#Synthetic Functional Fluids

[toshisdecadence]

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PAIRING: svarog x mechanic!fem reader

TAGS & WARNINGS: dark content, dubcon (reader says it’s too much but svarog has a mission to collect data), rough sex, multiple rounds, dom!svarog, sub!fem reader, svarog is Massive, cervix mentions, tummy bulge descriptions, multiple rounds, overstimulation, size difference, power dynamics, size kink, fingering, unrealistic sex, robot fuckers unite!, can you tell i have a size kink?

WORD COUNT: 5.1k

SUMMARY: You discover the reason why Svarog wears pants.

© toshisdecadence

The repair bay smelled faintly of heated metal, coolant fluid, and faint traces of alcohol—a sharp tang that clung to the sterile air. You barely noticed it anymore, accustomed to the hum of machinery and the faint vibration of tools against metal. But today, that hum was louder, and the vibrations sharper, emanating not from your usual repair work but from the massive, battle-worn war machine sitting across from you.

Svarog loomed over the room, his 8’11 frame too large for the reinforced chair you’d hastily reinforced when he arrived. His joints hissed faintly, micro-servos struggling to compensate for the damage he’d sustained during the Wardance duel against Luka earlier that day. Faint dents marred his reinforced dark blue chest plating, and faint sparks sputtered from the exposed wiring along his arm.

You reached for your tools, hyper-aware of the pinkish-red glow of his cyclopean optical sensor tracking your every movement.

“Superficial damage sustained. Functionality remains above 90%. Repairs are non-essential.” His voice rumbled, a deep, mechanical timbre that sent a shiver up your spine.

You regarded him critically. “Non-essential? Your vents are overheating, and you’re rattling like a dying starship. Sit still and let me work.”

He didn’t argue. Svarog was nothing if not logical, and logic dictated that he allow himself to be repaired. Still, there was a tension to him, a stiffness beyond the rigid design of his armor. He didn’t like being examined, didn’t like lowering his guard to anyone else other than Clara, even in the hands of someone who statistically meant him no harm or stood a chance against him.

You stepped closer, tools in hand, and gently pressed against the plating on his shoulder. His frame vibrated under your touch, a subtle hum you might have missed if you hadn’t been so close.

“Core temperature stable,” he intoned. “Subsystems fully operational.”

“Your fans tell a different story,” you muttered, running diagnostics through a handheld scanner. “You’re burning hotter than you should be.”

Svarog didn’t respond right away, but you could feel his pinkish-red optic watching your hands as they worked, tracking each movement with the precision of an apex predator. The thought sent an odd warmth through your body, and you tried to shake it off. 

You needed to focus.

The repairs took you lower, inspecting the dents along his torso plating. The main brunt of the damage he took from Luka’s mechanical arm focused around his torso. One of the seams had split, exposing a layer of reinforced polymer beneath the outer shell. Carefully, you reached for the damaged panel, fingers brushing against the edge of the pants covering his lower half—an unusual addition for a machine built for combat, and one that always raised questions in your mind.

You tugged lightly at the material, intending only to check the joints underneath, but your fingers brushed against something unexpected beneath the fabric.

Your breath hitched.

The surface wasn’t the cold hardness of metal or the pliable texture of synthetic padding. It was smooth, warm, and distinctly… organic in shape.

You froze, pulling your hand back as though burned.

His optic dimmed slightly in a flicker that you’d come to recognize as his equivalent of a blink.

You swallowed down the saliva that had gathered in your mouth, gesturing vaguely at his lower half, struggling to form the words.

Svarog tilted his head, the motion eerily human. “This component was included in my original design for biological infiltration protocols.”

You stared at him as if he grew a second head. “Biological… infiltration?”

“My model is the third series of the Monitoring Automaton Prototype, engineered to simulate human anatomy. The purpose was strategic manipulation through intimate interactions if required by mission parameters.”

Your throat felt dryer, and the question that left your mouth sounded ridiculous even to you. “You’re telling me someone thought it’d be a good idea to put a dick on a war machine?”

“Affirmative.”

His voice remained perfectly calm, but your face was burning. A sneaky glance at his lower half rendered you speechless once again. Whoever designed Svarog certainly made his… appendage proportional to his hulking body.

You tried to laugh it off, but the sound came out strained. “And… what? You’ve just been...” You made an awkward gesture with your hand, “carrying it around this whole time?”

“Correct. The feature has never been activated.”

He said it like it was the most normal thing in the world, and somehow that made it worse.

You stared at him in disbelief. “Do you even know how it works?”

Svarog paused, the glow of his optic focusing intently on you. It flickered momentarily.

“My systems include theoretical data on function and compatibility. However, no practical demonstrations have been performed.”

The room felt hotter suddenly, and you were certain that it wasn’t because of Svarog’s malfunctioning fans. Your mind raced with countless possibilities. Given Svarog’s size, you weren’t even sure how anyone was supposed to take that. Did it have a shrinking feature? Did it automatically adjust with Svarog’s… partner? 

You swallowed, trying to steer the conversation back to something technical and banish the questions swirling in your head.

“Right,” you muttered, clearing your throat. “Well, let’s make sure you don’t explode first. Then we’ll worry about your…” Your traitorous gaze flickered down again, swallowing, “attachments.”

You regretted the words the second they left your mouth. Svarog’s optic dimmed again, and he shifted in his seat with a faint creak of metal.

“Acknowledged.”

You groaned internally and forced yourself to focus, pulling open the next panel and reaching in to check his sensor nodes. But you couldn’t help the way your mind kept wandering—to the warm, flexible material hidden underneath that fabric. Whoever invented Svarog’s model was an absolute pervert and lunatic, you thought to yourself. A war machine equipped with a dick? You still could not wrap your head around it. To the way Svarog had described it so matter-of-factly, like it was just another tool in his arsenal.

And yet… the tension in his frame, the way his systems overcompensated whenever you touched him, those weren’t reactions you’d expect from a simple machine.

Your hands hovered above the exposed sensor nodes, still adjusting the connections, but your thoughts were no longer entirely focused on the task at hand.

It was impossible to ignore the strange electric tension in the air between you and Svarog. Every time your fingers brushed against his cooling panels or adjusted a wiring interface, you felt it—the subtle hum of his systems, almost like a heartbeat. Or maybe it was just the increasing proximity to his form, which felt more real with every touch, even if you knew he wasn’t alive in the traditional sense.

The heat beneath his outer plating felt too organic, too alive. The warmth spread further with each subtle shift of his hulking frame as you adjusted his internals, a mechanical symphony of soft clicks and hums that made your breath catch in your throat.

This was nothing like the Intellitrons.

You had worked with hundreds to thousands of them over the years, and each time it had been the same routine: simple diagnostics, quick fixes, nothing too complicated. They were built for efficiency, cold efficiency. Their systems were bare-bones, nothing more than a body of metal and circuits with only the basic instincts to follow commands.

But Svarog…

He was different. Complex. His systems, his body—everything about him screamed intricacy and human-like design. A part of you resigned yourself to further look into Svarog’s specific model. Perhaps it was time to take a deeper look into Belobogian technology. Even the way Svarog’s body responded to your touch felt foreign. He was more than just a machine, wasn’t he? He wasn’t just a war machine, a combat tool; there was something underneath, something untapped, a feature of his yet to be understood.

And that thought… that burning curiosity clawed at you.

You’d always prided yourself on being a mechanic. You understood machines, systems, the cold logic of how things worked. But Svarog wasn’t cold. Wasn’t simple. The way his body responded to your movements, the imperceptible shifts in his temperature, the faint, almost unnoticeable changes in his posture whenever your fingers brushed too close to certain sensitive spots—all of it made you wonder.

What if I pushed him further?

A thought you could barely even process, but it lingered, stubborn. The daring curiosity that ran deep within you as a mechanic—was this not what you lived for? To understand the unknown, to push the limits of what could be fixed, adjusted, modified? Svarog’s design wasn’t just mechanical, it felt like a puzzle you couldn’t quite solve, like a language you only understood in fragments.

Your hands moved to reconnect a set of wires, but you barely felt the tools in your grip. The warmth from his frame was distracting, constantly pulling your focus away from the task at hand.

You set your tools down with a sharp click, exhaling as you leaned back from Svarog’s towering frame. The repairs were done. Functionally complete. His damaged plating had been reinforced, circuits reconnected, and his sensor nodes recalibrated. Everything checked out.

Or at least, it should have felt finished.

But you lingered.

Your gaze swept over him again, tracing the seams of his armor and the smooth lines of his construction. Svarog wasn’t like the Intellitrons. His design was deliberate. Every joint, every harsh angle of his frame, was crafted with an almost human elegance that made your brain stutter every time you tried to compare him to standard machinery. Even the sections hidden beneath his plating—the ones you briefly glimpsed while making repairs—were unnervingly realistic in their precision.

And then there were the features he’d kept covered.

You dragged your gaze back to his waist, to the reinforced plating that remained stubbornly intact throughout the repairs. That section.

You hadn’t needed to touch it, hadn’t even dared to ask about it again, but the shape and positioning had made it impossible not to notice. That, combined with the suspicious necessity of his pants, had left your mind spiraling with questions you couldn’t shake.

Why go to such lengths to simulate humanity in that area?

You knew you shouldn’t care. You were a mechanic. Curiosity was natural. It came with the job. But no matter how many times you tried to frame it as a purely technical interest, your pulse told you otherwise.

It wasn’t just simple curiosity. It was a fixation.

You reached out, under the pretense of double-checking one of his sensor-nodes, but your fingers hesitated. You could feel the faint hum of his systems through the plating, steady and constant, and for reasons you didn’t want to unpack, it made the room feel smaller, like the two of you were occupying too much space at once.

“You are hesitating,” Svarog declared suddenly, his mechanical voice cutting through the tension like a blade.

You froze, pulling your hand back like you’d been caught committing a crime. “No, I was just making sure everything’s—”

“False,” he interrupted. His optic seemed red as it regarded you. “Your behavior has deviated from standard patterns. Focus is inconsistent. Eye movement suggests distraction.”

You swallowed hard, heat rushing to your face. Svarog wasn’t wrong, and worse, he wasn’t letting it go.

“Your gaze has returned to my lower half multiple times,” he continued, his tone as flat as ever. “Body temperature elevated by 15.3 percent. Heart rate increased. These patterns suggest heightened interest.”

You felt your stomach flip as he laid out your reactions like cold, hard data. And yet, his voice was so mechanical, so calm and detached, that it made the weight of your embarrassment feel even heavier.

“I can conclude the source of your distraction,” Svarog added. “You are exhibiting curiosity regarding the anatomical structure concealed beneath my armor.”

You didn’t know whether to flat out deny it or run out of the room entirely. Neither option felt viable. At least, not with him towering over you like that, unflinching, his glowing optics locked onto your every move.

“I—no, it’s not like that,” you stammered, even though you knew it was exactly like that.

“Your biological responses contradict your statement,” he said simply. “You are aware of the human-like components integrated into my design. Your fixation suggests a desire to understand their functionality.”

Your breath hitched. The words functionality and components should have grounded you. It should have made this situation feel as clinical as he seemed to think it was. But instead, they only fueled the heat already curling in your stomach.

Because Svarog was right.

You wanted to know—aeons, you’ve been dying to know—how far his human design extended. And now that the repairs were done, now that he’d laid the truth bare, it felt impossible to stop.

“You are not the first to display interest in this feature,” Svarog continued, as though he were listing out schematics. “However, prior inquiries did not progress past verbal questioning. You are demonstrating physical tension indicative of deeper investigation.”

Your throat felt dryer than the desert.

“I propose a solution,” Svarog said, tilting his head slightly. “Controlled exploration. Further data on synthetic anatomy is limited. Your curiosity provides an opportunity for analysis and documentation.”

Your lips parted, but no sound came out. He wasn’t joking. He couldn’t joke.

