dreamedbeyond

[dreamedbeyond]

"No, it's-- it's alright, @ensnchekov. As you were."

A fond smile tugs at the corner of the admiral's mouth.

"I wanted you to know that that was a damn fine piece of work back there. But I think you already know that." Not being able to fight the smile anymore, Jonathan Archer lets it fully take command, eyes crinkling at the corners. "I just thought you should hear it from me." // starter call!

[dreamedbeyond]

jonathan archer of paramount's enterprise by beth ( 24 , gmt - 4). independent, selective, oc and crossover friendly, affiliated with @tripletucker / @qknows / @shoulders / @inluck / @intergalaxial and @elencr .

a study in : dreaming of traveling beyond, forging your own path, the love of the journey, wanderlust, the thrill of discovery, exploration, starry eyed wonder, radical empathy, unconditional love, and making a better future no matter the cost.

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[dreamedbeyond]

THE SHADOW.

For those of you who don't know, the 28th century leader of the Suliban Cabal, dubbed 'Future Guy' in fanon, and 'Shadow Boy' by me, had Enterprise been renewed and had they pursued the Temporal Cold War arc (seasons 1 and the first half of 2) instead of the Xindi War arc (the second half of season 2, season 3, and season 4), was going to be revealed to be none other than Archer himself. This has been confirmed by Brannon Braga.

What led Jon to become Shadow!Archer is that the Enterprise went down with all hands and he alone survived. He blames himself, and is all but debilitated by grief. He has lain in wait for centuries, undying, and causes the Temporal Cold War to rewrite that history.

Having sat around and watched the prime timeline (the timeline comprising of the Original Series, the Next Generation / Deep Space 9, Voyager, and culminating in the version of the 31st century Daniels is from), he is incredibly disappointed how things played out, and will stop at nothing to make a better future.

Given the Trek universe and the many reboots / soft reboots / things changing behind the scenes without an in-universe explanation, I reckon that Shadow!Archer has reset the timeline at least three times but it could be a lot more.

The first reset results in the timeline consisting of Discovery, Strange New Worlds, Lower Decks, Picard, and the 'bad future' 32nd century Archer and Daniels go to in "Shockwave."

The second reset results in the AOS timeline.

The third reset results in the 'final' timeline or the 'best' timeline, a timeline where the Xindi War doesn't happen, the Kelvin survives, the Burn doesn't happen, Captain Pike either lives (AOS) or is disabled but lives well (TOS / DIS / SNW), there's no Dominion War, and Voyager doesn't get stranded in the Delta Quadrant.

As a result, Shadow!Jon is ancient, jaded, and ruthless. He does not consider himself to be Captain Jonathan Archer, maintaining that Captain Archer died on the Enterprise with his crew. Though he loves deeply, fiercely, and all-consumingly, he could not care less about time, the universe, or himself. He is incredibly angry, eaten alive by guilt, and feels that what's happened is his fault to the point that he will remake time to his own design. He has nothing to lose, and he both doesn't care at all and cares so much to the point it destroys him. His best ending, he knows, is getting erased from history so that normal!Jon can live his life as he always should have, so if things don't work out this time, that's alright.

He's patient.

He can wait.

[dreamedbeyond]

He opens his eyes to find that he's traded being surrounded by black, suspended in a sea of stars for being surrounded by an ocean of blue, bathed in light that's almost blinding. Lightning skips through shoulders, arms, fingertips before slowly discharging, fading into nothing but a humming buzz, skimming under skin.

The smell hits him first-- something bitter and thick that coats the air and makes it hard to breathe-- and he's staring down a face he doesn't recognize, saying a name that's not his own. The clothes are old, so old, so strange. Is this Earth? It can't be.

There's a bone-deep, skin-deep, soul-deep sense of wrongness, about all of this. He looks down at hands that are not quite his, free of his calluses and, flexing once, twice, his strength. When he looks back at the other, something brushes his face, and he lifts an arm that doesn't belong to him, sweeping it away. Fingers tangle in long, silken strands.

This is not his life. This is not his time. This is not his body.

"What did you do," he finds himself saying, in a voice that's a poor imitation of his own. He squares his shoulders. "Where's my ship," he asks, strong, commanding, captain. "Where's my crew?"

But then-- something in their eyes seems to shatter as they look into his own-- and his too-tough posture falls, guilt coursing through his veins.

