A/N: Alright here we are at the start of something. Welcome to Palace Burning. This is a lengthy fic, most of which is not written, and I do not have an update schedule at the moment (sorry kids, but I'm a full time fourth year student and I have a play that's about to open on Wednesday). I would love to have the whole thing done by spring though, which would see updates going up fairly regularly.

I also have another story that's almost finished which will start going up soon. It might be called Down the Mountainside (Edit: Just kidding it's called Gods of Rome). We'll see when we get there. But if you're bored of waiting for me to update this you could always go check that out. It's definitely a fluffier piece and an easier read. I mean, it's not completely devoid of angst because that's not who I am, but definitely not Palace Burning level.

Before we start, I also want to acknowledge that this has been influenced largely by Pericles, Prince of Tyre, the play written at least in part by William Shakespeare. I definitely also shamelessly stole the title from it. If you don't want spoilers, maybe don't go look at it, but it is a phenomenal play. Yes, Jim is definitely reminiscent of poor Pericles. It's also very likely that the writings of Distractedkat (Angel Baby 1 on ff) have influenced me in some way because her Spirk is flawless and I've read her fics a number of times. I don't know if that will come through in style or anything, but regardless she's amazing. Please go read her stories. They are much better.

EDIT: Hey, sorry guys, it turns out fanfiction decided to just ignore my formatting but I think I've fixed it now. Sorry if this pops up in your notifications as a new chapter (but if I keep going at this pace I should have another one up by the end of the week). Thanks all!

Without further ado, here's Palace Burning. I hope you enjoy.

Prologue

James Tyson felt nothing but the vibration of the engine beneath him, working harder than it should, and the dust hitting his face. He did not feel the ghost of a blaster shot ringing beside him, did not feel his finger on a trigger, and he certainly did not feel the 11 metres that had separated him from the only thing that he had ever wanted. Nothing but engines and dust. And if one of the side effects of dust in the face happened to be that he had an urge to swerve into the oncoming traffic, well, that was a matter out of his hands.

He couldn't drive fast enough. The world was blurring and if he had been any other biker on any other night he would have been pulled off the road a dozen times by different forms of police, but as it was he held a few privileges un-thought of by the average Dick and Harry that travelled down these country roads.

His wrist buzzed – or rather, the communicator on his wrist buzzed – once. Only once. He didn't need to look down at it to know that there was a little green checkmark, a reward for a mission gone right.

He wanted to vomit.

Instead, he veered right and put his foot down, a blast of reckless energy to rival early day space travelers. His speed what it was, it didn't take long to get where he needed to go, and he leaned the bike against the old brick building, his head still spinning from the sudden lack of momentum. He managed not to retch and instead looked around at the sickeningly familiar surroundings. Alone in the alley he spread his arms wide into a stretch and grimaced, though even he couldn't tell if it was at the stiffness in his shoulders or the familiar setting. Home sweet home. For a moment he considered getting right back on his bike and speeding off North, off to where he was supposed to be heading, but pushed it down. He couldn't handle them right now. Instead, he slipped around to the front of the building and passed through the doors and under the old neon sign that read Riverside Brewery est. 2018.

The bar hadn't changed since he'd last been inside it, and he doubted it had changed much since 2018, its interior styled in a way that had gone out of fashion twice before the genetics war, and once more after, before coming back in recently as 'antique.' Not that anyone would ever add the vomit-coated hovel onto a recommendation list for antique-seeking travelers.

James slid into a barstool between two jackasses, putting an end to their testosterone-fueled argument and sending them back to drinking on their own. Taking only slight notice, he signaled at the bartender for a few drinks.

"New in town?" The man asked heartily, not put off by the veritable dark cloud surrounding the man.

James let out a bitter laugh. "No, no. Just back after a long while."

The bartender nodded sagely, handing the man to Jim's right a glass of some amber liquid. "I was going to say, sir, that you look mighty familiar. What's your name?"

Already caught off balance by the familiar surroundings, the 'sir' pushed him just over the edge and he answered without really thinking. "James T."

The bartender took a step back suddenly. "Well I'll be. If it isn't George Kirk's son. Good to see ya Jim."

And just like that all formality – along with any chance of anonymity – flew out the window. Not that he particularly cared.

"Good to see you, too, Greg." He smiled at the old classmate. He'd once broken the man's nose in a fight. It was payback for the time that he had shattered Jim's wrist.

Greg slid a dark glass up to him and a placed a shot of something toxically yellow next to it. "On the house. For an old friend." He winked.

James – Jim – smiled at him and used the time it took to take a sip of the drink to consider this man as an option. Greg had certainly grown up well, tall and muscular and tattooed in a way that only a bartender ever tended to be. Maybe, he decided, putting the glass back down. "Ah. Nothing like that home-grown Riverside hooch to get you started. You might as well start a tab for me, though." He added quickly. "I've got a feeling I'm going to be here a while."

