He looked around, and felt as if he had been struck by lightning. There were so many beings, so much movement, so little peace. With great trepidation, he followed the group of cadets forward, focusing in between them, searching desperately for little triangles and octagons of calm. They walked through a door, which led to a huge lobby, surrounded by staircases, marble floors. It was very cold, Spock was very cold. He felt eyes upon him everywhere; he was different, that he knew, had known all his life. But humans were different from Vulcans: In trying so hard to stop him from feeling alien, they had succeeded as well as those on Vulcan at making him feel far from indigenous. The chill was creeping up his arms.
"This is where you eat meals"
Spock looked up from his cubic calm, having watched it morph shapes as the positions of peoples arms changed as they walked through halls and up stairs. He suddenly felt sick, could feel the ghosts of animals combusting into his mind, exploding out with painful animosity.
"Are you all right"
"Yes"
Would it have been correct to thank him? But yes, he was alright, he would grow accustomed to unseen carcasses of the mess, the damp dankness of his room, the chill, the darkness, the noise, the chaos. He was all right.
"Your concern was logical. I believe a human would say thank you?"
"Some would…the good kind"
"Are you…one of the good kind?
"I don't know"
Spock peered at this man, no, boy in front of him, the awkward stance, the crooked smile.
"I believe you are"
A cow was kicking desperately at the back of his head, a deer was running through his heart, and there were pigs stampeding through his veins and bursting them into spewing fountains of green. The room was spinning. He was shaking. Where was he? Who was this man, no boy, no, no, no. He fell into a pit of navy darkness, illuminated only by a dream of his mother, in a white dress, in a white room, holding a black rose.