I never liked the reality they gave Kirk in the Nexus. To me, he would never regret his life in Starfleet. The original scene ignored some of his most important moments and missed a huge opportunity.
The perfect life for Kirk wouldn’t mean giving up what he did—it would mean still doing all that, and finally getting to enjoy the reward. He knew he couldn’t change the past and be there for David as a dad early on, but after Genesis, he had a real chance to start being present. I believe he was looking forward to that—only to have it cruelly taken away. The Nexus should have been the place where that chance actually existed.
I decided to take a shot at rewriting the scene to reflect this vision. I also introduced an added threat: that remaining in the Nexus doesn’t just trap you in an illusion—it actually erases you from existence by rewriting the timeline. Even the brief time Kirk spent there caused ripples that could explain some continuity shifts in the broader story. That’s more of a side thought, though—the main focus is on giving Kirk the emotional depth and choice he deserves.
Also a note. I am not a writer. I’ve tried and just can’t really get it going. I can come up with ideas but writing them out doesn’t pan out. I did use AI to write this. I wrote as much as I could and used AI to help put it together. This is an idea I’ve had in my head for about 10 years. Just trying to be up front about it, as it’s something that I wanted to share.
The Nexus
Picard stepped forth from the shimmering haze of the Nexus, as though passing through a veil between worlds, his keen eyes narrowing as the land unfolded before him. It was a scene as peaceful as any dream—a small house, trees swaying gently in the breeze, their branches whispering in harmony with the stillness. The air held a quiet perfection, a serenity so complete it pressed upon him with an unsettling weight. For Picard knew the truth of it: this place, though fair to behold, was no more than a shadow of reality, a deceptive calm crafted from desire. And there, before him, stood a man—too familiar, too legendary—swinging an axe with a practiced ease, as if the cares of the universe had never touched him.
“Captain James Kirk,” Picard said, his voice bearing the weight of reverence. The name stirred within him a history that ran deep and long—a tale woven with both triumph and sorrow. Yet Kirk, for all his storied past, turned toward him with a grin that belied his legend, too casual, too light.
“Please, call me Jim,” Kirk replied, his voice carrying the same breezy confidence as of old friends reunited. He rested the axe against the chopping block, wiping his hands on his shirt, and strode forward with the easy bearing of a man who had known both life and death and smiled at them both. “I assume you’ve come for the birthday party?”
“Birthday party?” Picard echoed, thrown off balance by the simplicity of the question, so distant from the peril that had brought him here.
Kirk nodded, as though it were the most natural thing in the world. “George’s birthday,” he said, his eyes bright with warmth. “My grandson. He’s inside, probably causing all kinds of trouble by now.”
Picard’s heart quickened. He opened his mouth to speak, to warn, but something in Kirk’s manner gave him pause. This man, grounded in the simple joys of life, was not yet ready for the truth. Not yet. So, he followed.
Within the house, the warmth of hearth and home wrapped around them both like an old, familiar blanket. Laughter filled the air, the bright sound of happiness untouched by time. A boy, no more than ten, dashed forward, his face alight with joy. “Grandpa!” the boy shouted, coming to a stop before Kirk, who knelt to ruffle his hair.
“Hey, kiddo,” Kirk said, his voice softening with affection. “I know you’re supposed to be opening up your presents later, but I just couldn’t wait. Here, open this.” He handed the boy a small box, wrapped with care.
Picard stood silently by, watching as George eagerly tore into the package, revealing a model ship, gleaming in his hands. It was the old Constitution-class Enterprise, every detail rendered with loving precision. George’s eyes went wide, and he held the model high as if it were a treasure beyond price.
“Is this the one you used to captain?” George asked, wonder filling his voice.
Kirk smiled and grinned. “That’s the one,” he said, casting a glance at Picard, as if to say, Can you deny it?
As Picard looked around the room, his gaze fell upon the shelves lining the walls, filled with trophies, photographs, and tokens of a life lived in full measure. One photograph showed a young Kirk standing beside Spock, McCoy, and the rest of his crew, their faces filled with determination and camaraderie, while a small Vulcan artifact—a gift from Spock—sat proudly nearby, its intricate design catching the light. A plaque engraved with Spock’s iconic words, “The needs of the many outweigh the needs of the few,” was nestled among the mementos.
