Chapter Text
Cognitive behavioral therapy was something that until now, Data had sub-categorized as a “passing interest.” He had always wanted to understand the human condition - had always wanted to understand his friends - and the topic naturally came up in the course of his research into what Deanna did. He had been consistent in the practice of psychological exercises ever since he got his emotion chip, as a way of getting familiar with responses. It was like learning emotional intelligence. And now, since the drama of its activation, this was his first real “test”, so-to-speak.
He was sitting at his desk. His internal chronometer read 23:17 hours, and he had temporarily turned off his dream program. While repairing his emotion chip, he did not sleep. Now that it had been re-installed, he decided it was time to resume his nighttime routine. His quarters were still, silent. Undisturbed. His sensors and diagnostics were running proximity sweeps in the aftermath of what he could only call a nightmare.
His internal account of the dream was detailed, as were all his dreams – this was something his biological friends did not experience. A human might remember a dream in the moment, only to have their recollection dissolve the moment they turned their thoughts to breakfast, or getting dressed. Data recorded all of his dreams like he recorded memories, and true to form, the dream was essentially identical to the stored memory file of the event.
Walking in the corridor with Captain Picard, Commander Worf, and a collection of security officers. Phaser rifle in hand, assimilated crew members and Borg drones milling about in denser and denser groups as they advanced towards Engineering. The air, hot and sticky. The smell, close and damp.
Before, in the actual moment, his chip had been turned off. In the dream, anxiety lit him like a live wire from the tips of his synthetic toes to the top of his head, localizing like a tangled ball of nerves in his chest and in his throat. Before, he knew only the threat and the plan they were going to use to combat it. Now, he knew what waited at the other end of the hall. And he couldn’t stop getting closer.
One step towards danger.
One step towards agony.
One step towards death.
One step towards Her.
DANGER: PROXIMITY ALERT.
Data launched himself up and away from his desk.
Danger.
But there was no danger. Spot glowered pitifully from the corner of his quarters, between the couch and the wall. She’d circled around his ankles affectionately, and did not understand his reaction to her demonstration of love. It was usually so well received.
“Spot,” he knelt down, a tight knot of sorrow in his voice. He extended an open hand. She crept forward cautiously, accepting his apology with a rippling movement against his palm. This was a calm action, a smooth movement.
Data’s perception of the patterns detected by his external sensors had changed only a little in his pursuit of human emotion. What had once been equations held against a vast sum of knowledge were now processed through the additional filter of feeling. He had been surprised, and happy, to realize he had always loved his cat. She had always been important. He had always loved his friends. The all-important equation for personal value was always there, and now the sensation was, too.
Sensation. He sat back at his desk, a little cautiously, and examined his ankles curiously. Danger. He had been grabbed and dragged into Engineering by strong grey hands. He had not be able to stop it. That was the missing connection.
“Computer,” he said. “Begin cognitive behavioral log, entry number nine.”
…
He painted, too.
His painting started yellow, in the corner. It was bright, and feathered into orange.
…
"I like the new uniforms," he told Geordi. The uniforms were a much different design than what everyone had grown used to, but did their best to be universally flattering. There was a sense of cohesion provided by the black body, the only individual touches provided by the color-coded collars and pips. As always, his was gold.
"I wish they'd pick something and stick with it," Geordi grumbled. "It's hard to keep up."
"Senior staff, report to the Observation Lounge immediately," the Captain’s voice came through clear and somber on their communicators. Geordi and Data shared a look.
"Wonder what that's about."
"Perhaps it is simply a routine meeting?" Data said hopefully.
"Mmm. Doubt it," Geordi smiled. "But I like your optimism."
…
The painting began a decent into the deeper, richer colors. Dark, dark blue. It covered more of the painting than the yellow.
…
The Borg cube had left a trail of destroyed ships in its wake. He scanned the debris patterns for signs that someone – anyone – had been able to survive. Not one. Data could not die from oxygen deprivation, but he imagined death in a vacuum would be a frightening end. His nested files of first-hand accounts of decompression survivors sent him a relevancy notification, but he muted them. No time for that now.
…
A brief slash of sturdy, vibrant red –
…
Commander Worf was alive. He was safely beamed aboard the Enterprise - but Data could not stop to savor the relief, unintentionally overhearing Commander Riker's quip, "You do remember how to fire phasers?" and Worf's irritated sub-vocalization. Old banter. The feeling on the bridge was now, somehow, stronger. Everyone leaned into their tasks a little harder, feeling more at ease with a trusted friend at tactical. It was like old times.
