Spike of Borg, Part 2 of 2
Jan. 9th, 2008 02:10 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
sevendeadlyfunCharacters: Spike, The Borg Queen
Rating: R
Summary: “Right,” Spike replied skeptically. “And all this order comes from what, exactly? This collection of bits and bobs?”
A/N: Written for the![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-community.gif)
fangfetish Unique Universes and Fandoms Challenge. This takes place in the temporary alternate universe created during "Star Trek: First Contact" when the Borg traveled back in time to assimilate the human race. All sources are cited in Part 1 which can be found HERE.
EDIT: Some dialogue taken from the movie "Star Trek: First Contact". *facepalm*. Also, since some people were unclear on the plotline, I've done a bit of revising, so we'll stamp this one: REVISED..
As Spike stared at the inhuman mass ebbing and swelling silently around him, a soft sound fluttered around the edges of his hearing. The susurrus of wings beating or cloth rustling, faint and far away, distracted him from the absolute silence. He raised a hand to bat away the source of the noise.
You resist, a voice murmured. How intriguing.
Spike whirled around but saw only a mass of machines. The source of the voice, whoever it was, didn’t come from any of the dead lumps of flesh that stumped around him. The voice was rich, cruelly seductive; alive, in a way these walking horrors weren’t.
I am alive, the voice agreed. I am life. The beginning, the end, the one who is many.
Spike rolled his eyes. How many times had he heard that? Demons, humans, didn’t matter too much what species, they all had their delusions. He was comfortable inside his delusions; had made an entire existence based on them. Still, when you started buying the propaganda, it was time to pack it in.
His two guards jerked to life, pushing him forward through the ordered chaos of the monolith. Spike followed the push and pull of their clammy hands simply because he couldn’t see a way out. No point in fighting the good fight if it leads you straight to hell. Learnt that lesson from Angel and his bloody Little Bighorn tactics in L.A.
He lost track of the number of twists and turns in this labyrinth. Each corridor looked exactly like the corridor before, no identifying features or differences to fix a certain one in the memory. This whole place was full of dark metal and flashing lights that hurt his eyes.
The corridor dead ended into a large room, more spacious than any of the corridors. The soft noises grew louder, and Spike jerked, wincing. The noise was no longer the hush of wings, but the drumming of raindrops, an endless staccato forcing its way into his mind.
“You are not like the others.” The voice again, but this time attached to a form and face.
Spike stared at her. She was a machine like the ones who had brought him here, but she was also a woman. Her eyes held life and her voice was her own.
“What are you?” Spike asked.
“I am the Borg,” the machine-woman answered him. “I bring order to chaos.”
“Right,” Spike replied skeptically. “And all this order comes from what, exactly? This collection of bits and bobs?”
“We are a synthesis, taking the organic and bring it closer to perfection,” she told him softly. “You are imperfect. Something inside you…”
She stepped closer to him, bringing her hand to his face. Spike jerked away, recoiling from the impersonality of her metallic fingers. This was different than dead, different than any demon or Hell God he’d come across. Demons, even vampires, carried a spark inside them, something that animated them. These lumps of metal lacked that spark. She wrenched his face back, cold fingers firm on his jaw.
“I can’t reach your thoughts,” she ground out. “Your assimilation has halted because something inside you is flawed.”
“Yeah,” Spike nodded. “Bloody vampire, woman. What’d you expect, that there’d be space to let? Got a demon and a soul jostling around in here. “
“A demon,” she repeated. “Such tales are fantasy, pitiful explanations from primitive minds who cannot comprehend the world around them.”
Spike laughed, a whoop of joy. He should’ve known. All this machinery, all the babble about order, it was no different than The Initiative in the end. No sense of anything older than yesterday, no knowledge of anything darker than a sunbeam.
“You want a fairy tale, bint?” Spike said between whoops of laughter. “Try this one for size.”
He twisted his head, forcing his demon face past the abominations they shoved into him. The little bits of metal on his face stretched and pulled, reshaping themselves as his face shifted. He roared, shaking his two captors off his arms and grabbed the closest one, snapping its neck.
“That enough of a show or should I find something with blood in it to drain?” he demanded.
