Chapter Text
Lieutenant Reginald Barclay sighed deeply, staring at the flickering holographic display in his dimly lit quarters aboard the USS Enterprise-D. The soft blue glow illuminated his face, highlighting the lines of fatigue etched from another day of feeling like an outsider. Brilliant as he was in the holodeck simulations and engineering puzzles, social graces eluded him like a cloaked vessel. His mind wandered, as it often did, to Alyssa Ogawa—Nurse Crusher’s capable assistant. She was one of the few who tolerated his stammers and awkward pauses, offering a warm smile or a gentle word during their brief encounters in sickbay or the corridors. They’d shared lunches in Ten Forward a handful of times, chatting about mundane ship life, but Barclay dreamed of more. Alyssa was nice, reserved, a soothing presence amid the chaos of starship duty.
Yet lately, something nagged at him. She’d been slipping away late at night, her shifts ending with hurried excuses. Once, during a casual visit to her quarters to return a borrowed medical scanner, he’d spotted a toolkit scattered on her desk—wrenches, probes, and a vial of shimmering lubricant that gleamed unnaturally under the lights. “Oh, that’s just for tinkering,” she’d said with a quick laugh, sweeping it into a drawer. But her eyes had darted away, and Barclay’s overactive imagination kicked in. Could she be… a Phyrexian? The biomechanical race, forged from various species through a process called “compleation” via glistening oil, was a Federation enigma. Unlike the Borg’s hive mind, Phyrexians kept their personalities, divided into five factions: the priestly Machine Orthodoxy, the innovative Progress Engine, the cunning Still Thanes, the industrious Quiet Furnace, and the feral Vicious Swarm. They ruled a cluster of star systems, their augmentations eerily similar to Borg tech—enough to make the Federation wary. Captain Picard, scarred by his assimilation as Locutus, found them particularly unsettling, though he wasn’t outright hostile.
Barclay, however, harbored a secret fascination. While most recoiled from the Phyrexians’ symmetrical, machine-infused bodies—nightmare fuel of chrome, porcelain-like flesh, and whirring mechanisms—he found them alluring, especially the women. Their forms blended organic curves with mechanical precision in a way that stirred something deep within him. He confided this only to Geordi La Forge, who nodded knowingly during a late-night engineering session. “I get it, Reg,” Geordi had said with a grin. “There’s something elegant about that fusion—art and engineering in one. But keep it quiet; not everyone’s as open-minded.” Picard, on the other hand, had once stiffened during a briefing on Phyrexian diplomacy, muttering, “They hit too close to home. Wary, yes—uncomfortable, absolutely.”
One fateful night, Barclay crept into sickbay under the cover of dimmed lights, his heart pounding. He’d left his PADD behind after a routine checkup, and retrieving it now seemed easier than facing questions in the morning. The bay was empty, save for the soft beeps of monitors. As he rounded a corner, he froze. There, hunched over a workbench in a secluded alcove, was Alyssa. But she wasn’t the Alyssa he knew. Patches of chrome metal gleamed across her skin, fusing seamlessly with her flesh. Her hair, now a sleek blackish chrome, was twisted into two upward buns, accented by angular plating that framed her face like a crown. Her hands—elongated into claw-like appendages—bristled with multi-tools: drills, scanners, and injectors that clicked and whirred as she adjusted something on her arm. To the average observer, she might evoke terror—a symmetrical biomechanical horror, more visceral than a Borg drone. To Barclay, she was breathtaking, a goddess of circuits and sinew, her form radiating an otherworldly grace.
His boot scuffed against a medical cart, sending a hypospray clattering to the floor. The noise shattered the silence.
Alyssa’s head whipped around, her eyes—glowing with an inner blue luminescence—widening in shock. “Who’s there?” she called, her voice a mix of human warmth and metallic echo. She stood, her claws retracting slightly as she approached.
Barclay stumbled back, his face flushing crimson. “A-Alyssa? I-I’m sorry! I didn’t mean to sneak in like this. I just… forgot my PADD. Over there, by the biobed. I swear, I wasn’t spying or anything!”
