Pulse of the Voyager’s Enigma

Posted on 2025, Tue Mar 4th, @ 9:49am by Commodore Emily Janeway & Lieutenant Commander Grace Johnsen
Edited on on 2025, Tue Mar 4th, @ 7:13pm

7,073 words; about a 35 minute read

Mission: E1 "Shadows of the Empire"
Location: Voyager Commodores private quarters /Voyager Sickbay
Timeline: Early morning hours of Voyager e/r to Meet USS Melborne
Tags: Voyager Crew, E1 "Shadows of the Empire", E1 Shadow of the Past, Season 2 Missions

The private cabin of the USS Voyager was bathed in soft, muted light, casting gentle shadows across the sleek lines of Starfleet's minimalist design. At 0300 am hours, the chronograph's steady tick echoed through the room. Commodore Janeway's reflection stared back at her from the viewport, which showed only the inky blackness of space outside. Seven months had passed since her return to command, and the weight of countless decisions had taken its toll. The passage of time had changed her, leaving visible and hidden scars.

The early predawn hours wore on, and Janeway tried to use the quiet hours to catch up on work and prepare for her upcoming alpha shift. Her ship needed to be ready for its next mission. Janeway focused on the task with a sense of duty despite the fatigue that threatened to overwhelm her. She had yet to sleep, and the lack of rest was starting to take its toll. Taking a brief respite, Janeway savored her bittersweet caffeinated tea. A subtle shiver danced along her spine as she sipped, driven by an unnameable apprehension. This feeling propelled her to confront the unknown and tackle the mysteries ahead; her sense of responsibility heightened since regaining command.

A few hours into her work, she tried to get a drink of her tea while she drank it. The bitter taste of her tea turned metallic, like an over-steeped brewing the same way as unknown poisoning. The raw panic from her initial reactions still lingered, a reminder of the attempt by an unknown assassin to poison her. The attack occurred while she was in the crew lounge enjoying a small talk with Kane back in January.

The center of this unsettling event finds herself still in the dark about the true nature of the poison that nearly claimed her life. The only fragment of information that lingers in her mind is the chemical known as quantum, which has started to manifest a noticeable oozing sensation throughout her skin. The bandage concealed beneath her uniform's undershirt makes this unwelcome development even more poignant. She feels it like the liquid of an unknown substance in her wound kept seeping through as she moves, a persistent reminder of the wound that still lingers beneath the surface.

Janeway's grip on the edge of her desk tightened as the memories receded. She took a deep breath, trying to shake off the lingering unease. Her eyes drifted to the chronograph on the wall, the steady tick a reminder of the passing time. A sense of frustration settled in, her mind racing with the uncertainty of her condition. She couldn't shake the feeling that something was still off, that the true meaning of the cause of her illness remained elusive.

Voyager Medical Bay Area
Four hours into the early morning, the soft hum of the biobed filled the quiet medical bay office room, and Doctor Grace reviewed the latest scans on her PADD. The gentle glow of the diagnostic displays cast a sterile light across the room, contrasting with the shadows of the late hour. She was midway through analyzing a stubborn anomaly in a crew member's bio-signature when the sharp, low chirping sounds of her communicator broke the silence."Janeway to Sickbay," the commodore’s voice came through, firm and commanding voice yet tinged with an underlying weariness. "I need a medical follow-up."
Grace’s brow furrowed. She set the PADD on her desktop to tap her communicator to respond. "This is Doctor Grace. Understood, Commodore. Are you experiencing any acute symptoms, or would you prefer I come to your quarters to assess your condition?"
Then, she paused, anticipating the Commodore's response, as her thoughts skimmed through various scenarios. She was aware of the commodore’s poisoning—despite the case being confidential, her role provided her with access to essential information. The poison’s resistance, impact on cellular regeneration, and lengthy recovery time had all been carefully monitored; nevertheless, the actual composition of the toxin continued to be a mystery.
Grace reflected on her following action as she retrieved her medical tricorder and readied a portable hypo-spray with various broad-spectrum treatment options. **Janeway demonstrated incredible resilience, that was clear, but even the most steadfast defender of the Federation couldn't escape the ongoing effects of stress and injury.** This follow-up could provide new insights or bring up more inquiries than it answers. Grace was determined to ensure that Commodore Janeway would be prepared to meet the challenges ahead of their missions with the upcoming meeting with the USS. Melbourne,

commodores' private living quarters

Hours would seem like a minute eternity as
Commodore Janeway's thoughts returned to the impending answer to the communicator on her communicator badge; however, the urge of the wound became unbearable. Janeway tapped her badge again to answer back to Grace. “Please come by my quarters to medically examine and analyze my condition. We may do so if we must go to Sick Bay for further testing of my condition. You can bring along some more clean wound bandages for me since I have been having a very bad surgical infection still appears to be an awkward fluid coming out of it.”Janeway is remaining on the comlink for another response from Grace.

