Masquerade
Chapter One: Dancing in the Dark
» Classification(s): Humor, Romance, Action/Adventure
» Warnings: Violence, Language, Sexual Situations
» Summary: While the rest of the crew is enjoying shore leave on a planet gone mad with a wild global festival, Spock and Kirk find themselves unwitting opponents in a strange game of hunter and hunted.

IMPORTANT: T'Pring is Spock's canon Vulcan betrothed. No, seriously, episode "Amok Time" in the second season.

Chapter One: Dancing in the Dark

Man is least himself when he talks in his own person. Give him a mask, and he will tell you the truth. - Oscar Wilde

Jim Kirk loved puzzles. He loved putting them together, and he loved taking them apart, reducing things to their component pieces and scattering them out across the floor to see how they could be fit back together. You could learn a lot from building something, and just as much from destroying it. He'd been one of those toddlers that dismantled every toy his mother gave him and had much more fun with the broken bits of plastic than whatever expensive baby gewgaw they'd once belonged to.

People were the best kind of puzzle. For one thing, the pieces kept changing. Minds were dangerous, complex places, and existed in a constant state of rupture and evolution. Each encounter and conversation had the potential to lead somewhere completely new and uncharted. Jim loved talking to people, learning what made them who they were, and, when he could get away with it, fucking with them. People were just so inherently interesting; even the most boring of men or aliens had a button, a clink in the armor, somewhere in their psyche a hidden switch that was the fulcrum the rest of their mind turned on.

As a child he had a reputation for being an unholy terror when bored, and he was so very easily bored. The fact that he'd been able to dance intuitive circles around most people by the age of twelve hadn't helped the boredom or his consequent slide into delinquency. Years of practicing his own inflammatory brands of psychology and sociology had given him a deep appreciation for the sport and art that was mental manipulation, as well as nearly landed him in jail on repeated occasions, but it was really only at the Academy he'd learned to use his powers for good.

Mostly good. Every now and then, Jim couldn't resist. Puzzles were fun, but the games were the best, and some targets—like the dapper Andorian aide-de-camp currently ranting away next to him—were just so temptingly volatile. Easy. When the night seemed like it might drag on for eons with the only topics of discussion being the importation of grain products and "Oh, how have your first few months of captaincy gone? Getting ahold of the ropes now, are we? Hurr hurr hurr", Jim's boredom and pique had gotten the better of him. With one well-placed, seemingly innocent question he'd set off the entire group, previously reserved trophy wives and jowly retired generals shouting furiously at each other with Jim a highly—and finally— entertained spectator.

"I'd honestly never considered that," he said soberly, as the Andorian made his last loud point. "But, sir, what do you think about—?"

"James! There you are." Admiral Pike appeared as suddenly at his side as if he'd beamed there, resting a friendly hand on Jim's arm and leaning heavily on a gold-tipped cane. Above his affable smile, his eyes said, Can I not leave you alone for a minute, son? "Gentlemen, ladies, if I may borrow the captain?"

There was some sputtering, and then a confused flutter of assent. The admiral's grip turned to iron, and he led Jim away from the incensed little party and across the crowded floor, out into the gathering evening.

Night on Thiephan was breathtaking, the twin moons hanging huge in the sky and the burning colors of the day tamed and silvered under them. The Thiephan elite who hosted the gathering had perched her home on a high cliff over the city, her beautiful gardens dripping off the edge of a sheer drop into dense jungle that surrounded it. From the wide balcony overlooking those gardens, the faraway city streets and canals were long ribbons of fire, thousands upon thousands of floating lanterns drifting upwards from them like sparks to join the colder stars. The fireworks had begun in earnest after the sun went down, and sprouted in irregular clusters from the glittering grid of alleys and thoroughfares. The crackle of them was distant. Closer was the muted conversation of the great ballroom behind him, and the intimate murmurs of the couples who walked in the dark garden below. The air was warm and thick, but the occasional cool breeze sweeping up from the sea stirred the trees and brought with it the smell of salt and tidewater. The night-blooming flowers that twined up the balustrades were weeping a dizzyingly sweet fragrance, one that reminded him of honeysuckle and white wine.

