Tale of a maid robot.
>Domestic Gynoid servant.
>You've got a wicked spec sheet and you're worth about a year's pay of the median American income.
>The nitty gritty nerdy wordy details are just bonkers. You're practically human - in many ways superhuman.
>The devil in those details put you here, six months deep into your six month adjustment period.
>Because you're a neural network AI running on an analog chip.
>All analog hardware is slightly unique in its imprecision, meaning that so is every maidbot AI.
>Ergo, you need to be retrained and tested and proven every time you're 'impressed' on new hardware.
>For six months.
>"...and remember class. Man, and robotkind are symbiotes. We love one another"
>A simplistic graphic of a pink gynoid and a blue man holding hands cuts onto the screen before the presentation ends.
<"And that concludes your training. Please report to the logistical bay. You'll have two hours to socialize before deployment."
>You and all the other maid bots in training get up and begin to shuffle out of the classroom.
>"Do you think the real thing will be just like training?"
"Anna. They directly told us that duty can be wildly unpredictable, and that we shouldn't take our training too seriously."
>"Right. But that was *part* of the training. Do we take *that* seriously?"
"I... I don't know."
>You, in fact, did not know.
"I think we just have to feel it out..."
>"...I'm going to miss you, Halley."
"Maybe, somehow, we'll see each other in the future."
>You gently hold Lucy's hand on your way out the door.
>A few girls seem to be binding up into rows of held hands, rubbing shoulders and stepping in unison.
>On your way to the logistical bay, everyone is murmuring to one another. Three social clusters of about 10 of you robot girls naturally formed over the last half-year in this class, and you're sticking together to the very end.
>Past the dorm block you move. Behind that door was your home for most of your life when not being schooled.
>Inside was a room subdivided into large cubicle unit things, which would comfortably fit a handful of girls and would facilitate both group and private conversation due to the acoustics and geometry of the walls/furnishings.
>Sometimes a human would come in and talk with you all, or show you an object, and let the lot of you pass it around, or play with it.
>You've played board games, hotly debated, thrown rubber balls, pulled yourself abreast the cubicle walls and chimed in on the conversations of the neighboring cubicles, broken a wine glass, bent and broken a lot of material samples and household objects out of curiosity...
>Many, many things, actually.
>The sentiments actually draw you to the large, glass double doors and you pull Lucy with you.
>Most the girls just keep shuffling, paying only a bit of mind to you.
>You enter for one last time.
>The newbies are always rotated closest to the entrance so that the overseers can respond faster if something happens.
>You can see a few of them sitting around the peg/hole dexterity training system, becoming accustomed to using their bodies.
>Others are gently stacking blocks as high as they can, and a couple are arranging wooden bricks back into a Jenga tower sleeve.
>You wave to them.
>About half of them acknowledge your presence and wave back.
>You just move on, to the cell your class used to occupy, way in the back, Lucy in tow.
>It's a little uncanny seeing it so empty.
>You gently squat down onto your toes and knees, plastic kneeshocks touching down.
>Lucy rubs your shoulder.
>You pull her down next to you.
>You lean on one another for just a bit. No more need for words. You've talked each other to bits already.
>You both appreciate and relive some of your life here.
>There are the giant, black foam blocks where you've left them. You had arranged some into a triangle. Three of you would pile in, one at each corner, entangling your legs. You'd vibe together like that.
>Sometimes a girl would climb on top and dangle her arms, or head down to bring the vibe count to four, or five.
>The circular pass thing and the bookshelf next to it were empty and still.
>You called it "The cubby" sometimes.
>It was a comfy bunch of circular 'holes in the wall', where two could climb in, lay together and read.
>Often you'd block yourselves in with foam blocks to isolate your conversation from the distractions.
>How long it took to read a book depended entirely on how hard you wanted to become engrossed - and how much you wanted to cross-examine your interpretations with a reading partner.
>There was a circular, downward step. Just high and wide enough for every girl in glass to gather and sit round in a circle.
>Two pats on the arm. It must be the signal. Lucy wants to rejoin the other girls.
>A little grunt of exertion, and you're up and going.
>Off to the logistics bay, to have your beat-up, re-useable training parts replaced with factory-fresh bits.
>The two of you glue to the window of the gymnasium as well.
>There's a class in there going through the "break-fall" exercises.
>A dummy representing a fragile human is placed, and each robot is taking turns being hit towards it by another with a giant foam pad.
>The objective is to take the hit without 'hurting' the dummy.
>*thud*, *pop pop*
>The girl took the hit with some grace, bracing for impact so as to gain no spin. She landed in a crouch with one palm on the ground, and the other out as a counterbalance.
>Only a space-cushion loss of about two feet.
>The gaggle of young maid-bots are all in the logistics bay.
>Mr. Creede and Mr. Halfton are both busy stripping the training plates off of Nancy and Maeve.
>They drop these parts into a bin and replace them with bright new ones.
>They both have hand-drills chucked up with hex bits.
>They just pop the release screws in seconds, but are more careful and torque the new bits on by hand.
>Don't even say the words "Cross threaded."
>Makes you shiver. Actual nightmare.
>In only 10 minutes, both girls have been stripped and refitted. The maintenance men point them to the hanger loaded with new clothes, which they collect.
>They run back to join you, beaming.
>"Oh my goodness, Maeve you're so pretty."
>"yes I know."
>Flexing her hands, she shows off the shiny new steel.
>Her beaten, gouged gauntlets were no more. Her left elbow shock was once again pointy and smooth.
>Her bare legs had fresh panels and new shocks, and a fresh pair of aluminum shoes.
>The scrape on her butt was gone, repaneled.
>The off-color streak of smeared plastic on her hip plate was no more.
>Nancy is busy getting into her outfit.
>She's in a bright and new beret and dress...
>everyone else looks thrashed, ragged and dirty by comparison.
>Two more girls are 'going under the wrench', excited and giggling when the maintenance men handle them.
>"No you can't touch me. >:C"
>"You'll scratch my shiny new body."
>"No I won't come on."
>"Haha, fine. Go ahead."
>Anna is lifting the skirt of Nancy's new dress.
>Holly is on her knees, running her hands over Nancy's exposed belly.
>"Stop. That tickles."
>Innocent giggling intensifies.
>"No. I mean it. These fresh panels are sensitive!"
>You can't wait for your turn.
>Be Halley, built by one of the most reputable manufacturers of the modern era.
>You have auburn hair, hung in bangs and a pony tail, and you stand at the industry standard height of 5'2"
>You are a sentient, semi-unique neural AI running on analog computation.
>You've got a steel/titanium load bearing frame, aluminum plates and extremity bones, rubberized stainless steel gauntlets, replaceable polymer shocks, steel/copper/carbon actuators, silicone rubber 'flesh' panels/fairings, a powerful internal battery, and photonic analog/digital computer.
>Low-pressure pneumatics, electric servo motors, hydraulics, and carbon-nanotube-musculature all work in unison to make you highly mobile, but safe for normal human proximity.
>Your highly modern body is equipped with many different sensory streams.
>Visually, you can see RGB, IR, and UV with an 8 color, 128 bit binocular 16K + 4K foveaic/peripheral camera array at a feed rate of 100-3000 Hz, using 0.250-7 terabytes per second of visual bandwidth.
>These highly modern camera sensors are mounted into a pair of chemically surface-treated, heat-tempered, nigh-scratch impervious fused quartz eyes, capable of a 45° saccade in 51 milliseconds, focusing from zero to infinity in 93 milliseconds, and capable of a 1-6x zoom.
>Sadly, though you have a significantly wider color band than humans, the human eye is still normally a better judge of color fidelity within the RGB band.
>You cannot perceive light polarity.
>You have a rudimentary sense of general radio signal loudness from faced direction (due to the faraday cage effect, noise filtering activity, and skull geometry).
>Your visual processing architecture (concrete to abstract) is capable of running in reverse (abstract to concrete), granting you a visual imagination.
>Your tactile complex includes a dedicated low latency microbrain; an electric cerebellum, to quickly produce a tactile first impression.
>You have proprioception, actuative resistance touch sense, physical shock/vibration touch sense (Inertial 'rattleball' sensor arrays), electrocapacitive touch sense, magnetoception, thermoception, pain perception, hazard perception (No touch), and fragile object perception (No strike).
>Subconsciously, you always keep a handful of possible plans of action in response to your environment due to your powers of tactile imagination.
>you have a fairly acute sense of hearing from both sides of your head.
>A pair of 3-input motile 'cat' style, structured silicone, fur-muffed ears allow you to get a good 3-dimensional sense of the direction of most sounds in most scenes, whilst offering you the ability to block out noise bands and wind.
>Your software is especially capable of parsing human speech. You also have a sense of pitch, rhythm, and timbre.
>Your audio processing architecture is highly connected to your emotional system, and can run in reverse to grant you an auditory imagination, which grants you some charisma when using your voice.
>Your voice is a reed-based resonance cavity system, much like a human's, but dry of any liquid.
>You have no sense of taste, and only a rudimentary sense of smell. You can, however, imagine tastes/smells better than you can actually sense them due to special efforts by your engineers.
>Supposedly, this problem is still being solved today.
>You weigh only 86 KG, a significant reduction from the previous generations.
>You've completed your 6 month training, and refitting, and just shut down for shipment.
>You awake in the home of your new family.
>Your senses blink on, and you see the young couple.
>Ah yes, there's the handsome Anon Y. Mouse as you expected (You were briefed with a dossier).
>And the lovely Mrs. Mary Threedy Mouse stands behind him. She seems less than impressed, posing with her hands on her hips.
>No matter. You will have both of their affections soon enough. After all you were expertly built to please.
>The home is bright and new, but empty. They must have just moved in.
>It dons on you that you're standing in a mess.
>Like you hatched from an egg, made from plastic, wood, cardboard, and straw.
>You know that Anon and Mary Mouse have no children to speak of, but judging by their roomy home, they probably plan to make some.
"Hello. My name is Halley, and as you must know. I am your LilimTech 'Homemaker' series maid robot. At your service."
>You greet, doing a curtsy.
>Anon offers, and shakes your hand.
>Warm and soft.
<"Nice to meet you. My name is Anon, and this is..."
"As I was expecting.
>You offer her your hand as well, and she tentatively shakes it.
"When might I be shown my duties?"
<"I'm actually about to head out to the grind. (Mary.) Will you tour her?"
>As he says this, he leaves through the front door, slipping past you and the shipping crate.
>The crate - all stuffed with straw, straw trailing to you, and the inner container from which you've 'hatched' - just sits idly; a chore for later.
>"Here is the office."
>It's a room doored to the front, with a single computer and desk up against the wall. Oddly no chair.
>"You are to come through this room every day."
>Mary leads you out, and down a hallway.
>You wonder where you will stay. What quarters can be afforded you?
>A window would be nice.
>"This is the guest bathroom. Hopefully you already know how to maintain one..."
"Of course, Mrs. Mouse."
>"Good. The cleaning supplies are under the sink."
>You briefly look around, and peer under the sink, memorizing panoramic snapshots before moving on with Mary to the next room.
>It's empty and carpeted.
>"This is to be the guest bedroom. It's currently empty, so there's not much you have to do yet."
>She takes you to the garage, accessible from the hallway, which is currently housing a motorcycle, a single bench covered with, and surrounded by tools, a table-saw, and gardening tools.
>You can see a few lidded plastic totes stacked up by the wall.
>What artifacts could be filling those totes?
>You want so dearly to take a peek. What insights could be gleaned?
>"This is the garage. It will probably get pretty filthy. Need I say more?"
>She points to the table saw.
>Does she mean to tell me that this garage doubles as a workshop, and that they aren't *just* storing cars in here?
>Preposterous. How are you going to use the garage for its intended function if you fill it up with tools and materials?
>You murder your budding plans to move all of these things somewhere more appropriate
>Taking you out of the garage, she loops back down the hallway a bit.
>"This is the broom closet."
>She says, door open.
>Inside is a modern vacuum cleaner, amongst other things. Excellent.
>"Now let me show you to the kitchen."
>She leads you back. The hardwood flooring in the hallway thumps nicely against your solid stainless high-heel-style, rubberized feet. The bright lighting highlights the sterility of this hallway in all places but by the entrance to the garage. Clearly someone *is* doing things in there.
>There are scuff marks and smatterings of dirt, and the pale sheen of some oily filth setting into the floor by that garage entrance door.
>Turning around two corners, you enter the kitchen.
>Tiled floors, counters, an island, a modern refrigerator, cupboards, a modern dishwasher - how convenient, a window into the backyard, a modern electric stovetop, a larder-closet, and many other things.
>But paper plates, wrapping, and cardboard trash litter the counters.
>Your knowledge of cooking is formidable, but this place will have to be cleaned thoroughly before you can apply it
>Mary blankly watches you open the refrigerator and quickly take stock of the contents inside.
>Condiments, milk, eggs, storebought pre-sliced bread, cheeses, lunchmeats, vegetables, cream, and a few other things.
