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From: captain973@aol.com (Captain973)
Newsgroups: alt.startrek.creative
Subject: NEW STORY: "Shattered Lives" (1/3, TNG, P/C, R)
Date: 3 Jan 1997 21:09:41 GMT
Organization: AOL http://www.aol.com
Lines: 343
Message-ID: <19970103210800.QAA24796@ladder01.news.aol.com>
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X-Admin: news@aol.com

	Disclaimer: Resistance is futile. Paramount owns Star Trek. Always
have, always
will. The only thing that is mine is this story and the cluttered mind
that created it. Feel
free to distribute this story, but please leave my name and the disclaimer
attached, and do
not change a word of the story. 
	This story is rated R for language and violent content.
	Author's note: This story takes place approximately one week after
the events
witnessed in "Star Trek: First Contact."
	Special thanks go to Leila Auer, who kept me sane as I poured
heart and soul into
this story, kept me on track, and gave much needed advice. Thanks Leila!
:)

Shattered Lives
by
Melissa Zander
Copyright c1997 All Rights Reserved

	He awoke screaming.
	A pair of arms reached for him, and warm hands touched his face.
"Jean-Luc!"
	Jean-Luc Picard sat up in bed, still shuddering. Beverly Crusher
sat up next to him
and placed a comforting hand on his arm. It did little good to calm the
pounding of his
heart or the fury in his mind.
	This had happened every night since they had returned to their
time after defeating
the Borg and saving Earth. The nightmare came, stealing what little
discipline and sense of
self he had regained since having to deal with them again. In the dream,
he was once again
Locutus. He could hear the seductive voice of the Collective calling to
him, tempting him,
taunting him to obey. He did so, unable to resist. He walked the corridors
of the new
_Enterprise_, mindlessly murdering and assimilating whomever he
encountered without so
much as a thought of remorse. Every night, someone close to him fell
victim to Locutus'
madness. The first night, it had been Data; the next, Deanna; tonight,
Riker. But every
night, without fail, Beverly was there as well. He could still hear her
frantic, anguished
screams in his mind as Locutus reached for her, plunging the assimilation
device into the
delicate skin of her neck. Locutus watched, feeling nothing, as the veins
of Beverly's face
erupted in a miasmic gore, and he felt her essence join the Collective . .
.
	He couldn't take it anymore. He'd cried himself to sleep in
Beverly's arms that first
night, and had, without fail, been violently stirred out of sleep every
night since. He was
exhausted and teetering on the brink of madness. He felt himself easing
closer to the edge
of insanity with every dream, every memory he had of the Borg, and, at
this point, he
almost welcomed the escape.
	He would try to resist once more this night, but would finally,
utterly fail. He
swung his legs over the edge of the bed and grabbed his robe, the cool
fabric feeling
soothing against his burning skin. He left the bedroom, Beverly hot on his
heels.
"Jean-Luc? Are you all right?"
	He was bent over, rummaging through a cabinet beneath the
replicator in the living
room. He almost laughed at Beverly's words. He hadn't been all right since
this entire
disaster with the Borg had started. Hell, he hadn't even been all right
since they assimilated
him six years before. He stood, the bottle he had been looking for
clutched like a lifeline in
his hands. Grabbing a glass, he made his way over to the couch and opened
a very old
bottle of Saurian brandy that had been given to him as a gift at the
_Enterprise_'s launch.
He poured a glassful and stared thoughtfully at the amber liquid for a
moment before
taking a large swallow. It burned its way down his throat before settling
warmly in his
stomach.
	Beverly leaned against the doorway of the bedroom, watching the
man she loved in
silence. He was falling apart before her very eyes. Every night, the
dreams stole a piece of
him away, a piece that she knew he'd never get back. He had adamantly
refused to talk to
Counselor Troi and had taken to avoiding Deanna completely. It was only a
matter of
time, Beverly knew, before she or Deanna proclaimed him unfit to command
the ship.
	This new behavior had Beverly worried in a way that Picard's
dreams didn't. She
knew Jean-Luc better than anyone, and only once had she known him to drown
his
problems in alcohol - after he had returned from being assimilated by the
Borg six years
before. He had told her about drinking the bottle of wine and about the
subsequent fight
with his brother. 
	So here he was, quickly working his way through a liquor bottle.
She didn't like it,
not one bit. It struck her that he was finally giving up, finally
surrendering control. It
scared the hell out of her. An out-of-control Jean-Luc Picard was
something that she
never wanted to see. She made her way over to the couch and gently pulled
the bottle out
of his hand as he was pouring his third glassful. "I think that's enough,
Jean-Luc. Please
come back to bed."
	He grabbed the bottle back. "The next time I'm in that bed, I had
better be passed
out drunk. Now, if you'll excuse me, I have a ways to go." He glared at
her, daring her to
defy him.
	Beverly felt like she was playing a game of tug-of-war as she took
the bottle away
from him once again. Before he could react, she had shoved it in the
replicator. It
dissolved into its constituent elements in a gentle sparkle of light. He
stood, anger
outlining every movement. "What the hell did you do that for?" he yelled.
	"I'm not going to watch you drown your sorrows in a bottle of
brandy!" she yelled
back. "The Jean-Luc Picard I know doesn't let himself wallow in self-pity!
He talks to
me!"
	"That Jean-Luc Picard is dead! He died with the Borg!" 
	His chest has heaving in rage. Beverly was shocked to the very
core of her being.
Wordlessly, she turned and walked back into the bedroom. She emerged a few
moments
later, clad in her uniform. In voice as cold as ice she said, "If you'll
excuse me, *Captain,*"
and stalked out of the cabin they had for the most part shared for the
last year.
	He watched her leave and lowered his throbbing head into his
hands. He wanted to
hurt something, destroy something, anything to ease this all-consuming
rage he felt. Why
had he said something like that to Beverly? Her, of all people? She was
perhaps the one
being left in the universe that he loved, and he was taking all his fury
out on her. 
	He was torn between going after her and getting blindingly drunk.
In the interests
of his now-crumbling personal life, he decided it would be better to go
talk to Beverly.
Then he could get blindingly drunk. The thought brought a bit of peace to
him.

