Work Text:
Your name is Harry Kim.
You’re twenty three years old, you’re an ensign on the starship Voyager, and you don’t belong here.
You don’t belong here. You were an ensign on the starship Voyager. Voyager exploded, shattered into tiny shards of light and antimatter. Now, you’re an ensign on the starship Voyager.
“Tuvok might call that illogical,” you quip to yourself, staring at your blank ceiling. The deflection fails; your brain has already taken the paradox and ran with it yet again.
You’re supposed to be dead! It screeches for the millionth time, why aren’t you dead??? And you can’t answer because you don’t know, so you set your favorite concerto to maximum volume and try to drown your brain instead. Except now you’re sure this sixteenth note phrase used to repeat three times and in this strange universe it only repeats twice except this universe is supposed to be identical but nothing’s where it’s supposed to be and everything is wrong and you’re supposed to be dead.
“Computer, pause music!” You gasp, breathing hard, rolling over, clutching the pillow that, whether surprisingly or not, smells like you.
Your name is Harry Kim.
You’re twenty three years old, you’re an ensign on the starship Voyager, and weird is part of the job.
That’s what the Captain tells you anyway, (right after you deliver Samantha’s born-again daughter to her in sick bay,) and you’re inclined to agree with her. The last couple years in the delta quadrant have been nothing but weird; you’ve got the scars to prove it.
You’ve never been the guest of honor at a “Resurrection Party” before, though.
Tom’s idea. His goofy way of addressing the issue, accepting the issue, and moving on, all in one fell swoop. Harry was dead, now he’s alive, now we drink copious amounts of synthehol. Simple as that.
Of course he invited the whole ship. Of course it’s too loud, too bright, too much.
Of course he insists on a toast.
“To my best friend, who decided to come back from the dead!” He smiles, pulls you, the Harry Kim shaped person, into a one armed hug, and seems to unconsciously christen you as a suitable replacement.
“Hear, hear!” The crew of Voyager accepts your new role.
It’s almost easy to pretend that you are back from the dead, that another, identical Harry Kim didn’t fall into the vacuum of space, that you’re not an imposter in someone else’s life.
Your vision gets too sharp, your throat fights the awful champagne, and all you want to do is run away.
You end up leaving early.
Your name is Harry Kim.
You’re twenty three years old, you’re an ensign on the starship Voyager, and she chose you.
“It seems only fair,” your Captain had said, as if your life had mattered more because of the death of your counterpart.
She chose you.
You’ve debated the trolley problem in Starfleet ethics classes, pondered different scenarios, hashed out what was morally right, but you never considered that you would be the one on the tracks.
She chose you.
Naomi was a no brainer, the Captain just needed to decide whose life to spare, who among her crew deserved to live the most.
She chose you.
Naomi and Harry. The two miracle children.
“If only my parents could see me now, they always knew there was something special about me,” you tell Chakotay, chuckling darkly. He smiles, shakes his head. You never felt particularly close to Chakotay in your own universe, but something draws you to him in this one. Maybe it’s the incense he burns, maybe you want a change from the other universe.
Maybe you’re afraid of the person you would normally ask for advice.
“She chose me,” you look down at the floor, swallowing hard, “why did she choose me?”
From where you’re sitting, you can hear Chakotay’s microscopic sigh. “She thought it made sense.” When you don’t look up, he continues. “Well, what would you have done? If you could spare the life of only one person on this ship, would you weigh all the possibilities for every crewmember, or would you go with your gut? She went with her gut, and it said you were the logical choice. Right or not, all we can do is accept her choice and move on.”
“That makes sense,” you hear yourself say.
And it does. It makes sense, you keep telling yourself. It makes sense, it makes sense, it makes sense. There was an open spot just for you in the other universe, you took the other Harry’s place, you saved Naomi’s life. It makes sense.
But you still can’t look Captain Janeway in the eyes.
Your name is Harry Kim.
You’re twenty three years old, you’re an ensign on the starship Voyager, and your stomach aches.
It aches because your best friend was killed by Vidiians, because your family of three years incinerated instantly, because your Captain had to make the decision she always dreaded.
It aches because your best friend is sitting next to you on your couch, because your family of three years is alive and well, because your Captain has yet to make the dreaded decision.
You think about it for too long, push yourself over the edge of your anxiety, and now the room is spinning and you’re dizzy.
You reach, groping frantically, until Tom’s hand finds yours.
“In for 5,” he says reflexively, drawing a breath with you, “out for 5.”
“I miss them sometimes, you know?” you finally manage, before clarifying, “Voyager.” Tom furrows his brow, giving you the “I can’t even try to begin to understand what you’re saying” look that you know all too well. You don’t blame him; hell, even you don’t fully understand why you still mourn.
He’s squeezing your hand, breathing in sync with you, rooting you to this reality, and you’re not okay right now, but you’re going to be.
Your name is Harry Kim.
You’re twenty three years old, you’re an ensign on the starship Voyager, and, despite everything, you belong here.