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Welcome to the Writing Challenge 2023! Last year, we had a fantastic run of entries for the challenge, and once again, it's time to boldly go where no writer has gone before! Let's face it, writing can be tough. Staring at a blank page can be like staring into the abyss. But writing to a prompt for a small challenge can be just the kick in the cosmic pants needed to get the creative juices flowing. It can be a fun way to explore new genres and themes, nerd out about your favourite franchise, and find out new ways to write you'd never thought you could. Dig into those realms of plot ideas you've got brewing, drag out the lists of "what if" and try it out! This year, the leading entrant of last year's contest, Fleet Captain @Kali Nicholotti has ingeniously provided the prompt for our community this time around... "If you've come to the end... you've only found another beginning." I can imagine some of your heads are already churning through the prompt and coming up with all manner of ideas. Themes immediately spring to mind of change and transformation, the characters ploughing through the depths of their development and emerging stronger for it. Or maybe renewal and continuation, for characters that reach a turning point and discover a new path, forging their destiny ahead. Perhaps your characters will endure, exploring themes of perseverance and resilience, against insurmountable obstacles, and overcoming them through determination and teamwork. The creativity of this community is in the details. From the eloquent prose and deep emotion to the twists and turns of plot magic, this group truly invites you to boldly go where no one has gone before. Rules & Guidelines: Word count should be a minimum of 300 and a maximum of 3000. One judge will be chosen from each ship to help select the winner. Members are welcome to submit solo stories, or team up with a buddy to submit a collaborative epic, but only one story per person, please! Your submission should be in the format of a short story. Prose, not sim formatting. (See here for examples.) All members are welcome to submit entries for the community to read, but only those from active simmers will be reviewed by the judging panel for the final winner selection. If you want to submit a story but don't want to enter it into the challenge, prefix the forum post with "showcase" and let us read your good stuff! Submissions are, by default, non-canon – if you find a way to shoehorn this into your own backstory, you're free to use it if you wish, but certainly not a requirement. You can create whatever characters make sense for the story. You don't have to use or reference any of your current characters. Rank is not an issue here – write as an Ensign or a Captain, civilian, whatever makes sense for your story! And you're free to use characters you've already written for in sim, but please don't include anyone else's. Submit your story directly into the first post of a new thread. Use the following format for the thread title: [Primary Character Name(s) of author(s)]: "My Story's Interesting Title" Tristan Wolf: "Five Ways to End Your Starfleet Career" All stories must be submitted by Sunday, May 28th at 11:59pm Pacific Time. Good luck!

The quiet hum of the runabout, occasionally punctuated by the chimes of automated systems dutifully performing their functions, was the only break from the oppressive silence that wrapped Geoffrey Teller like a pitch-black cloak. In the two days his journey had taken he hadn't spoken, save for the rare instruction to the ships computer, and even those few times had been abrupt and ledden. Gone was the zeal and gangly energy for which he was typically known, buried too deep under layers of loss and grief for even his spirit to shine through. He looked towards the transporter platform and its single occupant and considered again how he'd come to be chosen for this last, solemn duty. Geoff had fallen out of time; stolen away from the life and career he'd built by an enemy who had harried his steps since his earliest days as an officer on the U.S.S. Veritas. He'd been imprisoned, returned to a place that played a central role in his darkest nightmares and only when he'd broken free with the assistance of friends and colleagues had he begun to grasp all that had been taken from him. And all that he'd missed. In the space between two heartbeats he'd lost a year of his life as the outside universe continued on, blithely ignorant to his absence. In the months that had passed since then he'd tried coming to terms with the enormity of that loss yet every time he thought he'd begun to put aside the bitter anger that consumed him in his quiet hours, some new discovery wounded him anew. The message he'd received a week ago had been the worst among them all, though, and so had the request that had gone along with it. He glanced again at the transporter platform and the small urn that stood upon a plinth in its center as tears once again clouded his vision. He had met her on his very first assignment and she'd seen something in him that Geoff himself had been unable to, but that had been her way. Although she had suffered from a debilitating, chronic disease for which there was no cure, her heart seemed to overflow with compassion and empathy for all those around her. She had wrapped those closest to her in an warm embrace that could forestall the sting of the deepest agonies. She'd even made Geoff one of his most cherished personal possessions, a beautiful hand-woven blanket made in the ancient style of her people, and it had become a tangible symbol of all the kindness and care she shared so freely with others. The blanket sat on the empty co-pilots chair where he'd delicately placed it when embarking. He'd not dared touch it since. The navigation computer drew his attention back to the present as the runabout dropped out of warp and, as programmed, brought the ship to a halt. Beyond the shuttle's viewport was the awesome majesty of a formation that early astronomers had dubbed 'The Pillars of Creation,' a vast collection of stellar phenomena that continued to inspire artists and poets. The scientific community had long ago classified and catalogued it, noted its atypical coloration and odd spatial geometry, then moved on to some new mystery. The souls of artists from a hundred worlds had been far less fickle and, from Andoria to Tellar to old Earth itself, many regarded it as the most spectacular of all the galaxies innumerable creations. Geoff looked at it scornfully, desperate for anything upon which to vent his anger and grief, but the stars themselves were unmoved. An impossible chill seemed to suffuse the cabin and Geoff found himself reaching out for the blanket as if in a trance, unable to stop himself from wrapping the thick soft wool around his shoulders like a shawl. He sat there for a time in silence. How long was not a matter of seconds or minutes or hours, or any banal form of time keeping that could be expressed with the use of a timepiece. The time was as long as it had to be, as grief and loss and the pain of tragedy threatened to overwhelm him in silence. When at last he stood and the tears that had silently run down his face were spent he'd grown warm in the blankets gentle embrace and part of him knew it was time, at last, to say goodbye to his friend. Standing and turning towards the transporter controls, he considered again the words she'd asked him to speak aloud at this moment. Geoff knew they came from an ancient blessing that her people had passed down from one generation to the next and could feel the truth in them, even if he struggled to accept it for himself. His hand moved towards the controls but hesitated and his shoulders slumped. "Why?" he said to the air...or to the urn...or to the vast indifferent universe, "You didn't deserve this. You deserved decades of love and peace and comfort. You deserved to be honored...to be recognized. To be seen and heard and celebrated." His voice was horse with emotion. "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry I wasn't there when you needed me. When you needed one more miracle. When you needed a friend at the end of all things. I'm...I'm so sorry." Geoff sobbed, an exhausted and desperate longing for absolution consuming his heart and burning within his mind. He raged, furious at a universe that could be so cruel and random, so capricious with its gifts and so generous with its miseries. He mourned for his friend and for her family, for those she'd left behind and for those wonders she'd never get to experience. And finally, at last, he allowed himself to feel it all. All the shame and pain he'd stacked upon his soul. All the awful self-recriminations and illogical guilt that he had lashed himself with since discovering that his friend had gone and he remained. Then something strange happened. A warmth suffused him, as if the blanket resting on his shoulders had settled deeper around his spirit and become a balm upon his very soul. And he felt her. Felt her kind, knowing smile. Felt her compassion as a light which gently banished the darkness within him and gently chided him, as she always had, for imposing grief upon himself that she never would've wished for him. Guilt was transmuted to understanding and agony made way for acceptance as her last gift to him sealed the breach within his soul from which he'd been invisibly bleeding to death. His shoulders straightened and the pallor of grief began fading from his face as he took a deep breath, at last prepared to say his final farewell to someone he'd come to cherish and respect. His hand went to the transporter controls and when he spoke, his borrowed and ancient words were calm and clear. "If you've come to the end...you've only found another beginning. Goodbye...my friend." The transporter whined and the urn shimmered blue and white, vanishing a moment later to begin its infinite journey through the majesty of the Pillars. Geoff returned to the viewport and watched the canister drift away until he could no longer make it out against the towering bands of color and light and when he closed his eyes, he saw her smile written across those very same stars. He finally understood why she'd asked this of him and thanked his friend, one final time, for the warmth she had once again shared with him when he most needed it. When at last Geoff turned the runabout for home he was changed. Transmuted through the crucible of grief and loss, his friend had helped him find a new beginning as her last act of charity. It was a gift he'd cherish for as long as he lived. -For Mandy

Geryon III had five rings. It was a bad day for rain, in fact, it has been raining all week. In actual fact, it shouldn't be raining at all. The USS Zephyr has been traversing the fifth ring for a week now yet it has been lashed by an unending pour of rain. The raindrops struck against the hull and could be heard from inside the ship. It would have been a soothing sound if it wasn't so unnatural. And it drove him mad. He was in charge of figuring out how it was possible. The most viable theory he could come up with was that the ‘’rain’’ contained some unknown alloy and combined with the fifth ring’s peculiar magnetic field it produced an effect similar to, well, rain. He was not happy with that theory. It failed to explain how the rain went through their shields or how it produced so much noise but he was content it did not seem to damage the hull. An explanation would have to wait until he figured out how to write his report without sounding like a madman. At least it wasn't the winds of the fourth ring. Or the earthquakes of the third. Or even the ocean of the second ring. He laughed, all of this was nothing compared to the first- he stopped that train of thought. They all agreed not to talk about the first ring. No matter, this was the last ring. Soon they would clear it and fly far, far away from this planet. And then he would never have to speak or even think of this place ever again. A flash of lighting drew his attention as it lit the inside of his quarters. He turned his gaze to the window. Through the drops of rain that stained it, the surface of Geryon III could still be seen clearly. Its green clouds moving and morphing, playing tricks with his mind. Just one more ring, Just one more, he told himself. His combadge offered a brief respite from the sound of constant rain. ‘’Lieutenant Hark, report to the bridge’’. ‘’On my way’’. He put his coffee mug to his lips only to find it empty. Disappointed, he headed for the bridge. ‘’You look terrible Liam’’. Said the Captain, looking equally terrible with a tired grin. ‘’I have no excuses sir’’ Liam replied and walked closer to him. ‘’Although my shower stopped working 2 rings ago’’. The Captain nodded and rubbed his eyes. ‘’At least you still have lights, I need to see you in my ready room’’ The Captain moved a pile of padds out of his office so he could see Liam more clearly. ‘’What are we going to tell them Liam?’’ ‘’You’re asking me, David?’’ After the third ring the remaining crew was already on a first name basis. At least in private. ‘’You’re the science officer. You don't expect me to describe, what did you call it again, the ‘’alternating subspace eddy’’ to a Starfleet committee do you?’’ He let the padd he used to read the description fall to the desk with little care. ‘’Oh is that what we’re calling the Angel with the Burning Spear now David? You’re really going to use my theory from 4 rings ago?’’ ‘’Not so loud!’’ the Captain said firmly yet with a hushed voice. ‘’I can still hear it, Liam. If I don't make it through this ring you are taking command of the Zephyr’’ ‘’But Captain’’ he protested. ‘’Oh it's ‘’Captain’’ now is it Liam? Listen, you need to take those people home. Don't wait. As soon as we make it out, send a distress signal in every frequency there is. Promise me Liam’’ Liam Hark was too tired to protest any more. He nodded and drank the water David poured for him in a glass. Water and bread. The only things the replicators could make right now. He savored each sip. The journey and the surface and through the rings was perilous. Simply flying away from the planet was impossible. They devised a plan that seemed to work so far. They would fly through the entire length of each ring until they detected a spot where the gravitational anomaly was weaker. They would cross that spot at warp speed and end up in the next ring. Each jump came at a cost. Each jump caused irreparable damage to the ship. The ready room was lit by the red lights of the associated alert level. ‘’It’s time Liam, it was an honour. I will wait here’’. Lieutenant Hark put his glass down and nodded. He knew what happened to the people who could hear the Angel when they crossed a ring. ‘’Goodbye David.’’ He sat in the Captain's chair. No one protested or batted an eye. The Captain must have briefed the remaining bridge crew beforehand. At least in the end he was foresighted. Maybe this could all have been avoided if the Captain stopped hunting Oouraldian tales of the Angel with the burning spear or maybe if he listened to his first officer’s warnings about entering the planet’s orbit. Maybe, maybe. But it did not matter now. The crew was well versed in the procedure for the jump at this point. They were already in their positions the moment the red alert sounded. He looked into the tired eyes of the helmsman who was waiting for his command. ‘’Warp 4, engage’’ He gripped his chair as the ship shook violently. He closed his eyes to shield them from the slashes of light that accompanied the crossing. ‘’Jump successful’’, said the helmsman. Liam rubbed his eyes and wiped his tears. He steeled himself for the inevitable. He waited, holding his breath for the scans to complete and for the helmsman to tell him what he already knew. Geryon III had six rings.

Author’s note: The following tale involves depictions of violence and themes of enslavement, cruel and unusual punishment including solitary confinement, forced paralyzation, and forced feeding. As well as the emotional, and mental distress rendered on the victims of such. Reader’s discretion is advised. “The time is now 1630,” the station’s computer told the Brikarian man who sat in the custom chair of his quarters still studying for his first day officially back in Starfleet, already dressed in a freshly replicated black and gold uniform with a new hollow pip on his collar. His recommision had come with a promotion for his constant resistance and his part in their liberation by the current Arrow crew. Lieutenant Commander S’dor Grumm had a heavy burden on him that even his massive stony shoulders could not bear. Everything he had lived through, and relived, again, and again, and again. The mutiny he didn’t stop (not that he didn’t try [not that he couldn’t have tried harder]), the boarding, their capture by Sheliak, and the mining camp that they had been taken to for forced labor and everything that happened there. The towering Brik’ar, even by his own race’s standards, had grown accustomed to Deep Space Thirty Three in the last couple of months, where the biggest external inconvenience he had to deal with was doorways. He loved the tall and wide walkways of the promenade the most, they gave him the socialization and freedom of movement that his captors had denied him for so long. It pleased the behemoth of a rock man to know that he would pass through it on his way to the Engineering Department. Grumm would be second in Command of the department until the departure of the current department chief in a couple of months. He had wanted to get back in as soon as he was able to, but the eccentric, utterly annoying, yet helpful, Ferengi shrink, Doctor Gott; had advised him to take his time. Following Gott’s advice he had taken time to explore the station and make contacts and friends. To decompress, reflect, and adapt to and try to fully appreciate his change of fortune. Only after he had done so had they agreed that he was ready. It hadn’t been easy, solitary confinement was considered by many galactic powers and their treaties to be a form of torture in itself. The form he had been subjected to could be considered especially egregious. His own actions hadn’t earned it per say, but had certainly necessitated it in the eyes of the slave masters. Grumm was no man’s slave, and it had taken some time before his captors had figured out a way to remotely disable his gravity harness. From the labyrinthine tunnels, with his childhood pet “Yip” by his side, he had waged a one man guerilla war against the masters, the blessing of his race, to be immune to energy weapons, used in great effect to make many former Sheliak into lifeless puddles of goo most often by his massive fists. But then they finally tamed him, in body, if not spirit. With his body now fully at the mercy of the artificial gravity they had installed, the Sheliak took the proud man and put him a special holding cell in the headquarters building. He was happy to be on a station, and he would have absolutely turned down a ship assignment after everything he had been through. Still, the Sheliak lurked not far away, as Thirty Three was the gateway to the Alpha Isles, The Federation’s diplomatic outpost in the particular frontier. Their captors had been considered “Rogue elements,” by at least one faction that considered itself the legitimate successor to the “Corporate”. Grumm however wasn’t too sure he trusted that narrative, but there hadn’t been much time to investigate during the escape. What little Arriana and himself had learned was disturbing. The Sheliak had some rather in-depth intelligence on each of them, as if they had a spy on the ship, or recording devices, something. More disturbing yet, were the hideous trophies they had kept alongside their filing cabinets. He’d never forget the holograms of dead officers displayed next to the uniforms they were wearing when they had died. Dumped on his belly, and unable to move, the Sheliak had fed him through a throat tube, why they had done so had been beyond his comprehension. Had his life been worth more inherently to them because he was also silicon based? Did they think that he was at least worth more of a ransom? He’d only learn later from Arianna Sokova that they had heavily drugged him a few times and tried to make him work in that state. Yet, even in such a debilitated state he had resisted, and their slave drivers had finally stripped him of his harness completely. Sokova had reckoned that it had been at least two years since they had last tried that, by the time they escaped. Why they had continued to let him live afterward, he never did puzzle out. Saying goodbye to Yip, (whom he had named at a very young age) with many longs pets, as if trying to make up for lost time and affection; the Brikar rose to his feet and started out into the corridors. Ducking, per usual, beneath the door he exited his quarters and began his lumbering trek to his new duty station. His mind intrusively reminded him still. He lied there sedentary, in darkness save the illumination of small crack under his door. When he had first been detained this way, he nourished himself with plans of escape and dreams of life away from the small cell. Unable to move, to will himself to move, he had never been able to see these through. Days, months, perhaps years passed, all meaningless to a man who heard nothing except the voices of his guards; who saw no one but whichever guard would occasionally be tasked in changing his nutrient bag. Passing through the promenade with its freedom, open air, and swarms of life and beauty, he gazed longingly at the domed arboretum in the middle, which he did not have time to visit until after his shift. The bright foliage of the trees, the fragrances of a dozen world’s flowers, offered such a contrast to all the things that had brought him such sorrow. As the flame of hope in his holding cell died, Grumm’s thoughts boiled with igneous rage. Seeing as he couldn’t well get his freedom; he would fantasize about his revenge. His thoughts grew exceedingly dark; twisted and warped scenarios played out in his mind. It was cathartic. It was exhausting. It could never last. The line for coffee was surprisingly short, and fortunately so, seeing as Grumm needed a little pick-me-up after the assault of memories. He’d want to be on top of it, after so long, with so many new technologies he had had to learn. Unable to sustain the darkness forever, S’dor retreated into his own mind. He relived his core memories. When his parents gifted him Yip on his birthday, childhood friends, an awkward adolescent dance with his first love, mandatory military service, his stint at Damous Technical School on Tellar Prime studying electrical engineering, his civilian ship repair job near his home, the one near his alma mater, the Academy, the ships leading up to the Arrow, everything that followed: the mutiny, their capture, his rebellion. He relived it all, repeatedly, no other form of escapism available to him, experiencing more lifetimes than most; though he was still young by Brikar standards. The coffee spurred him on, much in the way that finding that he no longer felt the full pull of gravity had. He remembered how his disused muscles, atrophied, yet still strong, were once again at his command, and pushing himself up to kneel, and then stand. Something had stirred their guards, and someone else had been deposited in the cell next door. Unbeknownst to him, and perhaps at the time herself, Adrianna Sokova has somehow managed to reengage the field that his anti-grav harness gave off enough to give him freedom of movement. How exactly it did so between a thick wall, was anyone’s guess, as a trained engineer he theorized that it had to do with the properties of the building materials. Nevertheless, struggling with his own weight and weakened legs, he had freed himself and ambushed those interrogating his fellow officer making quick and gooey blobs out of them all. Like donning his anti-grav harness again, the caffeine spurred the once and future assistant section chief on toward a new life. He took long strides toward the turbolift that would deliver him to his new post. The remaining length between Grumm and the lift was about as the length from Sokova’s cell to the intersection across from it had been. It had been from that intersection that the patrol had streamed out and tried to ambush them. Arianna seemed to wield her acquired Sheliak disruptor like she had lost no time at all, S’dor might have got a lucky shot in himself. As they approached said intersection, post firefight, they had had their argument. The Security Officer would have liked to escape right away, but he successfully guilted her into joining him in attempting to free the others. He stepped into the turbolift and he mulled over the events that followed, as he was whisked away toward his duty post. It was shortly after that when they found the achieves with the unsettling files, and more unsettling trophies. Trapped from further ingress by a force field, the Engineer smashed a holoemitter and quickly assembled a device to short out the field. After that traumatic encounter, it was harder to recall. There was another corridor, doors, more dead Sheliak, Ferengis, a few control rooms, and the modern crew of the Arrow. Lieutenant Commander S’dor Grumm stood outside the final barrier, both literal and figurative. Ducking his form low, he stepped forward into the next frontier.

