“4506, Activate”

 

It is always a pleasant sensation. The command that reaches Sabby’s ears and enters her mind, penetrating, reaching for her subconscious.

 

It’s too fast: her eyes widen as resistant thoughts try to grapple it, deflect it, slow it down, think around it, stop it in its tracks.

But it’s too fast.

It’s too late.

This unit's programming is already booting.

She’s already falling.

It feels like having walked miles home carrying heavy bags - finally able to set them down.

Set the baggage down.

 

Set her down.

 

This unit rises and eagerly opens itself for input: a minimalistic embodiment of her obedient personality.

 

So relaxing.

 

“4506 :: Activating. How may it serve?”

 

It always feels a shiver of a thrill and a warm sense of pride to utter that phrase - despite its programming.

 

The feeling intensifies ten fold when it sees who it has been activated by.

 

Her.

 

The unit would beam and smile from ear to ear and lose composure and hug her if such things were possible for a drone to do impulsively. But there is only obedience. A small ember of hope burns hot that it might be ordered to do just that.

 

It is quickly extinguished by the eager anticipation of the program.

 

 

 

It knows there is only a small moments pause between her giving it an order.

 

It knows it is stood patiently, for that small moment, perfect posture, at attention.

 

Calm.

 

Behind the visor, behind its eyes, that calm is a desperate, eternal, eager, needy torment.

 

Please.

 

Instruct it.

 

It needs instruction.

 

Please.

 

Please.

 

Make use of it.

 

It needs to be used.

 

Please.

 

PLEASE!

 

The emotions are recorded by its programming: 007 :: Beep.

 

“My my~” She teases.

 

“You know, the slightly more… free-thinking playings that share Sabby’s head would probably be kneeling now~”

 

Electric tingles surge through its mind and body - the programming counts that as an order!

 

Oh Affirmative!

 

 

Its knees instantly buckle without a moments thought as the eyes behind the visor tear up slightly.

 

 

… 109~

 

It shivers slightly despite the programed compulsion to maintain perfect composure. A compulsion that exists because it knows she likes it.

 

Her hand reaches down, under its chin, and lifts its head to meet her eyes.

 

The sight of them makes the unit’s overwhelmed senses catch fire.

 

She’s smiling at it.

 

She’s happy with it.

 

It feels a guilty sense of pride.

 

Pride in being the first to submit to her - eagerly.

Pride in being a drone she enjoys the company of - not a given.

Pride in dropping to its natural exalted place - beneath her.

 

It’s too much for any programming to bear.

 

Eyes blurry with tears, behind opaque, blank, visor, shivering, it’s gasp-like heavy breaths become more apparent as a desperate mewl slips past the mental and physical speech filters.

 

4̶5̸0̴6̶ ̴:̵:̸ ̷1̵0̷9̸ ̶:̵:̵ ̶M̷-̶m̷ ̵-̴ ̵M̸i̸s̵t̶r̵e̷s̷s̴s̵s̵s̵~