This is a disclaimer of the emergency disclaimer system. This is only a disclaimer. *BEEP!* If the disclaimer you had heard had been an actual disclaimer, then you would have been informed that Star Trek is owned by Paramount, Star Traks was created by Decker, and BorgSpace is written by Meneks. Remember, this was only a disclaimer. Delusions of Grandeur <> A new case was assigned to me today, a Bajoran woman whom the authorities have yet to find any records on. Even in this age of computerization and genetic tracking, it is easier to disappear than one might think. And looking at the woman's holo, I think she may have found that way to disappear many years ago. Lacking a name, the staff and I have decided upon Onna, a Bajoran equivalent of "Jane Doe." At the root of the woman's problems are nanites. Now a'days, most SecFed citizens, unless religion or other considerations prevent it, have a minimum nanite suite injected at birth. It is not extensive, more of an immune booster than anything else, preventing most cases of the local version of flu or cold. More serious ailments are generally moderated. For healing, stronger immune response, communication with Personalities, and such, higher grade (and more expensive) nanite suites are required. Most people find their birth-nanites suitable, and those that really want an upgrade, but don't have the credit, can join SecFed military or any of a long list of corporations. There are, however, black market options. Onna has a near, if not actual, military-grade black market nanite hack in her system. It is unknown who supplied it, but my educated guess would be an Orion Syndicate. Despite being quasi-members of the First and Second Federations, the Orions have ever been the lead suspects when it comes to the illegal. I could tangent into a treatise about the Orion psyche, but that isn't the purpose of this log. Some individuals are, for lack of a better term, allergic to nanites. The higher the grade, the more likely a person is to break out in epidermal implant nodes. Quality control at legal institutions, combined with medical observation, limits allergic reactions from properly purchased nanite suites. Unfortunately, it is all too common amid the black market hacks. For most, it means a propensity towards pluralities and a somewhat pale skin, but for the very few like Onna, well, near-Borgification is an apt term. The removal of the military-grade nanites will take time, assuming it can ever be completely accomplished. My medical counterpart Dr. Shultz tells me that these particular hacks are one step removed from pure Borg. Collective Borg. Poor Onna nearly assimilated herself, and the nanites won't to go quietly to denaturement. As it is, her physical appearance is that of a newly assimilated Borg, although thankfully not all the physiological changes have occurred. She can still digest food, for instance, so no need to acquire an alcove for her. My job is to look after Onna's mental state. She has experienced much trauma. I will attempt to stabilize her and stop the slide to actual Borgdom. If that unspeakable happens, we might as well ship her to the first Color that says they will accept her. I hope we can prevent that. As her mind gets better, so will her body, and visa-versa. One day I'll know her true name and her story; and one day she will return to normal society. <> "Recording on," I said to the room. This Tantalus V facility does not house a Personality - true artificial intelligence is a troublesome concept for some of our longtime residents - but the computer system is perfectly adequate, just as long as you don't expect conversation. "View." In front of me sprung a "flat" hologram edged with a virtual frame for the illusion of a floating wall screen. I critically examined it. It was a display of the therapy room, a comfortable area of soothing brown carpet, neutrally colored walls, and shelves of antique books (replicated, not originals). Cozy. It was a recreation of a very old Terran photo I had once seen, although instead of a leather couch I had a high-tech sofa, one which could alter form, fabric, and color to fit the needs of the patient. My own chair was a worn thing of unpretentious brown pseudo-leather, form-fit to me after many decades of use. A tinkling waterfall sculpture near the door completed the scene. Or maybe not quite. One more thing, perhaps the most important accessory, had yet to be described. Myself. My name is Dr. Benjy Zim, although my staff (and many of my patients, for that matter) call me Dr. Z. I'm the downside of middle-age, as Terrans go, and my face and increasing lack of hair shows it. I could easily take the medical treatments to restore youthful appearance, but I've found that patients seem to respond to the "wise elder" image better than "young doctor." There is no logic for this bias, but I have come to the conclusion that most bipedal humanoid species - the type I treat - look to and respect the stereotypical father figure. Happily, I have aged gracefully, although my tall frame is a bit skinnier and out-of-shape than I would like, primarily because I tend to forget to eat and can't always find the time to exercise. The computer politely chimes, announcing the arrival of my appointment. This will be my first face-to-face with Onna, a new patient recently transferred here. I have the notes from her original SecFed evaluation, but I need to build my own conclusions. "Display off. Neutral sofa. Let 'em in." Composing a pleasant expression, I turned to face the door as it opened. Three entered - two orderlies and my new patient. The orderlies were Changelings, standard for our high risk patients such as Onna, very strong and impervious to kicks and bites and claws, although certain biological acids were a problem. They led Onna to the sofa then, with a nod from me, politely took the form of end tables. So positioned they were unobtrusive, yet nearby and ready should a patient become a bit frisky. "Welcome, Onna. My name is Dr. Benjy Zim. You may call me what you like, but many people here know me as Dr. Z. If you are comfortable with that, then use it. If not," I