Chapter Text
Earth was light.
Not as opposed to darkness, but as opposed to weight. He had visited before, but it was long ago—too long for even him to remember this lightness, the ease at which he filled his lungs.
Too easy. He felt dizzy for a moment, until he steadied his breath to a slower pace. Lightheaded. It was a term his mother had used many times before, one which he had often questioned the use of, as she no doubt felt heavy and unwieldy on his larger home planet.
The case he had filled with his belongings was now light enough to be carried with one hand. He trailed behind the group of chattering cadets who’d shared the transport shuttle, making note of the buildings around him in order to orient himself.
He was not looking for the dorms that most of the first-year cadets were. The Academy had granted him special permission to reside in housing which offered single rooms, taking into account the high value that Vulcans placed on privacy and solitude.
He continued on when the other cadets went around a corner, their heads swiveling around and mouths gaping. Quiet fell as they walked away, their voices slowly fading. Quiet, but not silence—the wind disturbed the trees and plants blanketing the campus, birds chirped and fluttered. The ever present background noise of humans making conversation, their words indistinct as the sound became scattered over the grass.
It took a considerable about of mental energy simply to walk. His steps were carefully measured to compensate for the altered gravity. His breathing was slowed. His jaw was consciously kept lax, against the urge to clench it to prevent shivering in the wind. The shivering was nonetheless suppressed.
It was a relief when he finally stood in front of the door to his living quarters, setting his belongings down.
There was a lock to the side of the door. There was no display, nor even keys to enter a code.
He stared at it for a moment, before looking up, turning his head to either side, searching for a resident in his immediate vicinity who may have been in a similar conundrum.
The quiet became suddenly undesirable. It was a considerable amount of time before another resident came into view, stepping up to their door and pulling something out of their pocket. They unfolded this something and pulled out a small card, that when held up to the lock caused the door to slide open and admit them.
An identification card.
Spock had not received an identification card.
He felt a wave of frustration wash over him, but quickly admonished himself, pushing the emotion from his mind. There was no use for frustration. A clear mind was a more valuable asset when solving problems.
He picked up his case, again, and began his walk to the administrative offices.
Perhaps a few suggestions regarding the administrative organization of the Academy would not go unappreciated.
***
A backlog of messages received on a belatedly acquired Academy-issued Personal Access Display Device:
Subject: Welcome!
Language: Federation Standard
Content:
Cadets,
Welcome to Starfleet Academy! We at the residency office extend our best wishes. You should have received an Academy personal identification card, your Starfleet cadet uniform, and of course, the PADD that you’re reading this on.
If you’re missing any of these, or if your uniform doesn’t fit, let us know and we’ll direct you towards the correct offices to rectify that.
If you find your housing insufficient for any reason, please contact us within the first two weeks of the semester. As always, we will strive to accommodate you to the best of our abilities.
Good luck!
-
Subject: Welcome to Hall East
Language: English-influenced Federation Standard
Content:
Hello Cadet Spock,
I’m the residential assistant for Hall East. As the title implies, my duties mostly involve making sure students here don’t disturb each other—if someone’s being too loud, you can come to me and I’ll get them to quiet down, or get the Academy to issue a fine if it’s happened too many times. That sort of thing. There shouldn’t be too many problems like that here, though, since almost everyone who lives here is an upperclassman who has since learned to behave themself.
I’m mostly writing you because we’ve never had a Vulcan living here before, so we might not have thought of everything you need in order to be comfortable. If there’s anything I can do for you in that regard, let me or the residential office know, and we’ll try to work something out.
Also, I’ve read that Vulcans aren’t very open about personal matters, so I apologize in advance if this offer is overstepping my bounds, but it feels right to make it: If you ever have questions about cultural differences or interpersonal relationships, you can ask me about those, too. I don’t really know what it’s like moving to a different planet, but I can guess it’s a lot to get used to. If you want help, feel free to send me a message or come talk to me.
The Academy also set up an Earth-culture database for offworld students, which you can access here; [link redacted]. There’s also a portal there for submitting anonymous questions if the computer can’t give you an answer.
Let me know if you need anything.
-Christine
-
Subject: Information regarding differing cultural practices between Terrans and Vulcans, confirmation of location of Vulcan Embassy and offering of its services
Language: Standardized Vulcan
Content:
This message is being transmitted on behalf of the Vulcan Embassy of San Francisco. Starfleet Academy has requested our services in assuring a tolerable educational environment during your time on Earth. We have presented them with information we decided relevant to your Vulcan physiology, though we do not have sufficient information to suggest what will be needed on account of your human heritage.
If you should meet resistance from Starfleet Academy in instituting any measure in line with your needs as a Vulcan, contact us for legal measures to be taken.
Live long and prosper.
Attachments included: “Location of Vulcan Embassy and Enumeration of Services Provided,” “Discrepancies Observed Regarding Human Cultural Practices”
***
He was thankful for his previous study regarding the structure of a human classroom, as it differed vastly from those on Vulcan, having a much greater focus on social interaction—mainly between the instructor and their students, but occasionally between the students themselves.
He could not say he was particularly looking forward to that aspect of it. He had a curiosity towards the process, of course—but he would have been content to observe it from the outside.
The human adage “sink or swim” came to mind.
He found it morbid.
Five minutes before class was scheduled to begin, he chose a seat unoccupied on all sides, making no acknowledgement of the other students in the room.
He was not afforded the same courtesy. In tones that, perhaps, would be inaudible to a human in his position, but were clear to his Vulcan ears, he heard a few students whisper between themselves about green skin and elf ears and that haircut, oh god, interspersed with phrases that he could not understand the connotations behind.
He would not let it bother him. It was illogical to become defensive due to comments about physical appearance, as it was unrelated to his value as a…
A person.
***
“…well, if you do come up with any questions later, feel free to shoot me a message. Now, enough about me, I want to know about you guys. Why don’t we start over here—tell me a little about yourself.”
The instructor made eye contact with Spock, who stared back, attempting to decipher the vague command.
“What information do you require?”
Someone behind him made a noise that sounded like a cough, and then a sputtering of stifled breaths.
“Oh. Well…your name, the track you’re pursuing, that sort of thing.”
“I do not know what ‘that sort of thing’ entails.”
“Uh,” said the instructor. “Okay. Just tell me,” they counted each item off on a finger, “your name, where you’re from, and whether you’re on the science, command, or engineering track.”
