Chapter Text
Seven of Nine knows she does not experience fear.
She is Borg.
Yet all she feels is a distinct sensation of dread, her heart sinking with each step she takes into the brig.
If this is not fear, then what is it?
She takes a deep breath and straightens her shoulders, trying to compose herself. The debate can wait until Commander Tuvok recovers, and she cannot afford to leave this task neglected.
Neelix had volunteered, of course, but she had asserted that she was the most suited for the assignment, having both the expertise and the capability to handle its potential dangers, something which Commander Chakotay agreed with.
The guard on duty nods at her and resumes his watch from a respectful distance, leaving her face to face with the drone.
Tainted brown eyes meet hers, and she feels as if she’s been slapped in the face.
She first saw the drone, briefly, after the away team returned from the cube, after being called by security to help contain the threat. Amidst the chaos, she had no time to let emotions cloud her judgement, no time to let a broken heart dictate her actions.
Unlike the present.
She’s met with her fair share of unpleasant surprises over the years, all of which she’s managed to solve with her abilities and Voyager’s resources at her disposal.
But this is the first time she genuinely has no idea how to proceed, despite having been through this very nightmare.
She feels fearful.
The drone, who had been studying her in silence, tilts her head. Then she speaks.
“You are Borg.”
Seven stiffens.
“I am Seven of Nine, Tertiary Adjunct of Unimatrix Zero One.”
She doesn’t want to voice out her next question, knowing what the answer will be, but she knows what she must do.
“State your designation.”
“Two of Twelve, Primary Adjunct of Unimatrix Four Seven.” The drone’s voice is mechanical, void of emotion. Void of life.
“No,” Seven’s voice breaks. “You are B’Elanna Torres, daughter of Miral.”
“That designation is irrelevant,” the drone intones. “We are Borg.”
“You are half-Human, half-Klingon. An individual.” She remembers how determined, how desperate Captain Janeway had been when she was in B’Elanna’s place, trying to remind her of her humanity, and wishes she had the captain’s strength to do the same; that she was by her side, knowing the right thing to do.
Yet Captain Janeway is still in a critical condition, lying in a coma in sickbay, with Commander Chakotay taking up the burdens of command and Lieutenants Paris and Kim knee-deep in repairs.
She’s in this alone.
But Voyager would not be able to survive the journey to the Alpha Quadrant without its chief engineer, and increasingly, she thinks, neither would she.
“A hybrid of Species 5008 and Species 5618,” B’Elanna states, completely oblivious to her passionate overtures. “This unit would make an excellent drone with its intellect and strength.” Her eyes narrow almost accusingly. “And yet, we have been severed from the Collective.”
“You are B’Elanna Torres,” Seven insists harshly, not knowing how else to make her remember. “You were born in the Alpha Quadrant, joined the Maquis, became a member of this crew after the Caretaker pulled you into the Delta Quadrant. You are an engineer, a warrior, an individual.”
She stares into B’Elanna’s dark eyes, into her soul, knowing that she’s still there, trapped in a web of deception.
“Voyager is your collective.”
Her plea parallels the words she once said to Captain Janeway, which still echo in her very being.
Voyager is her family.
B’Elanna is family.
But all she receives in response is an unmoved stare from the hijacked body of a woman she cannot bear to live without.
“Irrelevant.” B’Elanna takes a step towards her. “You are flawed, lacking perfection without the Collective. Your attempts at appealing to this drone will fail.”
She’s suddenly aware of how shallow her breathing has become, and looks away, breaking eye contact.
“You show fear, irrelevant human emotions. You fear perfection. Explain.”
She closes her eyes, tries to catch her breath, but fails. She should have read up more on how to assist former Borg, how to help victims of trauma, and yet she didn’t, believing she had sufficient experience.
It was a mistake.
She forces herself to look at the drone, at B’Elanna, one last time. “I will return tomorrow. Good night.”
Not waiting for a reply, she turns away and leaves, her heart and soul numb.