"I'm nothing like her, Michael. She's terrifying, she's...she's like a twisted version of everything I've ever aspired to be. I'm gonna have nightmares about myself now."

Cadet Sylvia Tilly, USS Discovery, 2256

Captain Killy

She had a ready room.

There were various perks of being a ship commander, and various perks of operating on a Miranda -class starship. Other perks included a full payload of photon torpedoes, phaser banks, shielding and plating. Basically, all matter of things keeping the klingons off her ship, while also making sure that klingons didn't stay on their ships either. As in, making them go soaring through space while their bodies succumbed to vacuum, provided that they hadn't succumbed to fire. The mandate of Starfleet was to find new life and civilizations. What Starfleet didn't advertise as much was that it had the capability to end entire civilizations in the blink of an eye.

Such power, made useless by one civilization, she reflected Sitting in her ready room, looking at a glass of water, Captain Sylvia Tilly, USS Meredith, wasn't sure how she felt about that. She was sure that the heating systems were off (despite the protestations of her chief engineer), and was also sure that water was the best thing to drink right now, and…actually, that was the end of what she was sure of. Right now, neither the Federation nor Klingon Empire could be very sure of anything except that their war had been brought to an end by an even more powerful faction.

"Captain, incoming message from the Hydra."

She straightened her uniform. "Put it through."

She got to her feet before the hologram finished appearing. She tried to ready herself, but-

"Captain Tilly."

"Michael! Great, you're okay!"

…but the words came out faster than a ship going at warp 9.

"I mean, I knew you'd be okay, because you're always okay. I mean, most of our ships are okay, so maybe I shouldn't have been worried that you wouldn't be okay, but hey, you're okay, and I'm okay, and the Federation's okay, and…"

Scratch that, warp 10.

"But hey, we're all okay," she said, finally slowing down. "So…okay?"

"Um…yes," Michael said. "Okay?"

"Okay."

A silence lingered in the ready room. Tilly strengthened her uniform again – a bright yellow in a room with far too much red. Starfleet had changed over the last few years, including the colour schemes of its starships. She could only be glad that she wasn't wearing red, because those people tended to die a lot. If Michael Burnham, Captain of the USS Hydra had any of those concerns, she didn't show it. Ten years on, and her friend (was she a friend? She hoped she was a friend. You could never have too many friends.) was much the same as she always was. Quiet. Reserved. Logical. Only thing that really had changed about Michael Burnham was that she no longer carried the stigma of being a mutineer. Maybe because of the role she and the rest of Discovery had played in ending the war ten years ago, maybe because as Starfleet ever pushed back the frontier, the boys and girls at San Francisco were inclined to give a bit more leeway. That their ships were close enough for real-time communication was very much an exception to the rule nowadays.

"So," Michael said. "How's things?"

"Oh. Yeah. Okay."

That word again. She opened and closed her mouth numerous times, but no words came out. There was so much she wanted to say. She could speak to her crew of course, but they wouldn't understand, not to mention that if she did speak to them, she'd be leaking classified information about an alternate universe, and the fate of Philippa Georgiou in the process. She didn't really get why the first part of that info was such an issue, but she hadn't finally managed to get into the captain's chair by questioning orders. Rather, she'd given them.

"Well," Michael said. "It's good to see you're okay, but-"

"Was it worth it?" Tilly blurted out.

There was the rub, and also the words. The dam had come down, and the river flowed.

"Pardon?" Michael asked.

"Was it worth it?" Tilly asked, rubbing her hands together as she began to walk back and forth. "I mean, what, we spend a year fighting the klingons, saving the Federation, losing tens of thousands of people in the process, and, what, we're back at war with them again?"

"Were at war," Michael said. "The Treaty of Organia-"

"I know, I know!" she exclaimed. "Aliens, or gods, or whatever, cripple every ship in both the Federation and klingon fleets, and, yeah, that was kinda freaky for me. Especially with the whole 'don't touch the control panel or you'll get zapped' thing."

"Think it was creepy for all of us."

"So, like, we're only at peace while a bunch of aliens make it the case?" Tilly asked, walking faster, and rubbing her hands so much that she was actually starting to feel warm. "I mean, what does that say about us? That we can't go ten years without falling into war again?"

"Given that this is the klingons, and they were the aggressors?" Michael asked. "Pretty good."

Tilly stopped walking, talking, and rubbing her hands. Of course you'd say that.

She didn't resent Michael for it. She understood. Klingons had taken her parents. Taken her captain. Klingons had been the enemy ten years ago, had been the enemy again three years ago, were the enemy now, and despite what the organians had said before the treaty was signed, she could hardly believe that the Federation and klingons would ever be allies. It was a nice thought, but nice thoughts didn't keep the wheels of civilization turning. And yet…

"Does it bother you?" Tilly asked. "That we got, like, this close to shooting at each other?"

Michael raised an eyebrow, as only a vulcan (or someone raised by vulcans) could. "Shooting at each other? Think we've been doing that for the last few years."

"Yeah, but, like, really shooting," Tilly said. She felt the urge to rub her hands together again, but this time just put them in her pockets. "And, like, it's great that we're not, but part of me also wishes that we were, that I could actually command, and…and…"

"Tilly?"

"Is this me?!" she blurted out. "Am I someone who regrets not being able to see action? Am I…am I like her?!"

"Her?"

"Captain Killy!" she blurted out. "The Slayer of Sorna Prime! The Witch of Wurna Minor!"

"Tilly, I don't know who-"

"My mirror counterpart!"

"Oh," Michael said, cracking a smile. "Her."

"Yes, her!" Tilly threw up her hands, unable to believe that Michael had forgotten all that stuff, or that she was smiling of all things. "I mean, what if I do what she did? What if, like, this is just the start? That I lose it, or go on a klingon killing spree, or-"

"Tilly, do you want a war?"

She stopped talking, barely able to comprehend the question. But given the look in Michael's eyes, her friend was being very serious.

"A war?" she asked.

"A war," Michael said. "Do you want the treaty to be overturned? Do you actually want to go to war with the klingons?"

"Well, no," she said. "I mean, that would be terrible. For everyone. The Federation, the Empire, everyone in-between…"

"And did you get to be captain of the Meredith by killing your former commander?"

"What? No!" Tilly exclaimed. "I got it because Captain Thrawn retired. I mean, might have helped I was on Discovery back in the day, since that ship still has a lot of clout, and-"

"And have you gone on any killing sprees of non-humans lately?"

"Um, no?"

"Then congratulations, you're nothing like your mirror universe counterpart." Michael smiled. "Take a break Tilly. I think we've all earned it."

"But Michael, I-"

The hologram cut out, leaving Tilly alone in her ready room. Alone, with Michael's words buzzing in her ears, and the faint hum of the Meredith trying to lull her into sweet certainty. She sighed, sat down in her chair, and looked at the water in her glass.

Certainty. God damn it, she'd said that "Captain Killy" would give her nightmares all those years ago, and ten years on, she was right. Despite what Michael said, despite what the sane part of her mind said, despite what every bone in her body said, she couldn't help but wonder if she'd one day wear a golden uniform of a very different kind – the one that had copious amounts of cleavage (God that universe was weird) and medals from conquests, rather than successful star charting. The Miranda-class was mostly used for scientific reasons, but in the war that had nearly been averted, every ship had been called up to the front.

Sighing, she took a sip of the water. Sighing again, she laid back in her chair and rubbed her eyes.

Note to self – make it saurian brandy next time.

Or heck, even romulan ale.

She needed the help sleeping after all.