Spock did not know the purpose of relating information that could easily be found in the Academy’s database, but intuited that it was not the right time to ask.
“I have chosen to go by ‘Spock’ as of joining Starfleet, as it is a close approximation of my given name, which is difficult for humans to pronounce. I am from the planet Vulcan, and will be graduating from the science track.”
“Right,” said the instructor, after a significant pause which Spock could not decipher the meaning of. Another significant pause followed. During the second one, a few students made quiet comments, one of which was “yeesh.” He did not know what that meant, either.
“Thank you, Cadet Spock,” their instructor finally said. “Alright. Who’s next?”
***
Due to the limited capacity of human memory, classes are structured in a way that involves frequent repetition and simplified explanations of the subject matter. Students are expected to make notes of these explanations so that they may review them later as their short-term memory is not adept at storing specificities. It may be necessary to inform instructors that your abstinence from note-taking is not an indication of your lack of interest or attention, merely that Vulcans do not need to make use of such devices.
Spock’s fingers hovered over the PADD as he considered how best to phrase his next insight.
However, some instructors may inexplicably take this statement as a personal rebuke. A careful consideration of the wording of your explanation is necessary to retain amicable professional relationships.
Vulcans had studied human cultural practices for centuries, as the two planets had a close alliance, and there was a multitude of Vulcan literature on the subject. Humans were a fascinating species that had practices that defied all logical explanation. It was only logical, then, that they would be a popular area of study. Yet, Vulcans considered their own educational system vastly superior to any other planets’. No Vulcan had ever felt the need to attend a school created, largely, by humans, that relied on Terran educational practices.
Thus, there were no Vulcan works that covered the intricacies of the human education system, and the difficulties a Vulcan might face were they to attend one.
Spock did not know if his insights would be considered “Vulcan literature,” so perhaps he would not be able to rectify that situation. But he could, at least, describe his experiences as a half Vulcan who was raised on the planet, which, should any further residents decide to pursue a similar avenue of education, may provide useful.
There was no need for anyone to repeat his experience.
***
Subject: How are you doing?
Language: Terran-influenced Standardized Vulcan
Content:
My dearest Spock,
How have you been doing during your first week of classes? I cannot help but worry about you. Moving to a new planet and being surrounded by people who were not raised in the same culture was difficult for me, and you are much younger than I was.
But I do not know if age matters as much to Vulcans. This is why I must always ask after you, even when my inquiries into your emotional state frustrate you. I know they do. But I must selfishly ask anyway.
How do you find your quarters? How do you find your classes? How do you find humans, now that you are forced to interact with more than just me?
With love, as always,
Your mother.
***
He was, eventually, forced to eat a full meal. He had been surviving sufficiently well on “snacks” that he could purchase with minimal human interaction. Many Terran foods repulsed him, but he found that he could rely on fresh vegetables and varieties of nuts being available. He was particularly taken with cashews, though he did not enjoy the amount of salt that frequently accompanied them.
But he longed for Vulcan food, and it was not logical to seclude himself when so much of Starfleet’s operation relied on adequate social functioning. He would need to become used to humans, even if he could not reach an understanding of them.
He trailed behind a group of cadets to the cafeteria after their class ended.
It was…loud.
He resisted the urge to stop and gather his senses, putting one foot after the other and entering the echoing room, voices refracted into indistinction.
There was a small selection of fresh food available, but the majority of it was Terran.
He was not particularly looking to experiment. He longed for something simple and familiar, and most of all for a quick retreat into a quiet and secluded corner of the hall. He instructed a replicator to create a bowl of plomeek soup—along with a few tasteless nutritional additives, as he was very aware of the deficits in his diet since he had arrived on earth—and took it to the least occupied part of the room, sitting at a small table next to a window.
The sunlight was warm through the glass. He found himself relaxing, though he had not been wholly aware he was so tense. The taste of the soup was not quite the same as the recipe his mother was fond of, and the noise level was illogically loud, but he had found, however briefly, a moment of peace.
And then, only minutes later, someone sat across from him.
He felt his eyebrows draw together in a frown, though he tried not to let the expression show. He was not aware he had shown any indication of wanting to be joined for his meal. Perhaps there was some social cue he had neglected to express.
“Hey there,” said the person across from him. A human female—she had introduced herself as Sylvia, on the engineering track, in their shared Overview of Federation Religions course.
“Hello,” replied Spock, dutifully. It was a simple script to follow. It was logical to employ it in various situations in order to assess potential modifications.
“I’m Sylvia,” said Sylvia, extending her hand towards him. “Remember me?”
For example: that very statement. That statement was not included in the script.
He stared at her hand for a moment, during which a great deal of careful deliberation ensued. In the end, he mirrored the gesture, taking her hand and “shaking” it as he was assured was the proper practice.
He had never made contact with a human other than his mother before. Sylvia’s emotional state was considerably less organized. She seemed amused by Spock’s reaction, somehow. She was determined towards some goal. There were hints of irritation and fatigue that he did not think were related to the current situation.
He pulled his hand back, perhaps too quickly.
He would purchase gloves later.
“Yes,” he responded, after taking a hopefully unnoticeable moment to compose himself. “A Vulcan’s memory is superior to that of an average human. I would not forget something that happened only five days ago.”
She laughed at this.
Spock stared at her. He did not understand that reaction, nor could he make an estimation as to the appropriateness of various responses. Thankfully, he did not need to.
“There’s a party tomorrow night,” she said, abruptly. “You should go with me.”
He tilted his head in question. “What does a ‘party’ entail?” he asked. He knew the definition of the word, but it was variable.
“Oh, you know…college stuff…alcohol, music…it’ll be a great chance to, uh, meet other cadets. You should come.”
He considered the proposition, as well as the implication of the repetition. It would be logical to attend such an event at least once, and it presented an opportunity to create social connections, an area in which Spock was noticeably lacking.
He nodded. “I will attend with you.”
Sylvia bared her teeth. It was a smile, but not like any he had ever seen.
“Good,” she said. “Great.”
She twisted her torso, looking around the room. Then she shifted, as if to stand from the chair—until she stilled, and returned to her settled position.
“You know I just asked you out on a date, right?”
Spock tilted his head, the furrow in his brow deepening. “No. I was not aware of that connotation behind your request.”
“Well, that’s what I meant. Go to the party with me, like as a couple.”
“I do not know what that entails, either.”
She put one of her hands on the table, with enough force to be audible.
