hello, i’m immensely enjoying Decidedly Motley Stories! if i may, i’d like to request “how long have i been asleep?” with hugh borg & seven or hugh & soji
Oh! 🥹 Thank you so, so much, @clinttbartton! 💕 I’m enjoying getting prompts — and this is a great one! I went with Hugh Borg & Seven, and I hope you like it.
For those who prefer to read on AO3:
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the
Organization for Transformative Works
For those who prefer to read here:
And When We Awaken, Eyes Open to Possibility, We Find Our Voice in the Night
The doctors at Starfleet Medical marvel over the increased acuity in her artificial eye, the nanoprobes in her bloodstream, the cortical node that replaced the cortical node that regulates the implants that forced their way in where her childhood should have been.
The doctors don’t ask if she likes music. Or Kadis-kot.
But they seem pleased to inform her that the eighteen percent of her that is Borg hardware within her skin, her bone, her very marrow, has been sufficiently cataloged and studied to allow her a choice.
A proportionate amount of humanity, perhaps.
So they ask as if offering a prize, would she like to sleep instead of regenerate? A procedure can tie the electromagnetic activity in her brain to her Borg systems, a one-time algorithmic upgrade — a ticket to dreamland, one doctor says as a joke and she does not laugh.
It’s tempting to agree, to sever her need for the regeneration alcove moved into her hospital room from Voyager’s cargo bay 2, a monolith to her onetime monoculture that subsumed even her slumber.
But more change is frightening.
So she tells the doctors that she needs to think about it.
She’s never had trouble with a decision before.
Crew from Voyager visit her, query as to her thoughts and feelings.
She talks with them, but not about this, this opportunity to rewrite her most basic of functions, this potential deepening of her supposed humanity at the very time she’s both surrounded by more humanity than ever and acutely aware that the ideals she was made to believe pertained to humanity may be lacking in practice.
And not just medical practice.
But a knock taps against her door — not a chime, an actual knock — in a sequence of bursts. Borg alphabet. The letters “x” and “b.”
Curiosity triumphs over wariness and she calls out for the person to enter.
The door opens and he steps in, fluid movements, almost graceful, the metal fragments that pierce his skin evidence of experience akin to her own.
“I’m Hugh.” He doesn’t ask to sit the way most people do, seemingly preferring to stand the way she does. “Formerly Third of Five. I heard you were here and came as quickly as I could. I wanted you to know … you’re not alone.”
She’s been told this before, mostly by members of the Voyager crew.
He teaches her the word “xB,” an identity, a resource, a decentralized community of individuals who are happy, angry, hurt, healing, afraid, brave — and ready to help those like them.
Her ocular implant is not malfunctioning, though her fingers brush the tears away as if there is something wrong when, in fact, this is finally something right.
And when she wants to know if xBs regenerate or if they sleep, he seems to understand that she’s not just inquiring about rest cycles, she’s seeking information to help her get closer to leaving Starfleet Medical so she can meet those among whom she can be understood, not former drones who still use identifiers forced upon them, but xBs who created their own terminology, their own comfort with each other, their own — individual — place within what they were, what they were before that, who they are, and who they wish to be.
“Some regenerate. Some sleep. It’s not an easy decision for anyone, Seven.” The vestiges of an implant on Hugh’s cheek shift upwards as he smiles — a supportive smile, empathy. “But if you choose sleep and want someone here when you wake up — and that first time can be disorienting, it’s true — then I can promise that I’ll stay with you.”
She accepts Hugh’s promise, regenerates one last time, her back straight, the familiar before yet another everyday aspect of her life changes. And there’s the upgrade, a doctor tapping at a console, no change, she feels no change, but it worked, the regeneration alcove rejects her attempt to interface, and how will she do this? How will she know if her rest cycle is complete if the computer doesn’t tell her so?
“You,” Hugh speaks softly, carefully, “will adapt.”
She attempts it. A pillow under her head, a blanket tucked around her shoulders, the bed soft under her as she … is the human phrase “tosses and turns”?
From a cot in her room set up for his own rest, Hugh talks to her, asks if her parents ever told her a bedtime story, requests that she tell the story to him — the tale of the brave ballerina who flew a starship to the science conference to share her hypothesis.
Her words slur and there’s darkness.
Gentle. Like a hug from inside.
“How …” she speaks into the dim light of her hospital room, “how long have I been asleep?”
From his cot, Hugh answers, “About four hours.”
It’s as if she’s been pushed into cold water.
She didn’t complete her first attempt at a rest cycle.
It’s the middle of the night.
“Remember, Seven,” it’s as if Hugh knows — and he probably does, “you can choose how to feel about this. Standards of Borg perfection don’t apply.”
Her first attempt at a rest cycle.
And she made it more than halfway to human sleep requirements.
“Thank you, Hugh.” Seven adjusts her blanket, curls onto her side. “I will resume this rest cycle and … see you in the morning.”
Send me an ask with character(s) and a prompt and I’ll do my best to write up a gentle hug for your people. ❤️
✨ All prompted Picard ficlets are also available on AO3 as Decidedly Motley Stories. ✨
