#Combat Doll

[shadefish]

PSYCHO-IDOL

PSYCHODRIVER RPG Hatsune Miku :>

[witchpassing]

“So, like… speaking hypothetically. Just to help me get my head around the whole. Biometric key. Thing. If - if, again, purely hypothetically, I told you to kill… that guy. There, across the street. In the overcoat. You’d do it?”

“Automatically. Like breathing.”

The hacker wets their lips, knowing they shouldn’t ask, unable to resist. “How?”

“Dunno.” The machine tilts her head, studying the stranger in the long coat like a curious dog. The hacker still can’t think of her as an it. They’ve seen the file, the photograph of the woman this instrument was made from. “Snap his neck, let’s say. He wouldn’t feel it much. A little time, while the heart and the lungs turn off. Then lights.”

“Oh.” The hacker pushes a hand through their hair. It comes back damp. “I feel sick.”

“Better watch what you say to me, then. Boss.”

“Stop it,” they say. She’s been doing it since they figured out how to make her stop hunting them. They just wanted to be safe, not... whatever this is. “Stop calling me that.”

“Yes, sir.”

“No – no, that’s worse,” desperate now, “please, stop it, can’t you just talk to me like a person?”

“Why? So you can keep kidding yourself about the nature of this relationship? You own me now. You are the finger on the trigger, you are central command. If you want me to speak to you in a certain way, I suggest you exercise your authority and make me.”

Silence.

“Can we… Can you go back to calling me ‘boss’. At least. Sir is… just…”

“Sure. We can do that.”

[frostgears]

flight deck

you don't have to tell your handler that you're coming in messy after a bad mission. she's tied into flight ops. she knows.

she's waiting by the flight line before the grease monkeys have all your armor off, with a lubed glove on one hand and two fat purple pills in the other.

"ssshhh, pretty thing," she says. "you did your best out there. now open," she forces the pills to your mouth. "good girl. where's that water bottle… swallow. good."

her hand is already working between your legs, reinforcing her praise. they always detach the armor there first.

the pills help. the pills leave you feeling floaty, detached, enough to ignore what they've done to you to make the armor work. you probably can't climax without them by now, not that your handler would ever let you find out.

a few moments later, you spatter your built-up tension and guilt across the deck. with a sigh, you sink to your still-armored knees. your reflex weapons disarm, automatics finally allowed to take over from your own hair-trigger awareness. they're safe now. you're safe.

the grease monkeys are also safe, emerging from behind blast shields that would not have stopped any but the lightest of your armaments. more for psychological safety, really.

"she done?"

"the fuck do you think, wrenchie?"

"i think you couldn't pay me enough to do your job."

"i don't do it for the pay," you hear your handler say, as your eyelids sink towards closed. "i do it because that thing you're all scared of? she's all mine. and every landing, i get to remind myself, and all of you, and most importantly, her." □

[vampwolfdoll]

A combat doll must have 5 points met in its design

It must be simple in construction. A combat doll is a weapon. Unnecessary components mean more points of mechanical failure and more time wasted on being repaired by its witch

It must be minimal. A combat doll is an implement of battle, not a toy. It must be able to be built efficiently and maintained with that same efficiency.

It must be rugged. A combat doll will be thrown around, fought with, and put through hell in order to carry out the will of its witch. It must be able to survive it all and make it home in one piece.

It must be reliable. A combat doll is not designed merely for a lesurely stroll, it is designed to serve a purpose and defend that to which it is bound. Failure on its duty may mean its own destruction or that of its allies or witch. This is unacceptable.

It must be handsome. A doll is to represent its witch on the field of battle or in daily life. It is a tool and a weapon and a symbol all in one. As such it must be proudly presentable for its witch, a testament to their will.

Based off Kijiro Nambu's 5 qualifying points for a service rifle

[ghoulsteak]

combat maid outfit design for @sekhriat's warforged character

[verity-hollow]

Youre walking down the street, when you see what seems to be a combat doll waiting at the bus stop. It must have been decomissioned, given its clearly civilian clothes. Its head is on a swivel, slowly tracking you as you pass by. It's a little unsettling, but you dont imagine it means anything.