But amid these reminders of past adventures, it was the images of David that drew Picard’s eye: a photo of a young boy standing with Kirk, their smiles bright, and another capturing the birth of Kirk’s grandson, with Carol and David at his side. Scientific honors and awards dominated the space, a testament to David’s brilliance—a legacy of achievement that spanned across generations, the culmination of Kirk’s pride and love.
“You were proud of him,” Picard said, his voice barely above a whisper.
Kirk’s gaze followed Picard’s, his expression growing distant. “David,” he murmured. “He was brilliant… like his mother. A scientist too.” His voice softened. “He would’ve been here today, but he’s… off giving a lecture on Vulcan.”
Picard turned to face him fully, his tone shifting. “Jim… ask yourself something.”
Kirk glanced at him, confused.
Picard’s voice was quiet, steady. “When was the last time you saw David?”
Kirk blinked. “I told you, he’s just—”
“No,” Picard said gently, but with weight behind his words. “Really think. When was the last time you actually saw him?”
Kirk faltered. He looked at the photo again. His jaw tightened. His breath hitched.
“It was…” he murmured. “I was… on Genesis.”
Picard nodded solemnly. “David died on that planet. He gave his life to save others—Saavik, Spock. You know that, Jim. You’ve known it for years.”
Kirk staggered back half a step, bracing himself against the edge of the mantle. “No,” he whispered. “No, he’s just… he’s just running late. He’s always late.”
“This place,” Picard said, “shows you what you long for most. But it isn’t real. It’s the Nexus.”
Kirk looked around the room, the laughter of George suddenly seeming distant, the warmth beginning to feel forced, unreal. “I felt him,” he murmured. “I held him in my arms.”
“I know,” Picard said. “But it’s the illusion. The Nexus doesn’t give you truth—it gives you comfort. Stay here long enough, and you’ll forget what’s real entirely.”
Kirk looked at George again, the boy radiant in his joy, holding up the model ship. The sound of his laughter seemed slightly out of sync, like an old recording.
The smile faded from Kirk’s face.
He turned back to Picard, his voice quiet but brimming with conflict. “If this isn’t real… then what is?”
“The world outside,” Picard said. “Veridian III. Soran is out there right now. And if we don’t stop him, millions of real lives will be lost. This—” he gestured around at the idyllic scene, “—this will vanish. But worse, it will cost lives.”
Kirk’s jaw clenched. “One man… willing to kill millions just to stay in this fantasy?”
Picard nodded grimly. “Yes. He’s desperate to return to this. And if we don’t stop him, Veridian III and its entire system will be annihilated.”
Kirk looked around, the warmth of the house suddenly feeling suffocating. The fire seemed dimmer. “And if I stay? What happens to the real world?”
“Everything you fought for—everything I’ve fought for—will be gone. The lives you’ve saved, the battles you’ve won… forgotten.”
Picard stepped closer, sensing the inner turmoil rising within Kirk, a man caught between the dream he longed to believe and the truth he couldn’t escape. “Jim,” he said gently, “Spock once said, ‘The needs of the many outweigh the needs of the few.’”
“Or the one…” Kirk finished, the words heavy with reflection. His gaze dropped to George.
Kirk’s gaze softened, his shoulders sagging as the weight of the decision settled on him. He looked around at the home, the life he could have had, the future he longed to hold onto. The ache of loss pressed against his chest, but deep down, he knew what had to be done. His voice, low and filled with quiet resignation, barely broke the silence. “I’ve spent my whole life sacrificing for the greater good,” he murmured, almost to himself. “I thought maybe this was my reward.”
He looked at Picard, eyes filled with sorrow. “But I can’t stay, can I?”
“No,” Picard replied gently. “The universe still needs you, Jim.”
Kirk nodded, the sadness hanging heavy in the air. “I know. Let’s go save the galaxy… one last time.”
Kirk stood in the fading light of the Nexus, the warmth of the idyllic house slipping away like sand through his fingers. The laughter of his grandson echoed in his ears, a haunting melody that tugged at his heart. George, still unaware of the reality that loomed over them, was busy playing with the model ship, his innocent joy a stark contrast to the storm raging within Kirk. The weight of his decision pressed down on him, heavy and suffocating, knotting in his throat like a coiled serpent.
“Jim,” Picard’s voice was a gentle reminder of the gravity of the moment, but Kirk could scarcely hear it over the pounding of his heart. He took a deep breath, summoning the courage that had carried him through countless battles. “I need… I need to say goodbye.”
