Author: Lyra Archive: PTC and Destiny. Anywhere else, please ask. Disclaimer: A long, long time ago, in a galaxy not so far away…one man changed the face of television as we know it with two simple words. Star Trek. Today we are enjoying the spawn of his genius. Remember, Star Trek: Voyager is not, I repeat not mine. Everything about it belongs to Paramount and I am not getting paid for this. Summary: A short "Unimatrix Zero" coda that takes place immediately after the Delta Flyer is destroyed and Voyager pulls away from the Borg cube. Feedback: Please please please send me feedback! I need feedback. E-Mail me with feedback. Aftermath It hurts. I really want to get away from the helm and go back to my quarters to lie down. But I can’t. If I ask Chakotay to be relieved, he’ll ask why. I can’t tell him it hurts, because then he’ll have the Doctor scan me. The Doc, competent hologram that he is, won’t be able to find a thing wrong with me. So I can’t leave the helm, even though the pain is killing me. I feel a hand on my shoulder and turn to see Ensign Bayhart standing behind me. Chakotay nods, telling me to get off the bridge. I give him a grateful nod; he knows what I’m thinking and understands, but he also expects me back on the bridge for any unexpected developments. I’m all right with that; I’d do nothing less. Fighting the pain, I make my way to the turbolift, then to my quarters. As soon as the door slides shut behind me, I rip the two pips from my collar. Why didn’t I do it? I could have done something, anything to stop the mission, or at least stop B’Elanna from going. I told her I could’ve rigged the Flyer, that losing my promotion would be a small price to pay if it would keep her safe, but for some reason I didn’t. Who gave a damn about my pips anyway? I’d gladly take on the rank of crewman or even official observer if it would have ensured B’Elanna’s safety. I toss my jacket and turtleneck over a chair before heading over to my bed. I thought that lying down might have eased the pain, but I was wrong. It hurts even more now. There’s no helm or navigational data to distract me. Wonderful, I even find B’Elanna’s discarded nightgown tangled in my sheets. Suddenly I can feel the tears welling up in my eyes. No matter how often the Doctor, Chakotay, and even Captain Janeway herself reassure me that everything will be alright, I can’t help thinking what if it’s not that simple. Lying alone in my bed, with B’Elanna’s favorite emerald silk nightgown carefully extracted from the heap of sheets, it hurts even more than when I was on the bridge. The pain is in my stomach, clutching relentlessly, and in my heart, its viselike grip sometimes making it hard to breathe. If this keeps up I really ought to try and get something for the pain from Sickbay. But that would involve talking to the Doctor, who would insist that there was nothing physically wrong with me and that it’s all psychological. I think I’ll just lie here and worry. I feel so guilty, like I’ve failed somehow. I shouldn’t have let B’Elanna go on that insane kamikaze mission. I know I should have some faith, but I can’t. I can’t help wondering why I didn’t fight her harder about going. She’s been assimilated. Their fading life signs had attested to that fact. My beautiful, fiery B’Elanna reduced to a drone, Drone God Only Knows of Hundreds of Billions, slaving away on some damned cube in Tertiary Adjunct of Unimatrix What the Hell have we Done. I’m so afraid of losing her. Doc assured everyone that he will be able to extract their Borg implants once they’ve returned, but what if we can’t get them back? I don’t think I could live with the knowledge that I hadn’t stopped her, that because of me she’d be a drone forever. And if we do, by some God given miracle, get them back, how can we guarantee that the B’Elanna we get back is the one I love? I can’t imagine what the Hive Mind is like, and what if B’Elanna doesn’t come back the way I remember her? There are so many ‘what ifs’. I should never have let her go. God, it hurts. I roll over onto my stomach and bury my face in the pillow. Her scent’s still there, freesia or lavender or some flower, and plasma coolant. I inhale deeply, filling my lungs with the scent, pretending she’s still here, having just gotten up to go to the bathroom, instead of walking around on some damned Borg cube. It almost works. For a nanosecond I convinced myself, but that nanosecond’s gone before I realize it. My door chime sounds. God, I really don’t want company right now. The last thing I need is the Doctor coming to make a house call just to reassure me I’m just suffering from anxiety and an overactive imagination. Whoever my visitor is, I hope he or she goes away really soon. Damn, it’s Harry. I should have remembered to lock the door when I first came in. I don’t look up from my pillow; I don’t want to talk to Harry right now. But I do tilt my head and sneak a peek at what he’s doing. He’s sitting in the chair near my bed and waiting for me to acknowledge his existence. While he’s patiently waiting his little naïve heart out, Harry’s eyes land on… something. As he flushes bright red, I realize he just saw B’Elanna’s green nightgown. What did he think B’Elanna and I do? Sit around discussing Vulcan literature? I mean, we do discuss a lot of things but talking isn’t everything. He finally realizes I’m not going to talk to him anytime soon and stands up, offering the standard "Don’t worry, Tom, Captain Janeway knows what she’s doing" line as he left. I mutter something incomprehensible into my pillow and wait for the telltale whoosh of the doors to confirm his departure before taking my face out of the pillow. I wish I trusted people like Harry did, but I’m too jaded and cynical. I just hope B’Elanna’s all right and that we’re going to be able to get her back in time. I hope I didn’t do the wrong thing letting her go. Damn, it still hurts. FINIS     * * * Okay, now write to me about how stupid you thought this story was. Tell me about every spelling mistake I made and how many of the "Ten Commandments of FanFiction" I violated. Write to me about how you thought my characterization of Tom Paris was off-center and how this piece of writing should never have been brought into existence… Have you done it yet? Hahahah! I tricked you into sending me feedback!