Title: Sticks and Stones (6/?)
Author: klmeri
Fandom: Star Trek AOS
Pairing: Kirk/Spock/McCoy
Summary: Sequel to Many Bells Down; Riverside ‘verse AU. Khan is hell-bent on destroying everything and everyone James Kirk cares about until Jim surrenders the most important person of all—himself.
Previous Part: 1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5

Part Five

Jim isn’t much for words when he is a seething kind of angry. The target of his anger never stands a chance against him; the first blow takes Christopher Pike by surprise and, as intended, is meant to leave a legacy of a black-and-purple bruise for some weeks. That Jim doesn’t succeed in breaking the man’s nose disappoints him greatly.

Pike catches himself in a shocked backwards stumble and stills, touching the back of his hand to his nose. He stares at the tell-tale streak of blood against his skin as if it is an alien thing he doesn’t quite know what to make of. At last, when Pike lifts his moody grey eyes to Kirk, the corner of his mouth twitches sardonically.

Jim curls his lips, too, but in a partially formed snarl. He leaps toward Pike again, right fist striking out on instinct. The man glides smoothly out of range and, in an attack almost too quick to see, has Jim pinned against the kitchen counter.

“What are you doing, Jimmy?” Pike’s tone of voice holds mild reproach.

Jim bucks beneath the arm pressing down between his shoulder blades; his response is incoherent with rage. A second longer—a second too long which almost causes Jim’s temper to spike past the point of no return—and Pike’s weight disappears. Jim twists around, breathing heavily through his nose and his spine pressed painfully into the edge of the counter.

Pike has folded his arms, eyebrows drawn together, and taken a wide stance; yet the expression in his eyes is almost eerily calm. “What are you doing, Jimmy?” he repeats.

“You—” Jim drags in air between words. “—bastard, you—fucking—bastard!”

“You need to calm down, son.”

“Don’t fucking call me son!” Jim screams. “You’re not my father! You’ll never be my father—and never my fucking stepfather!“

That steely calm of Pike’s wavers for a moment. Something sharp, brittle, flickers through the man’s eyes. “Jim,” Pike begins again, “I’m not—”

Jim slams the side of his fist down onto the counter. “Why did you do it?” he demands.

Pike briefly closes his eyes, grimacing. When he speaks, he grits his words as though his own temper is close to snapping its leash. “Is this about your mother?”

Jim sees red. “You want her to sell out! You think I don’t know whose side you’re really on?”

“I told her she would be smart to take Khan’s money while it’s available,” Pike counters. “I’m thinking of Winona, not Khan.”

To Jim’s ears, that is an admission of guilt.

Pike does not have the strength to withstand a truly enraged Kirk. The two men go down in a tangle of limbs. Somewhere in the back of his mind, Jim realizes he has overturned the table in his rage, maybe broken a chair; some of his mother’s favorite crockery lies scattered in pieces on the kitchen floor, and he knows he shouldn’t break the things she loves, because none of this is her fault.

No, it’s Pike’s.

The knowledge consumes him, chokes him in a maelstrom of emotion—red-hot anger, betrayal, pain. Straddling Pike, he lets everything burning him up guide his actions. He manages a sharp right hook to Pike’s jaw, despite that some of his momentum is stolen by such close proximity; but before he can bring his fist down again, Pike slams the heel of his hand under Jim’s chin. Jim jerks back, tasting blood in his mouth. In the moment of distraction, Pike flips them over, trapping one of Kirk’s arms beneath his body. As soon as his back hits the floor, Jim retaliates by delivering a kidney shot with his free hand—once, twice, hard and fast. His opponent only clenches his teeth against a grunt of pain and wedges a knee right beneath Jim’s ribs, pressing down.

The air is forced out of Jim’s lungs, and it’s difficult to pull more air back in.

A snap of a command. “Get a hold of yourself, Kirk!”

An order, from Pike, like Jim is some fucking cadet to be reeled in by his authority. Jim’s blood boils at the mere thought, and he thrashes like an animal under Pike.

Pike’s snap becomes a growl. “I don’t want to hurt you! Don’t force me to hurt you!”

He doesn’t care that he is suffocating; he doesn’t care that the buzzing in his ears steadily grows in volume, drowning out the rumble of a truck arriving outside; he doesn’t care about anything except that he is losing to Christopher Pike, the asshole who is playing his mother.

