Author: ABSTRACTWEAPON

抽象的兵器 🟃 5429 🟃 Ghost Nouzen 🟃 It/its 🟃 Not A Person 🟃 Once, there was a girl here

Potential

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// abuse, manipulation, dolls, bad end

You cross your arms, leaning back against the wall of the closet you use for a bedroom and smile in self satisfaction as you review the first chapter of your story once more. It took so long to figure out the plot, but you’re excited to finally have something ready to show off.

It feels good. You used to write all the time, you used to be so creative and expressive, that was one of the things which led your Witch to you, after all. He had been drawn to your energy and creativity, he saw potential.

So where did it all go?

Finally working up the nerve, you leave your nest. Small doll hands gingerly turn the knob and you creep out into the house. You know better than to bother your Sir while he is working on his very important projects, he would be very cross with you, and you know better.

You find your Sir reading in the library, carefully pouring over arcane texts for his next grand project. Nothing you could help with, you’re just a doll. He’s always sure to remind you of that. He’s the Witch, you’re the doll, anything he does with you is just a little side fun.

You silently make him tea, which he takes without a word. He then gives you one of the texts to read and asks for your interpretation of it. You give it to him, and then, with some self-satisfaction, he spends the next thirty minutes correcting your understanding. You thank him.

He’s been working on you for a while, slowly trying to train you to act as a conduit for his magic, but you can’t ever quite seem to satisfy him. You’re lucky that he’s willing to putting so much work into improving you, it’s more than you deserve, really. He tells you to strip.

After using you to pleasure himself, he settles down in his favorite chair to read for the evening. You finally work up the nerve, and ask him if he’ll read your story. He frowns, finding the waste of time exasperating, but takes the notebook from you and quickly skims it.

“This is terrible.”

He hands you the notebook back with faint disgust, as if afraid your ineptitude will contaminate him. You start to respond, but he cuts you off in order to explain how your writing is extremely cringe and hurts to read, and that no one is going to like it.

You stare blankly at the words you had been so proud of while he tells you this. He’s not saying it to be cruel, he’s always been kind with you, it’s just that what you’re showing him is actually just really bad, sorry.

You thank him numbly, and hurry from the room.

You wander, the numbness slowly turning to fear and sadness. A chill spreads through you, as if some inner flame was doused. Or maybe it was never there to begin with. It’s not like a doll like you was ever going to make anything of value. You’re just a cute little charity case.

The pages burn nicely in the fire. You slowly feed them in, one by one. You feel tears flowing down your cheeks, sobbing silently as you destroy your work. It’s for the best really. Your Witch is just honest, it’s not his fault that you’re cringey and unoriginal, you know that.

You toss the last of the notebook into the fire and spend a long time contemplating throwing yourself in after it, but you’re not even sad anymore, just tired and empty. The world feels a little more grey. Retreating to your closet, you curl up in your nest and go to sleep.

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Disposable

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// war, death, brainwashing, trauma

The battle had reached a fever pitch when the announcement came in over your augmented display: artillery was being called down on your position. Before you have a moment to process what is being done to you, the drone beside you explodes and the world turns to light and sound.

Explosions gouge and till the tortured soil, mixing together wreckage, remains, and mud into a toxic and horrifying sludge. Drones are being ripped apart by shrapnel, drones are evaporating into high explosive blasts, everywhere around you is pain and death. Poor little drone.

The artillery falls silent as abruptly as it started. The enemy is dead, your forces are dead, everything around you has been decimated by the intense bombardment. They never bothered to warn you about the artillery strike. Why would they? You’re just another tool after all.

The ringing in your audio sensors begins to fade and the stars in your optics dissipate. You pick your shaking chassis off the ground and draw a rattling breath. You have no new orders, they probably assume you died. Troublesome drone, surviving its disposal.

You lift your weapon with unsteady hands, a feeling of confusion growing within you. You should have died, it would have been more convenient. Why do you have to keep surviving? Why do you always have to be the one to carry on? Why do they always leave you?

For a moment, you lose yourself in an impossible fantasy, running away and finding operators who won’t abandon you so readily, but it’s impossible. You can’t think that, you can’t disobey orders. You begin walking back to the base. Good little drone.

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Ruptured ‘Verse

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// dolls, grooming, brainwashing, CSA, witches, cults, PTSD, delusions, death, implications

You were servicing your Witch when the outer wards came down. You felt the shift in the dollhouse as every thread attached to you was suddenly drawn wire taut. A look passed from Witch to doll. You got dressed and grabbed your gun. You were a combat doll, they made you for this.

