There was something faintly liberating about losing your mind. It could even be called therapeutic.

If she'd tried to put it into words, she wasn't sure how she would frame it. How the words would find air, what they would tell others what went on in her mind, the twisting, unattached ideas that could hardly be classified as rational thought. Brief, flashing images that only had meaning when she took the time to think about them, which she avoided.

It was so exhausting. The effort to keep from just sitting down and screaming and not stop until someone listened, understood--until Tom opened his eyes, until she didn't wake up shaking and clutching herself.

And here she sat, holding his hand.

Waiting for the other shoe to drop, the words she couldn't say trembling on her lips, not to be spoken.

Because as a starship Captain, she knew it would. The shoe always dropped.

Always.

* * * * *

B'Elanna watched her prisoner through narrowed eyes, taking in the physiology of an average Da'Oon. Faintly humanoid, orange skin, brownish-yellow eyes. Twice as tall as she was, heavily built. Three parallel lines of cartilage across his forehead, meeting somewhere beneath the short brown hair. Bruised, bloodied, exhausted, probably scared to sleep, not knowing what she would do if he did.

She didn't blame him for that. She wondered too.

She could see Seven, from the corner of her eye, still regenerating. After checking on their coordinates for the tenth time, checked defenses and ops for the sixth, she knew she had to get out of that tiny bridge, or all her carefully maintained control would go straight to hell.

So here she was, clutching at a PADD that had what little she could remember--*Tom* had remembered--it was so damned hard to tell the difference sometimes--of the complex he'd been imprisoned in with Janeway. A simple diagram, far from complete. Ten rooms, one accessible only by transporter--she wondered if they'd ever cleaned it--if when she saw that room, it would be the same as when she left it--as Tom left it--as--

Her hand clenched on the PADD, bending the metal, staring at the Da'Oon in her custody, wondering how much he knew about the actions of his species. Then slowly, she peeled her fingers back, off the PADD, laying it on the bed beside her, drawing in a breath.

All those meditation lessons had paid off. Barely.

All those memories were at bay. Temporarily.

She stared at the Da'Oon, because it gave her the center she needed. Because she couldn't lose control now, couldn't start ripping the *petaq* bastard to pieces until they were in, until she'd found the cure they had to have--until she was in that room she'd been in before, as another person. That she knew as well as her own quarters, inch by blood-stained, flesh-littered inch.

She'd felt the seizure that had shaken his body on the biobed, as the virus began its insidious work in his brain--a shake of her hand, the sudden stiffening of her back, the clumsy way her fingers reached out for support from the console. Felt it like the memory of a dream brought to temporary life, and not for the first time, she wished she understood better what she had told Seven to do to them, understood how she felt what she did.

But in a way, it didn't matter. She could feel it, knew what he still went through on the ship. Reminding her every minute why she was doing this, with every twitch of her hand, every image in her dreams.

Every breath that caught in the memory of burned lungs.

He watched her back, from golden-greenish eyes that barely blinked. She thought he was afraid of her, and wasn't even sure that she didn't enjoy it. That Seven didn't enjoy it.

And that was the question she no longer asked.

Slowly, she turned away, moving back to the bridge, to check coordinates again.

* * * * *

It was the purest accident. Even after, Chakotay couldn't remember how it happened, or why. Perhaps instinctual, a habit so old he wasn't sure when it began--maybe that first day on her ship, as her officer. Perhaps just to comfort her, offer her the same support she had him, more times than he could count.

She watched Tom, alone, in Sickbay, as she had been since his last seizure. Sitting on that stool, blue eyes never leaving his face. The security officers were near her--but not close enough, to Chakotay's eye, and he motioned Ayala closer, before turning his gaze back to her still form, hovering over the bed, Tom's hand held in hers.

Sometimes, he wondered what went through her head. What kept her here hour after hour, instead of recovering in her quarters, instead of stepping coolly forward and taking command of her ship from him. As every day he half-expected, and more and more began to long for.

