((OOC: This takes place on Christmas, time-wise.))

"All changes, even the most longed for, have their melancholy; for what we leave behind us is a part of ourselves; we must die to one life before we can enter another."

~Anatole France

The ensign settles into his bed at the Inn, feeling full of bliss and contentment for the first time since he's been here. Today was a good day, and he cannot help but feel that tomorrow can only be better.

The lieutenant commander stares at the portal to Rhy'din just outside his quarters on the Enterprise with a sort of forlorn look. It's? not an ideal solution; not the solution he would have gone with had there been any way to resolve this the way he wanted to. Except it was hardly fair to the ensign to just blot him out of existence, even if the ensign was the lieutenant commander when all came to all. Pavel had disappeared from Rhy'din, to the best of his knowledge, and the Pavel that was on the ship now had no recollection of Rhy'din and what transpired there.

It was probably for the best, then, that the Q had erased the scar from his cheek. Sure, he could have explained it away as an engineering accident, but why run the risk of someone finding out there was more to things than what he said? Besides, the less reminders of Rhy'din, the better, as it was unlikely he would ever return there again.

The fact that he would never get to make things right with the cadet was foremost in his thoughts. It bothered him to no end; to the point where he could not adequately express in words his sheer frustration. Less important, but still there, was the fact that he had left Pavel. Perhaps it was Pavel who had left him, but he would not be in Rhy'din should the real Pavel ever show his face there again. Or maybe the Pavel here was the real one, and for whatever reason did not remember all of the tension and anger and hurt that had happened between them.

Then there was the matter of Jamie. Sweet, amazing, wonderful lad. Didn't deserve to just be up and left by him as well. So he'd begged the Q who gave him his existence back, plead until she gave in, even though she informed him it would cost him. All the love and affection and memories he had of Jamie were taken and restored to the ensign earlier in the evening. Just in time, too, from the information he'd wheedled out of Q.

He reaches out to the portal, stopping just before his hand passes through. If he goes through again, he'll go back to being the ensign. No lieutenant commander. None of the past eleven years. No chance to go back to this unless somehow the Nexus makes it happen, and he can't trust on the mercies of the Nexus.

Honestly, he has few complaints about who he is. His career could have gone a lot better, but it could have gone worse in a great many ways. Still, perhaps the ensign can make out of Rhy'din what he couldn't. A home. Friends. Family. A life outside of Starfleet and his career. Not that there was anything wrong with what he'd done with his life, not by a long shot, but? The possibility is there. Many possibilities.

With a quiet sigh, he steps away from the portal and watches it close.

In a bed at the Red Dragon Inn, the ensign rolls over in his sleep. If the slight pang of something lost registers to his brain, he'll not remember come morning.

Convergence
_______
?God does not play dice with the universe; He plays an ineffable game of His own devising, which might be compared, from the perspective of the players, (ie everybody), to being involved in an obscure and complex version of poker in a pitch-dark room, with blank cards, for infinite stakes, with a Dealer who won't tell you the rules, and who smiles all the time.?

~Neil Gaiman and Terry Pratchet

The first sign something was wrong with the lieutenant commander came upon their return from an away mission. He'd had to beam down to the surface to assist in the reconstruction of a shield generator on a Federation outpost, and upon being returned to the ship, he'd staggered and collapsed. His head had pounded, the same intense pain as when he'd been in Rhy'din after the Nexus had de-aged him. Next thing he knew, he came to on the floor of the transporter room, a nurse looking down on him with concern.

There had been no discernable cause. It was chalked up to a minor transporter malfunction. He'd been cleared for duty by the start of the next alpha shift, although he'd been given strict instructions to return if he experienced any other symptoms. Symptoms of what, he was uncertain, but he assumed that McCoy meant if his headache returned or he fainted again.

The next sign that there was a problem was during a diagnostic on the transporter, trying to pinpoint the possible malfunction. He hadn't collapsed, but he had blacked out in a manner of speaking. The last thing he remembered before walking into his office at the end of his shift was getting ready to start the diagnostic. All that prevented him from making himself look like an idiot in front of his crew was the fact that he noticed the time on the chronometer was hours later than the time they had run the test.

As soon as his shift was officially over, he made his way to sickbay, not entirely pleased about going there, but he had enough sense to know that he needed to see a doctor about this before it affected the safety of the ship.
_______

The first sign that something is wrong with the ensign comes a week out from Earth, too long after shore leave to be reasonably attributed to something that occured then. One moment, he is laughing at Ilya's insistence that he learn how to make proper tea instead of relying on the food synthesiser. The next, he barely registers the cup shattering on the deck, because he's too busy curling in on himself, clutching his head in agony.