Picard nodded, understanding the urgency behind his words. Kirk turned toward George, the boy’s laughter fading as he noticed the change in his grandfather’s demeanor. Kirk knelt down, the world around him fading into a blur as he focused on the wide, trusting eyes of the child before him. This was his legacy, his blood—everything he had fought for distilled into this moment.
“George,” he began, his voice trembling, thick with emotion. “You need to understand… I have to go.” The words felt like daggers, each syllable a cut deeper than the last.
“Go? But we’re just getting started!” George replied, his innocence cutting through Kirk like a knife.
“I know, I know,” Kirk choked out, the knots tightening in his throat. He could feel the tears threatening to spill, the bittersweet sorrow washing over him. “But there’s something bigger at stake—something I have to do. I can’t stay here.”
As he spoke, he fought against the torrent of emotion, the desire to shield his grandson from the harsh realities of life. Yet, as he looked into George’s eyes, he saw the flicker of understanding begin to dawn, a painful recognition of the impending farewell.
“Grandpa, please,” the boy pleaded, his voice wavering. “You’re not leaving, are you?”
Kirk could hold it back no longer. He reached out and pulled George close, the boy’s warmth a beacon of love in the gathering darkness. “My boy,” he whispered, the dam breaking. Tears streamed down his cheeks as he clutched the child tightly, the weight of his love and sorrow crashing over him in waves. “I’ll never forget you.”
Kirk held George tightly, the warmth of his grandson fading into a distant memory as a brilliant white light enveloped the room. The glow pulsed and shimmered, consuming everything—laughter, love, and the very essence of the moment melted away like mist in the sun.
As the light intensified, George’s form began to dissipate, his small body becoming translucent, swallowed by the radiant void. Kirk’s heart ached with the loss, the weight of farewell pressing heavily upon him.
Suddenly, the light vanished, and Kirk found himself alone on the rocky surface of Veridian III, the cold wind biting at his skin. Grief etched deep lines across his face, a hollow pit where joy had once resided. Yet amid the sorrow, a fierce determination ignited within him.
He stood up, straightening his uniform, a resolve blossoming in his heart. Memories of David, Carol, and George surged through him, a promise that would not fade. Kirk gazed at the horizon, the sun breaking through the clouds, illuminating his path forward. He set out to find the one responsible, giving him everything and then taking it away.
The perfect life for Kirk wouldn’t mean giving up what he did—it would mean still doing all that, and finally getting to enjoy the reward. He knew he couldn’t change the past and be there for David as a dad early on, but after Genesis, he had a real chance to start being present. I believe he was looking forward to that—only to have it cruelly taken away. The Nexus should have been the place where that chance actually existed.
I decided to take a shot at rewriting the scene to reflect this vision. I also introduced an added threat: that remaining in the Nexus doesn’t just trap you in an illusion—it actually erases you from existence by rewriting the timeline. Even the brief time Kirk spent there caused ripples that could explain some continuity shifts in the broader story. That’s more of a side thought, though—the main focus is on giving Kirk the emotional depth and choice he deserves.
Also a note. I am not a writer. I’ve tried and just can’t really get it going. I can come up with ideas but writing them out doesn’t pan out. I did use AI to write this. I wrote as much as I could and used AI to help put it together. This is an idea I’ve had in my head for about 10 years. Just trying to be up front about it, as it’s something that I wanted to share.
The Nexus
Picard stepped forth from the shimmering haze of the Nexus, as though passing through a veil between worlds, his keen eyes narrowing as the land unfolded before him. It was a scene as peaceful as any dream—a small house, trees swaying gently in the breeze, their branches whispering in harmony with the stillness. The air held a quiet perfection, a serenity so complete it pressed upon him with an unsettling weight. For Picard knew the truth of it: this place, though fair to behold, was no more than a shadow of reality, a deceptive calm crafted from desire. And there, before him, stood a man—too familiar, too legendary—swinging an axe with a practiced ease, as if the cares of the universe had never touched him.
“Captain James Kirk,” Picard said, his voice bearing the weight of reverence. The name stirred within him a history that ran deep and long—a tale woven with both triumph and sorrow. Yet Kirk, for all his storied past, turned toward him with a grin that belied his legend, too casual, too light.
“Please, call me Jim,” Kirk replied, his voice carrying the same breezy confidence as of old friends reunited. He rested the axe against the chopping block, wiping his hands on his shirt, and strode forward with the easy bearing of a man who had known both life and death and smiled at them both. “I assume you’ve come for the birthday party?”
