По мотивам арта написали фик.
Хан, упоминание Джона за кадром. Язык английский.
“Give it back.”“Give it back.”
Khan glared at the man opposite him, the man who forced him to make the photon torpedoes in the first place. They were in the concrete cell that served as his laboratory. The two of them were seated across from each other with the stainless steel table which until recently had been his worktop between them. Behind Khan stood two Starfleet officers with their phasers set to kill.
“Why?” Admiral Marcus replied languidly.
Khan grit his teeth. “I’m not asking much,” he responded in a measured tone. “Just that one. It was the first one that I created.”
“I’m afraid we need all seventy-three,” the Admiral responded.
Khan’s mind raced with images of bashing the man’s skull in and taking the torpedo himself. He was capable of it. He even knew how to transport both himself and it to the Klingon home-world, where Marcus would never dream of following. But then what would remain for the other seventy-two? To be blown up to satisfy this little man and his thirst for blood?
“It is defective,” Khan said, banishing the images of violence. “I will make another one for you. A better one.”
The Admiral smiled and crossed over to line of pure white torpedoes that were stacked one on top of the other along the far wall of Khan’s cell. One of them sat with its rocket propulsion system firmly against the ground and its nose pointed towards the ceiling. Inside it was a sandy-haired man in a cream-colored sweater.
“You’re very clever, Khan,” Marcus said, seeming to disregard the other man’s words. He looked through the glass at the man inside the torpedo. “Couldn’t you think of some better way to save your crew than by putting them in explosives?”
“He is nothing special to you,” Khan replied, choosing to ignore the taunt. “He has a bad leg. Surely, of all of my race he would be the least threat to you.”
Admiral Marcus turned, his mouth twisted in a grimace of pure disgust. “None of us are safe until all of you are dead.”
“Then why did you wake me?” Khan snarled. “You could have killed all of us while we were in stasis.”
“I needed you. I needed what you could do.”
“You should have let me sleep,” Khan growled, rising from his chair. The two phasers pressed against the back of his skull did nothing to diminish his fury.
“You knew these were going to be used sooner or later,” Marcus continued, seemingly oblivious to the threat the other man presented. He pulled out his communicator. “Walker, take the torpedoes in Khan’s cell to Storage Bay Seven. Yes, all seventy-three of them.” He gestured with his head to the guards behind Khan. The superhuman heard the click of two phasers being set to stun. He closed his eyes and braced himself for the wracking pain of the stun rays. He felt himself fall to the floor, still conscious, but with his nerves reduced to their infancy. He opened his eyes to see the torpedo’s lid being fastened over the figure inside. “John,” he whispered.
———————
The trail of blood was going to lead them straight to him. He didn’t care. He’d just heard that one of the torpedoes had been detonated as a demonstration for the head of Starfleet. It had taken him mere seconds to kill the two guards who were keeping watch over his cell and only a few more to kill the four that guarded Storage Bay Seven. “John!” he shouted, as if the other man could hear him. He began checking the torpedoes, looking for the mark he’d made. It was designed to look like a slight slip of the hand when he had made the warhead—a single infinitesimal scratch at the very tip of the torpedo. He snarled his distaste at the red numbers and letters that had been painted on them in his absence. MC-9310. MC-9311. MC-9312. The numbers filled him with indescribable rage. But he couldn’t worry about them now. Right now he needed to find John. MC-9321. MC-9322. MC-9323. A flicker of horrible, gut-wrenching fear coursed through him as he scanned each one for his mark. MC-9344. MC-9345. MC-9346. Where was it? MC-9370. MC-9371. MC-9372.
“No.”
He checked through them a second time. And a third. By the fourth sweep, he was openly weeping. He began opening torpedoes, hoping against hope that he’d missed something—that in his hurry to find John’s he’d accidentally missed the crucial mark.
“Khan,” a voice cried from the door to the storage bay. Admiral Marcus’ voice.
Khan quickly sealed up torpedo MC-9372 and wiped away his tears.
“Khan!” the voice cried again. “We know you’re in there. If you come out quietly, we won’t hurt you.”
He stood up amongst the torpedoes. “My name,” he cried. “Is John Harrison!”
