A/N: This was a oneshot that grew huge, so I broke it into two, then three, different chapters. I'm rewriting the entire story now because the ending that I'd planned doesn't at all match the characters, and my writing has improved since I typed these chapters the first time.
Floccitis and caltracine are my own inventions.
.bdobd.
The subways of San Francisco were built in the 2140s. They were a totally logical expenditure of funds: an inexpensive public transportation system was well known to aid economic growth.
The system had been kept in excellent conditions for the majority of its existence. The Narada Incident had altered this state, however, as funds had been diverted to the rebuilding of the areas around the Academy, whose population had increased dramatically after Nero's well-publicized attack.
Spock had used the subway infrequently during his residency. They were known for being loud and of strong odor, which was especially unpleasant to his more sensitive ears and nose.
The Enterprise had landed in The City – as here it was called – for repairs, and Admiral Pike had requested a report on the time it took for cadets in residence on the edge of the city to travel to the Academy grounds. There had been too many excuses of tardiness attributed to the now dismal conditions of the subways.
Spock had been volunteered for duty by an anonymous source. He suspected Doctor McCoy, and was preparing an argument for the man when the woman next to him coughed heavily.
She was Andorian, dressed in a suit and shoes with low heels. A businesswoman, if current Terran stereotypes were to be held valid. She was clearly ill, and should not be traveling.
The woman coughed again. Spock turned away from her – most people did not react positively to his observations of them, especially when ill – and looked out the window of the train car. The sub-bay tunnel walls rushed past behind the graffiti scratched polymer.
Next to the doors was a yellow sign that gave direction in case of sudden violent illness. 'Do NOT pull the emergency brake,' it read. It would slow any efforts of transport to a medical facility; it was quite reasonable.
But beneath it was a note designed purely for emotional comfort: 'If you are sick, do not worry. You will not be left alone.'
Such a sign would not be posted on the new Vulcan transportations lines. Such a reassurance would be too illogical. Help could be assumed from the very existence of the message. If help were not to be given, no directions for locating assistance would be posted.
The woman coughed again. She was clearly ill. It was possible that her work did not allow for the accumulation of days absent due to illness. It was possible that she did not realize she was ill until she after she had promised to be present at some function.
It was possible she was not going to work at all, but to a formal leisure activity, a conference of some kind. All was possible.
But the woman was sick.
Spock shifted uncomfortably as she shifted her breathing to inhale through her mouth. Others were in the process of attempting – and failing – to unobtrusively shift away from her.
It was a genetically encoded instinct in most species to shy away from those in poor health. The chromosomes did not 'care' for morals or feelings, unless they aided procreation, in which case they 'cared' very much. To obtain an illness from a creature that could be avoided was not logical, to a gene.
The walls of the tunnel continued to flee the subway train. This was an unusually long daily commute. An hour on the L line, Northbound, to the Southbound Q line at the Westborough station (left hand track, right was Northbound according to Kirk's customarily haphazard directions), and the R line to Alameda…
The train car rocked and the Andorian leaned so more of her weight was on the pole she gripped for balance. It was crowded at this hour; few could sit. Those that did were viewed with a kind of temporary dislike, a jealousy that they, the select few, could rest their feet, while the remainder had to make do on their now aching limbs.
The yellow sign was almost hidden behind a senior Bolian man. He gripped a shopping bag filled with only umbrellas. Most were the same shade of pink. Some were blue.
'You will not be left alone.'
The woman coughed again.
The Bolian man moved his pack. The lower half of the sign, the half with its comforting reassurances, was obscured.
The woman rested her forehead on the pole, most probably attempting to cool it somewhat. It was a common behavior amongst humans who were unwell. In Vulcans it was a sign of true illness: a Vulcan's body requested warmth when fighting an invader.
The Andorian's antennae were waving slightly. She was very, very ill. It would be another quarter hour to her residence if she were to vacate at the upcoming stop, but as the majority of buildings in that area were of businesses, she was more likely to have to wait three quarters of an hour, to arrive at Alameda.
'You will not be left alone.'