Grace walked in and spoke. "What seems to be the problem?"

Janeway raised her head from her desk chair, her gaze settling on Grace as she arrived at Janeway's request for a medical follow-up. Slowly, Janeway stood and explained, “I think I may have accidentally pulled out my internal and external stitching during our baptism by fire in space when we desperately tried to save the crew of the Resolute from being blown out of their escape pods.”

Janeway began to remove her upper jacket, revealing a nightmarish canvas where cybernetic components fused with flesh. A sinister patchwork of deep indigo and electric violet liquid seeped from the wounds, each one a vibrant, pulsating wound against her skin. The tears were not just breaks but violent slashes, edged in crimson, as if her body was at war with itself. The infected areas shimmered with a sickly luminescence, the colors shifting from a dark, bloody red to an almost neon blue, like the aftermath of a chemical spill on living tissue. It was starkly apparent why Grace had come.

“I tried to patch up whatever adhesive we had in the bathroom cabinet,” Janeway admitted, her voice laced with embarrassment. “I’m ashamed for calling you so early in the morning.”

“It’s fine, I was already up after my morning run. Let’s get the scan going,” Grace reassured, her voice a calm balm as she readied her scanner.

Janeway nodded silently, her face a mask of resignation as herself allowed for
Grace moved closer. The infection sprawling across Janeway's upper torso was a disturbing tapestry of hues and textures. It began as small, almost imperceptible dots, which quickly blossomed into larger, more defined splotches of deep blue and vivid purple. These colors were not uniform; they swirled and merged, creating patterns that mimicked the complexity of a nebula in space, their sight alone invoking a sense of the uncanny.

The scent that emanated from the infected areas was faintly metallic, with an underlying hint of decay, reminiscent of rusting metal mixed with the tang of spoiled fruit. This odor was just strong enough to be unsettling, yet subtle enough to linger in the back of one's throat.

The skin affected by the infection had lost its natural warmth, appearing almost translucent in some areas, allowing the veins beneath to show through like dark tributaries. Touching the infected skin would reveal a variety of textures; some parts felt smooth, almost slippery with a waxy residue, while others were rough, crusty, and dry, like the bark of an ancient tree. The raised, inflamed welts were tender to the touch, radiating a warmth that was feverish to the feel.

The sound of the infection was less obvious but present; a faint, rhythmic pulsing could be heard if one listened closely, like the distant echo of a heartbeat, suggesting the infection had a life of its own. Occasionally, there was a soft, squelching noise as the skin shifted with movement, adding to the horror of the transformation.

This grotesque display was further highlighted by the stark contrast against the pallor of her skin, making each infected area stand out like an alien landscape. The infection even had a taste, not literally but metaphorically, as if one could imagine the bitter, acrid taste of sickness wafting from the wounds.

Against the backdrop of her Starfleet standard undershirt, akin to a tank top, the infection not only marred her physical appearance but also painted a disturbing picture of vulnerability and the unknown dangers of the cosmos. The fabric of the shirt was slightly damp where it touched the infected areas, suggesting a seepage of fluids or perhaps the infection itself trying to spread beyond its current boundaries.

Grace took a steadying breath, her features schooled into a professional calm despite the growing concern gnawing at her gut. She had seen many infections in her career—exotic pathogens, aggressive alien viruses—but this? This was something else entirely.

She reached for her tricorder, activating the device with a practiced flick of her fingers. The readings were erratic, shifting unpredictably as if the infection itself was resisting classification. Her lips pressed into a thin line. "Janeway," she said, voice measured but firm. "I need you to tell me exactly when this started. Any symptoms before the discoloration? Pain, tingling, fatigue?"

As she spoke, Grace retrieved a sterilized probe, carefully running it along the border of the infection. The skin beneath the instrument reacted subtly, twitching as though it had a will of its own. A bead of sweat formed at Grace's temple, but she pushed forward, her medical instincts overriding any discomfort.

"This... whatever this is, it's aggressive," she murmured, more to herself than anyone else. "And it's spreading fast. I need to get a sample and run a full molecular scan immediately. We’re not dealing with an ordinary pathogen."

