Escape Plan
susieqla
Author: Sue
Email:
Permission to archive: Yes
Fandom(s): Star Trek - 2009
Genre: General/Het
Pairing/Characters: Kirk/OFC
Rating: FRT-13
Summary: Leap first, look back later, or better yet never. Young
James T. Kirk decides change is what he definitely needs, to boldly go
where his step-father is not his problem.
Warnings: None
Disclaimer: Star Trek is owned by Paramount and its subsidiaries, not
me.
Escape Plan
Having it bad for Poppy McFee was putting it mildly. Sure, he was
young, skidding into adolescence full throttle, but so what? His age
only made what he felt for the prettiest girl in his grade worse,
seeing past the rage of hormonal assault to what she really meant to
him. She was a good friend; when it got right down to it, his best,
when she wasn't in know-it-all mode. Even when she was, it wasn't all
that bad. She had this indefinable way of hers that never failed to
bushwhack him, and there was nothing he could do to sideswipe it.
James Tiberius Kirk had cheated death yesterday. It was springtime,
he had taken the car to school to show himself off in it, especially
to her. She'd had a dental appointment right after school, with her
mother picking her up. He would have driven her to the dentist if it
hadn't been for her mother taking her. Jim fumed, thinking since when
was having fun a crime? He was still pissed at that lame-o robo-
trooper...the flying short-circuit with a badge, dogging him,
funneling him to the man-made eyesore gouged into this locality of
Iowa. Lying face down upon his bed, Jim slammed his fist into his
pillow and spewed several rotten words, not caring less if his heinie
of a step-dad heard his tirade. The warden whose brains were where he
sat had him locked in his room, grounded until his mom returned to
Earth.
Jim shifted gingerly upon his squat unmade twin bed, still smarting
from the worse beating he had ever gotten in his life. During the
punishment, inflicted by use of a fiberglass switch, he hadn't given
his step-dad the satisfaction of making one peep of outcry, no
whimpering, and certainly no tears. Sullenly defiant, Jim had taken
his just desserts like the man he imagined his real father would have,
the man his mother never tired of telling him how great he had been.
This forced imprisonment was giving him a long, hard time to think
just how much he hated his step-dad. It was only a car...well, okay,
a 'Vette Classic, but it wasn't like it had been minted in gold. The
snot-head 'replacement' father figure needed to get several strong
grips on reality and ice himself. Jim cracked an ornery smile,
imagining old 'Frog-gurgle' going over the side of the voracious gorge
in his precious lame ride. His screams swallowed up by the abyss'
vast
emptiness.
"Owww!" Jim bit off hotly, wallowing in acute pain. Sounding dark, as
though he was all portent, he muttered, "I gotta get outta this
place...if it's the last thing I ever do." Tightly, he shut his eyes
so he could visualize his options better, audacious options which
involved his step-dad never being seen nor heard from again.
For no apparent reason then, young Kirk, sticking to his prone
position, slid from his bed to the floor. Balancing on his shoeless
feet in a crouch, he took his time gradually straightening up. He was
a natural thinker on his feet; he had his plan, and nothing was going
to stop him. The 'Classic' was history, crumpled scrap metal at the
bottom of the gorge...no big deal. The equally-prized streamlined
Road King Harley-Davidson was there, in the garage, for the taking,
and that's just what he was going to do.
It was a little past 8:30 p.m. central time; dinnertime had come and
gone without him since he'd had no dinner, part and parcel of his
punishment. He'd grab something on the road, on his way to the Golden
State. His mother's sister, Betty, his aunt and his cousins Johnny
and Molly lived in California. He was Daly City-bound. There was
nothing he'd miss here, Jim swore. What, a megalomaniac for a make-do
daddy? He'd taken all he was going to from the bully. He was so out
of here, and good riddance to all the crap he'd had to stomach up till
now.
While slipping into his beat-up hightops, Jim gave his missing not one
thing here a second thought. While he soundlessly raised the middle
window in-between the outer two, all three framed with murky grayish
blue collotypic curtains he had told his mother he 'sorta didn't need,
he was blindsided. As if stricken by a lightning bolt, he stopped
what he was doing and really thought about the one thing he'd be
leaving behind, and it got to him because he didn't want to.
