Pairing : B'Elanna / Seven
Rating : Mature
Feedback : I took the time to write it, so do me the honour of taking the time to respond when you read it.
Chapter III : Beauty, the Eye and the Beholder ...
B'Elanna stooped over the basin; squinting as the lights set within the rim illuminated automatically, shining on her oddly alabaster hands. Bringing the refreshingly cold water upwards she gasped as the stinging numbness spread across her face, rubbing her eyes as if that might banish the weariness she felt and allow her to concentrate.
Tom Paris had left several moments beforehand, having finished his tenth drink and being informed by the replicator that he had exceeded the maximum amount of alcoholic intake in any one twenty-four hour period. He had left still apologising profusely, failing to wipe the look of pure shock still adorning his features.
"Seven?" She asked aloud, drying the water with the aid of the towel whil giving the ocular and starburst implants wide birth almost as if she feared they might not be waterproof. "Are you awake?"
*I am always awake Lieutenant Torres—I regenerate; I do not indulge in the inefficiency of sleeping. Though from what I have observed in the minutes preceding, I do not believe you or Mister Paris are precisely aware of what that entails.*
A mesh-encased hand rubbed the back of a taut neck. "I can explain Seven, it wasn't nearly as bad as it looked—Tom's not at fault, he sure as hell didn't have fore-knowledge anything this crazy had happened and as for me … I guess I forgot whose body I was sharing."
B'Elanna-Seven smirked, a curious sight if anyone had been in range to see the Ex-drone crack a most uncharacteristic grin. Her smile faded as the limb encased in spiralling metal began to spasm slightly, as though being shaken by some invisible force and acting on a will not entirely her own.
*I am not amused lieutenant; I do not take kindly to being abused for the purposes of fulfilling your sexual desires or needs. If you truly had need of such a craven act, could you not first have discussed it? It may have been possible for The Doctor to produce a more powerful suppressant and give you `personal time.'*
B'Elanna-Seven's mouth dropped open, baulking. "You're not insinuating that I would have sex with Tom in your body!"
*You are married Lieutenant Torres—it would be naive of me to believe your urges have disappeared simply because you are neurologically misplaced. I am not so inconsiderate as to deny you that which you require, to maintain the health and wellbeing of your marriage.*
"I'm not entirely sure what disturbs me more," The Half-Klingon grumbled. "That you'd be willing to let someone use your body in that fashion, or that you'd think I'd take advantage of the opportunity. I don't intend have anything to do with … That, Seven. Nothing at all."
*What I observed upon the couch would seem to disagree, yet if that is how you wish to proceed, it is acceptable. Whilst I realise you are experienced in matters of sexuality my body is not. I do not think it would stand up to the punishment inflicted upon it by yourself and Mister Paris during copulation.*
Cobalt blue eyes bolted their gaze to the bathroom mirror, narrowing slightly whilst lips parted to issue a rebuttal, and then thought better. "I can't believe you just said that Seven; so wrong on so many levels that I just can't pick a place to start. The Nymphomaniac Klingon slut trapped in a Barbie Borg, huh?"
The spasm increased, until it became so pronounced that B'Elanna-Seven clamped her free arm down on the shuddering wrist, trying to pin it still and failing. Sighing, the blonde exited the bathroom and returned to the living area, avoiding the couch that had been so infamous earlier and settling on a recliner.
"Would you like a turn?" B'Elanna asked, tiring of the unpleasant attempts of Seven to restrain her desire for control.
A long pause followed, interspersed by the gradual decreasing of spasms until such time as B'Elanna-Seven was able to flex the artificial limb perfectly; as if it were irony aside, her own hand. *That will not be necessary lieutenant—if I cannot regenerate in light of the current situation, there is nothing I have to attend to.*
"Well I don't know about you, but I'm beat—all my whoring has tired me out for the night. Think we could see ourselves clear to take a shower? I'll close my eyes."
B'Elanna could feel indignation flow through her being, slightly surprised that her ability to not only hear Seven but also read her feelings was becoming clearer and more resonant. Assuming the punctuated silence was an affirmative, she guided the former Borg back to the bathroom and activated the sonic shower.
B'Elanna stood frozen for a moment as she tried to work out the best way, any way, of removing the Biosuit. It had never occurred to her in countless arguments, meetings and short encounters to ascertain how the young woman entered and exited her clothing—for all Torres knew it was freshly spray painted on nightly.