Her gaze lifted to meet Janeway’s, searching for any sign of worsening distress. "I won’t sugarcoat this—you’re in for a fight. But I swear to you, I’m not letting this thing win."

The silence weighed heavily in the air, a palpable presence, interrupted solely by Commodore Janeway’s labored breaths. When she finally found her voice, it resonated with the gravity of sleepless nights spent grappling with an insidious foe that had burrowed its way into her very being. Her complexion, pale and drawn, was a haunting testament to her silent battle—a canvas marred by deep-seated fear and fatigue.

“It all began with these disquieting manifestations in early October,” she implored, her tone resolute yet tinged with desperation, each word a lifeline thrown into the chaos enveloping her. “At first, it was merely a tingling sensation, subtle enough that I kept it to myself, painfully aware that those around me would be powerless to assist, bound by the very confidentiality that now shackles me. I managed to carry out my duties as a commanding officer in Starfleet for months after the poisoning, cloaking my turmoil beneath a veneer of strength. However, following the unsettling incidents in January to March, it became painfully clear that whatever this is, it has unearthed a new method of attack.”


As Janeway continued her account, her fingers involuntarily clawed at the infected wounds adorning her torso, the harsh sound of her nails scraping across raw skin breaking the stillness of her quarters aboard the USS Voyager-A. This discomfort transcended ordinary pain; it was an incessant torment, accompanied by the suffocating grip of insomnia and nights that dragged on as she fought against a reality she stubbornly refused to accept.

With unyielding determination, she confronted the specter of her fear. “This will leave me paralyzed if I allow it to define me,” she declared, her voice firm yet laced with urgency. “I’ve concealed this affliction from my colleagues, not only out of a fear of losing my command but because I cannot bear to witness my own body slowly unravel before my eyes. Each day, this ailment consumes me piece by piece, and the specter of time slipping away haunts me.”

“The tingling was my first warning,” she continued, each word tumbling from her lips with a sense of urgency. “Then came the relentless itching and the sleeplessness that have relentlessly pushed me to my breaking point. I try to mend the damage, covering it up just enough to maintain a semblance of normalcy while I itch and bleed through my uniform.”

Doctor Grace’s heart clenched as the commodore’s words filled the space between them. The intensity of Janeway’s struggle—so raw and unfiltered—was impossible to ignore. Grace could hear the cracks in the commodore’s voice, the weight of the burden she’d been shouldering alone. As a healer, she knew all too well the destructive power of silence, especially when it came at the cost of one’s health.

Grace’s voice was calm, but firm, her empathy clear as she responded.

"Commodore, I can hear the weight of what you're carrying, and I won’t let you face this alone anymore. You’ve been incredibly strong, but strength doesn’t mean you have to endure this in isolation," Grace said, her voice steady, offering both understanding and command. "This poison, and its effects, are beyond what any of us anticipated. I don’t care what you’ve concealed—right now, I care about you, and I need to help you."

Grace took a moment to gather her thoughts before continuing, her words coming with the reassurance of a medical professional who had seen many faces of struggle, but never shied away from the fight.

"You’ve done well to keep pushing forward, but your body is sending signals it can no longer ignore. The tingling, the itching, and the bleeding... These are signs that the poison's effects have progressed to a stage where it could begin to compromise your health—your command. I can’t allow that to continue unchecked, Commodore. We will find out exactly what's happening, and I’ll make sure we address it—completely, and without delay."

The sincerity in Grace’s voice was matched by the decisive tone of her words.

"You've been holding the weight of your command, and now, it’s time for us to carry a little of it for you. I’ll be there shortly to begin a full assessment. We’ll get a full picture of what’s going on with you, and I won’t rest until we’ve treated every part of this."

Grace stood, already on her way to return to Janeway’s quarters, her steps quickening with urgency. Janeway may have been a fierce protector, but Grace was determined to be just as fierce in protecting her health.

Janeway paced her quarters, each step punctuated by the relentless itch beneath her skin—a torment that had only grown since she’d called for Grace. Her fingers, trembling, clawed at her arms, nails scraping, drawing blood that flecked her fingertips with crimson. She glanced at the chronograph, its tick a torturous countdown. Every second without Grace was another victory for the poison, its tendrils claiming more territory. She whispered to herself, a mantra of urgency, “Come on, Grace… before it’s too late.” She croak out of breath at the same time the itching becomes hot in her throat to make sure she gets enough words out of her condition while she keeps itching as the original bandage that was on her body from previous days begin smelling like fouled sweet fruit.

