There's, something special about a collar for dolls
It's mind has always been sharp, especially for the normally diminished intelligence of a doll (not that dolls are stupid, people just see their stillness as ... Less than) and this one's always remained abnormally quick witted, which can get it into trouble
But that thin strip of leather. Small little buckle, the little silver collar tag. Something turns this one from a doll that sees service as a reward, to service as a requirement. It's actions snap into place and it feels... Good about it. The way it's programming comes together feels... Right somehow, whenever someone places that magical piece of leather around its neck.
While a blank-slate human(-like, but legally distinct) body destined for organ harvest is far from the ideal mech pilot, these vatrats have select traits that make them acceptable for the task of slugging through desolate borderworlds at the behest of their masters. Aside from being quickly replaceable, these ābattery pilotsā are fairly easy to cybermod, have nowhere else to go but the care of their employers, and only require the bare minimum neural activity to sustain walker functions. Onboard AI is more than capable of making choices, executing combat routines, and defending itself, but a human* passthrough is necessary to make use of the lunar musculature stitching the ramshackle Remnant Mech together.
A battery pilot provides the only two services no mechanical component can: a biopsyonic conduit with which to interface with lunar material, and a spring of raw willpower to force a tepid AI to keep the fight going no matter how overwhelming the odds may be. All they need is someone they care about enough to endure the waking hell for.
These naive clones are, mercifully, incredibly easy to manipulate.
. . .
According to Karabinās vague understanding of lunar poisoning care, the pilotās bandages didnāt strictly need to be changed nightly. Lincoln still chose to.
Fours sat cross-legged atop the bed, white strips already covering her feet and calves up to where they disappeared into her nightclothes. Her shirt lay discarded on the blanket beside, left arm extended forwards as the Division Head delicately swaddled each of her lesions, blisters, and synchburns. It was a slow, tedious ritual, but one that the pilot had grown to find comfort in. Even if she couldnāt see the woman sitting across from her very clearly, the warm white color of Lincolnās long hair and the gentle pressure of fingers against her skin were all she needed to know she was in safe company.
āYouāre looking better. Iāve got some new lotion from Yaro waiting for us at the next port, itās supposed to help with the pain. And it smells like meilfluer.ā
āYou areā¦ from Yaro, too.ā
āI am. I told you thatā¦ what, last week, right? Surprised you remembered.ā
The pilot couldnāt help but smile at the praise. Linc was mindful to inflict her tone upwards, but her cheeks were far from risen.
āIs that whereā¦ dogs liveā¦?ā
āOh, no no, real yre pas are from the Earths. They canāt live on planets out here.ā
āThatās sad.ā
āIt isnāt sad, they just arenāt made for space. Besides, they live nice happy lives in the cities on the Earths, with nice happy people who take care of them. No walkers, no war.ā
āNo walkersā¦ no warā¦? That's sad, tooā¦ā
Lincoln shook her head in silence, turning the pilotās palm over as she pinned the final gauze strip into place. The pilot couldnāt imagine a life without warfare; what in the world did people do all day, if they werenāt wrestling three-story mechs to the ground or dodging installation rocketfire? What was the purpose of life, if not to fight?
āItās not as strange as it sounds. One day, Iāll take you to see a real city.ā Lincoln let go of the pilotās hand, and began to return the various tools she was using to the aid kit. āFor now, shirt on, itās bedtime.ā
āWhat aboutā¦its faceā¦?ā
āThe air will help it heal faster. Just be careful when you lie down, you donāt want to rub it wrong while you sleep.ā
Fours gingerly reached up to touch her own face. It had been weeks since it wasnāt covered in bandages, even longer since it had been exposed to the cool recycled ship air for any meaningful amount of time. In truth, she didnāt even know what it looked like; her vision had always been poor, and the general wear and tear of being a lunar conduit had only worsened her sense. Tape-wrapped fingertips against the raw flesh felt novel: uncomfortable and new at the same time, some mix of painful and welcoming. But, how did it compare toā¦?
