I own nothing here but the desire to manipulate the film 'Kiss of the Dragon' into a Kirk/Spock story which, let's face it, needed to be done. Jet Li practically IS a Vulcan anyway, so I'm sure he wouldn't mind. I'm certainly making no money from this, in fact I'm calling in sick so I can spend all day writing this so really, if you want to get technical – I'm LOSING money.
Ah well. A few warnings before we proceed:

First, this is my first ever K/S fic so if some of the Trek-Lore stuff doesn't make sense, please point it out to me.
Secondly, I'm sidestepping a LOT of the action/martial arts scenes because they're hard to write without becoming repetitive. I'm going to focus more on the whole love/angst/Hooker!Kirk aspect of things.
Thirdly – enjoy!


-Kiss of the Vulcan-

-Chapter One: Welcome to Earth-

Of all species, cultures and races in the known galaxy, perhaps it would be fair to say that none are as secretive as Vulcans. Their rituals are not only shrouded in mystery, they are completely obscured by it. Almost nothing is known about this reticent species to outsiders, except that they are a logical, calm race of beings, despite their physical advantages. Though it would never appear so to the causal observer, but they guard their privacy with a somewhat alarming ferocity. There are many aspects of their culture that the outside words may never be allowed to know. The much undisclosed mating ritual, Pon Farr, seems positively common knowledge when compared to something else, something much more jealously guarded.

The nerve pinch, often used by Vulcans as a way of defusing an ugly situation without resorting to violence, is widely renowned among many cultures; spoken of in hushed whispers and awe struck stories. Though nothing much is ever discussed further than that; Vulcans are peaceful, knowledge seeking beings and the gossip runs short after a while. Klingons, Orions and most especially humans make for far better scandal than those wise, contemplative Vulcans.

The truth is that this nerve pinch is merely the tip of the iceberg, indicative of a much deeper knowledge of nerve clusters hit with pinpoint accuracy. If ever it is spoken of, (accidentally without question, for no alien outside of Vulcan has any idea of it's existence) it is stupidly mislabeled the Vulcan Death Grip and refers to a Vulcan having the ability to kill, simply by pinching a certain nerve cluster in a certain area of the body. No-one knows more than that, no-one truly believes it even exists. Vulcans do not lie, after all, and they have expressly denied ever having knowledge of such a thing, let alone exclusive use of it.

But those select few Vulcans, privy to high level council access and expert training, know that those drunken slurs and tales are somewhat inadvertently correct.

It is called the kiss of the Vulcan.


"First time to earth?" the attendant asked, somewhat lazily; as though he could not possibly have cared any less. He looked pale, exhausted and bored to a dangerous degree. He peered at the PADD and then at the Vulcan standing before him.

"Yes," the Vulcan answered simply. He wondered if all security on this planet was this lax. He had been on the surface of San Francisco for exactly one hour, forty two minutes, six seconds and already he felt obligated to write to three or four organisations, most of them security and immigration, to point out several alarming concerns.

"Purpose of your visit?" the attendant queried again, slurring slightly with obvious fatigue and crippling monotony.

The Vulcan leaned in closer, unable to fully understand or even to believe that such ridiculously simple questions were being asked.

The attendant rolled his eyes a little and said, louder than before, "Business or pleasure?" as though speaking to an uneducated, ignorant alien. The Vulcan supposed he daily encountered enough of them to almost justify his rudeness.

"Pleasure," he answered, waiting for something a little more intelligent to be asked.

But no, that seemed to conclude the security questions. The attendant slid his card into the machine on his desk and then back in to the Vulcan's PADD, handing it to him without another word.

Trying very hard not to let incredulity become a preformed notion throughout his entire experience on the planet, he took back the PADD and went on his way. It was clearly no wonder than his services were required.

The city itself was tolerable, if only because of the fascinating structures and history surrounding the place. He suspected the people who actually resided there had little or no idea of just what an interesting city it really is. As he looked out of the window, inside a cab driven by the most irritating human he has thus far encountered, the Vulcan thought that it would not be a wasted journey here, even if it was not wholly centric to the assignment.

