ten_fwd | one \\ Ten Forward Lounge

Julian's not in his proper time either, but he's been flung back...also not new for him, and he much prefers this time to the last.

He doesn't protest that he is telling the truth--he knows that he is, and that's enough. "It's 2366."

The man doesn't sound particularly disbelieving, aside from the blatant accusation of lying.

A century. A century in which the Klingon Empire has allied with the Federation, in which the Enterprise has been reborn several times over, and in which Starfleet, despite his efforts, still stands - and judging from this ship, is stronger than before.

It's no ruse - the doctor with carelessly free with his expressions - but Khan doesn't relax. Can't relax. His people are dead.

"And what do you do with those who find themselves on this ship?" Judging from the wariness, the scorn, it's clear he expects the answer to be nothing good.

"Well, that's up to you and the Captain mainly. I've been brought here myself as well as...I presume my friend Mr. Worf," Julian adds, glancing towards the robed Klingon. "We've not had time to catch up as of yet. At any rate, I'm from 2374."

And Starfleet has taken its share of beatings over the years, though the lion's share of it hasn't quite occurred yet.

"That said, I take shifts in Sickbay, cycling through with the other physicians."

He comes closer still, hands out--not a threat.

And suddenly, Khan stills. Completely. He watches the doctor's approach, something inscrutable in his eyes, gaze flickering between Julian's hands and his face. "I want nothing to do with Starfleet."

An odd statement, considering the insignia on his own uniform, but Khan is no more a part of Starfleet than he is humanity. He's a relic, a wolf in a time of sheep - sheep like this earnest young doctor.

A doctor too trusting by half.

When Khan lunges this time, it's not merely to throw Julian away from him. No, he puts his own weight behind the movement, a sudden explosion of controlled violence directed squarely at the medical officer.

The stillness is like the calm before the storm, and considering their earlier interaction, Julian is on hyper-alert. The tension in the man's body is palpable in the air, and he can further see muscles bunching before the sudden and violent release.

Perhaps not the best idea, with a Klingon in his corner and surrounded by other Starfleet officers--some armed, fresh off Security shifts--and it's too many eyes by far for Julian's tastes, trying to hide his nature as he is, but it's also too dangerous to let himself be caught. He can't count on it being just a warning blow.

He's moving very nearly at the same time Khan is, twisting like a snake with his reflexes and reaction time enhanced beyond that of a normal human being, possibly enough to avoid the blow that's coming, but he can't be sure. He never thought he'd be truly testing himself against another Augment.

There's a warning shout from the remaining officers, but it comes precious seconds too late - Khan is in motion, mind calculating every option, every trajectory, to place him exactly where the good doctor is.

...or rather, where the doctor was.

There's a sudden twist, an elegant little dodge that swings Julian free of Khan's lunge. It's neat, tidy, and far, far quicker than he should have been. It should be impossible - for a human.

Khan doesn't allow himself miss a second time. Pivoting with his own misjudged momentum, Khan turns, mind already accounting for the increase on reflexes the other man displayed, and manages to fist a hand in the doctor's tunic. He hauls the other man back, pressing them both against the bulkhead in a single, swift move, and immediately snakes a hand to close around the other's throat.

He doesn't squeeze - not yet. But there's just enough pressure there to remind Julian to be mindful of what he says.

"You're not one of mine." A quiet statement. But if Julian is what Khan suspects, then he'll understand the meaning in his words.

Oh, good show, Bashir, just fast enough to dodge the first attack--he might be able to play that one off, but it didn't get him much of anywhere, now did it?

Julian's eyes widen as he's caught, not fast enough to truly get away and put distance between them, and between that and the man's words it's both confirmation for Julian's suspicions and condemnation of his own secrecy. He knows, and it's not like he has reason to leave it alone like Dylan, Trance, and Ezri.

Julian's pulse races against the hand holding him, eyes wide in fear--calculated, because it's how he should be reacting, a smokescreen for the thoughts racing through his head. He doesn't have leverage, he could go for the ribs on the side that the man is still favoring, but there's a good chance (87.2%) that between the adrenaline and his already demonstrated ability to ignore pain, it wouldn't work to get the hand from around his neck. Instinct is to grab at the hand threatening to cut off his air, Julian heeds it and throws himself into the act.

