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Chapter Text

The training Spock had undergone in preparation for this mission had been both rigorous and extensive, covering every aspect of their targets’ cultural and political norms, plotting out every outcome, accounting for every possibility. After years of surveillance and careful strategizing, it was not merely probable but downright inevitable that the Vulcan takeover of Terra would be conducted to its superlative success, and with the utmost efficiency.

And yet Spock was unprepared for the Human upon whose door he had knocked to stick his head out, bleary-eyed and tangle-haired, and mutter, “Can’t this wait until after six AM?”

And then his gaze lands upon Spock’s phaser pointed at him, then back up to his face, to his ears, and something between understanding and delight dawns in the Human’s eyes.

The Human’s eyes, which are wide and bright and a shade of blue Spock had not known existed, let alone on a living being. He finds himself momentarily unable to speak, simultaneously fascinated and unsettled by the hue.

Finally he manages, “You will escort me to the leader of your country immediately.”

The Human blinks. He has dark golden eyelashes, unlike any Vulcan—any person—Spock has ever seen. He cannot look away.

“Wait,” says the Human slowly, “you’re taking over the world?”

“Yes,” says Spock. “After a thorough examination of Terra’s projected future, the inhabitants of Vulcan have determined it necessary to overhaul its malfunctioning leadership in order to save the Human race from destroying itself.”

“Makes sense,” says the Human, nodding.

The training Spock had undergone in preparation for this mission had been both rigorous and extensive, covering every aspect of their targets’ cultural and political norms, plotting out every outcome, accounting for every possibility.

And yet suddenly he feels entirely ill-equipped for this assignment and the completely illogical Human with which he is to complete it.

“Here, come on in,” he says, opening the door further to allow the Vulcan entry. “Sorry it’s a flying wreck in here.”

Spock steps in and finds nothing at all flying inside the small apartment, though it is remarkably cluttered. Still, that is the least confusing part of the interation thus far. “You are…amenable to the Vulcan takeover?”

“Hell yeah!” The aberrantly-blue-eyed Human stops. “Wait. Are you planning on killing anyone?”

“Negative,” says Spock. “The Vulcan race is a primarily pacifistic one. We merely intend to overthrow the current defective administration and replace it with a more adequately trained government of our own.”

“Sounds good to me!”

That gives the Vulcan pause. “I had not realized that Humans maintained such antipathy for their own governance.”

His hostage shrugs. “Everyone hates President Trump. He’s sexist, and racist, and incompetent.”

Spock tilts his head. “Was he not elected democratically?”

The Human flaps a hand at him. “That was a fluke.” While Spock tries to figure out what that means, the boy continues with a flourishy bow. “It would be my honor to take part in abolishing the oppressive, ineffectual system.” He looks up. “Oh, hey, I haven’t even introduced myself yet. I’m Jim.”

This so-called Jim holds out his hand. Spock stares at it.

“What do you want in return?” he asks, eyes narrowed.

“Nothing!” says Jim, then lowers his voice conspiratorially. “Here’s the part where you shake my hand and tell me your name.”

“My name is Spock,” says Spock. He stares at Jim’s hand until the Human finally drops it back to his side. “What do you want in return for your compliance as my Human hostage?”

“The privilege of punching President Trump in the face?” Jim suggests.

“Humans’ affiliations to their leaders is quite… enigmatic,” Spock murmurs.

Jim grins. “You can say that again.”

“What purpose would a meaningless repetition serve?” Spock asks, bewildered.

“Never mind,” says Jim, his eyes bright with amusement. “Anyway, the problem is you’ve landed in Los Angeles. UCLA to be exact. That's a - an institution for advanced study. Which is also why no one's awake before seven." Judging by the Human's grin Spock would normally extrapolate that he had made a humorous comment of some kind, but Spock cannot discern where that humor might have been. "Point is, we can’t exactly just walk over to the White House.”

“No?”

