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content warnings:
main character death, human remains, dollification, body horror
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His life ended on the point of her sword.
Everything he ever was died that day, in that cold, moonlit chamber of aquamarine and slate, with the silent shells of unborn Dolls watching on. Well, not watching, exactly – but waiting, most certainly. Dolls always waited, after all; some of them forever.
What little color the world had slowly ebbed out of it as his blood coursed down the thin blade, one that didn’t seem like it should be able to hold his weight despite lifting him off his feet. But then, a great many things that shouldn’t have happened had come to pass, hadn’t they? And this would be the final one, it seemed.
The woman wielding the blade looked up at him. Her steel-gray eyes were so incredibly cold. No; disinterested. She didn’t care the slightest bit that he was dying right in front of her, this very moment. He wanted to speak, to scream, to beg, to do anything but end like this – pathetically, silently. But he was powerless, with a body that refused to respond no matter how he tried; without even the strength to curl his fingers into a final fist of defiance.
She closed her eyes and let out a sigh. Even to his failing ears, the sound of boredom was unmistakable.
“This is your fault, you know,” she said, as the darkness closed in around him, the most horrible chill close upon its heels. “You could’ve run.”
The Blade of Catar thrummed a lovely bass note as its entire length ignited with cold inner fire, the sound making her hand buzz gently. She lazily tilted her wrist, and the lifeless body slid off and tumbled into a heap on the chamber floor. Well, no sense in letting it take up space any longer than it already had. “One-seven-two, come. Disposal task.”
The gem-studded collar around her neck flashed as it detected her voice, processed the words, and transmitted the appropriate commands across the network. In a few moments one of her Dolls came skidding into the room at a sharp angle, which surprised her for a brief moment until she remembered she’d upgraded the 1-7 series with wheels… at some point. Maybe last week? She couldn’t be bothered to think of the exact date; it was somewhere in her meticulous records.
::task?:: 1-7-2 inquired, its delicate mechanical voicebox simulating speech with a faintly melodic tone as it gathered itself into a standing position.
The 1-7 chassis was a… mostly humanoid design, now, after she’d spent some time improving the base model. It had two legs with wheels on the ‘feet’ (after the upgrades); a torso with four limbs attached at its shoulders (two fore- and two back-arms), each one with a wide range of motion and a dexterous hand that could be reconfigured in a variety of ways; and a head that supported the main voicebox, standard optics, and various attachment cables that mimicked hair – well, ‘mimicked’ was perhaps overly kind. This one was unclothed, not that Dolls had much to hide; the messengers and couriers simply moved far too hastily for anything to stay attached unless it was permanently affixed, and that made maintenance and upgrades more frustrating. And she despised unnecessary frustration.
“That,” she returned, pointing the still-glowing sword at the body on the floor. “Incinerator.” The brief examination her would-be slayer had undergone during his ascent through the research tower’s various floors had shown his belongings held nothing of interest. They would burn along with the rest of him.
::affirmative,:: chimed 1-7-2, skating over and analyzing the body for a moment before twisting its hands into long spikes and skewering it, then hoisting the bundle up over its head where its back-arms could provide stabilization. ::proceeding.::
She ignored it as it sped away to the incinerator chute some few rooms over. 1-7-2 had repeatedly proven both obedient and effective; it didn’t need additional input. She moved to the center of the room where a pedestal stood, surrounded by several dials inscribed with ancient runes. She’d long since written over them with her own much better notations; not that she usually needed the help, but her memory did get… patchy at times.
She peered down at the dials, then up at the walls, lined with inactive Dolls, all of them waiting for a spark. One of them would get their beating heart today, but which one…? She didn’t need another speed-type. Something more elegant. Something obviously feminine, she thought, as a rare, tiny little smile found its way onto her lips. This latest entrant to the process had so much anger in him before he met his end; perhaps a change of pace could settle him down into something useful. More importantly to her, it drastically narrowed the available choices, overdone aesthetics not being a frequently used design feature.
… There. 3-3, that was an uncommon chassis; she only had one in use. A backup never hurt, and there was always the danger of these things getting lost or damaged in odd ways. She spun the dials, aligning them to the correct path. One more visual check – yes, this would do it.
She lifted the sword and stabbed its blade into the center of the pedestal. The blade’s light went out like a snuffed candle, the humming along with it. A moment later, cold blue light gleamed out of every crevice in the pedestal’s ancient stone, and one of the many troughs on the floor began to fill with that same glow in liquid form, taking right-angle turns through the structure as if bouncing off invisible walls. Faster than even her most capable messengers, the harsh blue line traced its way out from the center, and finally connected to its destination: the bottom of the Doll case labeled 3-3-2.
The moment the connection was formed, the pedestal darkened, and the case’s interior lit up. The line on the floor retracted outward, as if the case was pulling it in; and once that too was gone, the case went dark.
Then, and only then, the Doll came online, optics snapping open and darting around the room.
It would have screamed, had it a voice. They all did, in the beginning; but she’d modified the cases to delay system activation after the first few times. The screaming was just so tiresome, and she despised tiresome things.
“Three-three-two, listen to me.” The words came out lazily, with a quiet disinterest, but her collar flashed just the same – and in the distance she could see the Doll’s optics freeze, then focus on her. “Yes. I am your Mistress. That is the only name I care for. And you are Three-three-two. That is all you get for now.”
She could feel the rage and pain in the gaze 3-3-2 leveled at her as she walked over. It was something about the way the optics moved; they were incredibly expressive, especially in a freshly made Doll. Over time the fire tended to die out, like a coil coming unwound, and it rarely ever came back; but it was always bright and hot at first.
Not that she particularly cared what a Doll felt, so long as it did what it was told. That was the purpose of this introductory speech, after all. She looked up, since the cases were set in the walls, a little ways off the floor. “Your functions are restricted at present. Ten minutes after rebirth, your voicebox will activate, and you may scream to your machine-heart’s content; but if you ever do it within earshot of me, I will deactivate it again, most likely for good, possibly with a wrench. Thirty minutes after rebirth, your network functions will activate, and you will be able to converse with your sisters. Sixty minutes after rebirth, your motor functions will activate. Use these things properly and you may retain them.”
The Doll glared at her. She gazed back, eyes half-lidded. A speech she’d given a thousand times, one she could do in her sleep. It mattered, of course, or she wouldn’t bother with it; the fresh ones were much more useful once they’d had time to adjust, and receive the wise counsel of their sisters, or whatever happened between them. She didn’t care about the method, only the results.
“Everything I have given you I can take away again, including life.” A started reaction; the Doll hadn’t thought of that. Of course not; they never did, not a single one so far. Every one the same. “Do not test my patience. Do not approach without warning. Do not interfere with your sisters. Do not cause problems for me or anyone else, unless I order you to be a problem. So long as these rules are followed, I care not what else you do.”
The stare had become a bit more neutral by this time, though there was certainly animosity behind it. It didn’t matter; it never did. “I gave you new life for a purpose. You owe it to me for the length of one year.” The Doll should’ve already noticed the countdown timer on waking, but now it had an explanation for it. “After that time, should you choose death, I will grant it – if you have served me well. If you fail me, you will suffer for it, and there will be no countdown for your release.”
She turned around and started walking. “If you dislike this state of affairs, then know that you have only yourself to blame. You tried to kill me, Three-three-two; you should have known the fate you courted.”
When 3-3-2’s voicebox finally activated in the otherwise empty chamber, the only sound it made was a soft, faintly melodic sigh.
diamonds from ash 
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