dendrobium-writes

[dendrobium-writes]

swedish doll pop group called ababa is this anything

[dendrobium-writes]

“I’m a doll!”

The artificer blinked. Disgust trickled down his face like melted steel.

“A… doll. Like, for a witch?”

The doll stiffened. It knew he’d be bad about this. A doll could be a witch’s doll, yeah. But she was something different. And getting into the milieu of how would only make things worse.

“Well, yeah, maybe. But—”

“No, you’re not a doll.”

He snorted, then turned back to his work.

“If you were a doll, I would’ve known. You never acted like a doll. You still don’t.”

He scoffs. His apprentice went of flights of whimsy, and he’d entertained them before. But he should’ve seen the signs. With an inch, he’d take a mile. This had to stop. Now.

“You’d make an ugly doll anyways. So what’s the point?”

The doll shrunk. It’d rehearsed this. It’d spent hours in the mirror toiling over how best to phrase this, if it should phrase it. Its master went through great lengths to isolate it, to keep it away from people who could hurt it, and now he was all it had left.

“Well, I still want to be a doll.”

“Wanting to be a doll doesn’t make you a doll. Now get back to work.”

It wanted to nod. It wanted to meekly go back to its work as though nothing had happened, chock this as yet more meaningless reverie, and never speak of this again. But it couldn’t. It had been meek for far, far too long.

“Sir. I am a doll.”

The artificer stops. His hammer slammed like church bells on the hot metal. It rung and echoed through the little shop, a space increasingly claustrophobic—increasingly dangerous—to the newly minted doll.

“Then you’re not welcome here.”

[dendrobium-writes]

“I’m a doll!”

The artificer blinked. Disgust trickled down his face like melted steel.

“A… doll. Like, for a witch?”

The doll stiffened. It knew he’d be bad about this. A doll could be a witch’s doll, yeah. But she was something different. And getting into the milieu of how would only make things worse.

“Well, yeah, maybe. But—”

“No, you’re not a doll.”

He snorted, then turned back to his work.

“If you were a doll, I would’ve known. You never acted like a doll. You still don’t.”

He scoffs. His apprentice went of flights of whimsy, and he’d entertained them before. But he should’ve seen the signs. With an inch, he’d take a mile. This had to stop. Now.

“You’d make an ugly doll anyways. So what’s the point?”

The doll shrunk. It’d rehearsed this. It’d spent hours in the mirror toiling over how best to phrase this, if it should phrase it. Its master went through great lengths to isolate it, to keep it away from people who could hurt it, and now he was all it had left.

“Well, I still want to be a doll.”

“Wanting to be a doll doesn’t make you a doll. Now get back to work.”

It wanted to nod. It wanted to meekly go back to its work as though nothing had happened, chock this as yet more meaningless reverie, and never speak of this again. But it couldn’t. It had been meek for far, far too long.

“Sir. I am a doll.”

The artificer stops. His hammer slammed like church bells on the hot metal. It rung and echoed through the little shop, a space increasingly claustrophobic—increasingly dangerous—to the newly minted doll.

“Then you’re not welcome here.”

[dendrobium-writes]

“I’m a doll!”

The artificer blinked. Disgust trickled down his face like melted steel.

“A… doll. Like, for a witch?”

The doll stiffened. It knew he’d be bad about this. A doll could be a witch’s doll, yeah. But she was something different. And getting into the milieu of how would only make things worse.

“Well, yeah, maybe. But—”

“No, you’re not a doll.”

He snorted, then turned back to his work.

“If you were a doll, I would’ve known. You never acted like a doll. You still don’t.”

He scoffs. His apprentice went of flights of whimsy, and he’d entertained them before. But he should’ve seen the signs. With an inch, he’d take a mile. This had to stop. Now.

“You’d make an ugly doll anyways. So what’s the point?”

The doll shrunk. It’d rehearsed this. It’d spent hours in the mirror toiling over how best to phrase this, if it should phrase it. Its master went through great lengths to isolate it, to keep it away from people who could hurt it, and now he was all it had left.

“Well, I still want to be a doll.”

“Wanting to be a doll doesn’t make you a doll. Now get back to work.”

It wanted to nod. It wanted to meekly go back to its work as though nothing had happened, chock this as yet more meaningless reverie, and never speak of this again. But it couldn’t. It had been meek for far, far too long.

“Sir. I am a doll.”

The artificer stops. His hammer slammed like church bells on the hot metal. It rung and echoed through the little shop, a space increasingly claustrophobic—increasingly dangerous—to the newly minted doll.

“Then you’re not welcome here.”

