#|| conductor sweep... please... his voice..

Called up, coerced, conscripted. Whatever it may be that had each man bidding their final farewells before they embarked on the fight for Britain, one thing was guaranteed. Not a soul between them would be shown mercy when it came to the empty fields of no-mans' land and the destruction that awaited them at the sound of a whistle. For each was but a mere soldier, suited and booted for a war, neither class nor money could save them from.

And here you were with your own soldier. Standing on platform one of Birmingham Moor Street station, with only two minutes remaining until you'd kiss the last of summer and the love of your life goodbye.

"All aboard!" the whistle-blowing conductor shouted for every uniformed son, father, husband and lover to board the train as the chugging wheels came to a screeching halt along the iron-welded tracks.

" Y/N?" you heard the faint sound of your name being called as your welling eyes darted in a panic to the wailing of women desperately holding onto their men. Of sobbing children tugging at the ends of their father's uniform to be pulled into the safety of their arms for one last final hug goodbye.

" Darling?" Tommy's voice quietly drifted to you with a sweep of his thumb over the curve of your cheek in a gentle attempt to calm your trembling fears as a weeping mother, straightening the bill of her son's hat, caught your eye over his broad shoulders. Her 16 years of nurturing him coming to a tearful end as she waved him off into uncertainty.

" Darling, look at me" Tommy cupped your chin, raising your eyes to meet his when your body fell to the weight of the heartbreak crushing against your chest with a mumbling string of pleas as you buried your head into his jacket. Blurry eyes straining through your tears to see a woman sobbing into her husband's shoulder as he pressed a hand to the swell of her belly, and the unborn child safely nestled inside.

" Tom, please...don't..." your words trailed off into nothingness, into unanswered cries for him to stay as you desperately pulled him from the platform edge, pulling him from the surrounding chaos to a secluded corner away from the deafening cries of women and children.

" Y/N I..." Tommy battled the internal tug of war within him to stay, and his duty as an Englishman that had been called upon by King and country.

Burying his head in the locks of your hair, Tommy breathed in the soapy lavender remnants in the seconds that remained as the ticking hands of the clock stroked noon. And as a gentle breeze that came with the crowd of men boarding the train, a brief silence settled between you as a blur of rushing feet raced by.

A moment of peace among the mayhem, you and Tommy blocked out the wailing cries for the chiming sounds of the fairgrounds' music box from your youth as he gently swayed you in his hands, tips of your noses brushing against one another as your eyes closed to the flashing images of spinning carousels and the summer memories you'd both call upon when the approaching darkness of war weighed you down.

" That's enough, lad. Come on now" a superior officer had him slipping from your arms as he ushered him to the wooden carriage.

" You stay with Polly at Watery Lane, you hear me?" Tommy strained to see you over the teeming crowd of men boarding the train. His desperation to be heard, muffled out by the rustling sound of bodies pushing him forward.

" Come on son, soldier up. You're going to war!" the seasoned officer, hardened by the many battles he'd seen, pulled him by his duffle bag of neatly folded clothes back in line.

" You stay with Aunt Pol, Y/N!" Tommy called out to you as every imaginable scenario flooded to him in a suffocating wave of worry. His farewell kiss, stolen from him in a panicked moment to secure your safety as he was pushed onto the crowded train.

" Tommy, wait!" you raced across the platform, hat flying from your head as you and a dozen other women collided into the closing doors for one final embrace goodbye.

" I love you. Fuck, I love you!" Tommy pulled you up off your feet to the window of the cabin door, his adoration for you mumbling through each breath of his lips crashing into yours as he dragged his hat from his head to cover the tracks of his tears streaming down his face.

" I love you too, Tommy" your hands clutched onto his strong frame, feet tip toeing in the air as you made him swear he'd return. "Promise you'll come back to me? Promise me?"

" I promise" he pressed his nodding head to your brow as your lips rushed to plant one last kiss before you landed back down to earth.

" Don't you forget me, Thomas Shelby!" you called to him, wiping the tears from your cheeks as the steam engine began to whistle, the chugging wheels began to turn.

" Now how could I ever forget that, eh!" your heart skipped a beat at the echoing words he'd spoken to you that last summer's day in 1907 as he leaned out the window, gold ring catching the rays of sun in a twinkling goodbye.

As the swirling cloud of steam pummeled along the tracks, you stood in silence watching the disappearing smile of Tommy through the white clouds of coal being burnt until he faded from sight.

" They'll come back, won't they?" The mother to be who had caught your eye in the chaos moments before asked as she stood beside you, cradling her blossoming bump in her hands.

" Yes..." a tear rolled down your face as you turned your head to see the same uncertainty you felt pooling in her lashes.

Hands clutching those of the stranger beside you, a moment of shared fear had her leaning onto you for support. Your welling eyes watching the last of the engines' smoke funnel into the air above the red bricks of Birmingham's city as you numbly whispered his oath to yourself.

"...he promised"

Sat at the foot of Tommy's bed with a book precariously placed on the knobbly end of its metal frame, you signed off your message with a kiss before securing your handwritten letter in its paper envelope with a stamp destined for the battlefields of France.

A repetitive ritual that had become a part of your daily habits, one that had cost you a pretty penny with your weekly trips to the red mailbox on the corner of Watery Lanes' dusty street. For letter writing had become the sole part of your day you found comfort in. A comfort to you, but one that had begun to concern the remaining members residing in the Shelby household with its frequency.

" Tea?" Polly's eyes rose above the folded paper of doom and gloom from across the channel as you plodded down the creaking wooden stairs into the living room.

" Gotta get to the mailbox before last pick up" you sheepishly pulled your coat around your shoulders as you tucked the envelope into your pocket, slipping past Ada sat by the crackling fire and her looks of concern.

"Only a short one this time" you turned back with a smile, one you hoped would reassure them enough into thinking you hadn't become reliant on sending letters to safeguard the last of your sanity.

"Ok, love" Polly's voice softly replied, not wanting to prod and poke into what gave you comfort in such dark times.

" How many is that, now?" Adas' head snapped to her aunt with the sound of the front door swinging shut.

" This week? Three" Polly rose from her chair, stubbing the end of her cigarette into the plate of stale biscuits she had baked to busy her mind from the relentless news of war that bombarded her every waking moment.

" I worry about her, Pol. We've had no letters from any of them in weeks" Ada watched her throw the newspaper into the roaring fire, fingers curling around the mantel of photo frames, to the portrait of her uniformed nephews and the candle burning beside it, she lit with a prayer each morning.

" Letters are the least of our concerns, Ada" she looked to each brave man she proudly called kin, eyes settling on Tommy and the worry that had ignited in her bones for you and your emerging lack luster for life since his departure.

"God help us if they don't come back" Polly shook her head with a sigh as her eyes drifted to the burning wick, its dancing flame flickering in her hazel eyes.

" But they will, Polly. They will come back " Ada rose to her feet for the bottom of the stairs with a knitted frown, eyes darting to her aunt for her famous insight she hoped would settle her fears about her own sweetheart, bravely fighting alongside her brother in France.

" Whatever's left of them" Polly's forbading words sent her niece's heart plummeting to her stomach with dread, not even her practicality and thick skin could ward off.

