Excerpts from a manga version of Star Trek: The Next Generation. Features a racist, impetuous, egotistical Wesley Crusher, who is still somehow more likable than the original.
My main concern is that Riker now has a machine that can turn men into beautful women.
Sorry I haven’t posted in nearly a month. My computer became a wretched hive of spyware and viruses a few weeks back and needed a complete reinstall of windows, so I’ve been busy salvaging data.
I’ve mostly been focusing on interactives over at writing.com, as they’re easier than captions. Here’s a link to my profile:
Anyway, hope you’re all well and having a lovely spring.
Deanna Troi’s datafied mind raced down the circuits and bio-neural gel packs of the Enterprise’s vast computer network. She could feel the memory purge hot on her heels, and knew somehow that if it caught her her mind would be deleted forever like a piece of junk data.
Dodging through the surveilence computer server, she caught a glimpse of Wesley in her body on the command deck. She didn’t need her empathic abilities to interpret that smug smile on his lips. She paused for a moment, remembering the feel of her body with something approaching nostalgia. The last week had felt like years.
It was only a millisecond’s reflection, but long enough for the purge to all but surround her. Left with no other choice, she dived into a replicator, severing the link to the network behind her. It was cramped in the replicator’s memory buffers, certainly not big enough for a betazoid mind; she’d sacrificed a lot, memories mostly, just to fit. But at least she was alive.
Time passed. Somebody activated the replicator, tearing her electric mind from the buffers; imprisoning it in molecules. As the glimmer of the replicator faded, she stared up at a familiar face, staring down at her with a quizzical expression.
“How did you…?” Wesley asked, poking the Ktarian Chocolate Puff with a finger. He sensed the mind inside recoil in horror. He shrughed, removing Deanna from the replicator tray. “replicator – a spoon please. A small one. I’d like to take my time.”
Wesley Crusher allowed a small smile to cross her lips as she watched Data enter the command to begin purging the ship’s memory banks of all-but-vital data. It had been a week since the holodeck malfunction had swapped his mind into Deanna Troi’s body and trapped her mind as computer code. A week filled with more computer bugs and malfunctions than the ship had seen in its entire history, as the councelor’s datafied mind struggled to make contact with the crew.
As the purge swept through the holodeck’s memory buffers, the lights stopped flickering, the gravity stabilised, and the garbled comms ceased entirely. The trapped, resentful presence Wesley had sensed since acquiring the betazoid body was finally gone, and this body was truly his.
Helen: I think the nanobots are done. You can start breaking me apart now.
Brian: Sure. (He reaches up and snaps off her arms.) This is a really nice thing you’re doing.
Helen: Well, your nephew can hardly stay for the weekend without any toys, can he? Just make sure he doesn’t loose too many of the grey pieces. I’d like most of my brain intact, thank you.
Brian: I’ll watch him like a hawk. If he eats any of them, I’ll know. By the way, I was thinking, when I’m rebuilding you, if there’s any pink blocks left over… how would you like to go up a bra size?
Helen: Honey, as long as I’ve still got two arms and two legs, I don’t care.
I was working as a lighting technician backstage at a Parisian fashion show when the smell of burning drew my attention. One of the racks of designer clothing had somehow caught fire beneath the hot lamps. Among them had been the wedding dress intended as the star of the show.
I’d hung those lights; when the designer’s grabbed my arm I knew I was in deep trouble. He offered me a deal – either I would stand in for the dress and in return he’d forget this ever happened, or I’d never work in fashion again. I was so rattled I just signed everything they put in front of me, and was whisked away to a machine. The Fabricator. They programmed in the designs and a second later, Ping!, out I popped, my body transformed into the very dress that had been destroyed seconds ago.
They carried me, now little more than a series of rings of white fur, to the model that was to wear me. She was beautiful; high cheekbones, full lips, six foot tall… Okay, maybe the last one was unusual even for a model, but I was starting to think that being draped over her might not be so bad.
She began to undress. Somehow I managed to squirm out of the hands carrying me and began to wriggle towards the door. The model, now naked, grabbed me and slid… his body into me. With my body now stretched tight over his slender form, my struggles became useless.
So there I was, on the catwalk of a fashion show. Afterwards, they told me there was no such thing as Defabricator. However the Fabricator was perfectly capable of remodelling me as any other item of clothing; I would continue to “work” for them, remolded and remolded to their designs. Among designers, I was to be a collectors item, a status symbol, a tool. As they pointed out, nowhere in the contract did it say I’d continue to work in fashion as a human.
Thanks to everyone who voted on the last poll I can now stay at WordPress and continue my enmity towards google completely guilt free. Thanks a lot.
I’ve got a few job interviews this week that are really sapping my energy, but I’ll try to be back in shape by Friday.