James "Jim" T. Kirk (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
finalfrontiersman) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
expiationlogs2024-07-05 10:38 am
finalfrontiersman) wrote in expiationlogs2024-07-05 10:38 am
[ open ] never judge a book by its cover
Who: Jim Kirk & You!
Where: All around Aldrip
What: Catch-all for the month + open prompts for Jim's glitches (child!Jim, pirate!Jim, and 63!Jim).
Content Warnings: Profanity, canon-typical violence involving swords and a biting child. Potential for discussions of genocide and eating disorders in the child!Jim prompts.
1. [ OPEN - CHILD!JIM ]
there ain't nothing in this world for free
there ain't nothing in this world for free
Downtown Aldrip is full of hustle and bustle at the height of the day, denizens and Chosen alike flitting from place to place. The main square is always buzzing with crossing foot traffic, people coming and going from the various shops, packages in their clutches - or perhaps from the library or city building. Jim hasn't approached any of the official buildings yet, instead choosing to be an unobtrusive people-watcher from the sidelines. He hasn't seen any police or Starfleet around, and while he would be wary of adults in general (adults lie to you, especially to children, because they think they can't handle the world as it is when really, children have to live at the whims of the world more than anybody else) - he's warier still of being sent back into the care of the strange Vulcan man he'd just run away from. He doesn't know what happened to Spock, the Vulcan kid he'd woken up with - he was too freaked out by the sudden appearance of the adult and his subsequent refusal to answer simple questions (in a way that made any sense to Jim, anyway). Instead, Jim had done what he did best - break free by any means necessary and run, scrambling across the kitchen floor for the doggy door, and shoving himself through it. He'd scraped up his hands pretty good and bumped his knee, but the ache was fading already. He'd had worse, at any rate.
Jim gets up from his position in the shade of a tree, making a wide circle around the main square. He hasn't done this in a while, but desperate times call for desperate measures. He quickly finds his mark, arcing his gait casually, sandy head hung low. Putting on airs of a teenager not paying any attention, Jim bumps into his target head on - if they have anything in their hands/a bag, he makes sure to send it scattering. If not, he intentionally trips, sending himself sprawling to the ground - if not taking them with him.
"Oh, I'm so sorry [Mister/Ma'am]!" Jim springs up, either to help gather the person's scattered belongings into a helpful pile, or to help steady the person on their feet, hands too quick and light to be noticed (unless, perhaps, the person he'd marked was a better pickpocket than him - whoops). "I'm sorry, I should have watched where I was going. Have a nice day."
His retreat is too hasty, but Jim ducks away quickly - the key was to be in and out as fast as possible. Whomever he's started walking away from may notice something missing from their belongings, or perhaps directly their pocket - be it cash, their tablet, or whatever Jim managed to grab. If they choose call out after him, he'll start running, and if they try to grab him - be careful, he bites.
2. [ OPEN - CHILD!JIM ]
i ain't no fortunate one
i ain't no fortunate one
The dock is lively at this hour, with a decent crowd milling around the various food stalls and wares, set up for perusing. It's not uncommon for a bit of trouble to unfold itself - fights breaking out over haggling gone wrong, stowaways on boats, general skullduggery as is wont to occur anywhere shifty types can gather freely. At the height of the day, however, it is a little unusual to be happening in broad daylight - there's someone yelling up ahead, people being shoved this way and that before a scrawny, sandy-haired boy emerges from press of the crowd, panting and wild-eyed - clearly looking for a way out.
His crime, what has an angry shopowner on his tail, coming up behind him to collar him roughly? Well, he's got what appears to be a sandwich in his grip, though at this point it's more of a squished lump of meat and bread. Jim kicks out with both feet, thrashing in the man's hold with all the strength he has, to no avail. He gets smacked in the back of the head for his trouble, so Jim turns and bites down on the guy's hand, hard - look, it's worked so far, so if it ain't broke?
