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Chapter Text

Being in dry dock, getting refitted for parts. It was never an exciting experience. The ship milled with engineers and repair personnel, everyone having one task or another on their mind. There were no idle hands. Those with family on Earth were lucky enough to find two spare hours to visit. Those who didn’t kept their nose to the grindstone. There was Borg tech to uninstall, bulkheads to replace. They needed a new deflector dish, and Engineering needed an almost entirely new refit.

            Deanna had spent the last few days trying to come to terms with the experience of First Contact - that which Deanna had personally experienced, and the events that had simultaneously unfolded in the sky with her none the wiser. The crush of conflicting feeling had been perceptible to her from the moment she beamed onboard. There had been a general air of hysteric victory, but underneath variants of pain ran more like a spring river than a trickling stream.
            "I have a feeling I'm going to be busy," she told Will, careful to speak out of earshot of those who had endured the ship-side of the Borg assault. There was hesitancy, in many people, on the topic of seeking assistance. Deanna didn't want them to misinterpret her voiced concern as grudging apathy in the face of her workload.

            All the senior staff – except for Data, since he was temporarily relieved of duty – got a look at the list of Starfleet personnel missing or killed in action. She was personally responsible for tallying up who and how many had fallen in the line of duty. As counselor, the gritty and emotional things like that usually ended up falling to her. She compiled lists for every senior officer, dividing Data’s between Will and Geordi. This part always felt the worst. Assigning death notifications based off of personal relationships and ranks like so many chips on a poker table. It was horrible, and trivializing, and something she wished the 24^th century had found a way to circumvent. Perhaps, if there was no more war? No more horrible accidents?

            She pressed her lips together and looked at the blinking notification on her PADD – her list awaited. Deanna gave it a tap and held her breath. There was only one name on her list. She knew who it was – she’d been a part of the team that found the body.

            KILLED IN ACTION - LEIUTENANT SHIRA HA'NAR

            BORN: STARDATE 24102.35

            DIED: STARDATE 50893.5

            CAUSE OF DEATH – BORG ASSIMILATION

            HOMEWORLD – KORVIAN V

            SPECIES: KORVA

            LIVING RELATIVES – HALA AND OLEN HA’NAR

            Deanna rubbed at her eyes. Shira’s face, open and faintly purple tinted, hung in her mind. The last time she’d seen her alive, Shira had been smiling and laughing over a drink with friends in the lounge. Deanna had considered going over and starting conversation, but decided on sleep instead. And now, her mind embossed with a frozen still of Shira’s terrifying final moments, Deanna wished she’d chosen to stay a little longer that night.

…

            The notification had been sent. She imagined it travelling through subspace, speeding towards the communication relay of Korvian V. A notification popping up on the kitchen view screen of Hala and Olen. Deanna thought of all the patients that would need to be notified, somehow, that Counselor Ha’nar had died.

            She knew, and believed, that the work she did as a member of Starfleet made people’s lives better. She helped her shipmates. She brokered peace and understanding between strange, new worlds. But today, Deanna did not feel the representative of galactic peace. She kept thinking of Shira’s parents seeing her electronic signature on the bottom of the message;

            Deepest regrets and sympathies,

            Commander Deanna Troi, Ph.D.
            Enterprise Head Counselor

            She didn’t want to be so self-focused that she imagined they would forever attach her name to their daughter’s death. Deanna extended herself outwards, as far as she could reach her empathic sense, and tried to find a place for herself in the bigger picture. The whole ship, the entire Federation it seemed, was already shrouded in mourning.

…

            She sat at her desk and resolved to send out a mass communique, marked priority one;

Attention to all on-board personnel – it was an impersonal introduction for her tastes, but professional.

In light of the recent events concerning the Borg, the counseling service on-ship would like to remind you that our doors are open all hours, all shifts.

            Her fingers hovered over the PADD, deliberating. The soft background hum of the warp core reverberated gently in her ears - Deanna normally listened to music when she worked. It felt inappropriate in these circumstances. She wanted to be in tune with the ship while she wrote this, and despite her better judgement, let the emotional mosaic of all the people on board wash over her. What did her crew need?

            There was an electronic chirp - someone was at her door. With her psionic barriers lowered, she already knew it was Will. His pulses of warm familiarity felt like a favorite blanket, wrapped around her shoulders.

            "Come."

            Will entered, his tall frame slightly hunched on reflex as he walked through the door. Deanna smiled in spite of herself. Years of serving onboard smaller vessels before the Enterprise had left their permanent mark on his mannerisms. It was endearing.

            "Good morning," he gave her a wave and a grin. A perky demeanor was his tried and true method to cheer her up. "Would I be able to interest you in some breakfast?"

Food was also a pretty dependable method.

            "That depends," Deanna tapped a finger on the PADD, relying on the automatic save function to preserve her work.

            "On what?"

            "Whether you made it or not." 

            She could feel he detected the humor in her words - amusement from Will, from most humans, always gave her the faint impression of a jingling bell.

            "Oh, come on," he groaned, "I'm an excellent cook!"

            "Mmm," Deanna mused jokingly, pushing back from her desk and giving an exaggerated stretch. "Breakfast food is not one of your strongest suits, Will."

            "Can I just give it another try? I found a recipe for Bolian egg-bake."

            He was so excited.

            "Well..."

…

            An hour later, and she was nursing a cup of coffee that almost – but not quite – burned her palms to hold it. She liked ordering things a little hotter than recommended from the replicator because it gave her time to savor the feeling of a warm cup in her hands. Most of a deflated and dry-looking Bolian egg-bake was banished to the corner of Deanna's plate

            "It's supposed to look like that."

            "Uh-huh."

            "No, seriously."

            "Will, I normally encourage people to get out of their comfort zones," she blew across her drink. "But in this case, I'm going to suggest you stick to barbeque and fine dining."

            Their conversation lapsed into comfortable silence, and Deanna felt the emotional core of the shared moment solidify. Will had asked her to breakfast for a reason other than friendliness, it seemed. He'd done a bang-up job keeping it subtle until now.

            "What's on your mind?" she asked.

            "I don't want to talk about me," he finished the last of his egg-bake, apparently immune to its taste and texture. "I asked you here because I wanted to check-in with you."

            "Over breakfast?"

            "I figured you wouldn't want it to be a formal thing."