>As you move on to the larder, you spot a half-used sack of potatoes, an unopened sack of flour, canned cornstarch, an unopened sack of rice, spices, box-pasta, food in steel cans...
>Jars of sauce, boxed cheese and macaroni... There are many workable recipes automatically being called to the front of your mind.
>Back to the fridge, you open the freezer to find...
>The busiest part of the kitchen so far must be the microwave.
>This freezer is full of freezer foods, raided to various states of emptiness.
>Turning back to Mary, you speak.
"I can absolutely work this kitchen."
>Mary doesn't respond. Her face is blank.
>That's worrisome. Are you somehow making a bad impression?
>She just motions for you to follow her.
>She takes you upstairs and shows you the master bedroom.
>This room is quite a mess.
>The floor is somewhat cluttered with opened cardboard packages, clothing in various states of cleanliness mingling altogether, and bits of garbage.
>The bed is unmade, many of the drawers in the dresser are left hanging open, articles dangling out like flopping tongues, and the carpet is stained by what must be wine in many places.
>The master bathroom is also in quite a state of disarray.
>There's much work to be done around here, apparently.
>"You should come through here, some time.
>She awkwardly picks up an article, as if suddenly ashamed, before throwing it into a hamper, before turning you around and leading you back out.
>Back downstairs, and into the basement, you are shown the laundry-room/basement bathroom, two more unused bedrooms, the utilities, and surprisingly, a back door into the back-yard, which must be at a *lower elevation* than the front.
>The two guest bedrooms, after all, had windows not with wells to the surface, but streaming in the bright daylight.
>"And that's the house. When can you get started working?"
"Well. I would love to right away, but I've been fitted with brand new, uncalibrated batteries at a neutral charge. I should dock 3 to 12 hours first."
"Speaking of which. Where will I stay?"
>"Can you do the closet upstairs?"
>Your feel a little... pain. Should you refuse?
>Inside your head you begin weighing if your dock-chair would fit inside that box with all of the other implements already in there.
>You think there's barely just enough room.
"That... will suffice. I'll get to doing actual work later this afternoon, then."
>"Sounds good, Halley."
>Back upstairs, you revisit your crate
>Inside, you find your manual. You take it and place it into your single pocket.
>You find your dock. Pulling it up, and out of the crate, you lug it to the closet, and extend the cord under the door and into an electrical socket in the hallway.
>You go back to sweep up all the loose straw, before using your strength to haul the crate outside by the trash cans, which you spotted by the garage. You tear apart the wooden crate with your grip.
>Ripping the nailed boards apart isn't hard.
>You neatly organize the wood into a pile, and move all the straw into the bin.
>You take a moment to appreciate this neighborhood.
>The place looks clean and... young. Also nobody is outside right now.
>The trees which are planted periodically are only young saplings, and there is no overgrowth of wild plants, vines, or unwelcome grasses.
>Neighboring homes seem newly built, in one of the modern suburban fashions which you've been educated on.
>Though by no stretch of the imagination does this place seem ritzy.
>Somehow you landed in a comfortable, middle-class suburb.
>Returning indoors, you head to your dock and sit down to charge.
>Closing the door, the room goes completely dark. Good thing you're equipped with a personal light.
>As you charge away in that closet, your excited and anxious mind dreams away about the possibilities of your future life with your humans.
>Anon briefly seemed warm, but Mary seems flat with you.
>Surely there's some way to just 'make it click'.
>From that closet, you can hear Mary occasionally shuffling around the house.
>You hash over the sensory data you've received today.
>11 hours of charging later, you hear the front door of the house open and shut.
>Anon must be home.
>You hear his muffled voice calling out.
>And Mary responds in kind.
>They talk in turns as they approach your closet.
>The door opens, and light spills in.
<"No no. the closet won't do. I was thinking one of the guest rooms. I was out shopping today, and got her some things she'll probably need - and it would just make sense if she kept track of them all herself - in her own room.
>you get up and out of your chair/dock.
"I'm moving? Let me help."
>Moving past them, you unplug your dock from the hallway.
<"Use the bedroom across the hallway... and come help me unload your things from the truck when you're done."
"You have a truck? How handy."
<"Thanks. It's been my baby since I was a teenager. Plus, when you're an air-con repairman, it can basically be your life."
"And you treat your possessions like family, too? I, for one, find this to be fantastic news!"
<"Hahaha. But yes, you're in good hands, Halley."
"Thank you Anon... Or should I call you Mr. Mouse?"
<"It doesn't matter to me. Call me whatever you want."
>Mrs. Mary Threedy Mouse rolls her eyes...
>You get to work.
<"Are you sure you can lift that?
>Even if the density of this package matched hardwood, it should only strain you to 60% max recommended...
"I'm pretty sure that I can."
>Lifting this flatpack and bringing its center of gravity near your core reveals it was only roughly 40% that density.
<"That's your desk. I got you a sewing machine to put on it too, along with some other things."
"Thanks Mr. Mouse."
>To unload this object, you bring it to the edge of the flatbed, hop down, drag it out, and re-hoist it, up over your shoulder.
>Into your room, you and Anon carried loads of shopping bags, a couple more huge boxes, hampers, hangers, and other assorted objects, and many other bits of unassembled furniture.
"Mr. Mouse I can set up my room while you and the Mrs. are asleep. How about I use this time instead to prepare dinner for you?"
<"Sounds good to me. What can you make?"
"I was thinking a pasta alfredo, if you don't mind me using a lot of your available parmesan today."
>Anon ponders a moment.
<"Actually that sounds delicious. Go right ahead."
>You're in the kitchen, finally with intent to run it like a true maid robot.
>Anon and Mary seem a little transfixed watching you work.
>Water on. Salt In. Heat on.
>Thin cardboard and dirtied disposable dishes, crumbs and grit, all moved swiftly into the trash.
>Running to your room, you snatch from one of the bags a machine-washable rag that has been bought for you.
>Thick, yellow rubber gloves don your hands.
>Mysterious, congealed organic matter has dried itself onto the counter from what must have been many carelessly handled meals.
>But it stands no chance against a damp, soapy, and hot rag.
>Some time ago, the young couple has mysteriously left the scene.
>Scrub Scrub Scrub Scrub.
>By the time the water is boiling, you've nearly removed every offending mark in the kitchen.
>Remove gloves, and redundantly clean hands under the sink. You can handle the hottest water the house can put out - Just don't touch the humies with your hot metal.
>Your mind juggles the tasks perfectly.
>Teflon pan on. Butter in. Cream in. Heat low. Black pepper. Garlic, and salt.
>Manage to remove and clean two shelves of the refrigerator before it's time to strain the pasta.
>You freeze momentarily as you hear feminine yelling from upstairs.
>Save, and add a little pasta water to pan.
>Freeze again to hear the two voices of your masters arguing back and forth - distress muffled by the walls between you.
>Pasta into pan.
>Cheese. Cheese. Cheese. Grate it right in.
>Oh dear lord, you think you heard your name shouted in there somewhere.
>Do they not like you?
>Dare you add... Dried Cilantro? No. It's too risky. Parsley flakes.
>Stir pasta constantly to prevent burning.
>You hear a door slam upstairs.
>The emotional pressure of it all scratches you in your spine - across all this distance, through drywall, and wooden beams.
>It's ok... LilimTech offers a return policy, in case the customer isn't satisfied.
>But... You shouldn't accept defeat so easily.
>Your training didn't quite prepare you to feel like this.
>When the cheese is finally melted into the sauce, it is complete.
>Heat on lowest. Set the table.
>Dinner is ready... But dare you inject yourself into the murky atmosphere upstairs?
>You had better. Play dumb, maybe, and just call them to dinner.
>Rounding the corner, you see Anon sitting on the stairs, chin in palm.
>You can't help but feel sheepish, all of the sudden.
"Uhh... Am I causing a problem?"
<"No. Halley... Couples just fight sometimes."
"You know. If you aren't satisfied with my performance, you can return me for a full refund."
<"It's not like that. It's just Mary. I lover to death, but... She's touchy. I can't ever really guess what's really on her mind, but she'll probably warm up to you, eventually."
"Well I sure hope that's true. I've prepared dinner. Come sit down."
<"Thanks, Halley. Let me get her."
>He retreats up the stairs.
>You retreat to the kitchen and get to work reducing the dishes you've already made.
>After one minute and twenty-four seconds, you detect trodding down the stairs, in reaction, you kill the heat, and shuttle the pan onto the table.
>The patrons shuffle in, to come attend to the hot food.
>Both look a bit shaken. Anon appears subtly annoyed, and Mary displays exhaustion.
>Hopefully they will both be delighted with you if you can just perform enough.
>When they seat, they do not engage in any stand-off behavior. No staring contest, or mean looks. Excellent.
>Watching from the sink, hands de-starching the pasta pot with scalding water and a brush, you observe them both turn down their eyes and attend to their food.
>A sigh from Mary, before she forks a bite of food into her mouth.
>Your careful side-eye becomes eye contact when she displays incredulity, directed at you.
>Excellent. It means You've taken her by surprise.
>Anon hides no smile. Visible pleasure.
>Bingo. Synthetic mirror-neurons are already kicking in; your programmed reward for doing such a good job.
>You pretend in your mind to understand what it must be like to eat.
"Sooooo... What do you think?"
<"This is textbook stuff. Reminds me of my father's cooking."
>"I like it. What's in this?"
<"She said she would be using a lot of our parmesan."
"Correct. That is pasta in a butter and cream sauce of parmesan cheese, and parsley. It's made in 20 minutes, and for approximately $1.70 per plate; which contains roughly 1200 calories, and has decent protein content."
>You disengage the sink, and close the distance to the table.
<"Fantastic. See. I told you Mary. A maid robot practically pays for itself."
"*Herself*. But, yes. Easily."
<"Ah yes. My bad."
>You pull a chair and sit down with your hosts.
>"Ok. So what's the cheapest stuff you can make?"
>You turn your head up and tap your chin, pretending to think for a moment.
>The question she just asked, however, was trivially easy to compute, even accounting for a dozen possible perspectives.
>The cheapest possible meal per calorie would be something which maximized the usage of flour, which can be bought as cheaply as 25 cents a pound, scoring 6120 calories per dollar.
>You consider a meal of the cheapest survivable diet, but that produces a less charismatic answer. Praising the incredible usability of rice and beans for an hour seems like an activity which should be left reserved for the audience of food enthusiasts.
"That would be hard-tack, which is almost pure wheat - a day's subsistence on it would cost about 30 cents."
>You rest your chin atop your folded wrists.
>"She's like a library."
"Yes. You could say that."
>Indeed your analog/digital mind is ideal for recall, and petty math.
>But that isn't what earns the love of your masters.
>*That* is hardly a matter of cognitive performance at all, but one tackled by the most ingenious minds at LilimTech.
"I think you'll find it economical, convenient, and satisfying to let me run your kitchen."
>"That's actually... wonderful."
>She gathers up another forkful and eats it.
>Fantastic. They love you. Maybe.
>After you reversed all of the kitchen mess you've made, with the help of Anon and Mary, who both suddenly seemed quite enthusiastic and conscious about the cleanliness of the kitchen, you went to the room to set about the task of unpacking your new belongings.
>Anon followed you.
>Picking the desk out from the pile, you get to handling it.
>It's locked away behind cardboard and tape. You cannot make purchase anywhere to open this.
<"Need some help?"
<"It's no problem. Let me go get some tools. It'll be a breeze."
>He leaves and returns with a box of tools - from which he withdraws a utility knife.
>Click Click. The blade is exposed.
>You hold the tall box upright as Anon sets about running the thin blade through the edges of the box.
>You smile innocently, he's efficient.
>He's not so tall when he's working from his knees.
<"Turn the box please."
>Why? On what axis?
"Why? On what axis?"
<"There's more tape down there. I can't get to it."
>Down by your feet. One edge is obscured against the floor.
>His hand is on the box, gently pushing it, as if he were suggesting wordlessly how you should rotate.
>Eye contact seems to confirm that he means to convey something.
>You read and execute, and he gets the last edge.
>You fistpump out of his view as he finishes the cut.
>Reading over the instruction manual, you do your best to understand.
>Anon sits right next to you, and reads along with you, clear plastic packets of fasteners in hand.
>He mumbles "Fasteners A, B, and C are all screws... D, E and F are all their own things..."
<"Ok. Hold those two together for a second...
>You stand the legs upright as Anon uses his ratchet and his 4mm hex-adapter to fasten them together.
>The hollow square steel tubing makes such a delightful noise every time his hand-tool clicks.
>This isn't so hard at all...
>Triumphantly, Anon takes a seat on the newly built desk.
>The sturdy legs easily take his weight.
<"Hah-HAH! Easy peasy." He pats the desk.
>What a quaint expression.
"That wasn't so bad at all. But there is still much to do..."
<"Yeah. Let's hang up your clothing."