For Polly's premonitions were not those of a rambling woman with the desire to install fear. But words of reality. A reality her watchful eye had taken note of, when the steady stream of injured men no longer fit for war returned on stretchers back to Small Heath, screaming for their mothers, screaming of the horrors of war. Horrors her nephews were still in the thick of, still bravely fighting against.

Would her boys return men of sound mind? Or would the screams of troubled hearts be heard by all those residing in Watery Lane?

Last in line, your shuffling feet dodged the large sand bags propped up against the makeshift bunker that could see a hoard of people descend down at any given moment as your eyes darted through the many women eager to send their letters from home.

" Come on, please" you panicked, fearing yours wouldn't reach the brightly painted letter box in time before the postman swooped in and sealed off any hopes of yours making last day's delivery.

With a sigh of relief, you watched the rapidly shortening queue come to an end, leaving you the last person in line along the quiet street to send your sealed letter. That was until a tattooed hand and an all too familiar voice from your past blocked your attempts.

" That for lover boy?" the voice you hoped to never hear again startled you as your letter scrunched into its owner's knuckles covering the thin opening and your only line of contact with Tommy.

" Sean..." you stepped back, eyes widening as he propped himself with a grin up against the red letter box.

" Guessing you've forgotten we pass through this dump every year" he swiveled the peak of his cap to the back of his head with a snap of his tongue, eyes glaring at you from head to toe.

"Stay away from me" your brow lowered as you span on your heel to the safe haven of your new home, and Polly's hand gun she kept stuffed in the kitchen cabinet if needs be.

" Where do you think you're running off to again, ay? You owe me, Y/N!" he raced after you, grabbing your arm between the heavy bands of gold stacked on his fingers.

" I don't owe you shit!" you shrugged him off, feet walking you back to the curb of the road as you watched his heavy boots caked in mud from the fields of the fair follow after you.

" That pretty little head of yours is so forgetful" his condescending tone seeped through his smirk of enjoyment upon seeing your face of fear dart around the empty street as he rapidly closed in.

" You be forgetting how I helped you out when your daddy kicked it, now don't you?" he hopped up onto the sidewalk with hands buried in his pockets as your back hit the brick wall of terraced houses.

" So that wasn't out of the kindness of your rotten heart then?" you glared at him as a chuckle of amusement left his smirking lips.

" Darling, a deal's a deal" he grinned, stretched arms displaying the many unsavoury dealings he'd made that had him dripping in gold.

"Don't tell me you thought my attentions towards you were free, hm? Sweetheart?" his voice menacingly teased as he closed the last centimeters between you to tuck a limp lock of hair behind your ear.

Free? No. Nothing came free when dealing with Sean O'Connor. You knew there would be a price to pay the moment you asked him to house you in return for extended work at his family's fair. You knew he'd play on your reluctance to return to the old country your mother and brothers had fled for, to a hardened way of life you had no intention of living again. You knew you had strung it out as long as you could until his hounding of you, until his talks of wedding and bedding you became a daily occurrence you could no longer avoid. You knew.

Stupid girl, you berated yourself as your eyes scrunched shut to the feeling of his calloused fingers tracing the vein of charging blood, pumping in your neck.

" Any decent man would 'ave stayed back and kept you safe" he breathed a heavy sigh that had your welling eyes flutter open with a trembling bottom lip as his fingers traced the edges of the letter in your hand.

" Maybe he doesn't love you, Y/N" his brows knitted with his misplaced observations clearly intended to have you question Tommy's priorities, to install doubt into your already tired mind.

" My Tommy's no coward" you seethed, pushing past his imposing frame as his curling smile dropped from his face at your unwavering support for your man fighting hundreds of miles away in France.

" Old men make wars, so that young men can die, darling!" he made his opinions known to every resident of your street as you clutched your hands around your body with each wobbly step back to the front door of Tommy's childhood home.

" You owe me, Y/N! Don't you forget, you fucking owe me!" Sean shouted to you as the door to Watery Lane closed shut, his grinding teeth snapping to the whispering chatter of old women that shared your sentiments for the bastard too cowardly to fight for the future of his country.

" What, ay?" O'Connor spat at the feet of a crowd of cane-wielding women as he turned the corner and stormed off into the back alleys of Small Heath.

With his words still ringing in your ears, you raced to the single bed and feathered cushion in Tommy's room to bury the buzzing words of truth found in Sean's mighty speech on the stark reality of war your summer love was fighting for.

" Tommy..." your eyes blinked through your tears to the weathered window and darkening skies of twinkling stars peaking through.

"...come back to me" your head turned with a sob into the lasting notes of his musky cologne still embedded in his pillow. Chest tearing with a strangled cry a foolish part of you hoped he would hear, hoped would have him racing back to you to stop you from another night of crying yourself to sleep.

With the last of your tears spilt, your body drained of force, you slipped from the quilted bedding to the window of Tommy's room and the soothing nightlight in the sky above, lulling the residences of Small Heath into a peaceful slumber.

" Sweet dreams, Tommy" the pads of your fingers ghosted over the weathered glass as you looked up at the serene night, to the peaceful orb sat among a dusting of stars. Unaware that at that very moment, was a fraction of time shared with Tommy as he lay in the pits of the mile-long trenches across the channel, crystal blues gazing up at the glowing moon as he whispered you goodnight...

" Sweet dreams, darling"

While the cats away, the mice will play. Or as Polly now found herself saying, when honourable men are away, the rotten come out to play. Her words ringing true for every woman left in Britain to fight off the strays alone while their men fought off bayonets and gunfire.

A harsh reality you suddenly found yourself facing with Sean's unexpected appearance back in your life. One you'd be darned to sit around and endure until Tommy returned.

But when rushed decisions were made to get out of dodge, you found yourself thrusted mere miles away from the enemy line as a newly trained, newly qualified nurse in as little as a few weeks.

Out of the frying pan, and into the fire. Shit.

" Nurse, you and Helen must go at once" Sister Margaret pulled you and your colleague to the side in the chaos as a truck load of soldiers, bloody and bruised, were pulled out one by one on stretchers into the makeshift hospital on the outskirts of what the newspapers called, the battle of the Somme.

"To where, sister Margaret ?" you wiped your crimson-stained hands on the front of your apron, ears battling to hear over the strangled cries of men begging to be taken out like a wounded horse, rather than lose a limb to the doctor's hand saw.

" La Bosielle" her hand clutched the rosery around her neck as she silently prayed for those that had fallen, those that would lay for an eternity at the bottom of the crater in the small French village only a few miles away from camp.

La Grand Mine, the English called it. The result of a 16 meter deep tunnel with 30 tonnes of explosives buried within. A booming start to the battle of the Somme. A victory for England and France but the beginning of a conflict that would cost the lives of many men for the next five months.

"Go child. You must tend to the wounded" she settled a heavy bag of medical supplies that would see you through only an hour of tending to the injured if the stories that had seeped back to you were true.

"Lieutenant Pike will accompany you both to the front" she ushered you and Helen onto the back of a truck full of men ordered to return to battle or see the end of the barrel of a gun for their cowardice if they refused.

