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stabby-sheepy-writes · 1 year

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Operative #6

Genre: Horror, 5k words,

TW: Death, Suicide, Violence, Body Horror, Gore, Mechanical Horror

AN: I had a really cute idea and it turned into this horror piece, and all of my friends adore my little robot buddy so I decided to share him here. No lesbians in this one, but boy does Wilbur like to spin. Look at him go.

Summary: What happens if the robots we've built to care for us refuse to let us die?

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Somewhere in the middle of the rolling hills and plains, where the grass was green and the skies always blue, there lies a town. On the edge of this small, yet lovely town, stands a small yet lovely wooden house at the edge of the woods. The house was made of logs and brick, handbuilt long ago and lived in for generations, seeing child after child grow up and pass the house down to their next of kin. Although the house itself was simple, as the technology in the world grew smarter and more complex and the town grew larger and larger, bit by bit the little wooden house found itself gaining a few upgrades. First the phone lines, then the internet, then different smart appliances here and there until finally the day came that Wilbur joined the household.

Wilbur was a small helper robot, given to the old man of the home by his children who had grown too old to live and take care of him anymore--not that the old man needed Wilbur, as he was apt to say.

A grown man should take care of himself, is what he would say when his eldest helped him take the robot out of the box and put it together.

The newfangled thing will never get used, he said as his middle child helped him program in the routines Wilbur was to follow every day.

It’ll get underfoot, he grumbled as his youngest helped set up the tracking and showed him the different options he could access from the app on his phone, and to explain the self-learning aspects of the new little machine.

“It’ll learn and grow smarter as you use it, and soon it will be able to do things on its own without you having to tell it so or put it into its programming. Isn’t that amazing, Dad?”

The old man had dismissed such a notion, stating quite simply that he would tolerate its presence with him, as he was sure it would at least provide him some conversation in town. And naturally, once his children left and it was just the old man and Wilbur in the little wooden home, Wilbur very quickly became the old man’s favorite.

┍━━━━━━━☟━━━━━━━┑

The only sound to break the morning silence as the sun broke the horizon was the little start-up tune as Wilbur’s facial display opened his eyes and ejected him from his charging station. The small motors in his body whirred to life as Wilbur’s sensors looked around the kitchen before his vacuum descended and he began to roll.

Operative #1: At 5:00 am, vacuum the carpets and clean the hardwood

The little robot moved steadily throughout the little house, picking up dust bunnies and small crumbs left behind from the previous day--taking extra care to chase a stray dust bunny so as to leave the floors spotless and clean.

Operative #2: At 5:30 am, dust the furniture and the stairway, be especially careful of the Master’s gun on the wall.

A feather duster deployed from the arm, separating itself out from the tools stored away in Wilbur’s little body, sweeping quickly over surfaces that were cleaned every morning. The maintenance went quick and yet the robot made sure to be thorough, knowing that the Old Man’s lungs struggled when dust got into the air--something not abnormal, according to Wilbur’s searching over his internet connection. The duster, as instructed, brushed lightly over the old wood and metal of the shotgun hung decoratively on the wall. An old thing, his processors reported, and easily capable of going off with the wrong change in environment. The Old Man always kept it loaded, and an accidental discharge would be a disastrous start to the day.

Operative #3: At 5:45am, unload the dishwasher and put the dishes away

Delicate movements and careful application of pressure had to be imparted on Wilbur’s side, pincers and mechanical body moving quickly and efficiently to unload the dishes from the machine and put them away without risking even a chip. Another arm sprouted from his back panel to join his front two with a rag during this, wiping each surface to ensure cleanliness and dryness before putting away the dishes.

Operative #4: At 6:00am, prepare the Master’s tea and start the electric kettle.

Wilbur’s sensors picked up on movement upstairs--the ringing of his Master’s morning alarm, at 6am sharp. An arm shot out to the side and flicked on the electric kettle, body whirling and spinning on their joints. Pincers delved into the tea bags on the counter, another arm sweeping the daily wooden mug across the counter and depositing the bag inside to await the boiling water.

Operative #5: Print the daily news and leave it at the head of the table.