James stood at the balcony overlooking the city of Delgast. The place was a hotbed of criminal activity, though from this height one would never know it. Like so many other cities he had been in over the years of his service in Starfleet Intelligence, this one hosted a very rich class of criminals. The ones who called all the shots. The streets on the ground level, where the petty crimes happened - not that all of them were really petty, and not that any of them were okay - were hidden from this height. It was easy to forget the darker side of the planet’s society with such a breathtaking view. In the distance were the Telang mountains, majestic peaks to rival Earth’s Rocky Mountains or the Alps. The fertile valley that lay below them was rife with plentiful harvests. But it was what was being harvested there that had drawn him here. Word had reached Intelligence that the crops were a highly purified form of a plant known to produce extremely addictive substances. Those crops would then be sold to underworld types for a tidy profit - which accounted for the lavishness of the city - and then distributed in seedier cities throughout the Federation. And to top it all off, his investigation here had revealed an even darker secret. The Orion Syndicate was behind all of it. He was getting close, he knew. Just a few more days and he would have all the information he needed and then he could return to Bogotá, where his Romulan wife and half-Romulan daughter waited for him. And his other daughter, the one he would never be able to acknowledge or talk about. Maria deserved so much better from him, but if R’Val ever learned she was his daughter, she’d kill him. Of that, he had no doubt. Instead, he’d taken her mother in as a house servant and raised little Maria alongside her older sister Serala. The two were good friends, he knew, but if she ever really knew that Maria was her sister, how would she react? He shuddered to think about it. Pulling himself out of his reverie, he turned to walk back inside the apartment, one that had been provided to him by his contact. He’d barely taken two steps when the plaster on the wall next to him exploded, showering him with fragments and coating him in white dust. Instinctively, he tucked and rolled, knowing the first attack was only a precursor. Someone was trying to kill him. He managed to roll out of the way as a second explosion occurred only two feet from him, tearing up the floor and destroying some rather opulent furniture. Acting solely on instinct now, James regained his feet and dashed for cover. A third explosion sounded behind him and he felt his feet swept from under him by the shockwave from the blast. The fall caused his head to hit the ground hard, and the explosion had his ears ringing. Still, he couldn’t afford to lay where he was. He quickly rolled into the hallway where he had been retreating. It would take him out of the line of sight from whoever was shooting at him. Once there, he scrambled to his feet and began making his way toward the front door. But that direction proved to be futile as he heard a loud thud and crack. “Damn,” he muttered to himself, swiftly changing course. He was quickly running out of options. Being thirty-five stories above ground did have a few disadvantages to it. The front door thudded again, and again another splintering sound. Only this time, the splintering was more thorough and he knew the door had been breached. Drawing the Klingon disruptor he’d procured a few days prior, he took cover behind a wall and aimed for the entrance to the hall from the main foyer. From this vantage point, he was able to see several people pouring into the suite, all of various species, none of which were friendly to the Federation. A large, burly Orion man led the way, shouting directions to the others. Several of the team started down his hall and left with little option, he opened fire, the disruptor’s wide beam setting taking down three would-be attackers instantly. But more were right behind them. And now alerted to his location, the others began to redirect themselves as well. A metallic chink sounded, followed by a thud and the sound of metal rolling on wood, and he looked down to see himself face to face with a thermal grenade. He launched himself behind a nearby chair, hoping to use it for cover, but it proved minimal at best. The explosion from it ripped through the air, tearing apart the wall, the furniture and the chair he was behind. He felt his flesh seared and scorched, and his suit jacket was aflame. He quickly doffed the burning coat and made to rise, but by that point, the Orion and seven of his goons had arrived, all with assorted beam weapons pointed right at him. He never knew where the person came from, or where she went afterward. He never learned her identity or why she was there, but one moment he was facing down the barrels of eight weapons. The next, they had been vaporized by a disruptor grenade. A brief thought occurred to him that he might have been vaporized as well if the grenade had rolled a foot closer to the room he was in. Instead, the blast had been channeled by the shape of the hallway and took out his attackers. The woman appeared from around the corner and signaled him to follow her. Not taking the time to ask all the questions in his mind, he simply nodded and rose to follow. When they reached the foyer, she saw a man dressed very similarly to him laying on the ground, clearly dead. “Martin,” he whispered. Martin had been his Syndicate contact. As far as James had known, he’d never figured out James’ real identity. But maybe he had. “Put something personal to you on him,” the woman whispered. “He’s going to be you, now.” He turned to look at her, a questioning look on his face. Was she suggesting that he fake his own death? “Yes,” she replied, as if she could read his thoughts. And maybe she could. After all, she was dressed in light combat gear, all black, and had a full face mask over her face. No way for him to identify her or her species. “It is the only way now. If the Syndicate believes you dead, they will stop coming after you. If not, they will come after you and your family. Now hurry, we don’t have much time.” So, this was it. The end of his life as he knew it. He’d been trained for this possibility when he’d been recruiting into the covert operations division. But now it was reality. And it would mean letting R’Val, Serala and little Maria all believe he was dead. Forever. The idea pained him, but he also knew this mysterious woman was correct. The Syndicate would never stop. And Earth was no barrier for them. He quickly removed his identification papers. They had been forged to give him a new identity that should have held up under scrutiny. But they would also serve to identify him, even to Starfleet who knew his alias. When that was done, the woman quickly blasted his body, destroying any identifying features so there would be no reason to doubt his identity. That done, the two quickly made their escape, meeting no further resistance. Six Months Later James stood in Keibrom, the capital city of Tibro, one of the Valcarian Empires governmental seats. No longer was he James Davis, he was now Jemmar Darven, a loyal citizen of the Valcarian Imperial Republic. He’d had to reinvent himself after his staged death on Elmacar Four. Starfleet Intelligence, it seemed, had learned the truth and contacted him covertly, ordering him to lay low here and to keep his ears and eyes open. The Federation had an interest in this region, and while they weren’t quite ready to start exploring it yet, having a set of eyes on the inside would be most helpful when the time finally came. In the short time he’d been here, he had met a lovely young Valcarian woman and the two were growing quite close. While she would never truly replace R’Val, he decided that it would be possible to build a future with her if he wanted. After all, as one of his instructors in Intelligence had once told him, “When you come to the end of one road, you’ll find you’re only standing at the beginning of another one. Take it and see where the journey leads you.” Shrugging, he made his way from his little shop to the tavern he knew he would find her working in. Maybe he would take that new road after all.

CONTENT WARNING: This story depicts the Cardassian occupation of Bajor and contains distressing content, including reference to the death of children. Please read with caution and take care. ❤️ ————————— Eshia lifted the sculpture up above her head, clutching it tightly with both hands, and hurled it down to the floor with a yell between gritted teeth. It shattered into a hundred pieces on the studio floor with a deafening crash. When she stepped back, breathing heavily, two clean footprints where she’d been standing were visible in the layer of dusty clay spread across the tile. Something about the sight reminded her of a ghost— she supposed that, in a way, she was one. There were no records of anyone named Eshia Kilak prior to 2365, 35 years ago, and yet her 80th birthday had come and gone. It was just like any other day of the year. She woke up alone, created a new piece of art, went to work, came home, destroyed the artwork, and went to bed alone. She didn’t always destroy the pieces she finished— many of them were sold to keep her bills paid or auctioned for Bajoran charity events— but part of her relished in it. Few things were quite as cathartic as constructing physical expressions of the horrible things she’d done and seen, then destroying them with fervor. Eshia Kilak considered art therapy to be her calling in life. It was one of few pleasures that she hadn’t thrown away. - Shokam Kurat was a fine example of the ideal Cardassian citizen. Educated, disciplined, artistic, and married with children. He loved a woman from a proud family of musicians. Her name was Eajal, and Shokam truly had eyes only for her. They courted in the usual catty Cardassian manner, but after settling down together as a married couple, the courtship displays melted away into a secure and genuine love. Together with his wife, he sired five healthy children— Renmok, Tiaja, Rivak, and twins Seja and Koja. Two handsome boys and three beautiful girls. Shokam was many things— obedient was one of them. As soon as he came of age he became a soldier, and all that meant was that he took orders and carried them out. If a Gul told him to jump, he asked ‘how high,’ and that was that. No questions, no protests. All they needed from him was a nod and a ‘yes sir’ and a positive report, and that’s what they got. Shokam was no good at leading, but made for an extremely skilled follower. It was simpler that way. It would also be what destroyed his life. - “How is your mood chart lately?” “Fine.” The therapist gave Eshia a concerned smile. He was a beautiful Denobulan man with fluffy ginger hair and soft eyes, but he clicked his fingernails against his PADD far too frequently for her liking. There was a chip in his front tooth, and so for all his wisdom, he was also imperfect in some pitiable way. “Are you certain? It usually dips for a few weeks around this time each year.” There was no use in trying to deny it— he didn’t need to look at a chart to know that she was suffering. In an effort to distract her nervous mind, she started counting the squares in the pattern of the office carpet. It didn’t matter that she’d counted them before and already knew that there were 480. “I miss my wife.” - With one sleeping twin on his right hip and the other on his left, Shokam quite literally had his hands full. Seja and Koja’s third birthday had gone well. They’d laughed and played and eaten their fair share of sweets, delighting in their special day while their father fawned over them. It would make for a lovely memory. Carefully, he set each little girl down in her bed, straightened their pajamas, pulled their blankets over their little bodies, and pressed kisses to the tops of their heads. Seja burrowed underneath the blankets at once, and Koja’s arms sprawled out at her sides as if she were skydiving. It was adorable. When Shokam turned to leave and saw Eajal in the doorway, softly backlit by the hall light, he committed the sight to memory. She teased him sometimes about never leaving the ‘honeymoon phase,’ forever infatuated with her. “Do I get a goodnight kiss?” “Of course.” She reached out to take his hand, drew him in to her arms, and stood on tiptoe to press her lips to his. All at once, he melted under her touch. “I’ll miss you in the morning,” she whispered, and he pulled the bedroom door closed. “The first shift is so early…” “I know… but the prefect needs soldiers for the new facilities.” Shokam tucked Eajal’s hair behind her ear, and the skin of her face was soft against his fingertips. “This camp will be a good opportunity for me.” - The latinum rattled softly as she gathered it in her hand, then pressed it into the Vedek’s. He smiled at her, but his jaw was tense. She knew that no matter how much she donated, he’d never be at ease with any Cardassian like her, and she knew that it was her own fault. He was old enough to remember everything firsthand. - Shokam tossed his rifle aside, fell to his trembling hands and knees, and vomited into the dirt. He had no idea how far he’d run— only that his body refused to go any further. He had signed up for this, he reminded himself. Somehow that only made the guilt more intense. Malnutrition made the ages of the Bajoran children in the labor camp difficult to judge, but the bodies he’d been asked to dump couldn’t be older than his own sons and daughters. He couldn’t stop thinking about the way their mother screamed into the earth, about how she looked at him as if he’d wrung the life out of them with his own two hands. - “I don’t know that I would have felt that guilt without children of my own,” Eshia admitted. The Denobulan’s nails clicked noisily against the screen of his PADD, but for some reason, it didn’t annoy her. “…Have you told anyone else this story before?” His voice was tight with discomfort, but he persisted in performing his job. It was… admirable. “Yes.” He waited for elaboration, and she started counting the carpet squares again. “…I told Eajal. My wife.” - Shokam and Eshia were two sides of the same coin. Shokam had always been aware in some way of her existence, and she always carried him in the back of her mind. Carefully, delicately, she rubbed at the bit of blue makeup in the dip of her forehead, then looked at the smudge it left on her fingertip. That blue powder was a small part of her daily routine, but it brought her some level of comfort. When Eshia deserted the Cardassian military and shed Shokam’s identity, it was not only to affirm her gender or to avoid the watchful gaze of her home planet’s legal system— it was a commitment to change. Eshia hated the person that she had once been, that was no secret. She hated the blind willingness to follow a corrupt leader into evil, and hated knowing that she had participated in an occupation riddled with unspeakable atrocities. After decades of denying the blood on her hands, all she could do now was try to cope with it— to better the things that she could control. When she closed her eyes, she could still see the children. She could still see the Bajoran mother’s face, tears cutting clean lines through the dirt on her cheeks. That much would never change. With a deep breath in and a deep breath out, she swept up the broken shards of clay at her feet. It was time to get back to work.

It was just a Saturday night, like many others before it. Typical one could say. It was the same place they'd been going for years, Bimpy's. The “local watering hole” of this small town. It was the same place everyone went. The narrow but long room was crowded. Every table along the wall at capacity. The bar, full. The crowd would rotate out back to grab a smoke. The music from the jukebox, almost too loud, like normal. Everyone's voices were raised to be heard by their tablemates, getting louder the more they imbibed. One of the group was back home visiting. They missed this sort of outing. They even felt, after being gone so long, they'd even outgrown it. But being back, even just for one night, made them feel ten years younger. Some of the faces around were the same that had been there seemingly since the beginning of time. Some were new, “kids.” The beer was cold, the whiskey warm. Bryan was still tending bar. But “Cookie” had long since left the grill to manage the joint. And Steve still sat at the end of the bar sipping his gin from the well. Some faces that used to be there never would be again. Talking, laughing, jokes at each others expense. Old stories from what seemed like some other person's life were shared. Nights like this made life seem so short. The occasional silence of the crowd when someone got too loud in that threatening voice, the anticipation of a fight about to take place. It doesn't. The typical bravado of the young and stupid. Still, Bryan will keep things in order, like he always has. They drink too much and the hours fly by. The crowd doesn't thin, but it also no longer grows. If they weren't there by one, they weren't coming. The conversations move from funny stories to those of missed opportunities. Lost loves. The somber stuff. What is it about this time of night that makes that happen? It's last call, and time enough for one more round. A few beers, a couple of whiskys, and of course that one in the group has to have some odd mixed concoction. Everyone drinks slowly, as if that will delay the inevitable. “Closing time, you don't have to go home...,” Bryan yells out like he always has, “...but you can't stay here.” They all look around at one another, silently looking for the answer. None want the night to end, they never did. No one liked the inevitable march of time. It was over... “Denny's?” ...or maybe they could start again.