            Their conversations usually fell into a natural ebb and flow of completed and half-voiced thoughts, augmented by Deanna's empathic abilities and Will's awareness of them. But she always let him speak what he felt he needed to, and he always gave her full access to his mind.

But there was a slight hesitancy in his mind this morning. Not firm, he wasn't truly trying to block her out. She could feel his concern, his care and his love for her burning steadily at the core of it. A love which had evolved over the years from passion to deep reverence, the romantic nature of which had flickered on and off. And it was amidst these familiar sensations that his question lay.

            "What are you doing?" He rephrased his question. "Are you taking care of yourself?"

            "I haven't started seeing anyone yet," Deanna disclosed. "But there have been a fair number of requests for sessions. However, a few...individuals are going to need some coaxing to sit on the therapy couch, I think."

            Will nodded.

            "I have the staff necessary to accommodate everyone," she assured him.

            "But can you accommodate everyone?" he asked.

            She knew it was only out of concern. But the coffee tasted bitter in her flash of irritation. Immediately, he seemed to sense his misstep.

            "I know my limitations, Will. I'm not some kind of psychic sponge, soaking up everyone's misery and anguish."

            "Sorry, Deanna," he spread his hands apologetically. She caught a whiff of his aftershave, and the sour egg-bake on her plate. "I guess what I want to make sure of...is that you're acknowledging how you're feeling about this whole thing."

            She focused on letting her frustration dim, visualized it as a large red ball, shrinking it and cooling it until it could fit in her palm, a calm shade of blue.

            What was she feeling? Her home had been invaded, her friends had been killed and abused. Her thoughts were drawn in that moment to Lieutenant Shira Ha'nar. Shira had been warm, energetic. Their patients had responded well to her. Deanna was considering her for promotion. She had wanted to take her out for dinner, get to know her more personally and make her feel at home on the Enterprise.

            "Right now," she began slowly. "I'm thinking of Shira Ha'nar. You remember her, from the orientation luncheon two months ago?"

            "Yes."

            "She died. They found her in her quarters on Deck 16, partially assimilated. The Borg around her had self-destructed when the Queen was destroyed."

            Will didn't seem to understand, she felt his sympathetic confusion.

            “She almost made it, Will. She'd hidden for long enough, and maybe if we had been a little faster with Cochrane on Earth...."

            "Faster with what, Deanna? You know we couldn't...we couldn't launch the Phoenix earlier than we did. The risk to the timeline was too great."

            "I know that," now she felt hard, a snappish anger at everything, her helplessness, solidify in her chest. "But I still feel angry about it. I was drinking tequila and scavenging for ship parts, and Shira was up here fighting for her life."

            Will was silent, caught in his own introspection. 

            "I can still feel the fear of everyone who survived, Will. It consumes them. And I know, from my training, that we need to start picking up the pieces and reaching out. But I can't stop thinking about how afraid, and how alone she must have been. How cruel it was, that it happened to her somewhere she needed to feel safe."

            They sat silently. Deanna's words had spun the unsung nightmares of the assault into a tapestry that hung over them.

            "You know, better than anyone, that I can't tell you how to feel," Will placed his hand facing upwards on the table, an open invitation. "But I'm glad that you shared with me how you're feeling."

            Deanna lightly took his hand in hers. "Thank you for listening. I don't think I've quite forgiven myself. Or healed. But I'm going to schedule a counselling session for myself."

            "You can always talk to me, too."

            "Thank you. I know."

            And she loved him for it.

…

Attention to all on-board civilians and personnel - 

In light of the recent events concerning the Borg, the counseling service on-ship would like to remind you that our doors are open all hours, all shifts.

We have lost many dear friends. If you are experiencing grief, we invite you to join one of our two bereavement therapy groups. They meet twice a week in the counselling office. The counselling office staff are also available for individual or family sessions as you see fit.

Contact the counselling office if you or someone you know if suffering from signs of trauma such as, but not limited to:

- Shock, denial, or disbelief.
- Confusion, difficulty concentrating.
- Anger, irritability, mood swings.
- Anxiety and fear.
- Guilt, shame, self-blame.
- Withdrawing from others.
- Feeling sad or hopeless.
- Feeling disconnected or numb

After an experience such as we shared these past few days, it would not be unusual.

Healing is helped by community.

Sincerely,

Commander Deanna Troi, Ph.D.
Enterprise Head Counselor

Chapter Text

It had been a week since the Borg had been defeated. Data was avoiding Engineering. He was avoiding Deanna.

            He was not thinking to himself, "I will avoid these places." He had only recently become aware of a new sub-routine filed away which redirected him to more time-dependent tasks when engineering or his friend came up in the execution of his every day routine. Interesting. He could only surmise this development had been a result of his emotion chip.

            The chip needed to be fixed. Geordi had agreed to help him remove it when he got back on board. It took the two of them some time to figure out how to untangle the chip’s programming from his positronic brain, but they’d ultimately come up with a careful solution. Data had been uncharacteristically distracted throughout the process.

            "Tell me more about what it was like to fly in the Phoenix, Geordi," he asked as his friend felt along the seamlines of his access panels buried in his hair, searching for the right one.

            "Well, like I said before - definitely less smooth than the Enterprise."

            Geordi's fingers found the purchase he was looking for, and clicked the panel open.

            Data was analyzing the painting hung on the wall of his friend's quarters. It was one he had made himself, back when Geordi still used the VISOR. Data had ionized the paint before applying it to the canvas, infusing it with a variety of slightly radioactive elements rendered harmless by a specially designed frame. Where others looked and saw only colors, Geordi saw something just for him.

            "Geordi, I have a question." 

            "What's that?"

            Data's sensor systems were alerting him that his panel was open by sending insistent messages to his nerve processor. His sensor systems were telling him something was happening to his internal circuitry, programs were being combed through and moved and rerouted without his direction.

            His sensor systems had alerted him of the same thing in Engineering.

            After defeating the Borg, he had managed to dim the impact of the emotions he felt. The Borg had tampered with them so he could not turn them off. They had drilled into his bioplast sheeting, removed it and replaced it with flesh.  They confronted him with dreams he would find desirable, and with acts they thought would be enough to seduce him. They had forced him to feel things, and by extension they had forced him to lie.

