Hi everyone.

If you're still here, you must still be reading, so for that you get an instant thank you.

To anyone who might be worried about all these storylines branching away from each other, I'm going to be connecting them all together at some point. In the meantime, I hope you enjoy them for what they are.

Please read and review, as it helps keep me motivated into writing faster! Thanks!

- tsku

---

Somewhere. Time unknown.

Locutus...

Her voice was like liquid through his thoughts. Hardly audible yet piercingly clear and potent. It faded in and out through his thoughts, but was impossible to ignore at the same time.

Jean-Luc Picard ached, as if a thousand men had smashed a pair of cymbals together above his head while Data's Ode to Spot looped repeatedly in his ears forever. The voice he heard, above all the others, was clear to him. It could only be Her. The one who brought order to chaos. The woman, if she could called such, who was the very core of the Borg Collective.

He found himself able to open his eyes, but he was most certainly no longer on the Enterprise. He recognized this chamber well. He remembered the elevated steel platform, a unique alcove found in possession of no other drone but her. He saw himself surrounded by the set of four metallic bars laced with sensors. He knew he stood upon the Queen's Throne, the platform where she would assemble herself into a mobile prosthetic body. He could not move, yet could manage to just turn his head around to see his surroundings.

Drones were everywhere, the majority of them standing dormant in their alcoves. A few wandered stoically, occasionally stopping before the glistening green consoles that lined the walls.

Picard frowned, his brow furrowed, peering about the room. "What is it you want?"

"We were more than friends long ago. You and I. Do you not remember, Locutus?"

"I assure you that we are not friends. I will ask you again. What is it you want?"

"No. You are right. We were more than that. So much more."

He tightened his lips in disgust, refusing to submit himself as the Queen's toy. He would bide his time and wait for her to make her move. Explain her motives.

"Even if they're removed our gifts to you - taken away the precious armour we crafted for you, leaving your soft, vulnerable flesh behind," her voice echoed softly. "They cannot change who you really are, Locutus."

And then it vanished. The Queen's chamber. Everything. And there was nothing more but the cold, inky blackness of his mind to keep him.

--

USS Titan.
Alpha Quadrant. 02:04pm.

A light breeze blew through Deanna Troi's hair as she sat contently upon the white deckchair beneath the shifting willow tree above her, its long tendrils falling majestically around her as they shaded her from the sun's rays. She smiled pleasantly, watching her guest contently as she reached for her glass and took a sip of water, placing it back on the small wooden table in front of her when she was done.

Her guest was a slim male half Trill Human hybrid, clad in the dark gray uniform of a Starfleet ensign. His blonde hair had been cut short and sharply - very recently in fact - and Deanna didn't think it suited him. His angelic face twisted and contorted with discomfort, and she didn't need her empathic powers to know what was wrong either.

"All right, Derek. Did you try what I suggested?"

He looked down at the blades of lush green grass, touched with the drew of a summer's morning. Twiddling his thumbs, he sighed. "No."

"And why not?"

Another sigh. He fell back into the deckchair, gazing up through the willow's drape into the rich blue sky. "I just don't think he's that into me, that's all. I mean, we spend lots of time together and all, but I just think he thinks our relationship is just something professional and he's missing my moves all together."

Deanna reached a hand for her glass again and took another sip, scrolling down her notes on her PADD with the other. "Well, you won't ever know until you find out, won't you?" She replaced the glass back on table. "How do you feel about that then?"

His blue eyes shut tightly. "I miss him. It's hard to be away from him. I'm almost at the point where I just want to run into the nearest holodeck and, well, you know..."

Her empathic senses picked up the familiar emotion of lust and longing emanate from the young Trill's mind. "It's not uncommon, you know, but I think it would be better for you on the long term to get this out of your system in the real world, Derek. You obviously care very deeply for him, but you aren't going to get anywhere unless you manage to cope with these emotions or if you get them of your system. The Federation let go of prejudices towards these kinds of relationships hundreds of years ago."

"I guess you're right. Well, I'll be wanted in Engineering. Same time next week?"

"Of course," Deanna beamed, standing up from her deckchair and looking up at the sky. "Computer. End program."

The landscape that seemed so real moments ago faded into the familiar multi-coloured platform of the holodeck. The Ensign gave her a wave and left the holodeck in a brisk walk.

As Titan's diplomatic officer and head counselor, Deanna had finished all her tasks today. She had met with a dozen crew members, listening and advising to various issues, the last being Ensign Derek Zan. She wasn't tired, but she was hungry, and thus decided to go the ship's lounge for a bowl of her favorite chocolate ice cream before returning to her quarters. She had barely walked off the turbolift when her feet suddenly buckled beneath her, the bulkheads of deck four shaking and lights flashing as she felt her body hit the wall hard.

