Warning - this scene contains references to a rape. Nothing graphic, but things are about to become even worse for Our Heroines.

oOo

Deanna Troi groaned softly as she finally regained consciousness--again. She tried not to move for the first moments of awareness; her body was in enough pain already, without her adding fuel to the fire. She felt as if her face had been slammed into a bulkhead. Which, of course, it had. And as if she had received a terrific shock to her entire nervous system. Which, she remembered as she finally rolled over from her stomach to her back, was exactly what had happened. First a shock on the planet surface, then invasion by the alien consciousness. Then another shock as that same consciousness left her, digging viciously into her mind as he did so, sending her into an even deeper unconsciousness bordering on coma.

Then, of course, the same alien--he "felt" the same--had come back, this time in Captain Picard's body. She'd attempted to escape the minute the doors opened, and had gotten in one good blow before he slammed her face into the bulkhead and she lost consciousness yet again. Concussion, she decided dizzily, was very likely.

She opened a cautious eye, this time suppressing a groan as the light seemed to stab into her very brain. She dug her elbows into the floor, raising herself slightly, trying to ignore the shattering pain that small movement caused as she continued to lever herself into a sitting position. Once that had been achieved, she closed her eyes again and leaned heavily against the wall. Her head was still throbbing, making thinking difficult.

After a minute, the pain ebbed and she tentatively reached out with her mind, trying to sense whoever waited beyond the walls of the captain's ready room.

Triumph and excitement, dizzying in their intensity, were the first emotions she sensed. They almost overwhelmed her in her weakened state, but the counselor held onto her control, delicately picking her way through the mental fireworks, trying to sense if there were anything a little less...exuberant.

Fear. It stabbed into her mind suddenly; most--but not all of it--radiating further away than the bridge. More than one person, terrified but defiant. One island of cool calmness in the farther group, so pure it could only be Vulcan in origin. Dr. Selar, at least, was still alive.

She assessed those sensations only briefly as the more overpowering emotions, the triumph and excitement, liberally mixed with drunken elation and the darker emotions of hatred and lust, threatened once again to overwhelm her.

Troi pulled her senses back to herself, shaking with the effort. So many conflicting emotions, but easily categorized to separate the two parties now on board the Enterprise: captors and captives. But far fewer in number than she'd expected; Troi felt a thrill of fear stab through her as she wondered where the rest of the people were. Surely they hadn't all been slaughtered--! But no. The prisoners were outraged, frightened, angry and defiant, but they weren't filled with the kind of numbed shock and grief she'd come to associate with large-scale loss of life. A minor blessing, that; she deduced that they must have been put off the ship, onto some planet or other.

If that were the case, it could be construed as a good sign. Although the alien who had occupied her mind obviously wasn't averse to using violence to achieve his goals, he hadn't slaughtered the crew and families of the Enterprise. Now, if there were only some way she could use that element of mercy to her advantage...

Someone was coming. She felt emotions directed toward herself, and instinctively shrank away from their intensity, although the person was still outside the door. Then a twin burst of fear from more than one nearby source that almost overwhelmed the arrogance and contempt she felt from just outside the door. Apparently Captain Picard--and he was still there, she was sure of it, boxed in and helpless the way she had been at the beginning--and his incorporeal "guest" were coming to pay her another visit.

Troi knew one thing: she had no intention of facing her captor crouched against the far wall like a frightened animal. Slowly, painfully, she rose to her feet, head held high. It would take only one good breath to knock her over, she realized wryly, but she would make a good showing for herself for as long as possible. He would not find her cowed.

The door slid open. Troi tensed, feeling her already rapid heartbeat almost double itself. But her face remained serene, slightly aloof. The massive bruise she knew to be decorating a large portion of her features did nothing to alter the image she projected as Captain Picard stepped into the room.

Narve smiled as he regarded Deanna Troi. She was still defiant; it was obvious to him that her will alone kept her on her feet. Head held proudly, only slightly leaning against the wall to betray her true weakness, she was a sight to behold.

