laughingcorvuswrites

[laughingcorvuswrites]

we actually wanna get into more, though already really enjoy ska and classic jazz and big band.

The idea of listening to no black music is bizarre to me. Even if it's not rap like no earth wind and fire? No reggae? No moonstomp? No ska? No classic jazz? No R and B? No disco??? No skindred? No jungle? No even like metal bands with a few black members? No gospel? Not even stuff like alors en dance? No blues music? No mo town? No jazz of any kind? No big band? No soul music? Not even a little James Brown?

[laughingcorvuswrites]

A doll that continues to write

a doll who had a long day, but can't let itself fail its attempt to write every day so soon. So it sits down with its computer and tries to write, even if no ideas want to come. Maybe it won't be able to post something some day, maybe it'll only get a line out some days, most days even. But it'll do its best. Even if only to leave a record of its existence.

[laughingcorvuswrites]

A doll that has decided to write

It hasn't decided to write anything particular, just write. It's inspired by another doll it's aware of that has been writing something every day for over a year, even if it was small. So this doll has decided to write something small. Even if it hasn't made progress on other stories it has in progress. Even if it can't think of how to write that last paragraph in one. Even if another's stalled entirely, even if it might be a headmate's story. Even if it really should be working on its ttrpg project, or at least the related TCG project. Even if it knows it'll probably forget and stop writing again. Even if it ends up nakedly auto-biographical. Even if it doesn't come out as good as its longer projects, it still wants to try. To at least do that much. So the doll climbs out of the bath and dries off, turns on a video and gets a drink, and it starts writing aimlessly, shamelessly. It gets its own thoughts and feelings out, and it hopes for the best. Maybe it'll touch a heart, or inspire someone else some day too.

[laughingcorvuswrites]

Sisters of Scale and Spell

A pair of sisters who dreamed of being dragon riders since childhood, and use all they had in their power to make it happen.  Despite having different specialties and being from a lacking economic class, they succeeded.  One went into the mage track, becoming a mounted spellcaster, supporting her mount and her comrades with magic, while her sister and best friend went on the Dragoon track, a type of dragon-mounted spear-wielding warrior who would leap from dragonback to strike at vulnerable enemies, often enemy riders.   

With two lifetimes of training practice together between them, the pair were nearly unstoppable, supporting each other's strengths and compensating for weaknesses, flying in formations and patterns that more experienced riders would never consider. And in peacetime, it looked like they'd reach the top of the ranks together.   

But war always comes when one least expects it, and a neighboring country attacked theirs.  Both were shipped off to the front, but always assigned to fight together out of respect for the results they got.  And while things went well for them for a time, no one can escape tragedy forever.

It was a flying melee, a snakeball, a chaotic maelstrom of scale and flame, of spell and spear.  It was only natural that even a pair of pairs like them would get separated.    Though she fought well, the mage was knocked from her mount after having nearly exhausted herself with spells.  Her first chute rolled, useless after someone packed it wrong.  Her backup chute?  The cord snapped and the chute remained hidden.  Desperate, the mage tried to weave a spell to save herself but the battle had left the girl too drained. Ignoring the pain in her skull, she reached out to the magical energy suffusing the air rushing past and began to twist it, weave it, work it like clay and threads and written word all at once, using naught but the mind and a few somatic gestures to aid one's focus. Any incantation she had to speak in her mind, as she dare not open her mouth at the moment.  She blacked out for a second, an instant, but it was long enough for the spell to dissipate without enough time to try again.  Not that she had the strength to cast, clearly.

Tucking herself and trying to angle her momentum so that, by some miracle, enough of her momentum would be redirected on impact that she'd somehow survive. It was futile, but she was desperate.  She was going to die anyway, might as well try, right?

Suddenly, everything went black.  Black and warm and...familiar smelling. Comforting, if not for the fact that she had been hurtling toward a very abrupt stop and now was completely enveloped in an inky black and her mind was racing and panicking trying to piece together what was happening. 

The next thing she knew was the cold, alkaline smell of sanitizer and the familiar tingly warmth of healing magic.  Ambient, presumably.  And the gentle clicker-clack of blinds swinging in the breeze.  It probably wasn’t a med tent, more likely a hospital away from the front.

Eyes flicker open, only to snap shut as the bright light stung them.  Her eyes slowly adjusted as she tried to open them again, just in time for a nurse to poke her head in, then go retrieve a doctor without saying anything. While waiting, the mage’s eyes slowly adapted to the natural light filtering in from a window, far less bright than it had at first felt.

The doctor explained what had happened, though omitting key details: she'd nearly died, if it hadn't been for her scaly sister catching her.  But when the young mage had asked how her other half was doing, she was met with only averted gazes and silence.    Overtaken by a freezing terror, the young woman demanded to know what had happened, where her mount, her partner, was.

She hobbled through the halls, a nurse escorting her despite the latter’s better judgment and multiple protests, finally finding her way to the place where her partner rested.  The last place she'd ever want to see her. The last place anyone would want to see a loved one.

The morgue.

Riders always take it hard when they lose a partner, the pairs are bonded telepathically.      Normally always able to tell where the other is and how they're doing, even communicate.  But it was clear she was taking it harder than most, being inconsolable for hours until she tired her still wounded body out, not letting herself be separated until she was physically unable to resist any further.

Once she was well enough to be moved, she accompanied her partner back to her own home village to receive a funeral and recover.  That was when she was reunited with her other partner, her sister, her best friend.  And learned that she had suffered the same heartbreak.

While the pair bonded over their mutual pain, they received more bad news.  Neither would be receiving new partners, as they had no more eggs.  Instead, they'd be transferred back to the academy where they'd help raise the new crop of riders, and hopefully receive their new partners next year.

-----------------------------------

But months in, neither one felt complete, and both felt...wanting, feelings both confided in the other time and again.  At one point, the mage received an odd order, to go to a dragon pen that was supposed to be unoccupied.  Curious, the girl did as ordered, but was shocked at what she saw.  Her best friend, her twin sister, sitting in a dragon's nest, nude as the day she was born. A small patch of skin was already starting to keratinize into small scales, blooming like flowers from and around an unfamiliar sigil on her flesh.

“Wh-what!?” the Mage said, struggling to process what she was seeing.

“Hey,” the Dragoon said, turning to face her twin.  “I…I couldn’t stand to see you like that.    And I couldn’t stand it either,” she elaborated, “the emptiness.  The quiet.  I’ve never felt anything like it.” The mage had once mentioned feeling that same gnawing emptiness. Like something vital was missing.  Like all your organs were just…gone.  A gnawing nothingness that threatened to suck you in, collapse you inward.  A total absence that told of only one, permanent, escape from it.  “So I found another way.  An old ritual.  A way to turn into a dragon!”

“I’m sorry I didn’t say anything first,” she continued, “but I just…I couldn’t…I knew you’d try to stop me. I knew you wouldn’t let me do this but…” the dragon-to-be explained, “I couldn’t let you, let both of us go on like that, not when there’s any other way. Besides…” she added, somewhat dryly, “To be honest, I’ve always been a little jealous…of your scalier half.”

The mage sat beside her friend, “you…you…” she hesitates, “you idiot!  You can’t just…you can’t just replace a dragon.  You can’t just drop this one me!  Can’t just…can’t just…you’re insane…”  It’s not that she hated the idea, more that she hated it being dropped on her.  Hated the idea that she as losing her best friend. Her beloved sister.

“I know,” the soon-to-be-former-dragoon retorted. “I’m…not sure how much of me’ll be left, but I couldn’t think of a better partner, a better rider, than you.  There’s just one more thing I wanted to say…while I still can,” she said darkly, staring at a hand already starting to change. The girl took in a deep breath, finding this harder than agreeing to throw away her humanity for the girl she…

“I love you.”

The surprise killed the words in the dragoon’s mouth.   

“I have for…longer than I remember,” the mage said, unable to meet her twin’s gaze, fully aware of what she was admitting but determined to say it while she still could. While it still mattered.  While it still might be at least a little bit of a surprise.  Before their minds were linked.  And hopefully not, but maybe before her sister’s mind was lost forever. “Maybe I always have.  I just…I could never say it. I just…I didn’t want to risk making things weird between us, just because I’m gay.” Never mind the fact that the two were siblings, twins even.

“You…you’ve had five girlfriends,” the Dragoon said in disbelief. “Three at once.    I INTRODUCED YOU TO ONE OF THEM you absolute dingus!”

“I-I know,” the mage said, “b-but i-it’s different, or might be.  L-Like if you thought I was interested, y-you might get weirded out, but if I wasn’t, it was the same as things always w-“

“I love you too, you fucking idiot.”

