Chapter Text
Christopher Pike is sitting in the room the Talosians have assigned him to live in. It is, strictly speaking, the extent of his universe, as it has been since he has arrived.
Oh, they've kept their promises. He's spending his days and nights in illusions, going on adventures with Vina, having long talks, enjoying everything his memories can conjure up and more that can be fabricated from his brain – and hers – and theirs.
He's free of pain while his mind stays clear – more than the Federation doctors could have offered him – and he does have at least the illusion of a life.
That's where the trouble starts, though.
It was such a relief for the first days, weeks, months even.
Then had come a time when he had started to wonder. He has no way of knowing how much time truly passes. He has no way of knowing if Vina is actually with him, sharing the same illusion, or if each of them is having their own. He has no way of knowing if what he is saying – what he is thinking – is actually what they make her hear.
It's getting complicated after that.
And then a couple of hours ago, the illusion had ended.
Oh, he still is free of pain, and he can pretend to walk across the room rather than directing the life support chair that he's vaguely aware has a rather limited service life and will give up on him at some point in the none too distant future if the Talosians can't find a way to improve it – or to shift him to their own technology to keep his body going. So far, they haven't tackled either of those, and he's not sure what to think of that, but he figures he should be grateful for the borrowed time he is getting.
For the moment it works well enough, and he can move himself where he likes – but outside of the Talosians’ illusion, he cannot manipulate anything other than the chair and the yes/no lights in it. He has no more actual use of his body than he had on the day of his arrival.
His mind is racing. What does the sudden end of the illusion he was in mean? Something unexpected happened, surely.
His mind immediately supplies a number of scenarios. None of them are good. Quite a few of them end with him dead in agony, suffocated, starved, or any number of other unpleasant ways to go.
But no – as long as he can look down himself and see a healthy body, even though he knows that’s not what he looks like these days, their keepers are still there and doing… something.
There’s a sound from outside the room, and it takes a long moment before he realizes that someone is knocking on his door. Why would—
The knock reoccurs, and he turns to face whoever - whatever – is out there.
“Come in.” Hopefully, the illusion of him speaking is still working as well as the one of him walking.
The door opens, revealing a mixed group. Most of them look human. One of them decidedly does not, and neither do they look like any species he is familiar with. At first glance, they might be some sort of deer.
At the front of the group stands a tall person in old-fashioned clothing consisting of loose blue trousers, a shirt and a long canvas coat. Their hair is more red than brown, falling in a long ponytail down their back. Their nose is definitely a few sizes too large for their face. The person right behind has hair that is all red and no brown at all, and eyes that are pure, solid black between the lids. That one is dressed as if to deliberately form a contrast of obviously synthetic clothing to the first one’s natural vibe.
“Admiral Pike?” the former asks.
Chris nods, keeping part of his attention on how the illusion around him reacts.
“We apologize for the interruption,” his visitor continues. “My name is Byron Gordon. We are all telepaths. You do not need to use the Talosians as a conduit to speak to us. None of us will scan your mind, but if you think at us – if you phrase your thoughts as if you were speaking to us – we can pick what you wish to tell us off of your surface thoughts without catching anything you might want to keep private. May I come in?”
“Only you?” Chris asks, half surprised and half amused. Whatever this is, it’s nothing he would have expected. Is it some kind of illusion, some new plot the Talosians have come up with? They’re not usually that imaginative.
“Well,” Gordon moves slightly aside, giving him a glimpse at the rest of the group. One of them looks like a businessman sprung right out of a history textbook. The last has raven-black hair, and the raven to match on one shoulder. That one is dressed as one might be for an away mission, in sturdy black. “If you prefer one of my companions, I will gladly step back and let them do the honors.” He indicates his companions in turn. “Lyta Alexander, John Marshal, Nancy Kilian.” He motions towards the deer. “This is Lateena. She is dyheli and would need to project thoughts at you if you prefer to talk to her. She lacks the wherewithal to form words out loud.”
Before Chris can respond to that, the raven on Nancy Kilian’s shoulder fixes the group’s spokesperson with one dark eye. “Forgot me.” It announces in a voice hoarse but perfectly understandable.
“And Neville,” Gordon corrects his oversight. “Apologies.”
“What is a group of telepaths doing on Talos?” Chris asks. A group of mismatched telepaths like you, he adds, not intending for those words to be said out loud.
If they catch them, they’re polite enough not to respond to them.
“We were sent with a message for you,” Gordon explains. “We volunteered for this mission because we can talk to you without your hosts’ help – and yes, because we can shield against their influence.”
“You interrupted their illusion,” Chris hazards a guess, and is rewarded by an inclination of Gordon’s head.
He still doesn’t know what to think of all of this, but he gestures for him to enter the room, and is somewhat relieved to see that his illusion body is still obeying him.
“You haven’t cut it off entirely,” he observes.
“We have reason to assume that that would be quite uncomfortable for you,” comes the response as Gordon steps forward, clearing the door until it slides shut behind him, physically separating him from the group. Mentally, they probably are still as connected as if they were standing side by side.
“You can block the illusions that specifically?”
“If there are enough of us working together.” With one hand, Gordon fishes a small object from a coat pocket. “Where we come from—what we have to offer you – and who sent us – I believe it will be easier to show you than to try and explain. I have a number of messages here for you from … people you know. If you don’t mind—”
Well, whyever not. Assuming that the message will be on some sort of screen or display, Chris moves closer to the table to give Gordon a place to put it down.
As he does that, he is once again reminded of how limited his life is, even so. The excitement he feels at something unexpected, something new that hasn’t grown from his own mind, feels strangely remote and disconnected from him because his body lacks all the proper responses to it. The life support system keeps his blood flowing, his breath going – at the ever same rhythm, with none of a body’s natural adjustments to emotion.
“You’ll have to start it,” he tells his visitor. “I can’t actually – these aren’t real.” He raises his illusion-hands slightly. “As you know.”
“I do know,” his guest says. “Would you like me to wait outside while you watch the messages? You can still think-shout at me when you want me to come back to discuss the content.”