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Assimilation by Trianne
Kewtbot - The Early Years
The tall Borg drone aimed his phaser at the alien. All around, other Borg were herding assimilated prisoners through the drab walkways of the mighty Borg cube. The new Borg had dazed looks upon their faces and already some sported prosthetics. They had easily overcome the cruise ship and now had merely to add its passengers to the hive. All routine. Except for this one. The little alien did not answer and did not move. He stood, arms crossed, and glared at the drone, his booted foot tapping on the metal walkway. "Resistance is futile." The Borg moved forward and reached out to assimilate the alien. Kewtbot, for it was he, looked in disdain at the eye piece in the drone's gloved metallic hand. "I hope you don't seriously think I'm going to wear that," he said. "The colour is entirely wrong and it'll play havoc with my delicate skin." The drone hesitated; there was something about those huge blue eyes that made him doubt he was in the right job. "Eight of Ten. Assimilate the alien," the voice in the drone's head was soft and sibilant and utterly commanding. He stiffened his resolve and caught hold of Kewtbot's arm, gripping him tightly. "Do not crease the catsuit," Kewtbot hissed, drawing down his imperious brows. "I am a royal prince of Kewtopia. I am - beautiful!" But all the stomping of his little feet counted for naught; the eyepiece was attached and the assimilation completed. Kewtbot swayed a little on his feet. The world looked very strange all of a sudden; he was reminded of the time he got into a drinking contest with that earthling from the Enterprise, the one who spoke with a very strange accent indeed. Whisky, that was it, whisky. Seventeen of those and the room had begun to fluctuate somewhat, walls closing in and the ceiling falling… He had shagged the Engineer, he vaguely recalled. After all, the earthling did have a good repertoire of really filthy drinking songs… "Bring him to me, Eight of Ten," said the voice and now Kewtbot could hear it, too, for he was assimilated and was one with the hive, though really the décor in the cube would have to be reconsidered. He dutifully padded along with Eight of Ten, ten thousand Borg voices all competing for attention in his newly assimilated skull. He found that the eyepiece wasn't so bad, really, if a little - swivvelly - but he'd have to ask if they had any camomile lotion onboard or he'd be storing up trouble for later. They passed endless drab hoards of drones, all shuffling along, all in black. Kewtbot considered black his worst colour; he liked silver and pink, burgundy, some shades of green, lilacs of course, the occasional tan - but never black. Yes, it did compliment his lovely glossy hair, but it was like death on him, it really was. He'd just have to be a good little Borg in silver, that was all there was to it. He glanced across at Eight of Ten and assessed his crotch - definite possibilities there, he decided, though the drone didn't look as if he'd exactly be a barrel of laughs between the sheets. Oh well, Borgs can't be choosers, he thought, philosophically. He fluttered his eyes - well, his one eye - in Eight's direction but before Eight could respond as he no doubt would have liked, they had reached their destination and he was being ushered into a private chamber and Eight wasn't coming in with him. Drat. He stood in the gloom and waited. Patience wasn't his strong suit. He wasn't used to being kept waiting. "You are different to the others," a voice came into his head and into his ears simultaneously. He blinked, his new prosthetic eye swivelling to see where the voice was located. However, it was his original eye, huge and blue, which succeeded where centuries of Borg technology had failed. She reclined upon a great black couch which floated just above the ground. He knew she was the Queen, everything about her screamed Queen. Well, he knew all about royalty, royalty per se didn't impress him that much. "Of course I am different - I am Kewtbot of Kewtopia," he said, though the ten thousand voices in his head all screamed at him in denial. "I?" she replied, her eyes black and fathomless, a sardonic smile upon her pale lips. "There can be no I for you - you are Sixty Nine of Sixty Nine, a drone in the Borg Collective. Whatever life you had before is ended." He felt the power of her mind as she marshalled the Collective. He closed his eye, silent, his head bowed. She smiled at his submissiveness. "Resistance is futile. You have been assimilated, Sixty Nine," the Queen crowed; her couch floated closer until she was nose to nose with him. "Resistance is futile. Repeat after me." He opened his eye. "Resistance is futile," he said, staring into her cold depths. "You have been assimilated." The Queen blinked. "No, that's not right. You have been assimilated. You!" She shook herself, pulling back slightly until her slender sinuous form was once more safely upon her couch. "You cannot resist me, Sixty Nine. You may be exquisitely beautiful and you may exude an aroma of sexuality which is making a damp patch upon my couch, but you are still a drone. You are one of the hive. Accept your destiny!" Sixty Nine surveyed the Queen's nipples, taut beneath her armour plating, thrusting up at him, and he shook his head, causing his long pigtails to swish. His prosthetic eye rotated. "Never. I mean, do you have bathtubs on this cube of yours? And fluffy towels? And what do you eat? And if I don't have a firm mattress to lie on I won't get a wink of sleep all night," he took a step closer. The Queen was fixated upon his fleshy bottom lip and the gap between his teeth which seemed less of an imperfection and more of a death warrant - hers. "You are in the collective, now, Sixty Nine, and you will obey me," she tried once more. This was not how it should be… And why was she thinking of kittens and bunny rabbits and other fluffy furry unassimilated creatures? She shook her head but the images were still there. The ten thousand voices of the collective were all in turmoil, too, all jabbering about sunsets and blossoms and twue lurve… And then it stopped. All the voices stopped. And there was just one. "I am Kewtbot, Prince of Kewtopia, one of a long and ancient line of sex gods," said the voice and she knew without a doubt that every word was true. She reached out and touched his cheek with her hand. "I've been so lonely. Be my mate, Sixty Nine," she whispered. "Please?" Sixty Nine covered her hand with his own, warming her. "Can we remodel the cube?" he asked, brushing his lips softly against her damp and clammy skin. She closed her eyes and sighed, arching her body into his touch. "Anything. Anything, my Cutest of Borg," she cried out, surrendering herself to his embrace.
But it could not last. Cutest, or Sixty Nine, or Kewtbot, was at heart fond of cock more than anything; despite her many accomplishments and desire to please, the Queen had no cock to offer him. She cried desperately when he said he must go. He left her with a promise to return; his last sight of her was as his little craft left the docking bay, as she waved to him from the viewing platform, her long white dress fluttering about her and her bald head shining in the glow from the newly painted cube. Pink was such an improvement, he thought, with a sigh of satisfaction. "Now then, Eight of Ten," Kewtbot said, as he set the craft to autopilot, "let's go in the back and fuck." He unbuckled his seatbelt and held out his hand. "Resistance is futile," Eight of Ten agreed, following.
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