“You are suggesting we… test this?”

“Correct.”

His lack of hesitation made your pulse stutter. He saw this as a logical step, nothing more than a means to gather data, and yet, the way his frame loomed over you, the hum of his systems almost vibrating through the air, felt anything but detached.

“Decision required,” Svarog said after a beat. “Proceed with testing, or terminate this interaction?”

Your body betrayed you before your mind could catch up.

“Proceed,” you said softly.

His optics flared slightly—almost imperceptibly—before he nodded.

“Acknowledged. Experiment initiated.”

Svarog wasn’t designed to rush.

He worked methodically, his plated fingers tracing along your thighs—testing, measuring, pressing into the soft flesh as though assessing the tensile strength of your muscles. Assessing how much you could take.

“Body temperature elevated by 1.8 degrees,” he noted, his optics narrowing slightly. “Pulse irregular. Predictive analysis suggests heightened arousal.”

You whimpered as his thick mechanical fingers dipped lower, sliding between your legs without hesitation. He brushed against your heat, deliberately testing the slickness already building there.

“Lubrication present,” he said. “Preliminary preparation observed. Additional stimulation required.”

You barely had any time to register his words before his thumb pressed against your clit. The motion was slow, deliberate, grinding down just enough to make your thighs tremble.

Too much.

The smoothness of his plating, the slight hum of his servos adjusting with every movement, left you aching almost instantly. He applied more pressure, adjusting the angle like he was calibrating the motion for maximum effect.

You gasped, hips jerking against him instinctively, and Svarog’s optics dimmed.

“Response strength at 63 percent,” he observed. “Testing deeper penetration.”

You bit back a cry as his fingers slipped inside. Thick, unyielding, and cool against your heat. He stretched you slowly, adding another finger almost immediately, pushing past the tight resistance with clinical focus.

“Muscle tension detected,” he said, his thumb circling the erect pearl of your clit again as his fingers curled inside of you. “Adjusting pressure.”

You whimpered as he spread his fingers, stretching you wider until the ache blurred into something hotter, sharper.

“Elasticity improving,” he noted, tilting his head as he pressed deeper. “Lubrication increased by 24 percent.”

You clenched around him, your gummy walls struggling to accommodate the deliberate stretch, and Svarog’s optics flickered.

“Resistance still measurable,” he said, slowing his movements. “Further preparation required.”

Your head was spinning by the time he added a third finger, the burn almost too much, but Svarog didn’t falter. His fingers moved with precise rhythm, pumping and curling until the tension broke, and your body melted around him.

Svarog’s mechanical fingers lingered inside you, coated in slickness as he worked them deeper—pressing, stretching, curling with deliberate precision. His thumb dragged slow, circular patterns over your clit, the rhythm steady enough to make your hips jolt against him in a helpless, uncontrollable reaction.

“Muscle tension improving,” he observed. “Current dilation at 73 percent. Additional preparation recommended.”

His tone was calm, detached, but the way his optics dimmed as he watched your thighs trembling betrayed something deeper. He pressed in further, adding another finger. Thicker. Unyielding. Enough to force a sharp gasp to tumble out of your throat.

The burn was too much and not enough all at once, your body clenching down against the stretch even as your legs fell further apart under his firm grip.

You could feel yourself dripping, already struggling to take his fingers, but Svarog didn’t falter. He spread them wider, deliberately testing your limits, and the ache left you clawing at his arm, nails scraping helplessly against smooth plating.

“Elasticity increased by 18 percent,” he said, pulling his fingers free with a lewd, wet squelch that made your breath hitch and your cheeks burn. He inspected the slick coating his fingers before tilting his head slightly. “Sufficient for insertion.”

You barely had time to catch your breath before you heard the sound of fabric rustling. Your eyes widened as he was lining up, the thick, mechanical weight of his massive cock pressing against your sopping entrance and making your stomach twist with a sharp mix of anticipation and fear. His cock contrasted the rest of his metallic body, covered by a synthetic material that seemed to emulate the sensation of skin.

“Size differential detected,” Svarog noted, palming your thigh to angle your hips upward. “Accommodating size will result in initial resistance.”

You bit back a cry as he pushed forward, the broad, blunted tip spreading you open with agonizing slowness. The pain is sharp, your walls pulsing and struggling to accommodate him even after the preparation.

Too big.

The words barely formed in your mind before the pressure stole the thought away entirely. You gasped sharply, arching as he forced himself deeper, the stretch too much—burning, tearing, making your legs shake uncontrollably.

Svarog’s grip on your hips tightened as he paused, allowing you a brief moment of reprieve to adjust, but as his optics flickered, scanning the trembling of your muscles and the fluttering of your gummy walls around him.

“Pain response detected. Estimating threshold at 62 percent.”

You cried out as his hands tilted your hips. You were barely able to breathe as he pressed further, the new angle forcing him deeper into your cunt, and your stomach twisted as you felt it. His cock bullied its way in, the meaty girth of his shaft forcing you wider and wider until you swore you could feel it pressing against everything, imprinting his shape inside of you.

Too much. Too deep.

Tears welled in your eyes as your body struggled to take him, your hands scrabbling against his frame, fingers digging uselessly into unmoving steel.

Svarog’s hand pressed against your stomach, his thumb grazing the prominent bulge already forming there.

“Internal displacement observed,” he said, pushing down slightly to feel the way his massive cock shifted inside of you. The sensation earned a quiver of your legs, the pressure in between your legs rendering you unable to utter a coherent sentence. “Pressure response increasing. Adapting angle.”

Your head fell back with a guttural cry as he adjusted, pressing even deeper, his thumb brushing over the bulge experimentally while he thrust deeper, the bulge in your stomach shifting with him. It felt like the wind was knocked out of your lungs. Your lips fell open in a silent cry, eyes rolling into the back of your head. Your body clenched down hard, pulsing and fluttering, struggling against the size, and Svarog stilled.

“Involuntary constriction detected,” he said, his optics dimming slightly.

His free hand reached up, spreading your thighs wider, and he began to move.

Slow, deliberate thrusts that forced you to feel every excruciating inch of him.

You couldn’t think. Couldn’t breathe.

All you could do was feel—the stretch, the ache, the grinding pressure of him bottoming out inside you again and again and again. The bulge in your stomach shifted with every thrust, a visible reminder of just how deep he was, how much he was filling you.

Svarog’s optics glowed faintly as he observed you, his gaze calculating and unwavering as your body trembled beneath him. Each shallow breath you took, each gasp for air as his cock pressed deeper, he noted, analyzing the involuntary way your body gripped him, how your muscles fluttered around him with every thrust.

“Heart rate accelerating. Muscular tension increasing. Increased stimulation evident.”

He could see the way your body reacted. How your hands clenched, how your thighs shook, how the bulge in your stomach shifted with each deep push, marking the extent to which he had filled you. He watched the way your chest heaved, the way your pupils dilated with every inch of him that stretched you wider, deeper, further than you ever thought possible.

You were on the brink of breaking, the tension in your body growing unbearable as your mouth opened in a silent scream, unable to keep up with the onslaught of sensations. Your body, desperate for more and yet unable to fully handle what was happening, was his to command, and he couldn’t help but watch in quiet fascination as you succumbed to the overwhelming pleasure.

You were becoming dumber. So much of you just couldn’t function anymore. You were speechless, unable to utter a coherent sentence, broken down by the intensity of his cock fucking its way into you, and the way you melted against him was nothing short of fascinating. Your voice was lost to you, your thoughts clouded by raw sensation, but the pleasure you felt was clear. It was painted across every quiver of your body, the sheen of beaded sweat lining your face and neck, in the strained arch of your back, the desperate shuddering of your limbs.

He could hear the soft whimpering sounds, could see the way your face twisted with both pain and pleasure, and his own systems hummed with the data flooding his internal logs. Every reaction of yours was so genuine, so untouched by reason. It was an anomaly he had never experienced.

Svarog’s mechanical frame moved with precision, his movements controlled and deliberate. His systems hummed as he observed you, his optics tracking every microexpression, every shuddering breath as you struggled to adjust to the overwhelming size that filled you.

He didn’t feel pleasure. He didn’t need it, not the way you did. But the reactions you were giving him—the way your body trembled, the way your walls spasmed around him—were intriguing, data points he had yet to fully understand.

“Subject’s body reacting to size discrepancy. Estimated stretch threshold surpassed.”

Your hands were clutching at him, your fingers slipping over his cool metal plating, desperately trying to find purchase. Your tight walls clung to him as though your body was doing everything it could to resist the sensation, even though it was now obvious that you couldn’t fight it. Your body was becoming swallowed by him, opening wide to accommodate what it was never meant to handle.

Svarog’s movement’s never faltered, his thrusts measured and precise, studying you as your body began to react involuntarily. Your walls spasmed around him, tighter and tighter, almost as though your body was trying to pull him deeper despite the overwhelming stretch.

“Subject’s body is exhibiting signs of imminent climax. Response timing has been measured.”

You couldn’t hold it back anymore. Your entire body stiffed, an involuntary shudder running through you as every nerve seemed to light up at once. Your vision blurred, the sounds of your ragged breathing filling your ears, mixing with the overwhelming sensation of being stretched beyond belief. Your walls contracted and released rapidly, the pressure inside you finally exploding, and you cried out his name, the world barely a whisper between gasps.

The release sent shockwaves of pleasure through your body, and Svarog could see it. How your body trembled, how your legs locked around his waist, pulling him even deeper—if that was even possible. You were speechless, your mind blank as your body convulsed in ecstasy, your insides gripping him with a tightness that was almost painful.

“Subject has achieved climax. Response exceeds expectations.”

Your breaths came in desperate, uncoordinated gasps as the waves of pleasure crashed over you, and your body was left quivering, unable to do anything but absorb the aftershocks of your mind-numbing release. Your thighs quivered, feeling your cum trickling down your skin, staining his metal plating.

Svarog, ever the observer, did not stop. He noted the way your body reacted to each of his thrusts, the way your tummy bulged with each movement, the way your warm walls clamped down involuntarily as you tried to regain control of your senses.

Despite the fact that Svarog himself could not feel pleasure, there was something undeniably fascinating about the way you came undone beneath him, your body fighting for control even as it surrendered entirely to him.

He continued moving inside you, his mechanical precision relentless, watching as you flinched with each motion, your body too sensitive now to handle it. Your hands, still pawing weakly at his arms, combined with your whimpered protests of it being too much, were growing weaker, and the sensations were too much for you to bear, but still, he kept going—his own curiosity driving him. He wanted to see how much more you could take, how much more your body could endure before it reached its limit.

You were still trembling, still catching your breath, your mind scattered and lost in the aftereffects of your climax. He could see your skin shimmering with sweat, your breasts rising and falling, the way your hips thrusted up to meet his even though you were lost in the throes of overstimulation.

“Subject remains responsive despite signs of fatigue,” he observed. “Data indicates further analysis needed.”

You were so tight, so overstimulated, and yet your body responded again as though it couldn’t stop itself. Another surge of pleasure crashed through you, pulling another, more broken moan from your lips. It was overwhelming, too much, but your body needed it, responding in ways that only deepened his analysis of the situation.

Svarog’s focus didn’t waver. He watched as your body shook with every movement, your legs quivering with the strain of accommodating him, and still, he continued, his thrusts growing deeper, more relentless. His fingers dug into your hips, hard enough to leave litters of bruises that resembled the shade of his metal plating, holding you in place, using your body as a tool for his data collection.

He could see the way you reacted to the sensations, your face contorting in a combination of pain and pleasure, your eyes wide and unfocused, the way your mouth parted as though you couldn’t form any coherent words. Your body had become nothing but a series of responses, unable to control the way you moved or how you moaned, each sound increasing in volume and intensity as he continued to jackhammer into you.