āWhat isā¦its faceā¦like?ā Fours slowly managed, turning her sightless eyes towards the driver captain sitting across from her. Lincoln paused, one finger halfway through extracting a contact lens, contemplating how exactly to answer that question. The initial link had taken many different things from many different batteries over the years, but Fours was the first to lose her sight so aggressively to the machineāfor once, this was a question she hadnāt had a dozen previous chances to answer, but sheād yet to let such a hurdle crack her improv before. After a brief pause to think, Lincoln turned her body, and scooted closer to the waiting pilot.Ā
Fours could only see the vague, indistinct blob of Karabinās hand move to rest atop her own, cupping her hand tenderly. The Division Head took her pilotās other hand and raised it up to her own face, placing Foursā fingers against the curve of her cheek.
āYour cheeks are higher than mine. And your jaw is more narrow.ā
The pilot felt frozen in time, her senses keenly attuned to her hands, comparing and contrasting the sensations. Lincoln moved Foursā hand across the front of her face, tracing the bottom of the eye towards the bridge of the nose. She felt her left index finger glide across Lincolnās vital, warm skin, while her right was guided delicately over her own raw, tingling flesh.
āYour eyes are bigger, and gray. My eyes are smaller, and brown.ā
Fours blinked, silent. She had some idea of what Lincoln looked like, between catching crystal-clear glimpses while connected to the walker sensory suite and her memories of seeing the Division Head when sheād first been woken up in Sandfogās care. Still, never in all her life had she possessed a better mental image than this moment.Ā
Lincoln lifted their hands upwards in tandem, curving the pilotās fingers forward gingerly to allow them to comb across their scalps. Fours could immediately feel the difference: Lincolnās was thick and straight, still damp from their shower, while her scalp was tender and hair thin and slightly tangled.
āMy hair is white and long. Your hair is short and black. Before I bleached it, my hair used to be brown.ā
Fours nodded slowly, transfixed by the sensations. Never before had she felt such comparison, two things the same and yet so different cascading between her fingertips, guided by Lincolnās hands. Slowly, her eyes drifted shut, the pilot more than happy to lose herself in her tactile sense for the time being.
āYour nose is smaller than my nose. A little more narrow, too.ā
Lincoln pulled the Foursā hands down gently, past her mouth and chin, letting them rest against the pilotās lap, before cupping Foursā cheeks tenderly. The battery had barely opened her eyes when the warm blur of Lincolnās face subsumed her vision. So close, she could make out some of the larger details for herself, but her vision was just poor enough to protect the pale hesitation plastered across the Division Headās expression. The heat of Lincoln's breath overwhelmed the stale, dry room air. If it weren't for the hands holding her cheeks, the clone wanted to lean closer to it.
Karabin lingered inches from Foursā face long enough for her racing heart to catch up to her brain, then let her hands fall from the clone pilotās face. The human among them couldnāt will herself to push the envelope any further. No matter how badly she felt like she needed to pretend otherwise, she was alone in this room.
āOur mouths are different.ā Her voice was low, hasty.
Just beneath Foursā eye was a barcode string: tiny text printed into the skin, and a seemingly endless series of numbers. This sight, the human commander found, was much more grounding than immersing herself in the animus of theā¦ thing sitting across from her.Ā
With a long sigh, Lincoln closed her eyes and recentered herself. This was always part of the job, but that never made it any easier.Ā
the doll must sit still. it is not allowed to move, can not disturb the mistresses. they are busy having fun with their friends and partners. so this one sits still, looking pretty. hoping to look pretty.
a hand is offered to it, miss'.
it is confused, overwhelmed. it barely manages to move its arm on its own, taking an awkwardly long time to reach it's miss' hand, her almost pulling it away again. but it takes it, gladly. it is thankful. even if it can't tell miss that because it's speech synthesis is broken. it holds her hand tight, perhaps too tight. but miss does not seem to mind, and it is glad.
it's other miss holds it's hand, too. it can calm a little. and so it sits still, holding hands tight. trying to look pretty.
and eventually it struggles to sit. it wants attention. would like miss' attention. but it does not move, it sits still, trying to look pretty.
Somewhere between a memory and a dream. Is this where the backrooms bloom? The fluorescent lights are buzzing, but all I hear is the wind in the weeds. A gentle, unsettling pause.
its owner finds it up against the wall, breathing hard. it tries to go still, trying to find comfort. yet, every time its breathing begins to slow, its clockwork hitches.
"Miss, it knows it should be still, but ... but ..."
the doll struggles to finish its sentence. its expression is pained and glossy. it stares at a spot on the floor, ticking becoming faster and fasterā
