Title: Along Comes a Stranger (24/28)
Author: klmeri
Fandom: Star Trek AOS
Pairing: Kirk/Spock/McCoy
Summary: AU. Jim’s life in Riverside is uncomplicated until two men, both equally mysterious and compelling, arrive in town, bringing with them the promise of change.
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Part Twenty-Four

The next morning, Jim is anxiously chewing on his bottom lip and peering through his third-story window when her Ladyship and a trail of attendants barge into his room unannounced. Jim turns—suddenly grateful that he showered and dressed earlier—to speak but Lady Q barks out orders in rapid succession—and none of them at Jim.

“Pull the table near the window and set the box—No, no! Not there! By the window!” She flaps one lacy-gloved hand in Jim’s general vicinity.

A man silently grabs Jim by the shoulders and almost lifts him out of the way as two more men carry in and carefully arrange a heavy, Chippendale desk in front of the window. The “box” is an old television with a broken antenna tipped with tin foil that might have cost ten dollars at a yard sale. It looks rather absurd (and sad) perched on the end of the recently polished mahogany desktop.

Lady Q squeezes between Jim and the desk for a better angle to inspect of her men’s handiwork and knocks Jim off-balance with her large, rigid hoop skirt. He lands with a plop across his bed.

She doesn’t take her eyes off the television (now being plugged into a wall socket) and waves her hand behind her, at Jim, quite impatiently. “Oh do not lounge about, dear! Come and see!”

Jim contemplates crawling under the bed. Someone grabs his shirt front and hauls him to his feet. Kirk sighs and gives the old woman’s dress a wide berth to stand opposite her.

The television crackles to life and fills with the white snow of static.

He blinks. “Um, what are we doing?” he wants to know.

Lady Q sits down on a chair which has miraculously appeared beneath her and daintily aligns the skirt of her dress (more like punching it down so that she can see over it). She says, indignant, “The Q are hardly neanderthals, James. This is a television. We will watch television. You—” she snaps, addressing a young man with a nervous expression. “—where is the picture? Come now, we must have a picture or this entire experience is wasteful!” Lady Q apparently abhors wastefulness.

“Yes, your Ladyship,” parrots the young man, as do the others around him. Adjusting the antennae doesn’t work. Nothing happens.

Lady Q brings out her fan.

Jim interrupts, taking pity on the male Q,“May I try?”

She simply looks at him.

Jim turns a faded brown knob to a local channel, twists the tin foil a little higher, and suddenly the sound of a woman’s voice spills forth. But the picture remains stubbornly shoddy.

Lady Q raises her voice, demanding, “Well?”

He turns to her, grins because he can’t help himself and holds up his finger in a gesture of just you wait. Then he gives the side of the television a solid, resounding whack.

The picture clears to reveal a commercial of a little girl holding toothbrush and a tube of Colgate toothpaste and grinning.

“Excellent!” cries Lady Q. “Sit, sit!” She points at a second chair (why do they keep appearing?) next to her.

He does, and together they watch two commercials and the beginning of a cartoon in silence before Lady Q makes a noise of disgust. She says, “I had hoped to see a newsreport.”

“It’s too late for the morning news,” explains Jim. “We can watch the evening news, though.”

She turns to him, eyes gleaming. “We mustn’t miss it!”

There is a funny fluttering in his stomach. “Why?” he asks.

She pats his hand. “Good things come to those who wait, child. Now—have you had breakfast?”

His stomach growls pitifully. “No,” Jim admits, sheepish.

“We shall have a light snack, to not spoil our luncheon, of course. Tonight,” she adds, fanning herself, “I think we shall dine in the Velvet Room. Yes, I believe so. Come, then!” Lady Q hops off her chair like a woman a quarter of her age. “I have many activities planned for you today, James—many activities. Let it never be said that the Q are poor hosts!”