	He found her in her scarcely-used quarters. Why she even let him
in, he didn't
know. She didn't say a word as he entered and the door slid quietly closed
behind him.
"I'm sorry, Beverly. I didn't mean what I said," he whispered in quiet
resignation.
	She fixed him with a gentle, pitying stare. "Jean-Luc, when are
you going to realize
that you need help? I'm not a trained psychologist. Deanna is. You're so
full of anger and
hatred and rage that I can't see how you even manage to function. In fact,
I'm not sure you
*are* functioning. You need to quit avoiding her and start counseling."
	Just like that, the rage returned. He was barely aware of anything
except the black
haze of anger clouding his vision. "Just what the hell do you know about
it, Beverly? I
have a few bad dreams and you're convinced I'm nuts. I don't *need* any
damned help,
Beverly! And I *certainly* don't need to be told how to run my life!" he
exclaimed loudly.
	"Jean-Luc, listen to yourself! Listen to how irrational you
sound!" she begged,
hoping to make him see the light.
	He picked up an empty vase off the table next to him and hurled it
across the
room. It shattered against the wall over the couch, sending glass flying
all over. They both
looked at it, stunned.
	"And you don't think that's irrational, Jean-Luc?" she asked
quietly after a moment
of silence.
	He turned on one heel and left before he could do something worse.
Instead, he
returned to his quarters and tried to ease the madness from within the
depths of a liquor
bottle.

	"And out of the blue, he just started yelling at me, and the next
thing either of us
knew, he had picked up a vase and hurled it against the wall. I'm telling
you, Deanna, there
is something very wrong with him. Much more so than I had thought."
	Deanna studied her distraught friend while being buffeted by waves
of worry and
anxiety. She had known something was wrong when her door signal chimed at
two in the
morning and she'd found Beverly Crusher standing there, practically
shaking. 
	She wasn't sure what to tell Beverly, but she knew that she needed
to talk to the
captain as soon as possible. "Beverly, do you think he's still awake? I'd
like to see him."
	Beverly shrugged. "I'd have to say yes, but I don't think you'll
get very far. He's
probably rather drunk by now, if the earlier incident with the brandy is
any indication.
Would you like me to come with you?"
	Deanna shook her head. "I wouldn't want him to think he was being
ganged up on.
You may stay here, if you'd like, and we can talk when I come back."
	Crusher nodded, and watched her friend leave the room. For some
inexplicable
reason, she had an urge to say a quick prayer for Troi's safety. 

	The captain's quarters were dim and quiet, except for the sound of
glass crunching
under her feet. She afforded herself a quick glance downward, and saw the
remains of a
bottle on the floor. Quickly glancing behind her, she could clearly see
where the bottle had
hit the door. "Captain Picard?" she called out quietly, not wanting to
startle him.
	"Get out. Now."
	His voice came to her, slurred, yet quiet. She turned to the
sound, and saw his
obscure outline seated on the couch. She approached slowly. "Captain, it's
me, Deanna. I
thought you might want to talk. Beverly's very worried about you," she
said gently.
	"Get out. I don't need to talk to anyone. I'm fine."
	His voice began to rise in loudness, and Troi finally lowered her
mental shields to
sense his emotions. What she felt almost knocked her over with its
intensity. Hate, rage,
fury, despair... 
	She quickly closed them off, fearing for her own stability. Never
in a million years
would she have guessed that he was this bad off. He needed more help than
she was sure
she could provide. It was almost as if he had taken what had happened to
him six years
earlier with the Borg and locked it up deep inside, farther away than she
could detect, and
now, after encountering them again, let everything inside him explode into
a maelstrom of
madness. "Captain, please -" she began to whisper cajolingly.
	He lurched off the couch and grabbed her roughly by the front of
her uniform. "I
said *get out*! I don't need your damned help!" With that proclamation, he
shoved her
roughly towards the door, which opened at their approach. With a single
movement he
propelled her out the door with such a force that the only thing that
stopped her was the
bulkhead across the hall. He disappeared inside without a backward glance.

	He felt their stares on him the minute he set foot on the bridge
that morning. Both
Beverly and Deanna were there, and they watched him like a hawk. He
couldn't stand it.
"Number One, you have the bridge. I have some work I need to get done."
	Riker looked at him, a slightly surprised look on his face. Picard
didn't normally
retire to his ready room until he'd been on the bridge for about an hour.
He'd just gotten
there a few minutes before, and was already leaving? "Aye, sir," he
responded softly,
wondering what was wrong. 
	After the captain had disappeared into his sanctuary, Riker
hazarded a glance over
at Counselor Troi's station. Her head was turned, and her gaze was focused
on the closed
doors of the ready room. He then saw Beverly making her way across the
bridge, her
destination the very room and man that was the focus of their attentions.
After a moment,
she was granted entry.