Instead, this silent vigil that he couldn't understand.

Slowly, Chakotay crossed the room, coming behind her, and gently placed a hand on her shoulder.

Pure instinct. That's all. Just wanting to give her contact. Not really thinking about it, no different than he had a hundred times before, for a hundred different reasons.

Suddenly, his wrist was locked in a small hand and twisted sharply. Something connected solidly with his stomach, knocking him back, wrist still locked between small, bruising fingers. Instinctively, he retaliated, and a sharp uppercut to his jaw sent him spinning. Another swipe of his legs, and he hit the floor on his back, trying to catch his lost breath, when a booted foot came in contact with his side, forcing him into an unwilling roll slowing to a halt against the far wall, gasping for the air knocked from his lungs, head aching, side burning.

He must have made some kind of noise, though he never knew what--looking up to see his Captain, Kathryn--there. Dropped in a crouch, watching him with blue eyes that didn't see him at all. Her whole body shook with tension, waiting for another move from him, waiting--waiting for something--.

God, what did she see when she looked at him? Did he even want to know?

Pure instinct. They were both running hot on it.

"Kathryn," he choked, grabbing his side, trying to ready himself in case she felt threatened again, seeing the security guards approaching--it had happened too fast for them to even find the time to draw a breath--phasers out but pretty much unsure of where to point them.

He understood their dilemma. Still watching her, he slowly sat up, wincing at the sharp pain in his side. She'd definitely broken some ribs quite nicely.

"Kathryn," he said softly, and she blinked, wary eyes clearing. He knew the minute she saw him, the very second--eyes widening, her face crumpled, a hand went to the floor, to stop herself from overbalancing. Ayala came forward, offering her a hand, and unsurprisingly, it was ignored. She pushed herself up, drawing in a deep breath, then looked at Chakotay.

"I'm--you startled me." Her voice was expressionless.

Blindingly obvious. He nodded, taking an experimental breath. The reaction was just about what he expected--pain--but he tried to smile through it. She didn't even bother trying, and she didn't come any closer either, watching him from--

Yeah, he'd guess that was about five feet between them. Almost exactly.

"Ayala," he said, and the stocky man holstered his phaser, offering a hand with a weak smile that didn't reach the worried brown eyes.

"Computer, activate EMH program," Chakotay said, feet firming beneath him, taking the outstretched hand because, frankly, pride or no pride, he needed it--trying like hell to keep his voice steady. "Captain--"

"What is the nature of the medi--ah, Commander Chakotay." The Doctor picked up a conveniently placed medical tricorder and was already moving toward a biobed. Ayala shot a glance at Chakotay, who reluctantly allowed the young man to help him there.

Fine thing when one of your former Maquis see you get the shit beat out of you by a woman half your size and a third your weight. Chakotay could see the jokes fly already at the next poker game. Tom would say--

--and he realized Tom wouldn't say anything. His eyes went unwillingly to the biobed, then looked away, forcing his full attention on the Doctor.

The EMH frowned as he took in the readings.

"How did you break two ribs--make that three--Commander?" he asked. Chakotay desperately searched for an answer, but, as usual, Janeway took it right out of his mouth, before a single lie could find air, or even find a way into his brain to be processed for release.

"I did it, Doctor." She had moved back to Tom's bed, glancing down briefly before the blue eyes came up again, meeting the Doctor's coolly. Without apology. Pure Janeway.

"It was an accident," Chakotay stumbled in, watching the Doctor's gaze stay on the Captain even after she looked away.

"You require osteoregeneration," the Doctor answered absently, and then the brown eyes went down and away as he went in search of the correct instrument. Janeway was looking at Tom with that same expression that Chakotay still couldn't quite define, though he knew he wanted to. Ayala, at a curt nod of Chakotay's head, returned to his duty beside Tom's bed.

As the Doctor began the regeneration, Chakotay closed his eyes.

* * * * *

Harry turned as he heard the chime of his door.

"Come."

