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From: "Keith & Jessica Bratcher" <campbratcher@psci.net>
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Date: Sun, 13 Jun 2004 21:13:52 -0500
Subject: [ASCEM-S] NEW TOS After Hell [PG] (K/m, K/S implied) 1/1
Reply-To: "Keith & Jessica Bratcher" <campbratcher@psci.net>
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Title:     After Hell
Author:    Hypatia Kosh
Series:    TOS
Codes:     K/m, K/S implied
Rating:    PG
Summary:   A man has a chance sexual encounter with Captain Kirk.
           one of my favorite stories out of all I've written.



     Hell is a windowless cell on an alien world. These are my 
thoughts as I lie on my bunk staring at the blank and too-close 
ceiling. These have been my thoughts a lot lately. When you don't 
have anything to do or anywhere to go your thoughts tend to run 
around in circles. 

     My jailers aren't the talkative type. 'Die-Jean' is what I call 
them -- it's about as close as I can get to their name for 
themselves. You've probably heard them called 'Regulans.' It's a lie. 
They don't come from Regulus. 

     As a race, their only distinguishing characteristic is height. 
About 200-250cm each one. They made this low-ceiling cell just for me. 
Most of the time, though, I don't see them. It's just me and my 
thoughts, in an 2x3 meter room (1x1.5m washroom adjoining). 

     So here I am in my bunk when the door slides open. I jump to my 
feet.

     It isn't a guard.

     It's a human male: sandy hair, vivid eyes, but a little too fat 
in the cheeks. Muscles on his chest, but the beginnings of a pot 
belly. The fat on his face makes the space around his eyes just a 
little hollow. I'm the sharp kind; I notice things about people right 
away. He's showing signs of stress. He's also wearing a gold uniform. 
I don't know much about Starfleet ranks, but I figure that makes him 
some sort of commanding officer.

     "Are you being bunked in here too?" I ask. It doesn't occur to 
me that the Die-Jean might be setting me free.

     "You're being released," he says, smiling. Trouble, I think. 
I've never trusted overly friendly strangers.

     "Really? You're the first man -- the first human being I've seen 
in months. This isn't some kind of -- trick?" I demand.

     He laughs. "I'm flesh and blood." He holds out his hand. "A 
genuine human being." His handshake is dry and firm.

     "What's your name?" I inquire.

     "Kirk. Captain James T. Kirk."

     "I'm--"

     "Mr. Soto."

     "That's right," I say slowly. "Lance Soto. I don't figure you 
came all the way out here, Captain, just to retrieve me."

     "Come with me, and I'll explain everything."

     He leads me out, right past the Die-Jean guards, the ones who 
lead me about on my only allowed exercise, a walk around the 
"cellblock" which occurs once every five days. I've picked fights 
with the guards just to have something to do, but they don't even 
have the decency to fight back. Instead they release a sleeping gas 
which knocks me out where I stand. Some time later -- I never know 
how long, there's no night or day in this place, except when they 
shut off the lights in my cell for rest period -- I'll wake up in 
my bunk feeling groggy. Then I'll get a warning and a lecture about 
the violent tendencies of Man.

     We walk right outside the compound into the open air. It's 
sunny, but the air is foul. The air of this world smells of sin. An 
accursed place. Port City on Sigma III.

     I'm blinking back the unaccustomed light from my eyes when I'm 
teleported onto his ship. The transporter station on board looks 
clean and gleamingly modern, though this ship is anything but new. 
"Welcome to the Enterprise," he says.

     Kirk fills me in on why the Federation sent a ship to Sigma, and 
how his officers found out that the Regulans were keeping a human 
prisoner. A lucky break for me, I tell him. 

     Meanwhile, this Kirk character is being just a little too 
friendly. As we tour the ship, he keeps trying to introduce me to 
women. Female crewmembers, female officers, even a few passengers. I 
decide to put a stop to it. "I appreciate what you're trying to do, 
Captain, but I don't need a girlfriend."