A particularly shrill note, wailed by the cab driver, unwilling drew his attention away from the scenery. He breathed deeply and allowed a fresh wave of calm wash over him, exerting effort so that he would not tar all humans with the same brush, as such. They could not all be this irritating and uninhibited.

"Do you like this music?" the driver asked, happy and relaxed in his own little world where he is obviously in tune and in time. He looked at the Vulcan in the rearview, expectantly.

And because the Vulcan would never consider such noise to be music, he felt no guilt whatsoever about nodding and answering, "Yes."

The area the cab was taking him to was a far less pleasant one than he should've liked, with particular reference to general hygiene; both moral and physical. Yet, there was nothing to be done about it. The quick exchange of credits was complete when they reached the specified destination and the Vulcan stepped out quickly, assessing the situation to be something not unlike a proverb his mother had been fond of using.

Out of the frying pan, into the fire.

It was a narrow street, more like an alleyway, that lead to the place he needed to be and it was most certainly not empty. On each side of the street, were rows of young boys and girls dressed in as little as possible, standing as provocatively as they could in what the Vulcan supposed was an attempt to appear alluring. Thankfully he was well versed in the concept of prostitution so it wasn't such a great shock, but it remained painfully distasteful and he would innately have preferred not to have to walk past each and every one of them to get to where he needed to be.

They stared at him as he walked; some winked or cooed, some simply gave him a once over before turning away, dismissing him as a lost cause. There were men patrolling the area, clearly not selling themselves, but keeping a close guard on those who were. The shops were dark and uninviting; mostly selling exotic alien foods and supplies. The narrowness of the street meant he could not successfully avoid overhearing some of the conversations taking place between buyers and sellers.

"One thousand credits, take it or leave it," one woman, an Orion, was saying rather haughtily and with a distinct air of routine. Her hair was magnificently red and she wore thin, leather strips that left most of her brilliant green skin exposed. "You want to slum it, go a little further down the street."

"Any 'don'ts'?" the potential purchaser asked, already reaching into his jacket for his PADD.

She shook her head, spilling curls everywhere. "None," she proclaimed, reaching behind her to retrieve her stick from an extremely narrow strip of leather around her midriff. She handed it to the man who made the transfer and then handed her back the stick. They left together without another word.

The Vulcan forced down a sense of general revulsion and continued making his way towards the small, inconspicuous shop, claiming to sell Vulcan food and ingredients. The Vulcan himself seriously doubted the veracity of such a claim, even though he knew what the place really was. He took out his PADD and scrolled to find the picture of the small object sitting in the shop window. A Sehlat, rearing back on it's hind legs. This was the place.

Inside it was quiet, unexpectedly quaint and smelled ever so faintly of home. Vulcan spices, badly diluted and poorly chopped, filtered into the air and somewhere outside was the sound of a wind chime; it reminded him of the one his mother hung in the garden.

A man and an elderly Vulcan men were speaking in rapid fire Standard, towards the back of the shop. Negotiating price, as far as the Vulcan could make out though a lot of what they were saying made little sense.

The old Vulcan looked up and immediately seemed to see the younger for what he was.

"Can I help you?" he asked, almost abruptly. His accent was dulled by the rough edges of fluent Standard and of so many years living in such a placement.

The Vulcan held up his PADD, showing the Sehlat from the front window and the old Vulcan's suspicions seemed confirmed. He nodded and went back to the negotiation of price. When it seemed concluded to his satisfaction, he glanced at the younger Vulcan and said, "You can put your things over there."

The case, which appeared to contain only neatly folded clothes, actually contained a hidden phaser. The Vulcan marveled at the total lack of security from a planet that boasted so much and so loud.

"How long are you planning on staying?" the elderly Vulcan enquired, carefully watching as the younger armed the phaser and set it to kill.

"Not very long."


The hotel was lavish and grand, glittering and golden. The Vulcan was too busy gauging security measures, potential exits and threats to notice that it was gaudy and tawdry in the worst kind of way, but by no means inexpensive.

He headed straight for the reception desk, fully aware that he was being watched by several people.

"Message for Mr. Smith," he said smoothly to the receptionist.

"Smith?" the man echoed, giving the Vulcan a strange, somewhat disbelieving look.

The Vulcan didn't so much as blink. "Yes."

