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She expects to lose consciousness when she is merged with it, thanks divinity for that mercy. They put her under, she wakes up with a chunk of machinery at the base of her skull---they don't even bother influencing her actions, she isn't important enough for that---and then Morden escorts her by arm to the vessel. It's simple, too simple, but at least she won't have to suffer through it. At least she will get a break. She will break her mind away from Morden's betrayal, and the fact that she will never see her husband again, and the fact that Liz is still taking care of her cat, and she will be lulled into deep sleep by the cacophonous screeches of the creatures.
It isn't, apparently, that easy.
She feels the machine infect her immediately upon merging. They wire her in, her vital signs monitored on a constant basis, the back of her neck positioned stiff against a cool piece of metal. It's dark in here, so dark. Anna is immobilized in stasis, stuck in a limbo of consciousness between consciousness. Anna is the ship, and the ship is Anna, and Anna belongs to the creatures now, Anna---
Anna stops being Anna a few months in. It happens gradually; she is kept mostly on the ground for a while, her mind left to its own devices, left to roam like a slaughterhouse animal. She tries several things while she is grounded, while Morden and Justin and the creatures flutter around outside of her. She:
-Astral projects, or tries to. Liz told her about this in college. The Psi Corps are experimenting with this, she'd said. They're making some real progress, too. She melts in the darkness. If she could move any part of her body, her eyes would be closed. Anna imagines a ball of light surrounding her, penetrating the shadows and ascending her out of the ship, up into the skies, back to Earth. She imagines her soul separating from her body, floating back into control. Safety. There was supposed to be safety. There is always an inherent risk to archaeological digs - especially on planets near the Rim - but she was supposed to go home. It wasn't supposed to end up this way. Still, the ball of light seeps into her skin, absorbed by each layer of the integument. She feels herself almost escape, almost break free from the shell her body is now, but she is always pushed back down just before the ascension, eternally tethered.
-Daydreaming. She thinks about what her life would be like if she had been able to return from the dig. She dreams of her husband; it is an unrealistic dream, forbidden sustenance. The dream involves John being able to be with her - to truly, meaningfully, wholly love her - and he simply just doesn't have time for that. Her daydreams always end here: John will never be able to truly commit. Anna will always, always need more than what he can give. She shouldn't be thinking in present tense.
-Meditation. She tries to clear her mind, to throw every thought overboard, to give in to the lull of the vessel, but every attempt is futile. She tries to clear the shelves and gets you cannot erase me in response, bellowed throughout her mindscape.
The voice dies when she allows her mind to cloud back up again. She floods in every possible thought, a river stream of her own consciousness. She fills herself up with words, poetry from other cultures, her doctoral thesis on Anfran culture, translations, songs from her childhood, scripture. The whispers only get stronger, louder, with each imagining. The whispers shred and haunt and eviscerate.
Mostly they say things like I love you. Or Anna herself is saying I love you. Or there are multiple people saying I love you. Or the creatures are saying I love you. Regardless of the source, it is never genuine. The tone is always one of cruelty---not a declaration of adoration, but a study of her weaknesses. Each and every I love you translates to you are weak. Each and every I love you translates only to an inhuman screeching wail that shatters her innards and fragments her mind. There's so much noise here.
It always sounds like her own voice. She supposes that is because herself is all that she has left, but even that isn't right; the voice grows increasingly monotone every time it talks to her, and Anna has always been full of life. The voice is blank, and dark, and firm. Loud and fast, like she's back at one of those artifact auctions where private collectors would bid on the past as if they had any right to own it. Empty.
She doesn't even think to talk back to it for - too long, probably. She doesn't even consider that she can. She doesn't have a voice here, but she has a mind, she has an inner world. She isn't going to go anywhere. Anna Sheridan has always been strong, and she is strong enough to make it through this.
Anna concentrates---meditates, even. She imagines her words disappearing from her mouth and hanging visible in the air, written out by magic. She imagines her words permeating throughout the entirety of the vessel, picked up by every sensor, every code, every presence. I'm not letting you do this to me. She imagines the Other Self hearing her and floating inward, but when she thinks the statement she feels a million eyes on her, more than just the Other Self; every creature on the planet, every human, every telepath, everyone these aliens have captured and altered, like the Other Self is wired into the entire planet. She "says" the statement, and the statement strips her down into a naked, vulnerable thing. No longer flesh and bone, just bone, a brain and nervous system clattering wet onto the floor. It invades. Vivisects.
Divides.
"Do you think you have a choice?" says the Other Self. "It is already occurring. You cannot stop it."
I won't let you hurt me.
In the eternal darkness, she sees a flash of shoulder-length auburn hair, a sage dress, a weaponized smile--her own frame, her own image, but not. This isn't her. This could never be her.
"I do not need to," whispers the Other Self. "You are not for hurting. You are for utilization." She looks away for a moment, and the smile widens. "You are actually very lucky. The Machine is a comfort unlike anything else I have ever known."
What else have you known? Have you ever kissed someone, or held someone, or had ice cream, or zipped through the stars, or discovered something from a civilization long-dead?
"I do not need to do those things," she replies. "The Machine is all that I require."
Don't you ever want more?
"Well," says the Other Self, considering this. "For a while, I will have you."
What do you have to do with me? What do you mean for a while? I'm not a Foundationist, I am not on Walkabout. Go.
"Do not worry," "Anna" replies. "One of us will cease to exist eventually. For now..."
The Other Self presses her hand to Anna's chest beneath the darkness. She prays to every deity that it is a mere hallucination.
"We are together."