	Beverly entered the ready room and found Picard leaning against
the window, his
eyes closed. He was pale, and swayed slightly from time to time. His face
was lined with
weariness and pain. Her heart went out to him. "Jean-Luc?"
	He remained as he was, and spoke softly. "Yes, Beverly?"
	She pulled a hypospray out of her pocket. "I brought you something
for that
hangover. It'll make you feel better." She moved to stand next to him, and
injected the
hypo into his neck. The only noticeable effect was the cessation of his
hungover swaying.
His body remained rigid, and the pained expression on his face didn't
lessen. Worried, she
pulled out her tricorder and began to run it over him.
	His eyes snapped open and a hand shot out, knocking the tricorder
out of her
hand. The little machine went skittering across the floor. "Get that damn
thing away from
me!" he shouted abruptly. "I'm not your guinea pig!"
	He fumbled his way into his desk chair and sat down heavily, a
weary sigh
escaping his lips. "Sorry," he mumbled softly.
	Beverly didn't say anything, but merely picked up the tricorder
and made a move
to leave. His voice, now low and cold, stopped her. "I didn't give you
permission to
leave."
	It was mindboggling, these quicksilver changes of his. One minute,
he almost
seemed like the Jean-Luc she knew and loved, and the next, more often than
not lately,
this monster took his place. "I didn't ask for it," she informed him.
	"Ask. Now," he demanded, his eyes flashing.
	"I beg your pardon?" she said disbelievingly.
	He stood now, and his rage towered over her menacingly. "If you
want to leave,
Doctor, you ask permission first. I'm the captain, and you will show
proper respect!" 
	She was torn between shouting right back at him and being
terrified to shout back
at him. Instead, she chose to bend to his wishes, if only to calm him
down. "Permission to
leave, Captain?" she asked softly, knowing that the moment she had been
dreading had
come. If she got out of here in one piece, she was going to have to talk
to Deanna and
Will.
	He sat back down and turned his back to her. "Go," he said, his
voice somewhat
quieter now. She turned and left, relieved.

****^****^****^****^****^****^****
"You!!! Out of the gene pool!!!

---saying from a license plate frame
****^****^****^****^****^****^****

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From: captain973@aol.com (Captain973)
Newsgroups: alt.startrek.creative
Subject: NEW STORY: "Shattered Lives" (2/3, TNG, P/C, R)
Date: 3 Jan 1997 21:11:21 GMT
Organization: AOL http://www.aol.com
Lines: 361
Message-ID: <19970103210900.QAA24848@ladder01.news.aol.com>
NNTP-Posting-Host: ladder01.news.aol.com
X-Admin: news@aol.com

Disclaimers still apply...
Shattered Lives, part 2

	Deanna Troi watched as Beverly exited the ready room with a look
of confusion
etched upon her features. Beverly looked up and saw Deanna, and beckoned
to her.
Deanna rose and began to follow Beverly to the conference room. Just
before they got to
the doors, Beverly called out, "Commander Riker, could you join us,
please?"
	Will glanced back at them, surprised, and nodded. "Commander Data,
you have
the bridge," he said, and joined the women in the conference lounge.
	When they were seated, Beverly spoke. Her abrupt words startled
them. "I want to
declare the captain unfit for command, and I'd like to do it as soon as
possible."
	After a moment of stunned silence, Will asked, "Why?"
	"Based on his physical condition, and more importantly, his mental
condition, I no
longer feel that Captain Picard is able to command this ship and crew in
an effective
manner. He is exhausted, he doesn't eat, and his mental condition is
rapidly deteriorating."
She went on to describe what had just happened in the ready room.
	Will turned to Troi. "Deanna? Do you agree with this?"
	The counselor had no choice but to agree. "Yes. In fact, I'd
recommend he be
confined to his quarters, as well. Based on what Beverly has told me, as
well as what
happened when I went to talk to him last night and just now, the captain
is becoming a
danger to himself and to the crew."
	Riker slumped into his chair and sighed loudly. His eyes closed,
and his head tilted
back. "All of this because of the Borg?" he asked quietly.
	Deanna nodded. "He never completely dealt with his experience six
years ago. He
instead pushed it away someplace deep inside, where it festered and grew.
Now,
encountering them again and watching helplessly as they took over his ship
and assimilated
part of the crew brought back everything that happened when he was
captured, but with
an abnormal intensity. All of the feelings of hate and rage he has kept
bottled up exploded
tenfold, and is driving him insane. The more he tries to control it, to
ignore it, to push it
away, the worse it gets. Thus, the outbursts, the irrationality, the
violence. Unless he gets
help, and soon, the man we know as Jean-Luc Picard will be gone forever."
	Commander Riker considered this for a time. "Why are you telling
me all this?
Either one of you could relieve him. You don't need my consent."
	"Because you'll be in command, Will. I figured you'd appreciate
knowing why,"
Beverly said quietly. "And another thing. As a personal favor to me, Will,
Deanna, I'd like
this kept quiet. As far as anyone else needs to be concerned, the captain
is on personal
leave. Nothing less, nothing more. I love him, and I don't want to hurt
him any more than
he already is."
	Deanna and Will nodded. "Who's going to tell him?" Will asked
them.
	"I will," said Beverly quickly. "He might take it a little better
coming from me."
	Deanna thought about his violent outbursts. "Are you sure you'll
be all right?
Telling him, I mean?"
	The doctor smiled sadly. "I hope so, Deanna. I hope so."

