"Computer, end program."
It was supposed to be a standard night on the holodeck for Reginald Barclay. He'd put in a long day's work, but was frustrated to see the generated graphics appear spotty, washed-out—faded. "Another job for the morning," he thought to himself wistfully as he sauntered back to his quarters, mind full, face blank.
As his eyes began to close, Barclay felt an anxiousness—more than usual, this time, he thought—settle in. Wiping his eyes, he tried to think clearly. No, see clearly. Everything was so blurry. Colors were becoming greyscale. Distances were hard to judge. Was he still in the malfunctioning holodeck? Shapes faded away. Was this some cruel joke being played on him by the senior officers? "I'll bet this is something Geordi's rigged up." No—no, not even Geordi could manage to create this vanishing world of shapeless grey: an eerily endless landscape of nothing. It was as though he had been caught in the transporter again, but for some reason, it did not make him scared. There was something quaint—something familiar—about this emptiness. Breathing deeply, he listened.
At first, there was nothing. But then, a clash. It sounded like swords hitting and falling to the ground. Then new noises. Was that English? No—the translator must be down here. It sounded almost like chanting—an English prototype from centuries before the Federation had made contact with Earth. Then a woman's voice ringing clear: "Shoot, if I don't head out now, I'll never make it to spec fic in time! And is there—oh, of course there's traffic on Genesee! Come on!" Barclay braced himself and looked around—could this woman see him? Where was she? What does she look like? What is a Genesee?
Then, just for a second, Barclay saw flashes of memories past: his first step on the Enterprise. His first encounter with Geordi and the Captain. Does he really talk that quickly? "Wait, why can I see myself talking?" Barclay watched in disconnected fragments as Deanna Troi muttered quietly to Commander Riker after he had left her office. He watched himself struggle to fit in, but saw in himself the capacity to hold a situation together. His metacognitive awareness was brought to a crashing halt as images of big, brick buildings were brought to light. A big, domed building stood tall at the center of his vision. An academy? No, no one seemed to be in uniform. A place of higher learning, though—absolutely. Just like at Star Fleet, young minds were at work here. "I wonder how many excuses about unfinished papers I'll get today," the woman's voice said ominously. Apparently, wherever and whenever Barclay was, there were some things that remained the same from what he knew as home.
Visions of an intimate classroom appeared. Creative faces lined the desks; images lined the walls. Had he not known better, Barclay swore he saw the likenesses of Picard, Riker, and Dr. Crusher on the wall too, alongside faces from times long forgotten. As unintelligible mutterings surrounded him like static, Barclay's vision began to blur once more. As this strange world faded away, he saw faces of strangers dancing around where desks once were—faces not yet complete, but with stories bound to be told in due time.