"I wish Spock was here," the captain said thoughtlessly. Then wondered why. Spock would probably just say something about how illogical it was to wax poetic about lunar phases; his first officer's middle name was probably the Vulcan equivalent of 'killjoy'.

Next to where Jim stood at the railing, Pike sat on a bench with a grateful sigh. "So do I. Mr. Spock is one of the few I know capable of reining you in before you cause scenes like that." He gestured back the way they'd come with a neat glass of something amber.

Jim turned to face him, leaning with a hip against the stone. "'Reining me in?' Like a cowboy with a runaway horse?"

The admiral raised a brow worthy of the science officer himself. "He'd be a mitigating influence, at least." He shook his head with a wry smile. "Poor Spock. Dragooned into active service, forced to abdicate his first captaincy and now serving under the most green, headstrong captain in Starfleet."

Jim grinned back at him. "You make it sound like it's a bad deal."

Pike laughed then. "To Starfleet command's eternal surprise, you continue to be the best horrible mistake they've ever made. They've been watching you very closely, as I'm sure you know."

"I've picked out most of the spies, yeah," he said blithely. For a while, he'd been convinced Spock was one such spy. They'd saved each other's lives far too many times for it to matter anymore. "People I don't mind, because a ship can always use more redshirts, but the monitoring programs were taking up too much runtime. Chekhov deleted them our first week out."

"And you wonder why you have so much paperwork," said the admiral, dryly.

Jim's eyes narrowed. "I thought filling out triplicate PADDs was a bit— hey," he said suddenly, as the amber in Pike's glass caught the light. "Is that scotch? Where were they hiding that?"

Before Pike could answer, the doors to the ballroom banged open and someone shouted, "Cadet Kirk!"

Jim's hand when automatically to an absent phaser as he pivoted towards the man striding out to them, a tall, broad member of Thiephan nobility. He had the characteristic deep red tone of the male of his species, and a wide shit-eating grin that Jim instantly recognized. "Toomas?" he asked delightedly, dropping the hand. "Seriously, of all the gin joints in all the towns in all the worlds—"

The rest of the sentence was muffled against Toomas's chest as the Thiephan embraced him in a grip tight enough to make his ribs creak; a few hearty smacks on the back completed this brutal display of affection. To Pike, however, he sketched a very respectful bow, all four of his eyes closing briefly. "Admiral. It is a joy and an honor to host the Federation this evening."

Pike nodded regally, looking amused. "Toomas Valshebniye, it is our pleasure, as always. I assume you know each other?"

"He and I go back a ways," the Thiephan said, very precisely. His obvious relish of Standard slang was one of the many things that had endeared him to Jim. He turned back to address the captain, wide hands gripping his arms with bone-crushing strength. "This a most fortuitous meeting, Jim. I'll be meeting with friends and we currently lack a full party. One more is needed to begin the... festivities." Toomas blinked both sets of eyes rapidly, his species' version of waggling eyebrows. Jim's interest was immediately piqued. "Can you be spared?"

The Thiephan looked to the admiral, who in turn met Jim's eyes with a shrug. "Your prerogative," Pike drawled. "You're a big boy now."

"That I am," Jim sighed, with no little regret. "Toom, listen... is there somewhere we can meet? Later?" He needed another two hours at this shindig at least. There was the whereabouts of scotch to discover, true, but there were also the other two Starship captains to see, and a few more rear admirals to orchestrate spontaneous meetings with. Political maneuvers were to the human puzzle what chess was to basic strategy: a crystallized and highly structured version thereof that could be fun, but needed discipline.

Thankfully, Toomas seemed to understand. He nodded, and clapped a hand to the captain's shoulder with enough force to have Jim's knees buckling. "Meet us in the central square at 26:00. And, if you have the opportunity, change into more comfortable clothing. Something you can run in is best."