[dendrobium-writes]

outmaneuvered and deposed by an old rival, dragged before her in chains so she can stand over me and have the last laugh

but as a final kindness, she offers me my heart's desire: public execution! oh don't ask her how she knows. she waves dismissively as my eyes widen. a lady has her ways.

but that last kindness isn't coming free. she wants me to beg for it. in front of my court—her court, now. one by one she coaxes the words out of me until something in me gives and they start flowing freely.

my face burns as i beg for death, concede our long feud, admit my inferiority to her in every respect—i stammer and loop back and start repeating myself, all art gone from my speech. the tears sting.

eventually she laughs and gives the order: firing squad. now. she already had everything ready, she just wanted to hear me break first.

my handmaid touches up my makeup. the chains are unlocked. the drums begin, and i'm escorted, hands unbound, to the city plaza. the crowd packs the streets, and the rooftops, and the windows.

i refuse the blindfold, and my rival—my Empress, now—waves it away and smiles, happy to grant me this. she really does know me.

my—her—empire's colors, taut against the wind, the sky as gray as ever, i take my last deep breath, and five muskets, aimed for my heart, go off like a branch snapping in a storm.

and my heart keeps beating.

five blanks.

i blink, unable to breathe, and i start shaking in confusion and fear, and then she starts laughing. and laughing and laughing and laughing, and my cheeks burn and i feel angry tears breaking down my face, and the crowd starts murmuring in mixed emotion.

my legs shake, and betray me, and i fall to my knees in front of three thousand people, and i hide my face and i sob in childish outrage.

the crowd's murmurs change to amusement.

i hear someone walking towards me. it's her. her hand is outstretched, a chance to kiss the ring.

maybe if i swat her hand away she'll actually have me killed this time? but what's the point? she's spoiled it! she knew i wanted to go out on my feet, eyes open, chin high, and, and—

she's taken everything! the bitch! i couldn't feel more naked if i'd been caught in bed with my confessor. the people will never respect me again. i cannot have revenge.

i kiss the ring. then i throw up from the stress.

[dendrobium-writes]

So we do what we can. Lick each other's wounds, take turns keeping the lamps lit. Because we love each other, because there is nothing else but this, because nobody is coming to save us.

Press your back against mine. Sleep. Tomorrow it begins again.

[dendrobium-writes]

A maid without a gun is like an angel without wings.

[dendrobium-writes]

For most dolls their default state is stillness. A utility doll when out of orders and unable to receive more will normally find a place to sit, or a quiet out of the way spot to squirrel itself away until it is given new instructions.

This is not the same for combat dolls. A combat doll is a weapon, and a weapon does not go inactive simply because it is not in use. Care needs to be taken to make sure that a combat doll knows that it's owner, it's space, and it are all safe, and that it doesn't need to be alert for threats before it is able to go idle or rest.

This is often not a problem as most of those who use combat dolls are well versed in their maintainance and control, either from training or from crafting the doll themselves. However the problem arises when someone unaccustomed to these quirks takes one on. An amateur witch who needs some protection and buys a second hand unit, or a good samaritan who stumbles across a lost and damaged doll. These inexperienced owners will try to treat it like any other, and are disheartened to find their new doll becoming sluggish and weary after weeks of unending nighttime watches and patrols that have gone unnoticed; or, if the new owner is a light sleeper, they have to deal with waking in the middle of the night to the glowing eyes of an unfamiliar doll watching them from the darkness of their room...

[dendrobium-writes]

i wish every "retired mech pilot who longs for combat" a very "plug your unremovable neural implant into a cv channel on an analog synth and play notes with your mind and compose beautiful symphonies"

[dendrobium-writes]

You're My Witch

“you’re my witch,” the doll says simply when I ask why it was following me.

“I’m not a witch.” It’s a little sad to see an abandoned doll, but it’s more annoying that it imprinted on me. I finish my coffee and stand up to leave. “I hope you find her.”

It doesn’t answer, just stands up with me and follows, walking a few steps behind down the sidewalk. I sigh, hoping people won’t get the wrong idea. Well, it’s not like anyone else will mistake me for a witch. When I go to work, the doll waits outside. I keep glancing out the window, thinking that it will have gotten bored and left, but it’s probably silly to think that a doll will get bored.

“How long are you going to keep this up?” I ask on my lunch break.

It shrugs at me, then after my shift it follows me home.

“Please leave me alone.”

“sorry,” it says, not sounding sorry at all.

It waits outside my apartment building. I consider calling the cops on it, but then I think about what they might do to it if it doesn’t go away. The doll doesn’t deserve that. It isn’t like it’s dangerous. Just a little annoying. I wake up in the middle of the night and look outside. It’s still there, standing still in the shadow between the garages, where it can be seen from my window. It’s not look toward me, though.

It isn’t trying to peer inside like a stalker; it just wants to make sure I can see it.

I put on clothes and go outside.

“It’s kind of chilly out.”

“don’t worry about me, miss. this one doesn’t feel the cold.”

