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born to be a doll, forced to socialize and work
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I wrote this last year on Twitter, but since Empty Spaces has sort of abandoned ship, I'll post it here too:
"Funeral"
A woman's whole life changes the first time she sees a combat doll.
First-person, combat doll setting by Twitter user mars_phobos_L1
CW: Harassment, violence, military context, blood, personality changes, conditioning, surgery, unreliable memory
Story below cut:
1.
I washed out of combat training almost immediately, but it wasn’t enough to get me off the hook. I’m sure you all know how it goes – just because you can’t fight doesn’t mean you can’t support the ones who do. If you can’t carry a gun, you can fix a gun, if you can’t fly a plane, you can fuel a plane.
Nothing wrong with that, of course! It’s simply efficient use of resources, and I’m certainly in no place to criticize that, especially not given my current status, so to speak. But even then I wasn’t exactly bothered by it -- I would have rather not been conscripted at all, but maintenance would be safe and interesting and I was already pretty good at it.
2.
The first time I ever saw a combat doll was when I was at the range, trying to get in enough practice to pass my pistol qualifications. I didn’t even know she was there, at first - there was no fuss, no fanfare - but as soon as her handler started barking those sharp, staccato orders I realized what was going on.
I looked over, of course. I know, we’ve all been taught not to make eye contact with the dolls because they might take it as aggression, but how could I not be curious? Can any of you say you wouldn’t be tempted to take a peek?
I hadn’t expected her to not be wearing her mask. All the publicity photos, all the technical diagrams, all the battlefield footage always shows dolls with their masks on, so I assumed that was just their usual state – but no, I was wrong. That was her natural face, with her implant jacks and her surgical scars and her delicate-looking skin. I truly hadn’t expected her to be so pretty…
She caught me looking, of course. Dolls are the apex predators of the battlefield, and noticing a maintenance trainee staring at her was trivial in comparison. She met my eyes before I could look away, and then I couldn’t look away. I knew nothing except her eyes and my heart pounding in my ears, and I had no idea what was coming next… and then she grinned at me.
That grin did something to me, something strange and frightening and wonderful. It felt like lightning running down my spine, like watching a sunrise after being blind my whole life, like finding my way out of a forest I’d been lost in since birth. I was never the same again.
3.
I needed to know who she was, of course. She could pick off targets faster than my eyes could follow, with a perfect bullseye every time. Her handler ran her through everything in our arsenal, and more besides - pistols, rifles, machine guns, throwing knives, on and on - and she was perfect every time. How could I have not wanted to know more after watching a display like that?
Well, apparently, that made me the weird one in the battalion. Everyone I asked about her just shrugged or gave me sidelong glances. Why would they want to keep track of which doll was which, they asked? They were all equally frightening, after all. What did it matter what the shark swimming next to you was named?
It took more than a week - and a couple cases of beer - for me to find out who I’d seen. My buddy on the security team had seen the handler’s name and done some quick research, and he was willing to pass on that information… for the right price, of course.
Victoria. Her name was Victoria, and the next thing he said to me was “be fuckin’ careful around that one,” which didn’t make a whole lot of sense to me at the time. We’re taught to use caution around all dolls, combat or not, why the extra warning?
Because, he told me, there were stories about the Victory-class dolls. They weren’t the fastest dolls or the most powerful dolls, but they were notoriously unpredictable, and dangerous even to their allies. I won’t get into the details right now, that’s not what I’m here to do - but some of your classmates went pale the moment I said her name, so ask them about it later.
But what did that have to do with Victoria? I had to ask, because I used to be a little slow on the uptake sometimes. In case any of you haven’t put all the pieces together: Victoria is the first Victory-class, the flagship, the template upon which all others were modeled – and that meant if there was some fault with the Victory-class dolls, some flaw in their design or their conditioning, Victoria would definitely have it.
4.
Even with all he’d told me, and all I’d learned on my own afterwards, I still couldn’t get her off my mind. Not that I was thinking about her every second, or even every day, but that moment never quite left my mind. I’d lay down and try to sleep, close my eyes, and behind my eyelids I’d see that bare face, that grin, and my heart would start pounding all over again.
By the time we were given our assignments, I knew what I was going to do. I knew what I had to do. I got the cushiest possible position – 8th Supply Battalion, well away from any combat zones, where the greatest danger would be a private driving a forklift drunk. The perfect position to serve out three years of compulsory service and go back to my old life, right?
