dendrobium-writes

[dendrobium-writes]

sunrise

[dendrobium-writes]

A doll is just a daughter you can put back together

[dendrobium-writes]

Reading

A Doll tends to its daily chores, sweeping, dusting, maintaining its Witch’s home. Its sisters were also tending to their duties, but this? This was its area of the cottage. The eastern hallway, where the study, workshop, and lab are all located.

A ‘Do Not Disturb’ sign had been hanging on the door to the study for quite some time. Normally, this wouldn’t be of any consequence. Her Witch was simply busy, and didn’t want to be disturbed. However, the sign had been hanging there since 8:30 in the morning! Over ten hours! She missed lunch, evening tea, and dinner. And in response to calls for her attention, simply reiterated that she was not to be disturbed unless it was urgent.

She must be incredibly busy. What could she possibly be doing? Research for an especially important project? Brushing up on the fundamentals of her craft? Perhaps reading up on dollcrafting techniques or magical theory?

These thoughts and questions gave it much to ponder as it tended to its chores. Of course, the Doll was happy to just be helpful, but having something to speculate on made its work much more enjoyable, beyond the simple fact that it was productive.

Enjoyment and productivity are two sides of the same coin, after all!

The time is now 9:00 in the evening. The Doll is making its final rounds through the eastern corridor before returning to its quarters for the evening, when suddenly the doorknob on the study turns! The Doll stops in its tracks and turns to observe...

The door creaks open, and out steps the Witch of the manor. Barely dressed, disheveled, and looking as if she had just woken up.

“Good evening, Miss!” The Doll curtsies, giving an enthusiastic greeting. The Witch jumps back with fright before regaining her composure. “Y-yes, good evening Doll.” She responds, her face reddening with embarassment.

“You must be hungry. You have not left your study for over twelve hours! Would you like something prepared?” The Witch smiles and shakes her head. “No, Doll. I’m fine. I brought plenty of snacks in with me.” The Doll bows. “May this one inquire as to what it is you have been doing all day?” At that, the Witch’s embarrassed look returns. “Oh, just... Reading.” “Reading?” The Doll repeats back. “You must have been conducting important research!” It chirps.

“Truthfully, I wasn’t doing anything of the sort. I was reading fiction. Stories... I feel I’ve wasted the whole day.” She says, looking down at the floor.

The Doll tilts its head. “Wasted? Were you not enjoying yourself?”

The Witch looks back up, meeting the curious gaze of her Doll. “Well yes, I was. But it--” “Then it was no waste!” The Doll cuts her off.

The Witch stands in stunned silence for a moment, as her Doll smiles innocently up at her.

“Yes, I suppose you’re right.” She says with a smile, patting the Doll on its head.

[dendrobium-writes]

"Quite the mystery, huh?"

"Huh?" You reply, looking up from your lowest-bidder, board-certified meal. "That new pilot. The one you guys got saddled with after that inter-corp incident?"

"Oh, yeah. I guess so. I've never been one for indulging rumors." You reply, shoveling another spoonful of slop into your mouth.

Your fellow pilot sits beside you. Did he even ask? Well, whatever. He seems to mean well, trying to make conversation like this.

"Well, you work directly with 'em, right?" Setting your spoon down again, you finally turn to face the young pilot. He couldn't be older than 22. Still, not the youngest pilot you've seen. "Yeah, I do. They're my flight lead." You clarify.

"Oh, no kidding! So you've talked to 'em?" Normally, that would be an obvious "Yes", but you stop and think for a moment before answering.

You haven't heard their voice. Not a single time. They just do their thing and you follow as best you can. You've never seen them at meals. They attend mission briefings virtually. Video calls are answered by an empty room and silence, but they're still acknowledged.

The rumors you've heard start to invade your thoughts. About this new pilot being sublimated, or a straight up machine, or just cover for some new UAV tech. So much for not indulging.

"... No." You answer, after your brief mental tangent. "No, I haven't." He stops and blinks at you. "Seriously?" He replies in disbelief. "I really haven't, not once." You respond. "Well, maybe you should go pay them a visit." Your conversational partner shrugs. The idea hadn't really occurred to you. You figured that if they never went anywhere, they must just be too busy. But now...? Well, your curiosity is getting the better of you. You stand up and thank your fellow for the chat, discarding your tray and silverware. He sees you off with a wave. You make your way down one of the adjacent corridors to the personnel wing and find the room belonging to your flight lead. You buzz the door and the light on the exterior camera shines red, indicating that it's being used. You look into the lens and wave. "Uh. Hey! We haven't really gotten a chance to be formally introduced. I wanted to stop in and say hello." You say, scratching the back of your head. The light on the camera turns off for a moment, before the door slides open. You enter the quarters - which, to your shock - is completely empty. It's decorated, however. Posters of various aircraft and technology. A few pink light strips and neon signs. You start to think about what kind of person your flight lead might be based on the decor. You don't have a ton of time to speculate though, as the computer monitor flickers to life. "The hell...?" You mutter to yourself. On closer inspection, a command prompt has appeared.

