For a while it seemed very much like he must have imagined it. Her face. Her voice. The near-touch of her hand. Volumes and tempers rising and aggression so thick in the air that it all but crackled. And pain. Pain so pressing and so tight that he struggled to breathe.

All of that was like vapour, so difficult to grasp as it slipped repeatedly through his fingers, and for what felt like an eternity he fought and failed to take any kind of real hold on it. It kept slipping away and he grew more and more convinced that none of it had been real. She hadn't really been there, and there had never really been any hope. Not even the tiniest sliver.

No.

The voice came from somewhere, everywhere and nowhere, just coming to him out of the blackness and the emptiness and filling his head. It would have startled him if he had had the energy to be startled. As it was it simply caused his breathing to catch and his features to tighten in a wince. No? But why?

Nothing else came to him. He lay there listening and hearing no sound at all beyond his own breathing, and the low drumming of his own heart. He lay there trying to make sense of it until at last, finally, it occurred to him what it had meant. No. It had been real. It hadn't been his imagination after all. Surely if he had imagined it he would have given himself more than the faintest glimmer of hope, he would have fooled himself into thinking further than that. Maybe even all the way. It would have been a cruel trick on his mind's part but it was overworked and out of moves and with no other alternatives maybe it would have been the kindest thing to do, making some part of him think it was over.

What did it mean that Wendy had really been here? Not that his nightmare was over, clearly, or he wouldn't still be buckled on the ground in pain and barely able to move. Because none of this was real, not really, it was all in his head, but it was all in the hands of someone much more powerful than him. That made it real enough, more real than the world beyond his own mind, at least until he could get out.

Opening his eyes, bleary and unfocused as his vision was, he tried to find that portal of light and sound that told him what was being done with his body beyond this prison in which he had found himself. Like a screen, or a window, it should have been easy enough to find even with his vision struggling to clear. Even when all but the bare minimum of the fogginess was blinked away he couldn't find it. Couldn't see it. Couldn't hear it.

It was quiet, and dark, and empty.

What did that mean?

Maybe nothing. Maybe everything.

God, but it hurt to even try to think. The pain of it was unfair, droning through his skull incessantly, and the madness of that happening within the confines of his own mind should have made him laugh but he couldn't manage that then. All he could do was try to get up. Push off the ground and rise. Even if it was only a little, only partway, he couldn't just lie there and let it happen. Fighting was what had gotten him to this point, he knew, but wasn't it better to fight and fail than to just give up?

Of course it was.

So he would continue to fight. And the first step of that was getting up. And so he had to take a breath, brace himself, and push.

"Look, man, all I'm sayin' is—"

"I know what you're saying, Piccolo," Brody cut in, and Tony noticed the other man used his surname, something he was prone to doing when he wanted others to sit up and take notice. "And I'm saying you don't need to say it."

Tony frowned, remaining silent for only a handful of moments as they moved through the corridors. Other crewmembers, a mixture of science and military, passed them by as they went, some of them tossing glances of varying interest their way, but it was nothing that Tony wasn't used to. "You're really tellin' me you ain't thought about it yourself."

"Yes, Tony," Brody said to him, turning and dipping his head a little to lock gazes with him. "That's what I'm telling you."

That would have been believable enough had it come from any other member of the crew but Tony had always felt at least a small amount of kindship with the Lieutenant for one reason, and one reason alone. "Nah, I don't buy it." James Brody was a ladies' man if ever he'd met one. "You can't tell me it hasn't crossed your mind at least once since we found out what's goin' on here." For emphasis he held up one finger, an upward jab of a motion, of which Brody obviously took note if the sudden frown on his face was any indication.

"Piccolo, c'mon, what does it matter?" There was a heavy thread of a sigh in those words but there was also a hint of what Tony strongly suspected was shame. It was so unusual, something he couldn't recall ever seeing on Brody's face before, that it actually struck him dumb, if only for a second. "And what do you want me to say?" the Lieutenant went on with a swift gesture of his hands, a wave through the air as if he could dismiss the whole subject. He looked down at the shorter man walking alongside him and sighed heavily, almost theatrically. "Yeah, okay?" he said then, in a resigned fashion. "Yeah, it's crossed my mind."

Tony thought he might have felt pleased by the admission but instead he found himself feeling how Brody obviously felt: guilty, and almost disappointed. In himself? That was nothing new but as they walked down the stretch of corridor they had turned onto with Jim's reluctant admission he found himself resenting the fact that the thought had ever entered his head in the first place. Curiosity was one thing but speculating on it, and trying to drag someone else into the discussion? That suddenly felt like crossing a line.

