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?”
no subject
[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.]
no subject
[ 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.
no subject
[And this particular ship has a very territorial owner. The Syndicate doesn't take lightly to this sort of thing -- and if she's being honest, Tendi doesn't want to let her family down by letting this guy slip through their fingers. You don't send the Mistress of the Winter Constellations on just any mission!
It's infuriating that he seems to be having so much fun with this. Fun? Really?? Honestly! But in a way, can you blame him? He has no idea what's hidden beneath those stinky crates of fish.
... At least, she thinks he has no idea. Otherwise he might have purloined a better weapon by now.]
I won't give up my secrets that easily, [she grunts through gritted teeth, parrying his strike with a clash of metal on metal. She shoves forward, hoping to knock him off-balance by pushing back against his sword. Even if that doesn't work, getting some space between them allows her the chance for a spinkick aimed at his head.]
no subject
[ The taunt is sing-songed, capped with a laugh and a showmanship twirl, his coat flapping elegantly with the motion. It's like he's trying out for Pirates of the Caribbean 32, only gayer, probably. ]
And what will it take, hm? [ Her swordplay is delightful. Jim grunts and absorbs the force of the strike, but the shove manages to set him on the back foot - digging in with his heel so he doesn't completely topple over. It creates an opening Tendi pushes to her advantage, and Jim has to raise an arm to block the kick from connecting with his head - sure as hell smarts on the arm, though. ]
Perhaps we can - cut a deal. [ Jim skips a step back to try and put space between them and regain his footing - though he doubts she'll let up for long enough to allow that to happen. ] Split the findings. I'm in need of a certain sum, but certainly not all.
[ See? He can be reasonable. Even as he goes for a swipe of the blade and a low sweep of the leg, trying to return the defensive favor. ]