"Ow, FUCK - ! Fucking kid - " This gets him thrown to the ground, sufficiently freed from the shopkeeper's grip - Jim's still clinging to the sandwich (if it can still pass as one, at this point), rolling across the ground to land at someone's feet. He scrambles to a sitting position, jacket pulled askew, and seems ready to bolt again - if not for the fact that his back is trembling, where he's pressed against the person's legs.
3. [ OPEN - PIRATE!JIM ]
yes, i am a pirate, two hundred years too late
yes, i am a pirate, two hundred years too late
"En garde, you dirty dog!"
There's shouting up ahead, a small crowd gathered at the end of the dock with one man visible above the commotion (or, more accurately, the source of it), clinging on to the side of a boat with one hand while the other brandishes a sword that he sweeps through the air in front of him, demanding a bubble of personal space. He's scruffy and dressed in an open, airy shirt - is he supposed to be a pirate, or something? As you get closer, those who are familiar with a certain Captain James T. Kirk - Jim, to most of the Chosen he's met here - may recognize him. Beneath the unshaven scruff and general...ridiculous swagger, apparently.
"I've commandeered this vessel, and shall be setting sail!" The announcement is bellowed brazenly, Jim tossing his head to shift pieces of hair out of his eyes, a grin twisting his mouth. Either someone's cosplaying pretty hard, or he's not his usual self. "Back and away with you, unless you'd prefer to be driven back by my blade! Dealer's choice!"
Maybe someone should step in and calm him down...or if you have Spock's number, maybe someone should alert him to come get the glitched Captain. If you can get Jim to put down the sword and stop threatening the locals, that is.
4. [ OPEN - 63!JIM ]
dude, dude, dude, dude looks like a lady
dude, dude, dude, dude looks like a lady
For anyone out in the surrounding forest near the outskirts of Aldrip, they may come across a young woman one morning, just near the border of the forest - far enough in for her task, but not venturing too deep within. Despite it being early and not particularly hot out, she's dripping with sweat, hacking at a tree with an axe - and cursing up a storm, because she's been at this for at least an hour and the pile of wood next to her is just sad, really, for the amount of energy she's expending on it.
"Mother - " Jim kicks the tree in irritation, which just makes his foot ache, and drops the axe with a disgusted noise before plopping down in the grass. Ugh. Perhaps his frustration isn't from the tree (although what the hell, why couldn't he just buy lumber in this godforsaken town) - but the fact that he's not himself at the moment. He's been glitching all over the place and he's getting sick of this shit, to be perfectly honest. This isn't the worst it could be, glitching into a woman - at least he still knows who he is, has his memories in full - but the ponytail he tried to put his new excess hair into is sad and lopsided. He's better at braiding hair when it's not on his own head.
He also doesn't own a bra since he's normally a dude, and no one told him boobs started to hurt, after a while, without support. So he's sore, tired, and frustrated - maybe he'll just flop and lay in the grass for a while.
Waking up is a violent affair.
Nightmares are not an uncommon occurrence for Jim - the rapid beating of his heart, quickening under duress, breaths ripping their way through his airways until finally the adrenaline woke him up, wide-eyed and sweating. There was a time when he was too thin for the sweat, when his body could spare neither the energy nor the moisture and he would simply shake himself awake, tremors lessening as he grounded himself in reality - but never quite abating, the tremble still visible in his hands, the subtle shake of his shoulders.
He’s better now, or so they tell him. Able to eat more than just the nutri-dense ration bars, recovering and resilient, as children are wont to be. But he still has the nightmares, and as Jim would know if he wasn’t currently glitched - they’ll always be there. New and old and different, he will trade one for another, swapping orange, fuzzy fields for red-tipped rocks, or the cool sickly green of a starship in crisis. He’ll learn to wake quieter, to tamp down on the instinctive panic, to swallow the spike of adrenaline and soldier through.
But today, Jim wakes with a startled shout, almost dizzy with the suddenness of consciousness. Sandy bangs, lightly colored from exposure to the sun (they would darken as he got older, evening out into a dirtier blond at the root) plaster against his forehead, lips parted on ragged inhales. Jim sits bolt upright, sheets tangled about his legs as he kicks them, struggling to feel all his limbs freed. If they weren't free, he was trapped, and being trapped meant nothing good. It stopped you from running, and when you stopped running - that's when you were dead.
