SUMMARY: VOY, 7o9/P, P/T, NC-17, Post-Revulsion.  Paris ends up in a
holodeck adventure he hadn't planned on and realizes that resistance
is most definitely futile.


Resisting Futility, by Mercutio (mercutio@europa.com)


The stink of death and smoke hung in the area.

Human bodies littered the floor, dressed in Starfleet uniforms.  Tom
Paris recognized Tuvok's broken body fallen in a doorway, the computer
holding the door open for someone who would never pass through it
again.  The Vulcan's face was a pale gray-green.  He was dead past any
hope of resurrection.

Alarms shrilled vainly in halls patrolled only by one lieutenant and a
host of dead warriors.

Paris heard a noise behind him that was not the sputtering of
overtaxed wiring or an alarm, and turned.  A leg was all he saw,
disappearing up the hallway behind him, presumably still attached to
its owner.  A leg clad in the body-armor of the Borg.

This was *not* the holographic fantasy he had programmed.

"Computer, who reprogrammed my scenario?"

"Scenario was reprogrammed by Annika Hansen."

"Who...?" Paris started to ask, and then got it.  Ah, yes, everything
was starting to make perfect sense now.  So much so that he was
tempted to dare B'Elanna's wrath and try yet again to kiss and make
up.  But she'd seemed very certain while she was throwing the book --
and quite a few other things -- at him, that she never wanted to see
him again.

Maybe it hadn't been a bright idea to tell her that he thought
marriage was something only fools and idiots got involved with.  Or
that her hairstyle was perhaps a bit dated.

In any case, the best alternative had seemed to be a few drinks at
Sandrine's and perhaps a stroll on a sandy beach to contemplate just
what the hell he thought he was doing with B'Elanna anyway.

She loved him.  Paris shuddered reflexively at the thought.  Well,
maybe love wasn't so bad.  But really... *saying* it was just another
way to pin someone down and snap the cuffs on their wrists, dragging
them off screaming to the prison that was marriage.  And he'd already
been in prison.  Of course, he'd had to reciprocate, to return her
feelings in some way or she would have never brought up the subject
again -- would never have brought up *any* subject that wasn't
work-related.  He knew that.  And he *was* interested in her.

But not like *that*.  Not in terms of a lifetime commitment.  Uh-uh.

However, his brilliant plan of sulking on the holodeck had been
spoiled by someone else messing with his scenario.  Instead of a smoky
bar and a sultry barmaid, he had a smoky starship and a lot of dead
people.  What an improvement.

Another Borg stepped down the hallway.  This one did not walk past,
but instead stopped, looking at Paris.  "Resistance is futile.  You
will be assimilated."

"Hey, buddy," Paris said, raising his arms.  "This isn't my idea.  I
don't want any part of this."

The Borg grabbed him and began dragging him off.

"This is just not my day," Paris muttered.  A hand was thrust over his
mouth, and then he couldn't speak at all.

*Even more lovely.  Now I can't talk to the computer to get it to let
me out of this bloody program.  I'm stuck reliving 'Borgageddon Part
III'.*

The Borg dropped him on a table, in what Paris recognized as Sickbay.
Various vile implements came out of the wall, and without anesthesia,
began to do despicable things to his body.  *Thank God this is a
holographic program.  If this were really happening, I'd be going out
of my mind about now.*  "Comput..." he started to say, before a hand
was jammed over his mouth again.

"Resistance is futile."

*I know.  I heard that before.  Besides, it's not futile.  If I keep
resisting, I'm sure I can get out of marrying B'Elanna.  And I _know_
I can get out of this.  I think.*

The pain and the surgery seemed to go on for years.  Screaming was
definitely futile.  Especially after they got far enough into the
operation that he couldn't scream.  *This is some sort of weird
torture for hurting B'Elanna's feelings earlier.  Maybe this isn't her
program, but she's sitting somewhere watching this and laughing.*

They finished finally, long after Paris had given up any hope of
getting to Sandrine's that night, and even after he'd given up hope of
anyone ever interrupting this program and getting him out of this
mess.  All he had left were hopes of revenge.  *First I'm going to
find B'Elanna and see how much she knew about this.  If she did, I'm
going to kill her.  If she didn't, I'll play stupid and get her to
take care of me.  After that, I'm going to kill Seven.*

The Borg dragged him out of Sickbay and down a succession of darkened
corridors.  Strangely, Paris found himself still able to think for
himself.  *The program didn't go that far.  Just as well for me.  You
hear stories all the time about holodeck programs that got out of
control.  You can simulate *too* much with one of these babies.  Why
they don't program decent safeties for holodecks, I dunno.*

He was shoved roughly into an upright coffin, and restrained.
*Finally, a moment to myself.  Just let me say the words and I'm outta
here.*

A voice stopped him.  "Lieutenant Paris, I presume?"