	Beverly waited until he was off duty and had returned to his
quarters. She rang the
doorbell, an action she couldn't remember ever doing on this new ship.
They had shared
these quarters since the day they first stepped foot on the ship, and
ringing doorbells
hadn't been necessary. She didn't know why she felt the need now.
	The door slid open, and she found him pacing erratically back and
forth across the
living room. His black-and-gray uniform top was tossed over a chair, and
the red
turtleneck lay just below it on the seat of the chair. His gray tank top
undershirt rode the
muscles of his chest like a second skin, and never before had his muscular
form intimidated
her like it did right now.
	She gently grasped his arm as he paced by her, and he whirled
around, his hand in
the air, ready to strike. At the last moment, he lowered it. "What do you
want now,
Beverly?" he asked, his eyes flashing.
	She took a hesitant step back. That had been a close call a moment
ago. Too close.
It only confirmed in her mind what she was about to do. "Captain, as Chief
Medical
Officer, I am hereby relieving you of duty. You are no longer fit to
command the
_Enterprise_." Dropping the official command voice, she whispered, "I'm
sorry, Jean-Luc.
But I don't know what else to do. You need help."
	As sure as she was standing there, she saw the exact moment he
crossed over from
rational human being to crazed madman. Saw his tenuous grasp onto sanity
snap.
Whatever hold that had kept him delicately grounded into some sense of
reality
disappeared with his command. Fearing for her safety, she backed up
another step, only to
find a wall at her back. "Jean-Luc . . ." she whispered once again, this
time pleadingly.
	Before she could react, his hand snapped out and grabbed her
around the throat.
She gasped for air, air that was abruptly knocked out of her lungs as he
slammed her
against the living room wall with the full brunt of his crazed fury.
"Jean-Luc, stop! What
are you doing?" she cried out, hoping to penetrate the black haze of rage
and madness that
shadowed his mind and darkened his judgment. 
	He pulled her head forward and slammed it back against the wall,
once, twice,
three times. She was beginning to see stars, and they weren't the ones
outside the window.
She tried to kick out with her legs, but he now had her firmly pinned
against the wall with
his body. "You thought you had me," he hissed, his face mere millimeters
from hers. His
alcohol-tainted breath washed over her. When he'd had the time to have a
drink between
the end of shift and now was a complete mystery, but it made him all the
more dangerous.
"You thought you could keep me from my ship. You were fucking WRONG!" 
	His voice carried through the rooms and loudly throbbed inside her
aching head.
He was beyond the point of reason. He was beyond the point of sanity. She
doubted he
even knew who he was, who she was, or what he was exactly doing right now.
As far as
he was concerned, she was here and therefore was the object of his wrath.
All she knew
was that, for the first time in her life, she was in mortal danger in the
hands of Jean-Luc
Picard.
	Abruptly, he swung her away from the wall, his hand painfully
leading her about by
the hair. He lifted her face and slapped it with his free hand. She could
taste the metallic
tang of blood inside her mouth. He saw it begin to trickle out of the
corner of her mouth,
and, unbelievably, he laughed. It was a loud, high-pitched, maniacal
laugh, the laughter of
a man gone completely over the edge. "No one takes me from my ship. I'm
the captain, I'm
in command, so go to HELL with your goddamned HELP! I don't need it! I
don't need
help! I don't want it! Everyone wants me to get help! NO!!! HELP YOUR
FUCKING
SELVES!!! I DON'T WANT IT!"
	She came to her senses and took advantage of his insane diatribe.
She twisted
around, planting an elbow directly in his stomach and the heel of her hand
against his jaw.
	He didn't even flinch, but laughed harder. He certainly didn't let
go . . . At least,
not until he tasted blood in *his* mouth. "YOU BITCH!!!" he screamed, and
thrust her
away from him.
	Before she knew it, his fists were slamming into her in a frenzied
pace. He had her
back against the wall again, and there was no place for her to go, no
defense for her to
use. He rained punches on her head, her chest, her stomach, until the only
thing keeping
her upright was the inertia from each blow. Each time a bone snapped in
her body, the
sound echoed loudly through her head, but she no longer felt any pain. She
had crossed
that threshold moments earlier, and now merely fought to stay conscious.
	Then, as suddenly as it began, it ended. He backed away slowly,
studying her with
an almost detached thoughtfulness. As she hit the floor, she managed to
activate her
communicator. With her last bit of strength, she called Will Riker, the
one man that knew
what was going on and would be able to physically stop Jean-Luc. After
that, she
mercifully passed out.

	Will Riker had been reading quietly in his quarters when her call
came in. He had
to strain to hear the communication, as her voice was so faint. "Crusher
to Riker."
	He looked up slightly, addressing the comm system. "Riker here.
Beverly, are
you-"
	She cut him off. Over the comm link, he could hear her shallow
rasps of breath.
"Will, help..."
	Her voice trailed off, and suddenly all was quiet. "Beverly?
Dammit, answer me!"
There was no response. "Computer, current location of Dr. Beverly
Crusher?"
	The mellow, feminine tones of the ship's computer answered, "Dr.
Crusher is in
Captain Picard's quarters."
	That was all he needed to know. Without a moment's hesitation, he
took off
running for the captain's quarters with a feeling of dread settling in the
pit of his stomach.

	Will didn't bother to ring the chime. He pressed the door control
and, oddly
enough, the door slid open, unlocked. He warily searched the room for the
captain, and
found him standing strangely still by the wall between his living room and
bedroom. The
captain's face was expressionless, and he appeared to be calmly studying
something on the
floor. "Captain?"
	The man didn't acknowledge his presence in the least. In fact, he
seemed to be
almost frozen in place. Will cautiously approached him. "Captain, where's
Beverly? She...
Oh, my God..."
	There, at the captain's feet, was the broken and bloodied form of
Beverly Crusher.
Riker quickly knelt down and felt for a pulse. He found one, slow and
thready. Her
breathing was painfully shallow, and from the slight gurgling sound
emanating from her
chest, he gathered that her ribs and lungs were in horrific shape. He
looked up at the man
he called captain and friend, and knew that something was very, very
wrong, something
much worse than he or Deanna or Beverly had thought. 
	Picard hadn't moved a muscle since Riker had entered his quarters.
His gaze was
blank and vacant, and he didn't so much as blink. He slapped his comm
badge. "Riker to
Counselor Troi."
	A moment later, she responded. "Troi here."
	"Deanna, meet me in sickbay right away. The captain, he..." Riker
swallowed,
finding it hard to say the words. "Beverly, she... She's in pretty bad
shape. It looks like the
captain... Well, he beat her up pretty bad, and he's just standing here,
staring, not moving
at all..."
	Deanna's voice shook slightly as she answered. "I'll be right
there, Will. Troi out."
	He slapped his comm badge again. "Riker to transporter room.
Medical
emergency. Three to beam directly to sickbay."
	A moment later, they vanished in a beam of light.

