Just a Little Different

Data wiped the last traces of moisture off his cheek and checked his reflection to make entirely sure he was presentable for rehearsal, though to be exact, he’d just had a rehearsal of his own.

Given the lack of certain bodily functions and his superior control on the growth of his facial hair, he did not make use of the fully equipped bathroom in his quarters as often as his fellow officers, but he had been spending 6.2% more time looking at his image in the mirror as of late.

In this particular case, he had thought it best to verify one more time that he could, if the situation required it, produce an approximation of tears, and that the effect was realistic enough to be used on stage. Dr. Crusher, being intimately familiar with his inner workings, would not flinch, but he estimated an 87% chance that many of the others would react with genuine shock when he got to the first instance in which his script called for him to cry. He was not even certain that they knew he had actual, functioning tear ducts.

Granted, his tears were not composed of water, salts, antibodies and enzymes, nor did they change their chemical makeup according to what triggered them, and upon closer inspection, they were not even clear in colour as human tears were, but they would do for the purpose of the play.

He had been compared to his character more than once during his tenure in Starfleet, sometimes in well-meaning ways, sometimes with an emotional undertone that likened it to an insult, but in both cases, those who said it had been labouring under a partial misconception. Data could see the similarities, but there were several fundamental differences between him and the Tin Man to take into account: first, that L. Frank Baum’s character had once been human, and was perhaps closer to a Borg than an android in his progression from biological to artificial life form; second, that while his wish for a heart was an excellent metaphor for his own emotion chip – and perhaps an even better one now that he knew of its existence, that the accomplishment of his ultimate goal might very well depend on a single object, albeit so much more complex than a heart made of silk and sawdust –, what the Tin Man perceived as missing from his life was one feeling, that of romantic love, instead of the whole range of them with all their highs and lows—and in Data’s opinion, thousands of those lows would have been adequate payment, if they meant a chance to experience a single high. But the fact remained that his character, even in the ‘heartless’ state he bemoaned for most of the script, showed a broader variety of emotional reactions than he could ever display in normal conditions, particularly by weeping on several occasions and doing damage to himself in the process, as the shedding of tears caused his face to rust, which was impractical, to say the least. Apparently, his suspension of disbelief was another skill that The Wonderful Wizard of Oz was putting to the test, as well as his budding abilities as an actor.

When he had decided to take up acting, his colleagues had been mostly supportive, but had he been human, their disbelieving tones probably would have undermined his confidence—what did he mean to accomplish by simulating what he could never have?

This time, however, he was, perhaps paradoxically, at an advantage: it took a seasoned human actor to cry at will, whereas he, despite not having experienced any of the emotions that could elicit tears first-hand, had not required any particular training. Rerouting some of his bodily fluid so that it would spill when needed, lending believability to his performance, was no different a function than calculating their ETA to the next planet when the Captain requested it.

Q’Mar looked slightly subdued as they made their way to the cargo bay for practice, she with her PADD tucked under her arm, he without, as the true reason he took part in rehearsal was to learn to give his lines the proper emotional inflections while at the same time working seamlessly with the rest of the cast, not to memorize the words. That task had been accomplished almost instantly, as soon as Dr. Crusher had sent him the material, and while the others were just now beginning to alternate between reading out loud from their devices and reciting their respective parts without looking at them, he had never once needed external help, much to the little girl’s envy.

She’d also been disappointed to find out that most meetings would be taking place in a cargo bay with a simple ‘stage’ marked on the floor in tape instead of a fully furnished holodeck simulating the lush grass of the Land of Oz and Toto’s boundless enthusiasm (as soon as the holographic dog had been programmed to recognize her as its owner, it had promptly started licking her face, so they had to tone down his puppy-like energy a bit to make it docile enough for the purposes of the show), but they’d soon gotten her to understand that they could hardly claim the room as their own until the day of the performance, so the knowledge of their less than appealing destination alone did not justify her current state.

“Is something the matter?”

“This play makes me feel stupid,” she said sulkily. “I wish a wizard would come and stuff my head with pins and needles, then maybe I could learn all my lines. Why can’t I be as good as you?”

Considering her age and his latest estimate of her intelligence, the learning process was actually going better than her pessimistic perception of her own performance would suggest, but judging by what little he could safely say he’d understood of her psychology, it was an understandable reaction to the apparently daunting task of memorizing a script in a language she wasn’t entirely familiar with, especially considering that she was the only child actress in the group and she only had fully grown adults as a basis for comparison.

“As you will doubtlessly remember, the Scarecrow is under the impression that he has no brains, but he is often the one with the best ideas. Have you not considered the possibility that you might be making the same mistake?”

“I sure hope so,” she answered, sounding at least marginally comforted. “But still, sometimes I feel like I’m wasting everybody’s time. I bet you’ve never had anyone who always needed to be told what to do at least twice.”

“That is an exaggeration. Having to interact with us in Standard has improved your language proficiency by 37.2% so far. Have you tried it in class yet?”

“No, I want it to be a surprise. Besides, I’m afraid I’ll mess up in front of Miss Kyle.”

“An interesting course of action, but I believe you are being overly cautious. If you can hold a conversation with us during rehearsal without the translator, a lesson at your current level should not be a problem.”

