— Chapter Nine—
— Kae'at k'lasa —
Jim died in front of him again.
—stared, uncomprehending at first even as the horror set in bone deep. The burning, raging fire that had consumed and scorched him from the inside out extinguished suddenly and turned to cold ash in his veins. Something unpleasant, sick, and churning filled his gut, his chest, his throat; he didn't breathe, he didn't move, he just… stared.
Jim died in front of him again.
—broken; skin bruised, but unmistakably Jim Kirk. Jim, who was his closest friend. Jim, who meant more to him than any person ever had or ever would. Jim, who had risked his captaincy and his career to save his friend's life. Jim who had been killed—murdered—by that very same friend he'd given up everything for—
Jim died in front of him again.
—hung bonelessly, slack limbs sprawled out against the sand. This body—this limp, beaten, lifeless thing, did not look like James T. Kirk, the fearless starship captain. It did not look like Jim, his closest friend. It looked wrong; sickening and impossible and perverse, because it should not have been possible. He couldn't have—he couldn't have…
Jim died in front of him again.
"Get your hands off of him, Spock!"
Jim died in front of him again.
—fingers numbing and slipping as he lowered the body—not Jim, not Jim—to the ground. Spock stared and stared, hunched over and still holding on as the shock gave way to chilling, overwhelming—
Jim died in front of him again.
And again.
And again.
It should have eventually numbed him, to see his captain die like this. The countless repetitions should have desensitized him to the memory of it, even slightly, even the barest amount. Logic should have taken over, rationalizing that it was impossible for Jim to have been killed so many times, no matter how real it looked and no matter how real it seemed. Surely he should have come to understand that it was only a memory, and that Jim was still very much alive. That he always, in fact, had been. After experiencing it, over and over again, it should have stopped affecting him. It should have stopped hurting.
It did not.
He felt it as if it were the first time, each time.
Every time.
Jim died in front of him again.
Stop. I beg of you. Stop this.
Jim died in front of him again.
Please, enough. I cannot endure this.
Jim died in front of him again.
Spock watched, and felt, and grieved. It did not matter how many times it happened; each repetition felt just as raw and fresh a wound as it had originally; just as excruciating. The moment the memory finished, it began anew, and he watched and felt and grieved all over again. Watched and felt and grieved as if it were the first it had ever happened; as if he were only just now snapping out of the fever of the plak'tow to find Jim dangling in his hand, bloodied and lifeless. He felt every agonizing second of every agonizing cycle, and he could not make it stop.
The horror of it was consuming and left no room for anything else. The sensations it caused were tangible. The burning sand sticking to his skin, the heat of the sun bearing down on him, the sick and gutting realization that Jim was dead. He felt the unbearable, bone-deep dread icing through his veins and the stinging in his throat and eyes as his body fought to cry. He felt it as painfully as he had the first time, and the second time, and the tenth time. It was an unending torture. Spock never became numb to it; never became immune to the pain, even on the twentieth repetition. On the fiftieth. On the hundredth.
And then Jim was dead once more, body limp and beaten, and he felt it all over again.
And again.
And again.
Jim died in front of him again.
Some detached, distant, self-aware part of himself knew that this was not real. It knew that this was a result of an intrusion, an assault, and that it was all in his head. It was that awareness that had him begging, choked and ragged and increasingly desperate to escape it. He could not stop thrashing; could not stop slamming against the confines of his own mind like a wounded, rabid beast in a cage. Something in him was breaking, and he feared that the fragments of himself would be too numerous—too shattered—to fit back together once this ended, if it ever ended at all. How could those parts fit together again when they had been sharpened and reshaped by grief, distorted now from what they'd once been?
This vague remnant of Spock tried to make it stop. It did not. He begged forthe memory to stop, because there would be no coming back from this. Not this! Not after so many times over. It did not. He pleaded and screamed for it to end. Please end this! It did not. His efforts were ignored, as they already had been and as he knew they would continue to be. That overtaking presence, the one forcing him to endure this, did not understand what he was trying to say.
It did not even understand what saying was.
Stop…
Jim died in front of him again.
The awake sliver of Spock watched it happen at the same time as the rest of Spock experienced it happening. An unwilling observer and an unwilling participant alike.
So, this was what it must be like, that detached part of himself thought, to be dissected. Like an experiment; like a specimen. This was what it must be like to be disassembled, like the computer he'd always been accused of being. To have everything that made him him—his self-control, his discipline, his logic, his reasoning, his memories—be utterly stripped from the privacy of his head by force and laid bare. His mind felt skinned open, flayed. Shredded apart in peeling, bloody layers until all the concealed parts of himself were exposed, like carrion for animals to feast on. For the pleasure of the Seskille. Their happiness.
And they were so very, very happy about it.
Jim died in front of him again.
Every wall he tried to raise crumbled. Every defense he tried to barricade between himself and the Seskille broke. Every possible contortion of himself, the fraction of self-aware consciousness still writhing and thrashing even now to escape the intrusion, was immobilized. There was no place in his own mind where he could escape to that they could not—and would not—follow. There was no exit, not for him. The Seskille overwhelmed him so thoroughly that Spock had been forced into a tight corner of his mind, trapped there and made to watch this vicious massacre of his psyche unfold before him. He could not escape his own memories, no matter how he wished to do so. They had invaded the sanctity of his head and shattered all that they could reach with grasping, destructive fingers; like unaware children toying with something very fragile. He sensed their emotions as they did it. Emotions of curiosity, happiness, delight.
It made him feel sick. It also made him feel happy. He had no choice but to feel both, because he had been given no choice.
There was the part of Spock that experienced Jim dangle lifelessly from his hands as if it were real, and there was the part of Spock who watched himself experiencing it, knowing that it was not. A fracturing of his mind. There existed no words, in any language he knew, to describe the pain of it. No words for the splitting, fragmenting sensation of being rendered down into individual parts and components of a damaged whole. Spock did not know how to fix it, or whether it could even be fixed at all. His control had been challenged before, by spore or by machine or by illness, but he had not been brutalized like this. His mind might have been compromised during times past, but it had not been so molested.
Stop…
The Seskille did not stop. They did not understand the word stop. They did not fully understand what words even were.
Spock could feel them there, alongside the alert shred of himself. He could feel their minds—so many minds!—joined with his own in a sort of forced merging. Different though, to any kind he'd used before. This was more savage, more thorough, more violating. It was not a melding of consciousness, his mind to their mind, his thoughts to their thoughts. No, this was an overpowering of his own, submerging him in a sea of buried memories. They left no stone left unturned, no corner unexplored, no dark place where he could shelter himself in. He could not fight back. He could not hold them off. They had crushed the very meaning of himself beneath the collective weight of their own intrigue and left him no space to maneuver or breathe.
