This is a ficlet set just after Seven was severed from the Collective. She still thinks the Borg are superior and the human race should be assimilated. Lyrics-woven-in fic. The song is 'Seven Wonders' by Nickelcreek. I know, I'm ridiculously cute. Anyhoo, enjoy and review!
Humans are so pitiful. I regret that my origins are among them. They are in desperate need to control everything. I find myself pleased when things always seem to slip through their fingers. They, like every other creature in the universe, are slaves to the steady beat of Time. When night falls upon the ship, I know they cannot hide from it anymore. In the darkness they can see their own irrelevance in this galaxy. Even the Borg are limited by the constraints of Time and Space. The Borg's hold on Space Time is narrow at best, but it is far superior to these humans. We are all powerless against this phenomenon that keeps us from perfecting ourselves.
I am curious about this human need for introspection. When they are not at their posts it is all they seem to do. It is irrelevant, I tell them, to think about things that we cannot control. Power is attained by the strong and the human race is weak. The Suns will rise on their planets just as every other day, as predictable as the Alpha Shift. Words have no effect on Space Time, therefore, no matter how she tries; the eloquent musings of Captain Janeway mean nothing.
And yet they are all so convinced they are in charge of their own destiny. They believe in choice as they demonstrate again and again that they are limited by their own physical and mental barriers. In reality, they are pushed in whatever direction the space winds move them. The human race is under a Great Illusion of control. With all their so called advancement, one would think that they would have understood that basic fact.
They cannot control the creation of a universe. The greatest power always escapes their grasp. Humans insist that there is no reality beyond this and yet we cannot explain how something, everything has come from nothing, because at some point…there had to be nothing. With this staring them blatantly in the face, count the times they shout in the glory of their Federation and the human race. Such small cries in the vast universe.
But all the while, they smile and conquer, veiling the disgrace of their limitations. They shall never be more than second best. As their myths and wonders are sufficiently explained to their interpretation, they re-secure their illusion…the Grand Illusion. One would think they would have figured it out in two millennia. The Borg certainly did.
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