James Tiberius Kirk

The day after Jim sends Zunar to Hunter, another small package arrives. The paper crane is amateurishly folded, and one of the wings is crooked, but inside is another short message, scrawled in Jim's hand.

I hope you've got a little extra space in your saddlebags.

Jim has never really had to give meaningful gifts before; with no one to dote on and no real hankering for collecting anything, why would he have? But ever since the dream (vision?), he's started to realize that more has changed than he thought.

Fortunately, he's always been a quick learner.

Slowly, one evening at a time, he reaches out to Hunter not in words, but trinkets, small tokens of apology and affection. A small bouquet of assorted flowers from the ship's botany labs, after making sure they're all safe for human contact. A packet of the good coffee from his personal stash, tucked inside a tall ceramic mug with Starfleet's insignia etched in its side. An origami Omuta rose, the paper perfumed to smell like a real one, light and fragrant. A pocket-sized canvas painting of a mountain landscape, clearly followed step-for-step from one of the instructional videos Hunter gifted him before the mission, still at a beginner's level but with a proud JTK painted into one corner. A round, palm-sized holoprojector whose image banks are stuffed full of stellar photography: asteroids ringed around a brilliant seafoam green planet, a baby star wrapped in spirals of hot glowing gases, a shimmering red-gold nebula painted across a canvas of star-studded black.

After a week, however, Hunter will likely recognize the same iPad he sent to Jim two weeks ago, a ripe red apple weighing down a note to its screen. Play me, it says, in Jim's handwriting this time.

There's a second video file in the tablet's databank now, and while the first fifteen seconds or so are filled with the sounds of Jim fumbling awkwardly with the device's manual controls, the background is clearly the captain's quarters, aimed at the couch below his viewport.

Jim enters the frame, clad in his golden Starfleet uniform, and waves to the camera. "Hey, Hunter; long time no see. Uh, things are going pretty good here so far. We checked out three planets in the same system this week, didn't find sentient life, but one of 'em had this really cool garden with these dragonfly lizard things. That's, um, that's where I got the first flower I sent you. The lab guys let me name it zinnia venandi." He smiles uncertainly, a little awkward and nervous, worried about overstepping his bounds. "Hunter's zinnia."

A beat, and Jim leans forward, picking up something out of frame and setting it on his lap, and he takes a deep breath. "...look, I've been a dumbass about all this for a long time now. I know you said you were okay with it, but I think I was just... I don't know. Scared, in denial, whatever. But I've had a... wakeup call, and I... miss you. A lot." He's rehearsed this several times, but saying it out loud, somehow it's still just as hard to expose his heart, to admit what he really thinks and feels.

"I don't know how to deal with this whole not-having-your-magic thing or what the hell I can even do to help. I hate being useless and I can't even be there to listen to you or give you a hug or anything. I hope Zunar's doing a good job in my place, but I wish I was there for you too."

Aware that he's begun to ramble, Jim stops again. "I have no idea what I'm doing. But I want to try again, if you'll let me. Try to fix what I've fucked up."

He raises his hands, and in them is a violin and bow, and as he settles them into the right position to play, a glint of light catches the blue and silver ring on his middle finger, freed of the chain that's held it close to his heart since the launch. "Sorry if this sucks, I've only been practicing for a week," Jim says with a weak chuckle, having never played for anyone before, let alone someone he cares about. "Computer, play accompaniment track 3841."

It's an old song, by Jim's reckoning, but he's dug deep into the archives to find something from Hunter's era, something to say what he's so utterly inept at admitting in his own words. And though Jim's skill with the instrument is still rusty and hesitant, he's right on key, the sweet sounds of "Love's Just A Feeling" singing from the tablet's speakers.

Jim smiles to the camera, and all he can do is hope it's enough. "Shanah tovah, Hunter."





“Just as we can play beautiful music only when the strings on the violin are in proper tension, so we can grow only when we are stretched from what we are to what we can be. There is no growth without tension.”
― J. Grant Howard

[Part One]


An endless forest of green and yellow stretches from horizon to horizon, a garden overgrown and gone wild with life. A rainbow of color dots the canopy like party lights, flowers and fruits for which Federation science has no names, fluttering pollinators flitting from branch to branch, carried on the soft breeze.

