Guilty as Charged: I have all but given up on publishing my stories to this site. I just... ugh. I get around to it eventually, but if you want to read my stuff as it comes out, visit my page on AO3.

Official Business: This story is my entry for Gamma Group, Third Round of the JC Cutthroat Fiction Competition. Due April 28, 2018. The prompt was: "Your fic must be based around the temporal prime directive." It was originally published to AO3. Kindly visit all the other competitor stories on AO3 under "Cutthroat Fiction".

Thank Yous: A huge thank you to my beta, Klugtiger. If she'd have charged me by the comma (or by the hour) she'd be rich (seriously, that gal is awesome). Also thanks to the folks that bounced ideas with me along the way and pre-read (LittleObsessions, Killermanatee, Seren and everyone else) I owe you big!
As always, grateful to Talsi74656 for running this wicked competition.

Author's Note: This story is for MiaCooper. I originally started writing it to a challenge that she gave me, but then got stuck. Talsi's competition saved this story from the trash bin. Hope you like it, Mia.

Tags: Temporal Prime Directive, Unreliable Narrator, Epistolary, Major Character Deaths under Temporal Circumstances, Lower Decks

So many versions of just one memory, and yet none of them were right or wrong.
Instead, they were all pieces.
Only when fitted together, edge to edge, could they even begin to tell the whole story.
-Sarah Dessen, Just Listen

Prologue

Of the three on board, he is the most relaxed.

For the entirety of the journey, he has been sitting in the rear of the small craft, reading and meditating, content to stay quiet and alone. Conversation in the front compartment rouses him now, and he peers forward, stretches his limbs, and stands.

The youngest of the three, dressed in blue, is anxious. Since having left the planet several hours ago, he has been pacing back and forth, back and forth, mumbling to himself. One would bet that his thoughts are tumultuous, perturbed, laced with niggling fear.

The individual at the controls also appears nervous, but in a different way. He seems… excited. Charged, perhaps, by the duty of piloting. Much of his conversation has been focused on a certain person, or two, for whom he cares a great deal.

But the one in the back, he is at ease. "Mr. Telfer," he calls, moving forward. "How are you holding up?"

"I'm, um. I'm fine. Thank you, Sir."

"Have a nice nap, Chakotay?" the pilot asks.

Sir simply chuckles as he slides into the adjacent seat and activates his console.

"How much longer?" presses the anxious one.

"What's the matter, Billy? Not having fun with us?" teases the pilot.

"It's too small in here," the one called Telfer, or Billy, says. "I'll be glad when we're back onboard Voyager." Telfer-or-Billy has finally taken a seat but his foot is bobbing and twitching, he's tapping his fingers on the console. His constant motion and mumbling prompts Sir to turn.

"Well then, it's a good thing we're home."

Through the viewport a large vessel comes into sight. Telfer-or-Billy exhales and finally stops moving.

"Paris to Voyager , request permission to dock," says the pilot into the air.

Sir scratches the back of his neck, just below the hairline. "A sight for sore eyes," he says, but what he means is that there are people on board he cares about. They are his family, and there is one individual specifically whom he has missed more than any of the others.

Her face is vivid in his mind.

A disembodied voice beckons them to approach. The large vessel now takes up the entire viewscreen.

This Voyager is beautiful indeed. Sleek. Refined.

Powerful.

If the ship is indicative of the crew it keeps, then we will do well here.

We will do very well indeed.