His mother.

Jim would kill to protect her; in fact, he is focused soley on the thought of ripping out Pike’s throat with his teeth. Since he can’t reach that far up with the man’s full weight holding him down, he settles for biting Pike’s hand. Pike shakes him off with a curse, like he is a rabid dog, and Jim uses the opportunity to free his trapped arm then slam his elbow into the juncture between Pike’s neck and shoulder.

Jim supposes he shouldn’t be surprised when Pike finally hits back with enough force to make his vision black out. Though his vision clears in matter of seconds, black spots still sporadically dance at its edges, warning him he isn’t fully recovered.

He hears a key in the kitchen door lock and only has a moment to think not now before sunlight floods the kitchen when the door swings open; seconds later, somebody shrieks his name.

Pike’s head jerks around, and Jim watches the man pale beneath his tan. The sound of his mother’s name coming out of Pike’s mouth is pitiful.

He groans in relief when the pressure on his diaphragm lets up, then almost immediately begins to cough as he sucks in one desperate breath after another. There is a blur of a patterned dress and a figure that might be his mother’s. It definitely sounds like her when it shrills “Get off him!”

Pike backs off, stands up. Maybe it is Jim’s imagination that the man’s hands are trembling.

Jim’s adrenaline rush vanishes alongside Pike’s retreat, leaving him feeling like a mishandled sack of potatoes. The blood sliding in a thick rivulet down the back of his throat is uncomfortable at best, so Jim rolls onto his side to spit out what he can before he chokes. Gingerly, out of rout, he inspects his teeth with his tongue and is glad to find that none of them are loose or missing. Busted teeth are definitely the worst part of getting hit in the mouth.

“Jimmy!” Winona drops to her knees in front of him, hands reaching out to touch him but recoiling at the last second. He winces at the evident horror on her face.

“Mom…” he manages (but not telling her I’m all right because how could he be?) then coughs as talking dislodges more blood in his throat.

She props him up. Jim, after having determined that Pike is no longer in the kitchen, finally takes in his surroundings without the red haze of rage. The kitchen looks awful. He isn’t certain if the blood on the floor is his or Pike’s. He didn’t even realize they had rolled into the broken crockery; certainly he hadn’t felt it digging into his back.

His mother lifts a wet washcloth to his face, and it is only belatedly he guesses she had left his side to retrieve it.

Enough of this.

He pushes away the towel and rises.

Winona’s fingers dig into his arm. “Sit down, baby,” she urges him.

He shrugs off her touch and wipes at the corner of his mouth with the sleeve of his jacket. As he staggers toward the kitchen door, his mother tries to block his path.

“Jimmy, please! Let me at least—”

“No!” he snaps out, an instant rebuttal of any argument she might make. The overwhelming sense of betrayal rises again, drowning him. Jim turns around to glare at her. “If you want to give up the Enterprise, Mom, then fucking sell it already.”

Her face blanches of color.

“But don’t let that bastard Pike be the reason you do.”

He slams out of the kitchen, ignoring the cry of “Jim!” at his back.

It’s all going to shit, all of it, his life, his family, his happiness. He can’t go back to Bones looking like a broken man because then he will have to confess he knows Bones is betraying him too. He can’t go back to Spock because Spock is connected to Bones and always will be and he’d rather shove a knife in his chest than pit them against one another.

But he cannot run away.

Khan is expecting an answer soon. Even if Jim has no idea what his answer might be, he cannot ignore the question. The offer.

Will you give me what I desire, Kirk? Will you spare your family and friends? The underlying message had been clear.

He climbs onto his bike, shuddering inside his father’s leather jacket, and points the purring engine beneath him to his last sanctuary. The journey seems too quick, too easy. The gates of the sprawling compound part for him without protest. At the end of the drive, a Q meets Jim with the words, “Her Ladyship is expecting you.”

He drops his helmet into the Q’s hands and follows him, saying nothing.