The quiet trickle of a nearby creek joins its voice to the gentle hooting of the flighted reptiles as they zip by overhead, chasing their flower-dusted prey. One finds a perch on a broad stretch of yellow cloth, thoroughly alien to the landscape, rising and falling softly with every breath of the man who wears it.

Jim watches as the lizard leaps skyward from his shoulder, iridescent wings carrying it past one of the tall bushes that shelter beneath the trees, decorated with yellow-edged red flowers. Behind him, the soft footfalls of the landing party wander to and fro, tricorders whirring and laser trimmers humming as samples are taken for further shipboard analysis.

"Captain." Spock's voice announces his approach, as the Vulcan draws up next to his elbow. "Preliminary scans are complete. As orbital scans indicated, there do not appear to be any signs of civilization on the surface of this world, merely nonsapient plant and animal lifeforms."

"Thank you, Mister Spock." Jim's response is slightly absent, distracted, his attention still on the greenery where the little flying lizard disappeared. More accurately, the flowers adorning its hiding place. He steps forward, the heady sweet perfume of rose blossoms carried on the light wind, and reaches out a hand to touch them. Hesitates. "Do we know if these are poisonous?"

"They are not," Spock affirms, a note of curiosity in his voice as he watches his captain pluck one of the blooms from its anchor, and bring it closer to smell it. The captain, of course, offers no explanation. Lost in his thoughts, Jim slowly spins the flower by its stem, and he can't help but wonder where Hunter is right now.

"...captain?"

The Vulcan's voice cuts through his thoughts, and Jim looks over at him, shaking himself free of the rose-scented trance. He can't ignore his duties, can't stop being the captain. He has a job to do, and a ship full of people relying on him to do it. "Tell the xenobiology department they've got three days to take all the samples they want." But... his gaze returns to the flower held between his fingers, unable to set his thoughts completely aside. "And... if they could get me a cutting of this, I'd be grateful."

Spock's eyebrow rises sharply towards his hairline, but he does not comment, ever the professional. "Yes, captain."

His footsteps fade away. Jim looks out toward the horizon, the rose-scented flower held in careful hands, and thinks of Earth's natural parks.



So passeth, in the passing of a day,
Of mortall life the leafe, the bud, the flowre,
Ne more doth flourish after first decay,
That earst was sought to decke both bed and bowre,
Of many a Ladie, and many a Paramowre:
Gather therefore the Rose, whilest yet is prime,
For soone comes age, that will her pride deflowre:
Gather the Rose of love, whilest yet is time,
Whilest loving thou mayest loved be with equall crime.

-Edmund Spenser, The Faerie Queene


[Part 3]

The first five days in space are damn near exactly how Starfleet expected. The Enterprise passes her warp trials with only a few minor hiccups, easily hammered out by Scotty and his team of engineers, and the new-and-improved warp core handles the stresses of maximum warp like a champ, to the captain's profound relief. Life support easily handles the workload of four hundred thirty-three souls on board, though it becomes pretty clear early on that some crew quarters will have to be reassigned if they expect to keep the peace for the next five years. And there's some minor excitement on day three when the replicators bug out and refuse to produce anything other than orange juice and potatoes, a problem that takes ten hours to fix and leads Jim to discover that his personal food stash is nowhere close to big enough to stave off a late-night panic attack.

One by one, every system on board is subjected to stresses above and beyond their normal expected operation. Phaser banks, navigation systems, artificial gravity, even uniform fabrication and recreational programs are tested to the limits, no system too small or trivial to be overlooked, not when the ship and her crew might not see Federation territory for half a decade. And the Enterprise isn't the only one being run through her paces. Her crew, too, practice drills for everything from red alerts and emergency evacuation to fire suppression and intruder alerts.

Day six.

Jim steps onto the bridge at 0800 sharp, datapad in one hand and a mug of coffee in the other, and though his face shows little sign, a knot of anticipation coils in his stomach, one that has nothing to do with today's scheduled testing.

Spock's expression, of course, might as well be carved from granite for all the emotion it conveys as the Vulcan vacates the command chair. "Captain," Spock greets him, hands clasped behind his back at parade rest. "Gamma shift reports a minor abnormality in impulse engine response time, and a defect in the starboard tractor beam. All other systems operating within standard parameters."