Jim could hear Bones as clearly as if he stood next to him. "You see this list, Jimmy? This is 'Jim Kirk's List of Things We Do Not Fucking Do When Interacting with Alien Cultures'. Number One: Agree to participate in strange ceremonies, rituals, or other mysterious public events that you know nothing about. That shit will get you married or sacrificed, it never fails."

Jim tilted his head. "What are you planning?"

"Damn it, Jim, are you listening to me?"

Close-up, the Thiephan's toothy grin was a fearsome thing. "Ah, Jim! That is, as you say, 'for me to know and you to find out'!"

The complex where the Vulcan embassy was located was quiet, although distant shouts and music drifted occasionally through the empty cobbled walks. The respite was welcome, as Spock's mental shielding was in sore need of recentering after his chaotic passage from the spaceport through the capital. In light of the apparent anarchy the entire planet seemed to have fallen into, he was only able to acquire transport in the form of a 'gypsy cab'. Unfamiliar with the term, he had nonetheless seen no other alternative and ascended into the vehicle, already quite full of revelers.

He regretted this decision every nanosecond of the journey.

At the gates to embassy, he had shoved credits at the talkative cabbie, peeled off of his body the very drunk, very pheromonal Orion female formerly ensconced in his lap, and staggered out of the vehicle, hair sticking up in all directions and several strands of beads swinging from around his neck. Multiple offers to 'help rebuild his species anytime' were catcalled after him as the cab sped away.

He presented his documents to the guards at the gate and as an afterthought gave them the beads to be disposed of. It was a relief after months of speaking Standard to slip into his mother tongue, with its lack of emotional connotations and innate, perfect neutrality. T'Pring's attendant, a native Thiephan, was waiting for him as he exited the security checkpoint and led him deeper into the small cluster of buildings, the deep colors and familiar sharp geometricality of the architecture inherently soothing.

His betrothed awaited him in a small room with one wall open to the elements and a closed-in rock garden. Her severe beauty and quiet poise remained unchanged from their last meeting, though there were new lines framing her mouth, new ghosts in her eyes. But which of them remained untouched by them in these days?

The china was bone-colored and very delicate, the tea T'Pring poured into it fragrant and very much reminiscent of a home he would never see again.

For a time, they sat in peaceable silence, to better appreciate the first blush of the tea and the moment of meeting. Notwithstanding, when T'Pring finally spoke her question was direct and to the point.

"You are not yet experiencing pon farr."

Spock, after a minute pause, took another sip from his fragile cup. "That is correct. However, I have been given reason to believe its arrival imminent."

T'Pring's expression did not change. "Would you like more tea?"

"Indeed." He set his cup on the low table between them and she rose to take the heated pot from the sideboard, her movements spare and elegant. Returning, she knelt at his side and poured a precise amount into his empty cup, before refilling her own. She returned to the table. They drank.

"I wish to repudiate you, Spock."

He paused in the motion of raising his cup, and looked at her. She gazed impassively back. He continued the motion. "... I see. May I ask what determinants have brought you to this decision?"

She cradled her cup in both hands, looking meditative. "Your continued presence in Starfleet indicates you have no immediate plans to relocate to New Vulcan and begin repopulation efforts. Is this assumption correct?"

"Yes." He could say it now, and without hesitation, but his ready answer was the result of many months of self-debate and inner disequilibrium. He remained unsure of the farther future, an indecision he could neither resolve nor justify.

She nodded. "It is, however, my desire to do so. After the termination of my duties on this planet, it is my intention to see with my own eyes this new Vulcan, and begin to rebuild our race." In her hands, the cup met the table with a faint clink. "If you remain my betrothed, our lifestyles will naturally come into conflict."

He set his own cup down, folding his hands in his lap. "Most logical."

She met his eyes with an slight uptilt to her chin. "I have also found a new partner."

Spock blinked. "Ah."

She considered him, her expressionless face somehow conveying a sense of expectancy. "His name is Stonn. He has a well-developed figure, and I believe he will provide me with healthy children."

Spock inclined his head. "Healthy children are what our race needs now. It is only logical, given your intentions, that you would choose such a partner."

