exastris_scientia | retired open post // will still tag in if threads are ongoing!

one, two, three, four

[ Spy games and subterfuge aren't exactly require courses at the Academy. When a simple away mission on a pre-warp planet has Jim's first officer going missing though, he and the rest of the crew have to get---creative. They had taken precautions to meet outside of the city or in secured areas where they couldn't accidentally be caught or influence the people of this world, but after three days of failed check-ins with the ship from Spock, things were noticeably tense.

When they hear of some fancy party, invitation only sort of thing, that promises a delight in the form of a man who is not of their world, it gets Hendorff's attention, and makes Jim's temper flare. He can't afford to show it, not in front of his command crew, but the idea that they are showing him off like some old-fashioned sideshow act makes his blood boil. The more they find out, the worse it gets. There's apparently an auction now, and you have to know the right people to get an invite.

So maybe there's a beam up of a guy in charge of the invitations and he uses one of the more menacing looking members of his crew (who volunteers to fake terrorize the poor guy even though they are a generally peaceful race) to get a personal invite. The Prime Directive is already broken and Jim's give a damn button is completely busted. If Spock ends up outing him to the Admirality again, then so be it. If this gets him in the door, and one of his best and only friends home, then it is worth it.

He's not going to stand idly by and watch one of his crew get sold at auction like some idle conversation piece.

So, he's got the clothes. He's got what passes for money on this world, and an invitation to a very private showing and auction. It takes every ounce of self control that he has for him to not lose it as soon as he goes in. He's got Uhura in one ear, listening intently to everything, in an attempt to guide him, but also to translate what he doesn't get. He's good in a pinch, but nowhere near her level of good. Again, he's reminded of how he has the best crew in the whole galaxy. Their professionalism, despite the circumstances, is grounding.

But seeing so many different people milling about, idly chattering about the people held captive behind layers of unbreakable metal and glass---it's disgusting. He has to feign nonchalance, even boredom, before he makes his way over to where Spock is being held. What he wants, desperately, is to take his hand phaser to the glass, beat the hell out of the person in charge of this shitshow, and go back to his ship with his first officer in tow. He can't pretend he recognizes Spock, which probably hurts the most in this whole thing, because he doesn't know what kind of surveillance they have on this backwater planet of assholes.

So when he's asked if he sees anything he likes, he takes a moment, jaw clenching, and pulls in a steadying breath before turning to look at the person in question, sarcasm coloring his features and his voice: ]

A man from space, please. What kind of people do you take your patrons for?

[ Now that he's signaled that he knows where Spock is, it is only a matter of getting him out without ---destroying what's left of the Prime Directive. He has a key, of sorts, something Scotty and Chekov came up with that will disable all the electronic locks in the building. He just needs the opportunity to switch it on. ]

Any good cosmetic surgeon could do what you've done here. I don't see why I should risk my money, and my personal safety from the militant advocates around the city against what you do, on the possibility that you might have the genuine article.

Call me particular, but I want proof.

[ He had been careful.

That's the burn of this situation. They had all been so careful. Perfectly coordinated clandestine meetings in the forest, slipping by in the night, sticking to the outskirts of the city. Spock had forgone any clothes that might seem out of the ordinary, even donned hats to cover his ears and eyebrows.

Spock is not ashamed of his Vulcan heritage, takes pride in his skills and abilities, but he had done what was necessary.

It had not been enough.

The men had ambushed him, when he was making his way back to the beaming coordinates, and though he had fought - his strength greater than the goons who had been sent to spy - it had not been enough. They had weapons, projectiles that had pierced his skin and caused more pain than even Spock could stand.

The only relief came in knowing that it was not his human crewmates who had been ambushed, and in the knowledge that Jim would wonder, eventually, if Spock could not free himself.

The wounds had been his downfall, green blood spilled across his clothes, and the men had been intrigued and malicious, curious in a way unbecoming a scientist or explorer. They had not been unduly cruel, but it takes much to make Spock bruise, and that's when talks of being sold arise.

The idea of being sold like chattel is galling. He is an intelligent being capable of free will and independent thought, and no rational being should be stripped of their autonomy. It burns - and his rebellion lands him in shackles, stronger than any metal he has encountered. Three of the guards are down, and though violence displeases him and loss of life is abhorrent, he feels so sense of loss or shame at their deaths. It is merely a pity that the rest have not joined their comrades.