“Nah, man, D.C.’s like forty hours away. Theoretically it’d be a lot shorter to fly—an airplane, not a rocket ship, though it’d be way shorter if we had a rocket ship—but it’s vacation season and I don’t have that kind of cash.”

“Forty hours?” Spock asks, calculating this impediment in to his mission plan. He had been explicitly ordered to use the first Human he found as his hostage and Terran-native escort, but he only had a week… “How long will it take to traverse to distance from here to your leader’s headquarters?”

The blue-eyed Human bites his lip contemplatively. “I dunno... Three, four days? Maybe Waze can find us a shortcut.” He goes to his bedside table and reaches for something slim and metallic and roughly the size of a Human hand.

A communication device.

Before Jim can pick it up, Spock lifts his phaser and shoots the communicator to smithereens.

“My phone!” he cries.

“My orders are to destroy any communication devices of the hostage, so that the mission may not be compromised.”

“My phone!”

Spock hesitates. There is what sounds like true distress in his voice.

“You can’t do that!” Jim says, still cradling the remains of his communication device “Destroying a Human’s phone is like…is like killing his child!”

Alarm shoots through him, followed by burning guilt. “I…I was not told…”

Apparently Jim sees something in his expression, because his eyes soften. “Oh, Spock, no… I was exaggerating. I mean, don’t get me wrong, I’m not overjoyed. But it’s not like you killed my child. It was just a joke.”

A joke… Spock supposes he should be relieved. Instead he feels oddly betrayed. “According to Human culture, jokes are intended to be humorous. That was not humorous.”

“Sorry,” says Jim, smiling in apology. “I didn’t mean to scare you.”

“You did not scare me,” says Spock, stiff. “Fear is a Human emotion. I do not experience fear.”

“Right.” Jim walks across the room and puts the remains of his communication device on the desk, giving it one last sorrowful look (Spock feels a pang of regret that he immediately rejects) before turning back to Spock. “No big deal. I have a map in the car—we’ll just do it the old-fashioned way.” A furrow appears between his eyebrows and he glances back at his phone. “Shoot, Bones is gonna flip.”

“Bones?” Spock echoes.

“My roommate,” Jim explains. He walks over to the small bathroom and picks up what Spock recognizes as a toothbrush. “He’s a med student here—that’s why I call him, you know, Bones… Well, anyway, right now he’s visiting Jojo and the Demon Lady for spring break, but he calls every night without fail ‘cause he’s paranoid like that and gets kind of crazy when I don’t answer. So if he thinks I’ve been kidnapped and calls the cops, I’m blaming you.”

Spock mulls over this new information while Kirk finishes brushing his teeth, finally realizing what he had sensed as unusual since surveying the student’s apartment.

“Is it not customary for Humans to visit their families during Terran holidays?”

“Yeah,” says Jim, looking elsewhere. “It is.”

There is a long moment of silence.

“So I’d been wondering what I was gonna do for spring break,” says Jim cheerfully, as if Spock’s question had never happened. “It’s been kind of lonely around here.”

And then without so much as a warning he pulls his shirt off over his head.

“If you continue this behavior…” says Spock, heat rising in his cheeks despite his best efforts. He does not know how to end the sentence.

“Mhmm,” says the Human, smiling. “What can you deduce about how I feel about you seeing me naked?”

Spock stares at him, uncomprehending, and then abruptly turns away. His face is burning. It is an utterly unfamiliar sensation.

“Oh well,” comes Jim’s voice from behind him. “This view’s nice too.”

Spock frowns, confused, but stays silent. To Spock’s perspective, there is no view from this angle at all.

“I’m decent,” says Jim a moment later. “You can look.”

He turns back to find Kirk scrubbing his fingers through hair in what appears to be some counterintuitive type of grooming in which one works to dishevel his appearance rather than tidy it.

“You mentioned that you were currently undergoing advanced study in your field,” Spock says, if only to distract himself from the Human’s mussed hair and disquieting eyes. “To which field of study were you referring?”

