Hallo! Here's another one inspired by the kink meme. The prompt asked for an AU where Kirk and the rest of the crew did not know each other but would fall naturally into the chain of command anyway. I hope I have filled it well. ;D
Warning: I did no research for this at all. Sorry if it seems unbelievable!
Disclaimer: I do not own Star Trek!
Jim Kirk awoke with a splitting headache and the disgusting taste of burlap in his mouth. At least the gag was gone, though. He opened his eyes but couldn't see anything in the darkness. He listened. Somewhere off to his left he could hear quiet breathing, or at least he thought he could. Over the echoing sound of dripping water he couldn't be sure. Damn. That meant he wasn't the only one.
The morning had been a bright one in Iowa, golden sun streaming through the fields in a truly magnificent way. Jim had been biking to town, every now and then revving the motor to scare up the crows. He swung into town still surrounded by the angry cacophony and grinned to himself.
Parking the bike behind the store was easy enough. That early on a Saturday the lot was only half-full. He patted the seat after locking up and brushed a line of dirt off the bumper. Time for another hose-down, probably. Oh well. Plenty of time for that later on. He had nothing to do that afternoon. Now, time for work.
The store had already been opened by Mr. Larson, but Jim set about tidying the displays and making sure the cash register was working. The computer always had a hissy fit the first time it was started up. Jim just jiggled the connection until it settled and stopped freezing.
"Mornin', Jim," said Mr. Larson, coming in from the back room. He was carrying a canvas bag over one shoulder and smiled at his employee. "I've got to be off to the Rangers' farm to pick up the squash. You all right handlin' the place until I get back? Shouldn't take more'n an hour."
"No problem, sir," Jim replied, waving the friendly old man out the door. Really. He was twenty-one; he could watch a store by himself.
The morning passed slowly, with only a few customers stopping in for milk or a lottery ticket, or two. Jim kept the small talk to a minimum. It was too early to be blathering on about so-and-so's cow. He'd rather be sleeping. Or maybe watching World's Hottest Babes on re-runs. Yeah, that Shirley had it going for her.
He was startled from his fantasy by the annoying sound of the bell and looked uninterestedly toward the door. He only sat up and took notice when he realized the group of men weren't anyone he knew, and that was pretty hard in a town as small as Riverside. After a few moments milling around, one of the guys – a real brute with a moustache that looked more like a rat taped to his face – approached the counter.
"Can I help you?" asked Jim, not feeling particularly helpful. This group looked like the type of jerks who bought cheap liquor and gasoline by the gallon.
"Yeah. You Jim Kirk?" Rat-Face looked like he already knew the answer. In fact, Rat-Face looked pretty darn sure.
"Uh, no," said Jim. He was no coward, you bet your ass, but he knew when he was outmatched. Five guys in leather wielding, now that he thought about it, not-so-subtle knives were definitely too much for him. Besides, if he did time for another fight, Mr. Larson would give him the boot, as promised.
"Yeah right." Rat-Face reached over the counter and grabbed a fistful of Jim's T-shirt. "I know all about your little lies. So, Jim Kirk, how much do you think Daddy loves you?"
Jim's brain started to work frantically. His dad? They were interested in his dad? What did these guys care about George Kirk, starship captain? He gave them another once-over, trying to determine their motives from their ugly mugs. Nothing doing. They could be after money, or power… Hell, they could even be some fringe political group, albeit a badly-dressed one. His dad did have a lot of enemies.
"What do you want?" He tried to stall while looking for possible escape routes. He could probably twist away from Rat-Face, but then his only options were to break the window and bolt or run straight into the midst of the men, now fanned out in a semi-circle between the Twix and the tabloids. He might be able to take out a few of them, but would most certainly be no match against all five.
Mentally cringing, he looked down at the button on the cash register, the one you were supposed to push when you were being held up. Jim had always considered it the easy way out, to call the cops. He was much more for jumping the assailant himself. Those robbers were always high on something, anyway. It's not like it would be hard. Now this seemed like the only option…
Until he saw the register screen. It was black. Frozen.
He was so screwed.
"What do we want?" repeated Rat-Face, now showing a glint of yellowish teeth in a decidedly unfriendly manner. "At the moment: you."
Jim felt his head collide with the counter and after that felt no more.
He shook his head at the memory and winced at the throbbing in his temples. So yeah, not one of his better days. But enough of that. It was time to find out where he was. He sat up slowly, feeling now the tug of rope at his wrists and ankles. In his new position, he could see a dim shaft of light from a window somewhere and it illuminated his surroundings.
He was in some kind of warehouse. Judging from the damp smell of mildew and the distinct lack of boxes, he was sure it was abandoned now. Instead of holding boxes, the space had been converted into several crude cells. His was not the only one occupied.
As he had suspected, he had not been the only one taken.
To his left, he could barely make out a lean form among the shadows. The figure seemed to be sitting up, but was so still Jim couldn't be sure they were still all right. If it weren't for the breaths he kept almost-hearing, he would be certain the person was dead.
Off to the right, he could see a young, blond man curled up under a loose bit of plastic tarp, leftover from the warehouse's days of operation. A few more cells beyond him were also occupied. Jesus, how many of them were there?
It was deathly quiet.
"Hello?" Jim asked the question in barely a whisper, but it seemed to expand and fill the space. "Is anyone else awake?"
There was no answer.