The Seskille watched, curious and so truly happy, as his worst memory was laid out for their pleasure, over and over again. Forcibly repeated, forcibly endured. Spock grieved as he observed himself watching Jim die. The other part of himself grieved too, as Jim dangled dead from his hands once more.
The thread of consciousness that still clung to reason and logic knew, of course, that Jim was still alive. His captain had not died then, and he was not dead now. Doctor McCoy had, in a rare show of cleverness, used of one of his potions to imitate death, allowing for the combat to end without actual fatality. It did not make a difference, however, that Jim hadn't truly perished there, not when Spock hadn't known of the plan. After snapping out of the plak'tow, he'd been so consumed by shock and grief that such a scheme hadn't occurred to him; had never even been considered as a possibility. The blood fever wouldn't have ended for anything short of death, and with Jim Kirk dangling limply from his hands, how could he have thought anything else?
For the next grueling hour, Spock had gone through the motions hollowly, operating under the full belief that he had murdered his best friend and captain. He'd made very specific plans for his future then, ones that he'd fully intended to enact once he turned himself over to the authorities. Plans that he had deemed to be unnecessary once the captain and doctor revealed their deception.
Live Long and Prosper, T'Pau had said to him. Spock had not intended to do either.
It mattered little now. Jim was still alive, having never truly died at all. Spock understood that, logically, rationally, factually. The awareness did nothing, changed nothing, stopped nothing. Not when the feelings of devastated guilt and heartbreak still echoed so forceful and sharp in his memories. He knew now what it felt like to have killed his captain, and the trauma from that torturously long hour would stay with him forever. On repeat for the Seskille to watch, over and over again.
Jim died in front of him again.
There was the sensation of a question in his mind; one that did not belong to Spock. The intruders could not make sense of what they were seeing, delighted though they were by the potency of his despair and the source of it. They watched the shapes that were called bodies, watched the elongated pillars called necks emit wind and vibrate to form sound, but they could not tell what was being said or what speaking was. There was that sense of curiosity; of wonder and joy and of amazement at the strange, mystifying sights that defied anything they could comprehend. It was foreign to them, all of it. Whatever physical form they had once been, it had obviously not been humanoid. The Seskille observed these sights in the same way as they had everything else they'd stolen from him: happily.
Joy, delight, and curiosity.
These emotions were not his. This relentless desire to understand was not his. He wanted answers to questions that were not his. The Seskille wanted to understand what they were witnessing, with a wondrous interest and excitement. They saw an alien existence that challenged all their known perception and they wanted to study it; to make sense of what it was they were watching. What they were doing to him was criminal, but they lacked a frame of reference with which to comprehend that. They were not human. They were not Vulcan. This was as new to them as their collective presence was to him. They did not know what they were doing was wrong.
It was the feeling, Spock realized, after watching Jim die again. The emotion. So raw and potent and consuming that it drew them to that specific memory. Never before had he felt so intensely or so profoundly as in the very moment that he realized he had murdered Jim, and it drew them like a moth to flame. The Seskille did not have the ability to ask him about it with words he could understand, if they had words at all. They could only repeat that memory, over and over again, to try to gain some new insight from it. Like researchers; like scientists.
They enjoyed their research just as much as he so often enjoyed his.
Was this what bacteria felt like when examined beneath a microscope? Did those infinitesimally small creatures, existing in a way so foreign to his own lived experience, feel as gutted and abused as he did now? Did they feel as exposed to his inquiring eyes as he did to the Seskille's?
What were eyes, Spock wondered.
The question, or rather the distant sensation of a question. Not formed with words or coherency but with emotion, a sense of intrigue. It did not make sense. Spock knew what they were. Eyes were simply eyes; optical organs that converted light into signals the brain could—
"God, you must think I'm an idiot…" Jim chuckled wetly as he bent double, head buried in the sink. Spock hovered at his side, pressing in close enough to be nearly flush against the man's side. His hands carefully cupped his captain's jaw, directing his face towards the harsh spray of the eyewash station. Jim hissed and tried to flinch back at the first sensation of water against his eyelids, but Spock held him steady, with far more strength than Jim could pull against.
"I do not," Spock reassured him, leaning down to be able to move the captain into a more comfortable position, as well as to better see what he was doing. He smoothed his fingertips over Jim's cheekbone, gently rubbing the skin to help rinse the chemicals off. "I think it was an unfortunate accident, but I do not think it a reflection of your intelligence, of which I know to be considerable and beyond question. Please open your eyes, Jim. I need to flush them out—"
Spock wanted to know more; it was his happiness. It was his joy to experience with them, as they also wished to experience with him, to share and be shared with—
"What's mine is yours and so on, so forth. Mi casa es su casa," Cadet Zaynah Bauer said, spreading her arms wide in a gesture meant to emphasize her admittedly remarkable collection of 20th century vinyl records. "Not many appreciate 'em these days, so it'll be nice to share with someone who gets it. Feel free to take a—"
—look like James T. Kirk, the fearless starship captain. It did not look like Jim, his closest friend. It looked wrong; sickening and impossible and perverse, because it should not have been possible—
Jim died in front of him again.
Spock wanted to beg for it to stop but he could not; not in this place where he had no voice and no body. The Seskille Collective would not have understood it anyways. There was no understanding to the words he'd tried, and there would be no further understanding to any words he would try. His memories had their attention, but he himself did not, not exactly. They did not realize there existed two parts of himself, one alert and one not.
The emotional and mental transference went both ways, and he got the vague idea that they were aware of him more as a concept, rather than a person. The Seskille had no frame of reference for what a person was, let alone the individuality that came with being one. Through the connecting link, he could tell there existed no separation between the whole of them; no unique identity to call their own. Not a hivemind, exactly, but something approaching it. He knew, without knowing fully how he knew, that their name was not even what they called themselves. It was merely what someone had once decided they were called, repeated until it stuck. There were no names here in this unfamiliar place, either theirs or his own. They did not have a reference for designation except the emotion it invoked; a sense that they were being identified for communication purposes. They did not know what a name was.
Leila's arms wrapped around him. Her cheek felt wet against the side of his neck as she pressed against him for what would be the last time. Spock felt her try to form the words she wanted, lips quivering as she fought back sobs, and he waited patiently for her to find them. When she finally did speak, her voice was choked.
"You never told me if you had another name, Mister Spock."
She leaned back from him; her bloodshot and tear-filled eyes met his own, and he felt something in him soften. She had been taken over by the spores too, and it was not her fault that it had used her body to spread to him. She was just as much a victim as he was. Spock reached for her cheek and gently wiped the tears from it as she tried to summon a wobbling smile.
"You couldn't pronounce it."
"—I am Lieutenant Commander Spock," he said, raising the ta'al as per tradition. "Live Long and Prosper, Doctor McCoy, and welcome aboard the Enterprise." Having briefed himself on the doctor's extensive and truly impressive records, Spock expected a resulting professional response, as befitting of someone with Leonard McCoy's credentials.