Grace Johnsen rushed through the door of Janeway’s quarters, her medical kit clutched tightly in her hands. The sight of her captain—a figure so strong and composed—now tormented by an invisible enemy sent a surge of urgency through her veins.

“Captain!” she exclaimed, finding Janeway clawing at her own skin, horror rising in her chest. “What have you done to yourself?” Grace knelt beside her, the scent of decay overwhelming, mingling with the pungent odor of the bandage. “I need you to breathe for me, deep and steady. I’m here now.”

As she carefully examined the captain’s arms, her fingers brushed against the bloody scratches. “The poison is spreading,” she said, her voice calm despite the fire igniting in her gut. “I’ll need to synthesize an antidote, but we’ll have to act fast.”

Janeway's eyes glinted with desperation, and Grace kept her gaze steady on her, forcing a sense of reassurance through her own rising panic. “You’re strong, Captain. But I need you to hold on just a little longer. Let me do my job.”

With deft movements, Grace set to work, pulling out vials and her tricorder. "Just remember: each moment I spend here with you is progress. You're not alone in this."

Then Janeway stopped herself what she was doing by scratching herself, tried to claw out the bandages underneath her skin she just relaxed in the nearby chair “ I’ve been lost girlfriend too, Sergeant who has a girlfriend named Lillian whom is our actual medical Hanson JB who is my ex boyfriend I I wish I could see him before this consumes my soul.” She said with reluctant defeat, allowing grace to examine her further.

"Have you heard the latest news?" Grace asked with an air of excitement. "He's been transferred to Templar Station, where he received a promotion to Major. Now, he holds the prestigious position of Commanding Officer for the Tenth Fleet Marines." She turned to the Commodore, her eyes bright with enthusiasm, eager to share the significant career advancement of their colleague.

Janeway sat in the dim light of her quarters, the news from Grace about the major’s transfer to Templar Station hitting her like a physical blow. “May I congratulate him?” she muttered, her voice cracking with the weight of regret, as she fought the urge to scratch at the poison’s relentless itch, which hurt more like the prick of thistles. “I hope he finds what he’s looking for because he certainly didn’t find it with me.” Her words were a hushed confession, tears beginning to well up, blurring her vision as she whispered, “I wasn’t a good girlfriend.” Each syllable was a shard of glass in her throat, the admission tearing at her heart.

The weight of her situation pressed down on her, each moment feeling like sand slipping through her fingers, her life slipping away with it. She reached for the metal box on her desk, the one containing the medal she’d earned for bravery back in October. It was a relic of a time when she had control, when she could save others, now juxtaposed against her current battle with an unseen enemy within. The sensation of thistles under her skin was a constant, painful reminder of her vulnerability. She barely remembered the party banquet she had for her award; it was like a distant dream, fading into the shadow of her current ordeal. Yet, one clear memory remained - Admiral Lovewell, the only admiral who had personally pinned the medal on her uniform during the ceremony, a symbol of recognition and respect, now a bitter reminder of what she might lose.

“There might be an antidote somewhere it might be one that would be a tough healing. Maybe I might not be able know myself.,” she whispered to herself, her fingers gripping the cold metal, tears now streaming silently down her face, each one a testament to her inner turmoil, “but every second feels like it’s pulling me further away from that possibility.” She knew well that her condition could jeopardize her position; the admirals Townsend and Lovell might not see her as the strong leader she had been, but as compromised, perhaps unfit for command. The thought of them perceiving her as weakened, especially after Lovewell’s gesture of confidence, was almost as terrifying as the poison itself. She didn’t want Lillian Hansen to know how she frankly felt like she’s drowning her sorrows in an endless pit of despair to futureure of her own self can’t be remade.
Janeway cut her own self off, her voice sharp, a blade through the gloom. “I am not sure what the future of my career progression.” if mine is anything future holds for me because what the future hold for me Only the stars now knows If I will to fall be able to get to love someone again to love me around since the poison has consumed most of my lifetime. “I have never been told of anything about its existence. But denial was no able to get Closure of her past which is holding her at the same time as the poison wrapping around her body like thistles and thorns Vines wrapping around, forgot her tombstone.

