poly_chromatic | 037

[All normal. Being Marie must be miserable.]

I am, yes, but I'm afraid that you are not.

[Ah. Her eyes lift, tired.]

Is zhat so?

[It isn't an argument, but... well. If she had the means to fix this great gaping hole in herself, she would have done it by now.]

Yes, that is so.

[He isn't particularly good at being assertive around people he considers his superiors, and he doubts that anything he says will affect Marie. Still, if he doesn't try--]

I am worried about you. You have been anxious and--and distant, ever since I have met you, and now this seems worse.

I 'ave not changed dramatically since my arrival 'ere.

[Not that she's noticed. She was dumped from a nightmare into this ridiculous place, her world had already been turned upside down. How much more could she possibly warp? Not when she had such a strong will, she wouldn't allow it.]

[He drums his fingers on the countertop and fidgets in his seat. For a moment, he wonders if he ought to take up smoking. It seems to calm people, and it would give him something to do.]

I think that you have. It seems that you are always alone and drinking.

[She laughs, a little, as much as Marie can really laugh.]

Yes.

[What else was she to do? It was a painful position to be in, to have fought so hard for humanity's (all of humanity's) right to free thought, so have revered it so deeply. But to now be truthfully repulsed by her fellow man, not merely impatient but truly repulsed. The biomass had shown her ugly things, and she remembers the sensations of blood and of flesh and it makes her ill. That was why things had been... pleasant with Andrew Ryan. He had not tried to envelope her in warmth and skin. He had been a cold man, and as a cold woman she had appreciated it. She has met precious few others she would willingly be close with. Even Chekov is easily relegated to the occasional text, inquiring about his well-being, the occasional meeting to humor his requests.]

I am serious, Delacroix--Marie. There is more to living than this.

[He probably won't ever understand Delacroix or the depth of her feelings. For the most part, he has been sheltered from coldness and ugliness (and most ugliness, until recently, was readily identifiable as evil). In his world, people are warm and care about each other--worry, when necessary.

(This isn't always true, even in his world. Chekov is good at shrugging off anomalies.)]

There are ways to get better.

[S-s-sigh. She sinks down tiredly into the cradle of one hand, a cigarette burning itself out in the other.]

I am listening.

[She's taking this better than anticipated.]

Are you familiar with the practice of psychiatry?

Not personally.

[But it is not a foreign concept to her.]

I believe that consulting a psychiatrist would benefit you.

[It's not that she didn't hear this the first time but... Maybe she just didn't want to sit with a shrink and have her 'emotions' examined.]

And by zhis belief you intend for me to act.

[Again, still not rejection.]

[Who wants to? The psych evals that Starfleet puts its officers through after harrowing missions are never fun, but they're often beneficial.]

I would like you to consider acting.

I am considering.

[A rapid fire mind, she's connected the dots long since.]

Thank you, Marie.

[He isn't particularly hopeful.]

[Ew. Don't make that face, Chekov. She really just refuses to look at it.]

We shall see.

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