Erm, well, I do feel a bit sheepish. I rather forgot that I had not posted this new bit here. But, now I've remembered, and here it is. Thank you so much for the support and please enjoy the continuation.

They crash over him like waves, completely unhindered by his rocks, by his shouts, by his fear, by his anger; but he understands them better now, his mind still minutely connected to Spock's mind, his senses heightened so he can see them not as a group but as a unit of a thing. And this thing, he realizes, as it presses around him and steals his air, his senses and his life, does not mean any of this in maliciousness. It does not feel such things, does not act out of such intent, merely reacts to its surroundings in a manner that best suits the survival of the whole. He has not angered it, he has not hurt it, he has not even really registered to it beyond his usage as a bargaining chip, and so, it runs him over in an attempt to catch Spock and Kirk.

And then, he stops thinking and realizes he's died. It disconcerts him more than he ever expected it to as he views his surroundings. He stopped believing a long time ago, figured that the lights probably just went out in the end, and that was it. Whatever God he had been raised to faithfully follow failed him, and he secretly thought he had failed that God just as much. Consequentially, he didn't see a place for himself in Heaven or the mysterious suffering of Hell. The end was the end and that was all. So, opening his eyes and seeing his grandfather's farm on a hot summer's day with a cool glass of iced tea in his hand and a tree for shade surprises him far more than nothing or even little men in red with horns.

He holds the glass to his lips, feels the tender caress of cool glass and tastes the mildness of lemon. The sweat of condensation drips over his fingers and the ice cubes clink gently against the sides of the cup. The grass underneath him smells of fresh rain and rich soil and crinkles when he closes his free fingers upon it. His back rubs against rough bark, his shirt—not a Starfleet uniform but flannel with a dirty old undershirt—catching on it, no doubt snagging. This is a perfect day, he decides, tentatively sighing to see if he still breathes and finding that air passes over his lips. How strange that death imitates life; maybe it is, as his mother always said, the start of his next big adventure.

Or maybe it's just a continuation of the first. In front of him, there out of nothing, is the main man, the leader with the blank eyes and the dull expression. He wears jeans and flannel and he, too, has an iced tea; except it all looks wrong on him from his long cut hair to his dirt encrusted nails. It reminds him of movies he'd watched, where the research of the subject had been done, but the execution felt forced; every old medical television show crosses his mind as he sees the green stains on the blue material of the pants and the day old stubble on the face.

"Is this not correct attire?" the man asks, catching his stare.

"You're right," he shrugs and drinks the tea. The man follows suit but does not look satisfied as McCoy feels.

"What is the purpose of this?" The man motions to the cup.

"Pleasure," McCoy answers, setting the glass aside and stretching his arms above his head. "What the hell are you doing in my afterlife?"

The man tilts his head. "Afterlife? Does this not require cessation of bodily function?"

"Uh, yeah, it does," he says. "Last time I checked, you and your fellow sociopaths were crushing the life out of me and your home didn't look like Grandad's farm. Pretty safe assumption that you accomplished your task."

"You are incorrect," the man informs him. He sips the tea mechanically. "You still live. We merely seek a better form of communication with you."

"So you transported me to Georgia?" McCoy feels his brows travel half-way up his forehead.

"No, we have entered your body and your mind," it answers and chills trickle down his spine. The grass feels less soft. "Please do not fight us."

Twice in one day; he has been violated twice, once by a man he trusted, and once by the enemy. If the surroundings had not lolled him into complacency already, he would scream. Instead, he slaps the tea aside and stands up. The man follows his actions with no more interest than Spock in a remedial math class. He tosses his own cup to the side and it vanishes instead of spilling its contents like his has. He watches as it simply winks out of existence and around him, the illusion wobbles.

"What do you want?" he asks, praying that Jim isn't stuck in a place like this. With a tentative mental hand, he reaches out towards Spock but feels nothing at all. His mind, once again, appears empty of anyone but himself. He wishes it was true.

"Understanding," the man responds. "We are confused by the actions committed by yourself and Commander Spock."

"You don't understand why we wanted to escape imprisonment and get our sick friend to a place where he could be helped?" McCoy wonders if they understand his incredulous tone or are merely noting it for stress patterns. His breathing has sped up and he can feel the pounding of his heart.

"We provided him with comfort," the man says, as though it is that simple. "We had no intention of allowing him to perish nor did we wish to harm you. You would've been well-cared for. The logical action would require you staying in the room and monitoring your friend's condition instead of attempting escape."

"I've never claimed to be logical," he snaps, fidgeting. Around him, the world warps slightly at the edges and the heat feels more oppressive.

The man looks so lifeless, so fake, against what he considers to be pure life. "Doing what will ensure the survival of the greatest number of lives is not what you attempt to do?"

Generally, he would say yes to this, but in this instance, he just shakes his head at the man. There's a gap in communication, a lack of knowledge which he doubts he will get across. It's like talking to Spock, except worse because Spock at least sees his perspective even if he does not agree. This creature before him does not even have that; they only share the data, none of the interpretation. And he does not have a hope of explaining anything to it. The bile rises in his throat, tasting of stomach acid and tea, and he chokes a little bit."

"I do what's best for my friends," he whispers. "What's best for my captain and what will save his life."

"There are other captains," the man says, almost perplexed, if he were not so monotone. "The sacrifice of the one in order for the creation of bonds which will help the lives of millions seems a minor concession."