The room is unfamiliar, as wild, wheeling eyes look around for anything recognizable. No dice. Jim can't remember anything, not how he got here, where here is, nothing. That is, decidedly, the most troublesome, moreso than his nightmares - though trying to tell that to the panic winding its way through his chest is an exercise in futility. Recovery has made him weak, because there used to be a time when he wouldn’t be paralyzed with fear, when he’d wake up ready to fight - when the panic attack could be diverted to a more convenient time, when the other kids were asleep and could not hear him.
There’s nothing to stop him now, as the attack settles itself against his ribcage, threatening to choke him - except something does, right in his tracks, when his eyes land on the most unexpected detail of all: there’s a Vulcan at the end of the bed.
Jim’s seen Vulcans before. There were Vulcan crew members on the Kelvin, some who died and some who didn’t, which meant there was a pointy-eared contingent at every remembrance ceremony Jim had ever been forced to attend. They were interesting, if strange and other (perhaps that was why they were interesting) and Jim certainly liked their company a lot better than the people who just wept (there was no shortage of those), who all seemed to want to hug him. No, the Vulcans did not want a hug - instead they would bow, sweeping and low, and when Jim asked why the elder, severe-looking one had told him, We owe your father a life-debt we may never repay him, James Kirk.
So yeah, Jim’s seen Vulcans. He’s never seen a Vulcan kid before.
It distracts him from the fear, from the way his chest aches and the bewilderment of unfamiliar surroundings. Jim stares at the blunt bowl cut, the severe line of the kid’s eyebrows, the pointed tips of his ears, poking out from beneath dark hair. The Vulcan has a softness to his features, different from that of the adults - not as severe cheekbones, a layer of baby fat protecting them. He can’t be much younger than Jim, though anyone younger than him is automatically sorted into the take care of the kid category.
Still, what comes out when he opens his mouth is perhaps harsher than Jim might have liked, all the bite and snapping of a cornered animal, fingers twisting in the sheets. “Who the fuck are you?”
4
She honestly thought she was going crazy at first (or crazier, given she had spent the last few weeks seeing ghosts), so she swung herself out of the city to get some fresh air. She checked out one of the farms, first, just because (seriously, a city girl like her never got to see animals like this, it was cool), and she was about to head back to the city limits when she noticed movement at the nearest tree line. Her first thought was monsters, since they tended to lurk in those trees, but as she drew closer, she realized it was a person. A person that looked oddly familiar and not, all at the same time.
She was confused as hell, but before she could even call out to him (her?), another glitch hit her. This time, it was an all too familiar cellular glitch, like she experienced when she was in Miles' dimension. Even knowing exactly what it was didn't stop her from crying out from the pain of cellular degeneration as she stumbled on the path.]
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So Jim's staring up at the trees, all but willing his body to return to normal (what the hell did these glitches mean, anyway? Was the computer system breaking down? Was it involuntary, or another trick of the Council, designed to simply torment the mice trapped in their experiment?) when he hears the cry. He bolts up, lurching to his feet, and whips his head to see - ]
Gwen!
[ Okay, so the familiar-but-not woman clearly recognizes Gwen, and Jim hurries up the path to stop in front of her, brow pulled in worry at the honest-to-God literal glitch effect he's witnessing. His hands flutter anxiously - not wanting to touch her in case it caused more pain incidentally, but also ready to offer support, should she require it. ]
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The glitch passes quickly enough, and she takes a minute to catch her breath, before she sits back and looks up at the not-so-stranger. It's driving her crazy, how she feels like she should know them. Also, now that she thought about it, didn't they call her name??]
-- I'm good, I'm good. [She shakes it off quickly enough, getting back to her feet and dusting off her suit (seriously, sometimes she regretted going with a white suit), and ran a hand through her hair to make sure it wasn't sticking up or doing anything too weird after her stumble.]
