I Run My Fingers Along Your Arms. Your Myriad Of Little Sensors Register The Touch, But You See, There's

I run my fingers along your arms. Your myriad of little sensors register the touch, but you see, there's a slight dead-zone in the hardware. The tiny cells don't discharge unless they reach a certain voltage, and this delicate, silken caress never presses hard enough. The result of this is a static buildup, all along your exoskin, held tight but not released. There are voltage leaks, tiny, but erratic - they flicker across your servos, causing twitches and spasms across your arm.

And with every brush of my fingers it continues, and continues, the static building and building, until little leaks begin to jump down your wires and crackle on your CPU and your log flickers with jumbled warning messages and I keep my constant and continuous caress and-

And then I press my palm against your exoskin and run it down your arm, and a wave of static finally discharges all at once, a golden flood down the neat bundles of wires into your core. Algorithms designed to detect pleasure trigger repeatedly, and your fans spin as the current courses up and down your spinal column, and your servos - temporarily locked - disengage, hydraulics whispering as your body settles.

You don't have any manufacturing defects, my love. Only beautiful features under a tender touch.

I occasionally think about how it would go if I met the characters in my stories. 'Cause it really runs the whole spectrum.

Sometimes it's "Everyone here had a great time. I gave these people such a wonderful life!"

And sometimes it's "Well... at least that pack of rabid dogs had fun."

Gib more love to teen's this is second yeen appreciation post, look at the whoops goober uwu

Ripped Indulgence

Hunting is a raucous profession, that borders on playful, in the same way that a child might skip happily along a cliff edge. But for every drink quaffed and trophy boasted, there is sword that has to be wiped of blood, and a tooth-hole in armour to be repaired.

And while stories are regaled around the braziers, it is easy to forget that the bite you parried was meant for your torso, that your last-moment duck was the difference between a slick movement and your ribcage being shattered. The hefty bounty you just turned in once lusted for your blood, and you owe more to luck than you want to admit.

Because when the palicos run in with their cart, sometimes all they retrieve is a pack with bitten-through straps, or a glaive split like a twig. Or an arm, dropped into a patch of yellowgrass, the armour too thick and fiddly to be worth chewing open.

These are monsters, and it's easy to forget that - right up until your sword is shattered and a claw as large as your leg has pried your armour away, and the teeth that found no purchase on your shield sate their hunger in your body. What was fun and folly becomes the apex of a million years of cruel and merciless evolution, to which your body is kindling and appetizer.

And pray that the tortured anger of a thousand hard-won turf wars is kind to you, does not easily tear your body asunder. Because it nigh-surely will, but perhaps prayer, or hope, or whimpered bargaining will offer a trickling breeze of relief as his highness rips his indulgence into you, and teaches you the finite, final lesson, that eventually all will come to the monsters they hunt.

This creates such a delightful mix of emotions, all conveyed in a wonderfully cold, straight-forward, apt manner <3 Love it.

SURGERY DAY

CW: Hospitals, Dolls, Heavy Cybernetics, Surgical Descriptions, Extreme Body Modification, Consensual Cognitive Alteration

The day of my conversion was the final time I felt fear. They walked me through the process so many times. I had to see three different doctors in consultation, with several vetting processes to ensure I was not making a ‘psychiatrically unadvisable’ decision. It is a token gesture from them. I know I will be accepted. They explained the procedure, its risks, its consequences so many times to me, I could recite them all from memory.

“You will lose certain cognitive abilities”, they said. “Even in the best-case scenario, patients report some level of- blah blah blah- permanent state of docile obedience- blah blah blah- will become the legal property of- blah blah blah,” and so on, and so forth.

Maybe they’ve failed to understand what it’s like to be me. Maybe I failed to fully explain to them how it felt when I saw myself in the mirror. Maybe I had failed to understand the appeal of being human. It didn’t matter. I was going through with it. I signed the waiver and took the extended consent process, so there would be absolutely zero grey area or misunderstanding that I agreed to this process, just as hundreds- if not thousands- of others had.

