself and a particular bystander to investigate the roof and potentially other locations in the apartment building at 1489 Zenith Avenue.

[Edgeworth scowls in irritation at the response.]

I assure you, Detective, that I'm "collecting" nothing more than evidence. You have your orders.

[There's another pause, then Edgeworth hangs up and puts his cellphone away.]

[The conversation brings him back to his original question.]

How do you know a Detective?

[He works a bit at keeping his thoughts as clear as possible, difficult as that may be.]

We have a long-standing working relationship. (In which I've learned to trust his intentions and enthusiasm, if nothing else.)

I see.

[Seems like a private matter...]

[He can't fight the stray thought, it's not really directed at Edgeworth. That danger comes with the territory when their minds are linked. He slides his hands into his pockets then, waiting in somewhat awkward silence.]

[Already lost track of him anyway.]

To answer your broader question from earlier, I have the resources normally due a prosecutor.

[To prove this, he pulls a lapel pin out of his pocket.]

(Given how much we cannot see, do we necessarily know that to be the truth?)

A prosecutor!

[His eyes widen in surprise, but his voice is tinged with unironic awe. He feels a little sting of regret, but attempts to push that aside.]

Do you like it?

(Has the pursuit of such a career crossed his mind before?)

It... often proves to be a struggle -- [aggravating, humiliating, and occasionally even dangerous, he doesn't intentionally specify] -- but in the end, it's a deeply satisfying thing to play a key role in ensuring that the truth is clear to all.

(Even at those times when the truth is not, in fact, on my side.)

[A glimpse of a spiky-haired, blue-suited man passes through his mind along with that last thought.]

It appeared to me to be a really good, reliable job.

[He gives a little sigh and glances away for a moment.]

[Prior to my death I was intending on pursuing a law degree at Todai, I mean, once I finished high school. I spent a great deal of time on my studies because getting top marks was very important to me.]

[Edgeworth's mind reflexively recoils at "prior to my death", but the rest seems to take amicably, at least.]

And now, you consider it an impossibility.

[He nods a little bit.]

I do.

[If I had died a little older maybe, but it isn't like I'll be able to bluff my way through looking like a sixteen year old for very long, if at all.]

[Thoughts of a severe-looking girl at the beginning and the end of her teens cross his mind unbidden at Natsuno's concerns about his apparent age and presumed lack of aging.]

Is the practicality of the job your only concern? (It wouldn't do for more people to pursue it for the wrong reasons.)

What's wrong with a good, practical, well-paying job?

[He has his reasons, just like anyone else would. Two people flash into his mind, a woman and a man - his parents. Natsuno more closely resembles his mother than his father. They seem happy together. He is building a chair in a workshop room and she is sitting in the corner creating pottery. His mother trying to coax him away from school books when he's very young and children teasing him from the first day he set foot in a classroom. His feelings are conflicted. Resentment, to be certain, but also guilt and sadness seep in.]

When working in service to the law, one must take care to consider a broader picture than just one's own interests.

[As firmly as Edgeworth may have delivered these words outwardly, tinges of regret for old errors, a resolve to do better, and pride in recent accomplishments are detectable through the link.]

[He looks up at the sky, thinking about it.]

Yeah. Maybe.

[He can't honestly say he's selfless at all. It probably doesn't matter anymore.]

OBJECTION! Your effect on the world is what makes your existence matter, and the nature of that effect what makes it worthwhile or not!

Edited (Clarification) 2014-03-21 05:28 (UTC)

[...That shout prompts a few stares from passersby, which in turn prompts Edgeworth to recoil.]

(Blast! I have to be more careful concerning how I respond to his thoughts!)

(...Have I really accepted that aspect of this absurd, impossible situation enough to think in such terms?)

[To say he's startled would be putting it mildly. He didn't think an offhand thought like that would lead to such a profound reaction. It's rather sudden and loud and he opens his mouth a few times as he's trying to formulate a response.]

[People are staring and he can't fight the rush of colour to his cheeks.]

[It is hard to argue against such compelling evidence. I appreciate your enthusiasm on the matter, but I don't think there's much left for me to do.]

[Frustration and discomfort build further at Natsuno's altogether too accurate characterization of the evidence, but the continuation of his train of thought towards that note of doubt is what ultimately prompts a response:]

(For what reason?)

[Many reasons, actually, but the main one is the ultimate question. Would you want to be turned into a monster against your will?]

[Granted, he hasn't been a Jinrou very long.]

[Suppose my resolution is this: all of the vampires deserve to die. How could I be spared? What makes me more important than those I am hunting?]

[He feels sadness and frustration, but as far as he's concerned, he died a month prior when his friend killed him.]

[Well, that caused a significant drop in respect from Edgeworth. As for "monsters", he can certainly think of plenty of human ones, so the argument about being turned into one doesn't sway him.]

(I question any line of reasoning that leads to genocide!)

[Natsuno exhales a little, before meeting his eyes.]

[Who is performing genocide in this case? The vampires who came and killed a thousand people to take over and populate a small town, or the people who stood up, stopped them and took their town back?]

[He gives his head a small shake.]

[As you can see, they are not all dead. Two of them escaped and I wanted to find them, although honestly what I can do about them...I don't know.]

[He isn't afraid exactly, it's just that he is uncertain what he can do physically. He wasn't the one actually killing vampires at the time.]

(That seems to cross the line from mere serial killing into a small-scale war... In any event, neither side strikes me as being in the right. Was there nothing that could be done peacefully? Do you honestly believe it inevitable for such a thing to happen again, and on what basis if so? No one's mere existence is a crime, after all -- it is only criminals themselves who ought to taste the blade of justice, and it is crucial that we prove who that is!)

[Very much a stream of consciousness rather than his usual sort of coherent answer, but under the circumstances it can't be helped.]

[Unfortunately not, although I attempted to reason with Tohru, at least. He said they weren't interested in that. They wanted to make a vampire community and bring people in from the city to feed on. Fortune was smiling on the two who started this mess, the Jinrou Tatsumi and his master Sunako were the ones that escaped. They left the rest of them to the villagers.]

[He is confident it will happen again, regardless of what he does. He's just hoping he can do something to help.]

As much as a peaceful life would be nice, I'm not sure how one goes about doing that, when you're in a situation like mine.

(Any roll OK, no smut please.)

[f/f for ships, but i'm happy to play gen.]

(so what if they finally have that rematch nui interrupted and once their swords clash the meme kicks in because LIFE FIBERS

so basically 5 to some degree. uniform life fibers. senketsu life fibers. ~~someone's personal collection of life fibers~~

life fibers.)

The Attached Meme

ѕpocĸ ⭐ ѕтar тreĸ (aoѕ)

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1 and hope this works?

DALEK.

<33

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Misfit | DC Comics |OTA

Urd | Ah My Goddess | OTA

Keiichi Maebara | Higurashi no Naku Koro ni | OTA

dr jane foster | mcu

Calypso || Percy Jackson\ Heroes of Olympus || OTA

Jemma Simmons | Agents of Shield

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( 5. let me know if you'd prefer prose )

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