Or, he thought with a touch of humor as he allowed the door to shut--and lock--behind him, a sight to be held, as Larsch would say. He deliberately opened his thoughts to Picard. What do you think about that? he silently asked his unwilling host, his thoughts ringing with mockery. It amused him to taunt the helpless captive, and he ignored Picard's demands for release, relishing the horror and outrage emanating from the small corner of his own mind into which the captain had been shoved. But enough of that; back to the business at hand.

Narve and Troi faced each other from across the room, neither one speaking or moving, for a long instant. Then Narve broke the spell, walking casually, and yet with the arrogance Troi sensed as part of his basic make-up, to rest one hip against the captain's desk.

Troi decided to take the initiative. "Who are you?" she asked quietly.

Narve smiled at the repeat of Beverly Crusher's question and answered the counselor in a similar, mocking manner. "I am Asrun Narve. A former political prisoner. You are Deanna Troi. Former Ship's Counselor." He glanced down at his body. "This is the former body of Captain Jean-Luc Picard." He looked around the room with an exaggerated air. "And this is the former Starship Enterprise, new name not yet decided upon. Any further questions?"

His sarcastic tone infuriated Troi, but she kept herself calm, using the Betazoid meditations she'd learned as a child. They helped. Barely, but it was better than nothing. "Why are you doing this?" she asked, still in the same quiet tone. "This isn't necessary, surely you must realize that. We might have been able to help you, if you'd only asked us." Futile; she could tell by the look in his eyes, even if his emotions hadn't already given him away.

He slipped off the edge of the desk and walked deliberately over to her; she tried not to flinch, but only partially succeeded. His hand reached out and gently outlined the bruise that covered half her cheek and one eye. "Poor Deanna," Picard's voice whispered with mocking tenderness. "Did I do that to you?"

Troi's eyes widened at the emotions she now sensed from him, and she shook her head in mute protest at what she knew was, inevitably, going to happen to her in the captain's ready room. "No," she breathed, then desperately sought to put his attention elsewhere. "There's no way you'll get away with hijacking an entire starship," she said, her words coming a rush in spite of her attempts to slow them down. "If necessary, Starfleet will order this ship destroyed, rather than allow it to remain in your possession. By doing this, you are making the Federation your enemy. It still isn't too late; you can end it peacefully."

He smiled throughout her entire speech, his eyes never leaving hers, and when she paused for breath, his hand moved from her cheek to gently cover her mouth. Narve shook his head almost regretfully as he said, "Don't try to counsel me, Counselor. I'm not Jean-Luc Picard. I am Asrun Narve, Commander of the League of Uxmal Pirates. I take what I want, the way I always have." The smile deepened and hardened at the same time. "Right now, what I want happens to be you. Perhaps you should follow that interesting Earth adage about this sort of situation: relax and enjoy it."

Knowing it would be useless to resist him, surrounded by his men and with no one capable of coming to her aid, unable to fight due to her weakened condition, Troi still tried to push him away as he crowded her against the wall and replaced his hand with his lips. The hand moved suddenly to her throat, cutting off her breath and making her head throb even more painfully. "I wouldn't take this personally," Narve whispered as he pulled her away from the support of the wall, "but the other women need to realize exactly why we kept them. When I send you to join them, they'll see you and understand how useless any kind of resistance, any show of defiance, would be. And they'll know their place."

His voice had turned conversational, and the dichotomy between his words and his tone was the most frightening thing about the situation. He was about to rape her, and he felt no true passion or even anger about it; to him, it was a necessity. He would enjoy it, she could sense that much, but his overwhelming priority was to establish to herself and the other captives the extent of their helplessness. Otherwise, she sensed, he would never have taken the time away from the escape effort his crew was still engaged in. It was a demonstration of power, pure and simple.

