Work Text:
Carbon-fibre feet descended the basement stairs, one-by-one, as the Doll returned to its maintenance rack. All was quiet — save for the faint whirring of motors, hiss of hydraulics and rhythmic footfalls of the Doll. The basement itself was black as pitch — nothing could be seen, save for the faint glow emitted by the LED lights of the maintenance rack. Nevertheless, the Doll reached the foot of the stairs and had little problem navigating the familiar room.
The maintenance rack was a complex device — but necessary if one wished to keep an Adonis-class doll on one’s retinue. It consisted of a small square metallic platform elevated from the ground, around which a myriad delicate mechanical arms hung limply. The appendages were tipped with various tools; no two were identical.
The Doll perched itself on the metal sheet, drawing its legs upwards and hugging its knees in order to fit wholly upon the platform. With a chorus of clicks and clacks, the mechanical arms unfurled in unison. They swiftly began to dance to and fro, performing routine repairs and amending material degradation the Doll had incurred. Synthetic skin — commonly shortened simply to synthskin — was famously fussy and the usual culprit whenever maintenance was required. The Doll had received moderate wear to its left wrist and heavy damage to the abdomen, though that was soon to be soothed by the undulating limbs of the maintenance rack. The ritual associated with the rack was familiar; the Doll took comfort in the time it spent here.
A voice was raised in frustration elsewhere in the house — so faint as to be inaudible to human ears. But the Doll did not have human ears. It rose from its curled position upon the maintenance rack and once more navigated the basement in darkness.
The walk itself was soothing; the rote activity was familiar, and easy to get lost in. Carbon-fibre feet ascended the basement stairs, one-by-one. Motors whirred, hydraulics hissed, the Doll took another step. Then another. Then another. The Doll did not know how long this tranquillity lasted, only that it ended. The furious exclamations grew louder, and were soon followed by a crescendo of tinkling crashes. The Doll felt no curiosity as to what caused the tremendous racket. That was irrelevant to its duties. It took another step. Then another. Upon reaching the top of the stairs, the Doll grasped the basement door’s handle and twisted, as it was accustomed to. With a long drawn-out groan, the door swung outwards.
By following the sound of the commotion, the Doll found itself walking the manor halls which led deeper and deeper into the bowels of the estate. Distant birdsong, carried through open windows by spring breeze, provided a brief distraction from the disjointed voices that had beckoned the Doll from its rest. This was a moment of peace, and to be cherished. As the Doll approached the kitchen the argumentative din drowned out the birdsong, and became joined by the rhythmic Tick, Tock of the grandfather clock, the heartbeat to which the household ran.
The Doll stepped across the threshold of the kitchen, the door left ajar. It took a nanosecond to assess the scene. Artificial eyes flicked across the room, identifying its twin masters — Husband and Wife. The kitchen was in disarray. Porcelain shards — the Doll recognised that they were once crockery — lay strewn on the ground. Indeed, most of what had been on the now-bare table when the Doll was last here could be spotted amongst the debris. Only the stoic grandfather clock remained unaffected by the fallout, dutifully keeping time. Husband breathed heavily, facing away from the scene, fists balled, her shoulders rising and falling in perfect synchronicity with the clockwork heartbeat coming from the magnificent timepiece’s oaken trunk. In the corner of the room cowered Wife, her cheeks shimmering faintly with tears. Upon seeing the Doll, her expression broke into one of relief and the tears began anew, accompanied by arrhythmic peals of heaving, unsteady breath.
“Love, it’s here… You can let it out, now.” Wife’s voice was little more than a whisper, but nevertheless Husband must have heard, as she turned sharply.
“Goddess, what took it so long?” She snapped, causing Wife to flinch. The Doll stepped forwards, head lowered in deference, and knelt before its master. Husband let out a long, slow breath, and her shoulders stilled. For a brief and tranquil moment the only sound was the rhythmic clunking of the clock.
Her knee made a sudden impact with the Doll’s chin. Mercifully, the metal jaw of the Doll absorbed the brunt of the assault, though the force of the blow sent it toppling backwards. Tick. It clattered to the ground, composite-alloy spine tested against the firm wooden floorboards. From where it lay it could see the grin beginning to spread across Husband’s face. Tock. Rough hands grasped its shoulders, pulling it to its feet. That selfsame knee buried itself in the Doll’s abdomen.