"M'sorry," he said, sighing himself then and giving his head a shake. "I dunno why I got to thinkin' about it. It's stupid." That wasn't really the right word, he knew. Concerning was a better fit. Disturbing even more so. Trying to figure out just how this Irina woman had gotten so deep into Ortiz's head had led him down a path he would have rather never tread, but once he had started down it there had been no turning back. And one thing had led to another, especially with the Sensor Chief hinting, albeit rather vaguely, at being some kind of intimate with the woman. Tony hadn't been able to stop his brain from going where it had gone. "I just—" He glanced around to ensure they were alone. There was no sense in dragging anyone else into this. "I hope that's not how it happened, y'know?"

Brody looked down at him, frowning. "Yeah." The Lieutenant turned his attention forward again. "Yeah, Tony," he went on. "Me too."

Med bay was probably not somewhere he ought to be by himself, without some kind of supervision or companionship at least, but his worries had led him here despite those doubts. Those worries were difficult to ignore, almost impossible to deny or defy, and so he had found himself at the door to the space, looking in through the open entryway and noting with quiet surprise that there appeared to be no staff in the area, at least none that he could see.

"Hello?" When no one spoke in response he tried again, this time more pointedly, "Doctor Smith?" If she was busy she probably didn't want to be disturbed and he would go on his way, but he didn't hear anything. No response again. He stepped forward a little, leaning to look around the doorway to see if there was anyone there. But there was no one.

No one except the men in the beds, that was. Dagwood hesitated, wringing his hands a little, chewing on his bottom lip and wondering quietly if he ought to just go back to work and leave them in peace.

But he had come to see Tim. Check that Tim was okay. See if he needed anything. See if he could help.

Probably not, but he wanted to ask.

Before he knew that he was doing it Dagwood was stepping inside properly and approaching the bed where the Lieutenant lay, and once he got closer it was easier to see that his eyes were closed. His glasses weren't on either. Tim didn't wear them when he was sleeping. Dagwood had asked him once. They were on the little table close to the head of the bed. Tim had probably taken them off so he could get some sleep. It certainly sounded like he was sleeping.

Dagwood found his attention turning to the next bed, where Ortiz was lying. At first it sounded like he was sleeping too but after a few moments Dagwood realised that sound was changing. Only slightly at first, only a little, but then more and more. Dagwood realised why. Miguel was waking up.

He had come to see Tim, check that he was okay and whether or not he needed anything, but maybe he could check on Ortiz instead. Maybe he needed something. And maybe Dagwood could help him instead.

It was dim at first, that flicker and flutter of something more than just darkness and silence, but the more he pushed and reached and fought to find something, anything, in the void the more aware of it he became. In the blackness the very beginnings of light began to form and albeit with difficulty Miguel lifted his head to find it, to track the source.

His breathing caught, just for a moment, painfully, when he recognised what that light would become. And with that light came a strange weightless sensation, as if the ground here was losing its hold on him. It took Miguel a minute to figure out what that meant, what it really meant, but once he did it pushed him to fight that much harder.

He was waking up.

And he needed to hurry.

"Ortiz?"

That voice drifted, like smoke, into the black and reached him as little more than a whisper but he heard it. He heard it. And he recognised the voice, especially when it came again. "Ortiz?"

"Dagwood." It escaped him in a rush of breath, his heart jumping and he almost didn't dare to hope but he clung to that first spark of it anyway and held on tightly. And he kept on pushing. Kept on reaching. Kept on fighting.

"Ortiz?"

She almost hadn't heard it, it was so faint and so distant.

"Ortiz?"

When it came again she was better able to latch on to it and identify it, and it was easy enough then to trace it to its source, following that thread of whispery sound back along the line all the way to that dark space where she had trapped Miguel's consciousness. She was able to reach past that prison to the space beyond and what she felt made a slow smile take shape on her face, a smile which piqued Evan's interest and made him sit up, watching her keenly.

Irina said nothing, simply shifted in her seat to sit up that little bit straighter, and after meeting Evan's gaze only once, mind made up, she closed her eyes and got to work.

His breathing was ragged, increasingly so with each passing moment of exertion and effort, but he couldn't give up. Dagwood was right there and he needed to wake up. Too much time had been spent subdued in this prison made up of his own mind and he couldn't stomach the idea of spending much more here. Trapped, closed away, cut off. Isolated. Powerless. Helpless.

Miguel wanted, needed, to get out.

It was like running a marathon, like scaling a sheer rock face with no line to catch him if he fell. Every muscle ached and burned. Sweat beaded and trickled over his skin. His heart hammered and his lungs strained. Gritting his teeth and forcing himself to bear it, to push through it, to overcome, Miguel reached, stretching himself as much as he could to close the gap. But as he gathered everything he had to reach that last little bit, cover the rest of the distance, he heard footsteps echoing towards him from the darkness. Coming closer. Almost upon him.

He was running out of time.

He was waking up and yet he wasn't. Dagwood didn't know what that meant, watching Ortiz stirring but not fully waking, and he raised a hand to rub at his head, the backs of his fingers stroking up and down and up and down as he made a low sound in his throat, confused and uncertain.