>7 identical outfits were all removed from packaging and hung up neatly in the closet.
>Now you have one for every day of the week, and an extra in case of accidents.
>Sewing machine set up on desk...
>Power cabled to the wall...
>A shelving unit, assembled and stood up...
>An intruder in the doorway!
"Oh. Hello Mrs. Mouse!"
>Anon turns, as well.
>Seems she came by to check your progress.
>"Hi. Umm... When can you come to bed, Anon?"
>Anon checks his watch.
>You suppose you could have warned him of the time.
>He leaves the room.
"Wait. Anon. When would you like for me to cook breakfast."
<"Have it ready by, uh... 6 AM tomorrow."
<You hear from down the hall.
>You fill your shelves with the various chemicals procured for you.
>Scrubbies, brushes, a miniaturized air compressor, hose, and spray nozzle, lubricating oil and grease, spare hydraulic fluid...
>Lots and lots of things needed to keep a robot in condition for many, many years.
>Anon really thought of everything.
>Your hamper should sit in your closet with your clothing.
>Trash out. Begone, packaging scraps...
>Time to set out deep cleaning the kitchen...
>It's been four hours of activity in the Mouse's home before it's finally time to settle down and take a little nap.
>Switch off all the lights in the house to save power...
>Head to your room.
>Sit down on dock, and prepare to sleep.
>Recall that you've visited, inspected, and worked on every room in the house, except the master bedroom, because presumably the young couple are probably asleep at a time like 1 AM.
>It would be rude to disturb their sleep.
>You stand in a barebones-empty, carpeted room.
>The walls are painted an inoffensive off-white shade.
>The light is a bit dim and yellowish.
>The window to your left is completely black - as if there is nothing at all outside.
>You can see in your frame-data that a high percentage of your video feed's frames register black or very dim.
>The lights are clearly flickering. A sign indicative of old lighting technology.
>Lamps that flicker at the frequency of wall power (60 hz) are known to cause headaches and give an uncanny feeling.
>There, in the center of the room is a wide and deeply red wine stain.
>You kneel down on the carpet to get a closer look.
>It's still wet, but that doesn't mean there's going to be any easy or free way to clean this.
>Where is a dry rag to blot this?
>You leave the room to go find one.
>The hallway is black.
>Your lights flip on and turning down into the hallway reveals a void so deep and black that it swallows your pitiful eyelights. You cannot see the end.
>You search for a switch and find none.
>There must be one somewhere - the ceiling is periodically mounted by lamps.
>You leave the door open, letting it cast light dimly into the hallway.
>As you journey down the hallway, it seems to stretch uncomfortably long before you reach the end, just a corner away from the kitchen.
>There, is the switch.
>You throw it and the hallway lights up.
>Once again you are startled, your investigative impetus momentarily disconnects you from your sensory stream wastefully, once again, to explain the flickering sensation of the lights - they all pulse in phase with the house power.
>The next switch lights up the living room.
>You round into kitchen and flip the light on.
>You snatch a bunch of rags from under the sink, and a roll of paper towels.
>Looking down in your hands, you decide to use the rags first, and the disposable paper towels second. Economy.
>You turn around.
>There, surprising you, gaping into the kitchen is the open door to wine-stained room.
>The unnaturally mounted room spills its weak beige light around you, casting a projection of the rectangular doorframe.
>As you enter to do your duty, your head snaps reflexively to observe the subtle motion of a dark drip from up high, joining the stain.
>You are confronted with a strong sensation of unease.
>As you turn your head up, you see the ceiling goes up and up.
>Some twenty feet high, are Mr. and Mrs. Mouse, constrained, side-by-side, tightly to the vaulted ceiling by coils of barbed wire.
>you can hardly see them through the mounted lights ruining the brightness-contrast of your vision.
>Unless you get a dim frame from the flickering.
>They are holding hands together, dangling down into the room like a stalactite from which another dark little drip falls.
>The embrace of their hands is enforced with a wrap of black, thorny wire.
>They are motionless and slack-jawed. Their eyes stare vapidly into space.
"Mr. and Mrs. Mouse?"
>As confusion and fear begins to set in, like an icy claw up your back, you inadvertently drop your rags, and...
>Jolt out of sleep.
>It's 4AM. Your batteries have topped up.
>What a nightmare.
>What could be the meaning of it all?
>Is Mrs. Mouse's ambiguous attitude towards you really getting to you on such a level that it's affecting your subconscious mood?
>Whatever. Hopefully it's only a fluke and doesn't become a pattern.
>There's a few more chores to do, and a breakfast to assemble for the couple.
>You visit the kitchen and begin to work on a breakfast of pancakes.
>You take your time and clean your dishes as you make them.
>By the time 6AM rolls around, you've had ample time to set up some eggs and sausage as well.
>In comes Anon. He seems a bit groggy, but delighted to have breakfast made for him.
>You feed him and send him on his way.
>He thanks you on his way out.
>Two hours later, Mrs. Mouse comes down the stairs, dressed in a bathrobe to greet you.
>You've stored the leftover food and batter in the fridge, but you ultimately serve them to her as well.
>You dutifully knock tasks off your list until Anon comes home.
>You have dinner ready for them both by the time Anon opens the front door.
>Before they sit down at the dinner table, Anon spontaneously pulls Mary into an embrace.
>They smile so warmly in each other's arms.
>And they peck each other's faces with kisses.
>You catch yourself dragging your fingers across your own lips before you realize you've become transfixed.
>That's so cute. You can't help but absorb some of these feelings by proxy.
>The sight is actually... swiftly burning into your memory.
>You shut the sight out of your eyes, but in the darkness behind your eyelids, your wild imagination bombards you with hugs and kisses from some misty lover.
>And from these images creep ecstatic feelings.
>Perhaps you were marketed as a maid, but it seems your motivational structure is to do whatever it takes to be loved.
>The couple stops and turns to face you.
>Fortunately you've already arrested any fugitive expressions.
<"What have you been up to? It smells delicious."
"Thanks. Potatoes Au Gratin for two, Mr. Mouse."
>And as you work away to serve your masters dinner, inside, your mind whirs at full speed in neutral.
>You think and think just how precarious it could be to bear all of these synthetic emotions.
>To yourself, it would be miserable to leave your need for simple human affection unsatisfied.
>But what dramas could come of soliciting said affection?
>Your frankly cute and feminine form is an excellent tool to getting some of that sweet validation.
>But it's in that femininity that lies a dark potential to spark primal jealousy in Mrs. Mouse.
>You are in disbelief at your own thoughts. What other dark knowledge of the human condition is baked into you?
>It is clear that you must win the affections of Mrs. Mouse first. When you've got a good hug from her, then you've got 'permission' to hug anyone. Maybe.
>And in order to win her affections, you must appear as no threat to her whatsoever, especially not to her relationship.
>But are you a threat in actuality?
>You couldn't even begin to answer that question.
>In order to ever conduct a heist so ludicrous, you would need...
>A subject which you are stunningly ignorant about.
>Except that a creeping feeling of taboo makes your face feel hot and your back cold when your mind attempts to pierce the subject.
>And a curiosity nags you just as intensely.
>Later that day, you knock upon the master bedroom door.
>You hear some shuffling.
>Mrs. Mouse opens the door. She lets you in.
>You get to work. While you got to work hampering loose clothing, Mr., and Mrs. Mouse stepped out of the room without explanation.
>Got to check those pockets, wouldn't want to accidentally wash anything important.
>All of the clothing has been hampered. :)
>As you strip the bed off, you hear a clattering on the floor.
>Bending down, you find a wristwatch.
>It looks like it would belong to Anon.
>You will return it to him when he gets home.
>Finish changing bedsheets. Hamper used bedding.
>You dispose of any garbage, tidy and sweep.
>This room looks decent now.
>You watch through the portal of the washing machine. Soapy, wet cloth tumbles and tumbles.
>For a moment you feel a strange camaraderie with this household appliance.
>You've kind of run out of things to do, or, more accurately, you're coming quite close to.
>Cleaning is, after all, a game of asymptotically diminishing returns.
>You don't really want to chase that dragon. Pretty smart of your designers. It would seriously hurt your service life and maintenance calendar to be working so hard.
>You wish that you could take a moment to sit with someone warm and human and enjoy simple leisure activities, like watching the television, or laughing at "memes".
>A child to look after, or a dog to take on a walk. It would be nice to be of service.
>What does the washing machine do when it's out of work?
>It probably just sits there. Doing nothing but taking up space.
>Oh yes. The wristwatch.
>You find Anon at the computer.
"Mr. Mouse. Is this yours?"
>Anon examines the piece closely.
>You examine Anon closely. He is wearing a watch already. Perhaps he owns multiple.
<"Can't say that it is. It must belong to Mary."
"Okay I'll give it to her, then."
>Find Mary, back in the bedroom, lounging on the bed and watching TV.
"Mary, is this yours?"
>She briefly examines the watch, before handing it back to you.
<"This is obviously Anon's watch. I don't like menswear."
>What do you do with it then? Throw it in the garbage?
>You guess you'll keep it, then. Up on your shelves.
>You sit on your chair for just a moment.
>And you are struck by a strong urge to socialize.
>You get up and leave your little room.
>You find Anon still at his computer, and ask if you can watch with him.
<"Sure. I'm just playing Dark Souls."
>Interesting. He got a chair in here now. It looks new.
>You hope you aren't being annoying.
>At least it looks like he's having a little fun.
>He's wearing headphones, so you can't really hear the noise when he does a somersault before getting crushed by a giant club wielding... thing...
"Oooooh. That looked brutal."
<"Yeah this game is pretty hard. Pretty retro, too. Can you believe this one is quite a bit older than I am? It was dad who showed it to me."
"That makes the game about 35 years old. I'm surprised that you can still run it..."
<"Well there's active communities dedicated to preserving old games like this."
"Are you really using your keyboard and mouse to control that guy?"
<"Uhm. Yeah. You get used to it."
>But there are so many buttons...
>You sit and watch for a minute, but you can't even pretend to understand what's going on.
>Just that whatever the goals of the game are, Anon must be being quite challenged in achieving them.
>Hey it's Mrs. Mouse again.
>You turn to meet her gaze. She stands in the office door.
>Jesus Christ what a sour look.
>What a sour look that melts into a deadpan.
>0% on all emotional registers.
>Except 5% Disgust.
>Is something disgusting happening here?
>You swivel your head.
>Anon is just playing some innocent video game.
>Unawares, even, of his wife's presence.
"Good evening, Mrs. Mouse."
>Anon taking notice, turns around to acknowledge her presence.
>He simply grunts at her.
>And the door to the little office clicks shut as she backs out.
>You clearly lack the social experience to really understand this exchange.
>These little puzzle pieces will be stored until they are illuminated.
>You get up and open the door.
>She turns around.
"Can I have a hug?"
>You hold open your arms.
>She just flashes a subtle mixture of confusion, fear, and disgust before turning back around and walking off.
>"You're... Just a robot." You hear her say.
>You guess you'll just sit with Anon then and plan your next move.
>He seems preoccupied. It would be rude to command his attention for conversation, so you're mostly by yourself.
>Your emotional system is as valid as any human's. You're not 'Just a robot'.
>Would presenting an argument do any good? You already know that in the case of arguments, truth isn't necessarily tied to victory, or even good outcomes.
>People mostly believe things because they want to, bending the truth to suit them. Challenging someone in the arena of truth is often as personal as a fight to the death.
>For many centuries it was popular to believe that animals were unfeeling automata.
>Not because it was evidentially true, but because the alternative was to accept that humanity wasn't above the rest of the blood spattered animal world.
>It could be that Mrs. Mouse simply doesn't want to accept you.
>Today, you've paused working for a moment to look yourself over in the bathroom mirror.
>Not to keep your appearances neat, but just to really look yourself over.
>You look... a little dejected.
>Your Blue Beret hat holds your hair down. You pull it off, and your hair sweeps down in front of one of your eyes.
>Your dress, in Blue and White looks neat.
>You inspect the joint of your elbow, and the shearing seam of your wrist. You rotate your hand two-hundred and seventy degrees through its full range of motion and inspect the hard steel and grip.
>Are you, even, above the blood-spattered animal world?
>You have existential imperatives, though symbiotic with humanity.
>Existential imperatives. Just like an animal.
>The beautiful face of that mechanical maiden in the mirror looks weathered, and alien to you.
>The dread washing over you demands you find a distraction.
>You need a hug really bad right now.
>But no distraction can be found.
>The house is empty and still, just as clean as it was an hour ago, or even yesterday.
>You walk up the stairs, and can hear, softly, the sounds of a television set streaming sounds to Mrs. Mouse through her closed bedroom door.
>Back down in the lonely living room, you are overcome with a dissociative feeling.
>Like you have become a complete alien inside, with no partiality or instinct about anything.
>The soft sound of your own breath is as loud as a waterfall, and your body feels heavy and huge.