            As soon as it was safe to, Data began a work around. He started the base code as he climbed through the Borg-ravaged ship towards the bridge, closely following Captain Picard. They walked in silence past dead drones and assimilated crew members. As they got closer to the bridge, and the code neared completion, the overwhelming sensation of grief and confusion had become a more palatable mental backdrop. The dead became easier to pass without hesitation, and without spiraling into guilt and grief.

            His programming stopgap was partially effective, and temporary. As Geordi scanned and re-catalogued, Data was still managing to feel embarrassed and vulnerable despite his best efforts. It was puzzling. The exposure of his internal workings was routine and expected around Geordi, so why was he feeling this way?

            "Data? What's your question?"

            Fourteen point two-six seconds had elapsed since he had mentioned the intention to query. More embarrassment, but also the basic mechaniations of confusion welled up from what Data was trying to excise. He began running additional diagnostics parallel to Geordi’s tinkering with his positronic net. What was wrong, other than the obvious alerts highlighted by his systems?

            "My question," he started again, "concerns the nature of your experience. Captain Picard and I recently discussed how the reality of an object can be made subjective depending on proximity. Did your intimate proximity to the Phoenix change your personal perception of it as well?"

            "In a way," Geordi had found the positronic pathways that would lead him to the emotion chip. His voice and fingers were gentle, as usual. "It was thrilling to be there, but not like I imagined as a kid. I guess I didn't realize such old warp tech would make me so nauseous." 

            Geordi's vocal patterns were usually light but straightforward when he was accessing Data's internal systems. Data had noticed and observed a very similar vocal pattern when Dr. Crusher was examining a patient. He knew from his comparative studies of behavior that Geordi was trying to make him feel safe and at ease.

            He appreciated the gesture.

            There was a quiet but discernable 'blip', and the Geordi was showing the small chip to Data, balanced on the tip of his finger.

            "Can you take it from here?" Geordi asked.

            He nodded, and delicately placed the chip in a case which suspended it in zero-g.

            "Better than bubble wrap," Commander Riker often said of zero-g shipping and containment, which Data understood in two ways. First: it was more protective than plastic sheets filled with small pockets of air. Second: the production of zero-g container parts using a replicator was less environmentally taxing than the now-antiquated production methods of oil-based plastic products. Such as bubble wrap.

            "Thank you, Geordi." With the absence of his chip, his sense of appreciation was different from the feeling of warmth he'd experienced moments before. It was now more like an equation, but an equation he valued highly in regard to his order of operations. Geordi had assisted him with a problem. The problem had interfered with his normal operation parameters. Geordi was a selfless and valuable friend, and a kind act in return would be the equitable step.

            "What can I do to repay you?"

            "Don't mention it," Geordi began putting away his tools. He paused, his brows knit together and his mouth a firm line. He looked like someone with something important on his mind. He walked around in front of Data and looked him in the eyes. 

            Data paid attention, pausing his parallel diagnostics and smaller subroutines - very often when someone made such direct effort to put themselves in his line of sight, it meant they wanted to be say or do something very important. Such as Tasha, Captain Picard, Commander Riker, Counselor Troi, and Her. He paused for a nanosecond and then deleted that instance of Her from his behavioral recognition algorithm. She was - somehow - not analogous to the other behavioral incidents he had filed.

            "What is it, Geordi?"

            "I guess there is one thing you can do for me. But, it's really for yourself."

            "What is that?"

            "Go and make an appointment with counselling."

            Data analyzed that request. It was easy to compute that it was coming from a place of concern. 

            "I assume you wish I seek assistance referencing my recent experience with the Borg?"

            "Yes, Data, I am."

            "May I remind you that, exactly 44.78 seconds ago, you removed my emotion chip?"

            "Just because you don't have emotions right now doesn't mean you shouldn't talk to someone."

            "I believe there are other individuals aboard who would benefit emotionally from counselling more than I can at this time."

            Geordi pinched the bridge of his nose, his remarkably blue cybernetic implants fixed on the middle distance above Data's head. He sighed.

            "Dammit, Data. You can't ignore this."

            Data quirked his head to the side. He internally reviewed their conversation thus far.

            "I do not believe I said I would ignore my experience. It is simply a matter of greatest need. My current emotionless state would rank me at the bottom of the concerns of any counselling department. I will seek treatment when I have repaired and re-installed my emotion chip."

            Geordi fixed him with a look of skepticism that would have withered anyone else. 

            "You promise?"

            Data nodded once.

            "You have my word," he stood up fluidly. "I will now return to my quarters - I wish to start examining the chip, and your shift in engineering begins at 1300 hours."

            "Sounds like a plan," Geordi’s tone indicated that he had more he wanted to say on the subject, the last word hanging with the implication of an unfinished thought.

            Data stopped at the door, and pointed to the painting he had observed earlier. The abstract pattern swirled from corner to corner in a wash of bright, autumn colors, one bleeding into the next. When he devised the visual composition of the piece, Data had drawn reference from the motion of leaves caught in a crisp breeze.

            "Geordi, does the absence of your VISOR change your perception of this painting?"

            His friend shook his head.

            "No. I can just see it in more than one way now,” he smiled. "It was like getting a new painting all over again."

            "Fascinating."

...

            It took him two days to repair his emotion chip. He was not yet cleared to return to duty. The last time Data had sat at the conn was when they returned to the year 2373, star date 50893.5. Then he had spent seven day in his quarters, coming up with a plan to remove his chip. Then Geordi had taken out his chip. And now it was fixed.

            Data looked over the small glittering component with curiosity. He had been able to gain a more concrete idea of how it worked by running diagnostics and tests through a computer program designed to emulate the responses of his positronic net. He had told Her he was curious. He had been. He determined he still was. He had not physically looked at his emotion chip since it fused to his positronic net in the events leading up to their encounter with the Nexus in 2371. He had been able to remove the circuitry from the chip the Borg had added to forcibly activate it.

            He touched it. It did not alter his perception of the chip from the images he had stored in his memory files. He brushed his fingers against his left temple. He recalled his stored audio of the Borg drill tearing through his epidermal layers. He had not felt it.

            That’s because you haven’t been properly stimulated yet.

            He had felt that. The emotional ramifications of that act were ones he predicted would be perceivable once he reactivated his emotions. He scanned his internal databases in an attempt to find a similar feeling to the way the skin had felt. There was nothing in his stores – it was, and would likely remain, an anomaly in his life.