“Oh,” says Kirk, lacing his shoes. “Astrophysics. And, uh, English Lit minor. But I usually don’t share that with the STEM guys.”

Astrophysics, Spock notes with surprise. And literature as well. He must be at least minimally intelligent, then. Good. A semblance of intelligence would likely be a useful trait in his hostage/chauffeur over the course of the mission.

“I always wanted to be an astronaut,” Jim remarks, pulling a suitcase out from under his bed. He looks over his shoulder to grin at Spock. “Crazy, huh?” He pauses. “Then again, I’m talking to an alien. So.”

Spock tilts his head. “Interacting with a member of an alien species is considered a sign of insanity to most Humans?”

“Well, pretty much no one believes in them,” says Jim like this should be obvious, as he stuffs four t-shirts haphazardly into the suitcase. “There hasn’t even been a single famous reported sighting or abduction since…” He trails off, considering. “Well, since before I was born. There was a big story about the disappearance of this girl, I know her name, it’s, ah…. “ He snaps his fingers a few times (perhaps a Human memory aide?). “A… Ahh… Something with an A… I want to say Amanda…?”

“Grayson,” Spock finishes. It’s almost as if the name has exited his mouth of its own accord.

Jim has stopped packing and is looking at him strangely. His expression is—Spock flips through his mental catalogue and comes upon—interest. Curiosity.

Still no fear.

“You know her?” Jim asks, his voice rising eagerly. “That abduction was real?”

“She was not abducted,” Spock snaps before he can stop himself. He had not been prepared to hear the same biting words here as he endured so often on Vulcan. “Her extraction was conducted with fully informed consent.”

For the briefest of moments, a speculative, almost piercing look flashes across Jim’s face, but he doesn’t ask any further.

Thankfully he breaks the eye contact a moment later and turns back to his packing. “Sorry, I’ve just been talking about myself all this time! What about you?”

“Me?”

“Well you’ve told me a bit about your mission, but you haven’t really told me anything about yourself. Do you like it back home?”

“Enjoyment is a Human emotion. Vulcans do not experience enjoyment.”

Jim smiles. “Yeah, okay, but you must be pretty high up in the ranks to be on a mission like this.”

“Yes,” he admits.

“And out of every Vulcan in existence, you were the one chosen to come to Earth. You must be some kind of genius.”

“Yes, I am,” says Spock.

Jim grins. “That’s hot.”

The Vulcan frowns, recalling his extensive training in the Terran languages; specifically their illogical affinity for words for multiple meanings. “Hot in terms of temperature or hot in terms of sexual attractiveness?”

Jim laughs, and this too is something Spock has learned about, but for the first time he finds his training quite inadequate. Seeing it is so drastically different from learning about it—he had not expected the Human’s laughter to be so bright and open and…pleasing. “Sexual attractiveness.”

While it is a more coherent usage than the other translation of the word would have been in the given context, Spock cannot say that the admission – so forthright, even gleeful – does not take him by surprise.

“Humans are sexually attracted to intelligence?” he wonders. For purely scientific motivations. Of course.

“Not all Humans.”

“You are,” he clarifies.

“Yep.” Jim smirks. “’Course, that’s not all I’m attracted to.”

Spock mulls over this new information. “Then you are physically attracted to me,” he deduces.

“Yep,” says Jim again, seeming pleased by Spock’s logical and accurate inference.

There’s a pause.

“Do you intend to follow through on that physical attraction?” Spock asks at last, not entirely certain which response he desires.

Spock had been led to believe that Humans are lower on the food chain than Vulcans, but the smile that spreads across Jim’s face is nothing short of predatory. “I dunno,” he says, his voice low and rough, sending a strange ripple along Spock’s epidermal nerves. “Do I?”

The Vulcan watches the Human, waiting for him to continue.

A moment passes. No elaboration appears to be forthcoming.

