Voyager: Seven & Annika

"I wouldn't be able to comment," Seven said.

With another, heavier sigh, the Doctor straightened in his seat. "And what about this pack of Judases? I take it that the ship's intact, the crew is sound, and everyone lives to fight another day?"

"A few casualties. They were killed instantly, there was nothing that any doctor could've done. The Captain is considering recruitment to keep the ship crewed."

"And where would she find anyone who'd want to join this... outfit?"

"There has been considerable debate. Should I relay any suggestions?"

"No Talaxians." The Doctor waited a moment. "Their respiratory systems are extremely difficult to work with."

Another nod. It seemed a very safe gesture. "We are nearing the end of safe operating time for your program. I have instructed the computer to suspend your projection automatically."

"And what about you?" the Doctor asked. "Perhaps it's presumptuous of me—God knows I've never been accused of that—but I'd like to think we consider each other friends. I've read that sudden changes in a relationship such as this can be trying. Have you encountered any difficulty at the prospect?"

"I will," Seven agreed. "I will adapt."

"I thought as much."

"I do not believe I would have been able to do so if the damage were more severe. With that as the alternative, your current situation seems very palatable."

"I'll try to look at it that way," the Doctor said, agreeable as well. "I'll look forward to more of your visits." He paused, frowning. "But are you really alright? You seem off in some way. I don't think only seeing me for thirty minutes a day is that dire a fate."

"The other crew had managed to capture and reprogram a set of Borg drones. One of them was my opposite number."

"That must've been quite confusing for you. Emotionally speaking."

"It... yes. I find myself thinking often of our encounter. She managed to take me prisoner."

"Are you alright?"

"Yes. I think so. Do not worry about me. You must find better uses for your time."

The Doctor ruefully looked at the panel, showcasing the clock and stardate in its interface. "Man knows not the hour," he began to quote, and winked out of existence.

***

A microscopic interval in time had led to the mirror universe's Annika Hansen becoming Six of Nine instead of Seven. Ironic, how small the difference was in a sea of others. She had taken Seven to the Borg alcove of the alternate Voyager—also ironic, how in this universe, the Borg themselves had ended up assimilated.

Seven had expected to be reintegrated into the Collective. Instead, Six had restrained her. And then begun her control.

The alternate herself cut a startling figure. She retained the Borg's cybernetic upgrades, but the crew had gone to work on them, removing most of the endoskeleton, all that could be stripped off while leaving it functional. Her eyepiece remained, shining a red light, and her bald pate remained, but without the exo-plating, her ashen pale skin was almost entirely on display—its lack of mottling or grayness another modification by the Imperial crew. Now metal armor and Borg implants criss-crossed her bare body at random intervals, the bare bones parts necessary to operate such functions as her personal force field and assimilation tubules. One breast was covered, as well as her pubis, as if these errant cybernetics were trying to preserve her modesty, but the long, graceful presentation of her body in dishabille put a lie to that, as did her nonchalance, even hubris at her alabaster body's exposure—wasp-waisted and heavy-breasted, but defying the eye with the pervasiveness of her implants.

Seven had often mused on the role of the perverse in human attraction. How perfumes caught attention with pungent odors before flattering it with sweeter smells. She imagined the alternate crew would find Six quite alluring, with the lush body Seven herself possessed being coupled with the unseemly modification of the Borg. A metal nipple with blinking diode replacing an areola. A servo-armature replaced Six's left arm. Her right foot was gone, a cruel metal stalk ending her leg instead.

"Your vagina has grown significantly moist. At its present state of arousal, it is open enough to admit several of my fingers. Soon, it will take my whole fist."

Six bent at the waist, her bare breasts looked even larger with gravity in their favor. Tubules extended from her wrist, sticking to Seven's pubis, and began to pump out a jelly to further lubricate her. With that same hand, Six rubbed the jelly up and down the length of Seven's slit. Seven groaned.

"You are experiencing a pleasant feeling," Six said. "But it is only to prepare you for real pleasure."

She rubbed her greasy fingertips up and down the lips of Seven's pussy, her tubules still pumping out jelly to roll down Seven's groin. Seven found herself gasping for breath, the pleasure of those caresses, and the occasional touch to her clit, pushing her further toward the brink than she'd ever gone. Later, she would think on how she hadn't feel that much wetter, no matter how much lube Six doused her with. She would think long and hard about it.

"You don't feel very frightened. Very stressed. Very tense at all," Six said.

Seven said nothing.

"You don't feel reluctant in any way."

Seven remained completely silent.

"You feel wet. And warm!"

Seven turned her head away, as if she could dodge the accusation.

"You feel like you're sucking at my hand."

She grimaced with her double's stinging accuracy.

"You feel like you will take my fist easily!"

Seven almost wished it weren't so, that her muscles were tense and tight, that it would hurt like hell when Six entered her.

But it didn't.

Not the first finger.

Nor the second.

Not even the fourth.

"You're hurting me!" Seven said regardless, lying desperately. "You will cause me injury."

"Oh, Seven," Six said with a sigh. "That's how you know it's good. There, there, it's only my hand. My whole fucking hand..."

She wrapped her prosthetic arm around Seven's waist, the blunt end prodding into Seven's ass, and slammed her palm in to the thumb. Seven met her more than halfway. Her body was working without her, forming its own Collective to bypass all will and reason. It fucked with abandon, more than wet, more than ready—needing to come.

Sweat beaded on Seven's forehead, forming condensation on her occipital implant, as they pounded against each other, her sex clinging tightly to the fist inside her, Six's hips pistoning between her legs as she added all her body to her thrusts.

"I'm... I'm...!" Seven squealed.

"You are climaxing," Six said, smiling, her eyepiece brighter than ever.

For a full minute, Seven was a collective of one, the millions of voices replaced by an equal number of pleasures, infinitely louder, overpowering her individuality as effortlessly as the Queen ever had, making her only a quivering, convulsing body oblivious to everything but sensory input. But the fist deliciously filling up her cunt.

The fist came away. Six climbed atop of Seven, straddling her face, placing her knees on Seven's arms, the entire weight of her body on Seven's biceps. Seven struggled under the weight, but could not muster the force of will to combat her. Six parted her labia with her hands, nudged her hips closer to Seven's mouth.

"You are ready to perform cunnilingus on me," she hissed wetly. "You will perform very well, in the hopes of receiving my fist again. And you will tell me how good my cunt tastes. You will do this because you want to do this. Because it feels too good not to."

And Seven did, not yet realizing just how many ways she was fucking herself in that moment.