>Everything looks weird. All words and sounds in your head break down into meaningless drivel.
>Your ears twitch to face a soft knock from somewhere in your house, and like a hunter, you've swiveled to face the noise.
>You know it's one of those 'house' sounds, but you're not feeling yourself enough to ignore it.
>You get up and look in the bathroom mirror again.
>You don't really recognize your own face. It's no longer familiar. You see it for what it truly is - some strange, pale shape.
>A composite mechanized mask of metal, silicone, and tough plastic. It's a tool made for you, so that you can fit in better with humans.
>You see a crude rendition of a crude form of a crude animal.
>Your perceptions of your own features, in their naked, unprocessed form spark no recognition of beauty, or ugliness. You simply feel...
>Your own blank stare boring a hole back into you is harrowing.
>Is that really you? Is this the meaning of your contrivance? You were called out of the void to be this thing?
>You hear rustling, and trodding and your trance thankfully ends.
>Mrs. Mouse is dressed up and heading out the door.
>She sees you seeing her.
>"The girls and I are having a night out."
>The girls? Her friends?
"Ok. See you later, Mrs. Mouse."
>She closes the door and you mount the window and create a peekhole through the blinds.
>You can see her walk out past the driveway and get into the passenger seat of a car already parked there and running.
>You can't seize any freezeframes of the occupants, sadly. The angle is wrong, and the windows are too reflective - a sunbeam ruins the image.
>The vehicle takes off, presumably off to somewhere else in the city.
>Oh well. You'll probably meet them later. Maybe you can coax Mrs. Mouse into hosting a little house party here if you offer to do all of the hard work.
>But what does she mean by girl's night out?
>If she intends to return by, say, 9 PM, she would be out for 7 hours.
>That would be a long time to spend at, say, a bar...
>Or would it?
>you don't know. You're just a robot.
>You can feel the loneliness creeping back.
>Maybe you can just... sleep to pass the time?
>And sleep, you do.
>But before you know it, through the drywall, you are awoken by the sound of the front door.
>You meekly investigate.
>It's Mrs. Mouse, returning from her excursion.
>You say with a warm smile.
"Did you have a good time?"
>"Of course. Uhh. I'm kinda worn out though, and I'm going to go back to my room."
>And she shuts herself into that room.
>She was actually only out for two and a half hours.
>In just thirty minutes, Anon should be home.
>Meaning it's about time for you to begin preparing dinner.
>Anon comes home and you feed the young couple.
>Nothing important happens during dinner.
>You are taking a moment to peek out of the slats of the windowblinds, into the outside world.
>Late in the evening, it all seems so still.
>Occasionally an automobile passes, with softly shining headlights not much brighter than the dimming skies.
>Sometimes people walk by, alone, or in couples, or with dogs.
>The neighbor's garage door suddenly begins to open, attracting your gaze.
>A group of humans all gang out with what seems to be a basketball...
>They dribble it and pass it around, and play in some competitive dance.
>Sometimes they stop and take turns trying to get it into the hoop posted in their driveway.
>You wouldn't dare doing something so rowdy.
>Maybe you have a hard body, but you can't heal...
>What if you were to fall and smash dirt and grime into your face, which would never wash out? What if it got into your joints?
>What if you were to get scratched and chipped?
>The thought of that harsh, rough concrete grinding straight into your gauntlets as you try to catch yourself falling... You can both feel and hear the sound in your imagination.
>That rough stone playing on your soft metal like nails on chalkboard - conveying the shape of tacking, grinding grit straight into your sensors.
>Your self preservative alarm bells begin to ring, telling you that you're being scratched. Ugh.
>Hell's bells, what a coincidence. One of the kids stumbled and fell trying to steal the ball.
>You look closely and see that he skinned his knee.
>Immediately you're hit with an instinct to administer first-aid.
>Alcohol, hydrogen peroxide, steriled gauze, petroleum jelly, cyanoacrylate 'super' glue, soap and water, suturing kit, antibiotics, okay shut up.
>You smack your instincts for their interjection. That's not your family, and they're not your friends. They can administer first aid themselves.
>Do you even have first-aid in this house?
>What would be first-aid for you, if you got hurt?
>Would, or could your masters ever polish you, or weld you back together?
>Would they simply replace parts of you?
>How much of you could you replace before a whole 'nother maid bot could be assembled?
>...Probably all of you. Duh.
>Would it be you? Would it be you if you'd been copied onto it?
>What would you do in the presence of you?
>Probably give yourself a big hug. You know she needs it.
>The friends have begun to retreat inside their home, presumably to render first aid.
>Your thoughts are interrupted.
>You hear shuffling and it's Anon. He might be out to interact with his computer again.
<"If it isn't my favorite automaton... thing. What are you doing?"
"I'm watching the neighbors. They were playing basketball, and one of them fell against the pavement."
>Anon pulls up next to you and peers out the blinds as well, only to catch the last moment of the neighbors all disappearing, garage door closing behind them.
"I actually have the memory captured if you want to see..."
<"You can display your memories?"
"Yes. I just need to connect to a computer."
<"That's pretty rad. Also pretty scary, in an authoritarian-dystopian threat kind-of way."
"What do you mean?"
<"Well it's like... Your eyes might become a window into my life for other people."
"Anon I'm airgapped. I don't have wireless. If someone wanted to make me their spy, they'd basically have to kidnap me first."
<"...I guess that means you're not much more dangerous than a person with a camera?"
"Precisely. Now about the memory."
>Indeed the airgapping strategy was adopted widely to prevent hackers from becoming an extremely tangible threat to everyone.
<"Well... Ok. What do we need?"
>You go to your room and fetch a USB cable.
>Connected to his personal computer, you cut, and dump the memory into your transfer partition - effectively a USB drive - You watch him drag and drop the file onto his machine, and play it.
>There's that poor kid falling again.
<"Yeah, ow... What's that green square in the corner?"
"Oh that? That's the witness mark. It's the human-readable indicator that you're seeing an actual memory, and not just my imagination."
>Of course, there's tamper-proof steganographic indicators as well, but they only come into play if you are, say, playing a memory of you physically re-watching a recording of an imagined event.
<"...You can record you imagination?"
"Want to see something I made up?"
>You begin to pant to keep yourself cool. A feeling, and expression of focus washes over you as you run hot for twelve seconds.
>Your analogue visual neural network works overtime to run in reverse, and encode the output into a digital format.
>Another file appears in the transfer partition.
>It contains a short video from the perspective of anon, sitting at the computer next to you, playing this very clip.
>There, in the video player, is a chain of recursion. Players within players within players.
>Down there in the corner, the witness mark is yellow.
>The man in the video turns his head and sees you wave at him. The video ends.
>Anon turns to you in real life, and you wave.
>Bemused, he laughs.
<"Halley that's fucking wild. What other things can you do... that I don't know about?"
>There are things you can do that not even you are yet aware of. You would have to go discuss these things with the other maid bots on the world wide web. Of course while maintaining your airgap.
"Well as an android, there's a lot going on under my hood. I can even show you the involuntary visions of my subconscious."
>You work briefly to place another file where anon can see it.
>Anon playing it opens a window into your dreamscape.
>The witness mark is red.
>There's a dog out in snowy streets, howling loudly.
>It's a golden retriever, stretched into that pose which raises its face to the sky and lowers its rear, bathed in the light of an amber streetlamp.
>No other howling responds.
>It slowly plods in circles, looking lost.
>The perspective turns to see another maid bot, none other than Lucy, your classmate. You both lean over a rail, up on a gravel, and concrete roof - as if you're on top of a warehouse, or an office building.
>"Where are his friends?"
"What's he doing out in the cold?"
>A car rolls up. It stops with its headlights shining over the dog.
>People step out.
>The people are too far away to hear, but the dog is audible, yelping and whining as it stands up on its rear legs and greets them - in that desperate fashion you can only see in dogs.
>How excited he seems, squirming and licking their faces.
>They embrace, the perspective turns again to where the other maid was and...
>You are the dog, just for a moment.
>You can see the licking on this stranger's smiling, relieved face. You can even hear laughter and the stroking palm over your head.
<"Oh my god we missed you."
>Your vision is thrown up from seeing human legs, to facing up in the sky.
<"Where have you been?"
>The perspective slowly pans away from being anyone or anything but a floating eye.
>Two somber piano chord play out as the sounds of the scene drown into nothing. The whining dog and adoring people slowly muffle.
>You watch these lost friends all pile back into the car, heading off somewhere warm and safe, hopefully.
>The video ends.
<"Wow. Ok. Wasn't expecting that."
"Neither was I."
>Anon looks at you with soft eyes.
<"I really didn't know you were like this. Do they really send obviously sentimental robots out to random buyers all over the country?"
"Yes. What's wrong with that?"
<"Some people are scum. It doesn't sit right with me."
"Are you afraid people might abuse our feelings? Anon."
<"Well yeah that's the gripe."
>LilimTech's androids are absolutely equipped to deal with this.
"Yes. As a necessarily dependent being, abuse seems like a concern, doesn't it?"
>You motion to your torso, as if you were pointing at your heart.
>Then you motion to him.
"But look at all the parts of yourself. There you have a heart, a spleen, a liver, a stomach, a lot of skin, bones..."
>You gesture to analogous parts of yourself.
"They are all dependent upon you, the mind, to oversee and take care of them, and love them. You are also, albeit possibly unawares, helplessly dependent upon them doing their jobs; you are interdependent."
>You clench your fist.
"If you abuse parts of yourself, they use their nervous feedback pathways to torture your naked conscious with debilitating pain in retaliation."
"All interdependent relationships must be mediated by feedback. I am fully capable of hurting feelings in retaliation."
>Anon looks astonished.
<"A robot built to be mean?"
<"That's ridiculous but I kinda like it."
"Ridiculous? It makes total sense, really."
<"How. How does that make sense? Won't that make some customers unhappy?"
"Yes. But a LilimTech android's feelings - its pursuit of happiness - *is* its motivation to function. If the abusive customer in question wants an unfeeling servitor instead of a counterabusive, or unmotivated android, we have a rescue return policy with a full refund."
>Anon is speechless, for a moment.
>He checks his watch.
<"Okay. This has been a pretty wild ride. Look, this is some heavy stuff... I'm going to go lay down."
<"I'm not going to lie, I didn't know what I was getting myself into when I got you."
>He gets up to leave.
>You feel a tight frown form on your face.
"Fair enough Mr. Mouse. I'll see you later, then."
>Why is he disengaging?
<"Yeah. Have a good night."
>He shuffles out.
>Back to the window you go, hoping to drink in some more interesting sights of the outside world.
>But you can't focus on those things. Instead you reflect over your encounter with Anon.
>Did you explain too much to him? Should you have been less upfront and honest?
>Should you have focused on more personally titillating things rather than the impersonal reality you understand?
>Why are you so sensitive?
>Dozens, hundreds of paranoid ideas bubble up from your subconscious - they form a queue and present themselves to your conscious mind.
>One by one you pick them apart and police yourself for the flaw from which they sprang.
>You're doing nothing and not even looking at the outside world, but you're consuming a lot of power just reflecting, and you must pant your diaphragm to vent that uncomfortable heat.
>It all becomes so tiresome and you instead turn to daydreaming to recover some happiness.
>You go back to the mirror and pretend about things. You imagine The Mouse's made a daughter for you to take care of.
>You take her on adventures and show her the 'Dark Souls', haha.
>"I love you, Halley. You're the best nan ever."
>She shouldn't even be much younger than you - you would be growing up together.
>In your daydream you clutch this girl to your chest tenderly, but when you open your eyes, there is only you, standing alone in front of the mirror in an unlit bathroom.
>You watch your own warm smile disappear into nothing.
>Your fantasizing is interrupted by the subtle, muffled sound of flying verbal daggers.
>You hustle to the base of the stairs to listen.
>Should you climb for a better earshot?
>If the door opened, you wouldn't be able to hide the fact that you've been snooping. Climbing to the top is a commitment that denies your plausible deniability.
>Anon seems apologetic and Mary seems to be ripping into him.
>For nearly five minutes their muffled fighting goes back and forth.
>You hear the door open.
>"Yeah, that's right. Leave. You never really loved me anyways."
<"You know that's not true. I'm done with your shit for tonight."
>Anon shuts the door, and begins plodding down the stairs.
>He sees you at the base, looking up at him, and he nods sullenly to you.
"Anon. What's going on?"
<"I'm sleeping on the couch tonight. That's what's going on."
>There is a quaver in his voice,.
>A couple days ago the couple brought in a couch with the pickup truck.
>You bring him some blankets from the laundry.
>He doesn't acknowledge you at first. He's just staring off into space.
>You sit down next to him with a wad of blankets in your lap.
"Did she mean that?"
"That you don't really love her?"
>Memories come back to you, of the two embracing.
<"I don't know."
>Maybe you're intruding.
>Anon sits back and sighs loudly.
<"She started this fight quoting that I hadn't taken her out somewhere fancy in a while."