But Lady Q is of no help to him. She only says, looking tired and old and impossibly small in her oversized dress, “You must save us all, James.”

~~~

Two days previous…

James Kirk sits in a circle of chairs staring at his hands, head bowed. Throughout the course of these anti-Eugenics-takeover meetings, the attendance has gone from dozens of incensed Riverside citizens to fourteen of Jim’s closest family and friends to ten, then six—now none. He knows some of them are missing tonight’s meeting because of conflicting schedules or because they are needed elsewhere—Spock is driving Bones out to Derby for a last-minute call-in and his mother feels she cannot leave the diner on a holiday weekend. But it hurts, however rationally he tries to console himself; it hurts to be alone, listening to his own breathing in a wide, empty room.

He suspects that some of the people who don’t come tonight won’t come back at all. Khan has been whittling away at every person, inspiring fear here, sweetening a deal there. The vocal protest against Eugenics Corp. may have been strong in the beginning but over time people lost faith they can change anything, and they lost their hope while watching their town slowly and inevitably transform into someone else’s dream.

The fighting spirit took a hard blow when Jim’s case against Khan was dismissed for lack of evidence. Since then, the hard blows haven’t stopped coming. He wonders if, next week, he will even bother to show up here himself.

The last man down, Jim thinks bitterly.

He is wrapped up in his miserable thoughts, chastising himself for continuing to wait and so he does not catch the sound of heels hurriedly rapping down the hallway until someone pushes open the heavy door to the lodge’s conference room.

“Jim!” Uhura resituates her large purse on her shoulder, frowning, as she approaches the circle of unoccupied chairs and one forlorn man. “Well,” the woman murmurs, “this is disappointing. I thought I was late.”

Jim scrubs an unforgiving hand against his hair. “Technically you are,” he says dryly, holding up his wristwatch. “The meeting started fifteen minutes ago.”

Uhura takes a seat next to him. “And it’s over already?” she asks hesitantly.

He shakes his head, unable to speak.

“Oh, Jim,” Uhura says softly. Her hand catches one of his. “Don’t make more out of tonight than it is. This is just a fluke.”

He sits up from his slump. “No it isn’t, Uhura.” He interrupts her before she can reply, frustrated. “I can count on one hand the number of people who still care about our cause. And what chance in hell do a few of us possibly have at keeping Khan out of Riverside?”

Uhura’s narrowed eyes always mean trouble. Jim doesn’t duck fast enough and takes the full brunt of her purse to the side of his head. He almost tumbles out of his chair. Scowling and rubbing at the purse’s point of contact, he demands, “What was that for?”

“For being a coward,” his friend says.

“I am not a coward!”

“You’re talking like one.”

He puffs. “Am not!”

“Jimmy is a’fraidy cat!” she sing-songs, swinging her ponytail.

He makes a fizzling noise and has to remind himself he is only years away from thirty. He is NOT going to react.

The look on Nyota’s face says she knows exactly what he is thinking, and her smile turns wicked. “Aww, Jimmy is a’fraidy cat. Is it my claws that scare you?” She pointedly flicks her long nails at his face.

She should know by now her only warning will be Jim pretending to look entirely too innocent. But maybe she has forgotten, because the moment Uhura relaxes, Jim snatches her purse out of her lap and sprints away (knocking over chairs in his haste) with said stolen bag clutched to his chest, cackling.

She jumps to her feet and shouts furiously after him, “Give me back my purse, you asshole!”

Across the room now, he unzips her purse and grabs the first object he spies. “Oh look, a mirror. I always knew you were vain, Uhura.” He tosses the mirror aside, snickering, where it clatters to the floor.

Uhura, snarling, knocks a chair out of her way as she stalks toward him. “Jim… Give. It. Back.”

He dances away. Another item is unearthed. “Spa coupons?” He counts them. “Exactly how many times can a person go to a spa in a week?” The coupons flutter into the air over his head. He continues methodically emptying her purse while maintaining distance between them. “A quarter, a ring?…wow you look like a crack addict in your license picture. Breath mints, lipstick—” He sniffs the lipstick but it smells vaguely medicinal. Nyota is definitely chasing him around the room now. He starts a backwards jog. “—nail clippers which you obviously don’t use and, oooh, a picture of Scotty, how cute, Scotty and Uhura sitting in a tree…”