            Anomaly: noun; something different, abnormal, peculiar, or not easily classified; deviation from the common rule; from the Greek root word anōmaliai; synonyms include aberration, abnormality, exception, oddity, rarity. In a sentence: “As we have said all along it is about rectifying an anomaly” or “In order to find the anomaly, scientists had to repeat the experiment over a hundred times”.

            What a cold description for such a beautiful gift.

            The emotion chip, Data could easily recall, had also been intended as a gift. Dr. Soong had considered it an essential part to complete his son’s programming and purpose. However, this gift had also been subverted against him more than once for the purposes of control. By Lore, and by Her. Perhaps ‘tool’ would be a better categorization for emotion chips and skin grafts – tools used for manipulation.

            Pain, anger, hatred, and fear. Were they to be the foundational blocks of his tactile and emotional experiences? After willfully activating his emotions for the first time, after becoming accustomed to them, Counselor Troi had told him in sessions that he was “Reclaiming his experience.”

            He compared the benefits against the negative consequences of reactivating his emotion chip as he watched the computer readout the data it collected over the course of the experiment.

            He was still unable to find how the polymer-based neuro-relay the Borg had used to transmit organic nerve impulses to the central nerve processor of his positronic net had worked so effectively to stimulate the emotions he had felt. He understood that touch and emotion were inextricably linked in many biological lifeforms, but in his simulations was unable to chart the pathways his high-jacked sensor systems had taken to connect to the chip. He had never been intended to touch as biological organisms did, and as such did not think he possessed the ability to experience corresponding emotional responses.

            His internal chronometer was set to half past 1100 hours. Counselor Troi would be waiting for him in her office at 1400 hours.  He decided he would re-install his chip without Geordi’s assistance. Now it was fixed, and Deanna could help him.

…

            Counselor Troi smiled warmly at him when he walked in. Then her face became more stoic, adopting an expression Data associated with confusion and concern.

            “Good afternoon, Counselor.”

            “Good afternoon, Data,” she sat back in her chair. “How have you been?”

            Counselor Troi usually approached his sessions in the manner prescribed by modern clinical psychological theory – she posed a question, he gave his response, and then she initiated a reflective period guided by her knowledge of psyches both human and alien. Though Data was modeled after human beings in outward form, he had long ago come to the determination his inner psyche was alien. Nevertheless, Counselor Troi always opened their sessions with small talk. She was “getting a read on him.”

            “I am well. Geordi assisted me with repairs to correct my aberrant systems earlier this week.”

            “And how is Spot?”

            “Spot does not appear to be affected by our recent experiences.”

            “That’s good to hear,” she made a small note on her PADD, presumably about his observance of routine and his version of empathy. She, like Geordi, had brows closely drawn together in what appeared to be in deep thought.

            “Is something troubling you, Counselor?”

            “Yes. Data,” she brushed her bangs aside and clasped her hands together, taking a breath. There was a high probability she was getting ready to ask something she thought he would find difficult to answer. “Your intake survey says you requested this session to discuss feelings of distress and distraction. If that’s the case, why am I not reading emotions from you?”

            “I have an explanation,” he sat still on his chair. Counselor Troi smiled and nodded in an encouraging manner, trying to coax him from reluctance he was not currently experiencing.

            “I delayed the re-activation of my emotion chip because I am unsure of what the full effect will be. Immediately after the Borg were destroyed, I realized I had not regained control over my chip. I began writing a program that would allow me to be somewhat shielded from feeling unmitigated emotion, until I was certain I would be able to fix it. I believe that this session would be a safe place to turn it on again.”

            “I see,” Counselor Troi had deposited her PADD beside her and was giving him her full attention. Her foot tapped silently on the floor, but her body language was open. “Data, have you made any comparisons to this…emotional “dampening” of yours as a symptom of shock?”

            Data blinked. It was an interesting posit. “I had not considered that possibility.”

            “I would go as far as to call it an acute stress response.”

            Data, in mere seconds, flashed through his recordings of his time in captivity. Sights, sensations, the memory of emotions, smells. Her. You are in chaos, Data. You are a contradiction.

            “I believe that is an apt analogy.”

            The Counselor made another small note. He had observed that she liked to keep her notations quick. When he once asked her why, she explained it was because she sensed long notations created distance between her and the patient. Short observations were beneficial to long term patient/counselor rapport.

            “This is a place you recognize as being a safe one,” Counselor Troi began. “The direction your therapy takes is dependent on you. You can take risks here. How would you prefer to proceed?”

            He quickly ran some comparative analyses, and determined to defer to his friend’s expertise in her field.

            “What are some options you would suggest?”

            “If you are comfortable discussing it, we could start with your experience with the Borg and its effects on you. Alternatively, we can focus entirely on your emotional response and not talk about specifics, should you wish it. Ultimately, you set the boundaries for what you will and will not talk about.”

            “Would you prefer my emotions on or off at this point?”

            “Eventually, I would prefer you turn on your emotions so you can begin working through them. Right now, it’s up to your preference.”

            Data decided. He turned his emotions on.

Chapter Text

            Deanna would describe her perception of Data’s emotions as staccato. He phased through experiences in beats, whereas biological organisms were more fluid. She told him this once because he had asked her years ago, with some anxiety.

            “Are my emotions different than others you perceive?”

            “The emotions you feel aren’t different,” she had said across the chess board they were playing on, “but the way I perceive them is.”

            She moved her queen strategically across the board. “Check.”

            Data made his move without looking, still earnestly engaged in conversation. “How so?”

            She mulled it over for a moment. “Think of it like an orchestra,” Deanna narrowed in for the kill. “There’s a similar number and variety of instruments, but one piece of music might have more or less space between its notes than another.”

            He had been soothed by this. Deanna noted small changes in his face – he wore his emotion less outwardly than he did initially. It was remarkable how similar he still was to himself before the installation – a rocky start, non-withstanding. His wild fluctuations and reactions had settled into something more organic.

            “Perhaps this is because of my mechanical nature,” he made another move.

            It was certainly possible. Data’s positronic net obviously held onto emotions like any other mind did, even if she did perceive it differently. It troubled her slightly that he still referred to himself as the outlying quotient, benign as his questions were. It was equally possible that the way she perceived his emotion was a distinctly Betazoid phenomenon.