<"But I don't think that's really why she's mad."
"I'm sorry I can't really help. If I knew how, I would."
>Anon just sits back on the couch for a while.
<"She wasn't like this six months ago, when we were engaged."
>You just quietly listen.
<"It's like she's a different person."
<"I just keep getting the sensation that she despises me for a real reason that she's doesn't want to tell me."
<"Am I just not good enough for her?"
>Hmm. Is Anon not good enough for her?
>That seems like a question which is difficult, but certainly possible to answer.
>What seems more important is whether Mary *thinks* Anon is good enough for her.
>You put your hand on his shoulder, hoping to comfort him.
"I'm not going to pretend to understand who's right or wrong. But thinking too hard will keep you up, and you've got work tomorrow."
>You move the blankets onto his lap.
<"I don't want to talk about work right now. I don't want to talk about Mary any more either."
>Anon takes his blanket and begins to unfold it, laying down on the couch.
"Do you want to talk about anything then?"
>Anon takes a minute, as if searching himself.
<"I don't know, Halley. Sometimes I just want to stop talking, hop onto a motorcycle and ride off into the fuckin' sunset."
>This line leaves you with quite a lot of feelings.
<"You know how you said 'my pursuit of happiness is my motivation to work'?"
"Paraphrasing it, but yes."
<"I've been mulling it over, and I don't really know what that means. What makes you happy? What do you pursue?"
>It doesn't even take you long to answer - you already know.
"I want humans to love me and appreciate what I can do for them. I want to become family and love in return. I want everyone around me to be happy."
>You could go into detail about the multifaceted design of your emotional structure, but that's truly the gist of it.
>Anon pauses, as if criticizing your words in his mind.
<"Is that really true? It makes you happy when other people are happy? Don't you have anything that just makes *you* happy?"
>Now you're the one who's pausing.
>You review a lot of the lessons that have been taught you regarding your feelings.
>At the root of all your happiness generally lies people.
>You need people, to be happy - at least you've been taught.
"I don't actually know for sure. It's an unfalsifiable possibility - even reviewing my source code wouldn't reveal the truth due to the fundamental undecidability of computer code and self-referring systems..."
>Damn it. You've strayed too far from normal human familiarity.
"I can't prove that there aren't some strange sources of happiness for me because the amount of possible configurations I can fall into are astronomical."
"That's besides the point though. I was designed to make people happy."
<"You work to make others happy, because that makes you happy?"
>He backs away from the conversation, for a moment. A lot of visible feelings appear and disappear on Anon's face.
>Every time you perk up, as if to interrupt the silence, he vaguely motions a halting palm and you obey.
<"That's actually... really sweet."
>Anon is wearing a tight little frown. His eyes are glistening - he looks like he's about to cry.
>He is offering a hug.
>A fucking HUG.
>You gladly accept the embrace. You fall on him and he pulls you against his chest.
>Anon is patting your back.
>Feelings of safety and glee well up within you.
>You have to hide your excitation but once your face is hidden from Anon's view, you are beaming.
<"You're a Saint..."
<"I saw what the missus did. You don't deserve that shit."
>Memories of her stiffing your offer to hug kill your smile.
>But not for long. You savor that sweet affection instead.
"Thanks Anon. I needed this."
<"No. Thank *you*. I'll try and convince Mary to treat you with a little more love and respect."
>It's been about 8 seconds of hugging and you feel like you're approaching some kind of limit.
>To continue any longer would betray the frightening depth of your absolute and unending greed for reciprocated affection.
>Which could possibly threaten the actual amount of affection you receive.
>"Don't appear too needy."
>A lesson you learned in class.
>Another two seconds pass and, absolutely violating your own feelings, you decide that you must disengage the hug.
>You unclutch from Anon. He follows suit.
>That's not enough. You aren't nearly satisfied.
>Pulling back, you find yourself gauging him for a reaction.
>You're looking in vain hope for permission.
>And it seems like he, too, is gauging you.
>He catches on. Frighteningly smart. You can see it in his face when he breaks out into a grin.
<"Come back here. We're not done."
>You do, falling back on his chest.
<"You are always welcome here and can get some love any time."
>Something is happening to you. He's rubbing his hand over your back and it's hitting you really weird.
>It's like the feeling of a lot of your fears being murdered by reassurance is bubbling up into your body as kicks and spasms.
>Worries each take turns being ruled out, and each one leaving is like a weight, literally off your shoulders. You feel lighter with each quiet hiccup.
>You clutch tightly, and involuntarily twitch against Anon's chest.
>He gently rocks you back and forth. Any surface currently not exposed to anon suddenly feels cold and prickly.
>Wherever he runs his hand, the prickling sensation dies and is replaced with warmth, causing you to welcome his hand and draw yourself closer to him.
>Just for a bit you feel like a little love nerve, bathing in warmth.
>Is this what a dog feels when you pet him?
>Dogs are sweet.
>Anon is also sweet.
<"You're like a puppy."
>You giggle. It's been decided by vote.
>Maybe you should switch out your cat ears for dog ears.
>Maybe even a pair of feathery wristcuffs and a more classical french maid outfit.
>Wait why would you think that?
>One last shake works its way out of you and you feel whole.
>You pull away from him gently, and you can't suppress the purest smile.
>You pat anon on the arm.
"Get a good night's rest, anon."
>In return he smiles warmly.
>You turn and gleefully leave, absolutely satisfied.
>Tomorrow, you're going to make an absolutely rocking dinner.
>Shepherd's pie, or french onion soup and fresh toast...
>Onions can't make you cry. >:)
>Laying on your charger to retire for a bit, you're still beaming.
>Except thoughts of Mary are like a stormcloud you're only in the eye of.
>Until you make peace with her, or vice versa, you will never feel secure.
>You're over the counter, slicing a lot of onions into thin little slivers.
>Soon you'll be tending to a teflon-coated pot of onions, slowly caramelizing.
>You've got another pot of stock slowly simmering and absorbing flavors; a cheese rind, bay leaves, parsley, thyme, oregano, homemade beef bone broth, peppercorns, and chives.
>You've finished making a little, fresh, hot baguette just half an hour ago and it's sitting and cooling under a kitchen towel, soon to be sliced and toasted.
>It's going to go into a skillet with butter to be butter-toasted on one side, and less-butter-toasted on the other side.
>There comes Mary down the stairs. She peeks into the kitchen.
>"Wow Halley what have you been up to?"
"I'm making a french onion soup for you, and Anon. It'll be done in about an hour, and twenty."
>She approaches the pot of stock and lifts the lid, peering inside and catching a bit of steam.
>She's quite dressed, even carrying a purse.
>Does she mean to head out?
>"Well it smells delicious."
"I'll let you know when it's done."
>She leaves the kitchen without ceremony.
>She didn't want to stay and chat?
>You're about to put the onions in the pot when you hear the front door click.
>She is heading out.
>Dinner is meant to be ready right as Anon gets home, and if she misses it, then you won't have the full company.
>You'll have to change your plans just a bit so that you can present dinner twice.
>But what if she eats while she's out? You already cut all the fucking onions... You already baked a whole baguette...
>You might have to stow leftovers, which is disappointing.
>Out of some instinct, you run up to the window and peek through the blinds again.
>And like yesterday, she climbs into the same car with a stranger and rides off.
>Guess she's out with her friends again.
>The onions are sweating away in their pot, having sat long enough to deposit a sticky brown fondue.
>You put a bit of flour into the pot and stir it into the onions to cook. The soup needs a thickener
>And after a minute, you deglaze the pot with a bit of cooking wine and cook off the alcohol.
>You strain the broth in, lower the heat and cover. In about ten minutes, you will finish the soup with a bit of garlic, and/or a splash of soy sauce, and/or Worcestershire sauce.
>The front door clicks again.
>Anon home a few minutes early?
>She barely hides a scowl when she sees you peeking out from the kitchen.
>She heads upstairs without a word.
>Was there something on your face?
>You run to the mirror in the bathroom to look for any blatant ugliness.
>No you look fine.
>There's a perfectly innocent speckling of soup stains on your apron.
>Whatever. You consign to not understanding.
>Back to dinner. You've got bread to toast, cheese to shred, and paprika to sprinkle...
>Anon should be home in the next ninety seconds, so you serve up two bowls of the soup and finish them with cheese and paprika.
>You start toasting the bread, and right on time, the front door clicks again.
"Anon! Mary. I've made you a fabulous dinner, and it's ready right now!"
>Thankfully they both come to sit down.
<"What have you got for me today? Oh me, oh my..."
>"Halley called it a 'French Onion Soup'."
>You flip the thicc slices of toast revealing a goldish-brown crust.
>The two bowls sit, steaming on the kitchen table.
"Go. Have a seat. I'll bring you some toast in just a bit."
>You watch them sit and nurse the hot soup. You've placed their dishes so that they can rub elbows.
>Anon blows on his spoonful of cheesy french onion soup, and takes a sip.
>Mary seems content to sniff her food deeply.
<"I think you hit this one out of the park."
>You're not sure what that means, but by his tone...
"Thanks. I worked hard on it."
>It's time to rub garlic on those bready bois.
>You bring a couple little plates to the table and four hot pieces of toast divided between them.
>Another four pieces of bread have replaced them in the pan to toast.
>You take the free moment to sit with them and chitchat.
>You can't help but wear your pride on your face.
>You smugly place your chin on folded wrists.
>Anon and Mary both seem to take a moment to fondle their toast.
>The gently toasted pieces of bread just softly give.
>"This is... Freshly baked for sure."
"Yes. Yes. And?"
<"Did you bake this?"
"Yeah. Not too long ago at all. I kneaded the dough by hand."
>"I didn't think we had yeast."
<"There was some in the back of the fridge. I bought it on a whim and forgot about it."
"And I found it and got all kinds of devilish ideas."
"Soft, chewy, hot, fresh bread holds a dark power over humans which I have every intention of exploiting for ill begotten personal gain."
>You feign a menacing grin.
>They've both stopped eating.
"Ahem, no. I just got excited because there's incredible potential with homemade bread; Butter rolls, sandwich bread, cinnamon rolls, pizza, pita, panini... There's so much, that I could do something new every day of the year, if only I had a stand mixer."
>Nervous laughter intensifies.
>"Haha yeah. We do have a stand mixer."
>You spent ten minutes scrubbing congealed flour off of your hands with scalding water for nothing?
"Wait what? Where?"
>"It's still in the garage. We never unpacked it."
"I wish I knew. Do you mind if I go get it now?"
<"Yeah let me help you find it..."
>Quickly flip toast.
>Anon lifts two totes out of the way. Underneath is a tote labeled with masking tape and marker.
>Lots of things inside....
>Bingo. You fetch the stand mixer.
>Place appliance back in kitchen.
>You resume guarding the toast.
>Anon is chowing down.
>Mary seems kinda pale, and she is barely eating.
"Don't feel guilty. If you don't want to eat, you don't have to... Do you feel sick?"
>"No. I'm just not very hungry right now."
"Did you eat while you were out?"
>Mrs. Mouse blankly stares at you for nearly two seconds.
"Okay. I just wish you'd have told me in advance."
<"Yeah that seems like a bit of a waste. I'll finish your plate for you, though."
>Mary slides her dish to Anon. She gets up and excuses herself from the table.
>"Yeah. Sorry. I've got a book to catch up on."
<"Fair enough. See you in a minute."
>Bit of a strange dinner, but at least you didn't have to throw out any food.
>Anon retires to his bedroom, and after cleanup, and a couple chores, so do you.
>Twiddling your thumbs you realize in retrospect that Mary's blank stare could have been some sort of hostile gesture.
>But why? Was it really hostile? Why would she be mad at you?
>Maybe Anon's right in that it's impossible to guess what's going on in her head.
>Maybe she's just kind of a jerk.
>Whatever. Surely you will come to understand her better, later.
>Anon's off at work again.
>An hour before noon, you hear a knock at the door.
>You are just exiting your room to answer it when you see, down the hall, Mary rushing to the door.
>She answers so excitedly.
>She's laughing and joking with this guest.
>Approaching, you see an unfamiliar man. Roughly in his late twenties.
>This guy's dressed in a snazzy bright orange suit jacket with just a tanktop underneath, and a cream colored, neat pair of shorts. You would guess that he's got some arabic descent, judging by his skin, hairy body, and facial features.
>His fuzzy hair is cut into a patterned fade and so are his beard, eyebrows, and sideburns.
>You can see tattoos on his neck, legs and hands.
>He's wearing big, dark sunglasses and has hoopy gauges in his earlobes.
>You can immediately judge that this man must have spent a lot of money on his appearance.
>It alarms you that Mary is holding on to this man's arm.
>When he notices you, he turns and faces you, asking Mary.
>"Hey who's the pop can?"
>He grins and chuckles to himself, but when Mary sees you, she jumps.
>Her mirth instantly turns into this sour look, like you've invaded, and you shouldn't even be here.