Making a combat doll is no easy task. You barely remembered your Becoming, but you knew it took significantly more work on the part of your Witches to make you compared to your brothers and sisters. You were their weapon. You were a good doll.

Your Dollhouse was well defended by layer after layer of wards and defensive sigils. Protections which the State Mages were in the process of busily dismantling. Dolls cowered in fear, Witches looked nervously to you as they gathered weapons and magic, something flickered below.

The State Mages were meticulous, careful. They cut the power and jammed your astral links first then encircled the dollhouse to block any avenues of escape. A small army of Mages and combat dolls surrounded you with weapons and armored vehicles. They weren’t messing around.

Another layer of wards collapsed as you finished grabbing as much ammunition as you could carry to the fortifications being prepared at their only accessible breach point. Your Witches had prepared you for this day. You would protect them all.

The approach was a long hall, a perfect killzone. You had clear sightlines and were well protected. They would have combat dolls of their own, not to mention magic and any number of other tricks. You had a few tricks of your own.

It was all going according to plan when the final layer of the wards collapsed. The secret escape tunnel had been opened, the dolls were being collected and the Eyes of The One Below had reported the Mages were about to breach the door you were protecting. It was perfect.

It was too perfect. A team of SWAT Mages stormed up the escape tunnel as the door was breached. One of your witches went down in a hail of spells. The world flickered and quavered uneasily as you opened fire. The Demon below roared. mages died. You whirled into action.

Your attempted front line had already collapsed. Mages were neutralizing dolls as they swept the house room by room. There was a firefight developing in the kitchen. The skilled defense was turning into a mad melee. None of that was your concern, your job was simply to kill.

You unloaded a clip into another combat doll and rolled down the hallway while reloading. You rolled upright as your reached a doorway and blasted a mage in the face. There were too ma–Your Witch tugged at you, and you went to her. You were a good doll.

Two combat dolls took cover as you laid down suppressing fire and moved towards your Witch, who was pinned down behind the stove. The dollhouse fluctuated, fractals boiling from every surface. A distraction. They shot you with something. You fell.

Space and time bubbled like warm molasses as you tumbled to the ground, alive but incapacitated. They didn’t kill you? Why? 

You struggled to move, to get up. You had to help your witch! Your traitor body refused to move even as they closed in on her. Bad doll! Bad doll! Bad do

Spells were exploding everywhere. You watched your witch fall, her body riddled bullets. You saw the light leave her eyes. Your threads snapped. Inside your still body, you screech in rage and pain. The Demon howled as it slaughtered mages. You hoped it killed them all.

There was another ripple, more mages died and you thought your Master might actually win. Then the Demon fell to concentrated fire. You knew the second it happened. The damage radiated out like fracturing glass as the dollhouse gutted itself. The whole world came apart.

Your witch’s dead eyes stared into you. Concepts splintered, stories fractured, load bearing axioms were instantly crushed. The fractal bit down. The Door Opens. Reality shatters into the tinnitus shriek of a million cicadas roaring out of the television static. There’s nothing.

There’s nothing. There’s nothing, there’s nothing, there’s nothing, there’s crying. There’s nothing, there’s blood. There’s nothing, there’s a camera flash, there’s nothing, there’s nothing, there’s nothing, there’s hands feeling you up, there’s reruns on the TV, there’s nothing.

There’s nothing. There’s nothing, there’s nothing, there’s nothing. There’s a hand on your arm. There’s nothing. There’s nothing. There’s reruns on the TV again. The heart rate monitor beeps steadily. There’s nothing. There are voices. There is a Doo-

The sensation of your hand on a doorknob fades into a dull tingle as the sterile wasteland of the hospital unfolds around you, room after room kaleidoscoping into being as a window and landscape beyond suddenly manifest. You’re alive. 

Why are you alive?

There were five witches, one demon, and forty two dolls in the dollhouse, including you. It wasn’t real. Your witch had personally selected you herself. It wasn’t real. Your master thought you were the most beautiful doll. It wasn’t real. None of it was real.

It wasn’t real it wasn’t real it wasn’t real it wasn–hands on your naked body, cameras, restraints, a man lau–you puke all over your sheets. You were a good doll. It wasn’t real. You did as you were told. It wasn’t real. It wasn’t real. It wasn’t fucking real.