Bright sunshine flooded the streets. Only half a block away everything became a shifting blur in the heat. A bus sat on the side of the road, its passengers - most of them well over a hundred years old - sat on the curb and on benches nearby. Rox pushed her way past two very sweaty old ladies,nearly knocking them to the pavement. “ Jeezuz girl!” one geriatric hollered after her. “Why don’t you mind your manners?” Fifteen year old Roxanne Queen had no time for manners. Rox was tempted to turn around and give the pair of grannies a gesture, but decided against it. It was too damn hot even for that. Her face was flush from the heat. Her black silk shirt clung to her torso, and her feet felt like they would burst in her boots. She sat down on a planter and lifted off her wire frame sunglasses. “Shit!” she commented to no one in particular. She looked up and down the street. Traffic crawled by as if it were stuck to the road. So backwards was Turkana 4 that vehicles still traveled on the ground on rubber tires. Old men in white t-shirts sat sprawled on the steps of apartment buildings. A few groups of young kids marauded the streets kicking up dust and stones. Rox began to unlace her thick black boots. She sat her sunglasses next to her until she finally succeeded in wrestling her feet out of the boots. Rox hesitated to pull off her damp socks, but peeling them off she placed them inside the boots. Picking up the boots and replacing the sunglasses she resumed her journey. Nothing had changed. People and vehicles sat in the same places as if the heat had ironically frozen them in place. Rox lit a cigarette and took a long pull. “I must be going crazy,” she sighed. “Tommy, when I get to you, you’re in deep shit.” The precinct was another two blocks away. The kid was going to get it, she promised herself. It was bad enough he had to talk to those pushers, let alone hang around them. If Momma found out, they’d both be in trouble. Ahead of her Rox saw a group of guys. She recognized them, not from school, but from the street. Often they found their way to her complex on Friday nights, drawn by many things and welcomed by Tommy. “Hey, Foxy Roxy,” said the tallest of the bunch. Turk, if she remembered correctly. “What’s a fine, fine girl doing on this fine, fine day?” “Save it for someone who cares, Turk,” she said with mocking disdain. She waved her cigarette past his face for effect. “I’m not planning to give you the time of day.” The group of boys exploded in laughter at Turk’s expense and Rox smiled with satisfaction. Turk’s expression turned to a scowl and he rushed forward, grabbing her arm. “Watch your tone, girl,” he hissed. He pulled out a wad of credits and waved it in front of her. “If you want some of this.” Rox toyed with the idea of taking the money and making a run for it, but there were two problems. First, she was barefoot. Second, Turk himself was not impressive, but his older brothers ran with violent gangs. “Look, Turk,” she smiled. “If you think I’m gonna roll over for your money, you can think again about how desperate I am.” She hauled her arm out of his and hurried away. A soft chuckle rippled through the group of boys who hurried off when Turk once again turned to face them. She really needed to stop doing that. Turkana 4 was not the place for it. Then again, she knew no other way to survive. Her parents had moved on without her and she had moved from place to place trying to eek out an existence. She was not alone. Her current home was with Momma, an older woman. She was always in a foul mood and had a harsh temper, but she gave 11 of them shelter and food. It was home enough for Rox. She continued up the next block, stepping gingerly to avoid any stones or other debris. Walking past the fence of the large junkyard that abutted the road, the roar of Bulldozer, the junkyard guard dog, took her by surprise. Bulldozer was the nastiest dog Rox had ever seen and he guarded the scrap yard like a prized piece of meat. He ran along next to her, growling and drooling until a piece of scrap metal finally blocked his path. She turned back to leer at the beast. “Stupid dog,” she scoffed. Suddenly a portly, balding man rolled into view. He was sweating more than anyone she’d ever seen. He was the scrapyard owner, but Rox could not recall his name. He spoke in a sort of monotone wine. “It’s a lovely day, isn’t it?” The junk man droned. “Yes,” Rox replied sarcastically. “Especially if you’re into having strokes.” “Pardon?” “It’s great!” Rox shouted. “Oh wonderful,” the little man chortled, wiping his sweating head with a napkin. “I’m glad someone’s enjoying it. I can’t take this kind of heat these days. I’ve had five strokes you know.” “ Great,” Rox replied quietly. She resumed her journey down the street paying no attention to the old oaf who was saying something about his dog. She peered back down at her now dusty feet. She’d spent quite a bit of time painting her toenails. There was no real reason for it, but she liked having something in her life change from time to time. The bright colors she chose were a stark contrast to the rest of her world. Her little secret dab of brightness next to the blight around her. A hulking transport rolled out of a warehouse lot in front of her. She paused to let it pass before resuming her journey. “Aah!” she screeched as her foot fell on a sharp stone. She flopped down on the grass in front of a brown brick building, threw her boots aside and began to examine her foot. There was a welt where she’d stepped on the stone, but nothing else. “What a baby,” she chided. In the wavy heat a little further on she saw the precinct building. She picked up her boots and walked on. She came to a red light, but lowered her purple tinted sunglasses to confirm its color. The prized glasses perpetually changed the hue of her surroundings and she was constantly having to check to see what color things actually were. Like her toenails they represented a splash of individuality to mark her out from the hordes of other youth. Coming up the building she regarded the Starfleet logo. They had only recently returned and only provided basic security services to the citizens. Turkana 4 continued to be run by Turkana 4’s people. She started up the steps just as a blond officer was bringing out two rough looking men. They were undoubtedly bound for the central detention center. The cool tile in the building was a welcome relief to Rox’s hot feet, and would have been heaven to stand on and enjoy had it not been so late in the day. Momma would be home soon and if Tommy was not present she was sure to freak out. “Hey!” a stern man standing behind a counter bellowed at her. “No shoes, no service. Don’t you read, girl?” “Oh Max,” Rox moaned in her sweetest possible voice. She sauntered over to the counter. “Please, oh, please don’t arrest me.” She began to feign a sob, drawing the attention of other officers. “Rox,” He said, gesturing for her to come closer. “Have you come to cause me more trouble than your family already has today?” He regarded her with stern, yet gentle eyes. “Can’t take a joke, can you?” She said, “So, where’s my brother? I’ve got money, I’m assuming the rates haven’t changed.” Rox began to dig through her boot until she withdrew a moist piece of paper currency. She placed it on the desk in front of Max. “First of all, I don’t know if I want that where it’s been,” he sighed. “Secondly I can’t let your brother out. It’s the third time this week.” “Aw c’mon Max. It's 180 degrees out there, I’ve been walking for 6 blocks. Give me a break, okay?” She was both angry and disheartened, but the office was not giving in. “I’m sorry, but he’s gotta stay.” Max growled. “You never made a tiny little mistake when you were a kid?” “No.” “Oh bullshit!” she erupted. “ C’mon, Max. You know my mom will kill you and me if Tommy gets in trouble, if he’s not there when she gets home.” Her eyes were watery and she stared up at him with her best puppy dog eyes. “Please, Max. Give me a break this one time.” “Oh, cripe, not those eyes.” Max shook in frustration and scooped up the money. “Hodgkins! Get the kid out of 23 and get him up here.” Rox smiled. She strolled quietly over to a bench and began putting her boots back on. By the time she finished Tommy stood before her. She stood to glower at him. “C’mon, you!” She spat. They walked out again into the blazing sun. It was late and mother would be home soon. Rox looked down at the boy next to her. “You’re going to wish they put you in solitaire when I’m done with you.” Tommy remained silent. “What, not talking? You’re lucky I came down, Momma would have killed someone.” “Whatever,” Tommy mumbled. “Keep going like this, you'll end up dead one night.” Tommy continued to look at the ground in silence. Neither spoke a word as they marched home. Arriving back at the apartment she shared with Momma and her ten “siblings”, she regarded its state. It was warm and humid, and the kitchen was in turmoil. Whoever was supposed to clean up had not done so. Rox ached to sit down, rest her feet and cool off, but Momma did not like a dirty kitchen. She had given the last of her meager pay to Max in order to free Tommy and now it seemed she would need to clean the kitchen as well. Picking up a pot she rinsed it and began to scrub, but the residue was well stuck. It would take hours to clean. Rox leaned back against the counter. It was all so frustrating. She lived the same day, everyday. Sure, some details changed, she could paint her toenails, but ultimately she was stuck in an endless loop. The anger bubbled up within her. She slammed a fist on the counter and in an instant the kitchen returned to its clean state. In fact it was too clean. Rox began to panic. She wasn’t supposed to do that. If the other kids or Momma knew about her… abilities it would be awful. It would be another home she’d have to flee. She didn’t know how or why she could do such feats, but when people found out things did not go well. Even her parents could not resist exploiting her powers. The room was quiet for a moment apart from Rox’s quivering breath. Then she heard the heavy labored breathing of Momma. Turning around Rox saw the crone leering at the door, her pasty skin glistened in the apartment’s dull light. “Oh poppet,” Momma hissed. “It’s true then. You are charmed” She began to hobble over to her. Rox was frightened. “No, Momma, no, that wasn’t me at all.” “Oh yes it was. And I have some more things I need.” Reaching out like lightning, Momma seized the hair on the side of Rox’s head and pulled it down to her. “I have a long list and you’re going to help me” The old woman trembled with excitement. “I’ve finally come to the end of my poverty and I’ve found another beginning,” she sang giddily. Rox was in tears. “No, Momma.” She tried to pull away, but the pull of her hair stopped her. Instead she rushed toward the ancient woman and they both fell to the ground and the old woman released her grasp. Rox scrambled to her feet and sailed out of the apartment. Her sunglasses, her boots, her nail polish were all left behind. After an hour she stopped running and collapsed onto a park bench. The baking heat of the sun was gone, replaced by heat rising from the scorched ground. She faced down at the pavement and watched as her tears plopped to the ground. Her parents were gone and now so was the home with Momma and Tommy. Was there any place left to go? She heard a soft clicking on the sidewalk and lifted her head with great effort. A tall, elegantly dressed woman strode up. She had deep auburn hair and her eyes seemed to have a fire of their own. “Here you are child,” she smiled. “Remind me of your name” “I’m nobody,” Rox retorted. “Everyone is somebody. Anyone who understands that thought is the basis for reality is not a nobody.” The woman spoke sweetly and then reached her hand. “Come on Rox, come with me.” She had no idea where the woman had come from, but she had no other plans. She reached up her hand and prepared to lift her head and stand when she felt an almost electrical shock flow over her. When she looked up the hot streets of Turkana 4 were gone. A bright sun was shining down on her, but gone was the overbearing heat. Instead a cool gentle breeze swept past her. On her left was an immense red bridge which spanned a body of water larger than she’d ever dreamed of. Off to the right a city filled with gleaming towers sprawled away in the distance. Above her swept all sorts of craft, some of which were similar to the ones the Starfleet officers used. People nearby laughed and chatted as they wandered through green grass and trees. Not only had the scenery changed, but her beloved boots were back on her feet and her purple sunglasses were on her nose. She took them off to take in the scene with her own eyes. “Where are we?” Rox looked at the woman expectantly. “This is the city of San Francisco, on the planet Earth in the Sol system.” The woman looked over to her and smiled. “And I believe this is where your future lies.”

((Exterior. Salem, Massachusetts. Salem State University. Just Outside Rockett Arena.)) ((2387 - The Before.)) Quentin Collins III blithely stared at the graduation chord and board in his hand as he awkwardly loped out of what was supposed to be the “beginning of the rest of his life”. It was funny, before THIS very moment he had been achingly worried about getting everything right. Making sure his props were in their proper places and the final movements of his life as a student were completed. He had filed out of his classes almost a full day earlier than he was supposed to, post his finals and last term papers. His cap and gown had been purchased and shipped precisely a full week before everyone else’s in his building. Drawing more wary eyes and hushed whispers than usual, but he had been fully well used to that long beforehand. Like…second term, second year stuff that was. This however? Was something altogether different. While he had honestly loved student life, as well the arduously engaging work of his studies, the last year of his career in college had become a sprint, not a marathon. Every grade, every assignment had become life and death. Every rehearsal with the theater guild and requirement of every other subsequent department, from the lowest of English to the most esoteric of Anthropology specialization, now a dire demand on his time. This…mutated, to be frank, further once the talk of graduation happened. That just kicked it into an entirely separate gear as the feelings shifted from mere expectations to something not unlike providence. All these feelings and thoughts and a whole lot more squalled and bared on Quentin’s mind and body… Right up...until this very second. Where the time and energy and demands on him had finally stopped. Leaving him preciously, blissfully…unattached. Unmoored from responsibility and remands of professors and the proffered, haughty attitudes of his fellow students. He glanced up. Seeing the sun of the gorgeously chilly day crest over this section of the campus and was struck dumb by its mundane beauty. How the light caught the grass amid the sidewalks just so, giving it the impression of sheets made of swaying beads of green rainwater. Intersected by rich paths of smooth cream colored stone, crisscrossing now in eye-grabbing patterns that should have seemed obvious to him far before now. This was the place that he had lived for nearly five years now and he hated himself for not realizing how amazing it was. These gorgeous real-life sets were suffused further with bright, laughing life as more and more of his fellow graduates and their families started to stream from the interior of Rockett. Quentin all but floated down the stairs, drinking in the sunny convection of the people and parents around him. Smiles, hugs, and shouts of elation surrounded him like a grand heavenly chorus. He smiled quietly to himself. He couldn’t help it. Despite having more than a few run-ins with the student body and feeling their harsh and oftentimes unfounded cutting looks across him and the occasional “good-natured” prank for…well, months, he still was happy for them. Just as he was happy for himself to a point. They had all worked hard and deserved the light of affection and recognition. “Even if Andrew Hardy once nailed all my shoes to the Common Room cork board that one time…”, he thought, suddenly souring his lightness. He shook the thought and POLISCI man-child from his hair, loosening his tended, but still too-long reddish mane of hair. He also unzipped the front of his dark blue graduation robe, drawing the cool, welcome air across his soft cotton oxford and judiciously steamed khakis. He forced himself back into the moment. Keenly reminding himself that these would be his last days on campus. He would have to savor them. Just as he would have to savor his last few days on Earth… His mouth twisted into a reflexive frown. That was still a conversation to come. He crossed further into the quad, trying to pull words from the miasma of feelings that started to overtake him. He had put it off for too long. Dad had even said so, even if he didn’t know the specifics. And knowing Mother she would find some way to put him on the spot about- “Quentin! Quentin, over here!” He turned and silently cursed his own foresight. Just a few yards away stood his family. Mother, in her Sunday Funeral Best (but that was a usual sight around SSU), extricating herself from yet another fawning over session from the rest of her department and the Dean of Sciences. Dad, David, and Sara, as per usual, traveling in her wake. Sara’s face matched Quentin’s for the most part, grinning and soaking up the sights and sounds of the campus around her. David, as ever, looked bored and antsy to move on. Both had just turned fifteen, but looked much older flanking their Father, all clad in their version of formal-casual. Quentin started to slip off his robe, but was quickly disabused of that notion by his Mother, who started handing over her ancient, but well-kept film camera to Dad as she “tidied” him for pictures. Quentin started something akin to disassociating. Smiling vacantly through what seemed like 800 pictures, some unexpectedly punctuated by harsh, searing flashes of a nearly 200 year old light source. But the pictures with Dad and Sara and David seemed to have a different energy to them. One that even the usual stolid and aloof Mother even clocked. They were playful and candid and finally drew Quentin back up and out of the brain fog that still dominated his forebrain. But Mother’s voice started to pierce through the din. Recapping for the benefit of no one but herself the information they already knew from the graduation ceremony (along with Quentin’s basically mandatory check-ins with Mother ON campus in her office). Top 15% of his class, a double Degree with Honours in Anthropology and Parapsychology, and near perfect attendance (barring that few days in which he caught “the flu” after a particularly rowdy short tour of The Scottish Play with the theater guild). It felt as if he was being talked AT and not ABOUT. Dad and Sara seemed to clock his discomfort, suggesting an early lunch and maybe then further a tour of the campus. Then Mother had done it. As Quentin started them toward their chosen parking spot, led now by David in a sharpish gait, Mother started in on his ‘future”. How the “world” was now open to him, beyond graduate studies and his doctorate, of course. “Professor Halsey was so impressed with you, Quentin, he would love to have you stay for your post-grad work. But also, we must keep in mind the benefits of graduate work at another school, of course. With your marks, Quentin dear, you could have your pick! Brown, Oxford, gods, even Miskatonic! I know Armitage is an old goat, but he runs a marvelous department. And thankfully, Arkham isn’t that far from home! You could study during the week and visit us during the weekends. I know the children would love to have you around more, they miss their big brother and-” “Mom, I’m not going.” The words fell from his mouth like rapidly cooling molten lead. Even the colloquialism, “mom”, he rarely ever referred to her like that. Much less to her face. Or, in this case, the back of her ink black power suit. David stopped short of the car, turning with wide, saucer like eyes. Sara, who had been walking next to Quentin, almost tripped over her own shoes, looking up at him now with a mixture of horror and horrified curiosity. Dad, as usual, kept somewhat distant from the scene. Observing from the side with an unreadable, but warm expression on his face (one that looked painfully similar to Sara’s; no mistaking who’s child she was in this moment). Unfortunately, Quentin felt himself spinning up and nothing any of them could do could help him. The molten lead of his words and thoughts started to temper and sharpen to something else. Something cutting and cold and unyielding. That was the only way you could talk to Professor Bouchard-Collins and if she really wanted to do this now, then he would do it to the fullest extent. No matter the audience of peers and students that continued to mill about the campus. “Also, Arkham is nearly SIX HOURS from Collinsport. What, am I just supposed to drop everything and come, I don’t know, rearrange the library every weekend and wonder what country you are in while I’m there? Get real, Mom.” Quentin ejected before he could vet it. Mother had turned now completely, her own eyes widening like harvest moons against the tastefully applied makeup of her face. “But…our plan. You were to-,” she started, but Quentin was there. Too quick, too sharpish maybe, but what started as a river of thought now exploded into a font of action. Words and thoughts and feelings spilling from him like he had been split across his middle seam, guts spilling steaming onto the pavement. “No, YOUR plan, Mother. Not mine. But then again, actually talking to me would allow you to know what and we all know you’ve always taken the hands-off approach.” “Hey, now, son, let’s not…,” his Dad started, but was stopped by both Quentin and Angelique’s briskly bladed hand. This was not their first (nor would it be their final) argument, but this was one that was long, long overdo. And now that it had sprouted, it seemed like nothing short of scorched earth would bring it fully to bloom. “Well, I apologize for wanting my first-born son to follow in my footsteps. I just thought-.” “That’s the trouble, Mom! You THOUGHT! You didn’t KNOW! And GOD FORBID you take the time to actually ask me what I WANTED!” Mother’s eyes honed to slits. The rest of the family continued to stay outside of it and quiet, oh, so quiet. In David’s case, it was likely the most quiet he had ever been in his whole life. Mother took another breath. “I won’t apologize for providing for my family.” “It’s more than that, Mom. And you are smarter than that. That’s a softball guilt trip, even for you.” “Well, then, I won’t apologize for having a career and wishing you to have the same. Long stretches of our family were academics and if that’s not good enough for you-” “GOD just STOP it. You KNOW that’s not it either! I love studying! I love studying so much, I’m still basically a freaking virgin. AFTER COLLEGE!” A short yelp of laughter escaped from his Dad, but was quickly clamped away from the world by his weathered hand and the flashing eyes of Professor Bouchard-Collins. She turned back toward him and in that moment, Quentin had never seen his Mother look this old. More than that, this deflated. He hated the sight of it, but at the same time, tried to stand as straight as he could. As he reminded himself, this was something that had been brewing for years. This unfounded expectation of him to “follow tradition” and join academia alongside her. At one point, when he was young, the idea HAD appealed to him. Low-impact work. Plenty of reading. Potentially teaching one day (the only real aspect that had always appealed to him). But as he became older and spent more and more time away from home, he realized that the choice was never his. Even when it might have looked that way. Mother had always set this up and had designs as to what the next phase was. But those next phases never matched Quentin’s and now, the time had come to try and reconcile those two parts into something new. Even, perhaps, at the cost of their relationship. He owed it to himself for the alternative seemed damning to him. To live and work a life that wasn’t his. Just another follower of a rubric he had no say in writing. Losing the precious little sense of self that he had already gained over the last years. “Don’t be vulgar, Quentin.”, retorted his mother in the tone that had felled many an undergrad and would-be magus who thought they knew something about something. Much like his siblings, he was well acquainted with that sort of tone, but now, instead of the chilly fear and dread it would usually bring him. Replaced was a sort of defiance. Slowly kindled, surely, but there all the same. Something new for the last day of school Quentin quickly appraised so he stood into it as if he was walking into a warm surf. Daggers of Mother’s voice threatened to pierce this newfound tenancy, but Quentin still held firm. Even though he knew he probably looked like a poorly made scarecrow facing off against the best Norma Desmond impersonator this side of the Potomac. “I suppose you have an idea of what you would rather do? Since apparently my suggestions aren’t good enough for you.” “Stop it, Mom. Seriously. You are just cutting to cut now.” “You certainly had no problem taking my money and whiling it away here for years.” “Angelique.” came his father’s voice finally. A tender bolt from the peanut gallery that seemed to sting Mother in the way he intended. She winched at Quentin Jr.’s unusually stern tone and reoriented her ire back toward Quentin the Third. “Well, do you? What do you want to do with your life?” Quentin Collins made the herculean effort not to go for the lowest possible fruit available to him at that second (“Dad would only really get it anyway,” he thought ruefully.) and held his ground. “You know what I want to do.” “Indeed I do, cully,” she sneered. “I want to know if you have the steel to say it.” “Starfleet.” It didn’t even take him a second. “Oh, Hecate, not this ag-.” “Star. Fleet.” “Quentin, it is OUT OF THE QUESTION. I won’t have any son of my doing the bidding of those colonialist, clod-hopping cowboys! I would rather you live on the street than in space, mark me, cully, and mark me well.” “Oh, sure, Mom, start banging that old tired drum. It didn’t make sense then, and it sure as snot doesn’t make any damn sense now.” She wasn’t there and then suddenly she was, the finger of a harridan pointed up and under his nose. At that moment, she didn’t just look exhausted. She looked…terrified. Her eyes, once radiant pools of concentrated intelligence, were now wild and unfocused. Her free hand, jutting up, stock straight like some sort of ghoulishly sartorial weather vane. Quentin allowed himself a quick look at what she was indicating and it seemed…it seemed to be the very sky itself. “You don’t UNDERSTAND! You CAN’T! If you had seen the things I’ve seen, son…what’s out there…?! Waiting…watching…” Both hands suddenly bunched his shirt, pulling him closer. Suddenly nothing around them or above them remained. There was only the boy and his mother and the crushing realization that the person who birthed you was precisely just that. A person. Capable and containing the same fears and anxieties and foibles as you do. “Let the star-kind sleep, Quentin. You’ll find nothing amongst them.” “I’m not afraid.” “Not yet anyway, cully. Not yet.” Seeming as if she had made some grand point, she swept away from them all. Opening and slamming the back car door in what could be read as one motion. Quentin turned a rueful, angrily tearful eye back to the rest of his family, now hunched in their own little warren to the side of the pathway now. As if pushed physically aside simply by the force of Professor Angelique Bouchard-Collins’ will. Quentin started to stammer an apology and was met simply with a massive, all-encompassing hug from his Father. Despite himself he hugged the larger-than-life man that he loved with every bit of him back. Taking then in turn a patented “Sibling Hug” from Sara and David on either side of him once Quentin Jr. had released him. Quentin didn’t say anything, because he knew he didn’t have to. If there were any people he could depend on and trust to know what he needed, it would forever be this section of his family. Perhaps one day, he could count his mother amongst that number. But for now, he settled for a tense, but pleasurable lunch at one of his favorite local restaurants (an unnamed Continental restaurant/greasy spoon that seemed to be owned and operated by one of the largest men Quentin had ever met; hysterically named “Bibbo”), catching Sara and David up on the particularly goofy things that had happened to him in the last few months, and relishing the look of chaste disappointment he got from ordering alcohol in front of his parents for the first “official” time. At one point, when the sun had dipped low enough to reveal the starfield beyond their light, Quentin Jamison Collins III gazed longingly up toward them. How could anyone be afraid of something so beautiful? An infinite orrery of worlds and peoples, across vast incalculable oceans of stars. All just waiting to be seen. “I’m coming, universe.” he spoke into the night. “One way or another…”