shrugged, "use what you may. I will be your psychiatrist as we work through this difficult time together. Right now we will be having sessions two times a week, but if you feel the need to talk, just ask for me at any time. Would you like to sit down? If the sofa is not to your liking, just tell me what you want and I'll get it for you." Onna was your classic young Bajoran woman. When I say "young," I mean the species' equivalent of late-twenties. The near-assimilation had not been kind to her, hair loss and grey mottled skin the most visible symptoms. There were also numerous epidermal and sub-epidermal implant nodes, looking like flat metal spiders with too many legs. She wore a red jumpsuit, a conspicuous mark of her high risk status, which contrasted almost painfully with her skin. Face expressionless, Onna stared at me with her head slightly tilted in the standard Borg/Color posture of internal "listening." I knew from the medical reports that she in fact /did/ have a rudimentary organic transceiver deep in her brain, but steps had been taken to block transmission channels. Just in case. While Colored drones were not allowed on Tantalus V, cubes occasionally did pass through the system and the last thing we needed was for Onna to start to hear voices. "I do not sit. My designation is not 'Onna.'" Single person. That was a good sign. The chances of salvage just went up. The fact that Onna refused to sit despite her physiological ability to do so was worrisome, but the use of plurals would have been even more so. "Standing is acceptable," I mildly replied. "Would you mind if I sit?" My head level below hers made me less threatening; and the orderlies were always present should Onna decide to act belligerent. "If not Onna, then what should I use?" "My designation is 24 of 203." Short, choppy, to the point sentences. I nodded my head. "24 of 203. I see. Do you mind if I call you Onna? 24 of 203 seems a bit cold, a bit Borg." "I /am/ Borg." "Are you? You look rather Bajoran to me, one who's had a bit of an accident. Any particular Color?" "I am Borg." Collective Borg. Not good. Most patients who believed they were Borg - without the benefit of partial assimilation - focused on one particular color. The choice in Color provided insight into the patient's mindset. Green, for example, could be matched to the world of commercial consumerism. On the other hand, if the black market hacks were one step from Borg nanites, then the pronouncement from Onna was not unexpected. "Onna," I pressed, "is a much simpler name, at least for me. I deal with case numbers all day, as does much of the staff. 24 of 203 might be mistaken for a session or prescription." Not likely, but sometimes therapeutic lies were necessary. "Would you at least consider Onna?" Onna was quiet a long time. Finally she said, "The subdesignation is acceptable." "Good, good! I'll be sure to tell my staff your preference, but don't be too surprised if they forget to use 24 of 203 and substitute 'Onna' instead." While the name was my only breakthrough for the session, it was the most important. Names may seem simple things, but they are very vital. They serve as anchors. "24 of 203" was Borg, and the more she heard it, the more she would believe in her deep subconscious that she truly was Borg. While I could not stop residents from using the designation - as they surely would in the commons area - reinforcement of "Onna" by myself and the staff would emphasize the Bajoran. The day Onna revealed her real name would be the true day of celebration. For the rest of Session 1, I probed as to the extent of Onna's perceived "Borgness" and tried to engage her in conversation, to ask questions. Show emotion. My impression from Onna was one of stoic acceptance, that of a Borg drone in forced captivity. There were no aggressive tendencies, but that could change as the nanites were brought under control and her native psyche allowed to emerge. The mind is a complex thing. Finally, session over, I bade Onna goodbye as she left with her Changeling escort. <> "Tell me about eating," I prompted. When no answer was forthcoming, I sighed and evoked the magic word "Comply!" Onna, standing stiffly before the sofa as she had for her other sessions, flared her nostrils. An actual outward sign of emotion. Good. "Disgusting," she said. "Unnecessary. Inefficient." "Then why do it?" "Because this body would not function if I did not eat." "How else might you keep functioning, then, if you did not eat?" The staff had reported Onna's lack of desire to eat her food. While we certainly did not desire an overweight almost-drone in the facility, we also did not need a patient to starve herself. "I...I...I do not know." "Then you should probably keep on eating, then." "I will comply." "Good. I know you were allowed supervised access to the commons yesterday. I want to talk about that. Threatening assimilation to the other residents is not a nice thing, you know." Face hardened. "I am Borg. Resistance is futile." At this point in the session file, a record of the incident in question should be inserted. An emergency call had brought me out of session with another patient, so I only saw the tag end of it.... * * * The commons area. A supervised social gathering spot for the tenants of the high risk wing of Luna Facility #3, Tantalus V. Over the centuries the planet has evolved from its roots of a penal colony into the megamall of mental health, ranging from the Bradley Budget Box Depot to the ultraprestigious (and expensive) King Institute for the Insanely Eccentric. Luna Facility #3 fell somewhere in the upper middle third and specialized in overflow routed from Second Federation authorities. All commons rooms, however, no matter what institute, tended to look the same. An open room with high ceiling. Plastic tables and chairs in happy, bright colors. A locked craft cabinet for which the key was long lost. Disturbing paintings from the latest group art therapy hanging on the walls. A bit of scorched carpet from an "accident" with an illegal lighter. A tri-V which had two channels, one of weather and the other Galactic Shopping Network. Puzzles, most