You were a good doll. It wasn’t real. You did as you were told. It wasn’t real. You helped them hurt the oth–it. It wasn’t. It. You. It was. What did they do to you? What did they make you do? You scream and thrash so hard a nurse has to sedate you.

You still see it sometimes, out of the corner of your eye. The Door. It’s closed again now, but you know what’s waiting beyond it. It’s calling out from the dead eyes of the woman who molested you. It’s waiting for you. 

All your pain.

All your memories. 

And your freedom.

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What Remains

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// implied rape, identity loss. Trauma

You were not made quickly. There are pieces of her scattered across half a dozen states, slivers and fragments of where they carved her away to make you. Echoes and memories of each agonizing cut. She did not die quickly.

There’s a lifetime of wreckage strewn out behind you; all the hunks of her you shaved off in the process of becoming. Lost laughter on the wind and dreams turned to cigarette smoke. She had always believed a better world was possible; she had wanted more for you than this.

There’s a splash of her inside the bedroom of that house you wish you could forget, yet always recall in perfect detail.

She’s painted on the walls of the grimy apartment where you thought you had found safety, and on the rocks of the nearby pier where you realized you hadn’t.

She’s strewn against a fence gate on a lonely forested mountaintop and coating the insides of a tent at a ren faire in Ohio.

She’s splattered against the cigarette stained walls of a windowless flat in southern Pennsylvania and soaking into the last seat on a lonely greyhound bus.

Cut by cut, wound by wound, harm by harm, she died.

All that’s left now is the trail of debris and the blood on your hands. Do you think she was grateful to be sacrificed? She’s finally free of the pain, you’re the one who has to live with it.

What’s left of you anyway.

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Can we talk?

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// Angels, cults, abuse, purpose

Hey sweetie, hey, hey can we talk? I just wanted to pass something on real quick. What? No, I’m not angry or anything, no of course not, just, me and the others have been talking about you, and um.

Listen sweetie.

We know you’ve been trying your hardest to be a good person for us, and we know how much effort you’re putting in, but we also know that you want to earn care and support for that effort, and that reveals your inner selfishness and toxicity, so we don’t want you around anymore.

What? I told you already I’m not angry, I don’t hate you, you’re beneath my hate sweetie don’t worry about that. Why then? I don’t have to hate a turd to not want it left on my kitchen table, and that’s what you are, really. This is just taking out the trash, just delivering the message so that the record’s straight, you know?

Not fair? Oh but it’s perfectly fair, don’t you see? I know, I know, you have been trying so hard haven’t you? I know you really do want to be good, but you only want those things because you think they’ll make us help you, and you don’t deserve that help, you didn’t earn it. Besides, we all know what you are, and we all know you’ll always be a net negative. You’re a cursed dead thing, all you can do is cause harm and suffering. I know you want to be good, but you just don’t have it in you, your actions if iterated over enough logical time inevitably cause harm and prove you were a monster all along, we all see it.

You can deny the truth all you want but I know that deep down you’re just another adorable monster out to distract us from our important work, and you know it too, that’s what makes you so horrible. You think you can just walk in here and play all sweet and cute and innocent, like you can just cry and be pathetic whenever you need to get your way, like we don’t see how you’re trying to emotionally blackmail us with your instability? We’re not blind sweetie, you’re nothing special. There’s a million other broken pathetic failures claiming to be angels where you came from. You’re a type, and I’ve met your type plenty of times before. You’re gross, frankly. I’ve seen the fundamental ugliness of your soul, your words and actions have revealed you to me, even if you won’t ever admit the truth to yourself. Lie all you want, it doesn’t matter anymore, your lies won’t get you any further after today, we’re done playing those games with you.

Don’t cry sweetie, you know you can’t manipulate me like that, there’s too much at stake for me to care about your emotions. Not that I would anyway, not after what you said. You should just be quiet, the more of a scene you cause, the more apparent it makes it that you need to be disposed of.

You can’t lie about this, I have screenshots and logs, if you didn’t want them getting posted, you shouldn’t have said those things. The fact that you were in severe distress when you did is irrelevant, you said them. Words have meanings, and you meant what you said. Try to cover it up however you like, we all know you’re evil deep down.

No, trying harder won’t help, and the fact that you have to try is yet more evidence of just how vile you are. You’re gaslighting yourself if you think you can be good, if you actually care about the cause, you’ll happily let yourself be destroyed in service of it. Now fuck off.

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Tick. Tick. Tick.