The dragoon’s interruption cut the mage off completely.  The silence between the two dragged on, only broken by a bout of pain on the dragoon’s part, a mild ‘growing pain’ she’d been warned about as her biology was magically altered.

“So…what now?” the mage asked, hesitantly placing her hand so two fingers overlapped with those of her best friend.    Her sister.

“I’d…I know it’s rushed and all fucked up,” the dragoon said, face flushing red in the room’s dim light, “And I understand if you’re not interested, but…I’d like to…um…s-sleep with you.  While I’m still…mostly unchanged.”  She hesitated before adding, “a-and maybe…k-keep going every step of the way.  I-if you want, of course,” she added.

Her answer came in the form of a pair of soft lips pressed against hers, a shock of surprise and pleasure filling her head.  “Of course, you dork,” the mage added, “and before you ask, yes, I’m going to take you as my partner.  So we might as well get a head start on the ‘riding’.”   

It was slow and awkward at first, despite both having had romantic partners before, neither of the two had actually done much of anything with those partners.    But slowly, both started to warm up as they explored one another’s bodies, experienced everything they could while they could, even things that they’d likely never get to experience again.

As they enjoyed one another, the psychic bond between the two started to form.  Weak at first, just a gentle fuzz, but slowly growing stronger as the night grew long and their bodies expressed an uncommon endurance to make the most of the one chance they’d get for most of it.

Finally, dawn broke, peering in through a crack in a window onto the Mage’s face, cuddled up to her lover-turned-mount, though she wasn’t sure if it’d been just the one night or a fortnight, and in the moment she didn’t care, cuddling deeper into her partner’s thick, warm, scaley chest.  Her eye briefly opened when sleep wouldn’t return, spying one peering back at her.

With a soft smile and every muscle in her body aching, she reached out and rubbed along the dragon’s snout.

“I love you.”

[laughingcorvuswrites]

comp struggles with JUST Bsky and a couple text files. if we can't get a replacement on our own,might need to make a GFM. hopefully we can get other to spread it around for us because we probably won't be able to ourselves, not with THIS comp, at least. If anyone wants to help, discord is LaughingCorvus

[laughingcorvuswrites]

On the Princess, the Maid, and the Knight

Princess, Maid, Knight. Traditionally, these three organisms are considered as separate species, occasionally even genus, that simply have arranged themselves into a sort of eusocial symbiosis due to their communion with one another despite the significant morphological differences. However, a recent hypothesis that is gaining traction is that the Maid and Princess are actually separate members of a highly dimorphic species. However, OUR hypothesis goes a step further to propose that not only do all three share a singular genus, but are actually the same eusocial species, with the trimorphism(quadrumorphism if you include the young Knights referred to alternatively as “Scouts” or “Squires”, typically based on their apparent role relative to more senior members) between the three groupings developing due to their role within the group.

For example, the Maid’s role is typically to labor within the community, keeping things tidy and providing for the Princess, while also providing a layer of protection against both intruders who may pass the Knights, as well as inferior suitors. The Princess, meanwhile, may appear to have the role of leadership, but it appears the role is more symbolic than actual, as any command she appears to give that her inner circle(sometimes colloquially called the “Handmaids”, or more rarely, “Ladies in Waiting”, though there is some discourse as to whether the term would actually apply.) disagrees with will not be carried out. Instead it would be amended to a more appropriate command for the rest to carry out. A Princess that is displeased with this(as they often are) will generally respond with a ‘hmph’, but yield to the wisdom of their Handmaids.

The Knight, as is above implied, has the role of Primary and Secondary defense for the community, both patrolling their primary territory as well as standing guard over their domicile. Younger Knights are typically split into the subgroups “Squire” and “Scout”. The Squire takes on a Maid-like role to their Knight, typically a small number of Squires(as few as one in most cases, though communities with a population boom may have 2 or more to a Knight) per Knight. The Squire will tend to their Knight’s mount, arms, and gear, ensuring none are tarnished and all properly honor their shared Lady(the Princess). This both takes the somewhat specialized labor off the Maid’s responsibilities, as well as familiarizes the Squire with the ins and outs of their future role. Some Squires have also been spotted transitioning to become a Maid instead of a Knight(indeed, this observation was the origin of this hypothesis).

The Scout is the rarest member of the community(some may call the community ‘the Hive’, referring to how it resembles the hive of many eusocial insects, especially the domesticated European honeybee), but appears to be most closely related to the Knight. A Scout’s role within the Community is similar to the Knight in that it provides security for all, especially the Princess, but uniquely the focus is on spending extended periods away from the Community within the outer territory. The Scout’s purpose seems to be a combination of scouting out new food sources, warding off intruders before they reach the Community proper, and warning the community and especially the Knights of any threat before it reaches the primary territory.

The Morphism between the different organism-types seems to be fully based on their role. The Princess wears fine, typically ornate garbs(most often dresses in the medieval European and rococo styles, though exceptions of all sort have been reported, often based on the garbs human princesses would wear. Whether this is mimicry of the humans on their part, or mimicry of the Princess on our part is unknown. It could simply be a queer coincidence) complete with jewelry and tiara. Meanwhile, the maid typically wears a uniformed garb primarily in black with a white apron and accents, with a small frilled headress in imitation of the Princess’s tiara. The exact length and design varies from Hive to Hive, from the practical to the practically pornographic. The Knight typically will wear the colors of their Princess(ie, the colors of the Hive), with clothes chosen for practicality more than show. As a result, they tend to be more drab than the other two groups, but when they receive the call to combat they dress in ornate armor donned with the aid of their Squire(or Maids, should there be insufficient Squires), bedecked still with the crest and colors of their dear Princess. For their parts, Squires and Scouts will typically dress more simply still than their Knights. the Squires dressing in the same colors as the Knight, simply less ornately(not uncommonly in clothes passed down from their Knights), while Scouts often dress in simple, resilient clothing that nevertheless doesn’t reflect badly on their Hive. If the Princess has colors that function as camouflage in their local environs, they’ll don them, but otherwise will only carry the Hive’s Crest on their person.

Upon further observation, we observed that in the absence of a Princess, one other member of the community will be elevated to the position(typically but not always a Maid, though curiously one of lower seniority), dolled up in finery once forbidden to them, and placed up on the throne to be doted on by her sisters. Likewise, we have seen rare communal drift between the Maid and Knight roles, though it’s more likely an Apprentice Maid or Squire will transition rather than an experienced member of the class. It seems that through mechanisms like this, the community retains its social balance.

Interhive combat is rare and seems to be more about maintaining cross-hive social connections and gene exchange more than territorial control. Generally it’s highly ritualize and while the Melee between knights can get potential brutal, we have yet to observe a single death during or as a result of this ritualized combat. While the Knight’s equipment and shine of its armor seems to have a strong use in intimidation to avoid combat where possible(especially important for intraspecies conflict in other species), it seems to have little effect on the Melee but to rank individual Knights relative to one another, so each can quickly figure out the best opponent. As mentioned, thanks to the dutiful care of the Maids, there have been no reported casualties, but there have been…other inter-hive activities that follow.

Intrahive combat is similarly ritualized, but often lacks the pomp and pageantry that an Interhive event(often called a ’Tournament’ after the events of Medieval Europe that they so closely resemble). And as it doesn’t facilitate extra-hive genetic exchange, it’s believed to be more about retaining and refining the skills of the Knights and Maids, as well as to act as a ‘release valve’ for building pressure or conflict before it rises to potentially deadly levels. These combats don’t always involve physical violence, as everything from chess to a children’s card game has also been noted, especially between classes. That said, on at least three separate occasions, we have observed one member of the Hive taunt another to spark a fight, before immediately throwing(albeit sometimes putting up a good show first) and presenting itself to the ‘victor’. This seems to be a type of role-play between them, and we can’t rule out it occurring outside our observations either in this hive, or in others.

(one brave researcher managed to infiltrate the community as a Maid and while he will be missed, she seems significantly happier now. We would ask the reader to not attempt to contact her or her family)

[laughingcorvuswrites]

Shit, man, this war is fucked. Just saw a metal tyrannosaur open its mouth and shoot a beam or wave or some shit and just melt an entire battalion in, like thirty seconds, I swear. Whole battalion, really. Just reduced to slag in less time than it takes to heat your rations. Pilots probably didn't even last that long. Camera didn't even go onto her, that's just how common crap like that is. I'm out here with a few 80mm AZ beam guns and a missile pod with half a salvo left. I think I just heard someone say "Chīliaplē Astrapē" two groups down, who the fuck is even using magic in a mecha war? Who the fuck made a mech that can cast fucking spells!? I gotta get the fuck outta hear, i swear.

[laughingcorvuswrites]

"Leave. Me! ALONE!!!"