"I don't know what you're talking about!" There's not a cadence of a lie at all in his voice, just the honest tremor of fear.

There's muttered panic behind them both, a rustling of fabric as phasers are fumbled for, prompting Khan to turn his head just enough to growl over his own shoulder. "Come any closer, and I'll snap his neck before you even manage to get a single shot off."

Not that he will, not when he has something that's thoroughly caught his interest in his grasp. He studies Julian silently, assessing, deaf to his protestation. There isn't a human alive who could outpace him, past or present. But he spend decades sparring with his brethren, and he knows them as well has he knows himself - and this is so very familiar.

"Don't you?" He cocks his head, gaze too intent. "I don't miss. Not when the target is human."

"Let me go, and you won't get tossed in the brig for your entire time here," Julian responds, with slightly more bravado than he actually feels--which honestly isn't much. He ignores the accusation--aside from a burst of indignation, because he is human, genetic tinkering be damned.

He can feel the weight of that stare physically upon him, and he hopes that were he truly in danger, that threat to break his neck would have been carried out by now.

He wonders, if he's fast enough, if he can call for a site-to-site transport. In Sickbay, he has the clearance to put up force fields...one of those would be incredibly useful right now.

"I know what Starfleet does to my kind." There's heat in his words, grief buried beneath barely-leashed fury. The hand around Julian's throat twitches, just slightly, and he opts to grip the collar of the doctor's shirt in lieu of involuntarily strangling him.

He lets his curiosity be subsumed, keeping his grip but putting enough space between them so as to better survey Julien - this isn't the time to pick away the doctor's denial, not when the man is working for the very institution he'd attempted to destroy. Khan allows his features to slip back into chilly impassiveness, eyes and voice hard. "If you think I'm going to allow myself to suffer that fate again, you are dangerously mistaken."

He'll tolerate neither slavery nor death at Starfleet's hands.

This was probably going to be his best and only chance, Julian realized--there was no direct pressure on his windpipe, it would be at least three seconds before he would have hands around his throat again, scarcely enough time, but he could manage.

He taps his combadge. "Bashir to Transporter Room, emergency medical transport," he says in a rush, words tumbling from his mouth with enough clarity to register the command, but he sounds as if he'd just run a mile to do it.

He shoots an apologetic glance at Worf before the transporter beam engulfs the both of them, and the moment thwy materialize in Sickbay he's twisting again with all his strength to get free, hardly caring if his tunic rips.

It's enough. Khan registers the command, but before he can even bring his hand up to cut it off, the familiar swirl of transporter light takes them both. In less than a moment, they're both in the clean, sterile brightness of Sickbay. The doctor twists, and twists hard, sending a fresh jolt of pain blooming through Khan's ribs.

The fabric abruptly tears, freeing the doctor, and Khan is left with nothing more than a handful of cloth and a snarl of fury. No.

"Computer, level 7 forcefield," Julian snaps out, patience and understanding completely gone, washed away by the rush of adrenaline that he's now fully embracing. He's safely on the other side of it, feet firmly planted, and looking just as furious.

"You can bloody well sit there for a minute." There's blood on his uniform, transferred by the man's hands--which look uninjured, making Julian's stomach drop.

At least no one else in Ten Forward was hurt. He looks over at Doctor Crusher's office door--closed--and whirls to face the nurse that hurried over for the medical emergency call.

"It's fine, I have this under control." More or less. He dismisses her with a curt nod. He's not about to let anyone else get in over their heads.

The forcefield snaps to life audibly, and Khan takes a step back, eyes narrowed. His expression shutters, going cold and hard, rage leashed once again. This time, however, there's no curiosity tempering the look he gives Bashir, no interest.

It's almost like a betrayal.

He doesn't have time for sentiment, now. Khan takes another step back, folding his hands behind his back, and just stills completely. His posture is achingly straight, and he watches the doctor, the Sickbay, but he doesn't move. He's trapped, and it grates, itching beneath his skin, a burning need to escape, to get out. He's right back where he started a year ago: at Starfleet's mercy.

