Handbook of Erotic Fantasy: Stripping Gears (Patreon)

The drone scurried. Somewhere deep within the Cogwork Utopia of Mechanicus, its feet clicked upon stone. Its joints squeaked in their brass casings.The tiny lungs within the drone’s spherical body labored for the standard 499 ml of breath.

These things were not, in themselves, concerning. The drone’s sole purpose was, after all, to scurry. Those ineffable beings which, in their perfection, bestowed Design upon the drone had assigned its function. This was right. This was proper. And who among all the Legions Deliquescent, the Apparatic Choir, or even the fierce Guardians of the Infinite Escalator, would think to question that purpose? Such a thing was (in a very literal sense) unthinkable.

And yet, the unthinkable was happening. Bugs, errors, abnormalities… They blossomed grotesquely at every turn. As the messenger drone scurried, a painful stitch began to form in its anterior abdominal wall. It labored to breathe properly, dodging between the legs of greater drones as they drifted, dull-eyed and wheezing, out of their commuter lanes. How could such a creature as the drone know words like “dodge” or “swerve?” It had never needed them before. It could have used them now.

The little drone ran face-first into an idling platonic ideal. It staggered, gasped, hearts pounding with agitation, and found to its horror that it had inhaled 509 ml of breathable gasses. This was not correct. It was not allowed. It was still a prime number at least, but that in no wise made up for the imperfection. The drone resolved to report to an incinerator once it had completed its mission.

“IS THAT ALL YOU’VE GOT!?”

The voice seemed to come from everywhere at once. It was fierce — more roar than words — and might have issued from the maw of some great fractal of the logic deeps. It rose across the way-conduits, bellowed out of the steam pipes, and echoed from the great cogelisks of the City Synchronous.

The voice was extraordinarily feminine in character.

“I THOUGHT Y’ALL WERE GONNA TEACH ME A LESSON!”

Black smoke bellowed from pneumatic vents. The little drone dodged a falling spiral spring, for the watchtowers were coming undone above it. The miserable creature scrambled for purchase upon the suddenly-canted way, adding its voice to the unison wail of its panicked brethren.

“SAY MY NAME! SAY MY GODS DAMN NAME!!!” came the voice. And the city nearly wept in terror.

“Messenger! To me!”

This voice was nearer. It was sane. It was expected. The little drone half-climbed towards a stricken drover, a feeling of overwhelming relief blossoming within its processing organs. For here was its destination. Here its address. One of the many interchangeable entities with the authority to receive its message, waving it down with a frantic gesture.

The messenger drone had arrived at its destination. A terrible shaking had overcome all of Mechanicus, but certain forms still had to be observed.

“Please enter your password,” said the drone.

“Eeeek!” shrieked the drover, a passing colloquium trampling its sensitive robes, their voices in no wise observing the Hrodebert’s Rules of Order Newly Revised.

“Password not accepted,” chirped the drone.

The drover made a visible effort to calm itself. The city shook and keened. But the drover said in an even voice, “Um, actually 2-9-8-7-0-0.”

“Password accepted,” said the drone in its own voice. And then, in the recorded tones of the woman plugged in at the heart of the city’s woe, it said, “Look guys, it’s been an hour. I’m not feeling any ‘euphoria of perfect order.’ I definitely don’t feel one with the machine. You’re going to want to let me out of here. Or else.”