Chapter Text

No one on the bridge moved. No one even breathed. The air seemed to crystallize, heavy with grief.

A minute passed. Then another.

All eyes were fixed forward on the viewscreen. Mouths hung open. Cheeks were stained with tears—some fresh, others already drying in streaks.

Jiru bowed his head, closed his eyes, and folded his hands behind his back in the Dezan pose of mourning.

No one was sure whether to be reverent, nauseous, or completely distraught. They stood like statues flanking a sacred burial site, frozen in collective shock.

Five minutes passed until an urgent beep pierced the air, sharp as a blade.

Durell remained at tactical, bracing herself on the console, knuckles white against the dark surface. Hugo's hands were still on her arms, but he no longer restrained her—now he simply anchored her. She turned her head slowly, wiping her eyes with the heel of her palm.

Jiru focused his attention on his console. He deftly, gently, tapped its keys before finally speaking, his voice carefully neutral.

"Captain, the vortex is destabilizing."

Durell's eyes darted to the viewscreen, pupils dilating. She watched with her crew as the ruby red vortex and its clouds of ashen black slowly withered away.

The vortex didn't spasm. It didn't flicker. Unlike the death of the Dynarri entity minutes before, there was nothing dramatic about the way it receded from view.

It drew in on itself like blood swirling down a drain—inevitable, irreversible.

Silence held the bridge until, finally, the vortex had completely ebbed away, revealing the stars of open space—distant, unchanged.

Jiru busied himself again, running a series of quick scans, his fingers dancing with practiced precision. "I detect no trace of the vortex."

"Gravimetric interference?" Durell asked, her voice hoarse, eyes still locked on the screen.

Jiru's fingers hesitated over his console.

"Nonexistent," he confirmed quietly.

Durell's lip quivered as she choked on a breath. She spun around suddenly, embracing Hugo tightly, burying her face in his chest. Her shoulders shook as she wept openly, gasping for air between sobs.

"No..." she croaked, her voice muffled against his uniform. "Not like this..."

In the Mission Pod's control room, MacArthur's fingers flew over his console, eyes widening as the readings shifted dramatically. Sweat beaded on his forehead.

"Whoa, hold up... I'm gettin' massive energy fluctuations heah... like somebody jus' flipped a switch, somewheah."

Santhum hurried over to Orin's unconscious body, his medical tricorder humming urgently in one hand, the other checking Orin's pulse manually.

"About damn time," he muttered, though his gruff voice couldn't hide the relief bleeding through. "His neural patterns have been scattered to the four winds for the past twenty minutes. Frankly, I wasn't sure we'd get him back in one piece."

"Orin?" Adora called softly, her voice carrying that Kiwi lilt that always came through when she was emotional. Her hand found his, their fingers interlacing. "Can you hear me, love?"

MacArthur glanced up from his readouts, rubbing his hand through his damp hair. "Energy signatures from tha planet, and outside tha ship, just went dahk. Whatevah he did down theah, looks like it worked. Dynarri network's gone, kid."

He blinked once, then twice, processing. "Everything's quiet—like a Sunday mornin' in Southie."

Santhum waved his tricorder over Orin, frowning as the device chirped insistently. "Synaptic activity is reorganizing... consciousness reintegrating."

He scowled, tapping the tricorder harder than necessary.

"Come on, Captain, don't make me have to explain to your wife why I let you take a permanent vacation in la-la land."

Orin remained motionless—not breathing, not even twitching. The taut silence stretched for another minute.

Everyone shuddered as Orin's eyes, now their normal cobalt blue, flew open as he gasped for air, his chest heaving.

"Orin!" Adora's voice cracked with relief as she grabbed his hand and squeezed hard enough to hurt. "Oh, thank God you're back!"

Santhum immediately stepped forward, tricorder beeping rapidly. "Easy there, Captain. Your consciousness just did the cosmic equivalent of bungee jumping. Don't move too quickly or you'll give yourself a migraine that'll last until next Tuesday."

MacArthur looked up from his console with a dry grin, relief evident in his thickening Boston accent. "Sleepin' Beauty's back! Figuahed we'd be taggin' ya for tha museum by now... 'That's tha Cap who went fishin' in alien minds an' fuhgot ta come home.'"

Adora's eyes glistened as she studied Orin's face, her free hand hovering over his cheek. "Are you alright? The whole bloody network collapsed. Everything's just... gone. What happened down there?"