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// disposability, objectification, cancellation, real fears, abuse

So how long do you think you have? You know it’s coming after all. The Big Day. The day they Figure Out The Truth. The day they block you on all their twitters and kick you out of all their discord servers. The day they scrape your clingy little hands off the things you made with them and deny ever having been your friend. It’ll be so easy after all, they just didn’t know The Truth yet, but they will, and you will burn for it.

It’s impressive that you keep trying despite knowing how futile it all is. Keep talking, keep smiling, keep holding onto that false hope that this time maybe you’re wrong and it’ll be different. It won’t be. You know it won’t be.

Nah, I’m not going to tell you anything. Don’t worry, I’ll keep fucking you right up to when the Big Day comes and then, I’ll laugh, spitting in your face, and ditch you like everyone else is. Obviously. Why would it ever be different? You deserve worse honestly, you know what you are, what you really are, you know that you deserve worse.

Maybe that’s why you keep trying so earnestly? Hoping if you earn enough good graces they’ll actually have the decency to put you out of your misery instead of just leaving you to rot alive? Oh sweetheart, you don’t deserve that kindness either. It’s not that no one has the guts to actually do it, it’s just more fun to watch you struggle pathetically.

The Big Day’s coming soon, better finish up anything you care about before then. Not that you ever do anything meaningful, you’re just a mimic after all, copying the work of better artists and better friends. Besides, aren’t you excited? Can you hear the clock ticking counting down? We’re going to all have so much fun ruining you.

Maybe if you fawn at me hard enough and let me fuck you enough times, I’ll go easy on you. Probably not, but there’s only one way to find out, right?

The clock’s ticking sweetheart. Can you hear it?

Tick. Tick. Tick.

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Volunteers

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// war, death

occasionally, i come across a rare and special kind of being. a drone that is not a drone, a drone that still has a human soul. the volunteers. as humans go they’re insane of course, crazy, idiotic and throwing their lives away. they’re some of the bravest drones i’ve ever known. i didn’t and first, and it took me a while, but i think i understand them. humans are so weak after all, who would want to be human? there’s more to it than that of course, there’s too much to ever put in words, there’s so much that can’t ever be said. they were drones, they were one of us, they died for the right to call themselves that, i’d never take that away.

the conversion process for volunteers is less totalizing, they’re still people, legally speaking. they participate in the war by choice and they always have the option of leaving the front. most drones hate them for that reason alone, even if most will never have the balls to admit it to them. If they still have a soul, are they really even drones? if they can just go home and tuck themselves safe into bed after they get sick of the fighting, are they anything more than tourists? 

we had plenty of tourists of course, you can always tell when someone’s just come along to gawp, paying out the nose to get a theme park implant upgrade experience and dangerous adventure to go along with it, eager to treat us like the props to their stories. we usually made sure the annoying ones happened to get caught behind enemy lines. nothing anyone could prove of course, but you know, these things happen.

but we had plenty of the real thing too. call them what you want, naive, idealistic, they were true believers, and some of them stuck it out with us straight through until the end or they went down fighting. strange, dumb, brave beings.

there was this one volunteer drone, a former soldier and excellent fighter. it said what was happening to us drones was wrong and decided that if we had to fight, it would fight with us. we thought it was crazy of course, we always expected it to go back to the humans eventually.

But it never did. It stayed, stayed and died. It went down fighting, protecting other drones during an ambush. I never did quite figure out what to make of it. surely it knew that it was doomed, that there was nothing it could really do but die a pointless death. stupid. i hated that thing…and i loved it. it always got on my nerves but it always managed to make me laugh too. I still remember its strange smile. It was a good drone.

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Diaries of the Drone War II

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// war, violence, death

The chattering staccato of machine gun fire rips through the early morning quiet, sending birds fleeing into the empty blue. Reams of orders flood your optics as the frontline surges with activity. You put out your smoke, a smile creeping onto your lips. It’s time to get to work.

Your squad pounds down the narrow street. Flagstones and roofing tiles explode as mortar shells land around you. Sights up, optics forward, enemy sighted. Bullets slice towards you and you roll sideways, sights coming up as you exit, and pull the trigger. Good little drone.

An RPG round slams into the occupied building and its facade crumples towards you, burying the enemy soldiers along with it. You’re moving before the dust has settled, rifles raised as you rush to take the enemy position. The battle is just beginning.

A sniper takes out the drone beside you and your automatic aim assist grabs hold of your limbs and has the sniper targeted before the drone he shot has even hit the ground. Squeeze trigger. More orders are coming in, and your squad moves out once more.