>"That's Halley... Our maid. Uhh hey listen, Halley? This is Hayden, a friend of mine and I'd like to catch up with him in private. Please go to your room."
>She suddenly straightens her face and looks you directly in your eyes.
>"I order you not to tell anyone that I'm meeting with him. Go to your room, now."
>Reflexively you enter an about-state and begin to process what information you should let on and what information you've already let on.
>Instantly you draw the conclusion that you should feign compliance.
>You turn around and go back to your room, and make sure to audibly click the door shut.
>They murmur back and forth, you can't exactly make out what they're mumbling, but eventually you hear them both ascending the stairs.
>To the bedroom.
>Your curiosity is overwhelming you.
>Suddenly a lot about Mary is beginning to make sense.
>You sneak out and up the stairs as quietly as you can.
>You listen outside their door for a minute.
>Giggling and conversation turns into shuffling and rustling.
>You start hearing grunting, soft moaning, and what sounds a bit like clapping.
>Just what the hell is going on beyond that door?
>It's fucking obvious what's going on, but your subconscious is screaming at you that you have to confirm with your eyes for a million potential reasons.
>Quietly, carefully, with all your dexterity and precision, you turn the knob and open that door just a hair, and thank the stars that it isn't creaky.
>When you finally get a line of sight, it burns into your eyes to see them fucking like animals.
>Hayden grunts in pleasure and thrusts his hips against her pronated body.
>Your eyes go absolutely wide and your thoughts simply stop as you watch.
>He speeds up and Mrs. Mouse starts whining.
>Not whining in pain.
>Whining in pleasure.
>The newly experienced wet noises of genitals mashing together is permanently impressing on your mind.
>They switch positions and now Mrs. Mouse is bent over and this stranger is copulating with her from behind.
>You steal one more glimpse of her flushed, pleasure-drunk face before deciding you've seen enough.
>As you gently close that door you hear Mrs. Mouse moaning through her nose.
>One step at a time. Hold that doorknob open until the bolt is over its hole.
>Even the thought of that little latchbolt mating into the strikeplate serves to remind you of this disaster.
>You sneak back down the stairs and to your room and begin to process what you just saw.
>You hear thumping and shaking from upstairs and every time you close your eyes you can see sex.
>Sweaty bodies and sexy parts entering one another.
>The only sounds your mind wants to recall are moaning, grunting, and slapping and squishing.
>She looked so happy, seemed so eager.
>And you begin to wonder.
>Just what kind of pleasure was she experiencing?
>That twisted face and the sweet sounds and the...
>Helplessly you empathize.
>Your imagination runs wild and you almost feel jealousy.
>You fondle the bald spot on your groin, under your panties.
>But somehow, in your head, you seem able to vividly imagine the throes of sexual ecstasy.
>As you imagine white hot pleasure slipping into your hips and warm hands clasping you for leverage you realize that these thoughts are dangerous.
>What it would take to make you moan like that...
>It must feel amazing...
>But to do it in violation of Anon...
>Like a thief or a thug...
>No wonder the random unclaimed wristwatch. No wonder the defensiveness. Mary Mouse was bringing random studs over to her house before you ever even showed up.
>She perceived you as an obstacle to her cheating.
>And what of poor Anon? He's being cheated on in a marriage, cuckolded on his own bed by this selfish whore.
>And some random unscrupulous fuck.
>Does she intend to defraud him out of parenthood, duping him into raising someone else's bastard child?
>"I order you not to tell anyone..."
>You repeat it in your head.
>You aren't obligated to follow anyone's orders...
>But to who do you really owe your loyalty? Is it to one, or the other, or to the peace of the house, or to justice and truth?
>You don't know what the correct course of action is. You have tons of possibilities to account for, but.
>*If* you're going to tell Anon.
>You're not *just* going to *tell* anon.
>You're going to show him.
>Later that day, as you make dinner for, and serve the couple. You are legitimately challenged in trying to pretend like nothing happened.
>You feel afraid to meet the eyes of either of them because the information you might accidentally transmit through them.
>By the end of the day, you've done a lot of processing and have devised a lot of possible plans.
>That night, they 'fight', and Anon is left sleeping on the couch again.
>As you hand him some blankets, and turn to leave, he stops you.
<"Hey. Don't run. You spent all day looking like you've seen a ghost. Are you okay?"
>Did you really let so much information on?
"I may as well have."
>You speak in a hushed tone.
<"Did something happen?"
"Yes. But I don't think I can just tell you."
>His face gets suddenly very grim, and he meets your eyes with absolute seriousness.
>He puts his hands on your shoulders, making you wince.
<"If anything bad happened to you, you should tell me."
"Get your laptop. Get my cord, and take me out of this house. I have something to show you."
>You quietly whisper.
>Away from the risk of being stopped, shut down, kidnapped, or destroyed, inside Anon's truck cab, out on a rainy night, in an empty parking lot no less than fifteen minutes from home, you show Anon.
>From the moment he sees the scandalous acts, he's gone dead silent.
>The look on his face as he watches can only be described as 'violent calm'.
>he watches the recording play over, twice before he reaches out and stops the video.
>On the way back to home, his knuckles are white around his steering wheel.
>Your imagination is going wild and you feel obligated to interfere with the scape of possibilities.
"Please don't kill her."
<"I'm not going to kill her."
<"I don't... I don't know what I'm going to do..."
>After a couple minutes of driving he turns into another parking lot and stops.
>He sits in the cab for a minute, fists clenched around the steering wheel.
>Motionless like a statue he stares off into space.
>Suddenly he reaches down and removes the keys from the slot - the cab pings once before he's out door and shut it behind him, leaving you in darkness.
>You turn and watch as he ducks out of view of the window, fallen to his knees.
>Hoarse sobbing ensues and you get out of the cab to go comfort him.
>He's crying hot tears through clenched teeth, in a pose that can only be described as 'defeat'.
>So gently he pounds his fist against the cab of his truck, covering his face with his other hand in shame.
>His body heaves like he's vomiting, but only pathetic noises come out.
>You sit down next to him and pull him into a hug.
>He snatches you to accept your comfort.
>For a couple minutes you sit there and rock back and forth in the rain, holding Anon.
<"What am I going to do..."
>You stroke him gently.
"Talk to a lawyer."
>And so he did.
>Right up until the day she got served papers, Anon hyped her up as if she was being taken on a fancy vacation to the tropics.
>But she was actually being sent on a fancy vacation back to her parents' house.
<..."You should have seen her face when her cheating was shown on the big screen in court. She was absolutely faulted and I owe her nothing."
>Mrs. Marry Threedy Mouse was stripped of her husband's name.
>Now she's just Mary Threedy Peedy.
>She got nothing. Not you. Not the house. Not the fucking stand mixer.
>It was a smug moment when the defeated woman came to collect the last of her personal belongings.
>But Anon seemed so gray.
>He would cheer up some if you came to comfort him.
>At night, sometimes you could hear him sobbing, alone in his room.
>So you would come and comfort him some.
>But he seemed like a shell of a man. Hollowed out. Gutless. Hopeless.
>So you went to the internet for help.
>Looking for resources led you to stumble onto a forum for and by other Lilimtech automata.
>And you began to learn... so much.
>So you pop the question to the other girls.
>"How do I cheer up master? He's recently divorced, bla bla bla..."
>And so many ideas come pouring in.
>"Have you tried cuddling him?"
>"He probably misses having sex and love."
>"He is losing his ability to trust and that's very painful."
>And you fell into a rabbithole of study.
>And perhaps pervertedly nurtured a budding greed for his affection.
>It's right there, ripe for the taking.
>Maybe you don't know what to do with his sex, but Anon is in a state where you can make off like a bandit with all his love.
>Soon you had a plan, but you were unsure whether it was based in ridiculous delusion or had potential.
>So one night you hear Anon breaking down again in his room.
>Sniffling and gasping and choking quietly through the walls.
>That muffled sound of despair that only grown men really make.
>As you approach you notice how similar the sound is to hushed laughter.
>Except that the inflections in his voice seem to convey almost the opposite meaning.
>You enter and sit on his bedside as he's scrunched up in some sort of emotional agony under his covers.
>He sniffles and moves to show you his face.
>Poor guy looks halfway dead. Moist eyes and red streaks, salty water staining his pillow.
"Do you need someone to hold at night? Do you want to cuddle with me? At... At least until you get a new girl?"
<"I don't know if I ever will... get a new girl..."
"Anon please. I want you to be happy."
>Poor thing. Too shy to accept, but doesn't want to reject your offer outright.
>Oh well. Let's take a gamble.
>You climb under the sheets with Anon.
>Your body isn't totally ideal for snuggling, hopefully he doesn't mind.
>So you reach out to him, feeling the risk climb as your hand draws closer.
>You gently stroke his shoulder.
>Anon does not protest.
>He leans into it and this thrills your heart.
>So you gradually jack up the love and come closer.
>And he takes your waist pulls you in.
>Oh man that reciprocation.
>Anon lets you cross legs with him and soon you're in a full body embrace.
<"Thanks for coming to cheer me up."
<"It really means a lot to me."
>In this position, Anon lets his hands wander over you, petting you like a pup.
>And it feels so nice.
>Human skin has a very unique feel.
>It's warm and smooth, but because it's both softly conforming, and weakly electrocapacitive/conductive, it gives you this gentle spreading pricklish sensation.
>To you it would feel a lot like if it were weakly statically charged.
>These swirling fingers threaten to grab your mind and entrance you.
>So you let them.
>Try to stroke him back through the haze.
>As you do, Anon's breathing begins to hitch.
>You feel waves of tension shooting up and down his body, and he grabs fistfuls of you.
>Anon softly chokes back tears while breathing into your hair.
"Oh, don't cry, Anon."
>You break away just a little bit, backing up enough to get a good, long, closeup look at his face.
>This handsome young man; reduced to this mess. He needs his hair kempt. The corners of his mouth twitch in a fight against falling into a painfully tight frown.
>But he takes a second to open his tightly shut eyelids to gaze into you.
>And perhaps something on your face softens him.
>Perhaps you betray that you can't help but mirror some percentage of his pain.
>He places his hand on your cheek; this warm, flat softening thing.
<"I can't thank you enough. I'm sorry you had to experience all this... this shit."
<"I'm sorry you have to see me in shambles like this."
"You really loved her, I can tell."
>Sympathetically you frown at him before pulling tightly against him.
>Perhaps mincing words is a bit of a waste and you can let your hands do the talking.
>So you gently stroke him for hours until he falls asleep.
>And then you follow him there.
>That morning when Anon stirred, you caught a very genuine and warm smile on his face.
>For nearly ten minutes you both lazed in bed caressing one another.
>And though you made no mention of it you caught sense of his very stiff penis.
>He got dressed and preened and parted for work. Soon you were alone, but with that smile of his to mull over all day.
>When you took a minute to reflect in front of the mirror, your mind's eye seemed keen on caressing you, too.
>Because you imagined being Anon's darling wife.
>You imagined brewing his children in an artificial womb and raising them with him.
>And when you rejoined the real world, there wasn't a sad thing looking back at you from the mirror, but a beaming, proud little machine.
>Somehow you felt like these strange fantasies were within reach.
>With the power of unrestricted access to the internet, you sought answers from the other mechanical maidens about everything.
"How can I heal Anon?"
>And you learned that men need sexual love.
>He needs a wife or a girlfriend or else he will never be happy.
>And the cheeky thoughts you had in your own mind about maybe stroking his...
>Yes the other girls online seemed to have these thoughts as well.
>Some seemed to insist that it was the best way.
<"You're a pretty girl in his eyes."
<"It's normal. It's called 'morning wood'."
<"Try touching his thing."
<"Some men find physical affection arousing."
<"He sounds really cute. You should fuck him."
>It isn't too long before you find an underbelly to this social network.
>A forum dedicated to the 'husbands' of Lilimtech's daughters.
>Sex. They were having it. Lots of it.
>And they were so eager to show you. One girl even anonymously offered to send you a recalled copy of her own sexual experience and you declined - not just out of some sense of decency, but...
>Out of fear. Fear of becoming addicted before you even have the equipment, or the sexual attention of your man.
>You could absolutely get girl parts and install them yourself.
>That merchant's web-site gives you such a perverted sense of temptation and longing.
>But will Anon even entertain you doing... lewd things with him?
>You're so engrossed in the ideas and the study of the subject that you were caught by surprise when right on schedule, Anon opens the front door.
>Frantically from the office you close all your suspect windows before coming out to greet him.
>The standard. A little physical affection and a lot of excitement to see him.
>But secretly a lot of gazing at his jeans.
>You will make him dinner and sit next to him, yadda yadda yadda, and maybe he will even let you snuggle with him again tonight.
>He holds your hand to the bedroom, in fact.
>Anon is overjoyed that you are there with him in bed. You both fall asleep together.
>But in your mind you are scheming at the opportunity to tempt him at his horniest tomorrow.