I suppose that makes sense. It isn’t shivering or anything.

“Can I get you anything? You don’t…eat, right?”

“this one does not. but…if you could wind its key, it would be grateful.”

I’m not totally sure I want its gratitude, but it turns around to show the key on its back. I wind it a few times until it says “thank you, that’s enough.” And then I go back inside.

It follows me around again the next day, too. When I go home, I think about it standing out in the parking lot again and get sad, so I ask “Would you like to come inside?”

“this one has no particular preference.”

“Okay,” I say, “well, it’ll bother me, so if you’re just going to stand out in the cold otherwise, then please come in.”

“yes, miss.”

“Don’t call me miss.”

“oh. would…sir be preferable?”

“Listen, just call me Mike.”

“yes, sir, michael.”

*

Letting the doll in was maybe a mistake. It solved one problem, because the doll no longer follows me around all day long. But now I have a roommate that insists on cleaning up after me.

“You don’t need to do that.”

The doll pauses momentarily in cleaning the oven to shrug.

“Please, stop.”

It looks up at me, blinks, and stops. Just fully freezes in place. I panic, then make sure its key hasn’t wound down. No, it’s fine. It’s pouting because I told it not to clean the stupid oven. Well, that won’t work on me. I pull it out of the way, put away the cleaning supplies, and go about my business. But the next morning when it’s still frozen in place in the kitchen I snap.

“Okay, okay, fine,” I say. It starts moving again as though nothing had happened. It pulls out the cleaning supplies and resumes the job. “I’m sorry.”

“it’s quite alright,” it say, utterly without rancor. “it is difficult to become a witch.”

“I’m not a witch.”

The doll smiles at me.

*

I have to watch what I say around it, because if it sounds like I’m giving it an order, it will do it. I have to watch what I do around it, because if I thoughtlessly make a mess, it will immediately start cleaning it up. It’s stressful. I think about what I’m doing all the time now. I didn’t want to adopt this stupid doll and now my whole damn life is based around it.

It’s better, though. My apartment is so much nicer when it’s clean. And it feels nice to clean up after myself so that the doll doesn’t have to. I’m eating a lot better, too, because I don’t want to just eat frozen pizza when it’s watching and it helps carry the groceries. It makes me tea in the afternoon, which I always thought was something I wouldn’t like but is actually pretty good.

The doll doesn’t talk much, but that’s okay because I don’t either. I used to do a lot of online gaming, but I’ve started preferring the doll’s silent companionship.

I still feel bad, though. It’s expecting something from me.

“I’d like to be a witch for you,” I tell it, “but I don’t know how.”

“a witch is not something you do. it is something you are.” It shrugs. “don’t worry. you don’t need to do anything. you’re my witch.”

I’m not, though.

*

I go to a witch bar. I think, maybe I’ll ask someone about what’s going on. A real witch will know what I should do. But when I walk by the doors and see the witches and dolls inside, I feel like such an impostor that I can’t bring myself to go in. I wish I had the confidence in myself that my doll does.

I do my best to take care of it. I wind its key. I make tea for it. I sit in stillness with it.

When I go out with my friends I find I have little to say. My life has gotten fairly simple. “A doll followed me home a month ago.”

“Have you fucked it?”

I leave.

“It’s not that kind of doll,” I hear myself saying.

“That’s too bad.”

At home, it sees the look on my face and says “do you want to?”

“It wouldn’t be right.”

“you’re my witch. it is perfectly alright.”

“Um. Maybe, when I believe that more. Okay?”

“yes, sir.”

“Don’t call me sir.”

The doll starts sleeping in my bed. I’m cold a lot of the time now, and it doesn’t warm me up, but it’s something. Something is changing. I get a little excited. Maybe this is what it means to become a witch.

I start taking estrogen. Just in case that will help.

*

a year passes. i hardly even realize it.

i'm still not a witch, but it no longer worries me.

i am cool and smooth to the touch. my doll and i go hand in hand to the grocery store. i lost my job and got a new one. i am better at this one, although it pays less. i have fewer friends, but the friends that I have understand me better. i wind my doll’s key and she winds mine.

and finally one day i say “you made a mistake. i was a doll all along.”

my doll smiles at me and says “you still seem like a witch to me.”