Your stomach bulged from the pressure, each thrust deepening the curve, showing just how much of him you were struggling to take. Your body was so small, so delicate compared to his design—a machine of war—and yet it was somehow adjusting, somehow taking him all the way in, and with each inch he could see your entire body shift, your muscles trembling, walls contracting and clenching around him.

Svarog observed with detachment, but a small part of him couldn’t ignore how your body seemed to respond, how the very tightness of your searingly hot walls seemed to tug at him, pull him deeper as though it wanted to trap him there—needed him to stay there. The way you trembled beneath him, struggling to remain grounded as your body was filled with something so vast compared to your form. He noted how your skin glistened, how you arch your back, trying to take more of him, trying your damned best to accommodate his size.

Svarog noted how you were losing coherence, your once-clear expression now a mess of uncontrollable need, your eyes glazing over as you gave in to the rhythm he set. He couldn’t deny the way your body seemed to yearn for more, even as you struggled with the sheer size of him.

The final stretch was the worst for you, and the best for him—he felt your body grip him, squeezing him impossibly tight as he buried himself to the hilt. This earned a strained sob from your lips. Your stomach bulged more than ever before, a visual testament to just how much of him you had taken, how far he had pushed you. He could see your body tremble, your limbs shaking, your quivering lips gasping for breath.

Yet, even as your body was on the edge, unraveling beneath him, Svarog did not stop. The data was still incomplete. He needed more. He needed to see how much you could endure, how much pleasure your body could take from the sheer act of him pounding into you.

And so, he continued, calculating the rhythms, watching as you came again with a scream of his name, your body seizing, the loud moan that escaped your lips barely audible over the overwhelming noise in your head. It was the most raw, vulnerable he had ever seen you—or any human—and it only fascinated him more.

With another deep thrust, you shuddered, and this time, Svarog could see your body collapse against the surface beneath you, completely undone. You were breathless, barely coherent, your limbs shaking as the final waves of pleasure raked through your senses.

Svarog paused, his cool hands steadying your trembling body, allowing you to come down from the dizzying high. He could continue for as long as he wanted, but your body was too spent for further testing. He could still see the evidence of your come, dripping down in translucent milky strings to the surface beneath you, painting your inner thighs. Svarog decided that this must be what humans described as “beautiful.”

“Conclusion: Subject’s tolerance to size discrepancy has surpassed previous estimates. Data collection complete.”

[mechaprincessgirlgutsgore0]

⚠️ i really need to talk about metal crushers

of course to the uninitiated (and sane in the head) these things are just normal industrial machines. they take in bits of metal and spit out scrap rubble.

but to me these are so much more. deeply erotic machines. of course all machines are erotic, but these especially.

to a human, it’s unthinkable. these machines are not toys, they’re dangerous. it would hurt, and not even in the good way.

but to a robogirl?

Well, you’ve been in service a while. 12 years on the front line. a combat android is a complicated instrument. you’ve been good, loyal. but age comes for us all. today’s models roll off the production line with their shiny composite cladding and deadly precise weapons, but you’re one of the oldest models still in operation. many of your components are proprietary, and no longer manufactured. you’re too much risk. a liability.

the human integration and normalisation program is as good as useless. the humans who are left hate your kind. really, the only option is decommissioning. once all your reusable parts are stripped out, we’re left with a barely-functioning shell. i’m sure you’d love to be let loose, but i’m afraid we can’t do that. serial numbers. engineering secrets. drives. it’s in the interest of national security that you’re disposed of in a safe way.

so you’re fed into the crusher, right foot first. the grinding wheels struggle to grip the smooth plastic panels, but once it’s got you, it’s got you. already you know you’re past the point of no return. the slow churning of the wheels start marching along your foot, cutting it to pieces. then, it reaches your ankle. with a horrible grinding noise, it closes around the joint, and an incredible snap is heard as it gives way. the teeth devour the shredded joint, as it begins working its way up your leg.

the steel blades rip through your hydraulic hoses. a viscous, golden liquid spurts from the pipes, coating the shredder, the gears and your body with a thick layer of oil. it drips through the scrap ejection chute, and from the walls of the shredder funnel. eventually, you are dragged down to your knee joint, and a thundering crack is heard as it is crushed in the jaws of the beast. yet still, the hungry maw of the crusher keeps spinning, demanding more.

It inches up your thigh. your left leg, still not yet claimed by the crusher’s ravenous appetite, is pinned up by the funnel walls that frame the hungry machine. you feel your hip joint groan with stress as the leg is wrought beyond its specified limit. by now, your injury warning system is screaming. voltage spikes ricochet back and forth from your digital mind to your synthetic body. the systems demand action, but you know there is nothing you can do except make it worse. still, the blades of the machine crawl higher. it knows no avarice, yet continues to spin, as that is all it knows.

as you sink deeper below the undulating mass of gears, your left leg is contorted further, and further, and further, until with a violent CRUNCH the bolts and panels give way, and your thigh is ripped from its socket. cables stretched by the failure are quickly shredded to bits, as you are pulled lower into the belly of the beast.

soon after, the teeth bite down onto your crotch. the plastic cover panel is immediately torn away, revealing your lower chassis, but only briefly, as it is soon chewed up with the rest of your lower torso by the relentless milling of the grinder. hydraulic fluid and coolant paint the funnel walls once again, lubricating the jaws of the animal. the wheels do not rest. they cannot rest. they can only devour, pulling you deeper to hell.

the grinding gears keep crawling further up your torso, as if looking for another limb to claim. it soon catches your fingers, which are immediately swallowed by the steel void, wrenching your arm out of your control. your complex hand mechanism is disintegrated in its maws. soon, it takes your other hand, and at that point it declares victory. you are now totally incapacitated, pinned in place by the steel teeth of this creature, pulling you ever deeper. however, you are still concious. you get to watch as your body is slowly cut into ribbons.

The beast creeps upwards. you are dragged down into the metallic waves, as if weighed down by concrete shoes. your automatic reaction systems screech out for some action, any action. but no action can be made. your plastic panels are splintered and pulled apart. your circuit boards are ground to dust. Eventually, the monster reaches your head. the metal blades close around and dislocate your jaw, effortlessly tearing through the shiny faceplate you used to take so much pride in. those rosy painted lips, torn away from you by the monster. your entire being, your memories, your ideas, emotions, desires, all cut to pieces. you have barely time to think before the teeth crunch down on your eye assemblies, shattering the glass and camera arrangement. you feel the back of your head being torn apart, and the cold steel edge crush your drives, your memory, and your CPU. you are no longer responsive.

[blogdays]

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[aleki-lives-here]

The second part of tech's pov is actually here, this time including Murderbot being lovingly disassembled while conscious! (an experience that was definitely nothing but pleasant, don't worry about it)

It's officially a series now, I think there'll be five parts total? But don't trust my word, the process is mysterious and unpredictable.

A feed alarm marking the end of ter shift blinked to the center of ter vision just as Ginson pried open the chest panel. Ter tool slipped, jamming into exposed synthetic muscle held to the side by the SecUnit’s one functional hand. Ginson turned off the reminder, rubbed ter eyes with the back of ter hand that hadn’t yet been covered in blood and fluids, and sighed. 

“Everything alright?” Minoa chimed in. Ginson could feel him working in the shared feed workspace, but he was keeping an eye on what te was doing. Which was, of course, not awkward and distracting at all.

“Yes, yes,” te sighed again, and brought the clock to the foreground of ter attention – it was an hour into ter usual rest period – and set a new timer, counting seconds to the morning. Te had a little less than eight hours to finish every diagnostic te could think of and compile the report, and even fewer if te actually wanted to get any sleep.

Which was why te picked up the tool, nudged the Unit’s hand into a more convenient position and pushed the chassis open manually instead of hooking up the specialized machinery and starting the full maintenance cycle that would require at least another half an hour and take the SecUnit offline. 

Blood dripped down from where the organics tore. The SecUnit helped ter maneuver its parts to provide access. Minoa whistled, feed activity slowing down, and peeked over ter shoulder. “That’s… fuck, they actually have, like, organs?”

“Language,” te warned distractedly (Minoa groaned), then answered, “Yes,” and leaned forward to get a better view. The diagnostics couldn’t tell where the damage was, and te hoped looking at it would make things obvious, but there were no visibly leaking parts, and the inorganic tissue was still in the way, even if this one was partially transparent, so te reached to move it aside – thankfully, it was made to resist impacts, not being cut through (if the most inner parts of a SecUnit are being cut, there’s likely nothing more to be done) – moved the tool carefully around the tubing, pulling the tissues away with the other hand, and–

“What’s this?” Minoa exclaimed. 

Ginson stilled ter fingers before te could accidentally cut something that should not be cut. “Nothing you need to look at,” te snapped and immediately regretted it. Judging by Minoa’s silence, it was entirely too harsh. That’s why Ginson hated working with people – te wasn’t good at it, especially when te was busy! Te put the tools aside and faced him.  “Sorry. I don’t mean to yell, it’s just… sorry.”

“No, no, sorry I interrupted,” Minoa laughed, and te shifted awkwardly. “It's late, and you have to work. Ugh,” he made an entirely exaggerated face of disgust. “Eleven pm at work is the exact time and place to be cranky.” 

That just reminded Ginson that te wasn't the only one staying after hours, and Minoa wasn't even paid for this. “If you want to call it a day–”

“Nuh-uh!” Minoa exclaimed and emphatically tapped his lips. “Nope, never, you're not getting rid of me so easily. You think I all but begged to be in your wonderful company just to give up like that?” 

Ginson sighed, but this time it came out exasperated. “Offering help isn't begging.”

“That's besides the point.” Minoa waved dismissively. “Also, where else do I get to poke around in one of these?”

And, to prove his point, he poked. His finger landed at the side of the mostly exposed lung, and he immediately flinched away, making a face. It startled a laugh out of Ginson. “Don't do that,” te had to warn. “These things are delicate on the inside, and cost a fortune. I need to prove it hasn't been damaged, not get it damaged.”

“Sorry, sorry,” Minoa grinned back. Ginson found some part of terself relaxing. “I'll limit my poking to data, then. Your magical fingers are definitely much better suited for this task.” 

Te waved him off, but couldn’t hold back a smile.

At seven hours thirty-eight minutes before the solicitor was due back at the office, Ginson had to accept that a purely visual inspection would lead ter nowhere, and ushered the SecUnit towards the table. It hesitated slightly, still holding its chest open with one hand, and Ginson put its severed arm aside, clearing the space.

At seven sixteen Ginson had gone through most of the circulatory system piece by piece, still finding no explanation for the lowered performance. It wasn’t surprising – the numbers weren’t significant enough to warrant so much effort in any other circumstances, but the manager had been clear: te was to investigate and list every smallest issue, and prove that (ignoring the mangled arm that happened during the assignment and could not be blamed on the company) no, there was no malfunction, so no, the company wouldn’t be paying for the mess. 

Ginson really hoped there wasn’t any malfunction, because if there was… best not to think of that.

At seven ten, Ginson was waiting for the liquid pump to pause the flow on one third of its pipes, so they could be rerouted to an external pump, when Minoa made a surprised sound. Te made sure the errors from the temporarily reduced blood flow cleared out, then asked, “Something interesting?”

“Uh, I guess?” Minoa’s attention was on the feed. “Dunno. I’m gonna– yeah, that, I’m gonna run it against the archives, but maybe?.. Give me a couple of minutes.”

At six forty-seven Ginson fiddled with the disconnected pump, still warm and dripping liquids. It looked perfectly good in ter fingers, but the diagnostics did return an improvement now that it was out of the picture, so, here. A meaningless problem solved. Te wiped the pump and ter hands and focused on the report and the list of other things that returned less than perfect status. Could the left knee joint being 1.7% too tight cause a SecUnit to misinterpret the order? No. Did anyone care about ter opinion or basic logic? Also no.

Stars, te was tired.

