Chaos had consumed the mighty Hathaway.

Crewmembers across the ship desperately fought for their lives. The once-harmonious corridors had become a battlefield, with each section of the ship becoming a battleground for survival. The eerie hum of Borg technology reverberated through the air, despite the lack of actual technological assimilation, serving as a chilling reminder of the crew’s worst nightmare.

Commanders and Crewmen alike frantically ran through the corridors, seeking refuge and safety. Firefights erupted in every corner of the ship, with phaser blasts illuminating the darkness. The unassimilated crewmembers, driven by a deep sense of duty, set their phasers to stun in an attempt to neutralize their former comrades without causing permanent harm. But the assimilated crewmembers showed no such restraint. They relentlessly pursued their former colleagues, their movements mechanical and devoid of any humanity. Their cold, emotionless eyes locked onto their targets, and with a single-minded determination, they unleashed phaser fire without hesitation.

Driven to the brink of survival, people formed impromptu barricades, using overturned tables and fallen debris as shields. They fought valiantly, desperately trying to protect one another and overcome the seemingly insurmountable odds. In the midst of the chaos, a group of engineers led by Commander Denen Nes had fled main engineering and were now huddled together in a maintenance access tunnel, their faces streaked with dirt and sweat. They worked feverishly to restore power to critical systems, hoping to regain control of the ship and turn the tide of battle in their favour.

Several decks away, in the medical bay, a group of doctors and nurses tended to the wounded while security tried their best to keep the Borg at bay. They skillfully patched up injuries, their hands moving with precision and determination. They fought to save lives, their commitment unwavering even in the face of imminent danger. Doctor Zinn and his Cardassian assistant stood over the lifeless body of Tharia sh’Elas, the latter placing a hypospray to the Andorian’s neck and waking her from her recovery.

There was much to discuss.

Throughout the ship, crewmembers displayed acts of utter bravery and selflessness, helping one another escape from the clutches of their assimilated comrades. They formed makeshift teams, moving in unison to secure vital areas and protect those who were unable to defend themselves. But the assimilated continued their relentless pursuit, their numbers seemingly endless. They showed no mercy, no remorse, their sole directive to eliminate all unassimilated beings. The sound of phaser fire echoed through the ship, accompanied by the anguished cries of those caught in the crossfire.

As the battle raged on, hope flickered in the hearts of the unassimilated crewmembers. They refused to surrender, fuelled by the unwavering belief that they could overcome this nightmare and restore their ship to its former glory.

In the bowels of the ship, the mess hall had become a stronghold for the unassimilated crewmembers. They fought with unwavering determination, their spirits unyielding even in the face of overwhelming odds. Led by their Captain, the gathered throng were resolved to fight for survival until the bitter end.

“Use your phasers and seal the doors shut,” Nazir decreed as she threw another chair on top of the makeshift fortress at the heart of the Starlight Lounge’s ground floor. Above her, in several locations on the upper floor, similar, much smaller defence positions were forming in order to take advantage of the high ground.

Inside the safety of the ‘fort’, Lieutenant Prida was being tended to by one of their colleagues, having been injured during their escape from the bridge. It hadn’t been pretty, with Prida joining the Captain, Commander Bachmann and the Counsellor in retreating from the command centre through the observation lounge once the assimilated on the bridge began their assault. In the chaos that ensued, the Counsellor and Bachmann had become separated from the Captain and their Bajassian friend, the latter pairing only receiving help when they united with those leading the resistance on deck three. From there, it had been a fight to get to the mess, and it had not been without casualties. Three were killed in the retreat, and Prida’s left leg was seriously injured.

“How is she?” Nazir inquired, looking at the Petty Officer who was working to prevent the loss of the woman’s leg.

“She’ll be fine,” the man responded rather unconvincingly, “if we can get her to sickbay. If not, I can’t make any promises.”

Suddenly, the sound of banging against the metal doors reverberated through the room, sending shivers down the spines of those inside. The relentless pounding of the Borg drones on the messhall doors created an eerie symphony of impending doom. With a single order from their captain, those near the doors sprinted back to the makeshift fort and hopped the crude barricades to take their position against the encroaching threat. Hands trembled with a mix of fear and adrenaline as they worked with fervour, fortifying their defences with the limited resources available. Sweat trickled down their brows as they pressed themselves against the barricades, their hearts pounding in their chests. The anticipation of the impending assault weighed heavily on all but the wounded, those unable to help.

As the Borg drones intensified their assault on the mess, the pounding became more frenzied, the metallic clang echoing through the messhall. The crew held their breath, knowing that the doors could give way at any moment. The sound seemed to reverberate deep within their souls, a constant reminder of the imminent threat lurking just beyond their defences. A nearby armoury had been raided just minutes earlier by the security team in the lounge, and they had begun dispersing phaser rifles, hand weapons, grenades, and even tricorders in the hopes that those miracle workers among them would be able to create some sort of protective forcefield between them and the drones. So far, no such luck.

The tension mounted as the banging grew louder, the doors quivering under the force of the Borg’s relentless assault. Time seemed to stretch, each second feeling like an eternity as they braced themselves for the inevitable clash.

“These are our friends, our family,” Nazir called out as she cocked her phaser rifle and perched it on the top of the barricade, pointed at the nearest set of doors. “Remember what they do here today is no fault of theirs. They are our enemy now, but in the days to come, we’ll need them, and they’ll need us. Shoot to disable, but lethal force is authorised only in extreme circumstances,” the Trill told her personal guard, looking around the faces surrounding her. “Today we fight for them, just as they would fight for us if they could.”

Then, in a deafening crescendo, the messhall doors burst open…

The Hellhounds starfighter squadron held their defensive positions, their eyes fixated on the chaos unfolding aboard Hathaway. The ship’s lights continued to flicker all across the hull, warp plasma leaking from damaged upper nacelle, and last they heard, the crew within were fighting for their lives against the relentless Borg threat. From their vantage point outside the starship, the Hellhounds could only watch helplessly, their hearts heavy with concern for their comrades.

Suddenly, a wave of silence swept through the squadron, their comms falling eerily quiet. A great sense of dread overcame all as a chilling message echoed through their internal communications, the words sending shivers down their spines: “Eliminate all unassimilated.” Horror washed over the pilots as they realized the gravity of the situation. The youngest members of the squadron, once full of youthful energy and zest, were now transformed into Borg drones. Their eyes changed to black, their once vibrant spirits now consumed by the collective hive mind.

Without hesitation, the assimilated pilots turned on their unassimilated colleagues, their starfighters transforming into instruments of destruction. The once cohesive squadron was now torn apart by a sinister force, pitting friend against friend, brother against brother.

“Break! Break! Break!”

Frantic manoeuvres filled the space as the Hellhounds desperately evaded the relentless assaults from their assimilated counterparts…

…until Hound One exploded in a ball of flame, signalling the demise of their fearless squadron leader. The first of the senior staff had fallen. But he would certainly not be the last…