Chapter Text
Anisha Mir hasn't aged a day in fifteen years. Nahla tries not to think of her as a mirror, tries not to see herself in the reflection of Anisha's weaponry even as it presses against her jaw. Anisha's appearance seems frozen-stuck to that day; she looks exactly the same as she did when Nahla shredded her up, when Nahla stole the world's most precious gift right out of Anisha's frail arms. She looks the same, just as Nahla looks the same, and neither of them can bear it; it makes an illness bubble up in Nahla's throat, the sickness forming at the same place the rifle presses into her throat, the same place that houses every furious mark Anisha's lips had made.
Anisha is gazing down at her with a shimmer in her eye that reads pure Venari Ral, pure depravity -- and it's all for Nahla, all because of Nahla's hands. She watches the impact of her actions embed itself in Anisha like broken, inextricable glass, watches Anisha smile down, intoxicated by her power, and says: "Do it."
"Not yet," Anisha replies, and the lips Nahla had evaporated into minutes ago now smile at her in a twist of intrigue. "I'm not done with us quite yet."
She thinks about how fitting it is. Braka had talked about trauma loops, about finality words and endless deaths and Caleb and Caleb and Caleb, and now Nahla is sputtering out here beneath the woman who started it all. Her beautiful catalyst, the spark of her ending, rummaging around inside of her body until the life flickers out. She finally has her hands right in the meat of stop, of no more, of the end. She finally understands what it is like, to end, and there's an odd sort of serendipity to Anisha Mir being the one to kill her.
"So what now?" Nahla asks. She turns her neck, leans further into the weapon, just to get closer. "You want me to fuck you first? You're going to kill me after I make you come? You know that I've been doing this for centuries and you're so curious you just can't help yourself?"
"You," Anisha spits, "kissed me."
"You kissed back."
Anisha gives a mocking giggle. "Your guilt is written all over your body, Captain Ake. 422 years old and you still can't make amends with people without touching them."
"Most people don't complain when I touch them," Nahla replies. "I'm that good."
Anisha presses the weapon deeper into Nahla's neck---she must have read up on Lanthanite hybrid biology, the pressure falls right over a crucial artery, and Nahla's vision begins to darken---
She pulls the rifle away. Looks behind Nahla, down at Nahla's bare feet tucked underneath her as she kneels, begins humming a song that even Nahla at her ancient age does not recognize. She watches Anisha saunter around the empty bridge, running her fingers over every console and button and slab, the tune from her throat growing louder and deeper with each step. Nahla remains stationary, frozen in her rightful place. She hears Anisha's footsteps halt, the noise of Anisha's nails tapping against metal, and then: "Oh. I have an idea."
Nahla can't help herself. "Interesting way to admit that you didn't have a plan."
"Oh, Venari Ral always have a plan," Anisha says, her laughter infecting the air. "With you, though, I figured I'd improvise. I knew you'd be unpredictable. Mortals are predictable, but you---you've lived so long I don't think you know how to care anymore."
Nahla only laughs back, baring her teeth outward, some futile threat. She watches as Anisha sits down in the captain's chair, spreading her legs, getting herself comfortable. She crosses her legs, her knee-high leather boots scraping against Nahla's nose as she does so. They're newer boots, Nahla notices; no scuff, no wear. Interesting.
"Kiss them."
"What?"
A thick, deranged grin spreads over Anisha's skilled mouth. "Kiss my boots, Ake. Do your best. We'll start there."
Nahla coughs. She spits on the ground in protest.
"I do like you, you know," Anisha continues. "You have gall. Our dear deceased friend Braka? He wasn't lying when he told you we're in awe of you. Deep down..."
She presses the tip of her boot against Nahla's forehead.
"You're a cold, cold woman, Captain. In another life, I might keep you around, make this a regular thing. But my people? They won't respect me if I let you walk out of here."
"I understand."
"But if you want to make things right before you die, you can start here. Kiss my boots."
She curls her ankle in a circular motion before planting it, firm and loud, on the floor in front of Nahla. Go on.
As Nahla leans down she is reminded of prayer, of prostration, of worship, her body beneath Anisha Mir entirely, her entire existence beneath Anisha Mir, all of her arrogance beating faster and bursting open like a diseased heart. Her confidence drains away, leaving a wicked, hollow thing in its place.
She does. She has to make this right. They're working on contacting Starfleet, she was able to slip a message to Vance before Anisha and the others boarded. She will not die here if she can help it. She will not die here. She will not die.
She's tired. She is so, so tired. She's been tired for a century. She's been tired since she was born with the curse of longevity, forced into a universe that is doomed to always crumble away.
But she has an obligation, a duty, to these kids. To make things right. To save Caleb. To unravel the damage she caused, to heal each and every scar planted on him during those fifteen years, to confess and repent and confess and repent and repent and repent.
So: she takes the toe of Anisha's boot into her mouth, begins kissing over the leather. It leaves a strong chemical taste in her mouth as she kisses up and down Anisha's ankle, her tongue sliding over the laces. She imagines the leather as Anisha's living skin, picturing a greater intimacy while she works at Anisha's order, that life she mentioned where they're allowed to be close.
Nahla hears a moan escape sharp from Anisha's lips, looks up to see Anisha's right hand buried beneath the tight waistband of her pants, and gives a similarly sick smile.