"Hello?" Suddenly, the room was filled with light. Jim could hear the screeching of an old metal door being wrenched open somewhere out of his line of sight and two shadows entered the space.
"I want you to go look over the new one. No funny stuff." The voice was unfamiliar to Jim, but he was pretty sure it belonged to one of the kidnappers. He had the same kind of accent as Rat-Face.
"Yeah, yeah, I got all that. Now would ya let me work?" The second voice was pure southern drawl, and angry to boot. Jim watched as the speaker entered his view. The voice seemed to belong to a man of medium height with brown hair. A black bag was clutched in one hand. The other held a medical scanner like you saw in hospitals and places like that. Real high tech.
"Hey, kid. Name's McCoy, and I'm a doctor." The greeting was gruff and pitched low so the other man wouldn't be able to hear it. McCoy settled on his haunches before Jim's cell and held up the scanner. "I'm gonna give you an exam and make sure those bastards didn't break anything."
Jim felt like telling him that duh, if anything was broken he would feel it, but he decided to trust the doctor. In any case, he seemed more decent than anyone else he'd met during the day.
"So what's going on here?" he asked instead, also careful to keep his voice down. "Who are these guys?"
McCoy shot a glance over his shoulder and put the scanner away. "I don't know, and I ain't about to ask. Your readout looks fine, but I gotta know: you hurtin' anyplace?"
"No." His wrists were beginning to chafe, but it wasn't anything he couldn't handle. "Hey, wait, before you go…" McCoy paused. "Can you look at that guy over there? I think he's dead." Jim tossed his head over to the left, indicating the still-silent figure in the other cell.
"Nothin' wrong with him. He's a Vulcan." With that incomprehensible advice, McCoy stood up and walked back out of Kirk's vision. "He's all right," Jim heard him say to the kidnapper, "just a bit bruised, is all."
The footsteps of the two men softened as they left, and with another excruciating squeak, the light vanished with them. Kirk sighed and sat back against the cold wall of his cell.
"Hello?" came a faint voice, somewhere out of the darkness.
Kirk stiffened. "Hello? Who's there?" He scrambled closer to the bars and peered out into the gloom.
"I am Chekov. Pavel Andreievich Chekov." The young man under the tarp had sat up and was now warily looking in Kirk's direction. "Who are you?"
"I'm James Tiberius Kirk. Do you know what's going on?" His eyes having adjusted to the light, Jim could now see that Chekov's clothes were dirty and rather worn. He had been here for a while.
"Nyet." He looked down at the ground, defeated. "I beliewe it has something to do vith my father."
"How old are you?" Kirk asked, to keep him talking. Another father? This was beginning to look big. Bigger than him.
"That pretty much describes the situation," said another voice, farther down the line. This one was female, and sounded way more annoyed than pitiful.
"And you are?"
"Nyota Uhura. And I know why I'm here."
"Oh?" Jim wondered if she was hot. He couldn't help it! Her voice had a smooth, charming quality to it. Definitely one who was used to speaking, possibly public speaking.
"My dad is into diamonds. Buying, selling… stealing. Monetary motive, almost guaranteed."
"Huh. Hey Pavel, what does your dad do?"
"He makes wiolins."
"That doesn't sound like-"
"For wery important people. Actually, his last project sold at tventy thousand credits."
"Jesus." Jim shook his head. So here he was, in a room full of rich kids, obviously being counted among them for some kind of kidnapping scheme. "So these guys want money. That seems fairly plain. But are we going to let them do this? Hold us for ransom? I don't think so."
"It isn't any use trying to escape," said a new voice from the corner. From the tightness of the tone, Kirk guessed that the speaker was in pain.
"Hikaru! Are you feeling better?" Chekov had swiveled around so fast that Kirk was afraid the kid would lose his balance, but he just pressed himself up against the bars.
"A little. Listen, Kirk," said the voice, "I've already tried to get out. You'll get nothing that way except a broken face." The pale impression of an Asian boy took shape from the murky atmosphere some distance down the other wall. His face, Kirk could tell, even from this distance, was bruised rather badly.
"We just need to try harder," Jim said stubbornly.
"Illogical," said a voice to his left. Jim realized the voice, speaking for the first time now, belonged to the Vulcan. So he wasn't dead. "As I have already explained to present company, a frontal assault will only result in further physical abuse, not freedom."
"Hikaru vas being brave!" protested Chekov, looking, as far as Kirk could tell, put-out.
"He was being ignorant. Fencing with a broken bar was an eminently human, and thus, illogical, thing to do."
"All right, all right," grumbled Kirk, halting the argument before it could begin. "This isn't going to get anything done. We need to work together if we're going to get out." He grimaced. "First things first: introductions. I need to know who my friends are."
The others seemed to fall in line under his orders, reacting, maybe, to the verve in his voice, or the determination in his face.
"Hikaru Sulu. I'm seventeen. My dad is a computer manufacturer in Japan."
"Nyota Uhura, nineteen. My father owns a diamond mine in Africa."
"Pavel A. Chekov. I am fourteen and my father makes wiolins. Vell, all kinds of instruments, really."
"Great. I'm Jim Kirk, twenty-one. My dad captains a starship." He turned to his left. "Your turn."
"I am Spock. I am twenty-four Terran years old. And my father is a diplomat for the Vulcan Embassy."
"All right," said Kirk. "We need a plan."
I have too much fun with Chekov's accent. *shoots self* Reviews are love!