AN: Just to inform you all, this story will not be added to for a few weeks. I've got some other Star Trek works in the pipeline, and I will most likely be working on those. Although, knowing me, I may add to this anyway.
This chapter is for and startrekgirl.m.
McCoy's favourite childhood memory is eating baked beans with his parents. The McCoy family was famous for their creation of a generations-old recipe for good old Southern baked beans. They were the best baked beans you could get in the South, in fact, they were, and still are, he thinks, the best baked beans you can get anywhere in this damn universe! As well as any other universe out there. Damn Jim, he keeps taking them weird places. He didn't sign up for this. As the next in line to inherit the mantle of the holder of the renowned McCoy baked bean recipe, he had been educated from an early age, particularly by his father, in the appreciation of the baked bean. It's still one of his favourite foods, second only to Georgia peaches. His favourite baked-bean-eating memory consists of when his parents judged him old enough to learn the recipe, and its secret ingredient, closely guarded by and held close to the hearts of generations of McCoys. That was when he was about twelve, he thinks. He remembers that warm, sunny afternoon, standing in the kitchen, over an old-fashioned stove, with his proud mother and father. They had a replicator, but it was firmly maintained that the only way to make proper McCoy baked beans was the old fashioned way, with a stove. That time, the baked beans, always excellent, had tasted especially good. He swears he can still taste them on his tongue. The green-blooded hobgoblin would say that was impossible, but he doesn't give a damn. The pointy-eared bastard has never tried McCoy baked beans. It was that day that he learnt the secret ingredient, the one thing that sets apart McCoy baked beans from any old baked beans. Don't tell anyone, but it's Tennessee whisky.
Chekov's favourite childhood memory is of sitting in a Russian field, surrounded by his family, watching the stars. Granted, they hadn't all been star-gazing, his cousins and brothers had declared it downright boring after ten minutes. But little Pavel Chekov, at that time about only three, had been utterly fascinated by the pinpricks of light. He'd sat on his grandfather's lap, and listened attentively as he told his grandson all about the stars, and the constellations, and space. He had been absolutely enthralled, absolutely fascinated, and that evening had lit a fire within him. It's actually his very first concrete memory. There are little things he remembers from before that, little snatches of images, but nothing was clear until this one. It's the first memory he can clearly recall, and it's special that way. Perhaps it was destined to be that way; perhaps it is fate that this is his first memory. Even the very next morning, he had proudly announced to his parents and brothers at the table during breakfast that he wanted to go to up to the stars when he grew up. From then on, he had been extremely excited whenever he saw his grandfather, always asking for more stories about space. He played with his toy spaceships, and pretended to explore the universe. He read books, and watched holo-vids about space. He would climb trees, with his homemade telescope, just to see the stars. When he was older, he would frequent the Observatory, and go for runs, far away, to the very same field, to stargaze. Then, finally, when he was old enough, he went to Starfleet Academy. When he's a little older, he fulfils the dream begun one night in Russia, when he was three years old.
Sulu's favourite childhood memory is when he finally received his judo black belt, first dan. This occurred just after he turned sixteen, as in the USA, one is not allowed to gain dan levels in judo before one's 16th birthday. He remembers finding that grossly unfair. He always ended up sparring with senior black belts anyway. The young Hikaru Sulu was never a stickler for rules. His school records prove that. A predilection for fighting, many of his teachers thought. If they could see him now, he thinks many would not believe he's the same person. The truth is, it's not so much he had a predilection for violence, but rather he had a habit of acting before thinking, a thirst for heroism, and simply had too much energy for his own good. He was quite the hyperactive child, as his poor mother would attest. His family had enrolled him in so many sports and activities in an attempt to burn off all of that excess energy. Karate, judo, later fencing, a whole lot of other sports that he played for a week, then lost interest in. Everyone knows his passion for fencing; the bug got him in junior high, and hasn't left since. But lesser known is his passion for martial arts. He kept up the karate for quite some time, but not to the level he kept up his judo. He's extremely proficient now, and it's taught him discipline and the value of thought before action. Whenever he needs a reminder to look before he leaps, all he needs to do is go back to that day, the day when he finally attained his black belt. All he has to do is to take a moment before acting, before leaping headfirst into a situation, to go back to the day he became a fully-fledged judoka.
Scotty's favourite childhood memory is the time when he built his first robot from scratch. He was six years old at the time, just a wee lad. It had been months of long, hard work, with plenty of sandwiches and Irn-Bru. There was a lot of love in that little thing, and a lot of elbow grease, and a couple of wee explosions, nothing serious. It had been build of scavenged metal and bits of scrap, as well as the parts from some broken toys and an old PADD. True, the end product had been scrappy and battered, just a patchwork of parts, primitive and definitely not showing the workmanship his creations do now. But he had made it from scratch, and it was his robot. He had built it himself, at his insistence, without any adult help. It had just been him and some old tools, sitting out in the garden, or in his room, fine tuning and fixing and piecing together the little robot. He remembers the glory, the happiness, the sheer sense of achievement he had felt at the robot's completion. It's a feeling that one never forgets, that one, the feeling of being on top of the world, the feeling that you can do anything, that you are invincible. It's addictive, it is. He chases it now, the feeling that you have attained perfection, in his tinkering with the Enterprise. He remembers how his mother had been so proud of him, how his father had been so pleased with his son. He remembers the extra helping of haggis there was for him at dinner that night. He remembers his pride as he brought his robot to school for show and tell. That was a glorious feeling, being watched with awe by one's peers. At least, it was, until the robot blew up in his face. He'd had no eyebrows for ages after that.