"Will do." Greg smiled and then disappeared, off to serve the rest of the demanding crowd.

Jim took another long slow drink of the hooch before downing the shot. It tingled more than burned but that was the idea. What he wouldn't give for some Saurian Brandy. Or Romulan Ale for that matter. But while they might not shy away from serving the illegal here, they weren't quite far enough up the proverbial bar food-chain to get the good stuff.

Shaking his head, he downed the rest of the hooch and signalled for another one with a wave and a wink, ignoring the buzzing on his wrist as the full report came in. It was going to be a long night.

He had been so close, inches away, in fact, to leaving the bar with a pretty girl, a genius, and heading off to a night of pleasantries with someone he would never have to see again. Hell, he would have been happy to have gone home with Greg. He was leaving in the morning anyway; who knew when he'd be back here? He had been so close to getting out a bar without a fight.

And then that jackass Cupcake had to come and ruin the whole entire thing.

And here he was, fighting. One of the goons was angling a punch at him from the side, where he thought he wouldn't be seen. Jim thought about blocking it, thought about ducking and letting him punch the guy on the other side of him. He didn't, though. He let it hit him, revelling in the feeling of his skin breaking, in the faint scent of iron as his blood hit the warm bar air. He blocked a few shots, the ones that were headed areas where they might actually do some damage, redirected one so it would hit him in the shoulder exactly where he wanted to feel it, but mostly he let them hit him so that when the whistle sounded and the crowd cleared, leaving him lying on the table, he was made entirely of alcohol and adrenaline and sweet, sweet pain.

He didn't want to get cleaned up, either. Didn't want to be handed water or tissues. What he wanted was to lie there in his pain, grieving, in his own way, the loss of life the day had brought, the lost chance, and punishing himself for everything he had done wrong. He wrapped himself in his ball of self-loathing like it was a blanket and sat there in his chair across from a man who looked so pristine he shouldn't have even been looking at a person like Jim, and especially not like he might be something.

"You know, I couldn't believe it when the bartender told me who you were."

Jim laughed, maybe a bit hysterically; he was going to have to call this in. They wouldn't be pleased. "And who am I, Captain Pike?"

"Your father's son." Was the even reply.

Fuck.

"Can I get another one?" He yelled back to Greg, more to stall for time than anything else. The man looked at him like someone who knew him (which, Jim supposed, he did) and rolled his eyes. That opportunity was, apparently, no longer available. And neither was the alcohol.

"For my dissertation I was assigned the USS Kelvin. That was something I admired about your dad; he didn't believe in no-win scenarios."

"He sure learned his lesson."

"Well that depends on how you define winning. You're here aren't you?"

The man had a way of speaking matter-of-factly, such that every statement that came out of his mouth was indisputable, logical, completely and irrevocably true. With a voice like that he probably could have taken down the Federation if he had tried, or at least had a fairly decent career in the holos. Nevertheless, here he was, talking to Jim. About his father of all things.

And Jim wanted to know about his father, wanted to hear about it from a man who had known him, even second-hand, who had read more firsthand accounts of George Kirk's life than he could ever have dreamed. Jim found himself, almost against his will, hanging on his every word.

But still, he knew that his own existence was in no way a win, no way a success that his father should be proud of. The events of his life could be filed cleanly into the category of shit-that-no-one-with-a-shred-of-decency-would-survive, and far away from any category of events that a sane person would keep volunteering themselves for. George Kirk had nothing to show for his sacrifice except a widow whose mind was lost to grief and her two sons. Well, presumably two; no one had heard from Sam for years, not since Jim was last in Iowa. And the other…George had nothing to be proud of.

"Thanks."

"You know that instinct to leap without looking that was his nature too and in my opinion something Starfleet's lost." Pike continued, unswerving despite Jim's best efforts to brush him off.

"Why are you talking to me, man?"

"Because I looked up your file while you were drooling on the floor."

Not the real one, Jim thought petulantly.

"Your aptitude tests are off the charts, so what is it? You like being the only genius-level offender in the Midwest?"

"Maybe I love it."

He was starting to get frustrated. Why wouldn't he just go away? He was tempted to do something to make him leave, but knew that anything he did would be traced back to his real name, his real identity, and that was something he couldn't risk.

"So your dad dies, you can settle for a less than ordinary life. But you feel like you were meant for something better. Something special."

He had him there. Not that he would tell the man that. Still, wasn't he already special enough?

He thought of the green light that had buzzed on his wrist, the smell of air charged with phaser fire, and had to fight the urge to vomit again.

"Enlist in Starfleet."

Jim was jerked out of his thoughts with the sharp pang of panic, something he hadn't felt in a long time. That adrenaline tasted different form the adrenaline he'd so carefully cultivated for himself in the bar fight.