He scrambles after her, not unlike her attendants, but Lady Q is already marching far ahead of them all, skirt swishing. “—waltz—” she is saying, and “—gentleman’s fitting. Have we remembered to procure the tailor?”

Jim is thinking he really shouldn’t have gotten in that car in the first place.

He pulls at the collar of his new doublet (courtesy of Lady Q) when no one is looking and wonders if he will have to rip a seam or two to peel it off his person. It’s a deep blue, a color the old woman insists matches his eyes when he is in a fury. “Like a war general upon the battlefield, driving his men forward over enemy lines!”

Lady Q may be the most fanciful person Jim has ever met. The longer he stays in her company, deeper his conviction grows that she is the least sane being in this compound. Maybe being cooped up here has made her that way.

All the more reason for Jim to get the hell out.

Lady Q becomes more vibrant by the hour; the rest of the Q seem to sink into pit of despair, like she is feeding on their energy. And Jim is, quite bluntly, the man stuck in the middle of it all.

He has been watched like a hawk all day by unobtrusive shadows, people (both men and women) whose eyes are always upon his back, judging his every movement. Never mind that Lady Q was a whirlwind of petticoats spinning in every which direction as she commanded and demanded and dragged Jim around like a beloved toy with half of its stuffing hanging out.

Jim is not certain if the Q (minus her Ladyship) are wary of what he might do or more wary of what he might not do.

His shoulder is rapped sharply with the end of that ever-present fan. Jim has come to the conclusion that the fan’s only purpose is to serve as a menacing, unexpected weapon.

“James, pay attention! And sit still.”

He couldn’t possibly be any stiller—the doublet is an iron vice around his ribs.

She looks pointedly at his leg. Jim stops bouncing it.

They are back in the twin chairs, watching the television. The window is open and outside it’s dusk. Jim is glad for the fresh air; his outfit smells of age and dust.

…Welcome to the 6 o’clock news in Riverside, Iowa. I’m your host…

Lady Q leans forward in anticipation, snapping her fan closed. She whispers, “Now we shall see, James, just how the world forges on without us.”

Jim’s hands reflexively lock onto his knees.

…the situation continues to spiral out of control. Greg, can you update us on the latest developments?

The screen switches over to a man with microphone standing on a corner of Main street, right near a café Jim likes. His tone is grave: Word has spread like wildfire through the community, Laurie. It is unlikely that there is a man, woman, or child who does not know of the kidnapping of James Tiberius Kirk—

Jim chokes on his own spit.

—two nights ago at gun point. To recap for those of you just tuning in: James—or known as Jim to his family and friends—was last seen by Mr. Hikaru Sulu, chef at The Diner, outside a 7-eleven gas station, who claims Jim was forced to enter an unknown vehicle in order to spare the life of Mr. Sulu.

“How absurd!” scoffs the old woman. “We Q do not shoot people.”

Kirk’s mother made a public statement to the press late yesterday afternoon, after forcing her way into the Channel 4 News station. In this statement, she shocked the town of Riverside by claiming that this was the second—yes, the SECOND—act of unwarranted violence committed against her only child. She did not elaborate on the details of her claim but the news team received an anonymous tip within hours that James Kirk had injuries incongruent with a reported motorcycle accident some weeks ago, injuries such rope burns on his wrists. Authorities deny any knowledge of the injuries, however, saying the story cannot be validated if it was not written in the official report. They proclaim that Ms. Kirk is “under severe stress from the unusual disappearance of her son.”

Lady Q makes a rude noise at the television. It’s hard for Jim to breathe, it seems, in a most awful way.

The male reporter hands the proverbial ball back to his colleague, Laurie, inside the Channel 4 news station.

We will come back to Greg in a moment. Folks, we have breaking news. A few hours ago, politician Trelane— A snapshot of Trelane appears. —was attacked while giving a speech to the Riverside Garden Society. We have a clip—as you can see, several individuals pushed through the crowd to the stage. Trelane’s bodyguards formed a barricade and Trelane left the podium, but someone else slipped around the confusion and approached Trelane from the opposite direction.