of them missing at least one piece. As it /was/ the high risk ward, no sharp objects or anything able to be inserted sideways into any bodily orifice were allowed. And, of course, the inmates. Onna stood where she had been led, abandoned next to a poofy chair to make new friends. Or, at least, fend for herself in the resident pecking order. Most of the patients gave her a wide berth, instinct whispering into their twisted brains that no matter how messed up they were, there was something seriously Not Right with the new Bajoran. Not everyone, however, was so restrained. "Your move," said the undersized Klingon as he stared intently at a black and red checked board whose pieces consisted of various types of lint, several puzzle pieces, a button, and what looked suspiciously like a dried booger. The game was checkers, sort of. The rules were fairly fluid and constantly updated. "I said your move!" said the Klingon - Orth - again, agitation in his voice. After a few seconds, his opponent, a tall, naked Romulan who only answered to the name Polly, squawked, "Polly thinks you cheat!" Polly was perched on the back of the poofy chair, next to Onna. The table supporting the checker board had been pushed into place by Orth, ignoring the presence of the Bajoran. "I do not cheat," denied Orth vehemently. "/Everyone/ knows that on the fifth moonday following the second solar eclipse in the year of the Badger on the planet Zhudum that any six of your pieces can be triple-kinged and given the ability to drive off- road laser tanks. And that the rule can only be evoked once per year." Polly generally lost. This game was no exception. "Polly doesn't remember that rule!" "Too bad." A loud "grrrughz" was followed by a hiss, and a large mass of green goo began to eat through the board...and the table. "Orderly!" shouted Orth, "Quord is spitting acid again!" Polly hooted once, cleared his throat, then stood up and flapped his arms. A large creature resembling an orange shag carpet (except for a bald head) with the bodily dimensions of a prize jhadball forward belched. "Outta my way before I loogie both of you. I gotta meet the Borg-girl." Orth sniffed. "She's not a Borg, Quord. Even /I/ know she wouldn't be here if she was a Borg." "You are such a pathological liar and thief, Orth. I have inhibition issues I still need to work through. And I'm not feeling very inhibited right now." Polly squawked again, leapt off the poofy chair, and proceeded to "fly" away by flapping his arms. "Same time tomorrow!" shouted Orth to the retreating Romulan. "I'll fix the board up again! All I need is duct tape!" Quord pushed Orth out of his way, positioning himself eye to unblinking eye with Onna. "What's your name, Borg-girl? You aren't a catatonic. Thems in another ward." Onna continued to stare straight ahead, focusing on a point on the other side of Quord's skull. Slowly her eyes refocused on the ambulatory carpet's face. "My designation is 24 of 203." "'My designation is 24 of 203'," mocked Quord in a falsetto voice. "Well, Miz 24 of 203, you are standing where /I/ want to stand." The commons room, except for a distant mutter of "Fire fire fire fire fire" had gone quiet, expectant. Even the orderlies, supposedly ensuring the patients didn't hurt themselves or others, were watching. "There is nothing unique about this location," replied Onna after a long pause. Quord's eyes narrowed. "That's what you think, Borg-girl. /I/ want to stand there, therefore it is special. Move. Or I'll spit on you." "I will not comply." "Good. I was hoping you'd say that. I have always wondered how well Borg heal..." Quord urked, sentence cut mid-word as he found himself lifted off the ground by his throat. "Species #8441. Hydrofluoric acid saliva neutralized by crushing the windpipe. Saliva production does not survive assimilation. Average drone potential, but generally best suited as front-line shock troop fodder. This specimen mentally instable and is not suitable for assimilation," robotically recited Onna, ignoring the increasingly frantic twisting from Quord as he struggled for breath. Finally she tossed him aside to land in a heap. "You will not be assimilated. And you will leave me alone." Silence reigned in the commons, then a return to normal conversational volumes and activity as staff rushed to examine Quord and remove Onna from the room. * * * "Resistance may be futile," I said, "but what you did to Quord was perhaps a bit over the top." Quord, not one of my patients, was currently sedated to his eyeballs with sleepy juice, but still reacted violently every time he saw one of the Bajoran nurses on staff...or was so much as shown a picture of a Borg drone. "He threatened my integrity. I defended myself." I sighed. "You must restrain yourself. At the very least you mustn't go picking up people like Quord. You aren't really Borg and you don't have the augmented muscles. Adrenaline will only take you so far." "I am Borg." Small victories, but I hope the update I will be receiving from Dr. Shultz later today will show better progress on the nanite front than the mental front. <> ...and Onna has been here for two weeks now. Dr. Shultz has provided the latest medical update. In a nutshell and without the obligatory med-speak, Onna's nanites are reacting to the treatment. In a good way. The nanite count is dropping, although not quickly enough for Dr. Shultz's taste: he's afraid if given sufficient time, the hacked nanies will adapt. Nasty little buggers, nanites. On the mental front, Onna has been making progress. Slow progress, but two weeks is a short amount of time. As a famous historical figure (I forget whom) once said - "Damn it, Jim, I'm a doctor, not a miracle worker!" Miracles are for priests. I'm happy to make it through the day without one of my patients spontaneously combusting. Literally. Onna is still having trouble with the commons room social situation. She seems to tolerate Polly and Orth with their never-ending checkers game; and Quord gives her a wide berth, when he isn't sitting in a corner whimpering. The others, however, are still feeling out the situation. Case in point is the session