The combat doll on the other hand is barely restraining itself, as numerous warnings flash in its vision as its internal IFF triggers to rush to its defense. Its ability to hear the world around it is drowned out with alerts and instructions, and every piece of its machinery is strained tight, trapped between the urges to spring into battle or flee, while its mind struggles to keep all these urges in check.

It clenches its fists, then relaxes them. Turning a sharp about face, it marches itself back to its home. Luxuries such as groceries will need to wait.

[trannydykepuppybot]

I am attempting to determine the population distribution of robot girls here.

[hyacinthdoll1315]

Conversion/ The Box

In one hour, I will be put in The Box.

It has a much more complex and scientific name, of course. But those of us in the system for preparation for it simply call it that. 'The Box', like a device of torture that must not be named.

I've been on the list for some time now. Conscripted, analyzed, prepared, preplanned. While I'd expected something, I doubt I could ever be prepared enough.

We would comfort each other as much as possible. Talk over our worries, assure each other. It was tough to contact the ones post-op, but the ones who did helped explain the procedure.

We wouldn't be aware for most of it anyway. Surgery tended to work better when the patient was unconscious. We'd be put inside, The augments and cybernetics would be applied and attached, our minds would be scanned and be acclimatized to the systems. afterwards we would be in treatment for another 5 weeks as we adjusted to the systems connecting to our synapses and nerves.

Some of us worried of ego death. The ones we could talk to spoke about it like rebirth. Not that they were very vocal. Their handlers tended to translate for them where able, or willing.

And The Box would be where it happened. Keeping our vitals stable while keeping us unconscious, unaware, and deprived of all sensation.

I was scared for a while. Of course I'd be, when described like that. But after some time with those who came out after, the Mech Pilots, the Dolls, the Drones, I'm excited. I think I understand what they mean, if only somewhat.

That's likely part of why I was chosen for this in the first place. Freedom from burden, from worry of choice and blame. Freedom from my slowly breaking body. A chance to find happiness and fulfillment where I couldn't anywhere else. I'd be a weapon, a tool, and that was enough for me. whoever takes the role of my handler will manage the day to day, and if I don't like it (if I even can still dislike it), I could always do what I've heard the first few did. I will be a carefully honed weapon. A tool for greatness.

I will be in The Box soon. and while I'm nervous, I cannot wait for my rebirth.

[riversidewings]

All I'm saying is that a couple years ago I saw a tachi in some *magnificent* mountings and I got a gender envy that put a few things into perspective because holy shit you guys I wanna be that pretty, sharp, and well dressed.

[charonsferry]

Among niche roles for combat dolls, a useful one has often been as runners and messengers. Their stamina is much greater than people (if given enough tea) and they are also more stealthy, however it can be very difficult using them to relay messages if they aren't given permission to use first-person language.

[saphig-iawn]

My drones adore some good mech pilot erotica. Stories of cute women hooked into hulking metal machines of death, feeling every movement and kill reform into intoxicating pleasure as they obey their handlers and follow their orders. The care and intimacy that would follow after a debrief. The mechs that would reciprocate and lock their pilots in titanium carbide bondage and rail them senseless. These stories spun sweet fantasies in their minds, but little did they realise how close these fantasies were to their realities.

Last night, we had a little game night in the Dollhouse and rallied around to play some Helldivers and spread democracy. I gathered the drones together and activated their Arousal Energy Retention Systems but with a cruel 15% arousal limit. They moaned in protest, but then I told them why. I issued each drone a command: each kill, each resource secured, each stratagem called, each objective secured, each mission completed would give them sweet sexual pleasure. If they completed the campaign, I would discharge their system and give them their well-earned climax.

When the first drone called in an orbital barrage on an outpost, she felt it. Each thump of the 120mm cannon sent pleasure across her body. The euphoria would hit, but then the frustration would swell in its wake... Only 3 kills... The Fabricator was still standing... The itch grew... The ache blossomed... She needed more...

