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Seven of Nine itched appallingly as she entered the holodeck. Shoppers milled about, browsing amongst artificial potted plants and minimalist bathroom accessories. She twitched, wishing she could strip the tight silver catsuit as well as the outer layer of her recently-regenerated skin right off and hurl them at the bland simulated people around her.
Captain Janeway’s insistence that she had saved Seven crept beneath her skin as upsettingly as a Borg servo seeking a place where it could burst through like a poisonous bud and flower against her cheek, metal tines digging into her skin. She looked at the walls around her, wishing they were closer, wishing she had an excuse to scream and flee.
She needed to feel dangerous again. She needed control, hating that she couldn’t decide if it meant being controlled or claiming it for herself. She wanted rage. She needed it. “Computer,” she said, her voice practically wavering with technologically suppressed emotion, “Allow my physiology to interact with the holo characters realistically.”
The computer beeped acknowledgement.
She turned to a young man to her left and tried to summon up the voice from her nightmares, the collective rage against anything that valued the self, the voice of the Borg. “You will be assimilated. Resistance is futile.” She grabbed him by the shoulder and injected her nanoprobe tubules into his throat. As the dark veins crept up his throat and jaw, she moved to another, and then another. Each time, the pain throbbed behind her eyes a bit less. She shook her head. She needed guilt. Sorrow. These unreal phantoms couldn’t summon up those emotions. It was tearing open a doll and expecting it to blame you for the pain.
She fell against a display and sank to the ground as those around her screamed and fled.