	Will and Deanna sat anxiously in Dr. Crusher's office while the
medical staff
worked frantically to save the life of their CMO. Beverly had taken a turn
for the worse
immediately after materializing in sickbay with Riker and was now fighting
for her life.
	The captain was on a biobed in a private room, a security guard
standing watch in
the doorway. Picard had not said one word, or moved so much as a muscle
since Riker
found him. He just stared blankly at the ceiling. The doctors had said
that, aside from a
few scraped and broken knuckles and a few cuts on his hands, there was
nothing seriously
physically wrong with him. They confirmed Beverly's earlier suspicions of
exhaustion and
malnourishment, but that was still no explanation for the catatonic state
he was now in.
	After what seemed like an eternity, Dr. Selar entered the office
and quietly closed
the door. The doctor looked as weary and heartsore as a Vulcan can appear
as she slid
into Beverly's chair across the desk from Troi and Riker.
	"Is she going to be all right?" Will asked anxiously.
	Selar nodded. "If she survives the night with no complications,
yes, I believe she
will make a complete recovery. There was massive trauma to her abdomen,
chest, and
face. We have repaired the damage to her face and torso, but due to the
severe internal
injuries, Dr. Crusher is on full life support right now. You may see her
briefly now, if you
wish."
	Will and Deanna stood quickly, but paused before leaving. "The
captain?" Troi
asked quietly.
	Selar shook her head. "I just looked in on him. He is the same. I
am going to give
him a sedative in a little while to help him sleep. Perhaps in the morning
he will show some
improvement and you will be able to talk to him, Counselor."
	"Thank you, Doctor," Will murmured softly before leading Deanna
out of the
office.

	Beverly Crusher lay motionless in the intensive care ward, her
chest rising and
falling with mechanical regularity. Will stood next to her bed, and his
hand reached out
and gently brushed a vibrant lock of hair off her forehead. He glanced
back towards
Deanna, an anguished look on his face. "Why?" he asked quietly. 
	Deanna took a step towards him and laid a hand on his back
comfortingly. "They'll
pull through, Will. Both of them." Troi hoped she sounded more convinced
than she felt.
	Will leaned down and placed a kiss on Beverly's forehead and
Deanna squeezed
her hand. They left without another word.

	The chronometer in the small room read 0437 when he awoke. His
dreams had
forced his body wide awake again, despite the sedative that had been
administered earlier.
He could feel the sweat rolling off his face, down his chest, and down his
back.
	They were after him again. They wanted him back. He couldn't
resist anymore,
didn't want to resist. Maybe, just maybe, if he gave in, they would let
him have some
peace. He could hear their voice calling to him, seductively sweet. The
voice caressed him,
draped itself over him like a warm blanket. It wanted him, and he finally
wanted it.
	Jean-Luc Picard slipped silently from his bed and moved towards
the door. The
guard wasn't there, having stepped out for a minute. Picard moved
stealthily through the
darkened, deserted main ward of sickbay. Within moments, he had in his
hand a hypospray
with enough drugs in it to accomplish what he wanted, what the voice
wanted him to do.
	He slipped silently back into his room and lay back on the bed.
Out of the corner
of his eye, he saw the guard return, and he could smell the sharp aroma of
hot coffee
wafting through the open doorway.
	The voice was insistent now, urging him to obey, to follow where
it led. As the
hypo hissed into his neck, he could feel the fire burning through his
veins. He would be
one with the Collective. They could have the _Enterprise_. They could have
him. He didn't
care anymore. All he wanted was peace.
	As the biobed monitor above him sounded the alarm, he gave himself
freely over to
oblivion.

****^****^****^****^****^****^****
"You!!! Out of the gene pool!!!

---saying from a license plate frame
****^****^****^****^****^****^****

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From: captain973@aol.com (Captain973)
Newsgroups: alt.startrek.creative
Subject: NEW STORY: "Shattered Lives" (3/3, TNG, P/C, R)
Date: 3 Jan 1997 21:13:03 GMT
Organization: AOL http://www.aol.com
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Message-ID: <19970103211100.QAA24882@ladder01.news.aol.com>
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X-Admin: news@aol.com

Disclaimers still apply...
Shattered Lives, part 3

	Deanna Troi was rousted out of a fitful sleep by the insistent
voice on the comm
system. "Sickbay to Counselor Troi."
	Groggy, she called out, "Troi here."
	"Counselor, this is Nurse Ogawa. You'd better get down here. The
captain tried to
commit suicide, and we don't know if he's going to make it."
	Now fully awake and already pulling a uniform on, she called out,
"On my way,
Alyssa."
	When she ran into sickbay a few minutes later, she saw a cluster
of doctors,
nurses, and assistants hovering over a still figure on a biobed in the
main ward. Alyssa
Ogawa saw her enter and escorted her to Beverly's office, where she and
Will had waited
earlier that evening. Troi was about to speak, but Alyssa held up a
staying hand.
"Counselor, I can only talk for a minute. I have to get back out there.
What happened was
that the guard assigned to the captain left for just a minute to go get a
cup of coffee.
During that time, the captain left his room, filled a hypospray full of
drugs, and slipped
back into his room where he injected himself. The biobed monitor on his
bed sounded an
alarm, and the guard was giving him CPR when we found them. It doesn't
look good. I'll
come back later and let you know what's going on."
	With that, Alyssa stood and hurried back out, leaving Troi alone
in the office.