Poppy McFee... It jump-started his bravado to think of her missing
him so much, not wanting to go on because he wasn't here anymore. Oh,
yeah...talk about something feeling so right, and so wrong at the same
time. He was half-way through the window when he decided the least he
could do was say goodbye before he bailed on her. He was rolling the
hog out in the darkening open when it rudely dawned on him that he had
a buck fifty in his jacket pocket, not a penny more.
No, robbing a bank, or anything else was out. He really wasn't
bucking for a criminal record, honestly, despite the smattering of
impromptu lectures he had received from various troopers on hand at
the station before his raging step-dad had come to get him. What a
wild scene that had been, with 'Frog-gurgle' yelling how he was gonna
kill him when they got home.
Maybe he could hit Poppy up for a modest loan, sort of like a going
away present; after all, they were good friends, right? He'd never
asked her for money before, but there was always a first time, and
this was it.
It was a minute before 9:00 when he 'hit' Poppy's home, a vintage two-
story farmhouse. Her bedroom was, of course, on the second floor; a
weeping willow tree towered by her window. The whole house was dark,
but a light burned in her room. Jim smiled, knowing she loved to drag
out doing her homework, racking up extra credit for the additional
research she did.
He spied what he needed, picked up several small pebbles, deftly aimed
one at the open window and fired. 'Direct hit,' he thought, seeing
his missile sail through its target, but she didn't appear so he fired
off another pebble. Maybe she wasn't in her room. Maybe she'd gone
down the hallway to visit the bathroom. Just maybe she was slumped
over her keyboard, fast asleep, too much fact-finding for one night.
His third pebble followed the trueness of the previous two.
"Owww!" Jim heard, loudly and clearly this time, and he smiled again
when Poppy's head, her long dark hair free and flowing, presented
through the window. "Jimmy-tee," she said half scoldingly, "is that
you?"
"Yeah, Pops, it's me."
"Why is it you? What are you doing here?"
"I came to say goodbye, and I need a favor." Jim smirked, having seen
her flinch.
"Goodbye? For the love of corn, what do you mean goodbye?"
"Not so loud. You'll wake your folks."
"Not likely. They're not here. Everybody went to town, everybody
'cept me. Won't be back till late."
"Oh..."
"I'm coming down."
Jim smiled for the third time, knowing she would, liking how she had
cleared out of her window like a jackrabbit.
They sat in her family's delicately cozy, yet not as quaint as one
might expect kitchen. Poppy's mom loved the color green, and the
McFee's favorite room reflected the mother's preference in various
dramatic shades, one not more lovelier than the next. Jim was
polishing off his third homemade chocolate chip cookie, washing it
down with farm fresh milk from the McFee's dairy farm. He liked these
people; Mr. McFee never talked down to him, even asking his advice on
a smattering of things, Mrs. McFee loved to hear him crack jokes. Her
laughter was musical. Poppy had two brothers, older than she; Lester
was four years older than Poppy, and Jake, two years older. They
could have been his brothers too since they all got along like cloned
peas in a pod.
"What about your mom? You're running off without even saying goodbye
to her?" One could have carved the incredulity in Poppy's voice with
a chisel.
"I left a note. Told her in it," Jim muffled, his mouth more full of
cookie than empty. "She'll understand. She knows how much I..." His
mind seized upon the word, and his lips did the rest. "Hate Frog.
When I get where I'm going, I'll let her know. I can take care of
myself; she knows that!"
Poppy stared at him, kept staring until she finished pouring him more
milk, when he'd asked for more, from the stainless steel pitcher.
"You're not scared, not even a little bit?"
"Nope," he flung, but her reservation was at the back of his mind.
"Bad things happen to folks--grown folks--traveling the roads these
days. There's always reports of how they've gone missing, and when
they're finally found, they're usually dead." Pointedly, she accused,
"You're still a kid, you know, even if you can drive cars and
motorcycles. And you'll be all alone."
He scoffed at her words, but he was careful with his overall
delivery. "I'll be okay."
"Easy to say. But what if something really bad does happen?"
Rolling his eyes, he shrugged, irritated with her valid cause for
concern, and the fumbling way he was handling her vocality on the
touchy subject of his safety. "I guess I'll disappear and wind up
dead--okay?"
Her icy cold stare melted and Jim did too, seeing tears well up in her
unnerved looking eyes. Angrily, she spluttered, "Okay--then you'll be
dead!"
