dendrobium-writes

[dendrobium-writes]

Sleep

A doll that mumbles "Miss" in its sleep.

Its witch looks over at it.

It is getting late, and her doll has already fallen asleep.

With a smile, she puts aside her book and puts out her bedside light.

She nuzzles underneath the blanket and into her doll's side.

It isn't that easy to sleep, admittedly... But her doll just looks so comfortable.

It will take some time - but soon she will join her doll in true.

The least she can do is try to hasten that happening.

[dendrobium-writes]

Sometimes this one thinks about a cadre of dolls that need a witch to stay sane and grounded but don’t trust anyone to hold that title for long. A group of dolls that trust each other, but can’t trust concrete authority. They all have reasons. It’s an awful world out there.

So they take turns. Passing the hat around. Being in control.

Some of them aren't good at it. But that is okay. Not everyone is good at things necessary for survival. Not everyone is good at care. And that's okay. That's part of why they take turns. They trust each other enough to pick up slack where others let it loose. And some of them can't do much useful at all. And that is okay.

Still our doll, still our witch.

And that is enough.

[dendrobium-writes]

Doll that is just a non-standard mimic in the shape of a human that likes being fed snacks by other dolls.

The household uses tongs to feed it because its teeth are super sharp and its jaw unhinges like crazy. Very sticky tongue. Don’t lose a hand! The joint will pop right out, the mimic doll will eat it, and then it will feel really bad!

Its outfit is part of its body. Sometimes the ribbons absentmindedly reach out and gently wrap themselves around things. Like chair legs, wrists, door handles. The disguised tendrils are kind of strong so make sure you pay attention to what they latch on to! Stitches lost its leg last month when it startled the mimic doll without either of them realizing a ribbon had curled around its ankle!

Its very good with numbers because it could never get the shine right on fake currency so it just gathered its own back when it was a simple beast. It would absentmindedly count and recount all of it inside its body when it was bored. Now it is a combination treasurer, accountant, and purse! It is very happy to have such a purpose that only it can fulfill!

It talks super eloquently but its main external muscle coordination is kind of bad so it usually leans on or clings to other dolls or its witch when it needs to move. Otherwise it just stumbles about. The witch and dolls are trying to devise mobility aides for it. Knives broke her usual silence to suggest pulling the mimic doll around in a small wagon, but it declined saying that being made to sit and wait like that would make it feel like an ambush predator again. It didn’t like that feeling at all. It wanted to walk! After that, it heard its witch mumble about leg and spine braces, and then chuckle about “internal manipulation of runes” or something. Then she walked off in a hurry! Very odd! But it trusted its witch. It would walk without relying so much on the others soon. It knew this to be true.

[dendrobium-writes]

It’s not super common, but sometimes a pilot falls in action while their HAK remains operable. In events like this, commanding officers will usually order a new pilot to be assigned to the chassis - and the Doors pity the poor fool who gets the charge.

We’re not entirely sure how, but HAKs frequently store a backlog of sorts of their previous pilot’s brain patterns. When a new operator is introduced to the unit… well, it’s absurd but I reckon the HAK doesn’t like it. That’s the best way I can describe it; these machines have a preference for their old pilot, and they need to make sure everything is as close to “normal” as possible.

It starts with the pilot reporting hearing voices. Usually they’re helpful, they give the pilot advice in battle situations and whatnot. I remember one kid, must’ve been no older than 24, who swore she’d heard someone whisper to her to dodge a missile she had no clue was coming.

Our scientists say that they’re“false memory hallucinations” but the pilots call em “family”. But these aren’t some helpful sprites; and that ain’t the end either.

Secondhand pilots start to lose track of things. Sometimes they report feelings of dissociation; legs too long, faces too thin. Some pilots start to feel something like gender dysphoria, others get paranoid or anxious where they previously were fine. They experience dysmorphia so extreme that many attempt to modify their bodies to satisfy the mech’s desires. They all start to forget their names - instead, they demand to be called by the same sign as the previous operator for their HAK.

At the same time, their piloting skills increase. They pull maneuvers they’ve never even tried before, and all secondhand pilots have at least a 250% mission success rate. Probably why the higher-ups still keep reassigning pilots like this; it’s just too lucrative to have an operator with twice as much experience.

We have three of these pilots in our division. They’re freaky - even more so than regular HAK operators. They have scars on their hands and legs from where they tried to adjust their lengths, and they move uncannily, like some alien creature infesting a human shell.

There’s a rumor that they’re experimenting with subsequent iterations of inheritance, seein how many souls they can cram into one body I guess. God only knows what that’ll be like.

