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“But doesn’t it bother you? The whole ‘gender’ debacle.“
Data set down his instruments patiently and ducked back out of the Jeffries tube, fixing his prisoner with a perpetually calm gaze.
“I am not capable of being ‘bothered’ by anything. Although, it is worth noting that were I capable, I will remind you this is the third time I have found you out of your quarters. I’m afraid I will have to ask you to return.”
“Eu-uuuugh. Spare me your Academy memorized drivel.”
A raven-haired woman in an admiral’s uniform observed Data from a distance. Rolling her large brown eyes, her face contorted in a near-adolescent look of malaise.
Were she not striking enough already by virtue of position (as there was no registered admiral on board), her cover as a normal crew member was blown by the fact she was floating upside-down four feet in the air.
It wasn’t her fault, anyhow.
Q could never resist a flambouyant accesory.
Levitation was very in in the continuium.
She drifted, lazily, examining her nails.
“Oh, come now. We both know these silly regulations are a pleasentry.
I am a bird, Luitenant Commander; I am born to fly.
I am a dolphin, born to play.
I am infinite.
I cannot be contained by your third class suites and small, complimentary Starfleet regulation citrus scented guest soaps.
You can dress up a prison any way you like. I know well enough I’m not welcome here, I’m just being tolerated as long a Jean Luc needs me. And then I’m to be discarded. Like, what is the phrase. A thurppeny whore.”
She swooned melodramatically, turned a sommersalt in the air and landed gracefully on her feet. Brushing off imaginary dust from her shoulders and striaghtening her uniform in a certifiably Piccard-like fashion.
“No matter.
Q batted her eyelashes. Data waited patiently to make sure she was finished.
“You are violating the rules of the treaty made between you and the captain. The terms by which you have been allowed to come aboard were designated between you and himself, I am simply required to enforce them. If you do not return to your quarters, I will be forced to alert him-”
“–You know you haven’t said a word about my new form. You’re a brute. you know that? You’ve no eye for aestheic. Look, see how bountiful my ample busom is. The gentle swell of my supple thigh. Are you not impressed? I’ve known it to be customary among female humans to expect praise upon changing their appearance.”
Q gave a presentational little twirl. Tossed her hair.
Data’s brow furrowed. “I believe the compliments you are endeavoring to obtain would constitute workplace harassment. Many female crewmates whom I consider my friends, including Dr. Crusher, Counsellor Troi, and other women I consider knoweldgable in human nature, have informed me that the idea that human women appreciate being sexualized is a common misconception.”
He cocked an eyebrow sagely.
“It is also against Starfleet regulation to comment on fellow crewmember’s body or appearance unless it is in violation of dress code. So, if I were to acknowledge your outfit at all, I would first have to touch upon your impersonation of a higher officer, as well as the fact that your hair is not properly secured out of the way of your face as per–”
“–Alright, I yield I yield.” Q raised a manicured hand. “Honestly, I must say I thought you’d understand. We two being inherently genderless as we are. Beyond the concept of sex based dimorphic designation–”
“Again, I must disagree with you. I have a gender. I am male, and employ the pronouns he and him when being referred to.”
Q’s whipcrack smile tapered off slightly. Peturbed by being interrupted mid-monologue.
“Well, sure, fine. Potato tomato, my automated friend. But you did select that designation yourself. You were not born with an identity.”
“Medically speaking, no creature is born with an identity,” Data interjected knowledgeably. “–at least by our 24th century standards.”
“-well, YES, obviously. But, for heaven’s sake-”
The sheer pragmatism of this discussion was visibly grating on Q, a being so used to pure chaos and unquestioned universal omniscience.
“You and I.” She clapped to punctuate the statements. “Us. We are alike. We are beings of limitless potential. I, a child of the universe itself, birthed unto the continuium as the mercurial observer of the mortal plane. You, child of man’s infinite curiosity and pursiut of technlogical marvels. Limited only by the speed at which the wheel of progress turns, and you- you-”
Q gesticulated emphatically at Data’s still form.
“You are the conduit of your own creation! The very fabric of your construct rests in your own hands! And you choose to be limited by the knuckle-dragging spittle-dribbling ape-descended concept of gender and presentation?!”
There was a moment Data seemed to contemplate this. A moment of unmistakeable mechanical nature, as he tilted his head ever so slightly, so that one could almost hear the servos turn.
“Yes.”
Q’s hands flopped down. She heaved a massive sigh, and massaged her temples.
“An incomperable shame. To see such a beautiful opportunity, polluted by meaningless Human social constructs.”
Data gave a miniscule shrug. “You are entitled to your opinion. Seeing as I have selected a gender I am comfortable with, I suppose I have not considered questioning my identity.”
“Mm…” There was something devious flickering in Q’s face. More than usual. Which was saying something. “…and I suppose you think that decision is… irreversable.” She flexed her long fingers.
“Not irreversable, but it is my preference.” Data slowly knelt back down next to the Jeffries tube. He paused while reaching for the toolbox.
“-And I do not give my consent to have my form transformed or altered.”
Q blinked and slowly lowered her fingers, from where they had been poised to snap. She looked slightly deflated.
“…Not even a little bit? It’s awfully fun.” She gave her chest an experimental shimmy. “Just think of the zany, formative hijinks! Sexual experimentation. Everyone learns a lesson about love, feminism, bodily autonomy. Educational and informative!”
Data didn’t look up from comparing two sizes of interphasic coil spanner.
“You have stated I am the conduit of my own creation. In respect of this, if you admire this trait so much, you must reasonably permit me, then, to create.”
...
Very few universal forces were capable of lulling Q into silence.
Of the few times it had managed to occur in the infinite span of history, they each had a particular pall.
The one time Q had tried the silent treatment on Piccard (it had backfired tremendously), that had been a pronounced, haughty silence.
When Q had tried performing a one-being rendition of every Klingon poetic opera for the entertainment of the continuum, and Petunia had threatened to transport him to a timeline populated only by starving rapid Vulcan Sehlats if Q sang one more note, that could be called a silence of necessity.
But here in the privacy of the lower decks, Data was probably the sole witness of Q retreating into a sheepish silence. The resigned quiet of one who has been logically bested, and has nothing to do but contemplate.
Unseen, Q smiled fondly at the back of Data’s head.