To Boldly Go
by: imagia-quill

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Disclaimer: Not Gene Roddenberry, J. J. Abrams, or Justin Lin.

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Chapter 2

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Jim's life first tumbled downwards when Sam left home.

They were never a rich family, occasionally having to turn to his mother's brother for help and shelter, but they had always been happy. He had his brother and his mother, and it had always been enough, but it all changed when George left home.

It was a hot Iowan summer and they were currently staying at their Uncle Frank's for a few weeks as his mother was trying to do something with their old house, and Jim woke up to the sound of fighting.

"I told you to take care of them." It was his mother. He had never heard his mother's voice so shrill like that before, so scared and helpless, laced with thick and intense despair and fear. His heart stopped on its track, realizing something was terribly wrong.

"Your son is one ungrateful little brat who has no decency of—"

"Frank, he's your nephew!"

"Look Winona, I took good care of them but Sam is an adult and I told him not to—"

"He's sixteen, Frank! You're supposed to take care of him—"

Later that day, he learned that Sam had run away to who knows where, having done with his uncle's neglect and abuse. He brought very little things with him—Jim only noticed a few pairs of clothes and several notebooks were missing—but apart from that, Sam didn't seem to have brought anything and just ran away.

Jim cried himself to sleep that night, his dreams filled with fear and the echo of his own voice calling for his brother in the dark.

The following days were where it really went downhill. His mother started to come home less and less often, claiming that she was renovating their old house to make a saloon and were trying so hard, jumping from job to job, to make ends meet. Rumors began to spread through his friends, and soon the whole school knew how Jim had been staying with his uncle for two years and began calling his mother a whore.

Even though it felt like he might have broken his knuckles, nothing felt as satisfying as the first punch that thirteen-years-old James T. Kirk landed on the face of his bully.

Jim was involved in a lot of fight after that.

His uncle became more rude and harsh. One time he caught a sight of a nearly-empty bottle of vodka in the kitchen and it didn't take Jim long to accept the fact that his uncle had finally turned to alcohol.

One morning, Jim was nibbling on his cereal as he blankly stared at the back door on the other side of the kitchen, contemplating of running away himself. But of course he couldn't do that. He wouldn't leave his mother with this pathetic alcoholic excuse of a man to shelter her, would he? His mother was the only good thing he had left in this world; his hard-working, all-loving mother. Winona Kirk, who already had too much grey hair on her hair despite her young age, who would always kiss his forehead good night on every rare occasion that she came home after Jim had fallen asleep (she didn't want to kiss him while he was still awake, afraid of wounding his adolescent pride, although unbeknownst to her, Jim had always been awake the whole time, and he treasured those gestures with all his heart), who would always flash her bright smile at him as she pointed to the sky and ask him what constellation it was.

He accidentally caught the sight of his Soulpoetry and the next thing he was aware of was the loud clang of his cereal bowl against the wall. He had subconsciously thrown it across the room.

A low thump came from his uncle's room, followed the sound of his door opening. Jim turned to face his uncle's nearing figure, his breathing erratic and his eyes watering in frustration. Frank approached him slowly, his eyes bloodshot and his loud breath reeked of alcohol.

Jim welcomed the smack that was sent his way.

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Vulcan further education, an equivalent of human high school, was a physically, mentally, and intellectually exhausting education but Spock loved it more than his times in his primary school. At least here, all of his peers were already too exhausted to bully him and he was treated almost with no difference to any other Vulcan students.

No one called him half-breed, trip him on the hallways, or push him on the shoulders just to see if he was truly part human to display an emotional response, and Spock carried on his life almost like a normal Vulcan child.

He excelled in science and philosophy, and one of his teachers even endorsed him to apply for the Vulcan Science Academy, the most prestigious institutions in the whole Vulcan.

That night, Spock retired to his room and reviewed his notes in his PADD. In his meticulously arranged spreadsheet was one reminder to go to his Headmaster to ask for his signature in his letter of recommendation. Although educational institutions in Vulcan were all based on merits, Spock went to one of the top schools in Vulcan, and a letter of recommendation from one of its teachers validated by its Headmaster would get him to a prioritized position for admissions to the Vulcan Science Academy.

A slight frown slowly crept up his eyebrows in deep thinking as he realized something. Going to Vulcan Science Academy would also mean he would have to complete the kolinahr, a ritual for Vulcans to purge all of their vestigial emotions.

Spock unconsciously angled his right forearm before he stopped his motion midway. He didn't need to see his Soulpoetry. He was well acquainted with it—knew every single brush of the human letters, every single stroke of the boyish penmanship. He knew what it said.

But he paid very little mind to it.