He twisted his head around.  The "coffin" he was in was a Borg
chamber, one in a series of apparently thousands.  The voice had come
from another coffin, from a Borg.

From a suspiciously familiar Borg.

"You!"

"I," Seven said softly into the "silence" that was the dying starship.

"You took over my program!  You did this to me!  Did B'Elanna put you
up to this?"

"I wished for a taste of home."

Outraged and indignant, Paris looked around himself.  "*Home*?!  This
isn't your home.  This is some sort of nightmarish Borg wet dream.
You want to take over the ship."

"I have not, though.  I have not even taken over you, though it would
have been simple.  Here, I am the computer and the computer is me.  It
can simulate the experience of Borg, and if not for my promise, you
would know what it is to be Borg."

"No, thank you.  I'm quite happy being me."

"You are not happy."

"Please stay out of my life.  You've caused me enough trouble for one
day.  Advice I do *not* need."

"As you say."

Now that getting out of the holodeck scenario was simplicity itself,
Paris hesitated.  God knew that there was no reason to rush in getting
back to his quarters.  "Why are you doing this?  If you aren't
planning to take over the ship, why make up a fantasy about it?  If
you miss being a Borg so much, why not make up a fantasy about that --
about being back in the Collective?"

"Do you make up fantasies about things you cannot have?"

"Umm... not exactly."

"Is that no?"

"No.  Yes.  I mean..." Paris hesitated for a moment.  Being honest
about things was difficult for him -- it was tough to tell people what
you felt and thought when such revelations could be used against you.
But he'd also learned a different kind of armor over the past few
years, of how telling everything could be as much a defense as telling
nothing.  And besides, it wasn't like she was somebody that mattered.
"They aren't things I can't have.  I could have them -- but I wouldn't
want to.  Not for real."

She considered that for a while.  "Why do you then entertain yourself
with them if they are things you do not want?"

"It's a guy thing.  You wouldn't understand."

"Ah.  I have heard of this."  She stepped down out of her cubicle with
a click and moved to stand in front of him.  Paris was a good head
taller than she in this position, and he found himself looking down on
her brea-- on her once-again bald head.  "You are a male, and I am a
female.  You wish to mate with me.  I am extremely interested in
investigating human sexuality."

"Yeah, right, sure.  Just let me get out of this whatever-this-is and
I'll show you how interested I am."  He pulled against the frame,
intending to make a break for it, and found that he didn't have a clue
how to operate the mechanism.  He was stuck.

Seven regarded him with an interested expression.  "Are you coming
out?"

"What do you think?" Paris asked, an edge of sarcasm in his tone.

"I think I would now like to explore human sexuality further."

"Further?" Paris yelped, as she knelt down and his Borg-armor began
parting in ways that he had never suspected.

*How is this going to sound to B'Elanna?  'Really, honey.  Somebody
chained me against the wall and then this woman tries to suck my
dick.'  Not good.  Not good at... mmmm... good.*

He was a man.  All right, so that was a rahter obvious fact, but there
were just certain things that men did and when those things were done
to them, well, it was irresistible.  Literally.

The hot sliding sensation of lips ran over his penis, down its length,
until all he could do was hang there and moan, all thought of
resistance gone.  If this were assimilation, then baby, he was Borg.
Teeth nipped at him, and he moaned again, wanting whatever might be
done to him as long as it kept the sensation alive.  His penis was
hard and all he wanted to do--

--all he wanted to do was--

oh, yes, just like that.

Paris jerked against the restraints, not feeling the pain in his arms
and legs as he struggled to get more of himself in that cruel mouth,
wanting as much as possible, and getting it, getting all of it.

"Oh, yes," he sighed.

And then Seven stood up, and Paris' mind came back.

"Is that how it usually goes?" she asked, wiping off her mouth.  "I
find it unfulfilling."

"Uhh..."

"Yes?"

"That's... not... umm... can you let me down?"