“Don’t worry,” she said. “I’ll show you. See you there, okay?”
Then she did leave, pushing her chair out with an offending screech and walking off to a different table, smiling at a group of cadets.
He had not been given the opportunity to decline, given his new knowledge about the nature of her request.
He would attend anyway, if only for curiosity’s sake.
***
Subject: I am well.
Language: Standardized Vulcan, reluctantly Terran-influenced
Content:
Mother,
It is not selfish to seek relief from worry. Emotional health is important to the wellbeing of humans. Therefore, allow me to reassure you that I am well, and if I were not, you would surely be informed of that fact.
My quarters are adequate. Starfleet Academy’s residential staff has made many inquiries into this same topic as to assure my comfort. They consider me more sensitive than I am. I admit to some discomfort, but it is attributed to circumstances that are either unable to be modified or I willingly bear in order to desensitize myself to small annoyances. The gravity and temperature of this planet are members of the first category; the noise I can hear through my walls belongs to the second. The sound is faint and can be “tuned out.” It does not bother me greatly.
My classes are adequate as well. The material intended to be presented as recorded in the syllabi of my courses is not as rigorous as education on Vulcan; however, the material unintentionally presented to me merely by attending a course with a majority human population has kept me occupied. The social rituals practiced here are many and often appear contradictory. I seek to understand them. It is with that goal in mind that I am attending a “party” this evening. I do not anticipate that it will be an enjoyable experience, but it has the potential to be an enlightening one.
I believe I have partially answered your inquiry regarding humans in my previous paragraph. However, I will elaborate on that point briefly. I find humans to be fascinating beings. I have much to learn about them. That this culture is so based on the individual puts our ideals on Vulcan in stark contrast; many ideals of which I have neglected to question. Reaching an understanding of human society will bring, in turn, a better understanding of Vulcan society. I devote myself to this study.
With affection,
Your son.
-
Subject: Inquiry about nonverbal signals as interpreted by humans
Language: Federation Standard
Content:
Cadet Chapel,
Is there a way to signal to human cadets that I do not wish to be disturbed during my meals in the Academy cafeteria?
Cadet Spock.
***
Sylvia showed up outside his door too late to arrive at the party at the indicated starting time. She had insisted on coming to get him, rather than vice versa, or simply meeting at the designated location.
“You’re wearing that?” was what she said by way of greeting.
Spock tilted his head to the side a few degrees, indicating his confusion. “Is my uniform unsatisfactory?” He did notice that Sylvia was dressed in a different manner, her shirt lacking sleeves and her shoes high-heeled. The heels made her nearly as tall as Spock, though she was not much shorter than him beforehand.
“Well…uh…” She made a peculiar face, nose wrinkling and bottom lip pulling upwards. “Red really isn’t your color. What else do you have?”
“These are the only clothes I own that are in the human style.”
“Oh,” she said, with little intonation. “Well, um…” She looked him over, and then stepped closer, reaching for his collar—he fought the urge to back away. Humans did not place the same importance on personal space as Vulcans did. He had read this; that did not mean he was prepared.
She unzipped the outer uniform, revealing the black thermal shirt he wore underneath—an option for cadets more accustomed to warm weather. The cooler air was already seeping in at the breach of his top layer. The back of his neck, however, grew warm. He was still covered, but the action felt like a violation of his privacy in a way he could not entirely rationalize.
“There. Ditch the jacket,” she said. “You look better in black.”
That must have been what she meant when she referred to red as not “his” color. It was an appeal to aesthetics. However, despite that appeal, he found that he did not want to comply with her request. He did not want to. It was an alarming experience; the emotion leapt to the forefront of his mind before any logical explanation as to why he should not.
“I will not,” he said, and then searched for a reason why. “The temperature here is below what I consider comfortable.”
“It’ll be a lot warmer at the party, though.” It was not said in a reassuring manner. She seemed to be irritated at him for not complying.
“If I become warm, I will remove it.” He did not plan on removing it, but he did not think it likely that any temperature comfortable for humans would be too warm for a Vulcan. It was not a lie.
“Alright, whatever. Come on, it’s this way.”
***
Human parties were loud. It seemed to him unnecessarily so. Vulcans did have more sensitive hearing than humans, but surely the difference was not so great that the music had to be at such a level to be enjoyed. It was also crowded, and Sylvia had been correct in informing him that it would be warmer. He was comfortable at this temperature—however, the glistening of sweat on many of the attendee’s faces indicated that they were not.
He would need to observe further to discover what was so enjoyable about this particular atmosphere.
Sylvia led him by his elbow around the dim, crowded house, occasionally greeting people briefly before moving on, until she spotted a particular group and moved to join them.
“Oh my god,” one of them said, “you actually got him to come.”
Sylvia pulled him closer to her side as he considered the implications of her friends’ astonishment.
“See,” she said. “Told you.”
***
The main purpose of the event was, apparently, to consume alcohol and become inebriated. Spock dutifully followed Sylvia around and observed both her conversations and others, while drinking whatever was presented to him by her. There were a variety of substances of a variety of colors and tastes, though none that he found particularly strong, and none that he found particularly inebriating.
That is, until Sylvia approached someone who seemed to have an air of authority over the party—the host, perhaps?—and reported this situation to him with some exasperation.
“He’s not getting drunk at all,” she said. “Do you have anything stronger?”
The host looked at him, and grinned, widely and slowly.
“Oh, I know exactly what this calls for,” he said, and walked to the kitchen (considerably unencumbered, as most of the guests seemed to be sitting down on either the furniture or on another guest), opening a cabinet once there.
He pulled out a green bottle with a silver label, and poured the similarly green liquid into a glass, nearly filling it.
He held it out to Spock, who took it, gingerly, carefully avoiding making contact with his hands.
“A green drink for our green friend,” the host said, evidently amused with something. “Drink up.”
Spock frowned at the liquid. He did not enjoy the smell of it—it was a scent he had become familiar with during his short time on Earth, and was not entirely eager to taste.
He took a large drink of it anyways. It was indeed unpleasant.
“I do not enjoy the taste of this,” he informed the two onlookers.
“Yeah, the taste isn’t the point, though,” Sylvia said, leaning on the counter. “Finish it.”
He considered his options for a moment. He did not, in hindsight, take long enough to properly do so. But it was a human party, after all, and he had gone there with the intention of experiencing it as humans did.
He tipped his head back, and finished the glass.
