Chapter Text
Diplomatic missions were the worst kind of missions.
Mind-numbingly boring, overly formal, and guaranteed to leave Jim with a headache. Sure, he had the charm for it—hell, he’d flirted his way out of imprisonment before—but that didn’t mean he wanted to spend the next few weeks trapped in never-ending handshakes and pleasantries.
Jim sighed, leaning back in his chair. The Enterprise had been gliding through open space for days now, and the monotony was beginning to gnaw at him. Space was beautiful, and he’d always love the hum of his ship, but there was only so much semi-professional banter he could endure before he started losing his mind.
He spun lazily in his chair, turning toward Chekov. “Navigation, what’s our ETA?”
Chekov glanced at his console. “Two days to Veltrax V, Keptin.”
Jim groaned, throwing his head back. “Leave it to Command to give us the most mind-numbing mission in the fleet.”
“At least we’re not trapped in a parallel universe this time,” Sulu quipped.
Jim smirked. “At this point, I’d take a murderous alternate version of myself over two more days of waiting for a handshake.”
“Perhaps a review of Veltraxian etiquette would be a more productive use of your time, Captain,” Spock suggested, his voice perfectly even. But there was a tell—a faint glint in his eyes, the barest twitch of his lips—that told Jim he was teasing.
Jim grinned back. “Spock, I’d rather be eaten by the Gorn.”
“Well,” Uhura chimed in from her station, “if you mess up their bowing rituals, you could be fed to the Veltraxian tri-headed sand leeches.” She shot him a pointed look. “They’re very particular.”
Jim opened his mouth for a snappy comeback, but a sharp beeping cut through the bridge chatter. Uhura turned toward her console.
“Incoming subspace transmission from Velax V, Captain. It’s their representative—Chancellor Karthis.”
Jim straightened immediately, smoothing down his uniform, his usual easy grin slipping into place. “On screen, Lieutenant.”
The viewscreen flickered, then resolved into the image of an imposing man seated in a high-backed chair, leaning forward with a thin smile.
Jim’s heart stuttered.
For a fraction of a second, he wasn’t on the Enterprise anymore.
His breath caught in his throat.
The sharp cheekbones. The calculating gaze. The rigid posture— measured, deliberate . The thin, knowing smile.
Then the man spoke.
Jim shivered.
The voice was smooth, refined. Familiar. Too familiar.
Too much like Kodos.
The air on the Enterprise suddenly felt too thin.
“Captain Kirk,” Karthis greeted, inclining his head. “On behalf of Veltrax V, I welcome you to our space. It is an honor to represent my people in these negotiations with the Federation.” His thin smile remained. “I trust our meetings will be productive.”
Jim’s body wouldn’t move.
Seconds ticked by.
The weight of watching eyes pressed in on him—Karthis’ cold stare through the viewscreen, Spock’s quiet scrutiny, Uhura's questioning glance.
Jim forced himself to breathe. He cleared his throat and plastered on a welcoming smile, his voice sounding too distant in his own ears.
“Chancellor Karthis! It’s wonderful to make your acquaintance. On behalf of the Federation, we look forward to learning more about Veltrax V and your people.”
The words left his mouth automatically, he barely heard them over the ringing in his ears.
He could smell it—burning flesh, thick and acrid in the air. The phantom scent curled in his throat, made his stomach churn. His pulse pounded against his skull.
This isn’t Kodos. It’s not him. He’s dead.
Jim’s mouth moved on its own, pulling stock phrases from muscle memory. A script. A safety net.
He could feel Spock’s gaze drilling into him as he closed the exchange. He ignored it. His first officer's suspicion was nothing compared to the relief of knowing this interaction would be over soon.
“Understood, Chancellor. We look forward to meeting you in person.”
Karthis dipped his head. The transmission cut out.
Silence.
Jim sucked in a sharp breath, his lungs aching like he’d forgotten to breathe. His fingers were locked around the arms of his chair—white-knuckled, unyielding—but he couldn’t force himself to let go.
“Captain?”
Spock’s voice was steady, but there was an edge to it.
Jim turned, forcing a tight smile. “Yeah, Spock?”
The Vulcan studied him, eyes sharp, lips pressing together slightly. “Did you know that man?”
Jim’s stomach twisted.
He tried not to let fear shine through his eyes. He shrugged, rolling his shoulders back. “Nah. Just another politician. Nothing we can’t handle.” He forced out a chuckle and pushed himself upright, his limbs too rigid. “I’m gonna head to my quarters for a bit. Let me know if anything changes.”
A beat of hesitation.
Then, Spock inclined his head. “Understood.”
Jim nodded briskly. “Spock, you have the conn.”
Then he turned toward the turbolift, willing himself to move normally.
He just needed to get out. To breathe. To get the phantom scent of burning flesh out of his lungs.
But his heart was pounding too fast, his ears ringing too loud.
The blood rushed in his head.
His vision blurred at the edges.
Not now. Not now. Just a few more seconds.
He stumbled. His body locked up.
Spock was already moving. “Captain?”
Jim’s hands trembled—his eyes watered, staring vacantly at the turbolift door.
Then, he inhaled sharply.
Tension tightened his frame. His posture shifted—shoulders hunching, jaw clenching, his whole presence folding in on itself.
The bridge crew stilled.
Spock took a careful step forward.
“…Captain?”
A choked breath. A flicker of wildness, fear behind his eyes.
Then, before anyone could react, he bolted.