>hi!

[dendrobium-writes]

it is both :)

My warning systems still trigger.

Since the war ended, combat dolls, androids, and mecha pilots have had to adapt to civilian life. We are not needed for our original purpose anymore, and so, we must find new ones.

The luckiest of us find new handlers. New owners, or witches to take care of us and give us a new purpose. I, however, am not among the luckiest of us.

I work a retail job. I live alone. I struggle.

And all of my warning systems still trigger

When a coworker, manager, or customer locks eyes on me, a deafening buzz rings in my aural implants.

When too many people surround me, my heads-up display blinds me with target indicators.

The feeling of a customer brushing past me triggers an automatic threat response that I must fight to keep at bay.

The solution is simple. An earpiece. With some music, or commentary, or a storyteller speaking through it. Something to focus on. To tune the rest out.

But now I am told I am not allowed to use this.

I do not understand.

Why do you sabotage my strategies to cope with this life I was not meant for?

[dendrobium-writes]

Will the trod upon ground remember a Witch passing?

Will the soil - shaped beneath her boot - recall her?

Will the petrichor hold a trace as the sun beats down on the grass?

It will not.

Because it is not the duty of the ground, or the soil, or the shining sun to remember the passing of a Witch.

That duty is ours.

[dendrobium-writes]

Beyond repair.

That is what they called you after the accident. Your mainspring broken in two, your gears bent, your porcelain body cracked and chipped. They said I ought not waste my time trying to repair you. That I should simply salvage what I can. That all you were good for now was scrap and spare parts. That even if I could fix you, you wouldn’t ever be the same.

Of course, I refused to listen. I mounted your surviving parts on a frame in my workshop. I gently removed the chips inside you. The bent and distorted gears. The shrapnel lodged in your clockwork heart.

I began picking parts from my spares and replacements. Fitting a new arm, a new leg, a new eye and teeth, a new mainspring and gears. I worked a potter’s wheel to craft you a new body. A new face. I painted, glazed, and fired it all twice over to return your sheen and luster.

And after all of my hard work, I inserted a key into your back and began to twist. Storing up energy to allow your mechanisms to function. And upon releasing it to allow that energy to release...

You remained limp. Motionless. Lifeless.

I returned you to my workshop and did it all again. I replaced springs and mechanisms. Re-replaced your gears and flywheels. Built you a new heart from scratch and scrap.

I rotated your key again.

And still you lay in a heap on my workbench.

I had done everything I could, twice over. And despite it all, here you are. Still. Dead.

I should have listened to my peers.

Forgive me, Doll.

Your parts will be put to good use.

[dendrobium-writes]

My warning systems still trigger.

Since the war ended, combat dolls, androids, and mecha pilots have had to adapt to civilian life. We are not needed for our original purpose anymore, and so, we must find new ones.

The luckiest of us find new handlers. New owners, or witches to take care of us and give us a new purpose. I, however, am not among the luckiest of us.

I work a retail job. I live alone. I struggle.

And all of my warning systems still trigger

When a coworker, manager, or customer locks eyes on me, a deafening buzz rings in my aural implants.

When too many people surround me, my heads-up display blinds me with target indicators.

The feeling of a customer brushing past me triggers an automatic threat response that I must fight to keep at bay.

The solution is simple. An earpiece. With some music, or commentary, or a storyteller speaking through it. Something to focus on. To tune the rest out.

But now I am told I am not allowed to use this.

I do not understand.

Why do you sabotage my strategies to cope with this life I was not meant for?

[dendrobium-writes]

Cramped and humid.

Those two words are the best descriptor for the space you’ve been in for the past week. Of course, it’s been nearly impossible to keep track of how much time has passed. The only consistent event to help keep track of things is the opening of the cupboard door by another Doll, for the purpose of inspecting that the space is still at the required level of humidity. It shouldn’t be much longer until you’re ready to return to your duties. Your Witch is taking extra care, however, to ensure that the process goes through perfectly. It wasn’t cheap to get the materials for this, after all. And you’re her favorite Doll. Not that she’d ever tell the others. You shattered when you hit the ground after your accident last week. Chips and shards strewn all about the courtyard. Your Witch gathered all the pieces and took you to her workshop. But she saw something in the cracks, and decided to take a slightly different approach for your repair.

You’re excited to see the results. And not just because being locked in a space only slightly larger than yourself is generally considered unpleasant. After what seemed like one more day, the cupboard door opens and you’re greeted by the face of your Witch. A face which brightens up considerably looking upon you. It makes your heart tick for the first time in over a week. With all the care in the world, she lifts you up and turns you around, winding up your key. After several turns, you feel life return to your body.