The number of cookies that he had consumed felt like congealing lead
in the pit of his churning stomach. Asking for money to fund his
getaway, sorely ill-conceived in Poppy's stormy eyes, that were
leeching too many tears right now, he shot down.
"I can't take it anymore, Pops. Frog's got it in for me. He lays
into me one more time, I'm liable to..." He stopped before uttering
what his young mind held him back from thinking even though the intent
was definitely there. "Your folks want another kid?"
His answer was a blank stare.
"I'm too young for legal emancipation..."
She nodded.
"Then what?"
Shakily, weirdly nonplussed since what he was handing her wasn't a
school-related problem, she slowly answered, "I don't know ... I
really...don't." She did know that the scars he often showed her, his
fresh wounds, welts and assorted injuries gave him ample ammunition
for leaving. How could she blame him? Who wanted being a punching
bag for childhood memories? "We..." If she truly was his friend,
then she had her answer. Having made up her mind, Poppy stamped
resoluteness on her tear-stained face and supplied her voice a
backbone. "Go together."
Jim's stare beat all those she'd given him, no contest. "Bull-crap?"
That was a typical Jimmy-tee comeback. "Nope. No B-M; if taking off
is the only way to save you from the kind your step-dad dishes out,
then I'm with you."
"Sh--"
"Like I said...no." She told him to help himself to more cookies
while she got dressed; she'd be less than a minute. Jim did, to
another, and the rest he wrapped up in a paper towel for the open
road. Her mom's insanely delicious cookies might be the only food
they'd have all the way to the Pacific if the till was skint. Okay,
so it wouldn't be easy, but his determination clamored that they'd
manage, and make it all the way there on next to nothing, if
practically nothing was all they had, financially speaking.
His heart leapt as he considered his shouldering the weight of
responsibility her coming along placed upon him. It was exhilarating,
yet numbly scary at the same time. She was right, of course, no
shocker there. Road travel was a dangerous undertaking in these
turbulent times, what with the increasing members of the evermore
restless, shiftless population taking life for the thrill and larceny
of it. Setting his jaw, Jim vowed with mushrooming zeal that he'd
take care of Poppy; it would be his focus, the driving force insuring
that they'd be all right. He had wanted her to come along, but had
been too proud, coming off as being too high-handed, to flatly throw
it out there. He had his proof; the matter was settled. There was no
better friend than she; their minds bordered on being capable of
reading one another.
Before he thought better of it, since pragmatism was the linchpin of
successful journeys, Jim called out, "Hey, Pops!"
From above and to the left of where he sat at the head of the kitchen
table by the backdoor, Poppy's voice boomed, "Yeah, what? I'm nearly
ready!"
"How much cash ya got?"
"What I've saved for nearly two years."
"So, how much's that?"
A negligible pause intervened and her strident retort was, "Two
hundred fifty-eight dollars and seventy cents."
Jim whistled, liking the sound of the sum; it wasn't a king's ransom,
but it was way more than a buck fifty, flat. Before he got another
question out, Poppy asked, "How much do you have?"
"A whole lot less than that."
Shrugging, Poppy stuffed her funds, minus the change, deep inside an
inside pocket of her daffodil yellow backpack. She grabbed her ultra-
slim notebook and crammed it in too; making a trip without a computer
was like searching for anything in utter darkness without a handheld
light. Not bad, she considered, on such short notice, figuring taking
along other clothes wasn't the most important thing to worry about
right now. Well, maybe taking another shirt wasn't a bad idea, so she
did, and zippered the bag.
"Thanks, Pops," Jim knowingly shouted, standing up from the table,
wiping the milk moustache off with his right arm's sleeve and moving
closer to the sound of her voice. "Pops?" He heard her footfalls
race down the stairs. He saw the note she clutched, seeing her place
it beneath the empty cookie plate. Her eyes stayed on that paper
she'd scribbled on. "Pops," he said, sounding nervous. "Ya know..."
"I know." As he helped her turn off lights she said, "I was saving
the money for you, anyway."
Pole-axed, Jim stood stock still, embarrassment washing over him. "Y-
you were?"
"Yeah, and not for your birthday, either."
Jim nodded, knowing that she liked giving whatever it was she gave out
of the blue, whenever she felt like it.
"For something special." Poppy laughed. "Guess this is it."