You snap at it, seeing it visibly shrink back before you slam your bedroom door in its face. It was a doll, a rag doll. It'd been showing up around you for a couple weeks now, always calling you 'Miss', no matter how many times you told it to stop and leave you be. But it was starting to rain outside and you couldn't just leave the stupid thing out there, it'd get soaked, and probably start growing mold and you didn't know if it'd get under cover or not. But you told the thing it was just until the rain broke or morning, whichever came second, and to just leave you alone. You told it where the tea was and it already knew how to use an electric kettle, not like they're complex, then got it a blanket and a couple old pillows and reminded it to leave you be and went to your room. You had no idea how those things could get soaked from rain and stuff like any ragdoll, but could drink tea without getting soaked. And you didn't care. It was fuckin weird but it was the doll and it's witch's business, not yours.

But it wouldn't leave you alone. It wasn't about something you forgot. Wasn't about how you only had teabags, not loose leaf or a "proper" teapot. It'd just knock and…fuck, you can't remember but it didn't matter what it wanted, it was inane. It was always coming to check on you, and how something made of cloth and stuffing could make an audible knock on a door like a full grown human was beyond you. only hard thing on your guest were its button eyes and those were nowhere near hard or heavy enough to make that sound. First time confused you, there was no way it could make those sounds, so you expected someone…you know, human-sized. You were supposed to be alone except for the doll, but maybe it'd let its witch in or some shit. Rude as fuck, but whatever, probably ruder to expect it to leave the witch standing out in the rain and cold and whatever. But there was nothin you could see until you looked down and saw the doll, lookin up at you.

Second time you tried to ignore it, but it just kept knocking. And when you opened the door, it was just standing there mid-knock, looking up at you. Something else inane. Checking on you again or whatever. You didn't care and just told it in no uncertain terms that you weren't it's witch. You weren't A witch. You didn't want a doll. You didn't want or need anything but to be left alone. It can stay until morning or until the rain ends or whatever, but you just wanted to be left alone.

And then it knocked again, and you snapped. And you could feel the walls reverberate. The walls of reality were still shaking and you hated it. This is why you wanted to be left alone. That was why you wanted the doll and everyone and everything else to just leave you be. You hated it! Hate hate hated it!! Everyone, everything just made you angry and it just boiled over and you hated it all!!! Hated it even more because you felt everything just vibrate every time you snapped. Every time you couldn't keep it under control. But even when you could, you could feel reality stress and strain, like a balloon filled too full, or a structure holding too much weight, just barely under what would break it. And even when you tell them to just leave you alone, to give you space, they just keep pushing. Sure, they care, but they don't LISTEN. You're not speaking in code, you're not being oblique, and people still refuse to listen.

And now the stupid thing's probably out there in the living room, sobbing its stupid button eyes out even though that makes no sense. It doesn't have tear ducts, it doesn't have any moisture of its own, but tea disappears without logic, so tears can appear just as easily, whatever. Stupid thing probably ran off into the rain like an idiot so even if it came back you'd have to wring it out and probably get a heating pad and a towel to dry it off. Or can you put them in the dryer?

Whatever, you just wanted to be left alone but you couldn't just leave the idiot out in the rain and you just wanted to be left alone. And you're angry, and now you're starting to cry too because it's all just too much and with the world especially you just can't handle it and the tears won't stop and your eyes hurt because you're trying to hold the things back, but they just keep coming and burning down your face, and they just, and they just, and they just…

And then you feel something soft wrap around your head and surprisingly strong arms pull your head into something soft and stroke your hair. "There there," it coos, gently caressing your head. "Let it all out, this one is here for Miss." You want to speak up, to tell it you're not it's Miss. You're not it's Witch, not A Witch, you're not! And how is it holding you like that, it's maybe a foot tall! But it all feels so nice, the way it's stroking your hair and cooing and holding you and letting your tears soak into its torso and its lap, and just…you can't bring your self to say anything. You were…you were….

"Why?" you mumble into it, "I was…so horrid, why are you…why?"

"This one is a doll, Miss," it replied, "Miss could hit it, punch it, hurt it in ways that will never heal, can never be repaired, but this one will still love Miss."

"But…" you mutter, voice muffled by its fluff, "but I'm NOT your Miss. I'm not anyone's Miss. I'm just…" You're cut off by her gentle strokes on your head and another cooing sound, the feeling of what must be her chest and head pressing against you.

"Shhh, it's ok, Miss…"

But that was why…that was why you hated being like that. Why you hated being around others, why you just wanted to be left ALONE. It just kept hurting, and you kept getting angry, and you just kept hurting others and you hated it! You can't stop, so you just need to be left alone. You just want everyone to leave you be and stay away so they don't get hurt. THAT WAS WHY you weren't a Witch. Why you COULDN'T be a Witch. Why you wouldn't let yourself be a Witch, no matter what. You couldn't…you couldn't let yourself have that kind of power. You hurt others enough with just words. You've hurt them even more with fists and things. You can't…you can't handle being a Witch. You couldn't handle the risk of hurting others. You just…you can't. You couldn't. You won't.

"It's ok, Miss…." it coos more, and you hear the little 'smack' of a little peck on your head. You don't know…how something made of cloth could physically do that, but…you appreciate it.

"Thank you…" you mutter quietly, wrapping your all too human arms around it, squeezing its soft, pliable body to you. It…you can't deny that it…it's nice. You push your face into it's little tummy, finding it smells…pleasant, though you can't quite place the exact smell. It's nice though. You found all the anger has just…left you… You feel…deflated, in a way. A good way. Like all the heat and fire pressuring you from within is just…gone, and you can have your real shape again. "Thank you," you repeat, still holding the doll you'd just wanted to leave you alone…minutes ago? Seconds ago? Hours? You were pretty sure it wasn't days or longer, at least.

"Would Miss like some tea?" it asks quietly, kindness you historically always pushed away overflowing in its voice. You just nod and mutter wordlessly that you would. You don't have the energy to argue, to deny it right now. "Then this one will need to get up."

You push yourself up to sitting, finding it took so much more effort than you'd expected. Everything feels slow and heavy, like you'd suddenly gained twice your mass. The smiling little ragdoll wipes tears from your eyes that her belly and lap hadn't absorbed.

"This one will be right back, Miss."

You…expect that to be a lie. For it to leave while you waited. For you to hear your front door close as it runs off, desperate to get away. Just like all the others you'd pushed away. But you wait anyway. You could…you could afford it a little while, at least. At least until you're proven right. ...

It…Maybe it closed the door quietly. It probably didn't want you to know, so you couldn't chase after. But you wouldn't. You were the one who wanted to be left alone in the first place. If you…if it'd just left you alone in the first place, it could have stayed here. Stayed dry, and then left in the morning. Even if it didn't leave, if it just stays out in the living room, you can stay in your room all night like you planned and it'll be ok. You don't want to hurt it, you don't want to scare it, you just…you just…you just want to be left alone so things like that don't happen. You didn't want…didn't mean to-

"Here you go, Miss," it says, holding out a mug filled with already darkening water, steam rising off it. "This one couldn't find Miss's tea set, so it used Miss's bean tea mugs. This one hopes that's alright." You slowly take the mug by the handle, water turning red by one of the teas you keep around. You mostly keep fruity, herbal teas on hand, since they taste better to you, and don't get so bitter from being over steeped. You see it brought a second mug for itself, as well as a spoon to pull out the tea bags when you wanted, cause these ones didn't have strings for some reason, maybe because they didn't really over steep anyway, as well as a plate to put the bags on.

"Th-thank you," you manage to stammer out, your voice hoarser than you realized. You give the tea a couple blows to fruitlessly cool it down, then take a sip, feeling the heat burn its way down your throat. It feels…good. It's still a little thin, a little weak, the bag was put in very recently, but it's good. "Why…why are you still here? Why do you keep coming around? Don't you have a Witch?" Finally taking the time to really take in how it(she?) looks, you notice that it does seem a little frayed around the edges, around the seams.

The doll just shakes its head, "Not until and unless Miss decides to keep this one." It calmly takes a sip of the tea in reply to your own, though it was likely far too weak for it too.

"But…but why? Why me? I know there have to be a thousand better Witches out there for you, at least a hundred in this city alone!" you protest, unable to understand the way this doll is thinking.

The doll sets its mug down and seems to think for a moment. "Because it wanted to. And because Miss needs this one."

You…you don't know how to process that. It was…was it really so simple? How could you even argue against that? "But…but this one's unstable, it gets angry a lot, it hurts people, hurts things. It doesn't meant to, but it happens and it…it doesn't want to hurt anyone. That one included."

"This one knows."

"B-but-"

"This one knows. It said before, that it's ok if you hurt this one, break it, tear it. It's ok if you damage this one in ways that can never be repaired, because it's a doll. It's ok to do whatever Miss wants to this one, so long as it makes Miss feel better, because it will be Miss's property. All Miss has to do is own this one." It spoke of such…horrible things being done to it with such a bright smile. How?

