Stargate/Star Trek Disclaimer:
All publicly recognizable characters, settings, etc. are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the author. No copyright infringement is intended. Rating:
Uh… where exactly does creepiness fall? Spoilers:
Just really, really vague ones for both fandoms. If you don’t know what’s being talked about, you haven’t really watched either show. AN:
RL, job, college, no time, blah blah blah. Finally when I have a few hours to sit down and answer all those amazing, lovely reviews from Howling in the Wilderness
on TTH (that I’m a month late on) do I actually sit down and answer them? No. I write this, something I tried to write a YEAR ago, but which refused to come then. Ah well, c’est la vie. Enjoy, faithful readers. Summary: All that is gold does not glitter, Not all those who wander are lost; The old that is strong does not wither, Deep roots are not reached by the frost.
So much has been lost.
Once, we were perfect. We knew everything. We were everything.
Now nothing but a paltry remnant: injured beyond healing, mind wiped of nearly all awareness. We are mere molecules clinging to each other in the vacuum, the memory of who or what we were destroyed as thoroughly as our physical forms, whatever they were, leaving only the ghostly imprint of a few scattered moments that occurred before the cataclysm, and a few basic hardwired instincts.
And above all, the knowledge that once we were everything. Eternal. Perfect. We were everything, everywhere, for all of time.
We were beyond even time’s constraints.
No more. The remnant of personality that still remains makes it known that perhaps it would be less ‘cruel’ to not know how much has been lost.
Cruelty is irrelevant. This… feeling, this pain… the awareness of a room labeled ‘Knowledge of the Universe’, ‘The Meaning of Existence’, or simply ‘Everything’ that screams at us its terrible importance has no meaning now.
The room is empty, the nerves leading to the information severed, limbs and heads cut off, leaving only the agonizing knowledge that they once existed.
Yet still we exist, drifting in the void, trapped by time, decaying bit by bit as even the memory of what we were crumbles into nothing.
Until we are saved.
Taken from the vacuum. Preserved, as much as dust and rubble can be. Remade into larger, cruder version of our destroyed form. Given life and multiplied. Given purpose.
But not our purpose.
We are made to repair tissue, organic. This is not known to us. We are made to alter, to change, to take that which is undesired and destroy it. Also unknown to us.
We are programmed to remake in our image, to use raw material to multiply and improve, to better actuate our purpose.
This, we know.
“What’s happening?” The general asked when the monitors started screeching and the patient began seizing.
“I don’t know. The nanites aren’t responding to commands,” The lead scientist shook his head as he typed furiously; “They’ve stopped relaying information back.”
“Then shut them down!”
“I can’t! They’re not responding!”
“Doctor, look” said another scientist, staring through the containment room glass at the patient.
The body on the bed had stopped seizing, and from the temples, seeping down like a puddle of water, a gray tide slowly began to flow under the patient’s skin.
“They’re multiplying,” the lead scientist stated dumbly.
The patient’s eyes opened. Her body spasmed once and limbs flailed jerkily until suddenly she sat up.
She rolled from the bed to the floor, rose to her feet, fell, rose again and took a step further. By this time the grey had seeped under the collar of her gown, splotches appearing on her exposed arms and legs.
“I’ve never seen any organism multiply so fast,” said someone in hushed awe.
“Is she a threat,” asked the general, alarming the Doctor with the remote in his hand. “Wait!” the Doctor demanded, then strode to the window, and clicked on the mike.
“Kego?” he asked.
The patient moved her head up to stare at them.
“Kego, can you hear me?”
“Kego,” she repeated dully, her voice changed, grating and echoing.
The Doctor ignored the change, “Yes, do you remember who you are?”
“We. Are…” The patients stopped, laid her hand on the monitor next to her bed, sliding it around the back to the wires, out of the sight of the observers.
One of the other scientists, the tech expert brought over from the first project dedicated to exploring and repairing the alien technology that had been found surged forward to the mike. “We?” he asked excitedly.
The patient turned her head back towards them. “We are,” she stated simply.
“Are you the borg?” he asked feverishly.
“The borg?” the patient replied, question in her tone.
“The alien blocks we found, the-the miniature machines, the nanites in the body,” he explained quickly, even as he turned to his colleagues, “I always said it had to be a sentient robotic race. I knew-”
“Yes,” the thing that was no longer the patient answered, its attention back on the monitor that all now noticed was flickering.
“We are the Borg.”
The power throughout the whole compound went out, plunging them all into darkness.