     "But surely after all those months in confinement . . . a man 
has needs . . ." I feel sorry for him, he looks confused. "Don't you 
like girls?"

     "Not particularly."

     "But, to go without for so long . . . unless, you aren't 
really--"

     "I'm a normal human male," I say, getting impatient.

     "But not so 'normal' after all." He finally catches on.

     "That's right." 

     "Good. It so happens . . . I'm a little 'different' myself." So 
he is. I know the type. Too easy with his affections; it doesn't 
matter to him what gender.

     "So what are you saying."

     "I'm saying-- I could help you out."

     "Is that a proposition?"

     "It might be."

     "Did you have a location in mind?"

     He leads me down the hall to an abandoned room. He checks 
quickly to see that no one else is inside and locks the door, and we 
do our business.

     I don't like the way I feel afterwards. I find myself wishing 
for a cigarette. 

     He's much too friendly afterwards. He stretches and says, "My 
boyfriend would be mad with jealousy, if he knew." I guess this is 
the kind of thing that passes for jest around here. 

     "Who is he," I ask, so I can stay out of the way of this fellow 
later.

     He grins. "Strong, silent type."

     "And--?"

     "Vulcan," he adds a moment later.

     "Vulcan. Doesn't that mean he knows already?" I've crossed paths 
with my share of Vulcans. Spent the night with one once. They're a 
little too perceptive. Telepathy. Has to be. 

     "It's all right. I'll tell him I was helping a fellow traveler 
in his hour of need."

     "Don't make it out like all that."

     "No? Wasn't it good for you?"

     "Sure, it was good."

     "You're a little cool."

     "A man doesn't wear his heart on his sleeve."

     "Interesting accent. Novomundo, isn't it?" He's quick. 

     "That's right. And I suppose you're from Earth."

     "More or less."

     "The homeworld . . . people with no respect for tradition." 

     He just stares. "It must be hard for you, on Novomundo."

     "It's a life."

     "I mean for a man like you . . . they don't like people who are 
'different.' How long can you stay unmarried --"

     "I am married." 

     "How? Not -- legally?"

     "I have a wife." 

     His whole face flexes around the 'o' his mouth makes when he 
asks, "Why?"

     He's not exactly getting the picture, is he? "Because I'm a man. 
And that means certain responsibilities."

     He interrupts me. "If I were gay I couldn't -- I wouldn't -- no 
matter what society expected." 

     "You're ruled by your feelings. You fly around the galaxy 
following your whims, a perpetual adolescent." He takes this in.

     "How old are you," he asks me suddenly. 

     "28 or 29, I'm not sure. I tried to count time with marks on the 
wall, but the Die-Jean always erased them."

     "Do you have any kids?"

     "My wife was pregnant with our first child when they . . .  got 
me. I suppose by now there's a little Lance Jr. waiting for me to 
come home."

     His eyes are distant when he nods. "I'm thirty-three."

     I don't envy him, this life he's led. He may be a man but he's 
also a boy. He's a man of the decadent New Age; he lives a rootless 
life. 

     Longing for home grips me like a magnet on steel.

     I need to get out of this room, find a place to sit alone and 
think. 

     "Are you a man if you don't stand up for what you believe in?" 
he asks. 

     "A man has to accept the realities in life. There are things 
worth fighting for," I concede. "But what you call a matter of choice 
and self-determination is just an excuse for letting your hormones 
take charge of your life. That's not the kind of life I want to 
live." 

     "You're talking about a life without love -- without true 
affection." 

     Love? Love is a word broads use when they want something from 
you. "You mean infatuation?" I say bluntly.

     He is speechless for a moment, and I drive in the dagger: 

     "That 'love' didn't stop you a moment ago, did it?"

     He purses his lips.

     I go to the door, but it opens ahead of me. Framed by the 
doorway stands a tall Vulcan with smoldering eyes.

     -FIN-



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