Dreams Become Reality
Posted on Sat Oct 25th, 2025 @ 8:30pm by Lieutenant Adrianna Baciami
764 words; about a 4 minute read
Mission: Vinyl and Void
The neon rain of Freecloud fell like glass — sharp, cold, relentless. It painted her skin in flickering light as Adrianna Reggimi walked the empty street, each step echoing too loud against the duracrete. She wasn’t Baciami here — not Starfleet, not anyone. Just the translator again, walking the knife’s edge between life and exposure.
The Pendragon waited somewhere ahead, its silhouette blurred through the steam and filth. Adrianna pulled her coat tighter, though the air pressed against her like breath. Somewhere behind, a door creaked open. She didn’t turn.
“You always walk too fast,” a voice crooned. Her heart stopped. The accent — Orion, guttural, wet. She remembered him. The one she’d knifed in the throat in the cargo hold when he’d discovered who she really was. The one who’d bled out gurgling, hands clutching her wrist as she whispered, I’m sorry.
She turned. He was there, head lolling, neck split open like a second mouth. The grin that came with it was obscene. “Didn’t even give me time to scream, princess,” he rasped, “I would have been easily bought—”
She stumbled back, bumping into something cold and solid — the diplomat’s guard from the Tantalus deal. He’d caught her sneaking around, reached for his gun, but Vance had shot him before he could fire. Only once. Clean. Necessary. His eyes were still wide with surprise, the hole in his chest dark and bottomless.
“You said you weren’t one of them.”
“Did we mean nothing?”
“This is your fault.”
More shapes emerged — the woman from the Ceta Prime explosion, her skin blistered and weeping flame; the child who’d stumbled into crossfire when Vance’s crew raided the supply depot; a smuggler she’d begged Vance not to kill, his face half missing.
“I died innocent.”
“I think it was your phaser that hit me.”
“Why didn't you beg more?”
The neon light stuttered, and with each flicker their faces drew closer.
Reggimi. Reggimi. Reggimi.
The chorus crawled under her skin, a hundred accusing tongues. She ran, breath hitching, boots splashing through puddles that shone red under the lights. Ahead, the Pendragon loomed — only now its hull was blackened, the ramp sagging like a broken jaw.
“Adrianna,” came Vance’s voice from the doorway.
She stopped dead.
He stood there, but something was wrong — he was in a Starfleet uniform, scorched, eyes hollow, jaw dripping blood. “You left me,” he said softly, “I told you to leave, but you should have stayed. We should have died together with the Klingons.”
She reached out a trembling hand. “Vance—”
He tilted his head. The others whispered behind her, closer now, their fingers cold on her arms. The city went dark. Only the reflection of red light remained — not from the signs, but from somewhere beneath her feet. She looked down. Blood was spreading across the ground, forming words she couldn’t bear to read.
Then—
She gasped awake. The room was dark, the hum of the ship low and familiar. The warmth beside her told her she wasn’t alone. Vance lay on his side, one arm over her waist, breathing deep, steady. The faintest relief touched her chest. Just a nightmare. Just a—
Something creaked.
The mirror on the far wall caught the dim starlight, and for a moment she thought her eyes were playing tricks — until she saw the smear. A red streak. Two. Then letters. Her breath hitched, cold flooding her veins.
She slid carefully from the bed, her bare feet soundless on the floor. The closer she got, the clearer the writing became.
It wasn’t paint. It wasn’t condensation.
It was blood.
Three words, written in a shaky hand: “You killed him.”
A cold breath brushed her neck. She turned, pulse roaring in her ears. There back in the bed lay Vance, his eyes open, staring at her but his lips were blue and he was covered in blood.
Merde!
Gasping and waking from the dream, Adrianna bolted upright, heart hammering. The lights were still dimmed to almost be off, but Vance stirred this time, mumbling softly, “It’s all right, little dove. It was just a dream.”
He was warm. Alive. Real.
She clutched him, trembling, eyes darting toward the mirror. It was clean. Empty. Except for one faint fingerprint — a smear, at the edge of the glass — shaped like a heart, drawn in something dark that hadn’t been there before. Inside, there was a note stuck to the mirror: “...Even good translators can't talk their way out of hell…”
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