SPACE: 1999 YEAR 2
JOURNEY BEHIND CLOSED DOORS
SECTION THIRTEEN: The Shattering Storm
The steam from their coffee cups curled lazily into the air as John and Helena sat side by side on his couch. The only sounds were the soft, faint hum of Alpha's background. The stillness seemed to amplify the weights of Helena's thoughts. She shifted slightly, tucking one leg beneath her as she stared into the dark liquid in her cup.
Koenig had left her alone, for a time. Something about her eyes had warned him that she needed some emotional private time. But it had been minutes and his concern for her was growing.
"Are you okay?" John asked, tilting his head toward her.
"I don't know, John," she began, her voice low, almost hesitant. She delicately traced the rim of her cup with her finger, her brow furrowing deeper as her thoughts began to spill out.
"As a doctor…she looks so much like us. But…to have that ability," she paused, giving a slight shake of her head. "I'm not sure I can even wrap my mind around her physiology."
Helena took a slow sip of her coffee, her eyes narrowing slightly as if searching for clarity in the bitter taste.
"We've met aliens who, more or less, looked like us before," John reminded her, his tone calm and measured.
"And we've met some who didn't," she responded quickly. She pressed her lips together briefly as she met his eyes. Then, her expression shifted, one eyebrow raising slightly. "You knew about this and didn't tell me?"
To John, it sounded less like a question and more like a reminder that he hadn't trusted her.
He nodded, his shoulders relaxing back against the couch. "She's dealing with a lot," he said, his voice carrying an undercurrent of empathy. "We are all dealing with a lot. One thing at a time."
Helena's fingers tightened slightly around her cup as she leaned forward. "And you aren't," she paused, her head tilting as she searched for the right word, "concerned?"
"No," he said simply, his eyes meeting hers with quiet conviction.
"Maya's not Mentor. She's not the sum of her father's actions or ambitions. She's compassionate, intelligent, and deeply moral. We saw that on Psychon. That ability - it's just another part of who she is. It is not what defines her."
Helena tilted her head, studying his face intently, her lips parting as though she wanted to argue but stopped herself. "But you can't deny the potential for... misuse," she said, her voice quieter but still laced with questions.
John sighed, leaning forward, setting his cup down on the table before resting his elbows on his knees, clasping his hands together loosely. His face softened, his expression tinged with a mix of sorrow and understanding. He knew what Helena had seen on Psychon, he also knew what she hadn't witnessed.
"Helena, right before Maya saw her father die, I was trying to get her to leave with me. Mentor was pleading - get her out, for her to go. The only thing Maya wanted to do was to break free from me, to get to him." He stopped for a moment, recalling how Maya had, in just a few minutes, switched forms to escape his insistence that she come with him. He wasn't even sure if she had really understood just how little time Psychon had left at that point. She had only wanted to get to her father.
"Yes, she could have hurt me, badly." He stopped and looked at Russell directly. "But she didn't."
Helena's lips parted slightly as she watched his face. John Koenig firmly believed that while he had witnessed something inexplainable and dangerous, he had also observed a demonstrated restraint.
"She could have, she didn't," John continued, his tone steady but reflective. "In those moments, she didn't look like Maya, but she was Maya. And she tempered what she did. She never wanted to hurt me, she just wanted to get to her father."
Helena sighed as she processed his words.
"I trust her Helena," John said firmly, his gaze steady on hers. "We had no one else on Psychon to trust when we needed it the most."
Helena gave a slight nod of her head.
"She's been through hell, but I don't think she'd ever use that ability to intentionally harm anyone – unless it was to protect someone else."
He gave Russell a small shrug. "For what it's worth, I doubt she's ever really been exposed to much physical violence."
Helena leaned back against the couch, her arms crossing loosely over her chest as she considered his words. "She said she can't even demonstrate it right now," she admitted after a moment, her voice softening. "She's too... scattered. Too emotional."
