Could I just say for the record that my brain kind of... broke, the second I saw John's face plastered on the computer terminals, and heard about the Kelvin Memorial Data Archive? My mind just wasn't processing things correctly. One half of my brain was attempting to process the fact that John, one of my best friends, had just killed 42 people in a bombing. The other half was attempting to reason why the man who saved my infant son's life was the same man who took so many others.

So, when I heard Jim speak, I was already not in the mood for a heavy discussion, and maybe snapped a bit harder than I had intended to.

"What's in the bag?"

"James, not now."

"But it doesn't seem odd to you that he'd target an archive? That's like bombing a—a library."

My brain was still working on correlating 'John' with 'terrorist'.

Then Alex called us both out, and everything just...sort of went to hell from there. "Chris? Everything OK there?"

"Yes, sir. Mr. Kirk is just...acclimating to his new position as First Officer." I neglected to inform everyone of my own personal involvement with the subject... but I'm pretty sure that at least Alex already knew.

"You got something to say, Kirk, say it," Alex said. "Tomorrow is too late."

All eyes were suddenly on Kirk, and he nervously looked around at the numerous eyes staring intently at him. "I'm fine, sir. My apologies."

"Spit it out, son," he near-drawled. "Don't be shy."

"It's just— why the Archive?"

I leaned forward slightly, still processing this new turn of events. Damn right, John would want forgiveness for what he wanted to do. That didn't mean that I ever agreed to do what he wanted.

Kirk continued. "All that information is—is public record. If he really wanted to damage Starfleet...this could just be the beginning."

I could tell that Jim had Alex's full and undivided attention; whether that was a good thing or a bad, I didn't know. "The beginning of what, Mr. Kirk?"

"Sir, in the event of an attack, protocol mandates that senior command gather captains and first officers at Starfleet H.Q., right here..." he trailed off slightly. "In this room."

Spock began speaking something about warp and jumpships, but my attention was no longer on the meeting, but the curious red glow that had suddenly enveloped the meeting room...

And why didn't I stand? Why didn't I run? Or duck? Or fight back? Or even do anything other than look like a deer caught in the headlights?

I don't know.

Could I have saved a lot more people if I had done something? Called the defense team sooner? Probably. But my gaze settled on the cockpit of the ship, hoping in vain that it wasn't him. I made eye contact. I saw rage and hatred, remorse and regret...

I see John's face just before he fires. He sees mine. And still fires.

And so I lay sprawled out on the glass covered floor, shards digging savagely into my hands as I attempt to crawl to safety.

My mind still reeling from the shock of my best friend being a mass-murderer. My legs... nothing seems wrong with them, for once. So I try to crawl out of the line of fire. I look up. I see Spock, and he sees me.

And all the sudden a bright green glow reflects off the pale underbelly of my uniform...And of course I know what this means.

But then, of course, denial has always been the best weapon of we fools who dream. So let's make believe that I don't see the blinding green light, or feel immense pain erupt across my entire torso, or nearly scream when my uniform starts to smolder and smoke.

Let's pretend that my whole lower body doesn't go absolutely limp. But as long as we're doing that, let's pretend that I'm just knocked out by the whole thing, and I don't feel any pain, and don't feel any fear, and am utterly unconscious while Spock drags me away from the violent mayhem.

Let's pretend that I don't gasp for air in my last moments as I stare blankly at the ceiling, wondering if, and how on earth this could end up any worse. Let's pretend that my thoughts weren't interrupted by the violating whisperings that I had hoped to only ever hear oncein my sorry, pitiful lifetime.

Let's pretend that Spock doesn't stick his damned hand on my face for an unwanted mind-meld. Let's pretend that it's not rape. For that matter, let's pretend that I don't hate him with every fiber of my being and fight him at every turn when he does.

Imagine that I don't mentally tell him off, with numerous nasty expletives along the way. Imagine that I don't scream at him. Imagine that I don't break down, because I'm cold and it's dark, and it hurts, and dammit, I KNOW what's coming.

Let's pretend that everything's all good, and my last thoughts aren't about the fact that I'm leaving my friends to the nonexistent mercies of my best friend (whom I am suddenly growing to hate, by the way). I'm not thinking about the fact that a lot of people have died, and are going to die, pointlessly. But most of all, let's pretend that I'm not haunted by the fact that my baby boy is going to grow up without his papa.

But then...We're just pretending. And denial has always been a weapon of we fools who dream.