The man made a big show of searching for it, as though he didn't have it two inches away from where his hand had rested moments ago. He handed it to the Vulcan with a friendly smile.

Inside it, was a one worded instruction.

'Bar'

The Vulcan turned away and headed in that direction, wondering if the man thought there was even a chance he had not heard him say, "He's here," into the comm device on the inside of his jacket.

The bar itself was small and empty, which made it easy to spot just exactly who in particular was watching him.

"Anything to drink, sir?" the bartender asked him.

"Water," he replied.

"Sparkling or flat."

The Vulcan gave him a look that was in itself quite flat, and replied simply, "Flat." As if he would even consider drinking a carbonated beverage. Weren't these people who were obviously watching him even remotely aware of Vulcan preferences?

Only a few seconds later, a man dressed in a Starfleet uniform sat down beside the Vulcan and sighed. "Last one for the road," he declared.

"Beer?" bartender asked, politely.

"Oh yes," he sighed as though nothing would have given him greater pleasure. He then faced the Vulcan with a friendly smile. "So, how are you, pal?"

The Vulcan immediately identified him as a helmsman, but only by uniform. The man was too old to still be in such a position. He didn't quite carry himself the way a true helmsman would have and if indeed he was on shore leave, why was he alone? He nodded by way of reply.

"Just having a little pre take off take off," the man went on, without being prompted. "Gives new meaning to flying the friendly skies. Can I buy you a drink? A serious drink?" he asked, indicating to the Vulcan's lonely, unused glass of water.

"No, thank you."

The man did not turn away, as anyone else would have done by now. "Where you from?" he asked, as though it wasn't blinding obvious.

"Vulcan."

"Ah, of course. My favourite. I love Vulcan, I love the food." This, the Vulcan seriously doubted but the man was operating on some ridiculous notion that being this friendly was obviously the best way to remain inconspicuous. "It's the best. All those amazing things you do with fruit and veg, cuts out the need for all that meat, huh? Not like us barbarians, I mean there we are, eating anything that moves, eh?"

The Vulcan waited patiently for the incompetent human to feel secure enough to pass on whatever message he had to give.

"First time on Earth?" he went on, drinking his beer from the glass.

"Yes."

"You're gonna have the time of your life," he said, reaching over the Vulcan to retrieve a bar snack. And as he did so, he finally whispered, "Male toilets. Now."

After a predictable charade in the male toilets (what was this planet's definition of security and stealth?) the Vulcan was taken to see the man he had come all this way for.

Admiral Richard Komack was not exactly what the Vulcan had expected, given that he was currently beating a smaller, dark haired human to death. One of his lackeys spoke in rapid Standard, indicating the Vulcan's presence and he looked up, unruffled and almost relaxed. His knuckles were raw and covered in the other man's blood.

"Ah," he practically purred. "Deal with this," he said to the tall, well built Klingon to his right. There were two of them, similarly built and with the exact same eyes. Brothers, perhaps. Without further instruction, the older Klingon proceeded to hang the man up by a his collar and the other delivered a blow that snapped his neck clean in half. The man fell down, dead to the floor of the kitchen. The entire scene would have made a lesser being queasy, but the Vulcan merely steeled himself and focused on the matter at hand.

Komack offered his hand, seemingly in the traditional earth style greeting but when the Vulcan offered it in return he clarified, "Phaser please. You won't need it. You're safe with us."

Of this, the Vulcan had high doubts, but handed it over anyway.

"So," Komack said. "You came all the way from Vulcan to keep an eye on us?"

"To help you," the Vulcan clarified, handing over his PADD for verification.

"Yes of course, to help us, since we are so incompetent. Because what is our miserable history compared to yours?" Komack asked, a nasty glint in his dark eyes.

The Vulcan was not entirely sure if the man was even employing sarcasm, as everything he had just said was entirely factual.

"S'chn T'gai Spock," he read aloud, mispronouncing several of the vowels incorrectly as most humans did. "Since we have to work together I don't want to spend half the day killing your name. Got a nickname? No? Well then, I'll say the only word I can pronounce. Spock." He finally offered the hand in the expected manner and, unnecessarily introduced himself. "Komack. Admiral Komack."

After only a fractional amount of hesitation, Spock shook it.