	It took them three hours to stabilize him. When Troi was finally
allowed to see the
captain, he was deeply unconscious, but alive. He was pale and gaunt, and
his skin was
cool and clammy to the touch. The toxins he had injected himself with were
being slowly
filtered out of his bloodstream, and Dr. Selar had assured her that the
more they filtered
out, the sooner he would wake up.
	Deanna stayed with him for a while, and then went to check on
Beverly. Dr. Selar
was there as well, and she looked far less grim than she had last night.
"Counselor. We
have removed Dr. Crusher from life support, and she is doing well. She
should be awake
soon. I would not object if you would like to remain with her."
	Deanna thanked her, and moved a chair next to her friend's
bedside. They were
alone when Beverly's eyes fluttered open a little while later. Deanna
smiled at her when
Beverly's gaze fell upon her. "Welcome back, Beverly."
	The doctor didn't smile back. "Jean-Luc," she whispered hoarsely.
"Where's
Jean-Luc?" She tried to sit up, but her body protested with waves of pain.
	Deanna put a staying hand on her friend's shoulder. "Beverly,
please. You need to
rest."
	Beverly sank back onto the bed and her eyes closed tiredly. "Where
is Captain
Picard?" she asked again, her voice a bit stronger.
	Troi hesitated. She felt nothing but waves of concern emanating
from Beverly, and
she didn't want to upset her. It amazed her sometimes, the love Beverly
felt for that man.
Just as she was about to dodge the question, Selar returned to check on
her patient.
"Hello, Dr. Crusher. It is good to see you awake. How do you feel?"
	"Like hell," Beverly muttered. "Selar, where is Captain Picard?"
	The Vulcan glanced at Deanna, who shook her head. She opted for
simplicity.
"The captain is in sickbay, Doctor. Now, please relax. You require rest."
	Beverly was getting pretty damn sick of being told she needed
rest. Her frustration
came through as she willed her body upright. The pain almost made her pass
out, but she
remained conscious as she swung the "clamshell" monitor out of the way and
sat up,
gripping the edge of the biobed with white knuckles and swallowing hard
against the
nausea. "Why is he in sickbay? He could have rested in his quarters."
	Deanna sighed silently. Beverly wasn't going to back down until
she knew the
truth. "Beverly, the captain was admitted at the same time you were
yesterday. He was
catatonic and completely unresponsive after . . ." She hesitated. "After
the attack. A few
hours ago, he snapped out of it and tried to commit suicide."
	Blackness began swirling at the edges of Beverly's vision, but she
forced herself to
remain as she was. Her voice took on a clinical tone. "And his present
condition, Selar?"
	"Serious, but stable," the doctor informed her. "Now, Dr. Crusher,
I must insist
you lay back down. I will be forced to sedate you should you not
cooperate."
	Beverly allowed Selar and Deanna to help her back down, and she
closed her eyes
tightly to fight off the tears. Her last thought before she fell asleep
was, *Jean-Luc, what
have you done?*

	Two days later, Beverly discharged herself from sickbay. Now free
from her
hovering medical personnel, she could keep watch by Jean-Luc's bedside.
While she knew
in the back of her mind that her staff was still keeping an eye on her,
she at least wasn't
confined to bed. 
	She now spent her hours sitting with Jean-Luc, talking to him,
reading to him, and
sometimes just silently watching him as she held his hand. Will or Deanna
would pop in
occasionally during the day as well, to check on them both. She could
sense that Will was
a bit uneasy around the captain, but she knew that would pass. She
couldn't blame him for
being angry. He had, after all, been the one to find her after the attack.
But she knew that,
if she wasn't angry with Jean-Luc, Will wouldn't be for long, either.
	So far, through the concerted efforts of Will, Deanna, and
herself, the attack and
suicide attempt had been kept quiet. The medical staff had been sworn to
secrecy, and out
of respect and love for their boss, they agreed. No one could understand
why Beverly
would choose to defend the man who had almost killed her, but Beverly knew
that, even
as he mindlessly pummeled her, Jean-Luc had had no idea what he was truly
doing.