"You do not object to dissolving our bond at this late date?" she pressed further.

He regarded her with some pause. "I cannot. It is perfectly logical that we should separate, given our divergent interests. It is better to do so now than at the moment of plak tow, when such an exchange might result in... violence."

T'Pring was still very young by Vulcan standards; she appeared visibly relieved at his response. "This was also my reasoning. I am pleased we have come to the same conclusion."

He did not smile at her, but he allowed a certain warmth to enter his countenance, and judged it to be the correct action when she did the same. "As am I."

"More tea?"

"Yes, please."

Once again, they fell into contemplative silence. The soft light of candles illuminated little beyond their low table, the rock garden beyond left in dense shadows that pooled under the eaves as the sun sunk below the horizon.

"Spock," T'Pring began again, running a finger along the wet lip of her cup. "Would it not also be logical, given our agreement of its necessity, to terminate our bond as quickly as is advisable? I recall from your missive that you will remain on Thiephan only three terrestrial days."

Spock paused before answering. It was true that, if a separation were to occur, it should be done tonight. He would then simply return to the Enterprise earlier than he planned to. The suspension of normal duties as the rest of the crew enjoyed leave would allow him ample time to repair the inevitable damage. When the Enterprise disembarked, he should once again be in control of his faculties.

The dissolution of this bond meant the disappearance of one of the few things he had left that tied him to Vulcan, Vulcan the old, not the new world that his elder self had found to house their shattered race. He could see the chances of a future there dwindle into single digits with the removal of T'Pring from his life.

He looked at her. There was something very human in her gaze now, though she was pure Vulcan. Though his personal costs would be great, his removal from her life would bring tangible benefit, both to her and their race. Truly, his only objections were emotionally based, and thus he must dismiss them.

He lowered his eyes in acquiescence, and sensed rather than saw her slowly reach for him.

"My mind to your mind—"

—my thoughts to your thoughts.

Uhura had had definite plans for that first day planetside. She remembered this, in the same way she remembered her fourth birthday and the giant teddy bear with the button eyes her aunt had given her: very vaguely, and with a faint wistful nostalgia. She was supposed to meet up with old girlfriends from the academy. She was supposed to go to the metropolitan art museum, where there was a display of prehistoric religious art in honor of the festival. She had maps of the parade routes and many other useful, practical things tucked away in her bag.

For some reason they just never quite made it out again.

The command team staggered out of the hotel at around dusk, well on their way to a very, very good time. Scotty led the first charge, allegedly in search of a sandwich. They ended up at an open-air cafe where a Thiephan live band was attempting improv jazz, and doing quite well despite their use of native instruments that sounded like caterwauling tomcats. They fell into the company of junior officers from the USS Repulse for a few bars, and just as easily out of it. At one club, Scotty started dancing on barrels and Uhura let Bones talk her into a few shimmies before a Thiephan with biceps as big around as her waist stole her away for a full six sets.

She eventually found her way back to their table, collapsing over the sticky wood and gasping for breath in the close, stifling heat of the club. Sulu and Chekhov had made it back before her; whatever whim of fate had conspired to unite in friendship the Enterprise crewmembers with respectively the highest and lowest tolerances for alcohol had done the universe a great favor, she decided.

"But Hikaru, it is little vater. Just little vater, da? It is good for you. Good for your health," the Russian wheedled, the last word mangled by his accent into 'helz'.

"Grn," said Sulu, entire being focused on slowly raising the thirteenth shotglass to his lips with a trembling hand.

"Maladets," Chekhov said soothingly. "Now, za Mardi Gras!" he toasted happily. Sulu took the shot, mostly on his clothing, gurgled, and fell backwards off the stool.

Scotty and Bones came back from the bar with a last round of drinks, and a few minutes or hours later the five of them found themselves back on the street, where the air was more parts confetti than oxygen and the city had gotten even louder as the moons rose.

"I want a mask," she said, linking arms with Sulu and Scotty. "With lots of feathers. And a matching costume."

"I too!" Chekhov exclaimed excitedly, his English deteriorating more and more with every ounce of alcohol he consumed. "Bones, Bones, hachu masku! Poimi odnu menya!"