Then Commodore looks back over from her shoulder towards Grace showing that she’s ready to continue whatever treatment is necessary if she is able to show that proof to the Star-fleet she is their protector of the galaxy if command says she’s otherwise a force to reckon with by anyone who dares to destroy the Federation you’re just gonna have to let townsend and a lovewell know progress of my condition despite everything else being classified Dusty case files .
Grace stood at the threshold of Janeway’s quarters, a mix of determination and concern swirling within her. She had seen the toll the news about the major's transfer had taken on her friend, the way the light in Janeway’s eyes seemed to dim, replaced by a shadow of regret and sorrow. As she observed Janeway wrestling with her thoughts, Grace felt a knot tighten in her own stomach.

Why does it always have to be like this? Her mind raced, echoing with reflections of their past missions, the camaraderie they had shared, and the respect she held for Janeway as a leader and a friend. She’s always been so strong, so unwavering. Why can’t she see that she’s still that person?.

“May I congratulate him?” Janeway’s voice cracked, the weight of her confession slicing through the air like a gentle blade. Grace took a step closer, wanting to bridge the gap of isolation that had formed around her Commanding Officer. I wish I could find the right words to pull her back from this edge, she thought. But how do you comfort a woman like Janeway, who has always been the one offering comfort?

“I hope he finds what he’s looking for because he certainly didn’t find it with me,” Janeway continued, her words laden with uncharacteristic vulnerability. Grace’s heart ached for her. She truly believes she failed him, and that’s not just about the relationship. It’s about her faith in herself.

Watching the tears well up in Janeway’s eyes, Grace felt her own resolve strengthen. She couldn’t let her friend spiral further into this darkness. “You have to remember that your worth isn’t defined by one relationship,” she said softly, hoping to counter the torrent of self-doubt that was engulfing her.

As Janeway spoke about the poison coursing through her veins, Grace’s thoughts turned. The medical reports weren’t looking good. Why can’t we understand the nature of this toxin? She knew that Janeway might never fully grasp the danger she was in, the way it was pulling her down. “I’ll do everything I can to help you find that antidote,” she promised, even as uncertainty gnawed at her resolve.

Janeway grasped the medal on her desk, a symbol of her bravery and past triumphs. Grace couldn’t help but admire that about her—how Janeway held onto every piece of her history, every accomplishment, like a soldier clutching a dog tag amidst chaos. “But what will it take for you to see that you’ve not lost your strength?” Grace wondered as Janeway continued to express her fears about being perceived as weak.

“Stop being so hard on yourself,” Grace urged gently. “You’ve always been a force to reckon with. Your struggles don’t define you. They only serve to illustrate how much you care.” She saw the way Janeway tensed, as if the words were foreign to her. *She thinks she has to shoulder this alone. If only she understood the power of vulnerability.*

As the conversation shifted, Grace took a deep breath, preparing for what needed to be said next. “We can face this together, Kathryn. No one expects you to fight this battle on your own, especially not me.” She studied Janeway’s eyes, searching for a glimmer of hope—something, anything to latch onto in the swirling depths of despair. “You are a protector of the galaxy, and that doesn’t change just because you’re facing a personal monster right now.”

For a moment, as they stood in that charged silence, Grace felt a flicker of connection amidst the pain. Together, we can rewrite this story. There’s still hope.


the gentle hum of the ship's engines reverberated through the dimly lit quarters, providing a strange sense of comfort. Janeway's voice, tinged with no hesitation, broke the silence. “I can’t do this alone anymore. I need you to help me face this challenge, to unravel whatever it is that’s haunting us.” There was a tremor in her words, reflecting the weight of the moment. a crack in her armor, and she met Grace’s steady gaze, her resolve buckling under its quiet intensity.
Then Janeway stood up and began to pace again, her boots scuffing softly against the deck. She reached for a toy on her desk—a Friesian horse, The carved figure, depicting a Calvary officer wearing the dress uniform officer that resembled her, sat proudly atop the familiar powerful female figure in her uniform of starfleet design that’s been molded from complex clay polymer, sturdy enough for a child’s play yet crafted with a lifelike sheen, its sleek black form mirroring a striking Friesian stallion. Midnight,her beloved girlhood companion from sunlit meadows, harbored even though long gone through space that the actual place was not around anymore because it was sold ultimately on the untimely death of the Janeway adoptive family’s matriarch Gretchen years before this poisoning transpiring. She cradled it gently, the figurine’s cool surface soothing her fevered hands, a fleeting reprieve from the pathogen’s heat. Her bloody fingernails, raw from clawing at her infected skin, left faint crimson smudges on its glossy finish as she traced its lines, comforting memories flickering through her mind to ease the relentless itch, if only for a moment.