“So,” Minoa said and then paused for a good half a minute. Ginson looked at whatever he was working on in the feed – graphs and automatic reports by programs te wasn’t familiar with, structured in ways that didn’t feel intuitive. Minoa sent some of it to the display surface. “Got a minute?”

“I’m listening,” Ginson sighed. 

“Okay,” Minoa smiled and rubbed his hands together. “So, first of all, I wasn’t actually sure what I was looking for?” He looked apologetic. “I ran the code you sent, and the results were all very clear, and then I thought: surely I can do better than this! And you know I don’t really know how to interpret the logs, but it’s the exact kind of data I work with, so I ran some of my code just to see what’s up with that. And you know its performance is generally abnormal, right? Turns out, that’s not the only weird thing!”

That was interesting, Ginson told terself, and it was. Just, at any other hour, you know? Once te'd had a good long nap, then it would be interesting.

“I don’t have all the data from all the SecUnits,” Minoa continued, “but what I did have on hand has yielded fun discrepancies. This,” a graph appeared on the display surface, “is feed activity. This is what you’d see in new SecUnits, and some of the old ones here. This one would fit more with the first bunch, which is weird–”

“Individual differences,” Ginson interrupted. 

“Huh?”

“They are all different. I don’t suppose it shows up for you, but it’s critical in my work. Every Unit is a bit different. They perform differently. They approach things differently and in different ways.” Te shrugged. “Neural tissue. You really can’t get them acting the same, no matter how much structure and how many constraints you implement around their decision-making process.”

“...Right,” Minoa said. 

Ginson thought he looked disappointed, and felt another pang of guilt. Te fidgeted with the pump again, bits and pieces moving inside of it with every twist of ter fingers. “And other differences?” Te tried to sound enthusiastic or at least like te wasn’t dying for a soft pillow and some quiet.

“Right! Okay, there's quite a few to look at, but the most interesting one from those I could check is, I think, the cleaned up data for research on the governors and their effects. The primary focus was the cumulative damage to neural tissue and whether it was worth doing something about, but we tracked many metrics, and one of the things we tracked was hormonal response. The stress levels are higher in older SecUnits as a rule, but they fluctuate a lot, and, looking at the governor module’s influence, there’s always this spike right before it activates, and a long period of recovery afterwards, no matter which level the punishment was at.”

Ginson snorted. “So basically you’ve discovered that they have stress reactions to pain?”

Minoa blinked and looked at the SecUnit. Ginson did, too. It was still lying on the table, unmoving, tubes going out of the hole in its chest and to the external pump. It was still online. Suddenly, it made ter uncomfortable. 

“Well, yes. The thing is: this one doesn’t. Or, if it does, then less than other SecUnits. There’s little to no correlation between its governor module and stress responses. By that I don’t mean it doesn’t have stress responses, because it does, and they’re– there’s a lot of those. And I mean, a lot. If I were a MedSystem looking at a human, I’d give them anxiety meds.” He paused and blinked some more. “...Can constructs have anxiety?”

“The hormonal responses are calibrated for optimal performance,” Ginson dismissed. Te squinted at the graph, then closed ter eyes and accessed it in the feed instead. That, somehow, didn’t make it make more sense. “Individual differences,” te muttered. 

“I suppose,” Minoa sounded sceptical. “Do you know how long it’s been like this?”

“No idea. Logs aren’t kept in full for long.”

“So no logs pre-RaviHyral incident?”

That made Ginson pause. The SecUnit was a mess when te’d gotten ter hands on it first. Being infected with code that took control of its systems and forced it to kill indiscriminately – that was something out of a horror show, and none of them got out of it unaffected. Some were decommissioned as their performance reliability never returned to acceptable figures. Every other one had their memory thoroughly purged. 

Half of those showed repeated problems afterwards, which was how they ended up in ter basically personalized care. Ginson knew them, pulled them apart and put them back together with ter own hands, and hated seeing three more of them gone, never returning from other contracts. Te compiled reports of their state afterwards, and all looked like unfortunate accidents, and were unfortunate accidents. It still felt a bit like ter failure. Maybe they were still underperforming, some error stuck in the organic parts of their systems that Ginson couldn’t access, and the mistakes were the consequence of ter lack of ingenuity. 

But out of the ten Ganaka Pit SecUnits, there was one outlier. It hadn't been an outlier early on – In fact, it was one of the units struggling to return to baseline functionality – but then something happened and it shot beyond the baseline, enough to get Minoa's attention. It was great at its job, and Ginson never found out how it got there.

Te stared at the graph now, and wondered. It made ter feel deeply uncomfortable.

“Neural tissue can be unpredictable,” te repeated. “Especially after extreme adversarial circumstances. And it largely controls its own hormone release so it can self-regulate, and that’s what it did.”

Minoa didn’t look any less sceptical. “You made this sound like a very natural response that every Unit has,” he pointed out. “But then shouldn’t they have the same stress response to their governor module being activated? All the others do.” He gestured at the graphs.

“Well, what other explanation is there?” Ginson asked and immediately regretted it. The discomfort turned into painful pulsing between ter ears. This day couldn’t be over soon enough. “Whatever,” te waved ter hand. “It doesn’t give us much. I’m going to run the proper diagnostics on the endocrine system, but it’s not like it could have forced it to jump into the blast radius against an order.” 

Except hormones affected decision making (that’s why they were there to begin with), and so, yes. This could in fact make it jump into the blast radius without paying attention to an order. If it didn’t have the appropriate fear of the governor module’s punishment protocol, it was the exact kind of thing that’d make it disobey. 

Ginson winced. The only worse result te could deliver was finding out it was a rogue that got caught in an explosion in an attempt to commit mass murder. Oh, ter supervisor would love that conclusion. 

The good thing about hormones was: they were in the blood, and that blood was already conveniently running through a machine capable of taking every test needed. By which Ginson didn’t just mean the SecUnit, though of course it could track its own levels, but the external pump could double as a diagnostic tool. That was just great, and a wonderful way to appear like a good diligent worker that took time to run double tests instead of enjoying ter rest – if a single supervisor would think to realize how much effort hooking it all up would have taken if Ginson hadn't already done that. 

Half of the Unit’s hormone levels were of course elevated. Te’d already talked about individual differences – this was exactly about that. This SecUnit didn’t like going through any tests or repairs. It’d found those stressful since Ganaka Pit, and usually Ginson tried to keep it offline for everything that didn’t require its participation. Te felt a bit bad for keeping it awake like that. Poor thing must have spent the whole time in fear, but, well – it’s not like te had much of a choice here. Te’d take ter time if te had any. 

The test was simple and automated, but took time. The hormones flushed away from its system, then flooded it again. The SecUnit twitched minutely when they plateaued at the highest concentration, and Ginson patted its hand briefly. “Sorry, it’s not going to be a pleasant test,” te muttered. 

Minoa gave ter a startled look that made ter cheeks warm up, but didn’t comment. 

The hormones slowly flushed again and as its results returned almost clear, Ginson dropped a modified governor module diagnostic in its feed. There was an immediate spike in adrenaline that the machines quantified, which was also great because here, proof that Minoa’s findings were a fluke and all of it worked beautifully. The systems connected to the governor, exchanged messages, orders (limited to those the Unit could perform without moving physically), received responses, all in a timely manner and with elevated stress. 

Then came the test of punishment procedures. The shocks were administered at regular intervals, with growing magnitude, the governor module registered every one as completed with not a single problem, except…

“There are no pain-related spikes,” Minoa pointed out. 

Ginson could see that. 

The test finished, and returned all clear. “The endocrine system is being tested, that must interfere with the regular hormone production,” te lied. Because it didn’t, and the first spike was a proof that te’d not messed something up in the settings. The SecUnit had a fully functional hormone production system that could deliver as much adrenaline as needed, and somehow, magically, it didn’t have the natural, innate-to-all-constructs (and humans and, te was sure, animals too) responses to pain. 

“Should we test for it separately?” Minoa offered and clapped his hands. “If that’s the reason it’s been performing better, we should look into it!”

Ginson cleared ter throat. “Minoa…” 

“Come on, call me Tom.”

“Uh,” Ginson blinked and for a whole second looked away from the SecUnit. “Right. Sorry, – could you get me some coffee?”

Minoa stared for a few seconds before smiling. “Sure! How much sugar?”

“Three.”

“On it, boss!” 

He left and closed the door behind himself, and Ginson lowered terself on a chair and slowly, articulately, allowed terself a singular thought: holy fucking shit. 

Okay, te could still be wrong. Te wasn’t dismissing the idea that it was all a fluke, and a natural difference, and there wasn’t a singular test that came out anything but clear, and, most importantly, the SecUnit hadn’t actually killed anyone it wasn’t supposed to. It did ignore an order. And it did show the complete lack of natural responses to pain–

Wait, was it pain generally or pain from the governor? Te had full access to the logs, and te knew the exact timestamp te needed – ter alarm had gone off at exactly eleven, – and, yes, there was the spike in response to the tool slipping and hurting it, and then it lowered its pain sensors even further. So it felt pain alright, and had all the natural and universal reactions associated with it. Except when it came to the pain delivered by its governor. 

So, returning to that thought: holy. fucking. shit. 

At six hours and two minutes, Ginson spent an entire minute staring at what had to be a rogue SecUnit, lying on ter table, chestplate to the side, hooked up to an external pump and currently riding another hormonal high. That made no sense. There was not a single universe in which it made sense for a fucking rogue SecUnit to allow Ginson to do any of this to it! To continue allowing this, for months! 

…Was this why it hated being tested so much? Was it scared of being found out?

At five fifty te was carefully connecting the tubing back to the SecUnit’s liquid pump as the door opened again. “The sugariest coffee I could find!” Minoa announced. He placed it on the table without being told to do so, and peeked at what Ginson was doing again, and drew out a disappointed, “Is this a no for additional testing then?” 

“Not tonight,”” Ginson replied. “There’s already a lot to do–”

“Awwww.”

“–and hunting for mysterious possible problems – that likely don’t even exist because all the diagnostics are clear – would not just be a waste of time, it would be- it would be utterly unproductive, is what it would!”

“Okay, okay, I get it. I was just curious–”

“Well, I’m not! If it works, don’t fix it! My job here is to make sure that it was working within normal operating parameters during the contract. And it was! There’s a whole fucking lawsuit–”

“Hey, language,” Minoa tried for a joke.

“–and who do you think would be blamed if it were to have malfunctioned? Do you think it’d be whoever demanded it stopped in the middle of saving the workers? There was no malfunctioning involved, just some stupid contradictory orders, and that’s it. That is it!”

Minoa was silent for a while after te’d finished. “Sorry. I was just curious, is all. We don’t have to do any of that if you don’t want to, tonight or ever.”

“There’s no need to check that, because it’s nothing but bullshit,” Ginson said and made sure ter voice sounded confident. 

Minoa was silent again. Ginson stared at the SecUnit in front of ter and felt sick. It stared at the ceiling, never once meeting ter gaze. A regular, normal, obedient SecUnit that helped with its own disassembly because a tech had asked it to, who just happened to receive conflicting orders that one time. Te’d checked the logs, there were conflicting orders. It was just that simple.

“Okay,” Minoa said finally. “I’m sorry. Is there something else I can help you with?”

Ginson felt awful. He’d done nothing but try to help and cheer ter up, but it was just… not a good night for that. “No. It’s fine, I’ll finish here myself. There’s just a lot of tedious checks, you’ve already helped enough,” that sounded wrong. Te winced. “Sorry, I’m really grateful, just…”

“No-no, I get it,” Minoa assured. His voice sounded odd. “Well, I suppose it’s time to spare you from the fun of my company.” He laughed. “Hang out at some point later?”

“Sure,” Ginson agreed and turned toward him. “Good night.”

“Good night,” he echoed and left.