            “Data, there’s no reason to think that. You are mechanical, but I am Human and Betazoid. My perceptions may not be universally true of all empaths.”

            There, she had him! “Checkmate.”

            No malice simmered under the small smile he gave her, merely the genuine satisfaction of a game well played.

            “How many does that make, Data?” she decided she was going to gloat a little.

            “To date, you have beaten me at chess 27 times.”

            “And counting, mind you.”

…

            Data walking into a session without his emotion chip turned on had been disconcerting. Her initial assumption was he was avoiding all sensation. His explanation was enlightening – he was exerting control not over his emotions and responses, but what had been done to them.  

            Data’s body language was not as expressive other beings. The general cues someone else might pick up on weren’t there; he did not unconsciously slump his shoulders or avoid eye contact. When he turned his emotions on, the change in Data would have been almost imperceptible to someone who was not empathic. But Deanna was empathic, and she could feel his anger almost to the point of oppressiveness. She found herself thinking of the Captain, and his initial sessions after being de-assimilated years ago. There was a similar, but subtly different, flavor of panic and self-blame.

            It made her ache. But she kept her expression appropriately genial.

            “Are you ready to begin?”

            He nodded.

            “What would you like to be different when you walk out of here today, Data?”

            “I would like to be…less…overwhelmed.”

            “How can we help you get there?”

            “I believe talking through my experience as it happened would be beneficial in that regard.”

            “Tell me about it.”

            He did. He began to tell her everything that happened in engineering, personal details that hadn’t been included the briefing she had received with the rest of the senior staff. Deanna sat rapt with attention, not touching her PADD. He was struggling to accommodate the levels and variety of emotion he was experiencing. Deanna sensed what he needed, in that instance, was her listening skills.

            It had always been easy for Data to talk, sometimes to excess, something that since the installation of his emotion chip she knew he had been more acutely aware of. She felt him use the energy to curb his words every now and then, but this conversation was uninhibited by Data’s verbal professionalism. There was something behind them, some engine of experience she didn’t know.

            “Data,” she said when he finally took a natural pause. He was still leading up to his captivity, having started with the offensive lead by Captain Picard to the lower decks. “I can sense there’s a reason behind your openness today. Something beyond the ordinary.’

            “You are correct, Counselor,” his yellow eyes never wavered from her black ones.

            “Could you share it?”

            “Two years ago, you told me that installing my emotion chip - in spite of Lore - was me reclaiming my experience.”

            “I remember that.” Each session with her patients was unique, but that had been one of her more memorable ones. It wasn’t every day one professionally counseled a friend for being brainwashed by their evil twin who tried to get them to kill you. She wondered at the connection.

            “As such, I am ‘reclaiming’ my words,” Data mirrored her posture, hands clasped and leaning forward slightly. “While in Borg captivity, it was expressed that I talk too frequently.”

            There it was.

            “You feel that by talking as much as you would like with me, you are re-validating the self-determination you tried to display during your experience?”

            “Precisely,” a small beat of satisfaction waved off the android, rising up amidst all his other feelings. He liked being understood.

            Alright. She was beginning to fully grasp the fundamentals of what they had to work on.

            “And then what happened, Data?”

            “Then,” he paused. She sensed trepidation. “They made me an offer.”

            “I considered accepting the proposal for .68 seconds.”

            “Why, Data, that’s hardly any time all.”

            “Forgive me, but our perceptions of time are quite different. The brains of Humans and Betazoids consciously mark time by the second. Being an android, I have the ability to denote time down to the nanosecond,” shame was practically waving in the air, like heat off a sand dune. “I am ashamed it took me that long to make my decision.”

            There was more there. Deanna glanced at the digital clock she kept on her wall to check the time. They weren’t going to be able to get into the other questions uncovered by this revelation, not this session. She made a note to record them at the end of the session.

            “Then let me ask you this,” she tucked a stray hair behind her ear. “Are you regretful you didn’t take what the Borg had to offer you?”

            “No.”

            “Then you showed remarkable strength,” Deanna said, “to have overcome the inner conflict you felt in that moment. I want you to recognize that.”

…

            The haze of emotions in the room seemed a little clearer by the end of the session – there was still a lot of work to do.

            “Am I to return to active duty?” Data had asked her towards the tail end, after they established his ‘homework’ for their next meeting. “I require a counselor’s permission to do so.”

            It was an interesting choice of words, Deanna thought. “Am” instead of “May”. Someone else might perceive the terms as interchangeable, but given the context and who they were coming from? She easily detected a hint of underlying hesitancy.

            “Do you want to return to active duty?”

            It seemed to be the right question, and she was rewarded with a forthcoming answer.

            “No,” Data shook his head. “Not as of yet.”

            “That’s perfectly fine. Just make sure to start keeping track of your cognitive processing in log entries, like I told you. And if anyone asks, I’ll give them a note with my signature on it and everything,” she smiled, trying to bring a little levity to their goodbye.

            It seemed a little lost on him this time. “Thank you, counselor.”

            “Of course. Have a good afternoon.”

            “I will try.”

Chapter Text

Deanna was practiced at this in two ways – personally, and somewhat sanitized. She provided an official face for sympathy – she helped people through the grieving process within the ‘comfortable’ allotment of a 60 minute session. Standard Federation time. People ran to her, literally and figuratively, as a recognizable source of comfort.

            Deanna grieved. Each grief was different – her father, Tasha, the sister she never knew, her son who never had the chance to live. They were a scattering of life and experience that all deserved their own separate spaces within her capacity for mourning. She moved on, revisited, and kept them alive in her heart. If she could process the absence of such dear ones, why couldn’t Deanna let go of the passing of a co-worker she was casually acquainted with?

            Why did it feel so close? So personal?

            They were packing up Shira’s office space, Deanna and Lieutenant Commander Henri Georges; Shira’s closest friend on the Enterprise and another member of her counselling staff. He was one of now six people, including Deanna herself.

            Six counselors for roughly 900 people might have been considered overkill by some, but Deanna appreciated the flexibility and variety of approach a larger staff had to offer. Different therapists made different connections with specific patients. She knew for a fact her form of empathically augmented talk-therapy wasn’t everyone’s preferred choice. It wasn’t even her own.