Blood rushing to your ears with a deafening ring, your and Helen's hands reached for each other in a panic as your eyes watched the colour drain from each man hunched in the back of the small cargo truck as the rumbling wheels took them back to their cheated death.

" God be with you. God be with all of you!" sister Margaret's shaky fingers hoovered over her trembling lips as she watched you disappear through the film of fog that had settled between the muddied tents when the bandaged soldier opposite you rose his defeated face with a scoff as he mumbled the sentiments of all the men silently waiting for the reaper to collect their doomed souls.

" God. God's abandoned us"

"This way ladies" you followed the Lieutenant through the shovel-dug trenches, your bodies huddled together with each muddy step you took as every gunfire, every shattering bomb landing on the deserted fields of no-mans' land had you flinching with a stifled gasp as the earth trembled below you.

"Y/N..." Helen's hold on you tightened as you passed through the line of men each side of you with vacant stares in their eyes, gaunt faces and battered bodies undisturbed by the sounds of bullets peppering into the soil.

" In here" Lieutenant Pike threw open the makeshift door hanging by a thread, to a small bunker that had been dug out for briefings, for shelter, and for today, a hospital where you would see to every injury imaginable without the supervision of a trained doctor.

" Right. Just like we've been trained" you smoothed down the front of your apron with a shaky breath as you looked to Helen's trembling hands unwrapping the tightly bound cloth of scalpels, of dagger-toothed knives you prayed you wouldn't need to call upon.

" Go on" Pike ushered the first man forward as each followed slowly behind until the darkened, muddied room was full of soldiers too tired, too worn to stand to attention.

" Where have these men been?" Helen tended to a deep wound encrusted in his hairline, caked with so much dirt she couldn't distinguish what from what in the dimly lit candled room.

" Below miss, underground" the Lieutenant arranged each man into an orderly line for the remaining soldiers to enter.

" You mean..." her eyes widened, hand full of cotton doused in alcohol, hovering over the soldier under her care she had suddenly realised was one of the men that had spent months tunneling along enemy lines.

" Come" you shook the shared stare of horror with Helen from your face as you waved the next man forward when the rustling feet of the last three soldiers to enter had your eyes darting up to each of them one by one until they settled on a pair of blue orbs dull of life, hidden under a face covered in mud, staring back at you.

Danny Whiz-bang. Freddie Thorne...Tommy Shelby. Your Tommy.

*I'd love to hear your thoughts on this chapter in the comments below 💚*

[Next part]

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Yunho grew up in a house where silence spoke louder than words. Yunho grew up in a house where everything had its place.

Every Sunday morning, he woke up to the scent of his mom’s freshly brewed coffee and the sound of his dad humming hymns in the kitchen. Breakfast was always ready by 8:00 a.m. sharp, the same time they left for church.

His family wasn’t unkind; they loved each other in the way a well-rehearsed choir loves its conductor: faithfully, dutifully, but not too loudly. The Jeongs didn’t argue or slam doors. They lived in neat, quiet harmony, with Bible verses framed on the walls and a family portrait taken at the church picnic hanging above the mantel.

Yunho always knew his role in this symphony of order. He was the son they prayed for, the one who didn’t talk back or skip curfews. At 13, he was the boy who stayed late after services to help clean up, stacking chairs and sweeping floors while other kids hung out in parking lots blasting music. He was the one teachers praised, neighbors admired, and his parents held up as an example, they always smiled proudly, calling him “their angel.”

And Yunho liked being good.

At least, he thought he did. Until the dreams started.

Dreams that left him waking up in a panic, drenched in sweat, begging God for forgiveness before he even got out of bed. Dreams that weren’t about the soft curves of a girl’s body, like he knew they were supposed to be, but about sharp jawlines, strong hands, and broad shoulders.

It wasn’t just the dreams. It was the way he couldn’t stop looking. At first, it was small things—admiring how his classmate’s uniform shirt stretched across his chest during gym class or wondering why he felt so warm when he saw certain smiles. He convinced himself it was normal. Just admiration, nothing more. But it didn’t stay fleeting.

He prayed for hours at night, whispering to God to make it go away. “Please, Lord,” he’d say, clutching the cross on his bedside table until his hands hurt. “Don’t let me feel like this.” But the thoughts didn’t stop.

He never told anyone. Not his friends, not his parents, not even the priest during confession.

He thought about telling Father Lee once. After Sunday Mass, he lingered outside the confessional, hands trembling, heart racing. But when he finally stepped inside, knees pressing into the wooden kneeler, the words froze in his throat.

“Bless me, Father, for I have sinned,” he managed, his voice barely audible.

The priest’s calm, steady reply came through the lattice screen. “What troubles you, my child?”

Yunho’s hands gripped the edge of the pew until his knuckles turned white. He wanted to say it. He wanted to confess. But the weight of it, the shame—it was too much.

Instead, he mumbled something about talking back to his parents and skipped dinner that night, too sick with guilt to eat.

Books became his escape.

Yunho discovered literature the way some kids discover a secret hideout: by accident, but it quickly became his sanctuary. He wasn’t one to seek it out; books, like distant cousins, were something that didn’t seem to fit in his world. But on a lazy summer afternoon, when his parents were busy with their own lives, Yunho wandered into his father’s study. The room smelled of old wood and dust, filled with shelves of books that always seemed too formal to touch, too thick to bother with.

It was there, buried under a stack of untouched textbooks, that he found an old copy of The Great Gatsby. The cover was faded, the corners of the pages slightly curled, but something about it called to him. There was no reason for Yunho to pick it up—he wasn’t interested in the world of the Roaring Twenties, the glamor or the excess—but something about the worn edges, the ink fading in places like a secret waiting to be unraveled, made him curious.

He sat down on the living room floor, cradling the book in his hands, the cover smooth under his fingertips. When he opened the first page, it was as if the world had shifted. The words seemed to leap off the page, weaving a narrative that was both foreign and familiar. He got lost in it: the parties, the glamour, the yearning, the tragedy. The way Jay Gatsby’s life felt so full of promise, yet so hollow at the same time.

There was something about the way words could paint entire worlds, how they could make you feel things so vividly that it almost hurt. With every turn of the page, Yunho found himself sinking deeper into Gatsby’s world, a world that was both dazzling and dark, where no one was who they appeared to be. For the first time, Yunho could relate to the idea of masks—of playing a part and feeling alone, no matter how many people surrounded you. It was as if the book had taken something deep inside of him and pulled it into the light.

For Yunho, books weren’t just stories; they were freedom.

They were a bridge to a place where no one judged him, where no one expected him to be perfect. In the pages of The Great Gatsby, there was no family name to live up to, no prayers to recite, no duty to be a certain kind of son. There was just the raw, beautiful act of existing without judgment. The characters, flawed and human, didn’t try to pretend they were anything other than what they were. They loved, they hurt, they sought something more—but they were always, in some way, authentic.

Books gave Yunho a place to escape the life he had to lead—one that demanded perfection, one that demanded silence when all he wanted was to shout. Every character, whether they were noble or tragic, flawed or redeemed, felt real to him in ways his real life didn’t. He could be whoever he wanted to be when he opened a book. He could think things that scared him, feel things that frightened him, all in the comfort of knowing it wasn’t real.