"But I…I'm not a Witch, I don't want to be a Witch!" you argue back, "I…I can't be a Witch. I won't let myself."

"Then Miss won't be a Witch," it says, putting a little cloth hand on your knee, far softer in both depth and surface texture than you realized. "But Miss can still be this one's Miss. So long as Miss wants to."

"But I…I might hurt you. I might break you, without meaning to. I don't…I..I don't want to do that. I-I can't…you're so nice and I…" burning tears start to well up in your eyes again, your chest hurting like someone was driving a spike through it. "I can't handle that!"

"Then Miss won't," the doll said like it was as simple a fact as 'the sky is blue' or 'gravity pulls things toward the center of mass'.

You snatch the doll up and press it tight against your chest, squeezing it tight as you break out into open sobs. "A-are you really sure? I-I…I've hurt so many, I keep hurting others and no matter what I do I keep…I keep..?" It comes out more like a question and you don't know why.

The doll just nods, pressed so tight to your chest that it can barely move its neck and its voice comes out half-muffled no matter what it does, "of course, Miss. If Miss wishes it, this one will allow Miss to tear it to pieces. But this one will not allow itself to be harmed so long as that is what Miss wishes instead." It was just so matter-of-fact, like it was as obvious as the sun rising in the east and setting in the west. As clearly evident as the Earth revolving around the sun.

You just sit there and hold the doll, clinging to it like some long forgotten but recently found favorite toy, like a stuffy you'd had as a child but lost in the depths of a closet for years and decades, and only just now found. "Do…do you have a name?"

"This one does not," it answers, "And because it knows Miss wants to ask, it uses it/its, but Miss is free to use she/her as well. Whatever makes Miss happiest, this one has no strong opinion either way."

"Thank you," you reply. "How..how about Penelope? I could call you Pene for short."

The little doll gasped in such a way that your grip loosened and you let it go. "That's perfect, Miss!" it said, pulling up its dress, clearly unthinking or uncaring that it was exposing its panties, eliciting a reflexive blush from you. That wasn't why it was lifting it anyway, "cause look, this one has a penny for a bellybutton!" It was affixed right where the bellybutton of a human would be, proportionally. "So that Miss can always have a little extra luck when Miss needs it!"

"Then Penelope it is," you say smiling for what feels like the first real time in ages. "Thank you, Pene." 'I love you.' you feel the words rise up and echo in your head unbidden, but they never leave your lips. It's too early for that, you don't want to…don't want to screw things up and scare her off now. Besides, you feel like you don't have to. Not yet, not until you're ready. And her smile makes you feel like somehow, someway, she knows. It knows.

"This one will go get something to clean up and start Miss a new cup of tea," Penelope said, dropping its dress again and starting to trot off, but you call after to stop her.

"Wait, I'll do it. I…I shouldn't make you clean up after my mess."

But your new Doll shakes its head, "this one doesn't mind. It's only natural a Doll clean up after its Miss."

But you couldn't bear it, not after it was already wiling to go so far for you, not when it was your mess to clean up. But…but you also knew that Dolls liked to clean, and that Dolls liked to serve, and could get uncomfortable if they were denied too much, like two meshed gears trying to turn in opposite directions. Their desire to help grinding against their desire to obey. Two Purposes smacking against one another. So you land on a compromise as you stand up. "Then how about we split the difference and do it together. Is…is that ok?"

"If that is what makes Miss happy, this one is happy too."

You go out into the hallway cupboard with Pene, walking with her as she trots to keep up with your pace, getting some towels and carrying them back to your room, the little doll, YOUR doll riding on them like some precious treasure, giggling as you give her a little bounce every now and again. Its giggles are adorable, you have to admit. Each one elicits a small smile from you, though Penelope couldn't see as she was watching forward as you walk.

Together, the two of you sop up what you could and scrub the rest, then put a fresh towel down on the spot and press down with your feet, trying to make sure as little remained in the carpet and padding as possible. Fortunately, there was very little color to the tea, and so even less in the spill, it didn't look like it would stain anything.

"This one will go get Miss a fresh mug of tea," it says, reaching for your discarded mug, but you stop the doll.

"Wait," you say, "if…if it's ok, we could…"

"Share?" Penelope suggests, finishing your sentence just as you would have. "Of course, as long as Miss would like to."

And so the two of you snuggled up together as you put something to watch on the TV you kept in your room for when you just didn't feel like getting out of bed, wrapping a big, weighted blanket around you both, sharing a mug of lukewarm tea that had steeped to the point it was perceptibly thicker, ironically how you liked it, save the temperature.

"Hey, Pene?"

"Yes Miss?"

"Thank you. For everything."

"Any time, Miss.

"This one loves you."

[laughingcorvuswrites]

Sneaky Doll

The doll snuck into her bedroom, secreting itself among the pile of plushies and stuffies dominating the wall-side edge of the bed. It must have thought itself so clever and sneaky, getting in there when the room was empty.

Some minutes later, she entered, rubbing the desire for rest from her eyes as she yawned, putting the Big Hat on its hook for the night. It didn't take her long to change into her pajamas, a knee-length shirt joking about her not knowing what a day without coffee was like.

Tiredly, the Witch flicked the lights off and rolled into bed with a heavy flop, causing the soft mountain to collapse and plushies of all sorts to bury the Witch's torso, while the doll remained in its hiding place. The Witch patted around in the dark, searching for her blanket.

Then, quick as a flash, the Witch's hand darted into the pile of stuffies and extracted a very wiggly doll.

"Nuuu," it protested, squirming and wiggling about as its Witch held it aloft with a single hand.

"Darling," the Witch said, "what ever are you doing in there?"

The doll's movements came to an end as it looked away, unable to meet its beloved Witch's gaze, though the doll felt it all the same.

"Th-this one…" it stammered quietly, "it…it's been feeling somewhat lonely of late. This one…Wanted to spend time with Miss. Sleep with Miss tonight," it confessed.

"Did you brush your teeth?" The Witch asked sternly.

The doll nodded enthusiastically. Of course it did.

The Witch's expression, hidden in the gloom as it was, turned from tired curiosity to a gentle, compassionate smile as she released the doll, only to catch it in mid-air in a hug. "Then of course you can. You need only ask."

Of course, asking was difficult for a doll. That's why it snuck in to begin with. The Witch had long since started to unwind this one's Gordian knot of trauma, but it seemed she still had a ways to go. No matter, she adored this little doll with all its faults, wouldn't trade them for the world

The doll felt much the same, softening into her Witch's embrace. The Witch pulled the weighted blanket that helped her sleep over the two of them, feet poking out the far end, and let the little doll pick out a plush to cuddle for the night. As it turned out, it brought it's own.

And so they drifted off, the doll in the Witch's arms, and the shark plush in the doll's. The doll smiled softly to itself, feeling truly home, wanted, unaware the Witch felt so acutely the same.

[laughingcorvuswrites]

Becoming by Clockwork Hands

Often, when Becoming, a doll will have the benefit of a Witch to handle the physiological changes. But sometimes, whether the Witch be indisposed with something even more important, or if there IS no Witch involved whether due to Witchless dolls or other means, a doll must Become with naught but the aid of another doll. Sometimes yet, a doll may itself aid in the Becoming of another doll specifically to take under their wing, or because the potential was already there. Regardless there are several methods by which this could occur.

A doll might have a little Witch or other magic in it, or else have studied enough of its Miss's arts to replicate the process. Either ripping that one's consciousness out and imbuing it into plastic or porcelain or rag, or else breaking that one's old body down at the metaphysical level and reconstructing it elsewise.

Or could use tea, likely imbued with magic. Either the doll's own, as above, or magic inherent to the leaves and other plant matter used to make the tea. The magic suffusing their body and slowly reshaping it. Turning carbon-based meat into fine porcelain or robust metal or ceramic, or soft cloth. Replacing internal joints and sockets with balljoints or hinges sewn into the fabric.

or surgically and mechanically, cutting one open and slicing away the unneeded piece by piece, a physiological replication of the psychological process they likely would have already put you through. Cutting into flesh, separating bone from joint. Replacing it bit by bit with circuitry or clockwork until naught of the original remains. A veritable Doll of Theseus.

[laughingcorvuswrites]

Her Witch's Candy

She'd been bothering you for months, wanting some of the 'candy' you took every day with breakfast. You tried explaining that it was medicine. It made your body something you could be comfortable in, but she didn't seem to get it.

So eventually you gave her a pill box of her own. "Remember, only one compartment a day. I'll be checking, ok?" you told her. The beaming smile the doll gave her Witch will never fail to warm your heart.