For some reason, every time the door chimed, he just knew it would be Tuvok, ready to question him about B'Elanna's private mission.

Every time, his nerves tightened another notch.

Every time, he felt sweat break out on the palms of his hands.

Every time, he relived that rich satisfaction that came with doing something, anything, to help Tom.

And oddly enough, every time it wasn't Tuvok, he felt a sweep of disappointment.

Every time.

"Harry?"

This was no exception. Sue Nicoletti stood at his door, her foot not quite over the threshold, an expression of concern on her face, maybe having read the look on his--or maybe she'd practiced that look in the mirror to match the rest of the crew, that look of sympathy and furtive approval combined, no defense against that, just smile and bear it, like the good eternal ensign he was. He relaxed, nodding her in while he made his way to the replicator. Harry, always the gentleman, always the perfect host, ready to take orders for drinks.

In another life, he must have been one hell of a bartender.

"Hey, Sue. Anything to drink?" Of course, she would decline, as usual, so he'd just replicate water, and he was poised to do just that when her voice stopped him.

"Can you get Romulan wine in here?"

He gave her a sharp look, seeing her face was turned out to the viewport, her expression unreadable.

"Yeah," he answered softly. He wasn't the best friend and primary sidekick of Tom Paris for nothing--he could break through privacy locks, rearrange holodeck programs, and get blacklist items from the replicator.

Harry Kim, criminal extraordinaire. After all, he'd learned from one.

He took both glasses to the couch and handed her one before he sat down. She twirled the glass idly between her fingers, gaze intent on the liquid swirling within.

"How's Tom?" she asked quietly.

A moment out of time--Tom being restrained by Ayala when Harry made the mistake of walking into Sickbay, figurative hat in hand, to check on his best friend. Ayala and Chakotay holding him down on the biobed as he yelled things that Harry hadn't really understood, didn't want to understand--and that endless moment where it seemed Tom was looking straight into his eyes--

"Stable," he answered briefly, and drank his glass in one inelegant gulp. She took a drink as well, grimacing, but obviously it wasn't unfamiliar. Catching his gaze, she shrugged.

"Tom gave me a taste for it," she answered to his unspoken question. She took another drink, staring off at a space just to the left of his head, almost as if she was talking to someone else completely.

Maybe she was. He could even guess who. After all, he knew her pretty damned well.

"Sue, is something wrong?" he asked slowly, putting his empty glass on the coffee-table. He thought he could guess. Psychic too.

Harry firmly believed these things needed to be on his résumé the next time he was up for a promotion--whenever the hell that was.

"Maybe," she answered enigmatically. Then took another drink. "Had you and Tom started talking yet? Before--" she stopped, a breathless pause that neither wanted to fill in the blanks for. "Before."

Harry stiffened in the chair.

She still wasn't looking at him.

"We talk." He sounded defensive and knew it.

"After the holodeck incident," she answered curtly, a hand waving airily to dismiss his instinctive response. He wished she'd look at him. "Not the K'eya."

Harry shut his eyes. Was it written on his face?

"How did you know about that?" he whispered. When he opened his eyes, she was finally looking at him, something both bitter and satisfied in the clear blue gaze, something he wasn't sure he could define.

But he knew it hurt to see it there.

"He talked to me." As simple and as complex as that. "Being a primary co-conspirator to a mutiny--oh, I'm sorry, it wasn't a mutiny was it? Janeway cleared us of that in the Inquiry." The sarcasm was as unmistakable as it was biting. She shook her head. "Anyway, he needed to talk." She looked away then, sipping her wine. "And I was there."

And she was there. As simple, and as complex, as that.

"No. Not really." Harry, bartender, sidekick, amateur criminal--also a lot of other words that Tom had yelled at him in his quarters when Harry went there to explain. Though there wasn't much in the way of explanation that Harry Kim could make, really. Tom had seen it, seen Harry and B'Elanna's little release valve, a recording that Tom had doubtless thought destroyed. That he'd probably thought he'd destroyed himself, a final step in removing all traces of his actions, per the Captain's orders.

