the borg have a plan 7: waking with implants

we wake with implants. somehow, as we slept, seven of nine transported us home. hatboy’s got a silver implant jutting out of his cheek. i distinctly remember seeing a similar thing on angus of borg. i’ve got two on my face, one on my belly button, and two on my inner thigh. we’ve both got one sticking up from our wrists.

my eyes feel funky, but i think that’s more to do with the hangover.

hatboy’s freaking out. “what have they done! they said we were getting tattoos!”

“well, they’re kind of like tattoos,” i croak, wishing he’d lower his voice. “they’re collectable, at least.”

he doesn’t think i’m funny. he flails about, his arms smashing into cupboards, upending drawers. his mouth is foaming. at least now we know what one of his implants does.

after the berserker implant has decided to quit filling his body with berserk nanoprobes, we skulk into the lounge to watch some television, and i finally figure out why my eyes feel funky. at the corner of my vision, a small digital clock ticks over. it is green, which is pretty slippy.

i try to tell hatboy about it, but he seems a little distressed. i think he’s also found out how one of his other implants functions.

after about two minutes he looks a little better about it.

“hey,” he says. “i don’t think this is going to be so bad.”

we couch and i reach for the remote. the television switches on without my touching our little buddy. i frown. “it’s never done that before.”

hatboy looks startled. “our wrists,” he says. “remoties!”

i aim my wrist at the television and think of channel 25.

hatboy thinks of channel 6.

i think of channel 19.

hatboy thinks of channel 5.

i think to 7.

he beats me to 9.

we do 8, 11, 1, 2, and i’m about to think us to 10, when we find 13, a previously blocked channel. it seems our wrists now decode child-locks.

hatboy grins and we decide to couch with the sights and sounds of two grown adults, engaged in what could only be described as “doin’ the nasty.”

implants are slippy.