Lieutenant Ferran, the physio tech's name he had become all too familiar with, arrived at his door the next morning.
Picard imagined the poor man had been sent to the dragon's lair precisely because he was unlikely to want to appear anything nearing weak in the face of one of his subordinates. He had to admit, they were right to have sent a stooge. if Beverly or Deanna had called, he knew he wouldn't have been able to pull himself together.
He'd been expecting the chime, knew he was due to be put through his paces in the gym at 0800 hours. The competency panel was nothing if not thorough. If he was going to be reinstated, he needed to show he was fit, physically ready for the prospect of being sent to risk his life again. That's what the physio had been building him up for over the last two weeks after all.
He'd dragged himself up, into the shower, and into his kit. He'd even managed to eat a banana and have a cup of tea. He was putting on a pair of sneakers when the lieutenant had arrived.
"Good morning, Sir," Ferran said brightly.
"Lieutenant, please come in." He finished tying his shoes and grabbed a glass of water. Why did he feel so nervous?
"So the plan is that we head to the gym, run the cardio protocol, then break for your regen treatment with Doctor Crusher." He paused as the Captain grimaced at the prospect. Ferran had come to recognise his CO's reluctance to face the regulated, daily reminder that he was injured, recovering. "Then we will run the calisthenic and strength procotols if that's okay with you of course Sir?"
"Yes. Fine," he answered curtly. "Let's get this over with."
The pair left the Captain's quarters and headed down to the gym in near silence. Picard was lost in thought. He'd been a fit man all his life. A serious runner when he was younger, he'd kept in shape, valued his body and its strength. He wasn't back up to his fighting weight after the Borg, but he'd found the structure and rigour of his physical rehabilitation to be the least awful aspect of his existence over the last few weeks.
"I'm sure you'll do fine, Sir," Ferran offered. "Everything we've done so far has been building to this, all those shorter runs? You'll be fine."
Picard grunted in recognition, wondering who the man was trying to convince. As soon as the doors to the gym opened, he had headed to the mat to start stretching. His mind completely focused on what his body needed to do. He didn't feel quite right yet, still not completely in command of his own muscles. As he stretched, his injured tendons sounded warning jolts of discomfort through his nervous system, registering somewhere in his brain. His arm hung loosely, still detached from his awareness. He had been working on consciously thinking about its position at regular intervals since Beverly had pointed out that he wasn't using it. He had to try to remember when it was supposed to bend, he was so used to it being useless to him. The shadow of the control the Borg had had over him remained ever-present.
"Sir?" prompted Ferran nodding toward Picard's arm.
"Hmm? Oh… yes." He answered, concentrating on bending his elbow, stretching it out. Forcing himself to remember it was a part of him he needed to consider.
Ferran started tapping notes into his PADD, "If you're ready to begin?"
Picard nodded. He was ready. He could do this.
He stepped up to the running machine and waited as Ferran set up the bio scanner to chart his progress. Info beams were triggered from the sensor mounted on the ceiling to monitor his oxygen levels, his pace, blood chemistry, muscle wastage, stride rate… all the stats for which he needed to meet the Starfleet minimum before he could return to his place on the Bridge.
"Okay Sir, might I suggest starting at a gentle jog then picking up your pace after a period of approximately ten minutes?"
Picard nodded tightly then started to jog.
"We're aiming for the 10 kilometre minimum Sir."
He nodded again as he settled into it, worked out the stiffness. His body fell into the movement, years of muscle memory overriding what the Borg had done to him. After a moment, he remembered to instruct his injured arm to join in then soon enough, everything was coordinated, his arms, legs, his breathing all working in harmony to run through the programme. His posture was perfect, head upright, arms pumping at his side, propelling him forward along with the power released from his legs.
"I'm going to initiate the holoprojection now Sir. Stand by."
Ferran tapped at his PADD and the standard Starfleet test track appeared. His stride increased, his pace picked up falling into his natural familiar rhythm, and he felt good, focused. After twenty minutes, he was panting, sweating and starting to feel less than confident that he could finish.
"You're about half-way there now. Keep going, you're doing really well."
He kept running, but as he tracked through the kilometres, the events of the previous day started to encroach on his peace.
Flashes of the crowd appeared, the smell of the hall burned in his nose. The names of the dead started to filter through his mind. People he had killed, old friends, acquaintances. He dropped a step, righted himself and carried on, Ferran looked up from the PADD checking in on his charge.
Picard nodded at him, too breathless to say anything out loud.
He picked up his pace once his confidence returned. The machine relentless beneath his feet keeping up with him, propelling him onwards through the test.