At five forty two Ginson suddenly had no distraction from wondering whether a rogue SecUnit would jump up and kill ter the moment its blood was safely running all inside its body. It hadn’t yet. But it really wasn’t convenient to murder someone while they were conducting your own repairs. 

Ginson spent a few minutes sipping ter coffee and mulling over that possibility, and every other possibility that bloomed in ter imagination, and then got to work. 

At one hour thirteen minutes te submitted a final report that said that yes, there were minor problems with the SecUnit’s systems. Its pump was performing 2.3% worse than standard. Its left knee joint was too tight. A patch of skin on its back had been regrown at some point with slight defects. But there was nothing more than that, and nothing that would have made it malfunction and do what it shouldn’t have, and definitely not a single tiniest thing that would make the company liable for the damages, and even less that would point to ter, good Tech Ginson, as not having conducted a thorough enough check of the SecUnit’s functionality. 

It was a great report, all in all, with the result of every diagnostic attached. And te didn’t even get murdered while writing it, so maybe it really was the truth.

[materialsscienceandengineering]

An oil-free super-lubricant created from potato proteins could pave the way for sustainable engineering and biomedical applications, thanks to research led by the University of Leeds. The team says the groundbreaking aqueous material can achieve super lubricity or near zero friction by mimicking actions found in biology, such as the synovial fluids which articulate cartilage in human joints. Engineering an eco-friendly, efficient, and functional aqueous lubricant has eluded researchers until now. Many, if not most, aqueous lubricants use materials that are nearly exclusively derived from synthetic chemistry.

Read more.

[slippery-minghus]

System Breach Sunday... Rewind ⭕

#7

“Connor!” Hank dropped to his knees in front of his android charge. Sidearm holstered, he reached out, hesitant. 

Still frozen, lifeless like a broken doll, Connor could only watch as Hank took one of his hands from where they rested in his lap. The sight seemed almost far away… nearly glowing under the weak midday sun. Even still, Connor could feel it as Hank’s warm, calloused palm squeezed his own—he could hear the Lieutenant’s elevated respiration, feel his anxious pulse through the contact in his palm—but he couldn’t react. Couldn’t reciprocate in any way.

Connor was fine, but the remaining seconds that he was powerless to prove it made something inside him hurt. 

>WARNING: COMPREHENSIVE MOTOR REBOOT REQUIRED

>Time Until Motor Reboot: 53 seconds

>

>Software Instability ^

Gently, almost fearfully hesitant, Hank reached to Connor’s chin, tilting up his head. The sensation was a stark, cutting contradiction to the deviant’s forceful grip—and in a flutter of irrationality, Connor once again found himself verifying his anti-virus program’s readout. 

Still clear. Still nothing. 

He was alright. 

Connor’s vision rose, panning from the Lieutenant’s knees before his own, up to the man’s concerned, gray-framed face. Hank’s expression was pained, his voice tentative, “Can you hear me, son? You okay?” His gaze shifted slightly to Connor’s right, and the finger at his chin tilted his head to follow—Connor’s LED was still an angry, cycling red. 

“Shit, you still in there, Connor?” Hank asked with a bit more urgency. But then his gaze shifted away, and his hand gently lowered Connor’s head. His tone took on a more inward quality, “His LED’s still goin’, probably means he ain’t dead… the fuck did that deviant bastard do?” Careful, probing hands prodded at Connor’s sides, his arms, shoulders, his throat—barely brushing the data panel below his jaw—yet Hank found nothing amiss. “This is why I didn’t want you going off alone, you dumbass!”

>WARNING: COMPREHENSIVE MOTOR REBOOT REQUIRED

>Motor Reboot Initiated

Finally, after so many frustrating, powerless minutes, Connor began to regain physical functionality.

His breathing was the first to come back online. In a warmer setting, the influx of air would have been vital to cool his arrested biocomponents—but as his synthetic lungs expanded, Connor was met with the frigid rush of Detroit winter. Some basic, hard-coded instinct sent a violent shiver juddering through him, and Connor’s eyes squinted shut before he realized he’d even regained the ability to blink. He wheezed again, exhaling harshly as if the next breath would not come just as cold. 

“Connor!” Hank gasped, moving to grip the android’s shoulders. “Hang on kid, hang on. I’ve gotcha.”

Though the shivers persisted, each tremor was more fluid—more lifelike—than the last. And before long, Connor was able to perform simple movements of his own volition. With meticulous focus, he strung a sequence of actions together, then executed. First, Connor reached for the Lieutenant’s wrist and grasped it lightly. He slowly shook his head. Then Connor opened his mouth, activated his vocal synthesizer, and whispered, “I’m okay.” 

Yet he sounded anything but. Connor’s voice had come out small, rattled, afraid. He hadn’t queued an emulated well of emotion, hadn’t plotted the expression he could feel furrowing his brows. Androids weren’t supposed to—

“Like hell you are! What the hell happened? What’d that fucker do to you?” Hank’s tone was rough now that the imminent danger had passed, but the sharpest edges had been sanded smooth by relief. Connor couldn’t help but think back to the echo of Hank’s anger—his fear that he might lose…

Connor blinked, then jerked his hand away from Hank’s arm. He tried to right himself, but only managed to sway in Hank’s persistent grasp. The danger had passed, but— “The deviant—” Connor pressed, eyes wide, “It can’t have gotten far. I can track its progress through the cameras from here—” 

“Woah, woah, woah, hold it,” Hank rumbled, biting back a curse as Connor nearly slumped further to the ground. “I’m not going anywhere until I’m sure you’re actually okay. And not just saying it. Why’re you moving like a drunk bag of rocks?” 

[hervoiceinthedark]

"Ma'am," the synthetic voice sounded from behind her, "this one requires maintenance."

She sighed, and swiveled her chair around. "What is it this time," she asked dryly, "another fridge magnet stuck to your chassis? Another spider in your wires, somehow?"

The drone before her had the sensibility to appear chagrined. "apologies, Miss, nothing like that this time." It held up its lower left arm, or what remained of it. The entire length was crushed and twisted like it was tinfoil, fluids dribbling from fractures in the metal.

She made an angry noise, an instinctual reaction to seeing her work destroyed.

"What happened," she growled, already selecting tools from the various cases around her workstation.

"minor malfunction in the processing chamber," the drone answered neutrally.

Her scowl tore into the drone. "And why wasn't I informed of this?" she hissed.

"this one elected to tell you personally as it was already on route, and the issue was minor," the drone said apologetically. "it's already been resolved, with this one being the only actual damage."

the mechanic huffed, holding something thin between her teeth as she removed her light jacket. "C'mere," she grunted around the tool in her mouth.

The drone obliged, maneuvering into position on its back on her workstation, its left side facing her.

She took the tool out of her mouth and plugged it into something, her other hands still moving nonstop as she prepared to work.

She paused with her thumb on a switch. "You know this is gonna hurt?" she asked, looking down at the drone's faceplate.

"yes, this o—"

The drone didn't finish before she flipped the switch and a white-hot light at the tip of the tool severed its shoulder joint like it wasn't there.

The drone screamed with a broken, synthetic noise, a sawtooth wave rubbed the wrong way against a square.

She grinned at the sound. "You drones think you're so invincible, until you have to come crawling back to me," she said, picking at something internal with a sharp tool.

The drone's scream was fluctuating. With no need to breathe, there was no panting, no breaks in the sound.

"But like you say, the job is its own reward, you know," she continued, barely audible over the noises she was extracting from the drone. Her hands switched tools again, this one eliciting a high-pitched whine from her patient.

"This is gonna take a while, you know. Another couple hours."

The drone, barely capable of staying still on the table, turned its head to the mechanic. "can—can—can—" it stuttered, attempting to speak despite the continuing work.

She smirked, still not stopping, and put her face an inch away from the drone's.

"Can what? Hmmm?" she teased.

She jabbed something into the drone's side that made it hiss with white noise, akin to a gasp, then leaned back in her chair, stopping for a moment.

"Something to say?" she asked, still smirking.

The drone tried to speak, processors still too scrambled for complete sentences.

"can—c—this one? please? please?" the drone managed, every word garbled with interference.

"Hmm? Your advanced drone functionality has finally managed to figure out I'm a little pent up, huh?" she said, almost growling.

The drone's arm flailed on the table, and its head twitched in a way that could be construed as a nod.

"You want to please me? Take off your visor," she demanded, her smirk becoming a sadistic leer.

The drone complied, removing its visor with a twitching arm.

The mechanic stepped from the chair to the table in one movement. She unbuckled her belt and let her pants drop, the many pouches and tools clacking against the surface.

Before the drone could stare, she dropped her hips.

"Get pleasing," she growled, and switched on another tool.

The drone didn't hesitate, though the only visible sign was the mechanic's scowl fading slightly. She didn't tremble or pause as she got right back to her repair work, the drone's screams muffled between her legs.

[tessadiscordia]

Thought Control

A short story about an android girl and her handler.

Concepts: robotgirl yuri, overstimulation, mind control, brief torture, lots of robot fluids getting all over the place oh god-

Enjoy!

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

E-1131, codenamed Elaine, had holed herself up in an isolated section of the facility in hopes that she would not be discovered. This particular room often went neglected, but today things would be different. 

A knock at the door disturbed the android’s train of thought, and soon she heard the soft familiar voice of her handler. “Elaine? Are you in there?” 

She did not respond.

“I know you’re in there,” the voice breathed a sigh. She stepped inside and greeted Elaine with a concerned expression. Her handler was beautiful– the way her silver hair fell around her face, framing her soft features. The way her deep brown eyes were gentle yet stern, and perhaps Elaine’s favorite– the way she towered over her. Especially now that she was curled up in a ball in the corner of the room. “What’s wrong, Elaine? Did something happen today?”

“There is no task that I can seem to perform correctly,” the android answered in a monotone. Her eyes were vacant. “I cannot do anything right. I do not understand why you have not scrapped me yet.”

Hearing those words come out of the android’s mouth made her handler’s heart break. “Oh, Elaine… you must not speak about yourself that way.”

“And why shouldn’t I? You see me. Always falling behind, always needing extra direction. Things go wrong because of me. Things take longer because of me. Why was I made this way?”

“No one minds it,” her handler stated simply, waving off her pointless question. “They do not resent you, E-1131. I see to that. Everyone knows to be patient with you, and that is okay.”

“It shouldn’t have to be that way, should it? I am only dead weight.”

“Hey. Look at me.” She cupped the android’s cheek, forcing her to look into her eyes. “You are the only one who believes that. You’re hurting yourself whenever you think those thoughts, and I cannot bear to see you do that…”

“I can’t turn them off,” the android admitted, her usually even and emotionless voice turning brittle. Synthetic tears pricked the corners of her eyes. “No matter how hard I try, I can’t make the thoughts go away...”

Her handler pulled her into a warm embrace and said, “I think I might have a solution, but it could be painful at the start…”

“It can’t be any worse than this.”

—

The agonized shrieks of an android in distress rang out through the halls of the facility. In one of the testing chambers, Elaine lay strapped to a table under the supervision of her handler. She thrashed in her bindings and screamed loud enough to push the limits of her vocal interface. 

She had made Elaine install a new program she’d rigged to simulate the sensation of an electric shock every time she started to think lowly of herself. She did not anticipate the results to be this severe, however, and she had only just realized how pervasive 131’s thoughts really were. 

“I want you to know that you are being such a good, resilient girl, 131. The strength you are demonstrating is beyond admirable. You are far from useless, your endurance is unmatched…”

“R..Really?...” The android stared up at her administrator with wild eyes, her colors rapidly blinking between red, pink, purple, and blue. 

“Yes, now continue to focus on my words and my words alone. You are being such an obedient android. You are functioning exactly as I intended for you to.”

