NOTE: I love Star Trek. I am a huge fan of the series, but not a super fan. I wrote 4 chapters of this fanfic with a Bajoran aboard the Discovery before I remembered they were not a spacefaring race until the 24th century. There will be mistakes. ¯\_(ツ)_/¯ I've written a few scripts in my time, hence the heavy dialogue and progressive-verb tense, but I don't consider myself much of a writer. I'm more of a storyteller and would love critiques and reviews, especially concerning my plot and original characters.

I highly suggest you familiarize yourself with the Discovery timeline before reading, since I will be force-fisting my characters into episodes of the show. I will only be including the scenes pertinent to my plot and not transcribe every single detail of every episode. So if you want to know what Saru was doing when Lorca was kidnapped or how Burnham and Tyler hooked up, watch the show! (Or read the wiki.) Any timeline changes will be denoted.

Hold tight! This was supposed to be a shameless self-insert, wish-fulfillment fantasy where my alter ego knocks heels with Jason Isaacs. It's evolved quite a bit since it's inaugural draft... This will be a loooong series with dozens of chapters ranging in the 8,000 word count. I will be amazed if anyone actually reads it all.

Prologue

TIME: The following takes place a few months before the episode The Vulcan Hello.

-Ambassador's Log, Stardate 0102.4-

Earlier today, the Vulcan Expeditionary Group successfully penetrated the energy barrier encasing the contested planet of Donatu V. We found an undocumented human colony present on the surface several months ago, but no information on how these people arrived or how they became enclosed within this obstruction. Distress transmissions from the surface indicate an inaugural population of 100 humans. That number, however, has dwindled significantly over the past several months. After continuous Klingon attacks, only 10 colonists remain. I have hand-selected a group of my finest officers to beam to the surface and mount a rescue for these last survivors.-

-End Ambassador's Log-

Sarek and his small team of Vulcan specialist step foot on the bitter, rocky surface of planet Donatu V. Once the battlegrounds of the Klingon Cold War, the only remaining signs of life are a few Qo'nos Bitter Melon crops growing amongst the jagged peaks of the mountainous terrain. The wise Ambassador takes in a lung full of thin air and switches on his tricorder in search of the distress beacon. He and his elite group of explorers start their arduous journey deep into the purplish-blue crags of this alien planet.

As they trudge ahead, evidence of life makes itself known; rope bridges, tools, wall carvings, all of Klingon origin. The distress beacon they follow is also Klingon and logic dictates a high probability that Sarek will lead his men into a trap. Admittedly, the Vulcan finds himself debating against his logical side during this mission.

For almost two star cycles, Starfleet intercepted distress calls from deep within the Donatu V surface from humans claiming to be abductees. At first, rescue attempts were impossible due to the bizarre ship disabling barrier. Starfleet, as well as many in the Vulcan Expeditionary Group, determined the transmissions to be nothing more than elaborate bait. Sarek, however, remained unconvinced. For two star cycles, he listened to the cries of those humans. Never has he come across a trap so well acted, so well dedicated and protected. Logic warns of a ruse, but morality and decency say these pleas for help are real. The wise favor caution, of course. Klingons should never be trifled with, so the exploration team carries large phaser rifles and thick armor.

After several hours of trekking and climbing, the group finally arrive at a cave opening reinforced with scrap metal from a decommissioned Klingon ship. The doorway stands ajar, exposing a long tunnel of dangling ceiling lights. Sarek and his men set their rifles to stun and quietly tiptoe inside, checking for dark corners and hideaways.

The lights on the ceiling paint the cave walls a dim golden yellow. Along these walls, the Vulcans find their first sign of human life; drawings. An intricate and highly adept mural of portraits sketched in charcoal and limestone chalk extend the length of the 100-foot tunnel. Faces of children, men, and women of varying races pose close together, but no two faces seem related. Below each portrait is a name as well a number indicating the day of death.

"A memorial," Sarek whispers to himself.

CRRASSH!

With lightning speed, the Vulcans whip around and aim their rifles down the deeper, darker end of the tunnel. The two men in front cautiously walk towards the source of the noise and find a fresh body neither human nor Klingon. The team continues deeper into the various man-made chambers while Sarek inspects the humanoid's face with a flashlight.

The corpse possesses brown skin, not thick as a Klingon skin, but deep with ridges like one. Unlike the pointer bald heads typical of Klingons, a long black mane grows out the back of a more rounded skull.