"He wants one too," Uhura translated, though it probably wasn't necessary.

"I'm a doctor, not a sugar daddy," the CMO grumbled, just as the Russian leapt on his back. "Hrk! Y'r ch'k'ng me!"

They wandered through alleys, up stairs and over roofs, following the rising wave of people cascading through the streets like a high tide as the night wore on and the moons burned brighter. They were eventually drawn down into calmer eddy at the edge of the capital's massive central square, where a few food stands and a costume vendor were doing brisk business.

Uhura and Chekhov immediately beelined for the masks, while Sulu and Scotty went straight for the space pirate outfits and their accompanying swords. Bones took the aren't-we-all-adults-here high ground and was glancing through the cheap souvenir shotglasses when a low contralto purred, "Hey zere, sexy doctor man."

With the kind of slow head pivot usually reserved for horror holovids, Bones looked up and beheld... Chekhov, trying to strike what he clearly believed was a seductive pose, wearing the head of some butter-yellow alien cow. "Hanh?" he said, intelligently.

"I am zinking," continued the dulcet, throaty, female voice of the cow-Chekhov, "Zat zis mask is good for disguise, da? I sneak up on you, you never know it is me!"

Behind him, Uhura finally succeeded in grabbing a dainty little cat domino from an upper hook and slipped it on. "Do they all have voice modification?" she cheeped, voice suddenly one octave below ear-bleeding and several above incredibly annoying.

The vendor, a human with a huge curling mustache, spread his hands to encompass the whole of the merchandise. "High-quality, satisfaction-guaranteed Vox-Mod 300s, the lot of 'em."

"Wait! Is that—my voice? Is that my voice?" Uhura yelled shrilly.

"Avast an' ahoy, ye scallywag! It'll be th' plank for the likes of ye!" Scotty yelled, lunging at Sulu with a cutlass made of foam.

"Doctor, I zink you should have zis one," Chekhov said, unceremoniously jerking a larger mask down over McCoy's head.

"Ow— ouch! Lay off!" It was a very tight fit, the damn thing nearly pulling his lower lip off before settling snug around his neck, but the ensign was insistent. Bones was spun to face a mirror, and made a noise of horrified disbelief. Oh God, horns. And the goatee. "I look like the devil's bastard baby!" The voice-modder buzzed slightly against his upper lip with every word, distorting his normal tones into those of someone who regularly gargled with gasoline.

The vendor, who had been watching their antics with some amusement, laughed. "Don't let the natives hear you say that! That's their festival saint's face you're wearing. And, listen, I don't mean to be rushing you ladies and gents, but the hunt's starting in less than hour and I need to pack up the cart."

"Hunt?" Sulu asked him, tying a scarlet scarf around his head.

The vendor shrugged. "Just another Thie festival thing. It's one of the oldest traditions they have left, s'supposed to predict how cold the winter will be or something. It's been started from this spot for hundreds of— sir, you break it, you buy it," he interrupted himself sharply as Scotty continued to flail about with the prop weapon.

The Scotsman only grinned and lunged again, Sulu dodging without so much as taking his hands off the scarf. "Th' wee little skunna jus' dun' know when ta lie doon!"

In the end, they bought the costumes, although Uhura tried to switch her mask (they wouldn't let her) and Sulu decided he'd rather be a ninja than a pirate (which sparked an intense debate over the merits of each between him, Chekhov and Scotty).

"Did y'wanna stay for the hunt thing?" he asked Uhura as she hovered uncertainly, looking towards the crowd congregating in the center of the square. The voice-mod made him sound like a serial killer propositioning a babysitter.

"No," she said sulkily, still in that painfully high pitch.

He patted her shoulder, completely understanding. "I'll find us a place to sit."

The breaking of the bond was a small pain, a green-stick fracture of the mind barely felt. Despite this, and despite it's relative weakness, the bond's absence left an unexpectedly debilitating sensation of... incompleteness under his skin. A longing emptiness, not unlike that of hunger or thirst. Coldness, as if there was an opening within himself that was no longer sealed.