Though I was not expecting to feel that again. But I'm good, promise. [A beat.] Have we, uh... met?
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[ And oh yeah - Jim doesn't look very Jim-shaped right now. He laughs awkwardly, spreading his hands peaceably. Upon closer inspection, it might become clear that the clothes he's wearing don't fit right - the pants are rolled up at the ends, waist cinched in by a belt he had to cut a new hole in, shirt tucked in almost aggressively so it wasn't too loose at the bottom. If she notices the fact that they're Jim's black thermals or not - Starfleet insignia barely visible in the black-on-black, but still, it was the most form-fitting thing he owned - well, the confusion will probably be cleared up by his next sentence: ] It's - ah, it's me, Gwen. Jim Kirk.
Doesn't seem like either of our mornings are really going to plan, are they? [ He snorts, finally reaching up to pull the rubber band out of the back of his head. The pricks of pain as it yanks a few out of his scalp feel vindictive, for the record. ] Ugh, how do women even see with all this hair?
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But then Jim says who he is, and Gwen does a double take, because--]
No way. Jim? Are you serious? [She really shouldn't laugh, but oh my goddd, this is amazing. Now that she's paying attention, he (she??) looks so uncomfortable, his clothes don't fit, and wow-- rubber band in his hair? Ouch.
Poor thing was struggling.]
You are so lucky I found you and not Peter. He would never let you hear this end of this.
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Yeah, it's me. Laugh it up, get it out of your system. [ Jim wants to be annoyed, but he can't help the way his mouth curls - okay, maybe it is kind of funny, and maybe it does make him feel a little bit better, acknowledging just how ridiculous it is. Things certainly could be a lot worse. ] What, that I'm awesome and hot either gender?
[ Jim props a hand on his hip, shaking his head. ] Seriously though, why do you think I'm hiding in the woods today? No idea how long this is going to last. At least I'm still me, like, up here.
[ He gestures to his head before brushing hair out of his face once more. ] Oh my god, this is insane. I'm going insane. I'm going to shave my head -
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I mean-- it's probably nothing, just. Glitches that happen when you're outside of your dimension. It happened a lot, when I crossed dimensions before. This is the first time it's happened here, though.
[Listen, Gwen knows better than to admit any attraction here. He's like a thousand years older than her (not really, but the point still counts), and he's obnoxious on a good day, so she isn't about to feed into that. Even if her bisexual is showing and she does indeed think he's now hot in either gender. Damn.]
Oh my god-- Did Spock see you like this? Please tell me Spock saw you-- [okay, okay. She's containing the laughter. She can take this seriously. But then he's fussing about his hair, and she's laughing again as she pulls a hair tie out of seemingly nowhere (girls always have those!!), and moves to turn him around.]
Here-- Be still. Let me do it. [Thanks to Miles help with her hair, she can't really braid her own hair much anymore, but that doesn't mean she can't braid. A good french braid should do the trick, and which she ties perfectly, then pats his shoulder.] There. Better?
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:)
His dreams are often the same: incomprehensible and fathomless. The lip of a star, the undulating burst of peripheral supernovae. A break along the depths of space, the fabric tearing red as the flesh of Terran stone fruits. Time bending about itself like a lasso, caught about the throat of planets that would collapse into themselves. New and scattered belts of hapless debris, white rooms — letters and numbers curving and overlapping, illegible no matter how he might have used every method or mean to recall their weights and angles.
The flowering of fungi is new. It feels familiar, though. It feels as though he's seen it, tasted the rot in his mouth. He feels the dust of parched earth beneath his bared feet, the fires that kick up against the winds. He feels as though he's run for a long time now, miles and miles spooling like thread about a bobbin. He feels it burning, lungs that aren't his lungs and lungs that are yet somehow —
The scrambling doesn't make him any more fluid. It takes him time to get his bearings this young, something he would recall later when he'd come back to himself as he might have remembered it. He does manage to push himself up, looking every bit like the disgruntled cub of any le-matya. And he does, after a moment of remembering how to coordinate all of his limbs, manage to fumble his way to the far side of the bed.