Yet another small bump in the road, but that's what this shakedown cruise is designed for. Nothing to worry about. "Is Scotty looking into it yet?" Jim asks, slipping into his seat as naturally as breathing, resting his padd on his thigh. "Or, wait, no, it's Keenser at this hour, my mistake." Can't fall into the habit of expecting Scotty to be up and at 'em twenty-four hours a day, even though it's damn near true nine times out of ten anyway.

Spock inclines his head a fraction. "Indeed. Both repairs are expected to be completed within the next two hours."

"Good. Thank you, Mister Spock." It's all so incredibly routine, comfortably familiar, finding easy patterns to fall into again after only five days at sail. No huge surprises, no obvious dangers, nothing outside of Starfleet's expectations.

Jim's always had a hell of a time sticking to what Starfleet has planned.

* * *

Around 1140, halfway into running science lab hazard drills and transport diagnostics, Spock abruptly straightens at the science station. "Captain, long-range sensors are detecting a large metallic mass at maximum range. It appears to be fluctuating in shape and orientation; its mass appears to exceed one thousand times that of the Enterprise."

The mild monotony of the bridge breaks as curious personnel perk up at their posts, and Chekov quickly consults the Enterprise nav system. "Stellar charts show no metallic celestial bodies in this sector."

"It is not a natural celestial object," Spock confirms, looking up from the sensor hood, one eyebrow cocked. "Composition is refined titanium and several alloys I am unfamiliar with. It is possible that the mass is either one extremely large starship, or more likely, multiple spacecraft."

Even though Jim is ninety-nine percent sure he knows who it is, he's learned better not to just assume. "Yellow Alert," he orders. "Helm, put us on an intercept course, warp three. Uhura, begin broadcasting universal greetings, and advise Starfleet we are moving to intercept a possible visitor. Spock, when we're in visual range, put it up on the viewer."

A chorus of affirmatives follow the captain's commands, and the Enterprise yaws and rolls, pivoting to her new heading, routine testing abandoned for something far more interesting. Jim forces himself to sit still in his seat, fingers drumming on the armrest as his gaze bores into the blackness of the void, as if he could see beyond sensor range and confirm the identity of the unknown contact himself.

He doesn't have to be impatient for long.

It's one thing to know just how many ships are in a fleet, and an entirely different thing to see it. As the Enterprise approaches and the image resolves, it swiftly becomes clear that the mystery mass is made up of hundreds of ships, great and small. Tiny scout craft buzz around massive bulky egg-shaped vessels like a swarm of bees, mismatched patchwork ships scattered throughout the mass of ships, and at the perimeter of the formation, several sleeker ships bristle with particle cannon thrusting out from hardened hull plating.

"Sensors indicate nine hundred sixty-eight vessels in total," Spock reports calmly, a stark contrast to the faint murmurs of his nonVulcan crewmates. "Their designs do not match anything in the Federation database. Life signs number approximately eighteen point nine one million."

That's fewer than Jim expected, and for a moment, fear clenches in his belly. Did some of them not make the jump? He can't see any battle damage on the ships, but the Death wouldn't leave any, would it? On the other hand... maybe the ship's sensors just can't distinguish K'da when they're riding their hosts.

That's what he'll have to hope, anyway. "Uhura, any response to our hails?" Jim asks.

"Coming in now, captain." Skilled fingers fly across the communications console, routing the signal to the main viewer.

The Shontin who appears onscreen isn't one that Jim is familiar with, tall and orange with tan dapples across his scalp and shoulders. Nor is the vibrant green K'da at his side, her frame slightly smaller than Faris', sitting on her haunches with her nose held high. The Shontin crosses his wrists and pulls them apart swiftly, as though snapping invisible shackles. "I am Tylinn, commander of Stillwalker and elected speaker of the K'da-Shontine fleet. Our greetings to you in peace."

"I'm Captain James T. Kirk of the Federation starship Enterprise. Greetings in peace," Jim echoes, sitting up straight in his command chair, a textbook image of confidence that belays the anxiety gnawing away at his gut. "Your fleet is well within the boundaries of Federation space. What are your intentions here?"