They were standing on the porch which looked more like a sundeck with
serious mosquito netting. Jim passed through the screen door first,
jumping over the last two steps. Before going for the 'cycle, he
waited for her. She seemed reluctant to come away, to take that first
step of their long journey. She seemed to be giving her home a last
look, and he wondered if she was wondering when she would see it
again.
"Once we get to my aunt's, you don't have to stay, Pops. Tell your
folks you helped me out by coming with me, but you're coming back."
Poppy didn't say anything, as though his suggestion had been made for
somebody else. She turned away from her childhood home, came up to
him and threw her arms around him. "Let's go," she advised, "before I
change my mind."
What she'd done suddenly made him feel the oldest he'd ever felt. He
mounted their chromy ride and Poppy promptly claimed her seat behind
him. It was easy for her to think how crazy this was, her riding off
into nocturnal inkiness with the boy, the unflinching bullhead, who
was the first thing she thought about when she awoke, and the last
thing on her mind before she would fall asleep. Therein lay the
reason for her doing what she was; she was sparing herself the
excruciation of not knowing what could be happening to him, out on his
own.
The dynamic engine beneath them purred; Jim revved it several times,
feeling Poppy hug him tight, and wasting no more time, they set off.
-_-_-_-
By 10:17 they were headed west on a road that ran parallel to the
interstate, all the way to Ankeny, just north of Des Moines. This
night was ideal for late night travel, not too hot, nor cold, but
balmy. The wind against their faces felt wonderful, as though it
promised a freedom unique to those who were loath to ever touching
down.
Poppy liked to sing, and Jim enjoyed hearing her since she had a great
voice. He wasn't the only one who thought so. She had won first
prize in the last school talent show, and she was the strongest, pitch-
perfect voice in all of the junior chorus. So, when she began singing
softly, about a mile out of Dexter, Jim pushed the bike on the
strength of Poppy's upbeat timbre. By 11:00 she was so hoarse, she
could barely be heard over the roar of the bike's engine. Her grip
had slipped from Jim's waist dozens of times, though she hadn't spoken
one word about how tuckered out she was. Gym class had been boot camp
today.
"Jim," she said finally, and was only heard because she had whispered
it into his ear. "Aren't you ever going to stop?" The exhaustion her
voice held was a roadblock to be reckoned with.
"Yeah, we will soon, Pops," Jim replied, his voice booming. He was
trying for getting out of the state, but something told him he might
have to compromise.
"How long'll that be?"
"Not long." He smiled at the illuminated time and comparative
distance instantly calculated by the technology on his wrist. "Forty-
five minutes or so, tops." Having a good idea that she'd say it, he
did. "I know you're tired. I am too."
"Then stopping now before we crack up gets my vote."
Crankily, Jim shot back, "Soon as we get to Council Bluffs, we'll
stop." He flipped for diplomacy to quickly add, "Okay?"
Fitfully, the tiredness and motion sickness spoke. "No--it's not.
That's Nebraska!"
"Close to Nebraska."
"We should stop now before we get hurt."
"The Bluffs, and then we'll stop, Pops, promise," he told her through
a huge yawn. "We're real close." Thinking to be funny, he advised,
"Take off my belt and link us up. That way, even if you nod off you
won't fall off."
Poppy told him she'd do it only if he stopped first, which he didn't.
Fatigue was not the cause of the wrack-up, the unsightly placement of
a thick, ten-inch nail sinking into the front tire was. Few indulged
themselves by believing in miracles these days, but in this case, the
allowance benevolently fit. Thankfully, greatly due to their wearing
helmets, they weren't killed. Jim sustained a nasty cut on his lower
lip along with an assortment of imaginative bruises on his body.
Poppy was less fortunate; her right arm was broken, in two places, Jim
realized when he made his cursory examination of her injury. Poor
dear was right-handed too.
The noble Road King was looking less regal than it did at the outset
of the trip, but incredibly, it hadn't been totaled. It wasn't going
anywhere with a blown-out tire, but with some minor repairs and a new
tire, it would ride again.
Shaking his head to clear it, Jim said, "Poppy, I'm sorry, really
sorry. I didn't...I..." The pain etched in her face made his words
dry up.