Santhum was already running detailed scans, his gruff exterior melting slightly. "Heart rate elevated but stabilizing, neural patterns reorganizing normally—though I'm detecting some residual psychic resonance. Whatever you did down there, it left quite an impression."

Orin brought a shaky hand to his face, squinting as if the already dim light in the Mission Pod's control room was too bright. He finally took his hand away and looked at Santhum, MacArthur, and then Adora, blinking to focus.

When he saw his wife, a smile formed on his face—exhausted but genuine.

"Hello... gorgeous." His voice was rough, but cheeky.

Adora let out a shaky laugh, tears streaming down her face, leaving wet tracks on her cheeks.

"Oi, you smooth-talking bastard," she whispered back, her voice thick with emotion. "Only you would wake up from battling cosmic horrors and lead with a chat-up line."

MacArthur chuckled from his station, the tension in his shoulders finally releasing. "I mean, Cap... mos' guys wake up askin' what happened. You wake up like you're tryin' out for a romance holo-novel, I sweah."

Santhum rolled his eyes but couldn't suppress the small smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

"Typical. Man goes toe-to-toe with interdimensional parasites and the first thing he does is flirt with his wife. At least we know his personality is intact."

Adora's hand moved to his cheek, thumb brushing over stubble. "How do you feel? Can you remember what happened? The entire ship heard it when they... when they died."

"No joke, Doc... I'm gonna need my hearin' checked aftah that," MacArthur added, rubbing his ear. "Ears are still ringin' from... whatevah tha hell jus' hit us."

Santhum's demeanor shifted back to medical concern as he gestured toward the small, still figure nearby. His voice dropped, becoming grave.

"Captain, we need to talk about Nei. She's catatonic. Whatever those things showed her..."

His voice trailed off grimly, jaw clenching.

Orin sat up suddenly, bracing himself against the floor as his sudden movement left him dizzy. He saw Nei lying on her back several feet away from him and flipped over to a crawling position. He made his way to her on his hands and knees, his muscles protesting, until he reached her side.

"Nei? Sweetheart? It's Dad. I'm here. Mum's here. Everything's ok now." His voice cracked on the last word.

Santhum quickly kneeled beside Orin, his tricorder still humming ominously.

"Captain, she's physically unharmed, but with the trauma of experiencing your memories as Optivis..."

He snapped his tricorder shut.

"I'm going to need a comprehensive neurological series to determine exactly how much damage was done."

Adora moved to Orin's other side, her voice breaking. "She's been like this since Zherav brought us back. She won't respond to anything—not voice, not touch, nothing. It's like she's..."

Her voice caught, a sob trapped in her throat. "... it's like she's somewhere else entirely."

MacArthur shook his head in silence—concern etched across his face.

Adora reached out tentatively toward Nei's still form, her hand hovering over their daughter's forehead, trembling.

"She's so still, Orin. It's not like when she sleeps. There's no... no presence there. It's like her soul's been erased."

Nei lay motionless, her eyes open but her stare vacant, unseeing—her breathing shallow but steady. No recognition flickered across her features at her father's voice. The little girl, who usually couldn't sit still for more than thirty seconds, now lay completely inert.

Orin's hand faltered as he gently brushed a strand of hair from Nei's forehead. His fingers lingered, desperate for any response.

"There has to be something we can do," Orin whispered, his voice raw, breaking. "She's right here, but she's not here."

Santhum cleared his throat, shifting uncomfortably. "Captain, I hate to add to your burdens, but we need to consider the possibility that—"

"—No." Adora's voice cut through the air like a blade. "Don't you dare finish that sentence, Eric."

He didn't need to. Durell's voice cut in over the comm system, crackling with static.

"Bridge to Mission Pod."

Orin flinched at the sudden sound, his hand instinctively moving to protect Nei. He tapped his combadge with his other hand.

"Go ahead, Aviana."

"Orin?" Durell asked, her voice quivering, barely controlled. "Is that—are you alright?"

"Yes, Captain. I'm alright. What's our status?"

"You did it, sir. You weakened the Dynarri enough to allow us to close the vortex."

Orin nodded, though she couldn't see him. "The deflector pulses? They worked?"

A heavy pause filled the comm channel. When Durell spoke again, her voice was strained.

"Not exactly. The Blackwell's deflector array suffered a critical failure during the harmonics sequence. Captain Rao's crew tried to compensate, but..."

