Asset possesses a malleable personality suitable for undercover reconnaissance missions.

Her handler was a deliberate man, more conformance philosophy textbook than Obsidian Order grunt. Others in her cohort thought less of him — and of her for being sponsored by him — because of his quiet demeanor and soft spoken orders.

Seska was no fool.

Every species had their adage about still waters for a reason. Cardassians spoke of peaceful surfaces hiding undercurrents that could capriciously drown you while your comrade enjoyed a refreshing swim.

Obarit was an invisible anchor line, waiting to tangle around ankles of those passing unwittingly overhead.

He'd brought Seska her orders the previous week. She'd taken that time to familiarize herself with the target and the mission while the geneticists and surgeons turned her familiar reflection into that of a Bajoran. Not meek, never meek, her eyes were too viscous for that.

This wasn't her first foray into the murky waters of espionage, but it was the first time she'd go deep undercover. Years wearing a face that wasn't hers, speaking another species' language in its various refugee camp dialects, contorting the truth of her past into a farce for Maquis consumption, and warring against the ever present corrosive pull to go native.

Every time she thought she was ready, Seska forced herself to prepare more. Knowing that Obarit wouldn't release her until she passed all of his tests— knowing that the Maquis would kill her if she fell a single step short of a convincing Bajoran.

"The leader?" He asked, pulling up an image of a Starfleet defector.

Dark hair, dark eyes, and an unnecessary dermal decoration on his forehead. Seska supposed he could be considered handsome by human standards. A real catch for a lovely lady terrorist out there some day. The wrong everything for her tastes, not that those would matter soon.

She'd already sent Obarit a report on her interpretation of the crew's strengths and weaknesses as she saw them: from the tactical genius of the Vulcan, to the well-documented psychopathy of the Betazed, to the unmanageable rage of the engineer. An officer in intelligence had spent months collecting information on each — likely knew them better than they knew each other —and Seska had had to analyze it all.

No, he wasn't asking her to give him another breakdown of the cell members. He was giving her an order.

Seska felt her mouth go dry.

She had to try, "I can ingratiate myself to the half-Klingon easily, earn her trust by legitimizing her feelings of victimization and anger. I can be the older sister she never dreamed of having. A paragon of a besieged race seeking vengeance, a whisper in her ear telling her there's nothing wrong with her."

Obarit looked her over clinically, but his black eyes weren't unkind.

Seska suspected it was the softness in him that had made the others truly uncomfortable. They mocked her for his attention because Cardassians weren't used to affection from the people who could order them tried and executed for treason.

In some ways, he reminded Seska of her maternal grandfather. Not in appearance, he was too slender for that and his hair was too gray, but in demeanor. Always guiding, never dragging, her to the outcome he wanted.

Of course she had fallen into the trap of wanting to make him proud. It usually brought her comfort, since his approval was an easy thing to strive for in a world of cutthroat competition, but now it just made her feel disgusting.

"That is an excellent observation, but it's not an answer to the question I asked."

She let her training take over, and pushed her reluctance aside, "Tell me."

That request was not the answer he wanted either, but he accepted it.

"Our profiling suggests he craves the attention of strong-willed women. Perhaps it's the result of the absence of an active maternal figure in his youth or due to the presence of a demure mother who allowed a more domineering father to punish his adolescent expressions of independence. His previous relations have been with women who retain power separate and equal to his own. If you succeed, his shame at the perceived abuse of authority can be manipulated to our ends."

Seska took a breath, accepted the wisdom for what it was, a suitable means of uncovering the cell's secrets. It wouldn't be her body, not truly, just the woman's she was pretending to be.

Besides, she thought, Obarit hadn't told her she couldn't try it her way as well.

...

The hologram was annoying, but it was just who he was. Why a holo-engineer would create one of the greatest technical marvels in the Federation only to shackle it with an endless list of personality defects was beyond her understanding, but Seska could compartmentalize her frustration with the EMH's bedside manner in order to accept that, as far as physicians went, his work was impeccable.