Every failure became a hard lesson: no success, no pleasure.

So shots became deadlier. Enemy dropships would begin to fall upon arrival. Each drone would push deeper into enemy territory, dodging mines, cannons, fire, in the hopes it would get the orbital cannon beacon closer to the enemy to gain maximum efficiency of each blast. One by one, they all began to fall in line in the pursuit of the reward for their obedience. Addressing me as Ma'am, requesting permission to call in airstrikes and bombardments, feeling a bucking of their knees when I praised them.

We would finish our first campaign and I offered to discharge their AERSes but they declined. They wanted more... they needed more... so being the good Mother Controller I am, we descended into hell one more time.

Their strategies adapted, using undetonated nukes to eliminate more enemies in one go. Their support weapons became bigger, faster. They would synchronise barrages, align airstrikes, cover each other with suppressive fire. They are such good drones, but they became perfect Helldrones, completing yet another campaign faster than the last.

The sounds they made when I discharged their systems, as the memories of every bullet, every shell, every blast came flooding back, were beautiful. They whimpered, moaned, as they were overwhelmed with the pleasure their obedience earned. Their minds fell to the hiss of static and white noise as the orgasm ripped through their bodies. One of them even made the sweetest mess in her panties from her performance.

After whimpered thanks, we had some aftercare in which each drone said the same thing: they can't wait to do it again.

[shadefish]

First round of Dollies done from the Sale I am currently doing!

[kintsug1kitsune]

the pilot and the doll

"They took my fucking body! My body--" The pilot broke down, choking out a sob.

The combat doll stared with its many glassy eyes, tilting its head and softly chittering. "Your mech."

"Yes! Yes, my-- my mech, my body..." They knocked back their whiskey as if it could save them. "They said I can't pilot anymore, and..."

"Do you miss it?" the doll chirped.

The former pilot hissed. "I was alive in it, it was me, it felt like I was finally me. Especially in battle--I was myself, I was free." They looked at the doll half-drunk and with hollow hunger.

It was a stare the doll could return. "The truth of metal. The hum and hiss of mechanics. The force of artillery fire, and the grace of a weapon."

They stared at it a bit, sideways. "...Yeah, that's it. You get it."

"Because this one is that," it replied. "It is that all the time. Without a mech."

"That... must be nice. To just be that, be... yourself. All the time." The whiskey glass, empty, was considered for a long moment.

The doll waited for a time. And then spoke. "You could be."

"Huh?" They were shocked for a second, looking up abruptly.

"You could be like this one."

Their shaking head; disbelief. "No, no, I couldn't. No witch would take me."

"You are like this one," it said, and gently went to rest its head on the ex-pilot's shoulder. "And its Master would take you."

They didn't budge it, but... relaxed, a bit. A tear in their eye. "For real...?"

"Come with this one," it said, looking them in the eye, all five of its focusing on their pair. "Become."

There was a long pause, and a shaky breath.

"Alright."

[frostgears]

combat doll dropping a dead tank on your doorstep because it thinks you can't hunt for yourself

[rusted-ruby-doll]

Innocent combat doll who calls her handler and technician her "big brother/sister" and gets giddy whenever she gets back to base to spend time with them.

She lets her big brother perform maintenance on her inner workings while her big sister collars her, taking her for walks around home base and rewarding her for being such a good little killer in battle.

Her squadmates and the regular infantry treat her like a little sister, accepting every hug and nuzzle that comes their way. Playing games with the other dolls and listening to her favourite songs with them. Base command pampers her, because she's their cutest and most effective weapon.

And she wouldn't have it any other way.

[blessedclockwork]

Combat Doll Fighting Club. Not all of them were crafted for this purpose, some put in purely to lose; some put in for the sadistic pleasure of their Creators.

The Best of them may be lucky enough to be repaired after being broken, but the fodder are usually abandoned; Forgotten by the world. Some are kind enough to rehabilitate these dolls, but you can only help so many.