Season Five

by EnlightenedSkye

Picking up six months after Terra Prime, the Enterprise attempts to hold the Coalition together while keeping an eye on the growing Romulan threat. Trip takes his own command and the war begins mid-season. [July 2155 to January 2157. 25 episodes. Fully episodic, so each chapter is a stand-alone story. ATP, Troshi, Malcolm/OC, P/C. Rated T throughout. Complete, S6 and S7 complete]

17. Episode 17: Life in Monochrome

A/N: Welcome back! Thanks for the support and encouragement. We're finally doing a holodeck-style AU. Full disclosure that I'm aware this is corny, campy, and over-the-top, but it sure was fun to write and I hope you enjoy it as much as I do. Sometimes you've just got to go for it. I probably listened to forty-ish hours of classic jazz while writing and editing to set the tone. I could pack an entire playlist of songs that almost made the cut. Needless to say I'm with Trip and Hoshi by the end of this-no jazz for me for a while!

This is one part Cabaret, one part Chicago, one part The Artist and one part Knives Out. I read on the Memory Alpha page for unresolved season five plans that Linda wanted a musical episode; this is probably the closest we're ever going to get (featuring What I Wouldn't Do For That Man, Get Out and Get Under the Moon, and Ain't We Got Fun). Here the characters are simply exaggerated versions of themselves, and everyone's chewing the scenery to the highest degree, period appropriate slang included. It's interesting to consider what Trip and Hoshi's joint subconscious is trying to tell them about everyone.

I really couldn't help but include a Cell Block Tango of sorts. Really, I tried to restrain myself. It just had to be done!

A lot is going on in this episode; senior staff manifests and OC descriptions are on my profile at the very top if things get confusing!

Next time: the intrepid adventures of Pineapple Man and Denobulan Kira Nerys as their undercover mission on Xantoras goes horribly wrong. Place your bets now on how long it'll be before they're ready to kill each other. Simon is also next on the backstory train; he honestly deserves it after what happens to him here.

Season Five

Episode Seventeen: Life in Monochrome

Trip woke up with a start, as he often did, only to find himself in another time and place.

He was momentarily disoriented, but his field of vision cleared steeply, originating from a single point of light ahead of him. He first became aware of his hands, wrapped around a spindle-like steering wheel, gripping and holding on for dear life. Ahead of him, he spotted a fuel gauge and a speedometer, and slowly, hypnotically, he listed towards them, squinting as a throbbing headache walloped him upside the face.

Behind him, someone sounded a horn, and he flinched, leaning back in his seat and looking from side to side. He was greeted with the sights and the sounds of a city, broad sidewalks and tall buildings and glittering marquees and countless people. Looking at them, at the angry faces he saw in his rearview mirror, he began to realize that something wasn't right.

His companion realized it too; in the space between them, he felt her hand move across the seat and lock onto his arm, squeezing tightly. He looked at it, then his gaze drifted over to behold the horrified expression of his girlfriend, his communications officer.

Her appearance had been altered as well; he was so used to seeing Hoshi in her uniform that he scarcely recognized her in a dress. Her hair, which had been fashioned into a blunt, chin-length bob, was tucked into a bell-shaped hat, and she was wearing more makeup than he'd ever seen her in. That wasn't to say she didn't look good-she most certainly did-but they fact of the matter was, the truly terrifying part about it was…

She was in black and white. As was he, as was everything around them.

"Hoshi, what's-"

"What the hell am I wearing? Where are-"

"Or when are we?" His hands were moving again, touching the windshield, the mirrors, the dashboard, feeling the purr of the engine under his fingertips. Suddenly, regardless of their situation, he was smiling, beaming down to the depths of his soul. "I think we're in a Model A! I've only seen these in museums. What I wouldn't give to open up the hood and take a look at-"

"Trip!" She cried. Swiftly, she pulled back and rubbed at her temples, leaning over to one side. "It feels like my head is about to explode."

"Mine too," he admitted, shifting uncomfortably in his seat. He was suddenly keenly aware of what he was wearing, a checkered suit with a ridiculously tight bow tie, and suspenders that held his pants halfway up his chest. It really was rather uncomfortable, and momentarily, he could focus on nothing else. "Are we dreaming?"

"When was the last time you had a dream where another person was asking the very same question?"

How desperately he wanted to believe that he was dreaming vividly back in the Captain's quarters on the Maelstrom. But everything around him, from the car horns to the dust in the streets to the laughter of the pedestrians, felt so real, so genuine, and by God, did she have a point.

From far behind them, he heard the distinct sound of an engine backfiring. Someone in the long line of vehicles was gaining on them, swerving into the oncoming lane and skidding to a stop beside them.

Trip almost didn't want to look, but forced himself to, beholding the bemused face of none other than Malcolm Reed. He wasn't used to seeing him at all outside of their subspace chats, where they'd share a beer and carouse until all the troubles of the week faded away. His presence was usually comforting, familiar, a reminder of a bygone era, but now, his sudden appearance filled him with dread.

He was presently rolling down the windows, an agonizingly slow motion that only caused the angry horn beeps behind them to intensify. When he had finished, he leaned dangerously across the passenger seat.

Before he could chastise them, Hoshi called out: "Malcolm, what's going on?"

Trip could see that he was dressed similarly, with a suit jacket and a tie. Even from a distance, he could see the twinkle in his eye, which was usually reserved for when they were about to blow something up or the presence of certain blonde, blue-eyed company. "What's going on is that you're causing a traffic jam. Are you waiting for a written invitation?"

He laughed nervously, shaking his head. "Just enjoying the city. Nice night for a drive, isn't it?"

All around, the dusk seemed to close in on them, casting shadows over the ground. The breeze stirred their hair and clothes, though it was fairly warm, giving him the impression they were in the middle of a very early fall. He knew his reply wasn't too convincing, but he was determined to stick with it.

"You're cutting it a little close," he replied, returning to the driver's seat. "How about our usual table?"

"Sounds good, Mal," he said, and the two of them watched him drive away at a snail's pace.

There was a pause, then Hoshi elbowed him, hissing: "Are you going to follow him?"

"Why should I?"

"Listen, Trip, this is clearly our next step." She caught a glimpse of herself in the rearview mirror, her painted lips, heavy eyeliner, and pencil-thin eyebrows. Irrationally, she was intrigued, and if they really were dreaming, some odd sort of joint delusion, there really was very little harm in it.

"You sound curious."

"I am."

"Who are you and what have you done with Hoshi?" He asked, and she rolled her eyes.

Taking his foot off the brakes, they trundled down the street, which was made of packed-in dirt studded with intermittent potholes around the downward slope of a rather steep hill. The steering control wasn't nearly as effective as anything they were used to, and they hit a few of them before straying into the tracks of a streetcar.

Hoshi's fingers were gripping the dash with force, a gesture that couldn't be missed for a second. A moment before they decelerated, she said: "Go back. I think you missed a pothole or two."

He frowned, which quickly turned into a grimace as he realized what their friend was about to do. His gaze drifted to the steering wheel, then to the brakes, then the narrow spot along the sidewalk they were expected to fit into.

"Have you ever parallel parked a hovercar without the autopilot?" He was a little ashamed to ask, because he'd done it exactly once before in his life: during his driving test at the age of sixteen.

Her strained expression told him everything he needed to know.

Fortunately, Malcolm was the only witness to Trip's repeated failed attempts; the Model A had a truly horrendous turn radius, and poor responsiveness to shifting gears, and by the time they made it out the car, he was justifiably laughing at them.

"I'm glad the two of you could make it," he said, jamming his hands in his pockets and wandering off in the direction of the entrance. "The doctor might not be so happy to see you, Mr. Tucker. I can hear it now. You've got some nerve showing your face around here…"

It could have been his imagination, but he could have sworn he slipped into a Denobulan accent for a split second. It was the one Phlox and Alira shared, all rounded vowels and upspeak at the ends of their sentences. It set him on edge, and he nearly jumped out of his skin when Hoshi brushed his arm.

They stopped in their tracks, and she gestured down the street. He following her gaze down the slope of the hill and over the city and back up the rock face of a cliff studded with boulders and desert brush. The letters were small, but distinct, and entirely unmistakable.

HOLLYWOODLAND.

In that moment, Trip knew he could have been knocked over by a stiff breeze. Slowly, carefully, he looked directly ahead and then above them towards the shimmery marquee.

THE 602 CLUB. SERVING CABARET, DIVERSION, AND DISCRETION. SINCE 1926.

Immediately, Trip reached for her hand, squeezing tightly.

"If this is a dream, maybe I can fly. I mean, maybe I can run face first into this wall and wake myself up."

"Be my guest," Hoshi said, breaking free and sweeping into the building.

He followed her without pause through the front entrance and two sets of heavy velvet curtains; from far within, he could hear musicians warming up and people talking, laughing, shouting, drawing them forward until they crossed the final veil into a grand old theater.

Immediately, Trip knew words couldn't do it justice; countless crystal chandeliers were set in ornate ceiling carvings, casting a flattering ambiance over the crowd. Every available piece of real estate seemed to be covered with tables and chairs and merrymakers and scantily clad waitresses, carrying trays laden with glassware high above their heads. A second level rose high above them, similarly crowded, stuffed to the brim with random crewmen he either knew by name or scarcely recognized, all dressed in their party best.

The bar seemed to take up one whole curve of the circular room, rivaled only by the stage, which was bracketed by a drawn curtain, and farther back, a silvery tinsel backdrop. A band full of trumpeters and trombonists and saxophonists sat in the pit, mere centimeters from the nearest table. Though he couldn't see colors at the moment, he knew they were probably vivid, absolutely spellbinding, and he couldn't look away from the spectacle even for a second.

Malcolm had to pause to avoid crashing into a passing waitress; as she turned in profile, Trip and Hoshi immediately recognized Private Gilson, one of their MACOs, the same one who had been assigned to bridge watch multiple times over the past few weeks. The sight was surprising, and momentarily jarring, to where they didn't realize Phlox was approaching them until he was practically on top of him.

For all intents and purposes, he looked the same as always, though he was dressed in a three-piece suit, probably a black one, with the tie tucked between two of his vest buttons. Trip expected him to smile, or else greet them with a touch of the friendly demeanor he usually did, but apparently he was prepared to offer nothing of the sort.

"You," he asserted, pointing at Hoshi. "You're on in ten minutes. Get moving."

She did a double take and was briefly speechless, before he gestured in the direction of stage left. Far ahead of them, in and among the tops of people's heads, she could barely make out light streaming through a side door. She and Trip locked eyes, and he shrugged.

A second later, she was hurrying off through the crowd, joy and trepidation warring in her expression. Trip watched her go, and involuntarily smiled, looping his thumbs through his suspenders.

"I hope you're not here on a case, Mr. Tucker. I've told you before, we've got nothing to hide." Over his shoulder, he could see someone take a seat at the piano, stretching their arms high above their head before settling into a swinging, syncopated rhythm.

Malcolm laid a hand on his shoulder in a single swift motion that took him by surprise. "Don't worry, doctor. He's with me."

He harrumphed, as they'd seen him do hundreds of times, and started to move towards the bar. A moment before he was out of earshot, he called out: "See that it stays that way, Mr. Reed!"

Affording him a reassuring smile that disappeared the second he turned his back, Malcolm gestured for him to join him, and together they fell into step side-by-side as they traversed the floor.

"Do you know why they call him the doctor?" Malcolm asked, and he had a feeling he really ought to. When he didn't respond, he pressed on: "Because he operates on the books. Keeps the 602 in the black that way."

They soon arrived at a reserved table, seemingly the only empty one on the lower level, and he quickly reached for the placard, tossing it into their booth. Trip joined him, clandestinely retrieving the slip of paper and pulling it into his lap.

RESERVED FOR M. REED. TALENT AGENT.

The careful calligraphy continued with what he suspected to be a telephone number and an office address. It was all very curious, and a bit strange, and more than a little out of character for him.

"So what brings you to the club tonight, Mal? Business or pleasure?"

He chuckled, as though he were in on a joke only he knew. "Business now, pleasure later, assuming Mr. Archer is amenable."

The look he pulled must have been nothing short of incredulous, because Malcolm leaned far over in his seat, a motion that he mirrored, until they could only barely see two people sitting at the far end of the room next to the bar.

Sure enough, Jon sat in profile to them, wearing an expensive-looking suit, his bowler hat placed on the table in front of him. He was joined by a woman in a drop-waisted gown, sitting ramrod straight with her legs crossed at the ankle. Something stirred in Trip's memory, and he cut an apologetic glance towards Malcolm, who returned nothing but a sigh.

"I know you're new in town, but surely they've got movies where you come from."

"Florida."

"Sure thing." He was glancing rapidly around the room, attempting to catch the eye of a passing waitress. "He's been in over a hundred films, for God's sake, only silent. Until now."

"Who's that he's with?"

"You sure you're a real copper?" This time, he laughed, entirely unconvinced. "Every lawman in town would recognize T'Pol from a mile away. She's the heiress to the reins of that mob. They came up through the Pennsylvania steelworks. They call themselves the Vulcans."

"No kidding?" As he watched, his good friend rotated in her seat, revealing a perfectly detached expression. About a meter away from her table, he took notice of Dr. Yuris keeping watch over her as a bodyguard, his hand resting on the pistol strapped to his belt.

"I'm not kidding. Her uncle Soval's in charge. I hear the doctor's run afoul of him a couple times. The last time they did business, they wound up splitting the deed to the club fifty-fifty. She's part owner." He shook his head. "Some bastards have all the luck."

"I'd say." Out of the corner of his eye, he caught a familiar face, and turned just in time to see none other than Lieutenant Cutler break through the crowd and make a beeline for them, adopting an easy swing to her hips. "So what's the connection?"

"T'Pol is bankrolling his new venture, a talkie studio. They say she helped him out a deep depression after his career tanked, that he was close to ending it all. They're looking for new talent to start filming immediately." Malcolm struck his fist on the table. "I've been trying to get my new star in front of him for weeks. She's going on right after your girl tonight. It's got to happen, and when it does…"

He was interrupted by Liz, who set her tray down and sat on the edge of the table. She cut them both a charming smile and whipped out her notebook, asking, "What can I get you, sugar?"

"It's about time," Malcolm complained, but returned her grin. "Gin and tonic, and tell Mr. Mayweather not to skimp out on the gin."

"I'll have what he's having," Trip mumbled, rising slightly to catch a glimpse of his helmsman behind the bar, pouring liquor and slinging glasses and laughing uproariously with his guests. He appeared perfectly comfortable, relaxed even, and the sight of it immediately brought a smile to his face.

"Say, Liz, do you think we'll get to see you on stage tonight?"

"Don't you wish," she replied, reaching across the table to bop him on the end of the nose. "You just might."

"Miss Cutler's quite the talent," he assured him. "I don't know if you were here last Saturday. She can play two pianos at once while dancing tap."

"It was a slow night. People weren't tipping like they usually do," she admitted with a laugh, adjusting her hair, which was set in tight pin curls against her cheeks. "The master of ceremonies and I have been cooking something up. Be on the lookout."

A second later, she was gone, and Malcolm turned back to him, suddenly insistent on returning to their previous topic of conversation. "I'm telling you, Trip, she's spectacular. You've never seen anything quite like her. She's got the looks of Greta Garbo, and the charm of Clara Bow. She's going to be the next big thing, I'd stake my life on it."

Trip was starting to see where this was going. "Where did you find her, anyway?"

"Headlining the cabaret in Dodge City, if you can believe it."

"I can't," he said with a smile, glancing towards the stage as the music picked up the tempo considerably. "Has she been getting plenty of attention?"

"Some. A reporter wrote an editorial about her a couple weeks ago, though I can't stay it was all flattering." He rummaged around in his jacket, producing a newspaper clipping and passing it to him.

The lights overhead were dimming, and Trip had to squint to read the headline from a back issue of the Los Angeles Times.