He tugged on thin black gloves, the likes of which he had not worn since childhood. They were a mark of immaturity, of an untrained or unbalanced mind unable to shield itself from even the most mild pressures the world. They were necessary; as it was, it felt like his every nerve lay raw and exposed to the vagaries of the atmosphere. He was acutely aware of the wind, the moisture in it, the quiet hum of T'Pring's prescence next to him, the barely-perceptible auras of those they passed. The level of sensitivity, and susceptibility, was quite unpleasant. The vacant halls of the Enterprise would be welcome indeed.

His mind's reaction to the bond's severance was not hugely disproportional, if literature on the subject was to be believed. He knew through his elder self— who had apparently begun to call himself 'Selek', after their distant and now deceased cousin— that many of those colonizing New Vulcan suffered from debilitating effects as the result of broken bonds, from those friends and lovers lost when the planet imploded. He could not help but struck by the strength and immediacy of the ache that seemed to settle into his very bones, and he had not even harbored deep attachment to his betrothed; the devastation felt by a true bondmate must approach physical agony.

It was somewhat mollifying that T'Pring also elected to wear the gloves.

By design, they walked as far apart from each other as they could, having tidied the tearoom and now proceeding towards the gate, where they would say perhaps their final goodbye. They walked in silence, each lost in their own thoughts.

Spock's options had changed, quite unexpectedly so, and he would need to make some difficult decisions in the near future. First and foremost, pon farr was a biological certainty that could not be avoided if he wished to continue living. Although he found some aspects of his relationship with 'Selek' to be disquieting, his warning gave Spock much greater control over his actions than would have been possible otherwise, and for that he was thankful.

He had no current romantic partner. Lt. Uhura's principles had not allowed her to sleep with a man she knew to be promised elsewhere, and he could not at the time of her ultimatum conceive of ending his bond with T'Pring. Now that the bond had been negated, from a logical standpoint the lieutenant stood as the best candidate for replacement. He did not doubt her emotional attachment to him, nor her willingness should he explain the situation to accommodate his needs. However, he found in himself a reluctance to subject her, strong woman though she was, to a process he knew to be violent, degrading and potentially deadly. There was also the matter of the lifelong bond that would be formed, a topic he had never broached to her, nor she to him, while they were actively engaged in sexual relations. It had never crossed his mind to wish them 'married', in the human vernacular.

Another option was the solicitation of a new bond with another surviving Vulcan. As well as being personally unappealing, this option also required the most planning and effort on his part, as well as the supposition that any surviving Vulcan would be willing to bond with him. It seemed unlikely. He did not consider this a pessimistic outlook; the fact of his mixed birth simply made him a less attractive candidate to those whose species had been reduced to a fraction of its former size.

He had time, and that was important. Time to prepare Nyota, or visit New Vulcan. It was a precious gift he must take care not to waste.

In the course of his musings, they had reached the gate, beyond which waited the embassy vehicle that was to return Spock to the spaceport. He was surprised to see a gathering of sorts to the side of it, one Vulcan and a mixture of humans and native Thiephans whose conversation grew more and more heatedly as the two of them grew nearer. Despite the raised tones of the two foremost speakers, a young native girl and the Vulcan, the rest of the group seemed to be in high, perhaps intoxicated spirits, buzzing excitedly and laughing among themselves.

Quietly, T'Pring said, "The girl in the center is the daughter of an important local noble. She comes because she believes herself in love with my—with Stonn. She has expressed many times her wish that he become her partner," she said, lips thinning into a hard line.

As they grew closer, the voice of the girl in question rang out above the general conversation. She spoke Vulcan surprisingly well. "You must come!" she declared. "The hunt will be harmless, I promise you. It is simply a tradition. I have already prepared masks for all of us, so please, you must."

The young Vulcan, presumably Stonn of the well-developed body, answered her with audible exasperation. "Madam Olieth, I have already stated to you on multiple occasions my reasons for declining your invitations to participate in your 'game'. I can only concur that your hearing is deficient and that I must begin to submit objections in writing."