"Welcome to Earth, Spock."


Embarrassment was not something that Vulcans embraced, or even acknowledged as a basic principle but the High Vulcan Council was very careful about certain types of attention. Attention drawn to the wrong area of things could be devastating.

Which was why, of course, they had sent their very best agent to remove the threat of unwanted attention.

Even a species as logical and peaceful as Vulcans, has it's fair share of bad apples.

Salkor was a reputed merchant before he made the elevation to intergalactic arms dealer. He was short, somewhat weak breed of Vulcan who represented a great deal of potential negative attention with regards to the integrity of the Vulcan High Council. If word got out that a Vulcan of all things was selling ion based weaponry to enemy forces, during a supposed ceasefire…well, that would certainly constitute unwanted attention.

Spock's assignment was not especially complex, yet the timing had to be almost perfect. There had to be sufficient evidence of the trade, first of all. Salkor was an senseless, indulgent Vulcan but the men who worked for him were not. Some of them were ex agents themselves and would be alert for the possibility of a trap. Spock had to scrutinize and record the entire exchange between Salkor and the human clients whose identities remained unknown to Spock at this point.

After a satisfactory amount of evidence had been attained, Spock would 'assist' Komack and his subordinates in making the arrest. Spock would take Salkor back to Vulcan, where he would be processed unofficially and Komack would not register the offence with the human authorities or Starfleet – thus avoiding any potential acts of war. The entire incident had to go off without the slightest hitch, so much depended upon it. The timing, potential variables…Spock had accounted for everything, every possible contingency.

Or so he had thought.


'This,' James Kirk decided, 'Was a terrible idea.'

Well, really. That went completely without saying. The evidence was overwhelming. First of all, his jeans were way too tight. Yes, he was supposed to be seductive and irresistible but seriously? There wasn't going to be much of anything left to seduce with at this rate. Secondly, the hotel was all wrong. Expensive, but not for the quality of the experience. More for the privacy of your own experiences. He knew most of the people scattered around the lobby, knew who they worked for. The same person he did. Not a good sign.

And thirdly, and this really should have been the warning that forced him to say no to this terrible, terrible idea…he was with Gary Mitchell.

Things had a way of going horribly, irreversibly wrong when he was with Gary fucking Mitchell.

Gary looked stunning, as always. Clothes cleaner than his own, hair much cleaner. Just cleaner in general and in better shape too. Still taking the drugs, of course. Funny how doing something as respectable and upright as trying to get off drugs could make your awful life even worse. But James Kirk had long ago stopped trying to make sense of the universe. What rights did a hooker have to existentialism?

He realised all too late that he was shaking. It could easily have been the fourth sign in the ever growing list of Why This Is The Worst Fucking Idea Ever, but he shoved it down ruthlessly and focused on the task at hand. He had the whole scenario memorised perfectly, of course, but he felt sick…actually, physically sick. His body was demanding another hypo, just one more little hypo to get him through this and then…then he could quit.

'Get a fucking grip, man,' he told himself. 'Come on, Jim. You can do this.'

Grant was waiting for them both inside the hotel, he came just into view as they fully entered and it did nothing to soothe Jim's swirling stomach. He looked furious enough to hit them both there and then which, he easily could have, but even he wasn't that stupid. He was a thick, muscle bound kind of man. Well built, but flabby around the edges. Nasty small eyes and a nonexistent temper.

"What fuckin' time you call this?" he snapped as soon as they were in earshot. "Don't ever keep me fuckin' waiting, you got me?"

Instantly, a thousand snappy comebacks came flooding into Jim's mind hopefully but he smashed them all down too. He was used to doing that by now and at the end of the day, having a broken jaw wasn't going to make his life any easier.

He shoved past them both. "Alright, let's go."

The sudden action seemed to jolt yet another bolt of nausea through Jim's exhausted body and he faltered for a moment. Gary sensed this, touching his face briefly.

"Shh, baby," he whispered. Jim did nothing as Gary wet his fingers a little and placed them on Jim's own. Comfort. Reassurance, even, to an outsider. Jim knew better. "Come on."