He read everything he could get his hands on—Shakespeare, Frost, Brontë. Wuthering Heights, Jane Eyre, Hamlet—the classics that made him feel like he was standing on the edge of something monumental. He fell in love with the way poetry could turn pain into something beautiful, the way prose could make even the simplest moments feel profound. Each word he read felt like an invitation to a world he was never allowed to explore in real life.

There was power in poetry. The kind of power that made you feel seen even when you weren’t speaking. A line from a poem could echo in his chest like a secret whispered into his ear—how the pain in the words felt like his own pain, and yet it was shared, universal. He began scribbling lines in the margins of his notebooks, quoting his favorite poets, trying to capture something of the way they made him feel. But his words never seemed enough. His words never seemed to touch the depth of the feeling, the longing he couldn’t explain.

In books, there was no shame. No guilt. Just characters and their stories, raw and human. No one to look at him with pity in their eyes, no one to ask questions he couldn’t answer. He was free in a way that no one ever told him he could be.

When the acceptance letter from the University of Seoul arrived, Yunho saw it as a sign.

A fresh start.

A chance to focus on his studies, to leave behind the heavy silence of his house, the suffocating expectations of his family. To be free, not just in his mind but in the world. He dreamed of quiet nights in a tidy dorm room, stacks of books surrounding him, the hum of a desk lamp keeping him company as he read well into the night. He imagined himself walking the leafy campus, the world sprawling before him—endless possibilities, untouched and waiting. He imagined being the kind of student who got lost in lectures, who lost track of time in libraries, who got so caught up in books and ideas that the rest of the world felt far away.

He imagined a life where he didn’t have to hide who he was. Where his thoughts didn’t feel like a burden. He could be a literature major, someone who was known for his intelligence, for his passion for the written word, without anyone ever asking about the things he kept hidden. No one would ever know about the turmoil inside him, the yearning that crept up every time he thought about something or someone in a way that didn’t feel right.

The thought of a fresh start was everything he’d dreamed of. It was the chance to begin again, to bury his fears in books, to embrace his studies without the guilt.

But when he stepped into his new dorm, those dreams started to crack.

The first thing Yunho noticed about the dorm was the smell.

It wasn’t bad—just different. A faint mix of cleaning solution and something else he couldn’t quite place, something organic, maybe even a little musky, like a place that had been lived in. It hit him instantly, a sharp contrast to the scent of the fresh air outside. As he stepped inside, the small living room greeted him with beige walls, mismatched furniture—an old, faded gray couch with a wobbly coffee table in front of it, and a tiny kitchenette tucked into the corner like an afterthought. The kind of space that made you think the people who built it were more concerned with efficiency than comfort.

There were two doors leading to separate bedrooms, just like the housing brochure promised, and a narrow hallway that led to a cramped bathroom. It was basic, functional, nothing fancy.

Yunho let out a small sigh of relief. It wasn’t perfect, but it was enough. It was quiet—blissfully, eerily quiet. The kind of quiet his mom had warned him about, the kind he’d been desperate for since they’d first dropped him off at the university.

“Call us when you get there, alright? And eat well! Are you sure you’re not forgetting anything? Don’t forget your vitamins—oh, and make sure you pack extra socks!” His mom’s voice had been a constant hum in the back of his mind the entire journey. She was always so concerned, so fixated on the little things.

His dad, quieter but just as insistent, had kept reminding him to stay focused on his studies and “be a good boy.” It wasn’t that they didn’t trust him, but they’d never really let him out of their sight long enough to be sure he could take care of himself. So, as Yunho unloaded his suitcase into his new dorm room, his parents’ voices still echoed in his head. “Eat well,” “Take care of yourself,” “Stay safe.” They said it as if every part of his life depended on their supervision.

But now, as he stood there alone in his new room, he felt a little freer than he expected. Sure, the place wasn’t what he’d dreamed of, but it was his. No hovering, no expectations. It felt… private. Safe.

He dropped his suitcase by the door and took a moment to look around. For a second, the room felt empty—like it was waiting to be filled with something, or someone. Yunho had imagined this moment a thousand times in his head, but it didn’t match what he had expected. He’d pictured coming here to study, to read in peace, to finally get a break from the pressure of his family and the silent, constant burden of expectations that never seemed to ease. Here, he thought, would be his fresh start.

Then he saw it.

A black leather jacket draped over the couch.

It looked expensive, the kind of thing Yunho had only seen in movies or on mannequins in department stores. The leather was soft and worn, creased in places where it had clearly been lived in. The silver zippers glinted faintly under the fluorescent lights, and as Yunho stepped closer, the scent of cologne hit him—sharp, musky, and a little too out of place in a room this plain.

Yunho frowned. His roommate must have arrived already.

Curious, he stepped closer and reached out, fingers brushing against the cool material. It felt smooth under his touch, almost like the jacket had been designed to be a piece of armor—something protective, something that spoke of confidence and mystery. A strange thought flickered in his mind: Who was this person?

He had barely processed the thought when he heard a voice, smooth and low, slicing through the silence.

“Sorry. I shouldn’t have left it there.”

Yunho froze, his breath catching in his throat, as the sound of another voice rippled through him.

"With unwavering pride, we unveil this magnificent steam train, a marvel that will connect our town to a tapestry of neighboring locations. From the enchanting shores of Brindleton Bay to the majestic forests of Moonwood, from the bustling streets of Newcrest to the hallowed halls of Britechester, and from the serene wilderness of Granite Falls to countless other remarkable destinations, our horizons expand, and our possibilities multiply."

The crowd's attention was rapt, hanging on Daniel's every word. His commanding presence and fervent delivery stirred the hearts of those in attendance, kindling a sense of unity and excitement.

Amidst the stirring speech, Lucile's gaze wandered past the bustling crowd, and there, she spotted Jackson and his family.

Her heart skipped a beat, and a sense of trepidation washed over her. "Oh, dear," she thought, a knot forming in her stomach, this time she was going to make sure to steer clear.

"Let us not forget the remarkable efforts of the skilled craftsmen and engineers of the Little Rock Locomotive Company. Their dedication, expertise, and unwavering commitment have birthed this extraordinary creation, a testament to human ingenuity and the power of collective vision."

As Daniel's gaze swept across the faces of the crowd, his voice resonated with a blend of gratitude and determination.

"Together, we embark on this transformative journey, forging new connections, nurturing prosperous relationships, and embracing the boundless possibilities that lie ahead. The whistle of this steam train shall become a symbol of unity and progress, heralding a future where our town thrives, where dreams are realized, and where our community flourishes."

With a final sweep of his arm, Daniel's voice resounded with pride and conviction.

" Let us carry the torch of progress, hand in hand, and build a future that honors the legacy of our beloved Henford. "

With the conclusion of his heartfelt speech, Mr. Coombe's turned his attention back to the ribbon. With steady hands and a smile on his face, he brought the scissors down, severing the ribbon in one graceful motion. The crowd erupted in cheers, the sound of jubilation echoing through the air.

The Henford Trainstation was now officially open for business.

Amidst the crowd, those who had purchased their tickets ahead of time, their faces beaming with excitement, happily shuffled inside the station. Carrying their well-worn leather suitcases and travel bags, they were met by the courteous train conductors, dressed in a smart uniform complete with a polished brass pocket watch hanging from his vest.