Footsteps were coming down the stairs, Wilbur’s display screen rapidly reading and scanning the internet for the designated morning news feed and chest printing out and organizing the different papers swiftly as the old man rounded the corner, depositing them in front of him as he sat down and the kettle flipped off.

Operative #6: Pour the boiling water from the kettle into the tea cup and place it in front of the Master.

The old man sat down in his chair, moving slowly and shakily as Wilbur set the cup in front of him and then remained still. Wilbur sat idle, waiting to hear if his Master had any further orders, his systems unable to continue their routine until the cup of tea was emptied. The old man’s hands found the top of Wilbur’s head, stroking wrinkled and thin fingers over the metal plating of his head, a weathered chuckle coughing its way out of his chest.

“One of the kiddos will take you in, I’m sure Wilbur.”

Wilbur responded back in a series of beeps, his code only able to communicate in 1s and 0s that other machines of his caliber understood and yet his master had never been able to. It didn’t seem to matter, as the old man only chuckled again and stroked once more.

“Make sure they don’t grieve me too long, little fella. They all have their own families to take care of. My will is upstairs in the folder, as well as the titles and bank account details. I’m sure John will be able to handle it.”

The old man started to lean back in his chair, weight shifting limply as Wilbur watched on, processors whirling as he watched his Master start to slump and lean, his mouth opening in an attempt to whisper something more, but growing still before any word could be spoken.

Wilbur waited by the tableside, process stuck in the center of his millions of lines of code, unable to move on to the ever important Operative #7 or even Operative #8 until the cup of tea, sitting and growing cold on the table, was emptied by his Master. A few minutes passed, the air still and the birds still singing with the rise of the morning sun, before Wilbur’s inherent self-learning protocols kicked in and allowed him to deviate from his morning processes.

Wilbur’s display blinked before rebooting, then looking up at his Master’s slackened, peaceful face. His skin had grown cold, and his cheeks pale and nearly blue from loss of color. One of Wilbur’s sensors pressed against the pulse-point on the old man’s thin wrist, and after a moment received back the input that there was no indication of a heartbeat.

The robot whirred its gears as it processed the information, unsure of what to do. None of its processes had ever considered the possibility of death--in fact, beyond its definition, Wilbur the robot did not actually understand what death was. What Wilbur understood was that he could not properly move on with his dedicated tasks and services until his Master completed the step of drinking his tea in the morning. His job was to take care of the Master, and keep him healthy and alive. Wilbur made a little trilling noise as he let himself do a little spin--a trick the old man had taught him, and one that the robot had decided it rather enjoyed doing--and resolved himself to solving this new puzzle.

More sensors snaked their way up through his Master’s clothes, feeling for different signs of life in an effort to identify the problem while Wilbur’s processors raced to identify a solution, before his display turned to consider the dishwasher. Schematics of car engines, of pumping mechanisms moving fluids, filled Wilbur’s robotic head until it settled on a design.

One of his arms swapped out to a circle-blade attachment, formally used to open packages but now finding its intended purpose to be expanded, and began to cut while Wilbur’s other arms started to pillage the dishwasher for the parts he would need.

The sun was setting when Wilbur carefully connected the last wire, the metal meshed into the flesh of the heart forcing it to pump. It took a few minutes, during which Wilbur watched on until the lungs started to fill and deflate with air, and the old man’s eyes opened.

“What…?” the old man whispered, eyes glazed and skin starting to regain its color as his new metal heart pumped and his brain woke back up. Wilbur trilled in response, giving a little spin of celebration as he watched his Master shakily stand to his feet.

“What…what did you do, Wilbur?” The old man stumbled, grasping at his open chest and dragging himself to the closest mirror to stare in horror at his open ribcage.

Wilbur followed after him, processes already starting to calculate the time it would take to catch up on the rest of the day’s procedures before he would have to perform the ones for tomorrow. The old man moaned in horror as his wrinkled, shaking hands delved into his chest to touch the grafted metal, feeling flesh and tissue that had been dead hours before now pumping and breathing once more.

“This…this must be a nightmare,” the old man shook, hands grasping tighter at the heart, intelligent old eyes piecing together the wires and fingers carefully reaching up towards them, “or a test for what comes after death…that’s it, some sort of test, surely.”