Sylvia’s attempt to hold back a smile was not very convincing.
***
His eyesight seemed to be malfunctioning. As was his sense of balance. And his mental shields. Nothing, really, seemed to be working quite right.
There was giggling, and then he realized it was coming from Sylvia, and perhaps one of her friends.
“You’re really fucked up,” she said. “You should sit down.”
He did not see anywhere that had adequate space to do so. However, Sylvia either found or created such space, and pushed him down into a couch, where he was shoved between two arms—one of the couch, and one of a human. Emotions were seeping in from all directions, hanging in the air like moisture. Sylvia sat in his lap, her weight negligible under the lower gravitational pull.
Fatigue. Sadness. Joy. Arousal.
She was swaying slightly. Perhaps he was swaying slightly. Perhaps it was the room itself.
She leaned down and pressed her mouth against his, lips wet and soft and altogether foreign.
Her emotions stumbled into his. She was enjoying the action, but without a hint of affection. It was amusement and victory and the simple stimulation of the physical contact.
He found himself sympathizing. He did not carry particular affection for Sylvia, but there was something about the touch that he wished to continue. He enjoyed her weight on him and the connection she provided even if he did not particularly enjoy her.
Their emotions were reciprocated.
He attempted to reciprocate physically, as well, mirroring her actions, letting one of his hands find a place at her hip. In return, her hand found its place under his shirt, sliding up, splaying against his side.
He could not remain vigilant against the stream of emotions and sensation, so he allowed himself to fall into it, instead—there was much to fall into. Human emotions were complex and easy to get lost in. The physical sensations were even more alien, and evoked a strange mix of emotional reactions from him.
Sylvia’s free hand moved to unfasten his pants.
His emotional reactions became, suddenly, unmixed. He felt shame, and embarrassment, and alarm, becoming aware of his position amidst a large group of people, underneath a human he did not trust.
He grabbed her wrist, forgetting for a moment his superior strength. She cried out in pain, the sensation working to clear both of their minds, if only for the moment.
He let go immediately. “I apologize,” he said, the words taking more concentration than usual. “I would prefer to return to my room now.”
“Ooh, but we’re just getting to the good part.” She placed a hand on his chest, applying a small amount of pressure. “It’ll feel nice, I promise.”
“No,” he said. “I am leaving.”
Her eyes turned to the ceiling. “Fine,” she said, and stood up, having to steady herself on the arm of the couch. “Have fun getting back, though. You’re pretty fucked up.” That was the second time she had used that phrase. He could infer what the meaning was.
“Goodbye.”
***
The walk back to his room was, by the sarcastic meaning of the word, ‘fun.’ It was as if he was learning how to walk again, the weight of his body foreign on the planet along with the misplaced assumption that he, at that moment, had complete ownership of his limbs. He planned a path that had enough walls and guard rails to get him back without ending up any closer to the ground than he needed to be.
The door to his residence hall presented another unique challenge when he had to try a second time to get his hand to connect with the handle. He decided to take the elevator up to the floor he resided on rather than chance the stairs, and it was when he was closing his eyes in an attempt to get the elevator buttons to stop swaying in front of him that he heard someone approach.
He turned to look at them, sluggishly. It was Christine Chapel. He recognized her from the portrait on her file.
“Spock?” she said, without any emotion that he could decipher.
“Obviously.” He placed a hand on the wall to steady himself.
“Are you alright?”
He thought about it for a moment. “I do not know,” he decided on. “I may need assistance returning to my room.”
“What happened?”
He shut his eyes. He would rather be sleeping than talking. He would rather have been waking up hours after, the effects of this already worn off.
“I was invited to a party. I was asked to drink. I did, and now I am inebriated.”
“Have you ever done this before?”
“No.”
“Then I think you should come with me,” she said. She did not, however, immediately move to lead him anywhere. “There’s a room next to mine. I’d feel better if I could keep an eye on you until you know how you’re going to react.”
He stared at her for a moment. It was a logical course of action. She was in training to go into the medical field, and would likely know what to do if complications arose.
Besides. He would be asleep sooner if he agreed.
“I will go with you,” he conceded. She led him down the hallway.
***
It was light again when he woke up. His world was not steady yet. The only difference seemed to be that he was now alarmingly nauseous.
He slid out of the strange bed, conscious thought focused almost entirely on walking steadily and keeping his stomach calm long enough to reach the bathroom.
He was grateful for the glass placed on the edge of the sink. He rinsed his mouth, thoroughly.
He returned to bed, thankful for the unconscious respite from the emotions attempting to arise within him.
***
Subject: I am pleased to hear from you
Language: Terran-influenced Standardized Vulcan
Content:
My dearest Spock,
I spent much time in your youth worrying silently about many things. I did not wish to speak of them to you directly, as your father assured me you would be embarrassed and discussing them would likely have brought about the opposite of what I sought to attain. However, I believe you are old enough now to both bear the embarrassment as well as give my words the consideration they are due, whether or not you find yourself in agreement.
Emotional health is important to you, as well, my son. You are not so separate from humans. I do not presume to know what manner of emotional management is healthiest for you, but I urge you not to consider the teachings of Surak the only possible path, or to simplify those teachings unnecessarily. You are among humans now. Take your time there to consider if a human way of life is not more desirable to you.
I am pleased you find Starfleet Academy adequate. I do hope that you will seek out enjoyable experiences, and not simply enlightening ones. I consider joy to be a key element to a learned life.
With love, no matter which paths you choose to walk,
Your mother.
***
He did not attend his classes that Monday, as he awoke with a severe headache that was only worsened by bright lights and any sound—he found himself actively resenting the lack of foresight that resulted in such thin walls in the building. He did not want to hear the footsteps or conversations outside. He did not, indeed, want to hear anything.
Cadet Chapel’s foresight was not as lacking. When he opened his eyes, braving the pain for a moment to examine the room, he discovered a small packet of painkillers on the nightstand, as well as a bottled liquid bearing a label written in Vulcan. He reached out and picked it up to examine it, discovering that it was a concentrated form of a Vulcan tea, containing herbs used on his home planet to relieve nausea.
His mother had made something similar for him when he had fallen ill in the past. He would need to ask Cadet Chapel where one acquired such a thing in San Francisco.
But not immediately. He took only the painkillers, as his nausea had subsided, and closed his eyes, focusing inward. He was not tired. He had already slept twice as much as he usually would have in such a span of time. Instead, he pulled himself into a light trance, hoping to wait out the rest of the process.