The auction is in a new place and the transportation between his prison and the showroom is handled with a minimum of fuss, but nowhere near enough caution. He gets a glimpse of the street names, learns the turns, and has a rough estimate of where they end up, thanks to the map he and Jim and a few others had cobbled together before the mission. It's not enough, but it's something.

They might intend to sell him, and Spock will go, but only because it means a chance to escape.

Spock is aware the moment Jim walks in the room, his presence a dominating force, outshining everyone else in the room. He briefly meets Jim's eyes through the glass, and dismisses the painful thump in his side when the captain pretends to not recognize him.

He's well aware of the conversation going on, listens to the man pandering to Jim, because of course he panders; mightier men than the auctioneer pander to Jim.

He wants proof, the man mutters, opening the glass door to his cage, then he'll get proof.

Spock has no time to wonder what he means, when the tunic he'd been dressed in - at least he had been allowed clothes - is yanked up and there is a sharp knife at his side, just above his heart. (And yes, they discovered that fact, took great joy in their new-found knowledge.) It's not a deep wound, but it bleeds. ]

[ Jim doesn't like having to pretend not to notice, recognize, or care about Spock outside of the greedy interest of a potential buyer. It's a necessary evil, as they say. After he's got Spock, they are going to let slip where this little auction is happening, and the militant advocates against this kind of treatment are going to storm the facility.

It takes virtually every ounce of self-control, not to say to stop when they act on his request, lift of Spock's shirt, and slice into soft flesh. It bleeds green, as a Vulcan would, and Jim has to force his gaze to remain dispassionate and unemotional. Externally, he's calm. Internally, he's a veritable firestorm of rage. He's seen enough pain and death and loss that the sort of casual disregard shown here makes him burn bright and hot with fury. A captain has to make decisions that are not guided by emotion, it was never the best lesson for him. To accept that fear and maintain control of oneself and one's crew. Spock's words from years ago, but they still help now.

He jerks his chin up, continues to play the part, and hums in thought. ]

Now that is interesting. [ It's almost, but not quite, a purr. He glances over at the man, then down as he makes a show of adjusting the cuffs of his suit. ] Excepting the amount you'll take off for ---somewhat damaged goods, I trust...I'm interested in your asking price for such a specimen.

[ Dispassionate. Detached. Clinical. He turns to Spock then. ]

Do you have a name? Not that it matters, just call me curious. [ Back to the auctioneer. ] Nevermind, you and I were talking.

Price. Name it.

[ It took a moment for rational thought to come back to Spock after that cut; the man had not been gentle. But he is quick to recover, quick to think and act.

These men do not know Standard. Spock has spent days testing this and received enough confusion and anger that he is sure of his hypothesis. They certainly do not understand Vulcan, but Spock is still unsure of his captain's familiarity with the language, and wants his words to be a reassurance, not a question left burning.

He has been pretending to not know the language, which isn't so much a pretense as a partial truth, because he only knows some of it, enough to pick up what's going on, his translator lost in the initial scuffle. But his captors teaching methods had been effective, if violent and crude, so he picked up the word for 'name,' and Jim gives him the perfect opening.

So when Jim asks his name, before the auctioneer can answer - a price, because he has been reduced an object that can be bought and the bile burns the back of his throat - Spock speaks, voice low and raspy thanks to the soreness in his throat. ]

One man in his time plays many parts.

[ The familiar words wash over him, an illogical comfort, and he knows Jim will understand the Shakespeare reference. They are both playing parts here. Spock will do what is necessary, play his role to the best of his ability.

He doesn't add Jim's name, or his title, or anything else. Nothing to hint at recognition. If they review the files later, they can assume what they will, that it is a threat or a curse or a plea. It is none of those things.

It is a promise.

The auctioneer is aware enough to know his words are not a name, and Spock gets a swift kick to his leg. It's not hard, no more damaging the goods, but it stings, and Spock allows a wince to cross his face.

The auctioneer blanches, and offers a price that is lower than the price Spock had heard bandied about the night before. Spock can hear the grinding of his teeth, because they were hoping to make a ridiculous sum on him. Enough for them to retire comfortably.