She turned slightly to face Grace, whom she stood near the doorway, her medical kit open and tricorder scanning, probing the air as if chasing shadows. “I trust you completely as we confront this challenge,” Janeway said, her voice low, almost forced. Her jaw gradually relaxed as she spoke, as if trusting Grace aloud was a surrender she had to revert back to. We need to determine the nature of this poisoning; it feels like a dangerous puzzle.” Her fingers fidgeted with Midnight’s mane, the blood-streaked toy trembling slightly in her grip, betraying the anxiety gnawing at her despite the trust she professed. The threat of the pathogen still loomed—an enigma seeping through her flesh, its indigo tendrils a grotesque mockery of control. Yet a flicker of hope sparked within Janeway. paused her pacing, her gaze locking with Grace’s professional eyes. “You’re right; we’ll tackle this step by step.” She clutched Midnight with a female figurine on the equestrian tighter, her bloody fingernails stark against the stallion’s black sheen, a faint glimmer of resolve shining through as she held Grace’s gaze, her loyal childhood friend a silent witness to this new fight.

Grace’s eyes softened as she stepped closer, her tricorder now giving a low, rhythmic beep as it analyzed the air around them. She could feel the weight of the moment pressing in, but she was resolute. She placed a hand gently on Emily’s shoulder, her touch steady and warm, a grounding presence in the chaos that surrounded them.

“I’ve seen a lot, Emily,” Grace began, her voice calm, steady, though laced with a quiet understanding. “But I’ll be damned if I’m going to let this poison take you down. We’ll get to the bottom of this, I promise you that.”

She lowered the tricorder, meeting Emily’s gaze with unwavering confidence, her eyes locking onto the subtle tremor in her grip. She could see it—Emily’s internal battle, her need to remain in control, but Grace wasn’t going to let her do it alone. Not this time.

“You’ve carried burdens heavier than most could ever imagine,” Grace continued, her voice softening just a touch. “But you don’t have to carry this one by yourself. We’re a team, always have been. We’ll figure this out, step by step.”

Her eyes flickered to Midnight, the horse figurine still clutched tightly in Emily’s blood-streaked hand, and a pang of sympathy tugged at Grace’s heart. She knew how much the memory of that companion meant—how much it represented. And in that moment, Grace vowed silently to herself: she would help her friend get back to herself.

Grace’s voice dropped lower as she spoke with quiet resolve. “You’re not surrendering, Emily. You’re trusting me. And together, we’ll face whatever this is. You’ll get through this.”

She stepped back slightly, giving Emily space, but her presence remained unshakable. “Now, let’s figure out what we’re dealing with. We’ll take it one step at a time.” Grace’s gaze never wavered, her confidence and loyalty to Emily unwavering.

Commodore Emily Janeway was standing unsteady inside her quarters talking to Grace, the faint hum of Voyager’s engines a distant pulse beneath the torment that had shifted unpredictably. her breath steadied for a moment as she fought to compose herself, believing the itching might be subsiding, a faint relief beneath her resolve—yet she was clad only in a white tank top that clung to the bandage underneath. She opened her mouth to speak, to direct Grace, when suddenly, as if a ticking time bomb had detonated within her, blood burst forth from the wound, a bloody nose-like drip seeping through the bandage, the crimson stains spreading across the fabric, carrying the mysterious pathogen. The alpha shift not due until early morning, the abruptness caught her off guard, the red dripping to the carpet floor, and as she tried to form words, she became incoherent, gargling as if the poison from that first tea in January still choked her throat, the sensation amplifying her terror that time itself was losing priority over this visit. The itching had waned, but the wound’s mysterious reopening intensified the tingling coursing relentlessly through her nerves, amplified by the draining sensation, while the strain on her cybernetic heart, replaced by Grace in January, faltered under the poison’s corrosive assault, its erratic thud a grim reminder of months of deterioration. Her fingers, trembling uncontrollably from the pathogen’s toll, clutched Midnight, the horse figurine, until the figurine slipped from her shaking hands, the rider—a likeness carved in her own image, her appearance captured in the saddle’s poised stance—tumbling off its saddle, its head drooping like a ragdoll, streaked with her blood and the pathogen’s trace, hitting the carpet floor with a hollow thud.

