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Coppelius
Two years from now in the aftermath of your third assimilation the silence will be what haunts you. But this time, the second time, the only time you choose to feel that euphoria hit your brain, it’s the voices that prove impossible to shake. Overlapping, crescendoing, cresting in your body like white hot waves of pain.
Later Elnor will tell you how it happened—how the interlinks retracted and you, shaking, stayed doubled over while the orchids attached themselves to the corners of the cube and dragged it into the atmosphere and left it broken and smoking on the beach. Later you will wonder how they survived the impact—how any of you survived the impact—but the xBs you had assimilated and dis-assimilated most of all. How, you wonder, did the linking and the severing and the severing and the severing not damage them worse than it did?
But all of that is still days away. Right now there is only the noise, the noise, the goddamn fucking noise, every voice like a live wire jammed into your brain.
You stagger outside without knowing you’re outside, register sunlight without thinking the words light or sun, suck in a breath at the same time you realize you never checked to see if the atmosphere was breathable because all you know are the voices, the voices and this perpetual pain. And the need to move. To put one foot (every foot) in front of another (all the others), to lurch forward until you’re falling to your knees.
Seconds or minutes or hours or days later, you feel a hand on your shoulder, another cupping your elbow, strong arms—and gentle—holding you back from the waves.
You surface and register sunlight skittering across water, suck in a breath and feel the sand slurried on your wrists, exhale and sense the ground sinking beneath you, washing out and out and out with the waves. You blink. Shudder. Fight to keep your head above the voices. Go down again and again and again.
“Seven,” someone—one voice—says, and you blink and register the person in front of you. Long black hair. Slanted brows. Kind eyes. Something tugs at you, insistent as the waves. Are you going to assimilate me now?
“I—” you start, but that word isn’t right. “We—” but that word too is wrong.
“It’s okay,” Elnor says. “You’re safe. The Queen let you go.”
He pulls you to your feet and brushes the sand off your knees, cups his hands in the waves and rinses your palms. You watch, and as he bends for the third time, something catches your eye.
Nine letters, three words, over and over, up and down the shoreline.
We are Borg
We are Borg
We are Borg
We are Borg
We are Borg
We are Borg
We are Borg
As Elnor leads you up the beach and into the smoking belly of the cube, you look back. See high tide lapping, letters dissolving slowly, inexorably
We are
We are
We are
We
A long fucking time ago, too soon after Jay
She doesn’t usually mess with new recruits, but something about this one gives her pause. For one thing, she’s older than most new faces the Rangers attract. For another, she’s got that air about her. A set to her shoulders and lift to her chin that Seven can spot five miles away.
“Starfleet,” one Ranger mutters, hunching over their hasperat. “I fucking hate Starfleet.”
“Can’t be picky these days, Arlo,” another chides.
Across the room, the woman orders something from the replicator, carries the bowl to an empty table, and settles herself into the chair with balletic grace.
“Lot more officers jumping ship these days,” a third voice chimes in.
“I heard even Picard quit.”
“Damn. That’s how you know it’s bad.”
Arlo swallows the last of their hasperat and shoves the plate across the table. “I still hate Starfleet,” they grumble before standing and stalking out the room.
“Don’t mind them,” the third Ranger says, rolling her eyes. “Their brother died in the Maquis massacre back in ’73.”
Seven doesn’t say anything, just sips her drink.
Something about the woman tugs at her gaze. It isn’t hard to guess why—Seven doesn’t need to be a therapist to pick apart her own mind. Her fascination is, if anything, predictable. And she hates being predictable. Predictability got Icheb killed. It’s what made her such an easy target for Jay.
But mostly Seven hates that even now, years after she turned her back on the Alpha Quadrant, Starfleet still beckons to her like a siren whose song she can’t help but hear.
On the third day, the last before they arrive on Fenris, a shadow falls across her lap. Seven looks up from her padd.
“Can I help you?”
“That’s my line,” the woman quips, sinking onto the worn-down couch. “You’ve been staring at me for days.”
Seven blushes.
The woman holds out a drink. “Bourbon,” she explains when Seven gives a questioning look. “What? You think you’re the only one who watches?”
Seven presses her lips together but accepts the glass.
“Kind of chilly, isn’t it?”
“We keep the common areas cool because—”
“I’m not talking about the environmental controls,” the woman smiles. “Barely anyone’s talked to me since I boarded. It’s downright frosty in here.”