“I do not understand your answer,” says Spock.

Jim bites down on his lower lip as if he is trying not to smile. “Okay, we’ll take this slow. Focus on the road trip for now… deal with the other stuff later. Sound good?”

Finally finishing his preparations, they leave the apartment, Spock keeping his phaser trained on Jim as he was ordered, but the Human hardly seems to notice. He simply rolls his suitcase out and unlocks his car, whistling and perfectly relaxed, as if he’s planning something. Or as if he trusts him.

Spock doesn’t know which prospect is more frightening.

The Human packs his suitcase and slams the trunk shut, then goes back around to the driver’s seat. By the time Spock has gotten in and closed the passenger side door, Jim has already turned on some kind of strange, musically guttural Terran song.

“Is this… aurally agreeable to Humans?” Spock has to ask. Jim turns on the car and pulls away from the dorm building.

“This? Yeah, it’s been on the radio for months. Funk-y music’s been back in for a while now.”

“Fun…ky?” Spock repeats tentatively. “What is that?”

“Well, in this case it means the song is similar to funk. Which is a music genre.”

“I see.”

“But funky is its own word too. It really depends on the context. Like ‘play that funky music’ means that the music’s really good.”

“Fascinating,” says Spock, filing the information away for future reference. Perhaps he will assimilate this new Human term into his vernacular in order to more effectively intermingle with the planet’s natives. For instance, if he is called upon to exhibit concern, saying, “It is funky that you have remained in adequate health” and the like would allow him to remain completely undetected.

“Or,” Jim continues, gesturing with one hand while the other remains on the circular steering device, “if something’s weird but you’re not sure what, exactly, you might say it feels funky. In that case it means pretty much the same as weird. Or if your food’s gone rotten, you might say it tastes funky. Which means bad.”

Spock looks at him, profoundly confused.

“You’ll get used to it,” says Jim, waving that away. “Speaking of which, we should pick up food before we get on the highway. Any preferences?”

“I will require an all-vegetarian diet.”

“All right. There’s a great vegetarian pizza place just around the corner.”

“What is ‘pizza’?”

Jim’s eyes widen. “Oh my God. You’ve never eaten pizza?? Well, of course you haven’t, you’re an alien. Oh my God.”

Judging by the multiple exclamations of the Human deity, it is logical to assume “This… ‘pizza’ is a Terran religious practice?”

Jim laughs again, prompting a strange response in Spock, strangely similar to pride. “You could say that!”

Spock has to hold on to the car door as Jim makes an abrupt right turn, chattering all the while about the numerous Human food without which ‘life’s just not worth living, Spock!’, raising his voice over the hammering music.

And perhaps it is the air gusting in from the lowered windows, or perhaps it is the exceptionally loud Terran music, or perhaps it is the attractive, unnaturally-blue-eyed Human enthusiastically and tunelessly singing along, but Spock has the strangest impression that he is the one who has been abducted, rather than the other way around.

Chapter Text

51.86 hours later

Spock will admit that he had initially been rather doubtful regarding the practicality of his orders to secure a Human hostage for his mission, but over the course of their time together Jim’s advice had proven invaluable, from procuring nightly shelter in inventive and most likely illegal ways, to outfitting Spock in the proper Human attire.

He had recommended a set of pants in a thick but flexible blue material similar to Jim’s own, with a soft black cloth to cover his torso that he referred to as a “tee.” Both seemed rather tight, but Jim had enthusiastically insisted that they were just the right size. Spock argued that since the wardrobe swap, he had not ceased drawing attention (albeit a somewhat different type of attention, which the Vulcan could not quite identify). Jim had just laughed and told him to trust him.

Which, against all methods of logic, Spock did.

Surak help them all.

Jim had also helped him acquire a variety of hats to further obscure his alien identity. The one he currently wears is of a green, fuzzy material decorated with a cloth mouth and large, plastic eyes, so that it rather resembles a cartoonish monster trying to eat his head. The monster’s “arms” hang down over his ears, concealing them from view.