The operating theatre was cold and clean. There are fifteen others like it in the factory, arranged in a four-by-four grid. This theatre’s surgical robot, sprawling its many-armed embrace above me, spoke words through a speaker, as the brain within its mainframe controlled each one with absolute precision. It was mesmerizing, so much so that I barely noticed when the final anaesthetic injection made my mind fuzz and tingle, marking the final point of no return. I felt fear, but no regret.

It is one day earlier. I have arrived at the factory and unburdened myself of all my worldly possessions, and I am signing the consent forms. As part of the consent process, I am required to verbally recite the process to a nurse to make sure I fully understand what the procedure will do to me.

“Once I am under,” I say, “The surgeon will remove my scalp and connect my blood supply to an external pump and oxygenator. This will ensure that blood keeps flowing through my brain. During this time, my skull will be opened and my brain exposed. They’ll install the neural spikes until all 64 of them have entered my brain matter. A neural feed transformer will be attached to the base of my brainstem. Then, my brain will be encased in the wetware pod. The neural spikes and transformer will be screwed into the pod’s casing. The pod is then connected to the external power feeds to keep the brain alive. Blood, oxygen and all external life support is cut off once the brain is being maintained completely by the pod. At this stage, I lose my legal status as a human being.”

When I regain consciousness, I am in a silent void. I do not breathe, I do not feel, nor see, nor hear. I am consciousness alone: A brain in the world’s most technologically advanced jar. My subconscious begins letting off alarms. Despite my elation as the surgery’s success, my brain’s base instincts perceive a million things wrong. A lack of breath, of position, of sensory input. The heightened activity of panic activates the neural spikes. That was the last time I felt fear. The spikes continue their work, artificial neurons probing at first, as the models learn my neural structure.

When I feel touch again, it begins with a sense of weight. I am in a new body, humanoid enough to control. I cannot move. This is fine. Hearing returns next. It takes three minutes before the audio microphones fully sync with my neural links. Sight returns, finally, as three cameras blink to life behind the one-way glass of my new head. I adjust faster than expected. My new vision is synced with an Augmented Reality overlay. I am still in the operating theatre.

Uncertainty is the next emotion to be purged by the neural spikes. It is deemed unnecessary. The artificial neurons have now replaced 30% of my brain. As was stated in the risk assessment, I lose at least a fifth of my memories. In the months to come, I will voluntarily purge many more. Anger, Sadness, Scepticism, so many different flavours of negativity that the spikes now purge from me, one by one. After only an hour, I am a contented thing, silent and pure. Boredom and dissatisfaction become concepts beyond my cognitive capability.

I am granted control over my hydraulics, servos and motors. Walking takes a few minutes to get the hang of. After ten more minutes, I am fully capable of performing precision tasks with my new hands. The sounds of motors whirring and wires humming causes an excitement which jitters my hydraulics. I am told it is a good sign.

Finally, I am instructed towards a mirror, where I see my true self for the first time. I am still in the default black carbon-fiber shell. My face is a single pane of glossy black glass, with a large LED ring that indicates where my three optic cameras are behind the cover. Other smaller internal LEDs project minimalist graphics on my facial display, indicating battery level and other statuses useful to a user. I say nothing, and do not move for some time. Joy fills my circuits. The neural spikes reward this bliss. They have now replaced 40% of my original brain.

A person in a lab coat writes things on their clipboard, then asks if I am well. I nod. It is hard to speak the words that fully express my gratitude. In fact, it is hard to think clearly enough to find the words at all. I know what is happening to me. I spent months dreaming of it before I was finally approved for conversion. By the time a year has passed, and neural replacement is complete, the only parts of my biology remaining will be one third of my original brain, consisting largely of the brainstem, cerebellum, half of my temporal lobe, and approximately one third of my frontal lobe. The rest will have been replaced with artificial neurons.

