You don't like a strong woman? You're in the wrong damn place.
I suppose most people start their story with where they were born and when… Who their parents are, how they grew up, what their education and childhood was like. This is information that I just can’t give you. I can tell you that genetically, I share many similar markers to Earth Humans. The similarities are close enough that I might be inclined to think I am of human origins, but I lack the ability to confirm this and I have some unusual traits that don’t necessarily fit into the human spectrum of existence. But I am getting ahead of myself.
Historical records state that I am Reyva Lei Variel. This was not a name I knew for the vast majority of my life. I do know that I was born to an outsider family, a group of neutral wreck harvesters that made their living and their lives around harvesting parts and materials off wrecked and battle destroyed starships. It’s not a pretty living, but it’s functional if you consider all the different wars that scatter across the Galaxies. I must have some muscle memory of that life, because breaking things apart and putting them back together is a natural process in my head. There’s not a single part of a ship that I can’t figure out or fix, but then… I have a bit more memory and storage space in my head than most.
If you wish to be strictly literal, I suppose you could say I am a member of two races. One unknown and the other well-known enough to get my killed. This part will serve as my confession. I am Borg, or at least I was until a harvester collected my drone body from the remains of a Borg Cube. I believe they initially thought I was dead and they would be able to harvest some of the electronics that the Borg are notorious for. Fortunately, or unfortunately, depending on perspective I was still a living being despite all odds. The Captain of the small family ship viewed me as an opportunity, an experiment if you will. Maybe a way to tap into Borg knowledge.
I was kept prisoner, stripped of most all of my Borg implants through a variety of aggressive and painful surgeries. While the pain was something I could openly comprehend, the loss of a collective consciousness was a much more punishing blow. I could talk to you at length about what it is to lose such a thing, to suddenly be completely isolated. But it would take much time and you likely wouldn’t understand it all in the end. Suffice to say, my mind was broken. While my physical body exceeded all of their expectations, it was merely a husk that might have been pretty to look at and physically strong enough to complete many menial tasks that the average crew member could not, there was nobody home.
I was a commodity to be traded, much like any robotic device. I can recount to you exactly how many ships I passed through over the course of several years, but that statement would be meaningless. I have no emotional attachment or real recollections to offer you along with the number. I do recall the first man who attempted to use me for his own satisfaction. I remember his blood on my hands, I remember the slick heat of it and the brief thrill of victory when his lifeless body slipped away. I believe the ship’s Captain wished to kill me, but his scheming first officer saw another potential. While your so called civilized and unified races may be horrified by it, blood sports are still a big reality on the fringes. Betting on combat is a great business. Owning a winning fighter is even better. So Borg, and possibly genetic, enhanced strength and fast healing from Borg nanobytes made me the greatest asset the ship owned.
I will not count for you how many lives I have taken. You do not wish to know. You will judge me for it, likely condemn me. I will tell you I did not have a choice. I could kill or die. I have no desire to die, it is not in my consciousness, I was not programmed for it. So I fought. I fought in small pits, in big arenas, I even fought across an entire planet. I killed, I was injured, I survived. Ironically in those pits and survival games I learned the capacity for speech. While I have implants in my cerebral cortex that allow me to translate virtually every language imaginable, I never saw the need for or understood the use for actual speech. Survival taught me this skill, the need to communicate to either strengthen or deceive. This was something I could now use. Looking back on it, I’m really not sure why I waited so long. Perhaps my disjointed brain was not ready.
But this too became my existence, for more years than I can count. Suffice to say, my combat skills exceed those of most. I can kill with my bare hands, or with any weapon you choose to put in them. But I will promise that I have only killed in defense of my own life. I am many things, but a murderer is not one of them. This was my life until the blood arena was broken up by some patrolling force. I am not sure who they were, only that they took me and the other combatants away. Most were imprisoned, many died trying to escape. A clean death is favorable to a life in chains. I perhaps was one of the few lucky ones, depending on your definition of luck. I planned my escape on some backwater space station they stopped at for supplies and actually succeeded.
I was of course, a bit at a loss on how to survive in such a place. My meals and clothing had always been provided by some form of owner or another. I had nothing to my name, nothing but the simple clothes on my back. But this, appeared to be enough. It started small, menial jobs of cleaning and picking up the junk around the station. My technical tendencies made a quick resurgence and cleaning became repairing. Repairing turned into the re-engineering of the space station itself. I garnered the respect f the Commanders and occupants of the station and the right to be called the station engineer. I have salvaged several ships and sold them for more credit than I know how to spend. Aside from one, one I will always keep for myself. One I may choose to use to venture beyond these small borders.
But for now, my place is here. These are my engine rooms, my cores, and my drives. I maintain them with the accuracy that most outsider stations do not possess. I believe that my reputation has preceded me through much of this quadrant. I suppose this is something that should make me happy, but it does not. It is merely a statement of fact. The more time I spend living with this multitude of races and the others that pass through, the more I think perhaps I am lacking something. Or that my life itself is lacking some element. I have not yet discovered what that element is but I suppose with enough logical consideration, the solution shall present itself. Until such a time I will perform my duties to my full and best capacity, as is right, as a Borg would do, as is my nature.
