Resistance is not futile. Assimilation is not certain.

It was all going so well for me. All this little ‘assimilation’ thing. I was starting to understand it. Started to have a grasp on it. 

I was sure — confident — that it was mine for the taking. 

The Admiral sent me a video of a scene from Star Trek: First Contact — of the Borg Queen and Data — which I found interesting. I mean, I’d heard that Star Trek is, in places, “delightfully kinky”, but never before had I seen it with my own eyes. 

Until now. 

I could see similarities in myself with the Borg Queen, with the way I like to play — cold, calculated, intentional. I mean, I’m not actually cold, obviously, but then I think most people who play at being cold and calculated are the same way: we’re big softies, really.

For as sadistic as he can be, I know Master Levi is too. It’s one of the things I most love about him. 

There are other things, like the way he’s not intimidated by me. Our understanding of one another is what allows us to play in this space that we’ve created together. 

So I went about my day, somewhat more informed but otherwise confident. Then it struck whilst I was making my lunch: 

What would it be like to be assimilated? 

I bit my lip. 

The thought of it was oddly appealing: To surrender control. To become one. To not have to fight anymore.

No! No, Elena, this is what they want! 

Right. Correct. Resist it. Fight it. This is what I do. 

It’s no use. 

It invades my subconscious, filling my veins with desire. My breathing softens — deeper, slower, more meditative. Even if I try to resist it, my mind floods with thoughts of sedative injections that would force my assimilation. Resistance really is futile here. 

How can I possibly fight my heart’s true desire? 

Of course I admonish the Admiral for using telepathy to weaken my resolve. Foul play, Sir!

I try to shake the thoughts throughout the rest of the day, it’s useless. I’m quiet. Distracted. Without focus.

I decide on an early night to purge my mind of these impure thoughts. I know there’s only one way out of this mess. 

I notify the Admiral, but he, of course, does not see it as unwelcome news. Right here, in this headspace, I’m perfectly… assimilable. 

He could take pity on me, but dear sweet “Addy” decides to play with my mind instead, emphasising my need for a long, deep… sleep. 

I say that I’d prefer my sleep naked, the Admiral mentions restraints. I moan. Half in protest, half in desire. 

Whatever happened to playing nice?

The Admiral says that my assimilation should begin with a shower and I readily accept that. That’s kind of sweet of him. 

Then the Admiral says that he wants to explore something with me and I, ever the curious, am immediately curious. I’m always up for new ideas!

The Admiral wants to examine me. He asks if I consent to being examined and say that all future “Borgy Queenies” need to be examined. 

Ah. Well, there’s that feeling back again. 

So I consent, because just maybe fair play will be the path to their eventual assimilation — to my eventual assimilation — but I’ve never done this before. 

I’ve never been here before, in this space, where I feel seen and understood. Not too much, just right. Just lovingly accepted. 

A plethora of emotions wash through me. Desire. Surrender. Relief. 

The fight is all but gone from my body and it’s hard for me to bring my awareness back to the present world. I don’t know what’s on the TV anymore; that’s all now just lights and sounds to me. 

I have to turn in for bed, but it’s not for the same reason as before: it really is impossible for me to hold a coherent conversation in this headspace.  

The Admiral swaps ‘examination’ for ‘study’ and the fight snaps back into me. 

But you said this was an examination! 

By a hair’s width I avoided my assimilation last night, but the what’s and how’s shall remain a mystery. One thing is certain: when your enemy reveals their hand to you, you don’t let them take a peek at yours. 

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