He thinks he may be panicking, that he may be shutting down, that he may be coming back. Whatever he may be doing, it hurts his chest, hurts his head, hurts deep in his gut; but also, it's reviving that tickle somewhere in the back of his consciousness. It encourages him to say, "But there's only one Jim Kirk. And his life is worth more to me."

"This statement is incorrect," the man wavers in his appearance, against the undulations of the scenery. "There are many Jim Kirks, many captains, many people with the same build, same face, same eyes. Jim Kirk is not irreplaceable."

"No, you're wrong," he surprises himself at the vehemence. "There's only one Jim Kirk who would give up everything for his crew. There's only one Jim Kirk who would chance his own life to save others from pain. There is only one Jim Kirk who could pull crazy stunts and still save the day. And there is only one Jim Kirk who could possibly be friends with a man like me." His floor's falling out from under him as those words leave his lips.

The man's fingers meld together and trip towards the grass. It crunches. "We do not understand."

"What is there not to understand, man?" he demands. "I would give up my life to save his because he's a better person than I am."

"Leaders are many and varied, arguably better than this particular one," the man says. His face warps. "Your skills in bodily repair make you very valuable in your own right though many exceed your talent and abilities. In comparison to the captain, you're both able at your positions but both replaceable."

He thinks he will scream but what exits his lips is a scoff followed by a derisive laugh. "And I thought Spock was inhuman. You just don't get it, do you?"

"We do not comprehend the contradictory behavior of your kind," the man—no, it's a creature, not a man—agrees. "You sacrifice for one, for all, for all reasons, for none. You do not always consider what is best for the whole but care more for singular beings and insist on individuality."

"Because individuality makes us what we are," he stresses. "It makes us special."

"Individuality causes eradication and dissention," the man corrects. "Individuality neither allows for growth nor stable future."

The thing in the back of his mind twists and pulls at him. He ignores it in the heat of battle. "But it causes love, beauty and joy as well! It's why I wanted to be a doctor and not a captain. It's why Jim saved the world. It's why Spock chose to stay with the Enterprise instead of going off to New Vulcan. It's why we agreed to start friggin' negotiations with you people."

"It weakens you," the man says simply.

And he feels confident when he states the following, "No, it makes us strong."

And Georgia pulls away from his skin, out of his esophagus, away from his ears and his nose. It jerks out of his eyes and out from under the beds of his nails until he can see the true world again, dirty, dusty and dead. The fluid substance still is unraveling from around him and once again, the thing at the back of his mind thrums through him with a tinge of confusion. About him, everything trembles and warps as the fluid shapes into the men, with the man at the front. They all stand identically, hands at their sides, staring straight ahead. Spock's words linger in his mind, how emotions don't help with them because they don't feel. The thin line of loyalty and love doesn't exist for them and they would easily throw themselves into the wind, throw each other into the wind, if it meant gaining an inch of advancement for the whole.

"Doctor," the man addresses him the same as he always has. "We will be taking you back to the room so we may continue our talks with Starfleet."

He tries to speak but gags on something in his throat. It comes out as a garbled groan as the fluid emerges from behind his teeth and drips onto the floor. "They… w'n't… listen…"

"If your people are so fixated upon each individual's unique and special existence, surely they will happily trade for you," the man reasons as two of the lackeys behind him approach McCoy.

The chuckle escapes him again. "Not all humans are noble. We don't all sacrifice everything for the good of one."

"Explain," the man commands as they drag McCoy to his feet and he wobbles about.

"I'm not special enough to Starfleet for you to get your negotiations anymore. With Spock and Jim and I, you may have stood a chance but with them free, you, my friends, have lost the golden eggs."

The man tilts his head and every single one of the others follow suit. "Then we will accomplish our goals through means of threat and dominance. Much of your world is built upon the fear of consequence. We will insist on relations lest we cause great harm upon your kind with the knowledge we will glean from your mind."

"And you'll lose like every other tyrant who's ever lived," he spits it out, anger rushing through him, back out the thing in his mind which returns with a silent question. "You won't get what you want through threats or hostages."

"Clarify."

He refuses to speak, even when they pull him very close to the leader so their eyes meet and he peers into the empty globes. All he sees lingering there is a shell, controlled by a singular consciousness that seeks only the preservation and survival of a mass race. It frightens him to his core but also awes him. The perfect machine lingers behind those globes; it never wavers to do what will best help the whole, never bows to love, to hate, to anything; it contradicts his self-absorption, his narcissism and exudes pure selflessness. Not the kind he believes in which derives from love of another, but the kind that comes from mindless, unquestioning devotion.

"Your denial will not prevent our actions, merely our means of achieving them," the man informs him. "You will be returned to your room to await our decisions."

One of them comes up behind him and presses the glowing rod into his spine. This time, all of his senses fade away so that he is completely unaware of anything from the passing of time to the movements of his body. All he has left is that thing in his head which keeps plying him for answers that he doesn't have because he doesn't understand the questions. Emotionally, he's drained to the point where he cannot care about where he is, where he is going, what these creatures—or creature—have in mind. He's openly admitted things to it that he hasn't ever admitted to anyone and, now, he's terrified that the words will travel across the air to everyone he knows.

'We will rescue you,' says the thing in the back of his mind. 'Do not give in to their demands.'

His eyes open in that same room, with that same button, with nothing but the cot and the floors and the walls. "What demands?" he asks the air.

He receives no answer.