ACQUITTED MURDERESS LIGHTS UP THE STAGE AT THE 602 CLUB, ANCHORS WEEKEND REVUES. INNOCENCE TO BE DETERMINED IN THE COURT OF PUBLIC OPINION.

Then below, somewhat surprisingly: BY NICHOLAS P. KELBY.

"A murderess, hmm?" He unfolded the paper slightly, and was immediately greeted by the sight of his tactical officer leaning against the very same piano at the front of the room, making eyes at whoever was standing behind the camera. Skimming the paragraphs, a few phrases jumped out: bank robbery...crime of passion...fiendish and horrific...

"They both reached for the gun," Malcolm said automatically, as if rehearsing from a speech. Something stirred in his memory, something he couldn't ignore. "She was acquitted. I can't blame her for wanting to start over."

Then, dropping his voice to a whisper: "It's pretty rich that Kelby would call her out like that. You know as well as I that she's not the only one in this club with a murderous streak."

"Uh-huh." Fully unfolding the piece of paper, he caught a glimpse of the press date.

AUGUST 1ST, 1929.

Unless he misremembered his American history, the Great Depression was due to begin in a month or two.

He wanted to tell them not to bother.

---

Hoshi rushed backstage and into a nearly impenetrable cloud of perfume and cigarette smoke.

She coughed several times before regaining her composure, wanting to rub at her eyes but not wanting to smudge her makeup and come out looking like a raccoon. All around her, various crewmen were dressed in outlandish costumes, leaning against the walls and seated at every available space as they waited for their turn on stage. She spotted more than a handful of ridiculous-looking props, ventriloquist dummies and enormous dumbbells for the strongmen and even a live monkey cruelly stuffed inside a cage. On her way towards the back of the chamber, she passed a clown, a juggler practicing with a handful of apples from a bucket beside him, and racks and racks of the most sparkliest, gaudiest outfits she could imagine, stuffed in and among countless dressing rooms.

Each door was decorated with newspaper clippings, postcards, and ticket stubs, intermixed with peeling paint and anchored by an enormous paper star, every one listing a handful of names. Her head was still pounding, though it was getting a little better, even with the rush of sound all around her. She had to slow down, studying each and every door, pushing past the crew and apologizing profusely as she did so.

It was all a little terrifying, but very enthralling; she'd never had a dream this vivid. Even though everything was in black and white, she could still smell and taste and feel, and for a split second, she allowed herself to get lost in the fantasy that she was some in-demand vaudeville chanteuse.

At last she found her name written on a star, the largest and most prominent, and shouldered her way into the room, plainly taken aback by what she saw.

There was a phonograph playing a record in the far corner of the room; it was the first thing she noticed, because the volume was turned all the way up, drowning out the conversations taking place in the corridor outside. There were four dressing vanities lined up against the walls, illuminated by bare bulbs strung along the frames of the mirrors, stained and warped with use and time. Every conceivable space on these tables was covered with makeup and flowers and framed photographs and stacks of paper, interspersed with empty glasses and overflowing ashtrays. It was almost unbearably warm from the radiator and the heat coming from the lamps on the tabletops, and almost immediately, she began to sweat.

As she entered, the two people who had been seated within turned to her, though they barely acknowledged her, waving half heartedly and returning to their conversation. Hoshi pressed forward, finding her vanity without a moment of hesitation.

It was unmistakable; she and Trip were seated together in a booth she suspected was outside in the audience at the moment, heads bent together, eyes wide and smiles strained as they struggled not to move for the camera. Even so, his fingers were a blur, and she could tell that he'd been caught in the act of reaching for her hand, resting mere centimeters away. She was in costume, and he was dressed for the office, but their affection was evident even through the barriers of space and time, and she felt a surge of fondness just looking at it.

"I'm telling you, if Liz knows what's good for her, she'll watch herself. That investigator's back and he seems to be snooping around."

"Don't be ridiculous. Detective Tucker's just here for a good time. Isn't that right, Hoshi?"

She startled and looked up to behold none other than Lieutenant Kov, dressed in a jaunty pinstriped suit and straw hat. He was seated farthest away from the door, bent forward in near silent congress with his conversational partner, though presently, his eyes were trained on her.

"As far as I know," she replied, taking a seat, studying the mess of personal affects before her. There was even a photograph of her and her family standing before a Shinto shrine back home, virtually identical from the one she kept on her desk back on the Maelstrom, except for the color and quality of the image. It was an extremely vivid memory, and it momentarily gave her pause.

"And that Frenchman-I hear he's on the prowl tonight." Hoshi heard the distinct sound of a knife being unsheathed from its scabbard, turning in profile just in time to see Dita hold it up to the light and smile faintly. She was dressed in a brilliant jeweled skullcap and a loose-fitting gown embroidered with flowers that swept the floor. "You know, people like that, they're living life like a game with no thought to the consequences."

"I'd certainly be glad to never see him again."

"You and every other performer in this club." She leaned forward, pressing the tip of the knife into the back of his outstretched hand. "Let him live his own delusions of grandeur and power. Soon, he won't be able to tell the difference between a real blade and a prop."

She suddenly pressed down hard, and the length of the weapon seemed to disappear into his hand. Hoshi inhaled sharply, and they both looked at her, before Dita retracted her blade and showed her it was perfectly intact. "I hear that newspaper man is back in the audience. I bet you a week's salary he gets tossed out."

"Just wait until Mr. Reed gets his hands on him."

Dita chucked and pulled a briefcase into her lap, opening the lid to reveal a whole row of blades, all of which Hoshi suspected were false. She couldn't help but ask; the curiosity was absolutely killing her. "What's the act tonight?"

"A collection of my latest and greatest," Kov replied cheerfully, leaning forward to produce a coin out from behind her ear. He twirled it between his fingers. "Figured I would make a few audience members disappear, pull a few things out of my hat. Which one of you lovely ladies would like to be sawed in half tonight?"

"It would be my honor," Dita cut in before she could respond. "To be honest with you, I haven't really decided what I'm doing."

"No kidding?"

She nodded. "You know I do a bit of everything. Acrobatics, knife throwing, telling jokes. Whatever doesn't involve shaking the goods for the greater public of Los Angeles."

The door opened, and Kov reeled back, calling out: "Speaking of which…"

Hoshi caught the flash of something shiny out of the corner of her eye, followed by the most obscenely fluffy fur coat she'd ever seen.

The owner of the coat sat down at the vanity next to her, heaving a massive sigh and hanging her head over the seat to gaze across the room. "You know, Mr. Kov, in the car all the way here, I could've sworn my ears were burning. Now I finally understand why."

She would have recognized that voice anywhere.

Alira leaned forward, rummaging around on the table for her lipstick, which she quickly located and began to apply in the mirror with a practiced hand.

"Where on Earth did you get that mink?"

"Do you like it?" She asked shamelessly, slipping it off her shoulders and draping it over the back of her chair. "It's brand new. I'm telling you, I got that talent scout wrapped around my little finger."

"That British egg, the one that's always at table ten?"

"The very same. I told him that if he can't commit to warming me up himself every night, he needs to pony up and buy me something that can." She caught Hoshi's eye and winked, before standing and disappearing behind an accordion-pleated room divider.

Dita cut a knowing glance between Hoshi and Kov, smiling as if she were in on the joke. "Taxa, you could have afforded that coat on your own."

"That's not the point, Dita, and you know it." Her dress came flying over the barricade, followed by her stockings. "Tonight's the night, I'm telling you."

"You've only been telling us about it for weeks. You're going to dazzle Mr. Archer, he'll sign you tomorrow, and from then on everything's going to come up hotsy-totsy." Hoshi wasn't used to hearing Kov use such colorful language, but she quickly decided she could get used to it.

Her bare arm caught out and seized a costume hung on a nearby rack, disappearing behind the screen once again. "He's right. By this time next year I'll be on every marquee in town. We'll buy a big house in the hills and I'll keep him comfortable with my earnings."

"You'll keep him comfortable?" Dita laughed, leaning over to turn down the volume on the phonograph. "Aren't we ambitious?"

"A lady's got to be." She suddenly emerged from behind the barricade, dressed in a white dress studded with a frankly absurd amount of crystals and rhinestones. Even in their monochrome surroundings, the shine was positively blinding. Her stockings and gloves were similarly decorated, leading into a pair of pristine buckle shoes. She returned to Hoshi's side, propping her feet up on the table and studying her reflection.

As usual, she was tremendously self-assured, totally unashamed under anyone and everyone's scrutiny. After the events of the past few years, Hoshi considered herself more than confident, but the fact remained that she'd kill for even a fraction of her friend's fearlessness.

Suddenly, she was looking at her, her eyes wide with concern, a shift in emotion that startled her. "Honey, aren't you headlining tonight?"

"I think so. I just-"

"You need to get dressed!" Alira pulled at her arm, and together they rose to their feet.

She glanced towards the rack of costumes, and they blurred before her eyes, all feathers and sparkles and fishnetting. She knew she couldn't even begin to guess where hers began and anyone else's began. "I don't know. What do you think?"

"That black lacy number," Alira said automatically, sidling up to her. "Wasn't that what you were wearing when that detective bought you a drink for the first time?"

She nodded, doing her best to offer them a fond smile. Her hand reached for the first hanger on the rack, before coming to the unfortunate conclusion that all of the dark colors looked the same to her in that moment, and she was just as likely to pick blue or purple for black.

Alira quickly came to her rescue, pointing out the correct one and pushing her behind the screen with an open hand.

The moment she was out of view, Alira turned back to their companions, shrugging broadly. When she spoke, there was enough lift in her tone where she could tell she was kidding. "I don't know why I'm so nice. I really just ought to let the stage manager rip into you for being late."

Dita furrowed her brows, searching the fringes of her memory. "What's that thing she tells everyone on their first night?"

"You may think I'm here to make your life a living hell, but that's just not true," Kov offered helpfully. The words sounded awkward and stilted coming from his mouth. "So if there's something around here that upsets you or makes you unhappy in any way-"

"Don't shoot your fat mouth off to me, because I don't give a damn," Alira concluded, and she and Dita laughed, their amusement positively infectious.

There was only one person aboard the Enterprise or the Maelstrom who would get away with talking to their subordinates in that way. Hoshi momentarily struggled with finding the arm holes between all the straps and cutouts, but finally managed to pull the dress over her head, stumbling into view a second later.

"Come here, gorgeous. I'll lace you up." Alira beckoned to her, and she obliged, backing up towards her and facing the mirror. Once there, she could scarcely recognize her reflection, but she felt an indelible surge of pride, knowing she looked damn good. "One of these days, we really ought to ask Ethan how she is at home."

"Are you kidding? She probably just continues to yell." Across the way, Dita was straightening her skullcap, making sure it was secure.

"Suck it in," Alira whispered, and she suddenly felt the tremendous pressure of her corset being fastened, so tight she was almost certain she wouldn't be able to breathe.

"By the way, Taxa," Kov piped up, ignoring the aggrieved look Dita dealt him. "You get a fair warning that the Frenchman is here tonight. According to Liz, he's already two drinks in."

"If he touches me again, so help me God, I'm going to kill him." She pulled tightly once again, and Hoshi grimaced.

"With what?" Kov asked, and immediately regretted asking that question.

Alira reached into the top of her stockings, producing a small revolver and slapping it down on top of the vanity. In the mirror, they locked eyes, and her intensity was so frightening that for an instant it was as if she was all there.

Dita huffed, breaking the tension. "Well, that'll be the first time someone's been murdered during a performance."

They all seemed to laugh at that, which seemed very odd to Hoshi. With one final tug, she felt the clasps at the middle of her back being secured, then Alira placed her hands on her shoulders, leaning over so her lips were right next to her ear. "Have you given any more thought about our double act? We could light up the stage, Hoshi, I'm telling you."

"You know, I…"

"Just think about it." She pushed her hands forward, spreading her palms before them in a rainbow motion. "Two jazz babes moving as one! Hollywood's hottest ticket!"

Someone rapped on their door, loud and insistent, and Hoshi almost jumped out of her skin. She smiled apologetically, struggled into her shoes, and rushed out of the room.

The moment she was gone, Alira turned on her companions and crossed her arms swiftly, expectantly. Dita took the bait.

"Are you sure you're not upset that she's going first tonight?"

"Make no mistake," she said, returning to her vanity and slipping her handgun into a drawer, closing it with a decisive snap. There was a pause, then she caught her reflection in the mirror, smiling to herself. "I'm the one they're here to see."

Outside the door, Anna didn't hesitate for even a second, looping her arm through hers and pulling her down the corridor. The activity in the hallway had reached a fever pitch, and everyone was bustling around, pushing, shoving, calling out and shouting to their companions. Only when they were halfway to the stage did the woman formerly known as Enterprise's chief engineer spare her a second glance, picking up on her strained expression in an instant.

"Don't let them bother you. Kov is only here because that mob heiress is his cousin."

She raised her eyebrows, knowing full well that she was missing a key piece of information, but lacking the resolve to even ask. They turned at a T in the hall and retreated into another room on the lower level, where two crewmen she recognized from engineering were waiting, standing at either end of a spindle wrapped with thick, woven rope.

Hoshi suddenly realized that she had no idea what she would do once she got on stage and whirled on Anna, eyes wide with trepidation.

"And that Taxa got bumped all the way up to the headliner because the doctor's married to her mother."

"Really?"

"Or used to be." She frowned. "She's never been too clear about that. Says it's complicated."

"Listen, Anna…"

"We don't have time for this," she insisted, gesturing towards the wooden platform resting on the stone floor. "Are you ready or not?"

"I…"

She gestured broadly, incredulously.

"Could I change my song?"

Anna issued a ragged sigh, but soon acquiesced. "What did you have in mind?"

---

"Really? One hundred and sixty miles?"

"Seventy-eight laps right through the streets of Monte Carlo," Malcolm confirmed. "What I wouldn't have given to be back home again."

"Cornwall isn't anywhere near Monaco, Mal," he reminded him.

"All the same." Around them, the normal hustle and bustle of the club continued, and he had to almost shout to be heard over the laughter and conversation of the other patrons. "Europe's got a certain flair to it that I wouldn't expect you to understand, Mr. Tucker. Everyone there is even-keeled, learned, more sophisticated..."

"And what's wrong with America?"

"There's nothing wrong with America, specifically Los Angeles. That's where all the money's at." He paused, tapping his fingertips on the table contemplatively. "This country's got many positive attributes, as a matter of fact. The food, the weather, the women-"

"And you know all about that," he accused. Regardless of the fact that this was not the Malcolm he knew, their rapport was still the same, and he was enjoying teasing him.

"Just a few." He cut a glance in Jonathan and T'Pol's direction, then leaned forward. "Imagine if this deal goes through tonight. I'll have the money to bring my girl across the ocean in a steamer and take her to the next Grand Prix. You know those French cabarets would just eat her up."

"You never know, Mal. Maybe you'll get a chance to drive in it someday."

"I'm afraid that's not in the cards for me, but I admire your optimism." He sniffed disdainfully, then shook his head. "Next thing you'll be telling me I'm going to walk on the moon."

Trip didn't have the opportunity to reply to that unknowingly prescient statement, for in the next moment the orchestra began to play. First it was the snare player, building up to a drumroll and a cymbal crash, then the rest of the players joined in a bright, jaunty tune, all wailing trumpets and plodding trombones. The lights in the house dimmed save for the floodlights above the stage, and almost as one, every patron's attention turned to the man at the piano.

He was plainly taken aback to see his science officer standing there, wearing a tank and suspenders holding up the shiniest pants he had ever seen. He was swaying his hips to the music, plainly enjoying the attention, being sure to make eye contact with everyone sitting in the front row.

In one swift, fluid motion, he reached for the microphone next to him, sweeping it off its stand and bringing it to his cheek. It was one of those vented, rectangular models that looked like it weighed twenty pounds and made him sound like he was speaking underwater, but he was undeterred. "Ladies and gentlemen, lovers and friends, allow me to be the very first to welcome you to the 602! I am your host!"

