05-27-2018, 02:59 PM
The Borg stared at the creature that lay on the ground beneath him. From his research, he understood that this was a ‘traditionally beautiful’ specimen, or at least it had been before the spear tore open its abdomen. Now, the purple elf creature was gasping for breath and trying her hardest to prevent her entrails from splashing out onto the forest floor.
“Why do you resist?” The Borg inquired, tilting its head as it stepped forward and crouched in front of the dying beast. The drone lifted its left hand and stared briefly at the blood that dripped from the blade. As it watched, the metallic implement quivered before morphing back into a set of functioning digits.
The night elf, one hand still grasped around her ruptured stomach, reached her other set of quivering fingers toward her short sword. “I… I didn’t attack you. My sisters, they didn’t attack you.”
The Borg couldn’t help it, but a faint smirk spread across its face as it lifted its eyes. Just yards away from this dying night elf, the other three members of her ‘squad’ lay twisted and broken in the underbrush. All had been unmounted. The Borg had watched the ‘patrols’ that combed this area for weeks and committed their schedules into its memory banks. It knew where they would be, and that this particular unit would be without the nighsaber creatures.
The setup had been a combination of luck and careful planning.
While not particular adept at combat from close quarters, the Borg had surprised the quartet of female fighters. As they had passed through the area, they unwillingly triggered a trap that caused a nearby tree to collapse onto them. In that initial confusion, the drone had managed to stab one of the elves through the base of the spine and land a deep slash across the abdomen of a second. The other two, alive and composed following that initial ambush, drew steel weaponry. Although shaken by the wails of their injured companion, they were still hardened soldiers who pressed the attack.
The Borg, its bladed appendage at the ready, fell back as its adversaries advanced to close the gap. The pair of slender creatures would outclass the drone once they managed to regain their calm and composure. Under normal circumstances, the Borg philosophy was a frontal assault, because Borg rarely encountered species that could match them. In this instance, the drone understood that such tactics were inappropriate, so even as the blade-wielding elves advanced, it retreated once more. The steps, however, were calculated and preplanned, taking it backwards over a small patch of half-dead shrubs.
The lead elf came forward, and her foot stomped down hard through the unimposing plant. Before the leg came back up, the warrior woman felt the bit of metal that she had stepped onto. Her eyes quickly spotted the small piece of twine that now lay limp across the ground—one end wired to the small bit of metal and the other terminating somewhere in the trees.
Instincts were just too little, too late. A sharpened tree branch slung down from the other copse and crashed into the elf, punching clean through the right side of her ribcage and carrying her nearly fifteen more feet.
The final woman kept her eyes on her companion a little too long, and when she looked away, the blade had already met the flesh at the base of her neck. With a gurgling rasp, she clutched at the wound even as blood started to bubble down into her lungs.
“Whatever you are, you will be found,” the night elf whispered between labored breaths.
“The Borg want to be found,” the drone replied as it walked over to a bush and bent to retrieve a case it had crafted in preparation for this encounter. When it returned, the Borg set the small metal container next to the dying creature. The biological vessel that the drone had once been would have called the object ‘a briefcase,’ because it had a small handle and little clasps to keep it shut. With the depression of a nearby button, the latches popped free. Inside the case was a collection of syringes filled with murky, oil-colored liquids. The Borg picked up one from the middle and tilted its head.
“We’ve tested these on smaller variants of organic life.” The drone depressed the plunger to insure there wasn’t any air in the tip of the oversized needle. “Naturally, they perished; however, unintelligent life is unfit to be Borg.”
“Just let me die,” the night elf groaned as she tried to squirm away.
“Do not resist, Species 12031,” the Borg muttered as it leaned forward and heartlessly slammed the syringe into the chest of the night elf. She let out a hideous, ear-splitting scream as the slushy of liquefied nanocytes burned through her heart and into her bloodstream. “Resistance is futile,” the drone muttered as the injected elf sagged back onto the forest floor.
After returning the empty vial to the case, the drone sat and watched. It had tested the concoction of nanoprobes for the last few weeks using this planet’s strange energy source. Through use of the omnilium technology, the Borg had crafted a virtually identical copy of the actual Borg nanites. As the hours faded away, the Borg remained focused on observing the creature, trying to visualize the work of the nanites.
The drone understood that this first attempt would be harrowing and difficult. At various times, it felt sharp pangs and electrical jolts in its brain. Yet, it was important that it did not fail. Failure meant the end of the Borg Collective.
The Collective will not end in this strange world. This Omniverse, with its twisted physical laws and bizarre form of renewable energy, would be tamed like thousands of other worlds.
As the hours melted away, the Borg saw that its efforts and the work of the nanintes was not without results. The wounds that the night elf had attained prior to its collapse had mended, leaving a curved scar across its flat stomach. Bits of metal decorated certain parts of the physique that had to be reinforced to handle the added Borg structures beneath the smooth, pale violet flesh of the creature. The right side of its face had the foundation of the visor-like tech piece that served as an advanced interface and an anchoring point for the underlying myo-neural cortical array.
