Stardate whatever.
The Klingons are attacking and my tricorder isn’t functioning.
Conjectural and anointing the furrows of my phaser blasted brow.  
There you are.
A messy image in the transporter beam.
Gleaming and swaying amongst the particles of dust.
“I’m impossible to save,” I say.
“So save yourself, this planet is about to blow.” I say again.
It seems our universal translator isn’t working.
Otherwise, you would have left me.
Trusting is the hardest part.
I’ll do without it.  
Beam me up Scotty.