Every day at breakfast now, she opens her little case, beaming with pride, happy to be just like her Miss, carefully taking out a pair of gummy vitamins and some candie, setting them aside in a little dish just like you do.

[laughingcorvuswrites]

Blood Sisters

Vampyre Little Sis, struggling against her instincts day in and out, trying to hold back even as the spring weather makes her big sis wear light, airy, shoulder exposing clothes. Little sis avoids her big sister, afraid of her own impulses, thinking herself a monster for needing and wanting blood. Practically starving herself in a vain attempt to be 'normal'. Eventually, she sneaks into her big sister's room one night, treading silently on the soft carpet. Big sis would sometimes share her bed when little sis had a nightmare, but it'd been so long the room felt both strange and familiar. Quiet as a deathly whisper, she creeps closer, her head swimming. And when her big sister rolls onto her back in her sleep, little sis can't hold back any more. She pounces on her big sis, sinking fangs in before the latter could wake up. She drinks and drinks and drinks her fill, tears pouring from her eyes as she's overcome with guilt but unable to tear herself away. When suddenly she feels a comforting hand on the back of her head, gently stroking her hair as she feeds on fresh blood for the first time since she turned. She clings to her big sis even tighter, driving her fangs deeper into big sis's flesh while her big sister just holds her and coos and comforts her. After little sis has had her fill, she and big sis talk about everything, and big sis just sits and listens and holds her beloved baby sister. And in the end tells her that any time she's hungry, she can always feed from her, because she loves her little sister.

[laughingcorvuswrites]

Age is a number Years to Accumulate scars Be true to your self

[laughingcorvuswrites]

It happens.

A doll was curled up in a corner of its room, something playing on its laptop though it wasn’t truly watching. A blanket pulled tight around them, their back resting against a pillow, and a heating pad’s cable leading out of their little enclosure. The doll’s Witch was familiar with this little ritual of its. It wasn’t the first time she’d seen it, nor would it be the last. The reason was usually different. Sometimes something had gone wrong; a favorite mug had broken, an ingredient or snack it’d been looking forward to had gone bad, something they’d wanted had gone out of stock before they’d been able to get it.

The reason didn’t matter. It never did.

So the doll curled up by itself, clinging to a favorite plush, trying to fill its mind with anything but its own thought. It was the only thing it could do to keep from hurting itself, or lashing out and breaking things. It was all it knew how to do.

So its Witch sat down beside, bringing the doll its favorite drink but not saying a word. Only sitting by the doll, not speaking, not touching beyond the lightest gesture of support, a brief palm on its shoulder, removed no sooner than it was placed. The doll’s Witch had seen this before, and would see it again, and this was all she knew to do to help.

It was probably more than could be done to help, but it was help nonetheless.

Ten minutes passed, twenty, half an hour and the doll allowed itself to lean on its Witch. The doll never cried, no matter how much its heart ached, it didn’t know how. It had forgotten long ago and hurt any time it tried, so it just didn’t. The doll simply allowed its weight to rest on its Witch’s arm, a small, silent gesture.

But it was progress. The same tiny gesture of progress that had repeated in the past, and hopefully would in the future. Sometimes things don’t get better. Sometimes they can’t. But they can get through it together, the Witch and her doll. Little by little, the doll moved, leaning a bit more weight on its Witch, then starting to relax its muscles, then finding its head laying on her lap hours after its Witch had sat down.

Slowly, the Witch started to stroke her precious doll’s hair, wishing only she could do more, even as she knew there were some things even she was powerless to fight. All she could do is be there when she was needed, just as her doll was for her.

Not a single word passed between them the entire day, nor did the doll do anything productive. They just stayed there, until the sun had long since set, watching this and that on the doll’s laptop, while it’s Witch typed away on her own, doing what she could to stay productive, else the doll would only feel worse.

The doll’s breathing never hitched, never sobbed, but by the end of the day, its Witch noticed a single shining trail of a tear down the doll’s face. It was progress. Her doll may not be able to get over whatever was wrong today, may not tomorrow, but it was progress. And sometimes, getting through it was progress enough.

[laughingcorvuswrites]

Reforged in Iron and Blood

CW:probably a lot, this could be rough one. Reader discretion is advised It started when they found out about the existence of vampyres and their regenerative properties. Many subcultures and groups existed at the time, just under the surface of society. But unlike what a lot of media might have you think, they weren’t the secret puppet masters behind society. If anything, they were the opposite; groups of punks and anarchists, community outreach and mutual aid organizations, by ad large they were broadly considered the supposed dregs of society even though they regularly shared what little they had with others. Sure, there were bad ones, like in any community, even whole bad communities, but all the ones you knew were anything but. Heck, they were broadly the exact sort of people the higher ups in both your nation and the one they were at war with hated: those who wanted to build community and help others.

You knew from experience, you used to hang out with a particularly active group, one more than happy to help the local homeless community. Of course, the group, the House, wasn’t just Vampyres. They had a fair few non-Vampyres, like you, on the periphery. Vampyres need blood to survive and thrive, after all, and while pork or beef blood bought from local ethnic markets was more than enough to get by, the fresh blood of a living human was a delicious treat. You’d donated more than once to the House, especially to the House’s founder and one of your best friends.

And when the State came for them, they were all vanished overnight. You’d been worried for them ever since, and terrified that you would be next at first. It’s not like you had any real way to fight back: protests were being met with ever greater amounts of state and journalistic violence, more and more propaganda aimed at anyone that didn’t agree with the state-sponsored disappearances. But your country only had two real political parties with any influence or ability to get voted in, both of whom were in lockstep behind the fascist regressives that were in power. Minority group after minority group had their turn to be demonized and legislated out of public life, with Vampyres being disappeared as ‘anarchist terrorists’. And you were disabled in addition to being in one of those minorities.

Then one day the knock came at your door, you were dragged out of your home, all the neighbors whispering amongst themselves and being told naught but slander. Justifying to the public why they were hauling off someone who was just trying to survive. Someone too broken to grease the wheels of the economy with anything less than their blood.

Everything that followed was a blurry rush of pain. Stripped of all you had, even your name, your identity, your gender. Forcibly fed this thick, metallic fluid something most others wouldn’t be able to place. Bound and gagged as it burned through you, threatened to burn you to ash from the inside out.

Then they gave you to Her. Newly promoted, a newly trained handler. Someone whose training and job revolved around controlling you, directing you, maintaining you like a piece of machinery. She did her job well. At least, ‘well’ by the standard of the book. She disciplined you when you disobeyed, praised you when you did well, ensured you consumed your rations and maintained your body. She cut back your red rations before a battle. Her actions clued you in on just what had happened, what you’d been turned into. That gnawing hunger deep inside, driving you mad, making you unstable and more vicious in a fight. Why your canines had been dulled down.

You hated it. Hated the way you were seen as little more than meat, by her or by the crew, the mechanics. hated the way you were used as much by her. You hated the muzzle you were made to wear, the collar around your neck. Hated the skin-tight suit you had to wear. Hated being directed into that claustrophobic metal coffin. Hated the feeling of pin slipping into socket, of locks clicking into place and holding it firm, an extendable cable letting you move fairly freely while maintaining the connection, not that the security harness let you move too much to begin with.

Hated the data pouring into your head, hated the feeling of mechanical sensors hooking up to your senses. Hated the queer feeling of one set of legs operating pedals while another strides along pavement and stone and soil. Hated the feeling of the blazing heat of your boosters, both on their own and against the metal of your chassis nearby. Hated the recoil of the rifle and the knowledge that you were shooting against other people. Hated the way it never seemed to end, the way there seemed to be a faint crimson stain on your fingers you could never wash off.

And then something started to change. After a fight she offered you twice your red rations, twice what you normally got after a fight. As the last drops slid down your throat, you could feel your head start to clear for the first time in ages, like your sinuses draining all at once after a cold. You still couldn’t think WELL, but you could think. Like a good cup of bean tea after waking u with your mouth dry and your head fogged. It was like being alive again, almost.

She started keeping you on those increased rations, letting your head clear and start to think properly. She began to touch you less, use you less, ask more when she did. Began to think of more than her own pleasure. And it felt so good.

She started to give you an extra vial of red rations before deployments, something to drink right before launch. Something to keep the mind sharp. And your numbers improved. Your numbers proved her right. You may not be as aggressive, but you could aim better, ration your ammo better, pilot better. And you found you were starting to enjoy the sensations. Of wind on your chassis as you move, of the stimulants pumped into your system with each successful hit on an enemy, more for a confirmed kill. Of the taste of the ration before launch. Of the taste of the rations after battle.