Of course, he hadn't known. Hadn't known about B'Elanna's hacking, Harry's guilt--well, he had known about that, never mind that part--hadn't known, hadn't realized, maybe hadn't cared--don't be unfair, Harry--to know how they were dealing, how they were reacting, too deep in stim withdrawal, too aloof--maybe not wanting to ask what brought them stability.

That bad luck, that brought him to the holodeck looking for B'Elanna. That bad luck, that they had started running it late and they were supposed to meet Tom for dinner, had turned their commbadges off, he couldn't find them. That fucking bad luck that every crewmember aboard Voyager knew all about, that Fortuna wasn't too kind to the good Starfleeters and Maquis. That bad luck, that he had walked in at that moment, to see that recording. Perhaps he'd even seen the expressions on their faces. He'd sure as hell had seen that three dimensional rendition of himself that he'd meticulously recorded for the trial he knew he should face as leader of a mutiny.

Two days later, he'd gone on that damned away mission.

Ten days later, he'd been returned in no condition to give anyone absolution.

And God, did Harry have a lot that needed forgiving.

When B'Elanna had first shown him that holodeck recording, he didn't remember any horror at what she suggested, only an odd sort of relief, that relief that comes when you're groping for a way to cope. A recording of Tom's interrogations of the K'eya infected crew for information he and the uninfected crew needed.

Interrogation. Tom called it torture. Harry couldn't disagree with that assessment. Though he did try. He really did.

"Sue--"

"You helped B'Elanna, didn't you?" Her expression was unreadable. But Harry wanted to confess to someone, and here she was, made to order, waiting for him to spill his guts in a metaphorical pile on the coffee table, just to the left of that empty glass.

"Yeah." A breathy whisper, and he couldn't look at her then.

"Good." His eyes came up as she took another drink from her glass. "I hope she finds them."

Harry nodded slowly.

"I hope she kills them. Every damned one of them."

God, he wished he could spout some Starfleet standard line here, about respecting life, about the Prime Directive, about--about what? When all he wanted in the world to make himself happy was see the Da'Oon that had done this to Tom, to the Captain--to see him, to smile his patented good-Ensign grin, and stick a phaser rifle in the bastard's mouth and pull the trigger.

"The Captain should have gone back," Sue whispered, and took a drink from her glass. Her hand shook. "She should have gone back, Harry." The rich blue eyes looked into his, and he could see what was in them, what she was fighting. Damp, dark, looking at him and not seeing him. "Voyager could get what he needs. We should have gone back."

"Yeah," he whispered.

"We should go back now," she said, even more softly, staring at her glass now, watching the contents. Then back up, the tears she didn't bother to hide trickling down her cheeks. Harry drew in a deep breath, knowing what she meant, knowing--knowing--

"Yeah," he said, trembling hands clasped between his knees, mouth dry, holding her eyes, feeling that exultation of doing something--of finally doing something. "We should."

* * * * *

B'Elanna opened her eyes abruptly, staring down at her console. She hadn't even realized it had happened again.

"What happened, Doctor?" Janeway's voice was distant, heard as if through shroud of cotton, muffled, indistinct.

She could feel, faintly, his body shaking in the aftermath, echoing her own trembling. Felt, also, his amusement in that brief moment he could think coherently, how fitting--

Funny, she didn't think Tom saw the difference.

One day ago, they had left the ship.

Three hours from now, they'd be at the planet. And she would find the bastard who had hurt him--make him fucking *beg* to tell her how to cure him. Make him wish for death more than Tom had, more than B'Elanna had--make him *hurt*.

A brief, bitter fight for control, barely won. She shook her head abruptly, then stilled.

Tom was waking up.

She wanted to try something. She checked the flight path again and rose, moving to the cabin, holding on to the feeling, that faint line she could barely sense, barely understand, only knew Tom was at the other end of. Finding the unused bunk, she sank down beside it, knees on the cold metal floor, aware of the gaze of the wary Da'Oon on her all the while.