He had no need to be conscious, and even less of a desire to be so.
***
It was not until he returned to his room that he realized two things: the first, that it was Monday, and he had slept through his classes; the second, that he was missing the top half of his cadet’s uniform. He had somehow left the party in his undershirt.
He would order a new one. Perhaps Sylvia would return it, but he did not wish to rely on her.
It would not harm him to have a spare.
***
Subject: [No subject]
Language: Standardized Vulcan
Content:
I appreciate your advice, mother. I will meditate on it.
Spock.
***
Sylvia did not speak to him again. He did not find himself disappointed by this fact. Though he did wish to create connections during his time at the academy, she was not where he wished to begin.
He had learned much about human social rituals from her, though he could not say he had reached an understanding of much of it. Though he had learned one important fact—Vulcans could not digest sucrose, and it resulted in effects similar to humans imbibing ethanol. It was for that reason that many human foods were not appetizing.
He had also learned not to accept invitations to parties.
Unfortunately, it seemed that parties were the most common form of structured social interaction available to him.
He was not sure how to proceed.
***
Subject: Join our club
Language: A mix of Federation Standard and Casual English. Difficult to understand without a dictionary.
Content:
Hey Spock!
Are you doing any extracurriculars this semester, cause I think it’d be great if you joined my clubs. I run the computer science one and the chess club and we all think it’d be really cool to have a Vulcan member so I hit our comp sci prof. up for your handle. We both meet weekly so it’s a good opportunity to get out of the dorm, yknow? Let me know.
-Sarka
Attachments included: finalcsiflier002.png, chessclubflierBETTER.png
***
Spock could not recall having verbally spoken to anyone for the last two weeks.
It was not difficult to let slip by. He had discovered the least busy times of the day to take his few meals. There was little opportunity to speak in class, and the times that there were he allowed to be taken by someone else. There was no need to confirm his own knowledge of the subject. He was confident in his understanding.
Other than meals and classes, he stayed in his room. It was the quietest environment in which to complete his studies, both academic and personal.
He found himself sleeping every night. He could not think of another way to occupy his time.
This was strange for him. He could not remember such a habit appearing on Vulcan, where even if he satisfactorily completed his studies, he always had other things to turn to; small projects and pursuits of his own. He often felt as if there were not enough time, even in the longer, still days of his home.
Now he found himself sitting awake in the moonlit night with a yearning in his mind that he did not know how to fulfill.
So he slept.
Perhaps it would be wise of him to take the opportunity to do something else with his time.
***
He arrived at the listed room a minute beforehand. There were only two people present beside him, which was simultaneously a source of relief and trepidation. Relief, because this was obviously not going to be an event such as the one he attended with Sylvia—trepidation, because he could not be invisible in such a group.
But he had not had the comfort of social invisibility since setting foot on Earth. Even if many humans were too polite to point out his presence as an alien species, they still took notice of him.
He stepped into the room.
The two occupants looked up at him, and one of them grinned. “Spock!” he said, getting up from a table, somewhat clumsily, and going over to him. “You actually showed—hi, I’m Erik.” He grabbed Spock’s hand, unceremoniously, and shook it between both of his own. Spock was relieved he had worn gloves, so the action was only somewhat alarming. “This is my VP, Reshmi.”
The other student at the table waved, smiling. Spock nodded in acknowledgement, while attempting to pull his hand back from the enthusiastic greeting. It took more effort than would generally be necessary. He adjusted his glove.
“More of us’ll show,” Erik continued, looking around. “Me’n her just show up early to set up the room and stuff. So, do you play?”
Spock was having a significant amount of difficulty comprehending Erik’s speech patterns. If the message he had sent beforehand was any indication, his Standard was interspersed with colloquial English. Spock had not given much study to English, though he could comprehend much of it when used in appropriate contexts. With this, he was reduced to guessing.
“Do I play?” he repeated.
“Yeah. Chess. Do you play chess? You know, chess club. Chess.”
“A single clarification was sufficient,” Spock said, eyebrows drawing together in equal parts confusion and irritation. Erik’s grin faltered slightly, as well. He did not know for what reason human speech patterns varied so widely—it did not aid in communication. The exact opposite was true. “I have played a game similar to it in the past, but it is not the same. I will require some instruction.”
“Right—okay, no problem.” Erik returned to the table and began setting up a game, motioning at a chair. Spock sat. “So, white moves first…” He explained the rules as he placed the pieces on the board. Other than the various rules governing movement, the game was simple. He was appreciative of that fact, as it left the players the sole determining factor of victory.
He was invited to play Reshmi due to her status as “probably a better teacher.” She, however, stayed blessedly quiet throughout the game, as more cadets entered the room and began talking amongst themselves. The branches of probability spanned out before him, and he recognized the necessity of practice in order to know which threads to pursue.
Reshmi won, and offered him a smile. “I’ll take my victories where I can,” she said. “I doubt I’ll get many more against you.”
He did not know what to say to that. “Thank you,” he chose, as it seemed like the least offensive option. She inclined her head in acknowledgement, and stood to join the ever growing group of cadets standing around the room and talking with each other. It seemed that chess was a popular pastime for those at Starfleet Academy—logical, considering that tactical strategy was a required course and the game had many elements that heightened such thinking.
A mention of the word “Vulcan” in the midst of the many conversations caught his attention, and he turned to its source despite himself.
He met eyes with a startled cadet. The two people gathered around him noticed this response and followed his line of sight back to Spock, though they only took a moment before turning back to their friend. “Come on,” one of them said, nudging him with their elbow, “he doesn’t bite. Probably.” The other took a less subtle approach and shoved the cadet forward, causing him to stumble a few steps before he caught himself. Faced between continuing his trajectory and turning back to his friends, he chose what seemed to be the path of least resistance, and approached Spock.
“Hi,” he said. “Uh…I’m Nathaniel. Nate. Um…wanna play?” He gestured towards the chess board, and Spock acquiesced, rearranging the pieces into their proper starting positions.
“I am Spock,” he informed him as he sat down. “Though it has been my experience that many here are already aware of that.”
“Yeah, you’re kinda famous, I guess.” He took the first move. “It’s not every day we get a Vulcan at Starfleet.”
“It would seem not.”
Nate was very hesitant in his moves, taking time nearly every turn to hover his hand over his pieces before he finally chose one. This allowed Spock more than sufficient time to construct a strategy, and he achieved a swift victory.
