Chapter Text
Kathryn stares out of the Ready Room viewport at the stationary stars. It is a rare treat to be able to study them when they aren't whipping past at speeds that would have boggled Einstein’s mind. She can pick out patterns in the inky sky, as she had done as a child with the clouds above her head.
But their stillness also makes her nervous. Voyager isn't moving. They have scanned the area, and it is thankfully quiet. Anything that strays into this zone is a likely target for Hirogen hunting parties, which explains the eerie calm. Species familiar with the Hirogen probably stay the hell away. Species unaware of the menace that stalks this part of space will be quickly dispatched if they can’t meet the threat with equal resistance.
That threat had imperiled Voyager for some time. But Kathryn had negotiated a truce with the hunters. They would be left in peace. It had been such a long, drawn-out battle over several weeks. The damage to Voyager was extensive. Probably the worst they'd had to deal with in the Delta Quadrant so far.
The immediate priorities: sit tight. Essential repairs. Additional repairs. Scout for raw materials to replace their depleted supplies. Stay safe. Stay out of trouble. Recover.
It isn't a comfortable position for a captain to be in. Especially not this captain. She needs to be on the move, always wary of staying in one place too long. Partly that’s the pull of home. Partly it’s the fear of being found idle. A sitting duck. Rationally she knows they are safe for now. She can keep herself occupied; push the anxiety of their vulnerable situation aside. She will roll up her sleeves and help with repairs. There will be mountains of reports generated, all demanding of her attention. And there is one other job tugging at her mind. A task brought into sharp focus just days ago when she thought her luck had run out. She'd watched one of the Hirogen murder his alpha in cold blood, as he was standing right beside her. She was left facing the armed Hirogen alone, the stark evidence of his cold ambition slumped on the ground by her feet.
"What are you waiting for?" she'd asked, thinking them her last words.
“I am a hunter. You are my prey. Run.” He had growled the command.
And so she ran. She is proud, but she isn't stupid.
With that memory clear in her mind, she embarks on one of her least favorite tasks: updating the letters, over a year out-of-date by now, that she has prepared for friends and family in the event that she is killed in action.
It's an impossible task. What do you say to your loved ones if you are never going to see them again? How do you choose your final words?
She’s always hated saying goodbye. But each and every one of the names on her list represents someone she cares for dearly. She owes them her best goodbye.
She isn't willing to put it off any longer.