"Tickets, please! Tickets, please!" the conductor called out, extending his hand with white gloves, ready to collect their boarding passes.

Honorable Mention: Lot Creation

The Steaming Supper by Godgyfu You can find this creation on the Gallery, I only tweaked the lot by adding CC to fit my scene better :)

The decision to leave isn’t an easy one, and he can tell Yakko wants to argue.  Of anyone in their family, Yakko is the one least likely to mention a want, but Wakko can tell that there’s one on the tip of his tongue.

I don’t want you to go.

If Yakko said that, Wakko would stay, because Yakko works so hard, Yakko deserves his wants.  But Wakko knows, and Yakko knows, that they both want Dot to be alive far more than Yakko doesn’t want him to leave.  So he thanks the world that train fare is practically free and buys himself a ticket.

“Why do you have to go?” Dot asks, the night before he leaves.  He’s resting right next to her, and her voice sounds hoarse.  Tight.  Weak.  The reason he’s going, to make her better, cements in further.

“We need money,” He tells her, honest.  “Besides, the ticket’s already paid for.  It’d be a shame to waste it now,” he shrugs, smiling despite the ever present ache, from starvation and exhaustion and the chill.

“I wish I could go with you,” She whispers, and he sighs.

“I wish you could too,” Because if she could, he wouldn’t need to leave in the first place.

The next day is joyously morose affair.  He leaves with the hopes of everyone on his shoulders.  Yakko hugs him tight, and Wakko can feel Yakko’s hands tremble against Wakko’s back, balled up in fistfuls of his sweater.

“Stay safe,” It’s phrased more like a plead than a simple farewell, and Wakko would like to be able to make promises, but...

“I’ll try,” he says, and he means it.

“See you in a year, sis,” He ruffles Dot’s hair, and she smacks at his hands, but she’s smiling.

“Not a day late or early,” She orders, and he grins.

“You got it.”

And the train departs, and Wakko sits all by himself as the place he knew as his home for all his life gets smaller and smaller as he gets farther and farther away.

He lets himself cry when it disappears, because he’s young, and alone, and afraid.  But he has to do this.  He has to try.  Dot and Yakko need him.

It’s not hard to fall asleep.  Compared to the abandoned orphanage they live in, the train seats are far more comfortable.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

He wakes up a town over, and the train offers hot food, but he declines.  He doesn’t have the money for it, even though his stomach screams for food.  He nibbles on the jerky Yakko bought for him before he left.  Wakko knows just how long he can not eat for before his body rebels against him-earlier than most people.  Yakko says he has what one would call a ‘Chronic illness.’  All Wakko knows is that it makes him more of a deadweight for Yakko to carry, because despite Yakko trying to be slick, he could see at home that his older brother was giving him bigger servings while Yakko got less.

Hopefully, now that Wakko is gone, Yakko can actually eat like a normal person.  With how Yakko is, though, Wakko expects he’ll take that extra food and give it all to Dot.

People come off and on the train at every random stop, but Wakko’s ticket is for a long ways away.  Five towns over.  He’s heard stories there, about how there are always jobs open.  He’s going to do them all.  He’ll work himself down to the bone, and come back with a fortune, and Dot will get better and everyone will be happy.

Days pass.  He gets up, on occasion, to stretch his legs, because the last thing he needs are his muscles atrophying because he couldn’t be bothered to move.  He loses his seat once or twice, but he is very adept at annoying people into moving, so he never loses it for long.  He makes the piece of jerky last, so that even on the last night before he gets off of the train he still has a quarter of a piece left.  It’s easy to not be hungry when you don’t move much.  That must be why Dot hardly has an appetite.

He’s asleep when he reaches his destination, practically thrown from the train by a conductor who holds no pity for a half starved child.  This town is prosperous, due to it’s industrious mining community.  He can see the ‘Help Wanted’ signs plastered on certain storefronts, and tries to figure out what to do.

Yakko had told him that under no circumstances was he to even think about going into the mines.  The mines are where people go to die, and Yakko told him it was better if Wakko came home empty handed than not at all.

They’d had the conversation far away from the house, where Dot couldn’t hear.  She was already near bedridden most days, looking half dead.  She didn’t need to hear about how dire things were, when part of the reason things were that is because she was so sick.  It isn’t her fault, but she wouldn’t see it that way.

He tries first, at the bakery.  He’s young, spry, and wiling to do whatever they need him to.  He’s made to be the janitor, because he doesn’t know how to bake and they don’t need anyone to learn.  When things go in the oven, he clears the work space, sweeps the floor of the spilt flour, wipes down trays, cleans dishes.  It’s not easy work, but Wakko would like to say he works well.

He does not, in fact, work well.

It was probably a bad choice to pick a place filled with food for his first job when he’s been half starved for most of his life, but it seemed a good option at the time.  He can’t help but try and sample some of the goods, so hungry it hurts, and the owner of the bakery doesn’t have time for charity cases.

He gets caught on his third day, and after getting yelled at so loud that his hands shake and his ears ring, he’s unceremoniously thrown out, sliding across cobblestone so hard his skin scrapes and he’s glad that black fur doesn’t show off blood well.  Three day’s pay is a pittance, but it’s enough to get him some food for the night.  He sleeps outside, in an alley, by the dumpsters.

The next day he goes to the general store.  It doesn’t sell food more so than it sells equipment.  A lot of its sales comes from supplying the mining sector with its equipment, and the rest is from the random items the townspeople need.

Wakko is a stocker.  It suits him fine.  He’s always been almost abnormally strong for his age, and he works hard not to mess this up.  It’s a nice routine, though his brain gets ever so slightly bored.  He’s someone who craves unpredictability, who loves chaos.  The doldrum does very little for him, mentally, but he shoves it down and keeps working.  He takes a breath every moment even though the cold air makes his lungs wince and puts his personality on the shelf and works and works and works.

He manages well for about four months.

And then, one night, he gets cornered in an alley.

“Hey, kid,” There are three men surrounding him, tall and lean.  Men is a strong word-they’re teenagers, older than Yakko but nowhere near and adult.  “Heard you’re the new stocker at the general store,” Wakko has no idea why this guy cares, but he just nods, because it seems polite.

The response he receives is having his sweater be grabbed before he is slammed into the wall, head knocking against stone.

“You think you can step in on my job while I’m out of town?  Huh?” He shakes Wakko, as if Wakko can reply when he’s still dazed from having his head knocked around.  “I own that job.  I can come and go as I please, and make money when I want.  That’s how it works here.”

And Wakko hates that.  Hates the cavalier that this teen holds, to be able to come and go as he pleases, to always have a job waiting for him.  Has this guy ever had to wonder if his sibling was going to survive the night?  Has he ever even gone hungry?

It’s the same entitlement Plotz has, and it brings out a fire Wakko didn’t know he had.

“It said help wanted,” he responds, shrugging nonchalantly.  “Not my fault that you were gone.”

That is, apparently, the wrong thing to say.  Wakko has never been good with his words, and that’s why Yakko always did the talking.  He gets a fist to his jaw, dropping to the ground.

“What a smartmouth,” The leader sneers.  “Why don’t we teach this kid a lesson?”