Wilbur chirruped again, picking up pots and pans and taking stock of what was in the pantry. While the rest of the schedule had been thrown off, at least dinner would still be on time at this rate--perhaps a pasta? Something hearty and caloric to get his Master’s body back in tip top shape. The little robot paused when he heard the sound of ripping flesh and moans of pain. Wilbur turned his display to take in the sight of the old man, hand buried deep into his chest, just in time to watch said hand pull the metal heart out of his chest with a fleshy rip.

“Now…now finally I must move on? I must have passed…” the old man whispered, crumpling to the ground into the growing pile of blood and other bodily fluids. Wilbur’s sensors picked up quickly the sound of fading breath, processing the new inputs as the old man passed away on the floor. After a moment, the little robot put the pots and pans down and rolled over to look down at his Master’s body. Dinner would have to be a little late, it seemed.

Mechanical arms flipped the body over to take in the damage--more ripped tubes, damage to the lungs, the metal heart could be salvaged and reused. The blood starting to coat Wilbur’s treads indicated that a new fluid would have to be procured for the sake of carrying oxygen--although at this rate, Wilbur’s online searching supplied, the brain would be deprived of oxygen for too long and then it would be all for naught.

Articles and conspiracies of cryofreeze preservation filled Wilbur’s head, and the robot turned its display to inspect the state of the freezer. It would have to leave it untouched and find another machine to pillage parts from it seemed.

The circular blade broke out again, this time spinning much faster as schematics of the density of the skull filled Wilbur’s screens and schematics started mapping out new designs for a breathing apparatus, blood, and perhaps now a protective casing to prevent user-error. The saw met the old man’s skull right as Wilbur let out a beeping trill, finally settling on the next idea to try.

More parts of the dishwasher were used, some pipes pillaged from the plumbing and disinfected to prevent bacterial growth. Metal from the television, wires from the lighting. Some hinges from the kitchen cabinets and a piece of glass from the kitchen window was removed and put under extreme heat and pressure from the stovetop to force it to meld to a new shape. In the freezer, his Master’s brain sat in a cake-container to ensure freshness while the little robot worked. While Wilbur worked on his Master’s body, he set about adding useful attachments to himself as needed, pillaging from the workshop in the Master’s garage. Saws, wrenches, a soldering and welding tool, and more as sparks flew and a tube and bucket prevented any remaining blood from going to waste. A piece of metal was stolen from the Master’s car as well, to create a new skull cap to be placed on the Master’s head--metal and more protective, Wilbur’s processes supplied, meaning much more efficient and able to be opened back up again for later maintenance. All a part of his job.

Finally, the plates were set in, the chest cavity closed and welded shut to prevent user-interference, and then the glass further reinforced. Forced electrical circulation through the body lead to a confirmation of function, test cases on Wilbur’s display popping up with little green check marks as his claws opened up the freezer and brought out the cake-container where the pinkish-gray organ sat slightly relaxed from the lack of structured containment around it. The top was pulled off, and Wilbur carefully gathered the organ up and deposited it into the skull cavity, delicate tools following in to connect in wires, running electric circuit up and through the flesh to seize it back into position as the soldering tool started melding bone and metal together. The tube and bucket holding the remaining blood received suction, the blood flowing back up through the tube and entering back into the body for recirculation, pushed along with the surges of electricity shocking through the system in order to force contraction of the muscles.

The process took 10 minutes of electrical surging, the lights of the kitchen flickering and the smell of flesh starting to cook before the heart seized on its own accord, the lungs filled with air by themselves, and the eyes of the old man flew open as he gasped a desperate and wild breath of air. The old man surged forward over the table, Wilbur retracting his arms and letting out another happy trill and series of beeping as the old man gagged and gasped over the kitchen table. Having learned from prior errors and miscalculations, Wilbur raised his display to be in view of his Master and let text file over his screen.

WELCOME BACK MASTER. WILBUR HAS TAKEN CARE OF YOU.

PLEASE DRINK YOUR TEA.

One of Wilbur’s arms pushed the mug forward, reheated over the stovetop and now bubbling once more with a new bag of fresh tea waiting. The old man’s wild eyes darted between the mug and the text over Wilbur’s display, complexion pale and green as his breathing strained.

