the borg have a plan 5: american sitcoms

we beam back to the cube, and search for a place to slump. groaning borg fill the alcoves, and lie sprawled across the gangplanks, being sick. seven leads us to a small alcove area which seems deserted. she gets ready to plug herself in, and hatboy passes out at her feet.

i hear a sound, like a terrible moaning. not the kind of moaning you make when you’re really really drunk, but the kind of moaning you make as your life slips further from your fingers.

“what’s that?” i ask.

seven looks down at me, an almost-smile passing across her face with all the real presence of an apparition.

i crawl to the small doorway from where the sound is coming from. inside, a group of weird drones sit in comfy chairs. their eyes are stapled open. they’re watching american sitcoms. they’re strapped to their chairs, and the sound is being plugged into their bubbling brains in 3d surround sound.

dolby.

i shudder. “my coke god, seven. that’s horrible!”

“no, creepy of borg,” she tells me. “that’s species 9675.”