Seven rustled into a sitting position, reaching for the lamp beside her bed. Her father's sister—her aunt—was… curious. Old-fashioned, Lieutenant Paris called her. Eccentric, the Doctor had said, eyebrow twitching and lips crimped together as he studied her readouts. No computers, no replicators. No transporter—Seven had to walk a mile to the nearest public one. (But she didn't mind, because it gave her time to think. And daily exercise was important to her health.)
The switch snapped into place, flooding the bed and floor in a pool of warm, quiet light. Seven liked the light. It told her where she was. Helped her feel secure in this insecurity. She could open her eyes and see immediately that this wasn't her alcove (that was back at Headquarters, and she only went there every few days, when her implants demanded that she regenerate).
The mattress underneath her was cold, hard. Lumpy in unfamiliar places and made her wiggle like Naomi Wildman the thirty-first minute of her half-hour Astrometrics class on Tuesday afternoons.
Except, Naomi Wildman didn't come to Astrometrics for a half-hour classes on Tuesday afternoons anymore, because she no longer lived on Voyager. None of them did. Because Voyager had made it home, to the Alpha Quadrant, and everyone was settling into their new lives.
Changing. Adapting. Going back to normal.
Except…
Seven of Nine, Tertiary Adjunct of Unimatrix Zero One, hugged her knees and sat with the light on. Adapting was a way of life for her. For all of them, really. But that didn't mean she liked it.