That was… not what he received.
McCoy instead just squinted at him, lips thinning as he looked him over like one would a particularly ugly piece of abstract art. He was silent for exactly six-point-two-five seconds before, finally, the doctor nodded with a derisive and undignified snort. "Oh yeah, I can already tell you're gonna be a real piece of work."
The Seskille probed for more.
Spock attempted to fortify his mind, but it was like trying to hold back a flood with only his hands. The collective presence of them washed over him in a terrible wave, drowning him beneath the insistent surge. He felt suffocated here, in this strange place between awareness and memory. He could not breathe. He did not have lungs. He did not have a body. He could not explain this feeling to them, because they did not have a word for it. They did not have words like he did.
Some fragment of Spock's already fragmented awareness wanted to give in. Stop resisting it, it pleaded. Stop fighting and let them take whatever they wanted without protest. The pain would end if he did, because it only hurt at all due to his continued struggle against their intrusion. It would be easier on his mind to accept what was happening and simply allow it, unencumbered by any further defiance. No pain, no opposition, no horror. He would have only peace as he became part of the whole and gave in. The Seskille's mindscape would overpower his own and he could go slack and unaware until they had their fill of him.
The idea of it was tempting. Spock wanted to stop fighting; to stop pushing back against their oppressive weight because it felt as if it were killing him to hold against the pressure. He was so very tired…
But Spock found that he could not surrender. He couldn't. Even knowing that it would stop the worst of it, he dared not let up his efforts for even a moment; to do so would betray all that he was. All that a Vulcan was. This was the one thing that they had yet to take from him; this last shred of himself that they could not reach. Giving that up, even for desperately needed relief from the pain of their onslaught, was not an option he could consider. It would have been so much easier for him to just give in, understandable even, but it would also be unforgivable to his own ideals. It was his mental weakness that had caused this to begin with; his inability to shield himself as he should have. He could not yield what little ground he had left, when it was all that he had left.
Desperate and pleading, Spock tried once more to force their understanding; to shove back at them the reality of what this cost him. What they were doing to him. To make them aware of the pain they were causing, with each and every layer of his control they peeled away. Please, he wanted to beg, if begging would have done anything at all. Please stop doing this to me. He directed the pleading outwards from that odd self-aware shard of himself, willing them to hear him somehow.
They did—in a way. Not in the way he hoped.
The Seskille noticed his effort, but they did not reach the understanding he'd wanted. Instead, there was only the overwhelming rush of joy at his attempt at communication, and a forceful desire for more of it. The collective had felt the desperation, the emotion of his plea, but they had not understood the context of it. Panic and despair did not exist wherever it was they came from, and so it did not translate to them as anything but an alien feeling without a name or description. Pain was a sensation of the body, not the mind. They could not feel his body, they could not feel the damage they were doing. They could only feel emotion itself, and they couldn't understand what his were.
The Seskille reached into him again, like picking at a specimen with sharp tweezers, and ripped—
"Goddammit Jim, again?" Doctor McCoy looked amused as he leaned against the bulkhead beside Spock, the both of them watching as the captain peeled off the tattered remains of his gold uniform shirt. "Remind me again, just how many uniforms have you gone through now? Fifteen? Twenty? What in god's name are you doing to 'em? 'Cause I'll tell you, mine don't just spontaneously come apart on me. Spock's probablydon't. So explain it to me how in the hell yours keeps trying to tear itself off you?"
"It's not my fault, Bones!" The captain tried to defend himself lamely, a flush of embarrassment rising up his neck. The shoulder of his uniform top hung off one arm, and three rough slashes bisected the fabric across the torso. "I don't understand it either. Mine must have the structural integrity of tissue paper, because they just keep ripping—"
—ripped, bloody from the fight—their fight—their fight, because he did this—and his face looked beaten in. Bones broken; skin bruised, but unmistakably Jim Kirk. Jim, who—
Jim died in front of him again, and still the Seskille watched.
They watched and they delighted in the pure emotion of it, even if they did not understand what that emotion was. Grief did not exist to them. They lacked a context for the horror he felt. Whatever form their existence took, it was completely absent of negativity. Spock got the vague impression that their experience of his sorrow was somewhat comparable to what it might be like for him to be shown a color he'd never seen before. No reference to describe it, and no ability to truly comprehend it. The mind had the intrinsic need to categorize and relate everything it came across to something recognizable, but how could it when the foreign thing was beyond the scope of explainable? All the Seskille could do was repeat it, over and over again, until it somehow made sense.
Spock empathized with them. He didn't have any choice but to empathize with them, for they allowed him no space to exist separately from their feelings. He was the Seskille, and the Seskille were him. They were merged; blurred together in such a way that they existed, not as two minds but as some indefinable mixture. They enjoyedit, this overtaking of his mind. Enjoyed it in the same way that he enjoyed a particularly challenging scientific pursuit; delighted in it, even.
Spock tried to pull away again, to cut out some kind of hole where he could hide independently of them, but they only held him tighter in their grip—
Jim dangled heavily from his grip, body—
Jim died in front of him again.
Spock watched himself and felt them watch too. Watched and experienced and grieved and felt. He could not muster any defense that might block them out and resisting only hurt him that much more.
They were… not going to stop. The thought came suddenly, devastatingly, and with a hollow sense of creeping dread. The Seskille were never going to stop. They did not know enough about him, of being a person, to know what this was doing to his mind. A Vulcan was the very antithesis of whatever creature they were. Beings made of emotion; such a world was one he could not fathom. There was no pain to them, no individuality, just the collective sharing of themselves. Sharing with him too. A willing transfer of feeling and memory—willing only because he could not shut them out, and because they did not even understand that he was trying to.
The feeling of resignation struck him like a tangible blow. The Seskille were not going to stop this, and Spock did not think anything he tried could, or would, make them. The collective presence of their minds overpowered any barrier. They were stronger than he was, and it was a battle he could not win. A battle he could not even begin to fight. They would do whatever they wanted with him, and he would have no choice but to endure it. Over and over and over again.
What made it worse, Spock thought vacantly, watching as Jim died by his hands again, was that they did not mean to harm him.
He wished they did. Maliciousness would have been its own kind of problem, but it would have also been an understandable one; an explainable one. Something he could neatly categorize away with little difficulty. An attack by reason of deep emotion, by anger, aggression, or hostility, would have made sense. It might have had a purpose or a reason, maybe even brought about by some action of his that had triggered the violence to begin with. An animal protecting its territory, a species mistaking a harmless act as challenging, an injured creature striking out. A cause and effect. Logical, rational, ordered. He had been attacked before, in countless different ways, but Spock had been able to rationalize each instance, at least to some degree or another. Even the truly vicious occurrences, he had always been able to accept them.