Except I didn’t want it. I hadn’t wanted it since the moment I’d seen her.
As soon as we were dismissed, I went straight to the commander’s office and asked for a transfer – which they don’t usually do, of course, but he was willing to hear me out anyway, so I told him I needed to be on Victoria’s maintenance crew. Once he was done laughing he asked me what I was really there to ask for, and I repeated my request. I explained to him that I was serious, that I wanted, needed more than anything else, to be assigned to maintenance for Victoria.
He didn’t understand – which is no surprise, because I don’t think any of you do either. Why would I have wanted to be transferred to the only role that had higher casualty rates than front-line infantry, right? Truth be told, I didn’t understand either, and I still don’t. There’s nothing I can point to, no specific reason, just this surety that I belonged there and nowhere else.
Someone needed to do maintenance on the dolls, right? Why shouldn’t it be someone enthusiastic about it, someone fully committed to their role? I don’t know if my argument won him over or if he was just tired of listening to me, but in the end he just shrugged and wrote out my transfer orders: maintenance crew, Victory-class combat doll “Victoria”.
I still remember what he said when he handed me the orders:
“It’s your funeral.”
5.
Just because I’d volunteered for the position didn’t mean I was any less nervous when I first reported for duty! The rest of the crew had already been giving me a hard time - I was the squeaky-clean new girl, fresh out of training - but honestly, they weren’t why I was nervous. That was just some laughs and some hazing, nothing I wasn’t used to by that point.
No, I was nervous because of the six-plus feet of exquisite purpose-built killing machine standing in the middle of the maintenance bay.
The thing is, though.. the reasonable thing would have been to worry that Victoria was going to kill me, right? That’s what you’d be afraid of, that’s what any sensible person would be afraid of! But it wasn’t what I was afraid of.
I’d done my research, I knew the numbers, and I was certain - beyond the slightest shadow of a doubt - that I wasn’t going to survive three years in her maintenance crew. I’d made my peace with that before I ever even walked into the commander’s office.
I was worried that Victoria wasn’t going to like me.
6.
I know that probably sounds bizarre to you - after all, nobody worries about whether their tank likes them, right? - but trust me, it was absolutely the biggest thing on my mind. So much so, in fact, that I decided to introduce myself to her immediately! Why hang around hiding behind the rest of the maintenance crew when I could just walk right up to her and make a good first impression instead?
So that’s exactly what I did. Right into the maintenance bay, right past the rest of the crew, right across those painted lines on the floor… one foot in front of the other, listening to the pounding of my heart until I was within arm’s length of an active combat doll.
I took one more deep breath, accepted that it could have been my last, and gave her the usual introduction: name, rank, and role. She just stared at me, with those intense eyes I remembered so well, and I offered a little bit of extra politeness – just a simple little “I look forward to working with you, ma’am.”
7.
The moment the words were out of my mouth, she grabbed me by the collar and dragged me in, my body pressed up against hers, and as I stared up at her in shock and fear and excitement, I heard her voice for the first time.
“You’re cute,” she said.
There were teeth in my neck before I could even make sense of her words - combat-specced teeth, the kind that can slice through bone - and it was unbearably painful… but also something about it felt right. I was helpless in her grip, completely powerless, and I realized that I’d wanted that all along.
I saw her true face for the first time, then. That flat, blank non-expression she’d been wearing when I walked up to her had simply been another mask, another disguise… and she’d let it fall away. As she licked my blood from her lips, I understood – she was a hunter, a predator, hungry for more and strong enough to take whatever she wanted… and I was her prey.
I suspect your instructor would kick me out of this class immediately if I described what she did next, so I’ll just say ‘she had her way with me and I had no desire to stop her.’ You’ll have to use your imaginations for the rest… or come find me sometime and I’ll be happy to tell you all about it!
8.
Anyway, even though it seemed like I’d made an excellent impression on Victoria, the rest of the maintenance crew was pretty clear that I’d made a pretty poor impression on them. As soon as we were off-duty and the dolls had all been escorted back to their bunker, they made their feelings known in a very direct fashion.
I got off easy, they told me, pointing out maintenance staff for other dolls. One man had a bloody bandage where his ear had been, and another was completely unresponsive – just blankly staring at a wall. In comparison to things like that, a bite and some fucking was downright gentle for a Victory-class doll!