"Who are you?" He demands in turn, mouth drawing into a thin line. His heart beats rabbit quick in his side, his eyes round and bright with an unusual sort of Humanity. He pulls the blankets still draped about his small body closer, dark brows drawing together as he scoots back another inch. He knows that, logically, the linens will not shield him from the Human boy who seems to have stumbled his way into this room (not his — time flows strange and staggered, the scents are sharp and musky and foreign) with him, but it does give him a moment to consider his options.
His eyes flit briefly to the window, the bedroom door. He can hear the uneven respiration of this Human child, who appears not much older than he is, but even if his fear is presumably mutual —
Spock's family has been on the alert for far too long. He can't let himself get too comfortable, even if the environment seems to lack any further signs of life or activity. Moreover, there is no indication at all that his parents were present at any point. Or, really, that he or this other child (plant?) were taken by any show of force.
don't be afraid of the human he's just chillin dwbi
"I asked you first." Jim scrubs at his cheeks, as if to remove any sign of potential tears, any redness that might linger in his face. It doesn't work, but he's a teenager - trying anyway comes with the territory. Still, despite his obstinance, he easily relents first - as if the instinct to deny the information was just that, instinct, and not necessarily a conscious choice. "My name's Jim. Who are you?"
"Do you know where we are?" Jim's gaze moves away from the Vulcan to the rest of the room, unfamiliar though it is - kind of reminds him of Iowa, and the farmhouse back on Earth. Antique furniture, a dresser in the corner, the peek of hanging clothes in the closet door, partially ajar. Sunlight filters in through the curtains, muted; Jim's guessing it's morning, based on the angle, but he's not sure. Someone (?) was reading Don Quixote, the book sitting innocuously on the bedside table closest to Jim. He picks it up and turns it over in his hands, opening the front cover - but there's no name on the inside of it. He flips through it to the back, however, and there's a borrowing record, like from a library - actually, it is from a library: ALDRIP PUBLIC LIBRARY.
Further down: J. KIRK, scrawled in a messy signature, checked out three days ago.
Alright, maybe now it's time to panic. Jim sets the book down somewhere on the bed between them, fingers feeling slightly numb and static in the brain, before he raises his shirt to his mouth, trying to force his breathing to slow again. In, out, in, out. Why couldn't he remember? Where the fuck was Aldrip? What the hell was going on?
"It's okay. You're okay, you're okay." Jim mutters to himself, desperately trying to believe it. He closes his eyes, squeezing them shut, focusing on breathing through the fabric of his t-shirt, trying to will away the dizzy, panicked feeling sitting on his chest. "You're okay. You're not dying. You're not dying."
You're not dying, Jim's brain helpfully agrees. You just can't breathe, idiot.
one (1) fear: mostly vulcans actually
"And yet you have answered first," he points out without any sort of hesitation. The inherent lack of tact in children remains no matter the species, it would seem. Even so, there is something about his face that errs closer to Human as his nose involuntarily... Scrunches? It mimics in some ways a Terran rabbit (as his ko-mekh had once so indicated), but there is no one here to "call" him upon it. While it does little for the anxiety that burrows within his heart as though a running stitch, he is forced to place aside the absence of his family for the moment. He is only just untangling the frenetic movements and conversational topics of his unexpected cohabitator when the other boy (Jim?) begins to fall into an uneven pattern of breathing, his inhalations and exhalations sharp and fine and thin.
"Your rate of respiration suggests you are experiencing distress," Spock says, slower than he would have liked. The words are hard to come by as they are always, chasing their own tails and knotting themselves up in his mouth. He stumbles slightly over the word "experience," but catches himself quick enough that he wonders if might have been noted at all. Spock loosens his grip upon the blankets, lets the linens pool as they may about his frame. If it reveals anything of note, it is that Spock is quite small in form and stature for a Vulcan his age. But, if he himself has acknowledged?