“Chaos,” Emily choked out, her voice raw with pain and garbled as if the tea’s poison lingered, forged with the steel of a seasoned Commodore but fracturing with terror. “That’s what this poison is—unhinged, relentless chaos. I was about to speak, and then this—bleeding like a bloody nose, seeping through my bandage, revealing itself on my tank top, spreading that mysterious pathogen, like a ticking time bomb. My cybernetic heart, the one you replaced in January, Grace, is failing faster since I retaken command in March—by October, it’s a wreck. I thought I could handle this, but it’s pouring out of me, and time… it’s slipping away…” She gagged, her words slurring as the tingling flared, her shaking hand hovering over the reopened wound, her fear mounting as the bloody nose-like drip intensified through the bandage before slowing, the sensation amplifying her agony as her chest tightened with the implant’s faltering rhythm. Grace, still standing, her expression tightening with alarm at the sudden onset, the seeping blood, pathogen spread on the tank top, the garbled speech, and the ragdoll-like rider, stepped back slightly, giving the Commodore breathing room, her tricorder humming as she grappled with the poison’s erratic nature and Emily’s visible panic.

“January’s where it struck—me and Kane in a restaurant setting, late shift,” Emily struggled to articulate, her voice a garbled mess as if the tea’s poison still clawed at her throat, her empty hands trembling as she stared at the blood- and pathogen-streaked Midnight and its fallen rider on the carpet floor. “We were awaiting crew assignments and orders from Command, a time of uncertainty. I had no exec then; he was appointed executive commanding officer that night. We were sifting through reports over drinks, and I started explaining why I took Voyager’s helm instead of the Protostar. Kane cut in, said there’s no fast track to success in the Marines. As I pushed back, the itching began, blood seeped, my heart gave out, and I collapsed right in front of him—then you saved me with the replacement, and this nightmare deepened.” The bloody nose-like drip continued, each red stain seeping through the bandage onto her white tank top a testament to the pathogen’s spread, and Grace’s eyes narrowed, her concern deepening as she let the Commodore struggle, puzzled by the lingering effect.

Her gaze dropped to the figurine—her own likeness, now a ragdoll head slumped beside Midnight on the carpet—mirroring the Marine commander she’d once been, astride a steed, leading through grit amid a shadow of doubt from her time at Starbase 113. The memory sharpened, a fractured shard laced with guilt and suspicion. “There’s a cover-up I can’t escape,” she gurgled, her words barely coherent as the tingling surged, her eyes locking with Grace’s, defiance and terror cutting through the haze as the seeping underscored her vulnerability, the white tank top a canvas of her ordeal and the pathogen’s reach. “On the Intrepid, stationed at Starbase 113, where I commanded the Marine Division, we were set for a cover-up or undercover mission—Badlands or Cardassian space, targeting a smuggling ring tied to the Obsidian Order. But something else came up, and Starfleet Command prioritized another mission, hustling me to be cleared for duty despite the fallout. A mishap struck—betrayals, exposed operatives slaughtered, a vendetta ignited. The op collapsed, unleashing this bio-weapon plot, this pathogen. I reported it, but… Starfleet, Admiral Lovewell, Chris Townsend—they missed the messages, the news, or hid it, rushing me back while this festered. The investigation overlooked the loose ends, the enemies I stirred. From March to October, this poison’s grown, a consequence of their secrecy.”
The tingling surged again, her cybernetic heart stuttering under the strain, her shaking hands betraying her weakness as the reopened wound pulsed, her incoherent fear of time slipping away intensifying. Her free hand braced against the air, anchoring her as she garbled out, “It’s personal. Dormant for years, triggered in January, and festering since—someone on Voyager knew, and Starfleet’s silence let it drain me, spread this pathogen. That server—yeoman, steward, whoever—they handed me poison as my past caught up. Kane saw it; he might’ve glimpsed them through my collapse.” Her gaze drifted to the fallen Midnight and its ragdoll-like rider on the carpet floor, her own likeness a ghost of her Marine days, a desperate plea to reclaim her path. “I rode through hell on the Intrepid at Starbase 113, awkward with their salutes, but this poison won’t break me—not while she’s with me, not while I can expose their failure.”
Emily straightened, her breath hitching as the pain clawed deeper, the tingling and bloody nose-like drip seeping through her bandage a relentless torment, her cybernetic heart’s uneven rhythm a ticking bomb, her incoherent fear fueling her resolve, which hardened like a shield. “Dig into it, Grace,” she struggled to say, her tone low and fierce but garbled, shaken by the figurine’s fall and the sudden bleeding. “Start with January—mess hall logs, duty rosters, find that server. Ask Kane; he was there when I collapsed—he might recall a face. Then my Intrepid days—Marine Division files, that cover-up mission from Starbase 113, Badlands ops, Cardassian shadows. This thing’s alien—quantum chaos, extragalactic traces, a bio-weapon, this pathogen born from overlooked failures. Obsidian Order, Syndicate, enemies Starfleet ignored. Scan me again—tell me how fast it’s spreading, how much damage to my heart since your surgery. How much time I’ve got.” She stared at the blood- and pathogen-streaked Midnight and its fallen rider on the carpet floor, a silent vow in its collapse, and turned to Grace, arms outstretched despite the agony. “I trust you. Help me focus—let’s rewrite this story.”