“Wow, you’re really good at this,” Nate said, looking over the final arrangement of the board. “We should meet up sometime so you can give me some pointers or…something.”
Spock tilted his head. Here, too, the cadet’s hesitance betrayed his strategy. “You regularly attend a chess club,” he said. “If you were only seeking to improve your skill, you have had plenty of opportunities. I can only assume you are requesting my company with ulterior motives.”
“Heh,” said Nate, his face flushing. “I wouldn’t say ulterior, I just…wanna get to know you. You’re…” his gaze wandered as he seemed to search for a descriptor. “Interesting. So, uh, do you want to hang out sometime?”
Spock stared at him, considering the honesty of the revised request. “I would not be opposed to your company,” he decided. Perhaps spending time out of his room would help to correct his sleep habits. “When would you like to meet?”
***
Subject: My Apologies, and Further Discussion of the Human Way of Life
Language: Terran-Influenced Standardized Vulcan
Content:
Mother,
I apologize for the terse nature of the message I had sent previous to this. I recognize in hindsight that it was a consequence of my emotional and physical state at the time, and I do not wish you to think that it was in any way due to the advice you had imparted on me.
The party I had attended left me in a state of discomfort. My companion provided me a drink and I partook without considering the consequences of the action. I was not aware that consumption of sucrose left Vulcans in an inebriated state, and was similarly not aware that it featured so consistently in Terran food. I am aware that our Vulcan society does not lightly release information that creates an impression of our species that is anything less than invulnerable, but I find value in informing Vulcan visitors to Earth of this particular fact.
It took me three days of bed rest to fully recover, though I did not suffer any permanent harm.
Perhaps the fault is mine for consuming a liquid that my gustatory perception so readily informed me was not fit for consumption.
In regards to what you refer to as the “human way of life;” I am not certain there is such a single thing. I cannot discern a pattern that governs the way humans behave. If you will forgive me for saying such, I find human behavior to be largely erratic and illogical. I do not see any benefit to considering it.
Your messages are a welcome constant in this strange time.
Spock.
***
Nate proved to be reasonable company. He joined Spock at lunch a number of times and discussed chess, and popular television shows, and course subjects that he was currently studying.
Though perhaps “discuss” was the wrong word. When they were not sitting in what Spock found to be companionable silence, it was generally Nate speaking on some subject and not leaving much room for response. It did not bother Spock greatly, as the conversations were enlightening, in their own way, and perhaps occasionally enjoyable.
Of great value in particular to Spock was that Nate asked him on multiple instances to accompany him to establishments located off campus, which was a unique experience. The public transport required to travel further distances was at times overwhelming to his senses--he could not always ignore the multitude of emotions seeping through the air--but he could stand it for short periods of time.
It was at a busy café only blocks from campus that Nate posed him the question, eyes cast downwards into his coffee;
“So, are you, um...interested in men?”
Spock stared at him across the table, hands circled around a slowly cooling mug of tea. “Interested in men?” he repeated, tilting his head. The phrasing did not hold any connotation that informed him of its meaning. “In what way are you referring?”
Nate frowned, eyebrows drawing together for a moment in an expression that Spock read as irritation. “Y’know, like...” he met his eyes, as if searching for something. “Would you date one? I just figure--like, Vulcans, I bet it’s illogical or something to have a relationship with someone who you can’t have kids with…right?”
The sentence settled in Spock’s mind as he ruminated over it. There were human societal ideas there that he did not think he had come to fully understand yet. And so, he answered the simplest question he could find. “I would not be opposed to entering a relationship merely upon the basis that my partner is male.” Never mind the various complexities of human relationships that he had yet to encounter, and the many erroneous conclusions that his conversation partner had evidently drawn about Vulcan society.
“Oh,” said Nate. “Okay, cool.” He was smiling at his coffee now, his face flushed.
Spock felt a sense of unease that he could not entirely discern the source of.
He brought his tea to his lips and drank deeply, closing his eyes.
Perhaps it was simply due to the large amount of people he was currently surrounded by. He would think upon it at a later date.
***
On his third attendance of the chess club, the other cadets ceased challenging him.
Not many had attempted in the first place. He postulated that this was due to the social nature of their meetings, and the fact that Spock was not a very social being. Many of the other cadets conversed during their games, and the result of their match was inconsequential.
Those who challenged Spock were quiet, and became steadily more frustrated with each victory that he achieved against them.
During the first meeting, he had learned the rules and observed the other cadet’s strategies. He had played few games, and had won only slightly more than he lost.
The second meeting, he did not lose once.
The third, he won once, because only one cadet had been willing to play him.
The vacant seat across from him was soon occupied by Nate, instead.
“Would you like to play?” Spock asked, finding himself hopeful. It was a test of his logical capacities that he had not experienced since joining Starfleet. He had not realized until his time playing chess that his studies had been so lacking.
“Oh,” Nate said, looking over the board, his eyebrows drawn together. “Um…no, thanks.”
***
Nate was particularly fond of bookshops. There were not many in the city, and the few that there were were small and situated in corners of business complexes that were easily missed, without much obvious advertisement of their location.
Spock found them…illogical, but not entirely unenjoyable. Paper was no longer the common medium for publishing such works, as digital releases were easier, cheaper, and less wasteful, but it seemed there was still a small market for paper copies, as there were new releases lined up near the front of the store.
It seemed, however, that these “bookshops” made most of their profit off the stock of electronic gadgets they carried, and the café they maintained for customers that sat in their store and read, or conversed with their companions.
They were preferable to the few other sites he had visited off of Starfleet Academy’s campus, as they were quiet, uncrowded, and not harshly lit. He was beginning to even see the benefit to printed material, at the very least due to the serendipity it allowed.
Nate often walked along the bookcases, scanning the spines before picking off a book from the shelf and flipping through the pages or reading the cover. Spock did not ever see him purchase a book after this process, but it was a fascinating one to watch.
“Oh, I’ve read this one,” he said, standing on his toes to pull a small book from the shelf. “It’s pretty old. Pre-warp.” This particular copy seemed quite aged, as well. “They, um…” he turned a few pages, too quickly to be reading. “Used telepathic connections to figure out how to break the light speed barrier. It’s kind of romantic, don’t you think?”
It did not qualify under any idea of “romance” that Spock was aware of. However, “It is certainly pragmatic.”