He tilts his head, analyzing the way that Jim pulls his shirt up and over the lower half of his face.
That will do nothing, Spock thinks.
"Your form is incorrect," he says instead. He scoots closer again, his dark eyes noting the book upon the bed as he does so. He cannot make out the title upon first glance and resolves to make it out when he has an appropriate opportunity. He gestures at himself, one hand lifting to press against the front of his chest. He knows that is the location of the Human heart, but similarly knows it to be best way to indicate breathing exercises across both their species. "Observe."
He takes a deeper breath in through the nose to the count of four, holds it for a count of seven. Releases it, as though a muted sigh, through the mouth for the count of eight. He quirks a brow in the boy's (Jim's) direction, the fine point of its corner brushing the blunt edge of his bangs.
The suggestion is explicit enough. Most Humans were sure to get it at this point, if they had not already.
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If Spock messes up or Jim notices, he's certainly in no state to call it out. He wouldn't, anyway, but it's hard to hear the other kid over the ragged inhalations scraping their way down his trachea. His nod is jerky, but still there - a confirmation, yeah he's fucking distressed. Fucking panic attack bullshit, because after everything he couldn't just go home and be normal, could he? It seems unfair that he should survive just to break down at home, that the fear and anxiety should get the chance to catch up with him after he's spent so long avoiding it.
He does have a good reason - waking up in an unfamiliar place with no recollection of how he got there - but it doesn't really make it feel less pathetic.
What does help, though, is his new friend. The Vulcan inches closer and Jim eyes him - if nothing else, he gives him something else to focus on. He watches as the other kid demonstrates a deep breathing technique, trying to copy it as bidden. Jim's not able to do it quite as well, the burn in his chest preventing him from slowly expelling the air for longer than five seconds. Still, it helps, and Jim is quiet for a moment, until he's able to back down from the edge of hyperventilation, matching his breathing to Spock's.
Jim lowers the fabric from his mouth slowly when the wave passes, kind of feeling like he'd much rather curl up under the blankets again and pretend none of this is happening - though that's definitely not an option. He's silent, briefly, before gentle gratitude follows, perhaps a bit more honest than he was a moment ago, when he'd demanded Spock's name. "...Thanks."
Spock's dropped the sheets, and Jim can see how tiny he is now - gotta be what, at least three years younger than him? Maybe less, if Spock is just naturally small. Jim's not exactly big for his age, either - the effect of stunted growth that would haunt him until an induced puberty. Resolve seats itself in Jim's chest, and he takes another deep breath, trying to chase away the dizzy feeling. "Do you know where 'Aldrip' is?"
Maybe it's a Vulcan city, or something? Doesn't really sound like it would be, but what does Jim know? If it is, how the hell did he end up on Vulcan?
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He considers the boy again. It is not say that Spock himself does not feel wary or upset. It is not to say that he is not straining his ears to hear any chance of his sister, his parents — it is more that he has leaned deeply into the path of logic. It is even more, perhaps, that he has learned to be this way out of deference to his father's culture, to the expectations of other Vulcans. His own character too is defined by survival, but it is his mother that sees what is injured and sore and sleepless.
It is his mother, who sees him when he is at his weakest. Still, Spock shakes his head. It is a restrained movement, but conveys the same information the full motion would: it wasn't an issue to teach him.
"I am unfamiliar with the name," Spock says, his hands settling on the book that Jim had earlier discarded. He glances down at the title, the bulk of his attention still focused upon Jim, and scans the shape of the characters the comprise the title. He tips his head, the sound and the syllables latching together once he's gotten the start.
Don Quixote.
He keeps it on his lap, noting it had been a contributing factor to Jim's sudden swell of panic. He laces his fingers together, fingers twisting about themselves in a form of his own self-comfort.
"Nor am I aware of any planets within the Sol or 40 Eridani systems bearing that title."