            “That’s the last of it, Henri,” she closed the lid on a storage container full of books. Therapy methods, parenting, marriage – Shira had been a practiced and popular therapist for parents trying to raise their children from lightyears away, for couples on stationed star systems apart. Deanna had missed the Enterprise of years past, with entire decks filled with children and families. Now? Now she was indescribably relieved there hadn’t been children on the minds of those who developed the schematics for Sovereign-class starships. Assimilated children was one horror no one was ready to rectify.

            It was interesting how easily one could counsel another through something they’d never experienced. Shira had never been a parent, and her patients had children. Deanna had never been assimilated, and her patients had. And yet…

            “I lent her this one,” Henri still felt semi-flat to her, like many others. He’d been on board when the Borg attacked and escaped when the Captain gave the order to evacuate. Deanna knew he was processing in his own way, sensed his satisfaction when someone left their session feeling better than when they went in. It was his way of putting the world back together, and every patient leaving the office a happier person was another step out of his fog.

            It was a copy of The Exis Approach: Understanding Multi-Species Approaches to Cognitive Behavior in Diverse Environments. He was hesitant, and it wasn’t hard to understand why. Reclaiming your property from the troves of a dead friend? It was an act that felt topically callous, one you needed permission to do.

            “Keep it,” Deanna told him. “She’d want you to have it back.”

…

            Would she?

            The lounge was starting to regain its air of relaxation, the jaunty levity that accompanied a day well-spent in the stars. Soft laughter skirted the edges of conversations, afraid of disturbing something placid and only somewhat addressed. The furniture was new, as was the carpet. It looked just the same as it had before, but that didn’t keep it all from feeling new. There had been a scuff on the table she used to sit at – Deanna ran her thumb absently under the edge. No scuffs.

            Her hot chocolate had cooled to room temperature. Around her, friends swapped stories good and bad. The hum of the warp core was a grounding backdrop. She looked at the PADD on the table, lightly tapping her nails on its display screen. It was much easier doing this from the counseling side of things.

            Her long-distance session with a friend on Star Base 312 had just closed. When it came to her own therapy, Deanna preferred to outsource herself as a patient instead of muddying the relationships within her office. They were lower-ranked, non-senior staff, and under her purview when it came to promotions and performance evaluation. Keeping things out of house meant less headaches and conflicts of interest when it came time for personnel reviews.

            She reflected. The couch in her office had been comfortable. It would be nice, she thought, to create a space for herself as the counseled one. She needed to be able to take off her therapist hat for a while, and focus her energy inwards.

            “How are you taking care of yourself?” Zinhir was an old friendship forged during her academy years. They came from a race of telepaths, and bonded with Deanna over their abilities. She liked them because they never used their telepathic prowess in sessions, by design, despite being considered a specialist in psionic therapy. Zinhir could read straight through her, telepathy or no telepathy.

            “I take some time to do something just for me, every day. A book, the holodeck, time to pursue my interests,” Deanna winced. It was partially true. She found things to do with no issue, but spent her time doing them distracted by other thoughts.

            Zinhir was not convinced. She couldn’t sense it, but she didn’t need to. It was written all over their long, sallow face.They hadn’t said anything yet, but survivor’s guilt seemed to be the official prognosis. Deanna hated herself for it. People walked about her like husks and she self-flagellated over not suffering alongside them.

            Tequila truly was a terrible invention. She reoriented herself in the lounge, took a sip of her hot chocolate even though it wasn’t warm. The sweet and subtle notes chased away the memory of the spicy, smoky bite of 21^st century alcohol. It had been so wonderful when her biggest problem was figuring out how to maintain the timeline.

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.

Chapter Text

"It is still on my mind," Data told her in their last session. “It is an unwelcome distraction.”

            His golden skin didn't scar. Deanna didn't know if that was a good or bad thing. Though they had the technology to completely erase them from biological skin, there were people who preferred to keep the ghosts of their wounds. Deanna herself had some on the back of her calf, a reminder of a lesson she'd learned the hard way in academy about being unprepared. Terallian spider plants, it turned out, were resistant to phaser fire. It had been the most valuable exobiology lab she'd ever had, even if she'd taken the class to fill a general credit.

            But then, of course, there were the types of scars you couldn't see. Those kinds were also of particular importance to therapists. Deanna scanned through the text-version of the cognitive behavioral logs Data shared with her in their last session. He was very consistent with his homework, like with everything else he did. They were detailed accounts of stray thoughts and nightmares. 

            Deanna made a note on his file for questions to ask next session:
           
            Why is it hard for you to move beyond your current feelings? 

            What are your current feelings?

            Sessions with her patients weren’t blurring together. Each remained distinct. But if she didn’t pay attention to what she was doing, fragments of conversations would thread themselves through her brain over and over again.

            I-I called him a bastard - that was the last thing I said to him!

            It was almost time for Will to come over and help her narrow down selections for what used to be Shira's position in her department. It was going to be an external transfer; other than her staff, there wasn't anyone else with field or clinical experience in psychological medicine on board.

            She closed the file on her PADD and opened up her notifications. There were twenty-three applications for the posting she'd sent out on Starfleet's network. Eager young hopefuls all wanting to be stationed to the Federation flagship. There were a few that had just graduated from academy.

            We couldn’t find her body. I can’t stop thinking of her…floating in space.

            "I don't think so," Deanna said to herself. She felt a little bad. She admired their confidence and the chance they were taking. But after what the Enterprise and its crew had experienced, she needed someone with more than the clinic hours required for graduation under their belts. They had no idea what they were trying to sign up for. They would take their licks and get their chances, but not on the Enterprise. At least, not yet.

            Will's presence was drawing closer - she could sense his dread of paperwork getting stronger with every step he took towards her quarters. There was a dash of something pleasant in there, too, mostly concerning Deanna herself.

            I never told them how much I loved them.

            "Come," she told him the same moment he rang her door. 

            "Afternoon," he doffed an imaginary hat in her direction as he did his usual hunch through the doorway. "I hear we have some work to do?"

            She waved him over. "I've already eliminated a few."

            He took a look over her shoulder, eyebrows raised. "God, they’re young. Remember how we were at that age?"

            Deanna smiled and rolled her eyes. "Over confident and hopelessly in love?"

            "We hadn't met yet!"

            "I didn't say in love with each other."

