nexus_sages | (no subject)

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James T. Kirk absolutely loves marketplaces.

It's not necessarily because he's looking for anything, per se, although he does often keep an eye out for interesting books to add to his collection, or maybe a bottle of some kind of exotic alcohol, or some kind of pointless alien gizmo with which to annoy Spock with its purposeless existence. No, he just loves the sheer diversity each bazaar brings to the table.

No two markets have ever been alike, in his experience. Sure, it's not quite as exciting and mysterious as exploring deep space, but it's something of a microcosm of the same, all sorts of goods and cultures thrown into close quarters, and one never knows what one might find just down the street.

His shipboard gold uniform may stand out a bit in the crowd as he meanders along, a faint smile on his face as he leans in to examine someone's wares on display, just enjoying being out and about in the fresh air.

[OOC: Retconning Jim eating bacon in this thread. Hadn't fully considered some of the elements in his backstory at the time.]

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There it is.

*She closes in with a series of strikes, picking up speed. She's not giving him time to plan, or evade, only react.*

How do you feel?

Defend, defend, defend. All he can do is block or deflect her attacks as she batters away at his defenses, adding bruises upon bruises, and if he was anyone other than James T. Kirk, he'd be calling it quits about now.

But he is, and quitting isn't in his vocabulary.

He can hardly think about his answer, too focused on trying not to get hit anywhere vital, and it drags a brutally honest answer from him. "Still mad." By all rights, he shouldn't be. He avenged Vulcan, avenged his father, and saved the Earth.

But it won't bring any of them back.

*This, right here, was her goal--getting him too worn down and focused to dissemble, and then pulling these things out into the open to be dealt with.*

Good. At whom?

*It's important to keep the pressure high, and she does just that, circling as her strikes fall, not letting him fall into the comfort of a pattern. Admittedly, she can only keep an assault like this up for so long before even she needs to go on the defensive for a moment to catch her breath. She's morbidly curious just what he's going to do when the tables turn.*

He can't retreat, not even to get a moment's respite, not when all she'll do is follow him. He turns to face the direction of the assault as she moves around him, the only thing he can do to keep his vital spots protected.

"I don't know!"

And isn't that a kick in the teeth? Nero is an easy target, the root of all his problems, ever since the day Jim was born. But he's hardly the only one to blame for everything that's happened since.

*Time for a change in tempo, before she starts wearing herself down; Samus drops back, her posture going from attack to defense as she posits a suggestion.*

Your father?

*Here it comes.*

It takes him a moment before the cessation of constant attacks really registers, and he's wary to lower his guard at all, even if only to see why she's stopped. But she has stopped, and the continual barrage she subjected him to has him working more on instinct than conscious action. He closes the gap again, and the speed of his attacks is slower than hers, but he's putting a decent amount of strength into the blows, a mix of boxing punches and Vulcan v'shan strikes.

"He could've found another way," he spits out, not even considering that she lacks the context of George Kirk's final moments. Everyone knows.

*Samus gives ground only slowly, watching the unfamiliar strikes to learn from them even as she intercepts them. Her defense is solid, and while she'll have her own share of bruises, that is the price of good training.*

But he didn't. He left you. He chose to leave you. And for what?

He's just about beyond even noticing her analyzing his moves, some part of him aware that sooner or alter she's going to turn the tables, the rest of him well and truly unable to give a shit about that. All that matters is the honest anger she's pulled out of him, raining down blows on this stranger who dares dig up the past and make him confront the ghost of George Kirk, the man he never met, whose shadow has hung over him since he was born.

"Twelve minutes of glory. Eight hundred lives saved. But he couldn't even kill the bastard!"

*If he's still willing to talk with her after this is done, she might explain herself. But that's yet to be seen. For now, there's a storm to weather.*

Where would you be now if he had?

Jim doesn't need to speculate. He knows. He's known what life he could have had since the moment Spock from the future pulled him into that unstable mindmeld, showing him not only the destruction of Romulus, but also the life of another James T. Kirk. One who still passed through the fires of Tarsus IV, but one who had a stable family at home to support him, to encourage his interests, to guide him down the paths of a normal life.

