Mars burned. Through every window Erin Walsh passed by in her mad sprint, the Red Planet was ablaze, its ice caps sloughing away, atmosphere whirling with flames and smoke. Explosions blossomed through the gaps in the firestorm, and Valles Marineris burned like a jagged, taunting grin in the planet’s surface.

Maybe she should have thought to stop and think about that. But the phaser bolts flying past her face kept Walsh’s mind focused on one thing only- staying alive.

Two pairs of boots thundered against Archer‘s steel deck, the only sounds she could hear above the din of phaser fire and her own harsh breathing, air burning like Mars’s atmosphere in her struggling, burned lungs. This, too, she probably should have thought about- it wasn’t normal. She hadn’t felt like this in ages. But the army of Borg hot on her heels kept her focused on one thing- staying alive.

“This way!” the voice of the Andorian next to her shouted, practically grabbing Walsh by the collar and dragging her into an adjacent hallway. Walsh didn’t miss a step- she just kept sprinting, lungs heaving, fists balled so tightly the metal digits of her left hand dug into the grip-textures on her palm. The man next to her was a blur of blue skin and white hair, guiding her down what was seemingly a random maze of corridors.

She should have probably thought about this. The trip to the turbolift couldn’t possibly be this long. But the gunfire kept her focused on staying alive.

Mars burned. Her lungs burned. The hallway never seemed to end. The air filled with acrid smoke and swirling flakes of ash. She coughed, wheezed, gasping for air as everything seemed to burn around her. The Andorian pushed on, never stopping, never even coughing. She should have questioned it. Andorians don’t have some magical resistance to smoke inhalation.

But she kept running. Kept surviving.

The turbolift finally came into view, and Walsh found it within herself to make one final push through the smoke. Every wheeze felt like her respiratory system was catching fire. Lights burst as the two passed them by, fire licking from their exposed fixtures. Flames began to seep from vents like fingers of the dead crawling back to the land of the living. The Andorian never stopped. Neither did she.

Until they both did. She fell first- two bolts to her back, a choked gasp, and Walsh slammed to the floor. All the air burst from her lungs like a deflating balloon, and she lay sprawled there, eyes glazed-

-and watched the Andorian fall under a hail of red fire. His captain’s rank pins, for a moment, gleamed like a dying star in its final moments before he took hit the deck, and never moved again.

Footsteps approached, methodical, parade-march precision. Walsh’s gaze turned to the young woman who leered out of the smoke, braids singed, caramel skin shot through with black veins, carbon copies of Walsh’s own eyes staring back at her with nary a spark of life to them.

The muzzle of a phaser pistol leveled at her face.

“Dess, no-”

She pulled the trigger-

-and Erin Walsh screamed her way back into the waking world, her throat raw, hand clutching the sheet over her trembling body. But the air she sucked into her lungs was clean and fresh, no burning sensation in her chest came with each rise and fall, and no flames clawed at her.

She was in her room. In her own bed. Beyond the windows lay not a dying world but an ever-vibrant city, inside neither Borg nor fire but pictureframes, an old TV, and that ever-present acoustic guitar sitting in the far corner of the room.

I’m okay. It was just a dream.

“Mom?”

Walsh jerked her head to the doorway, for a moment still imagining those lifeless eyes and the dark veins- but only one very ordinary, entirely un-assimilated Destiny Walsh stood there, brows furrowed with concern. “You okay? You were-”

“I’m alright, Dess.” Walsh sucked in a shuddering breath, her hand dropping the sheet to run through her messy bedhead hair. “Just… it’s fine.”

The younger Walsh was clearly far from convinced. “… alright. I made coffee and breakfast, if you want it.” Without waiting for a response, she ducked back out of sight, vanishing into the house.

Walsh sighed, dragging her hand down her face and mentally cursing herself to hell and back. She must’ve forgotten her medicine last night… Natilla was going to have her head for this. With a groan, she shuffled out of bed, snatching her prosthetic arm off the nightstand and unceremoniously stuffing it on the remains of the original limb. Even now, she still paused to look at the palm gripping, inspect it for furrows and tears- and found nothing. Because it was a dream.

The smell of slightly burnt pancakes assaulted her nose as she stepped into the kitchen, but giving credit where it was due, it was a hell of a lot better than the last time Destiny had tried cooking. She let a little smile twitch on her lips as she shuffled a few pancakes onto a plate, turned to compliment her daughter on them…

… and her smile faded at the realization that Destiny was wearing her Starfleet uniform.

“You’re going back.”

Dess must’ve known this would happen- she didn’t even stop slurping down what was probably her second or third cup of coffee that morning. “Archer leaves in seven days,” she commented, almost idly. “Just got the message from Ma this morning. She’s still down in Boston, I think.”

Walsh slid into another seat at the table, her fork sticking out of her pancake mound like a flagpole on a moon. “That’s… good to hear. Everyone still onboard?”

“Pretty much.” Dess shrugged, slurping down the rest of her coffee. “You don’t sound happy about it.”

“I’m not… not happy,” Walsh corrected, though her appetite had taken a small vacation from the very thought of it. “And besides, even if I was… you’re nineteen. You graduated the TSA. You can make your own decisions without your mothers hawking over you.”

“Still don’t sound happy about it.”

Walsh’s metal finger tapped idly on the table as she thought through her words. “… I’m just worried about you, okay? That- doesn’t mean don’t go through with it, just…” Her words trailed off.

Dess’s eyes didn’t meet her mother’s, staring blankly at the kitchen sink instead. “… I’m worried too. But I’m still gonna do it.”

“… yeah.” Walsh nodded, a sigh following. “… don’t worry about it too much, okay? What happened with Captain ch’Ren, that wasn’t your fault. You know that, right?”

Dess’s nod seemed… half-hearted. She rose from the table, placed her cup in the sink, and quietly commented, “… it’s not yours, either. If I should know, so should you.”

Once more, she vanished out of sight, heading off to her room to finish packing, leaving her mother staring blankly at her own food.