Grant's tension vanished and melted into a pleasant smile as he headed towards the short, squat Vulcan sitting uncomfortably in one of the lobby chairs. "Hey there," he said to the Vulcan who looked up, his eyes brightening with interest as he surveyed Jim and Gary. Grant turned mid-step and with a horribly false smile of his own, said, "Smile, boys, smile."

Just a job. Just another favour. Just another few hours.

Jim tried to shut himself off as much as possible, but it was difficult. Without the drugs, he was feeling too much of everything. He felt dizzy almost with the pressure of maintaining his smile.

"Nice to meet you at last," said one of the Vulcan lackeys, extending a hand towards Grant who shook it with vigor.

"Welcome to earth," he was saying, all ease and friendliness. "These are some friends of mine. Gary. Jim."

Jim smiled in what he prayed was a relaxed manner. Gary went straight in for the kill, taking the shorted Vulcan's hand and kissing it. The five lackeys surrounding the short, fat one all zeroed in on the action. Gary knew very well what hew as doing, of course.

"Hey cool it," Grant warned, casually. "Hey fuckin' cool it, alright?" As if he hadn't specifically told both Gary and Jim about Vulcan sensitive points. Gary paid no attention to the entirely false warning and sat down on the fat Vulcan's lap, enraptured with the prize before him. Jim's stomach lurched again.

A terrible idea, indeed.


"I think," Spock said, into the minute comm device. "We have a situation."

A most unexpected one at that. The two young boys accompanying the human dealer presented a problem for Spock in more ways than one. Both of them prostitutes, clearly. One seemed remarkably ill, though only to the Vulcan's heightened senses. The other was busily wrapping himself around Salkor and purring into his neck. Spock had noticed the kiss to the back of Salkor's fingers and it worried him for reasons he could not immediately place. But then, he supposed, people in that line of business needed to be well prepared for any potential client.

"One Vulcan, two boys. Do you see them?" he said. Part of him was repulsed by Salkor's weakness. He knew very well which part that was.

"Yes, I do," Komack replied evenly through the device.

The boy sitting practically astride Salkor, leaning in closer and whispered, "Want to go to heaven?"

Salkor didn't even hesitate. "Let's go." They stood in unison, the weaker boy taking a few seconds to rise. "I'm going up," Salkor announced to his subordinates.

"But sir, the meeting…" they tried to protest.

"I've beamed down to this repugnant little planet for a falhaek of a contact – he can wait for me!" Salkor snapped.

The slightly younger boy approached the older one, though Spock couldn't see his face at all, he sensed he was about to faint.

"Gary, I don't know if I can do this," he pleaded weakly and under his breath. Only because Spock was listening so intently, did he detect it.

"Don't worry, baby," the older boy replied, almost excitedly. "Let Daddy run the show, huh?"

Salkor appeared behind them, smiling in anticipation. "Let's go to heaven."

Spock watched them go for a few seconds, his stomach turning ever so slightly at the tremble evident in the younger one's knees.

"He is leaving with the two boys," Spock stated neutrally. "What should I do?"

"Come up," Komack sounded amused. "And enjoy the show."


The suite was huge; obviously the most expensive the hotel offered. Gary was impressed, barging through the double doors all smiles and cockiness. Jim was thinking more longingly about what kind of double bed a room like this one would have. He imagined just curling up in it for five…no, ten minutes and just sleeping.

"Wow!" Gary exclaimed, immediately striding over to the music system, scrolling through a list of contemporary songs until he found one to his liking.

Salkor (was that his name? That or something along those lines) made himself comfortable on the sofa, while his Vulcan bodyguards gave Jim and Gary unrepentantly suspicious looks.

"Sir, we need to check the room to eliminate the possibility of threats."

"One minute," Salkor allowed impatiently.

Gary had found a song he could dance shamelessly to and without even waiting for the other Vulcans to finish their search of the room, he began to do exactly that. He flung his jacket at Salkor, smiling the smile and said, "Let's party, big boy."

He looked so sexy, so glowing with confidence and section. Jim felt about as sexy as a pregnant wildebeest. Just looking at Gary gave him motion sickness. But Gary was all about the job; one of those people who in such a profession, genuinely shone. Jim kinda thought it said a lot about him; that he considered being a hooker (and worse) a career. And if it was a career, then Gary was employee of the fucking month.

