Characters/Pairings: UST Chapel/McCoy, Gaila/OFC/Kirk, Masters/Scotty, UST Uhura/Spock.

Warnings: Rights abuse, murder, violence, torture, language, abuse of canon, Harry Mudd.

Betas: The awesome Spocklikescats and TeaOli but I tweak so errors are all my own.

Fanmix: Fantastic Fanmix (little circles in url are dots): i-am-32-flavors◦livejournal◦com/5839◦html

Art: Awesome art, including Porthos, the beagle at: theoreticalfic◦livejournal◦com/20490◦html?view=76298#t76298

Summary: Noir-Trek AU; Chapel and McCoy run a branch of Starfleet Intelligence on the rough, rainy space-port planet of New Glasgow. Is the corrupt Mayor Khan behind the disappearance of sixteen individuals? A chain of events unwittingly started by Scotty leads them straight to Khan's facility, where they uncover a chilling abuse of rights. Fedoras, trench coats, Marcel waves, cloche hats, seamed stockings, garter belts, and cigarette holders.

A/N: Written for startrekbigbang◦livejournal◦com but polished up a lot and some changes made. Some lyrics from the fanmix are sprinkled among the chapters. Masters is played by Janelle Monae, Chapel by Christina Applegate and Crimson Crest by Christina Hendricks. All wisecrack lines are probably adapted from Raymond Chandler or Winston Churchill.

Chapel and Priest

~~ Husks ~~

Down these mean streets a man must go who is not himself mean, who is neither tarnished nor afraid. He is the hero, he is everything. He must be, to use a rather weathered phrase, a man of honour, by instinct, by inevitability, without thought of it, and certainly without saying it.

Raymond Chandler

It is the opinion of this house that it must be illegal for a civilian to procure, or be in possession of, a synthetically constructed biological body. As these so called bio-bodies, or suits, can be perpetually renewed, the prospect of immortality has now become reality. This will only serve to increase the divide between the rich, who can afford this new technology, and the poor, who cannot. Civilians currently inhabiting such bodies will not be permitted to renew them beyond the lifespan normal for their species. Federation-sponsored research may continue, for the purposes of peacekeeping and medical advancement.

Federation Legislature Vote, San Francisco, Stardate 2321.4

One: Red Wind

His credits were running out faster than green grass through a grey goose, and the baize of the table stretched out like a walk to the gallows.

His thumb hit the brim of his hat, pushing it back. "Fold."

He took his meagre winnings from a man whose face was ridden hard and taken in wet. They were enough for a cheap meal, and an expensive whiskey.

Out front, the bar was smoky, like the aftermath of a blaze; lights too dim, so that clandestine transactions continued, ensuring the loyalty of its clientèle.

A shot glass sat on the bar; the contents, but not the container, were what he ordered. Urbanites in this city thought all their booze should come with a drug-like kick. Perhaps if he had to live in this neighbourhood, he would think the same, but he wouldn't order good bourbon.

"Miss, can ya pour this in a decent glass?" The barmaid was hard as jade, and just as brittle. A ghost with skin like the olive in a Martini, all raven hair and rouged cheeks. A glittering, beaded collar choked her throat with a small but obvious padlock at its side, and he wondered if she had an owner. She shrugged, probably didn't get this request often, but reached anyway for a squat, wide glass and dumped the bourbon in. Finally, he could get his darned nose in and smell vanilla, tarred oak and burnt-black sugar.

"Thanks." No reaction; perhaps she was a submissive mute, only allowed to speak with her owner. Well, the upside was he could talk more than enough to order cheap chow, and good booze. A man on his own, on a dead-end case? He could talk the forelegs off an Edosian and make him hop back again.

In the corner a band shredded what was left of the tattered remains of a song. Somewhere, cats were throwing themselves from high windows, and being disappointed at their survival.

He talked, she cleared dishes. He talked, she poured. He talked, she wiped tables, until at last, the peacock people who only came to dives like this for some patronising authenticity before they hit a real fancy joint had left, and only a few barnacled lags remained. As she bent to stow polished tumblers behind the bar, he caught a glimpse of her well-upholstered hide in the mirror.

It was an ass to make an engineer kick a hole through a dilithium crystal housing.

The lags left as a wind picked up. Windows and shutters rattled, and the scrape of porch furniture skittering over the deck put his teeth on edge. The barmaid took up a straw broom to sweep up dry leaves blown in at the departure of her penultimate customer. Her dress was heavy red crepe, cut on the bias, contrasting with her skin like traffic lights. The swell and sway of her shape reminded him of ripe apples on a strong tree. He grasped his fedora – the wind would snatch it away from his head – and turned up the collar on his gabardine coat. Ready to go, he put the credits in an enamel plate on the bar, stood, and swept his hat past his torso with a tipped bow. Before he could leave, she flipped the broom and slid the stick through the door-pulls.

He swallowed, and looked into her eyes; burnt-oak, black and soft as soot.

Delicate as leaves in a spring breeze, her hands fluttered up, and they made a sign in standard.

s...t...a...y

~~intermission~~