Soulpoetries were not something that happened similarly on everyone. As an essence of one's soul and a phenomenon that occurred on all sentient beings across the universe, it was an undisputable display of how inexplicable and intricate and elegant nature could work, so much so that even philosophers and scientists couldn't decode it up to this day. Every detail on Soulpoetries was a revelation of one's soul—the words, usually coming in several words of poetic passage, were the primary element that would represent a person, the location of the Soulpoetry could signify the closest thing to one's heart, the penmanship and the color of the writings might indicate an important detail to one's personality, the language of the writings might speak volumes. Some species were even reported to possess Soulpoetries in forms other than poetic passages.

Several beliefs and philosophies were attached to this phenomenon. Monogamist individuals were usually of the opinion that upon finding one's lifemate, their Soulpoetries, each an essence of their souls, would make perfect sense as their souls hinged perfectly into each other. Other, more polygamist-leaning, communities usually treated their Soulpoetries as something more flexible—Soulpoetries were only a passage of several words, therefore it was only natural that they would fit with multiple other Soulpoetries, each match making sense in their respective ways. Naturalists would strive to focus all their power to lead lives according to their Soulpoetries, believing that nature knew best, while on the other side of the scale, nurturists were usually rather disconnected to their Soulpoetries as they treated them as something that should not influence their lives.

And so, in the fifteenth year of his life—fifteen years of growing up as a social outcast, being regularly bullied, meditation, and finding how the Vulcan way had worked best for him—young Spock finally arrived to the logical conclusion that his Soulpoetry could not be something more than a reminder of his human heritage.

He turned his PADD's screen off, preparing himself to meditate, but not before he put the reminder to ask for the recommendation letter tomorrow.

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Jim woke up from his sleep to a tangled mess of bed sheet, a distant mumbling, seemingly between two irritated individuals through the phone, and a ray of morning sunlight peeking from closed curtain, illuminating specks of dust floating in the dry Iowan air.

He stretched his body, groaning as he buried his face on the pillow. It smelled of cheap perfume, and he couldn't make out a face from the scent. It wasn't unusual—he probably got drunk yesterday and went to sleep with one of the girls from the party. He let out a relaxed breath as he slowly drifted back to sleep before a feminine voice shook him awake.

"You need to go, my Dad's gonna be home any minute now."

Jim groaned. He didn't quite catch what she said, but he knew that voice. His mind was still a bit dull and slow from his drinking, but he… he knew that voice. Was she one of his classmates? He should hope not, it would be a bit awkward–

A playful smack on his upturned back shook him awake. "Jim, I'm serious!"

Jim shot awake, half-laughing. What a very mundanely hilarious scenario. Getting drunk, sleeping with a girl he couldn't possible remember, putting his clothes on in a rush because said girl's parents were coming home. "Okay, okay! Wait, what's your name again?"

His question was greeted by his underwear landing square on his face.

Jim quickly gathered his clothes from the floor and head for the bathroom, the unanswered question of the girl's name still gnawing at the back of his mind.

He put on his underwear and his trousers before he went to the sink to splash some fresh water on his face. Putting both his hands on both sides of the sink, he leaned forward and exhaled, feeling the water droplets flowing down his cheeks before accidentally catching the sight of his Soulpoetry.

Where No One Has—no.

He winced inaudibly at the painful reminder, batting the thought away before it took form. He had never looked at Soulpoetry since he was so young and was he not currently strapped for cash, he really would get through all the trouble to get one of those small surgeries to hide his Soulpoetry, because, honestly—what's the point?

Where no one had gone before? Jim tore his eyes from his forearm to look into the mirror, at the person staring back at him, his bright blue eyes sitting above a pair of hanging dark eye bags that once belonged to a boy who dreamed and longed to go to the stars. And what did he have left now? His mother, off on dates with strange men, obviously still hadn't recovered from where she emerged a broken woman after his father's death. His own brother, nowhere to be found ever since he ran away when Jim was thirteen, leaving him to live with his abusive alcoholic uncle. And himself, a local genius rebel with little to no sense of purpose and whose dreams were reduced to mindless drinking at local bars and sleeping with cute girls that he couldn't even remember the name of.

Surely stuffs from tales where no one had gone before.

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Upon being called, Spock entered the main hall, his posture poised and calm. He stood at the center of the room as instructed, awaiting the verdict of the council. One of them was his father, and he didn't miss the way Sarek's eyes lingered on the large, wall-high double doors that was now being slowly closed, the other side of which he knew his mother was still standing at.

Spock directed his sight to the Minister, an old Vulcan of short posture.

"S'chn T'gai Spock. You have surpassed the expectations of your instructors," he began. "Your final record is flawless, with one exception."

Spock restrained an urge to raise his eyebrows. He had performed his examinations perfectly, with no flaw that he was aware of.

"I see that you have applied to Starfleet as well."

"It was logical to cultivate multiple options," Spock reasoned, defending his action.