“Well, I’ve never been to school before,” Wakko wheezes, grinning like nothing’s wrong, and he gets a kick to his ribs for that.

He should really stop trying to be Yakko.

“Shut up,” One of the teens say, and he does.

It doesn’t stop them.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

When he goes to work the next day, he has a black eye he can’t see out of and a limp.  Black fur doesn’t show off bruises, but he’s pretty sure one of his fingers is broken with how purple it is.  He shows up to work anyway.

When he does, the owner looks over him appraisingly.

“I see you met the town boys,” He says.  “The leader is the mayor’s son,” Wakko frowns-of course he is.

Wakko gets to work, but the owner follows him.

“I thought he was staying out of town for another week, figured I’d fire you then,” Wakko freezes, holding three boxes of pickaxes.  “But I can’t have the mayor down my neck.  Find somewhere else to work.”

And Wakko isn’t vindictive, not by any means, but he feels a little too good when he says “Okay,” and lets the pickaxes all drop to the floor, hearing the crash and running out before the owner can catch him.

From there, he goes through jobs like they’re candy.  He trips at the candlemaker’s and nearly burns the whole place down.  Tries the printing press, but he can’t really read well, so he can’t tell if there’s any errors, and makes too many mistakes.  Works at a family farm, but one of the animals kicks him into the fence and the family says that it’s a sign that this isn’t his place to work.

No wonder this town has so many help wanted signs , if these are the guys hiring.

His favorite job of the bunch is the inn, because they let him sleep in a spare room so long as he cleans it before he goes to work, and it doesn’t count towards his paycheck.  However, the mayor’s kid comes in one day, sees him, says something to the owner, and Wakko is back on the streets again.

He wants to break down and cry and go home.  He’s trying so hard, he’s doing what he’s supposed to.  It’s been eight months and he never has more than enough to buy dinner because he can’t save when he’s losing jobs a couple months in.

He needs something stable.  Something no one would fire him from.

He looks toward the mines.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

He remembers the promise he made to Yakko, to not work there.  Knows he shouldn’t.  But he’s out of jobs, and he’s out of options.

He promised, but Yakko’s broken promises too.  When Dot first got sick, Wakko was nearly in tears with worry.  That’s his little sister, why can’t she play?  Why does she keep coughing?  What’s wrong with her?

“It’s just a cold,” Yakko had said.  “She’ll get better soon.  Promise.”

But she hadn’t, and that’s why he’s here, so if Yakko can lie to make Wakko feel better than Wakko can break a promise too, to make sure that when he comes home he’ll have something to give.  Because, as much as it would break Yakko’s heart if Wakko never came back, Wakko would rather that happen then come back with nothing and watch Dot wither away.

He goes to the mines, and puts on a hard hat, and gets to work.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

The mines are a grueling place, and Wakko understands very quickly why Yakko never wanted him to work in such an environment.  Half of the time he has to stop and cough, because every breath is coal ash in his lungs, every time he moves he feels like he’s going to drop dead.  Lunch time is fifteen minutes and he doesn’t have anywhere to prepare a lunch so typically he buys some salted meats or preserved vegetables the night before and sticks it in his sweater pocket so he doesn’t starve to death.  He supposes the upside to having been poor all your life is that you’re good at eating quickly.  

You never know when the food you have could be taken away.

They get coal, and then they lug it to the minecarts to be taken out of the mine.  Rinse and repeat.  He doesn’t even have time to be zany when he’s so exhausted, so he’s just as dead eyed as the rest of the toons and men around him.

Every once in a while, there will be a rumble from above, and the whole cave will shake, and they will all freeze and hold their breath, because one wrong move could mean collapse.

One of the older men asks him, one day, “Why are you here, son?” in the soft, kind way that brings back a far faded memory, more a feeling, of a warm crackling fire, and someone large and familiar holding him, of feeling safe and full.

“I need the money,” he responds, and the older man’s eyes go soft and sympathetic.

“Don’t we all, son,” He tells him, patting him on the shoulder, and Wakko half smiles, because kindness is rare like gold and he’s dreaming of diamonds.  “Don’t we all.”

Three months in, and he’s gotten the hang of it.  Nearly made three hay pennies, because the older man, who asks him to just call him Sir, tells him about the safer tunnels, directs him to the areas least likely to collapse.  He takes Wakko under his wing, and if he finds something exemplary, he lets Wakko take the credit for it.

Sir is here because he sends the money back home to his grandkids.  His daughter’s husband ran out on them, and she’s getting ill from the stress and work.

“Don’t have much left in this world,” He says, heaving the pickaxe down against stone.  He teaches Wakko how to hit it just right, and Wakko copies his movements and wonders if this is what it’s like to have a father who is more than a few years older than you.  “But I ain’t losing them.”

“Yeah,” Wakko agrees, thinking of the small shack that is his home, five towns away, with the two people there that are his entire world, that he’s spending his days suffering and working for.

It’s nice, though, to have company.  Sir listens to Wakko’s crazy antics, claps when Wakko has the energy to sing him a song during lunch, and says “you remind me of my grandkids” one day, and Wakko doesn’t want to admit how happy that makes him.

Four months in, and Wakko is venturing into an older tunnel, with a bunch of experienced miners.  That’s the only reason Sir says that Wakko could come with, because he knows this is Wakko’s last month and a big pay off from a new mine would be really helpful.

They get to work, and an hour or so in the ever familiar, paralyzing rumble from above starts.  Only this time, the floor starts to shake, and the ceiling cracks, and rocks start to fall from above as the whole mineshaft collapses.  Wakko is jumping out of the way of debris, letting his pickaxe drop as he moves towards somewhere safe, so focused on the different falling pieces and the people running around him he misses the rock falling above him.

“Kid!” He hears Sir shout, and he’s slammed into by denim overalls and flesh and bone and hits the floor.  There’s the sound of a crack, and then he feels, hears, sees nothing at all.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

Wakko wakes up to the feeling of something on top of him, covered in dust and soot and something wet and sticky.  He blinks out the dizziness and realizes the thing on top of him is someone, someone he recognizes.

“Sir?” he says, asks, hopes.  Carefully, he crawls out from under the man, and looks around.

The cave is dark, and he hears groans from the other men, but he looks back at Sir, and shakes him.  A slab of stone falls to the floor with a loud thud, from Sir’s back, and neck.

Something is dripping from Sir’s mouth.  It looks suspiciously like blood, but Wakko won’t think it is, no.

“Sir?” he tries again, and he shakes him harder.  The older man drops, limp, laying face first on the ground.

Wakko.  Stares.

“Is that the kid?” One of the other men says.

“Sounds like it.  The old man must have got on top of him to save him from the rocks.”

“Poor guy,” The first one says.  “Hey, kid, c’mere,” Wakko stands, on trembling legs, and walks toward the sound of the voices.

A hand rests on his shoulder, and he flinches, and the hand disappears.

“Hey, it’s just me, kid,” He hears.  “The old man told us about you.  There’s been a cave in,” As if that wasn’t obvious.  “We’re seasoned, so they’ll look for us.  They don’t always for the newer guys.”