After briefly experimenting with it, they’d found that keeping Q’Mar’s universal translator offline when it was time for her to say Dorothy’s lines and online on all other occasions, be it to listen to Dr. Crusher’s instructions or to ask for a simple glass of water, was too impractical a method to be sustained for long, so they’d opted for the most drastic solution available—she would get rid of her combadge as soon as she stepped inside, as if it were an extended Standard lesson, and make herself understood to the best of her steadily growing ability, with all the difficulties and frustrations the decision brought. At first, the new situation had revealed an unsuspected shy side of her: the usually curious and talkative child would often lapse into long silences and, rather than speak and risk making a mistake, seemed to prefer to say nothing. Necessity, however, was apparently a stronger force than fear in this case, and other than her slow and careful way of enunciating, with the occasional panicked pause when the word she was looking for slipped her mind, there was now very little difference between her behaviour with the translator and the one without.

“You know, Data, there’s something different between the way you talk as yourself and as the Tin Man,” said Cmdr. Riker during a break in their rehearsal. Q’Mar, for her part, was fairly pleased with herself, as she’d finally managed to pretend to ‘oil’ all of Mr. Data’s joints without bursting out laughing at his rigid, jerky movements that gave a very good impression of a layer of imaginary rust making them difficult.

“It… it must be the contractions, I think,” said Lt. Barclay. She’d soon found that she liked their resident Cowardly Lion very much, because he was often as nervous as her about the upcoming show, and if they could be nervous together, it was much more bearable for both of them. Besides, he was the only other person on the ship besides Mr. Data that Spot wouldn’t scratch and hiss at, and that had to count for something.

“Your statement is accurate. While I have found that the Tin Man’s part does not contain many of them compared to other characters I have played, there are certainly enough to make the difference noticeable. I am not entirely incapable of using contractions, and repeating words I have memorized from an external source is one of the occasions on which I do.”

Mr. Barclay looked like he couldn’t quite believe he’d said the right thing, a feeling she was all too familiar with, as she had it every time she finished a sentence without incident. She looked longingly at the little Starfleet-issued pin that made things so much easier for her, currently abandoned on top of the nearest container in the cargo bay, looking shiny but perfectly useless.

“Let’s get back to work, shall we?” Dr. Crusher’s enthusiasm effectively put an end to their break.

The next part they practiced was a rather tough one for everyone involved, because Lt. Barclay had to hit Cmdr. Riker, and he was so good at pretending to fall over (since the Scarecrow was so light that even the Lion’s half-hearted blow could send him spinning as if he’d been hit very hard indeed) that the lower-ranking officer interrupted the scene to apologize profusely, thinking he’d really hurt him and could even get in trouble for it.

Q’Mar was off to a rough start, herself: while she knew it was all make-believe, she didn’t feel the least bit at ease looking up at Lt. Barclay’s face and telling him off for being a coward. She had to go through her lines three times before they sounded properly angry and she didn’t stumble over the words (her rant wasn’t believable at all if she suddenly forgot that she was supposed to say ‘You ought to be ashamed of yourself’), but at long last, the Cowardly Lion made their band of travellers complete, and off they went to the City of Emeralds. Well, more like to the opposite side of the stage, but that didn’t matter.

And that was when it happened. In theory, Q’Mar knew what to expect, but to see it was a whole other story. Mr. Data froze in the middle of the imaginary yellow brick road, staring at his own foot, and though the beetle wasn’t there (they’d probably have a hologram of it too when showtime came), he looked so very sorry for having crushed it that she almost joined him in his crying, and as he gestured madly at her to oil his rusty jaw, she noticed that his tears were real. Throwing the script to the wind, she reached out and touched them. He froze once again, and it had very little to do with Dr. Crusher yelling “Stop!”, though to be fair, she didn’t sound quite as irritated at the interruption as she’d been on other occasions.

Q’Mar inspected her own fingers closely. “I’ve never seen you cry before.”

“You do not find it… disgusting?”

“Well, no, it’s just… just…” Ugh, not again! She made a sound of frustration as the words to describe what she felt escaped her, half-wishing to run off the stage and say it with the translator. “Your tears are different from mine.” The liquid was rather warm to the touch, but it was… oily, compared to what it felt like to wipe her own tears from her cheeks. It wasn’t exactly pleasant, but she wasn’t disgusted at all, just curious and more than a little sheepish, as if she’d just seen something she wasn’t supposed to—which was just plain ridiculous, if she gave it some thought, because it was in the script and it had to happen that way, and besides, Mr. Data wasn’t even really sad, and was in fact probably ready to tell her once again that he couldn’t be. But then, if he couldn’t be sad, or happy enough to cry tears of joy, why did he have them in the first place?

“That is correct. They are made of the same lubricant that keeps some of my internal systems functioning, which makes them quite the opposite of a rusting agent. I suppose that could be considered… ironic. It appears that my character and I are not so alike after all.”

“But you are!” The words tumbled out faster than they ever had without the UT’s help, and she had no idea where they were coming from, but they needed to be said, and frankly, her hesitations could go tumble out in the cold vacuum of space just beyond the force field that kept the room safe. “The Tin Man is worried because he thinks that without a heart, he can’t be a kind person, so he has to pay more attention than everyone else, right? Well, that’s just like you. I think you already have a heart, and a really big one too. It’s just a little… different.”