Seven hesitates, then catches herself hesitating and thinks what the hell. “It’s the Starfleet. They can smell it on you.”
“Ah.” The woman curls one foot beneath her and plants the other on the couch. When her elbow comes to rest on her knee, fingers dangling, she projects an air of relaxation. With her smile, the pose is jaunty and very un-Starfleet, but Seven gets the sense that for her it’s second nature. “I should have known it wouldn’t be as simple as taking off the uniform.”
Seven shrugs and sips her drink. “They’ll come around. You just have to go through a little hazing first.”
The woman tilts her head. “Are you speaking from experience? Or as someone who does the hazing?”
“Both, I guess.” Seven feels her lips quirk into a smile, the first she’s flashed in weeks. “I’m Seven.”
“Nice to meet you,” the woman says. “I’m Bev.”
Coppelius
The way to come back to yourself after assimilation is through the body. One body, your body, primarily through its pain.
It’s too soon to be doing any of what you’re doing. You burn yourself more than once on the sparking consoles. Strain your back hauling a dead guard into the room you have designated as a grave. You can feel Elnor watching you, still cloaked in deep concern, but you ignore him. Just reach for the next body, the next blackened panel, the next jolt of pain.
The thing you can’t explain is that the pain brings you back to yourself.
The thing you can’t explain is that you know this is a temporary solution.
The thing you can’t explain is that temporary solutions are all you have to get through the day.
By the time Picard arrives, you’ve come back to yourself enough to speak. To explain to him, in words, the linking and the severing, to satisfy his wonder and curiosity as to how your surroundings went from being the Artifact to a hulking ruin on the beach.
He doesn’t stay long—just enough to ask you to do more shit for him the way you’re beginning to suspect he always goddamn does—and then he’s gone.
You’re annoyed, and that is small comfort, to be able to feel that hitch in your shoulders, that too-tight fist around your chest. The collective was never big on emotions. It’s a sign that you’re moving closer to yourself.
Still, you hold your hands behind your back for a long time after he leaves.
A long fucking time ago, still too soon after Jay
“Have you ever kept a journal?”
Seven, usually so good at schooling her expression, grimaces long enough that Ezri notices even over long-distance comms.
“I kept personal logs on Voyager and did not enjoy the experience.”
“I’m not talking about personal logs,” Ezri says, scratching her nose. Her hobby this month appears to be gardening, if the oversized straw hat and dirt-smudged spots are any indication. “I’m talking about writing.”
Seven sighs. “I am not a creative person.”
“Journaling isn’t creative writing. I mean, it can be a creative outlet if you want it to be. But the kind I’m talking about is therapeutic.”
“Explain.”
“Do you remember what we talked about in our last session?”
“You spoke of narrative and its importance in healing from trauma.”
“Right. Thanks to science, we know that an essential part of the recovery process is being able to tell the story of what happened to us. Also thanks to science, we know that writing can help us construct that narrative.”
“You think that if I write about what happened to Icheb it will help me move on from his death?”
“I think it will help you get to a place where you feel comfortable contacting your family.”
“I do not have family.”
“Your Voyager family.”
Seven firms her lips into a line.
“Look.” Ezri stabs her trowel into the dirt and clasps her arms around her knees. “You said yourself that you’ve avoided contacting them because you don’t know how to explain what happened to Icheb. You also said you had someone report his death to Starfleet, and that he listed the Wildmans as his next of kin. That means that—at the very least—Naomi knows about his death. Probably everyone does. And yet you continue to isolate yourself from them.”
“Your point.”
“My point,” Ezri says gently, “is that humans need support to heal. You’ve cut yourself off from that support because you don’t know how to explain what happened. Writing about it might help.”
Seven looks away from the holoscreen and blinks.
“Have you ever heard of Joan Didion? Earth author, a bit obscure for 24th century tastes, but pretty famous in her heyday. She has this line—‘We tell ourselves stories in order to live.’ You’re already telling yourself stories about what happened, Seven. It’s just that they’re all jumbled up in your head. Writing will help you externalize them. That’s the first step.”
Coppelius
You try not to stay inside the Artifact for long stretches of time, especially after Elnor leaves. Everything is still so junked up inside you. It’s easier to steady yourself out here on the beach.
