A/N: I have Ozzy Osbourne's Mr Crowley stuck in my head. Thanks a lot, Rock n' Roll Jesus. Thaaanks a lot.

The thick extra strong glue that he had applied to his ears earlier was beginning to itch.

If he were any other being than a Vulcan, he would have already gone back to his provided apartment for the day if only to get rid of the glue. But he was Vulcan, and he had control over his impulses. He shifted in his seat, and looked down into the disposable cup that held the dark, hot beverage that humans adored so much. Coffee. He had comitted the name to memory. It would not do to be uninformed in this sort of mission.

Sarek, or Sam as he would now introduce himself, sat on a scuffed black stool at a high counter inside a little cafe on the corner of two popular streets in the shopping district of San Francisco. He watched the humans coming and going, and surveyed their interactions very intently, taking detailed observations and storing them in his vast memory. A young woman with blonde hair sat at one of the tables by the window, playing with the large bracelets on her thin arms. She looked nervous and expectant, but it vanished as soon as a young male walked in and sat across from her. Her face broke into a sunny smile, and her eyes never looked away from his face. He took her hand in his and he said something, and she laughed loudly, her cheeks reddenning. A pleased look graced her features.

At the bar, Sarek raised one eyebrow and looked away. Interesting. He peered about him and then fixed on a father holding his daughter's hand. They were at the cash register, speaking to the clerk behind the counter. The tiny girl hung on her fathers arm and looked up and him dolefully, pointing insistantly at some sweet in the glass display casing. He looked down and her and said "No" firmly. The girl swung his arm back and forth and whined until the father finally rolled his eyes and said, "Fine, but don't tell your mother". The girl giggled in glee and let go of his sleeve, turning and skipping towards a table at the far end of the cafe. She brushed past Sarek's dark leather coat as she went, and he followed her with his eyes until turning back to the cup in his hands that was rapidly losing heat.

Among the alarmingly large amount of things that were illogical about humans, clothing was something that Sarek simply could not fathom. The humans sense of what they called 'fashion' was something highly valued, though he could not understand why they put so much store into it. The styles often regurgitated themselves over time, yet each time the humans acted as though it was something new and chique. As far as Sarek was concerned, clothing was clothing. Its purpose was to cover the body and prevent nudity or cold.

He looked down at the clothing he wore and shifted, feeling as though the humans were all gazing at him. He wore a simple black leather jacket, and a thick red plaid sweater beneath that. He wore simple jeans and sneakers, and a simple black wool hat on his head. That morning, he had gone through the uncomfortable process of shaving the top half of his eyebrows and putting the adheisive on his ears to attatch the silicon. Fake hair adorned his now low-set eyebrows, and as he gazed at his new face in the mirror, he felt strange. He knew very well that it was he himself at which he gazed, but he somehow looked so drastically different than usual. He closed his eyes and repeated mantras in his cluttered head to clear it of anything but his current objective. He had planned early that morning to put on his human mask and go out into the city to observe and study their alien behaviours.

This objective in mind brought him to the small, bustling cafe in which he now sat. It was called "The Java Niche", and from the amount of people crowding in it, filling the place with their chatter, Sarek guessed that it was quite a popular little spot for humans to gather. It was filled with a multitude of diverse examples of the species, and Sarek found it fascinating to watch them interact with one another. There were so many levels of interaction, and so many different levels of relationship and relativity. He had to admit that he had always found humans extremely interesting. They had every single prominent caractaristic of every known species in the galaxy and they displayed each caractaristic and emotion in, sometimes, startlingly small intervals between each outburst. He was reminded of a comment on humans said by an old friend of Sarek's family to a close human friend of his, "You have the arrogance of Andorians, the stubborn pride of Tellorites. One moment you're as driven by your emotions as Klingons, and the next you confound us by suddenly embracing logic!"

Sarek held the same opinions about the plain-featured beings of Earth, and he decided that at least one good thing could be gleaned from the danger and difficulty of his looming mission.


The world was a confusing blurry mass of watery-looking colours to the bleary eyes of Amanda Grayson. She yawned widely and let out a puff of air from her sleep-swollen lips, curling further into the thick blanket that covered her body. She blinked twice attempting to make out the mass of orange that floated in front of her face, but to no avail. She took a warm finger to her eyes, rubbing the crust from them. Suddenly, something rough and wet was licking her face. She waved her arms disgustedly and wrenched her tired eyes open again once more to see the mass of orange reveal itself to be the striped fur and green eyes of the skinny tabby cat owned by the kind old woman Matilda Robins.

"Thomas, go away!" she said, shooing the cat from her, "Go on. Go!"

Completely ignoring her, the cat called Thomas began to purr and lept deftly onto the couch, curling his self comfortably on her stomach and closing his eyes contentedly. She glared exhaustedly at him and rolled over violently, trying to shake the feline off of her. Thomas dug in his claws to her blanket and rolled calmly with her, rearranging himself comfortably once more in the warm curve of her hip. She lifted her head and growled frustratedly, giving up on trying to rid herself of the furry nuisance. She pulled the blankets over her head and attempted to soak in the accumulated heat of her little nest. With a pang of regret, she realized that nature was calling, and that her body was very intent on answering its call.

Gathering up her courage to go out in the cold apartment, she flung the blankets off and dashed to the little bathroom near the kitchen, her feet hopping on the freezing floors and attempting to limit contact as much as possible. Once she was relieved, she walked back into the main room of the apartment in a much more dignified manner than she had left. When she returned, Matilda Robins was bobbing back and forth around her tiny kitchen, popping bread in her ancient stainless steel toaster and brewing some freash java in a yellowing coffeemaker. She was wearing a bright green floral patterned housecoat that went garishly with her fuzzy pink slippers. Her silvery, wavy hair was pulled up into a loose bun and her chocolate brown folded skin was taught around her whistling lips. She sang a tune that she had said her grandmother listened to on 45' when she was young. It went something like "When times go bad, and you can't get enough, Won't you lay me down in the tall grass and let me do my stuff...", although Amanda could only remember those very few lines and the tune. Wordlessly, she joined Matilda in her efforts to make breakfast and whistled along, musing wonderingly at how archaic technology had been when the song was written.

A/N: See what I did there? Haha. And for those of you who don't know what a 45' is, it's a small record with usually just one song on each side. They're singles, instead of the whole album. That's one of my social problems; I'll start talking about stuff like 45's, and everyone my age, very sadly enough, has no idea what I'm talking about. Let's just say that a large chunk of the young people where I abode now know quite a lot about random stuff than others in different areas might. Haha!