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Summary
An all too familiar voice utters her name. Seven springs up as if her favorite couch had just revealed itself to be a mass of scalding Plasma. As she moves, she hopes that she's wrong, that her memories of that voice are unreliable. There is no such luck. She’d recognize those cranial ridges anywhere, the almost combative posture, the slight downturn of plump lips.
“B'elanna Torres,” she states unevenly. “What are you doing here?”
or
Seven's stay at Chateau Picard is not as restful as she hoped.