Dear Mr. Kirk-

James T. Kirk crumpled up the piece of paper, tossing it over one shoulder. "Too formal," he grumbled, rubbing one tired eye and grabbing another piece from the stack on the desk he was sitting at. "This is to me, not to Dad."

In the adjacent room, a low creak sounded, startling Jim, who jerked and cursed as the writing utensil left an ugly black mark down the side of the paper. He shot an acidic glare at the wall where, separated by old-fashioned plaster and wood, his brother Sam lay. Silence once more settled over the young boy, working furiously to complete the English final that would determine if he would pass or fail the fifth grade.

Dear Future Me-

That seemed decent enough. The assignment was due in - Jim checked the chrono nearby - four hours. The whole assignment irritated Jim to no end, not only because he hated the subject, but why did it matter? If he wanted to know what he was like when he was a kid, he'd remember. It wasn't that hard, honestly, but he didn't want his mom to freak out because he managed to screw up again.

We're supposed to write to ourselves, for whatever reason stupid Mrs. Higgins wants us too. I think it's ridiculous; maybe you will too when you read it in, like, fifty years or whatever.

Since you're me, it's a waste of time talking much about myself. I know how I look. I know how I think. But we need a couple of decent-sized paragraphs, so I'm gonna write about how life is.

I live with Mom and Sam. 'Cept he's going on some kind of naming thing and wants to be called George now, like Dad. I don't like it - he's Sam, not Dad. Dad's dead. Been dead. Gonna stay that way, too. So it's a bit tense in the house.

Mom brought home some asshole to move in again. His name's Frank. He's the biggest fuckwad this place's ever seen. Not even that rich guy was as crappy as Frank. He's always strutting around, pointing out Dad's stuff, how he's so much better. I punched him in the crotch, and now every time he sees me, he gets all purple and sweaty. I know he wants to knock my lights out again, but he doesn't dare. Mom won't let him in on the deed. So suck it!

He paused to reread what he'd put down so far when another groan of metal springs reached his ears. Hunching his shoulders, he let out a breath and decided that it was Sam, or George, or whoever the hell he was today, getting up to get some water or something. What his brother did wasn't his business... and the fact Sam would bust him for staying up wasn't a factor in ignoring the noise at all. So he told himself.

Everyone knows what they want to do. And all anyone wants to do is be in Starfleet. Well, I can safely say that'll never happen. Ever! I mean, space, the stars... meeting new people, exploring new worlds... it's cool, but I don't want to do it. Starfleet's the reason I don't have a dad. One that I like, anyway, not some jackass who wants the land. Starfleet's the reason Mom can't look at me for me. So I'm never joining up. Let those dummies go ahead and waste themselves. I could care less.

Maybe I'll be able to do something else. I'm pretty smart, duh, but I don't dare act like it, or else Andy will tell all the pretty chicks (the really pretty ones, all the other ones are bubble-brains) I'm a nerd and collect comic-holos and stuff. But math is interesting when I don't have to play stupid.

He smirked and was about to add a final statement when a third creak resounded through the house, this one right outside his bedroom. Jim froze, eyes going wide as irrational thoughts of monsters swirled around in his sleep-deprived brain. He shoved the chair away from the desk with a muted screech, standing in front of the window as his knees began to tremble. What if it was a robber? Not that there was anything to steal, really, but it was a possibility.

The doorknob, practically a relic in the advanced world today but commonplace in the Kirk home, gave a jerk and turned slowly. Tension seeped into Kirk's frame as every muscle in his body went taut. He held his fists up, gritting his teeth as he made his decision. Whoever this person was, they were going down.

There was no sound, no movement save for the stirring of curtains in an early morning breeze. Just as Jim was beginning to think it was all a dream the door was thrown open, slamming into the wall with the sound of a period gun going off. Jim let out a furious yell and charged, eyes closed, ramming into the intruder's knees and taking him down.

The momentum of the blow carried them back into the hall, the being landing on his back as Jim lashed out. Quick glimpses in the light from the stars revealed a pale face, black markings and harshly pointed ears, along with dark, unreadable eyes. Jim raked his nails down the being's face and was rewarded with a strike to his head, leaving him dazed and seeing stars. It was simple for the attacker to flip him onto his stomach, grab hold of his arms and plant his knee in Jim's back, effictively holding him immobile.

Whoever it was brought their head down so they could speak in Jim's ear. "You are James Tiberius Kirk."

It was not a question, but a statement, as if this person - being, alien, whatever - knew with all certainty that they were correct.

Breathing raggedly, Jim flipped his head up and made sharp contact with the figure's chin, eliciting a hissed curse. "Yeah," he said, panting. "So what?" It did not escape him that this person knew him, knew who he was and knew his name. It frightened him, but he was not one to run when fear reared its head.

"Come with me." The being pulled Jim up and over one shoulder with the ease of someone who had done that many times. Jim screamed, loud enough to shatter eardrums, pounding his fists on the person's back, barely causing him to stagger before he took a step forward, heading for the open door which Jim could see just down the hall.

