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Spock’s earliest memory was of a laboratory.
He remembered the stark white walls and tables and lab coats. He remembered that the pillow they had placed him on was cold. He remembered the face of the scientist that leaned over him, her blue eyes, her neat haircut, her pointy ears.
“It is… interesting,” she said, poking him in the stomach, and Spock squirmed.
“It will be fascinating to see how it develops,” said another scientist, out of Spock’s line of sight. “Will its Human genes overtake its Vulcan ones? Will it have Vulcan telepathy and Vulcan strength? Will it be able to breathe Vulcan air?”
“Will it have Human emotions?” added a third scientist, leaning over to replace the first. He waved his scanner over Spock, and Spock was mesmerized by its shiny lights. He reached up to try to touch it, but his hand was pushed away.
“That is the question indeed,” said the first scientist. She poked his stomach again. It tickled this time. Spock giggled. The scientist recoiled. “Strange,” she said, and Spock was too young to notice the contempt that seeped into her voice. He was too young to do anything; too young to talk or walk or know what was going on.
When Spock looked back upon this moment, he wondered why it had stuck with him enough to be his first memory. But regardless of its significance or lack thereof, it was still there, in the back of his mind. White walls and white tables and white lab coats.
-----
Spock grew up being studied.
Every food he ate was introduced carefully, for fear that it might prove poisonous to his hybrid system. Every medicine was administered with caution, lest it cause an adverse reaction. Every time he got sick he was closely monitored, since his strange half-Human immune system might not be able to defeat Vulcan pathogens.
He met with the doctors every week. They took hair samples and skin samples and blood samples and bone samples and urine samples and when he lost his first baby tooth they took that too. Breathing tests and strength tests and immune tests and hearing tests and sleep tests and intelligence tests and mind melds.
His first mind meld was with a mind healer at the age of four. The purpose was to determine his level of telepathy—they’d already established its existence via touch, but a full meld was necessary to gauge its strength.
It was customary for a child’s first meld to be with a family member. Spock had sat in the room while the doctors explained to his parents that because of his hybrid nature, a meld might prove dangerous.
“His mind may be incompatible with that of a true Vulcan,” they had said. “It is best that the meld be initiated by a trained mind healer, capable of properly shielding themselves from the child.”
Never Spock. Always the child.
The session with the mind healer had been scheduled for the next week.
There hadn’t been much preamble. Spock had simply arrived and been taken into the next room while his parents waited outside, and the healer had sat down across from him and put his hands on Spock.
The mind meld was unpleasant. Spock could feel the healer’s cold presence sifting through his brain, through his thoughts, through him, and Spock shivered. He didn’t know if he shivered physically or mentally, but it ended the meld.
The healer pulled away. To his credit, he truly was skilled. He left no trace. And his face showed no emotion as he stood and directed Spock back to his parents.
“The child has a high level of telepathy,” the healer said, addressing his parents. Spock was old enough to talk, now. He said nothing. “He surpasses even some true Vulcans I have seen.”
“Thank you, Healer Sperak,” his father said. “Live long and prosper.”
-----
When Spock turned five, the weekly visits stopped and changed to once every three months. It was a welcome break for him; he had more time to study.
They still did tests on him. Tested and retested and took more samples, picked apart his body until it was theirs. They tested his intelligence every time he met with them, as it might have changed from the high scores of last time. Spock didn’t say anything. He was five years old; it was all he’d ever known. He was a specimen. He always had been.
(Eventually, he would hit puberty, and his extra study time would be revoked again as the doctors figured out how his strange body worked.
He was still silent.)
-----
Skon stared down at Spock. Spock was on the ground, covered in red Vulcan dirt and green Vulcan bruises.
“See how he displays his emotions so visibly,” Skon said to Talok, playing that game of observation he so enjoyed.
“Yes, and watch his eyes as he realizes he will never be a true Vulcan,” said Talok, equally emotionless, and Spock held back tears.
“True Vulcan, like you?” Spock challenged. “Explain to me the logic of harassing your peers and engaging in physical altercations.”
“You are not a peer,” said Skon simply. “You are but a half-breed pretending to be intelligent.” He kicked Spock in the stomach. Spock heaved.
“I am not,” he struggled to force out, his breathing labored, “a half-breed.”
“Illogical to deny what is so obviously true,” said Talok. “You are, by definition, a half-breed. Are you so unintelligent you fail to understand such a simple definition?”
Spock opened his mouth to respond, but was silenced by another kick to his ribs.
(When the doctors saw his bruises, they took pictures, whispering to each other about how similar they looked to “true Vulcan wounds.”)
-----
He didn't tell the doctors at Starfleet Academy about his hybrid status. He only saw them occasionally for an injury acquired in training. They were mostly Human, so they didn’t bother to pull up his medical charts for such a simple thing as a cut that would heal in five minutes under a dermal regenerator.
Occasionally, though, one of them did go through the formalities.
He got a lot of weird looks from nurses.
“You’re half-Human?!” one had exclaimed in surprise. Then they remembered themselves and stared sheepishly up at him. “Sorry.”
“It is quite alright,” Spock sighed. “Your reaction is not unexpected.”
“Um, does that change anything? Like are there any medications you can’t take?” They paused. “Does it affect your telepathy? Can I touch you? I’ve always wanted to touch a Vulcan. Wait, you’re not really a Vulcan. If you’re half Human, does that mean you have emotions?”
“I fail to see how any of that pertains to treating a broken arm,” Spock said, perfectly monotone and emotionless.
“Oh, right,” said the nurse, laughing nervously. “The bone-knitter is over here.”
Spock pretended he didn’t notice her fingers twitching towards him as they led him over.
-----
The biobed shrieked angrily as Spock sat down. “Jesus, Spock, wait for me to calibrate it or the damn thing starts screaming the second you touch it,” complained Doctor McCoy.
“The fact that your technology is so lacking that it cannot discern the difference between a fully functioning Vulcan and a dying Human is not my responsibility,” Spock said. The screeching quieted down to a steady beep as McCoy pressed a few buttons on his PADD.
“We had to calibrate a special setting just for you,” he grumbled. “A special setting for the one half-Vulcan in our crew, and almost in the universe.” He shook his head. “You really are a hassle, you pointy-eared scientific monstrosity.”
Spock stiffened. “As I am your patient, it is--”
“Yeah yeah.” McCoy waved him off. “Still more trouble than you’re worth.”
“Abusing patients is certainly more trouble than my own hybrid status.”
“I do not abuse patients,” McCoy said, rolling his eyes.
“I am not a monstrosity.”
McCoy’s eyes went wide. Spock stared at a point just off McCoy’s left shoulder.
“Spock,” he began softly, “I didn’t mean--”
“I must take my leave,” Spock said, getting up abruptly. “I have much work to complete.”
And he walked out. And McCoy didn’t even stop him, even though he hadn’t completed the medical exam.