For Janeway, the temporal prime directive is but a leaf on a concrete road. It is a whisper in a hurricane, drowned out by forces far beyond its control. A candle flickering in a storm, its light dimmed by the chaos around it. It stands as a sandcastle at high tide, soon to be swept away. Like a thread in the vast tapestry of fate, it holds little sway over the grander design. It is but a feather in the wind, to the whims of the Janeway.