Happy Birthday Boudecia7!!!
Aug. 6th, 2009 04:11 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
kethniI'm late, I know. I blame evil internet provider for cutting me off. Got home, no internet. GRRR!
Ahem. Anyway.
I have a pick-your-own present kind of a deal for you. Three possible fics all inspired by 'Coin operated boy' by the Dresden Dolls. Let me know what you want and I'll crack on.
And if you don't like any of themI'll cry in a corner just give me another order and I shall obey.
Onwards!
ETA, one of these things is not like the others... one of these things is a homage to book I've been studying :D
"Toy"
Whiteness.
Whiteness. Something scratchy and hard.
Whiteness. Something scratchy and hard. Comfortable temperature.
Whiteness. Something scratchy and hard. Comfortable temperature. Being moved.
Sounds. Voices. Humans? Am I here now? So long without moving or doing.
Box opening. Blinding light. The scratchy hard things falling away. Warmth coming in.
“Come out of the box now.”
So much light. Not supposed to be so light.
“Why’s it screwing up its eyes like that?”
“It’s designed for mine work, you know, low light levels? This is what you get buying out of the back of the catalogue.”
“Excuse me? Just whom do you think you’re talking to?”
“Look, bud, I deliver the things and since this stupid fashion started I end up taking half of them back. It’s wasteful. It’s designed to do a job and to do it well. You buy a menial or a miner and then try and make it a pleasure model then don’t come crying when it breaks down.”
“I do not have to explain myself to the likes of you!”
“No, but I do have to explain to you that if you use it for anything other than mining or equivalent then you’re voiding the warranty. We’ll take it back but no refund and we’ll charge you for disposal.”
Noise, movement. Box taken away. Little easier to see now. Still too bright.
“Look at me.”
Human, 1.77 metres tall, indeterminate mass, dark colouring.
“Can you see me now?”
“Yes.”
Frowns. “Yes what?”
Yes what? No data. “Please explain the question?”
Sighs, crosses arms in front of chest. Frustration. Frustrated humans can become violent.
“Don’t back away from me! What’s your name?”
“Mining Unit model number HF894, batch number 04-09-2045.”
“But what’s your name?”
Name? Name is designation; designation has been given. “Please explain the question?”
Rubs forehead. “Pleasure models have names.”
“Not a pleasure model, mining unit.” Not a pleasure model; not designed, not trained. Mining unit. Strong, sturdy.
“Look, my name is Mohinder Suresh. Doctor Mohinder Suresh, doctor is my title. Do you understand?”
“Yes. Doctor Mohinder Suresh. Should I set that as default mode of address?”
“Um, no. Just Doctor.”
“Yes Doctor.”
“Do you have a name? Like Mohinder or... Bob or... Sean?”
“No Doctor.”
“Well I’m not calling you mining unit, model number blah blah blah. That’s ridiculous!”
Irritated, frustrated. Why? Questions have been answered as completely as possible.
Walks away. Not told to move. Walks back with a book.
“Alright, I’m going to find you a name. Something short, Scott? No, Matt. Always liked that one.” Looks closely. “Your name is Matt; I want you to respond to that.”
Name, what for?
“Do you understand; your name is Matt?”
“My name is Matt.”
Nods, looks again, different look, hungry look.
“Why are you backing away now?” Shakes head. “Well I wanted a challenge. Those pleasure models all look the same and they’re so boring.” Walks away then stops. “Well come on.” Snaps fingers at me. “Don’t stand there all day.”
“Get undressed and get on the bed.” Taking off his clothes. Not strong, not sturdy. Humans are so frail.
Bed? Cot, for sleeping. Sleeping naked? “I don’t need sleep yet.”
Eyebrows up, surprise. “I don’t want you to sleep. I want to use you.” Sighs. “I want to use your body, so take off your clothes, and get on the bed.”
Pleasure? Not... not for pleasure. “Not a pleasure model! Mining unit!”
Steps back, hands up wide, mouth tight. Frightened. Frightened?
“Calm down, there’s no need to get excited.”
“Not designed for it! Not trained for it!”
“Yes, I’m aware of that.” Voice different, softer.
“Not...”
“Not designed for it, not trained for it, yes I get the picture.” Sits on the bed. “Don’t fuss, it’s very simple. You don’t have to do anything the first time.”