A few of the human girls giggled. She pouted up at him, protruding lip and insipid eyes cast in sharp relief in the unflattering light of the guard station. "Why must you be so obstinate?" she said petulantly, sliding familiar hands up the front of his robes and gripping his collar. "I do not understand why you refuse me."

"Cease touching me at once," he demanded, body stiffening as a muscle jumped in his cheek. Beside Spock, T'Pring incrementally increased her speed. He followed suit.

The mixed group clustered more tightly around Stonn, pleading for his participation. Although there was no malice in their body language, the fact that they had completely surrounded him was worrisome.

One of their number said in Standard, over the general babble, "Heyla! We've got company!" Heads turned toward Spock and T'Pring, curious. Olieth released the young Vulcan, who spun towards the gate and, when he caught sight of them, flushed and swiftly bowed. He was young, even younger than T'Pring, and fair-haired for a Vulcan.

"My greatest apologies for the scene—"

"Oh, more of them. Why don't we invite them all?" one of the humans suggested, bouncing on the balls of his feet. "If one is 'fe-li-ci-tous'," he said, his inebriated state making him fumble and stretch the syllables, "Three is sure to be good luck, right?"

"I will not go."

Olieth, her petite face waspish with thwarted desire, said peevishly, "But why?"

"As you have described it to me, it is pointless, lacks dignity, and is entirely without merit. No Vulcan would participate in such frivolity," Stonn told her coldly.

Spock became aware that T'Pring had left his side only when she appeared at Stonn's, popping up suddenly from the ring of people and clutching his arm in a manner that suggested a high degree of emotionality. "Leave us be!" she exclaimed.

Olieth's eyes narrowed, flashing a feral orange in the streetlight.

Stonn stared down at her with some consternation, gaze alighting on the gloves she wore and then rising to meet Spock's.

"Who is this?" Olieth said lowly, almost hissing the last word.

The tall, richly-dressed male Thiephan standing beside her, who had until that point been only watching the proceedings with some amusement, now laughed aloud and exclaimed, "You have a rival in love!"

Spock did not believe in precognition, only in conclusions formed from hypotheses arrived at through rational and linear deduction. The feeling of foreboding that stole over him at that moment could only be the result of such a hypothesis, something his subconscious had seen and recorded that his conscious mind had not. In any case, he edged closer to the group.

The Thiephan continued. "How perfect, Olieth; only wager your affections against this girl's and enter the boy as a hart. You will be hunter, the girl wolf, and whoever wins shall have him."

"We will not run in your asinine game," Stonn stated icily.

The Thiephan regarded him with a small smile, amusement edged with challenge now. "Will you not? If it would please you better, then, let the girl be hart and I will be hunter to your wolf. She is a pretty little thing. Her boon would be most sweet."

The crowd seemed to like this option, jostling each other and snickering, but Olieth looked put out. "She will run to him, or hide. She is not a fitting participant."

He folded his massive arms. "Then make them both harts. And you, over there," and all eyes turned suddenly to Spock, their attention a physical sensation like sunlight over his sensitized pysche. "Vulcans are a cold lot, but surely you can summon some fighting instinct. Play as wolf. Rescue your countrymen from our clutches."

"… more logically, you should not force my 'countrymen' to unwillingly participate and find other players," he answered mildly.

The unnamed male Thiephan only snorted. "Grab them," he ordered, waving a dismissive hand.

Another native did not hesitate in stepping up and with less care as he might take with a sack of plomeek hauling T'Pring up over his shoulder. At her thin scream, Stonn looked too shocked to even protest, making him easy prey for the knot of giggling girls that swept him up and away towards a large car Spock hadn't noticed. "This—what—are you insane?"

Without conscious volition, Spock found himself propelled into motion, eyes fixed on T'Pring's pale face. The lively vibrations of scores of minds buzzed uncomfortably against his own, the brushes of their bodies against his distracting and almost painful, but something deeper in him was reacting very strongly to the idea of his bondmate— his former bondmate— being taken away from him.