He struggled to accept this.
It was unintentional, this gross violation of his mind. What they were doing to him was entirely and wholly unintentional. The Seskille couldn't relate to his perspective in even the haziest sense of the word, let alone relate to the raw pain they caused. They were not intentionally hurting him; they just truly did not understand. Strangely, irrationally, that somehow made their actions worse. Spock would have preferred the violence and cruel motivations that often walked hand-in-hand with assault. He would have preferred the abuse come from a place of rage or hatred, rather than this.
The sheer innocence of their persistence, that of trying to experience something that they had not before, was not something he could easily assign blame to. How could he? Spock so often did the exact same, with all his research and studies and experiments. To seek out new life and existence, observe it benevolently and without malicious design, was quite literally the primary function of his career. So, too, were they appreciating him, and as much as he hated it—
"There is a certain scientific logic about it."
"I'm glad you approve," Anan 7 said, seemingly pleased that someone was on his side about the situation… the situation being the voluntary mass suicide of civilians due to a computerized war.
Spock could only return a blank stare as he shook his head slowly, incomprehensibly. That he logically saw the reasoning behind their actions, and of the systemic brainwashing that drove them to take those actions in the first place, did not mean he agreed. The loss of a single life in any situation was a tragedy. That so many people walked to their own death, willingly and knowingly, because a computer told them to do so was abominable.
"I… do not approve," Spock replied. "I understand."
—vision blurring and stinging with the onset of tears, but he didn't cry—couldn't cry—he could only stand there and look and look and look and not truly see, not fully understand—
Jim died in front of him again.
How did he make them understand? How did one possibly make a species, one that had no understanding of what it was to feel pain, know that they were causing it? The very idea of it was abnormal to them, as the Seskille had no ability to feel it themselves. They had no need to feel it. In however and whatever way it was that they existed, they did not have bodies. They did not have nerves, or brains, or physical forms to feel hurt or agony with. Yet he needed to make them understand that they had to stop—please stop this, I beg you—because this was killing him.
Spock had always suspected that, when his death finally came, in whatever way that it did, he would be alone. When he thought of his eventual end, he carried some hope it might be for his captain, his friends, his ship. Something that would give it a meaning, no matter how small or forgettable it might be. Something that made it all worth it. This was not how he wanted to go: bleeding out on a freezing planet while his mind was ripped open and violated. Dying here, now, lacked purpose. It lacked reason. The very idea of it felt shameful.
Yet, even at that thought, some human part of him hoped that he did, just so that this would end. Dying in such a manner might have been undignified, but there was no dignity to be found in his present circumstances either. It had to stop, and he could think of no other solution. It wasn't that he was—
"—trying to get yourself killed…" The captain looked as angry as he did relieved. Such was always the case when Spock put himself at risk for Jim's sake. Now that the immediate threat had passed, Jim could allow himself time to be upset. "Do you know how much Starfleet has invested in you?"
Jim.
Spock could not die here. He needed to get back to the captain. The captain who he had not found upon waking up from the fall, who might still be wandering in the cold, as alone and freezing as he had been. Someone would find him eventually, whether it was by Jim or by another, and there existed some aversion at the idea of being found like this: bloody, freezing, broken, and curled up in the dark. He disliked the knowledge of what would surely follow. Doctor McCoy having to perform an autopsy on his corpse, Jim having to sign off on his death certificate, Jim contacting his next of kin, his mother being told her only son was dead, his father having to arrange a burial for a son he'd rejected.
No, that was not an end Spock could allow. He knew what it was like to lose his closest friend, even for only an hour, and he would not wish the experience on anyone, let alone on Jim or Doctor McCoy. Seeing Jim so broken and still, a presumed corpse, had destroyed something inside of him. So much so, in fact, that Spock had been determined to wait until his surrender at the nearest Starbase to act on the rest of his plan. He had not wanted to put McCoy in the position of working on the body of yet another friend, especially so soon after losing Jim.
Such further considerations were useless. Spock could not let himself die here. It would benefit exactly no one and, he thought, it would only cause grave and irreparable trauma to his closest friends. That was out of the question. He needed to get back to the ship, to the captain. He belonged—
"Fascinating. Where would you estimate we belong, Miss Keeler?" Spock asked curiously, stepping closer to the woman.
"You?" Edith Keeler glanced him over with a sly, private smile. He felt his stomach sink, something nervous twisting in him at the look in her eye. "At his side, as if you've always been there and always will."
She knew. He did not know how, but she knew. Had she somehow read it in his voice? His actions? Spock could not resist looking at Jim, to gauge his reaction at what must have been so apparently obvious. If Miss Keeler had noticed, had the captain?
Please stop this.
They did not stop.
Spock could only watch and experience, from both of those ripped, agonized parts of himself, as they took from him more than he could stand to give. Again and again, they violated his mind, his memories, his control. They forced him to feel. The confusion, the grief, the horror, the nervousness, the pleasure, the tenderness, the amusement. All of the emotions from all of those moments, stacked together and crammed against him violently. He could not block them out. He could not suppress them beneath his sea of sand. He could only sit there and take it.
To be a Vulcan and be forced to feel so much, so vividly, so quickly… his control had been torn from him before, but not like this. Never like this. It had always been a betrayal of his body: an illness, a plant, a machine, but not this. This betrayal was from himself. It was his very mind that was forsaking him now; all those barriers he'd built up had broken apart like they had never existed at all. All that control he'd worked his entire life to achieve had disappeared, leaving only emotion behind. Disgraceful, shameful emotion.
And this—these memories—watching them play before him as he felt each and every sensation. How stark a reminder they were that he never truly had discipline to begin with. The feelings in each of them, forced on him one after the other, had the common theme of running deep and passionate. Unforgivably so. All those justifications he'd given himself in the moment to explain them away now revealed themselves to be little more than lies, so that he might continue to pretend to be a Vulcan. But he was not one, and it had never been more obvious to him. Any other Vulcan would have been able to maintain some kind of control, surely. But not Spock. Not he, who could do nothing but feel.
"What else would you expect from a simpering, devil eared freak, whose father was a computer and whose mother was an encyclopedia!" Jim darted ahead of him, blocking his way to the transporter pad. Spock hesitated as uncertainty broke through the serenityblisshappiness paradiseparadiseparadise.
"My mother was a teacher. My father an ambassador," Spock explained calmly, but his explanation did not seem to clear the matter up because Jim only grew angrier. The captain waved the pipe he held in his hands, brandishing it out like a weapon, and Spock was forced to pause. Leila was waiting for him to join her, but Jim did not move out of his way.
"Your father was a computer, like his son! An ambassador from a planet of traitors! The Vulcan never lived who had an ounce of integrity!"
