Panic gripped him, an overwhelming sense of danger and urgency sparked a rush of adrenaline that heightened his senses and set his heart pounding in his chest. He had to move, he had to flee now. But to where?

The corridor around him felt impossibly wide, the stark, grey metal walls offered no recess to hide and the harsh lighting eliminated any cover that darkness could offer. Coldness stabbed at his throat and chest when he took a breath. Forward or backward, those were the only options, but what lay behind him? A glance around revealed only the same corridor, just as indistinct as the one before him. He must have come from somewhere, but memory failed him, as though he just came to be at that spot where he mustn’t stay.

A sharp pain above his right knee captured all of his attention when he tried to propel himself forwards and the motion quickly degraded to a few hops and a limping stagger as he instinctively spared the defective limb. A cry had escaped his lips before he’d been able to consciously suppress it to a pained groan. The residual ache from his leg was joined by aches from his ribs and back as he reached out to steady himself against the wall.

He tried to regain control of his breathing. The pain and anxiety had made his breaths rapid, and shallow. He fought back his instincts and took a moment to look for options. One of the doors that dotted the corridor was only a few more steps along the wall. It hadn’t felt far enough away to facilitate his escape but perhaps now it offered a place to hide, to get out of sight, and to plan his next move.

Limping along, taking care not to aggravate his apparent injuries too much, he activated the door control accidentally as he used the wall for support. He froze and held his breath, cursing himself for his carelessness, but nothing came out and no one apprehended him. Without further delay, he hobbled into the anonymous darkness that lay beyond.

He allowed himself a long, gentle sigh of relief only to be met with the stench of his new hiding place. Old stale urine accompanied by what he thought was feces assaulted his nose but there was something else, something that smelt like decay. Without realizing it, he had taken a step backward and felt the ridges of the doorframe dig into his back.

Lights blinked and flickered. Most failed but the couple that remained on were enough to cast a dim light over the horror that shared the space with him. Bodies. Piles of them.

A weak groan could be heard, twisting his stomach into a knot. Some of them were still alive. He made himself look at the closest pile. Humans. Every one of them had some kind of trauma. Flesh was swollen, bruised, and lacerated. Many were missing digits or even entire limbs. A few were burned, seriously but not extensively. The bottom of the piles were made up of junk. The cracked surfaces and protruding, severed wires indicated that whatever the devices used to be, they were now garbage. Garbage with people on top.

The panic returned sharply as the realization dawned that these people were garbage. Some of the injuries could have been accidents but some were clearly the result of beatings. Instead of taking them for medical treatment, they were apparently just discarded here when they could no longer work. 

Grey sat bolt upright in his bed with a sharp intake of breath. He checked his ribs and knees and found them to be reassuringly pain-free. The bed sheets were damp with his sweat and his heart rate was elevated.

“Computer, what is the time?” 

“Ship time is oh-four thirty hours,” the computer answered flatly.

Five hours until the scheduled meeting to go over the mission plan in detail. There was still time to get more sleep and have a decent rest.

He kicked back the damp sheets and entered the bathroom to splash a little water on his face. It felt refreshing and cool on his skin. He took a moment to stare at himself in the mirror, as though that would give him more insight into the anxiety dream. Somewhat troubled black eyes just stared back at him, unaltered by the contact lenses he normally wore to blend in with the humans.

He knew the problem all too well. Poking around in the minds of rescued slaves and refugees for intelligence had consequences. The imagery was from real memories, although none of them were his own. Starfleet Medical had procedures for handling such things, mostly used by counselors to deal with the trauma that they help others through. Those take time though, and time was a luxury he didn’t have at the moment. 

A sedative and some dry sheets should see him through for now. He promised himself he’d make time for some self-care later.