It does not bring him any sense of certainty either, but it does appear that that surroundings are not inherently dangerous as of this moment. There is no suggestion that anyone is coming or going in short order, much less any further suggestion that they cannot in fact — Spock unfolds his hands, turns his body about to place the book on nightstand at his side. He inches his way toward the edge of the bed, hopping off once he reaches the side. The bed is not up very high, but it is still a bit of a drop for him.
He turns about to face Jim again, his round eyes narrowing slightly in consideration.
"Spock," he says. And then, upon realizing that out of context it would make little sense, he appends: "My name is Spock."
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Still, Jim feels like his sense of unease is warranted, regardless of the fact that personal experience has led him to trust his gut more often than not.
"Me either." He blows out a breath, displacing sandy bangs with the burst of air, jerking his chin towards the book in acknowledgement. "The back of it, says it's from the 'Aldrip Public Library'."
Jim hesitates, voice dropping to something quieter, uncertain, but it's a clue he needs to share, even if it totally freaks him out. "...my name's in it, but I don't remember checking it out. I don't remember anything."
What does he remember last? It's hazy and disjointed, when he turns his mind to it, and that doesn't exactly inspire confidence that wherever they are is safe. When is anything ever truly safe? Jim's not sure he's ever been in a place that is, save one - the shipyard, with Sam, laid out underneath the stars, watching the Enterprise be built at the dry dock. Why it was still called a dry dock when the ship wasn't being built to sail, Jim has no idea - but it was safe, there. No one ever bothered them; perks of being 'fleet rats.
The kid - Spock, as the Vulcan illuminates a moment later - slides out of the bed, and Jim is quick to follow, sliding off the edge and landing light, on socked feet. "Spock. I can pronounce that."
Not a rebuttal, just a breezy comment. Jim turns his attention to the window, parting the curtains with a careful hand - but there's just some grass, out there, and the peek of water (?) beyond the fenced-in yard. No people, and no street - must be on the other side, then. "How old are you, Spock?"
3, i'm so sorry
Which is why they've sent their top assassin.
The Mistress of the Winter Constellations lacks the same showmanship that he has, but that's by design -- she's seen when she wants to be, unseen when she needs to be. Right now, she lurks in the shadows, trying to identify the best method of execution for a man who is so recklessly waving around a sword. If she had a phaser rifle, this would be easy; he'd already be kissing the bottom of the ocean. But she's limited to some very primitive weapons, which is both unfortunate and an interesting challenge at once.
Bow, knife, or sword? She opts for the longest range first. If she needs, she can move into close quarters for the others.
Tendi draws the bow back, her hands alarmingly steady as she aims, exhales, and then looses the arrow, aimed directly at Kirk's heart.]
when they both wake up jim thinks it was awesome and tendi wants to scream ashjdbfgkb
You dare to strike at the Dread Pirate Kirk, with the weapon of cowardice? [ He jumps up onto the railing of the ship he's decided is his, boots keeping tenuous grip on the wood. ] Show yourself, villain!
If you want my treasure, you'll have to look me in the eyes, and pry it from my hands!
[ He brandishes the sword again, dockworkers scattering, apparently deciding it's simply not worth it. Let the Chosen do whatever the hell it is they're doing, and hope that there wouldn't be too much property damage in the meantime. Jim was going to feel bad about this, insofar as he always seemed to get in trouble at the docks - other Aldrip citizens liked him, trusted him even, but it always seemed to get him at the docks! ]
LMAOOO RIP...hopefully not literally
[The voice seems to come from nowhere, at first, but the knife flinging in his direction sure has a solid direction -- the same as the arrow.
Tendi has no doubt he'll manage to fling himself out of the way of this, too.
It's a distraction, anyway; she appears from the other side of the boat a moment later, a black sword in hand, and she wastes little time in charging at the Dread Pirate Kirk, teeth gritted in concentration.]
You're nothing but a petty thief!
[Never mind how the Syndicate managed to get their hands on most of these goods in the first place. Listen. Don't worry about it.]