Besides, she was in a decent mood that day. After nearly three years, he'd cracked the final impractical thing the Obsidian Order had done to her genetics. In just a few minutes, she wouldn't have to walk the ship looking like the bastard child of two worlds.

Seska let him complain about his life, as a general 'thank you' for his efforts.

"I have never met a more miserable person. Did you know she reprogrammed my family to hate me? As a lesson? She's not a teacher. She's a bully!"

Ah yes, despite trying to ignore the personal lives of 98% of the crew, she had heard about this. From Kes? Yes. Just that morning in the mess hall, the little sprite had sat at her table and asked for her advice on the matter. Seska didn't understand why the woman child kept trying to be her friend, but such was life aboard a starship run by the Federation. What did the humans say? Kumbaya?

Whatever.

So, Torres made his family think he was unbearable to be around? So, what?

"You're both miserable jackasses," Seska said bluntly, borrowing a human insult and saying it in a proper Terran language so the universal translators didn't sanitize it into something she didn't mean.

Last time, when she tried to say it in her own language, the translator called Paris a Rear Socket. Like it was a proper noun. Cardassians didn't have large equine mammals on their worlds, and she'd had to improvise on the fly — what a waste of a perfectly good moment to insult the pilot.

The Doctor spluttered in indignation, but his scanning hand remained steady. It was that inorganic resolve that made her put up with his absolutely unhinged bedside matter.

She'd been tortured by people who annoyed her less.

"I am not!"

"Yes, you are," Seska toyed with the ends of her long hair, a pleased little smile on her face when she saw that it was its old, sleek true black…

Only to immediately roll her eyes when it looked like he was about to ruin her moment of contentment with a diatribe on why she was wrong, actually.

"Your problem is that you're a miserable little man stuck on a ship with a miserable little engineer. She shouldn't have reprogrammed your family. There. So, what? What are you going to do about it? Complain to anyone with ears and the bad luck of needing medical attention?"

Something in his processing was taking too long to catch up. Usually, he would be respond immediately with his own sarcasm, but now he just looked uncertain.

"I am not a 'miserable little man'."

Seska rarely took pity on anyone, but she did so now. Unfortunately for the EMH, her pity was always delivered in the form of forthright honesty.

Her honesty was not known to be kind.

"You are. It's not your fault that you are, but burying your head in the sand won't make your delusions of grandeur real."

"I was programmed to behave this way," he sniffed, clearly hurt, but blessedly still doing his job.

"So was she, by a thousand little cuts made by the people who should have known better. They turned her into what she is, a genius with a subpar grasp on her emotions. Just like your creator made you. The only thing that makes you the bigger jackass is that you can alter your own programming."

She snapped her fingers under his nose, "Just like that. All you have to do is ask her to help you, but you won't. She has to change the hard way, you privileged shit."

The universal translator called him 'privileged dung' instead, but the meaning was clear enough.

Seska accepted the mirror he begrudgingly handed her and admired the grey and blue hues of her fully restored skin.

"If you're as real as you claim to be," she was already mad at herself for getting involved and scoffed, "then shut up and try to learn what Torres is taking the time to teach you."

"What could that possibly be? That children are miserable and marriage is a curse?"

She wanted to tell him to grow up or to stick the mirror somewhere indecent; instead, she took a deep breath and once again chose pity.

"No one owes you love because you say they do. Either change yourself to get it or give up."

Seska knew which one she'd had better luck with.

The Doctor's nature may be annoying and insecure, and Torres' may be infuriating and insecure, but Seska's was mean and bitter and confused and desperately adrift without a purpose to shape itself to.

And it was also, though she hated to admit it, insecure.

What a stupid, dungy group they were.

Voyager Week,Day 2 Prompt: Favorite Character. The Doctor, of course. Set pre-series and during 3x22 Real Life.