Her voice caught, breaking slightly.

"... we only had four ships generating the pulse pattern. It should have been impossible to close the vortex with incomplete coverage."

Orin's brow furrowed, a cold weight settling in his chest, spreading like ice. "Then how—"

"—Someone made it possible," Durell interrupted, grief choking her words. "Someone... filled the gap."

The implications hung in the air like a funeral shroud.

When Durell finally spoke again, her voice cracked completely with grief.

"I think it's best if I tell you in person."

Orin rose too quickly, steadying himself against the wall.

"Acknowledged. Commander Claythorne and I are en route to the bridge."

He tapped his combadge before turning to MacArthur, his voice taking on command authority.

"Will, help the doctor get Nei to Sickbay."

Then, to Santhum, his voice softening, "Do what you can, Doctor. Whatever you need—people, resources—use them. On my authority."

MacArthur moved with urgent care, lifting Nei gently into his arms, cradling her like glass. The silence in the control room now felt eerie, almost sacred, like the echo after a bell has rung.

The Dynarri threat was neutralized. But Durell's voice still echoed in Orin's mind, heavy with loss.

"I think it's best if I tell you in person."

He exchanged a worried glance with Adora.

"Let's go," he breathed.

Together, they boarded the turbolift to the secondary hull.

As the turbolift doors slid shut behind them with a soft hiss, everything faded into silence, save for the gentle hum of the lift. Neither Orin nor Adora spoke. The confined space felt smaller somehow.

Adora turned toward Orin suddenly, her hands clenched into white-knuckled fists at her sides. Her face flushed, eyes blazing with a volatile mix of fury and unshed tears.

"Halt turbolift," she growled, the command sharp.

The whir of the lift quickly ceased, locking the cabin in place.

Orin's head tilted slightly, his brow creased. "Adora, what's—"

SLAP

The sharp crack of Adora's palm striking Orin's cheek reverberated in the cabin.

Orin slowly brought his hand to his face, gently touching the spot where the blow had struck, feeling the heat.

"You did it again, Orin. You bloody did it again!" she shouted, stepping closer, invading his space. "Just like you did during the Bordegon Crisis! You went off to play hero—to sacrifice yourself without a thought for us! For me! For her!"

Her raw voice cracked.

"Do you have any idea what it was like? Watching you convulse when the Dynarri did—whatever the bloody hell they did to you? Feeling you slip away through that connection?"

She pounded a fist against the wall of the lift, the impact echoing, as her gaze shifted to the floor.

"I couldn't reach you. And all I could think was 'not again... please God, not again.'"

Orin lowered his hand slowly. His cheek was reddening, already swelling slightly. He studied her silently, absorbing her fury.

"I'm sorry," he finally responded, his voice steady. "I didn't plan it that way. I didn't—"

"—That's the problem!" she interrupted, barely holding herself together. "You never plan it! You just decide! You carry the weight alone like... like you don't trust me to help you."

"That's not true," Orin replied.

He took a tentative step forward, his voice barely above a whisper. "I'm still here."

Adora's voice, when it came, was hollow.

"For how long? I remember how easy it was for you to die the first time, when that red-headed slut Sarah Portner—who you fucked at the Academy, and who made sure I knew every filthy detail—disassembled every one of your bloody molecules with the push of a button and left nothing for me to mourn!"

"That wasn't me, Adora!" Orin blurted. "I mean, it was me—but a different me in another life—"

"—Get stuffed!" Adora snarled. "We're not getting into the hardout metaphysics of your bloody resurrection right now!"

A tremor ran through her as she inhaled. She struck Orin's chest with both her fists—not as forcefully as she could have, but hard enough to make a point. As her fists fell, the phantom ache of old grief wracked her knuckles.

"I had to scrape you out of my soul like rust," she said, voice breaking. "Piece by piece. And then you came back wrong. Quiet. Numb. Like some shadow I had to convince myself to love all over again. And I did. I do."

Her eyes filled with tears again, but she blinked them back with the stubbornness of someone who had bled too much to cry freely anymore.

"But you didn't even give a thought to leaving me in that goddamn vacuum of silence, not knowing if you're breathing, or broken, or gone."

She turned away, pressing the heel of her hand to her forehead, trying to force the tears away before they fell, her shoulders rigid with the effort.