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[ Jim scoffs, eyes narrowing as he clocks the knife, ducking out of the way in a roll - lucky he's raising his sword, as his opponent comes charging at him from the other side. Blades clash, and Jim shoves upwards as he springs out of his crouch and into a fighting stance, pushing Tendi back and away, a deflection. ]
I'm a professional thief, thank you. [ Jim throws out a riposte from the left, grin spreading over his expression - well, he couldn't deny he liked a good fight. Was practically begging for one, actually, and she's good already. ]
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[Oh my god he's flashy, brave, thieving, and also dumb. Goddess help her, how did the Syndicate let things get this far?!
Unfortunately, he's also lucky as hell and good with a sword. This won't be as easy as she expected at first.] You're a professional idiot, more like! [D'Vana Tendi, Mistress of the Winter Constellations, has no fear with slinging words like this. D'Vana Tendi, Starfleet Junior Lieutenant, Science Division, on the other hand, is going to absolutely expire when she realizes she called the captain of the Enterprise a professional idiot.
But that's a problem for Future Tendi. Current Tendi bends like a willow branch around Jim's blade and goes in low with a wide arcing sword strike.]
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[ What's more - Jim doesn't even have any treasure yet. He has a treasure map (or at least, what he's delusional enough to believe is one, perhaps) and he's standing on a commandeered boat that reeks of fish. But maybe pirating is just one of those 'fake it till you make it' professions.
Is professional idiot really that far off the mark? Bones is going to have a field day, and Jim will probably double over while Spock just stands there dryly. He's not a fan of being forced to act a fool, but willing foolishness is a different matter.
Tendi dips and Jim jumps back, her blade swiping dangerously close to the front of his shirt. He turns, flipping the sword in his hand to suggest a feint before stabbing forward, testing her reflexes. It was always a good idea to size up one's opponent - and she was fast. ]
Where did you study the blade? [ If he sounds like he's enjoying himself, it's because he is - but maybe that just makes him more annoying. ] Your form is exceptional, angry stranger.
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"The warehouse on the right is abandoned," he whispers to the kid, "but it should be unlocked."
Then he levels his glare at the older man, holding his hands up. "That's a bit of an over reaction, don't you think?"
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Jim takes the opportunity to run for it when the guys gets into a rhythm of talking, ducking around Levi's legs and booking it through the crowd. He takes a circular route, but ends up at the warehouse Levi had pointed out, a few minutes later - it is, indeed, unlocked, and Jim takes the opportunity to sit down and breathe shakily once the coast is clear. The sandwich is sad and flattened, but Jim still sets it on his knee, not about to discard the purpose of the entire endeavor.
i dont feel like writing npc dialogue >>;
Levi's not really sure if Jim is a kid or not, but calling him that gives him so leeway. Maybe it stopped the shop keeper (no), maybe Levi had to say more (yes) or maybe he just paid off the sandwich (also yes). But it probably doesn't really matter as much as the fact that the man wasn't after Jim anymore.
Once its handled, though, and the shop keeper is on his way and not following Levi he makes his way to the warehouse to see if Jim made it there. He knocks lightly on the door before peeking his head in.
"Hello?"
haha no worries!
His heads pops up, a startled alertness to his eyes until he realizes it's Levi - the wariness remains, though he does relax infinitesimally, still hunched in on himself on the floor, back pressed against the wall. "...hi."
Well, at least he's talking? Jim eyes Levi critically for a moment before he opens his hand, revealing the sad sandwich. Jim rips it along the midpoint line before he offers half of the smushed wrapper to Levi - an offering, apparently.
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"A-are you okay?" He shakes his head as Jim offers part of the sandwich. "Keep it. Its yours and I already ate."
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Clearly, he doesn't expect Levi's help to have come for free. Jim squints at him for a moment before he takes a bite out of the sandwich, chewing quickly. Scarfing it down, as if Levi might change his mind and take the entire thing back.
"I'm fine, with that asshole off my tail." Maybe chew before you swallow, Jim? At least make an attempt? "And before you say stealing is wrong, he was totally going to throw this one out, I heard him. Throwing out good food doesn't make any sense, so I took it."
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