"Madam, are you in need of any assistance?"
The woman jerked as if Spock had shocked her, as opposed to addressing her. She looked blearily to him, and he noted dispassionately that she had a freckle on her upper lip.
"What?"
"I have – You appear to me to be ill. Are you in need of assistance?"
She squinted at him in disbelief. "Me?"
Illness often clouded the mind, rendering its hosts incapable of easy comprehension. "Yes. Is there any way I could help you?"
A blink. Another. She clearly had no idea of how to respond.
Spock decided to give her an example; it was possible that she did not know of what he was offering. It would be an unfortunate situation, if true. "Do you require escort to a medical office? Or some funds, to purchase pharmaceuticals?"
"You're not seriously asking, are you?"
Her question was unexpected, and her voice was rasped from coughing. "I am. Do you require assistance? I am prepared to provide some. I have no pressing engagements."
He began to consider that one of the symptoms of her illness was dry eyes. She certainly blinked enough. Then she stood straighter and looked him up and down. The impression (illogical) was given of her circling him, emptying his pockets and reviewing his morals, from her position next to him at the train's post.
She did not find him wanting, apparently. She nodded slowly, cautiously. "Can you… help me get to my drugstore? I don't live in a good neighborhood…"
He nodded as her sentence trailed off. It was a favor that would have no effect on his report; it may even strengthen it.
"I have no reason to object. Where is your pharmacy?"
She obviously did not fully trust him. "It's on Park Avenue… The FPC?"
"Very well. Shall we exit at the next station, then?"
"No."
He looked to her in query. "Why? Is it not closer?"
She shook her head. "We'd have to walk through the homeless area. And it's an easier walk from the Kappa station; the sidewalks are better around there."
The woman seemed slightly empowered by her superior knowledge of the area. Her confidence made her seem younger (illogical); it was apparent suddenly that she was not more than two decades past birth. Spock cocked his head curiously. "Is there something particularly distasteful about the homeless' residences?"
Her eyes widened and she motioned an empathetic negative with her hands. "No, no, it's not like that! There's just this truce: We don't come into their houses, they don't come into ours."
"Fascinating."
Her lips twitched in mirth. "I didn't know that Vulcans actually said that."
It was better that she was pleased. She appeared healthier then, more like the Andorians that Spock had previously encountered. "We are not restricted to one particular dialect."
"I didn't know that Vulcans had dialects, I thought it was all one big one," she said.
Spock looked away. "Now, yes, there is less diversity."
She gasped in horror. Or, she attempted to, the sound more closely resembled a wheeze. "By gods, I'm so sorry, I forgot! I'm really, really sorry –!"
"It is of little consequence –,"
"No, it's not." Her determination was not unlike Jim's, "It's not alright, it was wrong, and I'm sorry." She left little room for argument.
The train car suddenly ceased its forward movement and the woman nearly fell. Spock caught her carefully by the elbow to steady her. She looked to him gratefully.
Some of the passengers exiting glanced curiously at him while passing. Why they did so was difficult to fathom, while Vulcans were uncommon here –
No. Vulcans were uncommon everywhere. With less than ten thousand of the species alive, they were an endangered species.
The woman seemed galvanized by their attention. She made a point of staring every one in the eye as they left. It was an expression of challenge, but Spock could not figure out what for. There was naught to protect.
A man in a sports coat caught Spock's arm as he exited. He was carrying a briefcase and a ruffled newspaper, which he'd been reading for the duration of the ride. "I'd just like to say how great it is to see some good old-fashioned decency around here," he stated, "it's so hard to come by."
Spock was tempted to ask why, if he was such a fan of 'decency', he did not practice it himself, but did not speak. He simply nodded.
The woman did as well. He had no idea why. Possibly, as the one assisted, she was also part of being 'decent'? As the one helped? She coughed heavily again; it appeared that the attacks were brought on by stress.
The man in the sports coat with the newspaper and briefcase left. The doors hesitated before closing with a mechanized 'ding'. Spock waited for the usual announcement of the next station from the train's speakers, and then remembered that none would be forthcoming, as all 'unnecessary electronics' had been disconnected in an effort to save money.