A wave of applause rose up from the crowd, and he canted into the sound, leaning out over the audience. "I hope you're all sufficiently plastered. Do you feel good?" He was pointing to a crewman on the third or fourth row, who had a waitress sitting in his lap. Ethan laughed and made a dismissive gesture with his free hand. "Yeah, I bet you do."

It was incredible. He looked entirely committed to the role he was playing, perfectly relaxed under the scrutiny of hundreds and hundreds of people. His voice carried all the way to the back of the club, to the last row of the upper balcony, and Trip could almost hear it echoing off the walls. "We've got a treat for you all tonight, folks! I promise to keep you all in stitches, on the edge of your seats and positively enthralled, as long as you make me one simple promise."

He fell to his knees, then rolled onto his stomach, propping himself up on his elbows to stare across the pit. "Leave your troubles outside. So what if life is disappointing?"

Ethan didn't wait for the crowd to respond, rolling onto his back, spreading his arms wide to gesture across the glittering proscenium. "Forget it! We have no troubles here! Here, life is beautiful! The girls are beautiful!"

As if on cue, a dozen female crewmen emerged from the wings, clad in bright leotards and headdresses a meter high. Trip couldn't even begin to discern what color they were, but guessed they were red, watching as they came together in a straight line and fell into a series of impossibly high kicks.

"Even the orchestra is beautiful!"

This time entirely on cue, the band continued their spirited melody, louder this time, with added flourishes by the brass section. Quickly, Ethan righted himself and shimmied towards the chorus line, arms outstretched, as though he was soaking it all in.

As soon as it began, the volume of the music decreased, and he naturally folded himself into the line of dancers, abandoning the microphone and wrapping his arms around the waists of the two nearest crewmen. "I wish I could say the same about the stage crew, but they certainly do try their best." He grimaced, then turned his head, as though he was sharing a secret with the audience. "Don't tell them I said that. The stage manager is my wife."

The audience erupted with laughter, and he returned to the piano, the women quickly retreating through the backdrop and the wings and any available opening in the curtains. He slid onto the bench and leaned backwards, addressing their guests. "And now, without further ado…"

He made a quick flourish with his hands across the keys, and the lights in the house went out entirely. The band began to play a completely different tune, something faster and more frenetic. "Our headliner tonight is a familiar face. Please welcome the jewel of the 602, the toast of Los Angeles…"

Suddenly a stagehand was running towards him, skirting the edge of the stage and whispering in his ear. Trip could barely see it through the shadows, but noticed that he did a double take, shook his head, then leaned down to converse with the conductor, making a series of frantic hand gestures.

Almost immediately, the orchestra was silenced entirely. Then, from somewhere, a saxophone player took up his instrument, crooning a sultry melody while accompanied by Ethan on the piano. He could tell the crowd wasn't used to something so understated, because a hush soon fell over the room.

He thought he caught a glimpse of someone rising through the floor, interrupting a light shining through the backdrop, but couldn't be sure until they began to shift from side to side, settling into an easy sway of their hips.

From above, a single spotlight.

Trip momentarily forgot to breathe.

Hoshi was holding her own on stage, staring down the audience as though it was something to be conquered. At some point between their encounter with the Doctor and now, she'd done a costume change, clad in a gauzy black dress replete with fringe that hung down around her knees. It was unlike anything he'd ever seen her wear, but she was certainly a sight to see, gorgeous as she ever was, with an added bit of confidence and an enticing glint in her eye.

"Love was blind to me, now it's kind to me..." She suddenly crouched down halfway, laying her hands on her thighs and drawing them up the length of her body. "Love has opened my eyes..."

"You're a lucky man, Tucker." Malcolm whispered across the table, interrupting his reverie.

"Don't I know it," he mumbled, not being able to tear his eyes away from her for a second.

He watched her ripple and keen in time with the music, momentarily lifting her arms above her head and crossing them at the wrist, closing her eyes as she sang, blocking anything and everyone else out. Somehow she made her way over to the piano and lifted herself on top of the cover, draping herself fetchingly across it. Ethan reacted immediately, rising in his seat to tower over her, the amusement in his eyes unmistakable.

"I loved that man from the start and way down deep in his heart, I know he loves me, heaven knows why..." She reached up and seized both sides of his face, pulling him closer. "And when he tells me he can't live without me...what wouldn't I do for that man…"

To the immense amusement of the audience, he tipped forward and kissed her on the tip of the nose, causing her to break out into an unbidden smile. A second later, she was arching her back, using the momentum to roll onto her side to face the audience, lowering her voice until she was all but purring. "I'll never leave him alone, I'll make his troubles my own, I'll love that man as nobody can…"

Trip realized far too late that his cheeks were turning red, and he cleared his throat, drowning his embarrassment in his gin. On stage, Hoshi approached the audience and beckoned to them, switching her hips and tapping her toes with an innate rhythm he didn't know she possessed. "I'm just no good when his arms are about me...what wouldn't I do for that man…"

The music was reaching an apex in volume, and it was all over much too soon. The audience was applauding thunderously, and Hoshi was bowing and blowing kisses, looking happier than she had in months. The band afforded her a decorous pause, then swept into some brisk transitional music. The area was summarily flooded with stage hands, moving and pushing some massive set pieces, and she took the hint, thundering down the steps and onto the floor.

She seemed to find them without any difficulty, turning and weaving her way through the crowd until she reached their booth. Trip was already on his feet, and soon, he had her in his arms, kissing the top of her head and whispering into her hair.

"Hoshi, that was-"

"The most fun I've had in forever. I was so worried, but I think-"

"I had no idea you knew any-"

"I know a few jazz standards," she whispered, frowning slightly. "Thank God for that."

"You're amazing, darlin'," he assured her, rubbing his hands up and down her back. Suddenly he felt a sharp pain coupled with the ripping of skin, and he pulled back, hissing through his teeth.

He realized that he'd caught his thumb on one of the clasps of her corset, and he was bleeding, rapidly opening and closing his fist in a bid to staunch it. In the space between them, they locked eyes and both came to the same realization.

Taste and touch and smell could be excused. The fact of the matter was that neither of them had ever felt pain in a dream before, and the thought of that was jarring, terrifying.

Malcolm swept into the space between them and kissed her cheek. It was a familiar, affectionate gesture, but wholly out of character for him, and she all but fell into their booth, trying and failing to look natural.

"I keep telling you, Miss Sato, you ought to let me represent you." Finally noticing her stricken expression, he passed his glass into her line of sight and she drank, haltingly. "You'd be in good company for sure."

The liquor went down like fire and she grimaced, hiding her expression behind her hand. "Everyone here seems to be on their way out. The 602 Club is my home, Mr. Reed."

"You never want to stay in one place for too long," he admonished. "Why would you bother? The world's too big and too wonderful."

It was a very un-Malcolmlike sentiment, but entirely appropriate for their situation. Irrationally, Hoshi found herself smiling, staring out onto the rush of crewmen and colleagues all around them, listening as the band plodded away at a familiar yet unplaceable jazz tune.

"All the same, if any of your girls ever start to come after you for breach of contract-"

"They wouldn't dare. I cut them all fair deals, Mr. Tucker. They're all established in the industry and pleased as punch." He paused. "Well, except for Janelle. She claims we had a verbal deal for five percent commission, but her contract clearly says ten-"

"Exactly why you should give my office a call. I'm sure we can rustle up a lawyer to help you out in your hour of need." Trip made a big show of reaching into his suit jacket and producing a business card, which he quickly passed into Hoshi's hands.

She flipped it over as she handed it to Malcolm, and the words she saw there were unmistakable.

TUCKER AND HAMMOND, PRIVATE DETECTIVES. AFFILIATED, LAPD.

Malcolm nodded and afforded them a slight smile, tapping the edge of the card on the table contemplatively. He was quiet for a moment, then pulled a queer sort of expression, leaning far over in his seat to look at someone approaching them from the front of the room.

"Here he comes," he mumbled, preemptively reaching for his glass.

They heard him before they saw him. Simon reached their table in a flurry of laughter and conversation from his entourage, two or three female crewmen that were clinging onto his arm and hanging on his every word. At his prompting, they quickly disengaged and headed towards the bar, casting a reproachful glance at his unwitting prey.

He popped a cigar from his pocket and gestured towards the three of them before he even said a word, silently asking if they had a light. At their blank expressions, he balked somewhat, but smiled through it nonetheless.

"Mr. Pascal," Malcolm ground out, and Trip suddenly remembered that he'd never liked the man. He'd gone on and on about it over sub-space and in letters, but never had any proof that he shouldn't be trusted, just an ineffable, unavoidable hunch. "To what do I owe the pleasure?"

"Just checking in on the competition." He nodded towards Trip and Hoshi. "The law, and a potential new client."

"Believe me, there's nothing you could offer Miss Sato that would make her give up all of this."

"Really? Not even a larger salary and a cut of the tip jar?" He leaned forward and placed both of his palms on the table, pinning her under his gaze. "How about not having to share the headliner slot with a backwoods country bumpkin?"

"Alright, now you've…"

Hoshi seized Malcolm's arm and squeezed tightly, before turning back to him and smiling sweetly. "That's really very kind of you, Mr. Pascal, but I'm quite happy where I'm at."

He seemed disappointed, yet undeterred. He shrugged and produced his own card, sliding it across the table. "If you change your mind, don't hesitate to call. That's my direct line. Miss Zhang is always looking for fresh talent at her club."

She accepted it and tucked it into her bodice, making a point to avoid Trip's gaze, which was positively boring a hole in the side of her head. She knew it reflected their own misgivings about the man, but couldn't begin to decipher what her subconscious was trying to tell them.

"I'm sure she's quite appreciative," Malcolm assured him. "Now, why don't you go be a wet blanket on someone else's evening?"

Trip could tell that he desperately wanted the last word, but graciously conceded, turning and making tracks towards the bar. Malcolm and Hoshi began to converse in hushed, intense tones, but his eyes were trained on Pascal's back, watching as he stepped up to another familiar table.

T'Pol regarded him with disdain, Jonathan with interest, which quickly dissipated as he spoke. At one point he leaned down to whisper in her ear, and when he righted himself, her nostrils were flaring, the glint in her eyes positively murderous.

He handed the Commodore a folded slip of a newspaper and then disappeared again, moving to the counter to join his companions.

He didn't have time to question it or even think about it; in that next moment, the lights in the house dimmed once again, and a bright flash caught his eye. Turning in his seat, he watched as a series of floodlights were switched on behind the backdrops the stage hands had so carefully placed about the floor. He soon realized they were some sort of cork board with cutouts strategically sliced into them. The light, now incredibly concentrated, streamed through the holes and openings, projecting silhouettes of stars and crescent moons over the crowd.

The band was playing an easy swing which swelled and grew; soon, Ethan was back on the mic. "Ladies and gentlemen, please give a warm welcome to our heartland sweetheart! She's new in town and she's ready to make your acquaintance! She's-"

Without a second to spare, another figure rose to the floor, clasping a large ostrich feather fan to her chest. The moment she heard her name, her eyes snapped open, and she treated the crowd to an enchanting smile, sweeping her prop to the side.

Hoshi realized that Alira's promise to dazzle Mr. Archer had been quite literal.

From a distance, Trip thought it looked like his tactical officer was positively covered in crystals from her fingertips to her toes. Immediately, her costume caught the light, and she shone to a radiant degree, effectively ensuring that every last bit of attention in the room was focused on her.

She was larger than life and true to form, always doing the absolute most.

It was incongruous to how he was used to seeing her, in uniform or hoodies and sweats, but he had to admit that she looked immensely comfortable with all eyes on her, perfectly shameless under their scrutiny. He watched as she began to sway her hips, intermittently passing the fan in front of her body, then glanced at Malcolm, who was utterly entranced.

He was gazing at her with the moon, the stars, and the entire rest of the heavens in his eyes, his chin propped up in his hand, an undeniable smile on his lips.

On stage, Alira was pacing back and forth in front of the backdrop, teasing the pearls she wore around her neck, stepping and sashaying in time with the music. Somewhat surprisingly, her tune was innocent, approachable, and she sang the same way she spoke, seemingly in one unbroken breath with a hint of a rasp.

"When you're all alone any old night and you're feeling out of tune…" She paused just long enough for two suited men to slip through the curtains and join her. They each wrapped an arm around her waist and began to step in time with her, facing the audience with their hats pulled down to obscure their features. "Pick up your hat, close up your flat, and get out, get under the moon…"

He watched as they approached the audience and easily recognized Petty Officer Rostov and Ensign Nguyen, two men that almost certainly had no business anywhere near a stage like this. The thought was momentarily diverting to him, and he missed the acrobatic tricks, the brief Charleston, the shimmies and twirls, only zoning back in the moment the song reached a fever pitch, and his tactical officer was gesturing toward the crowd, begging them to give her a night in June.

It was over soon enough, and the crowd was applauding thunderously. Alira seemed to swell under the praise, clutching her heart and staring up into the stage lights. She gestured briefly to her companions, who quickly took their leave, rushing out through the wings.

Just as before, the stage crew rushed forward, and she was unceremoniously ushered onto the floor. From across the room, she locked eyes with one of them-he couldn't even begin to tell which-and began her gentle procession through the crowd.

About halfway, someone caught her arm and pulled her aside, into the darkness of the side of the room where the lights hadn't yet been switched back on. It was far from certain, but he thought he caught a flash of Lieutenant Cutler's face, which disappeared as soon as it appeared back into the throng of patrons near the stage.

The momentary distraction gone, Alira was free to waltz on over to them, arriving a second later. She delivered a quick kiss to Trip's cheek and reached across the table to squeeze Hoshi's hand, then slid into their booth.

Malcolm's response was immediate, wrapping an arm around her waist and pulling her into his arms. She glanced up at him, eyes glittering, and asked: "How was I?"

"Sensational as usual," he assured her, looking for backup from his companions.

"I'm glad you liked it." Neither of them had time to react; she swiftly seized both sides of his face and laid one on him, her elation evident.

Hoshi realized that, save for a brief, calculated encounter at her New Year's Eve party, she'd never seen the two of them be outwardly affectionate at all. It seemed to go on for a second too long; Trip cleared his throat, and they separated. Alira was suddenly intent on explaining exactly what had happened onstage.

"Jimmy stepped on my heel again! He's lucky he's the best dancer we've got. Between me and Hoshi and every other singer in this joint, he's lucky he's not gotten canned."

Hoshi reached across the table again to take her hand. It was an unusually intimate gesture, one that her cultural inhibitions would have prevented her from partaking to in their reality. "I'm sure no one noticed. You were wonderful. I know Anna says it's out of your usual repertoire, but-"

"I had to class it up a little." She produced a small carrying case seemingly out of nowhere and fished out a cigarette. Out of the corner of her eye, she noticed Liz approaching their table. "You know as well as I, Hoshi, if you only sing Sophie Tucker all the time people start to talk."

Their waitress was suddenly at their table, sliding a glass across the table towards her. It was apparently her usual order, because she took a healthy drink immediately. "You should have been here last weekend. She finally did You Gotta See Mama Every Night. We'd been egging her on for months. I swear, we had men passing out all around this audience."

Trip realized she was looking at him, and smiled gently, having trouble concentrating over the pounding in his head. He could tell Hoshi was in a similar way because of how she leaned to one side, rubbing at her temples.

"Rest assured that the county hospital knows exactly when my dame takes the stage," Malcolm added, squeezing her hip.

"All in a night's work." She winked at Liz and performed a mock salute. "Say, aren't you up soon?"

She frowned and dismissively waved her hand, before sweeping Trip's empty glass off the table and hurrying off towards the bar.

The second she was gone, Alira waved her cigarette towards her companion, where she found a light waiting. This motion was done completely without a second glance; they were strangely in sync, as usual. "Hoshi, I always forget. How did the two of you meet?"

