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I want a religion.
I want to induct my converts in with a kiss. I want to watch as the first, swift-dying nanomites produce the heroin high that leaves them dizzy with pleasure, held in place by two priestesses, their face turned up to mine. I want to see the horror and shock dissolve into the near-mindless bliss for those first few moments, while the nanomites work.
As the orgasmic rush fades, for many of them, the knowledge of what had just been done would color their expressions. Hate, fear, betrayal, and underlaying it, a sense of awe. The microscopic machines will run wild, replicate and hide, waiting for two things. The first, a simple signal, a set of checks-and-replies tosee if my heart still beats. As long as that birthformed machine runs within my chest, so too does my nano army. The second thing each small creature awaits is a command, pulsed to it by the nanos within my own flesh, orders sent through thin air with nothing more than a series of words thought in a particular order by me.
With those commands I can make a convert feel pleasure, or pain. I can send my nanos to aid the immune system they find themselves in, or order them to hinder it, ensure even the slightest sniffle won't pass by. I can make orders for quick repairs, though the strength to do this requires taking strength from other nanos, through me.
I can relay whispered words, unvocalized phrases straight from my fettered tongue to the ears of whoever I wish to hear my message. Nano to nano, body to body, the words are passed, until the one I speak to receives the message.
Most importantly... I can kill. A word. A thought. Even the certainty of my own death, pictured clearly in my mind's eye, will kill - and that last, will kill every convert, and anyone near them as well, human bodies turned to base explosives.
I want to stand before a new convert to my religion, kiss him, our saliva mingling and already the first nanos entering his blood, his body, sending the orgiastic trembling through his limbs. I want to look into his eyes as the one other small detail that marks my Servants takes place.
I want to watch the careful, delicate shifting, tinting, reforming of iris and pupil until my newest convert's eyes are, like my own, cat-slit.
They will call me Bastet, and they will worship me.
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