with Kown the other day. Kown, considering his delusional condition, would normally be housed with the low risk patients, not the high. Kown thinks he is a toupee. Not too disastrous, except Kown is also Flarn. Having a solid 120 kilograms of Flarn land on you because you happen to be bald or thinning a little on top can be a ruinous end to a day, especially for those races which naturally lack hair. I had just congratulated Kown for going over a week without jumping anyone, with a big cheer for avoiding the temptation Onna surely presented. "What are you talking about? I may be a little touched in the head, but I'm not insane! Borg-girl would assimilate me!" he said, using the name Onna had been christened among the patients. I carefully explained that Onna was not a Borg, but a young Bajoran who had had a little accident and was here to straighten herself out. Kown was quiet a long time before replying. "Then she's got you fooled, Dr. Z. The way she looks at people...like she's already contemplatin' what type of drone you'd best become. Makes my hair stand on end, like I was a badly woven hairpiece and not one designed by the great Ali-teych herself." Kown, like all Flarn, was quite hairless. Still...computer, notation: drop Kown's medication dose by a quarter. Time to see if, with a lower med dose, Kown can restrain himself as well as he has for the last two weeks As for Onna, I think a little variation to our quasi-conversation session is in order. I'm also going to sic a certain dogged member of the staff onto the Bajoran authorities and see if they can't pull /something/ out of their biometrics database on Onna's personal history. <> "Draw," I said, indicating a sketch easel with pallet of oil-chalks, "or sculpt. The choice is up to you." Next to the paper was a pedestal with a mound of wet clay beside it. Drop clothes covered the floor of my office in the immediate vicinity, including the sofa and my chair. Onna was more than a little suspicious. I was pleased. Emotion was increasingly becoming part of her facial expressions. While I might have preferred a friendly smile, squinted eyes and a touch of a frown was equally important. "I do not understand." "It is very simple. I want you to choose a person from the commons room - another resident, not staff - and show me how you view him, her, or it. You can use the easel and draw, or the clay and sculpt. No need for perfection." I slyly inserted the hot button word of 'perfections,' and was mildly surprised when the expected 'I am Borg. Borg are perfect' was not echoed. Eyes flicked between the two mediums. "I will...try." Onna gravitated towards the oil-chalks. I have had good results with art therapy over the years, although I usually like to use it in group sessions, not one-on-one. The medium itself was not important: I once had a coprophiliac who refused to sculpt unless it was, well, crap. What was important is the result. Art brings forth the subconscious, often at odds with the projected persona. Onna was no exception, although what grew under her sure strokes of oil-chalk was somewhat disturbing. "Who is it?" I asked. "A pale woman I see when I look at the mirror," was my answer. The landmark poofy chair was a mere sketch, a few lines a best, yet distinguishable as such, as were the forms of Polly and Orth engaged in their checkers game. A few other familiar sights, such as Marty (who thought he was a cactus) and a certain distinctive clock made by a past inmate confirmed that the scene was the commons room. The focus of the picture, however, was not on these...furnitures. In the center of the drawing was a Bajoran recognizable as Onna, only it was an Onna with the flush of life, not the pale pallor of Borg. Onna was wrapped in heavy chains, and although it was a static image, there was a sense of struggle, of breaking free. The oil-chalk Onna also had a crown on her head and a distinctive moustache, which I might have found odd except all the humanoids sprouted the latter in a sort of subconscious graffiti. I wonder if Onna might have had an artistic past. Onna put down the oil-chalk. "I am done. This session is over." She had an uncanny time sense. "Just a moment," I said, as much to stall the Changeling orderlies from metamorphosis as to arrange my thoughts. "How do you feel about this Onna you drew?" An expression of puzzlement crossed Onna's face. "That is a woman I see in the commons room. I did as you ordered. She is not me. I am 24 of 203." I had the distinct feeling that Onna was regarding me as if I were the mentally unbalanced one. "This session is over." I nodded and curtly told the orderlies to return Onna to her daily routine. Onna either had, or was manifesting, a separate personality. I suspected the former, a response to the trauma of nanites rampaging through her body. As odd as it seemed, we had made a big step forward, the outward 24 of 203 part of Onna subconsciously acknowledging the existence of the original personality. Now I just had to reintegrate them. Easier said than done. Even in our current age of medical miracles, the mind remains a mysterious place. <> "You've been here nearly a month, but you still won't sit and I know you continue - somehow - to sleep standing up. Perhaps you should at least /try/ the couch. It doesn't bite." Onna was uncharacteristically pacing back and forth behind the sofa, obviously restless. One of the orderlies, shunning his normal end table facade, had sprouted a stalked eye to better watch her. My patient stopped. "I do not sit." Pacing resumed. I watched her stomp back and forth several circuits before speaking. "What is wrong?" "Nothing," was the snapped reply, counter to her body language. "Something is clearly wrong," I said again. "Has Polly been trying to build a nest on you again? Orth maybe a bit too flamboyant in his tales?" I knew the two had fully taken Onna "under wing" as part of their little group, even as most of the other residents continued to keep their distance. "The woman in the mirror," spat Onna. "She mimics me. She does everything I do." "Doesn't the mirror-Polly do everything the real Polly does? The same for the