"You didn't want this to happen," she said, exhaling heavily. "I
know, b-but it did." She sighed heavily against his chest since Jim
was acting as her makeshift pillow while he had himself propped up
against a broad stump of a box elder tree situated alongside this back
road.
'What are we gonna do now?' spun in his mind that was trying to hatch
the next move.
Lifting his thought, Poppy chuffed out, "Jim?"
"Yeah, what?"
"You know what."
Haltingly, he admitted, "No clue." The 'Vette flying over the gouge's
side should have been the biggest dead giveaway that today had the
word accidents written all over it. Sourly, he thought that the
biggest accident had been the day his mother had said, "I do," to the
loser for a step-dad. He piped up though, "Get you to a hospital."
"How?"
"Search for one."
"Online," she quickly followed up, pointing to her backpack with the
hand attached to the good arm. After Jim settled her comfortably
against the stump, he was on the notebook, searching for the nearest
medical facility. Despite the computer's mega-range capability,
getting online wasn't happening.
Jim tried something he knew might work, but it didn't. "Come on!" he
snapped. Zero connectivity was still staring him in the face.
"Well?" Poppy asked.
"Zip-zilch," he glumly told her. Jim paused, looking away from the
screen, blinking several times and squinting against the lights
growing in intensity, along with the sound of several souped-up
engines bearing down on them. "Bikers," the agitated teen muttered,
debating whether he was relieved or alarmed. You could never be too
sure about 'gritters,' the unpredictable roustabouts of the highways
and byways. "Hide," he ordered, but it was too late; they'd already
been seen.
The gang slowed down to have a closer look at the youngsters.
Poppy groaned and Jim bolted to his feet, hands balled into fists,
jutting his jaw like a movie tough guy.
"Just kids," a biker spat out. The tall, lanky guy rolled up on his
'cycle. "Boy...girl."
"How many?" Poppy barely said through taut lips for Jim's ears.
"There's eight of us," the lanky guy tossed out with a smirk mightier
than one Jim could manage at the moment.
"What do you want?" Kirk erupted, scared but willing himself to match
bravado with all eight of them.
A bearded, pudgy biker, looking roughly the same age as the rest of
his group asked, "What's wrong with the girl?"
"She's fine!" Jim challenged.
"She don't look so good to me," another man, a blond with a healing
wound on his face disputed, sneering. "She looks broken, scratched up
and bruised."
"I'm okay," Poppy protested, but her pronounced wince said otherwise.
"Bein' just kids, they think we're gonna hurt 'em, Creec," the blond
said, sounding all-knowing.
"The hell we are." Creec, the lanky guy, looked offended. He got off
his 'cycle, all set to inspect Poppy for himself. Jim readied to
block his advance, triggered to kick the living daylights out of the
man's shins when he got near enough. Creec knew the deal though,
putting his hands up. "Honest, kid, we're not going to hurt you or
her. We just want to help. We camarillas of the road got to stick
together you know. What've we got if not solidarity?"
"We don't need your help," Jim blustered. "We're--"
"Hey, Creec!"
"Yeah, Anvee?"
"They had a blow-out. The chops here." Anvee, the bearded man, was
walking back from the other side of the road, holding a flashlight.
He shone it on his friend Creec.
He approached despite Jim's showy display of juvenile braggadocio.
"Look, ya gonna take us all on, little man?" The biker waited, his
face neutral. It wasn't an attack of the kid's pride; he'd put it to
him to make him think. In the interim of Jim's inability to answer,
Creec saw he had an opening. "Young lady, how bad are ya hurt?"
Jim threw her a heated look, but the look in her eyes tempered him.
Her voice subdued, she responded, "My arm's broken..."
Creec was at her side, careful not to spook her anymore than she was.
His trained eye gave him a rough idea of how bad. He pointed. "Here
and here."
Poppy nodded, accompanied by some sniffling.
"Are you guys local?"
"Not local, local...but close enough," Poppy yielded. She ignored
Jim's expression as though she had betrayed him. "We're going to
California."
Creec whistled. "Cali? That's quite a trek from here." He kept
examining her arm with scrutinating eyes.
Jim sized him up and, reluctantly, decided maybe he could be
trusted...maybe. "We were doing just fine until the stupid tire
blew."
"Always a gremlin. Goes with the territory."
"Real pain in the ass," Jim beefed.
"We live near Riverside," Poppy informed.