“Yeah but, that’s basically the same thing to you, right?” Nate said, with an uneasy smile as he looked around their immediate area. They were in a dim corner in the back of the store, removed from any other patrons. Spock watched carefully as the other cadet slid the book back to its place on the shelf and then turned his attention to him, only reluctantly meeting his eyes. “Can I, um…” he held a hand out, palm-up. “Can I hold your hand?”
Spock stared at him, and found himself habitually tilting his head in question. He knew there was some cultural connotation to the action, but was not entirely aware of what it was, as it seemed to vary between Earth sub-cultures.
What he did know is that he enjoyed physical contact, to an extent, and that the emotional transference it allowed provided valuable insight into the motivations of humans and their reactions to outside occurrences.
He removed a glove and placed his hand in Nate’s, at which point the other cadet interlaced their fingers, his smile growing as joy similarly radiated from his person. Joy, and anxiety, and triumph.
Triumph—it was an emotion that has thus far seemed consistent in his interactions with humans. He wondered what exactly the goal was that they had found themselves overcoming.
“You are inordinately pleased with this action,” he said. “May I question why?”
“Why wouldn’t I be?” was the answer, of sorts, and Spock was not allowed further questioning, as Nate was already leading him out of the bookshop by his hand, describing their next destination as something that Spock had to see, though Spock was not aware they had planned to go anywhere else that afternoon.
He had little choice but to follow.
***
Subject: Well wishes
Language: Terran-influenced Standardized Vulcan
Content:
My dearest Spock,
I do admit to worrying that I had embarrassed you beyond speech, and am pleased to hear that that was not the case, though the true cause does not comfort me otherwise. It does not sound to me that you had a pleasant experience. I hope that this does not turn you away from social gatherings entirely, as they take many different forms, some of which you may come to enjoy. Have you found any companions at the Academy that you place your trust in?
I too find value in informing young Vulcans about the effects of sucrose before they visit Earth. I was unaware that you had not been told, though I believe I have partial responsibility for not taking it upon myself to inform you. For that, I apologize. I do not believe you are at fault for the incident.
I readily forgive you for describing human behavior as erratic and illogical, as I believe you are correct in saying so. There is no single pattern easily discernable in the way we choose to behave—however, that there is no pattern is a pattern in itself.
What I had been referring to is the tendency of humans towards individuality, but perhaps I too hastily ascribed that trait to the entire population. Humans, too, have instances where they are uncomfortable with individuals who do not conform, but rarely does it reach levels that are comparable to what I have observed in Vulcan society.
You were raised, despite my best efforts to combat it, to compare yourself to others and find yourself lacking. My greatest wish is that you will come to see yourself as only lacking inasmuch as any being in the universe has not achieved perfection. My hope is that your time on Earth will help to inform you of that.
With love,
Your Mother.
***
Spock’s schedule had indeed changed to allow him less sleep, as Nate requested his company nearly every day. He saw no reason to decline the opportunity to socialize, though as the weeks went by, he was considering his mother’s advice to seek out enjoyable experiences alongside enlightening ones. He did not find Nate’s company disagreeable, but neither did he find himself anticipating these experiences, as he had anticipated his games at the chess club when they had lasted. As he had anticipated learning about Earth culture during his first month at the academy. As he had anticipated many things in his childhood.
There were not many things, he realized, that he found enjoyable about his current situation. He could not, however, name anything particularly dissatisfying. He was simply existing.
Nate accompanied him to his door one night.
It was odd that the cadet did not excuse himself at the usual cross-section of sidewalk to return to the first-year dormitories. He continued relating his tale and did not release Spock’s hand even when they approached the door to his room. He was thankful, once again, for the gloves he had purchased, as he was feeling particularly fatigued for reasons he could not name, and the extended emotional transference had great potential to be overwhelming.
“So, this is your room?” Nate asked, as they came to a stop in front of it.
“Yes,” Spock answered. He greatly wished for the cadet to leave soon, and considered when to best express that.
“Can I…come in?”
Spock frowned. There was a significant reason that he had been provided a single room—his living space was exceedingly private and was meant to be a place of solace. It spoke to his ignorance of humanity, perhaps, that the request came as such an abject surprise, but he could not rescind his emotional response once it had expressed itself on his features.
“No,” he said.
“What?” said Nate, frowning as well, though his expression was a mix of emotion that Spock did not immediately comprehend, and was not willing to expend the energy to attempt to do so. “Why not?”
“You are unaware of Vulcan customs.” It was an obvious conclusion. “You are not…” he struggled for a word in Standard that conveyed the meaning he had in mind. “You are not family,” he settled on. “It would be an intrusion.”
“Yeah, but…you can make an exception for me, can’t you?”
“No,” Spock said, again, tilting his head. For what reason would he? They were not especially close.
“Oh,” said Nate, gaze dropping to the floor. “Well, there was something I kind of wanted to talk to you about…in private…”
“We are, for the moment, in private.”
Nate looked around the empty hallway. “Yeah, I guess we are,” he mumbled. “Okay, well…”
He reached down and took Spock’s other hand, staring earnestly into his eyes, gaze steady for one of the few times since they had met.
“Spock,” he said, deliberately. “I’m in love with you.”
Spock stared at him.
Love?
Did that not require a deeper connection than mere acquaintanceship? He did not see that their meetings had held any particular meaning other than base companionship, but it seemed that his experience had greatly differed from the other cadet’s. Still—he did not think he was mistaken in categorizing much of their friendship, if that was the correct word, as spectacularly one-sided.
“Aren’t you…aren’t you going to say something?”
He did not know what to say. He was aware that there was some way to end this conversation that was polite, kind, and would result in minimal emotional upset to Nate, but the logistics of that response escaped him.
“I do not know what to say,” he admitted, falling back on honesty.
“Well…that’s okay. I mean, if you don’t feel the same, I know it’s pretty sudden but we can work on this, if you…if you need time…”
“I do not need time. This is not how I view the nature of our relationship.”
Nate’s eyes grew wide. “What?” he asked, voice taking on a note of strain. “What do you mean?”
“My feelings towards you are not romantic.”
“But—” Tears began to fall from Nate’s eyes. “You let me hold your hand, I…I’m in love with you!” At this insistence he let go of Spock’s gloved hands and grabbed his uncovered wrists, instead—Spock flinched back at the contact, pulling away instinctively both from the uninvited touch and the emotions that even momentarily ran through his system. He could not identify them. He did not wish to. But they were, undoubtedly, overwhelming.