It’s sunset, which on Coppelius also means first moonrise. The horizon is awash in a red so saturated that it’s hard to look away. It’s been too long since Elnor left and three hours since you killed Narissa and who-knows-how-many days since the crash. You’ve tried your best to help the xB survivors, but you’re a shipwreck of the person you used to be.
A breeze ripples through your hair and you tip your chin to the sky, breathe deep. The salt hits the back of your throat and you swallow. Your split lip stings.
“Seven of Nine.”
You tear your eyes from the crimsoned horizon and focus on the woman in front of you. Daya, 29, xB, Orion, long green hair blowing in the breeze.
“I need a minute. Two, maybe three.”
“I am not here to ask for assistance. I am here to release you.”
“Release me?”
“Of your obligation to the xBs.”
You swallow and blink and it’s not just your lip that stings.
“Do not argue,” Daya says. “I speak on behalf of all of us. You are free.”
“I’m sorry. I shouldn’t—”
“You did what you had to do.”
“Hugh would have—”
“Seven of Nine,” Daya repeats, and this time her hand lands on your shoulder. “Your work here is done. Be free.”
A long fucking time ago
Beverly finishes testing the mended ankle’s range of motion and taps the kid on their dirt-smudged nose. “There,” she says, stowing the osteoregenerator, “Good as new and no permanent damage. Though next time I’d advise checking the battery packs on your antigrav boots before you jump out of the tree.”
The kid nods and flashes a gap-toothed smile before dashing out of the tent.
“All right,” Beverly says, standing and motioning Seven toward the stool. “Your turn.”
Seven opens her mouth to protest, but Beverly shakes her head.
“I don’t care where you got that phaser burn or how many days old it is, it isn’t going to heal itself. Sit.”
Seven presses her lips together but complies.
“You know,” Beverly says, “for someone who only makes it to this planet once every couple months, you’re in my med bay an awful lot.”
Seven drapes her jacket across her legs and peels off her sweater, wincing as the fabric roughs across her damaged skin. “I could always go back to self-administered first aid.”
“Absolutely not.” Beverly brushes Seven’s hair over her uninjured shoulder with one hand while her other rummages through her supplies. “You’re the worst field medic I’ve ever seen. Remind me to teach you a few tricks before you jump back into the fray.”
Seven huffs out a laugh and then stiffens as Beverly begins to debride the wound.
“Sorry. I forgot the anesthetic. Here, tilt your head.”
“I don’t need it. Save it for the people who do.”
Beverly sighs. “Fine. But I’m not skimping on the antiseptic. Nanoprobes can’t be expected to handle every germ you encounter. Especially in Romulan refugee camps.”
Seven disagrees but doesn’t argue, just tilts her head so Beverly can press the hypospray to her neck.
“So how’s therapy going?”
“That’s kind of a personal question.”
“I’m your doctor. Personal questions are my line of work.”
“It’s going.”
“You don’t sound convinced.”
“Ezri is…eccentric.”
“Nine lifetimes will do that to you. Also, you shot down my first suggestion on account of her being an empath.”
“I am grateful for the assistance,” Seven amends. “And I’m sure she’s an excellent counselor for some. But for me, her methods seem…questionable.”
Beverly switches on the dermal regenerator. “Questionable how?”
Her hand settles firmly against the base of Seven’s neck, and Seven leans into it, lets her damaged shoulder relax as the regenerator does its job. “She wants me to start journaling. She thinks it will help.”
“And you aren’t convinced?”
“She sent me some studies. The science behind them is sound.”
“But?”
“But it feels indulgent.”
“A little indulgence never hurt anyone.”
A little indulgence gets people killed, Seven thinks but doesn’t say. “Stories can be weaponized. There’s a reason I don’t talk about Ich—” Her voice snags and she clears her throat. “About what happened.”
Beverly switches off the regenerator. “Then don’t keep the record. Erase the logs after they’re recorded. Burn the pages. Or recycle them. Do what you need to do to get the words out, then move on.”
She skims her hands across Seven’s shoulder. Her touch is warm and light. Seven knows she’s checking her work, but her chest threatens to split at the tenderness of the gesture. Her skin feels too small for her body, stretched thin and tight across her frame.
“Lift your arm for me, straight ahead,” Bev says. “Now up. Now out to the side. Now behind. Now shrug.”
Seven follows the instructions, then shakes her head when asked if she feels any pain.
“Good.” Beverly gathers Seven’s hair and sweeps it back over her shoulder. “I like the new hairstyle,” she says, hand resting lightly on her bicep. “Looks good on you.”
