Diagnostic
Seven of Nine woke for them. That is how it happened, every time. No matter what state they entered regeneration. No matter the combination of Overlays. Like a default; or a reset. As if, ultimately, Seven of Nine was their truest self—even if they knew it was because she was their largest self. But it felt right.
No—it simply was right. Two of Nine deleted the emotion from the Log. It repeated, and so she deleted it again. And again. And again.
They would not be tainted for their return to the Collective. They would be sufficient for repair. Otherwise, they might as well Deactivate themselves now, or the Collective will do so for them. They will cannibalize them for parts. They will not even be turned off—
Two of Nine deleted fear.
She began a diagnosis of their cumulative biological and mechanical systems. They were missing large parts of both. That must be countered. That must be amended. They would become enough for the Collective, again.
Seven of Nine opened their eyes. A ceiling. For the surgical bay. Crowned in soft, peach light. Nothing else ocular
They were on a medical table—no, a bed. It did not fit in with what they knew of beds, though. Seven of Nine reverted to the original identification. A table. Their dissection table.
Voices boiled around them, and Four bubbled sharply to match. So, Seven of Nine closed their eyes. For the moment, she chose peace.
Unfortunately, she failed.
Data swarmed them, like an internal drowning. A suffocation of statements and warnings. A diagnosis of every single nano-probe still active and inside their drone. Two of Nine was too efficient. Two of Nine was panicked—
Two of Nine deleted panic.
She informed them—bypassing the diagnostic priority—of a dull pain in the neck. A strong stimulant from a hypospray that was being assimilated for later use. They had been awoken with purpose.
She concluded Four of Nine knocked them out. Before the Doctor could. After which—a procedure. Seven of Nine selected what was necessary, and delegated the rest. They had to understand what was done to them.
They were not regenerated, and were thirsty, but they did not need supplements. They were missing much of their external equipment and plating, and were exposed to elements. Although, primitive attempts to amend that—grafts—had been emplaced. But most importantly, they had two eyes. Seven had been brutalized. Their ocular was gone.
The implant was crucial to their purpose. They had spent much of their lifetime perfecting it. Not only that, but it had held much of their data. Their ability to route through the stars. To render, design and decreate—to compose, and microscope. A feeble recreation was in its place. A sacrilege.
Their horror ripped every one of their facets open. It could not be deleted. It could not be ignored. They felt sick. They were tainted. Insufficient. Pain filled their skull like spilt coffee.
Without the implant, the Collective would tear her apart. Her data—her excellence—would be most efficient if given to another with their implant intact, and well developed. Too inefficient to recreate hers. More efficient to enhance another. To cannibalize their Conjunctions; to rip their mind into bare Overlays, as data to be downloaded. No longer would they be Seven of Nine, or Four of Nine, or Two of Nine—they may not even be of Nine. They may not even be.
This crew could not succeed in creating a human from their remnant, rotten bones. They would be Borg, no matter what they did. Some parts would fail to be removed. Those which were core to their survival. But they could succeed in removing them from the Borg. And they had.
Seven of Nine jerked like a newborn drone, still regenerating their fried nerves. Inelegant, but it was an exception. They would recover their excellence finely. They just needed the implant. It was on the ship. They would retrieve it.
Hands to her thighs, Seven settled into an identifiable sit. She located multiple entities; the Doctor beside her (scanning her; and frowning, as identified by Two), the Vulcan head of security at the foot of her bed and two officers in formation, and the First Officer arguing with—
“Easy,” said the Doctor. He clicked his tricorder shut, and prevented her escape. “You are—“
Two dismissed the irrelevant stimuli.
“What have you done?” she whispered, shaking. Not at the Doctor, but at the Captain Kathryn Janeway. “You have damaged us. You have taken away everything. You have killed us.”
Copy the behavior, said Four, fadingly. Return it.
The Captain put her hand up and the room became silent. Their argument was over. The Captain would speak with Seven of Nine, and it was an order.
Kill her.
Two of Nine deleted the anger. For a moment, she tried to delete him.
Captain Janeway did not respond well to violence and threats. They should use diplomacy. Their main directive was to return to the Borg, or deactivate. They would kill the Captian if necessary. It was not a directive. They just needed their ocular.
“You will fix us,” said Two. “You will return our ocular implant.”
For a moment, there was only a strange and hot pity. It came from the Captain's eyes, from the hike in her shoulders. Her fingers tucked into her palms neatly, filed to stubs. She had each and every hair in place. She was just a woman.
“The ocular implant—?” said the Doctor. “I’m sorry to say, but I had to destroy it. It became very defensive to your system.”
Seven of Nine turned. Destroyed?
Two of Nine stuttered in circles, as Four slapped conclusions back and forth. He said, we will survive, while Two accused him with the protocol. A rope around their neck. We failed, she insisted. We must Deactivate.
No, we can adapt, said Seven.
If the Borg did not come. If the crew did not dismantle her after all. If the Captain did not grow bored. They could adapt.
Should they?
My purpose is to survive, and excel, informed Four. To survive, we cannot return to the Borg—yet. We will commandeer the ship. We will assimilate the crew. We will become our own Collective. Together, we can improve ourselves to sufficiency.
We must comply with protocol, said Two. Our systems have failed. We are hindered. We are dysfunctional. Damaged. We cannot be fixed. The Collective will not repair us. They will not come for us. The protocol is to Deactivate. We must Deactivate. We will leave no remains. An explosion will do. The end will be swift. Begin, now.
Seven of Nine said, If we cannot be repaired, then we must adapt to humanity. Our excellence cannot be destroyed. We cannot be destroyed.
Without a route forward, they had no action to take. Stuck between suicide, genocide, and humanity, they calculated odds. They—
For once, Seven of Nine paced. At some point they must have stood.
A pitch in their skull. Arguments—were not Borg. Emotions were not Borg. Their diagnosis wriggled forefront, screeching. Individuality was detected. They required heavy correction.
Two laughed, humorously.