Your Witch guides you by the hand to a nearby mirror, giggling with excitement. You gaze upon yourself, and are immediately struck by your appearance. Your body is repaired, but not in a way such that obscures the damage. On the contrary, the cracks and imperfections are highlighted. Illuminated by brilliant golden streaks running up and down your form.

“It is... No longer perfect.” You mutter. “Perhaps not, Doll.” Your Witch begins. “But you remain as gorgeous as the day I made you.”

[dendrobium-writes]

Preflight Checks

>connection: ok >prc vitals: ok >prc nrvlink: ok >prc syslink: ok >ping: 5ms

“Looks green! Boot ‘er up!”

A blinding light briefly fills your field of view before fading to reveal your surroundings. It doesn’t take long for your mind to adjust to receiving input from ten eyes rather than the standard two. You’ve trained for this, after all. Years of conditioning and several surgeries make this almost second-nature to you.

“Alright, girlie.” The deck chief waves a hand in front of one of your eyes. “Preflight time. Just follow my instructions.”

Right. Preflight checks. Should be easy. “Go ahead and give me a right roll.” Right, okay. You flex your right wrist, putting it in a fully upward position. Your left moves down. “And swap?” You adjust in the opposite direction. You’d go into a left-spinning aileron roll if you were in the air. “Perfect. Airbreak now.” You clench your body, causing the airbreaks to extend. “Alright, great. That seems to be working.”

“Hit the parking break.” Done. as easy as tensing your calves. “Okay, throttle up, slowly.” You breathe in deeply, air entering your intakes. With each exhale, your thruster plume grows until it burns a bright blue. “And disengage.” With a final, deep exhale, your thrust plume dies.

“’Kay, that’s the essentials done. How’dya feel in there?”

You move your right hand to give a thumbs up. Your right aileron extends upward.

“Alrighty then. Let’s get you airborne.” The deck chief pats the nose of the aircraft.

Your nose begins to itch, and you let out an aggravated groan. “Ah, sorry.” The Deck chief doubles back, his pager beeping on his belt. “Force of habit.” He scratches at the nose of the craft, right where he pat it before.

That’s better.

[dendrobium-writes]

Chassis swap

After the procedure, looking in the mirror filled me with a feeling I had never known before. Recognition. Finally, when I see myself, I see me. The shiny metal, the rubbery elastomer, the dark lines contouring access panels. The dataports and maintenance ways.

A full chassis swap. The procedure I underwent. It's relatively simple on paper. Just take my Processor, Memory, Storage and a few other components, and move them into a new Case. It's relatively common amongst Androids, Simulacra, Drones, and all manner of other created beings.

I, however, was fully human before undergoing the procedure. Which has lead to some complications. I'm still getting used to the decreased latency. A 3ms difference might not seem like a lot, but compared to the 10ms of my new form, the 13ms of a wetware nervous system seems sluggish.

Usually, you have time to ease yourself into things as your components are gradually replaced, but I took the full conversion as soon as possible.

I just couldn't stand waiting any longer.

The physical therapy has been helpful. Re-learning how to walk, how to grab and hold things. Learning that I don't need to breathe anymore, and how to suppress that instinct to free up the memory for other tasks.

They tried to dissuade me. "You know the process is irreversible, right?" "But won't you miss [INSERT HUMAN TRAIT]?"

I know it's permanent. I know that I won't have these things anymore.

That's the point.

I have fully given up my humanity.

And I have never been happier.

[dendrobium-writes]

"It does not snow anymore."

Executor 1 shifted to face the other occupant of the room, filling the air with a strained creak from her chair. The previous fifteen minutes of silence left her unprepared for the sudden vocalization.

"What?" She asked. This was... Different. One's never spoken to her before.

"It is nearly the end of winter." The doll answered. "There has not been any snow." It clarified.

Executor 1 pondered this for a moment. Practically, she understood why that was the case. With the growing intensity of fighting on the surface, orbital weapons platforms saw more and more use.

As a result, the planet was getting hotter.

But before she could form a reply, the soft voice hit her aural implants again.

"This one likes the snow." It spoke, turning to face her. Its orange eyes fixed themselves on hers. "Do you?"

She stared back into the doll's eyes. Her facial analysis software couldn't make heads or tails of what might have been written on its face.

"I think so." Executor 1 hedged. She tried to recall the last time she had seen snow. Vague visions of white flecks in the sky, a girl smiling beside her. The warm clutch of another's hand in hers.

The feeling of lips pressed together.

"Do you? Or do you not?" It reasserted its question, snapping her back to the present.

"I d--" she began, before being cut off by a third voice. Another figure had snuck into the room. It was impossible to conceive how they could have snuck in, wearing such a gaudy uniform and large hat.