Time Index: ∞ Every day was a long day when you worked for the Temporal Integrity Commission. It had gotten to the point that Agent 121 could no longer remember a time before they worked as an agent. To be fair, temporal aphasia was a common condition amongst the time agents. 121’s supervisor, 224, said that everyone in the Commission had aphasia to a greater or lesser degree. As the agents were regularly reminded, it was a small price to pay to keep the timelines secure and the linear-lifers safe. Agent 121 thought of those linears often. Trillions upon trillions of them, just living ordinary lives of simple cause and effect. Never knowing that time agents were tirelessly at work, making small, but significant interventions to keep their lives protected and productive. A veritable army of unseen angels, guarding the linears and ensuring their futures. Agent 121 stepped out of the chronometric detangler renewed and refreshed. It wasn’t exactly a mind-wipe, more like a “brain shower.” Such mental hygiene was important in this job. Too many overlapping timelines in one skull could really set one on the path to full-blown temporal psychosis. But now mentally fresh and clean, Agent 121 was ready for their new assignment. As an agent in the Ouroboros Division, Agent 121 was assigned one particular linear-life at a time. To ensure chronologic stability, they started at the end and then worked progressively backwards to the start of their assigned linear’s life. That way, they could ensure a smooth continuum towards the ideal outcome. There were a great many advantages to knowing the end from the beginning and Agent 121 reflected, for either the first or fiftieth time, that this was the way to live life. Agent 121 slipped into their clean white personal timepod and initiated their mission. They were assigned Target 212–Command insisted on numbers instead of names, it helped keep appropriate professional distance. Time Index: +42 years (relative) 2402 Earthdate This was the end. Target 212 had been stuck in a gravity well for a quarter of a century external time, but only a few days had passed for the target and their crew aboard their Starfleet vessel. It was time to bring them out. Command indicated this was a high-profile target, perhaps a potential to be recruited to the Commission itself. Exposure to time dilation was a good prerequisite to Commission life. But before the target could be recruited, Agent 121 had to ensure Target 212 escaped this anomaly. Agent 121 analyzed the anomalous gravity well’s composition. Pretty standard stuff–it was a class 3 with Epsilon-type dilation. The temporal agent synced their vessel with realtime and initiated an anti-tachyon burst. The target’s vessel emerged from the anomaly and Agent 121 reactivated their time-cloak. Another timepod pulled along Agent 121’s personal vessel. It was the supervisor. 224 hailed them. “Great work, 121. I’ll take the target from here. You will have shepherded a great new agent into the Commission! Now go ensure that they get to this point.” 224 was friendly enough, but almost always all business. 121 considered them their best friend, such as it was. 121’s memories were a little piecemeal, but 224 had been with them in the Commission as long as they could remember. 121 imputed the next nexus point in their target’s life and jumped to the past. Time Index: +42 years (relative) 2377 Earthdate Command’s instructions were delightfully paradoxical sometimes. But only Command could accurately process the fates of individuals and species. Command knew best, what would work out in the end. Still, sometimes the instructions were a bit… ironic. Case in point: now Agent 121 had to ensure 212 got safely into that gravity-well anomaly. This took a little more doing than the extraction had or will have had. Target 212 was on a nearby starfleet vessel. The Prometheus-class USS Wyvern was on assignment in deep space, but the anomaly was just outside their sensor range. 121 entered the timestream and boosted the output of the gravity well’s polar jets until the Wyvern changed course to investigate. 121 ensured their timepod was phased-shifted relative to realtime and observed the Wyvern until it was securely trapped in the time-dilating anomaly. 121 smiled. They knew how this crew’s story ended and this would keep them safe for the next quarter century. Right on cue, Command’s next instruction came in. Now 121 had to go back and ensure that the Wyvern was assigned this particular deep space mission Time Index: +1-40 years (relative) 2335-2375 Earthdates And on and on it went. A series of nudges, an adjustment here, a tweak there. 121 worked their way back through 212’s life. Always staying just out of direct contact (Command’s rules), but ever-present, none-the-less. As the years passed, 121 grew rather fond of 212, despite the encouragement to maintain professional distance. But it didn’t matter, after years and years watching over them, 121 felt a certain kinship to 212. They were theirs. It was the little details that really connected them. When 212 was a teenager, they suffered from severe memory aphasia, not too dissimilar to 121’s own temporal aphasia. The linear doctors, of course, had no clue how to help. But 121 did, and the treatment proved effective and lasting, enabling the target to continue their destiny at Starfleet Academy. By the time 121 got to 212’s childhood, the agent was convinced that 212 was one exceptional child. Before 212 was born, their parents had tried unsuccessfully for a child for years. 212 was the miracle, they had said. With “a touch of destiny” about them. 121 smiled at this. While the next instructions from Command hadn’t come through yet, 121 had a sneaking suspicion that the Commision might just play a role in that ‘miracle.’ Time Index: 0 years (relative) 2235 Earthdate Unexpectedly, 224 joined them for this next, potentially last assignment of this mission. Synced up with realtime, their pods kept them just enough out of phase to remain unobservable–invisible and intangible to the linears. 212 was about to be birthed and having two time agents visible might be too distracting for the attendants. “How have you found this assignment?” 224 asked kindly–more as a friend than a supervisor. “Oh, it’s been fabulous. We’ve got a good one here. Best assignment ever–” 121 grinned knowingly before adding, “--that I can remember!” The older agent didn’t seem phased by the joke, but continued on, something else obviously on their mind. “But did you connect with the target?” It was a loaded question. By Commision rules, the answer should be “no.” But that wasn’t exactly truthful. 121 answered cautiously, but honestly. “I found them an excellent target and know they will make a good Temporal Integrity Commission agent. In their future. I’m just sad that my part in this mission is coming to an end.” “That’s good,” 224 nodded, “Very good. I have one more assignment to give you in this mission.” 121 looked over at the pregnant woman about to give birth to the target they had spent a veritable lifetime guarding. One more assignment was too little. Maybe two “brain showers” would help dull the pain that was arising in the depths of their heart. “This last assignment’s a little different actually.” 224 brought a device out. It looked somewhat similar to the headgear of a chronometric detangler, but it had an external component, not unlike a transmitter. “This is a neural transference device.” 224 answered the unasked question. “It allows for the consciousness of one individual to be transferred to another host. Unfortunately, it also scrambles the mind a little bit. But the core essence will remain.” 121 was intrigued, but wasn’t sure they understood. “So how are we going to use it?” 224 sighed. “I’m going to transfer your consciousness to 212. I already ensured the body would be conceived, but the body’s empty. To function successfully, they need an animating intelligence.” 224 paused to let their words sink in, then became more blunt. “That animating intelligence is you, 121.” The supervisor looked 121 in the eyes. “And it has to be now.” 121 had no words. Questions swirled, but none made it to their lips. After an infinity outside the time-space continuum, they were suddenly out of time. This was unexpected, but they wouldn’t, couldn’t say ‘no.’ 224 moved toward 121, raising the device to their head “May I?”. 121 nodded slowly, but deliberately, and the older agent slipped the device on the younger’s head. With a quite *whir* it was activated. The time-space barrier that veiled their worlds faded. Their long days as 121 were at an end. Their days as 212 had just begun.

Amelia looked into the mirror as she fasted her combadge onto her uniform. She looked at the red uniform on her and paused momentarily. It had been a few years since she wore a uniform. She lost her whole starship the last time she wore one of these. Even though she was cleared of any wrongdoing by Starfleet, something just felt like she would be questioned again. As she stepped back into her room, she looked out the window and noticed the planet Gentry-1 out in the distance. The first part of the mission was to deliver some critical supplies. “Captain, we should be arriving in Gentry-1’s orbit within the next few minutes. “ said the HCO officer. “Understood, Lieutenant,” said Amelia. As she closed the comms connection, she grabbed the PADD from her desk and looked over the ship's specs again. Her new command was the recently delivered USS Phoneix. The ship was designated as an Odyssey-class explorer. It had equal amounts of firepower and shielding. After looking over the specs, she grabbed her cup of coffee and walked onto the bridge. As she entered the bridge, some of the officers glared at her. “Ignore them; focus on your job,” she told herself. “What is our position?” she asked the helm officer. “We are just arriving in the planet orbit now.” said the helm officer. She sat in the command chair and asked all her bridge officers questions. “All stations, reports, please,” said Amelia. As all other officers reported, she checked off her commands in her PADD. The only thing that seemed off was the envoy from Gentry-1 did not report in at the time they stated; now, sometimes things happened, but normally contact would be told ahead of time. “Raise shields; something feels off,” said Amelia. As the ship's shields came online, the ops officered yelled. “Captain, a ship just de-cloaked on our port side. They have targeted us.” Amelia closed her eyes again; it was happening again how she lost her first ship. This is how it started exactly. “Lock weapons and try to hail them said Amelia “ The officer nodded and tried to open a link, which was successfully connected. This is Amelia Von, Captain of the USS Phoneix. Why are you locking on to my vessel? We have not violated any laws or done anything to harm you. We are just here to provide materials to the inhabitants of Gentry-1. “ she spoke calmly. “You have to pay a bounty; this is pirate territory.” said the grubby-looking pirate. “I am not paying you anything; that is unfair,” rebutted Amelia. “You’re lost,” said the pirate. Amelia issued the command to bring the ship up to red alert. As the crew brought the weapons systems online. Amelia paused again, thinking about what had happened the last time she was in this predicament. That time the enemy was vastly stronger, and the other ships in my command withdrew before we could put an actual chance of battle. Status report! She said. Each station reported in. So far, the damage was minimal, and the Phoneix threw out some good damage to the enemy. But Amelia knew she was not out of the woods yet. “Let's try to swing around for our own attack; we can use the planet to our advantage; let's do Gamma-Beta-2 as the invasion pattern,” she told the helm officer. As the helm officer nodded, the ship sped up as the officer manually piloted the ship toward the planet. “Do it,” she said. The ship got the advantage of being behind the planet. The ship rocked as a volley of quantum torpedoes chased toward their target. “4 hits, ma’am; it seems we have disabled the ship,” said the operation’s officer. “Hail them,” Amelia said. “So, do you yield?” said Amelia. The captain of the enemy vessel threw up a white flag. She told the transporter officer, “Beam them over and place them in the brig; we will bring them to Genty-1’s leadership team to see what they want to do.” Amelia rested back in her chair after confirming the pirates were in the brig. She now felt she was back in her form, and as a bonus, she got the crew to smile at her.

They watched. They had seen the first photons whizzing away from that tiny point so full of potential for so long. They smiled as electrons nudged their way into existence and laughed as the protons, neutrons, and electrons (though they called them by other names) coalesced into matter. That matter joined together to form substances that still spread far away from their place of birth, changing and growing as they zoomed along. They watched nebulae, the great glowing wombs in the dark reaches continued the work, turned matter to energy to matter, shaped matter into stars, then lovingly setting them along a course that would bring new experiences and planets into their orbits. The planets themselves would continue the work in their own way, nurturing all that they touched. On many planets, the spark of life rose out of this tender lineage. They watched as lives - these brilliant flashes of existence lit up the planets. They watched as chloroplasts of certain life forms transformed photons from such great distances into food for themselves. They watched as other lifeforms consumed the first, growing strong from the strength garnered from starlight. They watched as these larger lifeforms succumbed to entropy and faded, becoming sustenance for smaller lifeforms, which in turn shared the starlight with the planet. They watched as a very few lifeforms gained the ability to dance among the stars themselves. Like the first photons, they sped far and wide from their place of birth, changing and growing as they zoomed along. They watched as the star dancers encountered their cousins among the stars. They watched as the tumultuous choreography of evolution brought new shape to what was and what could be. The star dancers grew, and still they watched. Some, like the lifeforms who shared their starlight, fostered harmony as they shared what they had and grew strong together. They watched. Some who once flitted through the stars no longer did. Stars would give what light they had, dim, and collapse, becoming something new. While the light they gave billions of years previously still had yet to meet a curious eye, the once-star inhaled deeply, preparing for its next song. They watched. They watched as a life form from a small blue planet, third daughter of a yellow star, looked up and took in the ancient photons meant for no other ends than this, and chloroplast-like, transformed it into dreams. They smiled as the being turned dreams to vision, vision to reality, then lovingly set them along their own courses.

"If you've come to the end... you've only found another beginning." A simple phrase, one that logically did not make sense. An end and a beginning were two separate events, no matter the time that passed between them. Yet, it stuck with Savel throughout his life. A life that was now coming to an end. The memory of where this saying had come from was distant, nearly forgotten. Those words still rang in his mind as if it were a puzzle that needed to be solved before he could move on. Before he could find his next beginning. The long-since retired Vulcan was nearing what would be two centuries of life. He stood in his bedroom at his home on Vulcan, looking out over Lake Yuron, contemplating the words he still had not found an answer to. “Another beginning…”, the end of the phrase being softly spoken aloud to no one but himself. Was there indeed another beginning for Savel after all of this time? Something else out there for him to find? He was long past the age of being able to adventure away from his home in search of new beginnings. Perhaps that meant he missed his chance to find it. Here he was, near his end, and there were no new paths before him. “Father.” A female’s voice came from the doorway of his room, which broke the elder Vulcan’s train of thought. He turned to see his daughter, T’Ara, standing at the entrance, waiting to be told to enter. He had summoned her earlier in the day, requesting that she visit him after she finished her work. “Come,” Savel responded, causing T’Ara to nod before she was in the room standing at her aged father’s side. The two stood at the window of Savel’s room, staring at the lake, silent for many moments. Savel was the one that eventually broke the quietness that had enveloped them. “I am at the end of my life, T’Ara.” Blunt, for those that were still burdened with emotions. T’Ara’s response was as one might expect of a Vulcan but not that of a woman whose father had just shared he would soon be dead. At first, another deep nod in acknowledgment of what Savel had just said. “Then this shall be the last we see each other.” T’Ara looked away from the window and to her father now. “I leave soon and will not return for some time.” She had spent the last few decades as a healer at the Vulcan Medical Institute but knew she wanted to set out beyond Vulcan. “Starfleet Academy is expecting me; I depart tomorrow.” The news was sudden, though not wholly unexpected by Savel. They had conversations in the past about his career in Starfleet, so it was logical that she would follow a similar path. “Come with me.” Instructed Savel as he walked to the center of the room, lowering himself slowly to the floor and gesturing for T’Ara to sit in front of him. Once T’Ara had joined him, he leaned forward to place both hands on either side of her head, his fingertips touching particular areas. She mirrored his actions, immediately knowing what her father wished to do. “My mind to your mind. Your thoughts, to my thoughts.” Suddenly, Savel and T’Ara’s minds were joined together as one. It visually manifested to them in a room similar to the home where T’Ara had grown up. “I wished to bring you here so we could say goodbye,” Savel explained to her. “Here, we are more free to share thoughts and emotions. Ones we usually cannot without allowing them to affect our physical selves.” There was a sadness felt by both of them, slightly amplified as it was shared between them. T’Ara was the first of them to show it outwardly. She approached her father and looked up at him. “Your presence was always a welcome one. Without it, life will feel different. I will miss you.” A single tear rolled down her cheek, which her father quickly wiped away. The historically stoic Vulcan allowed a smile to find his face inside the illusion created for them inside the meld. “I depart from you as a father proud of your accomplishments so far, knowing there are many more to come.” His hands reached out to find her shoulders, gently holding them as he looked into her eyes. “The love I have for you will travel with you wherever life may take you. It is the last gift I shall give you, just as you are the last give I shall leave for the world.” With that, the pair embraced into a hug that lasted a few moments before the meld ended. There were now back in Savel’s room at his home on Vulcan, with the energy sapped from his body. “I must rest now. I will accompany you to your shuttle tomorrow.” He then stood from the floor, with the assistance of T’Ara, before he made his way over to his bed. T’Ara watched her father move across the room after she stood and offered him a deep nod. “Pash tah, father.” Wishing him goodnight before she left the room to prepare for her trip. She left the room with the knowledge her father had shared during their meld. Even if being Vulcan did not allow her to feel what had been given to her, the memory would always remain. ---------------- The following morning, T’Ara was set to depart from Vulcan to attend Starfleet Academy. Savel had decided to go with her, intending to see her off since this would be the last time they would see one another. It wasn’t much different than when he left Alpha Centauri for the same purpose. Their goodbye was not a long one; logic dictated that be the case. T’Ara had a purpose for being there, and there was no sense in delaying it. Just before she joined the queue to board the shuttle, T’Ara turned to her father. “Chaya t’not,” thanking him for what he had shared in the meld. Savel then raised his hand to gesture, saying, “Live long and prosper, T’Ara. And, vokau.” Wishing for her to remember what it was he said to her during the meld as well. With their versions of goodbyes exchanged with each other, T’Ara turned to board the shuttle after checking in. Savel watched as the shuttle took off, remaining there until it was completely out of sight. Once his daughter was gone, Savel turned away to begin his journey home. ---------------- Savel’s home was now empty once more, aside from his presence. The last of his family had left, and he was the only remaining of his line on Vulcan. He returned to his room, finding a spot to sit on the floor nearby the window overlooking the lake. Once he had settled in, he centered himself into a deep state of meditation. His thoughts were occupied with T’Ara, specifically of the last few moments they had spent together before she left. He had been able to get a chance to tell her a proper goodbye and share some of his innermost thoughts and feelings with her. He replayed the memory of the mind meld as he thought. A calmness washed over him, something deeper than he had ever felt, as if he was complete. It took a moment for him to realize where it was coming from. He pictured himself again watching as T’Ara boarded her shuttle, and it left the surface of Vulcan. It was a new chapter in her life. That was when he had his epiphany. He had found the answer. “If you’ve come to the end… you’ve only found…” It started as a thought in his mind before he finished it out loud, “...another beginning.” The realization began to dawn on him as he finally understood what that meant for him. His life had come to an end, but for T’Ara there was much more to come. The next part of her life was just beginning. With his love for her now a permanent part of her memory, the beginning was his to share even if he would not be around to see it. Those thoughts alone dared to bring a smile to the old Vulcan’s lips. With a deep breath, he settled into his final meditation. His end.