"All hands standby battle stations!"

She heard her husband's voice echo across the comm. It was mildly unsettling at first because until now it had always been Captain Picard's voice she heard. A mild panic jostled her mind as she sprinted down the hallway and found herself on the Bridge a few moments later, staring through the view screen at an ominous Borg cube sitting dormant on the outskirts of a misted purple nebula.

Titan's Tactical Officer was Commander Tuvok, a dark-skinned and highly disciplined Vulcan who had also been a part of the infamous USS Voyager crew. His eyes pierced through his tactical console, fingertips gliding across buttons entering commands.

"The cube appears to be ignoring us. Sensors indicate approximately 71,000 lifesigns aboard. All Borg. There are no other significant readings aside from the mild gravimetric surge we just encountered"

Deanna took her post next to her husband, Captain Will Riker, who was gazing sternly at the Cube through the view screen. "They're up to something. The Borg do not simply idle," Deanna noted.

"It would appear this would be the case," Tuvok said mildly, eyebrows raised slightly. Perhaps this was the Vulcan's way of showing he was just as confused as she was. "I am detecting minimal activity within the Cube; however sensors are unable to penetrate the interior sections."

Will's eyes narrowed as he leaned back into the Captain's chair, a sensation he still wasn't quite used to. "Helm, keep us out of weapon and transporter range. Use the gravity storm to hide us from their sensors as well. I don't want them to perceive us as a threat."

"Aye, sir."

Even with her empathic powers, Deanna sensed anxiety from everyone on the bridge except Tuvok. Though it may have been inappropriate, she couldn't help but steal a glimpse at her husband from the corner of her eye. "What will we do now, Captain?"

Will Riker sighed. "We wait."

--

Starfleet Medical : San Francisco : North American Continent
Earth - 7:02am

Kathryn Janeway had a headache. It had been a chaotic morning to say the least, and there was nothing she wanted more than to sit down somewhere quiet with a tall, steaming mug of black coffee.

Seven of Nine turned toward her and Dr. Crusher, her eyes fixed on each of them in a stoic stare. For a moment, Beverly thought she was about to be judged by the Devil with Seven of Nine's intensity. Her movements reminded her of clockwork. "I have managed to disable the Borg hardware in his body, however I would recommend that the Doctor remove the implants immediately."

Beverly stepped forward, raising her tricorder over the implant jutting out of Picard's neck. Seven's words were true. The implant was unpowered and the nanoprobes in his body had been destroyed as far as her equipment could detect. Whatever Seven had did, it seemed to have worked. "I was about to get right on it," she reached for her laser scalpel.

"The Doctor from Voyager is more familiar with Borg technology. He would be a better candidate for this procedure."

Beverly flinched as Seven's words rang like salt in an old wound.

Janeway pressed a hand against her forehead. "Seven, I'm afraid the Doctor is doing something else right now. Doctor Crusher has had extensive experience with Borg, just as we have."

"May that be the case, she obviously overlooked something in her previous attempts. We have traveled through Borg space. Dealt with the Borg first hand."

Beverly bit her lip, trying to force a smile as this woman – a stranger – critiqued her capabilities as the Director of Starfleet Medical and as an experienced physician aboard the Enterprise. Gesturing to Janeway, she made a motion towards the door. "Thank you very much for your aid, Admiral. I will keep you informed, however I must ask the two of you to leave. I must perform this surgery immediately, though you are both welcome to observe. On the other side of the forcefield."

Seven of Nine tilted her head, her expression depicting arrogance and confusion. Shaking her head, Janeway sighed loudly. "Enough. Both of you. I'm sorry, Doctor Crusher. Seven, stay here – in case anything happens. Keep me informed, Doctor."

And with that said, the Admiral made her way to the closest replicator.

A wave of relief hit her when she found several of them in the central promenade. A gathering place of sorts for visitors and staff who needed a break. A brilliant skylight was mounted atop the chamber, casting the dawn's warm blanket of orange light across the sterile whiteness of it all. She wasn't alone either, and to avoid confrontation with anyone between her and her coffee she found a small table in one of the corners of the chamber. Raising the mug to her lips and sipping the bitter brew, Janeway found herself instantly comforted, despite some slightly acidic undertones that were only to be expected of any kind of hospital food.

"Janeway? Kathyrn Janeway?"