The video enhances, taking up the whole television screen.

Winona Kirk steps in front of Trelane and yells something. Trelane shakes his head, denying her accusation. One of the bodyguards in the background goes down like a sack of potatoes and a man darts across the other end of the stage towards Trelane and Winona. The rest happens so quickly, Jim is left reeling: Trelane, tapping his umbrella on the ground impatiently, attempts to sidestep Winona Kirk. She jerks the umbrella out of his hands, swings it in a wide arc, and whaps Trelane solidly across the back of his head. Trelane shrieks in surprise, she raises the umbrella again (clearly intent on beating him senseless with it; Jim hears her cry of “WHERE IS HE!”) only to be hauled backwards by the man who has finally made it across the stage, whose face (caught by the camera zooming in on the action) is Bones’, as grim as Jim has ever seen it. Winona twists like a wild woman in Bones’ arms, still gripping the umbrella, and screams at Trelane. Trelane, in turns, cries out, “Somebody help me!”

The video clip ends.

The woman was taken into custody by the police, along with her accomplices. Her identity has just been formally released to the public. The reporter pauses for dramatic effect. Winona Kirk—mother of the missing James Tiberius Kirk. No official statement has been given by either party as to the nature of the attack. Trelane, after inspection by an EMT, refused to go to the hospital and is said to have no lasting damage from the blow to his head. Back to you, Greg.

The man blinks at the camera. That is certainly surprising news. One can only speculate why the enraged mother went after Wesley’s opponent. Does Winona Kirk suspect Trelane in the kidnapping of her son and, if so, why? I fear we may not have those answers for some time. Trelane has already refused a Channel 4 News interview on the subject, stating: “I have no acquaintance with Winona Kirk, but clearly she is an unstable woman.”

Jim jumps to his feet, anger overriding the shock at seeing his mother whack a man with an umbrella. “Trelane should be the one under arrest, not Mom!”

Lady Q says soothingly, “You mustn’t fret, James.”

He rounds on her. “Are you happy now? My mother is in JAIL!”

“Is she?” asks the old woman mildly.

Jim demands, “What does that mean?”

“Only that the Riverside Sheriff has to be a fool to think an upstanding woman like Ms. Winona Kirk beats a man in public without a good reason.”

“Komack is in Trelane’s pocket,” spits Kirk.

Lady Q’s mouth turns up at the corners. “Oh that’s not possible, dear, because Komack has always been in my pocket.”

Jim stares at her, speechless.

Her eyes twinkle merrily. “Komack is an old friend of the Q, if somewhat of a sourpuss.”

“Komack hates me.”

“The Sheriff was my first source of information about you, James. I would not say he detests you, but he certainly did not appreciate your penchant for trouble when you were younger and men such as Komack have long memories.”

Jim tries to make sense of what she is saying. “Trelane… and Komack.”

“Are two wolves in sheep’s clothing,” supplies Lady Q, “expect that Komack is, shall we say, a good wolf.”

“I need to sit down.”

“Please do. I cannot see the little box when you are standing.”

The woman—Lady Q’s personal assistant apparently—from the Jim’s first night at the Q compound slips into the Velvet Room and whispers in Lady Q’s ear. Not that Jim could hear a word if she were talking in a regular voice. He is on the opposite end of a very long table; the seat of the man of the house, he is told, which makes Jim nervous.

“Is there a mob, too?” cries the old woman gleefully.

The other Q whispers something else. Lady Q’s expression falls in disappointment and she says, “Bring him then, I suppose, if it is so important.”

The ruler of the Q picks up her glass of wine and sips at it. “James,” she calls, “how is your dinner?”

Jim eyes the roast piglet platter, complete with an apple in its mouth, not an arm’s length away from his plate. He is beginning to rethink his love of pork. “Great,” Kirk calls back. The food on the dining table might be more for ceremony than consumption. And Lady Q isn’t eating roast piglet on her end, either.