Not a pleasure model. Don’t know how to be. Special skills. “Why?”
“Because I’m telling you to! Are you designed to be disobedient?”
“No Doctor.” Get undressed, sit down on the bed. So soft.
“Lie down.”
Hands touching, greedy, stroking and rubbing. Touching all over. Over and over. Don’t want. Don’t...
“You’re a gift from my employers, a bribe so that I won’t leave for another company. Pleasure models used to be the currency of choice but your kind is the fashion. So large and strong and so... imperfect.”
Don’t want... can’t... no...
“There must be a way to do this. Relax I’m not going to hurt you.”
Close my eyes. Shouldn’t be here. Don’t know the rules.
“Get up now.” He looks relaxed. Dresses again and frowns at me. “Get up now. You should have a shower.”
“Yes Doctor.”
Pats my shoulder. “Don’t carry on.”
“No.”
“Isn’t this better than being stuck in a mine?” he says.
No. Designed and trained for mine work. Know what to do.
“It’s warm, it’s clean, and it’s certainly a lot more comfortable than a mine I’m sure.”
“Yes Doctor. Where is the shower, please?”
Bright, clean room. Too many reflective surfaces. He’s all the over the walls. Him and strong, sturdy thing. Too ugly to be human.
"1818"
Dearest Mother,
I write to you not knowing if this letter will ever reach you or if I will ever see you beautiful face again. It saddens me to think that you may never what has become of your only boy and yet I am not regretful. If I die in the pursuit of glory, of proving myself special as you always said, then I will have died well. Despite the uncertainty of this missive reaching you I feel I must write. Although we are in desperate plight, something so strange has happened that it has completely taken the thoughts of the crew from mutiny.
We have been trapped here, entombed in ice, for full four weeks now. We have not seen a soul alien to us for near two month yet we have a guest! Truly, three days ago at dusk the sentinel reported a sighting a distant figure riding a sled across the ice. Upon his oath, the sentinel swore he had seen a huge, fearsome creature wrapped in furs and that he had called to the apparition, to no available. I did not believe this, of course, sailors are frightfully over-imaginative and superstitious. Besides, the man smelt of rum.
Then two days ago, in full daylight, all of us on deck saw another figure upon a sled! This man was close enough to hear our shouts although he seemed barely minded to heed them. Though he was sick and exhausted, though his dogs were close to doom, he disdained to come aboard. At that very moment, the ice cracked underneath him and it was we could do to save him.
He refused to leave the deck at first, declaring, “I must keep watch for him! I cannot let him lose me again.”
As might be supposed he meant that strange and otherworldly presence the sentinel had seen.
“Dear Sir, we have already since this apparition! I swear if he appears again you will be fetched at once,” I cried.
“By all holy! Where did he go? You must help me, Captain. For the sake of my soul you must help me.”
I think he would have leapt from the ship and begun walking if he had been able. As it were, at that moment his strength failed him and we took him below decks.
Mother, I confess I never saw a more interesting man. His eyes, which are dark as his skin, are often wild with passion. Oh but do him the slightest act of kindness, and his countenance lights up with a sweetness I never saw equalled. But he is generally despairing and unhappy.
The men were near impossible to keep off him. Also, they were overcome with curiosity as to his purposes and reason for being so far from civilisation. I myself had some thoughts that he too was seeking glory and honour.
Upon my pressing him only a little he told us he had travelled so far, “Seeking on who fled from me.”
Oh mother, the unhappy misery when he recalled this quite broke my heart for him.
Your loving son,
Gabriel Grey.
Dearest Mother,
I have now spent many hours in the company of my guest. My affection for him increases for him every day, I begin to love him almost as a brother, and his continual unhappiness fills me with compassion. Yet for his all his misery his manners are affectionate and warm. He must have been a beautiful creature to be even now so attractive when wracked and ruined.
I was sure straight away from his method of speaking that he was a man of high education and intellect; two facets you know I believe are lacking in myself. You know as well how strongly I have been yearning for a companion, for a friend in whom I can confide and discuss. He is so wise and his mind so cultivated that I am reduced to the level of a stammering child. Yet he does not chide me for my want of eloquence but speaks to me nicely.
He takes a little water and food now; though he is still weak he pleads to be taken on deck to watch for this creature he seeks. He has revealed only a little of his story to me, enough for me to know that has some terrible, wonderful secret. He has promised to tell me.