"The two of us?" She sounded distracted, somewhat incredulous.

"Yes, Kov was asking. You know that man has such a wild imagination. He thought it had something to do with a clown, or a circus, or trained elephants…" She raised her eyebrows and exhaled in frustration, teasing the curls that hung down around her face.

"Well, the truth is…" She trailed off, and she and Trip exchanged a meaningful glance.

Would they believe on a warp-five ship bound for Kronos, with the promise of first contact and exploration outside their own solar system?

If she was offering a silent hint, it came far too late.

Hoshi said on the road at the exact same time Trip said at work. He hesitated, then brought his hand down on the tabletop with a decisive slap. "I arrested her at the train station. She was trying to board without paying fare."

"That's right, you used to be a copper on the beat!" Malcolm laughed, as though he knew something he didn't. "You've got a better gig now. Less blood and guts."

"At least, in theory," Alira said cryptically, suddenly rising to her feet. Across the room, she'd noticed Phlox take his leave of the Archers, presenting her with a golden opportunity. Before any of them could stop her, she was on her feet and crossing the floor, dodging and weaving through the crowd and pushing various crewmen aside when they weren't moving fast enough.

Malcolm cut them a wide-eyed, harried glance, then hurried after her, straightening his tie and his posture and trying his best to look approachable. For him, now as in always, that was almost certainly a losing battle.

The moment he was gone, Hoshi reached for Trip's hand, squeezing tightly. The pain of her headache was so intense, so oppressive, that she was bleary eyed. With her free hand, she reached for Trip's drink and downed it, the burn of the alcohol affording her a momentary reprieve, something else to focus on as her heartbeat throbbed against her skull.

"What's the last thing you remember?"

"I…" She trailed off, realizing that most of the day had been a blur. "Breakfast this morning in the Captain's mess. Julia was there, and Dr. Yuris. You were trying to get him to come to poker night with the guys."

Across the room, Alira was speaking with the Commodore, gesturing wildly, shaking his hand earnestly for far longer than was appropriate. He seemed to take it in stride, even seeming amused by her enthusiasm.

He nodded. "We must have been on the bridge for about an hour, and then…"

And then, nothing.

"Do you think we were attacked?" She didn't have to say it; he knew what she really meant.

Was this a hallucination?

"I don't know," he whispered back, and it was the truth. "We could really be dreaming, or maybe it's some kind of trance. Someone could be trying to get information out of us. It could even be a psionic wavefront like what hit the Enterprise."

Malcolm was at the Captain's side, seemingly having an entire different conversation, smiling to beat the band. In contrast, she didn't seem even slightly interested in what he had to say, flicking her spent cigarette into the ashtray and reaching over her shoulder with her empty glass.

Her bodyguard obliged, taking it from her and approaching the bar. Travis immediately disengaged from the patron he'd been helping and set an intercept course.

A second before he reached the counter, Yuris paused and glanced over his shoulder, looking directly at them with his cold, expressionless eyes.

Even Hoshi seemed startled; she added her free hand to the mix, clasping his arm with force.

"Trip, I'm not sure if I'm going crazy or not. Tell me this much…"

It took him a beat to redirect his focus, but when he did, he could see that she was fraught, adamant.

"What did we watch at movie night last week?"

The realization hit him like a speeding bullet.

Hoshi had been on a musical kick since their success with The Sound of Music a couple of months back; the crew seemed to eat it up, and she was only too happy to oblige. Travis especially had been skeptical of her choice, but had given in once she'd promised beautiful people in period costumes.

Now that he thought about it, the similarities were obvious. It had become lodged in his subconscious, and hers as well, so it wasn't surprising his brain was self-inserting people they knew into this likely chemical-induced fantasy.

"Usually when I realize I'm dreaming, I wake right up," he said, scooting closer to her, seeking comfort in her warmth, her closeness. "I don't know what's going on, Hoshi, but I promise you..."

Over by the bar, their pitch seemed to go downhill fast. Archer had produced the newspaper clipping that Pascal had handed him, and Alira was turning it over and over in her hands, her face telling the entire story and then some. She was nodding furiously, then shook his hand again, before breaking free and approaching a cluster of tables nearby.

Simon seemed to anticipate her arrival, rising to his feet and attempting to pull her into his side. The second he touched her, she pulled back and socked him so hard in the jaw that Trip could've sworn he heard it from across the room. She was shouting, her rage distorted and nearly drowned out by the swell of the orchestra, and Malcolm was holding her back, waving off the calls of Simon's companions and dragging her all the way back towards their table.

The second she crashed into their booth, she was blinking away angry tears, breathing heavily. She reached for her drink, but her hands were shaking too hard to get a good hold on it. She seemed a little horrified, as though she knew her outburst would have far-reaching and devastating consequences. As they watched, she pitched forward and exhaled raggedly through her teeth, trying and failing to regain her composure.

It was a very frightening and realistic recreation of her explosive temper; the last time Trip had seen her this angry, she was confronting him in his ready room after the incident at Kandar, her rage momentarily blinding her, producing an episode she would apologize profusely for later.

"I don't know what came over me! I just couldn't even control-"

"Archer wouldn't know talent if it hit him in the face," Malcolm assured her, squeezing her hand tightly in a bid to draw all of the anger out of her.

"You're wrong." She laughed ruefully, finally taking hold of her drink and downing it in one gulp. "I told him my father was a big fan of his work. That was my first mistake."

"That had nothing to do with it. It was that bastard Pascal, and you know it."

"It's like if I won't work for him, I can't work for anyone." The piece of newspaper she'd stolen from the Commodore came across the table, and Hoshi studied it, eyes wide. "Apparently he asked Mr. Archer if he thought his studio could stand the same level of scandal that the 602 has."

She suddenly reached forward and seized the clipping, tearing it into a dozen tiny pieces. "He comes around here like some two-bit Valentino trying to sweet-talk every performer into switching over to his new club. I don't know where he gets off!"

"He'll get what's coming to him eventually." Malcolm gestured to a passing waitress and made a cyclical motion with his hand, as if to say, keep 'em coming. "Don't worry. We'll pitch you to Columbia Pictures next week. They've got that new lady director, apparently she's taking on some risky projects. What was her name again, Trip?"

Behind them, he hadn't noticed that their next performer had taken the stage; Crewman Galloway from Enterprise's galley was presently bumbling his way through a passable ventriloquist act, and several hecklers down at the front were throwing things at him, apples and tomatoes and even whole heads of cabbage. Ethan seemed to be encouraging them from his place at the piano, clapping and laughing uproariously.

"Hernandez?" It was a wild guess, but from the way things were going, was probably correct.

He snapped his fingers, indicating he was right. Beside him, Hoshi tensed up, focused on someone approaching from the direction of the bar.

"I hear Pascal scouts for her, too. I'm telling you, the man practically runs this town."

"We'll find something," he promised, entirely oblivious to Hoshi's strained expression.

"He's right. You've probably got the last honorable man in America by your side, Taxa. He'll take good care of you."

She seemed amused by this, and even a little comforted. "The very last, huh? Does that exclude you, Mr. Tucker?"

"I'm afraid it does." He attempted to take another sip of his drink; the alcohol seemed to neither help nor hurt his pounding headache. "You may be overreacting. What if he comes back with a yes?"

"He told me he'd get back to me," she replied morosely. "Everyone in the business knows exactly what that means."

In the next second, a towering figure stepped up to their table, blocking out the illumination from the nearest floodlight with their back. Trip squinted into the light, and soon made out the distinct features of his first officer, dressed in a smart three-piece suit, sans tie, her braids tucked underneath a newsboy cap. She looked a little confused and very, very irritated.

"Thought I might find you here." Julia gestured to him, and he scooted aside, letting her join them in the booth. "I shouldn't need to remind you that we're here to run reconnaissance, not to sit back and enjoy the show."

"Really? And what kept you tied up until now?" He had no idea how much time had passed in their fantasy world; it felt like hours and hours, even days.

"I got caught by the owner on the way in. You know the doctor, he never shuts up. He says he heard that by 1940, everything's going to be in technicolor."

"I heard that too!" Alira seemed to be making an overture of friendship towards her, which she was thoroughly rebutting. "Could you even imagine? One day you'll go to the cinema and it'll be as bright and beautiful as real life, just-"

She snapped her fingers, and for a split second, Trip and Hoshi were sure they saw the alabaster tone of her skin, her silvery rings, her cherry red nail polish. It was a sharp, intense shock, and they both reeled back, unable to hide their reactions.

In that next moment, the crowd erupted in applause, and Julia seized the newspaper clipping laid out on the table, using it and the sudden flurry of activity to disguise her words. "Exactly what the hell are you doing? I've told you before not to get too close to these people. I shouldn't have to remind you, Mr. Phlox is under investigation for money laundering, for embezzlement..."

Her partner was looking back at her, completely bewildered, and it irritated her to no end. "This entire place is a front for organized crime. Has been since T'Pol became an equal partner, I'm sure of it."

"But we-"

"We haven't been able to prove it, no. But if he's suspect, his inner circle definitely is. Especially his stepdaughter." Her eyes were rolling around, darting to one side, and he finally got the hint.

She didn't like any of it. Trip had horrible taste in friends, and was too close to the case as it was, nevermind the fact that they'd already cleared Hoshi of any wrongdoing.

"I am working, Jules," he hissed, slapping the table to punctuate his words. "Trust the process."

"Excuse me?" Malcolm's voice shocked them out of their quiet congress, and they quickly righted themselves, affording him nearly identical smiles. "Do you two need to take this outside?"

They didn't have time to respond; soon, the lights in the house were brought down again, and Ethan was on the mic, waltzing across the stage and twirling the cord of the microphone between his fingers. "Ladies and gentlemen, for your entertainment and pleasure, the 602 Club is proud to present...me!"

From the wings, a hand shot out, offering him a top hat and cane, which he gratefully accepted. From the pit, he could see two players lifting chairs onto the edge of the stage, pushing them as far as they could before disappearing into the darkness again.

"Of course, the powers that be don't trust me to handle this performance on my own." He gestured toward the bar, and his boss waved at him dismissively. "So, for the good of the cause, please join me in welcoming a very special guest. Some of you may know her as the girl who refills your drinks-"

From the crowd, Trip suddenly caught a flash of movement before a floodlight, seeing the extension of a hand and the rude gesture that followed.

"...but I know her as the girl that can get me fired if I cross her for even a second! Let's have a round of applause for Miss Cutler!"

The lady in question emerged on the steps leading up to the stage, still in uniform, her cane tucked underneath her arm. The band immediately swept into a jazzy tune, all wailing brass and smooth strings, and the cheers that erupted from the crowd were positively thunderous. Alira even rose partially in her seat and stuck both pinkies in her mouth, whistling loud enough to wake every dog in the neighborhood. Beside her, Hoshi grimaced and rubbed at her forehead.

On stage, their two performers took their seats, striking contemplative poses. Soon, they began to scoot their feet along the floor from side to side, creating a smooth shuffling motion. Liz suddenly leaned far into his personal space, and he obliged, pressing his cheek to hers and looking out over the audience.

"You know, Ethan dear, I was just thinking…"

"Uh oh, here comes trouble!"

She held her finger up as if to discourage the crowd from laughing, which only increased their amusement. Her lips suddenly split into an easy, confident smile, and Trip was momentarily swept away by how happy she looked. He doubted she'd looked this way since before Solnara, and almost certainly before Kandar.

"Every morning and every evening, ain't we got fun?"

They suddenly stood and came around the back of their chairs, swinging their hips, tipping their hats toward the crowd. Ethan answered in kind, and she hooked an arm around his waist, drawing him close and into the next series of steps.

Trip had no idea either of them possessed such rhythm, but they were perfectly in sync, making their way from one end of the stage to the other, belting out to the cheap seats, shimmying and shaking and prancing about. At one point Liz twirled her cane into the air, watched it hit its arc far above their heads, and caught it with ease, pointing the end of it towards the front row.

On cue, the waitresses who had gathered there started to push tables and chairs to the far end of the room, ignoring the protestations of the people who'd been gathered around them. The middle of the room followed suit, then the back of the house, until a great open space was cleared in the middle of the floor.

Now free of the microphone, they were having to belt, but were certainly up to the challenge. Liz and Ethan came down the stairs with a flourish of cymbals and swept into the middle of the rapidly growing circle.

"There's nothing surer. The rich get richer and the poor get poorer-in the meantime, in between time, don't we have fun?"

The volume suddenly increased drastically, drowning them out, but they didn't seem to mind, slipping into a swinging, flourishing dance that brought them across the floor, moving their shoulders and hopping from foot to foot. It quite reminded Trip of a waltz with a few extra steps, and soon the floor was full of couples waving their arms and stepping in time with the music.

At their table, one of the few along the wall that hadn't been disturbed by the sudden redecorating, Alira was trying to coax Malcolm out onto the floor, to little success. She finally gave up and slid across him out of the booth, skirting the crowd of patrons and making a beeline towards the bar.

Suddenly curious and enthralled by the atmosphere and momentarily distracted from their previous fear of the unknown, Trip found himself following her, entirely unaware that his companions were doing the same. By the time they reached the counter, she was trying to get Travis's attention, waving and shouting and all but launching herself across the barricade.

He was there in an instant, his sleeves rolled up and vest unbuttoned. In the space between them, she reached for his hand, squeezing tightly.

"What can I get for you?"

"A turn around the floor, if you've got it in you."

He frowned, glancing back at the people trailing her. Malcolm waved his hand at him, but he wasn't the least bit encouraged by it. "Listen, I'm on the clock. I really should be behind the bar."

"So am I. What's wrong with taking a break, Mr. Mayweather?" She leaned in and dropped her voice to almost a whisper, so quiet Trip scarcely heard her standing right next to her. "The girls all say you're the best dancer here."

"And who am I to argue with that?" For a second it looked like he was going to have to go all the way around to the side of the wall to exit, but he suddenly hoisted himself up and slid across the bar, taking her hand and pulling her into the middle of the room.

Immediately, they began to scoot across the floor, holding onto one another then swinging outwards, using the other's outstretched hand as a counterbalance. They would slip and slide and though they had no traction at all, waving their free arms in a circular motion before coming in again, smiling and laughing and kicking their heels so fast they almost became a blur.

For a minute, Trip allowed himself to get lost in the sight, watching as his friends and officers enjoyed themselves and got lost in the music. He knew that with the war ongoing and the state of the quadrant, they could never really achieve this level of revelry. The blatant disregard for their responsibilities was momentarily refreshing, a welcome reprieve.

At one point Travis lifted her entirely off the ground and swung her over his shoulder, a sudden flash of movement that took her by surprise. It wasn't a second until she was back on the ground, allowing him to twirl her around and around, spinning until she was dizzy and could now longer tell left from right.

By the time he returned her to the bar, her face was flushed, and she was completely out of breath. Travis cut them a thumbs-up and managed to coax another performer on the floor, one of the girls from the chorus line in a shimmery leotard. It was then he noticed that a majority of the performers who had once been backstage were now out there with them, enjoying a brief moment of respite before they were to go on.

Ethan and Liz soon danced their way out of the circle. They all but collapsed against the counter, their smiles megawatt.

"Was this all a part of the plan?"

"The more they dance, the more they drink," Ethan replied offhandedly, catching Phlox's eye as he passed them behind the bar. He was presently juggling about a dozen different glasses, but set them all down to engage them.

"You were brilliant," he shouted, reaching across the counter to cup Liz's cheek. "I couldn't look away for a second."

"And what am I, yesterday's garbage?"

Ethan was thoroughly ignored, and soon she was pointing to one of the many bottles lined up on the shelves against the wall. "I'm taking my fifteen minutes. Give me some of the good stuff."

He seemed to know exactly what she was talking about, and soon she was hurrying away clutching an entire bottle of champagne, the spring in her step thoroughly restored.