The subway car started again with an unpleasant jolt, and Spock moved his hand to the woman's shoulder blade to assist in her rather faulty balance. She looked to him in brief suspicion, but relaxed as he did continued to do nothing inappropriate.
"So, what's your name? Did you tell me, and I forgot, or we never got around to it."
"We never exchanged such information. I am Spock, of the house of Sarek."
The woman spun from her position facing the window to stare intently at his face. Spock raised his hands to shoulder height, concerned that she would overbalance herself. "No. Way. You are not Commander Spock."
It was a common reaction at first, disbelief. "Indeed, I am Spock."
She gaped at him. Some of the other passengers did as well. "What is your name?" he asked.
She drew away from his face and flushed, guilty. "Sorry, that was really rude, wasn't it? I'm Hallelujah."
Spock blinked. It was not a name he had ever encountered. She laughed, clearly embarrassed, at his reaction. He was about to apologize for his socially unacceptable non-response when she interrupted his intentions. "I know, right? My mom was a Christian convert. Just call me Glory, everyone does."
He bowed his head in apology. "I did not mean to insult your title. It was an unacceptable reaction, and I apologize. What would you prefer for me to call you?"
She smiled at him. "Glory. I don't even answer to Hallelujah anymore."
Spock nodded, and there was a pleasant lull in the conversation. The subway rocked softly as it sped beneath the streets of California. Glory coughed violently.
"Has your condition deteriorated? What illness do you possess?"
Glory waved in what was intentioned to be a soothing manner as she bent nearly double, hacking. "It's just a cold…" Spock straightened her as best he could, so she could grip the post and have a hand to her mouth without falling to the floor.
"This is a very serious cold. How long have you had the illness?"
"A week or so, I'm not contagious, just miserable…"
She wheezed softly through her nose. "How long have you had symptoms of this severity?"
"Less than a week. It was fine when I was actually contagious, 'cause I was asleep, mostly, but I went to work today and it wasn't a very good idea…"
Glory was breathing heavily and with obvious difficulty. "Are you having issues catching your breath? Are you in pain?"
"I'm getting enough air, it just hurts to have it go down my throat." She grinned wanly at him. "I get it in rushes. Fine one minute, the next…" She indicated herself. "This. It sucks, but it's not deadly."
Spock had the impression that his displeasure could be observed from his expression, and worked to project neutrality. "Fatality is not the only factor in the comparative severity of an illness. Also included is suffering."
Glory straightened hastily. "I wouldn't say that I'm suffering, this just sucks."
He raised an eyebrow. "Indeed."
She huffed a laugh. Spock stared pointedly at a human knitting in a seat. The person looked up, saw him, started guiltily, and speedily packed the yarn being knotted and stood. Glory looked to him in amusement, and he guided her into the chair.
"That's really not necessary, it's passed…"
"You are ill. You should not be standing for such extended periods of time."
Glory rolled her eyes but said nothing. Another silence stretched on.
Glory shifted uneasily in the seat. She was clearly very bored. Unoccupied, her attention would most probably turn to her own state of health, resulting in a negative emotional state. Distraction would be beneficial.
"What is your work?"
"Hmm?" She looked to him in tired askance. "Oh, I'm temping at a construction contractor."
"Do you enjoy it?"
She snorted contemptuously. "No. I hate it. It's boring as hell."
Spock considered this carefully. "What do you enjoy?"
Glory looked at him curiously. "What do I enjoy?" She settled back more comfortably into her seat. "Huh. 'S been a while since someone asked." She looked at the ceiling. "What do I like…"
She refocused on an apparently random bit of the pole Spock was holding. She tilted her head slowly from one side to the other, as if to get the full range of perspectives that the post had to offer. "What do I like?"
She looked to him. "I have no idea. It's been so long." Glory appeared displeased by this fact. She quickly brightened. "I know. You tell me what you like, and I'll get my ideas from that."