"How interesting," Sarek determines though his face remains emotionless.

"Ambassador Sarek. We have found the source of the distress signal."

At the end of the long tunnel of murals lies the command station erected from a crashed Klingon vessel. The bridge of this old ship protrudes several hundred feet out the side of a cliff. The hull window opens to the natural light of the opulent blue mountain range. Sarek takes a moment to admire the view. If it were not for the planet's inhospitable climate, Donatu V would be a beautiful place to live.

Inside the bridge lie remnants of two cultures; art, weapons, clothing, and technology. It would seem, to the untrained eye, that the two species cohabited this vessel, but such conclusions would be preposterous. The humans have merely adopted the Klingon technology, or so the more conservative Vulcans of the group hope dearly.

Along with the scattered bits of deconstructed gadgets rest the battered and butchered bodies of these adaptable humans. The gashes along the back of their heads and necks indicate a guerrilla attack by Klingons. Sarek also finds this interesting as such an attack would be considered cowardly and dishonorable to the proud warrior race. Though, he has yet to find anything on this planet that makes any logical sense.

"We are too late," he announces to his team, "Based on the rate of decomposition and rigor mortis, these people have been slain just a few hours ago," his words should conjure up some kind of remorse within his men, but the Vulcans remain emotionless. No reason to shed tears now.

"...h-help," a weak voice calls out from the rubble towards the back of the room. Sarek carefully approaches and uncovers a human woman with a rather large cut across the length of her skull. Her long hair lays drenched in a pool of thick blood and all the color in her face and body has turned to gray. Neither of the Ambassador's sharp eyebrows twitches at the gruesome scene. He simply requests for a medkit and asks questions to keep her conscious.

"My name is Ambassador Sarek with the Vulcan Expeditionary Group. We are here to rescue you and bring you home. Please tell me, how did you come to be on this planet?"

The woman tries to speak but chokes in fear.

"You've gone into shock. Please, allow me to find the words for you," the Vulcan places three fingertips on the side of the woman's face. He looks deeply into her eyes and takes a long, deliberate breath, "My mind to your mind... my thoughts to your thoughts," he slowly closes his eyes, but hers widen as a strange energy forces its way into her brain, scouring her thoughts and pulling her emotions in every direction.

The Vulcan relives her memory of waking up on this wretched planet and feels every miserable moment as if they were his own.

A burn on his lungs from breathing Donatu's anemic atmosphere. A sharp pain in his stomach as serrated metal cuts through his flesh. The muscle ache of days long hand-to-hand combat. The hopelessness of calling for Starships that never answer and triumph of victory when the battle is finally won.

The Vulcan digs deeper into the woman's memories, to a time before she reached Donatu V. He can hear a crowd of voices and the sound of whistles. A bright white light envelops his consciousness and someone hits his shoulder. The image clears and he finds himself standing in the middle of a crowded street with thousands of humans hastily pushing past one another. Another flash of white blinds his eyes.

"Look right here," comes a man's voice. He holds some kind of primitive looking device with a bulb.

HOOOONKKK HOONK!

A cavalcade of bright yellow antique cars drives past as humans weave in and out of traffic, yelling into small flat earpieces. Sarek's eyes readjust to the flashing light and skyscrapers appear in the background, stabbing at the sky like spears from the ground. The Vulcan recognizes these buildings from his old Earth history lessons but never seen them with such an exhibition of color and information. There are images plastered up the sides; advertisements for makeup, perfume, and watches. LED banners scroll by displaying stock numbers 'DOW -0.28%, Nasdaq +0.12%' while food company logos blaze the air with hot neon.

The alien's nose smells the clustered aroma of smoke, gasoline, hotdogs, and cologne as the cold air bites at his skin. The noise of these product campaigns, people shouting and cars honking make his pointed ears buzz. He slowly spins where he stands until his eyes find a large screen towering above, displaying in nauseatingly bright lights the current time and date:

12:28 UTC

Saturday, March 25, 2017

Sarek slowly removes his hand from the human's face. She takes hard, but steady breaths and her heart slows to a resting beat. The still silence of Donatu V settles into the Vulcan's throbbing ears while he calculates what he just witnessed.

"Ambassador Sarek. What did you see?" inquires a party member.

"How highly... improbable," Sarek faintly wrinkles his angular eyebrows. The human would later learn this species rarely make such a palpable face, "Samantha Bex. You are a long ways from home."