John nodded slowly; his expression thoughtful. "What she's been through, it would take anyone time to find their footing again. She's strong, but she's grieving, and grief has a way of shaking even the strongest foundations."
Helena's gaze was distant. She knew they both understood, all too well, having experienced grief and loss for themselves. They also both understood how long it could take to repair those cracked foundations.
"It's just... it's a lot to take in," she confessed, her voice quieter now. "I think you're right. She doesn't seem the type to just carelessly use that ability. When she was talking about it, I almost got the feeling that she'd like to lose that ability."
"It probably reminds her too much of what has been lost and no, I don't think she would misuse that ability," John agreed, his voice carrying a steady warmth. Then, after a brief pause, he added, "I think the bigger question is, how are the rest of us going to handle knowing?"
Helena exhaled audibly, shaking her head slightly. "How do you think Tony's going to react when she tells him?"
They both knew that Maya had every intention of revealing this to Alpha's Chief of Security and both were concerned about that.
"Well," John said, a teasing smile tugging at the corner of his mouth, "if Alpha's still in one piece by morning, I'd say the worst is behind us."
Commander John Koenig was choosing optimism regarding Maya's revelation. He shrugged at Helena.
Helena rolled her eyes and shook her head, a reluctant smile breaking through. "You're impossible John Koenig," she murmured, her voice tinged with amusement as she took another sip of her coffee.
Tony Verdeschi shook his head, his hands trembling slightly as he looked down at the young Psychon before him. She was on her knees, bent over, her entire body wracked with sobs that seemed to claw their way out of her. He knelt beside her, his chest tightening painfully as her broken cries filled the air, raw and unrelenting.
His mind raced, desperately trying to make sense of what she'd just revealed. He could still see the mysterious ball of light that had swallowed Fraser's Eagle, then Mentor's ship transforming into a similar orb, radiating energy so intense it had forced the Commander's Eagle to Psychon's surface. The memories collided with the extent of her words, forming an unidentified storm in his thoughts.
"You're telling me the truth, aren't you?" His voice was low, almost uncertain, as if saying it aloud might make it more real. He searched her face for an answer, his brow furrowed, his pulse pounding in his ears.
Maya managed to raise herself slightly, her tear-streaked face turning up to meet his gaze. Her trembling hands reached out, pressing against his arms as though anchoring herself to him. She saw dawning of understanding in his expression, his features were etched with shock and an overwhelming worry he couldn't hide.
A wave of crushing sadness swept over her, and she dropped her gaze, unable to bear the thought of seeing disappointment or distrust in this man's eyes.
"If I could, I would trade this disgusting art and everything in the universe to turn back time and stop my father from ever becoming an evil monster," she whispered, her voice trembling with emotion.
When she lifted her eyes again, they were darker, hollowed by anguish and a fury that burned with cold, unrelenting intensity.
"He destroyed people, Tony," she said, her voice low, almost shuddering with her dark realization as each word got stronger.
"My father… ruined countless lives." Her fists were clenched at her sides, her nails digging into her palms. "He would have eventually ruined mine too – except I helped finish it, finish it for everyone."
Her breath hitched, and her lips quivered as more tears streamed down her face. "I helped destroy it all, Tony. I helped… destroy… all of it." She dropped her head again, staring at the floor as if hoping it might swallow her whole. But when she raised her face once more, the fragile young woman he had been trying to console was gone, replaced by a blazing storm of emotion.
"Oh, how I hate him," she spat, her voice seething with venom. "I'm glad he's gone." The words fell from her lips, sharp and jagged, tearing through the air with a force that made Tony flinch. "I hate him!" she screamed, her voice rising as if the weight of her fury was too much to bear. "Oh, I hate him! I hated Psychon. I hated everything."
Her rage erupted like a volcanic explosion except that it wasn't just her pain and grief being unleased. It was years of an isolated and sheltered life. A life where she'd long ago given up on anything more ever to come, a reluctant acceptance of life being the same every day, with no real hope of actually living. With a guttural scream that seemed to reverberate through the room, Maya lashed out, striking wildly in the air.