Then forgot him. Dismissed everything outside what she was trying to do.

Slowly, she pressed her palms to her thighs, taking a long breath, as Tuvok had taught her during all those endless meditation exercises he'd made her do. Another one, then closed her eyes, finding that center Tuvok had showed her, the place she could go when her emotions got out of control, and she needed space to think things through.

A very Vulcan thing to do. She was surprised by the smile she felt turn her lips.

Not that she often utilized that space--but it helped.

Kahless knew, she'd never guessed those hours with him would become so useful..

She doubted it--from what Seven had explained to her, the link was extremely unstable and becoming more so. And Tom's mind--she controlled a burst of rage, tamping it down, not wanting him to feel it, not now, when he didn't need it. Only once had he woken with any coherence--though sometimes, like now, she could eavesdrop on what was going on at Voyager--quite a useful trick. If she could control it, if she understood even a little what she was doing--if she could have asked Chakotay how he and Riley had done this, how it had felt--

I'm sure Chakotay would have been thrilled. Her lips turned upward against her volition again, as she imagined his reaction when the Doctor had told him. Amusing.

Eyes closed, breathing evened, everything Tuvok had ever taught her, condensed into a single moment of pure, crystal-clear concentration.

She could feel him. Her hands unclenched at the feeling.

Somehow, that was enough.

He was tired, she could feel that. He wasn't sure what was going on--sign of shock. He lay on the biobed, trying to make sense of everything. Gently, B'Elanna reached out, feeling the cold of the sickbay on her skin. Not knowing how long this would last, needing to absorb every second.

She wished she could be sure he knew that. They hadn't explained anything to him about what she and Seven had done. Not yet, not in the state that he was in.

Slowly, she brushed her fingers against her cheek, letting her eyes fall naturally closed.

Another brush, the tips of her fingers across her forehead, down her face, brushing her lips. Down over her throat, then a slow sweep upward.

s if she were touching him.

He could feel it.

Her eyes closed, she could feel him here--that it was his hands that touched her so lightly, moving up to stroke her forehead ridges, as he did, tracing each one delicately with his thumbs.

"You have to listen to me," he said softly, though she didn't recognize the tone, and she felt the warmth of his breath against her ridges. She moved into it, breathing out slowly, feeling the his hand move down to her lips, tracing them lightly. Sharing a breath with her.

"I'm listening," she answered, feeling an arm go around her waist, so gently, pulling her up on her knees, against a warm body.

Against a warm body...

* * * * *

"Kathryn?"

Chakotay slid off the biobed, maybe to stop her, maybe just so the Doc would stop hovering over him like a mortally-injured child, but it was too late, she was too fast. Ayala was a breath behind her, but Janeway was already beside Tom, looking down into the wide blue eyes. Gently, she took one hand in hers. He sat up, unsteady, blinking, then his face turned toward the Captain's--but not quite.

"Tom, do you recognize me?" Janeway reached up, touching his face. He slid an arm around her waist, pulling her into contact with him, tilting his head down--clutching her.

Chakotay breathed out.

"Ayala," Chakotay whispered, but the lieutenant had already moved forward, standing inches away from the oblivious Captain, hand on his phaser. The Doctor, having a new situation to deal with, moved from Chakotay, medical tricorder buzzing, to the opposite side of Tom's biobed, already taking readings. The other security officers stepped closer, but Janeway lifted a hand, and the obedience she had trained in them took over before Chakotay could think to make an order. They stopped. He wanted to yell at them, order them to pull them apart.

Somewhere, in the back of his mind, he wondered if they'd even listen. This was Kathryn Janeway. Six years of conditioned obedience against this.

"Tom, who am I?" She hadn't moved, let him touch her face, tracing her eyes.

"I--I--" He shook his head, blinking. His respiration had increased, and he blinked, frowning, obviously searching for something in his own mind, trying to put together--what? His fingers shifted to her chin, closing tight on her jaw.