Spock hesitated a moment before answering. "…I… enjoy," (illogical), "I enjoy performing experiments. I enjoy the knowledge that I have completed my assigned tasks to the best of my ability. I enjoy being correct in my statements –,"
Glory grinned as she interrupted, "Well, everyone likes that."
"No." Glory cocked her head in clear surprise.
"Who doesn't like being right?"
"The captain."
She grinned. "Ah, the famous Captain Kirk."
She stated this as if it was all there was to know of Jim. "There is more to the captain than the fact that he is famous."
Glory shrugged. "'S all I know."
Spock had to make a conscious effort to restrain a physical manifestation of his displeasure. "What do you know then? The captain is my stated area of expertise."
"Is it really?" she asked, amused.
"Yes. It is my duty to know my captain, and to judge his actions accordingly. It is essential to my work."
"Huh." She crossed her arms in contemplation. "Never thought of it that way."
"What do you enjoy knowing?"
She was clearly surprised. "What do I enjoy knowing?"
"You have no stated preferences towards what you do. What knowledge do you enjoy?"
Glory blinked at him, then relaxed with the determined ease of one who has been posed a question of worth. "What do I enjoy knowing…"
She had to mull for a while before straightening with a happy snap of the fingers. "I know! I liked telling you that there was a better way to get to the store. I like knowing where my stuff is."
"Are you displeased when a person is able to prove you wrong?"
"What are you, kidding?" She looked at him as though mad. "I love it. Who wouldn't want to know how to get somewhere cheaper? Or faster? Or where the better bagel is?"
"So you enjoy the knowledge of your area."
"Yep. My spot in the world." She wriggled backwards into the plastic seat, pleased with herself. And not fighting to breathe.
"Are you interested in the trivia of the areas of your neighborhood?"
She was quiet for a moment. "… Sorta. Not really. I like knowing what's useful now, you know? Things that I can use now."
Spock processed this quietly. The train was actually very silent. He hadn't realized that they were the only two talking.
The human – a woman, he observed, of indeterminate age with a hairstyle that did not suit her – who had previously occupied the chair that Glory currently possessed spoke nervously. "If you like giving directions… Can you tell me how to get somewhere?"
"I like giving directions?" Glory seemed surprised by the observation. "I do, don't I. How odd." She focused her attention back to the woman. "Where do you wanna get to?"
"Palanquin Hall, but the map I have…"
Glory stood shakily and Spock went to assist her. "You don't need to get up, it's really –,"
"No, no, it's fine," Glory interrupted. It seemed to be a habit of hers. She groaned sympathetically when she saw the woman's map. "Oiii. You used DirectMe. You don't want to use that; it sucks at subways. Gives you the wrong –,"
She pointed at a row of text, laughing scratchily with the happy flush of success. "Here, you see?" Spock had never heard someone cut off themself before; it was a very interesting phenomena. "It says here to take L, you wanted to take J. Now you're on the wrong side of the bridge."
The woman was distressed by this apparently unwelcome information. "But how do I fix that?"
"It's easy," Glory said reassuringly, "all you have to do is get off at the next stop and change to an Eastbound R. Go three stops, get off and turn left on Abercorn. I'm pretty sure it's on the right side, but I may be wrong: Just look for the signs that say 'Palanquin Hall', you'll be fine."
The woman had begun to scribble down Glory's rapid directions on a PADD, and finished a few moments after the Andorian did. She looked to Glory with a kind of awe, making the Andorian blush a cheerfully dark blue.
The sudden rush of blood brought back her cough. She again crumpled in upon herself, her lungs working to rid themselves of liquid that did not seem to exist.
The knitting woman cooed in concern. Spock settled a hand across the ill woman's abdomen, hoping to keep it relatively relaxed.
It was not a helpful time for the train to stop moving, or to open its doors.
But it was not as unpleasant an experience as Spock would have otherwise predicted. The passengers actually seemed frozen, and stayed remarkably still, except for one man who stood and held the doors.
Glory was wheezing again, laboriously through both her mouth and nose. "'She need a doctor?" someone asked.