When he presses them, the monster-hat makes a noise not unlike “nom-nom-nom!”

Jim has turned away from the road several times for the sole purpose of pressing the monster-hat arms and giggling, which Spock cannot help but consider inadvisable. Still, the Human has proven correct and even vital in numerous matters over the past two days, and so Spock has learned to rely upon his judgment.

Especially in matters of cuisine. The Vulcan government may hope to instate many changes on Terra, but Spock will see to it that the presence of a “pizza” establishment in every town will be maintained no matter what.

And so when Jim returns from his foray into a gas station for provisions in Miami County, Kansas (the Human had found an inexplicable amount of joy in commenting on “how beautiful the weather is in Miami today!”) with a piece of paper and an unusually sober expression, it is only to be expected that it immediately sets Spock’s nerves to red alert.

“Bones is on to us,” he says, slamming the car door. He gives the paper to Spock, who opens it only to be met with a picture of Jim smiling and wearing a strange flat hat.

MISSING, it says, James Tiberius Kirk. Last seen in Los Angeles, California on UCLA campus. If found, please contact the state police at—

Jim pulls the paper back, scowling at it. “I can’t believe this is the most recent picture he has of me. This is from my high school graduation!”

Once again Spock finds himself struck by the strange feelings that come to the fore whenever Jim mentions McCoy (which is, in Spock’s opinion, unnecessarily frequently). “How do you know it was McCoy who reported you missing?”

“It literally couldn’t be anyone else,” Jim says with a groan, tipping his head back against the seat and rubbing his eyes. “I told you he would know something’s up when he couldn’t get through to me!”

Do they truly speak to one another so often that McCoy called the police after only two days of lost contact? Spock wonders, rather bitterly, before aborting the absurdly irrelevant line of thought.

Jim is just his hostage, as per his orders. And as per his orders, he will return Jim to his former life when the mission has been completed. He must resist the pull of illogical from the Humans all around him and focus on the facts.

“Does this poster denote a nationwide search for you? We will have to be far more discreet, particularly around law enforcers.”

Jim snorts. “We don’t have to worry about them, nobody actually looks at these posters. It’s Bones we have to worry about. He gets terrifying when he’s forced to care. We have to convince him that I’m fine.”

“And how do you propose we do that?”

Jim just looks at him, and in an instant Spock understands.

“It’s the only option,” Jim points out.

Some eminently logical part of Spock recognizes the validity of that statement, but a far larger part doesn’t want Jim to contact McCoy. This latter part of him has no real reason besides for a strange lingering anger burning at the edges of his mind whenever Jim’s roommate arises in conversation.

Rather than share this revelation with his hostage, Spock tells him, “I have explicit orders to keep you from using any manner of communication devices.”

“I’m trying to get us not caught!” Jim protests. “Come on, you can stand right next to me and make sure I don’t say anything to give us away! And you can take the phone away or, I don’t know, zap it if you think I’m overstepping.”

Spock hesitates. It is true that this new development could prove inconvenient or even ruinous to the mission and it would be far more expedient to cut it off at the pass. Still, allowing Jim to call his friend would contradict his direct orders.

Not for the first time does Spock regret his inability to contact the Vulcan Science Academy to request guidance regarding which option to choose.

“My training didn’t prepare me for this eventuality,” he admits at last. “Since arriving on Terra I have frequently found myself…lost.”

Jim’s expression softens into an affectionate smile. “Well, I’d hardly call myself a life expert, but as far as I can tell, you can only ever expect one thing—that things will be nothing like you expected. Pretty much everything depends on being open to improv.” He puts the folded paper in his pocket and leans back in his seat, lacing his fingers behind his head. “Listen, you’re the boss, we’ll do whatever you want – but I want it to be your choice, not your Vulcan overlords’.” Jim grins at him, soft and sincere and unhesitating. “Whatever you choose to do, you’ll have a proud hostage.”