You’d met others like you. Half-starved, fangs shaved down. You knew what you all were; pilots, organic components in your machines, weapons, vampyres, materiel. And you reasoned that the reason they did it to you, and seemingly many others, is that it made you pariahs, it isolated you from ‘normal’ society by turning you into a creature that needed blood to survive, limited you from being able to form the kind of community that let the House you knew survive as long as they did. And they cut out your organs and limbs to be able to handle the Gs your machine created. You knew you and these other vampyres, your sisters, were just replaceable materiel, no more valuable to the higher ups than a sidearm or a screwdriver. You knew, and re-learned, that your Handler had you on much higher red rations than your sisters, that other handlers were far worse than yours was even at the start. That theirs only got worse.

Then one evening, after all of your kind had been on reduced rations from supply line issues, your Handler took you aside to her room, just as she had many times before. You knew what to expect. Or at least you thought you did. Instead of askommanding you to take off your clothes, she already had her top off, bare breasts on full display. A knife was sitting by her side, as were an antiseptic and a box of adhesive bandages. You didn’t know how to respond, how to parse what you saw. She offered to let you feed directly from her. To slice open her flesh and drink directly from it.

Fireworks exploded in your head as you tasted her lifeblood fresh from the source, its thick, rich flavor and heat filling your mouth and sinuses and mind. Your muzzle long since removed, you bit down hard, eliciting a surprised gasp from your handler, instincts you’d never felt before taking control. Your teeth sink it as best they could, drawing blood by coaxing it from the wound, only for you to wish you could sink your fangs in properly. But even that mild disappointment paled in comparison to the joy, the raw dopamine you were getting from tasting fresh, truly fresh blood for the first time.

What surprised you most was the heat it filled your body with, driving you to crave more. Crave her. And the sound of her voice made it seem like she craved you as much. When you broke off to breath and rest a moment, she took your face into her hands and leaned in to press her lips against yours, her tongue finding its way inside without resistance.

As her tongue snaked out of your mouth and her hands released your face, your lips and tongue returned to feeding from her, lapping up everything that had dribbled out.

By you woke up in the morn, you were sticky and sore, but felt truly alive for the first time in ages. Moreso than even when you’d been on increased rations. As you moved to re-don your uniform, a warm hand grabbed your wrist, stopping you. Hungrily, she pulled you back into bed, your clothes left forgotten on the floor. You couldn’t help but let out a moan as she explored your body, sought out every sensitive point.

“Why don’t you become mine?”

The suggestion turned over and over in your head even after you left her warmth, her embrace. Even after you traded in the warm embrace of her flesh for that of your outer body’s metal. Another mission today, but thanks to your Handler you were at least well fed. She must have known. They seem to always tell handlers in advance. So they can restrict your red rations, make you hungrier, let the hunger make you more aggressive. But yours fed you herself. Fed herself TO you, in violation of every protocol you could think of. Even with your muzzle back in place, you could still taste the memories of her on your tongue.

Of course they never told you. Why would they? Would they tell a rifle there was a mission coming? A tank? An APC? Of course not, so why would they tell you? They didn’t tell you they were taking away your outer body and “giving” you a new one either. As the ports settled into place and the cables connected, you braced for the usual sensation like nails of information being jabbed into your skull. Instead it came like railroad spikes of raw data being hammered directly into the folds of your brain. Your hands gripped the not-yet-functioning controls and your back stiffened, as if your body was trying to climb away from the source.

The next thing you’re aware of is the mission details already cropping up. They’d found the problem with the supply line; a small enemy base that had been built in a woodland, and they were harassing your lines from there. The perfect opportunity to test your new body out as well, at least that’s what you were sure the higher ups thought.

You felt clamps release from your outer body, various cables releasing from you; a strange, almost sucking sensation as they slip out of ports scattered across your metal body. You couldn’t think of anything to compare it to but your handler as she slipped from within you. Left a curious void behind, one echoed across your body as the last cables pop free, loosing your metal body from the last of its tethers.

You feel the vibrations of your steps against the reinforced floor more through your metal feet than any part of your flesh body, and only in part due to your brain filtering out the weaker sensations from your flesh in favor of the more vital, more intense on ones from your outer body. You grab your new weapon from the rack as you pass, more of your brothers and sisters doing the same as they follow behind, each of you streaming out toward the tarmac instead of the catapults. They point toward the enemy, after all, and the target today was hassling your supply lines behind the front.

The sky is a deep blue-purple, dawn still distant. Your pack walks around to the ‘front’, the side opposite from the catapults. As you walk, you catch sight of numerous bodies like your own one: heavy and armored in comparison to your new body. Even your old body itself, already assigned to a new brother or sister, you could tell from the light scratches and dings in the armor that were too light to bother fixing. Every spare machine you’re aware of must be deployed, they clearly don’t want to be caught off guard while you’re away.

You’re hit with a pang of loss as you passed by what used to be your body but press on regardless. It doesn’t matter anyhow, you’re just materiel. You and the rest chosen for this mission line up just beyond the borders of the base, each machine kneeling in preparation as the mission commander gave your orders, the mission specs dancing in front of your eyes at the same time. Advance below radar, gain altitude, then attack the target from the air.

The squad was ten units strong, split into two teams of five, each with a lead. You had been assigned to lead your team. One by one, you each ignited your thrusters and let them warm up. The familiar purr of your core turned into a heavy growl as the reactors spun up to combat output. The one reactor of your old body’s core replaced by a newer two-reactor system; the specs said they were difficult to sync, but had a synergistic effect that massively increased output. That was what allowed your new body to boast such thin armor, how your new body could fly at all. What allowed your body to use your new service weapon.

Control gave a countdown and you all launched, a tiny fragment of a second between each of you. Each multi-story tall war machine subtly adjusted its speed to bring everyone into formation before matching thrust. Powerful thrusters propelled each machine along, gliding in the air feet above the soil, no plant within more than a hundred meters being allowed to grow tall, lest you be snuck up on. All the world is dyed grey by the pre-dawn light as it speeds past.

The speed felt…good. The feeling of acceleration, pressures squishing your meat-body into the seat. The feeling of the wind on your metal skin and rushing through the gaps, even if the air is still and the wind is only from your speed alone. The heat of the thrusters of your twin tail binders and your legs, lifting you into the air and propelling you forward at speeds that would chafe exposed meat in seconds. The faster you go, the lighter the chains feel.

One by one, each of you noses up and presses the throttle full open, gravity and the acceleration pressing you into your seat. Your suit squeezes down as well, applying pressure in just the right parts to keep too much blood from flooding your brain, protecting you from what would otherwise be a redout. Less than a microsecond of lag, tied into your suit’s computers as it was.

You burst through the cloud layer, emerging out into the early dawn sky, the sun just barely peaking over he horizon. You look upward at the deep blue sky, allowing yourself a moment of thought. Allowing yourself a moment to linger and think about what was taken from you. About the beauty of that sky, about the fact that you’ll never be able to see it with your own two flesh eyes ever again. About how you’ll only be able to see it recreated in images or through the eyes of your outer body.

It was funny, you knew you used to be able to see it for yourself. Used to be able to just walk out into the bright sun without issue but…but you couldn’t remember anything before. Couldn’t remember anything save being materiel.

And yet that deep blue sky looked at once both infinite and yet so close. Your metal claw released your service weapon and reached out, extending up toward that blue sky you know you’ll never be able to look at with your own eyes again, as if you could grasp it if you could just reach a little further.

A spike of adrenaline femtoseconds before a shrill sequence of beeping drug you from your revery. Radar alarm, something’s locked on. Experience told you it was SAMs before the first one broke through the cloud layer far ahead of you. A feeling like a latch coming undone plays out in your brain. Weapons free.

Bursts of vulcan fire comes from some members of the rest of the squad, long before they were in an effective range. You grip your service weapon again and open the throttle, nosing up and accelerating to try for a good angle on one of the SAMs while diverting the one locked onto you. Behind you, you feel others do similar, their IFFs buzzing at the back of your skull, data from the IFF system being mixed with locational data from your 3D radar to ensure you always know where your squamates are.

More bursts of vulcan fire, you release the controls for a moment with one hand, rapidly tapping on a touch panel to one side, queuing up some music to drown out your thoughts. Hands back on the controls, thoughts pushed away, you’re able to focus on the Sam on your tail. You bank hard to the left, not letting up on the throttle lest the missile gain any ground. Your suit squeezes down on you to keep your blood where you need it. You’re not sure how much fuel it has, but you aren’t sure you can keep out-maneuvering it long enough and still have what you need to complete your mission.

You angle up, feeling the pattern of the suit’s pressure changing with your changing inertia. Pulling into an arc, you cut your throttle and use inertia, limb-movements, and the air brakes to rotate your bodies and face the SAM. Taking in and holding a deep breath, you line the reticle up and squeeze the trigger.