"We have heard of your Federation, an alliance formed of many peoples from many worlds," Tylinn says, both hands held palm-outward, fingers spread. "Many generations ago, my peoples were driven from our home by war we did not want, and since that time we have searched for a place to call home in peace. We have traveled far to ask your Federation for asylum."

A small murmur from various stations on the bridge, astonishment at the sheer size of such a refugee fleet, but Jim holds his composure well, every inch the captain he's determined to be. "Asylum?" he repeats, playing his part to the hilt. "The Federation is open to refugees, but my superiors will need to know if there is a risk of bringing a new enemy to our doorstep."

Tylinn opens his mouth, and folds his hands together. "Of course. It is wise to be cautious. We are willing to send representatives to discuss the matter, wherever they must go."

"We'll be happy to make arrangements for that." Behind him, he can hear Uhura already updating Starfleet with a request for diplomats. Jim's smile is small but confident, seizing the opportunity just as he would if this was a real first contact. Better to welcome new friends with open arms and a wary eye than to hold them at arm's length and make a bad first impression. "In the meantime, we humans have a custom of getting to know each other over a meal. If your people are willing, I'd be happy to host a small delegation aboard the Enterprise this evening."

"An admirable custom," Tylinn says approvingly. "We accept your gracious offer, Captain. I look forward to it."

* * *

It's three more days before the Enterprise returns to Spacedock, later than her scheduled arrival, but the news is already buzzing with talk of the K'da-Shontine fleet, speculation on their intentions, the logistics of suddenly having to find accommodations for millions of unlikely refugees, the ethics of possibly becoming entangled in a war with an enemy that is completely unknown. Commentary and opinions on both sides fly across the holonet, and though there are some that argue suspicion of outsiders with a one-sided history of their peoples' war, they're far outweighed by scientific curiosity and compassion, those who cite the Federation's founding principles of diversity and unity.

It's a debate that's bound to stretch through the coming months, now that the Federation's diplomats and ambassadors are on the case, especially. And in a way, Jim regrets that he won't be around to see it play out, to stand as a supportive voice for sheltering those in need. Though there's little he could do in person anyway, their fate out of his hands now, set on a course that he hopes will lead to peace and prosperity for a people who have already seen too much hardship.

But he has a pretty damn good feeling about all this.

It's been an entire year. One year since the London bombing, the attack on Starfleet Headquarters, the crash of the USS Vengeance into the heart of San Francisco. Clusters of new skyscrapers and apartment blocks have grown up to cover the wounds left behind in the city like fresh scar tissue, slowly healing as surely as the survivors of the worst terrorist attack in recent Federation history have been.

The parade ground of Starfleet Headquarters is packed today, hundreds of officers and enlisted clad in full dress uniforms, civilians in their finest. Speeches are given, honors awarded for valor and bravery, flags ceremonially folded to honor the fallen. Until at long last, James Tiberius Kirk takes the stage, doffing his cover and placing the hat on the podium in front of him. Though his career as a starship captain has been short, a small handful of medals gleam against the gray of his uniform, the newest acknowledging the sacrifice he had made to save his crew, the true story known only to few.

Perhaps once, Jim would have wanted such accolades, an opening to boast about himself and gain the attention that he so desperately craved. Validation to make up for years of neglect and abandonment, never enough to satisfy the insecurity in the pit of his stomach. But that was before. Before he truly knew what it meant to be willing to die so that others might live, before he truly grasped how severe the consequences for his actions might be.

Now, as he looks out over the assembly, he feels no desire to receive such attention. This isn't about him. It never was. And he would not want it otherwise.

( Cut for length )

[TW: disordered eating, depression, PTSD.]


The farmhouse is too open.

It's not the first time that Jim has felt uncomfortable in the house he grew up in. Nor is it the first time that he's found himself packing up what little he owns, using his magically-expanded shoulder bag to hold all his clothes, his books, and all the food he can carry, strapping it to the back of his motorcycle. He doesn't have much to his name, not even now. Nothing that he really cares about. Collecting too many things is dangerous. And this is why. You never know when you're going to have to leave.

This time, however, he doesn't leave without scribbling out a note for his mother, sticking it to her bedroom door. She may not be his favorite person in the world, but she deserves that much.



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