…
The red turned back to blue, which turned not to the comforting goldenrod yellow of before, but something bright and electric. Impossible to ignore.
…
Walking towards Engineering. Phaser rifle in hand. Turning off his anxiety –
…
Flat, sickly grey. Then white. It was like color blocking now, the pigments no longer melting into each other seamlessly, but occupying their own space like territorial creatures. Grey did not mix with yellow, white did not mix with grey.
Two deep red lines, thin and straight, cut across the canvas. He used too much paint and one line sent a single drip rippling down the manila-hued fabric, where it pooled on the easel.
…
Do you know what this is, Data?
If it means nothing to you, why protect it?
…
One grey line, darker than the others, and messier.
…
That’s because you haven’t been properly stimulated yet.
…
Then, the white became grey again.
…
His hands tightened around Her waist as he pulled Her from the Captain’s legs, adjusting his force and strength within that narrow margin that would either pry Her loose from safety, or send both Her and the Captain tumbling into the noxious green coolant. She screamed, Data did not.
He imagined them both, Her and the Captain, writhing on the ground as he had for those few seconds the plasma took to strip him of those scraps of flesh. The pain, still so new and foreign, had been immobilizing. It seeped deeply despite belonging to such a small surface area, and as he took mere moments to reorient his diagnostics he realized there was another kind of burning within him. Hate. He hated Her. She had done this.
…
Red. Black.
…
"Data, are you alright?" the Captain was concerned, his expression revealing to Data the depth of his care for his second officer.
"I imagine I look worse than I...," and he almost laughed, a strange moment to laugh since nothing was funny, "...feel."
He looked to Her remains, still and quiet on the floor. He looked at the Borg drones dead as a result, some of them still in Starfleet uniform. Red, gold, blue peeks of color where the Borg tech revealed at the seams a hint of who they used to be.
“Part of me is sorry she is gone,” he said, unable to understand why.
He was as close as he could be to exhaustion. Sensor alerts told him as much. Access panels open. Components exposed. Energy cells drained. No more pain, however. Something was caught in him, something that made him want to –
…
Data stopped painting. He wanted...did he really want that? He stepped back from the canvas. The colors had all faded into grey tinged versions of themselves, towards the bottom.
…
- but he couldn't, not yet, not here. The captain helped him up with a firm, reassuring grip. They walked away, walked out, and he realized he couldn't process what was happening in his positronic net. He needed to turn it off, needed time to repair himself, needed to –
…
Data's painting was not masterful. In fact, if it had been intended as anything other than therapy, it would have been embarrassing. The paint lay thick and wet, even at the very top where he first began.
He took his hand, and dragged it across the surface, mixing the colors together slowly at first, and then faster. Angrier. Until it was all one ugly shade of dead, grey, brown. Not warm brown, sensual brown, comfortable brown. Ugly, dead, and cold.
He was practically vibrating with it, anger. Obviously, at Her. But who else? He seized the edge of the frame on a rare impulse and heaved it at the wall, where the wood frame shattered and the canvas collapsed on itself as it fell to the floor.
Paint on his hands, paint on his uniform, paint on the wall, paint on the carpet. Spot had been sleeping on the couch, her green eyes now alert and fixed on him, tail swishing as if to reprimand him from disturbing a good dream.
Data was dipped in shame. The mess would take a while to clean up.
…
If Geordi had been surprised by Data’s bare appearance, he had hidden it well. Then again, he was the one person onboard other than Data himself who was used to the sight of the pulsing electronic nerves and blinking diodes that made him. For others, it must have been like seeing someone walk around unbothered by a gaping wound. They were startled by this part of him, and Data was angry about it.
"We'll have you looking good as new in no time, buddy," Geordi investigated Data's exposed circuitry. "It's just a matter of the right supplies."
Data sat as still as possible, focusing every effort on acknowledging and muting the alerts that kept popping up amidst their repair efforts. He knew he didn't have skin, he knew someone was touching him, if he got one more notification about it he was going to do....something. What kind of something? Everything was just under the surface, barely at bay, and if he took one moment to focus on another task it would release itself, unchecked. It was difficult and usual, being so distracted.
"Thank you," he said, carefully measured. "Would you also be able to help me fix my emotion chip?"
…
He wiped a tear roughly from his eye. Why was he crying over a painting? Why had he created this mess, this trouble for himself? Data internally ran the statistics gathered on his past emotional responses as he set to work synthesizing a solvent cleaner, and gently worked the paint from the carpet before it dried. He came to the conclusion, based on past evidence, that it had been stupid and uncharacteristically thoughtless of him. That was it - he hadn't considered all of the consequences.
He was furious with himself.