She paused, her augmented form casting a long shadow. Recognition dawned, and her posture softened. “Reg? Oh, stars… you weren’t supposed to see me like this.” She glanced down at herself, as if suddenly self-conscious, and waved a claw dismissively. “I should have locked the door. I’m sorry for startling you.”
Barclay’s eyes were glued to her, wide with awe rather than fear. “Y-You’re… a Phyrexian? Progress Engine, right? The chrome patterns, the tool integrations—it’s unmistakable.”
Alyssa tilted her head, her metallic buns catching the light. “How do you know about the factions? Most people just lump us all together as ‘those creepy machine people.’” She sighed, a faint whir accompanying the exhale. “Yes, Progress Engine. Progress begins, as we say. But… how are you so calm about this?”
He shifted uncomfortably, rubbing the back of his neck. “I-I’ve always found Phyrexians fascinating. I’m not one myself, but I’ve read everything I can—diplomatic reports, xenobiology scans. Your people… you’re not like the Borg. You keep who you are, right? Individuality intact.”
She crossed her arms, her claws clicking softly. “Fascinating, huh? That’s one way to put it.” A hint of vulnerability crept into her voice. “Why did I become one? It started on that away mission to Elesh Prime—remember, the one with the unstable warp core? I felt so… limited. Human. I wanted to be stronger, to learn faster, to evolve. Last shore leave, I sought out a Progress Engine enclave. The compleation… it was weird, thrilling. The oil reshaping you from the inside out—painful at first, but then empowering.”
She paused, her glowing eyes dimming slightly. “Data accidentally outed me to the captain when he scanned my new metallic implants. Picard was furious at first—‘This is too close to assimilation,’ he said. But Dr. Crusher argued I was still me, and Troi sensed no malice. So here I am, shapeshifting to blend in. High pain tolerance, durability like a bulkhead… but maintenance is a nightmare. These joints seize up without lubricant.”
Barclay nodded eagerly, stepping closer despite his nerves. “That explains the tools in your quarters. I-I didn’t mean to pry before.”
Alyssa’s form shimmered slightly, as if testing her shapeshift. Then, her expression faltered, and a tear—glistening like oil—traced down her chrome cheek. “You must think I’m ugly now. A monster, Borg-lite. Everyone does.”
“No!” Barclay blurted, his voice earnest. “That’s not true at all. Alyssa, your form… it’s beautiful. The symmetry, the way the metal integrates with your skin—it’s like a perfect fusion of art and engineering. Elegant, powerful. You’re not a monster; you’re… incredible.”
She wiped the tear away with a claw, staring at him in disbelief. “Beautiful? Reg, are you serious? Most people run screaming.” A wry smile tugged at her lips. “Wait… you’re one of those, aren’t you? The weirdo Phyrexian enthusiasts who lust after every metal gal they see?”
Barclay’s face turned beet red, and he waved his hands frantically. “N-No, it’s not like that! I mean, yes, I like Phyrexian women, but it’s deeper. You’re more approachable than humans sometimes—logical, enhanced, no judgment for awkwardness like mine. And the anatomy… the way your systems self-repair, the efficiency… it’s alluring because it’s real, not some holodeck fantasy.”
Alyssa chuckled, the sound a melodic blend of human and machine. “I get it, Reg. Your social awkwardness? I’ve noticed. It’s endearing, actually. And honestly, as a Phyrexian now, I appreciate someone who sees beyond the chrome.” She extended a claw, flexing it demonstratively. “Speaking of which, maintenance tomorrow? These joints are killing me—literally creaking. Could use a hand with the lubricant and alignments. You seem to know your way around Phyrexian anatomy.”
“I-I’d love to,” Barclay stammered, his eyes lighting up. “I’ve studied the schematics. We can calibrate the multi-tools too, if you want.”
“God, you really are a nerd,” Alyssa teased, her voice flirtatious as she shifted back to her human guise, the chrome fading into soft skin and dark hair. But her eyes still held that subtle glow. She reached out, taking his hand in hers—cool, firm, yet gentle. “Thanks, Reg. Means more than you know.”
As she walked away, her fingers lingered in his, sending a spark through him. Barclay stood there, blushing furiously, his heart a whirlwind of conflict—fear of the unknown mixed with budding joy. For once, loneliness felt a little further away.