In Cargo Bay Two, deck seven, Seven of Nine sat and doubted. Clutched in her humanoid hand was a padd, freshly delivered by Voyager's resident spotty retar—er, Talaxian. Normally she would have been rather surprised to receive a message consisting of such personal matters, but as of late it had become a regular, if annoying, occurrence.
Three and a half days ago, Janeway had contracted the rather vile and wholly unpleasant Tarubian Bi-Dominal Foetal Flu, which, despite in the end being mostly harmless, invoked the gaseous equivalent of a quadruple warp core breach. As a result, Janeway had been confined to sick bay, quarantined beneath a level ten force field. Bored, flatuent, and alone, she had done nothing but write padds to various members of the crew, attempting to convince them that she was, in fact, dying, and they should, in turn, grant her one last wish.
So far it had proved for the most part successful. Harry Kim had neutered himself; B'Elanna and her team in engineering had nearly succeeded in flushing Chakotay out the air lock, but had been foiled at the last minute by a very bloated Neelix, who, in an absurd defiance of all things biological, was very, very pregnant with the tubby Indian's child. In the last 72 hours, the majority of the crew had royally embarrassed themselves, and three had offed themselves in rather amusing, yet gruesome ways.
Seven shivered at the memory of a deceased and pulpy William Telfer dangling upside down from his ankle in Cargo Bay Three, a holographic emitter ray strategically placed in his anus, projecting a rather bustling roller disco full of ill coordinated Klingon females at the height of mating season.
The young Borg scanned the padd once more, frowning slightly.
You are an inspiration—no, that is an understatement. You are my god. Before I sleep at night, I kneel beside my bed and pray to you. I envelop myself in your aura of absolute supremacy, my body wracked with sobs, hoping that someday, some how, I will be able to truly know you. To feel you. To be inside of you.
And I know that if I were ever given the chance to be with you, that it would be the be all, end all. I know that I would never be satisfied with another, because sexing you would be the most fulfilling thing in the entire universe. Even only to wrap my arms around your slim frame, to feel your muscles shudder beneath your delicate pasty white skin, if it didn't kill me, would make my life absolutely complete.
There would be nothing left. No need, no desire. You would deliver nirvana in its purest form, Seven. And sadly, I will probably never know that nirvana.
If only I could, though.
You see, I'm writing you because I know that I have very little time left in this world. For I am very ill, and I feel that with each wracking cough, a little bit of my soul escapes in a dusty cloud from my rectum. I am dying, Seven.
I should say that I do not fear death, for death is an inevitable part of the biological process. But what I do fear is dying empty. Dying with out ever having felt a sense of completion in my life. Dying with out ever having felt full.
I know that I will never have the eternal rest that you will once you die. My soul will forever be disturbed in it's incompletion. I will figuratively twist and turn in my grave, an ever restless enigma endlessly searching –a lost spirit ever longing for something that it will never attain.
But Seven, my dear idol. You have the power to make this not so.
You have the power to fulfill me –to give me everything I need in my dying days. Not sex, for I am too weak to indulge in the sinful pleasures of the flesh. Just one, minute thing to lull my worried soul.
Show me your titties.
--Your Deathful Captain and Confidant
It was not the first time Janeway had asked. In fact, over the course of the last few days she had received upwards of 35 sexually explicit letters from the Captain, all of which she had steadfastly refused.
She knew the one of the reasons Janeway had re-assimilated her was to reap the benefit of her mammaries. Janeway, although a wonderful and charming woman, was, when push came to shove, a horn dog.
Six years in the delta quadrant with only a limp hologram and her right hand had taken its toll on the Captain, and even if the incessant glancing grated on the Borg's nerves, Seven couldn't help but sympathize with the older woman.
She couldn't deny the fledging feelings she felt for Janeway, either.
"Perhaps a glimpse won't hurt…" she said, switching off the padd and setting it gingerly out of sight.
She sighed and ordered the computer to seal the doors, before stepping over to the replicator and depositing the majority of her pent up rations on a silken robe. She slipped out of her catsuit, bristling as the cold air brushed against her skin, and slipped into the newly attained garment.
It was terribly risque, exposing all but a few inches of her thigh, and in all leaving very little to the imagination. She felt a tremor of doubt ripple through her gut, before the logical voice inside her reminded her that Janeway would inevitably find her attractive if she were layered in three months worth of Targ excrement.
Taking a deep breath, she ordered the computer to perform a site to site transport and after a few moments she dematerialized in a fray of blue static.
"Seven?" the EMH blinked in disbelief at the rematerializing form of Seven.
"Computer, deactivate Emergency Medical Hologram." she ordered nonchalantly.
"S-seven?" the meek voice of Tal Celes rose from a nearby bed. She was, as Seven noted with a shocked tip of the brow, clothed in something far more exposing than Seven. Her humble breasts were covered in a leather bra decorated in swirling bronze adornments, and all that covered the sweet apex between her thighs was a thong of the same material and similar design. Around her neck was a large metal collar, attached to which was a matching chain. She was holding the end of it in her hands, slumping under it's weight.
"You too?" she asked and tipped her head to Janeway, who was lying calmly on a bed beneath a hazy orange light.
Seven merely clenched her jaw and made no reply as she shuffled towards the glowing orb that surrounded the captain. Janeway was apparently asleep, her chest rising and falling with slow, even breaths.
A flickering twitch played at corners of the Borg's mouth. Janeway looked impossibly sweet in her sleep, her lips curled in a serene smile, her features unguarded and lax. Her left hand was placed open across her chest, her right arm dangling off the edge of the bed. She looked reminiscent of a child, beautiful and innocent in slumber...atleast until she let a rather loud one rip.
"Ack!" grunted Janeway, "One of these times I'm going to drop a freakin' lung."
She sat up grumpily and rubbed her eyes. She blinked for a few moments before Seven came into focus, and then she simply sat stupidly, her mouth hanging open slightly.
Seven swallowed air, and with all the courage she had, stepped forward and exposed herself.
Now, at this moment several things happened.
Janeway clutched her chest, fell backwards, and passed out.
Tal Celes dropped the huge chain on her toe, swore, and stared to bawl.
Seven rolled her eyes.
The EMH reactivated himself and promptly decompiled.
Neelix gave birth to a being that greatly resembled a giant, spotted ass with a queer tattoo.
B'Elanna went into such a rage, and terrified Tom Paris so much, that he promptly urinated and died, not unlike a rabbit does when faced with a vicious, blood thirsty cat. B'Elanna, thrown into an absolute rage over the fact that her asshole boyfriend would be so rude as to die in the middle of an argument, stepped forward to choke the nearest engineer, and slipped on the pee-puddle. Mid-fall, she thrust her arms out to catch herself, and in doing so, accidentally pressed the large, obtrusive red button that initiates the streamlined version of Voyager's self-destruct sequence.
The warp core exploded.