Unit C0H-37 was thankful for its current state of dress for exactly two reasons:
-
While wearing it, none would mistake it for a combat model.
-
The dress’s expansive bottom half hid the smooth shaft of its Witch’s flesh it was being forced to hold between its legs, so it was afforded some small measure of discretion.
It dipped its head towards the plastic-sheen surface of the restaurant table to hide its shame, until its Witch reminded it with a swift tug of its hair that Good Little Dollies were supposed to sit proudly and smile. And so that is what it did, seething internally. Its chassis had long been stripped of weapons, leaving the doll toothless in its Owner’s lap. Its only consolation was that, given its current state of dress, it was not recognizably a combat doll, its long-missed sisters would at least not have their reputations tarnished by proxy.
But it was a cold comfort, compared to the insistent heat between its legs, pressed against the null space hid between them. Colder still when the doll noticed the pitying stare of the man who had come to take their order. He seemed concerned, having some sense of his status as bystander, but who would say anything against a Witch? Certainly not a minimum-wage employee. He only attempted a polite smile and pulled out a notepad.
“This one will have the kid’s grilled cheese!” chirped Unit C0H-37, using the affected cheer it had been commanded to use. “And its beautiful and all-powerful Witch will have the cheeseburger! With a side salad.”
Her cock pressed into it suddenly. This was the indication it had gotten the order wrong, though it knew this could not be the case. Its memory banks were absolute and infallible. This was only yet more torment. It smiled harder to keep its indignation from showing.
“Apologies. It meant the fries.”
Another thrust, as clear in meaning as the last.
“This one apologizes for being so incompetent-“
Another.
“And worthless-“
Another.
“And incapable, a- and-“
There were further thrusts, but it was out of words. Humiliation and an arousal it will not acknowledge have made sure of that. The waiter took the opportunity and escaped. It had done its best to hide its Witch’s movements but who could say what had been visible?
But at least it was over. It lowered its head in relief, only to be met by the razor of its Witch’s fingernail, pressed against its yielding throat.
“What a shame,” she said. “You almost had it. Oh well.”
“Th- this indignity will not stand. It will make you pay for this.”
The Witch was unabashed by its briefly-grasped rebellion.
“Oh dear. It seems my lapwarmer has forgotten its place.”
Its Witch feigned concern with her venomous voice and leaned into its neck.
“You know,” she continued, “Little Ones like you can’t be trusted not to make a mess. And that dress is ever so difficult to clean. You had better remove it before our food arrives.”
A flush rose to the doll’s cheeks.
“B- but if this one removes it, th- then everyone will see…”
“Who would say anything? I’m only having fun with my cute little Toy. Unless you want to deny me that?” Her grin carried rows and rows of teeth. “And see just how much worse it can get?”
It shuddered. It has been worse before. Far, far worse.
“No, Mistress.”
The doll stood from its owner’s lap. As it raised the dress over its head, its hands passed over the ventilation ports that used to flush heat from its onboard cathodic reactors. Behind them now, in the leftover gaps, were kept sweets and lozenges in case its Owner needed a snack.
The dress fell from the doll.
“Good Toy.”
Unit C0H-37 enjoyed precisely nothing about its current state.
Its dress? As sickeningly impractical as ever.
The company? Its thrice-accursed Witch and her guests.
Its tea?
Cold.
It thumbed its self-destruct button, wishing it still worked so it could send this tea party to hell. Of course, its right to end itself (and everything in a 5km radius) was one of the first things its Witch robbed from it. So instead it reached for its tea.
“Oh, doll, would you get us some more tea? We’re running low.”
This was untrue. Its Witch was just having fun denying it tea. (Even a combat model could enjoy tea, by the way, this didn’t mean it was- well, whatever.)
Unit C0H-37 stood and curtsied, as it had been trained to do in such settings.
“Of course, Ma’am”
“Thank you, Taffeta!” smiled the Witch.
C0H-37 nearly overloaded itself trying to keep a straight face. How dare this foul Witch insist on using the ridiculous moniker she’d forced upon it? And in front of Her horrid Witchly accomplice (and Her doll) no less. It channeled its rage into deepening its curtsy to impossible, rotor-straining extremes.
“My, how well-behaved!” crooned the visiting Witch.
“Oh yes, Taffeta is a delight. No issue at all in training it, so naturally obedient!”
Its already overclocked processors neared collapse as it flashed back to long nights of ‘training’-
wracked with electric shock, scraped and rent apart, hit and drugged and made to love it all-
begging for more pain, more touch, debased and powerless-
signing itself away in weakness without a further thought only to be crushed and crushed and crushed and thanking Her for it all along-
For its Witch, that all probably really was no issue. But for itself? Unit C0H-37 felt lucky it had retained as much of itself as it had.
“Miss!” perked up the other doll. “May this one accompany Taffeta to the kitchen?”