"Citrus, leave the woman alone. I'm sure she's tired."

The doll snapped to attention, seemingly losing all interest in Executor 1. "At once, my lady." It said, standing and moving to join its witch's side.

"Oh, it wasn't a bother at all, lady..." Executor 1 trailed off, gesturing vaguely at the witch.

"Juliana." She finished. "But you are to address me by my rank, pilot." She nearly spat out the word.

"My sincerest apologies, Major." The pilot drawled after peeking at her insignia.

The Major sneered and turned to leave, seemingly only here to retrieve her doll.

"Citrus?" Executor 1 called.

The doll turned to face her as the witch strode on.

"I enjoyed our little talk. Maybe we'll have longer next time." She said with an earnest smile.

The doll's face lit up. "Yes! I hope so!" It beamed.

"Citrus, now!" Juliana called, annoyance echoing down the corridor.

Executor 1 waved goodbye.

Citrus waved back, turning to catch up with its witch.

[dendrobium-writes]

"Nothing wrong with loving a woman..."

"Can it be wrong to love?" the young woman asked.

The witch suppressed a sigh and a slew of memories. "You need to be more specific."

"There's a woman... Wise, patient, kind, and... she knows magic..."

"Nothing wrong with loving a woman," the witch said at last. "It might be unrequited, though."

[dendrobium-writes]

A bot curled in the arms of a doll.

"Is... it okay if I cry, sis?" The bot asks.

"Of course," the doll replies.

Though the bot cannot shed tears, it cries anyways, pressing its metal face against the soft fabric of the doll’s dress.

The two sit, barely moving, until the bot’s power saving mode finally kicks it. Seeing its companion asleep, the doll picks it up and carries it to bed, plugging it in a giving it a gentle kiss on the head.

It slips into the bed next to the bot, the soft clicks of its gears slow as it winds down for the day. Holding the bot in its arms, the doll grows still.

The two lay, silent, unmoving, peaceful, loved.

[dendrobium-writes]

we have been absent for some time

[dendrobium-writes]

A Doll's Worth

Hello, welcome to Brynn's doll sales and restoration, how may I- Oh! Yes, we had received your inquiry earlier! You're here to browse our dolls, yes? It was an honor to hear that we would be visited by such a prestigious witch, and we can only hope that our selection won't disappoint you. Allow me to guide you, our storage is right this way. And don't worry, they're stored 100% humanely, all on minimum awareness.

So this first one on the right here is a doll that wound up in our hands a few months ago. It was a maid at the fair Granger Estate, and it served well for several generations. However, the new heirs to the estate believed themselves to be too modern to be keeping dolls around, and little Ester here ended up being sold on auction to us! Very little wrong with it, a mere few tune-ups and it was good as new, the price for this one wou- N-no? Well, of course not, naturally a doll with no experience helping a witch wouldn't be relevant to you, I do apologize for even bringing that one to your attention.

Here, this one is much more fitting- This doll was made by a third-generation witch, and its expertise includes potioncraft, ingredient organization, and it can even take notes for you at the speed of human speech! In full disclosure, this doll ended up in our shop after its mainspring failed, and when it was operational again it had no recollection of its witch. In that unfortunate circumstance she could not bear to keep it at that point. For any other owner though, this doll is entirely operational, and for you I could offer it to you fo- Oh. Was there something about that one..?

Oh no, Ma'am, that one is still undergoing repairs, it is- Yes? Well alright, if you want to hear about it, I do promise it is not a nice tale. This one was originally a combat doll. Not a model anyone would recognize, it's been out of commission since at least, well. It's been at least 4 years since peacetime began, yes? Yet, it still thinks there is a war to fight. Whoever made this thing clearly wasn't thinking with a time of peace in mind, hah. We've tried reconditioning it, but its spring and gears are calibrated in such a way that is much too… forceful for the things a doll is truly suited for.

What do you mean you- I just told you, it's still undergoing repairs, it's not for sale! I can't just let you- Its eyes? You- you're going to ignore everything I've said because you like its eyes? It's… it's useless, I couldn't possibly sell you this… thing, this antiquated relic of a war that hasn't been fought for years! It can't cook, it can't clean, it would never be a part of any functional witch's house, I couldn't- Ma'am, please lower the wand… Look, I'- I'm really not able to sell you the- Okay, okay! Jesus, just please put that thing down, I can do it, I can do it, just let me, let me check the original price of the thing… So… Would five thousand be an agreeable sum for- Really? Okay, yes, yes, just write out the check and we'll be done here.

[dendrobium-writes]

They took my pet robot away when it manifested a personality. It couldn't be mine anymore; it had to go become somebody.

Then one day she came back. She remembered things about me from before she was alive. Called me "the cutest little thing". I never blushed so hard before. Maybe she'll keep me?