Serves them right. Spock wants to burn them all. ]

[ Jim has always been in awe of his first officer's ability to act and think quickly. It's what makes him invaluable on the bridge as his second, and also a fair match in a game of chess. So when he hears him respond with a known reference, he doesn't react outwardly, not even when it gets harder not to when they kick Spock.

It's something of a salve to the deep burn of the situation. In other circumstances he might have been able to physically do something about this. Most people know of Jim's propensity for hand to hand and just generally getting into fights in his day. He wasn't the Assistant Instructor in Hand to Hand at the Academy for nothing. He could very easily take down this sniveling slime devil of a man, but then that would incite violence around them, and possibly hurt others here. He's not here for a fight, he's here for his crewman.

He rolls his eyes at the treatment, jaw ticking as his own outward show of disapproval, looks between both the auctioneer, then Spock, and finally sighs deeply, as if this whole ordeal is putting him out of his normally quite contained world. In a way, it isn't a lie. He doesn't usually have to pander to men who would sell another of a sentient species, and a member of his crew, in order to do some good. ]

That sum is still ridiculous given the state it's in, but fine Shall we go somewhere a little more private to get the details sorted? I prefer to do my personal transactions without a party as an audience.

[ It was obvious to read the auctioneer's face as he considered options. For someone who was disreputable and dealt in the handling and exchange of ill-begotten goods, he was remarkably transparent, even to Spock. He could pinpoint the exact moment when the auctioneer agreed to Jim's demands.

Guards grab him, another at his back with one of their crude weapons pointed at his back, despite the dragging chains. They learned that lesson quickly, much to Spock's displeasure. Irrational civilizations that engaged in the trade of individuals were easy to quell; ones that showed marked intelligence and capability for learning were often beyond hope.

The room he is dragged to, Jim led to, is small and private with heavy security doors. There is another door on the far wall, and while Spock cannot determine if it leads to a hall or outside, it offers some possibility of escape.

He is shoved to his knees again, though no one attempts to touch him further. As Spock's mental shields are in tatters, having not gone this long without meditating in quite some time, the lack of touch is a boon. He carefully studies the floor, though his attention is on the conversation between the auctioneer and Jim.

The auctioneer is trying to haggle for a higher price, unaware of the truth to his opening line.

"One of a kind, no one else will own anything so exotic. The thing is strong, too. Can use it as manual labor, a guard, or even...."

His voice trails off, but Spock is sure he has some licentious look on his face, from the change in his tone. His own hands curl into fists. A Vulcan, offered as manual labor or a sex slave.

If Jim suggests razing the building to the ground, Spock will not voice an objection. ]

[ The longer this talk goes on, the more liable Jim is to lose his cool, but he's managing so far. He wants to get sick, and every word coming out of this man's mouth and the mishandling of his friend and first officer is only making it worse. He's glad they contacted the protesters now, and they'll be sure to raze this place to the ground. ]

Our price won't go any higher than what I've already stated. You've already damaged the goods to start, and there's no guarantee in satisfaction in ---whatever form of service it takes. So you'll take what I'll give you, or I'll find someone else to do business with.

Now, I don't like wasting my breath, so how about we move this along.

[ He pulls an expense card out of his pocket that happens to be the currency here. It also has a tracker in it if he manages to get away from the resistance to the proceedings here. Now as long as they don't jump the gun on their end, it should be fine. ]

This is what you get, or I will make sure that everyone worth anything here knows that you aren't good for business, understand?

[ While Spock knows everything Jim is saying is merely a ruse, the words carry the weight of past taunts, and it is not a simple process to shrug aside the niggling sting. His fingers flex, and he has to rest them flat on his thighs in order to to still the desire to curl them into fists and to lash out

It is the captain, though, and he knows that there is no intended meaning behind those words, not even a code. This is simply Jim trying to use words before violence, and an attempt to free Spock.

He focuses on calculating the exchange rate between currencies, knowing that will have to go into the mission report. It takes slightly longer than it should, since there is no direct measurement between currencies, but the distraction is enough to settle his mind.

Is it possible to pass off money acquired for the purchase of the freedom of a Federation individual as a business expense?

