When it rains, do you run from doorway to doorway trying to stay dry, getting wet all the while. Or do you just accept the fact that it's raining, and walk with dignity
Fire and smoke fill your bleeding vessel.
"Gaul." The alien leader storms into the smoky cargo bay and you try to lift your bashed-in head to look at him. "You don't have to do this."
You even think you still sound somewhat human, after eating nothing but smoke, blood, and desperation for an hour. Trying to remember where in that time you lost your phaser rifle is making your head scream in sharp agony.
"Lost your taste for plasma bombs, Captain?" a familiar voice taunts from behind you.
You've lost your taste for everything. Victory. Getting home. Life. Everything except, "Let my people-"
The Kazon have nothing on the Vaadwaur. The latter's blows make your teeth rattle inside of your skull. It's not the first time they've struck you. In the hour it took to lose complete control of your ship to these evil beings, you've also lost half your people and control of the self-destruct.
The fighting has been brutal; worse than with the Hirogen. You hate to break it to them, but the Vaadwaur are by far the more efficient hunters.
You barely feel your left arm; the tendons of your shoulder feel shattered beyond repair. Your right arm can't support your weight when you try to push up on it; you can't stop them from dragging you into the middle of your scorched cargo bay, where the remainder of your broken crew lies, half-dead and wounded.
But they're not blind, and that's the point. That's the hideous, cowardly point. A series of blows rock your failing body, and you feel hot ripping pain in your abdomen before hearing a crunch in your right elbow followed by excruciating pain and then…less, surprisingly. A new kick below your hips makes you lose your breath because it's perfectly placed to do so.
It's Gedrin's familiar, blurry face that leans over you when the physical blows finally stop and you try to inhale breath again.
"I tried to warn you."
Gaul, the leader, is there, shoving him and others aside. Your scraped chin smacks grating when he flips you over like a child's toy and with the resounding ring of a concussed head being struck yet again, you drift out of consciousness.
You wish it were longer because when you realize what's happening again, you can't see your crew but you know they can see you. You know they see what the Vaadwaur leader is resorting to now because you can hear their screams and the scuffle of the other soldiers restraining them.
His arm around your neck is unnecessary. With two broken arms you couldn't crawl away if you tried. Then the searing pain across your right ulna and left shoulder tells you that you have tried, that you are, in fact, trying. The pins and needles in the right side probably don't mean anything good but you focus on that and not on what's happening behind you, on top of you.
The crew that can move are raising hell. Even through tear and blood-blurred vision you can see that.
"Take your hands off her!"
"Bloody cowards. Come take someone who can still fight back, you sons of bitches!"
Fitzpatrick is positively apoplectic. You can't hear Chakotay. Then you remember why.
He already tried to stop this once. You don't know if he will ever rise again.
"Stand. Down." You try to shout it, but what comes out is barely a rasp and it stops nothing of the chaos surrounding you.
You barely see Tom, unconscious near B'Elanna, likewise, her ridges still oozing red blood. Where's Neelix? Seven? Jarvis? You can't account for them. You can hardly see anything. Why can't you see them? There's thick, stinging liquid in your eyes. Blood. That's right. You can't raise your hand, either hand, to wipe it away.
"Maybe you should have thought twice about denying my request for weapons, Captain. Maybe then I would have given you all clean deaths and spared your dignity."
Maybe. But you somehow doubt it. You wonder if his wife was a creature of reason, of compassion, and if he misses her.
He wants you to scream and you won't do it. Not even if-
God, you hope Naomi isn't seeing this. Please God, let her be hidden somewhere safe, not watching this. You don't want her to see them cut your throat when he's done. You can't imagine that they won't.
"Don't. Kill them," you plead while your body rocks in obscene agony against an enemy you never wanted and shouldn't have.
Because he can't. That isn't what you do. That's not what happens to the Voyagers. It's not what happens to your crew.
"We'll see what reasons I find to keep you all alive," the leader grunts in your bruised ear.
Weapons fire strikes a console nearby, showering electric sparks down upon you, and try as you might, you could do nothing to find shelter or avoid their sharp landings, even if you were so inclined. Still, you do not cry out. And you sure as hell won't scream.
But you really should have brought an umbrella.