"Enlist?" He laughed at the ridiculousness of the offer – he couldn't help it. Enlist. He couldn't enlist, not if he wanted to! "You guys must be way down on your recruiting quota for the month if –"

"If you are half the man your father was, Jim," Captain Pike interrupted, as insistent and infuriatingly patient as ever. "Starfleet could use you. You could be an officer in four years, you could have your own ship in eight. You understand what the federation is, don't you? It's important. It's a peace-keeping and humanitarian armada –"

"Are you done?" Jim was finished. Tired. Why had he stopped here in the first place? He couldn't remember. All he wanted was out.

"I'm done." Pike acquiesced, maybe picking up on the finality in Jim's tone. He stood up, tossed a few credits on the table, and then looked back at the blond man. "Riverside shipyard. The shuttle for new recruits leaves tomorrow, 0800."

Jim waved him away and downed the water in his glass, preparing to get back on his bike and let it cruise on autopilot until he was far, far away.

When he lowered the glass, he was surprised to see Pike still standing there, almost hesitating, almost unsure but not quite. Something in the man's face hardened, but in a way that made it seem deeper, more thoughtful, not less penetrable but like there was more underneath the surface than Jim could ever guess.

"You know, your father was captain of a starship for twelve minutes." He said carefully, eyes burning into Jim's. "He saved 800 lives, including your mother's. And yours. I dare you to do better."

And with that he turned and walked out, leaving Jim to slump down in his chair and regret fiercely, though regret what he couldn't quite tell. He just wanted something to take the taste out. Preferably something that burned.

Instead of calling to the bar to see if Greg would hand his sorry ass one more drink before kicking him out, which he was enormously tempted to do, he picked up the starship-shaped salt shaker and examined it. It was an exact replica of the one they were building in the shipyard, the pride of Riverside. They had even made national news for being the location of the new flagship's construction. It would be nice, he thought, to fly inside something that looked like this, to learn its ins and outs, to see things that most of the earth-bound population could only imagine (not that that particular aspect would be new, perhaps just associated with less blood).

He let out a sound that bordered between a sigh and groan and pushed himself up from the table, ignoring his protesting muscles and what was likely a broken collarbone and strode outside after a few words with Greg.

"Hey, keep in touch okay?" The man had said. "I'll let you know when the next class reunion is. Everyone would love to see you."

The words were meant kindly but they stung, each one sinking tiny barbs into his skin.

"Yeah man, I'll do that." He promised. They both knew he was lying, but Greg smiled and clapped him on the back before going back to his sweeping.

Or maybe, Jim thought as he strode out of the building and made his way back towards his bike, he didn't know. Maybe he really thought Jim was going to keep in touch, and was happy about it.

Man, he had forgotten how bad Riverside Hooch messed with your brain.

He felt gray and empty, as though the colour of the world had been drained along with his energy, along with every shot he had taken over the course of the night. He wanted to crawl into a warm bed somewhere and succumb to unconsciousness. The last thing he wanted to do was report the events of the night.

With a burdened sigh, for the benefit of no one but himself in the dark alleyway, he flipped on the tiny comm on his wrist and began speaking into it, harsh and clinical, relaying a blow-by-blow of the last few hours – that he had been recognized, that Admiral Pike had sought him out and asked him to enlist in Starfleet. He did not mention the bar fight. Nor did he mention that he had introduced himself to the bartender in a way that gave him away, even if it was technically still in line with his alias.

He hit send and mounted his bike. He was just revving the engine to go when his wrist buzzed again.

If he was puzzled by the immediate response his report had warranted, it was nothing compared to the shock of reading the message that it indicated.

You are required in the stated location.

Report to Riverside Shipyard 0800 and enlist.

He swore loudly, and then immediately sent another voice message. "If I may," he began, gritting through the formality. "I have been recognized. I cannot go under the name of Tyson. Admiral Pike knows who I am."

He sent it just at that, unable to think of anything else to say that wouldn't have gotten him killed.

The response was just as fast the second time.

You have a unique advantage in this location.

They didn't have to say that it was because of his father. He knew. Oh he knew.

He was just about to spit off a response that would regret by daybreak when another buzz came through.

You will have unique access to Federation files.

"Understood."

If anyone had stumbled into the alley at that particular moment they would have witnessed a man made of fire and ice and rage snap into a calm so pure and controlled and immediate it was as if he had never tasted emotion in the first place. They would have seen a dangerous glint in a stranger's eyes, one that proceeds sprints across streets and calls to emergency services.

As it was, no one stumbled into the alley way, and so the world went on blissfully unaware of forces that could change a man so suddenly, and Jim was allowed to mount his bike and set off at a reckless speed down the spider web of nearby highways where he could spend the next few hours, his last truly free hours for who knows how long, driving.

He kicked it into high gear and flew away until the town was behind him, the shipyard just a dot on the horizon, until all that existed were wheat fields to his left, canola to his right, and the ever lightning sky on the horizon.

He couldn't drive fast enough.