Her delicate fists found Tony's shoulder, pounding against him with desperate, wild untamed energy. "He was evil, Tony! Evil! And I hate him! I hate him! I hate him!"
Tony's heart thundered in his chest as he grabbed her wrists, holding them firmly but gently, his own breath coming in shallow gasps. Her beautiful blue eyes had turned wild, almost unrecognizable, a maelstrom of agony and anger reflected in their depths. The storm within her frightened him. Not for his own safety, but for hers.
"Maya, stop!" he commanded, his voice firm but edged with desperation. "Don't do this to yourself!"
He leaned closer, their faces inches apart, his dark eyes searching hers for any glimmer of the Maya he was just beginning to know. "Please," he growled, his voice thick with emotion, his hands tightening around hers. "Sweetheart, please don't do this to yourself."
And then, as if the storm had consumed all the energy it had, she simply collapsed into him. Her body shook violently as sobs wracked her frame, her hands slipping limply from his grip to rest against his chest. Her voice broke into a shattered whisper. "He was evil, Tony. He was evil. I never want to be called his daughter. Never again. Never."
Tony wrapped his arms around her, pulling her close, holding her as though the strength of his embrace alone could shield her from the unbearable weight of her grief. His jaw tightened, and a few silent tears slid down his face as he rested his chin lightly against her hair.
Inside, he felt helpless. How could he heal this kind of pain? There were no words, no gestures that could undo the nightmare she had lived. Yet, as she cried against him, he realized one undeniable truth. He cared for her. More than he wanted to admit, more than he could yet understand.
He swallowed hard, his throat tight as her sobs began to subside into fragile, uneven breaths. He held her close, his hands moving instinctively, gently stroking her back, as though trying to soothe a wound too deep for words to reach. His mind raced with questions – about her, about her life on Psychon, about what she had just revealed – but he shoved them aside. He needed to stay in the present, he needed his focus. For now, nothing mattered but her.
Yet as she lay against him, her trembling body racked with the echoes of her grief, her breathing little more than panicky gasps, he knew she wasn't just crying. She was breaking, she had shattered. No amount of holding or whispered reassurances from him would put her back together.
And then, the realization hit him like a blow to the chest, stealing his breath. No matter how much he cared, no matter how fiercely he wanted to protect her, he couldn't do it alone. Not this, not tonight.
"It's okay," he whispered, though he wasn't sure if the words were for her or for himself. It wasn't okay. Not for her, but it was all he could offer at the moment. His lips brushed the top of her hair in a gesture of aching tenderness as he reached for his commlock.
With shaking hands, he made the call that was needed, his voice low and steady – practical, even – but only because he willed it to be. Then, he left the commlock fall to his side as he pulled her closer to him, pressing his forehead to her once more, a silent vow solidifying in his heart.
Then, as gently as he could, he lifted her off the floor. She barely stirred, the weight of her anguish leaving her limp in his arms. He carried her over to bed, settling her down with infinite care, his fingers lingering on her shoulder as if reluctant to let go.
But he knew. For at least a moment, he had to step away.
Not because he wanted to leave her – gods no, he didn't want to leave her. The enormous weight of her sorrow threatened to crack the control he held onto. He knew he couldn't help her, protect her, couldn't think clearly. Not like this.
His hands trembled as he stepped back, his eyes lingering on her one last time before turning toward the door. Each step felt like betrayal, but he knew better. If he stayed, the storm inside him would break, and he couldn't afford that.
The door slid shut behind him, and he leaned heavily against the wall, his breath coming in uneven gasps. He pressed the heels of his hands to his eyes, trying to block out the image of her – broken, trembling.
"Get it together, Verdeschi," he muttered to himself, his voice harsh in the empty corridor.