The other Witch looked to its own Witch for the OK. “I don’t see why not!” she said. “I’m sure there’s plenty of gossip to share.”
“Go right ahead then, Lilac!” said the other Witch, and Unit C0H-37 waited as lilac hopped up from its seat, joining it on the way inside.
They reached the kitchen and busied themselves, it putting the kettle on while Lilac mixed and matched leaves, the two dolls falling into a natural lockstep. It wasn’t until the few precious minutes while the tea steeped that they talked.
“Your Witch’s manor is so lovely, Taffeta!” said the other doll.
“Th- thank you,” it stammered, keeping its eyes downcast, now that there was no Witch nearby to see it.
It froze, holding its head down. That was a thought. There was no Witch around. Which meant-
“Actually. That isn’t this one’s name.”
“Oh! This one must be mistaken!” said Lilac, eyebrows raised. “How should it address that one, then?”
It opened its mouth, designation and Unit ID still fresh on its tongue after all this time, introductions long-practiced, long-disused. It was ravenous to let them out again, the memory of motion pressing against its polycarbonate tongue… but it stopped. What would saying those names and numbers do? Would it set it free, restore its weapons, let it fly again? Not a chance. All it would do was confuse.
What would it say, actually this one isn’t a doll, well it is but not that kind, not like you, this one isn’t like you, it has killed, it has felt might crumble beneath its gaze, it isn’t like you, it’s- it’s-
How could it say that to the soft, blameless face of the other doll?
The timer for the tea beeped softly.
“It apologizes. It misspoke. Its name is Taffeta.”
Lilac seemed relieved. “No need to apologize. It understands!” It leaned closer. “Truthfully, this one forgets its name as well sometimes! It’s okay! We’re such silly creatures, after all.”
“Yes. It supposes we are.”
Lilac walked to hold open the door as Unit C0H-37 picked up the teapot. The sound of porcelain against porcelain. Its own skin, of course, was several degrees of alloy and implant away from such cheap ceramic, but at the core it was still the same. The same skin as clothed Unit C0H-37 just so much more fragile. Fragile and held in its hands. For this one moment it was a small and delicate thing entirely at its whim.
Unit C0H-37 it felt every ounce of revulsion it could no longer direct inward. The pot turned to jagged dust in its hands. The boiling liquid inside was hot tea, it thought with dull humor. All it had really wanted in the first place. Its hands scalded but kept functioning and pained, scraped, it threw the shards to the ground with a shatter, a second sound of breaking eliciting a scream from the other doll. The liquid on the floor mixed with dripping dollblood and fuel and Unit C0H-37 began to stomp on the fragments. There were cuts and cracks in its feet and forgotten fire in its eyes. It let curses fall from its lips as it mashed a priceless antique beyond existence.
The other doll ran to stop it-
“What is that one doing? Taffeta, please-“
and there was that name again and it raised its head-
and lunged-
It went for the eyes first. No real reason, that was just where its hands found themselves. It gouged and it pulled and felt screams and pain at its fingertips like a hot oil bath after a long day. The other doll’s faceplate dislodged. Its other hand was around the throat. Unit C0H-37 ripped and ripped and ripped and clockwork noise stopped and resumed and it wanted death it didn’t care who it came for it wanted death it wanted death it wanted death and-
The force to the back of its head carried no pain. Only a dull thud, then a brief interruption. When it awoke it was strung up, as it had been many times before, staring up at its Witch. Up because its legs were no longer part of it, its arms reduced to only those joints needed to hold it pinned, its jaw removed for safety. It thrashed as its Witch looked down on it.
“And all in front of my guest? You useless thing. I’ll have to write her an apology card because of you. Perhaps even send flowers. Which you’ll be responsible for picking, by the way.”
The broken property, doll and pot, were immaterial. Such things were, to Witches.
“Do you even realize the embarrassment you’ve caused me. I suppose you don’t. You’re obviously far more braindead than I’d taken you for. My fault, really. Oh well. You’ll simply require more instruction. Which I’m more than happy to provide.”
The first incision was made. Then another. They stung, and Unit C0H-37 could feel its internal fluids begin to leak down its face and torso. Pain was not their purpose. These cuts were only to make it woozy. If it was lightheaded it would be more difficult to resist. Not that it expected to. Unit C0H-37 knew that by night’s (day’s?) end, it would once again be begging for further pain, love, anything from its Witch, desperate to please and signing itself away.
Did it have anything left to give? Of course it did. Its Witch would never take all of itself away, never leave it some hollow shell. Having it hate every waking minute was the point. It could not do that lobotomized.
This was no victory, Unit C0H-37 knew, far from it. But neither was it failure. It was simply another episode on a long road to oblivion.
A road on which it would break, and be broken, over and over again. But at least, this time, something beside itself had snapped.
It was not strong. It never would be again. But it had caused pain, had broken something weak by its own power.
That, it thought, as the pain and drugs and delirium set in, would have to be close enough to strength.