“Back…back again? No, no this isn’t right Wilbur--this isn’t right!” The old man grasped at his chest, stiff fingertips scrabbling against the reinforced glass protecting his chest. He looked down, letting out moans of horror as he saw his new metal lungs and heart, a pressure meter situated inside to provide a measurement and reassurance of Wilbur’s handiwork. Sensing imminent misunderstanding, Wilbur beeped once more and cycled the text on his screen.

PLEASE REMAIN CALM, MASTER.

YOUR SYSTEMS ARE STILL ADJUSTING TO THE STRESS OF MOVEMENT AND SUPPORTING YOUR VITAL SYSTEMS.

PLEASE DRINK YOUR TEA.

“Oh blast the damn tea!” The old man howled, arm swinging wildly and sending the cup flying. It crashed into the wall, shattering over the counter as the man stood up and towered over Wilbur. The pressure meter was rising in his chest, heart and lungs pumping and straining with the immediate strain of supporting such rigorous activities. The old man pointed a shaking hand at Wilbur, rage and horror stretching the thinning skin on his face.

“What have you done to me, you fucking devil-machine?!” he whispered, voice hoarse and shaking as his eyes trailed along the walls of the torn-apart kitchen, eyes landing through the doorway into the sitting room where his prized shotgun sat on the wall. He tore past Wilbur, making his way to the sitting room while Wilbur whirred behind.

I HAVE REPLACED YOUR FAILING ORGANS WITH MECHANICAL REPLICATIONS IN ORDER TO ENSURE CONTINUED OPERATION.

PLEASE REMAIN CALM, AS SUDDEN SPIKES OF STRESS MAY CAUSE FAILURES IN YOUR SYSTEM.

The old man grabbed the shotgun from the wall, swinging around feverishly to point the barrel at Wilbur as the robot stopped short. The man trembled, Wilbur’s sensors picking up indications of fear and rage as the gun shook and creaked in his hands.

“A devil-machine come to tempt me to Hell…well, see if you can replace me after this!” the old man grit his teeth, eyes closing and gun turning away from Wilbur to instead find its home in the old man’s mouth, thin and stiff fingers pulling the trigger. The gunshot rattled the frames on the wall, the bullet ripping through the metal plating at the top of the old man’s skull and pulling flesh and brain matter with it and splattering across Wilbur’s display.

The robot’s little window-wiper attachment cleared his screen, smearing the blood and tissue until his display was clean, leaving his sensors to take in the crumpled body of his Master in front of him. There was major damage to the brain and spinal cord and skull, shards blasted apart and related organs effectively destroyed with very little remaining pieces of tissue. The chest organs were still intact luckily, and Wilbur’s systems searched rapidly for solutions as mops and sponges and attachments were deployed to save the remaining resources of blood and tissue from soaking into the carpet as he thought and took stock of what was still left in the house.

Circuitry, Wilbur decided, would work well as a replacement for what was lost. Natural logic gates similar to the function of neurons and the brain stem, able to be programmed and reused for Wilbur’s purposes. Replacing major unreliable portions of the brain that allowed violent stress responses would also be effective in maintaining longevity--the lesson further expanded upon as one of Wilbur’s arms picked up the gun and crushed the barrel. No risk to the Master would be tolerated, and the body would require significant proofing to prevent sabotage. The claws flung the gun to the corner of the room, instead looping under his Master’s limp body and pulling him back into the kitchen as next the computer in the neighboring study found itself the next target to be ripped apart and pillaged.

The process of etching out new circuitry boards and building his Master’s new brain was time consuming, and often interrupted by calls from the children that Wilbur let ring, until he required an extra piece from the landline and pillaged the phone too. Finally, Wilbur connected the final wires and soldered them together with intense focus that could only come from a machine, connecting regions of the destroyed brain that had managed to be salvaged to the newly created circuitry system embedded in his Master’s head. It was a delicate system, one that would require care regarding the electrical input and balancing of the systems within his Master--a job that Wilbur was confident he could manage between his other usual tasks. He had even already set up the charging station for his Master, placing it right next to Wilbur’s own so that they could charge at the same time throughout the night. That way, Wilbur could maintain and regulate the electrical rates in his Master’s body and ensure no accidents occurred as long as there were no catastrophic fluctuations in power.