Anvee and three others had the Road King on its tires, inspecting the
extent of the blown one's damage.
One of the burly inspectors, a redhead, wearing his hair in a thick
braid, his head wrapped in a grey bandana, related, "Just needs a
patch job, be as good as new is all."
"Fix it up for the kids," Creec, clearly the leader of this rough and
ready pack, ordered.
Jim failed hiding his total surprise. Since when did hardcore bikers
have a soft spot for anyone, let alone out on a limb minors at their
mercy? "Hey, you don't have--"
"We won't take no for an answer," Creec said inflexibly, his hands in
clinical position on Poppy's arm. Half of her wanted to protest, but
the other more innocently trusting side of herself intuited that this
stranger had a clue about what he was going to do next. "Sweetheart,"
he purred, "this will hurt, but I promise it'll be quick. I'm settin'
it. When you get to better medical attention, have 'em check you
out."
Before Jim could put a stop to Creec's unsolicited first aid, he was
attending to the broken arm, putting it right in less time it takes to
snap fingers.
"Hey!" Jim yelled, lurching for this crazy man who had no right to do
what he was doing to Poppy, who seemed to have gone into quasi-shock.
"Easy little man," Creec vented, "I was a two-year resident at Sharp
Memorial Hospital in San Diego."
"Bogus!" Jim chafed, then yelled, "You're lying!"
"Nope, he kids you not, kid. He ain't messin' with your head," the
redhead attested, while he assisted getting the screwed up tire back
in shape. "He's Doc to us. Ain't ya, Doc?"
"You bet, Red," Creec confirmed with a toothy grin, working Poppy's
arm into the makeshift sling he'd configured. He assessed Poppy's
current condition, then voiced, "I promised it would hurt, and I know
it did."
She whimpered, embracing the truth of what he'd said, but sucking it
up too. There was relief knowing that gentle hands had helped her.
"I'm...okay." And after a bit more sniffling, "Thank you."
"You're a toughie. Sorry the sling's what it is."
"It's okay too," Poppy said, sounding as adaptable as they came.
Jim's voice took on an adult timbre. "Poppy, I'm sorry 'bout your
arm...and, well, everything. I should have listened and stopped when
you said." He had no one but himself to blame for the hurt he'd
caused her.
She nodded, looking primly sedate, and took a deep breath. "You
didn't know any of this was going to happen, so don't blame yourself.
I don't."
"Hey, Creec," Anvee interrupted, "it's patched up best we could fix
it. Can't guarantee if the job's gonna hold, though." He rolled the
bike into view.
"You guys are magicians, and you know it, so it'll be fine for where
they're goin'."
Ruefully, Poppy looked at Jim, her eyes prodding him. His words
flowed of their own volition, though obstinately, selfishly he wanted
to go on. Internally, he balked; going on was out of the question.
"I'm taking you home, Pop. California's out." Hadn't he told himself
that she and her safety were his responsibility? Sounding adult
again, he pledged, "First, I'm getting you to a hospital."
"We'll help with that too," Creec nimbly complemented, praising the
youngster's willingness to trust them. He grinned, the boy's
brashness reminding him of what he'd been like at his age, taking on
the world, shoving past anyone who dared get in the way.
Companionably, he asked, "What's your name, kid?"
"James T. Kirk."
Creec couldn't help himself. "What's the 'T' for?"
Unfurling it like a banner, Jim heralded, "Tiberius!"
"Hail Caesar," Anvee ballyhooed, sporting a smarty-smug grin, but
relinquished some of his smugness when Jim took him down several pegs
with a cutting look. "Yeah...okay."
"It was my grandfather's name," Jim volunteered, mellowing his tone a
modest degree. "My real dad's dad."
Poppy moaning broke the thawing exchange, and prompted Creec to say,
"Here's what we're gonna do; we're getting you to medical attention
sooner rather than later. Jim, can I call ya Jim?" A slight nod
indicated that he could. "Pop, you'll ride behind me, and Jim rides
behind you, wedging you between us so there'll be no chance of ya
fallin' off. Hold on tight to me with your good arm, ya hear."
Poppy promised she would, and the cold setting into her made her
tremble; Creec removed his beat-up leather jacket, deeply cracked in
strategic places, blanketing her in it.
"What about my bike?" Jim demanded, noting the care the man had taken
wrapping Poppy up.