*There is a clasp at the rear of the neck lieutenant, unhook and pull the zipper in a downwards fashion.*
Fumbling for a moment and finally locating it, the Chief Engineer's mind only realised she was about to gaze upon the full and unashamed body of Seven in time to observe her hands make short work of the zipper. A waft of air followed, rushing into the valley of Seven's and by proxy, her own, chest. Swiftly suppressing her interest and embarrassment B'Elanna pushed the suit down to the waist; freeing a pair of creamy, plentiful breasts each crowned by a nipple still erect and engorged from Tom Paris' earlier fondling.
Kicking off high heels the removal of the Biosuit was very swiftly achieved, with B'Elanna doing her up most not to a linger her eyes upon the Blonde's shapely thighs, or her almost bare sex – dotted as it was with only a few blonde curls. One could hardly blame The Doctor for finding no reason to linger in such a location.
"You know Seven," B'Elanna began as she climbed into the shower cubicle. "I've got a front-row seat to Deck Fourteen's communal wet dream."
*They wish to copulate with me?*
"They're a desperate bunch down there," she chuckled, before realising the crudeness of her opening words. "What they wish and what they'll get are two entirely different things. Besides, No late night tête-à-tête while I'm staying … Previous incident apart."
Whilst lost in conversation B'Elanna had begun to lose focus as to her situation and the uniqueness of the circumstance which found her in the shower. Hands rubbed arms, elbows and shoulders before skipping over a very prominent chest. Turning around, she ran a hand over the firm thigh and smooth globe which formed part of a pert and flawless rear; trailing the fingers round and back up front.
*I appear to be aroused, though this is the first instance and as such, I cannot be sure.*
The words acted as a reality check, bringing B'Elanna back to her senses and snapping the errant limbs to forced sides. Several seconds further passed and it occurred that Seven might be indulging in a bizarre form of humour and revenge for the earlier incident. Settling staying silent in the hope of encouraging nothing more, the Half-Klingon settled on her inherent engineering curiosity, as eyes followed the mesh which encased Seven's left arm.
It occurred to B'Elanna that she had never seen the spiralling metal beyond what little the cuff of Seven's Biosuit had revealed to others. The tendrils continued for some time up the lower arm, terminating in a final dive beneath the elbow joint where they seemed to bolt directly to the joint and marking where the truly human limb began. Snaking patches of grey flesh baring the familiar pallor of Borg skin intermingled with the flawless white—from these pools legions of tendrils snaked beneath the near-translucent marks.
Upon the shoulder of the same arm a starburst implant, similar to that fastened to her cheekbone but larger, erupted from the fragile skin; eight steel points anchored directly to the Brachial clamp replaced the Human clavicle and enabled the use of the limb.
Yet the most obvious aspect of the technological intrusion in Seven's body remained the Abdominal implant, which anchored itself to the lower ribs on both sides of the spinal column. Bands of malleable metal forming circles which were plainly visible, fusing directly as they did with the flesh on the right, and only slightly more than undetectable on the left side. Interlacing these bands almost imperceptible patterns of circuitry traced beneath the skin, which itself had become translucent as if almost to facilitate their visibility and better access.
A circular implant dominated by two anchoring arms extending from its polar north and south lay mounted on the right thigh, linked to the thigh by a single tubule burying itself into the hamstring and beyond view. A third and final starburst implant lay nestled and screwed to the anklebones of each foot.
*I do not see why you wish to observe my implants further Lieutenant; they have not changed form since they were first grafted to me, and they will continue to remain in the same state until I am deactivated. If you desire a more in-depth engineering overview, The Doctor can make my medical files available to you.*
B'Elanna scoffed, "I've no need to see your medical files Seven—I'm just interested to see the extent of the Borg technology and how it interacts with your body. Besides, it isn't as if I get the opportunity to study this sort of thing frequently."
*I must ask you again to stop Lieutenant Torres,* Seven reiterated, before pausing in mid-sentence. *I do not feel comfortable underneath your scrutiny.*
B'Elanna resisted the urge to berate herself for the level of disregard she had shown, in treating Seven's body as nothing more than an engineering conundrum and privately, her own failure to be instantly abhorred with such a way of thinking. "Sorry Seven, didn't think—time to get changed for bed anyway."
Though she said nothing, B'Elanna felt Seven's approval, and exited the cubicle.