As John and Helena hurried down the corridor toward Maya's quarters, they were both struck by the sight of Tony standing with his forehead pressed against the wall, his back turned to everything around him. The normally composed and confident man looked utterly defeated, and the sight sent a ripple of worry through them both. They exchanged a tense, concerned glance.
Helena moved closer to Tony, her steps careful and deliberate. She reached out, placing a gentle hand on his back, feeling the tension in his muscles.
"Tony," she said cautiously, her voice soft, trying not to startle him.
Tony did not turn around. He remained where he was, his voice barely a whisper, trembling with an unfamiliar vulnerability. "Please… go check on her," he murmured, his tone so quiet and broken that it was almost unrecognizable.
Helena's heart tightened at the sound. She glanced at John, silently conveying both her concern and wish for him to stay with Tony while she tended to Maya. John nodded in understanding. As Helena slipped through the door, leaving the two men alone, John turned his attention to Tony.
John approached him carefully, his voice laced with caution and concern. "Tony, are you okay?"
Tony slowly turned around to face the Commander; his back pressed against the wall as if it were the only thing keeping him upright. Gradually, his body began to sink downward, the friction of the wall offering the only support he could find as his legs threatened to give out beneath him. His knees bent, folding under him as he descended until he finally reached the floor. His exhausted body curled into itself, knees drawn up to his chest, arms resting on them. He buried his face in his hands, refusing to meet John's eyes, as if the weight of everything was too much to bear.
When Tony finally spoke, his voice seemed more like a desperate, broken groan. "Why the hell didn't you tell me John?"
John quietly sat down on the floor beside him, the gravity of the situation pulling him down to Tony's level. "About Maya?"
Tony nodded; his face still hidden behind his hands.
"She wanted to tell you herself, in her own way," John explained softly. "She felt you deserved to know the truth first, before anyone else."
Tony raised his head slowly, his hands sliding down his face to reveal eyes brimming with raw, painful disbelief. He let out a low, guttural moan, shaking his head as though trying to shake off the memory.
"Good God," he murmured, his voice hoarse. "At first, I thought it had to be a horrible joke. And then…" His voice broke, and he took a trembling breath, his gaze falling back to the floor. "You should have seen her, John. She just… cracked. She was screaming and hitting me, and there wasn't a damn thing I could say, could do to make it better."
John reached out, placing a steadying hand on Tony's arm, his concern deepening. "She hit you?"
Tony's head tilted up, and for a moment, the anguish etched across his face made him look utterly lost. His words came out slowly, as if each one was filled with the memory of what he'd witnessed. "Oh, she was gone, John. Completely gone." Verdeschi shook his head. "Everything in her life, the atrocities that her father did," Tony paused for a moment. "It all crushed her. She was hating everything – him, the universe, herself. I couldn't stop it."
He rubbed his shoulder absently, wincing as though the physical pain was nothing compared to the emotional blow. His lips twisted into a bitter half-smile. "She didn't know what she was doing. She was just... unleashing. Everything, everywhere, all at once. And it just happened to be me standing in the way."
He let out a dry, humorless laugh and shook his head. "I'll say this, she can pack one hell of a punch hook.
John frowned, his concern deepening as he tried to process everything Tony had just said. He hesitated, then tried to inject a thread of levity, hoping to ease the tension. "Hmmm. Does Security need more staff?"
Tony's head snapped up, his glare sharp and unyielding. The air seemed to chill under the intensity of his stare. "Don't," he said sharply, his tone cutting through the corridor like a blade. "Don't even joke, John."
The bitter edge of his words lingered, and Tony exhaled slowly, regretting hurling such bitterness at John. He closed his eyes, as if by doing so, he could shut out everything.
When he opened them again, John Koenig saw a multitude of emotions in the younger man's face – grief, guilt, exhaustion. Verdeschi's face was that of a man trying to hold pieces together, trying to restore something as the pieces slipped quickly through his fingers.
"She's not okay, John," Tony whispered, his voice barely audible, at first. "None of us are really okay. I don't know if she's fixable."
"I don't know if any of us are."