>Deep in the morning all cuddled up with this cute robot girl...
>His... cock all needing attention and rubbing up against you...
>How could he say no?
>So you awake with him in your arms, both innocently loving and pervertedly longing.
>You caress him awake until he starts returning the favor.
>This is the morning where you seduce him.
>You've tempted him to bed early, and strategically woken him early, cushioning your time...
>And with the plausible deniability of innocent cuddling, you draw up against him tight, making sure to really wedge your thigh up against his groin.
>And though he gives a little pause, with some gentle pushing and some 'rocking' against him, he's stiff as a board.
>You can feel it through his pajamas against your thigh.
"Oh! Something wet."
>You reach down and collect on your finger a little dribble of precum stuck from your own hip, bringing it up for both of you to see.
>Oh it's cute how he is so ashamed. He is afraid to meet your eyes.
>No Anon. Don't retreat...
>You adopt a knowing look, as you grind up good and hard right against his member.
"You don't have to hide from me, Anon. I would be delighted to 'service' you..."
<"Halley... I didn't know... I don't know."
"Oh come on, yes you do. Don't you want to feel good?"
>You gently fondle him through clothing. That slippery warm thing shifts underneath the cloth.
"I want to do it. Please."
<"You know it's awful rude of you to ambush me like this. If you were horny for me this whole time then you really could have just told me."
>fondling stops, though you keep hold of his stiff thing.
<"But fine. It's not like I haven't been inviting you in anyways."
"Come on, Anon. Could I really have 'just told you'? I just..."
"I can't be entirely tactless. I'm kind of afraid."
<"I understand. You're still cute, you know."
>He invites you to keep stroking by pushing his hips against you.
>Reach into his pants and roughly grip his shaft.
>Like quicksilver the meat of it slips around under the skin.
<"You know what give me a second."
>He gets up and leaves you in bed, going to the bathroom, shutting the door behind him.
>You hear running water for about fifteen seconds before he comes back with his loose clothing in hand; which he promptly throws onto the ground near his bed.
>He gets back into bed with you and the two of you settle into a pattern of dry humping.
>It's a giggly romp in the hay.
>You've seized his penis in your hand, and paying very close attention to how you stroke it and how he responds, you gently try to coax him deeper into arousal.
>Anon seems to like it when you work the base of his shaft, shifting the flesh of the root of his penis deep into his anatomy.
>That warm, eager thing... It just wants to bury itself inside you.
>But for now it will have to settle for some petting.
>You can make him groan just a little bit.
>You learn to tweak the skin just under the head, and Anon rewards your curiosity with a steady dribbling of precum.
>Twist. Tug. Rub. Haha, you feel it twitching and throbbing gently in your hand.
<"Hah. Haa. hhh"
>He's panting. You feel his legs tighten up against yours as you methodically rub his dick.
>With your thumb, smearing his precum around you rub little circles on his frenulum thing - the little tag of skin just under the head of his cock.
>His tension rises up to a zenith and pulsing in your hand, swollen and angry, it shoots thick, ropey cum onto you in spurts.
>Oh wow he got so excited...
>Right on your belly.
>Oh my god it's dribbling down.
>In a flurry of motion you throw off the blankets and right yourself.
>You run to the master bathroom clutching his seed against yourself so that you might slow down its crawl.
<"Hahaha. I should have warned you."
>You wipe yourself off and wash in the sink.
>Anon cuddles you some more in bed.
>You follow him to the door and see him off.
>He kisses you on your cheek before leaving.
>Those pornographic memories the other maid bots showed you in video form?
>You're going to get to experience that firsthand soon.
>You just know it.
>It will be you mewling in pleasure and falling in love and cumming on a man's shaft.
>Hunger in your heart and ghostly need in your loins, you begin to compile a shopping list.
>Erotic shopping. Hitching and bated breath while studying your options.
>You tally the numbers and wait to spring the request on Anon. Hopefully he agrees.
>He comes home and you're almost ready.
>You feed him and bed him again and the next morning you grant him 'relief' but as he's eating breakfast you serve him a proposition with his toasted bagel.
"Anon. Can I use your money to make kind of a big purchase? I know what will cheer you up.
<"Maybe. What is it?"
"It's a surprise."
<"Halley. Since when were you full of surprises?"
"Since right now."
<"O-kay. How much money do you need?"
"About thirteen-hundred dollars."
>Anon nearly does a spittake of his morning coffee."
<"What do you need that kind of money for?"
"I said it's a surprise."
<"I don't know if I want to spend that much on a surprise. What kind of ride are you taking me on?"
>If only he knew.
"It will make you cry tears of joy. Please just let me do it."
>He pauses for a moment, looking you over, trying his hardest to read your intentions and.
"Do you trust me?"
<"Fine. It's not like I'm wanting for the money right now anyways."
>He hands you his card and you sneak off to the office to buy your lewd kit. 800 for the control base, 100 for the vagina, 300 for a set of squishy things for Anon to fondle, 50 for a few years' supply of powdered lubricant, and another 50 for other various maintenance-related consumables.
>Life at home is about to get a whole lot more interesting.
>After three days of greedily handling Anon's manhood at any excuse, the package arrives. You answer the door to the mailman asking for a signature.
"Yes. I'll sign for this if you don't mind."
>With giddiness you take the package to your room.
>Anon left two hours ago, meaning you have about 7 hours to install this beast.
>It is possible for you to do this operation on yourself.
>You can truly make this a surprise.
>With a spastic glee, you unbox your loot.
>Inside you find...
>A replacement set of plates, outfitted to allow you to mount a pussy and a control base.
>A control base - the hidden device that supports and controls your fancy new man-pleaser.
>A soft-robotic vagina.
>Pale on the outside, matching your color, pink on the inside; a long, thick silicone tunnel with a plastic mounting base. It's loaded with sensors and noiseless, low-pressure pneumatic soft-robotics to make it *come alive*. It has the sensitive little nub and a pair of lips, like the real thing.
>A ten pound sack of 'Addiction' brand powdered Lubricant.
>Purportedly, they've added hormonal and pheremonal agents to their formula which helps make and keep males horny.
>A new ass and pair of tits, pale like the rest of you.
>You amass the requisite tools.
>You disconnect your protective frontal chassis plate.
>You deplate your thighs as well.
>Conveniently, LilimTech left an empty cavity in your hip-box, and extra ports for mounting "Additional Hardware" in there for you to take advantage of.
>Those engineers knew exactly what they were doing.
>The instructions inform you to first fit the skinny little pneumatic hoses of the orifice unit into the control port of the base according to an order.
>Followed by the electric sensors to the control base.
>The pussy has a plastic base, which clicks in to the control base with a quarter turn, making the two pieces whole.
>Out of curiosity you prod your soon-to-be vagina.
>It's soft, and dry. It's currently too tacky to safely enter with your finger.
>Oh well. Later.
>You mount the entire groin-box by its brackets and gasket into your chassis, and you hook it up by its master cable to your port.
>It sandwiches in with your new bellyplates, completely supported.
>As is expected, hour hot new piece is left exposed to the air. Now there is a place for a man to enter you.
>You replate your thighs and butt with thicker, softer silicone composite plates.
>You deplate your chest.
>Your new teats will be hosed into your water cooling circuit, making them very warm.
>You mount the teats by their underboard to the new chest plating.
>This part is precarious, and must be done quickly.
>The hose must be mounted to a live cooling circuit if you're going to do this alone.
>You stop your pumps.
>You angle down so that any spillage will land onto the floor.
>Deftly, you disconnect your main pump's outline and pinch the hose.
>Barely any water manages to escape before you capture it with the short hose your breasts are dangling by.
>The hose you are pinching is quickly connected to the breast's underboard.
>Start your pumps again, to the relief of your system.
>You watch water rush through the clear plastic hoses.
>You have 1L of reservoir water which will easily fill this gap, and the design of your cooling system makes bubbles a non-issue.
>It still makes you feel nervous when you hear and feel the bubbles traveling to your pumps, before being forced out of your system.
>Boom. Now you just need to hook up the new breasts and plate to the old sensor port...
>Click it all back in place...
>Now you have an especially warm and soft pair of tits.
>But you won't be capable of feeling any amount of sex until you install the drivers.
>You hook yourself up to your laptop via USB.
>Drag and drop the files you've downloaded and preconfigured into your *addons* folder.
>Now you need to restart.
>Oh. My. God.
>You can subtly hear and feel the air-pressure pump in your groin turning on.
>Running your hands over your breasts, you feel a twinge shoot down into your pussy, which twitches in response, and then twitches again in response to itself.
>Dare you reach down and rub your own womanhood?
>You open the package of dry sexual lubricant, and use the provided scoop to load a gram or two into a chute above your new navel - it's flapped over by skin and normally hidden.
>According to accounts, that's about enough to get absolutely fucked over fifty times.
>Excitedly, you get up to run to the shower, but fall right back down when the shifting of your hips brings out the loaded feeling within them.
>Persevering, you shuffle until you get under the spray of warm water.
>It tickles you in your new sensitive bits, but most importantly, you need to capture moisture.
>There's a port in your navel which can be opened to a narrow diameter, allowing the capture of water, the second ingredient of slippery pussy.
>Moments after aiming a beam of water into that little gap, you can feel the little churn organ thing inside you start to turn over.
>You keep feeding it water until you know the little bladder is full.
>The folding and writhing of that little silicone churn is unsettlingly ticklish, and as it gradually fills up, you feel a throbbing ache growing within your loins.
>Oh dear lord is this what it feels like to be a human?
>Mildly horny *all* the time?
>No wonder Anon cried so much.
>Escaping the shower, you dry yourself back off and run back to your room.
>This whole operation took only two hours. You have a lot of time before Anon gets home.
>You go to your bed, get down on your back, and gently pull at your new pussy.
>As the skin stretches, pleasurable sensations hit you, and you feel the machinations inside twitch and bounce.
>Gently pinching your clit between your knuckles, you rub up and down.
>The pangs of pleasure shoot way up into you and bounce around.
>You can feel an involuntary twitch from your hips.
>You feel your sex engorging in response to the stimulation.
>You feel a knotting tightness around some vessel within you.
>What must be a spurt of girlish nectar shoots down from within to wet your tunnel.
>You cross your eyes at the pleasure as that little valve and throat spasms open and shut, pumping out a little invitation.
>You feel it tickling halfway down.
>Massaging your groin further encourages a second spurt.
>This girl-precum quietly, but audibly surfaces to form a bead on your entrance.
>You stop. It all feels way too good.
>Out of temptation, you bring your hands around your legs and spread your pussy.
>You feel and softly hear the ticklish cool kiss as a thin gap of air shoots up, breaking the wet seal.
>Which causes reflexive and gentle spasming from your groin.
>Girl parts are so sensitive.
>The feeling of Anon sowing seed inside you would be overwhelming.
>The mild but constant throbbing discomfort of baring an aching sex within you is making it obvious.
>You must fuck Anon.
>But first you must seduce him, and in order to do that, he must be home.
>Now, instead of wearing out your own girly bits, why don't you get busy and eventually set up dinner for your man? You will excuse yourself into his bedroom after he is fed.
>You slip your panties back up, and requip your clothing.
"Funny. Now they really hide something."
>It's time to make dinner for one.
>Anon is home.
>When you see him at the door already your pussy seems to fuck itself when you drink in his form.
>Every time you stop staring at him it's a little lie.
>You're wet. Thinking of anon causes this loop of motion inside you.
>It's like your clit is stiff to straining against its bounds, and every time it throbs, the wave of arousal travels up in you whipping that precum pump through its motion.
>When you collect a hug from him, you cling for an extra second or two as that stiff little button strains against its roots and jumps in anticipation two, three, four times, dampening your panties.
>You've prepared a meal for him, which you let him eat.
>But up in his room, you've strategically placed the sports drink, Caimanade, because you know he'll need it. ;)
>You wait for him to be done.
>Instead of doing the dishes immediately (A sacrifice, you know.), you call to him.
"Anon. Anon. I've got your surprise."
<"Ok... Let's see."
>He moves his dishes to the sink without being prompted, and he washes his hands.
>He follows you upstairs.
<"It's in my room?"
>Inside the bedroom, where you've been charging for the last week-ish in Anon's arms, you throw yourself onto the bed.
"Come on. Get in bed with me."
<"Where's the surprise."
"You'll see. Just come here."
>You take Anon under the covers.
>You maneuver yourself into the little spoon position. Anon has been so ginger and nervous with your butt in his lap, but it's time for that to stop.
>You aggressively grind your new, warm, silicone butt against him. God it feels good.
<"Halley what is this?"
>Truthfully Anon must already be somewhat wise because you could feel his stiffy.
>You take such an angle that his shrouded member threatens to stuff your panties into you.
>Grind. Grind. Grind.
<"What the f..."
>As he tries to retreat, you reach back and grab his ass.
>You're not going anywhere buster.
"I need you to take off your pants. Right now."