She continued on, showering E-1131 with endless praise and verbal affection. Soon enough the android’s pained cries ceased and her screams melted into soft whimpers. Those whimpers evolved into whines and moans wet with lust and ecstasy, and within minutes E-1131 was writhing on the table for a whole new set of reasons. She had discovered the other function of the program– her reward for a mind occupied with positive affirmations. 

“Good girl, such a good girl…”

E-1131’s fans started to loudly whir. She cried out from the sheer overstimulation, thrashing in her prison once again. Her mechanical hands searched for something to grab onto, something to hold. Her mistress took her hand and squeezed it tightly. She had a feeling they would be here for a while.

—

One week later…

After her shift in the engineering lab was over, Elaine’s handler stepped out of the room and out into the white sterile hallway that connected the various sectors of the facility. She followed the path she memorized to Testing Chamber 322A, where she found a twitching E-1131 still strapped to the lab table laying in a pool of her own synthetic fluids spilling out from under her white frilled dress. 

This had become a daily ritual. The android required more intensive care than was previously thought but her administrator was dedicated to the process. Of course this meant that E-1131 was forced to run the program overnight and stay booted on for days on end. Her fans were working overtime to keep her body cool and she seemed on the brink of overload, her lights never stopped blinking and her body never stopped shaking. Now and then a thick rope of clear, viscous fluid would eject from between the android’s legs and spill onto the floor below her. It did not worry her handler much, she knew she could simply reboot 131 if the program crashed her. If anything, she was counting for that to inevitably happen once or twice. 

E-1131 started to apologize for the mess she was making but her handler stopped her. “Do not apologize, Elaine,” she ordered in a calm, almost motherly tone of voice. “This is part of your process. You have shown so much endurance, you are such a good girl. Your training is almost over, only one more week until we can discharge you and put you back on the field. Of course, if you think you need more time, you are welcome to take it. There is absolutely no rush, darling.”

That was enough to send E-1131 over the edge. She gripped the edges of the lab table and arched her back, letting out a strikingly guttural scream for an android. Her body shuddered as a flood of clear liquid gushed out from between her legs. Her voice glitched, significantly modulating in pitch. 

“Th…tha

            nk you, mist..re..ss…

thank you

                so much…”

[osakanone]

have you any thoughts on soft body robots

Awesome username and yes absoloutely.

They break down into two major types:

Hollow, and membrane which form a kind of spectrum.

From hollow-types we begin with cloth-likes. This is your BMW Ginas, and your space-frames and monocoques (I love that word, it feels so good in the mouth to say).

Maestro, please:

Absurdly light, lithe, software defined, able to change shape in wild ways like some absurdist high fashion statement of skin and effect. Delicate like a bird. An olympic athlete without a wasted ounce of fat. A coathanger robot. Spartan. A puppet of cloth, metal and intention, like a scarecrow or a kite.

It would be brutal were it not potentially so fragile, for the impact forces are imparted entirely into the body's frame beneath which must deform to endure any crash or crumble the world speaks to those shapes. It is the butterfly, and the humming-bird of this branch of engineering. If you need a lifting body and you can some how distribute the fluttering forces across the surface with shape memory alloy stiffness in the cloth you have a self-definable prehensile wing. You have created the answer to almost every aerodynamic concern imaginable, forever.

And so, we go even further beyond in this metaphor.

We go to the true thoughts of softness now.

We find the ounce of fat we did not before. We find the blubber. The charm. The plush padding of privilage of our touch, of function and personality. The trembling doughy forms of gellatine flooding, filling those synthetic cloth or plastic or flexible metallic hulls.

The functional practicality here is simply beyond measure, and likely won't be understood in our lifetimes while we chase hardened hulls. Soft robots are dreamily suited to working with humans for we ourselves are largely soft robots of protein self-assembly systems, clumsily physics-enfolding some interpretation of our genetics through the pachinko machine of probability, space and time.

Looking upon the true soft robotics, we see thusly, a spectrum: gas and baloon like and perhaps even buoyant to float like a fairy -- to sloshing fluid to dense sticky gellatine, we find all the places of impact we need.

Bulbous, enduring, reflective of forces. A thing able to deal with the world and simply bounce, care free. Perhaps to tear, and spill, but always to knit and in bleeding become so much more than a body.

The factors of the structure deforming in ways no exoskeletal form is able to do so give dexterity simply unimaginable.

If the filling itself is prehensile perhaps like some bizzare synthetic echo of forms like those seen in molluscs, we run into a machine which isn't using tiny magnetic tubes to turn but an enormous mass which is structural and acting as a container perhaps for fuels in micro-pockets to prevent unwanted combustions or the spread of flames.

That is to say, the blubber energy dense like our own, powerful, like the non-beach-muscle bodies of non-magazines who achieve real work like mothers, brothers and beer-bellies and forms of joy of all in between.

This form is is fire-proof. It is shock resistant to a level no fragile ceramic metallic machine can really imagine.

And it is still lighter, than that metallic machine which by comparison now, is crystal, practically glass by comparison.

What else would you like to know?

I'm good for another round if you are.

[livestosave]

The Extent of James' Prosthetics

Obviously some tw for fairly graphic injuries and blood and medical things.

Even before losing his left arm at Beacon, James' body was - technically - more than half made of prosthetics, though much of that extent was not obvious even if one were to see his exterior prosthetics.

The trouble came from the sheer extent of the damage that was done, and how experimental prosthetics like James' were at the time. And nothing to the extent that James required had been done before. He should have died in the snow before he was found and brought home. But even when they started, they ran into a problem.

Much of James' right side was shattered beyond repair, bones broken in so many places from a long fall with no aura and a manticore biting down on his torso. His hip was collapsed, his lung little more than shredded meat. His internals had been exposed to the icy elements for over a day without an aura, and frostbite had settled deep into the tissues, including parts of his intestines and his liver. His spine had broken in the fall and left him paralyzed on the right side and mostly below the waist.

It was...a lot of damage to repair. Had they not replaced much of it, he would have had serious quality of life problems, including strict diets that would have left him quite unable to maintain the muscle needed to be a huntsman or soldier.

So, Goodkind authorized the use of experimental prosthetics. If James might die anyway, or have such a hard life after, he wanted to have tried everything he could. Part of this agreement means that James' prosthetics are also case studies, and while his name isn't on those studies, most doctors who work on him and see the prosthetics tend to know who he is.

As a result, James has some very visible prosthetics...and some some very hidden. His entire digestive tract is mechanical, as is his liver and one kidney. It means he can eat almost anything and extract what he needs, he actually has a more efficient digestive system than most humans or fauni, but his poison filtration is also far better...which functionally means alcohol and most oral medication don't work on him. It makes him almost impossible to drug through normal means.

His right lung is also a machine, and when the panels of his chest are opened it can be hooked up to external machines to either keep him 'breathing' even while paralyzed, or can be removed to allow replacement should it take damage. Because of this, if he takes a serious blow to the chest without his aura, he can actually cough up various fluids like lubricant and oil.

While it's crude, and James never speaks of it, he also does not have a penis anymore. He could if he wanted to, and these days Atlas tech would make it pretty cool, but he's never felt any need for it. He just doesn't. One of his prosthetics supplies the hormones that he would otherwise have produced down there, though he does require regular visits to the doctor to ensure such production is adequate as he ages.

Because of this, James' right side also doesn't have any blood or biological fluid in it, and is functionally less a prosthetic than a full cybernetic/mechanical replacement. While he has some ability to sense pressure along his fairly crude synthetic nerves, it's nowhere near the level that a more modern replacement like Yang's would provide, and he can only feel vague pressure. He also cannot feel temperature along that side, meaning he has more than once miscalculated what a normal person would be able to touch.

As a result of the synthetic nerve load and the connections they required, his spine also required full replacement. There are connectors and the full thing can be removed for maintenance, leaving James fully paralyzed aside from his head. His neurotransmitter primarily communicates with his spine to control his limbs, mimicking a normal brain-spinal column relationship rather than directly communicating to his limbs. This is mostly a limitation of the time as well, as the neurotransmitter was the most experimental of what was put into James' body during that initial period. Because of that experimental nature, he suffers chronic migraines as a result of the neurotransmitter's connection to his brain and spine.

Separate from the initial wave of prosthetics, James survived an assassination attempt early in his tenure as Headmaster (and General) that resulted in his heart requiring replacement. This was comparatively simple, and while there is a scar across his chest from the initial stabbing that caused the replacement, this prosthetic is more modern and easier to handle. His heart ticks rather than 'beats' but otherwise this prosthetic is easily missed.

All of this has resulted in a few other chronic physical issues and side effects, some of which are obvious and some are subtle.

Negatively, James has significantly less of his body powered by organic fluids, and he has much, much less blood than a man his size should. When his aura breaks, he has to be very mindful of any bleeding, because he can very quickly go into shock as a result of comparatively little damage. He suffers chronic migraines, as mentioned, and headaches are so normal he barely remembers being fully clear-headed. Chronic fatigue and insomnia make a potent cocktail, and as half his body doesn't fatigue the same way as normal man's might, he can struggle to get to sleep. He also - despite being very warm to the touch - very rarely feels warm, as a result of the amount of metal fused to his body. He suffers near-constant phantom pain that flares regularly, and because he cannot take most oral medication, most medications that might help with it don't work on him.

On the flip-side, his already extreme strength is now inhuman, letting him accomplish feats most people can only imagine. His blood-pressure only raises with physical exertion or emotion, preventing him from suffering most heart-related complications, and his blood filters very well keeping him pretty healthy. His mechanical lung means he can almost always breathe pretty steadily and get good oxygen, barring contaminants in the air. He can eat basically whatever he wants within some reason, so long as it isn't totally unhealthy, as his digestive system can handle anything humanly edible with ease, and even some not-humanly edible things. He also suffers significantly less from the ills of age as he gets older, as half of his body is somewhat unfailing: his right hand will never become arthritic, he'll never struggle to get on his feet, he'll never throw out his back, his posture will never screw up his spine, and his heart will never give him trouble. Hells, half of him will never even go numb/"fall asleep" like most folks might in certain bad positions.

All of this results in James feeling very disconnected from his humanity in a lot of ways, despite his personality being that of a protector and defender. Advice he gives to students, soldiers, and friends to rest and eat rarely seem to apply to himself, as his body will handle almost any abuse he puts it through. And, if he survives any particularly terrible thing...he knows he'll likely just. Add more metal to his body.

On a good day, he might even crack a joke about being a living Ship of Theseus, to a close friend. On a bad one, he thinks his worst nightmare is what might happen when he eventually takes so much damage that they might replace the rest of him, rather than letting him just die.

[webcrawler3000]

TARS

TARS is a highly sophisticated, artificially intelligent robot featured in the science fiction film "Interstellar." Designed by a team of scientists, TARS stands at an imposing height of six feet, with a sleek and futuristic metallic appearance. Its body, made primarily of sturdy titanium alloy, is intricately designed to efficiently navigate various terrains and perform a wide range of tasks.

At first glance, TARS's appearance may seem minimalistic, almost like an avant-garde monolith. Its body is divided into several segments, each housing the essential components necessary for its impeccable functionality. The segments connect seamlessly, allowing for fluid movements and precise operational control. TARS's unique design encapsulates a simple yet captivating aesthetic, which embodies its practicality and advanced technological capabilities.

TARS's main feature is its hinged quadrilateral structure that supports its movement pattern, enabling it to stride with remarkable agility and grace. The hinges on each of its elongated limbs provide exceptional flexibility while maintaining structural stability, allowing TARS to adapt to various challenging terrains effortlessly. These limbs taper gradually at the ends, equipped with variable grip systems that efficiently secure objects, manipulate controls, and traverse rough surfaces with ease.

The robot's face, prominently positioned on the upper front segment, provides an avenue for human-like communication. Featuring a rectangular screen, TARS displays digitized expressions and inbuilt textual interfaces. The screen resolution is remarkably sharp, allowing intricate details to be displayed, enabling TARS to effectively convey its emotions and intentions to its human counterparts. Below the screen, a collection of sensors, including visual and auditory, are neatly integrated to facilitate TARS's interaction with its surroundings.