"Logical," the Minister agreed. "But unnecessary. You are hereby accepted to the Vulcan Science Academy."

Spock gave a little nod to the verdict in gratitude. His head was already swimming with possibilities and time tables and future plans. He had researched on a lot of research topics for the department of his choosing, and he reminded himself to discuss this immediately with the council.

But then something that he had never experienced for a long time happened.

"It is truly remarkable, Spock, that you have achieved so much, despite your disadvantage. All rise!"

Despite your disadvantage.

He was an adult Vulcan now, far more in control of his thoughts and actions and emotions, but the last time his heart rate had elevated this quickly and uncontrollably was when he was still a child, the day he received his Soulpoetry. The members of the admission council of the Vulcan Science Academy were all rising from their seats, welcoming him from where they were sitting on their high podiums, but Spock couldn't help but look down at them. Vulcan high ministers, who had prided themselves for their unbiased judgments but were still subject to childish and backward specist views. Even at the heart of Vulcan philosophy, the teachings of Surak that founded the new and enlightened Vulcan culture and made way to one of Vulcan's best academies, even there their society still permitted supremacist views to thrive and even there Spock still couldn't find his place in the world.

"If you would clarify, Minister, to what disadvantage are you referring?" he asked, his eyes narrowing ever so slightly in disgust and disappointment.

"Your human mother," the Minister calmly said, as though the fact that he had stated was not an example of shameful, obsolete, and unethical supremacist view that belonged to the dark ages. The council was silent for a moment—his own father even made no comment against it, for Surak's sake—waiting for Spock to pledge his allegiance to Vulcan as instructed, but Spock remained silent.

He was silent for a moment but deep down, something fell into place. For the first time in so long, his human anger, an ember that Spock had tried to put out for years that suddenly caught fire, and his Vulcan cold, logical mind aligned together, agreeing to come to a decision together. His human side, an otherworldly beast chained deep within his chest, untouched and silenced for so many years, was peeking from the way his gaze fell on the Minister and turned slightly malignant despite his stoic and unmoving figure.

"Council, ministers I must decline."

"No Vulcan has ever declined admission to this Academy," the Minister quickly warned, his tone lowering in threat.

"Then as I am half-human, your record remains untarnished," Spock quickly replied, backfiring them with the same logic they had always prided themselves on.

"Spock, you have made a commitment to honor the Vulcan way," Sarek warned, but Spock only returned his gaze with the same determination.

"Why did you come before this council today?" the Minister inquired. "Was it to satisfy your emotional need to rebel?"

"The only emotion I wish to convey is gratitude. Thank you, Ministers, for your consideration."

He then met every single one of the council members' eyes before bidding goodbye, unbeknownst to him, to the planet for the rest of his career.

"Live long and prosper."

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Jim Kirk shifted in his lying position, allowing blood to pump back to his numb legs. He hadn't noticed how he had lied on the sandy ground unmoving all night, watching Scorpio moved slowly across the sky before setting on the far west end of the horizon, his mind a whirlwind of questions.

He was lying on the sloping opening on the back of his old house, the same exact spot where he would spent the night stargazing with his mother when he was young. They had rented the old house to an old man now, who was now managing it as a local saloon. He was a bit nasty, and he couldn't seem to ever manage to commit Jim's face to memory because he had always thought he was a thief every time he caught Jim falling asleep on that particular spot after a long stargazing session.

But this time, Jim didn't sleep.

Because for the first time since he was thirteen, Jim allowed himself. He allowed himself to look.

He slowly angled his right shoulder, allowing the right sleeve of his jacket to come loose, before he snaked his arm off, revealing, underneath his ugly bruises, his Soulpoetry, written in an almost calligraphic and almost otherworldly penmanship.

Where No One Has Gone Before.

He narrowed his eyes subconsciously as he felt them catching moist, blinking the tears away quickly.

And then, it was all that it took, his long-neglected Soulpoetry, emerging for the first time under the same sky and above the same spot on this gently sloping ground, for him to dig into his pockets and took out the keys to his motorbike, igniting the engine to life, bound for Riverside Shipyard.

He'd go to where no one had gone before; he'd get that ship in only three years.

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A/N: For your information, it took all of my will power not to write in the b-word in Spock's final farewell to the admission council of Vulcan Science Academy because god, Spock was so savage there. He practically flipped the middle finger at the council and don't we all love him for that. Anyways, that's the second chapter! What do you guys think? I'm sorry I have to write off Jim like that! He's still a sweet boy even though he had a bad boy phase like that. Also, I'm sorry if Jim's early life (he won't always be like this, I promise!) doesn't agree with the fact that money is no longer a problem in 23rd century! Honestly I still have a lot of problem wrapping my mind around that fact and grasping that concept, but this is the only thing I can come up with :( but if any of you have suggestions, I'm always open for it! Constructive reviews are always welcomed!