Seconds later, his mind drifted back to the Borg cube distracting him from the perfect rhythm he had regained. The darkness, the feeling of being plugged in to regenerate and the energy surge overwhelming his system, the cacophony of voices issuing endless orders directly into his brain…
His arm started to cramp, he shook it to rid himself of the sensation, clenched his fist tightly to stave off the spasm he could feel growing. He remembered watching his ship from the Cube, his brain being harvested for everything he knew. The cognitive dissonance of being on two sides at the same time; being both Borg, and human at once. He closed his eyes, dropped a step again and the next thing he knew, his feet could no longer keep up. He fell back awkwardly, his arm forgetting to break his fall. He landed face first on the deck, his knees thudding on the ground, breaking his fall somewhat. He rolled to his side, groaning in pain. The computer controlling the machine called out uselessly, 'programme terminated medical assistance required' repeating the safety message on a loop as Ferran dropped to his knees to assess the Captain.
"Sir?! Sir?!" He shouted as he flapped about with a tricorder.
Shocked, Picard remembered to inhale, sat up too quickly. He dropped his head and wiped at his nose immediately recognising the source of his pain. He pulled his hand away to find his nose was bleeding heavily, marvelling as bright blood dripped onto the deck pooling in his lap, staining his shorts.
He tentatively attempted to stem the flow of blood with the hem of his t-shirt, watching as it quickly seeped through the thin material.
Within a moment, he heard a panicked voice shouting for medical and then felt the familiar sensation of the transporter beaming him off to sick bay. The next thing he was aware of was the many hands of a flock of medical staff helping him onto the nearest bio bed. Again.
Ferran had lost his cool, overwhelmed at having damaged the Captain during the course of a tough but straightforward test. He was flapping, and Picard flinched as he came too close.
"He just… and then… I thought… the blood!" Ferran cried.
"Lieutenant, stand down!" said Beverly firmly.
She physically turned Ferran in the direction of her assistant then immediately started to scan Jean-Luc.
He sat impassively on the bio bed, dazed at the pace of events. Blood dripped and he flinched again at the unexpected sensation of someone pressing a wad of gauze under his nose.
"I mean really Jean-Luc, there are easier ways to come and see me you know? You should have just said you were desperate for another visit to sickbay," she smiled and wrapped her arms around his back. "Yup, it's broken, give me a few minutes and we'll have you back to normal. What about your knees?"
He looked down to his knees to find them glowing bright red with a pair of matching grazes on each one. He felt a little like when he'd been six and fallen out of a tree. Beverly waved a regen wand over them and in a moment they had returned to their normal colour and texture.
"And your arm? Can I see?" she asked cautiously.
He held out his arm wordlessly, he couldn't detect a problem, what had she seen? Beverly scanned it as the flock of medics fluttered around him pressing hypos to his neck and passing regenerator wands between them.
"Hmmm…" she said frowning. "I think you might have taken off some of the new skin there… hold on let me see… yes. Sorry Jean-Luc, I'm going to have to dress it with another couple of plasts I'm afraid."
He pulled his arm from her grip, cradling it against his chest. The familiar griping pain of raw flesh made itself known and then, almost as soon as he felt it, the pain was gone. Then the sensation of the hypo to his neck registered. Everything was happening too fast, his body didn't have a chance to register the sequence of events in the correct order.
"Please, stop. Just..." he said. His voice sounded nasally, congested, nothing like normal.
Beverly raised her hand and the frantic motion of sickbay dropped down a notch giving him a chance to catch his breath.
"Jean-Luc?"
"I'm fine... I just... I was running, then I was here... and now - this." he said indicating to the rest of the room, then his dripping nose.
Beverly recognised his reaction as one of a man overwhelmed. He was still stuck inside his head, not ready to face the business of the everyday. She spoke softly, trying to calm him and get him to understand his fresh predicament, "This is going to be a setback - but just a minor one. I'm really sorry. We're going to have to revisit the fitness competency again once this is healed."
"How long?" he asked flatly clenching his teeth, good hand to his forehead.
"A couple of days of treatment then another week before you can try again? I'm sorry, you were so close." She replied.
"It's okay, it's fine."
But it wasn't. He was frustrated, tired. Sick of the ship, sick of trying to live up to everyone's expectations of him.
"Here, lay back and I'll fix you right up. Selar? Can you pass me the osteo-regenerator?"
She set to work, fixing his nose, cleaning him up. He took a deep breath in through his nostrils, grateful that he could breathe properly again. He closed his eyes as she continued her work. He felt the familiar sensation of the plasts being applied to his arm, felt the tingle of skin regeneration and felt like he hadn't really got anywhere close to recovered, whatever that meant.
A plan formed in his mind, a plan that would take him off the ship and away from Starfleet. He needed time, he needed to think. He needed to find himself away from everything that had resulted in the Borg taking him.