Part Two of Seven.


Juncture

He stared into the mirror, assessing each of his features in their turn. The pale, green-tinted skin was like a canvas. On it, a mix of his parents' phenotypes had painted: full, dark pink lips — inherited from his mother — that were nevertheless stained with a smudge of green blood; a high, straight nose with nostrils optimally configured for drawing sufficient air from his planet's thin atmosphere; a pair of dark eyes and darker brows, slashed across his forehead in the manner inherent to his father's race.

He focused on the eyes again.

They had taunted him. Not one had singled out the mouth which, at rest, held the same shape that his mother's did. Only his "human eyes" had been the source of their censure.
And yet his eyes were no more human than the rest of him. Neither human nor Vulcan, they had been formed from genetic material originating from two worlds. Whatever "humanity" his schoolmates had detected in them must therefore be a product of his inability to control his expression.

"Logic offers a serenity humans seldom experience," his father had told him. "The control of feelings, so that they do not control you."

But he had not been in control his emotions.

"You are fully capable of deciding your own destiny."

Again, he assessed each features in turn, wiping away the blood that clung to his lips, drawing a deep breath through his nose, and, finally, allowing the muscles around his eyes to relax until even he could not discern what he felt merely by observing himself in the mirror.

And then he turned away and walked over to his meditation platform, destiny already chosen.


Disclaimer: I don't any Star Trek characters or concepts.