Title: Reigning Factors (My first fic! Woo!)
Author: Psycho_Squirrel1013 (rustic_furniture@hotmail.com)
Rating: R for "dark subject matter" and language
Spoilers: Extreme Risk
Category: B'Elanna, mild C/T ;)
Summary: Set shortly after the events of Extreme Risk (about a week),
B'Elanna tells Chakotay the whole story.
Feedback: I don't mean to sound greedy, but: Gimme gimme gimme!
Bitch, moan, praise, whine, ANYTHING, I don't care!
Archiving: Yes; tell me first.
Disclaimer: Star Trek: Voyager and the episodes, premises, and
characters thereof belong to Paramount Pictures (NOT me.)

*****

You always said I was a rotten liar, Chakotay. I wear my
feelings on my face; I'm honest to a fault; I always tell people
what's on my mind--according to you. Once, you even told me you
couldn't figure out if I'd be a fabulous actress because I portray
emotion so well, or a shitty one because I can't help but let my own
emotions show through.
I think you're wrong. I think I'd be a fabulous actress, if I
wasn't wanted by the Federation on several counts of robbery,
destruction of property, lying under oath, aiding and abetting,
espionage, fraud, and homicide, to name a few. All these crimes,
committed in the name of freedom: I share them with about a thousand
other Maquis, yourself included—don't forget that, Chakotay. I know
your secrets, you know mine—or at least, you think you do. I told
you I was a decent liar. How else could I have kept this from you
for so long?
How long has it been? I honestly don't know. There wasn't a
definite starting point, one marked event that triggered a downward
spiral. I didn't even know it was downward at all until...well, I
don't know that, either. Maybe after that accident on the holodeck?
(I heard later that you carried me in your arms all the way to
Sickbay yourself rather than wait for them to power up the
transporters. Funny, Chakotay, I've never pictured you as the
panicking type.) In retrospect, that seems far too long a time, even
to me. But truly, up until a point, my habit seemed normal to me. I
didn't notice the depression that snatched my life and pounded it
flat, making things far too even and bland to be worthwhile—it worked
too slowly for that. It's the theory of relativity, says the
engineer in me; nothing exists on its own. How can you have downs if
you don't have ups against which to gauge them?

The mutilation itself is slow, senseless, cumulative; I have no
desire for the searing burn of an open, leaking phaser wound or
bat'leth slash. The purple stains beneath the skin—hemorrhaging
blood vessels—last far longer, releasing their pain in a continuous
dull throb that only intensifies if you press them.
It was important to me to always be doing something to induce the
injury—that's why I so frequently employed the Holodeck for my
purposes, instead of simply banging my head on the wall or jumping
off the upper balcony in Engineering. See, if a holo-Cardassian made
me bleed, even if I was the one who programmed him, it wasn't me who
was to blame for the injury. I simply got caught in the crossfire of
something horrible.
It took me a long time to stop lying to myself; to realize that
I was the one playing God and creating the pain I so desperately
craved. I wanted to be the unfortunate third party in the situation,
not the suicidal maniac. I hate being the victim, you know that, but
in my case I would rather have been that than the one responsible for
the injurious actions that something told me were simply insane.
After the accident, when I realized that I didn't have the Holodeck,
my safety net, to blame anymore (thanks to the Captain's and your
constant surreptitious monitoring—don't think I didn't notice),
mutilation seemed far more severe and ominous.
It wasn't something I could quit cold turkey, though. That
night (or morning, was it?) after the Doctor released me to my
quarters, I was lying in bed debating whether to sneak down to the
holodeck again before you overrode my door lock and, obviously
feigning ignorance (you really are a worse liar than I am), made the
decision for me. But it wasn't your decision to make, Chakotay! I
wanted to kill you at the time; I would have been halfway there if
you hadn't had such a frighteningly strong grip on my arm. Your
hands told me I would be dead before they let go. Maybe that should
have scared me a little, but I was too fucking mad for that. In the
Maquis we treated each other more like equals, but here, you can pull
rank on me in a flash if you want to—you did, actually, when you
overrode my commands to shut down the program. I was helpless, and
flight was certainly not an option after that—nor had it ever been.
At least the holo-cadavers littered across the ground were on my
side. I saw the fear in your eyes as you tried not to stare at them;
it gave me both a small surge of power and a ripple of uneasiness in
my stomach. Was the scenario so bad that you, who I saw fight off
hell-bent Cardassians single-handedly back during the rebellion,
could be frightened by it? It was so familiar to me. The bodies
meant nothing. Did you know that I had initially programmed a
holographic version of you to be among the corpses? I don't know why
I took it out (don't flatter yourself; it wasn't because I couldn't
stand seeing you dead.) Too risky, I guess; if someone found it,
they might suspect that I was plotting to kill you. They weren't
intended to find it, of course; I wrapped it too tightly in
algorithms and passwords and confirmation codes. And yet, you found
it anyway. Guess you're too good for me.

There are still days, as always, when the only thing to do is
sleep, for fear of what will—or won't—greet me when I wake up. Fuck
life; dreams leave things up to someone else for a change. They
compensate for what is lacking; they make things decent when
indecency is an integral part of life. I know dreams are all in my
head, but, Kahless, sometimes inside can be so much more welcoming
than out!
And thus, the paradox. Because it was my own mind that brought
me down in the first place, wasn't it? Somewhere along the way, the
trains of thought collided, the chemicals became unbalanced, and I
became the way I am. Subsequently, most days were spent avoiding
people. I don't know whether the ten pounds I lost was due to my
disinclination to eat or because of all the long-cuts I took to avoid
talking to you (and the Captain, and Tom, and Harry, and Neelix...)
in the hallways. The reigning factor in my life was—and I guess
still is—my habit; there wasn't anything else to talk about anymore.
I was good, though. I smiled at all the right times, went to every
senior staff-briefing, got my engineering reports in on time—just
enough social contact to reassure you all that everything was just
fine. After my shifts were completed, it was over to the holodeck to
see if maybe I wouldn't do something to put a kink in that flat,
monotous plane I was getting so sick of—injury, explosions, death; I
didn't care. From pain arose excitement and purpose. It gave me
something to fight.
I never intended for you to find out, Chakotay, believe me. But
then came the day—last week—when pain didn't work anymore. I could
dive out of airplanes at stratospheric altitudes and wrestle
Cardassians all I wanted; it didn't make one fucking bit of
difference. Banana pancakes would not mean shit anymore. I was dead
at the exact moment I realized I didn't want to be.
From that point, what was there to do but take it up a notch?
The "accident" with the Delta Flyer simulation was not an accident at
all. "Leave whether I live or die up to fate, it doesn't matter to
me anymore." Looking back on it, I'm damn glad you arrived when you
did, but I wasn't then. (Ironically, I was angry that I hadn't been
conscious to strangle you.)
Maybe there's hope for me yet. I am beginning to be repulsed by
the life I was living; it seems so wrong now, and I don't want
anything to do with it—for the most part, anyway. My habit is still
there on the holodeck, I know; always waiting to greet me again on a
chance bad day. I haven't had the will to delete all my old programs
yet. Will I someday? Add that to the list of things I don't yet
know. "Maybe" is the best I can come up with for now.

The End