The auctioneer is a slippery man who wants more money but he wants to close a deal before his client decides otherwise and he has to deal with the fallout of a deal and future reprecussions. Spock knows his type well enough, thanks to their frequent stops on starbases and ports. The man agrees, and money (or rather, the expense card) transfers hands, and the guards are there, unlocking the chain between his feet, but leaving the shackles in place.

Spock has calculated their weight and they are not heavy, would not be even for a human. But when he is jerked to his feet, and he has opportunity to meet Jim's eyes again, they feel impossibly, illogically, heavy, chaining his very katra to the ground. But then one of the guards elbows him and Spock drops his eyes, refuses to stumble when they push him forward.

The auctioneer holds out a set of keys to Jim, and freedom is almost tenable. ]

[ Jim keeps the ruse going, making certain that he's playing the part to his utmost in order to get them out of there. He also knows this type of person, and they aren't just confined to the stars. One can find them on Earth as well, if one knows where to look. They are told to avoid them during their time in the Academy.

He feels relief bubble in his chest when the man takes the bait and the expense card, then they unlock the chain between his feet so he can walk of his own accord without being dragged. He takes the keys, looks between them both and offers a smile. ]

Pleasure doing business with you. If this little test drive goes well, I'll be sure to keep you in mind if I have any other needs in the future. [ A somewhat dismissive look cast in Spock's direction. ] Well, come on. I don't have all night.

[ He starts moving, hoping that they can leave without incident, but doesn't cast his eyes back to check to see if Spock is following. Jim feels rather like Orpheus in this moment, and he doesn't like it in the least. ]

[ It is surprisingly hard to play dumb, especially with Jim there, and especially with freedom so close, but before Spock can move, one of the guards pushes him forward. He glares at the man, his anger too much to contain. Any slips of Vulcan dignity can be excused by the situation he is in, as it is already undignified enough.

The guards don't do anything, though, too busy turning to their boss to collect their own rewards, and Spock has to wonder at the inefficiency of letting a man who is effectively a slave go without keeping a closer eye on him.

It works for their situation and says much about how the sloppiness of their work which, for once, is a positive. All Spock wants to do is escape. He is sure there is more going on, because a group that deals in the sale and solicitation of people, aliens or human, is not something that anyone on the Enterprise would tolerate, but questions can come later.

Spock falls in place a few steps behind Jim, eyes fixed on the door. The shackles are still a terrible weight, but not for long. All they have to do is get out of the door, and away from the city proper, and -

A shout from the front room catches the attention of the auctioneer, and Spock has to fight to not glance back. ]

[ Jim doesn't look at Spock, doesn't even turn to him as they continue out of the room. It isn't until he hears the shout that he gives anything else any attention, and immediately when he catches the auctioneer's face---dammit. He must have scanned for a tracking chip that the resistance put there. He brings the keys up, grabbing for his first officer's forearm, and moving to undo them as they continue to walk.

They don't have far to go, but he can't be certain of Spock's condition or treatment the past few days. He's not leaving without him no matter what, though. He had hoped they could avoid actual fighting, though, but the guards are moving towards them through the crowd. ]

I thought we'd have a few more minutes before anything went down, but I guess not. Are you good to run, Spock?

[ The last thing Spock wants is to be touched, but he allows Jim to grab his arm and work on the shackles still around his arms. At least he is unhampered otherwise, and they move together well enough that it only marginally slows them down. ]

I am capable of running at present.

[ Even if he were not, Spock would run. He can push his body in ways that most humans cannot, and any pain can be shielded against. Besides, he is not that badly injured. Enough that Doctor McCoy will snap and grumble, but insist upon a full 24 hours in MedBay, but he has suffered worse.

At last, Jim manages the shackles, and he can easily discard them on the ground, stumbling blocks for the guards, though he doubts they will be hindered. ]

Let us go, Captain.

Right, let's go. Come on.

[ Jim lets Spock get a few steps ahead of him before he follows. He loosens his collar, unbuttoning the jacket he had on and discards it as well. God, he hates fancy dress. He also has a phaser on him, but he doesn't want to resort to having to use it.