He danced his way over to Jim, grabbing his hips and pulling them into his own. "C'mon baby," he sighed, as if he couldn't tell the difference between Jim and Salkor. "Let's have some fun."

He slid to his knees, provocative to the extreme as always.

"Gary, I don't feel so good," Jim whispered as another powerful lurch of nausea threatened to roll up into his throat.

Gary popped up, almost comically. "Wanna fix?" he asked brightly, extending his tongue to show a small blue and yellow pill. Nothing but a popper, really. Not like the hypos…nothing like them at all, but it still would have taken the edge off.

"I told you, I quit!" Jim said, somewhat desperately. Somewhat to himself.

"More for me," Gary said, unconcerned as he turned back to Salkor.

The dancing really only got worse while Jim sort of…stood there, feeling more like a piece of furniture by the minute. Why, why did this job require both of them? Gary could easily have come alone to do this. 'Christ,' Jim thought. 'Just look at him.'

He wormed his way between Salkor's knees, staying in time with the music perfectly, then he shoved his index finger into Salkor's mouth, swirling it around for good measure. The rest of the his clothes came off, leaving nothing but a very tight pair of black briefs, displaying the extensive dragon tattoo along his back. He was grinding up against Salkor now and Jim could no longer simply stand there.

He tried to shut down everything apart from basic motor controls, but it was no good. He felt sick to the core of his bones and no amount of numbing himself was going to work this time. He slipped off his coat, slowly as if hoping to prolong the moment.

Gary turned suddenly to the glass table and without warning swept everything off it, onto the floor. He was on the table, poised like a cat, in his goddamned element.

Jim saw the line of coke, saw him break the popper over it right before Gary dived into it. The sickness gave a particularly powerful surge and bile rose up in his throat.

"Minute's up! Everyone out!" Salkor snapped, obviously able to wait no longer.

"But sir, we did not complete our search…" one of his guards tried to explain.

"Get out!"

"Very well sir."

The other Vulcans left. It seemed only to seal Jim's fate.


Spock made his way quietly and carefully to the headquarters of the operation. A hotel room, used to host the necessary surveillance equipment. It was on the same floor as Salkor's, just a few doors down.

As he walked, Spock's mind was uneasy. There was something very…off about this whole scenario. He couldn't place it without resorting to something he had trained himself to ignore; gut instincts.

Life as a half Vulcan - half human hybrid had not been easy. His superiors had garnered nothing but the very lowest of expectations for him as a child, which had made him want to succeed even more. His excellence had risen high above any other child of his age, full Vulcan children to be more exact. He had endured countless incidents in which his peers had pressured and insulted him so as to observe him react in an emotional manner. When he was sixteen, something…something had happened to him that he could not explain, but it sent him into a state of sheer, unbreakable determination to reign control over himself and his emotions. When he had been offered a place in the VSA, he had been reminded once more of how unexpected his excellence was. It had been the final straw. He had accepted an outside offer, to become an agent trained in handing intergalactic assignments and operations to maintain the security and integrity of the High Vulcan Council and Vulcan, in general. Certainly it was not his great fondness for the Council in any way, but more the chance to shape himself into someone he wanted to be. Go places, see new sights. Occasionally, he regretted his choice very slightly; wishing he had chosen to go with Starfleet instead. But still, the past was simply that; the past. His training to become what he was now had taken almost six years to complete. He had been operational as an agent for three and a half years now and was considered the highest ranking agent in his field. The training he had undergone had taught him to remove all traces of emotion and to ignore certain instincts when they presented themselves. Spock had excelled in all fields of his training, except this one.

And the gut instinct just then, was extremely strong.

He walked past Salkor's minions, mindful of his mental shields. They stared at him as he passed, blank yet obviously skeptical of his presence in this hotel.

He heard music, and other less distinguishable sounds, coming from Salkor's room and suppressed a spike of disgust towards the Vulcan inside it.

Nauseating.

Oh God. Oh holy Jesus fucking Christ on a cross this was like some kind of nightmare. Gary was now beneath Salkor, eyes heavy lidded with lust – Jim couldn't tell if it was even fake at this point – and wrapping his legs around Salkor's shoulders.

