::lifts gaze from task to pinpoint origin of swiftly ended footsteps::
::lifts brow in greeting, masking surprise::
It's late, Miss Paris. Am I to assume that you must follow the same faulty sleep schedule as the rest of your family?
Well, it's not like they can righteously say anything about it.
::takes curt address as a de facto invitation, moving a few paces forward::
I tried to sleep, honest. It just...didn't work. I was bored, and the holodeck is adults only this time of night...
::curls lips at that::
I knew you'd be up.
::lifts other brow, taking a longer look::
You miss nothing, I assure you. There are far more productive ways to pass time than frequenting risque holo entertainment.
That's what Linnis says. I'd like to see some of her programs.
::rolls eyes, stepping even closer::
But she also says I'll be of age before I know it, so I guess I can wait to see for myself.
::leans forward, watching her work with barely concealed fascination::
Is that his neural transceiver?
::frowns, removing fingers from position on magnushansen
Yes. It's faulty.
So he can't interface with the Collective, like you?
::folds arms, shifting position slightly to get better view::
::stares up at third party, searching his eyes for something beyond a void::
It's funny, isn't it? The harder you try to not like your family, the more like them you are.
::ignores broad, Doctor Paris resembling conversational prod::
The Borg are sufficiently far away to negate an interface even assuming the technology were operational.
::lifts spanner, quickly beginning repairs...nanoprobes are efficient, but robbing a drone of such a vital component for an extended length of time could prove crippling, if not lethal::
I am unable to interface with him.
::offers the patient a shrug::
See, at least she cares
::returns attention to annikahansen
Can I help? I mean, I think I remember a little...
::straightens from slouched position against bulkhead, sliding far enough away from opening door to avoid dervish-in-motion type injury::
::waggles a brow when she digs feet into carpet, spinning::
Who are you again?
Wait, give me a minute, it's coming to me...
::flounces hair, offering a look of unmitigated contempt::
Were you spying on me?
Oh, I wouldn't use that term...
::finishes straightening, pushing off bulkhead and stepping closer::
I prefer 'covert surveillance'.
::pats comm badge::
You know, everything of use I know I learned from your sister.
::automatically glances at own comm badge, lips parting in dismay::
::jerks head back up, frowning annoyance::
That's not fair!
...what did you think I might be doing?
Believe me, I don't want to imagine.
::taps a shoulder pointedly, steering her around and down corridor::
Your mother, who doesn't care, noted your recent pattern of insomniatic wandering and shared her concerns with me. I tried dismissing it as a phase, but the Doctor just called asking me to check in on our lovely lady Borg. It seems something or someone was making her blood pressure spike.
So he was spying on her?
She's fine. She just needs to loosen up a little.
::yanks a strand of hair...damn well can see that one from behind by now::
And develop a bit of respect for her fellow beings, most notably the guy who helped bring her into existence?
Nice of you to try and help her with that.