(“Whatever you choose to be, you will have a proud mother.”)

“Very well,” says Spock, before he can consider it too fully.

---

“Hey, Jocelyn,” Jim says when the line picks up, pressing the payphone against his ear. “Can I talk to Bones?”

Due to his superior hearing, Spock can clearly hear the surprised (and distinctly female) voice saying “Jim?” on the other end of the line. She makes an exasperated noise. “I knew he was overreacting!”

“Who? Bones?”

“Yes! He couldn’t get through to you, so he reported you missing!”

“What?” Jim asks, as if he truly is shocked. “That’s crazy, let me talk to him!”

“With pleasure,” the woman grumbles. There’s a long pause, during which Jim turns to Spock and gives him a thumbs-up to indicate his optimistic expectations of the forthcoming conversation.

A moment later there is the sound of the communication line being picked up at the other end of the call.

“Dude, you reported me missing?” Jim demands immediately. “All I did was go down to Mexico for spring break since you ditched me and all… I turned off my phone so it wouldn’t rack up any long-distance fees. And Bones, I know you love me, I love you too, but you gotta take back that report or I’m gonna have a real hard time getting back over the border.”

It is a perfectly reasonable story, and Spock finds himself inadvertently impressed by Jim’s resourcefulness in constructing it, as well as his smooth, candid delivery.

“Mexico, huh,” the doctor says at last. “Did you go with anyone?”

“Nope,” says Jim, playing idly with the telephone wire. “Just me.”

“That’s interesting,” says McCoy, his voice flat, “because Gladys told me yesterday that she was looking out her window on Tuesday and saw you being forced out of the dorm at gunpoint.”

Jim’s wide eyes fly up to Spock’s own in silent panic. They had been watched. Spock should have been more careful to make sure that no one saw them.

Luckily Jim recovers after only the briefest of pauses, giving a light laugh. “Don’t tell me you’re taking Gladys at her word these days, Bones. She loves creating drama, you know that.”

“Jim…” McCoy growls.

“Are you serious? You’re trusting Gladys over me? Bones, she’s forty years old and still living in the undergraduate dorms! Does she even ever go to class??”

“I’m not trusting Gladys over you,” says the doctor, in a tone both very calm and very dangerous. “I’m trusting my caller ID over you. I didn’t know Mexico had a Kansas area code.”

Jim freezes. “Uh…” He looks at Spock helplessly.

Making an executive decision, the Vulcan grabs the phone out of Jim’s hand and presses it to his own ear.

“You will cease attempting to contact Mr. Kirk,” he informs the doctor. “You will revoke your missing-persons report. You will not be hearing from him again. I hope I have made myself clear.”

And then he puts the phone down on the counter and shoots it with his phaser.

“Oh my God, Spock!”

Before Spock can question the reaction, his hostage is grabbing his wrist and dragging him bodily out of the gas station.

They run into the car and Jim immediately throws it into reverse, throwing Spock forward in his seat, then into drive, throwing him back, and they zoom out of the gas station parking lot, the wheels screeching with the abuse.

“I believe you are overreacting,” Spock tells him, clutching the door for support. “My message to Doctor McCoy should be enough to dissuade him from continuing his pursuit of your whereabouts.”

“Are you serious?” Jim yells. “You didn’t dissuade him at all, you made it worse! Way worse! You just delivered an evil monologue!”

Spock falters. “A…?”

“Don’t get me wrong, it was a great evil monologue. Very menacing, very sexy. But an evil monologue nonetheless. And you know what that means.”

“I,” says Spock. “No…”

“It mean you’ve just made Bones your nemesis! And now that he has our location who knows what he’s willing to do to hunt us down!”

“He knows where we are?” Spock repeats, beginning to understand some of Jim’s panic. Not that he feels any of it himself. Anxiety is a Human emotion, one to which he is, of course, immune. Spock is merely concerned for his mission. And his adrenal glands are reflection that concern.