The door to the Velvet Room opens again to admit a newcomer. The guest fumbles over to the table.

“Mr. Mudd,” Lady Q greets, and Jim is glad he isn’t the receipient of that tone.

Harry Mudd dabs at his forehead with his coat sleeve. “Your Ladyship, pardon the interruption at this late hour. I have word from…” The man trails off, finally noticing who is gracing the other end of the table. “Kirk!” squeaks Mudd. “You’re alive!”

Lady Q frowns. “Why wouldn’t he be? Sit, Mr. Mudd, and stop gawking.”

Harry drags out a chair and falls into it, murmuring his thanks. He looks between Lady Q and Jim. “Trelane said—”

Lady Q cracks her dinner fork against the table. “Mr. Mudd! Have you been consorting with that abominable man?”

“No! No, of course not, your Ladyship!” protests the man with great haste. “I work only for the Q, and Trelane is not Q,” Mudd adds obediently.

The dinner fork strikes the table again. “Do not lie to me! I will remind you,” says the old woman ominously, “that you were indebted to my late husband for his kindness and thus now to me. If you return to your scoundrel ways, Mr. Mudd, you will find no safe haven here and I shall see you cast upon the stoning grounds myself!”

Jim watches in awe as Harry Mudd bleats his profuse apologies. “I would not deal with Trelane, your Ladyship! The man came to me! He—” Mudd visibly swallows. “—asks me to bring you his terms.”

Lady Q says nothing.

Harry flicks a glance at Jim. “Trelane will return the Lord Q’s journals—in exchange for—” the man falters.

“Well?” says the hard-eyed woman. “What does he want?”

“Kirk’s release,” finishes Mudd. “His body, to be exact. Sorry, Jamey-boy,” adds the man to Jim.

Jim is frozen by an icy dread. Lady Q’s silence extends for some seconds. Then she asks politely, “What type of death does Trelane wish for Kirk to endure?”

The pale, sweating man answers, “He says he wouldn’t presume to tell a Q how to clean up a mess. Only that you will find the journals in Saturday’s paper if you don’t cast the suspicion off him for Kirk’s kidnapping.”

“I accept,” she says casually. Lady Q reaches for the bell buy her hand and rings it. “Now you must leave, Mr. Mudd. The sight of you ruins my appetite.” A man escorts Harry Mudd from the dining room.

Lady Q sighs heavily. “I hope you do not think ill of me, James, for the role I played tonight. Lord Q was a good man—but he had the most foolish habit of recording his trials and tribulations with the world beyond these walls. Some of those tales must never be known to the public—to those who are not Q—for their own safety.”

“So that’s it? That’s your apology,” he asks, voice flat, “for selling me out? Sorry but my life is less valuable than your family secrets?” He had begun to trust this ridiculously eccentric woman.

“I like you,” she says. “You have potential, James Tiberius Kirk. Particularly in that coat—a coat for a captain.”

He slams his fist onto the table. “I won’t roll over and die!”

“Of course you won’t, as I won’t be blackmailed by a foolish boy like Trelane,” responds Lady Q in all seriousness. “No, we must play this game another way to win.” She takes a delicate bite of a prune.

Jim looks down at his plate. “But how are we going to do that?” he muses.

“We must contact your friends, of course.” She selects another dried fruit from a bowl. “I am certain that all of us, together, can come up with a solution to kill you without your death remaining permanent.” She adds austerely, as Jim makes a strangled noise across the table, “Finish your food, dear. One must first suffer through the horrible peas and carrots in order to get to the dessert!”

Next Part

Related Posts:

• Along Comes a Stranger (28/28) – from July 10, 2011
• Along Comes a Stranger (27/28) – from July 9, 2011
• Along Comes a Stranger (26/28) – from July 5, 2011
• Chapter of Doom – from July 4, 2011
• Along Comes a Stranger (25/28) – from June 30, 2011