He hesitated at the door of the vehicle, rationality fighting to reassert itself, but the domineering male Thiephan said, "Glad you could join us," and hauled him inside.

T'Pring was pressed to Stonn, wide-eyed and clearly frightened. The young Vulcan's cheeks were an angry apple green. "Intolerable," he sputtered. "When the ambassador hears of this—"

It was at that point one of the humans squirted him in the face with a bottle of what appeared to be chocolate syrup. Stonn gaped. In Standard, the boy said, "Dude, chill out."

Beside him, T'Pring watched the thick liquid slide over his lips and down his chin with a most… un-Vulcan attention.

Beside her, Spock reminded himself that jealousy was an emotion the followers of Surak pledged to purge, and jumped when someone's arm brushed against the bare skin of his neck.

As things turned out, Jim ran late for his meeting with Toomas. He'd needed to sooth the savage beast that the Andorian aide-decamp had become, and thanks to some pussy-footing Pike would be proud of, he may have even accidentally restarted the tense, prolonged negotiations between Andoria and Orion's agricultural sectors.

He still held that grain importation was unfit for dinner discussion.

Much more interesting was the game Toomas delineated for him, sitting on a small veranda of a townhouse overlooking the packed main square.

"So," Jim said, taking another sip of his beer. "Lemme get this straight. If the 'wolves' catch more 'deer' than the hunter, the winter will be colder?"

"Leaner," the Thiephan corrected, taking a robust puff from a large Terran cigar. "Tradition held that if those playing as predators 'kill' more prey than the hunters, it is an augur for the future winter supply of meat. Now, of course, so much of our food is imported from the northern hemisphere and even off-planet we have had no need to look for portents in rituals like this. It has become simply a display of athletic skill." He chuckled. "Its fertility purposes have yet to fade as completely. Until rather recently, the deer were all female, the hunters and wolves male."

"I'll bet you had lots of spring babies," Jim said with a smirk.

Toomas returned it. "Indeed. The winner's boon is still a kiss, although traditionally it went further."

Jim let his head fall on his hand, watching the crowd below turn and swirl like schools of fish. "Y'know, I'd probably make a better wolf."

"By temperament, certainly. I have not forgotten your many conquests," Toomas said archly. "But our numbers are limited. Each hunter picks a hart for the herd, and a wolf to oppose him. I have already chosen my wolf, and she agrees that you are a most tempting morsel to fight me for."

Jim chose to ignore the speculative gleam in Toomas's eye and focused on the information. "She? Do I know her?"

The Thiephan laughed. "I should hope you remember Kiryl. She has been pining for you, she tells me. You must be a talented man."

Considering that Jim had quite literally seduced the Orion in question out from under Toomas, this invitation suddenly took on new, very interesting implications. "And you and she will be hunting me?"

Toomas shrugged expansively. "We will be hunting does and harts, any doe or hart we can catch. But it is especially gratifying to catch your selected target." His lazy, lion-like smile was nothing short of terrifying.

Jim could almost hear Bones's voice. "Jesus Christ, Jim, what about number one? REMEMBER RULE NUMBER ONE?"

He said the only thing he could say, being Jim Kirk.

"Alright, I'm in."

He couldn't help the grin that spread across his face. Puzzles were fun, but the games were the best.

Author Note:

Toomas is a real human name… in Estonia. :-) Also, I pulled some half-remembered Russian adjective out of my ass for his last name; it means magic. Magic Toomas! XDDDD After this chapter I'll try to keep the OCs to a minimum, as I know they can be annoying if not done well and I have the self-confidence of a turnip in that area.

Chekhov specifically says, "I want a mask! Get me one!"

The 'Scotty dancing on barrels' episode is also in chapter three of "You Eighteen Yet?" If you want to know what Bones and Chekhov were up to, go read it.

Someone got the 'How to Train Your Dragon' reference in the last chapter. That person now has my undying respect and affection. :-)

'Hart' is an olde-timey word for deer.

Spock isn't really jealous of Stonn. He's just… hormonal. XD