"Captain, please don't…"
Jim wasn't stopping though, and each word felt like a physical blow to his chest; to the heart that beat within it. The captain continued as if Spock hadn't said anything at all. "You're a traitor from a race of traitors. Disloyal to the core! Rotten! Like the rest of your subhuman race. And you've got the gall to make love to that girl!"
"That's enough," Spock tried again, desperately now. Something in him was stirring; angry and hot and violent, and he turned away to try to avoid it. He tried to cling to the happinessblissparadiseparadise, but that ugly sensation of pain began to bleed out like an open wound. Why would Jim say these things to him? Had he done something wrong? Or had the captain only been waiting for an opportunity to finally tell Spock the truth?
"Does she know what she's getting, Spock? A carcass full of memory banks who should be squatting on a mushroom instead of passing himself off as a man! You belong in the circus, Spock, not a starship! Right next to the dog-face boy!"
Something in him snapped. Spock whirled around and swung, one fist collapsing the pipe in half and the other slamming directly into the side of Jim's face. The force of the punch sent the captain flying across the room, smashing face-first into the wall. His next punch missed but collapsed one of the panels of the bulkhead and splitting his knuckles. Rage consumed him. And hurt, such hurt, because this was Jim who had said these things to him. Jim, his captain, who it seemed had finally had enough of his first officer.
It was not surprising; he knew his captain could only have so high a tolerance for his mistakes, and it appeared that Spock had at last reached the limit of it.
Again, he struck out and—
—smashed his fist into the other boy's jaw. With a high-pitched roar, Spock shoved forward and tackled Sk'tav into the sand, pinning him there and raising his fist again. They were right about him: about his inability to control himself, his illogical reactions, his lack of worth, his weakness, all of it. They were not right about her. He would not hear such comments about his mother; she was not a weakness, nor a flaw to be ridiculed. They could say what they wished to about him, but they would keep their opinions of Amanda Grayson to themselves. Spock felt tears of anger pour down his cheeks, even as he fought back his feelings—
"Understand, Jim. I spent a whole lifetime learning to hide my feelings," Spock told his captain, unable to focus on the danger the ship was in, or on Jim's efforts to make him focus on it. Those very same feelings were now crushing him, because he felt so deeply and so forcefully. The infection had only brought them to the surface, but they had been there all along. Undeniably present and powerful, merely pushed beneath the sand of his endless desert but never actually gone. Never been purged. They spilled out now, like a dam bursting, unable to be contained any further under the pressure. His eyes still stung from tears, his throat still tight and hoarse from crying.
But then Jim slapped him across the face once more, and Spock could not stop himself. That ugly press of rage surged hot and potent, and he could not restrain it back any more than he could his earlier sobs. With a sharp movement, he backhanded Jim so violently that the captain was sent tumbling over the table and onto the floor behind it. When the captain looked up, a furious spark in the hazel of his eyes, there was blood dripping from the side of his mouth. Spock realized, at least some part of him did, that he had now infected the captain too. That whatever was wrong with him had been transmitted to—
—there must be something wrong with him, Spock realized, as he watched the bright glow of Vulcan fade further and further into the darkness of space. There must be something inherently wrong with him, so much so that he wondered why his father had never commented on it before today. Or why he himself had not ever noticed it. He'd always thought himself self-aware of his own flaws, but it seemed his mind still had surprises left to discover. Inexcusable, really, for a Vulcan, but acquiring knowledge, however late it might be, was at least better than never acquiring it at all and remaining in ignorance.
The argument still rang loud in his ears, harsh and stinging even hours after its conclusion. Spock had not left his planet on a positive note, and part of him wondered if this were to be the last time that he would ever see it. For at least the next few years it would be; he did not intend on returning anytime soon. Or, if Sarek had his way, at all, ever. Perhaps that was for the best.
As the ship ferried him further and further from Vulcan, Spock reflected quietly that yes, this decision was to the benefit of everyone. The last thing he wanted was to bring his family shame. Were he to have accepted the position at the Vulcan Science Academy, he would no doubt have only been a further embarrassment to them, and to his father especially. Sarek had certainly made his stance on Spock's value and worth as a son quite clear, and it was apparently found to be deeply lacking. It was nothing that Spock had not already suspected for years now, and he supposed the confirmation of it was preferable to endless wondering. It made leaving easier, in any case.
While Starfleet would likely never be a home to him, surrounded by humans as he would be, Vulcan was not his home either. He thought it increasingly clear that it never really had been. It was becoming increasingly obvious that he did not have a home, and nor would he ever. There did not seem to exist a place where someone like him belonged. A freak; a hybrid of two species and the only one of his kind. A child of two worlds, his mother had once called him, in an attempt at comfort. In truth, Spock thought it far more accurate to say he was a child of neither, of nowhere.
Something warm slid across his fingers and he looked down blankly, spying small trickles of green. He had to pry his clenched fists open to observe the damage his nails had done to the skin of his palm. Another sign of emotionalism. Another sign he would not—could not—belong. Too emotionally expressive for Vulcan society, and too emotionally restrained for Earth's. Spock took a deep breath, steading himself as he forced his reactions under control—
He'd never really had control, though, had he?
His memories played out, one after the other, and Spock watched and experienced them as the Seskille took them apart. Picked at each detail, feeling, and thought. Like something rotting, exposed to the air and left for the scavengers to eat their fill of him. He got the sense that they were delighted by what they saw; that they examined him with as much fascination as he did a new species of bacteria. The comparison did nothing to soothe him. It only made him feel dissected; like an experiment.
If he could only get them to understand. How did one communicate with a species made of emotion?
"No, not so impersonally…" Lieutenant Sulu glanced over at him, grinning as he nudged an elbow into Spock's side gently. A familiar gesture of camaraderie; one that he himself did not engage in, but that was now being displayed towards himself with increased frequency. A sign, perhaps, that he was being accepted by the crew as one of them. Not just as a Vulcan among humans, or as a First Officer, but as a peer; a friend. It was warming in a way he could not describe.
Spock allowed Sulu to take the potted fern from him, content enough to listen indulgently to the obvious passion the helmsman had for the topic. Sharing company like this was nice, to borrow human phrasing. It was somehow both relaxing and exhilarating to hear his fellow crewmate—perhaps even his friend—talk about his hobbies. He felt much the same enthusiasm towards his own work; his experiments and discoveries had never failed to thrill him intellectually. Spock felt some small bit of envy that Mr. Sulu could discuss his interests with such open emotion. It must be satisfying to be allowed the freedom to do so.
