My first published fic, so please be kind! Rated T to be safe, there's some mild swearing. If you don't know what a red shirt is, I suggest checking out the page on Memory Alpha. My red shirt is an original character. The title of this fic was possibly inspired by another Trek fic I *might* have seen posted elsewhere and cannot for the life of me remember where. If it sounds familar to you, let me know so I can give appropriate credit! Enjoy! :)

Disclaimer: I don't own Star Trek or make any money off of it.

Requiem for a Red Shirt

Thirty seconds is all it takes. There is a single misstep, followed by a cry of alarm. Leaves rustle ominously. With the smallest of sighs, the ensign collapses before anyone even turns. Kirk shouts for Dr. McCoy, who drops to his knees beside the young woman in the red uniform and goes to work. But there is nothing he can do. He is a moment too late.

"She's dead, Jim."

Kirk stares at him. His mind refuses to process that the young ensign is dead. It makes no sense. She was alive just a moment ago, laughing at one of Kirk's lame jokes. McCoy's face is stormy as he stows his medical tricorder in its accustomed pouch and gets heavily to his feet. The other members of the away team are staring at the three of them: Kirk, McCoy, and the dead ensign.

Kirk finally finds his voice. "How?"

McCoy sighs. "I'd have to do an autopsy to be absolutely sure, but those spines appear to have released some sort of neurotoxin. She was dead before she hit the ground, Jim."

Kirk tears his eyes from the body and looks to his stoic first officer. "Did we get the readings we needed, Mr. Spock?"

"Affirmative, Captain."

"And the dilithium samples, Lieutenant?"

"Aye, sir."

Kirk flips open his communicator. "Then let's get the hell out of here."

The away party assumes their positions for beam up. Everyone tries not to look at the body of Ensign Johnson. Only McCoy can see the anguish on Jim Kirk's young face.