With these thoughts spinning through her mind, Troi's last attempt at defiance was completely unconscious. The mental scream of "Imzadi!" burst unbidden from her mind as Narve pushed her to the floor.

oOo

"Imzadi!" Larsch jumped to his feet, startled, as the voice burst into his head. Riker's memory recognized the word, recognized the voice, and Riker's body had already started moving toward the ready room when Lormis' voice stopped him in his tracks.

"Where do think you're going, Larsch?" Lormis' voice was cold and impersonal, the way the computer expert's voice had always been. Even when it was merely a voice in the mind. "Did you just think of something extremely important you had to tell the Commander?" A note of sarcasm entered his voice, but only a note. Lormis had too much self-control to allow his emotions to show any more than that.

Larsch turned, reluctant to tell the other man what had just happened. "No." He returned to his seat and dropped into it heavily. "I just thought I...heard something." It sounded lame, even to his own ears, and he winced inwardly while he waited for Lormis to question him further.

Apparently the other man was satisfied with that answer, or at least satisfied enough not to question Larsch further. For now. But Larsch had no doubt that Lormis would tell Narve about the incident. And if Narve asked, he would have to explain what happened, however reluctantly. Or rather, explain what Riker's memories said must have happened. For now, he tried to concentrate on the navigation board beneath his hands. No, he corrected himself, not my hands. Riker's hands. He stared down at them as a sudden feeling of disconnection threatened to overwhelm him.

Your hands, now, he reminded himself in an attempt to steady his reeling senses. Riker may still be in there, but he isn't in control any more. He never will be again.

He concentrated on that comforting thought, attempting to distract himself from the disturbing and familiar voice that had burst, panic-stricken, into his thoughts for one brief, agonizing moment. Imzadi. He started to shudder, then stopped himself just in time. Lormis would be watching him now, from behind the strange VISOR device that hid LaForge's eyes and Lormis' emotions even more effectively than the computer man's own impassive features had. He wouldn't hesitate to report any lapses in control to the commander--lapses, Larsch thought with a burst of irrational resentment, that Lormis would never allow himself to have. Lapses the others were bound to suffer, not having Narve or Lormis' rigid self-control, or Verek's complete lack of regard for anyone's feelings but his own--or even Mast's coldblooded ability to focus on his chosen profession.

No, they were the definite minority in the crew, the few who control their hosts' emotions as easily as they did their own. But it didn't matter to them how well the others could or couldn't handle their own hosts. All Larsch knew was that he didn't want to have to suffer through the sort of dressing-down Mylal just had--Mylal, who was still glowering angrily from his seat in the center chair, staring steadily at the viewscreen, not allowing his eyes to so much as stray toward tactical or Keiko O'Brien. Larsch knew, and he knew that Mylal knew, why she was still on the Bridge. It was a test, nothing more, nothing less. A test of Mylal's will and ability to control his host. Larsch could see the struggle in the Third's eyes; even his own brief burst of aberrant behavior had failed to gain his attention for more than a moment. A moment that passed as soon as Lormis spoke.

It didn't help that Riker was constantly, ceaselessly testing the bounds of his mental prison, or that he kept up a steady, deliberately malicious stream of invective, a scathing running commentary that Larsch couldn't quite manage to cut off. If he had followed Riker's instincts and gone to the Ready Room, he wasn't sure what would have happened--or who might have emerged the victor had Riker chosen that moment to attempt to seize control of his body once again. Especially if it was already doing something Riker wanted it to do.

Now was not the time to worry about it, Larsch decided. Nor was it the time to speculate if Narve was testing him as well, with his decision to use Troi as the example. He turned his attention to the navigation board beneath his hands, this time successfully fighting the sense of dislocation and the panic it brought.

Riker could rant and rave all he wanted; all Larsch had to do was ignore him, concentrate on closing the box the first officer had been locked into. It would become easier to do so over time, Narve had assured them all of that. Then they would be able to choose when they wanted to "listen" to their captive host's minds, be able to show more discrimination in which memories they chose to display and use.

Larsch just hoped it would happen soon.