Except this time he has nothing to live for.

Julian takes a few deep breaths, calming the fight-or-flight response, mastering his heartbeat and the hormones in his blood.

"Bloody hell," he breathes after a few moments, anger flowing out of him and leaving just weariness and ache behind. He let his anger get the best of him, sure, but it wasn't like there was trust between them to betray.

He expected security to burst in at any moment--he tapped his combadge to call Worf, ask to be left alone--they were secure in Sickbay. He couldn't guarantee his crewmate would trust his judgement. Then he slides down the biobed to sit on the floor.

After that, there was silence. Angry, bitter silence. It was almost as if he hadn't been the one attacked twice and slammed against a wall.

Finally, the question couldn't go unasked any longer. "Who are you?"

The silence lingers. It was a question that would define his time spent here. He could return to being Commander John Harrison, weapons designer and Section 31's dirty secret. But he chafed under that name, under what it represented: he would not be Marcus' dog any longer, not even now, a hundred years in the future.

No. Better his true name - the one Marcus hid for fear of someone discovering who he really was, for fear of Khan rebelling. The one that had been a leader, a ruler, not a man desperate to save his family and who'd failed at that task.

"Khan Noonien Singh."

There's a thread of challenge in his tone, as though he's daring the doctor to disbelieve him. But in concession to some shred of decency, he follows suit, folding his legs beneath him to mirror the doctor. His gaze doesn't soften.

Julian's first impulse is to disbelief, it's true. The man in front of him looks absolutely nothing like what he does in the history books and Starfleet's records. But he can't help the instinctive, ingrained reaction to that name, loaded as it is and unexpected as the admission was. He stares, face pale, disbelief writ clear on his face and in his eyes. And then, he has to laugh--it's completely mirthless, an expression of shock.

"...of course. Why not," he murmurs. Then, louder: "You must be from the other timeline." It's the only reasonable explanation. He's heard enough about it by now.

Of all the people he could possibly come face to face with, Khan was one of the least welcome. But still, where are his manners, is the bitter thought going through his head.

"I'm Julian Bashir," he returns. Only fair.

That comment catches his interest - alternate timeline? - but Khan merely notes it and files it away for reference at another time. That the doctor knows his name and doesn't disbelieve him is a red flag - how much is known, how much of his more recent past has Section 31 let slip - but he won't deny the satisfaction he feels.

Four centuries since his exile, and he is still known.

"Doctor Bashir." He tests the name and title, giving the other man a shallow nod. Any trace of the half-savage warrior from minutes before is gone, locked just beneath the surface of this Khan - as cold and still as a glacial lake.

Julian has seen a lot in his time in Starfleet, being faced with the man who was perhaps the most infamous of the Augments is not the most unbelievable of them. One of the more unwelcome, certainly. He had never thought how it would feel to come face to face with the embodiment of the taboo against genetic enhancement, the reason his very existence is illegal.

He doesn't look happy about it. He isn't happy about it. Where Khan looks calm, he's sure it's deceptive. Julian is reminded of vacations as a child in Yorkshire, and seeing the Bolton Strid--a deceptively narrow and calm stream, winding through the green countryside, that no one had ever survived falling into.

He needs to tell Captain Picard exactly who they're dealing with here. The danger is too great.

""You're not Starfleet--" obviously, or he wouldn't have had such a violent reaction, "--why are you wearing an unmarked uniform?"

"Because Starfleet likes to ensure that their assets know exactly who they belong to." From any other person, it might sound flippant, but from Khan it's a simple statement of fact. Section 31 saw him as little more than a pet Augment to use at their leisure - Marcus had been the only one to take the threat of him seriously.

He at least, had met a fitting end.

Khan folds his hands in his lap. If Bashir wants answers, then he'll have to submit to a few questions of his own.

"None of your peers know, do they?"

"Who they--Starfleet doesn't own people," Julian is obviously disgusted by the idea. It's not exactly stated in a way that gives a good connotation.

He doesn't know what had happened, because that is an incredibly unhelpful answer. Julian hasn't gotten around to discussing recent events with Doctor McCoy.

