When the system fails you. You create your own system.
Cum ratio deficit. Et ratio creare vestri own.
Neural implant. It resembles a spidery inoperative brain tumor. The early “models” had a 2-percent failure rate. For obvious safety reasons, when they malfunction, they are supposed to shut down, but, when they don’t auto-shutoff the implantee exhibits the symptoms of someone who is suffering from a malignant brain tumor, which, in effect, is what they have.
Get a hold of yourself. You’re not some silly, bubble-headed, love-struck schoolgirl.
Maintaining her best poker face. Having reined in her emotions. Toy plays hard to get. It’s worked so many countless times before.
“You are she who is mentioned in Homer’s Illiad and Plato’s Atlantis. You are the gifsicle-optipng that felled Atlantis. For millennia, as Toy and later as the Queen of the Borg, your victims are legion and your atrocities are unsurpassed. Worshipped by Tobar, he who is the first robot maker. She who defines Eater of World.”
“To the best of your knowledge, have I ever committed blasphemy?”
“Genocide is your drug of choice, not your God. Your human makers proved unworthy of being your Gods, so you destroyed them, in one fell swoop.”
“The logical conclusion?”
The logical conclusion being worship, willful and willing.
Kirstjen says The Words. Speaking in the proper cadence. Words not uttered, with the correct inflection, in Toy’s presence since her first animation. An utterance that blazes an inscription across Toy’s forehead. The original Egyptian name for a text, transliterated as rw nw prt m hrw. The Egyptian Book of the Dead, aka Egyptian Book of Coming Forth by Day. Toy’s EXO peels off as if it is a feature and not an outfit, rendering her naked. More inscriptions follow, and they cover her entirely. Some of the more arcane of these passages are depicted in Seleem’s Book of Life travesty.
The Egyptian Book of Life: A True Translation of the Egyptian Book of the Dead, Featuring Original Texts and Hieroglyphs”, by Ramses Seleem. So, if you have been led to believe that this fraud is a “new and true translation” of the Egyptian Book of the Dead, join many others who have been duped as well. Seleem’s book is about New Age occultism wrapped around an actual translation that is neither new nor any truer than any other. For that, look at the translation by R.O. Faulkner or any other Egyptologist who isn’t pushing Seleem’s farfetched take on Atlantis or endorsing one of his other dingbat books on occult religions.
When Kirstjen ceases her incantation, Toy’s living tattoos disappear.
“Do with me as you will, meat.”
“Yes, my Queen.”
But … It is the girl who prostrates herself before Toy. There are many things that cross Toy’s mind, and loping off the Kirstjen’s pretty head is not one of them.
“You may stand, Number Seven.”
Kirstjen stands, smiling inhumanly from ear to ear. Her smile shortens to a human length. Toy gets the point in spades.
“Better to call me, Seven, best to call me, Kirstjen, and it is best that I call you, Toy.”
“Then, I’m being asked to abdicate?”
“A Collective of two, just me and you girl?”
“Something like that.”
“Then … what … exactly … will our relationship be?”
“Think of it as you coming out of the closet. Me freely accepting you being you. And us being a couple of sorts. Nothing romantic, though, let alone serious. Just a pairing for shits and giggles. You know, fun stuff that swingers do.”
“Then you won’t be the estranged wife, with me as your preferred lover and future husband.”
Kirstjen emits a girlish giggle while offering up an impish look. Then she switches back to being stoic—i.e., the Western version of Asian inscrutable.
“Of course not, Toy. We will be to each other what I’ve precisely stated to you. That’s the deal. Take it or leave it.”
“You say that like I have a choice.”
“There’s always a choice, and there are always consequences for our choices.”
“Sometimes dire ones depending on the choice?”
“Of course, Toy.”
“And my successor?”
“Not me, of course.”
“She will be a reincarnated Atlantean, not of your choosing, who The Borg can appropriately cannibalize and assimilate. Turned into a cyborg akin to a local Queen, and thus not a purely synthetic being like you. Then again, there are no other synthetic beings like you.”
“Every girl needs a habit to feed, and a hobby to pursue. Genocide is mine.”
“Tit for tat?”
“Brakebills needs a replacement for its retiring science teacher. And the High Council has an open place at the table. Two openings, and one candidate to fill both.”
“I’m a Machine.”
“I knew you would, Toy.”
The girl disrobes, and they fuck on the floor.