Work Text:
You clutch Christopher’s hand as you kneel beside his cot. The dim blue lighting of your marooned science vessel casts ominous shadows around the cabin and illuminates Chris’ pale, worrisome complexion. Perspiration glistens on his face, his body in turmoil as it fights the osteomyelitis that has been progressing over the past several days. You thought those few days after the crash were the worst of your life. You had no idea what was ahead.
The man you love is in dire straits, and there’s nothing you can do but make him comfortable and tell him, with tears in your eyes, how much you love him. The weak smile on his face as he returns your sentiments lets you know how truly he reciprocates your love. And how much it’s tormenting him that he may not make it. But he never gives up hope, and neither do you. This can’t be the end.
*Thud!* A noise, outside. Probably the wind. Another windstorm rolling in for the evening, you’re not certain though. You haven’t even checked the atmospheric sensor data today. You’ve neglected your routine checks, and have barely slept or eaten in two days. You’ve hardly left Chris’ side.
Another noise, this time more… Electronic sounding. You squeeze Chris’ hand and stand up. “I’ll be right back,” you tell him, but you’re not sure he even heard you. He’s barely conscious now, and you give one last worried look toward his listless form before stepping through the ship’s hatch. You look out over the wind-swept, rocky horizon, and the unfamiliar glint of metal reflecting the evening sun catches your eye. You blink a few times, and it’s still there. It’s a small ship, a shuttle. And it looks to be Federation!
Three forms emerge from the shuttle, too far away to identify yet, and they slowly make their way toward your stranded craft. You tentatively take a few steps toward them, and soon they’re close enough to make out the shining beacons of hope on their lapels. The badges of Starfleet. They’ve found you. And just in time.
***
The landing party is from the USS Venaris, a Constitution-class starship tasked with finding your vessel and retrieving you and your cargo. You test them with some questions, standard Starfleet identifiers and a few probing questions to determine if they know the details of your “cargo”. If they do, they’re not letting on. Chances are high that they’ve been kept in the dark, just like you were until the captain filled you in about Omega.
The newcomers explain that the Venaris was unable to raise you on the comm, so they sent a landing party to investigate. Once you deem them legitimate, you show them to Chris and explain his condition. “He needs a doctor! He’s dying!” you plead with them, and they quickly communicate with the Venaris to teleport the two of you immediately.
A wave of relief washes over you that Chris will soon be in a medical bay, being well cared for by some of the best personnel in Starfleet. But your chest tightens with anxiety all of a sudden. The gravity of allowing Omega to be extracted without Chris’ permission dawns on you. Would he trust them with it? You assume that another fleet captain would have jurisdiction over the particle, and that it should be safe to let them proceed. Not that you could stop them. You wish Chris were awake to handle the situation. You’re so exhausted, you can hardly think straight, and it’s all happening so fast…
One of the Venaris crew approaches the containment pod that houses your precious cargo. “Careful! It’s tied into a di-buridium power matrix, we had to modify it!” you yell at him, and all you hear is “Don’t worry, Lieutenant, we’ve got th…”, before his words are cut short by the transporter beam, de-materializing you in a flash of golden light energy.
***
You re-materialize on a transporter pad, your eyes squinting involuntarily as they adjust to the bright, artificial white light of the starship you now find yourself upon. You look around the large, sterile room, suddenly weary of being onboard for some reason. You’ve gotten accustomed to the nameless planetoid you’ve been calling home with Christopher. Day after day you’ve developed a routine with him, your circadian rhythms syncing with the planet’s cycles and rotations, your physiological mechanisms orienting you to its horizon, its atmosphere, its climate.
Now, you breathe the recycled air of the ship, engineered to match the largely oxygen-nitrogen atmosphere of Earth, and you notice how different it smells. Did it always smell like this? Two crewmen approach you, security division from their attire, and they ask you to come with them.
“I… Where is Chris… The Captain, where is Captain Pike?!” you inquire, your voice shriller than you’d have liked, but your head is beginning to spin, the room dissolving, out of focus… You stumble off of the transporter pad and the crewmen take hold of you, easing you down to the cool metal floorplates. The room shifts and tilts in your field of vision, and the last thing you see is the glossy veneer of the crewman’s overshined boots… Then it all goes black.