Your loving son,
Gabriel Grey
Dearest Mother,
My guest is well enough to spend a little time on deck, where he pines and scours the horizon for any sign of his quarry.
He is, as I was sure he was, a man of education and breeding. His name is Doctor Mohinder Suresh, a real doctor mother! He is from Madras in India though he speaks the most cultured English I have ever heard.
On the promise of faithfully recording his story, he has promised to tell me all of the particulars. So far he has told me this; that the creature on the sled he calls ‘Matthew’, as if it were entirely human. Oh but mother! Doctor Suresh says this creature was not born as you and I but made, created, in a laboratory!
"Sublime"
It’s about beauty. It’s about ugliness. It’s about the entirely artificial distinction between them.
Look in the mirror. Keep looking. Do you see it yet?
Say your name. Say it over and over again. Do you hear it yet?
Look in the mirror. Look for a minute, five minutes, an hour. Do still see yourself?
Wait. Keep looking. Keep looking until what looks out is not you. Now you see it.
Say your name. Say ten times, a hundred times, a thousand times. Do you still hear your name?
Wait. Keep speaking. Keep saying your name until it’s nothing but sounds. Now you hear it.
Look at a mountain, a waterfall, a fire, a nuclear mushroom cloud. The sublime is in the distance. Beauty is far away.
Bring it close. Look at it until it loses all meaning. Speak it until the words are meaningless.
It’s ugly now.
A hundred perfect, beautiful people. A thousand. Ten thousand. A million. All with perfect empty smiles and beautiful dead eyes. Watch them coming out of the tanks. Clothe them, feed them, teach them. So much terrible, hideous, perfection you can barely stop from throwing up.
A wrinkle, a blotch; they’re asymmetrical, flawed, ugly. Rejects, returns, things to be thrown away for being less than perfect. Look at them; look at the damaged, defective, ugly things. Look at them, keep looking, keeping looking until you see it. Keep looking until you see the flaw is the perfection, the thing that makes them beautiful.
***
Bob pours himself a coffee and leans back. We’re sitting on the gantry swinging our legs as we watch them opening the tanks. Naked bodies as far as I can see. Breasts, dicks, asses, legs, lips, hips, hands, arms, feet, faces. Nothing but body parts walking around.
“What about that one?”
“No.”
“You didn’t even look,” he chides. “New range, the Claire line.” He leers at me. “Looks awfully young.”
“No! Geez Bob.”
He gulps his coffee; he’s greedy with everything, gulps his coffee, bolts his food, and wears out the units in months.
“I saw the artwork,” he says, lowering his voice. “They’re packaging it in a cheerleader costume!”
“You’re disgusting, you know that right?”
“Disgusting? Come on Matt, get with the program. We sell forty thousand of these babies a week. Sure some of them are friends for people who need them or live-in-babysitters or other slaves. But most of them, hell practically all of them, are being sold to be boned.” He shakes his head at me. “And the company lets us have a seventy-five percent discount! What the hell are you doing not using it?”
“They creep me out. They look too... not perfect because something’s either perfect or it’s not. But too designed, too made, too plastic. The all have the same expression and they’re all ideal weight and ideal shape.”
“So what’re you going do, get one out of the reject pile?” he asks sarcastically.
“Maybe.”
Ahem. Anyway.
I have a pick-your-own present kind of a deal for you. Three possible fics all inspired by 'Coin operated boy' by the Dresden Dolls. Let me know what you want and I'll crack on.
And if you don't like any of them
Onwards!
ETA, one of these things is not like the others... one of these things is a homage to book I've been studying :D
"Toy"
Whiteness.
Whiteness. Something scratchy and hard.
Whiteness. Something scratchy and hard. Comfortable temperature.
Whiteness. Something scratchy and hard. Comfortable temperature. Being moved.
Sounds. Voices. Humans? Am I here now? So long without moving or doing.
Box opening. Blinding light. The scratchy hard things falling away. Warmth coming in.
“Come out of the box now.”
So much light. Not supposed to be so light.
“Why’s it screwing up its eyes like that?”
“It’s designed for mine work, you know, low light levels? This is what you get buying out of the back of the catalogue.”
“Excuse me? Just whom do you think you’re talking to?”