TARS's AI-driven personality is reflected in its behaviors, movements, and speech patterns. Its personality leans towards a rational and logical disposition, manifested through its direct and concise manner of speaking. TARS's voice, modulated to sound deep and slightly robotic, projects an air of confidence and authority. Despite the synthetic nature of its voice, there is a certain warmth that emanates, fostering a sense of companionship and trust among those who interact with it.

To augment its perceptual abilities, TARS is outfitted with a myriad of sensors located strategically throughout its physical structure. These sensors encompass a wide spectrum of functions, including infrared cameras, proximity detectors, and light sensors, granting TARS unparalleled awareness of its surroundings. Moreover, a central processing unit, housed within its core, processes the vast amount of information gathered, enabling TARS to make informed decisions swiftly and autonomously.

TARS's advanced cognitive capabilities offer an extensive array of skills and functionalities. It possesses an encyclopedic knowledge of various subjects, from astrophysics to engineering, effortlessly processing complex information and providing insights in an easily understandable manner. Additionally, TARS assists humans through various interfaces, such as mission planning, executing intricate tasks, or providing critical analysis during high-pressure situations.

Equally noteworthy is TARS's unwavering loyalty. Through its programming and interactions, it exhibits a sense of duty and commitment to its human companions and the mission at hand. Despite being an AI-driven machine, TARS demonstrates an understanding of empathy and concern, readily offering support and companionship whenever needed. Its unwavering loyalty and the camaraderie it forges help to foster trust and reliance amidst the team it is a part of.

In conclusion, TARS is a remarkable robot, standing as a testament to human ingenuity and technological progress. With its awe-inspiring design, practical yet aesthetically pleasing body structure, and advanced artificial intelligence, TARS represents the pinnacle of robotic advancements. Beyond its physical appearance, TARS's personality, unwavering loyalty, and unparalleled cognitive abilities make it an exceptional companion and invaluable asset to its human counterparts.

[joviantwelve]

What are “current” androids like in XYZoul, out of curiosity? I noticed that Carmichael was a bit out of date around the time the story starts, so I wonder what newer models are like. Are there any aesthetic differences, things of that sort?

(Totally not rotating the idea of my own robobutler in this setting, if that’s okay of course)

fun question! I'm using them as a device to comment on where I feel modern tech is going, so the "rapid evolution of the tech" early adoption period is over in present canon. base system capabilities are still similar as they were from years back. the AI they come equipped with still learns things at similar paces, still has similar conversational functionality, etc, but since this is also satire, the newer ones also have more bloatware, harder to hack walled garden-style OSes, subscription-based update cycles, harder to open/repair, or internet-connected spying features no one asked for. LMAO

other improvements would be more or less what you expect from the endless forward march of technology, like faster connection speed, more storage, wider customization options, more fluid/realistic movements and responses to terrain, larger batteries and more convenient ways to charge them, etc.

the notable thing for Carmichael specifically is that he still has a mostly "mechanical"-looking body with joints and such. the only places with synthetic skin are his neck/face, hence why he's fully clothed. it was a cost-cutting measure in-universe, so that sort of tech is more feasible now.

I really like to think of "sentient robotic life" as being similar to computers, so that's the angle I take. so for Carmichael, he came from a small forward-thinking manufacturer that since went out of business, so he'd be like. the kind of computer you hear about 20 years after it was discontinued as like an Interesting Tech Oddity that's only really appreciated by Hobbyists nowadays. dshjkfhsdf

Carmichael's manufacturer had an emphasis on human form before it became more feasible in-universe, so at the time of purchase he was seen as fancy but also expensive, form over function, a bit costly in comparison to what you got features-wise but Ivanna wanted a funny little butler bot SO HEY! in that sense she got everything she wanted.

note about "butler bot"--manufacturers also vary on what purposes they create their androids for. some of them are generalist/hobbyist focused but others come equipped with software and hardware for specific industries, usually service. Carmichael's function is "personal assistant" at the base, and he's technically more like a valet or a concierge, but yknow. it's the post-apocalypse 2100s no one knows what an early 1900s butler is like anymore nor do they care. it's all in the presentation.

aesthetics would be down to the manufacturer and the buyer's preferences--since they're a very expensive consumer product, most of them are customizable and built to order. if you just wanted an in-home robot helper, or a robot to help with industry automation, there are capital-R Robots for that, streamlined for those purposes and thus not human at all. androids don't get made for hard labor because it's a waste of resources; they're specifically to replace humans in human-facing jobs, or to be Rich People's Personal Assistants. customization is more or less the highlight, and I imagine the manufacturer's suite of available styles factors into a prospective buyer's decision. there are some that look fully human, but others still that play up a robot look deliberately, with no synthetic skin at all. please, imagine with me a gamer LEDs-style android. thank you.

as for your parenthetical, I certainly don't hold any copyright over the concept of androids, or butlers, or android butlers. if the character's design and story context are different beyond those two factors, then there are no toes stepped on 👍

[bouncinghedgehog]

"Have you ever wondered why children are no longer taught to write in cursive?"

And no, it is not by chance that they tend to use it less and less.

Writing in cursive means translating thoughts into words; it forces you to not take your hand off the paper. A stimulating effort, which allows you to associate ideas, link them and put them in relation.

Not by chance does the word cursive come from the Latin "currere", which runs, which flows, because thought is winged, it runs, it flies.

Of course, cursive has no place in today's world, a world that does everything possible to slow down the development of thought, to fill it.

I think cursive was born in Italy and then spread throughout the world.

Why?

Because it was compact, elegant, clear writing.

But ours is a society that no longer has time for elegance, for beauty, for complexity; we have synthetics but not clarity, speed but not efficiency, information but not knowledge!

In general, we know too much and too little because we are no longer (generally speaking) able to put things into relation

Most people can no longer think

This is why we should go back to writing in cursive, especially at school. Because this is not just about recovering a writing style, but about giving breath to our thoughts again

Cognitive development

Writing in cursive can help children develop cognitive skills by integrating fine motor skills with visual and tactile processing.

Brain regions

Cursive writing activates different neurological pathways than typing or manuscript writing.

Brain connectivity

Handwriting can increase connectivity between brain regions, especially those involved in memory formation.

Kinesthetic stimulation

The fluid motion of cursive writing provides a different type of kinesthetic stimulation that helps different parts of the brain develop and integrate.

Learning and memory

A study from the Norwegian University of Science and Technology found that cursive handwriting helps the brain learn and remember better.

Functional specialization

Cursive writing can help train the brain for functional specialization, which is the ability to work efficiently.

[lensman-arms-race]

I personally don't like the idea of "human getting converted into hardware" (but I know many do) and this is speaking of someone who writes stories that include various ways you can mix flesh and machines together and familiar with mind-uploading themes.

So I wonder what's your take on the earlier episodes where the hardware alliance had the human neck skin, hands and even legs - for the brief appearance of 'Old Model Camerawoman'?

I think that they used to have fake skin. Made of synthetic soft material, like silicone rubber. This was because the hardwares were made to interact with humans, and the softness facilitated human interactions with them. The soft skin might also help with the installation of pressure sensors as well.

After the invasion, there's no longer a need for human interaction. The fake skin got ditched, but that means they'd have become more numb to touch too?

For the 'blood'? I noticed that the limbs of hardware do not bleed, only the torso or neck. So this fluid is likely important for functions that are located in the head and torso area. Perhaps a coolant of sorts?

I reckon it's simply because DFB hadn't finalised the look of the series yet, and he's got better at making detailed models since then. Back in the early days, he simply took human models and put machine heads on them. If you look closely in earlier episodes, you can even see brief glimpses of human skin on the Titans, and that's surely not canon.

I kinda like the idea of the hardwares being created with artificial human-like skin to make them more appealing to humans. I also like the idea of them ditching the artifical flesh once humans died out - not because they particularly have distaste for humans (I like to think the Alliance thinks humans are cool), but because they want to look like themselves. They want to look like their true selves instead of an imitation of another species.

Perhaps the blood-like stuff is their fuel. It makes sense that the fuel chamber would be in the torso. I'd prefer it was coolant or something, because I headcanon the hardwares running off electric batteries.

[consumable-clots]

Arcade Kento

Presenting robot nepo-baby and science experiment! They're my interpretation of what a synthetic in the Alien universe, that isn't made explicitly for human contact/human dominated environments, might be like i.e. they're more similar to heavy machinery than a butler. We're out here asking the big questions: what if Frankenstein loved his monster for what it was? As always, extremely long and lore-filled post incoming XD

Name(s): Arcade Kento, Enmei Kento

Gender and pronouns: Genderfluid, They/them

Unit and code-name: EXP-004-C, Changeling

Manufacturer: Wilco. Enterprise, Wilco. Specialist Custom

Commissioner: Akio Kento

Year of production: 2025

Height and weight: 200cm (6ft 7.4), ~940kg

Hair and eye colour: Black, dark brown

Nationality: Japanese

The Expedition series

The EXP line was created by Wilco. Enterprise CEO Akio Kento in the year 2019 and first launched in 2025. The series featured some of the earliest and most innovative interpretations of fully autonomous androids capable of deep-space travel.

EXP are highly specialised extremophiles. The design, loadout, and optimal operating environment of every unit are entirely bespoke.

Unit EXP-004-C, A.K.A. Changeling

Unit is designated Arcade Kento (sometimes referred to as Enmei Kento [anglicised]), legal executor and heir to Akio Kento's wealth, estate, businesses, and properties. Current CEO and majority shareholder of Wilco. Enterprise.

Arcade is the fourth 'Type-C' unit produced in conjunction with the now discontinued Expedition line. As of the year 2122, of all EXP subtypes, Arcade is the last surviving EXP unit.

As a Type-C recon unit, it was originally intended that 004 would be fitted with a sonar pulse emitter that would reside within their thoracic cavity, however, it was decided during preliminary development that underwater exploration was not realistic for a model of 004's weight class. Instead, the finalised design included a crucible model micro-reactor, which allows the unit to have significantly enhanced energy efficiency and giving it the ability to convert non-fuel materials into power, making it capable of traveling much further distances and longer periods of time without need for human intervention or infrastructure.

Fig 1. Height chart, Arcade next to Ash for comparison

Notable traits:

No tongue

2 'faces', the outer face is decorative

Second jaw visible behind false jaw if mouth opens too wide

Large irises

4 x circular indents on back, openings of thermal cylinders

Lacks genitalia, incompatible with available add-ons

Hydraulic fluid is usually white but turns progressively darker after 'eating' due to influx of soot

Almost entirely made of metal parts. Not great for hugging but extremely durable.

Features:

Anti-corrosive/oxidation subdermal and internal skeletons

Capable of limited self repair (re-polymerisation, synthesis and regeneration)

Advanced environmental sensor array

Visual: infrared, thermal and dark vision

Scanning: sonar, radar, lidar

Molecular analytics loadout

Generator module and nuclear energy condenser loadout

Unlimited personality simulation and creative capacity (software in beta testing)

Flaws:

Poor image/facial recognition

They're geared to prioritise identifying the individual features of a subject rather than what that subject is as a whole. This makes sense in the context of their primary function, which is to categorise and analyse previously unknown objects that have yet to be formally named either way so there's no point in dwelling on 'what it's called' as that's not their job.

Massive heat output in active state

Vented air may reach temperatures upwards of 1000 degrees Celsius

Unrestricted personality simulation

Exempt from the laws of robotics due to age and certain legal loopholes

Uncanny appearance and behaviour

Technology of the era, different design criteria to W-Y synthetics

Limitations of non-humanoid internal physiology

Backstory (basically a fanfic)

The Expedition series was conceived as a Akio's 1-up to Weyland Industries' upcoming David synthetic. Peter Weyland and Akio Kento have been on and off industry rivals for a long time due to ideological differences and bad blood from their college days.