It is entirely logical.

“I forgot about the area code,” Jim mutters, smacking the wheel, most likely as a vent for his frustration. “I’m so sorry, Spock, I’m an idiot.”

“That is grossly untrue.”

That, at least, draws a small smile out of the Human, even if it is faint, and more regretful than happy. “I can help you find a a different hostage. If you want. I mean, I don’t mind. It would be fine. You know.”

“I would not leave you behind,” Spock says, because it is a fact. “You are important to me.”

Jim looks at him, eyes blue and fever-bright with unidentifiable emotion.

“That is to say, you are important to me in my capacity as facilitator of this mission. You have proven an invaluable source of information regarding the Human psyche and an overall excellent hostage.”

“Yeah,” says Jim thickly. “Thanks.”

“It is illogical to thank me for stating the truth,” says Spock, strangely uncomfortable.

“Of course.” The Human throws a dazzling grin at him. (One of these days Spock is going to become accustomed to Jim’s eyes, but apparently, today is not that day.) “Well. In that case… you’re gonna want to buckle your seatbelt and cap all your open liquids, ‘cause this excellent hostage is going to get us across state lines in record time!”

Chapter Text

“Look casual,” Jim hisses. Spock can’t imagine he looks discernibly unlike the Humans around him – the basement is dark, illuminated only by periodic bursts of colored light, and he is wearing his Human jeans and another hat (this one with ears resembling a Human creature known as a “Pikachu”). In any case, judging by the missing person flyers, the news reports, and the police officer following them so closely that they eventually had to leave their car on the side of the road and run into what looked like an overcrowded mating den, it was Jim who needed to remain unidentified.

“The more enthusiastically the Human law enforcement publicly proliferate their theory that your kidnapper is of Middle Eastern descent, the lower the chances become of my capture,” Spock points out.

“True,” says Jim. He pumps a fist weakly in the air. “Yay racism?”

In the brief lull in conversation that follows, Spock takes the opportunity to take in his surroundings; the smell of singed marijuana, the clink of glasses and the intermittent ebb and flow of dialogue. In a strange sense it is both calming and overwhelming – so clearly too much for the senses that it forces those senses into remission. One couple in particular stands out, and Spock watches them from afar for a moment before excusing himself momentarily from the hospitality of his Human escort/chauffeur/hostage. Jim just looks back at him blankly. “You’re…excused, I guess, but where are you…?”

Spock moves closer in order to view the process more clearly. They appear to be a pair of Human females, gyrating and communicating with one another in a method Spock cannot quite identify, even with his heightened Vulcan senses.

“Excuse me, I am a behavioral researcher with a particular interest in Human mating habits. May I observe your partnership?” he asks, speaking slightly louder so as to be heard over the primal Human music.

One of the females scans him, appraising. Her gaze hitches on his hat, but otherwise he appears to squarely meet the criteria of whatever standard she’s set. “Absolutely. You sure you only want to watch?”

It’s a strange question. At first Spock doesn’t know what to make of it, before he realizes that perhaps she is worried that he will interfere. He clasps his hands together behind his back, both to demonstrate his ability to remain detached and objective, and to reinforce his professionalism. “Quite certain,” he assures her.

Her purple-painted lips curl in amusement. “Just ‘quite’ certain?”

Or perhaps she requires another party for the particular manner of coupling she wishes to undertake. Spock thinks about that for a moment, then says, “I suppose that would be acceptable, so long as I engage in activities that will not hinder my note-taking.”

Before she can reply, Spock’s arm is gripped from behind and tugged, pulling him abruptly away from his research.

“C’mon Casanova,” Jim mutters, guiding him through the crowd, back toward the bar closer to the entrance of the club.

“Is this vital to our mission?” Spock asks, his feet dragging a bit despite himself. “I was exposing myself to the hot bed of sexual activity in this unique Human environment.”