A second later, Alira was taking her leave of them, saying she was going to freshen up. The tempo of the music was at an all-time high, though he could tell they were about to start winding down. Turning to one side, he could barely make out the stage hands moving an entirely different set of props into position, a series of bullseye targets and a spinning wheel large enough to accommodate a person. Dita and Kov were having a rather intense conversation off to one side, almost in the shadows.

Trip was suddenly distracted by Hoshi elbowing him sharply in the ribs; up ahead of them, Jon was attempting to persuade T'Pol to dance with him, to little success. She seemed perfectly disaffected by everything that was happening around them, a little bored even, though from a distance he could see the light in her eyes.

Finally, she acquiesced and the two stepped into a tango, with limited flair and no extra flourishes. It was something he was certain they'd never get to see in reality, and for a moment he couldn't look away, immeasurably entertained by the thought that their resident Vulcan might secretly like to dance.

A few minutes later, the music began to fade out, much to the disappointment of the crowd. Soon Anna was bursting from the wings, gesturing wildly to the orchestra, pleading with them to keep going.

It was too late. They heard the crack of a gunshot, then two, then three, all in rapid succession. Then someone was screaming, shrill and piercing, over and over again, at such a frequency that it set every hair on the back of his neck on end. It was somewhat muffled, as though it were coming from somewhere else, but they were distinct nonetheless.

All around them, people were gasping and clutching at their companions, looking around for damage. A few started to run for the exit, but Julia surged forward, announcing her police credentials and that no one was going anywhere.

Beside him, though it was quiet and almost imperceptible, he heard Malcolm say: "Not again."

Phlox swiftly brought his hand down on the countertop, causing anyone within earshot to jump about a foot in the air. Hoshi glanced towards him, taking in his fraught, aggravated expression.

"I knew I should have never left Topeka."

---

Trip sprang into action immediately; he wasn't sure it was adrenaline or instinct, but he was soon rushing towards Julia, shouting over the heads of several very frightened crewmen.

"Get on the comm. We need more officers down here, and we need them ten minutes ago."

"I'm sorry, the what?"

His grimaced, clenching his fist into his side. "The phone. Ask to use their telephone."

He turned and began to approach the stage as if on autopilot; on the way, he caught Hoshi's fraught expression, and soon felt her fall into step with him. They were quickly followed by Phlox, but not Malcolm or Ethan, who bent their heads together in intense but inaudible congress. On stage, Dita looked immeasurably frightened, standing amidst the props and materials that would have constituted her act. One of the floodlights from the previous act had yet to be moved, and it illuminated her from behind, in addition to her briefcase at the front of the platform, filled with a variety of ornamental knives and daggers.

Anna saw him coming and made an immediate about face, as if she just hadn't come running out from backstage like to devil himself was on her tail. As he passed into the wings, he was nearly overwhelmed by a cloud of cigarette smoke, and he began to cough into his sleeve, sniffing and rubbing his eyes.

He followed a spiral staircase directly down into the dimly lit lower level, with racks of clothing and dressing room doors on both sides. There was scarcely room for two people to walk abreast, but Trip and Hoshi managed it, sidestepping the handful of wide-eyed performers around them.

As they approached the end of the hallway, the screams grew louder and more frantic until they melted into wails and cries. They were approaching a familiar door, one she'd passed through only a few moments before, and Hoshi realized she knew that voice, that wail of despair.

She'd heard it over and over again in the Expanse.

Trip stepped over the threshold first, then immediately leaned back, tucking his chin into his chest and inhaling deeply. She could tell that he was trying to maintain his composure, stomach his fear, fighting the bile rising in the back of his throat. His hand came around the doorframe and clenched tightly, then he all but forced himself inside, entering her dressing room to a horrific and bloody scene.

Simon Pascal rested in the chair in front of Hoshi's vanity, his upper body, arms, and brains sprawled out across the table. He was turned slightly towards the door, as though he'd reacted in surprise to someone entering the room, but it appeared that he'd been shot twice: once, through the back of the skull execution style, and another through the temple, if the blood dripping down the side of his face was any indication. A third bullet had shattered the glass of the mirror, rendering it irrevocably fractured.

At the far corner of the room, Liz was inconsolable. It was immediately clear that she'd walked in on the poor unfortunate just a moment ago; Alira was trying and failing to keep her calm, though she was tearful herself, watching Trip's every move as he forced his way into the room.

"You haven't touched anything, have you? I mean, you haven't..." He made a dismissive, shoving gesture with his hands, fingers outstretched.

"No, I didn't. I heard gunshots and came running and…" She trailed off, chest heaving, her voice warped with emotion. "Oh my God!"

"It's going to be okay," Trip assured her, though at that point, he wasn't sure it would be. He glanced over his shoulder and caught Hoshi's eye; immediately, they knew that something was dreadfully wrong.

This wasn't a dream, it was a nightmare.

Behind her, a handful of people were jostling for a view of their victim, but she was holding them back, propping a foot and an elbow against the doorframe. At last she cried out and stumbled forward, and Jonathan and T'Pol forged into the room, followed shortly by Phlox.

"Dear God," Jonathan marveled, and Trip immediately picked up on a very uncharacteristic Transatlantic accent. He sounded every bit like an old-timey actor, all dropped consonants and run on phrases. "What's happened here?"

"That's what I'm trying to figure out," Trip said. They looked at him with surprise, as though they hadn't expected him to address him directly, but acknowledged him nonetheless. "Charles Tucker, LAPD."

Archer shook his hand, but T'Pol swiftly rebuffed his overture, extending her hand, palm down. At first he was entirely bewildered by this gesture, but soon he understood, taking hold of her fingers and brushing his lips across her knuckles.

"I'm Jonny Archer. This is my fiancee, T'Pol. I apologize for the interruption, we heard the commotion and just had to-"

"That's perfectly fine, though I'm afraid you're standing in the middle of a crime scene. Would you mind-"

He was interrupted once again by Phlox, who was attempting to get past him to attend to Liz. Catching him by the arm, he wrenched him backwards, forcing himself between the three of them and their victim slumped over at the vanity. Behind him, he could hear Anna talking, saying something about coming as quickly as she could, but she was readily ignored.

"Did any of you know this man?" It was a simple question, one that he already knew the answer to, but it was as good a place as any to start.

"Why, of course," Phlox replied. "He was a regular. Scouted for another club in the city, if I'm not mistaken."

"He'd just talked to us a few minutes before the show began, trying to get a few of his girls in front of us for an audition."

"And was he successful?"

Jon shrugged, seeming awfully nonchalant for standing a meter away from a dead body. "Couldn't say for certain. At least not yet. Or ever, as it may seem."

He wanted to ask what exactly he'd said to make T'Pol so upset, but graciously refrained. Carefully, he stepped forward to look over Simon's shoulder, noticing the embers burning in the ashtray.

Trip retrieved a thoroughly charred piece of paper, warped and wrinkled, so shrunken that he was having a hard time making the words out there. It was the waxy kind of parchment that had a hard time burning, but whoever had been there right before them certainly had tried their best.

He wanted to move him, but almost didn't want to touch him, for fear that it would make their hallucination all the more real. He caught a glimpse of a photograph of him and Hoshi dressed in their period best beaming at the camera, looking rather like one of those posed pictures one could take in a souvenir shop at a tourist trap.

Despite their circumstances, it warmed his heart.

"Detective, what was he doing backstage in the middle of a performance?" It was Anna's voice, and it sounded like she already knew.

"Apparently, he was getting murdered." Trip stooped over, catching a glimpse of something shiny and chrome in the wastebasket. He reached out, seizing an accordion fan from Hoshi's vanity, then reached forward, retrieving a small, six-shot revolver. "Is this yours, Miss Taxa?"

She looked up at him, eyes wide, then shook her head slowly from side to side.

"You sure?" He turned it so that she could see the monogramming on the hilt.

This time, she was singing a completely different tune. "I keep it in my drawer, sir. Anyone could have gotten to it."

"Excuse me, Mr. Tucker?" Before Hoshi could stop him, someone else was bursting into the room, tucking his notepad and camera bag underneath his arm, shaking his free hand vigorously. He almost dropped what was presumably the murder weapon, and whirled on him, immensely surprised to see his chief engineer standing there. "Nicholas Kelby, Los Angeles Times. I've been here reporting on the recent charges of money laundering against the owners of this establishment, but now seems to be about the perfect time as any. Do you know if the gentleman had any enemies?"

From what he'd heard, as in real life, he'd had more than a few, but he was determined to keep his cards close to his chest. He shrugged and surveyed the room, which was starting to feel quite like Grand Central Station.

"We may not have liked him, but I don't think any of us could-"

"Absolutely not," Alira concluded. "Not in a million years."

Somehow, he didn't believe her.

"What about in business?" When no one replied, he addressed his targets directly. "Miss T'Pol?"

"I'm afraid I do not care for your insinuation." T'Pol gingerly reached for her handbag and retrieved a hand mirror, studying her reflection briefly before clapping it shut once again. "I will have you know that my family runs an distinguished and reputable business."

"I never said they didn't," he replied, at the very moment Julia's head came peering around the door jamb. "Any news from the station?"

"They're on the way, and they're bringing the files."

"Files about who?"

"All of them," she answered blithely, her eyes traveling over the inhabitants of this house of ill repute. Between they even began, she knew it had to be one of them, and was determined not to leave the club until she discovered who it was.

"Sounds good to me." Trip laid down the gun in a clean handkerchief and wrapped the fabric around it, stowing it in the pocket of his trousers. "These witnesses need to be questioned immediately."

"What about Hoshi?" Anna asked, drawing a surprised and aggrieved look from her friend.

"What about her?"

"It was her vanity, and-"

"I was standing right by his side when we heard the shots! Surely you don't think-"

"Everyone will be questioned," Trip corrected himself, seizing the burnt scrap of paper between his fingers. "Someone lured this man down here and shot him, and I intend to figure out who it was. Even if it takes all night."

"We can make everyone stand on the ground level like last time," Phlox offered hopefully, still not being able to take his eyes off the dead man.

"Last time?" Trip whirled on him, eyebrows raised. "Exactly how many people have died in this club?"

"This makes three," Julia informed him.

"Great! Go ahead and round 'em up." He turned and began to trudge towards the door, only to be caught by T'Pol.

"Mr. Tucker, I'll have you know that my Uncle Soval would be most displeased to know that his niece-the heir to his business-is being held like some common criminal." Her expression was perfectly dispassionate, though her words conveyed her anger, and underneath it all, her unrest.

He pulled away gently, affording her a comforting smile. Her thinly veiled threats weren't going to sway him even for a second. "Comply with our questioning and I can assure you there's not going to be a problem."

Halfway to the door, he was stopped again by their intrepid journalist, who bravely stepped directly in his path. "Detective, would you mind if I sat in on your interrogations? It would be an invaluable opportunity to-"

"As a matter of fact, I would." He clapped his shoulder roughly, then rushed into the hallway. His next reply sounded faint and very far away. "Steady on, Mr. Kelby!"

---

"Miss Taxa, I understand this is not your first brush with misadventure." Julia swiftly closed the file folder she'd been studying, then passed it into Trip's hands. She crossed her arms and leaned into the wall, brushing aside a tapestry and several framed photographs as she did so.

They were presently sitting in the Doctor's office at the rear of the upper balcony, with a view of the stage and audience below. The floor was packed in with an almost impenetrable crowd of patrons, every one of which needed to be questioned and their whereabouts at the time of the murder confirmed by at least two different people before they were released. Trip was at first a little reluctant to play the part of detective, but as the coppers appeared, it became apparent to him that he was in charge and would be calling the shots.

He wasn't comfortable with it, but he would at least need to act like it.

Every single employee with access to backstage would need to stay behind and be questioned by him personally; Julia suggested they divide and conquer, but he had to admit he had no idea how to relate to people in this time period, and his interrogation skills certainly left something to be desired. He would need to lean on Julia's complete commitment to her role in this hallucination, especially considering they were taking on what was sure to be their most difficult session first.

Alira was meeting her gaze, her eyes almost glazed over with disinterest, working on what must have been her fourth or fifth cigarette of the evening. She was wearing a ridiculously fluffy fur coat over her stage costume, her legs propped up against the desk in front of her. At Julia's proposition, she frowned slightly, then acquiesced. "Yes, I suppose that's true."

"Why don't you tell us why you left home?"

"I fail to see how that's relevant to this case, detective."

"No, but it establishes you as exactly the kind of person we want to speak with."

"Well, Miss Hammond, I'm honored." She flicked her ashes onto the carpet, blatantly ignoring the metal tray that was extended to her. "And since you've obviously bothered to call the papers back home about me, I ought to humor you just this once."

Julia smiled and tilted her head to one side, looking for all the world like she wanted to fly across the desk and throttle her. "At your leisure, Miss Taxa."

She sighed and sank down farther into her chair, glancing over towards Trip. He stood near the door surveying the room, the plush armchairs, the books and papers and souvenirs from world travels scattered about. There was even a small parakeet tucked away in a cage at the far corner, the very beginnings of a menagerie.

"If you insist. To get right into the thick of it, I used to keep a lover back home. He worked at a law firm, you know, your typical safe, boring, reasonable choice of a man. He could never really say no to me."

"And you talked him into robbing your town's only bank."

"I did no such thing, Miss Hammond." She paused, shaking her head, seemingly shocked that she'd even insinuate it. "I was cleared of all charges. We both were."

Trip remembered hearing about in the old days that forensic techniques were so scant that as long as you weren't still there when the cops arrived, you basically got away with it. Apparently, this was very much accurate.

"But he never did make it to the trial, did he?"

"No, ma'am. We were arrested on suspicion of committing the crime and later released, but about a week before, he came to my rooms and confronted me about an entirely separate personal reason. He came toward me, we fought, and-"

"And you both reached for the gun, yes." She held up the murder weapon still wrapped in the handkerchief, asking: "One similar to this one?"

"Very similar. They took my old one for evidence. That's a popular model, detective. I'd wager a lot of ladies in this club carry one for self defense."

"So when is it that you got so adept with handling weapons?"

"Since childhood. We used to shoot squirrels and other critters running through the yard."

"I'm sorry, where exactly are you from?" It was the first time Trip had spoken up since she entered the room, and they both turned to look at him.

"Kansas," she replied plainly, as though her distinctly Denobulan appearance didn't send another message entirely.

Julia didn't seem convinced; of what part, he wasn't sure. "And how exactly are you affording all of these nice things, the costumes, the jewels, the motorcar?"

"Why, all through gainful employment, of course."

"So you don't deny the murder weapon is yours?"

"I never did. I use it sometimes in Miss Cole's Annie Oakley tribute act. She can tell you as much. As I said before, I keep it in my drawer. Anyone could have gotten to it."

"Did you kill Simon Pascal?"

"I'm sorry, are you kidding?" She looked back at Trip, who was slowly traversing the room to return to his companion's side. "What kind of question is that? Does that ever work for the two of you?"

"You'd be surprised." He propped his hands on his hips and tried his best to stare her down. "Answer the question."

"Of course I didn't. I was having a cigarette outside the stage door in the alleyway when I heard the shots."

"Can anyone confirm this?"

"No one except the rats and maybe a tramp passing through, I'd wager."

"Why didn't you have a smoke indoors?"

"I'm sorry?"

"As you are right now." He prompted, gesturing at the smoldering butt that had only recently taken up residence on the carpet. "You've had at least two in the club since the night began."

"I was upset. I needed to clear my head."

"I'd say," Julia cut in somewhat triumphantly, flipping open her notebook. "We have confirmation here from a Mr. Kov that you said before going onstage, and I quote, 'If he touches me again, so help me God, I'm going to kill him.'"

"And he did right after your conversation with Mr. Archer and T'Pol. I saw it myself."

"A certain Mr. Yuris also confirmed that he saw you going down to the lower level shortly before the shots rang out. He ruined your chances at getting signed with a top studio, and you killed him for it," Julia accused, studying her expression, which remained gravely impassive.