"Like hell, you stupid fucker!" Kirk shouted, and sank his teeth into the being's back. He dropped to one knee, one hand clamping down to keep Jim from moving as the other probed the wound, fingers coming back doused in dark liquid. Barind his teeth, he twisted his hand in Jim's shirt and threw him to the ground, locking his grip around Jim's neck, watching as the boy's eyes rolled and his mouth opened and closed in panic.

"Nero's orders be damned," he growled, lips twisting into a wry mockery of a grin. Once again, however, he underestimated the tenacity of the child he was close to killing and couldn't hold in his howl of pain as Jim lunged forward and latched onto his arm with his teeth. Pain flashed through him and, unthinking, he batted Jim off, not watching as Jim siezed the opportunity and scrambled into his room.

Breathing hard, arms trembling, Jim stumbled over to his dresser, yanking open one drawer and pawing through its contents. When he'd located the object of his search, he swallowed and winced as his throat burned. In his hands was a small knife; Standard issue for basic self-defense. His mother had given one to Jim and his brother with a stern talk about responsibility and knowing when to use it. Jim figured now was a really good time.

Behind him, the being stood in the doorway, eyes maddened by pain and rage. Jim stood, hand clenched around the knife, holding it out of sight so the man - he guessed - wouldn't see. The person whipped off the thin black cloak he'd been wearing, letting it drop to his feet as the two stared each other down.

He moved, and Jim moved, lunging at one another, arms outstretched. Hands closed around Jim's throat, bringing him close to the pale, marked face and squeezing with such intensity that Jim actually blacked out for a spare moment. Then, before he had consciously registered the action, Jim swung his arm up and around and had buried the knife in the being's neck. Eyes wide, the person let go, clamping his hands around the wound as he yanked the blade out and let it clatter to the floor. It was obvious it was too late: dark blood streamed down his body, shining in the starlight and pooling around his feet.

Jim could only watch in silent horror as the being met his eyes one final time before collapsing with a boneless thud that Jim thought would echo in his brain forever. He bolted, feeling bile rise in his throat, darting down the hall and into his brother's room, shutting the door forcefully and sliding down to bury his head in his knees.

He hadn't intended to do that. Maybe scare him, yeah, but kill him? And he knew that was what had happened. No one could bleed that much and survive; it was impossible. "Sam," Jim croaked, sniffling and wiping his face. "We've gotta get out of here. Go get Mom, I'm gonna go find the keys and we'll-"

The words caught in his throat, and he swallowed. "Sam?" he whispered. Crawling foward, feeling alien blood chill on his arm from moments ago, he used the bed frame to pull himself up, standing stiff over Sam, who lay peacefully in a pool of his own blood, throat slit. Jim knelt, laying his head on his brother's chest, weeping. It wasn't fair! The alien was after him!

"Okay," Jim murmured, clenching the bloodied sheets in both hands. "Gotta calm down." He hiccupped, coughing quietly, and rose, bending over one last time to kiss Sam on the cheek. "Bye, Sam." Steeling himself, he turned and walked out, keeping his eyes away from the place they were most drawn: a glimmering puddle of blood, blotched out by a body growing cool.

A lead weight settled into his stomach and he crept into his mother's room, barely staying for a moment as the image burned itself into his mind's eye: Winona Kirk, eyes bulging and neck adorned with a necklace of dark bruises. The cold part of his mind decided the being had gotten to her first, realized that strangulation was too messy, and had moved on to murder his brother in a more quiet way. He backed away from the bed, feeling behind him for the door. He slipped out, shaking his head as if he could let the memories fly out, like water droplets.

The being attacked his family to get him. If there were more, they would go after his friends, his school... he wasn't a fan, but that didn't mean he wanted all his teachers to die, even the ones who were assholes.

The only thing to do was to get away.

He stumbled into the kitchen, mind playing the images of his mom and brother to him on a loop - blink, Sam dead, blink, Mom dead, over and over - and he hardly registered as he stood on tiptoe to reach to the windowsill over the sink, something hard and rugged biting into his palm. With one last glance at the interior of the only home he had ever known, he made his way out to the back door, letting it close with a bang as he floated over to the object taking up most of their driveway, under a protective layer of plexi-plastic.

It was like he was living in a dream. Everything seemed to have acquired a misty quality to it that might have had something to do with the tears streaming thickly down his face. He pulled the lightweight cover off, unlocked the cherry red Corvette, and hopped in, stabbing the key into the ignition and roaring out of there with a whiff of shiner and exhaust. Had it only been hours ago he'd scrubbed the thing because Frank had ordered him? It seemed like a lifetime ago.

The rumble of the engine and the soothing monotony of the landscape seeped into Jim's frame and, uncaring, he put his head down on the steering wheel, closing his eyes. At this point, it would almost be a relief...

Everything he'd known was gone. His family (Frank, though, another story, his mind whispered), his life. Even his home was tainted. Gone, all of it, blown away in the wind like so much dust.