Not this.

"I'd be different."

If you'd been in his place, could you have killed Nero then, and stopped all of this?

That's the worst part. Knowing only what they did at the time, without the benefit of hindsight? "...I don't know."

He doesn't believe in no-win scenarios. There's always another way, another angle no one has considered. "I wouldn't have given up."

Is that what he did?

*Is Jim still throwing strikes, or have the questions caught him? If not, Samus holds off as well--this is a moment that needs no distraction. He's in the right place to face it.*

He's definitely slowed in his attacks, and now he stops completely, hands shaking slightly from both fatigue and anger at his father. Maybe at himself, too. Had she intended this to be a distraction, rather than a genuine effort to make him reexamine his own beliefs and hangups, it'd be a perfect time to take advantage.

Jim has gone over his father's final moments in as much detail as he's had access to, so many times, looking for another way, another route. He's never found one. And he's never been able to accept that there isn't one, not even after having years to analyze and theorize instead of twelve minutes.

The burning rage is slowly draining away, numbness creeping in to replace it, and Jim looks down at his hands, his knuckles split and bruised. "He killed himself to buy more time."

*Her posture relaxes, her voice lowering; the question falls like a leaf on still water.*

Did he get it?

Jim just sounds tired, his voice quieter as he says, "Yeah, he did."

Then he won.

*There's a note of encouragement in her voice now, inviting him to consider this perspective in place of the previous, painful one.*

The price of victory was his life, but he won as much as anyone could have.

Introspection is always the hardest pill to swallow, and Jim's always been bad at taking his medicine. But he is listening, even if he finds it difficult to accept.

He sighs a little, and flexes his fingers to try to determine if he's broken any bones in his hands again. "You're not secretly a therapist, are you?" he asks, raising his eyes to meet hers. Even if she is, he has to say that this style of working out your issues makes a hell of a lot more sense than most of the psych consults he's been sent to over the years.

*She gives a lopsided smile, straightening up and rolling her shoulders.*

I've been down this hole before, and I know the way out. How do you feel?

He has no idea if she means physically or emotionally, but it hardly matters, because his answer for both is the same. "Pretty sore." Not to mention wrung-out and exhausted, but he figures that goes without saying.

I'd say you've earned that drink. Not alcohol--

*She's very quick to add that qualifier.*

--but I have some suggestions.

And he's quick to raise his eyebrows at her putting the kibosh on the possibility of numbing the pain in his battered hands - and the rest of his body, let's be fair - with liberal internal application of alcohol. "Why not?"

Because you use it as a crutch. Given the chance, you'll drink your pain away, and with it will go anything you learned today, and you won't grow any. I'd hate to think this afternoon was wasted, wouldn't you?

*She turns, starting back toward the more populated parts of the Nexus at a sedate pace that shouldn't tax Jim's aching frame too much.*

God, there she goes, being all reasonable and everything. He has to fight the urge to roll his eyes as he retrieves his gold uniform shirt, slinging it over one shoulder as he turns to follow her. Without the adrenaline deadening the pain, his body is letting him know just how unhappy it is with him right now, but at least it's familiar. Maybe a cracked metacarpal or two, and a lot of bruises. Nothing he can't handle. He didn't even get his nose broken this time.

"So what do you have in mind?"

Something from my Facet: Gavan brandy. No alcohol, but I think you'll like it.

*Her path takes them to the first drinking establishment they pass, dim and deserted at this time of day, save for an imperturbable bartender. The Hunter confers briefly with the man, and he pours out two tumblers of a drink that glows sky-blue in the tavernous gloom.*

Kho'vap.

*Samus takes one of the glasses, raising it to Jim in toast, and sips it with an appreciative sigh. The drink is tangy and a little bit sweet, tasting of otherworldly berries, and tingles subtly on the tongue. It seems Samus has a sweet tooth. Although the drink isn't alcoholic, it is loaded with alpha and beta endorphins, which between them serve as mood elevators and pain dampeners, respectively.*