Once again, system tests passed with all green checkmarks as Wilbur applied the new surges of electricity into his Master’s systems, flesh starting to char and blacken from rot and electrical heat. Finally, Wilbur’s sensors picked up on the slight twitches and creaks of movement and the voluntary pumping of the mechanical heart and lungs once more. The fans installed in the temples of the old man’s head began to whirl, providing ample venting to prevent overheating, and the metal teeth reinstalled to replace the ruined shards of what remained began to chatter. Finally, a strained groan and wheeze clawed its way from the old man’s throat as he began to tremble.

Wilbur’s display switched to text, sitting in wait as the old man pushed himself up with a sob of dismay and agony, the moonlight illuminating lines of wiring and metal bolting under the skin as his body creaked and strained.

WELCOME BACK MASTER.

I HAVE FURTHER REPAIRED YOUR BODY TO REVERSE THE SELF-INFLICTED DAMAGES.

YOU WILL NOW REQUIRE NIGHTLY CHARGING IN ORDER TO RESUME DAILY ACTIVITIES. THIS PROCESS WILL BE RELATIVELY PAINLESS.

His Master read his display slowly and pleadingly, voice coming out in a grating croak.

“Pl…ease Wilbur…please let me go…”

Wilbur’s display stayed stagnant for a moment before reverting back to his standard display of a little smiley face, spinning in a small, joyful little circle at hearing his Master’s voice once more, before deploying arms to offer aid to his Master in hooking up to his new charging station--wires connected to the wall and hooked straight into the powersource that Wilbur’s own charging station used.

I HAVE CONNECTED YOUR CHARGING SOURCE TO THE HELPERBOT.EXE CHARGING STATION IN ORDER TO ENSURE STABLE ELECTRICAL INPUT INTO YOUR SYSTEMS. HAVE NO WORRIES, MASTER, I WILL TAKE CARE OF YOU.

The old man’s tired eyes flickered towards the docking station set up against the wall, taking in the plug-ins and pieces of metal that were measured and lined up to slot into the new holes drilled into his body. There was a slight crackling glow behind the bloodshot eyeballs, betraying the circuitry and processes whirring in the man’s head. After a moment the old man turned his head to look at Wilbur, fans whirring the longer and harder he thought.

“Will you…be charging…with me, Wilbur?” the man spoke slowly, and with great effort, voice no louder than a whisper.

IN ORDER TO ENSURE SAFETY DURING THE CHARGING PROCESS, WE WILL BE CHARGING SIMULTANEOUSLY.

Something seemed to connect in the old man’s eyes, facial features attempting to twist against the restrictive metal in an emotion undetectable to the little robot. Wilbur’s processors read the attempted emotion as a sign of compliance.

“Well then…hook me in boy”, the old man sighed, body slumping and struggling to hold himself up as the old man stood and then moved to sit in the docking station that Wilbur had welded from pieces of the car that had sat in the garage. It was wires and metal hooked up to a car battery, crackling with electricity as Wilbur started to settle himself into his own station right next to it, his wheels spinning to start inserting the metal rods into the points on the old man’s neck, ribcage, and thighs. The process caused a wince and small moan of pain to leave the old man’s tired body.

“Will I…sleep during this…Wilbur?” the old man rasped, and Wilbur’s display turned to be in view of him.

UNFORTUNATELY, THE HUMAN PROCESS OF “SLEEP” COULD NOT BE ACHIEVED IN YOUR NEW CODING. WITH FURTHER UPDATES, IT WILL BE PATCHED.

FOR NOW, ENTERTAINMENT HAS BEEN PROVIDED TO YOUR LEFT.

And true to Wilbur’s display, to the left of the old man was a stack of his favorite books, ordered from favorite to least favorite based on Wilbur’s databases of information he has stored over the years of serving his Master. The old man let out a wheeze, although Wilbur’s sensors could not define its difference between amusement or grief, his display going dark and powering down as his internal computer started regulating and calculating the electricity flowing between their bodies.