"...What's goin' on." He's quieter now, more accepting, more defeated. "Where's Daniels? Did he bring me here?"

@dreamedbeyond

he's home –

there is a sigh in his chest, one he can't seem to dislodge. it's stuck up there, a crowded, aching flue of tissue. everything, every moment, every possible tick of the clock – that's what this has all been for, hasn't it? this one. this thing. right here. he'd stepped in, made his preparations; the handlink was ready, as ready as the damn thing'd ever be. and in an instant, in one unspoken hiccup of breath, the impossible dream – he's home.

the shock of blue, the hot - white outline of shoulders still lingering in his vision. he blinks past it, and still, still, he's ... 

❝  ... sammy?  ❞  

it's the eyes what do it. they're older, wiser, surrounded by lines like the rings at the center of an old oak tree, cut down to pave the way for something else. something different. something not quite right, ugly, almost. the sigh, that noise, is reduced to another sound. a near - silent choking noise, caught and strangled without warning. the tree. that something ugly. the truth. and to think, he'd nearly – what? nearly what? al realizes, then, he'd never made a plan for this. for the potential of anyone, anything, coming close. family lines, genetics, the mish - mash of coincidence, of universes: but nearly what?

he grinds his teeth, swallowing it down, swallowing it all down. any possible contingency, any potential congratulations. there are no celebrations; there is no embrace of home, and the welcoming of loved ones. there is only the truth.

fingers race, a quick, stifling job of diversion and wild blips and beeps. he maintains his composure, he keeps every hopeless thought to himself. al calavicci inhales. he's home, he'd thought. the impossible dream. the goddamn truth.

❝  easy there, pal. that, ah, first step's no joke.  ❞

[dreamedbeyond]

He doesn’t know who the hell he thinks he is either, anymore. All he knows is that he can’t look at him, no matter how much he wants to. He can’t look at him or he’ll break, and all this will have been for nothing. 

…No, it’s more than that. 

He can’t look at him because he can’t bear to see the look on his face when he realizes. Who he is, who he was, what he’s become.

“I know everything and everyone,” he eventually settles on. He’s been here before, he’ll be here again, over and over and over. He’s so tired. 

One touch, one look, that’s all it would take. The constant hunger, bone deep and painful, surges. He won’t remember. Just one look…

He begins turning his head to look over his shoulder, but then turns away again sharply, back to his former position. No. He doesn’t deserve it. Fists clench tighter, head bows lower.

The glow continues to brighten, the shadow lessening, distortion fading, becoming more distinct. He has to hurry. He can’t see him. Not like this, never like this.

“…Go home, Commander Tucker.” 

Back to your ship, back to your life. Please, Trip.

he can stand the dark; after all, it isn't the shadow that makes the commander nervous. it's the unknown. the questions. so many run through his head, an endless roundtable of concern like a goddamn roulette wheel. the cloak remains, cloth pulled over his features as though he's being smuggled in the dead of night. he's passed from one suliban to the next, his protests colorful, if not sincerely lacking in that good ol' boy decorum his father always insisted he enact. 

words, words, words.

still. no real answers. no understanding, in their proper terms. teeth are grit, his pulse quickening until the hood is removed, a sudden enough thrust into the vibrance beyond the strain for comprehension. trip blinks: once, twice, until the world comes into focus. it's a cold, old world, wherever this is. there's a promise made, quiet, like it's half - heard by anyone willing to listen.

❝  that must make you the head honcho ...  ❞  he peers at the silhouette before him, the expanse of a back, static spread over it like butter over fresh toast.  ❝  look, i don't know who the hell you think you are, but –  ❞  it's familiar, some echoed refrain of another time, another life. he swallows, adam's apple bobbing against the scruff of his throat.

why did it have to be you?

❝  what, we know each other?  ❞ and he can't shake it. that chord. even in its offshoot of a frequency ... he wants to say he'd know that voice anywhere. that maybe, just maybe, this has all been one, big elaborate hootenanny with strings pulled by hands he's touched, held, kept fast. but it can't be. it shouldn't be. it won't be.

again. a swallow. the tightness in his throat suddenly found wanting for air. he stands his ground. he has to, doesn't he? because this. whatever it is. it's not real. this isn't ... it's not.  ❝  'cause i can't say i know any friends too keen not to look me in the eye.  ❞