            "Ah, well. Time has seasoned us pretty well, wouldn't you say?" he held out his PADD and Deanna transferred over a portion of the applications.

            "Get comfortable," she advised him, and he took a seat on the couch in her living room, his long legs extending almost the length of the whole thing.

            "How many are you looking for?"

            "I'd like to interview five applicants," Deanna was typing up a cordial message to send to those whose applications were to be passed over. "Perhaps more if someone really impresses us. I'll narrow mine down to five, you'll do the same, and then we'll go from there."

            "Aye, Commander," Will smirked and turned his attention to the task before him.

            It was mind-numbing work, reading cover letter after cover letter. Resume after resume, countless letters of recommendation from captains and commanders and even one admiral. Will was drifting, mind oscillating between focus and helpless distraction. It was only the natural way of things. Deanna had her pile cut down to ten applications when she decided to take a break.

            "Would you like some coffee?" she asked, knowing from Will's spike of anticipation that his answer was -

            "Yes, please," he nodded.

…

            Deanna sat, legs crossed, holding her warm cup close to her as she usually did. Will had happily discarded his PADD in exchange for his drink, and was now on his second cup.

            "It's amazing you made first officer, given your hatred for paperwork," Deanna verbally prodded him.

            "You can thank my blinding ambition for that oversight," he smiled. 

            She grinned in return, and tried to brush away the regret that was nagging at her. It was easier to forget the reality of the task at hand while pouring over the accomplishments and acumen of other people. They were hunting for a replacement.

            "Something wrong?" Will asked, and Deanna found herself silently hoping it was the strength and nuance of their psionic bond that made him ask. She wasn't that easy to read for the average person, was she? Maybe not, she could tell from his certainty the question was just a formality.

            Why me? Why not them?

            "What we're doing, and why we're doing it," she told him. "But you already knew that."

            "Is it getting easier, at least?" his voice had taken a soft turn. Deanna wished it wouldn't - Will's concern had always been something of a personal weak spot.

            "No," she said. "Well, a little. I can look at the applications now without feeling overwhelmingly guilty."

            Every day I remember.

            Will nodded sagely, grimly. He had plenty of experience promoting and transferring others into the positions of the dead.  

            "I told my staff yesterday that I'd posted the position," Deanna explained, "and I didn't sense any ill-will or judgement. But I just feel...like there should be."

            Will shook his head, "Don't hold yourself so accountable for their grief about it, especially if it isn't even there."

            "Shira was very close with a few of them. It's not so much their grief with me I'm worried about. I'm worried a new transfer will have to deal with the stigma of inheriting the position of a dead woman."

            I miss them so much.

            "If everyone held that sort of thing against everybody else," Will sipped his coffee, "then no one would like anybody. By that logic, we should hate Worf."

            "Well, who said it was logical?" Deanna was growing frustrated with the blasé nature in which Will was handling her concerns. Her hands tightened around her mug. "It's different on the bridge, Will. Everyone knows it's dangerous there.  If someone dies, it’s awful, but expected. Therapists don't join Starfleet with that same expectation."

            Will glanced at her. "I'm sorry," he relented. "Are you sure, though? You've been in your fair share of scrapes."

            "Yes, well," she heaped a spoonful of synthesized sugar into her coffee. "Most of them aren't empathic. Most therapists don't also have a Ph. D. in interplanetary diplomacy. It's incredible how much danger that qualification has folded into my career."

            I want to forget everything, is there a way I can do that?

            "True," Will straightened on the couch, sitting up. Much more serious. "I am sorry," he said earnestly. "I was being an ass."

            Deanna nodded, eyes on her coffee, silently accepting his apology.

            "It's okay if....you don't know how to deal with things," Will said. "Take some of your own advice. Is your therapy working?"

            Can you help me, Counselor Troi?

            "I will. It is. I just need time."

Chapter Text

            Data made sure to forward the Counselor the latest of his cognitive behavioral logs before heading out from his quarters. Spot made an elongated, mournful sound at his departure. She was perched near the door, standing pert and attentive to his movements. Always on the uptake as only an intelligent cat could be, she was accustomed to the routine he had established for himself these past few weeks.

            Breakfast for Spot. Painting in the morning. Cognitive behavioral work at the desk. Instrument practice. Lunch for Spot. A scheduled, self-mandated outing. Music appreciation. Casual experiments. Reading or research. Dinner for Spot. And every first, third, and fifth day of the standard week – therapy at 1300 hours. 

            “Do not worry, Spot. I will be back to give you your lunch soon.”

            He was not looking forward to this session. Last time they had reached an impasse, information he was not yet ready to share. Counselor Troi had not pressed him. He wondered, passively, if seeking therapy from a close friend was the best option for either of them. There were other therapists available at his convenience. But he found, in all impracticality, that he only wanted his friend to be the one to know the true depth of what he was struggling with. He was ready to start moving forward.

…

            “The Borg grafted skin to my endoskeletal structure. Then they forced me to feel pleasure, and pain.” Fear. Embarrassment.

            The time was right for a leading question.

            “What kind of pleasure, Data?”

            “….Intimate.” Embarrassment. Shame.

            This was not something Deanna had entirely dismissed from the realm of possibility. The Borg were a race of conquerors, and violation was a tool inherent to the way they forced other species into their bio-mechanical fold. It was not a far-fetched physiological or psychological assumption to say that sex could be used as an extension of that control.

            “Did you say yes?”

            “No.”

            “Data-“

             “-but I did physically engage in sex acts.” Shame. Anger.

            And not because he had uncharacteristically cut her off.

            “But did you want to?” Each probing statement was a hook, drawing revelation from a steady stream of reaction and thought. If she started feeling resistance, she would stop. But so far, the tone of the session seemed to be somewhere between a confession and a catharsis.

            “No. I had resolved at that point to lie to the queen in order to defeat her more easily.” Anger. Doubt.

            Whether he was realizing it or not, she could sense himself drawing inwards as he disclosed to her.

            “…How does that make you feel?”

            “I do not regret…saving my friends. Upon reflection, I wish I had been able to come up with another way of doing so.” Doubt. Blame.

            “From what you say, it sounds like you couldn’t escape without extreme damage to yourself. You couldn’t refuse her,” she needed to find a way to make him realize, in spite of the self-blame he was displaying to her, that he wasn’t responsible for the situation and its outcome.