It isn’t until he pulls out a tampon and stares at it for a span of seconds (’cause he’s not sure if a period joke will get him killed or not) that Uhura screeches like a banshee, jerks off one of her high heels and comes barreling at him, all sense of playful tolerance gone. He abandons the purse with a “Whoops?” (maybe he wasn’t supposed to see that?) in favor of running away from the crazed woman.

Nearly two decades after their friendship began, Uhura still runs faster than he does. When her other high heel goes sailing past his head and nails the door, he knows he is going to die. He hiccups a little in his hysteria, wonders if there is a cabinet or place small enough in the building he can cram himself into to hide, and decides tomorrow’s newspaper headline is going to read:

Man Taunts PMS-ing Woman, Dies Violent Death
sub-headed by Female Population Agrees He Had It Coming

Uhura is screaming his name as Jim ducks into the kitchen area of the lodge. Upon noticing the array of knives, tongs, and turkey basters, he imagines he just made her task of murder that much easier.

Ah well. At least he isn’t depressed anymore.

Things always look brighter in the morning, or so it is said.

Jim is just glad he isn’t dead. Explaining to Spock why he had an impromptu hair cut on the left side of his head (thank God Uhura didn’t snip off one of his ears in the process of humiliating him) and the word JERK written on his forehead in permanent marker did not earn him any sympathy points. Spock had said nothing as Jim spent hours repeatedly scouring the skin on his forehead in the bathroom but was, in fact, very obliging about trimming the rest of Jim’s hair so he didn’t look like a man who had stuck his head in a blender.

However, Jim suspects Spock may have taken a picture of him at some point before the offer to fix his massacred hair. Spock isn’t quite the blackmail-type so Jim cannot fathom what the man intends to do with a picture of a woeful, victimized Jim. He supposes this is where trust in one’s partner comes in. If only he were that trusting.

Looking semi-decent (not the disaster in the wake of hurricane Uhura like last night), Jim leaves Spock’s house for his own apartment in the early morning. He intends to find one of his old baseball caps to wear until his hair isn’t so miserably short and spiky. Jose will have questions—and undoubtedly jokes, too, about his new look.

He is patting himself down for his house keys when a voice catches up with him just outside of his apartment. Recognizing that voice, and freezing on the spot because of it, he hunches his shoulders and redoubles his efforts to find his house keys. Where the fuck are you? he thinks wildly. No way did he leave them at Spock’s… It is because of Bo Peep he put them on a separate key ring in the first place.

“Hey, I’m talking to you!”

“Go to hell, Frank,” he snarls without turning around.

A hand grips his shoulder. Jim jerks back and shoves at the man on instinct. His heart doubles its pounding in his chest but he gives no outward sign of panic, except the clenching of his jaw.

“Don’t touch me,” he warns in a low voice.

Frank Rand—no longer a deputy of Riverside but now the newest addition to Khan’s security team—politely backs up a step with his palms facing forward in gesture of calm down. “Ain’t here for trouble, Kirk,” Rand says.

“Yeah fucking right. You’re not allowed near me, or did you forget that?”

“I’m working for Khan now.”

“Which does nothing to revoke a restraining order!” Jim snaps. “Now leave me alone, or I’ll call Komack.”

But Rand says mildly, “You’d be surprised what Khan can do.”

Don’t take the bait. Don’t. Jim silently goes back to searching his pockets for his house keys. When Frank, after watching Jim for a moment, presents the missing set of keys with smirk and “You dropped ’em on the pavement” Jim doesn’t bother to say thank you.

As he unlocks his apartment door, Frank talks at his back. “This isn’t a social visit, Kirk. Khan wants to see you.”

“I have nothing to say to Khan,” Jim says flatly, hand on the doorknob. But what is the trick? Frank wouldn’t be here without an ace up his sleeve. So Jim waits.

Frank does not disappoint him. “Rumor is the Enterprise is going to be Khan’s.”

Jim’s hand spasms around the doorknob. “No, it isn’t.”

“You sure?”

He turns to Frank. “I don’t know where you get your gossip, but my mom would rather burn the building down herself than hand it over to Khan.” He flinches the moment the words are out of his mouth.

Rand says nothing of the reminder of their past. Instead, he tucks his hands into his pockets. “She’s got a new beau, boy. Love makes a person do strange things.”

Jim wants to hit Frank. He really, really does. “Just… shut up. I don’t want to hear it. This conversation is over.”

