Prologue
The air around him was thick and heavy. From behind he could hear the guttural cries of the beasts as they pursued him down the corridor. They were so close, he could almost feel their rank breath upon the skin of his neck.
Worf turned a corner, heading for the waiting airlock at the other end. He preferred to stand and fight like a warrior instead of running away from his prey, but he had a mission to accomplish. He couldn't let the invasion of Deep Space Nine spread to other inhabited worlds. Tomorrow was a better day to die; today he had a war to win.
Worf reached the end of the corridor and hit the controls that would open the airlock. An eternity passed as the gigantic door slid back. Behind him, the shrieks and cries of the hunters grew louder, the scrape of claws against steel ringing in the empty air. Worf stepped into the chamber and hit the switch to close the door. As the Cardassian monstrosity slid back into place, he leaned against the wall, taking in a breath. The pain in his chest grew wore, making every breath an endurance in pain. He pressed a hand against his breastbone and the pain subsided. He cleared his head and then stepped into the waiting runabout.
Worf lifted the runabout out of its docking bay just as the first tremors rocked the station. From the viewport, he could see the fires erupting across the inner docking ring. Worf turned his head, not wanting to look at what he was leaving behind. The runabout picked up speed as the first real explosions shook the station. Fire engulfed the habitat ring and a moment later, Ops was ripped from the stations' main section as the core went critical. The runabout tore through space, missing the debris from the station as it was torn from girders and ejected into the blackness around it. A moment later, all too quickly, the fires died and all that was left was emptiness.
Worf settled back in his seat and closed his eyes. A moment later he threw back his head and howled, a desolate sound that filled the empty cabin with grief and despair. His lungs ached from the exertion, and the howl broke down into a series of hacking coughs as the pain in his chest returned. Something stirred within, something that was not of this world. Worf placed a hand against the stirring, steeling himself against the pain it brought, and smiled. The battle may have been lost, but the war was far from over. And his friends' deaths would not go unavenged.
Worf leaned over and spat a wad of bloodstained spittle onto the flooring. The pain subsided a little, enough that he could take a breath without agony. He paused a moment longer, thinking, and then plotted a course into the runabouts' computer. When that was finished he sat in the dark, alone, with only he thoughts to keep him company.
"Computer," he said after a time, his voice dry and raspy. "Begin recording." When the computer beeped its acknowledgement, he continued. "This is Lieutenant Commander Worf, Strategic Operations Officer of Deep Space Nine." He paused again, gathering his thoughts. "I regret to inform whoever is listening to this that the station and all its inhabitants have been destroyed. I alone am the only survivor, and I will bring honor to their deaths by telling their story." He closed his eyes, letting the memories surface, letting them wash over his consciousness until he bathed in them. "It all began four days ago, with the arrival of a Vulcan science vessel, completely off course and badly damaged..."