the borg have a plan 4: seven of nine and her merry drones

after liberating the planet from their opressive individuality, the borg decide to party. borg parties are odd affairs, and i attempt to get into the spirit of things by collecting bits of broken metal and sticking it to various parts of my body with a mix of various adhesives which seven swears will not last through the night. “sure, they’ll fall off by morning,” she tells me.

i begin to wonder if the borg lack of humour is merely a facade. i decide not to stick any more pieces to vital parts of my anatomy, just in case.

hatboy’s artistic approach to throwing-up has earned him the nickname “chucky the chunderous of borg” by several borg admirers, who assimilate his vomit-landscapes from where he sprays them on the pavement. they take the little pieces of alcohol-induced art up to the cube to decorate their alcoves with.

angus of borg sits in a corner, sipping from a great mug of mead. the lizard lies strewn across the valley, its once massive body assimilated into tiny little pieces, none larger than my pinkie toe.

once the ax-throwing competition has ended, and the winner declared, the drones begin to get terribly drunk, and like most technologically enhanced species they can’t help but get nasty when they’re tiddly. they make incredible boasts, trip each other up, re-assimilate unattatched limbs, and insult each other.

“your momma wears analogue implants!”