Almost there.
“Why do you resist?” The Borg inquired, tilting its head as it stepped forward and crouched in front of the dying beast. The drone lifted its left hand and stared briefly at the blood that dripped from the blade. As it watched, the metallic implement quivered before morphing back into a set of functioning digits.
The night elf, one hand still grasped around her ruptured stomach, reached her other set of quivering fingers toward her short sword. “I… I didn’t attack you. My sisters, they didn’t attack you.”
The Borg couldn’t help it, but a faint smirk spread across its face as it lifted its eyes. Just yards away from this dying night elf, the other three members of her ‘squad’ lay twisted and broken in the underbrush. All had been unmounted. The Borg had watched the ‘patrols’ that combed this area for weeks and committed their schedules into its memory banks. It knew where they would be, and that this particular unit would be without the nighsaber creatures.
***
The setup had been a combination of luck and careful planning.
While not particular adept at combat from close quarters, the Borg had surprised the quartet of female fighters. As they had passed through the area, they unwillingly triggered a trap that caused a nearby tree to collapse onto them. In that initial confusion, the drone had managed to stab one of the elves through the base of the spine and land a deep slash across the abdomen of a second. The other two, alive and composed following that initial ambush, drew steel weaponry. Although shaken by the wails of their injured companion, they were still hardened soldiers who pressed the attack.
The Borg, its bladed appendage at the ready, fell back as its adversaries advanced to close the gap. The pair of slender creatures would outclass the drone once they managed to regain their calm and composure. Under normal circumstances, the Borg philosophy was a frontal assault, because Borg rarely encountered species that could match them. In this instance, the drone understood that such tactics were inappropriate, so even as the blade-wielding elves advanced, it retreated once more. The steps, however, were calculated and preplanned, taking it backwards over a small patch of half-dead shrubs.
The lead elf came forward, and her foot stomped down hard through the unimposing plant. Before the leg came back up, the warrior woman felt the bit of metal that she had stepped onto. Her eyes quickly spotted the small piece of twine that now lay limp across the ground—one end wired to the small bit of metal and the other terminating somewhere in the trees.
Instincts were just too little, too late. A sharpened tree branch slung down from the other copse and crashed into the elf, punching clean through the right side of her ribcage and carrying her nearly fifteen more feet.
The final woman kept her eyes on her companion a little too long, and when she looked away, the blade had already met the flesh at the base of her neck. With a gurgling rasp, she clutched at the wound even as blood started to bubble down into her lungs.
***
“Whatever you are, you will be found,” the night elf whispered between labored breaths.
“The Borg want to be found,” the drone replied as it walked over to a bush and bent to retrieve a case it had crafted in preparation for this encounter. When it returned, the Borg set the small metal container next to the dying creature. The biological vessel that the drone had once been would have called the object ‘a briefcase,’ because it had a small handle and little clasps to keep it shut. With the depression of a nearby button, the latches popped free. Inside the case was a collection of syringes filled with murky, oil-colored liquids. The Borg picked up one from the middle and tilted its head.
“We’ve tested these on smaller variants of organic life.” The drone depressed the plunger to insure there wasn’t any air in the tip of the oversized needle. “Naturally, they perished; however, unintelligent life is unfit to be Borg.”
“Just let me die,” the night elf groaned as she tried to squirm away.
“Do not resist, Species 12031,” the Borg muttered as it leaned forward and heartlessly slammed the syringe into the chest of the night elf. She let out a hideous, ear-splitting scream as the slushy of liquefied nanocytes burned through her heart and into her bloodstream. “Resistance is futile,” the drone muttered as the injected elf sagged back onto the forest floor.
After returning the empty vial to the case, the drone sat and watched. It had tested the concoction of nanoprobes for the last few weeks using this planet’s strange energy source. Through use of the omnilium technology, the Borg had crafted a virtually identical copy of the actual Borg nanites. As the hours faded away, the Borg remained focused on observing the creature, trying to visualize the work of the nanites.
The drone understood that this first attempt would be harrowing and difficult. At various times, it felt sharp pangs and electrical jolts in its brain. Yet, it was important that it did not fail. Failure meant the end of the Borg Collective.
The Collective will not end in this strange world. This Omniverse, with its twisted physical laws and bizarre form of renewable energy, would be tamed like thousands of other worlds.
As the hours melted away, the Borg saw that its efforts and the work of the nanintes was not without results. The wounds that the night elf had attained prior to its collapse had mended, leaving a curved scar across its flat stomach. Bits of metal decorated certain parts of the physique that had to be reinforced to handle the added Borg structures beneath the smooth, pale violet flesh of the creature. The right side of its face had the foundation of the visor-like tech piece that served as an advanced interface and an anchoring point for the underlying myo-neural cortical array.
Almost there.