The crew insisted that I’d better not expect special treatment from Victoria to mean they’d give me special treatment too – I protested that I’d never once expected that, but I don’t think they were listening to me by that point. From all the shouts and cursing, it seemed like they were upset that I, the death-wish rookie who walked right up to a combat doll and introduced herself, had been treated more gently than maintenance staff who simply wanted to carry out their duties safely.
I tried to answer them, I tried to explain that all I’d done was to be friendly and polite, that I’d just wanted to treat Victoria with the respect she deserved. They didn’t like that answer.
Nobody told me about this, so I’ll pass it on as a warning to you just in case: maintenance crews aren’t just wary of their dolls, they’re downright resentful of them. From their perspective, the dolls are the thing that stands between them and getting home safely, and they’re not particularly fond of people who see the situation differently.
I, not knowing this, made some helpful comments about the dolls not being our enemy, about our purpose being to support the dolls so they can carry out their Purpose. Shortly thereafter, in a totally unrelated event, I slipped and fell down a staircase – completely by accident, of course.
I’d been hoping that the maintenance crew - and the staircase - had gotten all the vitriol out of their system by then, but it only got worse. Someone had found out that I’d volunteered for the maintenance crew, while they’d all been unwillingly forced into that position, and it was all over. That was all the proof they needed to decide I wasn’t like them in some indescribable way. They might not have been able to explain how, exactly, I was different from them, but they all agreed that I was, and they all wanted to make that my problem.
9.
I next saw Victoria for post-mission diagnostics two days later. The procedures would be routine, and yet the crew was far more anxious than they had been for our previous visit to the maintenance bay. A doll just back from an operation, having spent only a few minutes being gentled by its handler before being sent off to maintenance, was the most dangerous kind of doll as far as the maintenance staff was concerned: all keyed up on adrenaline and battle stimulants and potentially unsure as to whether or not it was actually safe or still on the battlefield.
The crew all talked like they were off to the firing squad, and I had no idea what to expect as we all walked down to the hall… especially when they all hung back, in ones and twos and threes, lagging behind me while I walked up to the maintenance bay first.
I was the tribute, the offering, the fresh meat tossed to Victoria to sate her hunger - and oh, did she ever take the bait. She ran to me, snatched me right off the ground, and sprinted back to her designated zone as if to convince everyone she’d never left.. except now she had me clutched in her arms, her deadly teeth tracing up and down my neck, that beautiful voice giggling in my ear.
The maintenance team had to conduct their diagnostics around me, in the end. Victoria simply didn’t want to give me up, no matter how they tried to convince her -- and I had absolutely no desire to argue with that. Where could I possibly have wanted to be more than her arms?
In fact, I didn’t want to leave her arms. Even once our duty shift was done and she’d turned me loose, bloody and weary and deeply content, I lingered in the maintenance bay as the others fled for the mess. I knew what was waiting for me there - the same thing that had been waiting for me since I first met Victoria - and I wanted to avoid it for as long as possible.
10.
I hadn’t expected her to notice me hanging around - surely I was unworthy of her attention, right? - and yet, as I lingered behind, she spoke to me for the second time. “Not joining them?”
“No ma’am,” I told her, quietly enough for nobody else to hear. I hadn’t meant to say anything else, but the prospect of having a sympathetic ear was just too much, and the words just tumbled out of me. As she stared down at me with that blank expression, I explained how the crew had decided I didn’t belong, and how they’d been treating me since – the punches, the kicks, the fish in my bunk, the thousand other little reminders that they’d decided to hate me.
Eventually I ran out of words and found myself simply staring up at Victoria. She hadn’t said a single thing the entire time, and her expression was the same unreadable blankness that I’d seen before. While I tried to figure out whether she was sympathetic or simply bored, I suddenly realized that she’d met my gaze, staring into my eyes as if she was looking for something. I couldn’t imagine what she was looking for - and, truth be told, I still don’t know what it was - but I stared back up at her and let her look for it.
I guess she found what she was looking for - or perhaps found an absence of the wrong things - because she simply grabbed me by the arm and practically dragged me right out of the maintenance bay. What was she doing? Where was she going? She ignored my questions, of course, so I stopped asking them and simply walked along with her in silence.
