Kathryn Janeway eased through the maze of easels and paints to where her protegee stood, staring fiercely at a canvas. She stopped to smile, wanting to get anything even remotely resembling amusement from her expression and tone before she spoke with Seven.

It was hard. As the tall, beautiful woman stood there, bathed in the yellow sunlight of Maestro da Vinci’s studio, her face twisted into a frown, perfectly pouting lips, completely unaware of their loveliness, pressed onto the end of the paintbrush as she studied the model, then the canvas, then the model again.

She was adorable. Janeway hated herself for feeling that way, but there it was. Seven was beautiful, intelligent, accomplished, and--in her unique way--funny as hell.

The captain stood in the shadows for a while, watching the young woman watch her canvas, fighting once again the feelings that were beginning to stir within her. Bringing Seven on board was a risk, one of the biggest risks she’d taken since she’d blown up the Caretaker’s array all those years ago. She was a puzzle Janeway wanted to solve, and an obligation she was determined to meet. A human woman, snatched as a child and assimilated by the Borg, her life, her humanity stolen from her.

How could she not take the risk?

But somewhere along the way, Seven had ceased to be an obligation. She had become more than a project to Janeway, although it galled her to admit that she’d ever been a project in the first place.

Seven challenged her. Not just intellectually, but she challenged everything it meant to be human, every little nuance of life she’d taken for granted for so long--the way she spoke, the things she ate, how she enjoyed herself. Religion, philosophy, art, politics, relationships--these were uncharted ground for Seven of Nine...for Anika. Guiding her through the maze of human life, answering her unexpectedly profound questions on the mundanities of life, Kathryn found herself looking at the world through fresh eyes, a rejuvenating experience.

A flutter in the stomach, she thought. That’s what it is to see the world fresh. She gazed at Seven, her golden hair a dance floor for the sunbeams that waltzed through the afternoon window. A flutter in the stomach. Seeing her fresh.

Janeway pulled at her own emotions, forcing them back into the strict discipline she needed to maintain, to continue, in this loneliest of commands. There was no time for butterflies, no safety net for her to explore shimmering dance floors.

Keep it light, Kate, she told her heart. Don’t go through that door.

“Captain.”

Seven’s voice cut through her thoughts. It was a rich contralto, honey-deep in its modesty of inflection. She smiled, coming out of the shadows fully back in Janeway Mode.

“How’s it going?”

“I am having difficulty with the hands.” Seven nodded to the canvas before her.

Janeway crossed to stand next to her. The painting, roughly sketched onto the canvas, showed promise. Her line and perspective were good, and she seemed to have a good grasp of the medium. “What’s wrong with the hands?” she asked, finding nothing particularly out of the ordinary.

“There’s is a fractional discrepancy between the right and left thumbs that I cannot rectify.”

Janeway scrunched her face slightly, staring at the thumbs. “They look fine to me.”

“They are inconsistent.” For Seven, this was the equivalent of a screaming tantrum. “I have attempted to rectify the situation several times. I cannot continue with the assignment until they are correct.”

“They’re fine, Seven,” Janeway urged. She took the brush from the younger woman’s hand and laid it on the palette. With a single arm around Seven’s shoulder, she guided her a few steps back for better perspective. “Human hands are inconsistent.”

“The model’s are not.”

“The model is a hologram, and it doesn’t matter.” Janeway shrugged, struggling for an explanation to give to that terribly serious, terribly innocent face.

“This form of recreation is inefficient.” The pronouncement, which sounded similar to the countless other pronouncements Seven had made regarding the flaws of her human ancestors, produced a smile on her captain’s face. “The holo-imaging devices can produce an exact replica of the model, with less time and...” There was a pause and a look of almost amusement in those big blue eyes. “With less frustration.”

Kathryn laughed at this, a warm sound that seemed to fill the studio. “Art is not about creating an exact replica of the model.”

“Then what is the purpose of the model?”

Straight-faced. She said that straight-faced. Janeway smiled and struggled not to shake her head in amusement. “Forgive me, Seven. What I meant to say is that creating an exact replica of the model is not the primary focus of art. The model is a guide, an inspiration. The artist observes the model, processes that observation, then interprets it on campus through the filter of his or her own perceptions and values.”

“I perceive that the hologram’s thumbs are of precisely equal size, yet I am unable to interpret that correctly onto the canvas.”

She didn’t know whether to laugh or bang her head against the wall. It was like this with Seven. All the short cuts were gone. Literal. Precise.

It kept her on her toes. “Okay. But traditionally, artists are allowed a certain amount of deviation in precision in exchange for artistic expression. Look at Picasso’s work.”

“I am familiar with Picasso’s work. I would prefer not.”

“Picasso saw the world in a unique way....”

“Picasso was disturbed.”

Janeway shrugged. “Many artists are. But those flaws, those dramatic deviations from the norm, that is what makes art so powerful.”

Seven stopped to ponder that. “If each individual being or object is flawed to begin with, and artists create flawed recreations according to their own skewed perceptions, then you implying that the purpose of art is to not only perpetuate an already flawed civilization, but to increase the flaws with each occurrence?”

Before Janeway could puzzle that out, Seven made another announcement. “Art is irrelevant.”

But she picked up the brush and continued to work on the painting.

Janeway smiled. “I thought art was irrelevant.”

“It is.” Seven looked to her mentor, an almost shy look in her eyes. “But you seem to find value in the pursuit. Your ideas, while often seemingly inconsistent and flawed, have proven to be beneficial in the past. Therefore, I will comply with your request.”

“And leave the hands alone?”

Seven took a deep breath, her eyes closed in quiet frustration. “If you insist.”

“Good girl,” Janeway said, heading for the studio door. “I’ll let you finish.”

She was almost out the door when Seven’s voice stopped her. “Captain?”

Janeway pivoted on her boots, hands spread slightly as she answered, “Yes, Seven?”

“I would like to continue our discussion of art.” The younger woman stood erect, her body a vision of female perfection that belied their earlier agreement on humanity’s flawed nature. “Over dinner tonight?”

Another butterfly flutter in her stomach. But Janeway kept it light. Always light. “Of course, Seven.”

When she left the studio, Seven returned to her work, and Janeway...Janeway went in search of another shot of control.

End