Seven of Nine (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
unkindness) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
ten_fwd2015-07-25 08:51 pm
unkindness) wrote in ten_fwd2015-07-25 08:51 pm
Entry tags:
ota
After the last few weeks, Lieutenant Paris had come to her in the cargo bay, interrupting her regeneration cycle, and had bodily dragged her out.
"You're avoiding people," he'd told her, and she'd glared at him and before she could even open her mouth to rebut, he'd continued. "I've checked with the computer, you haven't left your alcove in 22 hours. You haven't left the cargo bay in three days. We are getting you something to eat, and then we're restarting your social exercises."
She'd glared, she'd protested, but one of the very few people, human or otherwise, that could ignore her and drag her to where she didn't want to be currently had a solid grip on her hand, and while she could break free, she didn't have the energy.
At the door to Ten Forward, she'd balked again, not wanting to step through the doors. Memories of her last encounter with a person there were unpleasant, and she didn't wish to repeat the experience.
Snapping "I am not a child," at Lieutenant Paris when he pointed out she was pouting and striding through the doors was quite possibly not the best response.
But he'd steered her to a table in the back of the room, gone to the replicator and ordered a bowl of soup, then came back and put it in front of her.
"Eat that, then we'll discuss your homework."
That was how, forty-five minutes later, Seven of Nine began approaching people and introducing herself, looking like she'd swallowed something unpleasant and wiggly.
[Seven will be walking up and introducing herself to whoever, so go ahead and post as if she's already told you her name. And feel free to ask Tom what the heck they're doing.]
"You're avoiding people," he'd told her, and she'd glared at him and before she could even open her mouth to rebut, he'd continued. "I've checked with the computer, you haven't left your alcove in 22 hours. You haven't left the cargo bay in three days. We are getting you something to eat, and then we're restarting your social exercises."
She'd glared, she'd protested, but one of the very few people, human or otherwise, that could ignore her and drag her to where she didn't want to be currently had a solid grip on her hand, and while she could break free, she didn't have the energy.
At the door to Ten Forward, she'd balked again, not wanting to step through the doors. Memories of her last encounter with a person there were unpleasant, and she didn't wish to repeat the experience.
Snapping "I am not a child," at Lieutenant Paris when he pointed out she was pouting and striding through the doors was quite possibly not the best response.
But he'd steered her to a table in the back of the room, gone to the replicator and ordered a bowl of soup, then came back and put it in front of her.
"Eat that, then we'll discuss your homework."
That was how, forty-five minutes later, Seven of Nine began approaching people and introducing herself, looking like she'd swallowed something unpleasant and wiggly.
[Seven will be walking up and introducing herself to whoever, so go ahead and post as if she's already told you her name. And feel free to ask Tom what the heck they're doing.]
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Sometimes.
But no one on this ship really knows who she is, or has any reason to approach her, and Annie just looks up from her bowl of seafood and couscous, confused.
"Um. Hi. I'm Annie Cresta," she says in response to the greeting.
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She looks back over her shoulder at Tom, as if for guidance--or maybe to ask if this is sufficient and she can leave now, but he'd told her that as she introduces herself, it's rude to simply leave after that and she is expected to make conversation.
Thus, the small wave of his hands is not unexpected. But it is...disappointing.
"May I join you?"
Even if she looks like the chair is covered with hot coals and she doesn't particularly want to sit on it.
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The motivations behind this she has no idea. Is this for her, for Seven, for the other man? A combination thereof?
Well.
It's not as if she'll find out by refusing.
"I'm not very good company," she says, a little apologetically. "But, go ahead."
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From her small fidgety motions as she sits and settles, it's fairly evident that she's not very good company either. She doesn't quite stare unsettlingly at Annie, instead seeming to go the route of staunch avoidance of eye contact. (She's usually either all or nothing.)
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If Seven was trying to avoid people, Annie would understand. Grab a table, pretend you're in conversation with someone else, thank the stranger and then leave. But that doesn't seem to the case here.
She's just starting to think of something to say to the woman when the communicator goes off.
It doesn't clarify matters.
"Um," Annie says. "Just, just for the record, if your friend's trying to get you to ask me out, I'm engaged. Otherwise, I'm. Kinda confused."
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She does glare at him though.