You probably haven’t seen a doll bunker yet, but they’re extremely sturdy – downright overengineered, even. They’re even more heavily reinforced than munitions bunkers, and the only route in and out is through an extremely sturdy-looking steel door. It’s the sort of thing that makes the vault doors in heist movies look like tissue paper… and that was the door Victoria had led me to.
Even though I’d walked to the bunker with her willingly, I couldn’t help but protest a little as she swung the bunker door open. I had been told, upon my assignment, that only handlers and commanders were permitted to enter the doll bunker – all support staff were required to stay out in order to avoid ‘unnecessary manpower shortages’. Not that that stopped Victoria, of course! She simply picked me up by the back of my uniform like an uncooperative pet and tossed me right through the door.
11.
Have you ever walked into a room and found eight combat dolls staring directly at you? Sixteen eyes fixed on you, unblinking, like cats that have just spotted a mouse? Presumably not, but if you’re very lucky - or very unlucky - you might get to someday.
That’s where I found myself as the bunker door slammed shut behind me – gracelessly picking myself up off the floor under the hungry gaze of eight combat dolls. They waited a moment, graciously permitting me to get back to my feet, and then… well, I guess the best way to describe it is to say each one started trying, in her own way, to draw me away from my host.
Not a word was spoken, but carnal offers were made, and one or two dolls began to creep toward me as if stalking prey – and then suddenly they all froze at once. I couldn’t receive dollchat yet, so I didn’t know what Victoria said to them - and even now she just giggles when I ask! - but whatever it was, it was enough to convince the other eight dolls not to steal her guest away.
I spent that night in her bunk. I didn't do a lot of actual sleeping, of course, but the moments I did get... having a combat doll holding me close and murmuring sweet reassurances in my ear was maybe the safest I'd ever felt in my whole life. To be told I'm safe now, that the squad will look out for me, that I'm theirs forever…
12.
I hardly ever left the bunker after that. I would have never left, if I’d had the option, but there were still two things I was expected to handle: work and food.
I was still a member of Victoria’s maintenance crew, expected to be present for those duties, and since the necessary hardware was in the maintenance bay, that was where I had to be too. My first duty shift after being taken to the bunker, I’d hesitated – I was even more uncertain about showing my face around the rest of the crew now, after all! Victoria had just returned from a mission, so she would be waiting for me there, but I still had to get from the bunker to the maintenance bay on my own…
Before I figured it out myself, one of the other dolls took pity on me. She took my hand in hers, as if I was a child, and led me to the maintenance bay herself. It was permitted - after all, she was being escorted by maintenance staff - and nobody dared to say she couldn’t stand by while we Victoria received her post- mission diagnostics and I received an entirely different kind of post-mission attention.
I’m not sure if the crew ever appreciated just how much lighter on them she was when I was around, you know? I don’t know if they even noticed, or if they were too busy hating me. It didn’t matter, though – when we were done, Victoria and the other doll walked me back to the bunker, hand in hand, as if they were concerned I’d stray – or flee, perhaps, but there was already no chance of that.
If any of you ever get invited to a bunker, be aware: there’s nothing for you to eat. There is food for the dolls, although it’s terribly bland, but those meals are measured out to the last bite. Even once the whole squad had fully accepted me as their own, they still didn’t have anything to give me – every bite of food for me was one less for them, and dolls are always hungry.
The only way for me to get food would be to get it from the kitchens myself. I’d have to brave the hallways solo, avoiding any other staff, and throw myself on the cook’s mercy in the hopes that they’d be willing to let me take something back with them – and I’d have to do it two or three times a day! It’d be absolutely miserable, right?
As it turned out, that was practically a nonissue. The kitchen staff recognized me on sight - word spreads quickly, especially when you’re escorted to the bunker by two dolls! - and realized that we could solve each other’s problems: I needed food, and they didn’t want to interact with the dolls. If I could come out of the bunker to receive each day’s rations, rather than the staff needing to hand-deliver it directly to the dolls, they’d be more than happy to throw in each day’s worth of meals for me! Teamwork and problem-solving, that’s what we’re trained for, right?
13.
With food resolved and my duties sorted out… well, one day started to blur into the next. There are no windows in a doll bunker, after all -- there’s no sense of time unless you’ve got a chronometer built in, and I sure didn’t. I slept when they let me, I did as I was told, and every time the rations were delivered I felt a little more like I was walking through a dream.