Should he get someone? Should he call Doctor Smith? But maybe she was resting. She had been hurt, he had found her on the ground, and if she needed her rest then he didn't want to wake her. Lucas? No. Tony? No.

Maybe—

"Dagwood?"

He had turned his head away as he struggled to decide what he should do and he turned it back now to find Ortiz looking up at him. He looked a little confused as well. That made Dagwood feel a little less silly for feeling that way himself and he stepped a fraction closer to the bed. "Ortiz," he said back, lowering his arm. "You're awake."

"Yeah," Miguel responded with the slightest laugh. It sounded a bit shaky. "I guess I am." He frowned a little then. "Is everyone okay?"

Making another low sound Dagwood turned just enough to look at Tim, who was still sleeping, and then across the room to the bed where they had ended up settling Doctor Smith. It was empty now. Only then did he give Ortiz a nod. "Everyone is better now." He raised his brows. "Are you better now?" Dagwood wasn't sure what was going on, what had happened, but he knew that it was a lot and he hadn't been told all of the details. That was okay. If he didn't need to know just now then that was okay. They would tell him the important bits later.

Ortiz didn't say anything at first and it looked like he was thinking, before he looked around the room from where he lay on the bed. "Y-yeah. Yeah." He looked back to Dagwood and smiled. He looked—was it relief? Dagwood thought so. "I think I am."

Dagwood smiled then as well, making a happy sound because knowing that his friends were better made him feel better. "That's good," he said.

"Hey, Dag?" He looked down at Ortiz, whose smile was a little bit—Dagwood wanted to say it was almost shy, but Ortiz was never shy. Maybe it was something else. "Do you think maybe you could—" He looked down, prompting Dagwood to do the same, and then gave a small tug on the restraint around his wrist. "It's kind of uncomfortable."

Dagwood could see why it would be. But he hesitated, unsure, looking around med bay. There was still no one else there.

"Come on, Dagwood," Ortiz said, bringing his attention back to the bed. "It's okay. I feel better, remember?"

For a moment he stood there chewing on his lip and wringing his hands again, just as he had at the doorway, to which he glanced briefly, before he met Ortiz's gaze again and tried to think of reasons why he shouldn't do as his friend had asked.

He struggled to think of any.

"Okay," he said, a little slowly, even as he reached to undo the first of the restraints. He paused halfway through. "If you're sure you feel better."

Miguel gave him another smile. "I do. Really. Much better."

Dagwood smiled too. "Okay." He said it more confidently that time and got back to his task. One after the other he loosened and then released the straps, allowing Ortiz to sit up on the bed, watching as he did so and feeling reassured when his friend gave him yet another smile, looking pleased and grateful. He had helped after all. That was good.

"Thanks, Dag." Swinging his legs around Miguel slipped easily off the edge of the bed. He laid a hand on Dagwood's arm, just as he had on the bridge when they had been talking about how things were hanging. Ortiz looked back over his shoulder then, saying, "Tim's resting. We should get out of here. We don't want to disturb him." Dagwood responded with a nod when Miguel turned back to him, agreeing quietly because he really didn't want to disturb Tim. It was a good idea to go somewhere else.

"Come on." Ortiz dipped his head to the side, encouraging Dagwood to follow him. Seeing no reason not to that was exactly what he did, walking along behind Ortiz as the man headed for the door and then out into the corridor beyond.

"Ssh, ssh. It's too late. It's already happening."

The words were little more than whispers down his ear, her lips close enough that he could feel them lightly brushing the lobe as she spoke. He felt the way she turned her head in towards his, her nose brushing through his hair before she pressed a light kiss to the skin behind his ear.

"Don't fight it, handsome."

But he did. He fought it. Even with the pain that fight caused to blaze through his body, or this mental representation of it, he fought against her hold on him. The arm she had looped around his broken one to bend and pin it at his own back was strong and unwavering, his own burning mercilessly as he struggled. Her other hand was clamped over his mouth, keeping him from crying out while also bending his head back at an uncomfortable angle so she could whisper in his ear and further exploit his helplessness.

He had been so close. So close. The precipice had been right there, within his grasp, only a moment away from being seized, when she had melted out of the shadows at his back and laid that hand firmly over his mouth, stifling any cry he might have made in the same instant that she used that broken arm to heave him back and up against her. The agony of it had been almost overwhelming, he had almost completely lost any grip on awareness that he had managed to regain, but in fighting to reach the light that was the real world beyond this prison she had made for him he had summoned enough force of will and sheer stubborn determination to not lose his hold completely. And so he had hung on, pained and frustrated beyond anything he had ever felt before, but aware.

Irina's grip on him tightened again, pinning him that much more fiercely against her where she stood at his back, whispering false platitudes and comforts down his ear even as she used his physical body to lead one of his friends to God only knew what kind of fate.

Despite the pain, despite the hopelessness of it, Miguel had to keep fighting. He had to. Not just for his own sake, but now for Dagwood's as well.