“Birthday party?” Picard echoed, thrown off balance by the simplicity of the question, so distant from the peril that had brought him here.
Kirk nodded, as though it were the most natural thing in the world. “George’s birthday,” he said, his eyes bright with warmth. “My grandson. He’s inside, probably causing all kinds of trouble by now.”
Picard’s heart quickened. He opened his mouth to speak, to warn, but something in Kirk’s manner gave him pause. This man, grounded in the simple joys of life, was not yet ready for the truth. Not yet. So, he followed.
Within the house, the warmth of hearth and home wrapped around them both like an old, familiar blanket. Laughter filled the air, the bright sound of happiness untouched by time. A boy, no more than ten, dashed forward, his face alight with joy. “Grandpa!” the boy shouted, coming to a stop before Kirk, who knelt to ruffle his hair.
“Hey, kiddo,” Kirk said, his voice softening with affection. “I know you’re supposed to be opening up your presents later, but I just couldn’t wait. Here, open this.” He handed the boy a small box, wrapped with care.
Picard stood silently by, watching as George eagerly tore into the package, revealing a model ship, gleaming in his hands. It was the old Constitution-class Enterprise, every detail rendered with loving precision. George’s eyes went wide, and he held the model high as if it were a treasure beyond price.
“Is this the one you used to captain?” George asked, wonder filling his voice.
Kirk smiled and grinned. “That’s the one,” he said, casting a glance at Picard, as if to say, Can you deny it?
As Picard looked around the room, his gaze fell upon the shelves lining the walls, filled with trophies, photographs, and tokens of a life lived in full measure. One photograph showed a young Kirk standing beside Spock, McCoy, and the rest of his crew, their faces filled with determination and camaraderie, while a small Vulcan artifact—a gift from Spock—sat proudly nearby, its intricate design catching the light. A plaque engraved with Spock’s iconic words, “The needs of the many outweigh the needs of the few,” was nestled among the mementos.
But amid these reminders of past adventures, it was the images of David that drew Picard’s eye: a photo of a young boy standing with Kirk, their smiles bright, and another capturing the birth of Kirk’s grandson, with Carol and David at his side. Scientific honors and awards dominated the space, a testament to David’s brilliance—a legacy of achievement that spanned across generations, the culmination of Kirk’s pride and love.
“You were proud of him,” Picard said, his voice barely above a whisper.
Kirk’s gaze followed Picard’s, his expression growing distant. “David,” he murmured. “He was brilliant… like his mother. A scientist too.” His voice softened. “He would’ve been here today, but he’s… off giving a lecture on Vulcan.”
Picard turned to face him fully, his tone shifting. “Jim… ask yourself something.”
Kirk glanced at him, confused.
Picard’s voice was quiet, steady. “When was the last time you saw David?”
Kirk blinked. “I told you, he’s just—”
“No,” Picard said gently, but with weight behind his words. “Really think. When was the last time you actually saw him?”
Kirk faltered. He looked at the photo again. His jaw tightened. His breath hitched.
“It was…” he murmured. “I was… on Genesis.”
Picard nodded solemnly. “David died on that planet. He gave his life to save others—Saavik, Spock. You know that, Jim. You’ve known it for years.”
Kirk staggered back half a step, bracing himself against the edge of the mantle. “No,” he whispered. “No, he’s just… he’s just running late. He’s always late.”
“This place,” Picard said, “shows you what you long for most. But it isn’t real. It’s the Nexus.”
Kirk looked around the room, the laughter of George suddenly seeming distant, the warmth beginning to feel forced, unreal. “I felt him,” he murmured. “I held him in my arms.”
“I know,” Picard said. “But it’s the illusion. The Nexus doesn’t give you truth—it gives you comfort. Stay here long enough, and you’ll forget what’s real entirely.”
Kirk looked at George again, the boy radiant in his joy, holding up the model ship. The sound of his laughter seemed slightly out of sync, like an old recording.
The smile faded from Kirk’s face.
He turned back to Picard, his voice quiet but brimming with conflict. “If this isn’t real… then what is?”
“The world outside,” Picard said. “Veridian III. Soran is out there right now. And if we don’t stop him, millions of real lives will be lost. This—” he gestured around at the idyllic scene, “—this will vanish. But worse, it will cost lives.”
Kirk’s jaw clenched. “One man… willing to kill millions just to stay in this fantasy?”