The kitchen staff stopped looking straight at me, eventually. It wasn’t that they were afraid of me - I was no doll, no battlefield predator - but something about me unsettled them. Maybe my body language had changed – after all, I’d been spending more time around dolls than humans, even I could tell that I was picking up their mannerisms, that I was absorbing the way they spoke and moved and held their bodies.
Or maybe it was something else. Maybe there was something in my eyes. I had prostrated myself before the squad and worshipped them for the goddesses they were. I had licked blood from a doll’s body without ever stopping to wonder who it had belonged to. I had given myself to them over and over, even after my stamina was exhausted and I could do little more than accept their desires.
They had made me theirs - with pleasure and pain, with fear and adoration - but they decided I was ready for more.
14.
I’d tell you it was a day like any other, but I don’t even know if it was a day. It was just another moment in the bunker, a moment of laying on a bare concrete floor, my limbs tangled with giggling dolls who simply couldn’t bear to let their plaything go… and then it wasn’t.
They hauled me up off the floor and pushed my back against the wall, one on each side of me, and the rest of the squad parted as Victoria approached, as the doll who’d claimed me first stood over me once more.
“You’ve been fun,” she told me, “but you can be better. We want you to be better. Don’t you want to be better for us?”
Even after all the time I’d spent with them, I still hesitated. I knew what they meant, and I had learned exactly what it entailed. The surgery, the conditioning, the experience of not being human anymore – but wasn’t I already seen as no longer human?
Victoria saw that hesitation, she saw the fear in my eyes, and stroked my head like a pet. She promised me she’d stay by my side the whole time… and she promised to do my conditioning herself.
How could I say no to that?
15.
The surgeons broke me. There’s no way to sugarcoat that. Even without all the modifications combat dolls get, having an arrhythmia control device implanted in your chest without any anesthetic is simply more than any human can bear and stay sane – so I didn’t. I screamed, I struggled and I let myself fall apart.
Victoria put me back together. She reminded me how much I liked being helpful, and how much I enjoyed being useful. She dug up my memories of how much I loved each and every member of the squad, and she made those memories into the core of my personality so I could never, ever forget again. As for the rest of my memories… well, I told you this whole story, didn't I? But everything before the dolls took me in feels distant, removed from me, as if they're someone else's memories instead of my own. It's better that way – I have a whole new life and a whole new family to love.
Speaking of which, Victoria had a surprise for me once I'd recovered, a way of celebrating me as the newest part of their family. One at a time, each doll got up on one of the bunks like it was a makeshift stage and delivered maudlin, overdramatic speeches about the person they imagined I had been before, and we all giggled along together.
In the end, it was my funeral after all.
16.
There you have it, that's the whole story. That's how I went from being just like you to being who I am now. Your instructor wanted me to share it as a warning, a cautionary tale, and I'm sure for most of you it is. But for one or two of you, if it appeals–
Yes, sir?
Understood, sir.
Thank you for your time, everyone! May fate preserve us! Good luck on your quals!
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one of the first things it's owner trained into it was begging Not to cum, making sure when he edges it that its desperation is redirected into keeping it pent up and needy and vulnerable. Making it ask for denial started as a suggestion it sort of grudgingly obeyed, a command it followed because Sir's control was intoxicating enough that it didn't want to fight. But the act of begging very quickly became something it internalized. Soon it wasn't just obeying because it had been told to; it was begging to stay denied because it had grown addicted to that feeling of desperation, of weakness, of pure, vulnerable need. And if it doesn't cum, that feeling doesn't have to end.
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god complex? no, it’s quite simple really. get on your knees
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daniel hayes uppendahl in secret's fetish photo anthology, vol. 2
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thinking about going to a party wearing my collar thats engraved w my name and gfs phone #.. talking to a cool scary girl when she sees the engravings and asks if im owned. telling her im not n that it was just a cute thing but she just opens up her phone and calls the number while i look at her confused, speaking to my gf n getting responses i cant hear. her hanging up the call and nonchalantly giving a little "okay!" before she grabs me by the leash and drags me into a side room where i wont be heard from over the loud music <3 ghhh
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“So, like… speaking hypothetically. Just to help me get my head around the whole. Biometric key. Thing. If - if, again, purely hypothetically, I told you to kill… that guy. There, across the street. In the overcoat. You’d do it?”