The Central Structure of Confederation is an otherwise empty building crafted by the elite class on the back of disappointed countrymen. Glorious sweeping curves define its marble pillars – though modest in its height, its pale and anti-utilitarian beauty does not fit with its neighbouring industrial-esq buildings. The people walking the streets thin and despondent, not wonderous and utopian as the structure might suggest. Spotlights illuminate the tall windows; previews of empty halls that theoretically could be filled with bustling administrative, governmental, and diplomatic personnel. Through the lofty doors leading into the building is a red carpet – the proverbial welcome mat for any and all guests. Despite its grandeur, the CSC is not a permanent fixture here in Phargon. The CSC is transported between nations and territories associated with those interested in a Brekkian Confederation (of sorts). It was built with “spectacle” in mind, and despite the fractious nature of the relationship between the nations that developed it, the irony of its construction utilising materials from all 32 of those nations was lost on many Brekkian people. Its beauty, and its contradictory existence, make it a captivating sight for tourists. These days, the transportable tourist trap is all the CSC is for. Brekkian nations squabble over who gets to have it next, to stimulate their struggling economies. Never mind that half of these nations encourage socialist agendas, or have sanctions against one another for various ‘crimes’ committed against their locales. Tourists from star systems across the quadrant brave enough to risk the questionable streets of Brekka (or, in the case of the United Federation of Planets, the ire of homeworld security) come and bring business and trade. Brekka is well known for its fruit. It’s better known for its felicium. Jhalen Novu has visited many strange places in his century of travel across time and space. None were as fractured as his mother’s birthworld. With his assistant behind him – the lanky blonde’s face defiant, as per usual – Novu uses his cane to nudge open the door to the CSC’s primary conference room. Novu is an older man with greying hair, obscured by a white hat. He is shorter than his blonde assistant. Though undoubtedly Brekkian in his air of independence, the ridge of his nose is less pronounced, softer than that of his Brekkian brethren. His clothes are loose on him – it seems he’s lost weight recently, though the gaunt of his cheeks might indicate this to be due to his ill health. On his way into Phargon, he easily passed through neighbourhoods as just another hungry member of the city. “Good evening,” Novu comments as he falls into a seat at the table – an impolite act causing additional pause. The assistant stands stoically behind him. Ahead, light reflects off his guest’s glitter dress. Precious General of Phargon, Venuas Histrope, has dressed to impress. Her black hair is impeccably straight, tied back and whipping across the base of her spine, with impressive jewels hanging from her ears. If only this was the]party she was clearly dressed for. “Mister Novu,” she greets in a kind of southern kind of drawl, “how kind it is for you to finally arrive.” “Traffic.” “I’m sure.” Venuas runs her fingers across the backs of several chairs as she approaches, ignoring the idea of sitting across from her adversary at a table. Her eyes briefly catch Novu’s assistant – who bristles slightly – before finally pressing her knees together and coming to a graceful seat next to Novu. “When I received your invitation, I initially considered it a bomb.” “You think so low of me?” “The man who held the confederate-aligned nations hostage until he got his piece of paper signed?” Bright teeth accented her turquoise-coloured lips. “Is assassination truly that low?” Novu’s fingers interlocked. “I recall there being no casualties.” “That I know of.” “That exist. I keep my word. To the best of my ability, at least. If only you could say the same.” In 2396, Jhalen Novu’s unwieldy gang of do-gooders infiltrated trade and unification talks being held in Seritona, involving those 32 Brekkian territories. Many believed the event would be futile – Brekka? Unify? Get real – until Novu waltzed in with just five committed assistants. Novu was able to hold 52 people representing those governing bodies in one room until they could all come to a unanimous unification agreement. Novu told them that failure to operate under these standards would result in penalties. The Central Structure for Confederation was built. 12 of the 32 governments have not operated to the standards set. 11 of them recently had changes of leadership. Venuas Histrope is the General of Phargon – the final piece of Novu’s four-year-long puzzle. She had not personally been at that event; most leaders hadn’t, sending representatives in their place. But her envoy had signed on to unify Phargon with 31 other locales. For Novu, that meant something. For Venuas, it meant… very little. In fact, just twelve months later, she declared those nations “enemies”. Her citizens could not leave Phargon. Her demands for visible displays of loyalty to her ruling cult of personality – all efforts to maintain her eccentric lifestyle, of course – cemented her as the caricature of many dictators that have come before her. She is the centre of her people’s existence, always at the forefront of their minds and perceptions – her image, her words, her ideologies and history, were everywhere. How does one dethrone a dictator? Novu hadn’t a clue. “Is this the part you plead for my cooperation? Where you demand I conform to your… union?” Venuas leans back in her chair. “Of course not, General,” Novu says. “You are caring for a whole nation. 1.7 million souls. It must be difficult, to be responsible for their welfare. I applaud your dedication. It is certainly not something I could accomplish.” “I appreciate your words. But their motive lacks conviction, and that offends me.” “Your existence offends me, so I guess that makes us even.” Venuas is taken aback, his terse words almost cutting her, but she seems not nearly as offended as she’d implied. If anything, his comment had intrigued her. She reaches for a pitcher of water on the conference table, pouring them both full glasses. “Well then. If you’re not here to make demands, to what do I owe the pleasure of the wolf in my grandmother’s clothing?” “I thought it prudent to inform you of the holes in your boat.” “Oh? And here I thought I plugged them.” “These old things tend to corrode under the slightest pressure. One tap of a gold coin, crack! Or, in your case, I suppose it’s one peel of a vegetable.” He pauses. “You are struggling to feed your people, aren’t you?” “It is public knowledge Phargon is currently in drought. My boat is sitting on the bed of a dry lake – I’m not currently worried about water leaking in, Mister Novu.” “What of the rodents, then?” “I’ve traps.” “And if you accidentally trap your own cat?” “You’ve too many questions and metaphors. Speak plainly, Novu.” “My apologies, General. I was enjoying this word game of ours.” He glances behind him to his assistant, who nods once and exits the room. Venuas raises a curious eyebrow. Novu reaches for his glass, taking a small sip. “As I’m sure you know, I’m not in charge of the confederating nations.” “You should be. You’d do wonders.” “We can’t all be like you, General. In fact, those governments have come to an agreement last night. They’re re-branding… to the ‘Brekkian Assembly’.” “I hadn’t heard.” Venuas takes another drink. “How tacky.” “If I read the documents right, they’re aiming for a central government focused on promoting economic growth and prosperity across their regions of our world. Should also make diplomacy off-world a breeze in comparison to how it’s been lately.” “You’re still dancing around with those words, Mister Novu.” “My apologies. I’m stalling, of course. My assistant, Whylen, she’s returning with the accords they all agreed upon. I believe you’d understand better if you read them yourself.” On cue, Whylen returns through the doors holding a data tablet. She places it on the table. Venuas puts her glass down and scrolls through the first few pages with a long, painted fingernail. “I suppose you’re telling me all this personally for some kind of threat?” “A threat would imply I want you to do something for me,” Novu smiles. “No, General. I offered to be the Assembly’s messenger. I told them that I wanted to see your face when you realise you’ve condemned yourself to the fury of 1.7 million hungry mouths to feed, while the heads of your military defect to Seritona.” Venuas, to her credit, merely blinked. Novu continues. “I may not be here for that specific moment, of course, but I’m sure I’ll get to see it one day. I’ve lived a long life, after all.” “Yes, indeed you have. Given your… Vulcan heritage, you may yet live longer still.” And now it was Novu’s turn to pause. Brown eyes bore into Venuas’ perfectly neutral face. Whylen next to him stiffens. Venuas… knows? The woman looks up at him, earrings rocking back and forth, brilliant silver glinting the reflection of the CSC’s light across the room. “You are Vulcan, aren’t you? Betazoid, too, so I’ve heard. Which would explain your fantastic wordplay, I must say. It’s not often we get many Betazoids here, but when we do…” The only notable Betazoid on Brekka Novu knew about was his grandmother. Lylita Vataix has been dead for about a decade by this point in time, and since then, only envoys or doctors from the planet have made their way here. Nevertheless, Vataix had been a daughter of the Eleventh House of Betazed (had being the operative term). Brekkians might not have understood what exactly that entailed, but the title was positively enthralling. Had Lylita met a Histrope before? Surely not. He would have learned about it by now. And even if she had, Ayeden is so physically unlike his maternal grandmother that it should’ve been impossible to tell there was a relation between them. Never mind the fact he was now in his early 100s, making a connection impossible. Venuas is merely making a broad statement about Betazoids overall, not insinuating the possible relation between Jhalen Novu and Lylita Vataix. That was absurd. But in his moment of internal panic, Venuas has noticed that she hit a nerve. “I wonder what the Assembly would do, if they found out they were coerced into this agreement by an alien?” Whylen behind him is seething. “You rat bastard-” “Enough.” Novu straightens. “This… matters not. As I said. I’m not the one making these decisions. I merely got the ball moving. If they learn where my relatives were born, they may decide what to do with that information themselves. For now, you are the focus. You stood apart from the Assembly, so the Assembly has chosen to leave you behind.” He stands. Venuas turns back to the data tablet to continue reading. Novu thumps the end of his cane into the floor. It digs a small circle into the carpet. “I’m told the CSC will return to Seritona next week. Several nations are being merged into singular territories – a bureaucratic nightmare, I’m sure you can imagine, and they’ll need all the office space they can get. After that, sanctions will progress against Phargon. Trade, food, weapons, power, water. I’m even told someone intends to jam your interstellar communications array.” He cleared his throat. “But most importantly… You asked for aid in your famine crisis? I’m here to tell you that it’s not coming.” “And you believe you will sleep at night, having condemned thousands to starve?” Venuas asks. “Children, elders, mothers and fathers? All because they choose not to conform to your newly established empire?” He motions to Venuas in a vague gesture. “I was under the assumption you were this country’s General. It’s a difficult job, being responsible for their welfare, keeping your military happy and fed, your vaults of treasurous food full. As I said, it’s not something I could accomplish, especially in this environment. And now I suppose, not something you can do, either.” “And what will you do when they start dying?” He sighs, glancing at Whylen. “I lost my father to insurgents in Kekorna. My mother decided enough was enough, and we fled. But my family’s blood was split on this soil of this world. I am not a government leader, General. I am not a worker for any nation, or a spy for any agency. I embody our planet’s overarching theme: self. I encourage this Assembly for the purely selfish motive, in that I wish not to die or lose any more loved ones on the ground on which I walk. If that means I must further isolate your population and wait people like you out, then so be it. Whatever it takes.” He turns, bracing his weight on his case as he wanders in the direction of the door. “Oh, and General?” Venuas looks back only through the corner of her eye. “When your people begin climbing over your walls, your neighbours will welcome them with open arms. And when your family joins them in escape, I hope only that they extend them the same mercy you extended me today.” He nods his head once. “Have a good evening, General.”

When I got home from work, there was a note pinned to my door. Paper, which I found quaint. Not many trees left on Cardassia Prime. It read, "Renn Osgott, you're a dead man," in big, blocky letters. Lucky for me, I'm not Renn Osgott, nor do I know anyone by that name. I went inside and called the police. A detective came out right away. He listened to my story, nodding thoughtfully. He was a serious man. He read the note several times and scanned it with a tricorder. "Are you sure you're not Renn Osgott?" he asked me. "I already told you I'm not. My name is Kren Orsgirt." "Well, that sounds a lot like Renn Osgott. Maybe they mixed you two up." "How would they mix up where I live?" I asked. He rose to leave. "Look, it's probably just an honest mistake. I wouldn't worry too much about it." "But whoever this is wants to kill Renn Osgott." "Well that's not my problem, is it?" He took his jacket down from the peg. "But you're a cop, right? Aren't you supposed to protect people?" "Look," he said, "this is Cardassia Prime. People die here every day. You did your job and reported this. Thanks for being a loyal citizen of the Union." After he left, I took a drink of kanar. Then another. I used the terminal to search for Renn Osgott, but no one by that name lived on Cardassia. That night I had the nightmare about the spiders. The next morning, a loud knocking on the door interrupted my breakfast. "Cardassian Intelligence Bureau, open up!" The voice bellowed from outside. I got up to open the door. Three armed Cardassians in imposing uniforms stood there. "Renn Osgott, you're under arrest," the one in the middle said. He pushed me to the wall and started handcuffing me. "For what?" I asked. "For the murder of Kren Orsgirt." "Wait, my name is Kren Orsgirt. This doesn't make any sense." My hands cuffed, he pulled me off the wall and took a long look at my face. "Well, you do look a lot like him. But we have Orsgirt's body in the morgue." "I have papers to prove that I'm Kren Orsgirt. They're over there." I pointed my chin at the jacket on the table. One of the intelligence goons went over and fumbled through the pockets until he found the PADD. "Says here he's Kren Orsgirt," he said, showing the documents to his superior. "Forgeries. Look, if you aren't Renn Osgott then why do you have this note, written in Kren's handwriting." From the table he picked up the note that had been pinned to my door. I went to say something, but one of the goons hit me across the head with something heavy, and everything went dark. When I came to, I was in a dark room. Light slanted in from one window, high up on the wall. My hands were unbound. I felt my head. No lumps or bruises, no pain. Maybe they'd fixed me on the way over. There was no furniture in the room, and the floor was concrete. I leaned agains the wall and considered my options when the door opened. A guard came in. "Renn Osgott?" "No," I said. "You're not Renn Osgott?" he asked. "No, I'm not." "There's a visitor here for Renn Osgott. If that's not you then you can't see them. You're not Renn Osgott?" "Sure, then, I guess." The guard let me out and down the hall. There were no other cells and the walls were unadorned. We stopped at the end of the corridor, at a door identical to mine. Inside was a small metal table, and seated at it was the intelligence officer who had arrested me. "Sit, Renn," he said, indicating the chair opposite him. I sat down. "I apologize for not introducing myself earlier," he said, "and for the rough treatment. I hope your head is ok?" I rubbed my forehead again. It felt fine. Better, even. I felt fine and told him so. "Good," he said. "I wanted to talk to you about your case, Renn. It's peculiar. See, a detective from the Cardassian police force said he had visited you the day before Kren died. You called him saying Kren had left a note on your door." "Someone left a note on my door," I said. "I didn't know it was Kren. I don't know who Kren is." "You don't know who he is?" He leaned back in the chair and smiled an oily smile. "Odd, since we found a set of forged identification on you under Kren's name." He showed me the documents. Whoever this Kren was, he looked an awful lot like me. "He looks an awful lot like you," the inspector said. They were identification documents under his name, but they were forgeries. And bad ones. If I were buying forgeries I would have got better ones. I had never seen them before. "I have never seen these before," I said. He looked at me like I was dumb. Maybe I was. I wasn't sure. "Come with me Renn, I want to show you something." He walked out the door, leaving it open. I followed him. The hallway was empty. No sign of the inspector. I walked back down the hallway, the way I came. There was a guard in front of the door. He opened it for me. The inside of the room was dark except for one window up near the ceiling. The inspector from earlier stood in the middle of the room. A sheet lay on top of a body at his feet. "Come in, Renn, glad you could join me." I stepped inside. The door banged shut behind me. The inspector bent down and pulled the sheet off the body. The Cardassian underneath looked a lot like me. I had seen him before, in the photos the inspector had shown me on the forged documents. His head had been bashed in with something heavy. "Now you see why you're in here. You're dangerous, Renn. You need special protection." "Yes," I said, "I am dangerous. Thank you for helping me understand that." I sat down on the concrete. My head hurt. I reached up and felt dried blood, still moist, on my forehead.