Alira inhaled slowly, steadying herself, and corrected her posture until she was draped confidently across the chair, imperious, as though she were seated in the Captain's chair on the Maelstrom. "While that's an interesting theory, detective-and I admire your ingenuity, I really do-I believe you're missing one key detail."

"And what would that be?"

"If you're accusing me, I suppose you're also insinuating that I lured him down there? How?" She sniffed disdainfully. "After the scene I pulled? Who would buy that?"

She was right, but Trip was determined not to let it show. If she'd been the one to leave the note for Pascal, he was very likely to assume some bodily harm would come to him if he were to follow through. The physical altercation they'd had was felt and heard from all across the theater.

It was quite possible she'd had accomplices, and seeing how quickly the performers of the 602 Club were to defend one another, he was willing to bet that was the case.

But they couldn't show their cards all at once or too fast-he knew just as well as Julia that they needed more information first.

"I don't play these kinds of games anymore," she assured them, tracing patterns in the carpet with the heel of her shoe. "Detectives, I'm just a simple girl from the midwest trying her best to make it in this world. Another scandal would bring me to my knees. Do you really think I'd risk all that I have just for a few quick moments of satisfaction?"

As a matter of fact, the Alira he knew wouldn't. But then again, he really didn't know the half of it.

"That'll be all for now, Miss Taxa," he said at last, noticing the relief rush through her expression. "Go wait downstairs. Don't leave until you receive word from the two of us."

"Of course." She quickly rose to her feet and made her way to the door, where her hands paused over the latch. They looked curiously at her, and to their surprise, they saw amusement in her eyes. A slight smile. "I will say, I didn't do it, but whoever did it-"

Julia turned to her, pinning her under her gaze, as if daring her to say something else.

She was only too happy to oblige.

"It was certainly a murder, but definitely not a crime."

---

Anna Hess, stage manager of the 602 Club, turned out to be a much tougher nut to crack.

She stared at them for a couple of minutes, fully ignoring their attempts to interrogate her, only really perking up when Trip passed a drink into her hands. Even then, she avoided eye contact, crossing her arms, studying the wallpaper behind them. Much like she did on any given day on the Enterprise, she looked like she was ready to fight, and Julia was all too willing to poke the sleeping bear.

"How long have you lived in America, Miss Hess?"

"Since 1926, just over three years now."

"Did you move directly to Los Angeles?"

"I sure did."

"And why did you leave Germany?"

She sighed wearily, as though offering her short and curtailed responses was tremendously tiring. "We were attracted to new opportunities." Anna paused, downing his drink and leaning forward to set it on the edge of the desk. "In terms of the political climate of my home, let's just say that the writing was on the wall."

Something flashed in her eyes, striking and substantial, something that couldn't be missed.

"What do you mean, we?"

"I'm sorry?"

"You said we."

"Me and my husband."

"The master of ceremonies?" He raised his eyebrows. "Mr. Novakovich?"

"No, detective. The first one." She smiled, though the gesture didn't make it to her eyes.

Julia turned towards her, casting him a grateful look over her shoulder. "Tell me about him."

"You're going to have to be more specific." Anna crossed her legs and leaned into the armrest, propping her chin in her outstretched hand. For all the world, she appeared bored, disinterested, utterly unamused by their questioning.

"How about the night he died here?" She flipped to a new page in her notebook, one that was filled with scribbles and figures. "January 10th, 1927."

She seemed to hesitate, inhaling and exhaling deeply. "Well, since we opened, I've been closing up every night, usually around 4AM. I don't trust anyone else to do it. Every door needs to be locked, every light needs to be turned off."

"Did your husband approve of you working at the 602?"

"Funny you should ask," she snapped, in a manner that made him think that it wasn't funny at all. "I may have deceived him by telling him I worked somewhere else, but I needed to get out of the house and away from him, even for just a couple hours a day."

"Why's that?"

"It was a loveless marriage," Anna replied bluntly. "We were arranged as teenagers. Certainly, we were a good team, but he had his vices and I had my temper."

"And what did he do when he found out?"

"Well, it was the official position of my defense that he showed up drunk, looking to brawl over my choice of careers, saying it was shameful for me to associate with such people. I believed he was a burglar, so I reached behind the bar and retrieved the pistol we keep explicitly for that purpose. He was rambling, screaming, knocking things over, stumbling around in the shadows, so I fired two warning shots."

"Into his head," Julia corrected her. "Are you telling me you couldn't recognize him? Not even his voice?"

"It was dark, detective," she admonished, raising her eyebrows with an impressive amount of mock innocence. "He should have called ahead. Really, he only had himself to blame."

"Right. And when did you marry the master of ceremonies?"

"About six months ago, onstage one night after all of our patrons went home. Mr. Phlox did the honors."

"And what's so different about this marriage?"

"I beg your pardon?"

"Well, surely you know what they say?"

"I suppose I don't know what they say." Her tone was low, dangerous. "Enlighten me."

Julia paused, as if contemplating if she really was about to go there, then forged ahead. "That it's a marriage of convenience. That you've both got friends in high places, industry contacts..."

"Detective, please. I work in a cabaret. Do you really think I give a damn what high society thinks of me?"

"I think you would if the reputation of the club was at stake," Trip interrupted, fully knowing he was taking a gamble.

She startled a bit, but soon pinned him under her gaze, regarding him with disdain. "Let's be perfectly clear, Mr. Tucker. I've been here since the beginning. You duck in and out when it suits you, when your bird is performing or when you're investigating us for another charge of money laundering which will never stick. You get to care about your reputation, and I have to care about the livelihoods of everyone in this club. This is a stressful job, there's no doubt about it. Sometimes I go down to the station just to scream when a train comes by."

"I guess what I'm wondering is-"

"What exactly I'd do to keep the doors open?" She looked between them, entirely incredulous. "I'd move heaven and hell for my performers. Many of them are outcasts, runaways, orphans, and people with questionable pasts. This is a safe refuge for them. They look up to me, and at times I'm their only source of stability. I'd do just about anything for them."

It wasn't lost in Trip that this dreamworld version of the 602 had created the familial atmosphere so often seen on deep space vessels; he'd seen it on the Enterprise, and though it had taken some time for them to settle in and get comfortable with one another, he felt it on the Maelstrom.

"Would you kill for them?"

"Yes, I suppose I might, under the right circumstances. But I didn't, and I wouldn't. Not in such a public setting, that is."

"You must have been upset that Mr. Pascal was drawing so much attention away from the club, that he was constantly scouting your performers."

"Sure I was. But it would be their decision to leave, and I can't stand in the way of that."

Trip didn't like what he was hearing. She was being flippant with her answers, entirely noncommittal, as though she was confident she wouldn't be charged even if she was guilty. She would need a hell of an alibi to clear any suspicion around her name. "And where were you at the time of the murder?"

"Waiting in the backstage area. By that time, many of our performers had run out to join the dance, and I was waiting for them to come back. It's hell to get them lined up again once they get out of order."

"Can anyone confirm your whereabouts?"

This time, Trip could practically see the wheels turning in her head. It seemed like hours passed while she calculated and formulated and devised her next move, and when she finally came to her decision, her voice was almost a whisper.

"One of the waitresses came to me asking to take off early. It was the third time this month. Needless to say, I wasn't exactly amenable to the idea."

"We would very much like to speak to her."

"Actually, I'm pretty sure your men have already sent her home." She smiled again, cold and mirthless. "I'm afraid I don't know where she lives either, but I'm almost certain she doesn't have a telephone."

"Then what do you expect us to do?"

She stood suddenly and made tracks towards the door, seemingly ending her own interrogation. Neither attempted to stop her, but they would soon wish they had.

"Use your imagination, detectives."

---

Trip couldn't believe his eyes.

He hadn't believed his ears either in the moments before they'd ushered in their next witness for questioning, hadn't comprehended, hadn't wanted to believe that mild-mannered Lieutenant Cutler was also an acquitted murderess in this scenario. But it had all been there, quite literally in black and white, and he'd been forced to come to terms with it.

Unlike Alira or Anna, Liz had a reliable tell, bouncing her knee as she sat in the plush armchair, her feet barely able to touch the ground. She looked very small, and very afraid, though she was trying her best to put on a brave face.

Julia, as usual, wasn't one to waste time. "You should know that we've already spoken to Mr. Novakovich."

As a matter of fact, they hadn't, though he saw her eyes light up with fear for a fraction of a second.

"He had an alibi," he continued, watching her relax slightly.

"That's right," she confirmed, "He went to the bar with me right after we finished our performance. You were both standing there."

"And then you left to take your fifteen minute break." Julia leaned over the desk, coming far into her personal space. "Where did you go?"

"The ladies' can backstage."

"Why not the one at the front of the house?"

"It's always so crowded." She locked eyes with Trip, if only to escape Julia's scrutiny, and gestured emphatically. "Surely you know how long women take in the bathroom. There's always a few drunk ones who spot my uniform and try to place a drink order while I'm at the sink."

"Can anyone confirm your whereabouts?"

"Anna Hess probably could. I heard her voice. She was talking loudly with someone, though it was a fairly one sided conversation."

"Actually, she saw-" Julia flipped to another page in her notebook, one that he could clearly see from his vantage point was empty. "A waitress with short, dark hair, but only from behind. That could have been at least a half dozen different girls."

"I suppose you're right about that." She was gripping the armrests for dear life, looking slightly confused, as though she was unsure if something needed to be said. "I was the one who found the poor man."

"In your dressing room that you shared with three other performers. Did you know that Miss Taxa kept a revolver on her person?"

"Yes, sir," she said emphatically.

"And do you think we can trust her?"

She frowned, and he could practically see the gears turning in her head, as if two parts of her were warring with one another. Finally, she spoke, suddenly very interested in her shoes. "I don't know, sir."

"Funny thing to say about your friend. How long have you known her?" Julia uncapped her pen, and made a big show of starting to write.

"Since she came to town. Just short of a year."

Julia froze, her fingers hovering over the page. She smiled sweetly, and slowly lifted her head to lock eyes with her. "Did you meet before or after your husband died?"

Immediately, Trip knew she'd hit the jackpot. Liz intertwined her fingers and brought them down in her lap, pressing hard. "I believe it was before. You'd know. The two of you investigated it."

As he'd only recently found out, they'd also arrested her and testified at her trial, only for the accusations not to stick and her to walk away a free woman. They all had-Phlox, Travis, and all the other waitresses. It had been a stain on their record as a crime-fighting pair, and Julia had always regretted not nailing her to the wall when she had the chance.

"You don't think it's suspicious that a man just dropped dead at his table in the cabaret between sets?"

"Of course I do," she assured him. "You gotta remember, he was exactly the kind of man my parents wanted me to marry, but Tommy had a lot of enemies as a finance manager. He brought me to this place, said it would be good for me to get out of the house and get a job. He became obsessed real quick, always talking about how he was going to catch the doctor in a lie."

Apparently, the LAPD had also tried for years to catch him in the act of money laundering and collaboration with the Vulcan mob, to little success.

"What did he say when he confronted you?"

Silence.

"The night before he died? Right out there in the alleyway." Julia gestured towards her, as if she was trying to pull something out of her.

She inhaled slowly, training her eyes on the wall above her head. "He was crazy. He kept screaming about how he was sure I was screwing my boss, that he was going to divorce me and ruin me and everyone else at the club. If you'd have been there...I promise you, I thought he was going to kill me."

"And what did you do?"

"Started packing. I moved in with Miss Sato that next morning."

"And that night your husband keeled over at his usual table, after having his usual drink. How do you explain that?"

"I can't, detective." A hint of amusement was creeping back into her expression. "And the jury couldn't either."

"You heard the toxicology reports read aloud in court, right?"

"I was there. I guess you could say some guys just can't hold their arsenic."

---

"How would you define your relationship with the deceased?"

"I wouldn't call it a relationship," Phlox said, rummaging around in his desk. Julia was humoring him, but Trip could tell her patience was wearing thin. He seemed to take inordinately long pauses before answering their questions, moving about his office like he was looking for something but never quite finding it. At one point he retreated to the corner of the room and unlatched his parakeet's cage, letting it hop about on his arm, just as Trip had seen him do with his Pyrithian bat on occasion. "He visited the club a few times a month. He'd have a few drinks, make offers of employment to my performers, ruffle a few feathers, and leave just short of last call."

"What kind of offers?" Just as she'd done with Liz, Julia opened her notebook and pretended to start writing.

"Oh…" He trailed off, shrugging prodigiously. Soon he produced a small glass container full of tobacco and slipped it into his pocket, returning to the far side of the desk. "Increased salaries, a headlining slot. Fame and fortune, the works. We've lost a dozen or so over the past year, but then again, everyone's replaceable."

The way he said that was so flippant, so off-handed, that it immediately put him ill at ease. "I understand he's recruiting for a new cabaret, one run by a Miss Zhang?"

"That's correct. She's from Shanghai, if I recall. They're, oh, about six blocks down the street." He produced an old fashioned pipe out of his pocket and set to stuffing it, humming quietly to himself as he did so. "They've grown in the past year, but let's just say that very few establishments can offer what the 602 does."

"I bet you were upset that he kept making advances on your employees, huh?"

"Detective," he admonished, frowning in Julia's direction. He knew what she was implying, and frankly didn't care for it. "I can assure you that I'm quite confident in my ability to keep my performers exactly where they need to be."

"What of your relationship with the waitress who found Mr. Pascal?"

Phlox seemed to make a big show of remembering, then nodded quickly. Retrieving a match from his pocket, he set the charring light to the end of his pipe, and the room was soon filled with the aromatic scent of tobacco. "Mutually beneficial," he concluded with a smile.

"I see." Over the top of his head, Julia looked at Trip, narrowing her eyes slightly. He picked up on her silent cue immediately.

"Earlier tonight, I saw Pascal with Mr. Archer and T'Pol. It looked like the conversation was pretty intense. They seemed upset." Trip slid onto the edge of the desk and leaned in, hoping to appear companionable. "You were within earshot, standing behind the bar with Mr. Mayweather. Do you remember what they said?"

As usual, he wore his heart on his sleeve. Immediately, they knew the game was afoot. "I'm afraid I don't."

"Try," he encouraged, meeting his gaze and not looking away for a second.

He could see anxiety and trepidation warring in his expression, but it was all covered with a veneer of control, of confidence that couldn't be shaken. "Well, I am sure that you know of the many rumors surrounding T'Pol's family. I can assure you, detective, the Vulcans run a legitimate investment firm. They see a flourishing business, they throw money at it, and we all benefit."

"Were these rumors the cause of their argument?"

Phlox's tune suddenly shifted, and he stood, approaching the door leading out to the back of the balcony. "I won't be answering any more questions about that until my attorney gets here."

"Are you sure it has nothing to do with the Romulan family?" Julia asked.

The second Trip heard it, his heart all but dropped through his stomach.

"As I said, I won't comment any further on this."

"Word on the street is that she's been working with them on the side. That she's made a deal with the devil. Would be a shame if that information were to get out."

"I assure you I have no idea what you're talking about." He was pacing now, back and forth along the length of the room, taking long drags from his pipe and breathing out around it like a dragon.

"I can understand your hesitance, Mr. Phlox." She made a big show of turning to a new page. "Perhaps you can tell me how the 602 Club came to employ three different accused murderesses."

"Who else would hire them?" He asked rhetorically, as if it made perfect sense. "They've all been acquitted, mind you. Although, I wonder…"

Phlox trailed off, shaking his head, a small smile on his lips. Slowly, he approached Trip and gestured toward him, looking cockier than he'd ever seen him. "I wonder which three you are referring to. There are most certainly four."

"Four?" Trip repeated dumbly, and looked back towards Julia, who was thoroughly avoiding his gaze.

---

At some point during their interrogations, Hoshi found herself back at the bar, trying and failing to look inconspicuous.

