Echo

Chapter 7: Crying Wolf

Author's Notes: YAY! Luna is back up! I am so glad that this wonderful fantastical website is staying. Enjoy the chapter :)

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Leonard

It had been exactly two weeks since the murder of the Starfleet cadet, and despite all of your attempts to mask it, Leonard could tell he was grating on you. Peeling off that false, sweet composure of yours to reveal the hollowness that lingered within had become an obsession; he had to pick you apart until he could prove, finally, that there was a vacancy where your soul ought to be.

Leonard was absolutely convinced of it; you were a psychopath, and getting you to show it would be the first step in ridding himself of you. He was certain of a few things, one of them being that the subversives, if any, that lingered on the Enterprise were too few or too unwilling to do anything, making you and your colleagues' roles upon the ship pointless. The murders, if they had not been committed by you, were proof that they were getting desperate and stupid.

After all, they already had Spock, did they really need more cold and calculating automatons present to execute judgments?

Plus, he was already too deeply invested in project "Destroy Echo" to back out now, not after all he had done to piss you off. He had summoned you a total of five times via panic button for assistance, and during the occurrences he had behaved as if he'd heard a noise or voice that sounded suspicious. Naturally these alleged disturbances were all fabrications that came from his rather dense imagination, and he got the feeling that you were catching on. Of course that was what he wanted in the first place, so the thought of it didn't really bother him.

He took a swig of scotch, plucked the little silver device out of his pocket, and pressed the red button, chuckling to himself. Last time, he had summoned you while you were in the midst of a shower, and you came in with wet soapy hair and a damp dress, waving your gun around in search of an assailant before discovering that it was just Leonard, sitting there and looking unsurprised to see you.

A few minutes passed before he heard the approach of rapid footsteps, followed by a musical beeping noise as you entered the passcode that you had undoubtedly obtained via some shady means that would permit you to enter his room.

When you walked in, you weren't wet or disheveled, but you certainly weren't happy to find McCoy sitting there on his couch, sipping scotch and observing you with interest.

"It took you longer this time," He remarked as you slipped your gun into the holster, realizing quickly that there was no immediate danger, "I'm beginning to worry I've summoned you too much."

"What is it this time, sir?" You inquired, crossing your arms.

He set down his drink, realizing when he sat up that he was a little lightheaded. He'd had a glass and a half, more than usual, and this was a strong brew.

"I thought there might be someone in my bathroom, but upon further investigation I discovered it was just the sound of my faucet leaking." He informed you, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, "This panic button doesn't travel both ways, so I couldn't call you off and save you the trouble of stopping by."

You smiled mirthlessly and replied, "I'm afraid that plumbing is not among my talents, so I suppose you'll just have to live with that, doctor."

"You sound cross," He remarked, standing up, swaying slightly and deciding abruptly to grab another cup before stating, "Have a drink."

He poured some of his favored liquor into the glass and held it out. With reluctance, you stepped around the armchair in your path and took it from him, but you backed away and didn't drink any of it. Your lips were pursed tightly and beginning to look a little pale.