mirror-Orth?" "Yesss..." The word was drawn out into a sibilant hiss. "And remember how I said that the mirror-Onna and you were the same?" Onna stopped pacing. Either her facial expressions truly were becoming more noticeable, else I had become adept at reading them. Behind Onna's eyes I could see a thought, a supposition violently choked off. "The mirror-Onna and I are not the same," insisted my patient. Fingers dug into the couch back. I shook my head slightly as the one end table sprouted a second eye to look to me for directions. "I will draw," said Onna abruptly. Shrugging, I waved her to the waiting easel and oil-chalks. As with every picture sketched since the first, the primary subject was "the woman in the mirror." Mirror-Onna was slowly evolving, slowly losing her chains, which I took as a good sign. Her flesh was perhaps paler than before, but the entire composition was a bit washed out. While the crown was gone, the moustaches were still present, extravagantly so, wisps and curls abounding. Onna drew intently, as if she were casting out a personal demon. Maybe she was. <> I have been here too long. Time for a vacation. I swear I saw the oddest thing yesterday when I glanced at the commons room monitor. All the usual suspects were present, from Kown dyeing himself with finger paints in an effort to be a more attractive blonde toupee to the normal crowd of Weather Channel groupies watching the latest rainstorm and discussing its motive. As normal, my eyes drifted to my most intriguing patient, although I had to ask for another camera angle because Marty, in search of the perfect sunbeam, chose that moment to figuratively plant himself in my field of view. The delusion of being Borg is not unusual. Currently three exist in the ward. It is not necessary to be near-assimilated like Onna, the mind more than perfectly capable of filling in details that aren't present such as hoses and implants. The most severe cases - those of a Red bent, for instance - end up in the high risk ward. The three "Borg" (called the Triplets by the other residents) had gathered around Onna. Orth, engaged in spinning to Polly the newest checkers rule involving the moons of Eclidor in mutual eclipse, ignored the intruders. Before now, I had not seen any, nor heard of, interest by the Triplets towards Onna. Like the majority of patients, they had seemed to be content to leave Onna alone. Yet here they were, huddled such that I could not see what they were doing, although one - the rodent-like Seffite - seemed to be waving a hand over her body as if scanning it. And was that a spoon (note to check with the kitchen to see if cutlery was missing) one of the others was holding? I blinked as I suddenly noticed /twins/ of the Borg trio standing against the wall in their normal spots, then a second time as Marty settled himself in my way. "Computer, give me a view of Onna which isn't blocked by Marty," I said. The computer beeped and returned me to the original angle. The busy Triplets were gone, as if they had never been. A quick review of the last ten minutes disturbingly showed nothing; and nor did the nurses and orderlies tasked to keeping an eye on the commons room and its occupants recall unusual activity near Onna. As I said, I think it may be time for a long vacation...or at least a full night's sleep. Physician, heal thyself. <> "Why?" asked Onna, a note of frustration present as she shifted from foot to foot. A question? Was Onna initiating a conversation? I perked my ears but kept the excitement from my voice and body language: I felt a breakthrough was near. "Why what, Onna?" "Why don't I work? Why can't I hear the voices in my head anymore? Why does the woman in the mirror follow me?" Onna shuddered and closed her eyes, hands opening and closing to fists. "We've talked about this before, Onna. The nanite load in your body has been severely depressed and Dr. Shultz has just recently told me that he thought the organic neural transceiver would soon deactivate. What you /were/ hearing was stray subspace radio transmissions, not Borg voices: Bolian jazz, interspecies rock, but mostly talk radio and sports. This is very good." "No," Onna shook her head, "I cannot go without the voices. 'Council Politics Today' with K'tar G'loth. 'Jhadball Analysis.' 'The Top Fifty Countdown.' Give me back the voices!" Eyes opened and stared at me, intent. "Give me back the voices! You will comply! Now! Comply!!" I stood from my chair and backed up, unafraid to do the prudent thing and put furniture between myself and my patient. Bravado makes for a short career in the high risk ward. Such was the danger of working with potentially unstable residents: one minute calm, and the next they are calling for your head (or other body part) on a platter. "Orderlies, I think today's session is done. Please return Onna to her quarters." Behind and to the sides of Onna organically flowed the orderlies as they transformed from end table to humanoid. As my patient lunged toward me demanding that I return her voices - most especially "Happy Puppet Night" - the orderlies smoothly stepped in and lifted her from her feet, breaking traction. I am always amazed when I observe Changelings perform feats of strength beyond that capable by their outward seeming. I recognize my human tendency to equate outside appearance with ability, a million years of evolution resistant to the conditioning of a mere lifetime. Onna kicked. Onna shouted dire threats. Onna scratched and bit. Onna even tried an odd punching movement that I later realized was a futile attempts to deploy the assimilation tubules she did not have (thank goodness). While the display was appalling in its animalistic fury, I was actually quite happy, for the Borg-Onna would never have reacted thus...but for Bajoran-Onna, the reaction was perfectly understandable. The orderlies took the struggles in stride, easily carrying her away with nary a flinch. Progress, when it comes, is not always pretty. <> I don't need a vacation...I need glasses. What an anachronistic concept, glasses, yet I have been having eye trouble the last few days I cannot explain. Objects, people