“Metamorphic capability,” she snapped. “Nothing I haven’t seen on a hundred other worlds. Your physical specifications are less than impressive. It is your mind that sets you apart from others of your species.”
Her head whipped around, staring off into the distance. The staccato in his mind amplified, becoming a pounding of whispers; voices that cried, shrieked, begged for his attention. Underneath the flood of noise, he heard a faint ribbon of voice that he recognized.
My Spike, she sighed. I’ve missed you, my darling.
“Another one,” the female machine purred. “And this one recognizes you. There is emotion in her thoughts. Her resistance is weak. She is weak. Imperfect.”
“Make up your bloody mind,” Spike sighed. “ ‘M I imperfect for resisting too much or is Dru imperfect for not resisting enough?”
The noise was easing; the flood reduced to a trickle. It seemed as if the woman controlled the noise, raising or lowering it with her thoughts. When she was focused on it, the noise jumped. When she was busy, the noise died down.
“So are you the boss of this...Borg,” Spike asked, curious.
“I am the Borg,” she replied serenely.
“So you’re Borg. Who are the rest of them?”
“Too much noise,” Drusilla answered him weakly. Her voice floated over him and he turned to see her sagging in the grip of her captors. “I’ve asked and asked for them to stop, but they won’t, Spike. You can’t get this close to the stars. They get very cross and steal your thoughts, no matter where you hide them.”
Spike listened carefully, pulling Dru close to him. She had her own kind of sense, one that had to be sifted through and that took time. Time he was beginning to see they didn’t have. This Borg woman wanted to figure out why they weren’t like the others and if she couldn’t, she’d kill them.
“Do you mean all the voices,” Spike asked her cautiously, anxious to avoid upsetting her and rendering her answers useless. “That what you mean, luv? All the voices in your head?”
Drusilla shook her head, a quick emphatic gesture. “No, Spike, not in my head. We’re up among the stars and they shout so. We don’t belong here and neither do they. It’s all come out wrong and The Queen will have our heads.”
“The Queen,” Spike said slowly, almost to himself. “You’re the queen, aren’t you? Like a bloody chess game, kings and queens and…” Spike lifted his head, eyes wide with shock. “Pawns. Is that what they are, these Frankenbots? Pawns?”
“Drones,” the Queen corrected him, cold silver eyes boring into him. “We are of one mind, one will. Once you join The Collective, your uniqueness will add to our perfection. Your strength will greatly enhance our own.”
Spike held Drusilla close, privately acknowledging that this situation might just be hopeless. He’d not tell Dru, though he suspected she was more aware of what was what now than him. But, this technology was beyond him and if Dru wasn’t lost in a fantasy, if they were up among the stars, their ship was bloody well sunk.
“Never been much of a joiner,” he shot back, refusing to give up the struggle just yet.
She ignored him, staring back out into the blankness. He braced himself for the cacophony, but it never came. A single voice pushed its way through the nattering susurrus that must be this Collective. A voice The Collective knew and named. Locutus.
“Locutus,” Spike repeated aloud, refusing to stop using his voice. None of these robots ever talked, preferring the noise inside their heads. His voice was his own and he didn’t plan on giving it up. “Who’s Locutus? The King of this bloody madhouse?”
The Queen stared at him sharply and her lips opened to speak. Just as the words began to spill out, Spike’s vision blurred. The strange room, the machine Queen and Drusilla smeared into a rainbow of colors. Abruptly, his vision sharpened and he stared around his crypt.
“What the bloody hell,” he murmured to himself. “Must be hungrier than I thought. Could’ve sworn I heard Dru…”
Spike shrugged and grabbed his shirt. The faint noises from the cemetery told him his neighbors were assembling for the nightly meal. Maybe if he was lucky, there’d be some leftover blood from the kill. A faint glow in the night sky caught his attention and he smiled. Falling stars always reminded him of Dru and he made a mental note to see if he could find her in the bloody chaos of a war torn planet.
Rating: R
Summary: “Right,” Spike replied skeptically. “And all this order comes from what, exactly? This collection of bits and bobs?”