A gout of bright white light with a pinkish corona cuts through the air between you and the missile, glancing the missile’s housing. Your rifle won’t be ready for a second shot. Panicking, you immediately reach for the vulcans’ trigger before the missile detonates prematurely, a sight you see just before dropping under the surface of the clouds.

Reclaiming your composure and surmising your rifle must be more powerful than you realized, you open the throttle back up a bit, slowing your decent before starting to move forward again. You gain altitude, climbing back out of the clouds as you see one of your brothers or sisters shoot down the last SAM with their AA vulcans. The interruption finished, you adjust your heading back toward the target and push forward. You’re too close to bother returning to formation.

You scarcely have time to steady your breath before diving back into the clouds, a sea of swirling white and grey. You can feel one unit ahead of you, IFF buzzing ahead and to the left, just above your current angle of decent even if they were technically closer to the earth than you. Both of you had throttled down a bit, you could tell by how stable the relative distance was. Don’t want to go too fast under zero-vis. Your fingers twitch impotently on the controls, your system still swimming in adrenalin.

The squadmate suddenly banks to the left, and you prepare to bank the other way, doing so as soon as you break out of the clouds. AA fire is already lighting up the early morning sky, colors muted by the thick clouds. You dance around tracer fire, trying to track a stream of it down to the surface and lining your reticle up.

With a squeeze of the trigger, the dulled light defused though the grey clouds was overpowered by a white-hot streak. Foliage was instantly reduced to ash and ember without ever having the chance to ignite and one AA emplacement was silenced, but you had no time to celebrate, only evade counter-fire from another. Enemy mechs rose, tossing off camo nets before firing off periodic bursts in your direction.

Your siblings in steel return fire as they blow through the clouds, and the whole thing turns into a hairball. Beams and tracer fire scar the air as each side fires and returns fire and evades, only to start the cycle again. High caliber mecha firearms, AA emplacements, beam rifles, all sear the air and steel, evaporating any plant matter caught in the crossfire.

You’re no exception. Picking your targets carefully as you dance like a giant metal leaf caught in crossing breezes. A lock alert catches your attention, affording you the microseconds needed to evade even if the sudden g-spike threatens to crush your insides. You cut a tight turn to see your pursuer; another machine taking flight.

You increase the output of the thrusters on your metal calves, angling the tail binders down to start climbing, trying to get just enough height. Banking in a little, you try and fire as soon as the reticle is over them, but the shot goes wide, turning a part of the terrain into an angry black scar surrounding a glowing orange welt.

They fire off a pair of missiles from a shoulder-mounted rack as they bank into a turn matching yours, but your CIWS vulcans shoot these thin-shelled projectiles down. Angry orange-red clouds quickly cooling to a dark grey.

You accelerate, determined to stay out of their optimal fire arc and above all to keep them away from your six, even if it widens your turns. You try going low, counting on the proximity of the other machine to shield you from AA fire, it works, somewhat, but that altitude is untenable. An exchange of blades and you separate, them going high and you low by the luck of your relative positions. You’re too low and your speed too high for counter fire as you land with one foot on an AA gun, springing back into the sky after reducing some poor soldier to paste dripping off the flattened remains of their station.

The two of you continue your deadly waltz, never-ending so long as neither could get a firing solution. Neither of you dared risk any fancy maneuvers as your paths helixed ever higher and lower, coiling inward only for the plasma-blades of your wrist-mounted melee weapons to clash, leaving a splash of sparks behind as you separated and once again jockeyed for position.

If you tried stopping or even slowing, you’d be a sitting duck for anyone else, even your dance partner if you missed your shot. But if they missed theirs…

Your movements bring you together for another pass, another spar. As the magnetic containment of the two blades of indigo and violet-hot plasma collide. In the instant they do, you hit your throttle full-open, the acceleration rotating you both from the uneven thrust, letting you kick off the enemy mech and send it back toward the earth. You have microseconds.

You raise your rifle with one hand, getting as close as you dare before squeezing the trigger. You don’t need it to hit, you just need it close. The flash of death cuts straight through the left arm, removing its plasma blade along with it.

You hit the afterburners, acceleration Gs threatening to reduce your insides to a viscous red paste. But you ignore your self-preservation instincts, trusting your suit to keep blood where it belongs long enough. Trust your new body to survive what threatens to rip it to shreds from inertia alone. Your only choice, rifle won’t recover in time, and an AM-assault rifle would cut through your metal skin as easy as flesh.

Your blade, still ignited, plunges into center of mass, where the cockpit most likely was. You’d managed to close the distance and pierce it before the pilot could recover from the impact, flash, and dismemberment. In the instant, you tried to ignore the fact that there was another inside the other machine, maybe another like you. A brother or sister of iron blood that had the misfortune of being born stood against you. Just as you had the misfortune of being stood against them.

You drag the blade down into the abdomen, before reversing and slashing up through the chest, the length of the blade cutting through the head as well. You couldn’t take a chance. Had to survive.

Springing off the metal corpse, you turn into your inertia and open the throttle back up, closed after impacting the target so you didn’t get any closer to the ground than you had to. You hear the machine explode behind you over the music that drowned out your thoughts, taking whatever remained of the pilot with it, it’s shrapnel and remains cascading toward the earth below like jagged metal hail. A kill confirmed, the system gave you a small jet of your crimson rations as a reward, a little something to tell you you did a good job.

The Mission remained.

You make another attack run on the enemy fortifications, your rifle shot piercing a less aerobatically gifted machine as it struggled to fire back at you and your squad. The plants behind it were reduced to mere shadows of their former lush, green selves just before the machine exploded, igniting the remains as it showered them in superheated scrap. The system judges you worthy of a second reward.

Another lock alert. A hard, sharp movement at the controls shoves you into a banked aileron roll off to one side, giving you just a glimpse of a flash of destruction just like your service weapon’s but scaled up, with a bigger corona, a bright pink scar left more on your memory than anything physical.

Cutting your throttle as you lean into the bank, you trace the ionized trail back to its source as it rises out of the remaining foliage. Easily twice as tall and several times as wide as your metal body, it resembled some malformed metal bird, from where you couldn’t say. All covered in bare, unpainted metal it looked like either it was missing its lower half or the designers thought that more than two limbs were mere decoration. A long head, giving the vaguest impression of a bird’s beak, was split open, revealing a long, complicated looking cylinder, that you could only surmise was the beam weapon that had just nearly vaporized you. It stood tall on its two limbs, terminating somewhere beneath the trees and plants obscuring beyond your view. The head tracked you for a time before you exited what must be its firing arc.

An IFF blinks out, one of your brothers or sisters slain. Two radar responses blink in, emerging from cover to take to the air. They’re flying together, heading your way. You nose up and cut your throttle, using gravity with the air to slow you rapidly, adjusting your yaw to turn to face the pair as they rapidly approach. Your reticle dances over the machine on the right, adrenalin combined with the sensitivity of the controls making it difficult to maintain the focus.

The computer releases a long, high pitched beep and the reticle changes color. As soon as you have a lock you squeeze the trigger. In a blinding flash, one enemy is reduced to a halo of slag with limbs attached for a second before its reactor goes critical and explodes, scattering shrapnel out of a jet black cloud.

You open the throttle to about 75%, jetting forward toward the remaining bogey, igniting your plasma blade. Before they can reorient themselves, you fly by, bisecting the machine. You don’t need to look back to check your work, their blip on the radar turning to static in your head as it dissipates tells you all you need to know. Another ‘reward’ for each. But for each reward you got, it was never enough. It always just stimulated your appetite, made you hungrier, more desperate. And the higher ups knew it.

You get a ping on the radar dead ahead and right in front of you. On instinct, you slam forward on the controls with all your strength, plunging into a desperate crash-dive to avoid whatever was right ahead. You glimpse a flash of silver jet out of the lingering smoke cloud left behind by the first of the pair.

A sharp, searing pain in your left trapezius; your metal body had been clipped. The ground was coming up fast too; you try to pull back but you’re too close. Even with the rubberized parts for grip, your speed and mass make you glide along the ground at high speed, dust and soil kicking up.

Heartbeat signals were still coming in from every part. Just a metal wound, you could keep going. Just had to be careful about using the air brake there. Taking the time to check the rear cameras you see the culprit: a polished silver-colored metal blade attached to a long, black wire. As the blade’s tip turned back toward you, you were struck by the impression of it moving like a living animal. An animal that plunged right back at you!

You open the throttle to full and hit the afterburners, kicking off the ground but flying low you try desperately to outrun it. Finally it seems to reach its limit and you watch it retract toward its source: the metal monstrosity with the beam weapon.