There is a blur of voices around him, swirls of motion as red parts for blue. Can't think, can't speak, can't breathe even if he is breathing. His world is agony until the faint sharp pressure of a hypospray registers, and then he sinks into unconsciousness courtesy of whatever was injected into his neck.

He awakens in the tiny sickbay aboard the Kalashnikov, feeling quite disoriented. The room swims around him, like he's viewing it through a great deal of water. His eyes cannot seem to focus on anything. For a moment, he half expects to see a different ceiling above him, but he's not sure what that different ceiling should be. The sensation is rationalised away as him expecting to see his quarters, not sickbay.

The doctor cannot figure out what is wrong with him. Their diagnostic equipment, once top of the line, has not been updated in over a decade. It still works fine for the usual injuries encountered aboard an attack frigate, but the doctor does not think it is sensitive enough to detect the cause of his sudden headache.

With no diagnosis, no way of finding a diagnosis, and therefore no way of treating it beyond hyposprays of powerful tranquilisers, he is released from Sickbay with strict orders that he be relieved of all duties until such a time as he can be medically cleared for continued service. The captain is notified, but no one can say if they will return to Earth or continue on to the nearest Starbase.

Back in his quarters, he curls into bed, wincing at the twinges of pain running through his skull. However, he'd rather have the pain than not, because when the pain goes away he's not quite here. He's transient, drifting somewhere else, where there is cold and snow and oddly familiar faces that he has yet to meet and? a fuzzy mutated blueberry? No, that's not quite right. He frowns, and pain lances across his head.

He reaches for one of the hyposprays issued him and presses it against his neck. Slight wince, and just enough time to set it aside before he drifts off to a chemically induced sleep. Not his preferred way of sleeping, not by far, but he can't sleep when he drifts and he can't sleep when his head throbs with pain indescribable.
_______

He opens his eyes to the familiar blankness of his quarters. It is early yet; he is likely the only person aside from Security awake at this hour. All fine with him. He does not require much rest, merely a solid eight hours a week uninterrupted to fully recharge provided there were no unusual stresses during the week. As such, he gets his best thinking done at night, when everyone else sleeps.

Tonight, he had actually dozed somewhat, not quite asleep, until a rather interesting bit of information filtered through the general low-lever chatter in his head. Some sort of temporal variance. If he focused on where it was located, he could almost feel something rather akin to a light pulling inside his head. How very strange.

He followed that pull, drifting along until a sharp line of agony jolted through him, originating from the other end of the line, and then he opened his eyes to see a crowded room. Dimly he was still aware of himself, laying on his bed, and the protests of a voice that was and was not his own -too heavily accented with something European, though he could not tell if it was Irish or Scottish or what- but he did not muse much on that when the words 'Pandora's Box' hit his ears.

A look over to where the voice had come from, and there was a dark haired boy (could not be more than nineteen, and that was a generous estimate) holding? no, clutching tightly a jar. Somehow, he knows this is the Pandora's Box they speak of. A thin sort of smile crosses his face as he regards the scene before him. He'd love to open it, and not because he shouldn't but because of what might still be inside of it. The sort of things in there that could be unleashed? Makes him almost purr in pleasure, but he doesn't quite seem to have control of this strange new form yet.

He keeps watching, predatorily. "Should just open it," he mutters, voice sounding a bit strange to his ears before he loses control again and the other him starts and hisses in pain from their headache.

No surprise that his words attract attention, from some unfamiliar man, who just looks at him oddly and mutters, "?dude."

He glances over, curious, not sure if that was intended for himself or not. Apparently it was, because now he's getting a raised eyebrow and a little cliche about curiousity. It's hardly curiousity that prompted his statement, and with a knife sharp grin he informs the man of as much. A nod towards the jar as he explains his little desire, then he settles in his chair, assuming a more rigid posture than before.

"Scott? Are you alright?" The question sounds alarmed, but the man's demeanour does not seem to fit. Then there is a rather loud protest from inside his skull and a stabbing sensation and-

He frowned, tried to decipher just what that was all about. Some sort of temporal distortion. A him that was not him. It confused him greatly. However, he was determined to figure out just what that had been about. There was the potential for travel to alternate universes, assuming that the experience had not been some strange dream. Unlikely, as he hadn't dreamt since he could remember.

Whatever it was, he resolved to ignore it should it ever recur while he was in the middle of anything important. To be so distracted otherwise could prove fatal, and he was never all that fond of testing out just how hard he actually was to kill. The less opportunities given, the better, as far as Scott was concerned.

In a way, he rather hoped that not him wasn't the only one he could find. The idea of alternate universes rather ?fascinated... him.