A/N: Written for the
fangfetish Unique Universes and Fandoms Challenge. This takes place in the temporary alternate universe created during "Star Trek: First Contact" when the Borg traveled back in time to assimilate the human race. All sources are cited in Part 1 which can be found HERE.EDIT: Some dialogue taken from the movie "Star Trek: First Contact". *facepalm*. Also, since some people were unclear on the plotline, I've done a bit of revising, so we'll stamp this one: REVISED..
As Spike stared at the inhuman mass ebbing and swelling silently around him, a soft sound fluttered around the edges of his hearing. The susurrus of wings beating or cloth rustling, faint and far away, distracted him from the absolute silence. He raised a hand to bat away the source of the noise.
You resist, a voice murmured. How intriguing.
Spike whirled around but saw only a mass of machines. The source of the voice, whoever it was, didn’t come from any of the dead lumps of flesh that stumped around him. The voice was rich, cruelly seductive; alive, in a way these walking horrors weren’t.
I am alive, the voice agreed. I am life. The beginning, the end, the one who is many.
Spike rolled his eyes. How many times had he heard that? Demons, humans, didn’t matter too much what species, they all had their delusions. He was comfortable inside his delusions; had made an entire existence based on them. Still, when you started buying the propaganda, it was time to pack it in.
His two guards jerked to life, pushing him forward through the ordered chaos of the monolith. Spike followed the push and pull of their clammy hands simply because he couldn’t see a way out. No point in fighting the good fight if it leads you straight to hell. Learnt that lesson from Angel and his bloody Little Bighorn tactics in L.A.
He lost track of the number of twists and turns in this labyrinth. Each corridor looked exactly like the corridor before, no identifying features or differences to fix a certain one in the memory. This whole place was full of dark metal and flashing lights that hurt his eyes.
The corridor dead ended into a large room, more spacious than any of the corridors. The soft noises grew louder, and Spike jerked, wincing. The noise was no longer the hush of wings, but the drumming of raindrops, an endless staccato forcing its way into his mind.
“You are not like the others.” The voice again, but this time attached to a form and face.
Spike stared at her. She was a machine like the ones who had brought him here, but she was also a woman. Her eyes held life and her voice was her own.
“What are you?” Spike asked.
“I am the Borg,” the machine-woman answered him. “I bring order to chaos.”
“Right,” Spike replied skeptically. “And all this order comes from what, exactly? This collection of bits and bobs?”
“We are a synthesis, taking the organic and bring it closer to perfection,” she told him softly. “You are imperfect. Something inside you…”
She stepped closer to him, bringing her hand to his face. Spike jerked away, recoiling from the impersonality of her metallic fingers. This was different than dead, different than any demon or Hell God he’d come across. Demons, even vampires, carried a spark inside them, something that animated them. These lumps of metal lacked that spark. She wrenched his face back, cold fingers firm on his jaw.
“I can’t reach your thoughts,” she ground out. “Your assimilation has halted because something inside you is flawed.”
“Yeah,” Spike nodded. “Bloody vampire, woman. What’d you expect, that there’d be space to let? Got a demon and a soul jostling around in here. “
“A demon,” she repeated. “Such tales are fantasy, pitiful explanations from primitive minds who cannot comprehend the world around them.”
Spike laughed, a whoop of joy. He should’ve known. All this machinery, all the babble about order, it was no different than The Initiative in the end. No sense of anything older than yesterday, no knowledge of anything darker than a sunbeam.
“You want a fairy tale, bint?” Spike said between whoops of laughter. “Try this one for size.”
He twisted his head, forcing his demon face past the abominations they shoved into him. The little bits of metal on his face stretched and pulled, reshaping themselves as his face shifted. He roared, shaking his two captors off his arms and grabbed the closest one, snapping its neck.
“That enough of a show or should I find something with blood in it to drain?” he demanded.
“Metamorphic capability,” she snapped. “Nothing I haven’t seen on a hundred other worlds. Your physical specifications are less than impressive. It is your mind that sets you apart from others of your species.”
Her head whipped around, staring off into the distance. The staccato in his mind amplified, becoming a pounding of whispers; voices that cried, shrieked, begged for his attention. Underneath the flood of noise, he heard a faint ribbon of voice that he recognized.