“Can you, just–not–say things like ‘exposing yourself’ and ‘hot bed’ in this context? Okay?”

Spock tilts his head. “Why not?”

Jim splutters for a moment. “It’s – you’re – look, you just can’t – ask people if you can – freaking – observe them! It’s weird!”

“Observation is the only method through which I may develop a funky grasp of Human reproductive behaviors.”

Jim stares.

“See?” says Spock, mildly pleased with his successful rendering of the species’ colloquial syntax. “I am learning.”

“Yup,” says Jim. He appears to remember that he still has one hand secured on Spock’s arm and lets go. “You’re doing good. Real good. I need a drink.”

At the bar, several televisions are activated, each set to different media programs. They settle in between one displaying a report by FOX News and one showing an athletic competition between a few dozen men wearing very tight pants with what Jim once told him were “fanny packs.” Jim gets the attention of the bartender, a woman Spock judges to be in her mid-forties with a formidable silver cross around her neck. “Double whiskey, neat, please.” He glances at Spock and adds, “Make that two.”

He thanks her as she leaves and slumps down, elbows on the counter in front of him as if he wishes he could curl in on himself.

“You appear to be uncomfortable,” Spock remarks.

“I am uncomfortable!”

“I would have assumed this sort of environment would be well suited to someone of your frequent sexual indulgence.”

“I’m an astrophysics major!” Jim says indignantly. “I go to math clubs! Not—clubs!”

“In my mission training, it was emphasized that behaviors associated with intelligence were negatively correlated with breeding frequency. In fact, those correlations were our primary hypothesis as to how the Human society has reached the deeply amoral state it has.”

Jim huffs. “Shows what you know. Math clubs are a great place to get laid.”

Spock nods. “I have begun to realize that perhaps many of our “working theories” must be revisited. I am learning a great deal in your presence.”

“Yeah,” says Jim, sounding slightly breathless. The smile he offers Spock is tentative, but unmistakably authentic. “You too.”

Meanwhile, FOX News cuts to a segment of “breaking news,” detailing the abrupt ban of all transgender people from military positions, citing their health and wellbeing as too “financially burdensome.”

Despite his years of education and training in Human matters, Spock can feel his mouth purse in disapproval. These people truly are savages. It is a wonder they have managed to survive as long as they have – forcibly stealing the land and property of others, then living in fear of the theft of that stolen property; forcing females to marry males; developing weapons far beyond those he’d ever seen on his home planet within a society stuck in the equivalent of the Vulcan 16^th century. Truly a bizarre and self-destructive people.

He turns from the media program only to see Jim’s slack face, his mouth open in horror and his eyes trained on the television as if he could will it into nonexistence.

“This is why we have chosen this time to intervene,” the Vulcan explains. “Before too much, and too permanent, damage is caused.”

Jim whirls on him. “You mean to tell me that things are going to get worse?”

“It would appear so.”

He runs a hand through his hair. For the first time since they set out, the man seems exhausted. Spock makes a note to require a period of rest before they travel further. “Jesus.”

“Even Jesus can’t save us now,” the bartender tells him solemnly, setting his drink down in front of him.

Jim looks at her. “Great. That’s really great to hear from a Christian.”

“Spiritual don’t mean stupid,” she replies, heading off to serve another customer.

Spock examines his drink – smelling it, touching it, mentally documenting its properties – while Jim watches the news anchor defend the latest event for which a Vulcan legislator would have been sentenced to lifelong exile in the Valley of S’kor’ or a career in government-funded childcare.

“Spock,” says Jim.

“Yes?”

“Let’s wipe this asshole as soon as possible.” He pauses, seeming to reconsider his phraseology. “Um, I probably could’ve said that—”

“I understood your meaning,” says Spock. “I find myself very much in agreement with your sense of urgency.”

“Well then. Cheers,” says Jim, and throws his drink back.