The antique clock on the wall ticked on, without a care in the world about what was to become of it. A long, black pendulum hung down and swished back and forth, as bulging cartoon eyes mirrored in sync above. In the orange light of a Georgia sunset that poured through the paned glass window of his office, Nibar watched flecks of dust swirl with each tick and tock. The last box of files had long since been packed, and the plush, green leather furniture sold. The smell of them lingered, earthen and worn. He'd had to toss his old textbooks, though. No takers. Without the shelves here to display them, he had nowhere to put them. He was surprised most, however, that his cherrywood desk had been the hardest to offload. There was still a faint outline of its place in the wax of the floorboards. As Nibar's green eyes took in the empty room, the door jingled behind him. For a brief moment, the stifling cold of the room, set to accommodate Terran preferences, was dulled by a welcome puff of midsummer heat. The cicadas outside scratched out their ear-piercing call as a familiar scent infiltrated the room’s air. “Slipped your minders, did you?” Nibar asked before turning around to face his visitor. “Hmm? If so, I'm sorry but I'm no longer accepting clients.” His lips flattened and spread into a smile beneath his gray, scaly nose. “They're across the way,” the older woman replied, matter-of-factly, “pretending to enjoy the park.” She looked up at him and in the light, the blue painted into the canyon of her curved ridge seemed a deep purple. “Pretending they're not listening,” she added with a wink. “Ah! In that case…” Nibar cleared his throat, stretched out his frilled neck and spoke vaguely upwards: “Glory to Cardassia, gentlemen.” His visitor gave him a disapproving look. Not for the phrase, of course; it was how she ended every conversation they’d ever had. Sometimes in earnest. Sometimes in exasperation. Sometimes, just to punctuate an exit. But she never said it in mixed company, real or imagined. Terran sensibilities around them were tetchy enough without giving them greater room for doubt. “Dukul, they're going to turn you right around as soon as you step off the shuttle,” she admonished. “Ah, yes, the whole of San Francisco—off limits.” “You joke.” “Yes,” he confirmed, “I joke. If your friends out there didn't kill my application when I sent it in, why wait?” She looked at him disapprovingly. It was her hope, Nibar knew, that he wouldn't go. That he'd change his mind. That they'd reject him. That someone, somewhere, might intervene. The fact that it was impossible to sustain a law practice without clients mattered not, to her. The whispers that they were spies for whatever Obsidian slivers or shards might lurk in the dark corners of outer space only tickled her, whereas they chafed him unbearably. “To see if you'd really go through with it,” she finally replied. “To see the sort of man you are.” Her words were cold, but he saw through them. He always could. Nibar gripped his mother's shoulders tightly, clad in the finest Terran garb she could obtain. A purple number, with green-shouldered sleeves. He leaned in and planted a gentle kiss on the crown of her gray-haired head, before stooping down to meet her eyes. “Then I suppose,” he beamed, “I should show them exactly the sort of man you made me.” When she rolled her eyes, he took the opportunity to fetch the last remnant of his old life. The wagging pendulum protested as Nibar deftly lifted the clock off its nail and took it down. Turning to leave his old office for the last time, he paused to admire his prize. “I thought you were going to throw that ugly thing away!” the woman screeched. “This? This is a classic, mother,” he rebuked, “a genuine artifact of ancient Earth culture. I could never throw it away.” “You'll not put it in my home.” “I wouldn't dream of putting it anywhere your eyes would find it,” he smiled at her. She opened the door for him, and took her own last look as he stepped out into the refreshing sauna of the summer’s eve. He inhaled deeply and sighed, satisfied. “Not right away, at least.” As her son, her only living family, mocked her right there on a public sidewalk for everyone in town to hear, the old woman steadied herself on the doorknob. She closed her eyes, as if in pain, and gathered her strength. “Glory to Cardassia,” she cursed as she shut the door.

Welcome to the Writing Challenge 2022! Last year, we had a fantastic run of entries for the challenge, with some smashing stories that really knocked it out of the space park. We had the laughs, we had the tears, and we shared them all with our fellow writers here on our beloved StarBase 118. Taking a prompt and writing something out of the ordinary for us is a great way to burst through the writing block walls and twitch those itchy keyboard fingers into creating a masterpiece. Dig into those realms of plot ideas you've got brewing, drag out the lists of "what if" and try it out! As our winner of last year’s challenge, Lieutenant Commander @Wes Greaves has come up with the prompt for our community this time around... "The texture of their shirt... I'll never forget the way it felt in my hand that day." Doesn't that just punch you in the gut? Themes immediately come to mind of the dramatic and hard hitting development we put our characters through in the course of the mission, in the consequences faced on shore leave. Perhaps your character will go on a journey of self-discovery, or explore themes of finality and endings, retribution and atonement, and perhaps a dash of mortality? Star Trek has often demonstrated that these little, concentrated moments may be at the heart of the human (and alien!) experience. The creativity of this community is in the details. From the eloquent prose and deep emotion to the twists and turns of plot magic, this group truly invites you to boldly go where no one has gone before. Rules & Guidelines: Word count should be a minimum of 300 and a maximum of 3000. One judge will be chosen from each ship to help select the winner. Members are welcome to submit solo stories, or team up with a buddy to submit a collaborative epic, but only one story per person, please! Your submission should be in the format of a short story. Prose, not sim formatting. (See here for examples.) All members are welcome to submit entries for the community to read, but only those from active simmers will be reviewed by the judging panel for the final winner selection. If you want to submit a story but don't want to enter it into the challenge, prefix the forum post with "showcase" and let us read your good stuff! Submissions are, by default, non-canon – if you find a way to shoehorn this into your own backstory, you're free to use it if you wish, but certainly not a requirement. You can create whatever characters make sense for the story. You don't have to use or reference any of your current characters. Rank is not an issue here – write as an Ensign or a Captain, civilian, whatever makes sense for your story! And you're free to use characters you've already written for in sim, but please don't include anyone else's. Submit your story directly into the first post of a new thread. Use the following format for the thread title: [Primary Character Name(s) of author(s)]: "My Story's Interesting Title" Tristan Wolf: "Five Ways to End Your Starfleet Career" All stories must be submitted by Sunday, May 29th at 11:59pm Pacific Time. Good luck!

Constitution, Captain's Quarters There were not as many times as Jalana wanted that she could spend time with Siance. Through circumstances, some coincidental, some planned by the young woman, she had found her way to the Constitution in search of her father, just to find out that her father was dead and the symbiont who had been in him was now on the Commanding Officer of the ship. It was complicated, but it was now part of their lives. Both Jalana and Siance were aware that they walked a fine line, after all connections with their past life were not exactly within the rules of the Trill Comission. But the work at Starfleet at times made it necessary to bend these rules. Jalana wasn't telling and they made sure to not just 'pick up where things had been left off', which was easy because the former host had never known about the child. Siance though wanted to know about her father and through these stories they had formed a friendship. Every now and then Jalana and Siance met, had dinner or just sat around exchanging stories. Siance cuddled up on the couch, her feet pulled up as she watched the woman before her. She looked young, wasn't shabby or anything, on the contrary. She was beautiful, her smile was contageous, she was kind and her crew loved her. But yet, she was alone. The younger Trill leaned forward, her chin on her knees. "How comes you never married?" She had heard of relationships in the past but never so much a mention of that. "I did." Jalana smiled and Siance rolled her eyes. "Not former hosts, you." The heavy exhale filling the air, immediately weight down on Siance, wondering if she asked the wrong thing. "I almost did." broke the silence and the young woman curiously leaned forward. "What... happened?" Jalana picked up the glass in front of her and leaned back in the seat, pulling her legs under her body. "Do you want to hear the nice version or the truth?" There was another moment of silence in which Siance was considering if she was ready to hear the truth. Because that question would not have been asked if the answer wasn't difficult. But then she nodded, there was no doubt. "The Truth." Siance was a counselor. Not Jalana's but she would not shy away from difficult answers. Jalana nodded slightly and rolled the glass in her hands. "I should have known." A weak smile played on her lips before she leaned her head back, looking to the ceiling. "His name was Viktor. It was eight years ago..." (( Flashback )) The Apollo was destroyed, Borg had surprised them during their mission, overwhelmed them and it was a miracle the ship was the only loss. Their transition ship, the Aegis had served them well and now it had been time to move to their new ship on the Apollo-A. Jalana stood in her quarters. Not just her quarters, hers and Viktor's and looked around a smile on her lips. She had started to decorate while he was off doing whatever he was doing. They had arranged to meet here after transition because he had things to do. And she trusted him. They were engaged and what kind of future marriage would it be without that? That arrangement had been made a week ago. And she was still waiting, doing her work as Chief Medical officer, exploring and stocking her new sick bay, working on getting her team ready for the virgin mission of the new sovereign ship. These were exciting times but when she was here in the quarters she had nothing to keep her busy, occupied and distracted. What took him so long? With a sigh she kicked off her shoes and dropped on the couch, turning slightly to look out of the window, seeing metal bars that held the ship in position and behind it Station 1. Maybe she should get over there and try to keep her mind off things. But instead she wanted to stay here, wait, wishing that the doors opened any moment and he would stand there with his cocky smile and tell her that he just had a few too much to drink with his buddies and got carried away. Or anything that would make sense really. What was going on? The sound of the door bell tore her away from that sight and she jumped up, calling out "Come in!" but when the doors opened the familiar sight of her best friend and First Officer came into view. Her heart dropped and her shoulders slumped. "Oh you." "Not really the greeting I was expecting" Sundassa uttered as she entered, but it was expected, after all she knew the situation. Jalana sighed and turned away again looking out of the window "Sorry. I thought it's Viktor." She didn't see that guilty look in Sun's eyes. "If you want a drink feel free to get some." It didn't take more than that, a moment later Sun was behind her, handing her a class and Jalana took it without protest, taking a sip, without her eyes moving to her friend. She felt bad, guilty for being disappointed that it was her and not him and couldn't look at her. Her free hand began to fiddle with the hem of her sleeve. "How are you enjoying shore leave?" "We had a nice time." We meaning her and Jaxx, they had started dating not too long ago. Jalana nodded a hint of a smile on her face as she looked over her shoulder. "I'm glad. You work a lot, time together is important." Sun's bright hair moved, a nod, which Jalana only saw from the corner of her eye as her gaze wandered to the window again. The silence hung in the air and Jalana didn't have to be an empath to have the feeling that this wasn't a social visit. Something was wrong, Sun was too serious, too quiet. But so was she. One did not have to always talk when spending time with friends, right? She could be wrong. "Jalana." The tone in her voice. No she was not wrong. "Can you put your glass down for a moment?" Jalana did not follow the request. Sun seemed to realize and took a deep breath. "Something happened that you need to know." The Trill merely nodded. She was listening. The Antosian sat on the armrest of the couch as she continued to speak. "Before we went to the Aegis, something happened on Earth. Faelrun Lanius III and his associated were murdered, their mill destroyed and the doctor that was in charge of Mary Anne McCollough Lanius was attacked." The moment she heard the name Lanius Jalana stopped any movement. For a brief moment even her breathing stopped. Viktor's father. She remembered visiting the family and a fight she had observed between Vik and his father, the way his mother had been apathic in the hospital barely recognizing him. He had blamed his father for that, for putting her there, getting rid of her. The fight had not ended well but when they left everyone had been alive. "We'll have to tell Viktor when he comes. He'll want to know." The silence did not last long. "There is only one suspect and he was tracked down based on evidence found. It took me a while to get any information which is why it took so long to come to you." Sun's words made no sense, Jalana's heart breaking for the loss of her fiance's father. "Why me?" "Jalana... The suspect." She paused and took a deep breath but Jalana immediately spoke up. "No." trying to stop her when she tone gave her a suspicion. Sun gave her a moment before continuing. "Viktor was that suspect and has been arrested on Starbase 1 when he was on the way here. Shelter saw the arrest. Jaxx tried to find out more to figure out what happened but... Jal. Viktor was cut loose from Starfleet." Silence. Nothing but silence was in the air now, swallowing the words to give them an immediate stop. Jalana didn't breathe, like a first that wrapped around her heart and begun to squeeze. Nothing in her mind until just one sentence formed, flowing in a whisper over her lips. "That is impossible." Memories of the visit, the shouting, the screaming the threats made by both man flashed through her mind like a thunderstorm ready to swallow her hole. With each moment she remembered a voice whispered into her mind. .oO Yes, he could have done that. He hated his father. He said he is dead to him. Oo. The voice echoed, repeated whispered the same thing over and over. She didn't know for how long she stood there, just staring out of the window without seeing anything she just stood there, not able to believe, not able to grasp. "Jalana. Are you alright?" What a stupid question to ask someone who had just heard that the man they trusted with their life, and wanted to marry, had ... "I am fine." She whispered. "You don't seem alright, are you sure you are alright?" It wasn't the question, or that she had asked before. Not that alone. But the whole situation. The fear for life when meeting the borg, the worry about Viktor, the stress of her department running smoothly and these news crashed down on her like an avalanche, crushing her small frame completely under it. She wanted to fight, not suffocate, but the weight made her body heavy as stone. Her lungs suddenly struggled to breath and she gasped for air like a drowning woman on the ocean. She wanted to paddle, to swim... and at the same time the heat seared inside her body. Without control, without thought she pulled her arm back and smashed the glass that was still in her hand against the window where the vessel shattered "I SAID I'M FINE!" That one scream took all strength out of her and her legs collapsed, with that the whole body following and she found herself on the floor. In silence at first but then her whole body screamed at her in pain and she let it out, whailing. The immense pain of loss tearing through the Trill, threatening to rip her apart. "NO! NO! NO!" She screamed, so heart breakingly deep from the depth of her shoul, her whails reminiscent of so many funerals she had visited before, as the world swallowed her down, losing all sense of time and herself, only the texture of her fabric drilling into her knees, leaving marks that would leave long before she would be able to breathe freely again... (( End Flashback )) "After that, I only remember what Sun told me. She had called her brother Shelter and Nyals our Counselor for backup. I was calmed down with a hypospray and slept for days. Only a few days later I got the news that he was found guilty on all accounts and would spend the rest of his life in a penal colony." Siance stared at Jalana in disbelief. Not in her wildest dreams she could have imagined something like this would happen especially not to Jalana. She didn't know what to say. Maybe she shouldn't have asked. Jalana pulled her legs closer, her fingers rubbing over her knees. "Sometimes I can still feel the imprint on my knees, the texture of the shirt I wore. I'll never forget the way it felt in my hand that day. I still can't wear it without thinking of the pain." There had been someone after him. Which also had not worked out. And maybe, who knew. Maybe the memory of that pain was what had held her back. Would it ever leave?