Picard nodded grimly. “Yes. He’s desperate to return to this. And if we don’t stop him, Veridian III and its entire system will be annihilated.”
Kirk looked around, the warmth of the house suddenly feeling suffocating. The fire seemed dimmer. “And if I stay? What happens to the real world?”
“Everything you fought for—everything I’ve fought for—will be gone. The lives you’ve saved, the battles you’ve won… forgotten.”
Picard stepped closer, sensing the inner turmoil rising within Kirk, a man caught between the dream he longed to believe and the truth he couldn’t escape. “Jim,” he said gently, “Spock once said, ‘The needs of the many outweigh the needs of the few.’”
“Or the one…” Kirk finished, the words heavy with reflection. His gaze dropped to George.
Kirk’s gaze softened, his shoulders sagging as the weight of the decision settled on him. He looked around at the home, the life he could have had, the future he longed to hold onto. The ache of loss pressed against his chest, but deep down, he knew what had to be done. His voice, low and filled with quiet resignation, barely broke the silence. “I’ve spent my whole life sacrificing for the greater good,” he murmured, almost to himself. “I thought maybe this was my reward.”
He looked at Picard, eyes filled with sorrow. “But I can’t stay, can I?”
“No,” Picard replied gently. “The universe still needs you, Jim.”
Kirk nodded, the sadness hanging heavy in the air. “I know. Let’s go save the galaxy… one last time.”
Kirk stood in the fading light of the Nexus, the warmth of the idyllic house slipping away like sand through his fingers. The laughter of his grandson echoed in his ears, a haunting melody that tugged at his heart. George, still unaware of the reality that loomed over them, was busy playing with the model ship, his innocent joy a stark contrast to the storm raging within Kirk. The weight of his decision pressed down on him, heavy and suffocating, knotting in his throat like a coiled serpent.
“Jim,” Picard’s voice was a gentle reminder of the gravity of the moment, but Kirk could scarcely hear it over the pounding of his heart. He took a deep breath, summoning the courage that had carried him through countless battles. “I need… I need to say goodbye.”
Picard nodded, understanding the urgency behind his words. Kirk turned toward George, the boy’s laughter fading as he noticed the change in his grandfather’s demeanor. Kirk knelt down, the world around him fading into a blur as he focused on the wide, trusting eyes of the child before him. This was his legacy, his blood—everything he had fought for distilled into this moment.
“George,” he began, his voice trembling, thick with emotion. “You need to understand… I have to go.” The words felt like daggers, each syllable a cut deeper than the last.
“Go? But we’re just getting started!” George replied, his innocence cutting through Kirk like a knife.
“I know, I know,” Kirk choked out, the knots tightening in his throat. He could feel the tears threatening to spill, the bittersweet sorrow washing over him. “But there’s something bigger at stake—something I have to do. I can’t stay here.”
As he spoke, he fought against the torrent of emotion, the desire to shield his grandson from the harsh realities of life. Yet, as he looked into George’s eyes, he saw the flicker of understanding begin to dawn, a painful recognition of the impending farewell.
“Grandpa, please,” the boy pleaded, his voice wavering. “You’re not leaving, are you?”
Kirk could hold it back no longer. He reached out and pulled George close, the boy’s warmth a beacon of love in the gathering darkness. “My boy,” he whispered, the dam breaking. Tears streamed down his cheeks as he clutched the child tightly, the weight of his love and sorrow crashing over him in waves. “I’ll never forget you.”
Kirk held George tightly, the warmth of his grandson fading into a distant memory as a brilliant white light enveloped the room. The glow pulsed and shimmered, consuming everything—laughter, love, and the very essence of the moment melted away like mist in the sun.
As the light intensified, George’s form began to dissipate, his small body becoming translucent, swallowed by the radiant void. Kirk’s heart ached with the loss, the weight of farewell pressing heavily upon him.
Suddenly, the light vanished, and Kirk found himself alone on the rocky surface of Veridian III, the cold wind biting at his skin. Grief etched deep lines across his face, a hollow pit where joy had once resided. Yet amid the sorrow, a fierce determination ignited within him.
He stood up, straightening his uniform, a resolve blossoming in his heart. Memories of David, Carol, and George surged through him, a promise that would not fade. Kirk gazed at the horizon, the sun breaking through the clouds, illuminating his path forward. He set out to find the one responsible, giving him everything and then taking it away.
