Chapter Text
There is more green in his new backyard than in the entirety of Vulcan. He steps off the shuttle, hand clutching his suitcase, and tries to stop himself from gazing about in wonder. There are other Vulcans at this camp too, after all, and it wouldn’t do for them to see a blatant display of emotion.
None of his tormenters have come along, and T’pall is here. She is a year younger than him, and incredibly bright. The two often studied together, and he considers her to be a friendly acquaintance.
The sky is an endless, smokeless blue, the sun beats down with late July ferocity, and row after row of brand new science equipment glints in the white-walled labs, just waiting for him.
Although he doesn’t show it, it is the happiest he has ever been.
He darts into the kitchen at midnight, snatching jars and boxes and anything that wouldn’t rot away. Stuffs it in a bag, flings it over his shoulders, staggering under the weight even though he should be able, would be able, to carry ten bags of metal and food.
His father turns on the kitchen light and Spock flinches.
They are good months, peaceful. His head is clear, his future clearer. A spot at the Vulcan Science Academy would be all but secure once he completes his research project. He makes what he considers friends among the other young scientists at the camp, mostly human, occasionally Andorian or Orion. T’pall and him become quite close, by Vulcan standards, spending many a long day hunched together over equations and questions. His mother spends several of their comm conversations practically in tears, hands over her mouth. Smiling.
He takes apart replicator after replicator, puts them back together with shaking hands. Draws his fingers over the circuits and wires, trying to memorize every possible fail point and failsafe. His mother hovers behind him, clutching at the doorframe like it was the only thing keeping her upright.
The fungus comes slowly, and then all at once.
He could build a replicator blindfolded.
The adults are worried, the children confused, the Vulcans wondering why someone doesn’t hail Starfleet. Spock tries to call his mother, once. Nothing but static. He doesn't ask why. He knows, instinctively, that nothing good lies down that road. Instinct is illogical. He is the only Vulcan here who possesses it, he is told that time and time again.
He is the only one who makes it out.
The governor is making an announcement, the third one in as many weeks. The two previous were routine placations, followed by tips on stretching rations from days into months. Logically, today will be more of the same. Nothing has changed in the colony, and so nothing will change in the way the colony is being run.
Spock is uneasy.
He tries to express this unease to T’pall, then to his other Vulcan classmates, and finally to the Vulcans that made up the majority of the camp’s teachers. They all dismiss his unease as a hunch, an echo of humanity in his DNA, bereft of logic. They sooth him and reason with him and eventually he buries the nervousness beneath layers of sense and follows them to the square.
He wishes, for days, years afterwards, that he had fought harder.
They lock the gates and a man that Spock has never seen before stands before the colony (half the colony) and begins to speak.
The revolution is successful
He wakes up to those words for years.
The whine of phasers is all around them and the cicadas are buzzing behind, a symphony of shrillness. He lets himself fall, lets a boot crush his fingers, doesn’t scream, can’t scream, the world is white and red and shockingly green around him and he can’t breathe enough to scream. There’s a weight on his chest and a warmth streaming down his face and T’pall’s vacant, pine-trickling eyes stare at him with all the intensity of an earthquake.
He slams his eyes shut against the dust and the stare and the brilliant flashes of phasers, and listens to the sound of bodies striking earth. He goes limp, lets T’pall act as camouflage. His own heartbeat roars in his ears and there is noise noise noise and
Silence.
He leaves a bouquet of pure white lilies on her family’s doorstep. Thank you.
There is silence and iron for a long time around him. He feels as though he’s been buried alive. Then there is rustling. The sound of disbelieved gasps, emotional and desperate and frantically trying not to cry.
He lets his eyes fall open.
A boy stands besides a row of corpses, eyes bugging out of his head and shining with tears. He has snatched up a phaser and is holding it with jittery hands, as jumpy as a rabbit.
Spock inhales. In the silence it sounds like a foghorn.
Somehow, he finds the strength to speak.
“Get me out of here,” he whispers.
The boy stands still for a long moment. And then he reaches down and offers Spock his hand.
He reads Shakespeare, afterwards.
“What’s your name?” the boy asks after they have left the square behind, when they are crouching in a cave with three slices of moldy bread, a threadbare blanket, and a uncharged phaser between them. They can hear the cavorting of the hunting parties, searching for survivors.
This is before. Before they do some searching of their own. Before John and Kevin and Tom and Vrall and Amelia and Saturn and Wren and Lazarus.
Before they become leaders, parents, protectors.
It’s the two of them in a cave by themselves, scared out of their minds.
“S’chn T’gai.”
It’s bitter and petty. But humans have taken everything and they can’t have his name. They won’t have his name. They’ll die before they can pronounce it correctly and something inside him twists at the thought.
The boy blinks. Then he smiles.
“I’m JT,” he says.