have gone all fuzzy around the edge at times; and I have experienced several periods of flickering, as if there was a distant thunderstorm (without the noise) flashing lightening. The latter is most disturbing because not only has the weather been clear (and the electrical grid sound), but I live so deep in Luna Facility #3 that it is rare I went the ward labyrinth to reach what passes for outdoors on Tantalus V. I suppose I should go to one of our fine physicians, but I always worry that if I do so they will find more than one thing wrong with this aging body. I do not have the time for a forced vacation for my health. Eyes aside, Graaashtz is really starting to worry me. Yesterday a nurse caught him using toilet paper and glue to try to construct a papier-mache spatula. Admittedly, it is not as bad as the blender last month, but nor is it as benign as a spoon. Hopefully he won't try anything as dangerous as a whisk or a toaster oven. He is already as pilled to the gills as prudent, but the medication is not helping. I think I'm going to try to contact Dr. Pilzer at the Terran Scholarly Institute for the Insanely Insane and ask about a new substance I've heard of that they are trying to push through the regulatory process. The zucchini side effect may be a bit extreme, but so is Graaaashtz. Moving on, Torish... <> Onna is sitting. She does not look very comfortable, but she is sitting. Or was sitting. She stands again after a few brief minutes. "I can make the sofa more to your liking," I say. "It does not feel right, Dr. Z," replied Onna after a few seconds of introspection. I blink. This is the first time Onna has used my name, or any name for that matter that wasn't her own numerical designation. "What does not feel right?" "Sitting. Standing. Not using a bed. Using a bed. Everything." Wave of arm; pained, confused expression. "I've...changed. I think. The voices are gone...but I don't think they were supposed to be there in the first place. Who am I?" The stilted pronunciation remained present, but the words were moderated with real emotion. This was not the Onna of the first 19 sessions, but a new Onna, perhaps even the Onna who bought the black market hack. Whomever she was, some of the mannerisms of 24 of 203 remained, but others had been shed. It was my job to encourage the passing of 24 of 203, much as Dr. Shultz had fostered the denaturing of the nanites, and reinforce the Onna personality. "Who do you think you are?" Questions are a psychiatrist's favorite weapon. "Not 24 of 203, not really. Not Onna, neither. I...I feel like I am the woman in the mirror, the one who is always in the commons room with me." I smiled encouragingly. "Maybe you are," I said, as if I had not previously tried to equate mirror-Onna and real-Onna. In Onna's mind, what I had said before had had no meaning until now. "Would you like to draw me a picture of the woman in the mirror?" Eyes slid sideways to the easel and oil-chalks I always had ready for Onna's session. "Yes, Dr. Z." I waved a hand. "Go ahead." Approaching the paper with a trepidation unseen earlier, Onna carefully selected an oil-chalk and began. After the first few strokes, however, she sank into the trance she always adopted when sketching. Light colors, brief lines, the picture rapidly took shape. More than ever, the people and things surrounding the Onna figure were indistinct, unimportant. Over the sessions a trend had been established whereas increasingly less color had been used, and this particular sketch was a near monochrome of black and white and gray with only the slightest of colored highlights. Standing in the middle of the picture was an idealized Bajoran woman sporting Onna's features, drawn with Borg body armor and a hint of hosing, but lacking chains. The moustache fixation was also still present; and even the background shade of a poofy chair supported whiskers. Ignoring the inappropriate hair, I interpreted the scene as signifying that there was still a manifestation of the Borg (and, like a scar, would always remain even if the hacked nanites were removed), but that the real Onna was otherwise emerging from the 24 of 203 prison. I nodded as Onna looked to me for approval. "We - you and I - have made much progress, Onna. Much progress. Why don't you try sitting again and telling me about some of your changes." "Yes, Dr. Z." <> The inquiry to the Bajoran authorities concerning Onna's identity has finally returned. While there is an obvious mistake that goes a long way to explaining the delay, I finally know Onna's true name. Jazel du Matalas. Age 22 standard at the time of disappearance. Here is where it becomes odd because Jazel's biometric-genetic profile was found in some moldy, old records...First Federation. Jazel is listed as an ensign assigned to security on a FirstFed Starfleet ship reported as missing well over /five hundred years/ ago. Certainly some sort of snafu has occurred, but I'm inclined to believe Jazel is Onna's real name. I will try to confront her about it at our next session. Concerning Troth, well, my staff is complaining that he's been plucking feathers from himself again. If that wasn't enough of a backwards step, he has been using the feathers to construct Voodoo dolls. Nurse Mora - a capable, no nonsense Klingon if there ever was one - says that she's been getting some rather serious headaches; and that several thumbtacks have gone missing from the ward's bulletin boards. The exorcist on loan from the local Church of the Prim One (it used to be "Prime," but the "e" fell off...long story) has reported some success with Reni. At least Reni's head doesn't do that 360 thing anymore. The levitation, demonic voice, flames, and inappropriate evacuation of bodily wastes will take a bit longer. The next session.... "Sorry to intrude, Dr. Z, but there is a situation developing in the commons room. All staff, including the ward director, are being asked to assist." Let me see...log pause. Log unpause. I'll be finishing later. There /is/ a situation brewing. Troth may not be the only one taking a step backwards. Log off. * * * The unemotional lenses of unobtrusive security cameras