She cocked her head at him, and then helped him out of the
recalcitrant fastenings.  Paris immediately fell to the floor.
Hitting it was just what he needed.  He was over his head, all right.

He didn't think it was wise to stand up.  Sitting seemed about the
right combination of helpless defenselessness and
please-stay-away-from-me.  "That isn't exactly how it's supposed to
go, no.  Not that it was bad -- no insult intended," he felt compelled
to add, since after all, it had been *quite* good, and Paris certainly
felt very genial toward her at the moment, "but that's not how things
usually go."

"You're very informative.  I like you better."

*Better than who?*  His mind supplied the answer for itself.  *What
have she and Harry been _doing_?  And -- God, after B'Elanna kills me,
Harry's going to take his turn.  No question.*

"I... uhh... thanks."

"Can you take off your clothes so we can proceed further, or do you
require assistance?"

"I don't think I could get them off without assistance," Paris
muttered.  Seven immediately knelt down next to him, and he tried to
scuttle away, but in a restrained way, so as not to hurt her feelings.
It went against the guys' code of honor to hurt the feelings of
someone who'd just given you a blowjob.  Particularly one that good.
"That wasn't a request!"

"Then I don't understand.  You appeared interested in me, and in
sexual relations."

Paris felt himself flushing.  A curse of redheads.  "Ahh... yes...
but, it was just... a reaction, you know.  Not that you aren't
attractive.  Or that you didn't do it right... I just... I'm already
taken."  And that was true, he realized.  If it weren't true, he'd
probably be exploring their mutual pleasure quite thoroughly right
now.  Or, if he felt less like a cad than usual, getting acquainted
first.  And damn Harry.  If he didn't do something active to secure
his current love, then so much the worse to him.

Except that wasn't how he currently felt.  He felt embarrassed, and
not at all turned on at the thought of making love to someone other
than B'Elanna.

Well, not much.

"So you do not wish to currently explore sexuality with me?"

"No, I don't."

"Oh."  She gave him a long look.  "Why didn't you say that?"

"I... um... look it doesn't matter now," Paris babbled.  He had her on
the right track, all he had to do was keep her there, and keep both of
their suits of armor on.  Please.  "You... the way we express our
sexuality is less direct.  You're supposed to get to know someone
first, before just jumping in bed with them."

"I've heard that," she said with a tiny frown.  "Human rituals are
confusing and complex."

"I dunno.  But the 'rituals' are important.  We like to have sex with
people we know well."

She favored him with a long look, and Paris realized, flushing again,
that one significant part of his body was still exposed, and damnit,
horny again.  "Are you sure?"

"Yes, I'm sure," he said, as definitely as he could manage under the
circumstances.

"Pity."

She got up and walked away.  Paris watched her go, and then, when she
was no longer visible, banged his head against the deck.  "Damn.
Damn!  I'm such an idiot!  I could have had her... no, I couldn't...
yes, I could... Damn!"

The deck dissolved into the floor of Sandrine's, and he was suddenly
getting a severe case of rug burn on his forehead.

Paris looked up wildly.  He was in his own holodeck program now.  And,
he looked himself over -- completely dressed and completely human --
what a relief.  He sprang up off the floor, ignoring the woman
standing behind the bar holding a glass of wine and calling his name.
He had places to go and people to see.

He ran down the corridor, saving his breath in the lift, then walked
to B'Elanna's door.  She wouldn't appreciate him breathing heavily as
he tried to pant out his message.  Or maybe she would.  It was an
intriguing concept.

Paris gave his name at the door, and it opened for him.  B'Elanna
looked up.  "What do *you* want?"

"You wouldn't believe what happened to me."

"Try me."

He told her briefly, highlighting the events for her.  Paris expected
her to start screaming again and throw more things at him.  Which made
telling her about what happened with Seven somewhat suicidal despite
the fact that he outweighed her and every portable object in the room,
but there was a crucial point hidden in the story, one he wanted her
to share, one that would get him back into her good graces.  *She* was
the one he wanted, and he finally understood what she had been getting
at with her talk of love and commitment.

Instead, all she did was look at him curiously.  "And it never
occurred to you to say, 'Computer, end program'?"

His bemusement lasted long enough for her to pick up a small statuette
and hurl it at him.

Paris fled for the door.  The last thing he heard as it hissed closed
after him was, "And stay out!"

Women.  He had a good mind to head for Sandrine's.


-the end-