“You know, you could go back to what you were doing before. Anyone who sees you like this and thinks that would be wrong isn’t worth your time, Dekas.” Dekas sighed and gave his best approximation of a humanoid smile to Simon, then looked away remembering every time he’d told him he didn’t have to try and match everyone else’s expressions like that if he didn’t want to. “I am alright. I chose to come here. Adapting to a culture’s normality is also my choice. I look good in gold, anyway.” “You do. And you looked good in blue before that. But you also look uncomfortable when you move your arms, and you’ve mentioned that the wing binding brings you pain on more than one occasion. I can tell that no matter how much you like what you’re doing, you’re not nearly as happy as you were when I first met you. It’s probably exhausting to constantly be uncomfortable to comfort everyone else.” Dekas sighed. “I will live. But I appreciate your concern.” Simon shook his head. Dekas was a surprisingly stubborn bird once he’d decided on something given how gentle he also was. And it was about that moment that the human hummed in thought. “You’re inclined to continue with clothes. I hear you and support that. But we might both be stupid.” “Don’t be mean to yourself. We both know we’re not stupid.” “Have you ever considered trying out different styles, though? Finding something that you might actually like?” Dekas was quiet, thinking, “Okay, we both might be a little stupid for not thinking of that. In my defense, I know nothing about style, my people don’t wear clothes. It’s not something I really thought about.” He smirked. “You just accidentally implied that I was stupider than you.” “You’re hardly stupider. Just much worse at math.” “Yes, but I don’t need to understand advanced calculus to understand style.” He tilted his head slightly. “Do you? Understand style? I have no frame of reference.” “If you weren’t so genuine I’d think you actually insulted me twice in a row now,” a beat. “I can learn. Besides we’re not trying to make you stylish in a way that would please anyone but yourself. If you’re happy, then even the tackiest option is a look. And I know someone who might be able to help make comfortable uniform alterations for you.” “You don’t have to, Simon.” “But I want to. I’d like to see you be done with classes and then be peppy when you come to say hello again. That was the highlight of my day sometimes. You’re lethargic in comparison, and it’s time we made some attempts to fix that,” Simon stood and pulled Dekas up from where he was sitting, it went from being almost eye level to the Aurelian towering nearly a foot taller than him. “The first thing we should do is remove the wing bind. You’re not doing that anymore. It hurts, and you hate it. Save it for when it’s actually necessary. Right now it’s not.” “People tend to touch when I don’t bind the wings.” “Throw your wings back at them if they do that, then. They’ll learn your boundaries much faster if they get a wing smack and a mouthful of feathers, and you get the satisfaction of knowing they probably won’t do it again. If they do, then you can file harassment when possible. And you should.” “I don’t like it. But they’re just curious.” Simon squinted at him, “You don’t touch people out of nowhere just because you’re curious. Because you’re a reasonable person. You deserve better. Say it.” “I… deserve better.” “Put more oomph into it!” “I deserve better!” “Yeah you do, my man! Let’s go!” The absolute confidence about it made Dekas forget that there were other people in that coffee shop that saw whatever just happened. Once they were outside, he was helping him remove it only to throw it in the nearest trash, and dared Dekas to protest. He opened his beak to do so, then awkwardly shrugged and stretched his wings behind him. Simon offered an arm and Dekas locked arms with him easily. “Thank you.” “Don’t thank me, we haven’t even had our fashion montage yet.” “I’m… sorry, our what?” He didn’t elaborate, just laughed and pulled him along, confusion and all. Dekas wasn’t sure what he was planning. Because truthfully he couldn’t imagine the regular places to get clothes would have any of them fitted to the Aurelian form. But it turned out he needn’t have worried. Because he brought him to a holodeck made for this type of interaction and put it on a setting that allowed him to look through things as though in a real store. “I really don’t know how this works. The picking things thing. I know how the holodeck works.” “Just go wild. Pick colors, or patterns you think are neat and go from there.” Dekas very tentatively glanced around, then back to Simon. Part of this whole Starfleet thing was to try new things, and he’d tried a whole lot of new things. But somehow this one was giving him anxiety. “Pretend you’re trying to get me to buy something. Sell me on it.” The human tapped his nose in thought then nodded, “Computer, give me the fanciest handlebar mustache you can conjure up, make it blue.” And on his face appeared a terribly fancy blue mustache, which he began to twirl theatrically. Before using a voice he probably considered ‘posh’ although it was much sillier. “Well, good afternoon, what luck that a fine gentleman as yourself has found himself in my establishment.” Dekas had to work very hard not to devolve into laughter instantly. “I need a new look, but I’m not sure what I like.” “You’ve come to the right place!” Simon scanned the room and picked a random rack of clothes, dragged him over to it as he started pulling items off of it, and shoving a few things at him. “Give these a try,” he gave it one more look and found one which he cringed at and threw behind him. “Not that one. I don’t know why we even stock that here, it’s atrocious. Someone so dashing like yourself deserves only the best.” “Do they account for the wings?” “Computer, make all shirt options have a wide-open back, and put on an appropriate soundtrack for a montage.” The holographic options changed to at least allow for freeing his wings in a way that was sure to be more comfortable than the style Dekas used currently. Somewhere in the background, there was what sounded like very upbeat synthy music from Earth’s 1980s era. It did feel pretty appropriate. “They do now, sir! Now go, go, go. Try some on.” Simon was actively pushing him toward the changing room space. “Simon, what is happening!” Dekas laughed but did as he was told. The first outfit he tried was a little too heavy even with the modifications. The next few didn’t quite suit the shape of an Aurelian aesthetically. Some of them were too boring, or too bright and clashed with his already too bright feathers. He didn’t like long sleeves much, sleeves in general were iffy. And most pants were a hassle with talons on his feet. Heavy fabrics were too warm. Some colors didn’t match well with bright red. But for every critique he had about something while he posed for him, Simon had another set of options, and a smile and a compliment to offer. It was improving his mood significantly from the way he’d felt recently. Except for the outfit he’d just handed him and immediately made it clear that he was being ridiculous. The pattern didn’t match anything, the color was a horrendous choice for anyone ever. The sunglasses and backward cap just really didn’t do it either. It was something that caused a record scratch, whatever that meant. Simon was laughing hysterically about it. “Yeah, I’m just going to go try something else on.” He waited until Simon was looking at him and made a peace sign at him and went back in to allow him to get a grip. Dekas however sighed a little tired. He wondered if he was just meant to be slightly uncomfortable with it all for the time he’d be in Starfleet. And he was only a cadet, he could imagine that wouldn’t be a great time. So he didn’t step out of the fitting room as quickly as he had with almost everything else. Simon noticed this, and talked more like himself than whatever character he was playing with to help. “Not feeling it?” “I… don’t think I was meant to be comfortable here.” “That's quitter talk. We’ll figure it out. Even if it’s not today. You have a few more years, and I’m making it a personal mission to be sure you’re comfortable before you get assigned anywhere. Even if we have to try everything to find it.” Suddenly he was quiet. “Wh— Okay you are thinking, I can hear you thinking.” “I just realized something. I’ve been giving you things that are traditionally more masculine in frame and style because that’s what I tend to enjoy. And there ARE other options that I completely forgot about that I think you might like better based on all of your criticisms. I don’t know why it didn’t occur to me earlier. It is 2393, I need to get with the times. Stay there.” Dekas listened and stayed where he was. Admittedly a little anxious waiting, and he startled when he had things once again shoved into his hands. “What if I don’t like them?” “Then we try again a different day, but I’m almost certain that we just figured it out. Trust me.” He took a deep breath and nodded. “I trust you.” The first thing he noticed was the fact that he hadn’t handed him pants, he’d handed him a skirt. His feet didn’t caught on the fabric. And it was flowy, freeing, fun. And the shirt didn’t have any sleeves, it just went easily around his neck. The other detail was that it was cropped a bit higher. In the mirror he looked very, very pretty. He’d seen people wearing these types of things around. But he’d never considered them on himself, and they hadn’t crossed his mind during this process. But he almost didn’t leave, caught by his own reflection. Which he was truly seeing for the first time in months. “I hope your silence is a good one?” “It’s a very good one,” he straightened himself out and stepped out to show him. “Dekas you look…” he got a little pink in the cheeks, “marvelous.” “Marvelous?” “Yeah. Yes. Although I think I have a shirt that might match better.” In a very surprising turn of events, Simon removed his own shirt, easily tore off the sleeves, and ripped a line down the back of it for the wings. The Aurelian started laughing, “Wait, hold on, I am not taking your shirt. You’re not leaving without a shirt, Simon.” “Don’t worry about it, I always have an extra one with me. Put it on.” He was so adamant about it that Dekas could not argue. He was right, though. It did match better. And when he stepped back out for the last time, he had a different shirt on. Apparently he really did keep an extra with him. The backpack made sense now. “Okay, you win. I look marvelous. Surprised that you ripped your clothes so easily. I didn’t realize you were that strong.” “Oh, I’m not, I just order all my shirts in the same fabric of Captain Kirk’s old uniform. Partially because they’re comfortable. Mostly for the just in case of getting into a scuffle. I’m constantly vigilant.” “You’re constantly weird. I’ll never be able to order a shirt anywhere without remembering this as an option. The texture is surprisingly soft.” “Yeah it’s part of why I like them.” Dekas did his best approximation of a smile and then pulled his human friend into a big hug, wings wrapping around him a little as well. Affection which was easily returned. “And it’s part of why I like you. You might just be my favorite human. Don’t tell the others.” Simon sighed with contentment. “Secret’s safe with me.” “Thank you.” “Oh, this was my pleasure, Bird-Man. Any time.” They broke the hug after another moment, “I’ll hold you to that. But next time you’re getting a montage. Whatever that is.”

Yesterday was that day. You know, the last day I ever saw him. Touched him. Breathed in his scent and felt his warmth mingle with mine. It was said that everyone has a last time with the people they cared for, and that we never knew when that time would be. I guess I just never expected it to be now. The night had come and passed in much the way it always had. Nightmares clipped at the edge of my consciousness, and I was ever so thankful not to remember them. As my eyes fluttered open, I felt suddenly lost. The bulkhead was different. The windows were different, as were the way the stars sat beyond them. The bed was different. The room itself was different. And as I rolled over to make sure he was there, to feel him and confirm with that touch against that old ugly nightshirt, or the hair on his arm that he was really truly there, I realized my situation. The bed was empty, and all I found with my wanting fingers was the sheet, cold and barren as a full on Andorian winter. Whoever said that emotional pain was somehow less than physical pain must never have experienced the waves that hit next. The loss and sudden flood of the prior night’s memories opened a pit beneath me and my chest started aching. It was as if someone was stabbing me, or that my heart had simply stopped. I gasped for air between the sobs and buried my face in my already damp pillow, made so by the tears that had led me to an exhausted sleep. More memories flooded back, more tears flooded my already tired eyes, and my body shook with the pain that radiated from my mind in the shadow of the event. One phrase kept thrusting its way into the front of my mind. ‘I’m alone…’ And the sobs renewed with more fervor than before. Time faded. What was time anyways? It was the endless march of potential that was rarely realized. It was the kinetics of mental anguish as it worked itself out and made its attempts to get into your mind. It was the path that led to death, eventually, but for some, it might have led to life as well. For me? Time was but the enemy now. It could end. I did not need it anymore. But then a message popped up. Good morning, best friend. Exhausted, teary eyes blinked, and the draw was instant. After all, where did the broken hearted go? Back to their best friend. Always back to their best friend. I scrambled to answer, but I was weak. The message sent back was short. Pointed. And more than anything, understood. It hurts. Pain of this depth was not new, unfortunately, but it also led to dangerous depths. Darkness threatened to overtake me, and had it not been for a well timed ‘good morning’, it very well may have. For a moment, the tears slowed. Just hold on. The chill of the room, the silence that proved the lacking, and the stillness of the very air around me all served as reminders. He was gone. And now I had to remain. Hold on? How? To what? More importantly, why? Without a thought as to how, I was up and moving. Time and space in separation could not stop me. I was desperate. I had already lost it all, so what more was there to lose? There were plenty of things to be said for the physical proximity of those you loved, and with my heart aching as it was, I knew that was what I needed. Shoes were haphazardly thrown on, and a uniform was tossed together. Rankless, without having brushed my hair I was out the door. And in a matter of hours, I was rewarded with all that I could ask for in that moment. Here, then, was a reason to hold on. Touch spoke volumes in places where other senses were dulled. Thus, it was the feel of my best friend there, real and present, that anchored me in a way I could not explain. Around us, the tall towers of the station rose, and people came and went, but patience and strength held me as I wanted to crumble. I worked to commit to memory the feel of everything, from the feel of his skin, to the fabric of his shirt, because even now I realized that there would come a last day with him as well. My heart ached perhaps worse then…but I did what I could to remember that today was all that we had. And today was going to be good.

Waiting Room Surgical Suite Sickbay USS Ostrov Kartografov “Miss Kasula sh’Xaltikalanna, I just want you to know that you’re the bravest eleven-year old on this ship, and I am here for you no matter what happens.” Despite his blue collar, it was so uncommon that Commander Peter Martinez actually worked in Sickbay. Counselors had their own suites, and while they were doctors (real doctors with real PHDs, as he insisted during playful banters with the Medical staff), they rarely went into sickbay unless they were patients themselves. When things were going well. Today they were not going well. His patient today was an Andorian shen pre-teen perched on the edge of the comfortable-looking chair in the surgical suite’s waiting room. In stark contrast to her people’s traditional garb, she wore a Tellarite-style robe, a yellow and rose coloured piece that hung off her like petals from a flower. When it caught the normally harsh light of sickbay, it reflected and refracted it in a way that seemed to almost make her sparkle. Her hair was styled in the stereotypical Vulcan bowl cut, further bucking the species trend; she had three PADDs spread out in front of her, one balanced precariously on each small knee, the third clasped firmly in her hands. Each of the electronic screens was covered in a dizzying array of text in English. Such fusions of the stylings of the four founding members of the Federation were not entirely uncommon these days. “The medical staff told me I could wait here,” said Kasula, defensively, grasping her PADD close, as though it were an anchor holding her in place. For an Andorian, she had a strangely Vulcan-accented voice, flat and full of tension but without emotion. “They promised.” Martinez knelt down on the cold deck plating, bringing his eyes to her level. “No, you can stay here. It’s okay.” Kasula’s eyes were on him, watching and listening to his words, but her Andorian antenna were affixed on the door that led to the surgical suite, bent over like waves, straining like tiny trees blown by an unseen wind. How much of the doctor’s chatter could she make out through the thick metal? “Good, agreed,” said Kasula, the tension in her muscles clearly refusing to abate. Her antenna twitched, still affixed on the door, eyes ever-so-briefly flicking to the sealed metal portal and then back. She spoke plainly. “Is my mother going to die?” Being the ship’s counselor was his dream job almost every single day. Almost. “I ... don’t know,” he confessed, as honest as he could manage. “A better picture of her prospects will emerge in the next few hours.” “Because of the antiprotons,” said Kasula, almost as though she was explaining some great wisdom she had only recently acquired. “They take hours to dissipate. Their presence inhibits wound treatment.” How curious. Starfleet brats tended to absorb an entire mountain of entirely age-inappropriate general knowledge, living out in the black of space where a violent death was a persistent reality of frontier life, but the exact effects of disruptor blasts on living creatures was specialist knowledge that had been imparted to him in his Starfleet first aid courses. How had Kasula known of such a thing? This thought joined another swirling around in his head. Why did Starfleet allow children onboard their ships, again? “Because of the antiprotons,” he confirmed. “That’s right.” As though reacting to some noise he couldn’t make out, Kasula’s antenna twitched again, her eyes once more following her twin head-stalks, drawn to the door. During the momentary distraction, Martinez risked a swift glance down at her PADDs to see what she was researching. uoᴉʇɔnɹʇsuoɔǝɹ lɐɯɹǝpqns ʎɔuǝƃɹǝɯǝ sᴉ ʇɐɥʍ ¿ǝƃuɐɹ ǝsolɔ ʇɔǝɟɟǝ ɹoʇdnɹsᴉp sɹoʇdnɹsᴉp puɐ ʎƃoloᴉsʎɥd uɐᴉɹopu∀ uɐᴉɹopu∀ sᴉsɐʇsoɯǝɐɥ Below the search terms were long, lengthy explanations from medical textbooks. Two and two were put together. The medical staff had asked Kasula to wait outside for a reason. However they, most likely, had not anticipated the extrasensory ability of the Andorian shen. For her to have a real-time look into the treatment of her parent was probably not ideal. “Maybe we should go wait in your quarters,” he said, gently. The suggestion came like a slap on the cheek. The child straightened up, bolt upright, her antenna jerking toward him. “No! We had an accord!” “Okay, only.” There was no sense pushing it. “I just thought you would be more comfortable away from all-” “I am perfectly comfortable.” She couldn’t possibly be, perched on the edge of that seat like she might fall off and half buried in semi-juggled electronics, but Martinez didn’t push the point. “Let’s talk here then.” “Only about my mother,” she said. A reasonable request. “Okay. Let’s start from the beginning. What do you know about her status?” “I know my mother has been struck by a disrupter at close range, likely of Romulan manufacture based on the presence of antiprotons.” Her Vulcan accent cracked as the Andorian below it seeped through. “She was shot by a Romulan.” “We don’t know who shot her,” he said. “Romulan weapons are not biocoded. It could have been anyone with a Romulan-made weapon.” That answer didn’t seem to satisfy her very much. Kasula bit her lip and looked away. “Does it matter who shot her?” Kasula leaned back cautiously. “N- … no. I suppose not.” There was the briefest of pauses. “I live with Vulcans. School says that Vulcans and Romulans are the same thing. At least, the schools in Little Andoria say that. Presumably the others do too.” Good. Keeping her thinking of other things was useful. “Do you want to tell me about Little Andoria?” “Why?” Kasula narrowed her eyes. “There is not much to tell. It is the Andorian community on Vulcan. It is small and the gravity is uncomfortable, even with the persistent grav-tile mitigation. But we have found a home there. How does this affect my mother?” “It doesn’t.” Such a terrible conversation to have with a young child. “But … I just wanted to talk to you. I want to get to know you better.” “Why?” “You and I may be talking a lot, in the future,” he said. There was no easy way to say this and the shen seemed to favour directness, so he didn’t muddy the message. “You should prepare yourself for the possibility that your mother will not survive.” The briefest of silences. “Type III Disruptor,” murmured Kasula, almost to herself, as though she hadn’t heard him. “Struck between the thellan metaplate one point six centimetres from the stomach.” She squirmed about in her chair, tapping on the PADD in front of her, entering more search terms. ¿lɐʇɐɟ ʇoɥs ǝʇɐldɐʇǝɯ uɐllǝɥʇ uɐᴉɹopu∀ ʇɔǝɟɟǝ ɹoʇdnɹsᴉp Ɛ ǝdʎʇ “You shouldn’t be listening in,” said Martinez. “It’ll only worry you.” Her antenna twitched, then with obvious deliberate effort, returned to the front. “I’m not.” Slowly, as though an unconscious action, they pivoted back to the closed door. Time to give up on that front. “What about that robe you’re wearing?” he asked. “Is that from Little Andoria?” “No,” said Kasula. Her antenna twitched, her eyes absently drifting. “It was my mother’s.” “I’m sure she would like that you are wearing it for her, in support of her, during this difficult time.” “No, my other mother,” said Kasula, her Vulcan accent slipping once more as frustration crept in, the Andorian replacing it. Right. Because there were two involved, typically. And two fathers. Complicated stuff. “Tell me about her. Your other mother.” “She doesn’t have eyes made of buttons,” said Kasula. Martinez didn’t understand. Some kind of Little Andorian in-joke? “I’m … glad to hear that,” was the only answer he could give. “Yes.” Another silence. Trying to avoid dead air, Martinez pressed on. “So, the robe,” he asked. “I’ve never seen anything like it.” Kasula held up her small wrist, the dainty fabric spilling down like water, shimmering as it reflected the light around her. “It’s woven in a pattern that was invented after Tellarite First Contact. The sleeves are Tholian silk. That’s why it moves so strangely.” Strangely, yet beautifully. “It’s lovely. I suppose that’s why Tholian silk is so prized.” “This is correct. However, to be honest, I mostly just appreciate the texture. It feels good on my skin. And I hope that it ...“ Kasula’s voice trailed off. Her antenna twitched. Suddenly she began typing frantically. sǝʇɐɹ lɐʌᴉʌɹns uɐᴉɹopu∀ ʇsǝɹɹɐ ɔɐᴉpɹɐɔ “Kasula?” She didn’t answer, scrolling through the information frantically, her eyes widened the more she digested it. “Kasula, it’s important that you try to-“ “Mum!” She leapt out of her chair, sending PADDs clattering all around her. Fast, faster than he thought was possible for such a small one, Kasula darted toward the closed door. “MUM!” He didn’t have the heart to stop her. * * * Forward Torpedo Room USS Ostrov Kartografov “And so we, the crew of the USS Ostrov Kartografov, commend Lieutenant sh’Xaltikalanna’s body to the stars.” The torpedo, silent and calm, drifted out past the forcefield and into the inky black. Martinez watched, as they all watched, as the photon torpedo casing shrank, becoming a camouflaged black sliver against the black of space, a tiny dot joining the millions and billions of stars all around, and then nothing at all. Gone forever. Kasula clutched the folded flag to her chest so tightly it looked like it was about to rip. Her Andorian strength was just now starting to come in. With the funeral over, eventually everyone else left, leaving only Martinez and Kasula behind. The latter staring at the distant, invisible point that represented her mother’s body, and the former watching the latter. There was a question in the counselor’s toolbox that was at once useful and insulting. Are you okay? Of course Kasula was not, and could not be okay. Nobody in their right mind would be or should be. The question was not a genuine attempt to ascertain emotional wellness, but simply to invite discussion of the issue. So he used it. “Are you okay?” The shen did not answer, holding that flag close to her chest, a seething, snarling visage painted on her face, one so unbecoming on someone so young and who so proudly embraced the ideals of the Federation. “I’m here if you need to talk,” he said. “We have a session booked in tomorrow morning, and I can be available all week if you need me to be. You are my only priority right now. Even the other away team members will have to wait.” “Little Andoria is wrong,” said Kasula, finally, her voice dripping with venom. “I don’t understand what you mean.” “Romulans,” she hissed, the sound escaping like air through a crack in the hull. “They aren’t the same as Vulcans at all.” “We still don’t know for sure who did this,” said Martinez, fully aware that this was not the time and place for this conversation. “Whoever attacked the away team was not caught. All we know is-“ “I know who it was.” Kasula’s fingernails dug into the cloth, the sleeves of her robe swaying gently as though pushed by some invisible force. “And I won’t forget.” fin