"That was not my intention." She does suppose the other woman is, visually, beautiful. But Seven has no romantic inclinations towards anyone on the ship and no intention to foster any. Possibly one Hugh Cambridge assisted with that.
"Lieutenant Paris is under the impression that I need to 'practice' social skills by speaking to others."
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More sense, anyway, that the twelve-year-old schoolgirl aspect which had been the only thing this situation reminded her of. And she's familiar with friends who can be busybodies. Trying to help.
"If, if it helps," she says then, a bit hesitant, "if the other person's eating, folks tend to order something. Even just to drink."
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Tom kept an eye on her, listening in on the conversations, in case he needed to make a quick intervention. Like in case Seven starts asking awkward questions. Like how often someone copulated or suggesting they'd make good Borg drones.
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Followed rapidly with, "I've never seen anything like you before. You're amazing! How does the tech work? It's like... alive... almost..."
Manners? Whut?
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Seven rocks backwards at being so directly approached, and his enthusiasm catches her distinctly off-guard. If anyone recognized her implants, it was more to react in fear and disgust than evident amazement.
But being referred to in terms that one would refer to an object as (what, thing) sort of ruffles her metaphorical feathers, and she's a bit snappish when she responds. "I am Seven of Nine, and I believe the manner of address that is appropriate is who, not what."
She's...had this come up recently.
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Okay, no. He doesn't.
Not in this case.
"Yes. Yes. Of course you're a who... I didn't mean it like that... I meant like ... what sort of being? Race? Species? Are you that you've got such beautiful technology in you? I've never seen .. cybernetics...? yes... so advanced and seamlessly integrated. I almost didn't even notice them. It's beautiful!," Kale gushed like a fan boy meeting a movie star. He held up a hand as if he wanted to reach out and touch her, but forced it down.
Then realizing she'd introduced herself, something of his manners kicked in and he said, "I'm Kale."
Feel free to call him Cabbage, Seven.
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It takes her a minute to recover.
"Beverly Crusher," she finally responds, her voice soft, but kind. "Is there something I can do for you?"
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One, she was being approached unsolicited by an humanoid alien. At least that is what she assumed from the implants and the unusual name. Two, considering the clumsy approach and Seven's face looking like she had tasted bad ale, it wasn't entirely by her will, someone was urging her interaction with others.
Suspicious, Grainne gave the room a careful look around. She spotted a man at a distant table watching Seven with entirely too much interest, munching on pop-- Okay, she definitely knew what that meant. Her guess seemed much more plausible now.
All of this assessment took seconds, Grainne grateful for once for her Servant abilities though to someone like a Borg it was plainly visible, and then she smiled and held out her hand. It wouldn't be her first rodeo, thank Quadratus, but she had a bit of something different in mind, if her hunch was correct.
"I am Grainne. Pleased to meet you, Seven of Nine. Your mentor seems to have thrown you into the deep end, so to speak." She hesitated here on purpose, mischief lighting up her eyes. "I mean, assuming that strange man over there is. Is he your mentor, or just an enormous lech?"
And if it wasn't... Oh well.
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He pushed a bit of... actually he's not sure what it is. It tastes pretty close to spaghetti and meatballs, but it's green and there are veggies mixed in. Still, he pushes it around his plate, the other gloved hand working with the model.
He's tucked back in a corner of Ten Forward, still preferring his privacy to having a lot of people around, but at least now he's coming out a bit more. Not much, but a bit more. Boredom forced him out if nothing else did.
He blinks, when the woman speaks and pushes himself to his feet - a gentleman doesn't sit while a lady stands. "My name's Kevin Ford, ma'am." He motions to the seat opposite him. "Would you like to join me?" He has ingrained manners if nothing else.
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"Seven of Nine, huh? Pleasure. Name's Sam, Sam Bowe."
Sam doesn't bother getting 'his' feet off the table or anything, but does extend a hand. "Grab a seat if you'd like."
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He pushes the small pad of paper and the pen he was using to the side, and slides his hand to find the cup of tea he was drinking. The ink didn't really do anything for him, but it was all about the indentations he was leaving on the paper in braille. That way, when he was done, he could just flip the page and read his notes.
"Do you like to be called all of that or do you shorten it?" he asks, curiously. "And you can sit down if you want, I don't mind."