Discombobulated
Discombobulated
By Hector Sosa, Jr
Published June 30, 2026
The old man was repairing a fence when the sky exploded.
A black object, shaped like a cube someone had forgotten to finish building, screamed overhead before disappearing into the trees behind his property. The impact rattled the dishes in his kitchen.
He sighed.
“Well… that’s new.”
He picked up his old shotgun—not because he expected trouble, but because a man ought to bring something when investigating falling objects—and headed toward the smoke.
The wreck was unlike anything he’d ever seen.
Metal panels glowed dull red. Strange green lights flickered weakly beneath the twisted hull.
Then a hatch hissed open.
Out stepped a young man.
Or at least, someone who looked mostly like a young man.
His skin was unnaturally pale. Black mechanical equipment covered much of his body. Tubes disappeared beneath armor that looked far beyond anything the military ought to possess. One eye had been replaced by some kind of optical device.
The young man swayed.
“We…” he announced solemnly, “…are the Borg.”
The old man scratched his beard.
“Borg, huh?”
The young man nodded once.
“I am Five of Three.”
The old man frowned.
“Well… somebody oughta teach your mama how numbers work.”
The young man stared.
“Resistance is puerile.”
“I’m sure it is.”
“You… will be discombobulated.”
The old man blinked.
“…That’s certainly a word.”
The young man looked vaguely satisfied with himself.
After several seconds, he nearly fell over.
The old man’s expression softened.
“Son…”
The young man looked up.
“…you’re lookin’ a little pale.”
An hour later, they sat on the old man’s porch.
The Borg held a bowl of chicken soup with obvious uncertainty.
“What is the function of this vessel?”
“It’s soup.”
The young man studied it.
“…Clarify.”
“You eat it.”
He considered this carefully before taking a tentative spoonful.
“…Acceptable.”
The old man smiled.
“Told ya.”
They sat quietly for several minutes.
Without warning, two assimilation tubules shot from the Borg’s wrist.
The old man jumped nearly three feet.
“WHAT THE HELL WAS THAT?!”
The young man looked down at his arm.
“…They moved on their own.”
“You oughta get that looked at.”
“Acknowledged.”
The tubules slowly retracted.
As the afternoon drifted toward evening, the old man replaced a few broken cables with baling wire and wrapped damaged armor with duct tape.
“I don’t reckon this’ll pass military inspection.”
“It is… operational.”
“Good enough.”
The Borg stood.
“My vessel cannot continue.”
“No,” the old man agreed. “It surely can’t.”
The young man looked toward the smoking wreckage.
Several long seconds passed.
Then he turned back.
“You have… rendered assistance.”
“Didn’t seem right leavin’ a wounded boy out here.”
The Borg appeared to process this for an unusually long time.
“…Clarify.”
The old man simply smiled.
“Doesn’t matter.”
The young man nodded once.
“…We are grateful.”
The old man chuckled.
“I thought you were the Borg.”
A pause.
“…I am grateful.”
The old man reached over and patted the young man’s armored shoulder.
“That’s better.”
The Borg looked at him with his remaining human eye.
“…Resistance is…”
He stopped.
“…I have forgotten.”
The old man laughed.
“I figured.”
He looked the young man over one last time—the pale face, the strange machinery, the dented armor held together with wire and tape.
He nodded to himself.
“Yep…”
The old man smiled warmly.
“Yes… you are definitely discombobulated.”