“I apologize for any of my actions that were grounds for misinterpretation,” he said—recited—grasping at any chance of placation. Nate was intermittently sobbing now, and Spock greatly wished for him to stop, as his volume had attracted at least one unrelated party, as evidenced by the hiss of an opening door somewhere down the hallway.
His face grew warm. There was now an audience to his societal blunder, which he could not fathom beginning to correct. He grasped his hands in front of him, staring unblinkingly at the sobbing cadet.
“Please,” he said, steadily, as the urge to be immediately alone was the only one he could begin to express, “leave.”
“You’re so fucking heartless,” Nate wailed, shoving both of his palms into Spock’s chest, but did, thankfully, leave, his footsteps thundering down the hallway.
Spock retreated into his room before any more curious humans could appear.
Heartless. The organ beating almost painfully at his side spoke to the inaccuracy of that statement in at least its literal sense. Figuratively, however--how the statement was meant to be taken...he could not speak to its accuracy. He had been admonished on Vulcan for any expression of emotion, by his peers and often his superiors as well, even if their admonishment was not expressed so physically. Now, even on Earth, where emotionality was the norm...
His breathing became erratic for a moment, and he grabbed the edge of his desk to steady himself. He had not expected the memory of his past treatment on Vulcan to affect him to this extent, but the sudden realization that he may not have escaped such reaction, even on the planet that was the origin of the half of his genetic makeup that had troubled him for so long--it was...terrifying.
He closed his eyes and focused his attention on his breathing and heartrate, willing the adrenaline to cease coursing through his system unnecessarily. He was not in any danger at the moment, and had no evidence that said he may be in the future. This reaction was illogical.
He took a deep breath, the oxygen-rich air flooding his system and leaving him momentarily disoriented. Once he found himself again, he had calmed, the events of minutes ago pushed to the back of his mind.
He would not sleep tonight. He had much to meditate over.
***
When he next attempted to attend chess club, Erik stopped him in the doorway.
“Hey, Spock,” he said, leaning on the wall, arms crossed. “Listen, it’s nothing personal, but...I think it’d be best if you stayed away from chess club for a while. It’s just...” He moved his hands around in a gesture that was not entirely clear. “Y’know...Nate. I don’t want to create a schism or anything. You understand, right?”
“Yes,” Spock said. “I would not want to create tension.” He nodded, breaking eye contact. He did, of course, understand, but his emotional reaction was independent from the logic of the situation. “Thank you for informing me.”
He turned and left, hands grasped in front of him, eyes turned downwards. Much of his time in the past month had been spent with Nate, and his schedule had shifted to accommodate that. Nate no longer wanted to be around him, and now he was not allowed to attend the chess club, either, on account of his mishap.
He did not know what to do with himself.
He simply returned to his room.
***
Three days later, he opened his door to leave and was immediately confronted with the stench of latex paint. He covered his nose, frowning against the offensive smell, and looked down to find a cadet’s jacket. It was rumpled haphazardly on the floor and soaking in a puddle of half-dried green paint, which was now seeping in past the doorway.
He stared at it.
He could not pull his eyes away, even as the paint began pooling against his shoes.
Sylvia.
But why? And why so long after he had spoken to her? Was it possible that somehow his alienation from one group had affected her in some way, or was this simply a convenient opportunity for her to act upon a desire that she had held since they parted ways?
He searched for reason in the situation. If there were reason, he could make this stop. If there were reason, he did not have to admit that the locus of control was far, far beyond him.
He sought logic, because if he sought his emotions, he did not feel he would ever return from them.
He shut his door. He took off his shoes, and walked to his bathroom to rinse them. The motions felt outside of himself, but they were soothing, in a way.
He would not allow this to interrupt his schedule. He would notify maintenance and request they remove the vandalism. He would attend class. He would not avoid his room, but rather return to it as usual. No one who was not involved in this incident would realize it had happened.
It would not affect him.
***
He sat at his desk in the quiet of his room and stared at the wall behind it.
It was never completely silent. There was a white noise to civilization. The hum of climate controls, the footsteps in the hall, the quiet but deep thrum of intermingling sounds that found their way through his window. He listened to these as time passed him by, unnoticed.
The desire to move rose slowly to his consciousness and he allowed it to happen, reaching for his PADD and setting it in front of him, navigating to the messages his mother had sent.
He opened the last, and replied to it, fingers deliberately typing out each word, forming familiar syllabaries from the inelegant human interface.
I have not found any I can place my trust in, he wrote.
You say that humans have a less severe reaction to nonconformity than Vulcans. It must be an exceptional subject that inspires similar retaliation from either group.
He sent it.
His hand hovered over his mother’s contact information afterwards, and despite the display informing him of the late hour on his home planet, he requested a video call.
A graphic displayed on a loop as it attempted to make a sub-space connection between their planets. It succeeded, and soon notified him that it was waiting for a response from the other party.
He watched his screen for an impossibly long moment, until the graphic stopped, a message informing him that there was no response.
Yes. Of course there was no response. It was only logical—he should, in fact, be happy that his mother was getting sufficient rest, instead of staying awake at night working on her translator as she was prone to doing.
But he could not suppress the sudden surge of loneliness he felt in that moment. There; that was the name for the dissatisfaction he felt with his current situation, the weight underlying his thoughts, present despite his continued efforts to not acknowledge its existence.
Loneliness.
He closed his eyes, and allowed himself a moment of childish respite, reaching for one last solution before the weight became too much to bear. He could not seek his mother out at this moment in time, but there was some part of her that was always with him. His memories of her. Her voice, her hands, the advice she gave, even if Spock did not heed it at the time.
He looked up at the blank expanse of the wall in front of him.
“I had hope,” he told the empty room, his quiet voice seeming still too loud in the silence. “It is illogical to hope, but I could not help thinking on my time on Earth with anticipation. I am not Vulcan. There were those who spared no chance to remind me of that fact. So I turned my thoughts to Earth, considering that I may more easily find my place among humans.”
He blinked the moisture out of his eyes, his throat growing tighter.
“I am not human.”
The admission did not lessen the weight he felt. It was now too much to ignore, pulling him towards the small planet, bowing his head. He braced his hands on his knees to combat it, shoulders hunched, tears running down his face and finding their way to the floor.
Perhaps there had been truth in the words of his childhood tormentors so long ago.
He did not have a place in this universe.