            “That is correct. I would have been dismantled otherwise.”

            When he said ‘dismantled’ Deanna detected hatred, though she could not see it in the way he held himself, or in his face. He hated being taken apart. It was another obstacle, another reminder of the disregard many had for his autonomy as a sentient being.  Everything about this session had been carefully measured by the parameters Data was willing to express himself by, and he’d been visually placid so far. But empathically?

            “I can sense you have deeply averse feelings to this experience, Data.”

            “When I think about being intimate with someone, with fondness,” Data examined his hands in a scientific manner, emotionally sterile, “I think about a relationship that happened many years ago. I think about mutual minor explorations of sexuality that have happened since then. I do not consider my recent experience one I would categorize under that definition.”

            Deanna rested her chin on her hand, reigning in her own emotional reaction. It was not the first time she had counselled a friend for this kind of experience. There were many unprecedented ways an individual’s mental and bodily choices or autonomy could be taken from them in space. Psychic possessions, manipulations, physical and sexual assaults – all disturbing, and all with far-reaching consequences to the individual’s wellbeing.  She herself was no stranger to these consequences. She had put considerable amounts of energy into coming to terms with the residual effects of her own trauma. Of course, some things still lingered, and Deanna knew it was only natural her mind would hold onto memories and reflexes she would rather forget. That concession didn’t make her weak, but strong.

            “….Counselor?” He sounded concerned by her contemplative silence.

            “It took a lot of courage to tell me about this, Data,” Deanna said softly.

            There was something uncomfortable in the room, as open and soft as she was trying to make the environment. Reverberations of something doubtful, but it was cresting the surface of the conversation. Deanna sensed a natural pause, and decided to wait. Data broke eye contact with her for the first time since the session had started, looking at the middle distance past her head. This action gently broke a barrier. She could tell it was a relief, providing an illusory distance between them which would let him share an intense vulnerability.

            “I told the captain,” he almost whispered, “that I felt regretful that she was…dead.”

            So this was part of it. Internal conflict over pity for the fate of an abuser. Emotion stuttered in the room, flickering between a whole range of feeling she could detect from most lifeforms and some that were distinctly Data. The pieces were coming together, now. She could see the picture. She could understand. He was fighting the trap of his own conditioned responses.

            Deanna leaned forward, infusing every fiber of sober well-being she possessed into her voice, “You are one of the kindest, gentlest beings I have ever encountered – even before you installed your emotion chip. The only time I’ve known you to hurt and cause pain, you haven’t been entirely yourself. It’s natural that you’d feel remorse over killing.”

            His gaze came to meet hers again, coaxed from its fixed perch on the wall.

            “Everything that happened between you and the queen happened for the sake of survival. Others in similar situations report feelings not unlike yours. When your life becomes attached to someone else’s whims, your brain forms causal connections between that person’s satisfaction and your future. You feel you need to please them, because your mind is telling you can’t exist without them.”

            He was evaluating her words one at a time. It reminded Deanna very much of the wondering, methodical way he approached all things that confused him in those first years they served together.

            “Counselor, could you…explain further?” His head gently tilted to the side, an unconscious habit she noticed he did when running an internal comparative analysis.

            “Did you fear your fake affection for the queen would be seen for what it was?”

            “Yes,” he nodded.

            “Your mind convinced you, in that moment, it was genuine. When she died, your regret was a holdover from the defense mechanism you created to protect yourself from danger. Your need to survive was stronger than your impulse to hate.”

            A beat of uncertainty.

            “I understand.” He had accepted this diagnosis, a feeling that manifested like a cool wave, a soothing balm.

            “It might take some time for you to process this,” she told him. “But I get the impression it’s been weighing on you ever since we came back.”

            He nodded again, unusually silent but pensive in a familiar way.

            “Thank you for telling me,” Deanna said. “You don’t have to go through this alone.”

            Data looked at her, open-faced and almost smiling. “It is…good to have words that describe it. Your perspective has been very helpful. Thank you, Counselor.”

            It was time to move onto the next step, or at the very least, get it started.

            “There’s one more thing I’d like to propose we do today,” she began to transition her demeanor. “Unless you’d like to spend more time discussing what you told me today?”

            “No,” he gave a small, efficient-looking shake of the head. “I would like to follow your suggestion.”           

            “Alright…,” she shook out her shoulders, shifting in her seat. “Now. I’ve told you I think of you as gentle, and kind. But Data, what do you think your best qualities are?”

            “My best qualities, counselor?” Confusion.

            “Yes. What’s in you that’s good?” They’d gotten to the bottom and it was time to start building up, recognizing, and reinforcing.

            “I suppose…my inclination to learn?” Reserved pride.

            “Excellent! What else?”

            “I am a thoughtful friend. I do not wish harm on anyone, and always try to see the truth of an issue. I seek to understand others.” Assurance.

            “Good,” Deanna smiled warmly. “And wouldn’t you say those are your defining characteristics?  

…

            She needed a lighter caseload. Deanna had been admonishing herself for longing after the mindless inhibition real alcohol provided (not the taste). But the marriage between addiction and trauma was a difficult union to sever, and she knew how unhealthy it would be. It was a foolish idea, and dangerous thinking.

            You know, I’d never thought of it like that before.          

            What was in Deanna that was good? She was great at her job. Despite the draining nature of her work recently, she could really sense that she was making a difference. Data actually left his session with a smile, the emotional burden he walked in with slightly dissipated. He was happy he disclosed to her, and it was reaffirming for Deanna to feel such deep levels of trust and what could only be described as love emanating from her vulnerable friend. Despite everything, she had helped give him a bit of hope.

            My husband has really noticed a difference, and I have too.

            She was a hard worker. Deanna never gave up, even when it was hard. Reminders of her intrusive thoughts over the past few weeks, and her insistent push through them, made her proud of herself. She resolved to tell Zinhir about them at her own therapy session, having come to the conclusion that despite her hard-headed determination to deal with them herself, they were going to begin affecting her work.

            I knew you’d be able to help me.   

            She knew her limits. Deanna knew her patients weren’t going to be getting the best of her if she carried on this way. There were some patients that would be amenable to switching to a different therapist, and some who were ready to see her on a less frequent basis. That would help a lot. 

            Thank you, Counselor Troi.