"The past is not dead. It isn't even past." - William Faulkner

"Where there is great love there are always miracles." - Willa Cather

He awoke, finding himself face down in a pool of vomit and his own congealed blood. One glance at his right arm confirmed what the unconscious pain had been telling him; that it was broken, and badly at that - the hand canted at a horrifically unnatural right angle to the bruised and swollen forearm. Waves, no make that tsunamis, of nausea washed over him as he attempted to move to an upright position. He searched his whirling mind for any cognizant thought - any memory of how he ended up here, in this condition, and came up empty. He swallowed hard, trying to keep the bile and who knew what else in its proper place. It didn't work. No point in being fastidious now. OH LORD…no mistaking Jack Daniel's Old No. 7. Some blood as well. Not much food. Well that explains some of what may have happened.

The involuntary evacuation of his stomach seemed to clear his mind as well. He hazily remembered being in a raucous bar on Vela Gamma II, trading insults with a particularly insolent Tellarite bartender while on an enforced shore leave with Jim Kirk. Given the circumstances, he was raising hell quite decently, thank you very much. He had convinced Jim that he was okay, giving the go-ahead for Kirk to leave with a particularly winsome young lady. Kirk had looked back questioningly and he had nodded jovially. Jim winked, and threw his trademark devilish grin over his shoulder as he departed. He had lifted his newly-filled glass in a drunken toast to them, made sure they were out the door, and then nonchalantly tossed down the handful of little red pills. That was where the memory dead-ended.

It wasn't supposed to be like this!

He had been looking forward to blessed unconsciousness and a leisurely descent into oblivion.

Wincing, he took stock of his other injuries. Head, contusions, scrapes, hell of headache. Jaw, yikes! Scalp wound, guess that explains the rest of the blood. Ribs, bruised and tender. Abdomen, very tender. That's to be expected Leonard m'boy. But what the hell happened? Why wasn't he dead? Or at least well on the way?

He tried to get his eyes to focus to see exactly where he was. They weren't cooperating. Just when he wondered if it could get any worse, a shudder of pain knocked him off balance. He flailed out with his good arm to support himself and planted his hand right in the middle of a steaming pile of what felt and smelled like horse manure (or this particular planet's equivalent thereof).

What the…! Well that caps off a perfect evening! Can't even kill yourself with any kind of dignity, can you Leonard?

He squinted, trying to see where he was. A string of dim, eerily glowing yellow lights stretched irregularly off into the distance.

Gas lights!

He remembered seeing something vaguely similar in the old Gas Lamp Quarter of San Diego the last time he was there. But he sure didn't remember seeing any when they entered the bar. Vela Gamma II was a far-flung outpost to be sure, but they certainly didn't rely on antique gas lamps for street lighting. It suddenly struck him that he was lying in a genuine old-fashioned street gutter.

Oh ho, so it's come to this? What would my daddy have thought? He choked down a sudden surge of deep emotion.

Must be getting hypothermic, hysterical, or both. Well that could be good. The cold and damp exacerbated the pain and confusion.

A clarion thought barged in: God, what about Jim? He broke into a fresh cold sweat as he pondered the whereabouts and condition of his Captain.