	He awakened undramatically late that evening. Beverly was dozing
in her chair
next to his bedside, so he was spared having to face her. The voice was
silent. He couldn't
hear it calling to him anymore. He was grateful. All that was left to him
now was the
memory of what he had done and an overwhelming guilt. 
	He stared at the ceiling, the anger forming a thick knot in his
throat that made it
difficult to swallow. Why couldn't they have let him go? He didn't want to
be here, not
after what he had done. He knew they'd be watching him, too, so he
wouldn't even be able
to try again. He didn't deserve to live, after all.
	These thoughts plagued Jean-Luc Picard's troubled mind. He could
still feel the
madness pushing at him, breaking down barriers faster than he could create
them. But at
least the voice of the Collective was gone. The madness he could tolerate.
The voice he
could not.
	Picard tried to get up, but found himself held down by a
restraining field. The only
parts of his body he could move were his head, hands, and feet. He sighed
in exasperation. 
	The movement and the sigh awakened Beverly, who opened her eyes to
find
Jean-Luc's open. She squeezed his hand gently, not wanting to startle him.
"Jean-Luc?"
she whispered.
	To her surprise and hurt, he turned his head away from her and
focused his gaze
on the far wall. He didn't want her here, didn't deserve to have her here.
He remained
silent.
	"Jean-Luc, I know you can hear me. You can't ignore me. Please,
say something."
	The urge to scream was overwhelming. He fought it back with
everything he had.
He had hurt her enough. He squeezed his eyes shut and pulled his hand away
from hers,
balling both hands up into fists, willing himself to maintain some
semblance of control. He
heard her sigh echo his of moments before, and then heard her leave the
room.
	Beverly walked into the main ward of sickbay and got a mug of
steaming tea from
the replicator. She leaned wearily against the wall and inhaled the warm
aroma of the
lemon tea, hoping to be soothed. Unfortunately, she was not. She glanced
up as the doors
to sickbay opened and Deanna Troi walked in. "How is he?" she asked.
	Beverly sighed again. "He's awake," she responded with no
enthusiasm.
	Deanna felt her hurt. "What happened?"
	The doctor shoved the tea back into the food slot and watched it
disappear. "He
wouldn't even look at me!" she cried out in frustration. "He just turned
his head away and
closed his eyes and pretended I wasn't there!"
	Troi took her distraught friend's arm and pulled her towards her
office. Once safely
inside, Beverly slid into her desk chair and leaned her head against the
back. Deanna
searched for the right words. "Beverly, he tried to commit suicide. He is
not simply going
to wake up from that and be his old self again. He needs our help, our
love, and our
understanding. Even then, I'm not sure he'll be the man he was. But we can
try."
	Beverly shook her head ruefully. "So be patient, right? Deanna,
all I want is
Jean-Luc back. I'm willing to do anything."
	"Yes, be patient. Let him know he's loved, and wanted, and
important."
	Beverly's mind was whirling with possibilities when Deanna's voice
brought her out
of her thoughts. "Beverly, it's late. Perhaps it would be best if you went
and said good
night to him, and went to bed. If you don't start taking care of yourself,
you know Selar
will have you readmitted to sickbay. You know she didn't like you getting
up as soon as
you did."
	The CMO waved her hand dismissively. "I know what I can and can't
do. But,
you're probably right. It *is* late. Thank you, Deanna." She smiled
gratefully.
	Deanna stood. "Good night, Beverly. I'll come see the captain
sometime tomorrow
morning." With that, she left.
	Beverly made her way back to Jean-Luc's room. His eyes were open
once again,
and his gaze was once again fixed on the ceiling. As soon as he noticed
her standing there,
however, they quickly snapped closed. *Enough of this, Jean-Luc Picard,*
she thought.
Without a trace of hesitation, she leaned over and kissed him softly on
the lips, ignoring
how he twitched in surprise. "I'm going to go now, Jean-Luc. I'll see you
in the morning."
She placed another kiss on his forehead and whispered, more gently this
time. "Good
night, Jean-Luc. I love you."
	He waited until she left to allow the tears to flow.

	He was released from sickbay two days later. As they entered his
quarters
together, Beverly looked around one final time to make sure everything was
all right.
There was no indication that anything had ever happened in there. The
rooms had been
"Jean-Luc-proofed," as Beverly privately referred to it. The decorative
weapons and
artifacts had been carefully placed in storage containers and stored in
Beverly's quarters.
Everything breakable or harmful was stored. The liquor supply had also
been locked in
Beverly's quarters, and the replicator had been programmed to only accept
food,
non-alcoholic drink, and cosmetic item requests from Jean-Luc Picard. Add
to that the
fact that he was to be with someone 24 hours a day, and was locked in the
cabin from the
moment he stepped foot in it, and Beverly felt reasonably sure he couldn't
hurt himself
again. 
	He didn't seem to notice or care when the doors closed behind them
and the sound
of the computer securing the doors clicked loudly in the silent rooms.
Instead, he walked
into the bedroom and into the bathroom without a word. Beverly heard the
shower
running a minute later, and noted the time he went in there, feeling like
a jail warden and
hating it.
	He emerged about fifteen minutes later, just moments before
Beverly was about to
come in after him. He had changed into a pair of loose black pants and a
gray shirt, and
she noted that he still hadn't shaved. His beard was going on a week old,
and she
suspected, as did Deanna, that he was hiding behind it, much as he hid
behind his silence. 
	Since he had awakened, they had only been able to get a handful of
words out of
him at any one time. Deanna had said that he was still struggling with
himself, trying to
hold on to any semblance of control. She thought that his reticence
towards speaking was
an effort to help maintain that control, that by saying too much he could
once again lose
control. Beverly shuddered at the thought.
	He sat down listlessly on the couch and stared across the room,
his arms crossed
tightly against his chest, a bored, resigned look on his face.
	Beverly tried to sound cheerful. "I was just going to fix some
lunch. What would
you like, soup or a sandwich?" She'd had to resort to child psychology in
dealing with him.
If she were to ask him what he wanted, he'd say nothing. This way, if she
offered him a
couple of specific choices, he was more likely to pick one, rather than
nothing at all.
Sometimes it worked, sometimes it didn't.
	He didn't say anything for a long moment, but finally sighed.
"Soup," he muttered,
and she gave a silent prayer of thanks. 
	
	They ate lunch, Beverly talking, Jean-Luc listening in between
unenthusiastic bites
of vegetable stew. "I have to go to sickbay for a while this afternoon, so
Deanna will be
here until I get back. You have a counseling session, remember?"
	It was happening again. His hand was visibly shaking as he fought
the urge to slam
the spoon to the table. Instead, he let it go, and it clattered on the
table. "I don't need a
baby-sitter, Beverly," he whispered tightly through clenched teeth.
	Beverly saw his struggle to remain in control. She fought back the
flash of fear that
shot through her and tried to keep her voice level. "I just don't want
anything to happen to
you, that's all."
	Before she knew it, he was up and standing next to her, the knife
that she had used
on her lunch in his hand. She knocked her chair over in her haste to get
out of it and back
away. He remained where he was. "If I wanted something to happen to me, I
could do it
right now!" he hissed. "And there wouldn't be anything you or anyone else
here could do
to stop me." Then, as quickly as he had grabbed it, he dropped the knife
back on the table
and stepped away. "But since I don't plan on trying to kill myself or
anyone else again, that
should say something." With that, he turned on his heel and stalked into
the bedroom, and
the door slid closed behind him.