“Look, bud, I deliver the things and since this stupid fashion started I end up taking half of them back. It’s wasteful. It’s designed to do a job and to do it well. You buy a menial or a miner and then try and make it a pleasure model then don’t come crying when it breaks down.”
“I do not have to explain myself to the likes of you!”
“No, but I do have to explain to you that if you use it for anything other than mining or equivalent then you’re voiding the warranty. We’ll take it back but no refund and we’ll charge you for disposal.”
Noise, movement. Box taken away. Little easier to see now. Still too bright.
“Look at me.”
Human, 1.77 metres tall, indeterminate mass, dark colouring.
“Can you see me now?”
“Yes.”
Frowns. “Yes what?”
Yes what? No data. “Please explain the question?”
Sighs, crosses arms in front of chest. Frustration. Frustrated humans can become violent.
“Don’t back away from me! What’s your name?”
“Mining Unit model number HF894, batch number 04-09-2045.”
“But what’s your name?”
Name? Name is designation; designation has been given. “Please explain the question?”
Rubs forehead. “Pleasure models have names.”
“Not a pleasure model, mining unit.” Not a pleasure model; not designed, not trained. Mining unit. Strong, sturdy.
“Look, my name is Mohinder Suresh. Doctor Mohinder Suresh, doctor is my title. Do you understand?”
“Yes. Doctor Mohinder Suresh. Should I set that as default mode of address?”
“Um, no. Just Doctor.”
“Yes Doctor.”
“Do you have a name? Like Mohinder or... Bob or... Sean?”
“No Doctor.”
“Well I’m not calling you mining unit, model number blah blah blah. That’s ridiculous!”
Irritated, frustrated. Why? Questions have been answered as completely as possible.
Walks away. Not told to move. Walks back with a book.
“Alright, I’m going to find you a name. Something short, Scott? No, Matt. Always liked that one.” Looks closely. “Your name is Matt; I want you to respond to that.”
Name, what for?
“Do you understand; your name is Matt?”
“My name is Matt.”
Nods, looks again, different look, hungry look.
“Why are you backing away now?” Shakes head. “Well I wanted a challenge. Those pleasure models all look the same and they’re so boring.” Walks away then stops. “Well come on.” Snaps fingers at me. “Don’t stand there all day.”
“Get undressed and get on the bed.” Taking off his clothes. Not strong, not sturdy. Humans are so frail.
Bed? Cot, for sleeping. Sleeping naked? “I don’t need sleep yet.”
Eyebrows up, surprise. “I don’t want you to sleep. I want to use you.” Sighs. “I want to use your body, so take off your clothes, and get on the bed.”
Pleasure? Not... not for pleasure. “Not a pleasure model! Mining unit!”
Steps back, hands up wide, mouth tight. Frightened. Frightened?
“Calm down, there’s no need to get excited.”
“Not designed for it! Not trained for it!”
“Yes, I’m aware of that.” Voice different, softer.
“Not...”
“Not designed for it, not trained for it, yes I get the picture.” Sits on the bed. “Don’t fuss, it’s very simple. You don’t have to do anything the first time.”
Not a pleasure model. Don’t know how to be. Special skills. “Why?”
“Because I’m telling you to! Are you designed to be disobedient?”
“No Doctor.” Get undressed, sit down on the bed. So soft.
“Lie down.”
Hands touching, greedy, stroking and rubbing. Touching all over. Over and over. Don’t want. Don’t...
“You’re a gift from my employers, a bribe so that I won’t leave for another company. Pleasure models used to be the currency of choice but your kind is the fashion. So large and strong and so... imperfect.”
Don’t want... can’t... no...
“There must be a way to do this. Relax I’m not going to hurt you.”
Close my eyes. Shouldn’t be here. Don’t know the rules.
“Get up now.” He looks relaxed. Dresses again and frowns at me. “Get up now. You should have a shower.”
“Yes Doctor.”
Pats my shoulder. “Don’t carry on.”
“No.”
“Isn’t this better than being stuck in a mine?” he says.
No. Designed and trained for mine work. Know what to do.
“It’s warm, it’s clean, and it’s certainly a lot more comfortable than a mine I’m sure.”
“Yes Doctor. Where is the shower, please?”
Bright, clean room. Too many reflective surfaces. He’s all the over the walls. Him and strong, sturdy thing. Too ugly to be human.