watched the commons room from all angles, nonsentient computer storing digital tapes to file as it did for all monitors and sensors in the larger facility. The high risk commons room of Luna Facility #3 was in a state of chaos. While no melodramatic red lights flashed - that was only for starships - a keening siren was present in the background. The wailing warning was echoed by several patients, some due to sensitive auditory mechanisms and others just because. In the middle of the room, in the shadow of a poofy chair that had seen better days, was Quord. The Borfi lay unconscious, maybe worse, all by forgotten amid whoops, thrown furniture, spittle, and other signs of patient unrest. Rewind several time periods to a point just before breakdown. Polly and Orth play checkers, only now the game has a slight variant because Onna is observing with active interest. Orth explains the concept of the quadruple king and how the piece gains power of flight and lasers if it can successfully traverse the board in a convoluted path without touching any other piece. Meanwhile, Polly dispenses his own wisdom concerning the palatability of different cracker brands. Then Quord stalks onto the scene. "You are not a Borg, unBorg-girl," declares Quord, made bold by drugs, intensive therapy, and the uncertain mechanism in his brain which drove him to bully. "You are just a pale Bajoran female who thinks she is a Borg. You are no more a Borg than the Triplets!" Quord invokes the Colored "Borg" patients. Onna blinks at Quord, an expression of annoyance on her face. She does not assert her purported Borgness, but neither does she deny Quord's accusation. "You are bothering us. Leave." One's speech pattern is clipped. Quord steels himself, looming over the checkers game and using his orange bulk to best advantage. Fur is puffed so that he appears twice as wide as usual. The commons room is quiet, expectant, even the ever-present undercurrent of "Fire fire" suppressed. There is a murmur as a Ferrengi offers to take bets in the form of buttons, lint, and earwax. "You are not Borg, unBorg-girl. I want to stand there and if you don't move, I've got a loogie with your name on it. I do! My doctor says I need to get rid of my personal demons, and one of those demons is you!" The standoff is tense, Quord glowering at Onna and Onna staring unblinkingly at Quord. Eye contact is lost as Onna slumps her shoulder in nonverbal admission of defeat, but as she turns her head, she catches sight of herself in the mirror. The lights seem to flicker. Onna's posture stiffens, she sucks in a deep breath, exhales, then swivels her head to confront Quord once more. "Your moustache betrays you. This is a sham. We will not comply." Before Quord can protest, Onna shoots out a hand, latching onto the larger Borfi's neck. Quord frantically struggles, then, as pressure to his windpipe increases, abruptly goes limp. Onna's face lacks all expression. As if a secret signal, the thud of Quord's body to the floor is interpreted as a sign to begin rioting. "Wow," says Orth as he gazes around the room, "guess this checkers game is over. I'll get the pieces. Polly, you...oh." Orth stops as he notices Onna has the naked Romulan in an odd neck lock; and that Polly was looking a little grey in the face. "Well, then, I'll take care of the board as well. We'll start tomorrow where we left off, though, okay?" The doors to the watch-room open as nearly all on duty nurses and orderlies - a too small amount - stream into the room. Return to the present time. The staff was obviously losing. The residents, for the most part unbound by the laws of sanity which suggested resistance to be an inappropriate option, imaginatively continued their uprising. While several patients had been reduced to sleeping speed bumps following application of powerful soporific agents, the number of hypospray wielding orderlies had been reduced to a trio of Changelings frantically fending off attack in the form of a one-two combination of paint solvent and shop-vac. The locked doors which led to the main hallway, and thence to the rest of the facility, were slowly yielding under the pressure of a Flarn who could not wait to demonstrate his "hairness" to those of a follicle-challenged nature. Onna was a knot of calm in the center of the howling storm. She was deliberately advancing upon the craft supply closet, her passage hindered by furniture and other patients. Those who blocked her progress were...disposed of. Evidence lay behind her in the form of Quord, Polly, a certain Ferrengi soliciting bits of thread at 3 to 1 odds. The Triplets already clustered around the cabinet. Dr. Z swept into the room, vanguard of the army of staff roused to quell the riot. Hyposprays, tranquilizer guns, nets, lengths of rope, duct tape, the weapons of subduing were many. Faced with this new threat, the residents happily engaged in an all-out brawl, unconcerned that they would eventually be forced to submit. "Onna! Jazel!" cried Dr. Z as he fought his way towards the Bajoran, one hand clutching a hypospray. "Hold on there! Time for a little nap, then we'll be having a nice talk later. A nice, long talk. It may be time to add socialization exercises and group session." Onna paused and turned to face Dr. Z. "We will not comply." "Plurals? Oh, my," breathed Dr. Z, audio pickups just barely capturing the words. "I...what the hell was that?" The entire room shimmered, buzzed, momentarily vanished to reveal the straight lines and ninety degree angles of non-institute construction beyond. Then the walls were back as if they had never gone. "Jazel, I..." continued Dr. Z, cutting off as he found himself beside his patient. Onna moved with a swift motion ostensibly impossible considering her species, her armoring...her armoring and implants and assemblies which had not been present before the flicker. "My designation is 24 of 203. We...I am Borg. You will be assimilated," Onna whispered in Dr. Z's ear, arm tightening around neck. "Screw this," muttered one of the nearby Triplets, hand plunging into the cabinet as if it was insubstantial. The limb was retracted, bringing with it a