Grace took a measured step forward, her medical tricorder already running a deep scan before she fully reached Commodore Janeway. The sight before her—a seasoned officer unraveling as blood seeped through the bandages, her voice thick with garbled pain—sent an acute wave of urgency through her practiced calm. The pathogen’s influence was growing, its chaotic nature pressing against the Commodore’s resilience like an unrelenting tide.

“Emily, I need you to sit down,” Grace instructed, her voice steady yet firm. Her eyes flicked between the readouts and the Commodore’s trembling hands, tracking the distress signals firing through her nervous system. “You’re in cardiac distress, and the neurotoxin—or whatever this is—is still active. If your cybernetic heart is faltering, we need to stabilize it before anything else.”

She adjusted the tricorder’s parameters, expanding its range to capture every anomaly present. The toxic agent was unlike anything she had seen before—mutating, adapting, threading itself into Janeway’s circulatory system like a parasite thriving on its host’s endurance.

“The bleeding isn’t just from the wound,” Grace continued, voice laced with concern as she removed a hypospray from her medkit. “Your capillaries are weakening—this thing is working through your system at an alarming rate. Your cybernetic heart is overcompensating, struggling to maintain function, but if we don’t slow the rate of decay, you’ll collapse again.”

She injected a stabilizing agent, carefully monitoring Janeway’s vitals. The Commodore’s breathing hitched, but the crimson streaks on her tank top were already deepening. The pathogen refused to relent.

Grace knelt, retrieving the Midnight figurine and its fallen rider. She turned them over in her hands briefly before setting them aside, an unspoken acknowledgment of what they represented—memories of strength, fragments of resolve that Janeway clung to even as her body betrayed her.

“I hear you, Emily,” Grace said softly but intently, locking eyes with her patient. “This isn’t just an isolated attack—it’s been festering since January. And if what you’re saying about the Intrepid mission is true, then someone’s been covering their tracks for far too long. But we can’t pursue the truth if you don’t survive the night.”

She recalibrated the biobed scanner embedded in the Commodore’s quarters, gesturing for her to sit. “I’m going to run a secondary scan—deep tissue, quantum signature traces, anything that might give us a clearer picture of what’s keeping this pathogen active. I’ll cross-reference it with your past medical records, including the cardiac implant from January. But Emily, I need you to hold on. I need you to let me do my job.”

She adjusted her stance, shifting to a tone that brooked no argument. “And you’re not going to rewrite this story alone. I’ll pull the logs, I’ll speak with Kane, I’ll dig into your past missions—whatever it takes to get answers. But first, we stop this thing from killing you.”

As she activated a containment field around the Commodore’s quarters to limit potential biohazard spread, Grace pressed the hypospray to Janeway’s neck, administering a secondary stabilizer.

“Time’s not slipping away yet, Emily. Not on my watch.”

A little Friesian stallion figurine that been chiseled from polymer clay is still loomed over Janeway’s body on the console table, its glossy flanks drinking the containment field’s ethereal hum, splintered hooves glinting like fractured coal from a fall that scarred its regal sheen. Its rider’s saber blazed, a molten silver streak slicing through shadows thick as tar, as Janeway sat down rigid on the biobed, her cybernetic heart faltering—clank-clank-clank—a staccato hiccup drowned by a wet gurgle bubbling beneath her ribs. Her steady fingers pried at bandages, sodden and heavy like drenched moss, unveiling a gash oozing inky blood, its copper tang sharp enough to sting the air near the stallion’s sculpted, rippling mane. It stood watch as her soul swayed, snagged in the Intrepid’s frost-crusted wreckage and January’s stars, cold pinpricks glaring through a void, a relic of a time unbowed. The Friesian’s eyes, dark pools of polished stone, glowed steady as she shifted, yielding space for Grace to concentrate on her work as she must do some detective work .

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