All around the room, their friends were conversing in hushed, urgent tones, glancing around to ensure they weren't heard. This was a formidable task, what with the sheer amount of policemen in the room and the gradually thinning crowd as patrons were cleared of any wrongdoing and dismissed. Soon it seemed that only the senior staff remained, and they were that much closer to finding their killer.

Trip hadn't said it explicitly, but she knew he was counting on her to gather reconnaissance as only she could. As far as she knew, she was a trusted member of the 602 Club family, and she planned on exploiting that for all it was worth.

She was sitting at the bar and painstakingly removing the pins from her hair when Anna and Kov paused about a meter behind her and bent their heads together. Swiftly, she retrieved a martini shaker from the other side of the counter and held it up, catching a glimpse of their warped figures in the chrome. Carefully, she replaced it and looked down, suddenly becoming immensely interested in her drink. They were whispering almost inaudibly, but as a comm officer, that didn't pose too much of a challenge.

"It's all done. There's no way I can get back to the stage without them noticing. We're all going to be-"

"Hush, you don't know that. All you need to do is just sit tight and look pretty. Your alibi is airtight."

"And you?"

"I have matters well in hand, I assure you. All that's left is to play the game to completion."

"The game?"

"Yes, we have to think of it like chess, or a dance. Only the right moves. Before the detective comes back here, you need to-"

One of the hairpins she'd been turning over and over between her fingers suddenly few from her hand and clattered to the floor behind the bar. It was heavily rhinestoned, and made much louder of a noise than she could have anticipated. The conversation behind her ceased, and she rapidly rose to her feet, casting an apologetic glance in their direction.

As they moved off, she crossed over behind the bar and dropped to her knees, reaching for the discarded clip.

Farther away, she heard another flurry of conversation, this one louder and seemingly more intense. Seeking a golden opportunity but feeling more than a little silly doing it, she crawled forward, coming closer to the source of the noise at a painstakingly slow pace.

Soon, she came within earshot of two people sitting at the far end of the bar, and sat back on her haunches.

"I don't understand why you won't let me buy you a drink."

"I don't drink with losers." She heard Alira shifting around in her seat, the crystals on her costume shearing against the barstool.

"Maybe you oughta tell that fella of yours about that."

"He's no loser, Mr. Kelby. Really, he's been through a lot. He sees what he wants to see."

"And you're no exception." He set down his drink and turned to face her. "I have no doubts about it, Taxa. You'll be a great movie star one day, assuming that all the booze and the sex don't kill you first."

She laughed, and it seemed genuine. "Isn't that all we are? Just moths to the flame, drawn to the city, the jazz and the cabarets-"

"You can be the moth, I'll be the flyswatter." He suddenly set something down on the table, dull and heavy. "One day those detectives will blow the roof right off this place, and I'll be the first to report on it."

"You can't fool me. You like it here. Besides, once this story about Mr. Pascal gets out there, we'll have more attention than we know what to do with."

"I suppose you can't buy that kind of publicity."

"Really?" Leaning backward, Hoshi barely caught a glimpse of her reaching into her bodice, producing a wad of cash held out between her fingers. "I guess I can keep this, then."

He grabbed at it, and she leaned back out of his reach. "You're lucky I'm paying you at all. The deal was for a flattering profile, Kelby, not some shocking expose that has all the ladies at the country club clutching at their pearls. You almost cost me everything."

"I did no such thing! That was all Pascal."

"And look where he is now."

"I told the truth."

"You told only what your editors wanted you to write. Face it, Kelby. You're not a real journalist, you're a sensationalist."

"And you're a country mouse with delusions of stardom. Don't forget that."

"Be careful. Flattery will get you everywhere." She could hear her stool scraping against the floor as she stood. When she spoke again, her voice was almost a whisper: "And some places you don't want to be."

Listening to her walk away, Hoshi's thoughts were racing. Alira seemed to be the unwitting orchestrator of her own misfortune. All in all, it wasn't looking too good for her; then again, with what she'd heard out of Anna and Kov, she couldn't be too sure.

"Hoshi?"

She startled, catching two oxfords stepping into her line of sight. Her eyes traveled up two legs and a torso to the face of one of her closest friends, who at the moment looked extremely confused.

"Travis!" She exclaimed, standing with his assistance. Somewhat belatedly, she produced the hairpin she'd retrieved from the floor, not for a second wilting under Kelby's imploring glare. "These things tend to just grow legs and wander away."

He seemed to accept that, turning to the shelf and retrieving a bottle of liquor. "Have you been questioned yet?"

"Not yet. I suppose they're saving me for last."

"Even if you'd done something, you'd likely get off scot-free, Miss Sato," Kelby assured her. "It pays to be bedfellows with the law. That's the state of corruption in this town, I'm afraid."

In real life, she might have slapped him for a comment like that; however, the Kelby she knew wouldn't dare to speak to her in that way. Instead, she smiled at him sweetly. "I've got nothing to hide. I was standing next to him during the entire time frame the murder could've taken place."

"And I was dancing, in full view of about a hundred people," Travis added. "I told them as much."

"That's right, and so were Mr. Archer and T'Pol."

"And Dita and Kov were onstage, preparing for her performance-"

She turned on him, suddenly confused. "Really? Kov? I could've sworn he wasn't up there."

"Where else would he be? She always uses him for that spinning wheel. You know, she straps him down, sets it rotating, and…" He mimed throwing knives at an invisible volunteer. "He's braver than I am, that's for sure."

"Are you positive? I'm pretty sure I didn't see him." It was more than that. She was convinced, absolutely certain.

"Of course. Ask Malcolm if you don't believe me."

Malcolm. One of the many missing pieces to the puzzle. She saw him at the far end of the room arguing with Alira, backs turned toward a majority of the remaining suspects, his gestures growing more frantic by the second.

She was about to disengage from them and investigate further when she heard a door slam from far overhead.

---

He met her in the stairwell between the lower and upper levels in a lull between their questionings.

Julia had just left to fetch Jon and T'Pol, and he seized the opportunity, rushing out over the upper level balcony and peering out over the crowd below. It had thinned out considerably over the course of the evening as alibis appeared and means vanished; he was hoping she'd be looking, and she almost certainly was, taking leave of their fellow officers and rushing towards their clandestine rendezvous.

Immediately, she reached for his hand and squeezed tightly, so hard that she could feel the blood rushing through his fingertips. It was a steady reminder in this fantasy world that they were present, and would continue to be, for as long as they could stay alive.

"Julia seems to think you've committed a double homicide, that you caught your husband and sister going at it and-"

She laughed much more loudly than the situation warranted, quickly clamping down on her amusement. "I suppose this was back home?"

"About six months before you came to Los Angeles. According to your case files, you-"

"Blacked out, can't remember a thing," she finished automatically, shaking her head. It was a moment before she realized she'd interrupted him again, and shrugged apologetically. "Trip, this is insane. I know we're not dreaming, but even for a hallucination, this is incredibly vivid. From what Ethan, Alira, and Julia told us about their encounter with the telepresence unit, theirs weren't even this real."

Something in what she said struck a nerve, stirring his memory and hers. Slowly, they turned to one another, expressions contorted with a mixture of horror and understanding.

She remembered now, remembered coming up on Trelkis III in a shake and shudder of the engine; they'd just received a distress call from an ECS cargo waystation and couldn't arrive fast enough. The three Vulcan scientists they kept there to study the intricate network of planetary dust rings had spontaneously broken down, nearly losing all contact with reality, and had nearly murdered their human hosts in the process of being restrained. Sure enough, long-range sensors picked up the broken and burned hull of a telepresence unit on the surface, and while Trip refused Alira's request to go planetside and retrieve it, he agreed to transport it directly to a level ten containment field in the armory for further analysis.

They transported Dr. Yuris and his medical team down to the station first, then set to the task; a site-to-site was difficult enough to rig up in the first place, but then they were having trouble reintegrating the matter stream over the polaric energy bursts created by the diamagnetic storms on the surface. She'd been on her way to her post when she passed them, shouting at each other and frantically trying to diagnose the problem.

Trip remembered too; he remembered sparks raining down on them, and his tactical officer suggesting they abort the transport altogether. But they were both terrified of losing the probe in the churning mass of gas and debris far below, losing the little evidence they had of Romulan activity in the sector, and decided to try just one more time.

"It all happened so fast. The pattern buffer was overloading, we had about half of it, we were going to try boosting it with extra power from the EPS grid."

"Too much," she concluded. "You pushed it over the top. It breached the containment field and-"

"Then why isn't she-"

"Trip!" She pulled away roughly and seized him by the shoulders. "She wasn't at the controls, you were. I saw the electricity shoot up your arm, and I don't know what came over me, but I reached for you."

"And here we are." He shook his head. "A combination of residual psionic energy and a transporter malfunction."

"You know, if it hadn't already happened to me once before, I don't think I would have picked up on it."

His eyes lit up with recognition. "I remember. You dreamed up some elaborate scenario where you were invisible and some aliens were trying to blow up the warp core."

"It felt so real." That hadn't been the end of it; while nearly losing him at Canamar had made her question her feelings for him, their incident with the transporter had really put her down that path. Looking back on it, she supposed it had been obvious; her subconscious formed a vision of Trip, confessing that he thought it was his fault, that he missed her and regretted the series of actions that had led to her demise. She'd imagined having a heart to heart conversation with him in the gym, where she'd been open and vulnerable with him, and they'd conversed as friends, as they'd always been and continued to be, with a little something underneath.

"That's probably the closest I've ever come to losing you."

"Really? What about the time I was kidnapped and forced to translate the Aquatic launch codes for the Xindi weapon?"

"I always knew you'd pull through that. You're real tough, Hoshi. That's one of the many things I love about you."

A look passed between them, meaningful yet indecipherable. She didn't have time to respond or even return the compliment; suddenly, the room began to shake, the floors reverberating from deep underneath their feet. It felt like an earthquake, and she immediately seized the railing, studying the crowd below.

To her utter surprise, no one seemed to react.

"Trip, I feel like our situation is deteriorating in the real world. Maybe we're having trouble pulling through."

"Yuris probably isn't back yet. There might be a few field medics around, but…" He trailed off, suddenly feeling the headache come roaring back.

"The way I got out of this situation last time was to take decisive action." Really, it was more than that; she put her ass on the line to save her ship and her crew, loyally, fearlessly, without a second thought to the consequences. Now, she suspected, it would be a bit more complicated.

"We've got to solve the mystery."

She nodded, reverently. "I hope you've got a theory, because at this point, I really have no idea."

"I do, but…" He trailed off and leaned over to one side, taking silent count of their suspects. His gaze lingered on Alira, who was trying her best to look casual by the stage. "This whole thing is a metaphor for keeping the Captain's ancestry a secret. We've all been thinking about it for so long that it's no wonder it's the first thing that came to mind."

She followed his line of sight, then turned back to him, shaking her head. "It's nothing, Trip. She was the last person we saw before we got knocked out. As far as what your subconscious is telling you, we all know about her past."

At least, insofar as what she was willing to share with them. He'd read a few classified files and knew a fair deal more than Hoshi, about the horrendous things agents in Infantry Special Ops were often forced to do. He wondered if deep down he still doubted her loyalty.

"At any rate, Anna is more likely to be our killer. She's been talking to damn near every person in the room." And when she wasn't doing that, she was quiet and off to one side, as though she was holding onto a horrible secret. She'd been sitting in that same room with their counterparts for hours and hours, and had watched them divide and reorganize and form alliances again and again. She could tell something was afoot, but couldn't even begin to put her finger on it. "I heard her say something to Kov about playing the game, about only making smart moves."

It had been lightning fast, but discernible nonetheless. And it stuck with her the entire time, through whispers and murmurs and knowing glances.

His eyes suddenly lit up. Trip pulled away from her and began to saunter down the stairs, a new spring in his step.

Far below them, Julia looked up from where she'd been trying to convince Jon and T'Pol to accompany her to their makeshift interrogation room. She regarded him with undeniable surprise.

A second before they stepped onto the ground level, Hoshi caught up with him, whispering: "Trip, what are we going to do?"

He tried his best not to react strongly, but his hand came out, fingers outstretched, shaking from side to side.

"Give 'em the ol' razzle dazzle."

---

Trip swiftly made his way over to Julia and slung an arm across her shoulder, squeezing tightly. "Detective Hammond, if it's all the same to you, I'd like to conduct their interrogation together, right here and right now."

"Mr. Tucker, this is highly unusual. I do not believe-"

"It'll be just the same as it would be behind closed doors. Unless you've got something to say that you wouldn't want the rest of your employees to hear, Miss T'Pol."

She met his gaze, entirely unblinking, then gestured for him to continue with a dismissive wave of her hand.

"I'll be direct. How many times have you been accused of working with the Romulan mob?"

Archer stepped in front of her, looking for all the world like he was prepared to fight. "Now, listen here, pal-"

"It's quite alright," she assured him, placing a placating hand on his arm. "More times that I care to count, detective, but there's no evidence."

"Because you're good at covering your tracks."

"Because I am not working for them." By that time, they had attracted the attention of a majority of the room, and a crowd was forming, the senior staffs of the Maelstrom and the Enterprise, all looking immeasurably concerned.

"And did Mr. Pascal accuse you of making a deal with the Romulans to keep this club open before he was killed?"

Her eyes widened and nostrils flared, an almost imperceptible tell that he wouldn't have recognized if he hadn't worked with her in real life for so long. There was a seemingly eternal pause, then she replied, her voice no louder than a whisper: "He did. And he was wrong. I would never play such a dangerous game with-"

"Thank you!" He exclaimed suddenly, clapping his hands and all but waltzing towards the front of the room. "No further questions! Everyone up on stage!"

"Trip-"

"What in God's name are you-"

"Why are we-"

"I promise, I'll explain everything!" On his way, he reached across the police barricade and retrieved the glass left behind where the dead man was sitting. It looked almost identical to the dozens of goblets scattered around the room, but looked much less worn, as though it was for personal use. He passed it into the hands of a nearby copper, a crewman from the armory he scarcely recognized. "Search Miss Cutler's personal effects. I guarantee you'll find a couple of glasses exactly like this one somewhere downstairs."

He looked at him curiously, but moved away, thundering down the steps towards the lower level. To another officer, he said: "Take someone with you and stand outside the stage door leading into the alleyway right by the room where the man was murdered. Shout and scream and bang on the walls. See if you can hear anything."

It took a minute to coax everyone on the stage, but once they were up there, they formed a natural half-circle around them, their backs to the floodlights beaming down from the upper level. He stepped into the light, squinting briefly, feeling like he was about to perform a tap dance, or perhaps a high-wire balancing act.

In a sense, he definitely was.

"Let's start off by assuming, for the sake of the argument, that Miss T'Pol really has been working with the Romulan mob to secure funding to keep this club open." She looked like she wanted to protest, but he didn't give her time to speak, throwing his arm wide. "I know that if I were the heir to the reins of an organized crime ring and an enormous fortune, I'd definitely want to gain control of an establishment full of people loyal to me. I ask you, where could I find something like that?"

He turned to Anna. "You said it yourself. This place is full of outcasts, renegades, and ex-convicts. People with nothing to lose. People seeking a family and a place where they belong. I guess the question everyone needs to ask themselves is...what they would do to protect their family?"

The coppers he sent away moments ago returned, one bearing a trio of glasses and the others shaking their heads, moving off to one side. Triumphantly, Trip took a step towards the arc of people standing before him. "I propose that Pascal found out about Miss T'Pol's involvement with the Romulans. He decided to confront her tonight, and brought the media along for added insurance that she would give him what he wanted."

Kelby was trying everything in his power not to look at him; instantly, he knew he was right. "He'd have a lot to gain if the club was turned over to him. A great plot of land, a great building, a great group of acts. At the same time, he decided to enact some revenge on a performer that had been evading him for months."

He cut across the circle towards Malcolm and Alira.