"Kathryn." His voice was low, hoarse. Sightless blue eyes unfocused. "What--"

"It's okay, Tom," she whispered, her hand covering his, stroking the long fingers gently. "Listen to me, Tom--"

"Doctor, what's wrong with him?" Chakotay moved a step closer, his side twitching with every motion.

The Doctor frowned at the tricorder.

"The link is active."

* * * * *

* * * * *

B'Elanna opened her eyes on Seven's face.

"Seven." She didn't move, didn't even breathe

The blue eyes didn't see her--not quite meeting her eyes, as if she didn't know where they were, as if--

She's blind. No, *he's* blind. B'Elanna didn't try to pull away, lifting her hands to Seven's cheeks gently, turning her head toward her face, seeing the blue eyes try to find a place to rest, following the sound of her voice.

"I won't leave you here alone, Kathryn."

B'Elanna drew in a breath, slowly.

"I know, Tom." She shifted her grip on Seven's face, wishing she knew the Vulcan nerve pinch--damn it, if Tuvok was going to train her to be a Vulcan, the least he could do was teach her something useful. "It's okay. You need to lie down." Vaguely, she wondered where the hell the inhibitor was--Seven had taken a dose two hours before--there was no way her resistance could have built that much--the dose would have to be increased. And B'Elanna was no medic, even if she did now have one running around in her head. She was reasonably certain even Tom's training hadn't covered the finer aspects of pharmaceuticals.

"Listen, Kathryn." Seven's voice was harsh, broken, as if it had been used often for something else entirely.

B'Elanna drew in a steadying breath.

"I'm listening Tom. I know you won't leave me."

"They'll keep fixing us--they can keep this up--they have the medical technology."

The blood froze in B'Elanna's veins, and she fought that anger within, that burned so hot she thought, sometimes, how easy it would be just to give in, to take it out on the Da'Oon sitting just across from them now, behind that forcefield. But she still might need him. She couldn't let go, not yet.

But Kahless, she wanted to. Wanted it so badly it hurt.

So she stroked the soft skin of Seven's temples with her thumbs, controlling the burst of anger that constantly threatened her equilibrium. The equilibrium she'd bought, that she needed to get them there--everything else she felt had to be secondary to that. Her anger. Her hatred.

That need to hurt someone.

"I know, Tom. It's okay." Carefully, she pressed Seven backward, onto the floor. "Lay still now." She followed the Borg to the floor, keeping the contact. "Listen--let me get you something." The hands on her face tightened, drawing her closer, blank blue eyes taking up all her vision--feeling in herself the same rise of Tom's memories--knowing that if she didn't stop this now, she'd end up like Seven, trapped in those memories.

"I don't want to be alone either," she whispered, and B'Elanna's throat closed over.

"I know--I won't leave you, I promise." Her eyesight was beginning to dim--she could hear Janeway's voice now--close to her ear, telling Tom--telling *her*--

She pulled away from Tom--*Seven*--to stumble to the replicator, telling it what she needed, grabbing the two hyposprays blindly--

"Stop it!" B'Elanna's knees found the floor, pushing the hypospray against her neck--hoping to Kahless the dosage was right, that she hadn't screwed up. Feeling the pressure against her throat, hearing the hiss that drowned out Kathryn's gentle voice--she knew the Captain was hurting, her leg must ache--her back burned, the room dark--knew--

And B'Elanna's eyes opened on the cool interior of the Delta Flyer cabin. She struggled to Seven, pressing the hypospray down on the Borg. Slowly, she collapsed beside her, eyes closing on the ghostly voices that slowly faded away, almost but not quite forgotten in the recesses of her memory.

* * * * *

Janeway held his hand even after the Doctor administered the hypospray, frowning as Tom was lowered back down onto the bed.