“I can’t give you that choice.” Frank pulls back his green hunter’s jacket, revealing the gun clipped to his side. “Khan wants to talk to you, and so that’s what’s going to happen. Now, we can do this the easy way—where you get in the car and behave—or the hard way.”

“You would shoot me on my sidewalk in broad daylight? I didn’t think your kind of stupid could get dumber, Frank.”

“Trust me, I’d love to shut that smart mouth of yours permanently,” the man opposite him snarls. “No, the hard way is I knock you over the head and carry you to the car. I told you, Khan gets what Khan wants.”

Jim shuts his apartment door and locks it, then folds his arms. “Do it,” he dares. “In fact, why don’t we make a scene in front of my neighbor’s window?”

Frank’s hand goes to his holstered gun but stays there. “Kirk…”

“You’re a coward,” he tells Frank, thinking of Uhura’s remark last night, “but you’re not an idiot. If you attack me, Khan can’t keep you out of jail.”

“He’s got enough money and lawyers to do any fucking thing he wants. I’ll say you provoked me; it’ll stick. Why do you think Khan sent me here knowing our history? Because he doesn’t worry about the damned law.”

Jim would never admit Frank is right. “And now you work for him, so that makes you above the law too? I always knew you were a dirty cop, Frank, but I didn’t know you thought you were God.”

Frank grimaces. “I’m not God. But Khan might as well be. Just get in the car, Kirk.”

Jim weighs his options. “Will I be coming back?”

Snorting, Frank pulls his hand away from his gun and zips his jacket. “He isn’t going to kill you. Fact is, if you’re dead you can’t fulfill his plans.”

Jim cannot help his curiosity over what Frank is hinting at. “How much do you know?”

“Probably enough that I will be a dead man if I keep talking. You coming or not?”

“Did I ever have a choice?”

“I already gave you that answer.”

So he did, Jim thinks. So he did. When Frank heads toward a parked SUV, Jim follows. Let Rand think Jim believes he is backed into a corner; truthfully, however, Jim sees no other way to fight his enemy now except by anticipating Khan’s next move. And that won’t happen unless he talks to Mr. Singh himself.

Somehow Khan has found an entire villa to rent or buy. Or maybe he built it. Jim doesn’t know. The property is far enough out in the countryside that no one would think to look for it there, situated among Iowa farmsteads. Certainly no one will look for Jim at Khan’s home-away-from-home.

At the top of a winding staircase is an enclosed brick balcony decorated with tropical foliage. Khan is seated at a metal table, legs crossed, reading a newspaper. He doesn’t look up as Jim and Rand push open the small iron gate to enter the balcony. Jim wonders why he was led around the outside of the estate rather than taken through the main house. Could Gaila be here?

“Hello, Mr. Kirk. How good of you to join me.” Khan neatly folds the newspaper and sets it aside. The smile he flashes at Jim is all teeth.

Next to Jim, Rand shifts like he is uncomfortable, antsy, or both. Jim takes a pointed step away from Khan’s bodyguard and focuses on not looking as tense as he feels. “So,” he begins casually, “you kidnap people now?”

Khan’s laugh is rich and full-bodied, not at all the laugh of a nervous man. “You are amusing,” Khan says once his laughter fades. “Please, sit with me. I prefer to conduct my business in the open when I can. I believe this pleasant weather will hold for the duration of our discussion.” Ever hospitable, Khan asks, “Have you eaten?”

Jim vacillates between playing along and forcing Khan to give up the pretense that their meeting is anything but cordial. Watching the man watch him, he decides nothing will convince this two-faced man to give up one of his masks. He pulls out a chair and sits opposite of his enemy, leaning forward on his elbows and flashing his brightest grin. “What’s on the menu?”

Rand seems to take this as his cue to leave them alone.

“Hm,” the dark-haired man murmurs thoughtfully. “My resident chef is not averse to changing his scheduled courses at the request of a guest. Tell me what you desire, and I shall see it prepared for you.”

“I wouldn’t want to impose,” Jim demurs. “After all, who could have foreseen my visit today, Mr. Singh?”

Khan smiles again. “Those who plan accordingly are the most adaptable.”

“According to what?” Jim fires back.

Khan’s expression turns subtly chiding, as if Jim should know the answer. “To chaos, Mr. Kirk.”

Jim folds his arms on the table, settling into the conversation. “One would think chaos is bad for business.”