My Spike, she sighed. I’ve missed you, my darling.
“Another one,” the female machine purred. “And this one recognizes you. There is emotion in her thoughts. Her resistance is weak. She is weak. Imperfect.”
“Make up your bloody mind,” Spike sighed. “ ‘M I imperfect for resisting too much or is Dru imperfect for not resisting enough?”
The noise was easing; the flood reduced to a trickle. It seemed as if the woman controlled the noise, raising or lowering it with her thoughts. When she was focused on it, the noise jumped. When she was busy, the noise died down.
“So are you the boss of this...Borg,” Spike asked, curious.
“I am the Borg,” she replied serenely.
“So you’re Borg. Who are the rest of them?”
“Too much noise,” Drusilla answered him weakly. Her voice floated over him and he turned to see her sagging in the grip of her captors. “I’ve asked and asked for them to stop, but they won’t, Spike. You can’t get this close to the stars. They get very cross and steal your thoughts, no matter where you hide them.”
Spike listened carefully, pulling Dru close to him. She had her own kind of sense, one that had to be sifted through and that took time. Time he was beginning to see they didn’t have. This Borg woman wanted to figure out why they weren’t like the others and if she couldn’t, she’d kill them.
“Do you mean all the voices,” Spike asked her cautiously, anxious to avoid upsetting her and rendering her answers useless. “That what you mean, luv? All the voices in your head?”
Drusilla shook her head, a quick emphatic gesture. “No, Spike, not in my head. We’re up among the stars and they shout so. We don’t belong here and neither do they. It’s all come out wrong and The Queen will have our heads.”
“The Queen,” Spike said slowly, almost to himself. “You’re the queen, aren’t you? Like a bloody chess game, kings and queens and…” Spike lifted his head, eyes wide with shock. “Pawns. Is that what they are, these Frankenbots? Pawns?”
“Drones,” the Queen corrected him, cold silver eyes boring into him. “We are of one mind, one will. Once you join The Collective, your uniqueness will add to our perfection. Your strength will greatly enhance our own.”
Spike held Drusilla close, privately acknowledging that this situation might just be hopeless. He’d not tell Dru, though he suspected she was more aware of what was what now than him. But, this technology was beyond him and if Dru wasn’t lost in a fantasy, if they were up among the stars, their ship was bloody well sunk.
“Never been much of a joiner,” he shot back, refusing to give up the struggle just yet.
She ignored him, staring back out into the blankness. He braced himself for the cacophony, but it never came. A single voice pushed its way through the nattering susurrus that must be this Collective. A voice The Collective knew and named. Locutus.
“Locutus,” Spike repeated aloud, refusing to stop using his voice. None of these robots ever talked, preferring the noise inside their heads. His voice was his own and he didn’t plan on giving it up. “Who’s Locutus? The King of this bloody madhouse?”
The Queen stared at him sharply and her lips opened to speak. Just as the words began to spill out, Spike’s vision blurred. The strange room, the machine Queen and Drusilla smeared into a rainbow of colors. Abruptly, his vision sharpened and he stared around his crypt.
“What the bloody hell,” he murmured to himself. “Must be hungrier than I thought. Could’ve sworn I heard Dru…”
Spike shrugged and grabbed his shirt. The faint noises from the cemetery told him his neighbors were assembling for the nightly meal. Maybe if he was lucky, there’d be some leftover blood from the kill. A faint glow in the night sky caught his attention and he smiled. Falling stars always reminded him of Dru and he made a mental note to see if he could find her in the bloody chaos of a war torn planet.
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
no subject
on 2008-01-09 07:54 am (UTC)oh so lovely!
on 2008-01-09 04:45 pm (UTC)no subject
on 2008-01-09 04:49 pm (UTC)no subject
on 2008-01-09 05:13 pm (UTC)Re: oh so lovely!
on 2008-01-09 05:14 pm (UTC)no subject
on 2008-01-09 05:16 pm (UTC)no subject
on 2008-01-09 05:44 pm (UTC)no subject
on 2008-01-11 07:35 pm (UTC)no subject
on 2008-01-11 11:43 pm (UTC)