“Your father was captain of a starship for 12 minutes,” says Captain Christopher Pike. He’s in a roadside bar in rural Iowa, the kind of old-school dive that still serves Budweiser Classic and shots of Jack, despite the fact that far more interesting drinks have been invented by 2255.
“He saved 800 lives—including your mother’s and yours,” Pike continues. It’s quiet in the bar—past closing time—and Pike is talking to a dipshit farm boy who just yanked a wadded-up napkin out of his bloody nose. The rest of the blood on James T. Kirk’s face is starting to dry—a reminder that while the kid is pretty good at starting bar fights, he sucks at finishing them.
Pike looks at Kirk. “I dare you,” he says, “to do better.”…