"See, you've got to be kind to them—that's the secret they don't tell you at the academy. Honestly, just forget all you learned there. The real key to plants is to give them the same attention and respect that any other living creature deserves." Sulu said. He cupped the vivid purple leaves. "Cherish them, treat 'em gently, carefully, and they'll grow up strong. Might be a bit hard for you, Mr. Spock, but one can't be just another scientist when working with growing things. You have to actually connect on an emotional level. Some people play music, or talk to them, but they can't communicate like you and I do. You gotta show them you care in other ways, ones they can actually pick up on. Really put the feeling into each action so they can understand what you wanna say to 'em—"
Yes, Spock thought. Perhaps that was the secret.
Connect with them on an emotional level. The one tactic he hadn't tried, and also the one he could not try, because to do so would be a lowering of himself.
Not that, he reflected, there was much further he could fall; he'd already been compromised in ways he never imagined were possible. But, even during the worst of it, Spock could rationalize that this had been done unwillingly to him. He'd had no choice in being torn apart, no ability to defend himself against it. His emotions had been ripped from him by force, laid bare like a raw nerve to be prodded at. There was some comfort in that; that he was unwilling and had fought as best he could. He was doing so even now, and while it did not make him any less weak for losing such a battle, he could still say with certainty that he never gave up trying.
The very idea of communicating with the Seskille in the same manner they did to him… to open himself to them, knowingly and intentionally, felt violating in an entirely new and unwelcome way. It was not simply a merging; it was a unification. A combination where there would be no Spock and there would be no Seskille, only a mixture of the two into one whole, blended part. It was not something a Vulcan did with anyone; not unless they were t'hy'la. Sometimes not even then.
It was intimate, that level of emotional transference. It was giving the entirety of himself over to someone, utterly and completely. There was only one person he would ever even consider joining with on such a level, and that was simply not possible. Such a thing would not, and could not, happen. Not now and not ever. Not with the Seskille. Not with Jim. It would reveal all the ugly, shameful, savage parts of himself that he tried so desperately to keep hidden, and openness of that kind would be damning to whatever friendship he still had left with his captain.
Those disgraceful emotions had already peaked out a few times before. They had been visible in that conference room during the Psi 2000 intoxication, in the transporter room when he'd been overpowered by the spores of Omicron Ceti III, and on full, stark display in that sandy arena on Vulcan. All of it had been forced on him, and that was the only consolation he had. It had not been by choice. Sharing himself in such a way, willingly, was unfathomable. Spock knew what happened when his emotions spilled out, messy and pathetic as they were, and it was nothing that should suffer repetition. Showing his feelings, intentionally or otherwise, had only ever ended up hurting those he loved.
Hurting Jim.
His resistance to the Seskille, even if in the barest sense of the word, was the last shred of dignity he had. They had opened him up, but Spock had fought it. At least, he'd tried to fight it, and he still continued to try even now. That token protest was all he had. The Seskille had taken everything else from Spock, and his resistance was the only thing remaining that was still his. What would happen if he stopped struggling? If he allowed them such access? If he gave himself over willingly and completely to their invasion? It would feel like failure, he knew. It would feel like something irretrievable had died in him.
But he could not do this anymore.
Jim died in front of him again.
How did one communicate with a species made of pure emotion? In the end, the answer was really quite simple: emotionally.
It was only logical; logically reasoned, logically arrived at. Not, however, so simple to put into practice. A poor excuse for a Vulcan though he might be, the fact remained that he was still a Vulcan. To willingly flay open his own mind was more than should ever be asked of him. It was not a simple mind meld. It was also not an intimate transfer of self between t'hy'la, something that should be kept private and preciously done. This was something far different; a betrayal to himself and all that he stood for. They had taken everything else from him, must he give them his dignity too? His ethics? His identity?
Yet the Seskille were not stopping, and he could think of no other way to make them. As Jim died in front of him again, Spock knew it had to stop.
And really, Spock reflected bitterly, it was not like he'd ever truly had control anyways, had he? If there was indignity to be found in his emotions, it was that he had them to begin with. If any positives could result from this, it was that his memories had shown him just how dangerously lapsed his discipline really was.
He was tired of fighting. He was so tired. It was easier in the long run if he simply gave in. If he gave up, and—
The captain glanced over at him, lips flattening into a thin line of disapproval. "They really think we're just going to give into their demands, just like that? They say it and we just…what, do it?" The captain shook his head, disgust obvious even through the blood dripping down his face. "They've got another thing coming, then, if they think we're going to just roll over and take the easy way out! Never let it be said that the Enterprise is made up of cowards."
I'm sorry, Jim.
And he really was sorry. Truly, wholly, and utterly sorry.
… But he simply could not take it anymore.
It felt like a betrayal—of himself, of his Vulcan heritage, of Jim, of everything—as he forced his mind to stop fighting the Seskille. Relax. Stop fighting. Stop resisting. It was harder to do than he expected it to be. His barriers might have been shattered, but every ounce of his mind still fought to rebuild them. Even now, some part of himself still tried to press against that overwhelming pressure in his head; to shove it as far from him as he could. It felt wrong to instead let it instead slam back into him. It took willpower and intent to stop pushing against their presence, to let his resistance go slack and allow the tide of the Seskille to wash over him in a terrible, overwhelming wave. He felt their joy. He felt his own self-loathing. He felt their happiness. He felt sick.
Letting go was… disturbing. It was painful, but only because it felt so good. There was the sensation of pure relief, like a cool compress against an injury, as he stopped resisting against them. Hurt did not exist here; the pain of his surrender was only emotional in nature. A bruised, beaten pride that throbbed. He had abandoned himself to their whims, like the turncoat that he was, like a coward. There was another feeling there too, one rising up potent and vile alongside the sense of serenity. His first instinct was to try to suppress it. His second instinct was to pretend it did not exist.
Spock did neither. Instead, he allowed it to take firm hold.
That feeling was one of disgust. Disgustat his weakness, at his emotions, at himself. Spock took that emotion, felt it, and then shoved it outwards to the invading force, like sand slipping through his slack fingers to catch on the breeze. The whole of what made him Spock spilled out of his grasp, and the Seskille grabbed at it eagerly.
—he saw the look in Doctor McCoy's eyes during the debriefing, and it agitated something within him. The doctor's eyes held the hollow, empty look of stunned shock and trauma. A recognizable look. Spock knew, without having to be told, what had happened and the debrief only confirmed it, despite the doctor neatly evading the details of the assault. Spock had never seen the act done in person before, as such a thing was incomprehensible to him. Unfathomable. But he knew of it, as all Vulcans did; knew how dangerous such a thing could be to his kind, let alone to a human. His people, at least, knew how their own minds and defenses worked. They had a chance of blocking it out, slight though it was. The human mind was so exposed and fragile; it lacked any shield at all. Doctor McCoy couldn't have fought it off if he tried—and Spock was certain that the doctor had tried, for all the good it would have done him.