"About you? I'd refrain from introducing yourself with your full name to anyone wearing a Starfleet uniform, if that's what you mean." Somehow, he doesn't think that's the case.

Edited 2014-12-17 21:56 (UTC)

Ah, and there's the denial he was expecting. He'd received it from Kirk, before he'd seen the truth - that whatever noble ideals Starfleet had are poisoned in their highest offices. If Khan were any less mannered, he might snort.

"No? Then perhaps I imagined the year of servitude they forced upon me while they held my crew hostage." He leans forward, very slightly, fingers curling in his lap. "Your Starfleet is more corrupt than you can even imagine."

But he tilts his head, then, gaze suddenly thoughtful. "But you know that already, or you wouldn't be hiding."

Not even four months ago, Julian would have vehemently, even violently denied any allegation that Starfleet--any part of it--ccould be involved in anything even approaching what Khan was talking about. Before he'd been abducted in his sleep by Sloan and his men, put through a simulation designed to break him, force him to admit he'd been turned into a Dominion mole. After his first experience getting spirited away from his bed in his sleep, he hadn't been able to truly rest for weeks. He'd had nightmares of his imprisonment, and that was bad enough. Sloan's little simulation had made him question the reality of being on the Enterprise for weeks.

He still opens his mouth to protest out of deeply ingrained habit and true belief. Section 31 was not Starfleet. But he bites his tongue, curses lowly. "Section 31. You mean them." The utter fools, they thought they could control one of the most brilliant, devious, and ruthless of a group that was feared after four centuries for those traits?

"They're not Starfleet." He goes silent for a few moments more, eyes hard, cold, and cautious. "And you're making rather large assumptions about me."

Not untrue ones, and it seems that no matter what he says, he's not going to be able to convince him otherwise. He'd blown that chance by showing off back in Ten Forward.

"I'm hiding because I'm eight years in the past, from my perspective, and I'd rather not risk getting my younger self kicked out of Starfleet before I can enter the service under a Captain who will defend my right to be here."

He tilts his head in a mirror of Khan's motion, subconsciously. "My crew knows perfectly well what I am. All of Starfleet does. But they don't yet."

"Section 31," Khan confirms, and there's a smile on his face, now. It's not a happy one. They had done more than try and control him, they had controlled him. His pride bristles at the thought, but it's the truth. Marcus had exploited his one real weakness, his devotion to the few of his kind who'd survived to follow him into the stars.

He shakes his head. "Of course they are Starfleet. Section 31 is mandated by the very charter that makes up your organization." He knows - he's read it, along with the laws that declared him illegal, a non-citizen that predated the Federation and was not, therefore, subject to the protections it offered. All of which were so kindly offered by Marcus.

But Julian's acknowledgment of his own augmentation prompts a kind of satisfaction in Khan's gaze. He isn't one of Khan's family, not by far - but they're dead. Gone. And four hundred years in the future is a man alike, if nothing else. "You chose to serve organization that wants nothing to do with your existence?"

"They're not. They don't answer to Starfleet Command, if they ever were part of the Charter they've slipped that, and no one oversees them." Julian's tone is vicious, and angry, 31's very existence is anathema to everything the Federation stands for. The ideals that he truly holds dear, that every Starfleet officer holds dear.

It's obvious that he's had some personal dealings with them, and that he's not fondly recalling them.

"They're a cancer." It's the only true way to put it. An insidious disease, and as a physician, as a Starfleet officer, and as a decent human being, Julian doesn't intend to let them stay where they are now that he knows they're there.

Julian has read those laws, too, studied them front to back, and if he knew what Khan was thinking then, he'd have to wonder how Marcus manipulated them, or how he outright lied, because he'd never feared losing his citizenship. Even in his darkest thoughts, he knew he'd lose nothing more than his Starfleet commission and his medical license should his true nature come to light. It would be difficult, but he could still make a life for himself on Earth, or out in space. There were colonies where they didn't care one jot if someone had a license to practice medicine, so long as you could suture a wound.

"What I chose was to enter a service where I could do the most good."

It wasn't his existence they were truly worried about.

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