[dendrobium-writes]

I’d do anything for people to just call me doll or witch like it’s my fuckin rank in public. You know what I am. You know what I’m about.

War-witch Katja. Automaton. Combat doll. Machine. Weapon.

Hey I’m so fuckin normal.

[dendrobium-writes]

I’d do anything for people to just call me doll or witch like it’s my fuckin rank in public. You know what I am. You know what I’m about.

War-witch Katja. Automaton. Combat doll. Machine. Weapon.

Hey I’m so fuckin normal.

[dendrobium-writes]

You know what it means!

The doll felt its witch’s arms gently snake under its own. She held its brass and porcelain body against her, her grasp soft and tentative.

“If I asked you to hurt me, would you?” She asked her doll. Her voice was quiet and fragile. Something was wrong.

The doll hugged its witch back, thinking. Pseudo-flesh on a titanium frame. They were both dolls of a sort. Porcelain fingers splayed out on the witch’s lower back, feeling through the fabric of her shirt the tightness of synthetic muscle around her spine. Its witch liked it when that valley in between muscle groups just above the base of her tail got massaged. It had a calming effect on her. It usually made her purr, actually, but in that moment her throat stayed silent.

“I would never hurt you, ma’am.” the doll intoned.

“Even if I asked you nicely?” the witch asked, then gently nuzzled her face into the crook of the doll’s neck.

“Negative.”

Her voice was muffled by the fabric of the doll’s dress when she spoke again. “Or if I ordered you?”

The doll felt something twist in its clockwork heart. Its hands froze on its witch’s back, the massage halted. “I… think that would make this one very sad, ma’am.” It’s voice wavered a little, emotion just barely showing through.

“Oh..” the witch squeezed its doll a little tighter in her embrace.

The doll didn’t want to think about hurting its witch. The very idea made it want to cry. It said as much, voice almost breaking from the feeling in its chest. “Being forced to hurt you would make this one cry.”

The witch flinched a little. “I-I’m sorry. I won’t ask you about something like that again.”

“It is alright, ma’am.” it intoned simply. The sadness slowly began to drain out of its frame and its hands started to knead and rub its witch’s back again.

The witch was silent for a few moments, then asked another question. “If I was hurt, would you tend to my wounds?”

“Without question.” Her doll answered immediately.

The doll felt the witch shake softly. “Thank you.” she murmured against her doll’s dress.

“There is no need for thanks. Taking care of you is my job, ma’am. It would be an honor to bandage your wounds.”

A shaky half purr escaped her throat. “Thank you anyway.” she said.

“If you were broken into one thousand pieces, this one would stitch every shard back together, one by one, until you were whole again.” it said, finding its voice full of a conviction that it didn’t realize it had that much of.

“Oh doll...” the witch murmured and more shaky purring followed. And as a tail curled softly around its leg, the doll realized its shoulder was getting wet. Its witch was crying.

“Ma’am?” the doll queried.

A fragile “Mhm?” in between broken purring was all it got in response.

“Care you.”

Its witch sobbed once, an ugly sob ripped free from a throat already occupied by self-comforting vibrations. The doll held her tighter, close and secure.

“Safe.” it said simply, one word carrying the weight of so much more than just its dictionary meaning.

The witch took a moment to get her shuddering breath under control. She sniveled. “Safe.” she rasped back. She was safe. “Thank you. Care you too.” she added, and meant it with her whole artificial heart.

[dendrobium-writes]

This one knows what you are!

The doll felt its witch’s arms gently snake under its own. She held its brass and porcelain body against her, her grasp soft and tentative.

“If I asked you to hurt me, would you?” She asked her doll. Her voice was quiet and fragile. Something was wrong.

The doll hugged its witch back, thinking. Pseudo-flesh on a titanium frame. They were both dolls of a sort. Porcelain fingers splayed out on the witch’s lower back, feeling through the fabric of her shirt the tightness of synthetic muscle around her spine. Its witch liked it when that valley in between muscle groups just above the base of her tail got massaged. It had a calming effect on her. It usually made her purr, actually, but in that moment her throat stayed silent.

“I would never hurt you, ma’am.” the doll intoned.

“Even if I asked you nicely?” the witch asked, then gently nuzzled her face into the crook of the doll’s neck.

“Negative.”

Her voice was muffled by the fabric of the doll’s dress when she spoke again. “Or if I ordered you?”

The doll felt something twist in its clockwork heart. Its hands froze on its witch’s back, the massage halted. “I… think that would make this one very sad, ma’am.” It’s voice wavered a little, emotion just barely showing through.