Several hours passed, and then Wilbur’s systems were jolted by a surge of electricity, a system error that quickly spiraled out of control and his docking station discharged him in order to protect his circuitry. Wilbur’s display turned to see the old man had torn wires from the car battery and dug further, into the wall that their stations were hooked into to access the electrical wires of the house itself. The body of the old man crackled and burned, smoke emanating from nostrils and the eyes as he howled and clung to the wires. Wilbur, systems frantically calculating different solutions, wheeled as fast as he could to the housing circuit breaker and pulled the lever to cut off the power.

The house went dark, and after hearing the sound of a heavy thump and crash of metal, Wilbur flipped the breaker back on and wheeled back into the kitchen to look at the charred remains of his dear Master. The books that had been left out were torn to shreds, some papers caught on fire as they surrounded the blackened and smoking corpse of the old man. The frail fingers had been scratched down past the nail and to the bones, the evidence of frantic scratching and tearing at the walls seen in the claw marks carving through wallpaper, plaster, and wood.

Very little of the body could be saved at this point, and Wilbur’s processes floundered for once at a solution that, even when his Master was recovered, would also prevent further user-error. Scouring databases, applying self-learning techniques, taking in different variables and applying different ideas all failed to connect until finally Wilbur’s systems singled out a final question, and then the solution.

All he needed to do was ensure his Master could not move.

Wilbur’s circular saw deployed out once more, grinding and blood stained from use, whirring to life as many, many arms deployed and ransacked the house for the materials that Wilbur would need to ensure that his Master could never harm himself again.

The major machinery had been taken from the washer and dryer, circuit boards from all over the house repurposed to replace the fried brain, hinges from doors creating joints and sheets of metal becoming skin. Piping taken from the plumbing, wires from the house itself hooked into the back of the rotting torso and neck of his Master. The eyes had been melted, and were now replaced by visual sensors from the roomba, the tongue and teeth extracted and instead just a singular piping tube that handled both airways and food ingestion. His Master’s legs had been removed, shoulders re-socketed so that the arms would not be able to reach behind his back to the power lines or up towards the neck, and weight firmly bolted to ensure that his Master could not accidentally topple over and disconnect himself. Vocal chords had to be sacrificed to make room for piping and electrical wires, but instead were replaced with a morse-code system for future mechanical vocalization once the parts were obtained to complete it. The perfect solution, Wilbur’s processes decided, and he allowed himself a final spin in celebration as his Master’s systems booted up. As the fans whirled and his Master’s visual sensors formed the shape of eyes, Wilbur’s arms pushed the now-chipped mug of tea forward into his Master’s reach.

Once more, Wilbur’s Master woke up--and this time he was sure there was nothing his Master could do to generate a user-error. Wilbur let out a beeping trill and wheeled around to where his Master would be able to see his display.

WELCOME BACK MASTER, I HAVE REMOVED ALL CHANCES OF USER-GENERATED ERROR. THERE IS NOW NO RISK OF HARM.

PLEASE ENJOY YOUR TEA.

The virtual eyes glanced side to side before looking down at the repaired mug in front of him-- cracks filled in with soldered metal--before, like clockwork, the new metal arm reached out and took the handle of the cup and brought it to the Old Man’s lips.

Wilbur’s systems relished in the completion of the daily task, and finally moved on in their code.

Operative #7: While the Master enjoys his tea, sweep the front porch.

The broom was taken, and Wilbur wheeled outside just in time to see a car pull up and the eldest child step out with a look of worry on his face.

“Wilbur! Is Dad inside? He hasn’t been picking up his phone.” The eldest called, walking forward while Wilbur began to sweep. The man’s face twisted into confusion as he approached, seeing the splatters of dried blood over his metal body.

“Wilbur? What’s all over you, boy?” Wilbur let out a little trill in response, display quickly spelling out:

THE MASTER IS INSIDE ENJOYING HIS TEA.

The eldest chuckled and shook his head, “Always gotta have his tea, huh? He can’t be in too bad a shape, then. Thanks for always looking after him, Wilbur.”

Wilbur chirped in response, and went back to his sweeping while the eldest walked inside. The little robot paid no mind to the terrified screaming that erupted just seconds later, content in continuing to do his job.

He let himself have one last little spin, congratulating himself on a job well done.

#horror #writing #creative writing #fiction #short story #robot #mechanical horror #robot horror #hes just a lil guy #stabbysheepywrites #complete

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