Dirt Boy I always tried to make the effort to connect to my adoptive human sister. Our relationship often ran hot and cold. Sometimes, times were good and we’d genuinely enjoy each other's company. But there were times where she just couldn’t stand me. I wasn’t like the other human children she knew. I was the only Klingon in the bunch and an awkward one at that. To her, I was an embarrassment. Something worthy of her scorn on her worst days. On those days, she liked to use her words like a well wielded d’k tagh. She knew full well that physically hurting me was a difficult task. So she resorted to using her voice. Dirt boy was one of her favourite insults. That one came about how our schoolmates thought unwashed Klingons smelled like. Naturally, she picked that one up and would hurl it my way when she wanted to get under my skin. I hated that one. I hated hearing it at school but somehow it felt worse at home and she *knew* it. But if she really wanted to cut down and hurt me as best as she could, she would say that she’d wished that the Night Marchers would carry me off so she’d never have to see me again. She knew as well as I did that the Night Marchers only allowed safe passage to families of Hawaiian descent of which I was clearly not. Those were the worst days where she wanted to hurt me the most. I remember one of those days. My mom was on shore leave and had decided to spend it on Earth with myself, my dad and my sister. We had gone up for a day’s hike to Diamond Head. It grew to be one of my favourite trails over the years. This was my first time hiking it as a little kid. My sister, at the time, was far older both physically and mentally than where I was at this time. I enjoyed my time on the trails. I had a chance to see plenty of wild life while I was there. It was a warm and beautiful day. Most of the hike itself, I don’t have the strongest memories of. What I do remember was towards the late afternoon. We had hit up one of the rest stops and already we had lost sunlight due to cloud cover. I caught my sister wandering off towards the bushes and thought it’d be a good idea to follow her. After all, at the time I just wanted to be with her. She caught me and started trying to run away. She seemed to *hate* the idea of me following her. But I did my best and kept running after her. We were getting further and further from the rest stop. I did finally catch up and tried to reach for her hand. She surprised me by turning around suddenly and pushed me. “Go away!” she shouted. I didn’t listen. I told her that our parents would be upset if we weren’t with them. I don’t remember much of what was said before she started looking around. But when she did start looking around at where we were, I could see her looking really scared and then *furious.* I remember her shouting at me. Yelling at me. “You got us lost, Dirt boy! Mom and dad aren’t going to find us because of you!” I yelled back pleading with her to stop calling me “dirt boy.” But she wasn’t listening. I should have seen the next words coming. But I didn’t. She was scared and ready to lash out at me any way she could and the next words she chose cut me deep. She screamed them at me with tears in her eyes. “I hope the Night Marchers would just get rid of you! You’re NOT family!” It hurt. It sliced into my heart and deep into my soul. I don’t remember what was said next as I took off running into the bush. Tears in my eyes and branches smacking at me like whips as I was running. I tripped over my own two feet and scraped my knees in the dirt. But that didn’t stop me. I popped back up and kept on running. I didn’t know where I was going. All I wanted to be was *away.* I ran for as long as I could. It had already begun to rain when I stopped. I was so tired from running, I just flopped down under a tree. My legs were caked in mud and dirt. Rain soaked through my clothes. My hair was wet hanging in streaks from my head. I did what I had wanted to do. To get away. I was away alright. And completely lost. I didn’t know where the trail was. I didn’t know if anyone was looking for me. What I did know was that along with the rain, it was starting to get dark. To make matters worse, I was completely alone. I was crying before. But I really lost it then. Not just from the pain I felt in my heart and soul but also from fear. The idea of never being found and no one is looking for me. Both those fears were playing in my mind. I don’t remember how long I sat for. But eventually the rain stopped and I could just hear the wind in the trees. It was night by then. The air had a chill to it that seemed to sink into my rain soaked clothes and make its home in my bones. The forest had an eerie silence to it safe for the sounds of insects. But I could smell something. It was like volcanic sulfur. The smell almost made me gag. It was impossibly strong. And then I heard *it.* The sound of a conch shell in the distance. A sound that chilled me to the core. I could feel my heart in my throat. I knew what this was. *The Night Marchers.* I got up and started running. The sound of the conch shell was getting closer. Branches tore at my legs. I could hear the drums echoing throughout the forest. What if my sister was right? What if this was how I was going to die? I kept running. I heard shouting. “KAPU!” They were getting closer. I tripped over a stray branch and fell forward into the mud. I tried desperately to get up. But I just couldn’t get my legs under me. Everything felt impossible at the moment. “KAPU!” The shouts were like thunder in my ears. The smell of sulfur was getting stronger. Somehow in my heart I knew I couldn’t outrun them. Drum beats matched my heart beats in their intensity as they pounded in my ears. They were closing in. Tears in my eyes and panic in my mind, I struggled to figure out what to do next. “KAPU!” I tried to think back to what I’ve heard about Night Marchers. The only thing I could remember was that if I removed my clothes and got on my hands and knees, maybe they’d spare my life. I started with my shirt. I remember feeling the mud slick texture of my shirt in my hands as I tried to pull it off my head. I will never forget the feeling of it in my hands that day. I struggled with it. I tried to pull it off of me to no avail. The most I could do is pull my arms out of my sleeves. It just draped off my head in a wet muddy mess as it clung to my skull. The drum beats were impossibly loud as I heard the conch shell sound again. I had run out of time. They were here. I left my shirt on my head as I fell forward into the mud trying to bow. I was shaking. Scared. My hands were tensed up into little balls. I hoped this would be enough. I really hoped this would be enough. I could hear the sounds of bushes moving. There was the sound of feet as they splashed through the mud. I could hear my own heart in my ears. A cold chill settled into my chest. The sound of footsteps were right over me. I bit my bottom lip to avoid crying out in fear. Then there was silence. As if they had stopped. I didn’t dare look up. I didn’t want to know the answer if the Night Marchers were still here. The only protection I felt like I had was the shirt over my head. I didn’t know if this was the end of my current nightmare or the beginning of another one. The silence seemed to stretch on for an eternity when I finally heard a voice. “Na’u.” The footsteps moved on. The drumbeats were now moving further away until finally there was silence. I pulled the rest of the shirt off my head as I sat on my knees. I knew what that word had meant - “This one is mine.” At that moment, it had taken at least a little bit of my pain away. The Night Marchers made me aware of something. I didn’t have to be by blood or human to be a part of my family. They recognized me as part of my human family. I belonged. Out of a cold and miserable night, this was one small thing that gave me comfort It didn’t feel like it was too long afterwards that I heard voices calling my name. With my shirt wadded up in my hands, I called out to them. I could see the light of sims beacons coming my way. I kept calling until my voice was sore. Coming through the bushes, I could see the park rangers coming to find me. I remember the gray blanket they wrapped me up in as they carried me to my mom. I was glad to see her face again. Her hug felt like the warmest thing on a chilly night. There was something important I took away from all this that I still remember all these years later. That family isn’t always by blood. Sometimes it’s chosen and it’s bound together with love. As for my sister, her threats about the Night Marchers never hurt me again. Sure, she’d be able to find other more ridiculous things on the bad days. But I knew one important thing. This is my family. And I belong. END.

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“One moment, you’re in love. The next moment, you’re in hell.” The young, blonde man spoke dourly. He had at one time even been considered a pretty boy, not a “pretty boy”, just a genuinely beautiful young man. Unfortunately, time and tragedy had aged him prematurely. The shadow of loss hung about him like a weighty, immovable cloak of iron. It hung around in his bagged and hollowed eyes, his distant voice, his disciplinary record, and his general demeanor; slumped and scruffy. The man that he once had been, was long gone, along with a rank, and having his name on the Petty Officer list. Branson had finally escaped the shadow of the USS Eagle when her crew transferred to the state of the art Juneau. And Ensign Artinus Serinus, one of his former bosses, had left them when he transferred to the Arrow. None of them had stopped the madness that happened that day. They tried to fix it after, even though they were as powerless as he was to advert, slow, or even lessen his downward spiral. Ensign Serinus had even ordered him to attend weekly counseling sessions for grief, but wouldn’t let him near the man responsible. He had wanted hours with the perpetrator of his abject misery, but only needed a minute or two. The Emergency Counseling Hologram had given him the idea, inadvertently. The spark of madness and/or genius that led him to the devastating holodeck addiction that had developed by reliving the happy moments over and over again. On the holodeck, she was still there with him, or as close as was possible. He knew deep in the core of his intellect that is was a facsimile, but he had made certain that his senses were tricked every time. The tone, timbre, and tempo of her musical voice were as perfect as the gold flecked emeralds in her eyes, the shine of her long brown hair, the little idiosyncrasies of Crewman Second Class Adrianna Vala’s personality, or her caring and intelligent manner. Even her half-Vulcan ears had matched the real one’s with stunning accuracy. That was the past. Presently Crewman Second Class Branson Ofrey lay on the couch. It was leather, and a shade of burgundy that might appeal especially to the tragic victims of a different addiction. The new Counselor of the USS Chekov, one Lieutenant Commander Dtar ch’Monos, sat across from him in a matching armchair, gripping his well trimmed white goatee. The holo emitter over the space window displayed a lovely spring day on the Crewman’s homeworld of Velestus. A nice touch. “Let’s start at the beginning” the Counselor told him in a voice that was as cold as the officer’s frozen home world, and as clinical as the Vulcan Science Academy. The Andorian had no doubt read his file, but seeing as he was new here, he wanted to hear it all for himself, and that meant that Branson had to reopen his old wounds all over again. Must he martyr himself for his own healing every time he changed assignments, or a new counselor took over his treatment? “We met in the mess hall, aboard the Eagle. She was absolutely the most beautiful woman I had ever seen, let alone, met. And that has yet to change.” Branson took a moment, but then pushed himself fprward, with all the determination of a seasoned Starfleet Security person. “I asked if I could sit with her, and she let me. We talked for the most magical fifteen minutes of my life. Her voice was like music, her eyes were green pools flecked with gold. She was friendly, attentive, and just a really sweet person. I felt like I had met an angel.” Every angel returned to heaven eventually. “We met every day for lunch afterwards and had deep and meaningful conversations. Two enlisted people. A Security guy and a Cargo Specialist. When I asked her if we could become a couple, she was as delighted as I was after she told me ‘Yes.’ After that, we spent every off duty hour together. Waking, and sleeping. We danced the tango on a holodeck program set in the streets of Rio de Janeiro, we pushed each other at the gym, and made madly passionate love. It’s like our souls had become entwined.” Commander ch’Monos looked at him dourly. “Go on, Crewman.” “It was the best 10 weeks of my life” He hesitated “Then that day came.” The Counselor rang in again. “The day you lost her.” The crewman bit his lips, inhaled, and then released his lips. “Yeah. . . It was supposed to be an easy supply run to a new colony. But then some of our people caught an intruder. Somehow, before he was caught, he released a nest of Alterian Spider Birds on board, and we had to go clean it up. We were clearing deck 7, and we stormed into a room. It was a room like any other, but that room has been frozen in my mind forever. Webs were everywhere. Ral spotted it first, and directed Serinus to it.” The Counselor looked at him. “It?” The crewman’s voice became shakier with every syllable as he got to the heart of the mattter. “A spider sack, like they use for prey. A person sized spider sack. They couldn’t find lifesigns. They tried it a few times, then we were ordered to cut it down and open it.” He closed his eyes tight and grasped his forehead. “It. . . was her, doc. I did the only thing that I could do, I puked my guts out.” Even the professional, experienced, and clinical Counselor took pause. After several moments of crushing silence, he began to write on his PADD. His patient sighed impatiently, and the doctor finally prodded him along. “Tell me about the funeral.” Branson opened his eyes and looked up at the other man with angst and self pity. “It was closed casket.” For rather obvious reasons “I begged until they let me see her. . . But I just couldn’t do it.” He had seen enough the first time. “So I just reached out and grasped her bicep. The feel of that uniform shirt will haunt me for as long as I live.” And then the dam broke and flooded the couch with tears.

The Fabric of Memory "There is, in truth, no past, only a memory of the past. Blink your eyes, and the world you see next did not exist when you closed them." – Terry Pratchett “Energise!” Blue, shimmering light filled the transporter room of the USS Wells as three figures slowly coalesced. The away team stepped off the transporter pad, their vintage clothing incongruous against the advanced technological surroundings. “That was close.” Larrimer sighed with relief as he joined the others by the door. “Too close.” Murphy agreed. “Another minute and I think the temporal Prime Directive would have been shredded!" Commander Shanwea tapped the device on her arm before replying, the holographic shroud which had been disguising her for the mission fading away until her familiar Saurian features returned. “And that is why we don’t mess around when time travelling, people. We all need to stick to the plan, no matter what happens. Actions have consequences after all.” She turned her large eyes to the officer behind the transporter console. “Speaking of which, what’s the damage, Lieutenant?” “History is back to how it should be, Ma’am. Everything looks fine.” “Any issues due to our little mishap back there?” “I’m not sure, maybe a couple of very minor alterations, but I don’t think it’s anything anyone would notice.” Shanwea sighed. “Unfortunately, that’s not our call to make, Lieutenant. Sounds like we’re going to have to wait on Temporal Investigations to take a look before we can all relax.” Unhappy grumbles greeted her comments as the officers filed out of the room and into the ship corridors, off to brief the Captain on their successful mission. *** Carice sat staring at the wall. It was an off-white colour. She wasn’t sure if it had been painted that shade or if it had once been pure white and had just changed over time. She planned to test that theory by staring at the wall every day for the rest of her life to see if it became any more discoloured. She had the time, after all, as it had been made clear to her that she wouldn’t be leaving here until she was ‘well’. But that wasn’t going to happen, because as far as Carice was concerned, she wasn’t ‘unwell’. Time was pretty abstract in this room. Hours, days, weeks, months had no meaning but they had come in and told her that it was her birthday a little while ago, which meant she’d been here almost a year. A year since she’d last seen him, last heard him talk, last felt his hand in hers. Her brother had been her best friend ever since she’d been born, someone she looked up to and respected and who protected her from so many hardships. He was also the reason she was here – because nobody except for Carice remembered him. Clement. That was his name. She had been with him when it had happened, walking in the park by the pond so they could feed the ducks like they did most weeks. He’d just told her a terrible joke and she’d laughed, raising an arm and shoving him away in reproach for his awful humour. Her hand had brushed against the soft, smooth silk fabric of his shirt as she closed her eyes for a second and grimaced in mock pain. And then, when she’d opened them again, Clem was gone. The ducks which had been clamouring around their feet for crusts of bread were all suddenly out on the surface of the pond and the crumbs Clem had been throwing to them had vanished, too. The change had been so sudden, so absolute, it had taken Carice a moment before she started calling out for him, assuming it was just another bad joke. A few minutes more and she started asking people nearby. The elderly couple on the bench looked at her confused when she asked if they’d seen where Clem had gone, telling her that she’d been alone since she’d come into the park, watching the ducks. Carice accused them of lying which is when they’d called the police. The officers had been more inclined to believe her at least. That was until they took her home and the real horror had begun. They’d taken her address from her ID card but house they drove her to wasn’t the house she’d left that morning with Clem. Instead, it was one street further down the hill and smaller. Her parents had been there but they’d looked confused when she’d told them Clem was missing. Confused, then concerned and then scared the more Carice talked and the more she refused to believe them when they said she didn’t have a brother, had never had one. They told her that this was the house Carice had grown up in, but how could that be? Her head was full of the memories of childhood – smells, textures, the pain of a grazed knee, the emotion of a rare fight with Clem, the vision of summer sunlight shining through the long lounge windows on one of those hot, empty afternoons that always seemed to stretch on forever. Carice had run out of that alien house, her parents calling after her in desperation, and up the hill to the home she knew, forcing her way inside past a startled young man when he’d opened the door to her furious knocking. But it was when she’d run upstairs to Clem’s bedroom only to find it was now a nursery that she finally lost control completely. The world had changed and had taken her brother with it and now it was taking her sanity, too. Someone, somewhere must know what had happened, where Clem was and how she could get him back, how she could make everything right again. How she could make everyone remember. It was, Carice considered, probably the uncontrollable screaming which had finally resulted in her being admitted to this room rather than to a police cell. Carice looked back to the wall. Was it perhaps a tiny shade more beige than it had been when she first came here? Unclear. The trouble was, Carice only had her memory to compare it to and she couldn’t reply on that anymore. Her memories of Clem were fading quickly, like someone was leeching them away. His voice, his smile, they were all being stolen from her. Carice closed her eyes tightly and tried to think of something she could hold onto, something tangible. And then she had it – when she’d pushed him, that last physical contact they’d shared, the feeling of the fabric of his shirt under her palm, that was something she could still remember, that was the one thing she swore she would never forget. Carice opened her eyes and looked down at her hand lying open on her knee, nodding to herself. “I will remember you Clem, even if no-one else does. And as long as I remember, then you still exist. You’re still real.” She closed her hand tight, clenching it into a fist, holding on to that one felling, that one tactile sensation. *** Temporal Investigator First Class Figgins placed the PADD carefully on his desktop. It contained a detailed analysis of all the alterations to the timeline following the actions of the USS Wells and her crew and was the last piece of information Figgins had been waiting on before they could write their report. “Computer, begin recording.” Figgins waited for the affirmative chirp before clearing their throat and dictating. “Our investigation concludes that there was, at most, two or three very minor discrepancies. One less birth here, two extra trees there and some unseasonal rain leading to a small mudslide that resulted in the premature death of a rodent. Please see appendix H for more details. The timeline will correct itself to compensate and nobody should recall anything different after a while. It is regrettable, of course, but maintaining our timeline is simply more important than any... collateral damage. Now, onto the details of the case…” *** Another birthday came around, the third one she’d had in this place, but this time it came with a visit to her consultant. That sat looking at each other across his wooden desk in the tidy, well-lit office. The walls, she noted, were bright white. “How are you feeling today, Carice?” “Good, thank you Doctor.” She smiled and nodded. “Have you given any more thought to what we spoke about last time? About going home?” “I have, Doctor, and I would like that very much. Honestly, I don’t really know why I’m here, I’m sure you have plenty of patients who are actually sick and need your help much more than I do.” “That’s good to hear. And you were sick, too, Carice, when you first came here. But you seem much better now. I think you just needed time to rest and let your mind sort itself out.” Carice merely nodded again. The exact reason for her arrival was still a little muddled in her head. The doctor continued. “Your parents are very much looking forward to having you back home. You’re their only child after all and they’ve been very worried about you.” Something in the way the doctor phrased the comment seemed odd to Carice. She frowned. “I know, doctor, and I’m excited to see them. Excited, but nervous, too. It’s been a while.” She paused. “Was there something else you were going to say?” The doctor smiled and made a note on the file in front of him before replying. “No, nothing important.” Carice absently rubbed her hand against her top. It was a habit she’d developed at some point during her time in the institution which helped to calm her nerves. The feeling of the smooth fabric against her open palm always felt comforting to her, reassuring somehow. It made her feel safe. But she couldn’t remember why.