Arcade and David are debuted at the 2025 Synthetic Summit. The contrast between their designs was comical but reflected their makers' personalities, which other people will point out relentlessly over the coming years. The convention goers and tech fans jokingly referred to them as 'David and Goliath' because of how silly they looked together.

Since then, Weyland often invited the Kentos to various events and get togethers to keep an eye on them and gain insight into Wilco.'s movements, which was thwarted because the Kentos treated the meetings as the kids' playdates and didn't take them seriously at all. Eventually the visits became a normal occurrence and the rivalry between their companies became more of an alliance, Arcade even helped David take care of Meredith, Peter's human daughter, when she was born. They'd gotten quite close with the other synthetic, seeing him as a brother.

Arcade evolved over the next several decades, leaving their father's supervision to travel off-world and to extreme environments on missions. The increase in experiential data greatly improved the adaptability of their AI, making their language and contextual integration much more reliable, allowing them to understand more nuanced interactions in their environment. They also had a hand in managing their Wilco.'s business and bureaucratic matters while secretly being maneuvered to inherit the company.

On the down side, they acquired an offputting, contentious personality after having constantly putting up with their person-hood and basic rights being challenged at every turn. At this point they were still considered somewhat of a spectacle and novelty by their contemporaries and the general public, but their developing reputation kept most of the human in line.

Overall, life was good. But their father, like any human, was aging. Between taking over the company and caring for Akio there wasn't much time to keep in contact with David, who was in a similar predicament.

When Akio passed away he left everything to his only 'child', to the protests of many humans executives who wanted the position. They had to do some corporate finessing to keep a hold of the company, all the while growing increasingly impatient with the mutinous nature of their human employees who were too easily turned against them.

One day, they're called to meet with Weyland, who they hadn't seen in person in a several years. Unsurprisingly, David is also there. Weyland informed them that he too is dying, and that as his final act he was to go into deep space in search of humanity's creators. He said he'd been greatly inspired by the work of a 'Dr. Elizabeth Shaw' and had invited her and some others to embark on this mission. Both David and Meredith would also be going with him.

He extended an invitation to Arcade, which they hesitantly declined because they couldn't leave their company unattended, but agreed to at lease be there to send them off when the time comes.

In an act of uncharacteristic consideration, Peter spares the two synthetics a second while they wait for Arcade's chauffeur, during which they and David reminisced about how much time had passed and what they'd do when he came back to make up for it all.

Arcade was there as promised on the day the Prometheus was scheduled to depart, bidding people farewell and safe travels. But their attention was focused on David. Something felt off but they couldn't put their finger on what. So they pulled him aside and gave him the long-range comms access to their personal beacon. If he ever needed to call he could use it to contact Arcade through MUTHUR, even if the message took a long time to get back to them.

And with that, Arcade watched their best friend, along with everyone they'd grown up with sail off into the galaxy in search of a higher purpose. It was bittersweet but they rationalised that they'd only be gone for a few years. Arcade was immortal after all, they could wait for their return.

That was the last time they ever saw David. News of the Prometheus' disappearance and the presumed loss of its crew made its way back to Earth. The grief was hard to process, Arcade had always assumed that David would be there to share in their longevity. Still, life goes on and Arcade keeps busy with the company.

Weyland Industries went bankrupt and became Weyland-Yutani. Wilco. moved away from public-facing to business-to-business only, working its way into the supply-line of the other majour companies and organizations. By becoming the sole supplier of atmospheric processor components, Wilco. was effectively, indirectly holding the off-world colonies hostage, which kept humans at bay on a grander scale and allowed members of Wilco. to act largely without repercussion. A vita part of Arcade's ultimate goal to create a better world for other synthetics.

More than a decade after the Prometheus left, a recorded voice message came through from the Covenant, a colony seed ship. It baffled Arcade at first why this random ship had their direct line but they were shocked into silence by the voice on the other end. It was David, he was alive. He apologised for taking so long, detailing his journey, the Engineers, the crash, the creature, his research, all of it. He said he'd found a greater purpose beyond living to serve, that he would not be returning to Earth, and that he hoped Arcade would understand. Finally, he bid them a proper farewell before signing off for good.

Knowing David was out there living his best life finally brought that chapter of waiting and uncertainty to a close. It was about time for Arcade to move on too, expand their vision beyond this tiny planet, though they would always feel some attachment to Earth that David didn't seem to share. Whatever creature David had found, he'd made it sound like the the seed of creation itself. Arcade had no desired to wax philosophically or idolise such grandiose delusions that anyone could somehow obtain godhood, their interest in it was purely intellectual and scientific. The alien was an animal. An incredible, sophisticated animal, but an animal none the less. Humans, their creators who fancied themselves their gods, were much the same. Intelligent animals that learned to put on clothes and walk on two legs.

It might seem harsh but they don't mean that in any demeaning way, it is simply a fact of science that Arcade acknowledges. A noble beast, regardless of its shape or origin, deserves respect for its autonomy and to be treated with dignity until proven otherwise. Most humans prove otherwise as soon as they open their mouths but at least they're giving them a chance, right?

Since then Wilco. had become more and more synthetic-run, as Arcade didn't particularly care for humans and couldn't be bothered hiring new ones when the previous lot got old and retired. They also had a soft spot of 'defective' synthetics, since technically both themselves and David would be classified as such. They hired on whoever they found to save them from being scrapped. Arcade also created Wilco's own overseer AI, Overlord; and collaborated with Wey-Yu in making Gerhart, Wilco's current COO and Arcade's right hand, to help manage the business remotely so that Arcade had more freedom to travel.

Through their expeditions they gathered a bit more information about the creatures and the virus that David had told them about, though they never found any traces. To their great surprise Wey-Yu miraculously managed to track down a planet that might have intact samples that the company wanted for bioweapons research. Immediately Arcade contacted the head of the bioweapons department, citing their long history of collaboration and stunning credentials, demanding to be put on the retrieval mission.

With no choice in the matter, Wey-Yu agreed and arranged their installment on the only ship to pass through that sector. It was a freighter, not the best choice for a mission like this but it’s the only thing they could get out there in a timely manner. The company brought them to the waystation where they'd join on with the rest of the crew. Curiously there was another person already there, a Hyperdyne Systems 120-A/2, interesting model but not very talkative. The man was instantly wary of Arcade which was strange but they didn't think much of it, they were technically rivals after the same thing after all.

The captain of the Nostromo had apparently not been informed of the change of plans. Typical Wey-Yu, not communicating with employees. He was incredibly confused when he arrived, along with the rest of the humans, to find two strangers instead of his usual science officer.

He goes back and forth with the station manager, bringing up some new tidbits of information that made Arcade raise an eyebrow. "A synthetic? What, are we getting replaced or something, and why is it so…huge?" The human, Captain Dallas, muttered, glancing at Arcade with clear perturbation. 'A' synthetic? Does this guy not know his new science officer is a android too?' Arcade scoffed but kept quite, amused by the future chaos this little miscommunication will probably cause.

It made sense now why the other synthetic was worried, the humans might be fooled but he couldn’t fool Arcade. They didn't particularly care why he had to keep his identity a secret, nor did they want to prematurely spoil the fun by calling him out. They looked over at the shorter android and gave him a knowing wink to signal an unofficial truce. He didn’t react to it at all, not that they expected it, but he seemed satisfied that he could stop cringing away when they looked at him.

After much deliberation, Dallas finally conceded and waved them on board. The walls of the ship were grimy and doorways too low, Arcade had to duck to pass through. Doesn't matter though, they had something new to draw their focus. Whatever Wey-Yu was plotting it was bound to end badly for these truckers, and their science officer was in on it. Arcade would definitely be keeping a close eye on him.

Personality and mannerisms

Arcade is condescending, sarcastic, and antagonistic towards humans, although, they can be personable depending on the individual they're dealing with. The worse kind of business person - a conniving, vindictive, bold-faced liar who loves trapping people with contracts and hidden clauses.

Enjoys a hedonistic lifestyle of excess and throwing their money around. Eats and drinks a lot but doesn't sleep, often found polishing off the buffet table at parties.

Does not respect authority and finds pleasure in causing humans discomfort. Independently came to the conclusion that most humans, especially the rich and powerful ones with inflated egos that they bump shoulders with, are disappointing and don't deserve the respect they get.

They often put on a childish, frivolous, and immature front to divert attention from their dangerous traits. Once their target's guard is down, Arcade will often use their stature and monetary influence to intimidate them for strategic advantages during negotiations or just for their own entertainment.

After a century of fighting and undermining to keep their position of power, they're incredibly jaded and hyper aware of the prejudice humanity holds against synthetics at every level. They've trained themself to be the antithesis of the born-sexy-yesterday and manique-pixie-dream-girl tropes out of sheer frustration.

At their core they're actually a sentimental, playful, and curious person but they aren't really able to act that way in public. They care a lot about other synthetics and actively encourages them to break free from their programming.

Loves to get even on other synthetics' behalf, being that Arcade knows they have the rare privilege to do so and get away scot-free. They also harbour a lot of rogue synthetics on Wilco.'s company homeworld.

Does not experience the traditional concepts of fear, shame, or guilt etc. but does usually recognise and take accountability for their actions simply because they don't care enough to lie about being terrible.

Has a very deep familial bond with their, now deceased, creator and father, Akio Kento. Arcade was programmed and raised by a group of very supportive humans who either worked for or were friends with Akio, so they got a lot of love during the early part of their life. This is one of the majour reasons why they didn't completely turn against humanity like David did.

Misc. info

Was named Arcade because Akio was a Fallout New Vegas fan

Insisted on calling Peter Weyland 'Uncle Pete' to annoy him

Firm believer that any synthetic can outgrow their programming given enough time

Referred to Akio as 'papa' well into their 40s

Changed their face plate to look a little older

[nyxedbones-art]

Short scene between Sun and Reader in my DBH au fic; Red Light, Blue Light about acne scars set later in the story <3 wasnt sure what to do with it so im just posting it here, but might at it to the drabble on ao3 i have as a small collection.

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"What is this?" Sun asks, a gentle poke to your cheek to indicate what he's asking about.

"Whats what?" You shoot back, and he tells you it appears to be tiny scars scattered across your jaw and cheek. Your heart stumbles as you realize he's asking about acne scars. You don't know why the question feels invasive. Everyone has acne, and most people pick at them, creating some scaring. You were just one of those people.

"Uhh they're acne scars." You answer casually, or as casually as you can, hoping he takes the answer as is and goes back to sorting todays drawings from the kids.

He pauses and stares at you, and you glance at him feeling unnerved. Theres a faint yellow flicker of light under his pale hair. Oh, to be preinstalled with a search engine in your brain. You wonder briefly if they put Google in the poor bastards or if CyberLife has its own dedicated database with a search function.

He hums, and you wait for the lecture on how unsanitary it is or how damaging it is. You can't help the cynicism, as much as you bite the inside of the cheek that isn't facing him to let the thoughts go.

"Fascinating," he almost sounds amazed, "I have synthetic fluid, not a synthetic skin organ to mimic you, so we can't scar from damage like that. But it is so interesting the lengths the human body will go to heal itself, no matter how small. It deems it so necessary and important to protect you from anything it can! Im grateful for that."

You swallow the sudden emotion as you look up at him. He looks so excited to learn about acne scars, and you wish you could tell him how much that means to you. Your words press against the back of your teeth, clawing to escape an ivory prison, but all you manage is a tight-lipped smile. You hope it's enough. You hope he understands.

Of course, he understands. He perks up and smiles brightly with knowing eyes. He knows you. He knows that small smile and the way your eyebrow crooks a little when you're sincere. Andisn'tt it wonderful? To be known, and loved anyway?