“Okay,” Wakko says, instead of anything else, because he can feel the wet and sticky on his cheek and it isn’t his blood, and he can’t turn around because if he does he’ll be facing it.

He can’t.  He just can’t

A hand leads him to a spot to sit, and Wakko does.

Time slips through his fingertips, and all Wakko can do is wait and breathe.

They consider making a fire, but it would waste their oxygen.  The find a miraculously non broken flashlight, and Wakko can finally see.  The cave is about half the size it was before it collapsed.  There’s a pile of rocks at the entrance, and some of the men take their pickaxes and try to hit it, but it makes the walls shake so they stop.  Wakko walks around the room, and stays away from one area.

He misses Sir.

A day passes.  He nibbles on the old, near moldy piece of jerky he has, offering it to the other men.  They rebuff him.

“You look like skin and bones, kid,” One of the guys says.  “This isn’t our first cave in,” Wakko wonders when he became their kid, but he supposes it could be worse.

It’s two days and they’re running out of air.  Wakko wheezes in thin, shallow breaths through chapped lips, and tries not to cry because he’s dehydrated enough.  He doesn’t want to die.  He has Dot and Yakko to go home to, he can’t leave them now.

Eventually, he just starts humming, because the silence hurts and he doesn’t want to think anymore.  Isn’t this whole movie supposed to be a musical?  Maybe it hasn’t started yet.

“There's always tomorrow,” It comes out wispy and small, like a a breath, but it sounds unbearably loud, in the small space, “For dreams to come true.  Believe in your dreams, come what may,” His voice cracks on the final word, and he coughs, but the men are all staring at him, a tiny shrimp of a kid way in over his head, singing because there’s nothing else he can think to do.

“There's always tomorrow,” He mumbles out the words, barely keeping up the tune, because he’s so tired. “With so much to do,”

“And so little time in a day,” One of the men finishes the line with him, and Wakko blinks.

It seems that one joining in spurs on the others, because one by one they’re all singing too.

“We all pretend the rainbow has an end,” Wakko sees some of the miners leaning on each other.  A couple of them have broken a bone of some sort, but that’s all forgotten in the ever thinning air, singing because what else is there to do, in times of despair.  

“And you’ll be there, my friend, some day,” Wakko’s eyes flick to Sir, the still body looking pale and the blood dried on the ground, and he forces himself not to cry again.

“There’s always tomorrow, for dreams to come true,” Wakko leans his head back against the stone, coughing a little.  There’s thudding in his ears, he thinks his heartbeat, growing ever louder.

“Tomorrow is not far away...,” They trail off, and then there’s a crack, from the wall behind him.  He jumps, stumbling back from the wall, and he can see light peeking through the rock wall.

Standing was a bad idea.  His legs shake, weak, and while he can see the light as he hears men from the other side calling for him there’s darkness at the edges of his vision, and before the the wall breaks he starts to fall and everything goes black to the sound of the men shouting for someone to catch him.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

He wakes up at the local hospital.  The mine is paying for the stay, so he gets to eat.  He’s given 10 hay pennies for his trouble-the three he’d already made were lost in the collapse, but he doesn’t care too much because he lost far more important things there, too-, with the incentive not to take legal action against the mining company.  As if he could.  He asks around, asks if Sir’s family will be getting anything.

“Likely not,” One of the men from the cave says.  “He didn’t have enough tenure for that, and his family lives far enough away and are poor enough that the mine won’t bother.”

“Do you know where he lives?” He asks, and he finds out.

He places 9 hay pennies into the envelope.  He is not good at writing, but he knows how to write ‘I’m sorry,’ and ‘he was a good man’, and ‘he protected me’, and the sentences hardly make sense with how his hands shake but that doesn’t matter.  He has one of the older men write out the address and sends it off.

It’s not enough, he thinks.  But it’s something.

He tries to go back to work for a little more money, but every time he looks into the yawning pit of the entrance to the mines he can’t breathe and he thinks of the sticky and wet and red that stained his fur until he washed it off two days later.

He knows how to get it out of his clothes, too.  Now.  He knows now.

He didn’t think he would ever need to know, but the past year has been full of learning experiences, he’s sure.

A week and a half later, he walks out of town to that same train, and like the end of a circle heads back to where he started, sitting on that same seat.  The taste of jerky as he chews makes him want to vomit, too familiar, too entrenched in memory to be anything other than unpleasant.  

He comes home, and when he arrives he sees the smiling faces of his family and town, and they don’t need the depressing tale of cruelty and hardship, so he smiles and dances on aching feet and sings about silly jobs that seem more fun than difficult and shows off his earnings and lets himself feel hope because even if it hurt it was enough, because Dot is going to be happy and healthy.

Later, when he is playing a mournful tune on a makeshift harp, he wonders if there was even a point to trying.  If he should have stayed, should have just taken his time with his sister before she was gone, because regardless of everything that happened he’s right where he started.  Except, someone is dead and he’s the reason, and his lungs ache and will spend months to get close to normal and he has to pretend because he can’t let Yakko know he lied, and he was beaten and his youth has been stolen and Dot is still dying anyway.

He’s tired of the cyclical, he needs change, and he looks up the stars and searches for something, anything, to make the hurt worth something.

It may seem that everyday something happens aboard the Enterprise. It was almost like every week it was an invasion, a messy political shift, a weird time distortion loop, hostile negotiations...the list went on and on. However, in reality, there was a lot of time when nothing happened. When the ship glided through space effortlessly and the crew fell into a steady routine. Occasionally, they stopped at a planet to gather samples or map it. But other than that, all was quiet. 

It was on one of those routine days that Data found himself in Engineering, helping Geordi with several re-calibrations. They were minor modifications the two had wanted to implement for some time yet had not been able to.

All had gone according to plan and they were in the process of completing their work when Geordi stood up straight, a triumphant smile on his face.

"All set," he declared. "The conductors are functioning five-percent higher than normal. We should run a level one diagnostic just to be sure but there shouldn't be any issues."

"I agree. Readings are well within standard parameters," Data concluded, fingers dancing across the console. 

"I asked Diaz to do a manual sweep just to be sure," Geordi said. "I haven't heard from her yet but it doesn't seem like anything is out of place." He tapped his communicator. "La Forge to Ensign Diaz, what's the status of your sweep?"

Geordi waited for a response but one did not come. He tapped his communicator again. "Ensign Diaz, report!"

Nothing.

Data had only known Ensign Diaz in passing but he recalled Geordi's increasing frustration with the new crew member. She did not seem to have the same level of skills as some of her fellow engineers and her behavior had been less than exemplary.

"Where is she?" Geordi muttered. "Computer, locate Ensign Diaz."

" Ensign Diaz is located in Jefferies Tube 42B."

"Now what the hell is she doing in there?" Geordi said with exasperation. "And why isn't she answering?"

Data cocked his head as he ran through all possible scenarios. "I have calculated two hundred and thirty possible reasons for Ensign Diaz's behavior. One, she found a structural issue that she decided to correct. Two, one of the conductors may be showing signs of stress the computer cannot detect. Three—"

"Thanks, Data. I get it," Geordi cut him off. "Well, whatever the reason, I'm going to find out what's going on."