And he'd taken a life.

Sudden realization clenched around his insides like a ruthless iron grip and he slammed on the brake, not even flinching as the car fish-tailed left and right, unable to stop properly on the gravel road.

He couldn't use his father's car. Not something so... good. He could hear Mom whispering secret stories about his father, and the day she'd met him, driving up in the old 'Vette, flashing her a daring grin and beckoning her to join him. He didn't deserve to touch something so sacred to her.

Once the car had come to a complete stop, somewhere in the middle of nowhere - his mother, joking about how they lived in the middle of nowhere, and how everyone else did too - surrounded on both sides by fields of some crop essential to feeding the world, Jim clambered out, taking the key and throwing it deep into the swaying stalks. He frowned darkly at the vehicle, feeling the old resentment well up. George Kirk, Starfleet captain, everything in this world Jim never wanted to be and an obstacle dogging him every step of the way, even as he fled for his life.

So Jim Kirk, alone, dirty, mourning, covered in blood that was not his, trudged down the road, fighting with every step to secure himself before he allowed himself to cry. He had to keep moving, work under the pressure. A glint of steel flashed in his eyes.

Someone wanted him, huh? They'd have to find him first.

"Hold still, Spock," Amanda insisted, attempting once again to daub at the split lip he'd received.

"That will not be necessary," the boy insisted, grabbing his mother's wrist firmly. "It will heal on its own. No amount of water will speed up the process."

Amanda gazed down at her son fondly, and, at his further look, set the cloth down. "I'm sorry, Spock," she said quietly. "I'm just being a mom. It's what we do."

"I do not understand. 'Mothering' is an offshoot of the human emotion love. I am Vulcan." He seemed to place emphasis on the last three words, as if he was trying to convince himself of that statement as well as his mother.

She simply smiled, instead turning her head to the open window. She was sitting with her son in his room, trying to get some kind of understanding or explanation out of him. Unfortunately, Spock had inherited the tight-lipped tendencies of her Sarek, and had not said anything beyond that 'he had engaged in an altercation and received various superficial injuries'. Obviously.

"Look, Spock, the stars are coming out," she said, delight coloring her warm tones.

"I am no longer a child, Mother, nor am I incapable of seeing."

Which was his was of saying, essentially, duh.

"When I was a little girl, we always stayed up for the first stars to come out, and we'd make a wish on them." Amanda closed her eyes, murmuring, "Star light, star bright, first star I see tonight, I wish I may, I wish I might, have this wish I wish tonight."

"I highly doubt reciting such a simplistic poem while focusing on a ball of burning gases will help in any ventures you require assistance in." Spock kept his voice level, but in the way of mothers, Amanda knew he was curious. He just didn't want to show it, not even around her.

"Well, why don't you give it a try?" she prompted, folding her hands in her lap. "It can't hurt, you know. No one will know." She tapped his nose, but only briefly: enough to get the point across, but not enough to annoy him. He did respect her personal space, after all.

Spock ducked his head. "It is highly illogical, Mother."

"Sometimes life is," Amanda retorted. "Don't tell me what you wish for. It has to be a secret, or else it won't work."

The young half-Vulcan nodded dutifully, reciting the poem in a soft, but rushed, voice. He did not want anyone overhearing him, especially his father, who he could imagine would highly disapprove of this kind of human behavior.

I wish... for a companion. Any being who will not tease me for my differences, who will accept me for who I am. A friend.

Spock let out a breath slowly. He felt foolish for taking part in this ritual of his mother's, but at the same time it was another tie that bound them closer together.

"I require rest, Mother."

She nodded, giving him another secret smile. "Alright. Good night, Spock." She stood, brushing the wrinkles out of her clothes, and pressed a gentle, brief kiss on the top of his head. "Maybe your wish will come true."

With that, she strode towards the door and shut it quietly behind her. Spock positioned himself on the bed, ready to descend into slumber, ignoring the slight throbbing from his lip and bruised cheek. Pain was something easy to shut out. Longing was not.

"Father will be arriving tomorrow," he said aloud. "He will bring his reports to the Council, about the star-ship to be constructed on Earth. He left quite abruptly after the incident this afternoon. It will be a concise meeting."

He cut himself off. With no one to converse with, speaking alone was nothing more than a waste of energy. He needed to cease these habits he had picked up from his mother. His human mother. I am Vulcan. I am Vulcan.

I am eleven, and I am Vulcan. I hope.

---

Note: First chapter. Might not continue, depends on how y'all like it. First serious foray into ST:'09 besides a one-shot, so don't maim me for anything. Leave a review if you're feeling kind. I certainly appreciate any efforts you guys put out.

I don't own it, don't sue. Please.

I've got a very basic kind of plot, but if you suggest something within reason, I might be able to squeeze it in. I don't mind.

Lastly, all my ST knowledge is the new movie and some OS episodes. Anything else, I get off the wiki. Don't kill me! -cowers-

Edit 10-11-09 for minor descriptive stuff.