Shaw takes a breath of surprise, the bright pale moon silhouetting the form of the Cardassian in the window, blood still dripping from the knife in his hand. With slow, soft steps, Shaw moves closer.

“You are not meant to be here.” The man repeats.

“You know what is going on?”

“Is it not obvious? The arbiter is dead, as is right.”

Shaw sighs with frustration as it becomes apparent that the man does not seem to hold any more information about their strange surroundings than anyone else in this strange fantasy. The two converse some more, whilst Shaw attempts to garner more information and catches a reference to the man being a member of the rebellion. He quickly changes tack, attempting to convince the Cardassian that he wishes to join the rebellion, offering his knowledge and support.

“Well, little man. You shall have your chance.” The man whispers finally before making back out the window and leaping into the street below.

As Shaw rushes to the window to follow, but hesitates, realising the height of the building. From the window frame, he watches as the shadowed figure disappears into the dark shadows of the street, the dark sun orbs that lined the street seeming diminished by the moonlight. He follows him from above as the man continues skulking through the streets and following his path further up the road, Shaw notices a group of several other Cardassians emerging from the gloom, armed with flaming torches.

This gang begin chanting in the streets, calls to rise and dash down the empire. One reaches up his torch to the thatched roof of a nearby building and sets the dry brush alight. The shouting begins to draw people from their houses and rouses Orlan from his slumber, who rushes to the street to see the gang beginning to damage the buildings. Orlan spies in the corner of his eye that the Jem Hadar and his Borg escorts are also moving towards the ruckass, their movements are slow and unworried as they turn the corner into the square. Orlan notices that the Jem Hadar does not seem particularly surprised by their presence.

Shaw turns from the window and grabs the dead body of the arbiter and begins to drag him out of the house, pulling him out the window and down into the street. Shaw’s in fairly good shape, but it’s hard going, and the sounds of the fracas continue around him as he attempts to make his way to the square.

In the square, the Jem Hadar watches as the two Borg drones continue their unyielding march towards the gang of Cardassians. Orlan rushes to help a nearby woman who is being interrogated by an officer, but finds himself locked in a grapple with the surprising strength of the man. As he pushes back and forth with the man, he spies another drawing something from his bag.

Shaw pulls the arbiter’s body to the centre of the square and hauls him up to the side of the well. He takes a deep breath and begins his announcement.

“Listen to me, you people. The time of freedom has come, the bell is ringing. Free yourselves from the shackles of your oppressors. Let us march as one to the capital and free ourselves from the king! Freedom only comes when we have the choice of our destiny!”

Silence falls on the square as everyone takes in this man’s declarations. The faces of the villagers turn white as everyone stops fighting momentarily. The Jem’Hadar servant takes a sharp breath, his face filled with fear for the first time. From the gang, a Cardassian woman steps forward into the silence.

“You claim a kill that is not your own, do you realise the consequences of your actions?”

“Do you? You claim to free the people, but would you just be another overlord?” Shaw hisses with venom.

“We never promised to free the people,” she replies as she lifts a sharp blade and slashes the body of the arbiter, causing it to fall into the well. “You may yet be useful, kill the Jem’Hadar servant.”

She throws her makeshift sword towards Shaw, who barely manages to grab it before it clatters to the ground. He turns to the Jem’Hadar and begs him to join them.

“Brother, join me. Do you not see how the man lying there has oppressed you? You are free of him. You are free of all who are like him. Join me, and we will do great things together,” Shaw offers.

For a moment, it seems that he is unconvincing, but as a glimmer of recognition passes over his face, he reaches out and takes the sword from Shaw’s hand.

“I had forgotten what it was to have a brother,” he whispers before taking the sword and striking down the Borg drone in front of him, which falls to the floor like a leaden weight.

“It seems we have acquired more on this mission than we expected.” The Cardassian woman smiles with thin, icy lips before turning on her heels and beginning down the road out of town, northwards towards the wetlands. “Come, we are leaving.”

The party tentatively begins to follow, with their circumstantial ally leading the way towards the wetlands. As they disappear out of sight of the village, Orlan realises the rest of the Cardassians have not joined them, but thick smoke and a chilling orange flame is beginning to blot out the pale white moon above them.

The team journeyed for several hours, as the surrounding countryside gives way to thick, boggy marshes and tall, spider-limbed trees. The road collapses as the ground turns to mud, but their Cardassian guide doesn’t miss a step, hopping from rock to rock. It is clear she has travelled this route many times.

The trees begin to thicken, their thick canopies blocking out the moon till the sorry excuse for a road turns into little more than a path through the undergrowth. The burly Jem’Hadar seems to struggle, picking his way through the damp ground, but Orlan and Shaw manage to avoid any major issues.

Eventually, the path gives way to moonlight once again, tinged with the familiar glow of campfires, and they step into a glade centred around a large broken tree. Spindly twigs and gnarled limbs reach up towards the moon as flames from the smattering of campfires cast dark shadows on its wounded trunk. Small clusters of beings fill the area: Cardassian, Ferengi, a pair of Jem’Hadar on the far side of the glade. Nearby on the edge of the wet ground, small piles of familiar oblong crates are stacked haphazardly, smooth grey surfaces catching the ambient orange glow. At the centre is a lone Romulan woman who stands considering the fire as their Cardassian guide joins her and begins to speak, motioning towards the party.