"I'm not your bloody widow-in-waiting," she hissed. "And our daughter is not your legacy project. She's a child, Orin. Yours. Mine. Ours. She needs you here—not half a soul hanging on some noble death wish."

She stepped closer to him, her body almost flush against his, radiating heat and fury.

"Say something," she rasped, desperate.

Orin regarded Adora for a moment, letting the temperature in the lift cool for a moment, giving her space to breathe.

"Can I hold you?" he asked, the question soft.

Adora blinked twice, surprised, and wiped her face roughly before nodding briskly.

Orin's hands were gentle as they tentatively found her sides. He guided her into his embrace with care, like handling something fragile that had already cracked once too often.

Adora gasped suddenly as his arms settled around her, the warmth of his body radiating through the fabric of her uniform. Her shoulders gave a sudden shudder before the dam gave way completely.

Her forehead pressed hard into his chest as her fists uncurled, clutching the front of his uniform like a drowning swimmer grasping for a lifeline. Her knees buckled slightly, and Orin adjusted his stance instinctively, pulling her closer, one hand cradling the back of her head.

His chin lowered until it touched her hair. He stayed still, anchoring her.

Her back hitched with every silent sob. His thumb traced a slow, aimless circle at the base of her spine. Her fingers finally loosened.

"Down on Pahvo, I remembered what Zherav told Captain Telvek during his mind-meld with Nei at the embassy," Orin finally said, his voice hushed. "I didn't think of it earlier, but in the moment, when we were fighting the Dynarri to get Nei back, it hit me."

He continued rubbing Adora's back, slowly and steadily.

"Zherav said, 'Your strength must be in dissonance. Do not forget the discord. It will save you.'"

He drew a shaky breath.

"We both experienced the Dynarri's illusions. No matter how perfect they felt, how irresistible, they always got one thing wrong."

Orin pulled back just enough to meet her eyes, cupping her face in his hands, thumbs brushing away tears.

"They never got us right. Every alternate reality they built separated us. And even when we wanted to believe it, when we nearly surrendered to the comfort of it, we knew something was wrong."

He paused, brushing his thumb beneath her eye, catching a fresh tear.

"Because the Dynarri don't understand love, Adora. They don't understand how it binds two souls with something real—something earned. Something that survives and flourishes. Something that proves that even when everything else is hopeless, we aren't."

He gazed deeply into her eyes, just like he did that night in the Enterprise-L's lounge at 0410 hours, when everything changed.

"To the Dynarri, love is discord. And my love for you—for what we've become and for the life we created—those were the weapons that defeated them."

Adora's breath caught, her lip trembling as she tried, and failed, to hold back the swell in her chest.

When she spoke, her voice was full of wonder. "You used your love for me... as a weapon?"

She let out a sharp exhale that was half a laugh, half a sob. "You absolute plonker."

Her hands came up, framing his face desperately as if to confirm he was real, that this wasn't another illusion.

"I'm furious with you for risking everything—again. But all I can feel right now is... overwhelmed. Terrified. In awe."

She shook her head in disbelief, her forehead leaning gently into his. "You broke them... with love."

Orin exhaled softly, smiling at Adora before his expression became serious, resolved.

"That's why I can't do this anymore, Adora. I can't be both a Starfleet captain and a husband—a father. As long as I wear this uniform, my first duty is to safeguard the lives of my crew."

He took a step back, taking her hands in his and pulling them down between their bodies.

"This, right here, is why I could never tell you how I felt about you when we served together on the L. Because if I had told you, and we did let our relationship develop, one moment like this could've destroyed me—or you—if we'd lost the other because we were obligated to something bigger than us."

Adora stared at him, stunned, as if he'd struck her. Her breath stuttered in her throat as if he'd just ripped open a wound she thought had finally healed.

"Don't you dare," she whispered, voice dangerous. "Don't you dare reduce what we've built to a liability."

She pulled her hands from his forcefully and stepped back, her eyes shimmering with a fresh round of unshed tears—but now it was her turn to hold the line.

"Yes, we serve something bigger than us. We always have. But this?"

She gestured frantically between them, to the invisible thread that had always connected them.

"This isn't a weakness, Orin. It's the reason you beat the Dynarri. It's the reason we all survived."

She took another shuddering breath. "I didn't fall in love with a civilian. I fell in love with the man who stood in the line of fire for what he believed in. The man who saw an impossible enemy and fought it with memory, music, and love."