The bile in Jim's throat burned and his mouth watered horribly in grim anticipation. Gary shot Jim a 'come-over-here-and-join-the-fun' look and that was enough for Jim.

"I…I have to go to the bathroom, OK?" Jim said, managing not to throw up where he stood.

"Yes," Salkor said, face flushed green with a big, lusty smile all over it. "Come back soon."

"Sure," Jim said, so relieved that he flashed what he knew was a stunning smile at the Vulcan before he turned and fled to the bathroom.

He barely made it to the toilet before the sick was in his mouth and then coming up to say hello.

His chest heaved, his whole body hurt and his throat burned as if he had swallowed acid. He gasped for air, trying to calm himself down but he felt like crying. He remembered being sick like this, many years ago, for very different reasons.

The music in the other room was a reminder that he would have to go back in there soon and do his job. Another little piece of his soul and for what?

How had this become his life?

More importantly, how would he ever get out of it?

Spock entered the control room, filled with screens displaying what was happening inside the room a few doors down, in detail. Komack was drinking a cup of coffee, watching impassively as the torrid scene unfolded.

"Hey Spock, just in time," he said, with a grin.

"This was not part of the plan," Spock stated.

"It is now," Komack waved off. "It's all under control. Don't worry; he'll do his thing and then we'll do ours."

Spock stared at the monstrous images before him, noticing something missing.

"Where is the other boy?" he asked, not able to see him in any of the holovids.

"Prettying up in the bathroom," Komack guessed, not taking his eyes off Salkor.

The sounds from the recordings were extremely realistic. Spock could detect every staccato breath, every grunt and groan and slap of skin as the boy lowered himself down onto Salkor and began to ride him.

"You want to go to heaven?" the boy demanded, riding Salkor harder.

"Take me!" he groaned. "Take me to heaven!"

The gut instinct clenched, hard. No…

The knife seemed to come from nowhere, but Spock saw it materialise into the boy's hand. Saw it rise, saw it fall.

He was already out of the door before Salkor could scream, but it was too late. He ran flat out along the corridor where the other Vulcans were already waiting. He traded blows with them quickly, unthinkingly. It came naturally to him; blow to the throat, to the abdomen. Simple incapacitation methods, nothing more. He kicked down the door to see the boy standing over Salkor's bleeding body, knife raised triumphantly, about to finish the job.

Spock tackled him to the floor, knocking the weapon from his hands. He snatched one of his wrists behind him and pinched a nerve there causing the muscle to freeze, as if chained.

"Let me go, you mother fucker!" the boy screamed. "What have you done? Let me go!"

Salkor was covered in his own green blood, wheezing and gasping. The boy had managed to stab his heart with some accuracy. When he saw Spock, he spoke to him in breathy, slurred Vulcan.

"He stabbed me, that…that bastard stabbed me!" he sobbed.

Spock replied in his mother tongue, "Stay calm."

He reached on either side of Salkor's neck, applying pressure to the nerves so as to render him gently unconscious. There was a communicator on the desk, Spock heads straight for it, but before he could activate it, he sensed another's presence.

Komack, holding his phrased in one gloved hand.

"Stop surveillance," he said into his own comm device.

"He needs medical assistance," Spock told him, aware of Salkor's drying blood on his hands.

"He doesn't want medical assistance," Komack said, pointing the phaser at Salkor. "He wants to go to heaven."

Salkor burned up in a matter of seconds, dead and then…gone.

"Richard!" the boy screamed from the floor. "Look what he did to me!"

Komack killed the boy too without hesitation.

Spock stared at him, genius mind unable to comprehend what exactly had just happened.

"Why did you kill him?" Spock asked, almost calmly.

"The question," Komack replied, holding up the phaser. Spock's phaser. "Is why did you kill him? Thanks for the help, Spock."

Betrayal.

Spock's mind went into autopilot. Komack looked behind him for one second, one tiny moment of time to see his men joining him.

One second was all Spock needed.

He moved as fast as he could, too fast for a human to even see, and was out of the window before Komack had even looked back.


A/N - This will be updated in the next few days as it's actually all written and finished. I apologise once more things are not accurate. Please tell me if they're not. Hope you enjoy, it gets a lot better.

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Bex

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