A/N: I hope you like it so far. It is currently 100% un-beta'd. This means: 1) I would love someone to volunteer! 2) I would love constructive criticism via review. I know my writing style is kinda dense!

Mildly unrelated fanvid can be found by typing *Star Trek* Safe and Sound into the 'Tube.

The King's gambit. White offers his pawn in exchange for faster development. This move is almost obsolete; there are many more sophisticated defensive plays available in the modern game.

Thesis.

Amanda watched as her son trailed one long, pale, reluctantly intrigued finger over the little gem-stone pieces before him. They were rough cut, deliberately evoking without really depicting what each was, just half-emerging from the coloured stones like butterflies from a chrysalis. He had plucked at a squat, rotund little lump of milky jade, the first etchings of an historic mitre and deeply gauged Coptic cross. He fingered it gently, considerately, and his mother was left wondering not for the first time what faint impressions those deft and sensitive digits managed to glean from nearly everything he touched.

Vulcan children were taught to shield almost before they could walk but some little rebellious part of Amanda was secretly glad that her son was doing what every human child would do, playing with the gifts they were born with and testing them out.

"Mother, were Terran prelates often in the habit of waging warfare?"

"Well, darling, Earth – much like Vulcan – has past that civilisation has moved us away from. Many branches of faith used to be corrupt, ambitious institutions…" She paused catching that almost stray flicker of something deep in his dark eyes. "Darling, did you just make a joke?"

The impassive face did not so much as twitch but she saw it, that sly hint of self-deprecation at the left corner of his mouth. Sometimes she wondered if the parental bond, lying dormant in her psi-null consciousness, sometimes made itself known regardless, or maybe it was just fifteen years of exposure to the moods of a stubborn Vulcan and a small dollop of mother's intuition.

"Of sorts, mother, although it was not an altogether sound attempt. My research informs me that senior clerics of the order of Bishop would rarely wear the garb of a monk – a quite separate species, if I understand correctly. Habit, therefore, was used in an imprecise sense. Did that detract from the anticipated outcome?"

Amanda could feel the proud smile nearly splitting her cheeks. "Oh darling, it was just perfect. But, please don't feel obliged to make the effort on my behalf. I'm sure your father would disapprove."

His impenetrable gaze observed her for a long moment. "I… find that eliciting a pleasurable response from you is something that gratifies me."

Clearly uncomfortable leaving that sentiment to stand alone, Spock quickly added, "Besides, Terran Standard is a most intriguing language. I was reading a xeno-linguistic paper on the influence of a culture on the formation of its language and vice versa; humour was one area particularly that was found to be constrained in some cultures by the extent and flexibility of its language. Thetalians, for instance, have no negative vocabulary as we might understand it and consequently the concepts of understatement and 'dark humour' are unavailable to them. Sarcasm, however, as I understand it, is very highly developed."

A minute drawing together of those acute brows, "Although I myself do not fully understand the significance of this 'dark humour'." Amanda took in the serious little face, the cap of shining dark hair, those adorable little ears and tried her hardest to keep a straight face.

He continued, "Since Standard is the culmination of multiple Terran root-languages and dialects and is ever expanding to assimilate with new lexical input from Federation planets, it is arguably the best suited to facilitate communication, and, indeed, find common ground for humour. The pun is merely an example of its most basic Anglo-Saxon heritage." Amanda felt nothing short of delight flood her breast as he delivered his severe, adult lecture, voice cracking and breaking with all the universal awkwardness of puberty. His long black lashes fluttered as his stare flicked down to the board, betraying no embarrassment, "An experiment, if you will."

"Feel free to experiment on me whenever you like, Sweetie." His hidden exasperation with the maternal endearment was so similar to a Human child of thirteen years old that Amanda had to swallow a grin. She didn't tease him nearly as much as she would like to.

He picked up the jade Bishop and delicately placed him down on the inlaid Terran board, "Check in two, mother." She quickly scanned the options, not liking what she saw.

"Oh Spock, you've beaten me again! You really must promise to go easy on your poor illogical mother!"

His reply was calm and inflectionless but the whisper of fond chiding clung to it like gossamer, "Mother, I spend on average ten point six-three solars per day exercising and improving my understanding of strategic algorithms and attendant probabilities. I will always have the advantage in a game which, although cleverly disguised by these antiquated Terran feudal symbols, is fundamentally logical." Amanda once again found herself suppressing the mild flicker of irritation at being patronisingly reminded that she was deemed part of an illogical species by her own son with her genuine pride at her son's staggering intellect. Once again, uncannily, Spock seemed to sense her flash of wounded pride and responded to it,

"Besides, mother, I believe since we initiated this ritual game with the chess set of your father nine point three-six years ago, I still have a deficit of seventeen games in which to achieve a win before I can be said to have truly beaten you."

Translation: "You thrashed me when I was four."

"I am… grateful that you save this time for me, Spock, I know you're very busy."