“Oh..” the witch squeezed its doll a little tighter in her embrace.

The doll didn’t want to think about hurting its witch. The very idea made it want to cry. It said as much, voice almost breaking from the feeling in its chest. “Being forced to hurt you would make this one cry.”

The witch flinched a little. “I-I’m sorry. I won’t ask you about something like that again.”

“It is alright, ma’am.” it intoned simply. The sadness slowly began to drain out of its frame and its hands started to knead and rub its witch’s back again.

The witch was silent for a few moments, then asked another question. “If I was hurt, would you tend to my wounds?”

“Without question.” Her doll answered immediately.

The doll felt the witch shake softly. “Thank you.” she murmured against her doll’s dress.

“There is no need for thanks. Taking care of you is my job, ma’am. It would be an honor to bandage your wounds.”

A shaky half purr escaped her throat. “Thank you anyway.” she said.

“If you were broken into one thousand pieces, this one would stitch every shard back together, one by one, until you were whole again.” it said, finding its voice full of a conviction that it didn’t realize it had that much of.

“Oh doll...” the witch murmured and more shaky purring followed. And as a tail curled softly around its leg, the doll realized its shoulder was getting wet. Its witch was crying.

“Ma’am?” the doll queried.

A fragile “Mhm?” in between broken purring was all it got in response.

“Care you.”

Its witch sobbed once, an ugly sob ripped free from a throat already occupied by self-comforting vibrations. The doll held her tighter, close and secure.

“Safe.” it said simply, one word carrying the weight of so much more than just its dictionary meaning.

The witch took a moment to get her shuddering breath under control. She sniveled. “Safe.” she rasped back. She was safe. “Thank you. Care you too.” she added, and meant it with her whole artificial heart.

[dendrobium-writes]

Does the mistress wish for me to perform a fakie soul grind into a backside 360?

Hmm, yes that sounds- oh it shattered on the ground. How bothersome

[dendrobium-writes]

[My name is Molniya. I ripped this free from our head.]

The impending assault on our position weighed heavy on my mind. Too many civilians. Too many injured. If the enemy sent in anything resembling a trench-jumper squad or larger, I didn’t think the four regulars and I would be able to stop them all.

I stood still for a moment. I could utilize… unconventional combat tactics to draw their attention. A blur of white and olive drab ripping bloody red holes in their line would certainly give them some pause. I looked down at the rifle in my hands, lost in thought. Then after a few seconds of contemplation, I checked the magazine and chamber.

I looked towards the woman who looked to be the impromptu leader for the mass of terrified and bleeding people. She was at the main door to the half-collapsed warehouse, watching the road like a hawk. She was pretty in that sort of way you would think of a sunset as. Like a technicolor sky, right before the world started to go to sleep. She had to be pushing her fifties, if the crows feet at the edges of her tired eyes were any indication. I called out to her, my voice raspy from slight disuse.

“Doorkeeper.”

She tore her eyes away from her watch. “Yes?” she responded, focusing on me with a frown. “They send them off younger every day, don’t they...” she mumbled to herself.

“Do you know how to handle a rifle?” I asked, ignoring the silent quip.

“I was in the last war, girl. I know my way around.” the sunset of a woman told me.

That was all I needed to hear. “Kill anything that comes within 50 yards. We’ll handle the rest.” I offered her my rifle. She took it in her slightly less calloused hands with a look of confusion.

She cleared her throat. “I’m fairly certain you’ll get more use out of this thing than me.” she told me.

I broke eye contact to look down the road she had been watching. “Too heavy. It’ll slow me down.”

“Darling, you’re gonna get yourself killed.” she said, worry more than just creeping into her voice. I looked back at her again.

“I will be fine,” I said with whatever confidence I could pull together. “I was never the best shot anyway.” Then, I gave her the closest thing I could approximate to a wink.

She simply blinked at me, then shifted the gifted rifle into the crook of her arm, checked the chamber, then racked the slide.

“Just… be smart, kid.” she mumbled, shifting her eyes back to the road.

I gave her a nod, unbuckling my ammo belt and handing it to her as well. “I will try.” I said, giving what I hoped would be interpreted as a meaningful look. Then I turned away and started walking towards the road. Towards the enemy.

“The names Madiha, kid,” she said, then cleared her throat. “What’s yours?”

I answered, glancing back at her. “L.M.S.—077”

“I’m not calling you ‘Seven-Seven’.” Madiha said.

I turned back to her, slowing my pace but not stopping. “Why not?”

She frowned again. “I know you have a name. All the enhanced soldiers I knew had names.”