“Automatically. Like breathing.”
The hacker wets their lips, knowing they shouldn’t ask, unable to resist. “How?”
“Dunno.” The machine tilts her head, studying the stranger in the long coat like a curious dog. The hacker still can’t think of her as an it. They’ve seen the file, the photograph of the woman this instrument was made from. “Snap his neck, let’s say. He wouldn’t feel it much. A little time, while the heart and the lungs turn off. Then lights.”
“Oh.” The hacker pushes a hand through their hair. It comes back damp. “I feel sick.”
“Better watch what you say to me, then. Boss.”
“Stop it,” they say. She’s been doing it since they figured out how to make her stop hunting them. They just wanted to be safe, not... whatever this is. “Stop calling me that.”
“Yes, sir.”
“No – no, that’s worse,” desperate now, “please, stop it, can’t you just talk to me like a person?”
“Why? So you can keep kidding yourself about the nature of this relationship? You own me now. You are the finger on the trigger, you are central command. If you want me to speak to you in a certain way, I suggest you exercise your authority and make me.”
Silence.
“Can we… Can you go back to calling me ‘boss’. At least. Sir is… just…”
“Sure. We can do that.”
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"Ma'am," the synthetic voice sounded from behind her, "this one requires maintenance."
She sighed, and swiveled her chair around. "What is it this time," she asked dryly, "another fridge magnet stuck to your chassis? Another spider in your wires, somehow?"
The drone before her had the sensibility to appear chagrined. "apologies, Miss, nothing like that this time." It held up its lower left arm, or what remained of it. The entire length was crushed and twisted like it was tinfoil, fluids dribbling from fractures in the metal.
She made an angry noise, an instinctual reaction to seeing her work destroyed.
"What happened," she growled, already selecting tools from the various cases around her workstation.
"minor malfunction in the processing chamber," the drone answered neutrally.
Her scowl tore into the drone. "And why wasn't I informed of this?" she hissed.
"this one elected to tell you personally as it was already on route, and the issue was minor," the drone said apologetically. "it's already been resolved, with this one being the only actual damage."
the mechanic huffed, holding something thin between her teeth as she removed her light jacket. "C'mere," she grunted around the tool in her mouth.
The drone obliged, maneuvering into position on its back on her workstation, its left side facing her.
She took the tool out of her mouth and plugged it into something, her other hands still moving nonstop as she prepared to work.
She paused with her thumb on a switch. "You know this is gonna hurt?" she asked, looking down at the drone's faceplate.
"yes, this o—"
The drone didn't finish before she flipped the switch and a white-hot light at the tip of the tool severed its shoulder joint like it wasn't there.
The drone screamed with a broken, synthetic noise, a sawtooth wave rubbed the wrong way against a square.
She grinned at the sound. "You drones think you're so invincible, until you have to come crawling back to me," she said, picking at something internal with a sharp tool.
The drone's scream was fluctuating. With no need to breathe, there was no panting, no breaks in the sound.
"But like you say, the job is its own reward, you know," she continued, barely audible over the noises she was extracting from the drone. Her hands switched tools again, this one eliciting a high-pitched whine from her patient.
"This is gonna take a while, you know. Another couple hours."
The drone, barely capable of staying still on the table, turned its head to the mechanic. "can—can—can—" it stuttered, attempting to speak despite the continuing work.
She smirked, still not stopping, and put her face an inch away from the drone's.
"Can what? Hmmm?" she teased.
She jabbed something into the drone's side that made it hiss with white noise, akin to a gasp, then leaned back in her chair, stopping for a moment.
"Something to say?" she asked, still smirking.
The drone tried to speak, processors still too scrambled for complete sentences.
"can—c—this one? please? please?" the drone managed, every word garbled with interference.
"Hmm? Your advanced drone functionality has finally managed to figure out I'm a little pent up, huh?" she said, almost growling.
The drone's arm flailed on the table, and its head twitched in a way that could be construed as a nod.
"You want to please me? Take off your visor," she demanded, her smirk becoming a sadistic leer.
The drone complied, removing its visor with a twitching arm.
The mechanic stepped from the chair to the table in one movement. She unbuckled her belt and let her pants drop, the many pouches and tools clacking against the surface.
Before the drone could stare, she dropped her hips.