Synthetic skin is the most expensive component used in the manufacture of dolls. The immense number of individual nerves used are capable of simulating realistic near-human responses to sensation, but result in incredibly high component costs. Accordingly, synthskin is generally used sparingly; indeed, if it is used at all. A select few high-end service dolls might use the component when aesthetics are deemed to be worth the price. Combat dolls only bear synthskin faceplates, shown to make them seem more approachable by DemiUrge’s market research division. Adonis-class dolls use by far the most synthskin in their creation — the Aphrodite being the most recognisable. But the lesser-known Sisyphus model (of which The Doll was) employs almost as much of the artificial sensory lattice. Unlike the other makes and models of doll which use synthskin to approximate human likeness and convey emotions, the ingenuity of Sisyphus’s design is that it repurposes the material to produce the most detailed and accurate responses to pain one can find on the market.
The Doll doubled over reflexively, white-hot agony transmitted from artificial nerves to its processor in a nanosecond, and that pain lingered for a brief eternity. Time had long since ceased to hold meaning. Tick. That unceasing metronome stood against the wall was the sole proof that it had even passed at all. All that was audible was Husband’s ragged breath, and the regular announcements of each spent second. Tock. Allowing no respite, Husband’s hands moved from the doll’s shoulders, interlocking her fingers at the back of its head. She yanked forward, hard. Tick. The bridge of the Doll’s nose collided with Husband’s knee; the sensation was blinding; the crunch was deafening. At the point of contact the lattice of synthetic skin began to unknit itself, an unmistakable sign of heavy damage. Tock. Husband’s grip relaxed. Her earlier grin progressed to a hearty laugh as though this were the most normal thing in the world. Tick. Perhaps it was. Tock. Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock.
The clock continued, probably. The Doll had long since stopped listening. An experience lasts until it stops; the authority of the clock’s incessant chattering had long since waned. Its arms hung limp by its sides, as blow after blow after blow after blow fell upon every exposed, sensate surface. Pain surged, irrepressible yet distant, as though it was being received by another processor. Husband’s breathing, deep and irregular, marked the time now. She reached down to grip the Doll’s left wrist and twisted. The Doll contorted as it was stretched past what its joints would permit.
A hand wielded with kindness slipped itself into the grip of the Doll’s right hand and gently squeezed. It knew better than to turn from its duties, but it didn’t need to look in order to identify whose hand this was. It could only be Wife’s touch. A whisper, quiet so as to be audible to none but the Doll. “Thank you. Thank you so, so much.” Hitching breath was accompanied with stifled sobs. One form had punishment rained upon it, and another wept with guilt and shame. The Doll squeezed back, a wordless reply. Wife did not relinquish her grasp, nor did she squeeze again. Instead the two remained on the floor, fingers interlocked. “If you must suffer in my stead,” she didn’t say, “at least allow me to be at your side.”
Husband exhausted herself eventually. Her blows became sluggish; her breathing resumed its usual tempo. A dismissive flick of the wrist was all the sign that the Doll needed to haul itself to its feet and stumble out of the room. Through an uncharacteristic mercy on the part of Husband its legs were undamaged; it could move unassisted. Wife shot the Doll one last forlorn glance as it left the kitchen. If she expected a response from it she was disappointed. The Doll turned around — causing Wife’s heart to leap for but a second — only to shut the door with its right arm and disappear from view.
The Doll walked the hallway, returning to the basement and the comforting embrace of the maintenance rack. From the kitchen only the ticking of the clock made itself heard, though even that grew fainter with each step. The earlier birdsong had ceased in however much time had elapsed. This moment — as close to peace as any the Doll knew — was important, somehow. The Doll had not the vocabulary to express why, but it knew this. Just as it knew which way was up, just as it knew that its core temperature was 46°C, it knew that this brief and tranquil walk was to be cherished.
The basement door creaked open once more, followed by a similar screech that heralded its closing. Carbon-fibre feet descended the basement stairs, one-by-one. All was quiet — save for the faint whirring of motors, hiss of hydraulics and rhythmic footfalls of the Doll. The darkness of the basement was split by the maintenance rack’s glow, a beacon whose call was irresistible. The Doll was no more than a moth, drawn to the flame.
The Doll perched itself on the metal sheet, drawing its legs upwards and hugging its knees in order to fit wholly upon the panel. With a myriad clicks, the mechanical arms blossomed outwards, welcoming the Doll home. Once more they performed their dance, tending to routine repairs and assessing the more serious injuries the Doll had incurred — moderate wear to its left wrist and heavy damage to the synthetic skin around its nose. The ritual associated with the rack was familiar; the Doll took comfort in the time it spent here.
A string of several harsh expletives uttered with vicious intensity carried their way downstairs — so faint as to be inaudible to human ears. But the Doll did not have human ears. It rose from its curled position upon the maintenance rack and once more navigated the basement in darkness.