Uhura's favourite childhood memory is the memory of when she'd mastered her first alien language, Vulcan. True, by then, she'd already mastered countless Terran languages, but Vulcan was her first non-Terran language. That makes it special. It's different, and it's not commonly spoken. Most beings on Earth speak Standard, anyway. Vulcan was the language that she felt was of greatest use at that point, of all the languages she spoke. With it in her arsenal, she could communicate with beings from off planet, from another place entirely, with another culture. Many people would wonder why she wanted to learn Vulcan, of all languages; this was surely one of the most difficult. Many would say that learning Vulcan is akin to learning how to speak and think all over again, so different it is to Standard. To learn to speak without emotion is considered nigh impossible for the human tongue. But she knew she was gifted, she knew she had a talented tongue, and she was determined to prove the doubters wrong. She was determined to challenge herself, and overcome this challenge, and master this unfamiliar language. She chose Vulcan over Klingon because she felt Vulcan posed more of a challenge. And she loved challenges. She knew she could beat them. But wrapping her talented tongue around Vulcan takes a very long time, and she is in her early teens, about thirteen, she thinks, when she finally attains mastery. But after that, after that glorious, joyous, elated moment of achievement, she feels inspired. She feels like she can do anything, and she becomes addicted to that feeling of excellence. After that, mastering other languages becomes so much easier, so much faster. Though it takes her years to master Vulcan, she masters Klingon in a matter of months, and Andorian just as quick. She's got a talented tongue, after all.
Kirk's favourite childhood memory is of the time he drove his father's car. That was the time in back in Iowa, when he took it because Frank was going to sell it. Never mind that it was illegal and dangerous, he didn't care, and he still doesn't. It's a Jim Kirk thing to do, it's part of his character as much as that cocky smile. Sure, the reports say that he stole it, but he's of the opinion it was Frank doing the theft. It was his father's car. That red, vintage vehicle had been his pride and joy. That day had begun as an ordinary one. His mother was off planet, which was nothing new. He'd fought with Frank, again nothing new or out of routine. That had been the day that Sam had left. Now that was something new, something different. That event changed his life. He lost his brother, the only friend he had in the world, the only one who could understand what he was going through. But he had been a child, and he believed his brother would be back. That wasn't the case, but then he'd brushed it off. Frank was going to sell the car, so he took what was rightfully his, or at least, his family's, and just drove. He sped through the cornfields and down dusty roads, music cranked up, roof down, the wind through his hair, the speedometer slowly climbing up. He outran the cops, for the first time in his life, and that would soon become a habit. He loved that thrill, of speeding through his boring hometown, in his father's car, his father's legacy. It's a memory he looks back fondly on still. Not the taking the car, or the fighting with Frank, but the feeling of the wind in his hair, the speed, his father's car, the music. And definitely not the falling off a cliff bit. He'd rather forget that.
Spock does not have a favourite childhood memory. As he has already reiterated countless times, favouritism is a most ridiculously illogical concept. However, childhood memories are not ridiculous, nor illogical. It is perfectly logical for beings to look back on events of the past that they found acceptable, satisfactory or enjoyable with fondness and eagerness to reminiscence. Childhood is generally one such time. Many beings did enjoy the time in which they were innocent, carefree and generally much happier than in their adult lives. Things are generally much simpler in childhood. The problems that afflict adults do not often afflict or bother children. Of course, there are exceptions to this. As a child, Spock struggled with his identity and the issues this caused just as much, if not more, than he currently does. That is not to say that he dislike his childhood or found in unsatisfactory. In fact, quite the opposite. He looks back with relative happiness, a human emotion he indulges in occasionally, on many moments during his juvenile years. These moments centre on those he shared with his mother. There are the usual memories and events, those in which things were simpler, like in his earlier memories, before he completely comprehended his unusual heritage. But there are also memories of when he was capable of fully comprehending his heritage, but before he was old enough that it would have negative effects on him. That, he realizes, is a very fine line, a very short period of time. It is a period of time he looks back on with great fondness. That was the time in which he has happy to be unique, different, half-human, half-Vulcan. He cannot say there are any more, or if there will be any more, times like that. But most of all, though he was biologically no longer a juvenile, though perhaps mentally he was not fully developed, he looks back with great fondness to these words: 'You will always have a proud mother.'