"Something's wrong," he said softly, and Chakotay heard him, even if the Captain didn't seem to. The medical tricorder was back out, and the Doctor's face was crumpled in concentration on the readings. Slowly, every step a twinge that seemed to dart down into his groin and up into his head, he made his way to the Doctor's side.

"Doctor?"

The brown eyes shot up, dark with worry.

"This link is not acting as I anticipated." The Doctor made a few more adjustments to the tricorder. "Nor is the virus, for that matter."

"In your office, Doctor." And because he was de facto Captain, because he'd adopted that cool mantle Janeway had worn since he met her, that authority and arrogance that came with the territory of a starship commander, his voice had the right inflection, his stance had the right pride, and the Doctor, first to call him what he now was, nodded and turned away. Samantha Wildman, coming on shift, received a brief nod from the Doctor to the patient, before both he and Chakotay were within the privacy of his office.

"What's the problem?" The door close softly behind him.

The Doctor frowned as he took his seat, pulling up results on his station without a glance at Chakotay as he seated himself across the desk.

"When I used the analogy to your link with Riley, I might have been mistaken," he answered, eyes fixed on the screen as information scrolled by at a furious rate.

"Which means?" Chakotay hated the circular approach to conversation.

"Something else is happening."

And just at that instant, Chakotay wondered whether it was feasible to choke a hologram.

"*What*?"

"The link is reacting to Tom's memories." The Doctor turned abruptly, meeting Chakotay's eyes. "According to your own report on the effects, the link you shared with the Cooperative and Riley was a direct link to your conscious mind--you could hear the thoughts of Riley and of the Collective."

Memories, long buried, bursting above the surface of his disciplined mind--the feel of warm skin and the look of smiling eyes--the echoes of touches in them both, that precious remnant of the Borg interface. I can't pretend I don't know why B'Elanna did what she did. I do.

"Yes," he answered softly.

"Tom has only once awoken with any sense of where he was and what happened. Why, I don't know--but he's reacting from memories, not the present."

"You mean that the link is not acting Borg." Get to the point.

The Doctor shook his head sharply.

"I mean, that he didn't feel Lieutenant Torres and Seven when he came conscious--the link activated only when he began to suffer a regression into his experiences in Da'Oon custody--and it became hyperactive then. The episodes are coming with what seems random--but I no longer think it is. I am beginning to wonder--"

:::Tuvok to Commander Chakotay.:::

Chakotay touched his commbadge, eyes fixed on the Doctor.

"What is it, Tuvok?" And this better be fucking important.

:::An unidentified ship is approaching, heading 127 mark 34. According to sensors, it carries the warp signature of a Da'Oon cruiser."

Chakotay got to his feet, ignoring the twinge in his side.

"I'll be right there. Chakotay out."

* * * * *

"On screen," Chakotay ordered coolly as he came on the Bridge. The ship was small, not very much to look at.

So this is the Da'Oon. He remembered Tom's report on them, culled from the K'eya. He thought of Janeway's succinct report of her and Tom's captivity. He'd been expecting something different.

Maybe something large and dark and cold. Something that proclaimed to everyone who saw it that they were killers, monsters--and Chakotay shook away the thoughts, forcing his eyes to roam the room with ease, taking in the expressions--Harry's narrowed eyes, Baytart's tense shoulders, Tuvok's impassive face, Carey's tension.

He could feel the hate as if it breathed with them in that room.

"They're hailing us, Commander," Harry told him. He glanced back, seeing the younger man, obviously tired, uniform uncharacteristically untidy, as if he'd thrown it on seconds before leaving his quarters.

"Let's hear it." Harry nodded shortly, fingers pressing in the command.

The Bridge crew was silent.

Chakotay blinked, glancing at Tuvok. Then over to Harry.

"Open channel." He paused, trying to think of a way to frame what he wanted to say. Not to make it confrontational, not to attack, though part of him wanted to, part of him wanted to yell to Tuvok to open fire and phaser their asses into oblivion. "This is Commander Chakotay, of the Federation Starship Voyager. What is it you require?"

A pause. Then...