Author's note: This is something that's been in the back of my mind for ages; a "what-if" scenario and/or alternate scene for Affliction/Divergence. This story is a one-shot, and the usual disclaimers apply: not for profit, characters are not mine, etc.
If you're not a fan of deathfic then you might want to stop reading now...
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The human brain, in times of crisis, is said to react in one of two ways. In some cases events seem to speed up, theoretically to spare the person the trauma of clearly remembering the sequence of events or perhaps to allow instinct to guide their actions. Put a person in a situation where a split-second decision is needed and give them too much time to overthink their options and they'll more often than not muddle things up quite grandly.
Sometimes, though, the brain marvelously, miraculously manipulates the person's perception so that everything around them seems to move in slow motion. The theory behind that splendid quirk is that it buys a person's body time to react to events. Witnesses to the event will attest to the speed with which it happened while the person smack in the middle of things will marvel at how they saw things in almost a frame-by-frame slow-motion style. Both will be right.
For myself, it's almost always been the latter. Not always, certainly—lord knows I've been in plenty of spots where things were moving at the speed of light—but for the most part, my brain seems to be one of the ones willing to buy me a few extra milliseconds of reaction time by slowing the playback to a crawl.
Not that it's happening right this instant. Watching Trip cautiously inch along the tenuous thread between Columbia and Enterprise isn't a matter of manipulated perception—it's taking bloody forever for him to cross the chasm between us. As the sound of my own breathing fills my helmet, deafeningly loud, my brain has all too much time to contemplate far too many 'what-ifs' for my liking. A slight variation in speed by one ship or the other could snap the line, or the sheer stress it's under could do the very same. Or he could lose his grip. Or the Klingons' handiwork could reach its climax and the ship could blow apart, taking Columbia with it. Or—
Have to stop that. Hard enough to keep a level head with everything else that's happened, and is happening—let's not complicate matters further by distracting ourselves with those kind of thoughts. So I concentrate on his slow-moving form, trying by sheer mental power to silently will him to get a bloody move-on. I offer words of encouragement in an attempt to quell my own fear as well as his own; it seems to help speed him along a bit. I try to ignore the ominous groaning of the cable and stressed metal as it protests the task put to it until finally a sound comes that cannot be ignored—a gut-wrenching sound that makes me look up, even though I already know what I'll see. The cable isn't giving way, but the housing is slowly being torn away from the ship. In a few more seconds it'll fly free from its mooring, taking out anything and everything in its path. Including Trip.
I urge him on again, letting him know we're out of time without actually saying we're out of time. He's got to be scared enough as it is...telling him flat-out that he's about to be swept out into space won't help settle his nerves. Part of me ignores the further groaning of the stressed equipment while another part focuses intently upon it, as though I can gauge exactly when it will tear loose just by the sound.
His hand is in mine now, and I'm hauling him up. Just as he's gaining a foothold the part of my brain listening to the housing's death throes hears what it's been waiting for, and everything slows to a crawl. I look up, see it coming away by millimeters, and know what I have to do. The ship needs Trip, and he's full in the flight path of the housing. Have to get him clear of the now-airborne housing and flying shrapnel that was once part of the ship, and the cable that could ensnare and drag him back out amongst the stars. I pivot, giving him an unceremonious shove away from the danger zone. Ideally, momentum would carry me clear as well.
No plan is perfect, and besides, why should things improve for me now? My brain decides suddenly that it would be best to speed things up now. The impact is not painful at first but it knocks the wind out of me, takes me off my feet, and I feel myself thrown through the air. On the plus side, the next thing I see isn't a starfield flying past me, which I take to mean I've landed on the deck plating instead of being tossed out of the ship. That's got to be a good thing, right? I mean, being torn asunder by the merged warp field of the ships would be a rather unpleasant way to go. Fast, certainly, but a tad too gruesome for my tastes.
Playback speed is back to normal, more or less, and Trip is rushing toward me as quickly as an EV suit will allow one to rush. He's crouching alongside me, saying something, but I can't hear him. I reason that the comm unit in my suit was damaged either by the impact of the housing or by my impact with whatever part of the ship I've come to rest on. I can hear hissing, like a dozen irate snakes roused from their nest, and can see Trip's panicked face staring down at me. I wish I could hear him, or that he could hear me. I want to welcome him home, even want to confess to him what I've done to the Captain and the ship. Lightheaded, I try to reach for my helmet—if I open my faceplate he'll be able to hear me, and I feel a sudden instinctive urgency in the matter. I have to tell him, have to seek absolution from him. Right now he's the only person on the whole bloody ship that doesn't hate the very sight of me. But my hands refuse to obey, fumbling clumsily until Trip gently takes hold of them and brings them to rest at my sides.
Medics appear from nowhere and I realize that I'm in rather more trouble than I first thought, even though the only thing that really seems to hurt is the effort to breathe. Trip's helping get the cursed helmet off now, so at last I can talk to him...but words won't come, only gasps and coughs, and there's a wretched taste in my mouth. It takes a moment for me to realize it's the taste of my own blood. The medics hoist me onto a gurney and at last the pain begins first to seep in then wash over me in unrelenting waves. I'm fairly certain that everything inside me is broken. Absurdly, I wish that Phlox was here. Of course, if he were here I wouldn't be on this gurney. Then it hits home and I realize that in a short time, likely a very short time, I won't be here, either.
They're rushing me down the corridor. The pain increases with every step but for good or ill I can't scream out. Hell, I can barely manage a moan. Breathing has become an outright chore—from the feel of things my lungs are filling with blood. The irony of drowning light-years away from the nearest ocean isn't lost on me. Trip's nowhere in sight and I almost panic, then I realize that, of course, he's had to go to Engineering. I tried to do my job and now he's doing his. I relax as much as the pain will allow—if Trip's in Engineering everything will be fine. The ship will be safe, and they'll find Phlox, and all will be right with the world.
As we reach the doors to Sickbay Captain Archer's face fills my field of vision. Please god, no...I don't want him to see me like this. I don't deserve his concern, his compassion, but there it is, written on his face as though scrawled there with a broad-point indelible marker. Good lord, I betrayed his ship and crew, betrayed his trust and attempts at friendship, yet still he cares. There is so much I should say to him yet words could never suffice. He was right...I betrayed everything the uniform stands for. He will—he should—hate me forever. They all should. Despite the blood, despite the pain, despite the futility, I force the words out just before the darkness envelopes me.
"I've failed you, sir."