The Cardassian woman summons Shaw over, whilst Orlan makes his way towards the nearby stack of crates. She introduces herself as Hybesa and the Romulan officer as Ta’ela and explains that all those they see here in the marshlands are what constitutes the rebellion. Shaw notes that all present belong to species that have traditionally been enemies of the Federation. Ta’ella explains that the Oracle brought them all here and showed them the truth, that this world is a fallacy but as of yet they have not found a way to gain entrance to the citadel where they belive the source is. Shaw wishes to meet the Oracle, and the pair of women eventually reluctantly agree.

Whilst Shaw probes the pair, Orlan explores the camp a little, treading carefully around the camp not to anger anyone. He takes a glimpse into one of the cases and notes a number of items that seem familiar but different. From a distance, they appear to be 24th century technology, scanners and disruptors, but he decides not to risk a confrontation to explore the resources further and returns to join Shaw.

Ta’ela takes the pair to the base of the tree, which from the outside appears completely black, a knife edge of blackness that stops at the edge of the rotting base.

“I advise you to listen.” She whispers before stepping into the darkness and disappearing.

The pair follow nervously.

They emerge into a warm stone room, a damp humidity hanging in the air. Across the walls, tubes and cables trail in tight, efficient lines twisting and turning along the brickwork in strict geometric patterns, whilst a dull green glow eminates from the liquid that passes through them. Tables and counters covered in roughly fashioned gears and mechanisms click away like a chorus of metronomes whilst a half dozen borg drones mill around the room, making adjustments and tweaking levers with mindless obediance. In another time and another place, they could have easily have thought they had stepped inside a stampunk borg cube.

Ta’ela steps forward and kneels reverentially towards the deepening shadows above the large, complicated array of mechanical equipment at the far end of the room.

“Orlan, James Shaw. May I present to you At’La’Khan, he who is the oracle and who sees all that is truth.”

From above the towering vat a series of long legs unfurls, their tips clacking against the metal and stone of the room as it climbs down from the darkness. It hovers above the group on spindly arachnid limbs, a great blue skinned rotund form with slowly chittering mandibles beneath jet black obsidian eyes that look out unblinkingly. Again, Shaw and Orlan are struck with the sense of something familiar but not quite right; it is almost as if a blind man has created a great spider from only a description. Or as if it had stepped out of a nightmare.

“You may ask your questions,” Ta’ela whispers, barely suppressing a shiver of nervousness.

“Mirror, mirror on the wall. What the hell are we doing here?” Shaw laughs darkly towards the unmoving creature.

“James Shaw, Lieutenant junior grade,” it replies calmly, sending a slight shiver up Shaw’s spine. “A mirror would be a useful tool, and an apt simile. This is not the world you think it is, though perhaps there are fragments that have come with you.”

“Mirror, mirror on the wall? I like that,” the oracle smiles a mouthless grin as he waves a hand towards a wall that shifts. The stone boiling into a perfectly smooth silver sheened surface of a tall mirror.

“What species are you? Where do you come from?” Orlan asks directly.

“Orlan. You’re species have travelled far and encountered many people, but they have not met one like me, I do not think. Not directly. I am simply the Oracle, nothing more, nothing less.” The creature twitches momentarily. “Those like you have known others of my kind, though not you. Someone else… a woman. She crossed paths with two of my kind before.”

“When?”

“When is difficult. It changes, it moves. We do not exist on a line like you do, though I see a shining silver shape. One that you would be familiar with.” The Oracle replies, tilting its large head curiously.

“Are you a prophet of Bajor?” Shaw asks in what he believes is a moment of clarity.

The oracle’s mandibles click in a semblance of hearty laughter that bounces off the walls.

“We have seen those prophets and taken their measure. We are not interested in them.” It clicks almost with a hiss of distaste. “No, we are from further away, outside. We journey, we search. We are not usually in this form. One you can touch.”

“I remember a name for the others you have met, who became so obsessed with a small thing he felt responsibility for.” The oracle’s massive, unblinking eyes turn to the endless darkness above the room for a moment, searching the sky for a word it is unfamiliar with. “A caretaker?”

A flash of memory rolls to the fore of Shaw’s mind as he recalls the Nacene that indirectly stranded USS Voyager in the delta quadrent.

“A caretaker, yes, as I am become caretaker of these people. But you are an aberration in her plan, that is why I have drawn you here to defeat her.” The oracle lowers its massive body close, a strange buzz of energy filling the air.

“Her? Do you mean the caretaker’s mate?” Shaw asks, barely managing not to flinch away from the sudden closeness.

“No.” The oracle shivers noticeably, with anger, with worry? “Mine.”

“We used to dip into dreams and bask in the joy. We used to peek beyond the bounds of existence to experience all that could be instead of what was. But she is broken, twisted, as if looking from the other side of a mirror. She has plucked dreams and nightmares and created a kingdom for herself.”

“What do you want us to do?” Orlan asks quietly.

The oracle pulls back towards the darkness, lifting its body away on spindly legs towards its web of shadows.

“You must remove the rot at the heart of things.”