Adora closed the distance between them again, pressing her hand hard to his chest, over his heart.

"Maybe we do need to step back. Maybe we don't return to the bridge, or the uniform, or those bloody command chairs. But don't you pretend that we ever needed to choose between duty and each other. Because we never did. We just needed to believe we were worth fighting for."

She paused, eyes locked on him, fierce. "And we were. We are."

"Adora," Orin began, voice certain, "I believe in us so much that I'm giving up Starfleet. For good."

He reached up to his chest and pulled his combadge off his uniform with a decisive motion. He dropped it on the ground, where it landed with a soft thud. Adora stared at the combadge, stunned by the sound it made—so small, so quiet. And yet, it felt like a sonic boom.

Her lips parted, but no words came at first. She looked up at him, searching his eyes desperately, trying to make sense of what she was feeling. Her hands hovered midair, caught between reaching for him and pushing him away.

She stepped forward slowly and placed her palm over the spot on his chest where the badge had been. Her fingers fluttered slightly as they pressed against the fabric, feeling the absence.

"That badge is the last thing that tied you to who you were before... everything," she whispered, voice thick. "Before you died and became the man standing in front of me now. Before us. Before Nei."

Her voice wavered as a fresh stream of tears slipped down her face.

"I was prepared to lose you again today—because I knew you'd do whatever it took to save us."

Adora took his face in her hands, grounding herself in the feel of his skin, the warmth, the intensity of his presence.

"I love you, Orin. For the man you were. For the man you are. And for the husband—the father—who just made the bravest call of all."

She leaned in until their foreheads touched again, breathing him in. "You're already everything I need. But now, we get to live."

She reached down, picked up the discarded badge with reverent care, and pressed it gently into his palm.

"For posterity," she whispered. "So Nei knows what you gave up—and what you chose instead."

Orin looked down, brushing his fingers over the Starfleet delta in his hand as if it no longer fit, alien now.

"I don't need to chart a new galaxy to experience wonder."

He took her hand, watching as his wristband glowed softly alongside hers, pulsing in sync. His thumb traced a small circle over the back of her hand.

"Not when something even more extraordinary is right here," he said, his voice low, reverent, breaking slightly. "Standing with me."

His other hand rose slowly to tuck a strand of hair behind her ear, his fingers lingering just a second longer than necessary.

"The love of my life—the mother of my child." His gaze locked on hers, unwavering, his eyes glassy but resolute. "The person who took that quiet, numb, and wrong shell the Sylari left hollow and filled it. Nurtured it. Shared her soul with it."

He swallowed hard, the muscles in his jaw tightening for a beat before relaxing again.

"And if the choice is between wearing this uniform and spending the rest of my life exploring the universe we've made with each other..."

He looked back up at her, his voice catching. "Then I choose you. Every time."

Adora let out a soft, shuddering breath as his words settled into the quiet. Her hand tightened around his, eyes shimmering with emotion as she looked down at the faint glow emanating from their matching wristbands—the lingering symbol of their survival, their unity, their love.

"You always say the right thing after terrifying the hell out of me," she whispered, a tearful laugh escaping, watery but genuine. "But that? That was perfect."

She reached up and brushed a strand of hair from his face, her fingers lingering on his temple like she needed to reassure herself that he was truly there.

Orin leaned in and kissed Adora—a kiss meant to comfort, to reassure. As she returned his affection, Orin seized Adora's face, his lips pressing against hers with more purpose, more passion. Her hands slid to his chest, feeling the steady rhythm of his heart beneath his uniform—the unmistakable proof of life. Their kiss deepened for a heartbeat, then another, until the need to breathe finally broke them apart.

A blissful, dazed smile spread slowly across Adora's flushed face as a breathy laugh escaped her throat.

"I used to think Starfleet gave me purpose," she began, "But then I met you. And then we had Nei. And now I know—we give each other purpose."

Her voice dipped to an intimate whisper.

"And I'll follow you. Wherever this new universe takes us—as long as it's together."

Their foreheads touched once more. "Thank you," he murmured against her lips.

Then, looking up at the ceiling:

"Resume," he called out to the turbolift.

The soft drone of the moving cabin resumed as they held each other in silence. The looks on their faces—affection, exhaustion, relief—said more than words in that moment.

The lights in the turbolift dimmed slightly as it came to a stop—quiet, reverent—as if the ship itself knew that much more difficult, and personal challenges remained.