"Doctor McCoy," Spock said softly, as the doctor stood to leave the conference room. The man paused and glanced back with that emptiness in his eyes. The doctor did not want to be there, that much was clear. He did not want to talk about it. He did not even want to look at Spock. "What happened to you—…that is, what my counterpart did… it is unforgivable. I am sorry."
"What for? Not like it was really you," the doctor tried to justify, purposely attempting to keep his tone casual. His voice still shook, as did the rest of him. Faint tremors; a tightening of his lips and around his eyes. No doubt the man had a migraine from the forced meld; from the kae'at k'lasa—the mind rape. His entire psyche was likely to be left reeling, traumatized in a way that the human brain couldn't understand or repair. "And anyways, it all worked out in the end, right? Everyone got home safe and sound; the mad men back to their torture ship, and us civilized people back to our perfectly boring one. All I care about is that we're alive, Spock. The whys and hows of it don't matter all that much."
"On the contrary—" Spock stood and watched as the doctor flinched back from him. It hurt, some sharp pain in his heart, but he did not show it. This was not about him, his feelings were not important. This was about what he'd done, or rather, what some cruel, alternate version of himself had done. That he had the capability for that level of depravity at all, in any universe or reality, sickened him to the core. "—such an act is a crime of the highest degree on Vulcan. The mind is considered sacred and should be yours to share only if and when you wish to. A violation of it is reprehensible. I assure you, sir, that it does matter."
The Seskille watched and felt as much as he watched and felt. There was a sense of joy as they realized what it was that he attempted now. Communication on an emotional level. Like with plants, Spock thought blankly, just as Sulu had once said. He tried to get them to understand that what they were doing to him was criminal, that it was wrong. But they only felt happiness at his willing efforts to share with them.
Spock felt tainted, sullied and stained (and so good, serene, no longer hurting) at his effort to reach them in a way they might comprehend. The Seskille had certainly heard him, with that strange awareness they had, but they lacked the ability to grasp his true meaning. There was no context for self-loathing or violation in their reality. What they did was simply what they did. It was intentional, but it was not hostile. He'd made progress only in that he had their attention, but he was no closer to freedom now than he had when he'd been begging in the dark.
It had been a mistake to give in. He'd hoped it would ease the pressure, not worsen it. But worsen it did; increasing and spiking again as he felt himself buckling under the sensation. Joy, delight, curiosity. The Seskille wanted to communicate too; to share themselves. And he had dropped his last defense against them.
They rushed in, and all he felt was—
—happiness. Collective. Unity. All became one. The old world was abandoned and the new one embraced. Over and over again, they shared and created, and it was their happiness joy peace harmony sharing. Nothing else but that. The collective and the pleasure and the creation of a new existence.
Forgotten. All sense of themselves, of who or what they were, had been forgotten. There was no sense of loss in it. No sensation of dying. No sensation of erosion, or of the passage of time. Time was not present anymore. Bodies, sounds, words, pain—none of it existed and had not for so, so long. All that was felt now was the existence of many. All shared and were shared with. Not a death, but an evolution! A celebration! A universe of themselves and what they were made of. Emotion. Joy. Pleasure. It was to be shared and consumed and shared, again and again and again—
He was screaming. Somewhere, on an empty, dying planet, he was screaming, body lost to a fit that shuddered him into hard stone. Stop, he wanted to beg—tried to beg. Stop! They could take whatever it was they wanted from him. They could take anything and everything if that was their desire, as many times over as they wished. He would give the Seskille any memory, or all of them at once, as long as they did not again press their mind into his own like that. It was paralyzing; ungraspable and beyond what he could tolerate. An existence he could not comprehend, one he had no ability to do so. The things he saw—
Horizons he could not rationalize, made of colors that did not exist, all clouded with emotions that flooded him like oceans. No gravity, no time, no sun. Planets the size of water drops, and drops of water the size of galaxies, all intangible and made of shapes that twisted and merged—in and out and in—all of it writhing and beating like a pulse. Landscapes of emotion that fizzed and popped and whined in that terrible, ear-splitting way, because it wasn't physical at all. It didn't really exist. Objects that did not hold form, but also held properties. Creatures that were not… not… that simply could not be. His mind… it hurt… it hurt, please, stop this. The world around him thrummed with his desperation, tinting the universe with all shades of colors that he could not visualize, despite seeing them with eyes that did not exist. It felt good, it felt horrible. It felt like everything. He saw everything, shared everything. It was his happiness…
"Spock!"
"—best, Mr. Spock. I know you were excited about—sorry, stoically intrigued about such a discovery. But there are honestly just some things that mankind—or Vulcankind, for that matter—aren't meant to understand quite yet, and I'd say this definitely counts as one of them. Being lost in a different dimension… I can't even fathom it. But no one can, I guess. How does the mind even grasp what it can't imagine? Even in our wildest fantasies, things still have to make sense; have some kind of grasp in reality. It's no wonder they all went insane there. I feel like I'm going mad just trying to wrap my head around it all. Explaining it to Command is going to be an absolute mess…"
Curiosity and wonder. Conversations with things called voices. Words. Delight at such foreign things. A thing that was called Spock. A thing that was called Jim. Such intensity and passion, a sensation of burning, although the name—the word, what were words? Repeat them on all frequencies until they make sense—lacked meaning. Passion, burning, desire, lust, joy, love. Love. Love. Burning. Love. Fire. Over and over again, the intensity of the deep feelings. It was beautiful, and it was being so willingly shared. Over and over and over again, given so that they might understand such a creature. The creature, the thing called Spock. The passionate one.
"Spock!"
Adoration. They loved it, adored it and the experiences it shared. The one from before. The thing called Spock—names, titles, Vulcan, Human, words, fire, Jim—shared itself with them, as they shared with it. A community, a collective, a creation. Mountains and stars and timeless, unending joy at being one. The thing called Jim brought such vivid, loud emotions to the sights that were shared. There was joy, and love, but there were also feelings without names. Names existed—were important to the thing called Spock. Spock. Jim. James T. Kirk of the USS Enterprise. The Seskille. The Boa. Weather. Flowers. All had names with things called words. Spoken with voices. Get your hands off of him, Spock! Emotion without a name. I am also quite blind. Wished to understand and be understood. You? At his side, as if you've always been there and always will. To share and be shared with! Learn with and learn from! The thing called Spock had reached out and it was such delight!
It was their happiness.
That glow lit in him as he observed Jim from his peripherals, pretending to continue the work that he'd all but stopped. The captain seemed happy; he was smiling as he leaned against the science console with a PADD in hand, a place he so often perched lately. They weren't touching, but Spock could feel the heat pressing against his side all the same. It felt warm, comfortable. Familiar to him after so working alongside this one particular human for so long, and—
It was blending together. Spock. The Seskille. It was all blending together, and he could not make sense of it any longer. There was no separation. No single entity.
"Sometimes a feeling, Mr. Spock, is all we humans have to go on—"
"—will you try for one moment to feel?! At least act like you've got a heart!"