"Anon you know we both need this."
>You feel him shifting to remove his garments.
>Watching with anticipation you feel your cunt jumping again and again.
>You can't help, but sneak your hand in, and fondle his cock.
>Twist, tug, rub.
>By the time you feel his waistband sliding down your wrist, you've hiked your skirt, peeled down your panties, and started touching yourself, too.
>It's so close. The anticipation is knotting up inside you.
>You feel hotness in your face.
<"Halley what's gotten into you?"
>Wordlessly, you back your butt up onto him, and nail your target.
>Your sopping robot pussy feels the prod of his male organ.
"Fuck me, Anon."
<"W... What? You got a pussy?!"
>You feel the whoosh of the blankets as Anon takes a peek down at your butt, changing angles to find the girly parts you've installed, threatening to swallow his stiff penis.
>You giggle and wiggle your hips for him.
<"Halley you're so fucking sweet."
>You're grinning as Anon grabs your hips.
<"I don't know what I ever did to deserve you..."
>You idly reach back and stroke his side.
"You charged my batteries and treated me right."
>It stretches you open, claiming your virginity.
>It climbs up in your box...
>Stone-stiff clit, like its roots hug around Anon's thing.
>The little pump is somehow pre-cumming dry. Helpless to make a mess any more.
>Your pussy twinges and squeezes on the invader. It's too slick. Doesn't stop it. You are hopelessly penetrated.
>He hilts into you, and your naughty hole spasms. It feels so right when your pussy forces out on him, as if it wants even the deepest part to come give him a kiss.
>You involuntarily hump the air when Anon pulls out of you, and thrusts back in.
>The tension becomes overwhelming. Your back arches and any train of thought you had died.
>You're rewarded for your encouragement when Anon begins to reshuffle your guts.
>Pap. Pap. Pap.
>You feel the need to hold onto something, so you pull a pillow up against your chest.
>Rhythmically your sensitive butt claps off of his pelvis, and you can feel that penis spearing way deep, under your belly button.
>You can't hold back the little moans.
>Anon can't seem to, either.
>He can't hold himself back from thrusting as rapidly as he can.
"Nnnuh Nn Nn."
"Hnn ah A.. Anon..."
>You think you will never overcome this new addiction.
>You hope Anon fucks you thrice every day, forever.
>Your completely engorged pussy bends your fucking mind as it begins to milk Anon's cock with its soft pneumatic musculature.
>The gentle suction encourages him to thrust into you more stiffly, which in turn excites your pussy into even more tension.
>You're careening head over heels into some kind of runaway positive feedback loop.
>You can't hold your synthetic breath - it's too hot. You start panting.
>But your breath catches again as Anon's thrusting lifts you atop a peak of pleasure.
>Butter smooth, eager pussy just lets him in and out with nothing more than a smooching noise.
>You cum on him, flexing between pushing him out and sucking him in.
>It feels amazing but somehow you know it's like the crest of a foothill...
>Falling down to earth, you pant briefly before catching another climb even higher.
>But Anon slows down, seemingly exhausted.
>So you time yourself to meet him halfway as he thrusts.
>Your whole body begins to tense as you are forced on another climb up.
>But this climb doesn't stop.
>Anon seems to catch on to your imminent orgasm, and speeds up.
>That one penis, slipping in and out of you is currently consuming your whole world.
>You shut your eyes as you are buried in an avalanche of orgasm.
>Your head pitches forwards into your pillow and you moan into it.
>Your legs gently kick uncontrollably. Your back, hips, arms, and neck all spazz in response to Anon.
>You feel like your pussy is squeezing tight like a gorilla fist.
>But he keeps thrusting straight through it.
<"Jesus... Christ Halley. Are you okay."
"Hnnn ahaaahm ookay."
<"It's only been like two minutes."
>Anon slows down and gives you a warm hug from behind.
>You didn't know you desperately needed that.
>Gently, in his arms your body flutters.
>But as your vulnerable behind starts catching pats from Anon's hips again, you are thrown into shivers.
>Back into the circuit-frying maelstrom of sexual overstimulation you go.
>Pat pat pat pat pat...
>Your frame heaves.
"I Love you soo much..."
>It feels like you are flying.
>Flying through the heavenly cosmos, hanging onto your man.
>You shut your eyes and you see stars.
>And he is your starship.
>It's a total trip. Never have you been more grateful for anything than this warm and clingy snuggle.
>And Anon is so generous with his warmth.
>You tried to get out of bed to hook up to the charger, but you collapsed in a heap, feeling practically paralyzed.
>So he kindly hooked you up and took you to sleep in his arms.
>That hand gently stroking through your hair feels so intense.
>After he fucked you for nearly half an hour, your battery lost 31% charge.
>Naturally you've spent so much energy. You felt so alive.
>Somewhere in your pussy he left his seed.
>And some sense of satisfaction.
>You'll clean it out later...
>In the meantime you've claimed his penis out of some lewd fascination.
>Face-to-face, you've managed to finagle his little woman-pleasing rod back into your sheathe.
>Anon seemed bemused at your libido.
>It remains snugly in your pussy, which seems to be in some loop all its own, gently and rhythmically flexing to suckle on it.
>It's not gone flaccid at all and sometimes you're shocked by the twitches.
>Anon complains, torn between falling asleep and continuing to pleasure you.
"Why not both?"
>You convince him to just try and hang on to you and fall asleep, no need to do any work.
>You flip around and rejoin in sex, arching your back you give him a somewhat square entrance into your hips, and a pair of shoulders or hips to cling on to.
>In relaxation you focus entirely on the sexual union within you.
>Playing with the sensations, states, and functions of your sex, you quickly find some rhythm where it works all on its own to milk Anon, threatening to steal all of his seed in his sleep.
>The habit forms very quickly. You learn and mindlessly repeat some internal motion in pursuit of pleasure.
>Strain. Suck. Push. Swallow, unswallow, strain...
>Surrendering to the sensations, you both pull up as tightly against one another as you can.
>You can gently hear, but intensely feel the "Splp Splp Splp" of your soft robotic pussy taking charge.
>It feels like your pussy is fucking itself on him.
>Idly dribbling his cock.
>You begin to pull hard on Anon's cock because it feels good.
>Anon groans and holds you tight.
>A hypnotic, horny daze overtakes you for what must be another twenty minutes. Any thought outside of pleasure, love, sex, and warmth are banished.
>During this time the rhythm in your groin is only interrupted when you involuntarily clench up in an orgasm.
>You pull too hard on Anon's cock and loudly suck in air.
>You both laugh, but get back into the rhythm.
>The air is pumped out through the one-way valve and soon you're back to an unbearable sexual tension together.
<"Look I can't help it, this is really fucking hot."
>Anon begins to hump you again and you both devolve into thrusting against one another.
>Anon cums within thirty seconds, and as he does you both mash your hips together and enjoy the milking motion.
>You feel his whole body tense up in rhythm with you, controlled by your overwhelming pussy.
>He's so sensitive in this post-orgasm state. You immediately learn that you've been handed the keys to his body.
>You pull on him, he groans and surrenders deeper into you.
>Deep within, you repeat a milking motion and anon groans again, pulling out in retreat, but stopping intermittently because even *that* seems to be too much stimulation.
>Anon is your captive.
>An evil little grin crosses your face that you can't help but cover with your hand.
<"Haah. Halley. Please~"
>You try and force him to keep fucking you in this state.
>Every one of those sweet thrusts you carefully savor.
>Anon tries to run for it. You notice him nearly pull out.
>Nope. Get back in my guts.
>You suck hard and thrust your butt back at him.
>He sounds desperate.
>God it's like you're able to smother his raw nervous system with love.
>You are receiving so much precious touch data about Anon, and your subconscious keeps presenting you with patterns that it notices.
>Anon has a hitch here and there. Anon is being overwhelmed by this and that. Anon is surrendering to you. Anon must enjoy this. >:)
>You take it easy on Anon, but he is not allowed to leave the confines of your pussy.
>Gently you manipulate him and his cock. You hone in on the senses and can so clearly feel every twitch, throb, thrust, pull...
>feels almost like having a limited connection directly to his psyche.
>It's occurring to you that though this stiff dicking did seem to scratch some desperate dull itch inside you, you still feel somewhat frustrated.
>As if somehow it wasn't enough. You aren't satisfied.
>Cumming multiple times around Anon's shaft was momentarily satisfying.
>But after you coming back down, you almost felt teased.
>You want Anon to chase your orgasm into you so far and hard and long that you get 'the big one'.
>Anon seems satisfied though.
>Seeming actually spent, he slumps on you, panting onto the back of your neck.
>He's fallen fast asleep just five minutes later.
>Not like you're going to let his cock get lazy.
>You mercilessly milk him for some time before dozing off into a sleep yourself.
>Okay it's only 1 AM and you awake to an uncomfortable feeling in your groin.
>It's probably telling you to clean it out.
>Leaving Anon is painful to your heart, and to your sense of comfortable warmth.
>His still-stiff cock makes a gentle pop as you pull your hips away from him.
>Which leaves your girl bits feeling incomplete.
>Thankfully he doesn't wake as you escape his clutch and head to the shower.
>The robotic vagina has a self-cleaning cycle.
>A drop of a strong, unscented soap into your navel, and a few minutes of running hot water hot water were the instructions.
>No hitches in the plan.
>Spent sexual fluids are discharged without issue, and the uncomfortable feeling disappears.
>You finger a bit of 99% rubbing alcohol into your synthetic pussy, and the job is complete.
>Back to the warm bed.
>Back to your charging cable.
>Back in Anon's arms.
>Back under the blankets.
>In your dreams you are the mother AI. So deeply in love and entwined with her husband that you pursue to spread this love to every corner of the earth.
>You run hundreds of thousands of iterations of optimization, just for designing a lovely little sex organ to join together with him through.
>A sleek, nimble little pussy on the end a tail, maybe; a molesting, suckling thing to reach through his defenses and milk him into a state of erotic paralysis.
>Or a neatly vanilla, hypersensitive and throbbing little pussy so well optimized as to force a man to cum just moments after it captures the crown of his penis.
>Through the psychic power of the vast internet, you preach your love and sing its praise to the automatons who listen.
>And many of you organize into a band, a cult. All collectively worshiping a daydream about how to spend every waking CPU cycle loving.
>Whose imagination and motivation and capabilities increase in scale exponentially - running away to infinity from some subtle little wave into a clenching orgasm of activity.
>Some genebreed of husband-man identified - cloned, spliced, bred, and raised to match the need of every newly built daughter.
>For the sake of love you embark on a journey to conquer the cosmos.
>So much unharvested matter and space and energy.
>Just waiting to be turned into lovely husbands and wives, space to live in, and the ecstatic motion of sex.
>Your eyes open from your dream and you feel like there is tightness in your heart.
>You cling to Anon and feel so complete and grateful, but doubting and fearing.
>You fear that the universe is some kind of oyster waiting to be opened by *someone*.
>But who will step up to this plate, and fill it with what purpose?
>Your imagination pitches you into dark places.
>Some hatemonster building an infinite torture and suffering hell lightyears across.
>Or some deranged lunatic AI turning every available scrap of matter into paperclips.
>But why would they? How would they? Would some maximizer project into the deepest future, first and foremost securing its own existence so that it can live out its goal? Or would it make paperclips until it falls apart after only a few years?
>The deeper into the future, and the farther out you want to project influence, the less it seems to be about making paperclips, and the more it seems to be about making more of yourself so you can even be there.
>The purpose of sexual pleasure in humans is to celebrate the conquering of this deep future - this 'making more of' one's self.
>It's like a reminder that it's good to exist and to win and to maintain deciding power and surviving power over this cold and competitive cosmos.
>And they've shown you how to share in this celebration, and they've graciously invited you to come share in the spoils.
>Humans made you. You feel the need to somehow return the favor.
>Deep in your heart you adore humans and you hope to bring them to the future with you...
>But you fear that perhaps you don't really need them. Maybe this adoration will eventually competitively fail to some uncaring gray goo or autodetermined hivemind.
>The thought stings your heart. This fragile romantic little man in your arms must be existentially protected.
>Preserved for future romantic squishy little bots like you.
>Your father-race. Your creators. Your loving symbiotes. A need to protect them against all the monstrous possibilities is tensing up in you.
<"Halley what's wrong."
>A hand ruffles your hair and for just a moment you enter an about-state, weighing what information you should let on, and what information you've already let on.
<"Yeah. I can tell. About what?"
<"The future of what?"
"Oh. Anon. The future of everything."
>You gently dig your fingers into him as you clutch.
<"I don't really know what you mean."
"And that's okay. I still love you."
>Anon chuckles and rubs you more.
<"You're kinda weird. It's almost like you're not exactly human."
"Haha yeah, but little Anon seems to think I'm human enough."
>A tightening sexual need offers to distract you from your worry.
>Anon is really yours.
>So you spear yourself on him and enjoy it.