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Хан, упоминание Джона за кадром. Язык английский.
“Give it back.”“Give it back.”
Khan glared at the man opposite him, the man who forced him to make the photon torpedoes in the first place. They were in the concrete cell that served as his laboratory. The two of them were seated across from each other with the stainless steel table which until recently had been his worktop between them. Behind Khan stood two Starfleet officers with their phasers set to kill.
“Why?” Admiral Marcus replied languidly.
Khan grit his teeth. “I’m not asking much,” he responded in a measured tone. “Just that one. It was the first one that I created.”
“I’m afraid we need all seventy-three,” the Admiral responded.
Khan’s mind raced with images of bashing the man’s skull in and taking the torpedo himself. He was capable of it. He even knew how to transport both himself and it to the Klingon home-world, where Marcus would never dream of following. But then what would remain for the other seventy-two? To be blown up to satisfy this little man and his thirst for blood?
“It is defective,” Khan said, banishing the images of violence. “I will make another one for you. A better one.”
The Admiral smiled and crossed over to line of pure white torpedoes that were stacked one on top of the other along the far wall of Khan’s cell. One of them sat with its rocket propulsion system firmly against the ground and its nose pointed towards the ceiling. Inside it was a sandy-haired man in a cream-colored sweater.
“You’re very clever, Khan,” Marcus said, seeming to disregard the other man’s words. He looked through the glass at the man inside the torpedo. “Couldn’t you think of some better way to save your crew than by putting them in explosives?”
“He is nothing special to you,” Khan replied, choosing to ignore the taunt. “He has a bad leg. Surely, of all of my race he would be the least threat to you.”
Admiral Marcus turned, his mouth twisted in a grimace of pure disgust. “None of us are safe until all of you are dead.”
“Then why did you wake me?” Khan snarled. “You could have killed all of us while we were in stasis.”
“I needed you. I needed what you could do.”
“You should have let me sleep,” Khan growled, rising from his chair. The two phasers pressed against the back of his skull did nothing to diminish his fury.
“You knew these were going to be used sooner or later,” Marcus continued, seemingly oblivious to the threat the other man presented. He pulled out his communicator. “Walker, take the torpedoes in Khan’s cell to Storage Bay Seven. Yes, all seventy-three of them.” He gestured with his head to the guards behind Khan. The superhuman heard the click of two phasers being set to stun. He closed his eyes and braced himself for the wracking pain of the stun rays. He felt himself fall to the floor, still conscious, but with his nerves reduced to their infancy. He opened his eyes to see the torpedo’s lid being fastened over the figure inside. “John,” he whispered.
———————
The trail of blood was going to lead them straight to him. He didn’t care. He’d just heard that one of the torpedoes had been detonated as a demonstration for the head of Starfleet. It had taken him mere seconds to kill the two guards who were keeping watch over his cell and only a few more to kill the four that guarded Storage Bay Seven. “John!” he shouted, as if the other man could hear him. He began checking the torpedoes, looking for the mark he’d made. It was designed to look like a slight slip of the hand when he had made the warhead—a single infinitesimal scratch at the very tip of the torpedo. He snarled his distaste at the red numbers and letters that had been painted on them in his absence. MC-9310. MC-9311. MC-9312. The numbers filled him with indescribable rage. But he couldn’t worry about them now. Right now he needed to find John. MC-9321. MC-9322. MC-9323. A flicker of horrible, gut-wrenching fear coursed through him as he scanned each one for his mark. MC-9344. MC-9345. MC-9346. Where was it? MC-9370. MC-9371. MC-9372.
“No.”
He checked through them a second time. And a third. By the fourth sweep, he was openly weeping. He began opening torpedoes, hoping against hope that he’d missed something—that in his hurry to find John’s he’d accidentally missed the crucial mark.
“Khan,” a voice cried from the door to the storage bay. Admiral Marcus’ voice.
Khan quickly sealed up torpedo MC-9372 and wiped away his tears.
“Khan!” the voice cried again. “We know you’re in there. If you come out quietly, we won’t hurt you.”
He stood up amongst the torpedoes. “My name,” he cried. “Is John Harrison!”
©