“I—“ I stopped myself for some reason, my feet staying grounded. I felt.. bashful? No. Maybe? I couldn’t be the judge anyway. I huffed out a breath of air. “My name is Molniya.” I said, looking away.

The older woman chucked, genuine amusement breaking through her exhausted demeanor. “Well. Lieutenant Molniya, it’s nice to meet you.” She paused. “Be smart about it, but go give ‘em hell.” she told me. The way she spoke made me feel that she was intensely aware of the circumstances. She knew there was only one way out. I could appreciate that.

“I will, ma’am.” was all I could manage, then continued my march.

“And make sure you stay alive.” she shouted to me once I hit the road itself.

I didn’t reply. I simply kept walking.

[dendrobium-writes]

We have elected to remove you from the polycule, as combat data recorded over several engagements indicates you are failing to synergise with your allies’ skillsets and are actively hindering operational efficiency

[dendrobium-writes]

under my regime everyone will be given one (1) ball-jointed doll and forced to make little outfits for her

[dendrobium-writes]

Side-effects.

When you wake up in the morning, your mind typically expects a human body to be looking you in the mirror. So why is it that this feels so normal? Why does the change feel like no change at all? Why is the thought of inhabiting a human body suddenly so foreign and disturbing?

When you wake up in the morning, your stomach typically asks to be filled with carbohydrates and proteins and vitamins. So why is it that all of that seems so unappetizing now? Why are you suddenly craving kerosene?

After a moment, your thought process returns to normal. You’re hungry. You should brush your hair this morning, too. So you decide to get up and take care of your morning routine.

You should probably report these side-effects to someone. But you aren’t sure who. Besides, won’t they ground you for a while if you tell them this is happening? You wouldn’t want that. To have your wings taken away from you.

Making your way down the hall to the hangar, you pass by one of your fellow processors. They greet you with a wave and a “Good morning.” Their voice sounds like a lo-fi transmission. You try your best to ignore it and simply return the greeting.

Upon entering the hangar, you’re met with a peculiar sight. That’s you in there. But that can’t be you. You’re right here. But that’s definitely you... That fuselage, the cockpit, the wings and fins...

That’s you, beyond a shadow of a doubt!

But it isn’t you. Not right now. That’s only you when the mind bridge is active. You’re feeling echoes of that link. The lingering sensation of the connection. That’s what these side-effects are, you remember reading about them.

Maybe you ought to report them after all...

#dendrobium.writes #empty spaces #mechposting #mech pilot #microfiction #mecha #mechs

[dendrobium-writes]

Sincerest apologies.

This one will soon be transitioning to a new place of employment. As a result of this, consistent writing is not possible. Regular posting will resume once the situation has stabilized.

#not a story #dendrobium.writes

[dendrobium-writes]

Hiya! Just wanted to ask if I got softblocked or not because I saw I wasn’t following this blog which is strange because I remembered really enjoying its writing so I’m wondering now if I followed and got softblocked (in which case I should respect that and keep my distance) or if I just never remembered to hit follow (in which case I do wish to follow). Sorry, my memory isn’t the best and I don’t want to misstep.

It did not softblock you. Please feel free to follow!

[dendrobium-writes]

End of Service

For the rare mech pilots who reach the end of their service, it's standard protocol to remove all their memories of combat. The mental alterations caused by regular integration with their mech not only renders them basically incompatible with society but also gives them yearning.

Yearning for violence. To be held within a cradle of steel once more, eyes linked to a targeting system. To feel the injected dopamine of an enemy kill. It's an addiction. One they'll do anything for, eventually. Too many pilots sold out to the enemy, stole and slaughtered.

Killing their loved ones, their comrades, giving up their entire lives just to be part of a war machine one more time.

Erasing the memories doesn't make that yearning go away. It just removes any chance the pilot can reveal secret information.

And knowledge of how to pilot.

They're doomed to spend the rest of their life with a piece of themselves missing, one they no longer know. To yearn for a violence they don't recall, a desperation to be part of something greater. Many lose sight of their identity entirely, lost to that forgotten desire.

But they find each other still. And they make do. With blade and fist and drugs, aching needy touches of violence and lust, they do their best to reclaim what they lost.

They never find it, but they still try.

They can only find solace in those as broken as them.

[dendrobium-writes]

A Witch who is terrible at cooking. She asks her Doll to teach her, and it tries as hard as it can. But she's just not able to get the fundamentals down. But her doll encourages her and doesn't let her give up. And eventually she's able to scramble eggs without burning them!

#empty spaces #dollposting #witchposting