Janeway released a mental sigh, the subtle pangs of her headache creeping down her neck as she prepared herself for another round of public relations and upholding the prestige that her new rank of Admiral held. Hiding the stress from her face, she looked up with as warm as a smile as she could muster. Standing before her was a Bajoran woman, adorned in the unexpressed regalia of a Starfleet Academy cadet. Judging from the lack of adornments, she might have been in her first year. "That's me. What can I do for you, Cadet?"

The Bajoran woman had a cool, uneasy air about herself. Her scalp was little more than black stubble, mercilessly shaved down to the follicle. Her deep green eyes pierced into Janeway like those of an executioner, and Janeway made a mental note that whoever this woman was would make a fine Security officer someday. Even so, her presence was still unnerving.

"My name is Kristie Thorne. I merely wanted to introduce myself to you. You probably have no idea who I am, but that's fine. I can't expect a busy Admiral like you to remember everybody. I just wanted to say that I'll be attending your lecture on the Borg at Starfleet Academy next week. I look forward to it immensely."

Janeway narrowed her eyes and gripped the mug of her coffee. "Well, a pleasure to meet you then, Cadet. If you like, I can give you a crash course now if you like. Coffee? Can't say it's the best I ever had, but it's still coffee."

"No, Admiral. That won't be necessary. Thank you."

And without even being dismissed from her presence, Miss. Kristie Thorne turned her back on her and headed away in a brisk walk. In her mind, Janeway felt unsettled in this woman's presence. Perhaps it was what gave her an edge and prompted her mental association for the cadet to a career in Security. Either way, she let the matter go and finished her coffee, resisting the urge to replicate a second cup on the sole reasoning that it really wasn't good coffee after all.

---

Paris : France : North American Continent
Earth - 6:32pm

Four year old Miral Paris gazed fiercely into the eyes of a towering Klingon male. Adorned in basic padding, she hardly felt intimidated by her opponents tarnished silver armour and hideous crooked teeth. The dusty ambiance of the stone-floored Klingon Martial Arts school only fueled her resolve and helped her plan her approach with a fluidic grace. The Klingon merely gave her a toothy grin.

"So then, the Federation is sending children to the battlefield now? How pathetic! I shall break you, little girl, and then you shall attend my targs and pour my blood wine!"

But she wouldn't let him strike first. Stepping forward with her small muscular legs, immediately adapting an offensive stance, Miral slammed her open-faced palms into the Klingon's side. Prompting an "oof" from the Klingon warrior, he immediately struck back at her, raising his knee and clipping the young girl's chin with a blow that would have ordinarily broken all the bones in her small jaw. Leaving only a bruise in its wake thanks to the mercy of holodeck safety protocols, Miral felt herself leaving the ground from the blow, landing a few feet away from her opponent.

"Okay, that's enough. Computer - End Program."

Blinking in surprise and opening his lips in an attempt to roar, the Klingon male and the visage of the Klingon school disintegrated into nothingness, leaving the holodeck complex in its wake with B'Elanna Torres folding her arms in disapproval.

From the ground, Miral glared back at her mother. "I wasn't done, Mommy. I could have won."

"You could have been hurt, Miral."

The instance those words left her mouth, she immediately felt a sharp knife of deja vu strike her. The words of her overprotective father springing to memory. How he would always protect her and spew excuses for her for being different. In a way, her own daughter was no different.

Sighing slightly, grasping her daughter's hand in her own, she lifted her up from the ground and began to walk with her towards their residential district not far away. "You know I'm only saying this because I don't want you to get hurt, right?" She glanced down at the headstrong girl, who was glaring resentfully down the pathway. Silent treatment. B'Elanna sighed and shook her head.

Few were out this late at night, save for people walking their dogs or youth heading to the local pubs. France had only been minimally transformed by the shifts in technological advancement over the years. A cultural gem, her husband had called it. She shared his passion for the romanticism of it all, but there were times she missed the hustle and bustle of the cities. A woman ahead of them stood out from all the rest. She was adorned in a Federation uniform and the pips across her collar told B'Elanna that she was a Commander.

"B'Elanna Torres?" She was beautiful, with piercingly cool charcoal grey eyes and carmine lips against porcelain skin. She couldn't have been human.

Stepping in front of her daughter, who proceeded to angle herself around her mother's leg to peek, B'Elanna took a cautious approach. "Yes? Can I help you?"

And then it all went dark as B'Elanna felt her legs go limp and the gentle grasp of her daughter's hand fade from her own. The barely susceptible pressure of a hypospray pressed against her neck. The last image of the smirking Federation officer watching her as consciousness escaped her.