Seven Gets More Unwanted Visitors
When Seven stumbled, exhausted, through the door of her cell and collapsed on the floor, she clasped her ears tight, trying to block the low hum of the security system.
Prison again. She could have left, but she came back. She bit back a laugh. She'd spent so many years running, from Earth, from the Borg, from Bjayzl, that being locked up almost seemed a relief.
From six years old to now, that was it. An endless cycle of kidnapping, brainwashing, Stockholm syndrome, and then, with Bjayzl, all three. Perhaps she was foolish to ever expect more.
“Why are you laughing?,” asked the robot delivering her nutritional supplement. Its word choice made her laugh even more.
“Well, warden," said Seven as she stood up and began walking around her tiny cell. "Where should I start? First, let me congratulate you on your prison cell. I’ve been in lots of boxes over the years, cubes, even, and this one's certainly up there. No one’s forcing me to assimilate anyone or make small talk with ensigns. Charming!”
The drone whirred, heating up before it replied. “I fail to see why how this is humorous.”
Seven let out a rueful chuckle. “I feel for you, I really do. When I left the collective, I also struggled with humor. Irony was particularly difficult.”
“Explain this irony,” said the robot.
“It’s hard to put into words,” Seven said, shaking her head slowly. “"Let me try an example: once upon a time, two delusional nutjobs take their four-year-old girl into deep space and lock her into a tiny ship for two years while they chase after the Borg. Then, one day, the Borg decide to chase after them, and they kidnap the little girl and lock her on their ship."
“After 18 years or so, she is kidnapped again, this time by Captain Janeway of the good ship Voyager, who pretends to care about her until they make it back to Earth. At which point our heroine is finally set free from her long series of space prisons. So here’s what’s ironic. Freedom sucks. Freedom leads to her making the worst mistakes she’s ever made. Freedom is where she learns self-harm and self-hatred and an absolutely crushing loneliness.” Seven plonked in a chair, suddenly exhausted. “An animal raised in captivity rarely survives in the wild.”
“I fail to see why this ‘irony’ is funny,” said the robot, whirring.
Seven smiles sadly. “I used to be like you,” she said.
“Doubtful,” said the robot, whirring back out of the cell.
Seven let out a heavy sigh, her eyes settling on the cold, metallic frame of the doorway. Not a great conversationalist, that robot, but better than nothing. And why did she say that about Voyager? Voyager was her home, not a prison, she knew that. But seeing it again awakened something in her. Something she thought she'd put to bed long ago. And seeing Raffi there - it was like time itself was colliding.
A sharp knock on the door interrupted her swirling thoughts.
“An organic guard,” she said brightly to the Betazed warrior standing stiffly at the door. “How novel.”
“You have a visitor.”
Raffi, Seven assumed, a spark of hope warming her heart. She followed the guard out of the cell block and into a concrete-walled interrogation room. There was one woman sitting inside - a petite woman with long-black hair and a sharp noise. Seven recognized her immediately.
“Good morning,” said the woman.
“That’s a matter of opinion,” Seven said, raising an eyebrow.
“I’m Deanna Troi,” she said once the guard left the room. She looked Seven straight in the eye, as if she was challenging her. “But you already knew that.”
“Yes,” Seven said, simply. “I assume Picard sent you.”
“Actually, no.” Deanna sat back down and crossed her legs, silently waiting.
“You’re not gonna tell me who?” Seven paced around the room but Deanna remained silent. Seven flopped down in the other chair and said nothing. Two could play at this game.
Deanna looked hard into Seven’s eyes. “The Psionics are spinning quite an interesting story about you, would you like to hear it?”
“Not particularly.”
“It’s not very good. Character Assassination 101.”
“I wasn’t aware there was much character left to assassinate.”
Deanna clasped her hands in front of her and leaned in. “I know your type.”
“Oh yeah? What’s that?”
“A marshmallow.”
Seven scoffed. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Tough and leathery on the outside, somewhat softer inside.”
“Bullshit.”
“You forget, I’m an empath,” Deanna said, softly. “And your emotions are practically screaming at me. It’s close to the surface.”
“Wow, I’m sure Picard found this malarkey really helpful on the Enterprise.”
Deanna simply smiled. “You’re not going to wound me. I can see the cuts coming.”
Seven rolled her eyes and glowered.
“You don’t like me. Why?”
“Apart from the dimestore psychology? 'Cause you look like someone I used to know.”
"Should I be flattered or insulted?"
"Her physical attributes were extremely appealing," she said, her face growing hard. "As for the rest of her..."
“You're talking about Bjayzl, aren't you.”
Seven set her jaw and looked away.
"You should have seen your face just now. Your sarcastic swagger twisted into pure rage."
"You don't know what she did to me."
"No. But I'd like to."
Seven slowly turned toward Deanna, her eyes glittering violently. "Why?"
"What do you mean?"
"Why do you want to know? Who sent you?"
"She prefers to stay anonymous."
"That's unfortunate," Seven said, crossing her arms and going silent.
After a long, pregnant pause, Deanna sighed heavily and squeezed her hands together. “I made the mistake of picking up the phone when Admiral Janeway called," she said.
Admiral Janeway? Kathryn? Seven’s brain started to fritz. How did she know…why?
“I should have said no, but she was quite...persuasive."
"Good to know some things haven't changed," Seven scoffed. Her eyes misted over; she rubbed at them until they stung even more. “I'm guessing her precious Federation has something at stake here.”
“On the contrary, Seven. The Federation wants nothing to do with you.”
“Sounds familiar,” Seven said, bitterly. “Then what does she want?"
“She was worried about you.”
“Worried!” Seven exclaimed, barely holding back a violent burst of laughter. “Well, why the fuck not.” Get a grip, Seven. This hysterical display is inefficient. “She hasn’t responded to a single message in 15 years and you’re telling me she suddenly cares? You can consider your job done, Deanna. I do not desire her assistance. Or yours.”
"You think I care about old drama when my home planet is at stake?" Deanna stood up, getting angry. "I'm defending you against this stitch-up whether you like it or not!"
“No,” Seven said, her voice thick.
“Why the hell not?"
“She obviously thinks helping me will absolve her guilt for abandoning me. I will not grant her this.”
“I detected no ulterior motive—”
“I said no,” Seven hissed. She rapped on the door. “I’m going back to my cell.”
This time, when she got there, she sat down on the dilapidated cot and felt no desire to laugh. After several minutes, she slammed her fist into the wall behind her, leaving a dent on the pylon. Too many ghosts for one day, she thought, collapsing into the bed.