"She was the prize. She'd proved herself loyal to T'Pol on many an occasion, and she was flashy and new and exactly what his fledgling club needed. Mr. Pascal's appearance tonight was a classic example of being in the wrong place at the wrong time." He ignored the aggrieved look he was dealt and turned his back to her. "With everyone in position, you Mr. Phlox, realized there wasn't a moment to lose. You'd been working on a plan for months, and sounded the alarm."

He remembered seeing Liz pull Alira to one side immediately after her performance; at first, he'd thought it was nothing, but now he realized it was indicative of an impending tragedy. "The two of you were going to lure him backstage while the rest of the club danced and get rid of him. You knew your fellow performers would clear out once the music started, and all the noise would disguise whatever commotion followed."

"That's an interesting theory, detective," Liz said, crossing her arms confrontationally. "I'm pretty sure someone at Pascal's table would have noticed if somebody slipped him a note or whispered in his ear."

He snapped his fingers and gestured towards the copper holding the glasses. He obliged, holding them up so everyone could see the bottom of them. "One to his table, two remaining in your dressing room for when he inevitably took the bait. All you needed was Mr. Mayweather to slip the message to him, a map detailing exactly where he needed to be."

Trip retrieved the burnt slip of paper from his pocket and showed them how it fit the counter of the bottom of the glass, rubbing at the bit of glue he found there. "When you left for your break, you even took a bottle of champagne to leave on your vanity to make your lure look convincing."

"I went to the can after that. I told you-"

"And Alira claimed she was in the alley having a smoke, but you can barely hear any noise through that stage door. An atomic bomb could go off in the hallway and you wouldn't hear it."

"I'm sorry, a what?"

"Forget it. Detective Hammond, who had the most to gain from Pascal's death?"

"It would have been Miss Taxa. More accurately, she could have avoided losing it all by making sure he was dead."

He snapped his fingers and pointed towards her. "Exactly. She left to freshen up after dancing with Mr. Mayweather and almost immediately got cold feet. Downstairs, she confronted Miss Hess-"

"Detective, I already told you it was a-"

"Waitress. You put us on a wild goose chase looking into the alibis for twenty different girls. None of them claimed to have been speaking to you during the murder. That would absolutely have been something that would come up during an interrogation." He wheeled around on Liz. "The moment she started to go back on her promise, you knew you were in trouble. She'd wanted to do the honors of killing him, but hadn't known she'd be doing it tonight until you caught her after her performance. She realized she'd already made incriminating comments about him, and coupled with their physical confrontation, she knew if he wound up dead it would all come back to her."

"Mr. Tucker, I can't believe you think this woman is capable of any of that."

"Malcolm…" He turned to him, noticing how she was clinging onto him for dear life, her eyes wide with fear. "I know you're in love with her and you'd do anything to protect her. You trust her unconditionally. I'm just asking you to consider if you really should."

It was something he'd desperately wanted to tell the real Malcolm; he loved Alira like a sister, but the painful truth was they'd fallen very hard, very fast, and what with the ease she'd lied to him after Kandar, he always suspected she was capable of deception.

He caught Hoshi's eye as he moved farther towards the end of the stage, and he could tell she was thinking the same thing, regretfully, painfully. "The two of you could easily overpower Mr. Pascal, but you didn't want to. I bet if I tested the residue in one of these glasses, I'd find arsenic."

Julia was following his line of thought with razor precision. "And if that didn't do him in, you would have a mob enforcer waiting outside to finish the job. Miss T'Pol's bodyguard was all too willing to provide his services."

Yuris shifted uncomfortably, but said nothing.

"But when Alira backed out, you knew you had to go to plan B. You had lookouts stationed all over the club-Mr. Novakovich at the bar, Mr. Mayweather on the floor ensuring all eyes were on him, and Ms. Singh and Mr. Kov on stage under the guise of preparing for her act. I wonder…"

They watched as Trip approached one of the set pieces and ducked behind it; a moment later, he was straining and pushing it to one side, revealing one of the panels in the floor which had remained descended to the lower level. "Anna hustled her way over to one end of the backstage area and helped Kov down. In the meantime, Liz was searching the dressing room, looking for anything and everything she could use. By then, she knew the poison wouldn't be fast acting enough to kill him before the music ended and the other performers returned."

"He was on his way anyway, and once backup arrived, Anna ran out on stage, trying to get the band to keep playing. It was too little, too late." Julia was indeed catching on, and for that he was eternally grateful. "Liz welcomed Pascal into the room, and Kov crashed in. She threw him the gun, and-"

Bang, bang, bang. Temple, mirror, back of the head. She mimed firing the three shots. "Explains why his wounds were all on the left side of his body."

Kov seemed distraught; he kept glancing between T'Pol and Phlox, entirely speechless, thoroughly looking like he was about to burst.

"You don't have to say anything, Kov. My attorney is on the way," Phlox advised.

"And what a miracle worker he's going to have to be to get all-" She paused, counting on her fingers. "-eight of you out of the charge of conspiracy to commit murder. Not to mention the one who did the deed. I can't believe you thought you could get away with this with two detectives in the house."

There was a pause where everyone in the room seemed to tremble, some with fear and others with anger. Alira looked like she wanted to bolt, and Malcolm was imploring her to respond, asking her if all of this was true, but her eyes were trained on Trip, seemingly searing a hole in the back of his head.

T'Pol, surprisingly, remained unbothered. "I must remind you that all of this is speculation. The only way you could get the evidence you need is if-"

"Someone squeals on you?" Trip challenged, stepping back to survey the group. "That's the problem with so-called families, with intelligence organizations, with crime syndicates, with any of these groups that ask you to put the needs of the many over your own without question every single time. Everyone's got to play the game, but some will only play up to a certain point."

"I guess we know the answer to what some will do to protect their family." Julia stepped up to Kov, coming far into his personal space, then whispered: "Tell me, was it worth it? Would you do it again?"

"Don't answer that, cousin."

"Why shouldn't he? I was only-"

"You are leading him to his own demise! I will not just stand by and-"

"T'Pol!" Jonathan seized her arm, wrenching her away from the circle, the pain in his expression almost palpable. "It's over now. You've got to own up to it before it consumes us, turns us all into-"

"He's right. You can make this a whole lot easier for yourself if you cooperate. For most of these people, a plea bargain is going to be very motivating."

She was suddenly adamant, her eyes brimming with tears. "You don't know them like I do."

For a moment, he allowed himself to consider if she was truly right. He wondered, desperately conjectured, about what his subconscious was trying to tell him about the whole mess, but didn't have time to reach any conclusions.

In a flash, Liz sprung to action, seizing one of Dita's knives from the table at the end of the stage and surging towards them. She was screaming that she wasn't going down like this, that she was in control, that she wouldn't let anyone send her to the gallows, and Phlox tried to hold her back, but was a second too late.

The next few moments seemed to happen in slow motion; Trip found he couldn't move fast enough, but Hoshi was there instantly, pushing him aside and falling in a heap with his assailant on the ground. He saw the knife come up and then back down, pushing farther and farther in, savagely twisting, before retracting entirely into the hilt.

She soon realized that it was a fraud, a fake, a stage prop.

A trick knife, as Dita had foretold.

Immediately, she realized her mistake, cursing loudly, feeling the hands of several officers restraining her in an instant.

---

Hoshi awoke with a start, immediately sitting up and crashing into Julia's arms.

She was frantically trying to pull away, running her hands over her chest and arms, as if to confirm that she was in one piece, that she hadn't been shot or stabbed or anything else. She realized she was in uniform, and in the present day; the stiffness of the biobed and the dim lights far above her was enough to let her know that she was in sickbay.

Blessed, ordinary sickbay.

She'd never been so happy to feel those scratchy sheets in her life.

"You're okay, you're okay!" Julia was preventing her from escaping, holding her tightly. At long last, she heaved a heavy sigh and fell gratefully into the arms of her friend, all of the tension she'd been keeping bottled up diffusing in an instant.

Trip was having a more difficult time calming down; she heard him curse and thrash around, then he was arguing with Alira, seemingly unable to control the volume of his voice. She was attempting to reason with him, but obviously failing, and when she tore the curtain back, she could see the weariness in her expression.

"Ensign, what's going on? How long were we-"

"About five minutes, long enough for Julia to run down to the transporter and help me bring you both here. Your vital signs were up and down there for a little bit. Yuris knows, and he's going to be returning with those three Vulcan scientists to operate on them in his own sickbay. Apparently they're a little worse for wear."

Five minutes? It had felt like hours and hours, but Hoshi supposed she shouldn't be surprised.

"Did we get the telepresence unit?"

She nodded, somewhat ruefully, as if to say, at what cost. "We're not going to know for sure until we have time to analyze internal sensors, but my guess is that we overloaded the pattern buffer when we tried to pull it out of the interference on the surface. It created a signal inversion that blew out the containment field in the armory."

"When all those molecules came rushing back the other way, it had to find someplace to go." Julia paused, retrieving a discarded medical tricorder from the counter and passing it over her friend. All of the script was in Vulcan, but she supposed the lack of bells and whistles going off indicated something good. "Like a lightning rod."

"You're lucky there wasn't any consciousness attached to it by the time we got to it. You would have wound up like the three of us after Calder IV."

Damn lucky, Trip thought. He startled a bit as Alira clapped a hand on his shoulder, but soon relaxed into it. "All the same, welcome to the club."

If she was referring to the ever expanding coterie of crewmen who had experienced transporter and telepresence accidents, Trip was positive he didn't want to be a part of it, though at this point he had very little choice.

"If you don't mind me asking, where did you go?" Julia's question stirred something within them, and they locked eyes in the distance between them, entirely unsure what to say.

"Back home," Hoshi replied finally. "A long time ago."

She seemed to take the hint. "You can tell me when you're ready. I can assure you, when the time comes, I'll be all ears."

"I'll go prepare for the doctor." Alira was rubbing her hands together, already thinking ten steps ahead. "I'm assuming we'll want to use their transporter to initiate?"

He nodded, and she hurried away, leaving them momentarily alone with their first officer. There was a beat of silence, then Julia cleared her throat. "Well, I think I'll head back towards the conn. Y'all better sit tight. Call me if you need me. I'm gonna-"

"Commander."

She was already halfway to the door when she heard him, but paused immediately, turning to face them. She studied his expression, the hope and exhaustion there, and found herself more than a little confused. His next question was even more confounding.

"Can you dance?"

This time, she couldn't help but laugh. Pointing towards them, she twirled on her heels in a complete circle, throwing her head back and affording them a flash of some very enthusiastic jazz hands.

Julia didn't wait for them to respond, though she could see they were smiling. She resumed her path towards the door, calling out: "Lights on or off?"

"A nap does sound pretty nice right now," Hoshi mumbled, and she complied.

A minute or two passed; Trip soon joined her in laying down and staring up at the ceiling, tracing patterns with his eyes in the deck plating. His headache was almost gone and he was exhausted, though his thoughts were racing a mile a minute. Tonight, as in many nights before, he knew sleep would evade him.

He listened as Hoshi's breathing slowed and evened out, all the while he tried to hold his tongue. He kept telling himself that he needed to wait, that he needed to scout ahead for a better time, but after their brush with death in their dreamworld, he couldn't see himself holding out a second longer.

In the space between their biobeds, he reached out and sought her hand, brushing her arm with the softest of touches.

She shifted and reciprocated his gesture, intertwining her fingers with his. Irrationally, he felt like the kid who kept talking at the sleepover long after everyone had already fallen asleep, and briefly considered aborting the mission entirely.

"I don't know about you, but as soon as Yuris releases us I'm making a beeline to the galley and eating an entire quart of ice cream." Hoshi paused, as though she was considering the idea even further. "The flavor doesn't even matter. Forget the spoon; I'm going to need a shovel."

"I'm gonna be enjoying some modern conveniences. And if I even so much as hear a note of jazz for the next few weeks-"

"It's going to be on sight," she interrupted, and they both laughed, filling the air with their amusement. Long after it had died down, she added: "But damn, was it fun to get up there and perform, to have everyone's eyes on me. What I wouldn't give to feel that kind of a rush again."

"You know, Ethan keeps bringing up the idea of having a karaoke night in the mess hall. I wasn't sure until now, but…"

"Trip, with our coworkers, that's definitely going to be a disaster." She inhaled sharply. "I'm in."

He didn't reply, taking a moment to steady his nerves. He could tell that Hoshi knew; out of the corner of his eye, he could see her looking at him, a small smile adorning her features. Finally, he decided it was now or never, and went in for it completely. "Listen, Hoshi, we've been together for a little bit-"

"Six months," she confirmed.

"Thereabouts." He paused for a breath, gently tracing the back of her hand with his thumb. "I've really enjoyed our time together. I keep thinking, asking myself what would have happened if we acted on all of this sooner."

They'd discussed it before, and she'd been adamant, telling him it didn't matter and she was just happy to be with him now, no matter what the past had thrown at them. It was momentarily comforting, but he kept kicking himself for not pursuing her when he had the chance years ago. "And you're really great, Hoshi. I don't tell you that enough. You're an amazing officer, friend, and partner. It's just that-"

"Hmm. Why do I get the feeling you're about to break up with me?"

He could tell she was joking, but squeezed her hand anyway. "Hey, this is serious."

"Guess I better start packing my bags to transfer back to the Enterprise. I'll be sending Dita your way."

He rolled his eyes, turning his head to look directly at her. "When that dreamworld version of Liz was coming at us with the knife, there was a split second where I was terrified. I knew it wasn't real, but part of me didn't want you to die without knowing how I felt."

"And how do you feel, Trip?" Her earlier amusement had all but faded and she was gazing at him, pupils enormous, all the sincerity and devotion he could ever need reflected in her eyes.

He pulled back momentarily from her grasp, then rolled over, taking her hand with both of his. He only had one shot at this, so he wanted to seal this memory, to hold it close in his mind for many years to come. "I love you, Hoshi. I mean it."

To her credit, there wasn't even a pause. "I love you too. Pretty sure I mean it as well."

Soon he was laughing, out of relief more than anything, leaning to one side and then sitting up. It was a little bit of a struggle, but he managed it, and she mirrored his posture, before giving up altogether and climbing onto the biobed with him.

She kissed him, once, twice, then wrapped her arms around his neck, hiding her smile in the fabric of his uniform. There was no need to break the affectionate silence that followed, but if she knew anything about Trip, he was going to do it anyway.

"I think I knew when you showed up at my parents' house on Christmas Eve. It had only been a month, and I didn't want to scare you, but-"

"Yeah, Natalie said as much." He reeled back, his eyebrows climbing into his hairline. She could tell that he desperately needed more information, and she was all the more willing to supply it. She couldn't blame him; if her ex and current partner had shared a room over the holidays, she'd want to know exactly what was said. "She told me that I made you happy, and she was pretty sure you loved me, just that you weren't aware of it yet. That's when I knew. I was smiling like an idiot."

"Good," he said, pulling her in again. "I won't have to leave her a strongly worded letter over subspace."

She obliged, tucking her head under his chin. "Still, it feels good to get it out there. I should have told you months ago."

"You better get used to it. You'll be hearing it every single day from now on."

"Really?"

"Yes, ma'am. First thing in the morning, last thing in the evening, maybe a few times in between. You've got my word."

"For how long?"

"Years and years, if you don't get tired of me before then."

Truthfully, she had no idea what the future would bring them, how long the war would last, or if they would even live to see next week. But she knew that at the moment there was no place she'd rather be than in sickbay with her boyfriend, cuddled up on a much too small biobed, unified against whatever the universe would throw against them next.

"Be careful what you wish for."

End of Episode Seventeen

---

Next time on Enterprise...

Episode Eighteen: Infiltration

Malcolm and Alira go undercover to investigate a credible lead into the location of the Romulan superweapon. Hoshi and Yuris manage to decode Kandar's computer core and unearth a horrifying secret. An accident forces Liz and Simon to come to an understanding.