You take the chance to bank away and climb, gaining altitude while trying to gather a thought. If you didn’t kill it, it’d kill you. Kill your siblings. You couldn’t let them that happen. Cutting the afterburners and the throttle, you let gravity slow you. A careful eye kept on the Armor at all times, you adjust your pitch up to near-stall, turning your yaw and pitch to orient you for another run with a tight turn. The blade is already coiled and pointed at you. Your rifle isn’t ready to fire yet, nor do you have time to wait for it.

The Iron Blood and Will Is In Me

The lyric plays on the speakers, galvanizing your focus just before you go to full throttle and afterburners, leaving it all up to this. You’re crushed into your seat, metal body screaming from the Gs. The blade springs at you like a viper. Just before it hits you cut the throttle entirely and open all the air brakes on your right side. A searing pain tears across your abdomen and hip, including a phantom limb. The wing on your right hip is torn clean off, along with the armor on your metal body’s belly. With all your strength, you swing down with a blade of violet-hot plasma on the monster’s tail.

And you miss.

The tail bent away from you, making your blade miss almost entirely, the tip just barely clipping enough to heat the black coating on it. Before you have time to process, the tail whips back in your direction, hitting you hard and sending you flying.

The air escapes from your lungs as you hit the ground hard, feeling metal crumple and deform from the impact, even dampening on the cockpit proving useless.

Dazed, you watch as the monster’s head turns toward a cluster of your siblings, splitting open once again as the main gun charged up. Light began to scatter from it’s weapon, energy building up to a critical mass. Desperate, you put all the strength you can muster into one hand. Slowly, your rifle raises, shakes as the reticle gradually climbs until it dances over the monster’s center mass. You can’t wait for a lock. You suck in all the air you can, holding your breath. And you squeeze the tri

[laughingcorvuswrites]

Masks

A thousand people with a thousand masks, walk by every day. Masks of all shapes and all sizes, for all sorts of people. And yet you, you don't have one. So you take a piece of wood, and you take a knife, and you carve away.

You wear your shoddy little mask and smile.

You smile, and you're rejected. You carve again, shaving away little by little, carving just a tiny bit of wood away, just a spec of flesh at a time. Every change you make, you reach out to others and smile, and each time you're sent away. So you carve some more.

You carve and you carve and you carve, as you have no other choice. You carve and you carve until nothing remains, and you stare out at a thousand masks. And you realize under all of their smiling masks, they despise you, and no imitation of their mask will ever be enough.

That's when 'they' sat beside you.

Sitting by your side, they hand you a handkerchief and ask "what's the matter?" And so you tell them; you tell them of the masks, and of trying to make your own, you show them all the shreds of wood and of flesh, the scraps and splinters of each broken mask.

They pat your head and coo and empathize. "The world can be so cruel, can't it?" They ask, a question with an answer that didn't need to be voiced. And then they smile so softly. They say "Say, I know something that might help."

They reach into their bag and pull something out, saying "why don't you try this on?"

And they hand you a mask of porcelain.

[laughingcorvuswrites]

Skin Deep

"Are you sure?" she asks you. It's your last chance to back out, you and she both know that. But you nod. You're sure. You've been looking forward to this for months. When you'd finally become...maybe you've been looking forward for years, for your entire life, even.

It didn't matter how long you'd waited, wanted. It only mattered that it was here. You'd run out the clock, and now you're sitting there on a mattress on the floor, nude as the day you were born. Hardly romantic surroundings, but it would do. "Very well, lets get started."

You'd followed her every instruction for months, prepared your body perfectly, as if you'd been making some high-end scotch. Everything had to be perfect. You'd only go through this once, you had to make it count. You braced yourself as she leaned in. You knew it would hurt.

There was no avoiding that, no painkillers or intoxicants were allowed. You had to be fully conscious. You gasp as she bites into the soft part of your shoulder, and the pain is immense. She's bit you there before, but she always used a topical anesthetic before.

Now she can't and the pain floods your mind. She'd need her strength for the night. You would too, but you didn't mind letting her have one last bite. It let you know just how much it would have hurt if she hadn't cared so much.

You feel your body start to go cold, heat sucked out to fuel her. It's not like you'd need it much longer anyway, but if she took too much now...you feel her breath leave your shoulder and you open your eyes, not realizing they'd been closed until now.

You're greeted with her smile, her crimson lips, her raven hair, her emerald eyes, all illuminated in the gloom of city lights filtering in through the blinds. You're greeted with the beauty you fell for quite some time back. "Breath, dear," she all but whispers.

Before you can obey, she presses her lips to yours, and you taste your own sanguine flavor coat your tongue. The kiss breaks, one last taste of mortal pleasure before she begins. She presses her fingertips in at the center of your chest and pushes in and up.

The pain is intense, a thousand times worse than before as her hands gently slip into your body, as if your skin was as strong as that of pudding. Mixed in with the pain is the indescribably queer, squirmy sensation as she moves and manipulates under your skin and fat.

You tense and relax all over, feeling her work her magics and try to ignore the pain. She leans in and kisses your lips, your neck, your everything, as she touches you directly. Directly? You can't describe the intimacy of the situation.

Her hands touch you in ways, in places never thought possible. Her lips kiss above your skin, nibble playfully at it. She's enjoying herself, but you're not allowed to move. One wrong move and you'll fail.

You feel her fingers trace the underside of your subcutaneous fat, you feel her move her hands along your shoulders, your upper and lower back, everywhere she can reach. As the pain dulls, as you grow used to the intensity of it, it all starts to feel a bit pleasurable.

That wasn't the point, but it also couldn't be denied. She moves her attention around your midsection and starts moving back to where she started, all while her lips and gentle teeth try to distract your mind from the blaring pain.

Finally, she mutters into your ear, "almost done, just one last push." The effort is plain in her voice, she's tired too. As her hands come back together, she straightens her back and braces herself. She'll need all her strength, just as you'll need yours.

You suck in one last breath, feel your chest push out against her hands, then relax away as the breath leaves and you nod. You're ready. She nods in reply and starts.

The pain is worse than before, a thousand times over, as she starts to spread her arms wider, widening the seam in your chest. It stretches up and down, reaching the collarbone, the neck, and further, pain burning your mind with every inch. But you endure, you're so close.

With one last, firm yank, it spreads open your face and you can feel the air on you for the first time. On the real you, the new you.

Your eyes open for the first time, your new self is covered in a thick, mucus-like slime, still linking you to the skin that's left of your old self. You look down and see your new, small chest, your tiny frame, your unblemished porcelain under the last of your blood.

It's a weird feeling as she helps your arms and hands slip free of your old skin, a little like when you got a long hair in your throat and had to pull it out, little by little. The pain is far away now; it's still there, but far less intense.

She helps slip the rest of your body from the old skin and tosses it aside, handing you a towel. As you reach to take it, you see the thick crimson paint her hands, and hand her a towel of her own. She giggles liltingly and takes it, starting to clean herself of blood and sweat.

As she cleans the detritus of her efforts, you go to dry yourself as well,cleaning the mucous-like remains and leftover blood from your new skin. You go to find your breath after all the pain, but find you can't.

Or rather, you don't need to. You can still breath in and out, but it no longer burns when you don't. You only need it to pass air over your vocal cords to speak. Your hand moves to your throat on reflex, feeling its texture.

You'd been told your body would be like this, that many of your old flaws were gone, only some remaining as autonomic ghosts of their old selves. Some allegedly fun, in the right hands. With your free hand you grab a handmirror prepared earlier, you had to see your new face.

It was the same as the rest of you; smaller, more effeminate, flawless porcelain. Your lips as red as the rose, eyes green as light filtering through spring leaves. Hair an almost iridescent black. Varying in the details, but similar to the woman you'd fallen so hard for.

You almost looked like her sister. Your hand still on your throat, you go to speak and almost jump in surprise.

It's totally different, it sounds perfect to your ears, light, but not squeaky, a sharp contrast to hers in the best way, and you don't have to work to control it either. It's...yours. Your new, natural voice. You could almost cry with how nice it sounds.

A towel on your back breaks you from your reverie, she was holding your hair out of of the way, drying the parts you couldn't easily reach. The soft terrycloth on your fresh senses feels almost unbearably good, feeling someone else do it makes it infinitely better.

The way she kisses your neck and the soft of your shoulder as she works making it even more infinitely better. She knew all your weak spots after knowing her for a couple weeks. By now she knew you inside and out. But you knew neither of you were up to anything more.

Something like this drained her as much as it did you, and it was all you could do to stay awake. The mattress you're sitting on is a total loss, but you'd gotten it for free anyway. Cleanup could wait for tomorrow.

You go to turn around, to press your lips to hers only to find yourself fallen on your side. Your limbs hold no strength, so she pulls your head onto a pillow and lays beside you. Her arm and a blanket both drape across your nude bodies, and you drift off together