They get out of the building easy enough, and onto the nighttime streets. There aren't a lot of people, which is good and bad. Good, cause no collateral damage, bad cause they don't have a lot of avenues to hide until they can get out of the main city center. ]

Scotty is keeping a lock on us, but we need to get out to the transport coordinates, or at least as close as we can get. It's about half-mile past our emergency beam out point, and further into the forest.

[ There appears to be enough of a distraction inside that they manage to reach the streets with little issue, though the guards are not far away, judging from the shouts.

Spock simply nods at Jim's words, already figuring out the probability of their survival. With no people and few places to hide, the chances are slim. ]

It will be beneficial to split up, Jim. I am weakened and will thus be slower, and if they have to chase both of us, it will divide their forces.

[ Jim knows their chances. He's going through the situation and the realms of possibility in his head. He's going through scenarios, and the tactics available to them. He knows Spock, too, and knows that he's going through the probability, the statistics, and doing it in enough detail to tell him what Jim already knows he's going to say.

Didn't Nibiru teach him anything? He's not leaving him behind. He won't. ]

Which is exactly why we can't split up. If you need help and I'm off in the other direction what am I supposed to do? Let them take you again? We aren't going to get another chance at this.

We're not splitting up.

[ Spock has no intention of doing something like dying on the planet, surrounded by savage beings who are little better than cavemen. It is simply prudent to split up, improving their chances of not being discovered. Jim faces better chances of blending in, which means he could reach safety much easier. And above all, it is his duty to ensure Jim's safety; it comes with being first officer.

But despite the arguments filtering through his head, he knows any of his logical points will simply be ignored or dismissed. And they have little time to spend arguing. ]

Very well, Captain. You are more familiar with our surroundings than I, so pick a path that will take us out of this place.

[ Damn right the "logical points" will be ignored or dismissed. He's dismissing them preemptively, in fact. He doesn't care about the chances of him blending in. The chances of being discovered less easily, and he definitely doesn't care about the fact that it's Spock's job to ensure his safety.

Court martial him later for all he cares. Jim is sticking with Spock until they both get back to the ship. Period.

He nods when Spock acquiesces, looks around a moment, and nods in the nearest direction that will take them into the woods towards the checkpoint. ]

That way, come on.

[ Jim takes off, knowing Spock wouldn't dare do anything but be right behind him. ]

[ Spock might be a rebel, but at heart, Spock likes having rules. They make the world a logical, orderly place that he can understand and navigate, rather than this confusing jumble of emotions and illogical actions.

It is a good that Spock knows when to bend, when he should simply listen and obey orders. And this is Jim, who is his captain, and after everything they have been through together, Spock can only acquiesce and follow. He says nothing, as Jim has already taken off running, but dutifully runs after his captain - an action that is becoming something of a habit, Spock thinks. ]

[ Jim can't help but feel there must be some interesting stories in Spock's younger years, and boy he'd kill for any of them. He wonders if he can ever get Sarek to share with him. Do Vulcan parents have their own way of embarrassing their children with all the ways their children were illogical growing up?

He only slows to make sure that Spock is still following him, and manages to get them out towards the rendezvous. They get to a stream they have to cross, and starts, careful of the slippery, wet rocks. ]

It's not much farther, Spock.

[ Were Amanda alive, Spock is sure she would answer all of Jim's questions. But as that is not a possibility, Spock is doubtful Sarek would provide any stories.

So Spock is safe from Jim's curiosities, though he does not doubt Jim could find out information if he so desired.

The wet rocks are generally of little concern, but Spock crosses carefully, moving slower than usual. He's been under strain for days and even a Vulcan is not infallible.

He says nothing to Jim, though he does take some measure of comfort in the words, and nods in response. ]

[ There are times, more than just Spock's loss of her, that he wishes she were still alive. But he sees the request when that he makes yearly for time to himself, and can only imagine that it correlates to the stardate that they lost Vulcan or close to it, considering whatever mission they might be on. If Jim goes out of his way to make sure that he isn't bothered on that day more than any other---well that's just coincidence, isn't it?

He's still gonna talk to Sarek about it. Or maybe the older Spock. Talking is going to happen.