Someone approaches the walled balcony from the stairs but remains just on the other side of the iron gate. Jim has never seen this person before; he can guess as much that this is one of Khan’s minions.

Khan makes a negligent gesture with his fingers, a king telling a servant you are not needed at this time. The man bows and leaves.

“In truth,” Khan continues, “chaos can engender a lucrative business environment. Consider one of the world wars. Who profited most from death?”

Jim answers grimly, “Anyone who could provide the means to create death.”

“Yes,” agrees Khan. “Someone must gain when others lose. This is the natural balance of our world.”

“Tell me, Khan,” Jim wants to know, “what it is you intend for me to lose so that you can gain what you want?”

“Excellent,” the man says, cool and casual, his dark eyes glinting in the morning light. “You never disappoint me. Let us speak of our particular gains and losses, then. I shall say, simply, I require but one loss on your behalf, Kirk. But it is not an easy thing for men such as us to forfeit.”

“What is it?”

“Respect. You must lose the respect of your people.”

Jim is silent for some seconds, turning that statement over. Rather asking what it is Khan wants him to do, he says instead, “I know what you gain, but what do I gain?”

“Good, good. We negotiate. I shall grant pardon to those you wish to be pardoned.”

Jim straightens, asking sharply, “What do you mean, pardoned?”

“You must understand the policies of war, Kirk. The victor cannot allow his enemies to flourish in his kingdom unless he chooses to grant them pardon—with conditions, of course. All those who stand against Eugenics—against me—will not do well in my city; that is a given.” Khan is watching Jim closely, measuring his reactions. Jim strives to remain as unperturbed as Spock during a court case. “I will, however, agree to… overlook any past discrepancies of those you name. They will have protection equal to that of the other citizens of Riverside and, should you ask, equal prosperity.” Khan finishes softly, “My offer is a generous one; I have no desire to be as merciless as you believe me to be.”

Jim suppresses a shiver and leans away from Khan as far as his chair will allow. “You’ve based your offer on a false assumption.”

Khan asks, amused, “What is the false assumption, Kirk?”

“That you’ll win.”

“I have battled against men more ruthless than you. Men who resorted to crude tactics such as setting fire to my construction zones or inventing malicious mistruths about my company, about me. In every instance, I won. I always intend to be the winner. Why do you believe you pose a challenge to me?”

“Obviously you consider me to be a challenge; otherwise why bring me here to negotiate?”

“Touché,” Khan murmurs, unaffected by remark. “As I said, I can offer you a fair trade.” He pauses. “I will also double the offer for the Enterprise.”

Jim stiffens. “The diner isn’t for sale.”

“Ah.” The sound alone means you poor fool, how could you not know? “Already my man is determined to persuade Winona Kirk to take the opportunity.”

It takes two tries but he manages to say the word, heart thumping in his chest. “Who?”

Khan’s eyes are smiling though his mouth is not. “I believe your father called him Chris. You call him Captain.”

Jim’s world shatters and rebuilds itself in that second.

“Pike is not—” He chokes.

“Not my agent but perhaps an agent of the Q? Kirk, you must never forget—every man has a price.”

He sends the chair toppling over. “No!”

Khan smoothes a corner of the folded newspaper, ignoring his outburst. “Consider my offer, Mr. Kirk. Confess your sins to Riverside. Tell them… you lied. Tell them you purposefully set out to discredit me.” Khan’s eyes flick up to Jim’s eyes, hold him fast, demanding his attention. “That you set me up. Then, when that respect I always hear coupled with the name James T. Kirk is gone, leave Riverside and I will see to the rest. I give you my word.”

“Your word,” Jim’s voice is strangled, “means shit to me.”

Khan only says, “I fear you won’t have your breakfast after all, Mr. Kirk. You must forgive me; I had forgotten my cook usually takes this day out of the week as a personal day. My apologies.” He tilts his head to the staircase. “Mr. Rand will escort you home.”

Jim is shaking, not from fear but a building rage. In the eye of that growing storm is a name; the name of the man he had been told he could trust; the name of a man clearly after his mother; the name of a man meeting secretly with his boyfriend.

Christopher Pike.

Jim is going to kill him.

Next Part

Related Posts:

• Sticks and Stones (18/18) – from April 19, 2012
• Sticks and Stones (17/18) – from April 17, 2012
• Emotional Much? – from April 17, 2012
• Sticks and Stones (16/17) – from April 13, 2012
• Sticks and Stones (15/17) – from April 11, 2012