02-13-2018, 02:12 PM
The flesh and meat had, much like the elk, been an exercise in endurance, but the drone preserved. Within an hour, it found itself staring at what remained of the night elf hunter. Underneath the purple skin, her anatomy had been strikingly similar to that of Species 5618.
We feel no different.
Even so, the Borg could flex a fresh set of fingers. They weren’t functioning properly just yet, but they still worked. With any luck, they would be operating within acceptable parameters by the return of the sun. Once the day cycle started again, the Borg wasn’t sure what the next step would be. Should it seek out additional informants? With the night elf’s knife and spear at his disposal, the drone believed it had sufficient means to defend itself in the event of ambush. The primitive implements would have to serve due until more advanced armaments could be secured.
What now?
The Borg was still in a hostile realm with no access to the might of the true Collective. It needed additional intelligence in order to deduce the rules of this world. It needed…
We require additional drones.
In the event that the ‘elves’ words about onmilium were invented, the Borg would have to assimilate new species if it had any chance to restore the Collective. One vessel could not house the Borg. For now, it would have to… survive. Such a concept felt almost wrong for the Borg. Borg do not just survive. Borg adapt. Borg assimilate.
The rules are different. We must play smart. We must protect the Collective. We must not fail. We are Borg.
“Acknowledged,” the Borg spoke out loud as it retrieved the spear from the pile of ensanguined bones and festering organs.
[center]***[/center]
Time had passed in the forest. The Borg had been unable to follow the exact flow of time-space. Efforts had been made to do so initially, but after a period of time, it had realized that the rules seemed to have changed. The Borg had tried to keep track of the minutes, but a period of forty minutes had wound up being nearly three days. Despite its own internal systems not reflecting this lapse, the environment showed indications that ninety-six hours was the accurate assessment. Trees had lost their leaves. Insects had gone through their larval phases.
The Borg had chalked this up to its weakness, yet even as it grew stronger, time failed to follow its usual logic. Even after the drone’s physical form ceased to show any lingering signs of damage, the world continued to operate under its alien physical and temporal rules. After additional practice, the Borg had managed to ‘summon’ something. While it kept both of its hands as organic implements, it had implemented a means to shift a hand into a blade. The tool had been welcomed after the elf’s spear had failed to injure the hide of a rampaging quadruped.
With its body sturdy, strong, and seemingly capable of interacting with most foreign elements in the jungle, the Borg had set its sights on its larger mission—the Collective. Over the last [unknown period of time], it had stalked various settlements in the region. In many ways, the drone had adjusted to its ‘unique’ existence as the one ‘We.’ It had tapped into the knowledge and memories of its casing, and while the information it contained was only partially valid, it nevertheless had been a wealth of helpful data.
From the small cavern it had inhabited for the last [unknown period of time], the Borg had watched and taken notes on over a dozen different intelligent species. It had seen more of the purple, Vulcan-looking elves, many various individuals of Species 5618, and countless strains of hulking, green-skinned bipeds. It had watched floating creatures with furry heads and tiny wings bob around in the rivers. A large civilization near to the gate that connected to the White Space housed at least two dozen individual species on its own. Who knew how much those various cultures could add to the Collective, but the Borg would find that information out in due time.
For now, it had narrowed itself down to a known quantity. In units of four, the elves patrolled a stretch of the river every two weeks on foot. The Borg had seen them come and go at least ten times, and each and every time, they never varied their strategy or their course.
On this occasion, the Borg would engage them in combat. It would slay three of them for omnilium fuel, but it would preserve the fourth.
That individual would receive the ultimate gift.
It would be assimilated.
We feel no different.
Even so, the Borg could flex a fresh set of fingers. They weren’t functioning properly just yet, but they still worked. With any luck, they would be operating within acceptable parameters by the return of the sun. Once the day cycle started again, the Borg wasn’t sure what the next step would be. Should it seek out additional informants? With the night elf’s knife and spear at his disposal, the drone believed it had sufficient means to defend itself in the event of ambush. The primitive implements would have to serve due until more advanced armaments could be secured.
What now?
The Borg was still in a hostile realm with no access to the might of the true Collective. It needed additional intelligence in order to deduce the rules of this world. It needed…
We require additional drones.
In the event that the ‘elves’ words about onmilium were invented, the Borg would have to assimilate new species if it had any chance to restore the Collective. One vessel could not house the Borg. For now, it would have to… survive. Such a concept felt almost wrong for the Borg. Borg do not just survive. Borg adapt. Borg assimilate.
The rules are different. We must play smart. We must protect the Collective. We must not fail. We are Borg.
“Acknowledged,” the Borg spoke out loud as it retrieved the spear from the pile of ensanguined bones and festering organs.
[center]***[/center]
Time had passed in the forest. The Borg had been unable to follow the exact flow of time-space. Efforts had been made to do so initially, but after a period of time, it had realized that the rules seemed to have changed. The Borg had tried to keep track of the minutes, but a period of forty minutes had wound up being nearly three days. Despite its own internal systems not reflecting this lapse, the environment showed indications that ninety-six hours was the accurate assessment. Trees had lost their leaves. Insects had gone through their larval phases.
The Borg had chalked this up to its weakness, yet even as it grew stronger, time failed to follow its usual logic. Even after the drone’s physical form ceased to show any lingering signs of damage, the world continued to operate under its alien physical and temporal rules. After additional practice, the Borg had managed to ‘summon’ something. While it kept both of its hands as organic implements, it had implemented a means to shift a hand into a blade. The tool had been welcomed after the elf’s spear had failed to injure the hide of a rampaging quadruped.
With its body sturdy, strong, and seemingly capable of interacting with most foreign elements in the jungle, the Borg had set its sights on its larger mission—the Collective. Over the last [unknown period of time], it had stalked various settlements in the region. In many ways, the drone had adjusted to its ‘unique’ existence as the one ‘We.’ It had tapped into the knowledge and memories of its casing, and while the information it contained was only partially valid, it nevertheless had been a wealth of helpful data.
From the small cavern it had inhabited for the last [unknown period of time], the Borg had watched and taken notes on over a dozen different intelligent species. It had seen more of the purple, Vulcan-looking elves, many various individuals of Species 5618, and countless strains of hulking, green-skinned bipeds. It had watched floating creatures with furry heads and tiny wings bob around in the rivers. A large civilization near to the gate that connected to the White Space housed at least two dozen individual species on its own. Who knew how much those various cultures could add to the Collective, but the Borg would find that information out in due time.
For now, it had narrowed itself down to a known quantity. In units of four, the elves patrolled a stretch of the river every two weeks on foot. The Borg had seen them come and go at least ten times, and each and every time, they never varied their strategy or their course.
On this occasion, the Borg would engage them in combat. It would slay three of them for omnilium fuel, but it would preserve the fourth.
That individual would receive the ultimate gift.
It would be assimilated.