His gaze was suddenly startling direct and Amanda had a moment to see the irony of a Vulcan having such treacherously expressive eyes. "I appreciate this time also, Mother. I understand that you do not have many companions with whom to engage in Terran pursuits and I would not wish you to be… adversely affected by this. Humans use such interactive puzzles as a way to interact and form social bonds as you claim you did with your own father. I see such a codified system of expressing emotion not to be without merit for Humans."

It wasn't a lot, but it was as close to an 'I love you' as she was going to get. Amanda once again greedily stored it away in her precious trove of little allowances Spock made for her in his blank Vulcan façade and recognised it for the gift it was.

Antithesis.

"Yo, Tiberius!"

"Wait up, Tiberius!"

"Tiberius, don't you want to play with us anymore?"

The sing-song voices pursued him down the dusty highway but he didn't change his pace. He wasn't going to give them the satisfaction of running away.

"Where's your daddy, Tiberius? Where's your daddy to save you this time, huh?"

They were much older, considerably taller, and were gaining on him. He could hear the tempo their footsteps where crunching out on the hard-shoulder.

His eyes, corn blue, instinctively looked for options. Riverside town suburbs was in hazy clapboard relief behind them but the long, empty track into the baked farmlands revealed no refuge, no shelter in sight up ahead. Wide, flat and deserted, corn stalks only shallow at this time of year and pale in the beginnings of twilight. It was muggy, hot, and the back of his neck was damp.

He felt a hand on his shoulder a moment before he was roughly jerked around.

Bullies were ubiquitous creatures; he had a moment to laugh to himself before a meaty fist connected hard with his left cheekbone. Beefy, slow, piggy-eyed. A moment of pity and contempt as he felt the bruise already starting to ripen richly under his eye. It may be an elite Fleet feeder school, but even these were apparently not immune to the evolutionary inevitabilities of High School.

"Come on, Kirk, How'd'ya do it, huh? How'd'ya get all the answers, you little creep?"

Ah, Ad Math Pop Quiz results. Public, apparently.

He felt himself being lifted off the ground by his shirt collar, shaken roughly. He wasn't large for an eleven-year-old. He wasn't much effort to manhandle. He pursed his lips into a stubborn line.

"You little cheat. Teacher's pet, huh, Tiberius? Think you can fit in with the big boys?"

The piggiest of them all was evidently enjoying this, wrapping his thick tongue around the syllables of his grandfather's name like it was some kind of insult. Jim inwardly rolled his eyes and bit down on a retort that was likely to lose him some teeth. Starfleet were seriously scraping the barrel with this particular specimen.

Another thing to hold against them.

Another rough shake and something jabbed roughly into his gut; he crunched involuntarily, coughing, and the boys laughed. "Who're you trying to impress, huh? Mummy doesn't care. And where's Sammy, now, eh?"

Seriously, someone, give this smartass a medal. It was like someone a written him a fucking script. It's not as though he hadn't had worse. Frank could give lessons.

Jim really, really resented living in small town. The Starfleet dockyards may not be far, but that didn't stop his home being the shitty little Hicksville backwater it had always been. Maybe the clientele of the bars were a little more diverse the night before an Academy in-take, but he was too young to know much more about that than Sam chose to tell him. Sam still seemed to think Starfleet was the answer to all life's problems. That, and alcohol.

The same Starfleet that killed their dad, that their mum used to hide from them, that spouted the same old shit about truth, justice and freedom and cuddling fucking Romulans.

He smirked and felt his lip split with a sharp sting and an iron tang on the tip of his tongue.

His older brother Sam had disappeared in a roar of engines, a cloud of badly combusted hydrocarbons and a spray of gravel hours before. He'd been threating to hitch a ride at the Port for months. Maybe one day he'd do it. Maybe he just had. Sam had flunked every class for two years. There was no way he was graduating any time soon.

Jim absently wondered why he didn't just follow his example and skip out on school. Then again, he considered as he briefly felt gravity take over before impacting hard on the cracked tarmac, where exactly was he supposed to go? An eleven year-old on a rusty push bike who had already taken every Advanced class his school had to offer. A scuffed trainer impacted dully against his side.

"Little fucker. Next time you cheat you share the fucking answers, genius."

He coughed and spat, grit mixed with the red tinge of his saliva. H kept his voice carefully neutral.

"Sure, Lloyd, whatever."

The leader huffed an incredulous laugh of sorts. A last half-hearted kick stubbed into his side.

"Creep."

"'Til next time, Tiberius."

He could hear their heavy footsteps retreating, back the way they had come. It never took them long to lose interest if he just shut up and took it. They were too much of cowards to do much worse to him anyhow.

With a sigh, a ginger scrub of his plaid shirt cuff over his stinging lip, James Tiberius Kirk picked himself up off the highway, retrieved his satchel, and began the long 7-mile trudge home.