"I'm fine," Glory insisted raspily, "I'll be fine." The stress of it was making her agitated, and it was clear that she was about to go into another coughing fit –
The Bolian man from the corner stood slowly walked to the obviously seriously ill Andorian. He looked to Spock for permission for… something, and Spock found himself nodding in the affirmative.
The man pressed a thumb to the base of Glory's spine. She suddenly stopped hacking and drew in slow, painful breaths. "She's an floccitic."
The man's voice was wispy and insubstantial. "I have it too. Those Christian churches, the wood they use… It's not good for alien lungs. M' parents were converts also."
Glory drew in air noisily and with great effort. "'Haven't had… An attack… In years," she gasped.
Spock stared suspiciously at the Bolian. "Such symptoms are not common of asthma."
"Not in humans. 'S different with us. Got its own name and everything."
Spock bent down to peer into Glory's face. She caught the look and smiled wanly. He narrowed his eyes. "You were going to refill an inhaler."
She grinned, for a moment. Jim did the same when he was very injured on an away mission: the more serious his injuries, the more likely he was to be beamed aboard grinning. "The cold… I got congested… I ran out of caltracine yesterday, I was late and couldn't get to the drugstore –,"
The man holding the door looked extremely concerned. "I had a sister with asthma; it's an e.r. visit if she has a full-blown attack."
Spock frowned slightly at Glory. He did not want to bear witness to a 'full-blown' attack, if this was a light one. She should not have gone to work is such a condition. "Where is the nearest medical facility?"
"I'm gonna call 9-1-1, there's no hospitals near here," someone down the train responded.
"I require assistance in getting her out of the station, she should not walk in this condition."
"I'm fine."
"No you are not." It was about as close as Spock ever came to yelling. "You are seriously ill and shall be treated as such." He readdressed the train's passengers, "Can someone clear a path so I may carry her out of the station? I am only enough to do one task, not both."
"I'll do it!" a man called. Spock could hear a 9-1-1 responder speaking to one of the many someone.
"Are you ready?" Spock asked Glory. She shot him a dirty look, but said nothing. He took that as consent and lifted her; she made displeased noises but did not protest.
A human man, approximately thirty in a plaid shirt, rushed out of the car and began to shout for people to clear the way, for an ill person was 'coming through'. He did so in fewer words, however.
Most of the passengers disembarked after Spock-carrying-Glory did, whispering their hopes of fortune and comfort as they left to continue about their lives. The someone who'd made – was making – the emergency call followed the Vulcan, keeping the person on the other end informed of Glory's condition. The someone had a very… earnest voice.
"Sleepy? No ma'am, she looks pissed, to tell you the truth… Well, she's being carried, you see, she didn't want that, she wanted to walk…"
The someone – Orion of four decades, holding a cellular phone to her ear – turned to Spock to tell him that, "She says we made the right choice, 'that was a good idea'," and continued to talk.
"Oh, I was talking to the man carrying her… Oh, no, he's fine, he's a Vulcan, he'll be alright. They're very strong." She said this last with the air of someone tutoring a high schooler of low intelligence.
Spock easily scaled the stairs as the human continued to shout for pedestrians to 'Clear the way' and the Orion narrated the ascent as a sportscaster would: "Annnd… We're about halfway up now, and… no, no, there was a very nice man on the train who's clearing a path and– I know, it was nice of him, wasn't it! And now… Ooh! I see the ambulance, we're…"
The medical responders took Glory, who was looking irritated at it all, and put her on a rolling bed. They tied an air mask over her mouth and nose and rolled her back into the ambulance.
One of them poked his head out the back of the ambulance. "'You a relative?"
Spock had to resist the urge to roll his eyes, no, he was rather obviously Vulcan, Glory was clearly not, it would be extremely unlikely for –, "We are not related, no."
"We're gonna need your number then, so we can call you later."
"What for?" A recounting of the events was already being transcribed from the human who cleared the path and the Orion who'd made the emergency call.
The technician looked at him quizzically. "Don't you want to know how she's doing?"
Spock hesitated before nodding. "…Yes. I would greatly appreciate that."
.bdobd.