bundle of colored wired accompanied by sparks. "Delta can shove it where the sun don't shine: I am not engineering." As the commons room flashed and then slowly started to fade, it took with it orderlies, rambunctious residents, everything except Onna, Dr. Z, and the Triplets. The rodent of the trio clicked his incisors. "Poor thing. You've burned your hand." "The damage is minor," replied the other, dropping the wires and staring at a revealed data pillar in serious need of repair. "Both my hand /and/ the holographic control node." Dr. Z gurgled as the arm constricted further. The rodent - Doctor - hrummed. Onna abruptly slumped, eyes closing, falling into the waiting arms of the third Triplet. "That did not work. We /knew/ it would not. Silly farce and a waste of time. As for you..." Doctor looked at Dr. Z, and Dr. Z stared at Doctor, extreme shock plastered over his face. Slowly the expression changed to one of confusion, followed by sudden realization. "What the.... Psychology? Why is my algorithm linked with a pop psychology database?" Pause. "And what did you do to my features? You made me look /old/. My kernel code is seriously..." Dr. Z abruptly vanished. {End program Frank. Return to storage in unit 27 of 27. Reset to minimal interaction mode.} Doctor flicked his ears, then peered critically at 24 of 203. "Back to your cage you go, Frank. As for you, I think a certain droney-woney needs to have a wee bit of neural readjustment before she is returned to consciousness." * * * * * <> The experiment was unsuccessful...as this sub-collective warned would be the outcome. On occasion, the Collective devises a hypothesis concerning the lessening of assimilation imperfection impact. In this case, the concept of "reverse psychology" was to be employed to drive a drone on the "edge" of assimilation imperfection to become solidly One with the Greater Consciousness. An experiment was concocted, analyses and simulations ran, and the task of implementation assigned to this sub-collective. As directed, this sub-collective holographically altered part of Bulk Cargo Hold #5 to that of a Tantalus V psychiatric institution based upon the subspace sitcom "Welcome to the Rubber Room." A selection of supporting characters were created for with the subject to interact; and the primary operant, nee "Dr. Z," devised. This sub-collective, and the Collective in general, lacks a working knowledge of the science of psychology and psychiatry. After researching such sources as "Self- Hypnosis for a Better Lifestyle" and "Imagine Yourself Whole: a Pseudo-Vulcan Approach to Personal Mental Health," we discovered that the early generation First Federation hologram designated "Frank" (held in unit 27 of 27's onboard memory) incorporated a minor psychiatric subroutine. We augmented the database in question, executed trivial cosmetic alterations, and adjusted pieces of the gestalt code. Obviously we were not sufficiently thorough, as the hologram broke to its base kernel in the end. However, irregularities aside (i.e., malfunctioning hologrid due to various causes such as the inflatable Enterprise incident and the trans-dimensional alien intrusion; and the accidental release of 24 of 203's dossier), this is not the reason for failure. The subject used for this experiment, 24 of 203, was dictated to us by the Collective. Although we had reservations as to suitability, this sub-collective was provided no choice in the selection. 24 of 203's preparations, as according to instruction, included decreasing nanite load, blocking key memory pathways, and a subliminal code to foster belief of ambient environment, hologramatic characters, and the holographic veneer disguising aspects of her body. Memory was constantly adjusted during the experiment to erase regeneration periods, substituting appropriate sleeping or eating recollections. Refer to the previous sub-collective reports submitted prior to initiation warning of 24 of 203's moustache obsession. In summary, it was the moustache which scuttled the experiment. Despite the signs of a continued subconscious fixation - nee, the drawings - and our inquires to terminate the trial, the experiment ran to its aborted conclusion. The moustache is one of the fundamental psychoses recorded for 24 of 203, along with the occasional crown, ear hair, and knobby knee fascination. While these latter items were successfully suppressed, moustaches continued unabated. The psychological swing from "maybe I'm not a Borg" to "We are Borg" during the ill-advised Quord episode was accompanied by moustaches. And maybe, just maybe, the algorithms of the larger holographic environment program may have diverted slightly from the expected. The riot was unplanned and we could not terminate the program except by physically excising key emitter control circuitry. That was the fault of the noncorporeal species #11 infant entity which had become trapped in Cube #347's electrical grid. We will not detail how /that/ happened in this report, except to relay the infant is gone and that we have yet to find a suitable paint to cover the large orange stain in subsection 14, submatrix 13, nodal intersection #18. Final tally: * Partial malfunction of Bulk Cargo Hold #5 holographic system; * Status of 24 of 203 largely unaltered, except the unit now perceives moustaches on all objects, plus there is a growing toupee fascination; and * The "Frank" holoprogram is currently undergoing counseling by the drone maintenance hierarchy head in group session with 39 of 240's pink flamingos - prognoses uncertain. The elapsed time of 52 standard days with accompanying resource commitment further argues against this experiment as a viable solution to drones bordering assimilation imperfection. Unless, of course, the purpose is to more firmly entrench units in their dysfunction. This sub-collective believes that the Greater Consciousness did not lend weight to all simulation conclusions, especially those of 5% probability or less. We also believe we had better edit this report to something more suitable... <> The experiment was unsuccessful. Additional details are specified in meme appendixes A through BE.