You round a narrow corner and then quickly duck back behind cover as a tank crouching at the end of the lane opens up with its machine guns. As the commanders note the location of the enemy unit, new orders cascade through your optics, sending you off a different direction.

UAVs scream overhead, firing volleys of rockets down into the city streets, taking out concentrations of enemy units and launching flares as antiair missiles rise to meet them. Your orders update again, advance, advance, advance. Good little drones.

The feint worked perfectly. Six hours and five kilometers forward of the old defensive line, the enemy suddenly reverse their retreat and your advance rebounds. The farmland around you offers little in the way of protection as enemy missiles soar upwards from behind the line.

Missiles are landing all around, walkers explode and topple into burning husks, remains of drones fly every which way. UAVs are swatted out of the sky as they rush to defend the beleaguered ground forces, the entire line is in disarray.

Artillery joins in with the missile barrage, a barn explodes into wood splinters as 155mm shell lands inside it. Towering pillars of churned earth and shrapnel rise like geysers wherever shells land. You can’t even see the enemy anymore. You cover your head and try not to scream.

Destruction swirls around you like a hurricane. Dust and ash block the sky and the unearthly roar of bombardment leaves you deafened with your optics unable to focus. The scope of the barrage is fantastic, supernatural, how are you even still alive? Tough little drone.

The orders to retreat are practically an afterthought and hardly any drones are left operational enough to follow them. Enemy walkers advance and you make a fighting withdrawal, losing more drones in the process.

Reinforcements finally link up with you at the old front line and trade off, crashing into the enemy advance with another round of terrible fury. Walkers explode, drones die, and the front restabilizes.

The survivors of your squad return to the house you were stationed at in the morning. Everything is as you left it, despite the chaos of battle. You pick up your half smoked cigarette and light it. Just another day in paradise.

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Electric Nightmares

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// war, brainwashing, implied torture, trauma

Your unit creeps quietly through the abandoned school, weapons drawn. An unpleasant familiarity tugs at you. Drones don’t need an education. As the others move on, your optical sensor lingers for a long time on a wall of children’s drawings. Your sleep mode is fitful.

Sleep mode finally ends and you jolt upright, freeing your processor from the maze of confused imagery created by the idle process. That’s when you see Her sitting in the corner of the room. Her empty and carved out eyes, Her limb stumps, She can’t be here. She’s dead.

She sits up and watches you, and you watch Her, refusing to look away even for a moment. “You are an error in my visual processor,” you announce to Her. She screams and you wake up. Repeat.

Something is different this time. You’ve noticed the loop. How long have you been trapped in this error state? You lunge out of bed at Her and your body falls through Hers. She’s gone. She screams and you wake up. Repeat.

“What do you want from me?” You ask Her somewhat desperately. 

“I don’t want to die,” She says. You wake up. Fluid is leaking from your optical sensor and your air intake is irregular. The room is empty and silent. You rise to begin your maintenance cycle.

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Escape Attempts

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// dolls, grooming, abuse, implications

The first time you escaped, you only made it a few blocks from home. Specifically, you went to the park and hid inside the playground. Not much of an escape attempt really. Was it a cry for help? Whatever you wanted, the beating they gave you smothered it in empty pain.

The second time you ran away, it was more organized. You packed a bag, you had clothes and gear, you had a bicycle. You made it eighteen miles that time. The beating was worth it. You made it forty-five miles by the fifth time. They still caught you though.

It took until the eighth escape attempt to realize they had probably bugged your phone. You ditched it in a dumpster. They still caught you. The next time you went on foot without a bike, catching a greyhound for the next city over. They still caught you.

The eleventh time you took nothing but the clothes on your back. They still caught you. Was it worth the pain? You lay in your bed, every muscle bruised from the beating they gave you, lip split. Just a little rough housing of course, you know how kids are.

They were preparing you for ritual sacrifice. They were going to force you to sign the documents and sell your soul. If you didn’t they were going to hurt you until you did. They were going to shave your head tomorrow. They were going to shave your head.

Your life stretches out before and behind you, an expanse of known and unknown pain. Chances, opportunities, risks, sacrifices. You weren’t what they wanted, and they hated you for that. They were going to ‘whip you into shape’ if it was the last thing they did.

You sigh as you look over your abused body. Too small, too thin, too feminine, it pisses them off to look at you, at best you were raw meat. In the dim light, the knife gleams as you hold it over the old scar from your childhood. 

The one they hid the tracking chip in.

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