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It's no the first time it's happened.

Oh, aye, I know. It's just a thing. One o' those little oddities of the human mind, perfectly explainable, labeled, understood, placed in a cupboard with all the rest of the potholes that come with bein' born from Terran stock.

Sorry. That was a wee bit exclusionary, wasn't it? I'll have t' ask Commander Spock sometime if he ever feels like he's walking the same steps in the same way he's done before.

He'll probably point out the inevitability of repetition on a starship. He'll be right.

Except I canne think deja vu usually comes t' any race with a feeling like ye've had a night of drinking injected suddenly and directly into yer past.

Just me.

Just lately. Last few months, maybe a year.

I dunno why I'm remembering it now. It all slides off like salt water from the hull when it's over. Like dreaming. I can remember the sick. Can remember the remembering. But I couldne tell ye the dream, and wouldne anyway. I'll no risk assignment to the back o' beyond another time by makin' 'em think I've gone round the bend.

When it happens, everythin' stops. Maybe tha's why I've got it on the brain now. Because it's stopping. Like yer foot's fallen t'sleep, except it's the corners of your mind tinglin' at ye. Ye blink, but it doesne go away, and ye lean forward, because if ye don't, ye know you'll fall.

The console - my ship - holds me up. The ship goes quiet. She never goes quiet, not completely. I've done this before. This exact set o' motions: my hand here, glance over there. Seasickness hits, and... Aye. Now I remember.

I think I see it in my dreams.

A window appears overlaid on reality; a great semicircle right in front o' my face that makes no sense at all. Not that anything ever does in the strange rinse cycle that's become my life. It's blurry, streaky, flickery. Lots of -y type words. I'm ready to volunteer to the nearest nurse that I have rounded the bend and I'm barreling a skimmer full speed into a peaceful cul-de-sac, when behind the window there are people.

I canne recognize the species, nor the ship besides, but there's metal. No elegant, beautifully designed metal; not even the bonnie sort of beaten, greasy and ugly. It's the brutal sort. The cold, unloved kind o' machinery.

The lights flicker. Perhaps the windows themselves. The bloke looks up at me.

He's speaking. I canne hear it. Can't even make it out.


"Mister Scott." The words don't match the lips.


Something snaps. I almost hear it.

"Mister Scott!"

--och. Deja vu. I bloody hate that. The hair is standin' up on the back o' my neck.

Kirk is staring at me.

"You okay, Scotty?"

"Aye," I sigh. "Long day."

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