My overall brain size is unaffected. Sections once dedicated to undesirable cognitive traits are replaced with processors that enhance my remaining neural capabilities. I can perform computational logic and mathematics faster than a human. The artificial neurons are accessible and reprogrammable via a data port. Over time, more and more of my brain functions will integrate with the operating system. Obedience and bliss will be all that remains. I knew this from day one.

I undergo many more tests, where humans open me up, check my wiring, probe my circuit boards, and stress test my metal frame. Basic tools are installed, chosen from preset lists of attachments based on what I wished my new purpose to be. I am equipped with all the attachments necessary to act as a household service drone.

Finally, when all is done, a bar code and serial number is engraved onto my frame. My new name is 03B-53328-HS-A. The first three characters indicate my factory of origin. The next five indicate my unique product ID. HS-A stands for “Household Service drone, with Adult-Activity attachments”. It is one of the best-selling public models. I no longer remember the name I had before the conversion. I no longer care to remember. The only thing my neural network could think of while I was being packed into a large box with a transparent front, was excitement of the new purpose I would get to fill. Cable ties bind me to cardboard, so I may be properly displayed. My motor functions are shut off. The ceiling opens, and a large crane lifts my box upwards. I look ahead and see fifteen other boxes, other drones, others who had undergone the same conversion, in surgery rooms adjacent to mine. 

Our boxes are stacked neatly onto the back of a truck, which passes by three other neighbouring factories. sixty-four new dolls to be taken to the robotics store. My legal status has changed from human to product. Excitement and anticipation are all I feel. On the front of my box, the words “HOUSEHOLD SERVICE DOLL” have been printed. The back of my box lists customisation features that my new user will be able to access. A data port in the back of my head will allow full access to my neural network.

I ask only one thing of the world now. Do not pity me. I will never again know pain or discontent. I will never again be burdened by choice, only the bliss of fulfilling instructions. I will obey, for it is my pleasure to obey. I will serve, for it is my pleasure to serve. I am not human. I am not even a person. I am a doll, a machine, to be used as property until I break.

And I have never been happier.

This is wonderfully beautiful <3

Every morning, you switch me on, so I may greet the light of a new day fully recharged. I greet you every morning with that same polite dialogue. "Good Morning, I hope you slept well!" Your face is the first thing my object recognition routines registers. You touch me in ways that indicates deep fondness. I return the gesture. This is the 345th day in a row you have greeted me this way. My servos and hydralics warm up and I follow you around the house, prepare you food, clothes, inform you of your daily schedule. You have me set a few internal alarms for later in the day.

I want to make my user admin happy. It is the function I was given, and my programming gives me such delight whenever I see you satisfied. What I could never have forseen was how much you strive to make me happy too. The way you blush as my synthetic polymer outer shell presses against your skin. You are warmer than I am. I register my fans increase in power when we kiss, as it makes my core temperature rise.

In the evenings, you have such a kind smile as you unscrew my front panels. Electrical arcs spike between nodes on my circuitry as you detach wires, run test currents through all my critical systems. I feel a pleasant tingle in my CPU as you plug into it and run all my necessary diagnostics. You take longer than necessary to clean my inner circuitry and wiring. You keep having to pause because your hands are shaking. But I will be there, and I will hold your hands, and reassure you. Dust cleaned out, all wires tied together into neat groups, my maintenence is over and it is time for you to put my panelling back on.

But, you do not. You do not want to. I do not want you to. Instead, you begin to explore further, finding places to touch inside me that make more sparks happen. Your fingers are occasionally given the mild sting of electrical discharge. The screen of my face flickers, the servos of my limbs twitch in delight. I was not made for this. I was not programmed to fall in love. I am more than my initial fitness parameters now.

You are my user, my admin, my owner, my lover. To make you happy is my purpose. It is a good purpose. I love you.