...
...
Kathryn Janeway swallowed the final lukewarm dregs wallowing at the bottom of her cup, setting it on the command console and noting the late hour and building migraine. Both of which had conspired to force the unusual move of bringing her coffee to the bridge, instead of retreating to the ready room. To her left the First Officer's chair lay vacant, as it had been for the preceding five hours since a weary Chakotay had finally accepted his failure in an unlikely goal to persuade the Captain to retire also.
"Perhaps it would be wise to get some rest Captain," Tuvok suggested, for perhaps the third time in a single hour. "Sensors are operating at maximum range, and all extraneous emissions have been cut. If it is possible to detect their warp signature, which is already severely degraded, then your continued presence will not enhance our abilities."
Janeway nodded, clutching the cup to both hands, only realising it was as empty as her will to remain awake. She rose, stifling the unprofessional urge to yawn and began to climb the short staircase to the second tier.
A shrill beeping focused both her weary eyes and that of Tuvok's stoic gaze. "It appears that logic cannot prevail against Human irrationality; a warp signature has been detected to our starboard quadrant, approximately eleven hours in age and matching the field dynamics of the vessels which attacked Voyager."
Kathryn felt the mental fog lift somewhat, laying a hand on the tactical console and confirming the readings for herself. Feeling a newfound exhilaration she looked at the mug momentarily, before returning to her command chair.
One more cup, she rationalised.
...
...
It had taken fully twenty minutes for B'Elanna and Seven to settle on the garments they would simultaneously wear to bed— The Chief Engineer favouring boxer shorts and a loose tank top, the former drone seeing nothing wrong with a Biosuit. Finally, a compromise had seen a loose-fitting set of silk pyjamas coloured a fetching shade of sky blue chosen, satisfying the desires of the former for freedom and the latter for minimising flesh exposed.
Crawling into bed and lying down as B'Elanna had done countless times in her life to date, the engineer grunted, tossing to the left and then the right. Taking the fight to the pillow, she fluffed it violently, pounding it not only with the strength of a frustrated Klingon, but the Borg-enhanced abilities she possessed as a bonus.
Sighing with exasperation, she spoke up.' " … Spinal clamps?"
*They were designed to strengthen and resist the damage the skeletal structure of most humanoid species endures when subjected to extreme long-term standing as Borg drones are required to do, in such activities as regeneration. As a result fatigue, muscle injury and bone damage through the vertical are extremely unlikely. Unfortunately, the lack of flexibility inherent in such a design precludes what you have in mind.*
"Kahless Seven! It's like I'm strapped to a medi-board or wearing a weightlifting belt! Haven't you seen about having them taken out? They're additions to the spinal cord rather than replacements, right?"
*Correct Lieutenant, but I do prefer to stand. Perhaps it is habit—I did not `sit' for over ten years of my life. In addition the clamps serve to increase the amount of weight I am able to lift and distribute and as such, removing them would affect my current abilities.*
"Why would lifting shuttles be of any use?"
Seven scowled internally, *I cannot lift shuttles, Lieutenant. They are beyond my capability, though I would have no difficulty in carrying your original frame for a considerable period if it were possible to force you to sit still long enough.*
B'Elanna scoffed, and opened Seven's lips in a wide yawn. Stuffing the pillows to form a makeshift chair backing she sat up slightly, finding the clamps more compliant if the angle was increased. Allowing eyelids to droop, and the incredible events of the day to take their toll in fatigue, sleep came to claim one-half of this bizarre new union.
"Seven …" The Half-Klingon murmured from pale lips.
*How can I be of assistance, Lieutenant?*
"Call me B'Elanna …," She whispered,
From beyond the physical and deep within the organic and mechanical, Seven of Nine watched over the slumbering B'Elanna Torres, as of yet neither inclined nor desiring to partake in the humanoid need to lose all semblance of control and surrender to unconsciousness.
Though she could now manipulate her own limbs as the incumbent tenant slipped into dreams, Seven found them sluggish, leaden. She reasoned B'Elanna's mental fatigue had spread to her, absolutely refusing to consider the possibility she too was simply tired. This refusal continued long into the night, kept at bay by the barest hints of warmth and contentment leaking from whatever dream had ensnared the engineer and welcomed by the watchful mind of the analytical, ex-Borg observer.
...
...
To Be Continued …