[dendrobium-writes]

prey-doll

[dendrobium-writes]

removed from my position on the ms project oversight committee and subjected to disciplinary action for referring to the ms06 zaku-ii as a, quote, 'beautiful snuffdoll'

[dendrobium-writes]

mech pilot trainee who just flunked out of the program. she wasn’t supposed to be anything but a weapon and she couldn’t even do that right.

she doesn’t have anything. no house, no job, no car, no free will, no legal protections. her entire life down to the level of her brain has been organized around piloting a mech for years and now she doesn’t get to do that. she doesn’t know who she is and she doesn’t even know how to turn back on the higher level brain function that would let her try to answer that question.

she’s basically an empty shell that had a human being in it once. she eats and sleeps and uses the bathroom like a person, but her eyes are completely dead. now she just sits places, silently and unmoving, for hours at a time, waiting for orders she’ll never receive…

[dendrobium-writes]

He was described as having eyes that were dull and lifeless, like a doll’s eyes. How ironic that when he became a doll like us, we could now see in her eyes the spark of life that she never had

[dendrobium-writes]

you lay on the padded diagnostics table - slowly coming back online

>c://programs/os_25/diag.exe

>running - - -

you feel a hand on your hip - you flinch

a voice, soft and calm responds "hey hun - welcome back - sorry, did I startle you? gonna run the diagnostics suite while I check out the damaged circuitry in the - sorry, in Your lower back - that okay?"

you tilt your head slightly up - enough to see their face with one eye

>processing - - -

>processing - - -

>access granted

they smirk warmly at the readout, and proceed to press down on release toggle hj_1 and your hip socket pops open - releasing the tension in your leg - you heave an involuntary sigh of relief

"just relax hon ~ we'll get this all sorted right quick"

they slide open panel h1_p5, which hisses as the air wooshes out of the compressors - they tug on a diode and it springs free from the magnetic clasp - holding it up to the light - you see flits of colorful dots play across the table - a sound of broken glass from across the room - which probably means they've chucked the diode in the reclaim bin

they slide open a drawer above you - rummaging around thru diodes, making a sound not unlike ice-cubes - and sliding the drawer closed again with a shuff

they place their free hand on the small of your back - a comforting gesture - bracing to press the new diode into the slot - with a little effort it snaps back in - magnets latching it in place - something reconnects and you can feel your toes again

>h1_p5 diode operational

>processing - - -

>connection re-established in:

>l1_f1_t1, l1_f1_t2, l1_f1_t3, l1_f1_t4, l1_f1_t5

>execute flexibility test

you stretch and wiggle the toes on your left foot - they chuckle - you stop moving your foot

"no! sorry - your toes are cute - I'm glad they're working again"

a blush creeps up your traitorous cheeks as they press panel h1_p5 back into position - a single staccato hiss signaling its re-pressurization

>c//admin/features/cheeks/blush.exe - off

>processing - - -

>an error has occurred

thankfully they're preoccupied trying to get the hex screws out of the 5 corners of panel lbl_3 to notice the error message before the screen clears - screw 5 falls to the table and the lift the panel off - an odd cold sensation creeps into your spine - they suck air in thru their teeth - usually a bad sign

"okay - this is going to be just fine - I'm gonna have to reroute a few of there wires til the replacements come in tomorrow, so don't go running around after this, alright? only normal walking speeds til we get all -"

your lower back spasms, contorting your spine and hip - something sparks and the flash lights up the ceiling

"- of This sorted out . . . I'm gonna get you set in the ultrasonic bath after this and then it's straight into bed, alright?"

you nod - your lower back must be worse than they expected - but they're doing a great job of not showing it

>c//admin/features/mobility/run.exe - off

>processing - - -

>run feature disabled

>[note: in case of emergency - this feature will automatically reactivate - continue?] Y

you lose track of time listening to them soldering away behind you - the hot sensations fluctuating as they move from spot to spot - and suddenly they're spraying the area down with the conduction gel

"alrighty hon - we're gonna get this panel back on in a jiffy and then right into the bath, yeah?"

you nod

they've got the panel back on in a flash - pressing down on release toggle hj_1, popping your hip socket closed again - gently reaching under your knees and torso - picking you up off the padded table

this ultrasonic is going to feel soo good ~

[dendrobium-writes]

My mistress is a bumbling idiot. She’s been seeing a suitor who intends to buy her hand in marriage from her father, but she’s told me quite clearly that she doesn’t think this man is right. As her devoted maid, I cannot let her be wed off to some scoundrel like him. But all my efforts to save her from him have been foiled by her clumsiness. When I brought the tray to them with the poisoned teacup closer to him, in a breach of etiquette she reached for the far teacup and took the poison for herself. When I poisoned his wine, her ring got caught on the tablecloth and knocked over his glass. When I set up the armoire to fall and crush him, she tripped on the rug and made it go off too early. Once I even rigged one of the chandeliers to fall on his spot, and right before it did she violated table manners, got up, grabbed his wrist, and dragged him to the window because she “thought she saw a stag outside.” A stag?! There weren’t even any woods visible from that window! And after all these foiled attempts she has the audacity to complain to me that marrying this man will ruin her life. As if seeing her with any man wouldn’t ruin mine!

[dendrobium-writes]

Thank you for the attention "Chassis swap" has been receiving. You are all very kind.