	Beverly didn't see him again until she returned from a brief stint
in sickbay. She'd
sent Deanna home after talking to her for a little while. While she
wouldn't reveal what
had been said during her counseling session with the captain, she did say
that he was
slowly coming around. Beverly sincerely hoped she was right. Unbeknownst
to Deanna,
however, Beverly had a plan to get her Jean-Luc back . . . That is, if it
didn't drive him
completely over the edge once and for all.
	She managed to talk him into going to the holodeck with her after
dinner. Not that
he had all that much choice as she tugged him down the corridors, her arm
tucked firmly
in his. 
	After a quick glance at the holodeck control panel, Beverly
confirmed that her
program was already running, and another quick glance at Jean-Luc
confirmed that he
didn't notice. 
	They stepped inside the blank, gridded room, and the doors slid
shut behind them.
As they did so, the red alert klaxon blared. "Red alert. All crew to
battlestations. Senior
officers, report to the bridge immediately."
	Jean-Luc made a move toward the doors, then halted, remembering
that he was
relieved of duty. He looked pleadingly at Beverly. She shook her head. "I
have to get to
the bridge, Jean-Luc. Maybe it would be best if you returned to your
quarters." After
giving him a quick peck on the cheek, Beverly hurried out of the room,
leaving a seething
starship captain in her wake.
	*To hell with medical orders. This is my ship, and I belong on the
bridge. If they
try to throw me off my own bridge, they'll have a fight on their hands,*
he thought
viciously. 
	As he stormed through the ship, he was almost thrown off his feet
several times as
the ship jolted violently beneath him. He gratefully stepped into the
turbolift and called out
anxiously, "Main Bridge."
	"Captain Jean-Luc Picard is not cleared for bridge access at this
time," came the
uncaring voice of the ship's computer.
	"WHAT!!!" he screamed in outrage. "I'm the goddamn captain! I need
to get to
the bridge!"
	The turbolift remained as it was, and the ship continued to
shudder. He was about
to launch a fist into the control panel when he was seized by inspiration.
"Main
Engineering," he called out through clenched teeth. Thankfully, the
computer put up no
further argument, and the `lift began to hum its way silently through the
ship.
	It came to a stop a minute later and deposited him outside the
doors to
Engineering. As he stepped inside the expansive, cavernous room, engineers
hurried back
and forth, calling out orders and requests frantically. It was at that
moment he heard the
words he had never wanted to hear again. "Shields are down. The Borg are
boarding!"
	He slipped quickly back out of the room, his mind reeling. *Not
again. Not my
ship. Please, not again...* And the rage returned. He made his way back to
the turbolift
and from there, to the ship's armory. He'd had to manually input Beverly's
access code to
get into the room, and, once he was inside, he armed himself for bear. 
	Blinded by thoughts of revenge and anger, he moved
indiscriminately through the
ship. Each Borg brought down by his high-powered phaser rifle was another
stitch on his
deeply wounded soul. Each Borg that fell in a shower of mechanical sparks
was a soothing
balm to his mangled psyche. 
	He let the rage control him, fuel his fire as it had for so long
now as he stepped
onto a transported platform and beamed himself onto the bridge, thereby
bypassing the
turbolift system. 
	The bridge, his bridge, was full of Borg. The senior staff was
nowhere to be found,
and he was grateful. 
	The Borg turned as one to fix an appraising gaze on him. As one,
they rose to
approach him. It was the last thing they did. As he took them down, one by
one, it never
occurred to him that they hadn't adapted. All that mattered was that they
were here, he
was here, and he was killing them, one by one.
	After a few minutes, the bridge was silent. The whine of the
phaser fire, the
crackling of severed Borg circuits, and the thud of bodies falling sounded
no more. He
walked slowly to the center of the bridge, stopping just in front of his
chair. 
	It was over.
	Until he heard a voice call out behind him, "Computer, freeze
program."
	The bridge panels froze, the klaxon silenced, and the lights
stopped flickering. He
spun around, rifle in hand. 
	Beverly walked steadily towards him, and, once in front of him,
laid a hand on his
arm. "Jean-Luc?" she asked, quietly, yet worried.
	His chest was heaving and his heartbeat was thundering in his
ears. The sound of
the rifle hitting the deck was just another addition to the cacophony of
his mind. His body
slid slowly downward, and he was barely aware of his knees coming to rest
on the deck.
	"Computer, end program and delete." As the scene of carnage faded
into familiar
gold-on-black grids, Beverly slid down to the floor next to Picard.
"Jean-Luc, it's over.
Look at me."
	His eyes slowly came up to meet hers. The rage was gone. The
madness was gone.
All that was left was an overwhelming feeling of emptiness and regret. He
began to shake,
and his body was soon consumed by racking sobs.
	Beverly's arms slid around him, pulling her to him, cradling him,
murmuring words
of comfort as the man she loved found healing in her arms. It would be a
long time, she
knew, before this was behind him. But he had now taken the first steps
towards healing.
An act of hate had brought him here, and an act of love would bring him
home.
	For Beverly Crusher and Jean-Luc Picard, it was all they needed.

The End

****^****^****^****^****^****^****
"You!!! Out of the gene pool!!!

---saying from a license plate frame
****^****^****^****^****^****^****