Star Trek: Renaissance – Chapter One
The universe was dead. And yet, Captain Benjamin Sisko could still hear it breathing.
Not in any literal sense, of course. The USS Robinson hung in the void where Bajor had once been, adrift in the remnants of a timeline unraveled. His crew was gone—scattered like stardust, victims of the collapse. But Sisko had never been just another Starfleet captain. He had walked among the Prophets, had seen time not as a river but as an ocean—a vast expanse where the currents shifted but never truly ceased.
And here, in the shattered wreckage of the First Splinter, something stirred.
A glimmer. A whisper. A possibility.
He closed his eyes and listened.
"Emissary."
The voice surrounded him—not an echo, but a chorus. It was neither human nor divine, neither past nor future. It was the sound of existence unraveling—and knitting itself together once more.
"You have touched infinity before. You must do so again."
Sisko did not question. He had no need.
He raised a hand and felt it—the frayed edges of what had been, the broken strands of time awaiting a weaver’s touch. The Devidians had fed upon the dying embers of the Splinter, but even they had not consumed everything. Something remained.
A seed.
A beginning.
He reached into the abyss and pulled.
Light flared, stars ignited, history reasserted itself in the space between moments. One thought resonated through Sisko’s mind as reality bent to his will.
The Splinter was not finished.
Not yet.
Star Trek: Renaissance – Chapter Two
Q sat in the void.
Not the true void—no such thing existed to one who had seen the fabric of time with his own eyes—but a space between spaces, where the Continuum had fled in desperate retreat. It had no stars, no light, no form, yet it was still there.
For the rest of the Continuum, this was security. It was sanctuary, hidden from the unraveling timelines they had abandoned. If they stayed here, nothing could touch them.
But Q had never been quite like the rest of them.
Through the unseen walls of exile, he watched the universe they had left behind. The First Splinter had collapsed just as they predicted, consumed by forces beyond even their comprehension. A doomed battle fought by doomed mortals.
And yet, in that doomed battle, he had seen something else.
Jean-Luc Picard.
For so long, he had tested the man—pressed him, pushed him, dangled him over the precipice of destruction just to see what he would do. And every time, Picard had stood firm. He had fought, not because he believed he would win, but because surrender was never an option.
And now, he was gone.
Not dead. Death was simple. Death was universal. But this? Erasure. Like he had never been. Like he had never mattered.
Q exhaled slowly, watching the echoes of what had once been.
It was strange, wasn’t it? For all his omnipotence, he had never truly understood sacrifice—not the way mortals did. For centuries, he had mocked their fragile existence, laughed at their desperate attempts to find meaning in a universe that would eventually forget them.
And yet, they had stood where he had fled.
Janeway. Riker. Dax. Bashir. They had faced oblivion and chosen to fight.
He had run.
Behind him, the Continuum remained silent, comfortable in its absence. They did not speak of the ones who had been lost. They did not wonder what had happened to the universe they abandoned. To them, survival was enough.
Q closed his eyes.
No. It wasn’t.
Survival without meaning was cowardice. He had been a coward.
But not anymore.
And so, for the first time in eternity, Q made a choice that was not about himself.
He stood.
He turned to face the barrier between the Continuum and everything they had forsaken.
And then, without hesitation, he stepped through.
Leaving behind immortality. Leaving behind safety.
Stepping into the unknown.
The universe was dead. And yet, Captain Benjamin Sisko could still hear it breathing.
Not in any literal sense, of course. The USS Robinson hung in the void where Bajor had once been, adrift in the remnants of a timeline unraveled. His crew was gone—scattered like stardust, victims of the collapse. But Sisko had never been just another Starfleet captain. He had walked among the Prophets, had seen time not as a river but as an ocean—a vast expanse where the currents shifted but never truly ceased.
And here, in the shattered wreckage of the First Splinter, something stirred.
A glimmer. A whisper. A possibility.
He closed his eyes and listened.
"Emissary."
The voice surrounded him—not an echo, but a chorus. It was neither human nor divine, neither past nor future. It was the sound of existence unraveling—and knitting itself together once more.
"You have touched infinity before. You must do so again."
Sisko did not question. He had no need.
He raised a hand and felt it—the frayed edges of what had been, the broken strands of time awaiting a weaver’s touch. The Devidians had fed upon the dying embers of the Splinter, but even they had not consumed everything. Something remained.
A seed.
A beginning.
He reached into the abyss and pulled.
Light flared, stars ignited, history reasserted itself in the space between moments. One thought resonated through Sisko’s mind as reality bent to his will.
The Splinter was not finished.
Not yet.
Star Trek: Renaissance – Chapter Two
Q sat in the void.
Not the true void—no such thing existed to one who had seen the fabric of time with his own eyes—but a space between spaces, where the Continuum had fled in desperate retreat. It had no stars, no light, no form, yet it was still there.
For the rest of the Continuum, this was security. It was sanctuary, hidden from the unraveling timelines they had abandoned. If they stayed here, nothing could touch them.
But Q had never been quite like the rest of them.
Through the unseen walls of exile, he watched the universe they had left behind. The First Splinter had collapsed just as they predicted, consumed by forces beyond even their comprehension. A doomed battle fought by doomed mortals.
And yet, in that doomed battle, he had seen something else.
Jean-Luc Picard.
For so long, he had tested the man—pressed him, pushed him, dangled him over the precipice of destruction just to see what he would do. And every time, Picard had stood firm. He had fought, not because he believed he would win, but because surrender was never an option.
And now, he was gone.
Not dead. Death was simple. Death was universal. But this? Erasure. Like he had never been. Like he had never mattered.
Q exhaled slowly, watching the echoes of what had once been.
It was strange, wasn’t it? For all his omnipotence, he had never truly understood sacrifice—not the way mortals did. For centuries, he had mocked their fragile existence, laughed at their desperate attempts to find meaning in a universe that would eventually forget them.
And yet, they had stood where he had fled.
Janeway. Riker. Dax. Bashir. They had faced oblivion and chosen to fight.
He had run.
Behind him, the Continuum remained silent, comfortable in its absence. They did not speak of the ones who had been lost. They did not wonder what had happened to the universe they abandoned. To them, survival was enough.
Q closed his eyes.
No. It wasn’t.
Survival without meaning was cowardice. He had been a coward.
But not anymore.
And so, for the first time in eternity, Q made a choice that was not about himself.
He stood.
He turned to face the barrier between the Continuum and everything they had forsaken.
And then, without hesitation, he stepped through.
Leaving behind immortality. Leaving behind safety.
Stepping into the unknown.