Jim doesn't let himself get too far ahead of him. He stays close in case his first officer needs him, and once they cross fully, he takes to running again. A little ways into a thicker part of the woods, he pulls his communicator out of his pocket to flip it open. ]

Scotty, I've got him. Get us out of here.

apologies for the lateness of this reply! ;;

mindmeld - 2016-07-23 17:03 (UTC) - Expand

never apologize

caelus - 2016-09-01 00:37 (UTC) - Expand

[ On a list of one to absolute shitstorm, this mission was so epically fucked it was off the scale. FDR had only been on task with Tuck for a handful of weeks, and after this, he seriously doubted he was going to be partnered with anyone again. Ever. It was fine.

Fine. He was an assassin. He worked better alone. He preferred alone, except---this guy seemed to be a genuinely okay guy. The kind of okay to hang out with after work, grab a beer and shoot some pool. He'd even shown Franklin a picture of his kid, Joe. Cute kid.

A cute kid who was in danger of losing his father if today kept spiraling. FDR had kept his mouth shut during the interrogation by their captors after they were sold out by the mole they were sent to find. He spat blood onto the floor as the men moved from him over to where Tuck was cuffed in a chair, and jangled the short chain on his cuff uselessly, laughing. ]

Man, you guys should really work on your form. That was adorable. You gonna cuddle me after we're done? I like to be little spoon.

[How the fuck had they gotten here. Things had been going well, until they hadn't. Well, good enough as you can get with a mole running about and spilling secrets left and right. Hell of a first few months, Tuck couldn't deny that.

FDR was a standup guy, if not a little creepy in his approach to women. Aside form that, he was collected despite hissometimes spastic inclination. He took time to getting used to but in face of the other Americans he was used to, FDR was refreshing. Unlike the contact with a fist that whipped his head to the side.

What were they saying? Something about their access to some servers? Tuck wasn't listening. He was too busy wondering how to get out of this, if he would get to see another woman smack FDR across the cheek after he whispered something in her ear. He wondered, no matter the way they used his face and torso like a punching bag, if either of them would be getting home outside of bodybags.

It's tired, the way he turns his head to them dragging his partner near, dryly swallowing at the sass—getting too exhausted too add or reprimand. And then there are magic words after one of them opens a file, ones that make his head snap up; make his stomach drop and blood begin to boil.]

[Quite the medical record. Lucky you have insurance—having babies are not cheap these days. But that was, three, four years ago?]

Stop, [He manages a bubbling mutter, tensing his arms.]

[A little boy.]

Shut your mouth. [Tuck spits through gritted teeth.]

[Shame he won't remember you. Not that he'll have much time to miss you. Poor little Josiah.]

I'll put you in the fucking ground! [He roars over the amused chuckling of their captors, straining against his cuffs so much the metal bites and pales his skin.]

[ It's all fun and games, despite the threat of impending death, until they crack open secure files they could have only gained access to from the mole. Selling state secrets was one thing. This was something else entirely.

This was fresh. This was too close. This was familiar in a way that left FDR blinking rapidly, and breathing in sharply through his nose. He licked at his lips, tingling and numb from the shock that swept through him. Shame he won't remember you. Tuck's kid. His little one, Joe. Little one waiting at home. Waiting at home for his dad to come in from a business trip.

FDR feels dizzy with an emotion that he can't quite name. Franklin? You're going to come live with us now. He was nine years old. He remembers the night they left for a date, or a trip, he's not sure which one it is. He remembers they didn't come back. There was an accident, and he didn't know for ---a while. Nana came to get him then, with a police man, and he never went back to their old house.

It can't happen to Joe. Tuck has to get home to his kid. There isn't another option. Dizziness gives way to a cold rush. There isn't anymore sarcasm dripping from his mouth. No more clever quips. ]

I can tell you something. It's really important. Life and death.

[ He shifts his hands and twists his wrist a bit, biting back a grimace as he pulls his hand through the cuff as much as he can without the final break of his thumb to get him free. He waits until they close the distance, even if it leaves at least one guy near his partner. ]

You should have brought more bodybags to put your buddies in. You might have to double up.

retired open post // will still tag in if threads are ongoing!

for jim, because kirk

i'm so excited you don't even realize

sorry for the tl;dr ;;;;;

don't ever apologize for that

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apologies for the lateness of this reply! ;;

never apologize

for thatwewillsee

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