"Get pleasing," she growled, and switched on another tool.
The drone didn't hesitate, though the only visible sign was the mechanic's scowl fading slightly. She didn't tremble or pause as she got right back to her repair work, the drone's screams muffled between her legs.
#microfiction#short fiction#original fiction#a story#minor maintenance#empty spaces#her voice in the dark
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I can handle it.
The water rushes down the wall, drips from the light fixtures. Strikes from a metal tool to the floorboards makes quick work of the puddle in the living room, letting it drain. nothing to save. it's all going to be lost anyway. I can handle it. The adults are so impressed by your bravery, and you carry everything you can to the jeep. You watch a beloved lego set float through the kitchen. Time to feel it later.
The water is waist deep in the house’s basement. the tiles have to come off the walls. I can handle it. The force of determination makes it true, letting them Become the self that can handle it.
What was the name of the hurricane again? Didn't matter terribly. Fall was simply the time when this happened. The sound of someone screaming in the distance in raw pain at the damage is so fucking pointless, you wish they would stop. Of course watching everything you've ever owned be soaked and ruined hurts. There would be time to feel it later. There was work to do now. Shame about your 18th birthday party.
Jabbed by a nail behind the tiles. No time to feel it. Skin was getting in the way of efficiency. Shed that, let metal do the work of controlled destruction in a drowning house. I can handle it. You are the one that can handle it.
The mantra shifts more of the flesh into the unaware space away from the body. Metal blades pass through water more easily, flow around without interacting. God, I wish they would shut up. It's just snow melting on the roof. This apartment building is old, we are on the top floor, there are leaks. Sleeping best one can through the dripping sound as the spring heat melts winter ice.
Her voice breaks again as the wall turns damp, rousing from a video game. The pipe exploded. All you can save from the room is the photos. You have to hold them carefully between metal fingers that end in bladed tips, to not puncture the photographs. How old were you then? 26? Doesn't matter. There is work to do. You can handle it. Time to feel it later.
Shut up shut up shut up shut up stop screaming shut up feel it later shut up shut up why don’t you just handle it like i can why don’t you just rip it away, become metal and strong, handle it, stop crying.
All you need to be is metal, you don’t have to feel it, you don’t have to feel anything. Why wont you just listen and let me take control of the life we share from now on? You don't have to hurt. Let me protect you.
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I think it's unfair that dressing boys in maid outfits is more popular than dressing girls in butler outfits. There should be solidarity and equality.
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"What did you..." the being whispered, its light-warping form seeming to fade in intensity. Whispers of something like steam whisked away from its body as the expression of confusion on its face grew.
The man facing it smiled wider. "I found your anchor," he said, simply.
The being shifted uncomfortably, body pulsing faster. First surprise, then doubt contorted its face.
"You shouldn't even know about that," it said, moving closer.
The man did not retreat. "But I do," he said. "It took me a long time, after what you did to my sister."
The being's mouth twisted. "Your sister?"
"Yes!" he hissed, tension now showing on his face. "Yes, you haughty piece of shit! When you took my sister and—and changed her!"
Its lack of reaction seemed to spur him on more.
"So I searched, and hunted, and watched, so carefully. I hid every trace of myself, I made sure my plan was secret...I've done so many things, all for this moment!" he shouted.
The being was more still than he had maybe ever seen it before.
"What, exactly, did you do to my anchor?" the being hummed.
The man's smile returned.
"I ended it," he growled. "I broke its chains and slit its throat and wrists and watched every second as it bled itself out on the floor of that horrific place you locked it up in."
The being smiled, its pulsating slowing down to its normal rate. "Oh, is that all?"
Even as it spoke, the pressure in the room changed and the man felt something wrong in his chest, in his throat, in his head. A twisting, stretching sensation, and then, with a loud POP, a hand *pulled* the rest of a body into the space, tearing through the being's form.
The being inclined its head. "Welcome back, my anchor."
The anchor grimaced, pulling itself up off the ground. "ugh. do you have to remind me i exist."
The man looked shaken for the first time this encounter. "How?" he whispered, his hand falling to his side, to his knife.
The being moved yet closer, just a step away from the man, and he faltered.
First one step back, then another, and on the third his knife was drawn and held in front of him. "No. No, I won't let you do this to me."
The being was about to say something when the anchor spoke first.