A heart, what is heart? Beating. Fire running through blood. Lust. Words. Context. So many strange things. Names. The thing called Spock! A name. Named. A thing named Spock. A thing named Jim. More. Share and be shared with. It is our happiness and joy and curiosity. All is welcome, no need to hide.
"No. No, you aren't gonna hide behind that damn alien stubbornness of yours! Not this time, 'cause let me tell you something, Commander, I can out-stubborn you any day of the week and still have some fight to carry over into the next one! This isn't logical, and you know it. I know that you know it! Are you honestly willing to die rather than tell me what's wrong? Dammit, Spock, just give me something! Anything! It's clear that your sick—
— sickened, gutted, because this was his fault. His captain. His Jim. His fault…
"Spock! God, you're—hold on for a bit longer, Spock. McCoy's on his way. You're almost home, I promise. Kirk to McCoy. Goddammit Bones, where in the devil are you?!"
Someone… someone was calling his name; talking to him from what sounded like very far away. He heard it with frozen ears but did not fully register what it meant. Couldn't, because he was lost in his own mind. It came, closer now and echoing loudly in the rooms of stone—
Stone. All had faded to dust. Crumbled. No sense of loss, only community. Collective. Sharing and being shared with. Creativity. Emotion. No loss. Nothing but emotion and joy. It is our—
"—nature to react violently, Ensign." Captain Pike gave him a short smile from across the desk. "In that sense, I suppose Vulcans have the advantage on us. There's a price to pay for suppressing emotion, no doubt about that, but I daresay that the mission would have gone a tad smoother had human tempers not gotten in the way. Then again, there's only so much pressure—"
—pressure in his eyes, vision blurring and stinging with the onset of tears, but he didn't cry—couldn't cry—he could only stand there and look and look and look and not truly see, not fully understand…
Understand. Yes. Desire to understand more. Share and be shared with, it is our happiness. Our curiosity. How—
"Fascinating," Jim said, and while the word itself wasn't suspect, Spock had to pause at the tone with which he said it in. He felt his eyes narrow as he turned a somewhat suspicious glance onto the captain. Jim was trying to keep his expression flat and stoic, but his lips continued to twitch upwards in a resisted smile.
"Sir?" he asked, distrustful now. This felt like a setup. In fact, it sounded as if the captain were attempting to imitate him. Spock raised an eyebrow, perplexed… and his other immediately joined it as Kirk attempted to mimic the same action. Yes, that answered his question quite thoroughly. He gave Jim a distinctly exasperated look and turned, retreating to the safety of his console. The captain's laughter followed him—
—hands were grabbing at him, but his body felt so numb. So cold. His arms were being pinned down as he thrashed, but if he hit anything, he could not feel it. He could not feel anything anymore. A voice in the air. Familiar. He knew that voice, but he could not open his eyes. He was so cold—
The cold was increasingly unpleasant against his skin. The snowball began to melt, dripping freezing water down the side of his neck, as well as further into his ear canal where the bulk of it had impacted. Already, the tips of his ears had gone green from the temperature, as well as increasingly numb. Spock supposed they were also green from some embarrassment as well, although he attempted to suppress it back. It felt cowardly to hide behind the wide tree, but he also dared not leave the safety of his makeshift shelter lest the captain and his entourage continue to throw snow at him. Apparently, he had become their favorite, and singular, target—
"Shhh, it's alright, Spock. It's alright, you're okay, you're safe."
Here. Where was here? A planet of rock and wind and ice. Some distant memory from it, enough to remember the concept of mountains, of places, of location. Not enough, though. No need for it any longer. No sensation of loss or feeling of loss. Not a death but an evolution. Physical forms left behind as the collective merged and grouped together, but there was no loss in that. Only joy. Transcended. Emotion. Creativity. Happiness. Share with all and be shared with. The one named Spock. The Burning One. The Passionate One. Not one anymore, but part of the many. Join and be joined with. The one name Spock, the one named Jim.
Jim dangled heavily from his grip, body limp and lifeless, and everything in Spock froze.
Freezing. He was so cold, and yet a hand gripped him—body limp and lifeless, and everything in Spock froze—warm skin pressing firmly against his fingers. It sent sparks shivering down his spine, and something touched the edges of his mind. He was lost to the collective, to their happiness, but now there existed something else. Someone else. Not the Seskille, but another. Another intrusion? No, but this felt welcome. It was soft, warm, calming, and familiar. Concern radiated out of that new presence. Fear. Terror. Relief. And another emotion, consuming and tender that he couldn't put a name to.
The faint shred of Spock flung himself towards it, because he knew that presence. Knew it better than he did himself, because he was lost in a place he could not understand. That other mind was so bright, like the sun. It illuminated all the dark places he'd split apart into. He recognized it and, whatever it was, it felt like home.
"Wake up, Spock," a voice said gently into his ear. Familiar. Warming. He knew that voice. He knew that voice. "It's okay, you're safe. That's it, open your eyes for me."
A command. A request. A plea. Spock felt his awareness stir, because that voice had given him an order and he couldn't refuse it.
He'd never been able to refuse that voice anything.
His eyelids seemed impossibly heavy as they fluttered, dislodging the ice that had frozen them down. It took a moment to open them, and yet another moment after that to focus his sight into something like vision. The dim light cast his surroundings in shadow, but it did nothing to conceal the worried eyes hovering over him. Spock knew those eyes, and he knew the man they belonged to. He would recognize this one particular human anywhere.
"Hey, there you are," Jim said, sounding relieved. "It's okay, you're safe. I'm here, Spock. I'm right here. I've got you."
A long chapter this time, but I couldn't find any reasonable way to split it into two! This one was a beast to write, but at last we have a rescue! Thank you all so much for the reviews and comments! I appreciate each and every one of them, and I cannot tell you enough how much they mean to me!
This chapter contains quite a few references to TOS episodes. Particularly 'This Side of Paradise' and 'The Naked Time'. Two particularly good episodes of you want some Hurt!Spock. The scene of Kirk belittling Spock comes from the former. It always broke my heart to hear Jim say those things, even if it was for a good reason, and I felt that there would likely be some emotional fallout as a result of it. This chapter also has some scenes or lines from the episodes: 'The City on the Edge of Forever', 'A Taste of Armageddon', 'The Apple', and 'Where No Man Has Gone Before'.
Vulcan:
K'oh-nar — The fear of emotional vulnerability and emotional exposure.
Kae'at k'lasa — Mind-rape; mind-rape (a crime)
Plak'tow — Blood fever; the final part of Pon Farr whereby the victim is rendered incapacitated.
Ta'al — Hand Salute; often used in both greetings and farewells.
T'hy'la — Friend/Lover/Brother. One who shares a deeply close bond.