"We are all in the gutter, but some of us are looking at the stars."
-Oscar Wilde
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James Tiberius Kirk was not fond of authority figures, as a general rule. Not how they sneered, not how they looked down on him, and certainly not how they always made a point of telling his mother everything he'd done wrong. The smudged linoleum floors made a satisfying 'screech' as he dragged the heel of his generic sneakers across them, waiting impatiently for the principal to finish talking with Winona and Frank Malcor.
Ugh. Frank. What his mom saw in the prideful, stubborn asshole of a redneck James would never understand- especially the fact that she'd traded the proud Kirk name for fucking Malcor. It sounded like some flesh-eating disease; and it suited Frank quite nicely- but belonged nowhere near his mother. Unfortunately she didn't seem to agree with his sentiments.
He didn't know why they weren't letting him in the conference room- he knew what they were talking about. Probably better than his accusers did, as a matter of fact. Still, it was something of and unspoken law that the party being ridiculed wasn't allowed in the 'trial', at least in today's school systems. They said it was in order 'not to embarrass the children through a retelling of their wrongdoings'. Jim knew it was really so he wouldn't have a chance to stick up for himself; at least in this case. They didn't think he belonged with the 'adults', talking about the grimmer things his teachers had been trying to force upon him for a while now- 'Discipline him,' they would insist, 'before it's too late'.
That day was already long gone. It had been too late ever since his father died, on the day of his birth. Too late since Frank had taken his first swing at him; and far too late since James had taken his first swing back. Authority was corrupt, and a threat. Family was not family unless they were blood related or accepted by everyone- henceforth Frank did not count, not by his or Sam's standards. He had a paradigm of the galaxy all his own, grim and solid and surprisingly astute for one who had never been off planet.
He got far too little credit, and normally that wouldn't have bothered him- except that they didn't take his word at face value because of it. He said 'realist', they thought 'pessimist'. And so it was with his whole life, until he learned that the only way to get his point across was to exaggerate and let the rest of the world dumb it down to his real meaning.
He lived his life with a flare. To him, that meant making a splash however he could, and trying to be remembered for everything he did. This was misinterpreted as attention seeking.
No matter what he did, it seemed, he couldn't do it quite right.
Which is why he had decided to revamp every written answer question in Iowa Unified School District so that the only correct way to respond would be 'Jim Kirk's Mojo'. They should've been congratulating him for finding the glaring flaw in their system, and exploiting it for their own benefit. Instead, his legal guardians were now negotiating the terms under which he could avoid expulsion.
They would've laughed it off if it were a senior pulling the gag, he was pretty sure- but everybody hated freshmen, and so it had come to this (never let it be said Jim T. Kirk didn't avoid blame just fervently as any other juvenile delinquent in the making.)
He'd honestly been hoping they wouldn't notice the discrepancy until after fall break— how was he supposed to know that some asshole teacher would put off a unit test until the day before leave?
It didn't take a genius to know his plans for break were now officially ass-backwards.
A few seconds later, the door to the front office burst open to reveal a frazzled Winona, and-
-a livid looking stepfather, beer-gut quivering, eye twitching spasmodically.
James' fists clenched on reflex, locking eyes rebelliously. The tension in the air was palpable, like the split second after you drop mentos in coke before the impending explosion-
Then the situation was diffused, just like that, by his oblivious principal walking into the room. Sharp, narrowed blue eyes shot away from Frank to glance up at Mrs. Stern (appropriately named) as she gave him the classic 'resigned disappointment' glance that was a standard in every teacher's arsenal. "You aren't being expelled, James."
She said it as if it were a consolation, something to be relieved for- a mute point, when it took far more than a smudge on a semi-permanent record to invoke fear from someone quite so delicately damaged. Eyes softening, with a hint of something foreign, something he hadn't seen in a long while, she muttered the words that would become a pivotal moment in the fifteen year old's life: "But for the hurt you've caused, you need to help. Even the scales, if you will; I know someone who needs a friend, Jim. Almost as much as you do."
He hated it when she called him that. That name belonged to those he cared about, those who cared about him- "His name is Spock, and he needs to heal here. This assignment has no rubric, no outline- except your feelings, and his feelings, which I assure you are quite foreign concepts for the both of you. First and foremost, he needs a place to stay. And that place will be with you."
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The biggest problem with humans is that they view love as a concept, like peace or democracy; and not a feeling, like happy or melancholy. The biggest problem with Vulcans is that they don't view love at all.
Lying in a sterile hospital bed, grey sky outside reflected in his staring eyes, was one of the most controversial young men ever born. Whether or not he could be conceived. Whether or not he would survive. Whether or not he was sane. And now, finally, what they were going to do with him.
Lashing out at his classmate was just the beginning of the chain. The crack that broke the dam, the dark cloud that started the flood- and everything had just gone down hill from there. No, nononononono…. This wasn't how it was supposed to be. He had never planned any of this, never anticipated any of this; but that was part of why he was here, wasn't it? Because he couldn't foresee these things, and couldn't fix them appropriately. Couldn't live right, couldn't continue breathing without being an unacceptable conglomeration of species that was, according to dark whispers in the hallways and shadowy glances form his peers, never supposed to exist in the first place.
Allowing himself this weakness, on top of so many others, (others that Vulcans were not supposed to allow) Spock curled in upon himself, face in his knees, eyes closed. He ignored the white walls around him and focused on the bright colors blooming behind his eyelids as they clenched too tightly. Skin pale as chalk, hair and scrubs black as Vulcan's moonless night, Spock in that cold little room was quite a sight to behold.
