The red planet - a huge globe, hot to the touch, cruel and uncaring. Yet, to those who knew it, even with its limited resources, the planet provided for its offspring. Spock sat high in the mountains, as he looked down. His back to the vertical cliff, his feet hanging freely, a mile fall below to his death. He had taken off his small black bag, and lent it beside his leg. His bag which barely had room for a book, contained a bottle of water, a small rope bracelet, a pocket knife, and a few biscuits. If he were human, or if he were any other vulcan, he would worry about getting lost, and starving, but he was not. He knew these mountains, he knew the desert way back to his home town, and he knew what creatures to avoid. This was his home, more so than that town.
His arm began to itch again, despite knowing logically there was no one around, he still checked for nosey vulcans, seeing the sight was still clear, he rolled his sleeve up. His arm was covered in scars, most were healing. There were a few old scabs still bound to his arm. His chewed nails scratched at his arm, his arm itched like nothing he could control. To start with he had managed to find a comfort in his scratchings, which had led to him using objects on his arms, which had led to.. the accident. Yet his arm still itched, and he scratched with his fingers, but it did not help. Spock took a deep breath. This entire hassle, would not have come about if he could control himself. If he could simply block out this illogical horrible need to scratch. He rubbed his thumb gently up and down his arm, as skin flakes fell off him. Spock had checked, this was not an allergy, and apart from the itch, the cut and the scars, there was no sign that there was anything un-ordinarily wrong with him.
He felt it pushing through fleshy part of his arm, the urge to throw up, almost had him falling to his death. He looked at his arm, as he pressed one finger against his pale skin. Deeply he pressed upwards his skin moving, bend. It was small, but he could feel it inside himself, something hard. This must be what made him itch. Spock was suddenly very excited and hopeful if he could just - get whatever this was, if he could- then he could explain- he could tell his mother - they'd stop - they'd stop pitying. The others wouldn't think he was crazy. Somewhere deep he worried a little, that this was something, part of his body - but he pushed those thoughts aside. He pulled out his pocket knife, taking out the blade and - he paused. He did not want to end up bleeding to death a mile up the mountain, in the vulcan desert. He carefully pushed the blade in to his arm. He pulled the blade out, blood pouring out on him nonetheless. He ignored the pain to his arm as he pushed two fingers into his green oozing arm, and pulled out the thing. It was tiny. No bigger than a LED bulb. It was a chip. A tracker, like they put in wild animals to understand their behaviour. He put the tracker in his bag. He pulled apart his jumper to use as a makeshift bandage. Still, Spock didn't know what to do. Did his parents know about this? Would they allow this? Did his father think it was logical?
It was one thing to be forced to attend those receptive scientists that poked, and jabbed, and examined and experiment but this was - it was illogical to ask for it perhaps - but every other vulcan had their privacy - every one else needn't ask for it, it was a given right. Why should his asking for privacy be a special need, when everyone else had it as a basic right. If anyone else wanted a chip, it would be unusual or strange, yet he already had one. It wasn't like chips would help him if he were to be kidnapped, they only work on the planet surface, and most serious kidnappers would have blocking technology in their ship, so tracking devices were useless when it came to safety. But still Spock thought, picking up his bag and and placing it on his back. He could understand if they honestly thought they were doing this for his safety, but they were not. This was science. What does the half breed do? Where does the half breed go? Are his walking patterns unusual compared to other vulcans? Science. Science. Science. It wasn't even accurate science. They would not count for his different living situation, or the fact that he faces xenophobia, or the fact that they tie him to a chair for at least three hours a week, if not longer, occasionally electrocuting him (he really didn't understand that experiment.) Spock made his way down the mountain. Of course, he could tell his mother, and his father what he thought was clearly a violation of privacy, or he could carefully place the chip in someones house, and runaway. Or maybe he'd feed it for to an animal, something big and grizzly. He could collect bottles of his blood, cover the sand with it, feed the chip to le'matya, or some other creature that logically would be able to digest all sign of him with in twenty-four hours, and then, he could run away. Maybe he'd come back for his own funeral.
Spock awoke again, in his bed, where in the future he would be the commander of this ship. The cut on his arm was healing well. He turned over and went soundly back to sleep.