He had barely taken a step away from the console when his own communicator beeped. "Riker to La Forge, meet me in Transporter Room One. Prepare to beam to the planet's surface."

Geordi sighed but responded, "Aye, Commander. On my way."

Data saw Geordi glance in the direction Ensign Diaz had gone. "I am not required on the Bridge until oh-eight hundred hours. I can locate Ensign Diaz for you," he offered.

Geordi looked relieved and gave his best friend a smile. "That'd be great, thanks, Data. I'll be back as soon as I can." He gave him a pat on the back as he walked by. 

Data finished his work a second later before heading to the tubes. He found one of them already open and climbed inside. 

He did not see any signs of the ensign so he proceeded forward. 

"Ensign Diaz?" he called, his voice echoing off the metallic walks around him. 

He came across her communicator a short distance away, sitting at the bottom of a ladder. Frowning, Data picked it up and examined it. It did not look damaged and a quick diagnostic revealed it was in working order. He continued his search.

When he climbed the ladder, he was met with the sight of Ensign Diaz, deeply engrossed in one of the panels on the wall.

"Ensign Diaz?" he asked.

She spun around in surprise. Once she realized who spoke, she tried to straighten up, though it was difficult in such a tight space. 

"Commander Data! What are you doing here?"

"I could ask you the same question." Data held up her communicator. "I found this in the shaft behind us. I believe it is yours."

Diaz touched the spot on her uniform where it should have been as if she had not known it was missing.

"Thank you. It must have slipped off when I was climbing." She took it from him, pinning it back in place.

"Why are you in the tubes? Commander La Forge asked me to find you. He said you were told to do a manual sweep."

"I was a-and I did," Diaz stuttered, tucking a loose strand of dark hair back into her braid. "While I was doing so, I noticed one of the panels was out of alignment. Physically. I-I tried to correct it. It wouldn't budge so I decided to try to get it from the other side."

"I see." Data moved forward to check her work. Sure enough, he could see where the unit was off-center. "Most curious. That should not be possible."

"That's what I thought. But I can't seem to get it back into place." 

Data knew what was going to happen before it did. Yet even with his quick reflexes, he was not able to prevent the accident. 

Diaz did not have a proper grip on the part when she tugged on it. She had been perspiring and as a result, her hands slipped. The momentum sent her forward, where she smashed her head on the metal edge of the unit.

She screamed in pain, hand pressed to the spot as Data pulled her away. "Son of a bitch!" she exclaimed.

"Are you alright?" Data asked.

"Aside from seeing stars, I think so. Let's just fix the stupid thing and get out of here."

"I will handle it." Data carefully released Diaz, letting her rest against the tube wall while he took her place. Within seconds he fixed the situation, securing the unit into its proper position before determining it was in perfect working condition.

"My readings indicate everything is in working order," he said as he moved his tricorder over the unit. "Good work, Ensign."

"Thanks," Diaz said, removing her hand from her head.

Data looked at her, only to realize her forehead was smeared with blood.

"Ensign Diaz, you are bleeding."

"What? No, I'm not."

"Yes, you are. I believe you injured yourself when you hit your head."

"It's not that…" She looked at her hand, the color draining from her face when she saw blood on her palm. "...bad."

Data put his recorder in his pocket and made a move to tap his communicator but she stopped him. 

"No, wait! Don't!"

"Ensign, you are bleeding. I must contact sickbay."

"Honestly, I'm okay. I just need something to wipe up the blood. I'll be fine."

"I insist."

Diaz sighed and Data noted her eyes looked glossy. He wondered if the injury was more severe than she was letting on. 

"Let's at least get out of this stupid tube," she said. "I promise I'll walk there myself."

"That would be acceptable. As a precaution, I will accompany you to Dr. Crusher."

He motioned for her to move ahead and the pair began to backtrack. It was slow work as Diaz was careful not to leave a trail of bloody handprints in their path. When it came time to climb the ladder, Data insisted on going first so he could monitor her in case she needed help. 

He kept his eyes on Diaz, looking for any signs of distress while she descended. He noted her balance was unsteady. She rocked slightly and had to pause several times. During one of those times, she shut her eyes, arms wrapped around the rung in front of her.

"Ensign Diaz—"

"Please, call me, Faith. I never liked formal titles very much."

"As you wish. Faith, are you experiencing dizziness?"

"Sir, I'm fine."

Data found himself making a noise of disbelief. "No. You are not."

Faith cracked her eyes open, glancing down at him and Data saw her arms trembling as she tried to keep herself up. "Commander?"

"Yes?"

"I think I might pass out."

Her eyes rolled back in her head and her grip loosened, sending her tumbling off the ladder. For the second time, Data caught her in his arms. Quickly he tapped his communicator.

"Data to Transporter Room Two. I need immediate transport for two to sickbay. Current location Jefferies Tube 42B."

"Aye, Commander!" O'Brien's voice answered. "I'll have you there in a jiff."

A second later, Data found himself standing in the middle of sickbay, Faith's limp body in his arms. Dr. Crusher whirled around, eyes widening when she saw them.

In an instant she was at their side, scanning Faith. "What happened?" she demanded.

"Faith hit her head. She became weak and lost consciousness."

"How long ago?"

"The injury took place approximately ten minutes ago. She has been unconscious for thirty seconds."

"Data, get her up on the bed for me."

As he carried her across the room, her eyes fluttered open.

"Ugh, where am I?"

"You are in sickbay," he answered, gently lowering her down onto one of the beds.

"What happened?"

"Do you not remember hitting your head?"

Faith's eyes closed and she swallowed thickly, her head lolling from side to side. "It's all fuzzy." She grew still again.

"Faith? It's Dr. Crusher. I need you to open your eyes again. Can you do that for me?" When there was no answer, Beverly injected Faith with something while handing Data a towel. "Data, press this to her wound while I get my dermal regenerator. We have to stop the bleeding."

"Yes, Doctor."

Data did as he was told, pushing Faith's bangs back from her face so he could see the wound properly. It was deeper than he initially noticed. He pressed the towel to it, noting how much paler she had become in such a short period of time.

Beverly reappeared a moment later. He stepped aside so she could work, watching with rapt attention as she peeled the towel away before spraying the wound with antibacterial ointment. Once it was clean, she carefully sealed up the wound, leaving nothing but smeared blood in its place.

"That's done at least," she muttered to herself. She picked up her tricorder and resumed scanning the young woman.

"Will Faith be alright, Doctor?"

"She should be. According to my readings, she has a concussion. I recommend she be taken off duty for the time being."

"A smart recommendation."

Beverly finished scanning Faith, but this time her mouth deepened into a frown. "Hmm…" She scanned her again.

"Is something wrong?" Data asked.

It took a moment for the doctor to acknowledge his question. When she did, Beverly gave him a tight smile. "Nothing you need to worry about. Thank you for your help, Data. I can take it from here. You're free to go."

"I have already created a formal report of the accident. I will send it to you now for your records."

"That'd be great, thanks. And I'll let Geordi know not to expect Faith for a few days."

"Excellent. Have a good day, Doctor."

Data took his leave, but something came over him and made him pause, turning to look back. Faith was still unconscious and Dr. Crusher was staring at her as if deep in thought. Her expression was one Data had come to associate with that of concern.