Except that he didn't want to be there. And the only way he knew of to get out was to ascertain the reason his physician insisted on his continued stay.
Unbeknownst to the general populace of Vulcan, senses could hinge on emotions: when one wanted beyond reason to hear something just out of range, or see that which was just out of sight, through sheer power of determination it could sometimes be achieved. This phenomenon was occurring that instant, as a matter of fact: Spock, listening to the doctors give his parents the run-down of their woefully sick son. It wasn't anything he hadn't heard before.
Nothing about him was quite right at the moment. Everything just seemed so… so big. Too big, too overwhelming and too far reaching for any young mind, Vulcan or otherwise, to grasp.
Each thought flitted past like graffiti in a subway tube. There, visible, in bright colors and block lettering, but gone far too fast to internalize. Only fleeting glimpses were visible, infuriatingly elusive as one train of thought melded into the other without time to categorize. They had the potential to be brilliant, he knew… except that his mind was drifting apart. And for a race as dependant on the power of mind over body as Vulcans, and unfocused mind was as good as a death warrant.
It wouldn't be such a problem if Vulcans weren't touch telepaths- they could study and council and fix it in the blink of an eye, hypothetically; except that any brave green-blooded soul who ventured far enough into his mind to determine the cause of such a rift would invariably be drawn into his madness. His own personal brand of insanity, it seemed, was contagious. And no Vulcan was willing to jeopardize themselves for the half breed. His scientific use was over the instant he was born: Human-Vulcan gene splicing is possible; on to the next topic.
As soon as Spock went from 'concept' to 'sentient being', he became a liability to the Vulcan ruse of all-encompassing logic.
Spock had been raised on Vulcan, following their ideals and practicing their law: logically, such and admission shouldn't have affected him in the slightest. But it did. It hurt, in ways beyond physical, in ways he wasn't supposed to be able to recognize. Things he had never even taken into account were like a knife to the heart now— the whole world disproportionately painful.
His curse was human emotions and Vulcan intolerance to them. And it was threatening to destroy him.
His mother's sobs from the opposite chamber snapped him out of his reverie, sharp ears pricking attentively as he caught the tail end of his diagnosis. "He is not safe here. If any one of us attempts to directly diffuse the problem we would be dragged unwillingly into the same problem at this late stage. Emotions of such a caliber are… detrimental to our kind, Mrs. Grayson. The only contact your son might hope to have at this point is with yourself and other humans. I apologize. There is nothing more we can do for him here; there is, however, a rather unique cultural studies program that may just allow him safe passage—"
Spock lost track of the conversation. It appeared to be important. He should've been listening. He just… couldn't bring himself to care at the moment. His impatience outweighed his curiosity, any objections frustration may have had were drowned out by sadness.
It was simply himself, in his most natural state of being. And it was too much for everyone.
---Littlebird----
The door to the ancient seeming barn-house was nearly torn off it's hinges by a livid Frank, grasping his struggling charge by the collar like a misbehaving dog.
Seconds later, Jim having landed a particularly spectacular kick to the older man's shins, he was flung across the room like a rag doll, twisting in mid-air in an attempt to avoid any more injury than was inevitable at this point. His ribcage 'thwunk'd painfully against the corner of the coffee table ('Hey,' he figured, "better that than my head.") on landing, and he lay dormant with a grim expression of agonized loathing for a split second on the ground before rising to his feet shakily, one hand on the back of the couch for support. Some knick-knack or other had shattered on contact with Jim's elbow, and the jagged pieces of what he assumed to be plastic dug painfully into his free hand.
The screen door shut loudly behind the two of them, Winona lingering by the old pickup truck with a pained expression on her face at the scene.
"Making a little shit out of yourself on a regular basis just isn't enough for you, is it Jimmy? You always have to take the extreme route, don't'cha- have to turn our home into a boarding facility for factory reject aliens to get your kicks now, is that it?!"
'Home' was not the connotation he would've used for this place- not in a long time. Frank's statement was punctuated by a sharp little blow to Jim's side, nearly causing him to loose his precarious balance.
The large, ugly man had yelled himself red in the face, spit flying every which way in a disgusting display of humanity at it's lowest.
Jim grinned up unapologetically, eyes twinkling with a special kind of mischief that requires a passion for stepping on every last nerve. He allowed himself one painful, hacking cough before replying in a voice that embodied the spirit of 'Eat shit and die.'
"You know me, Frank. Had to go for the gold."
Another kick directed at the center of his stomach caused Jim to curl in upon himself in and instinctive attempt to protect his vital organs. Winona, seemingly able to turn a blind eye no longer, finally intervened with tears in her blue eyes. "Enough! Jim didn't mean any of this, you… you just stop it, right now!" They were desperate, hysterical words, exhaled in a tone of voice that implied as much.
Brushing his wife off, Frank's eyes met James's one more time. Electric cobalt clashing against smoggy brown. "He had better hope he didn't mean it."
Jim's eyes narrowed. No, he decided, it was Frank who had better hope he didn't mean it- because whoever the hell they sent his way, he was recruiting his new bunkmate for full out war—
—'cause if there's one thing Jim could do right, it was win.
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A/N: Very short preliminary chapter; almost a prologue, but not quite.
Should be updated about once a week. Reviews have a visible effect on my work ethic, so if you want more, longer chapters at frequent intervals, holler and let me know! Everything and anything is appreciated.
-Headlock