A bar on any planet. only cut warning would be for tng relaunch/pocket spoilers probably

[postorganic]

[ It isn't like Soong to be careless, but under the circumstances, he almost doesn't care anymore. All he's worked for in his life has amounted to this. Nothing.

All his plans, all his tedious transactions, all the work, the future potential for his own brilliance which he held in such high regard, all of it is as dead as his family. There's nowhere left to go, and nothing else to work toward. Seated at the bar, he stares into his drink and curses himself under his breath. If all of his equipment hadn't been burned to ashes, maybe he could at least make some adjustments and allow this concoction to abate his misery for a few blessed hours. Then again, if it weren't for the events on Yutani IIIa, he wouldn't need the alcohol at all.

But, even with this body and all his damned knowledge, he still can't change the past. That's why he hasn't even bothered to change his appearance for this little excursion. He's not exactly looking for a fight, but if facial scans on whatever insignificant planet this is bring trouble, let it come. If it brings an end to this incredibly vain flight of stupidity, so be it. It might even be doing the universe a favor.

And those thoughts, that grim way of thinking at this all-time low point in his life, are why he spits the following at anyone drawing too near his seat. ]

Ever heard of personal space?

Comments

[nanoprobes]

[For the first and perhaps also the thousandth time, Seven of Nine is an agent of the Temporal Integrity Commission. She is not here for Dr. Soong—or rather, she's uncertain of whether it's him she's here for—since her optical and cortical implants indicate that something out of phase nearby, but she cannot see it, or them, clearly. The imprecision is unusual and frustrating to say the least.

She does pass close in her exploration of the bar. Recognition is immediate and effortless, accuracy is not. Lt. Commander Data is a possibility to be heavily considered. Rather than seeking confirmation, she addresses the question. Her response is measured, with a trace of superiority that does sound like a reaction, a rise, to his biting tone.]

It is a concept of which I am aware. The exact dimensions vary on an individual basis.

[She takes a full step backward, subsequently subjecting him to scrutiny both tactless and scientific.]

Is this adequate?

[postorganic]

No, actually, it's--

[ As he turns in his seat, he cuts off for just a few fractions of a second. That's quite long enough for him to notice the implants, recognize what they are, and feel the appropriate feelings of surprise at the sight of them. ]

--not. Who are you?

[ 'WHAT are you?' had surged into his mind first, but he has a pretty good idea of that. A reformed Borg. Not that he had ever dwelt too long on what happened to Borg when they cut away from their precious collective. Not after learning what Lore had done to the ones who had the misfortune of crossing his path.

Still, while some empathetic part of him that manages to live on might be somewhat pleased to know that it's possible to break away and have... something of a normal life, the thought of the Borg in general wells a more powerful feeling up within him. Anger.

He knows she isn't the one responsible for the destruction of his work (or his hopes and dreams, as he's feeling just a touch dramatic), but he can't help making the connection. He then regards her coldly, narrowing his eyes. ]

And state your business.

[you_look_weak]

Heard of it, yeah.

[Have a large shrug, because Deadlock may have heard of personal space, but he doesn't fraggin' care. And have that large shrug as Deadlock plops himself down at the next table. Yeah, sorry, you don't want him here? Here is where he wants to be. He's charming like that.]

What's you're fraggin' problem, anyway?