"We'll handle it," Anvee, Red and the blond, Eddie, mouthed off,
taking it upon themselves to oversee its haulage. Eddie was a
crackerjack jury-rigger, and wasn't shy about saying so.
Creec lifted Poppy into his arms and carried her to his 'cycle "Don't
forget my backpack," she reminded Jim. Creec fitted her helmet on her
once he had her sitting on the bike. Jim retrieved his own, and while
putting it on, fell to thinking how much worse off they would have
been if they hadn't been wearing theirs. He grappled up her backpack,
making sure her notebook was secure. He thought about her money, but
quickly buried the thought for fear that knowledge could somehow be
discovered by his mere thinking about it. He wriggled into the
carrier, then climbed aboard.
"All set," he whispered into Poppy's ear, cozying up behind her on
Creec's bike. Carefully, making extra sure that he wasn't causing her
more hurt, he tightened his hold of her.
Without warning, she said, "I've got some money."
The swift urge to sit on her mouth rose up in Jim.
"I can pay you for--"
The biker stiffened. "When did you hear me say anything about wanting
money for our help?" Creec balked, effrontery clear on his face.
"Save it for a shopping spree, Cute-Tee."
"How far do we have to go?" Jim pushed to the leader of this band of
'Good Samaritans' as he revved the 'cycle.
"Not far, Jim." The ripple of renewed distrust was easy to pick up.
"You'll see...honest."
Jim clutched Poppy inflexibly. "Okay, Creec." The man smiled back at
Jim, hearing him use his name for the first time. "And...and,
thanks. We're grateful; I never wanted this to happen, but if
anything bad happens to Pops, it'll be my fault and I deserve whatever
I get."
"It's *not* your fault," Poppy bitingly objected.
"Whatsis happens, just does. Take it from me who knows. Can't
control it, just have to know how to roll with it." He smiled
crookedly. "Your past is just a step ahead of your shadow." Starting
them off slowly, Creec stridently reassured his passengers, promising
them that it was all going to work out...they'd see.
-_-_-_-
Looking up, Jim gave the clock of Mercy Hospital's Emergency Room
another glance; five minutes more and it would be four in the morning
in Council Bluffs, Iowa where Poppy was seen to.
In this small partitioned floor space, Creec was sprawled in the other
chair available, dozing, his mouth slightly ajar and his light snoring
reminded Jim of old 'Frog-gurgle.' Jim rose from his seat, taking a
loosening the kinks stretch. Poppy was sleeping, her arm
professionally set in a cast and lodged in a sling. She'd been given
a mild sedative.
A soda would be great right now Jim decided, remembering where the
machine was.
"Mind snaggin' me one? Long as you're going." Creec had an eye
cracked open with a disarming smile permeating his face. His light
five o'clock shadow made him look older.
"Sure."
"Here, kid. On me."
Jim went to get the change being offered. "You always this good to
strangers?"
"Yep, when they're kids, good kids in a little need of being turned
around...stranded bambinos, shaken-up and owed a jot of grown-up t-l-
c." The man winked at him before surrendering his coins. "It's a
cliché that takes its lumps these days, granted, but pay it forward.
More than a concept or notion. It's the bold quintessence of life
itself, and everything to live for..."
Jim thought about that as he went for the liquid refreshment.
He thought about that during Poppy's and his goodbyes warmly said to
Creec and his entourage after the men had seen them to the outskirts
of their podunk town.
He thought about it long and hard while squeezing Poppy in a tight
hug, though still careful about her arm, possessively kissing her
forehead and then watch her walk up the steps to her home, back to the
hearthstone of her doting family.
The beating he got from 'Frog-gurgle' wasn't as hard to take with
Creec's prophetic words softening the stinging lashes which left
brutal marks on Jim's back even through the clothes. Winona, who had
returned from her trip offworld two days later, was livid with her new
husband, seeing what he'd done to her son. "A stupid motorcycle--what
difference did it make to her its being vintage--could be replaced.
She wouldn't stand for her son feeling he had to run away from home to
feel safe. She swore that if he ever punished her precious Jimmy like
that again, she'd leave him.
With the challenge of every mission James T. Kirk's career with
Starfleet brought to him, the road warrior's words proved to be what
they had become for the iron-willed lightning rod...'everything to
live for.'