A/N: Inspired by the B2ST/Beast song "Fiction," a rainy day, and bad news. Enjoy. :)
=A=
Seven of Nine sat in the longest silence of her life.
For someone who had spent most of her existence in the presence of constant chatter, it was almost physically painful to sit in such a silence.
Another pair of eyes watched her carefully, working through her skin, boring into muscle, piercing through bone until they reached her soul.
She longed to take the words back. They had tumbled out so clumsily, a sorry attempt to express something that was already plainly visible. They should never have been uttered, but like dry scraps of paper, they had ignited in her chest and vanished into the air.
Was that why smoke seemed to be filling her lungs? She was choking.
Pushing aside residual shame, Seven blinked as the moment faded back into the recesses of her memory. That was a long time ago, she reminded herself, and there was no satisfaction in reliving an action that had caused her so much pain.
Her past was not one littered with many regrets, but this…this was a disaster that had left an angry scar. It was an error she corrected a thousand times, if only in her own mind—a scene rewritten again and again for the past three years.
Seven sighed and turned away from the sprawling cityscape. There was no one there in the stars, nor in the lights fading out across the lake. No fantasy to escape into. The moon laughed at her feeble attempts from behind the clouds.
Stepping out of the lift some minutes later, Seven winced when the cold, blustery wind of Chicago drilled through her layers of clothing. For a moment she cursed her decision to come here. Why had she chosen such a frigid and unforgiving place, one so completely void of life in the winter?
Snow whipped at her boots, peppered her face. Passerby stared while she stood frozen on the sidewalk. No warmth, no ocean, no sandy beach, no beautiful colors. Bleakness. Her insides felt heavy as she traveled the neatly planned, perpendicular streets of the city.
By the time she reached the bar, festivities were in full swing. She shook off the dirty snow on her boots, stamping firmly into a worn-out mat. The bartender gave her a nod as she strode over.
"A shot of soju, please," she ordered, surprising the burly man. Seven casually glanced about the bar and at the screens blaring with sports and news, ignoring the noisy chatter ringing in her ears. She'd chosen this bar specifically for its alcohol selection, and was not disappointed when her shot was filled without issue. It was gone in a few seconds.
She ordered another.
Suddenly a hush settled on the bar. Seven looked up from her shotglass to find that people were glued to the news broadcasts, waiting in anticipation. She lazily directed her eyes there—the countdown was familiar, something she had seen several times in old footage. The tradition held little appeal for her, despite the energetic shouting that erupted from the crowd. She still did not understand what could possibly be so exciting about a sequence of descending numbers.
As the revelers cheered its completion, she looked at the bartender.
"Happy New Year," she muttered, then drained her glass.
She didn't need to witness happy couples kissing to know that it was happening. Predictable, like clockwork. Normally she favored such routine, but it did nothing to ease her pain tonight. If anything, it had the opposite effect.
The alcohol turned bitter on her tongue.
Seven felt eyes on her and turned to find a dark-haired man sizing her up. An image of Chakotay split into her consciousness; the man bore a vague resemblance to Voyager's former commander. Strong build, dark eyes, serious look. Seven met his eyes steadily.
It had become painfully obvious that no matter whose company she acquired at night, or what quantity of alcohol she ingested, her relief was always fleeting, and therefore her coping methods were inefficient. But relief was relief, and Seven did not know how else to escape.