“Thank you,” Seven murmurs, wondering if it’s obvious that she’s copied Beverly’s style. Probably not—her hair is shorter, shinier, and barely brushes her shoulders, whereas Seven’s falls down her back in gentle waves. She started wearing it loose after they met though. After they struck up a tentative friendship once it became clear that their paths would keep crossing, whether they orchestrated it or not.
Outside the tent, it’s started raining again, promising another day of clouds and cold. Beverly’s hands still rest on her shoulders, warm and light and steady and soft. She thinks of the last time they saw each other—a few days after Seven’s first session with Ezri. Beverly had asked if she’d contacted Tom and B’Elanna yet, and Seven said no.
Have you ever heard of the phrase ‘you can’t drink from an empty well’? Beverly asked. It means you’ve only got so much to give before you need to receive.
It would be so easy to turn around. To bury her face in Beverly’s torso and wrap her arms around her waist. To request just a little of the affection that she craves.
But then Bev stirs and steps away. “Think about the journaling,” she says. “I did something similar when my husband died. It helped.”
Coppelius
“Wow,” the voice drawls, “I knew the comm situation was dire, but I didn’t know we’d resorted to the Pony Express.”
You look up. “What?”
“Your letter.” Raffi unwraps a finger from her cup of tea and points. “Been for-fucking-ever since I saw someone handwrite one of those.”
“It’s not a letter.”
“Don’t tell me it’s a shopping list.”
You stare blankly for a moment, and then her lips twitch up. “It’s a joke, Seven. Or it was supposed to be. Apparently I’m rusty. Need to work on my routine.”
You rub your forehead and sigh. “I’m sorry—it’s been a shit few days.”
Raffi huffs a laugh and pushes herself off the doorframe. “Tell me about it.” She tilts her head toward the seat beside you. “Mind if I join?”
You shake your head.
“So if it’s not a letter and it’s not a shopping list—what the hell else has you writing on paper in 2399?”
You blush to the roots of your hair and stare hard at the table. “It’s…I’m journaling. Or trying to. It’s something my therapist has me do. After, you know. A traumatic event.”
Raffi takes a long sip of her tea. “I tried therapy once. Back in the day. Now I just drink and smoke and scribble in the margins of books.”
“Therapy’s a load of shit,” you say, and that seems to startle her. She studies you for a minute and then her lips spread into a heavy-lidded smile.
“Yeah?”
“Yeah,” you sigh. “Until it’s not.”
Raffi gestures toward the paper. “Looks like you’re solidly in load of shit territory.”
You stare at the handful of words you’ve written—subject, object, adverb, preposition, verb ending in -ing. Not even narrative. Just useless grammatical terms.
“It’s hard,” you say, surprising yourself. “Coming out of the link. Language isn’t necessary in the collective. Everyone just…”
“Thinks?”
You shake your head. “No. Not that. Drones never think.”
“I know,” Raffi says, and now her voice is gentle. “But you weren’t a drone.”
You shudder, just once. But it’s enough for her to see. “I’m sorry,” she says, swinging one leg over the bench. “I shouldn’t have bothered you. I’ll leave.”
“No!”
She looks down, and you’re startled to see your fingers wrapped around her wrist. You loosen your grip, though not without effort.
“Please,” you say, looking down and smoothing your hands across your thighs in an attempt to compose yourself. “I like talking to you. It helps me feel…more me.”
Raffi seems to consider that for a moment, then nods. “Okay.”
You watch as she settles back into her seat, long strong hands curled around her now-cold tea. Her eyes are rimmed red, the skin beneath them puffy, and you wonder if you should ask about Picard. But then she’s looking at you, bold and bare and hopeful, and there’s just so much right there in her gaze.
“So,” she says (and your eyes are focused on her lips now, though as she shifts and leans forward, your gaze jumps to the curve of her bicep, the way her skin seems to catch and hold the light of a thousand suns) “tell me more.”
“About what?”
“About everything,” she says, splaying the fingers of one hand wide. “But let’s start with the basics. Like that part where you said talking to me makes you feel more you—was that a general you, or a Raffi-specific you? Because if it’s the latter, I’ve got a hell of a lot more questions.”
Two years from now in the aftermath of your third assimilation the silence will be what haunts you. But then—as now—it will be Raffi’s voice that breaks the barrier. Raffi who brings you crashing back into your self.