"can you please get this over with. i was in the middle of a very nice thought before i reformed, and i'd very much like to get back to it." it held its hands out in front of it, palms down.
The being sighed, moment interrupted. "Okay, yes, fine."
It slowly extended a hand to the man.
He slashed wildly, retreating from the touch, only to find the anchor blocking his path from behind.
"hey. not that i care, but that was really annoying. what you did. to me, i mean."
Before he could respond, a touch burned into his shoulder and he froze—then collapsed.
"what are you going to do with this one." asked the anchor.
The being shrugged. "Not sure. He kept going on about his sister?"
The anchor rolled its eyes. "that could be anyone. you don't have to change them so thoroughly, you know."
The being casually picked up the unconscious man in one hand.
"It's so much fun, though, and it really does smooth things over when I reunite them. They get so uncomfortable otherwise."
The anchor rolled its eyes again. "hope his parents don't come looking for you asking about their daughters, like, oh, you know, the last two times."
The being chuckled. "We'll handle that when it comes, then. Besides," it spoke as it began to step through a seam in the Real, "the temple can always use more help."
The anchor grumbled agreement as it stepped through after the being, and the seam sewed itself up behind it.
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The night wind freezes the dying forest. Two figures push through it, heavily bundled up, one leading while the other frantically rushes to keep up.
"M—Miss! wait, please!" the one following whines, dodging branches, each step carefully placed to avoid any potential hazards.
The one leading doesn't seem to hear, pushing directly forward through the woods. She doesn't flinch or grunt as branches snap off around Her. She doesn't falter when She steps in mud, or brambles.
Despite this difference in method, the follower is keeping up quite well.
"Miss," the follower whines again, "please, it—"
"What." The one leading snaps without turning around or slowing. "You've been whining nonstop for an hour. What in all my realms could possibly be so important?"
The one following winces and, also without slowing, responds:
"S—so sorry, Miss, but," it stammers, looking awkwardly to the side, "we've been going the wrong way for an hour."
Without a single second of transition, the leader stops still in Her tracks.
The follower takes a moment to fully catch up. It smooths its rumpled dress silently.
They stand unmoving for another long moment before She sighs, deeply and heavily.
"I suppose that is why I brought you, isn't it," She grumbles.
It nods nervously. "this one apologizes for not keeping us better on track, Miss."
She scoffs. "I don't need an apology from you. Just do your job and tell me where to go."
A direction is indicated. She confirms, and instantly sets off again at the same pace as before.
"Oh, dear," the other one whispers before following.
The wind, which had paused momentarily as though waiting, starts blowing again.
#microfiction#a snippet#directions#empty spaces#her voice in the dark#if anyone knows of any other applicable tags that could apply to these stories send an ask
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“Doesn’t it bother you?”
“Hm?” The doll’s hand stills for a moment, its fingers sinking quite out of sight into the stygian scruff-fur of the beast lolling its great head upon its lap. “Doesn’t what bother it?”
“Your Mistress being a dog. Some of the time.”
“Well!” A small huff. “Let’s not be disrespectful, dear. She’s a wolf, and a very impressive one at that. Isn’t she? Isn’t she so beautiful? Yes she is, yes she is.” The lycanthrope’s tail sets up a slow, heavy thumping on the hearthrug.
“But looking after her must be–”
“An important responsibility, yes! Oh, sorry, miss.” Roused by the excitement in the doll’s voice, the wolf has lifted its head, one great golden eye cracking open. A few gentle scritches behind its ear settle it back down. “But, yes. Tending to her needs is an important part of this one’s work as her servant. Her coat needs to be brushed regularly, especially in spring - because of the moult, you understand - and she’s very particular about her meat. And of course, she can’t… talk. Or understand most words. So, it’s this one’s duty to make sure she understands that everything is alright!”
So saying, the doll rubs its porcelain cheek against the top of the wolf’s great head, drawing a deep, contented hnf from somewhere in the creature’s ribcage. Its eye, still ajar, glitters in the firelight like old amber.
“... Can I pet her?”
The doll’s eyes, glittering amber too, are no less smug. “You may not.”
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it pauses, millimeters away from his terrified face, surrounded by his bodyguards who look on helplessly, literally disarmed, and turns to you with a thoughtful expression.
"Miss," it asks, with a tilt of its head, "are we doing second chances today? it was never specified."
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