"1818"
Dearest Mother,
I write to you not knowing if this letter will ever reach you or if I will ever see you beautiful face again. It saddens me to think that you may never what has become of your only boy and yet I am not regretful. If I die in the pursuit of glory, of proving myself special as you always said, then I will have died well. Despite the uncertainty of this missive reaching you I feel I must write. Although we are in desperate plight, something so strange has happened that it has completely taken the thoughts of the crew from mutiny.
We have been trapped here, entombed in ice, for full four weeks now. We have not seen a soul alien to us for near two month yet we have a guest! Truly, three days ago at dusk the sentinel reported a sighting a distant figure riding a sled across the ice. Upon his oath, the sentinel swore he had seen a huge, fearsome creature wrapped in furs and that he had called to the apparition, to no available. I did not believe this, of course, sailors are frightfully over-imaginative and superstitious. Besides, the man smelt of rum.
Then two days ago, in full daylight, all of us on deck saw another figure upon a sled! This man was close enough to hear our shouts although he seemed barely minded to heed them. Though he was sick and exhausted, though his dogs were close to doom, he disdained to come aboard. At that very moment, the ice cracked underneath him and it was we could do to save him.
He refused to leave the deck at first, declaring, “I must keep watch for him! I cannot let him lose me again.”
As might be supposed he meant that strange and otherworldly presence the sentinel had seen.
“Dear Sir, we have already since this apparition! I swear if he appears again you will be fetched at once,” I cried.
“By all holy! Where did he go? You must help me, Captain. For the sake of my soul you must help me.”
I think he would have leapt from the ship and begun walking if he had been able. As it were, at that moment his strength failed him and we took him below decks.
Mother, I confess I never saw a more interesting man. His eyes, which are dark as his skin, are often wild with passion. Oh but do him the slightest act of kindness, and his countenance lights up with a sweetness I never saw equalled. But he is generally despairing and unhappy.
The men were near impossible to keep off him. Also, they were overcome with curiosity as to his purposes and reason for being so far from civilisation. I myself had some thoughts that he too was seeking glory and honour.
Upon my pressing him only a little he told us he had travelled so far, “Seeking on who fled from me.”
Oh mother, the unhappy misery when he recalled this quite broke my heart for him.
Your loving son,
Gabriel Grey.
Dearest Mother,
I have now spent many hours in the company of my guest. My affection for him increases for him every day, I begin to love him almost as a brother, and his continual unhappiness fills me with compassion. Yet for his all his misery his manners are affectionate and warm. He must have been a beautiful creature to be even now so attractive when wracked and ruined.
I was sure straight away from his method of speaking that he was a man of high education and intellect; two facets you know I believe are lacking in myself. You know as well how strongly I have been yearning for a companion, for a friend in whom I can confide and discuss. He is so wise and his mind so cultivated that I am reduced to the level of a stammering child. Yet he does not chide me for my want of eloquence but speaks to me nicely.
He takes a little water and food now; though he is still weak he pleads to be taken on deck to watch for this creature he seeks. He has revealed only a little of his story to me, enough for me to know that has some terrible, wonderful secret. He has promised to tell me.
Your loving son,
Gabriel Grey
Dearest Mother,
My guest is well enough to spend a little time on deck, where he pines and scours the horizon for any sign of his quarry.
He is, as I was sure he was, a man of education and breeding. His name is Doctor Mohinder Suresh, a real doctor mother! He is from Madras in India though he speaks the most cultured English I have ever heard.
On the promise of faithfully recording his story, he has promised to tell me all of the particulars. So far he has told me this; that the creature on the sled he calls ‘Matthew’, as if it were entirely human. Oh but mother! Doctor Suresh says this creature was not born as you and I but made, created, in a laboratory!
"Sublime"
It’s about beauty. It’s about ugliness. It’s about the entirely artificial distinction between them.
Look in the mirror. Keep looking. Do you see it yet?
Say your name. Say it over and over again. Do you hear it yet?
Look in the mirror. Look for a minute, five minutes, an hour. Do still see yourself?
Wait. Keep looking. Keep looking until what looks out is not you. Now you see it.
Say your name. Say ten times, a hundred times, a thousand times. Do you still hear your name?
Wait. Keep speaking. Keep saying your name until it’s nothing but sounds. Now you hear it.
Look at a mountain, a waterfall, a fire, a nuclear mushroom cloud. The sublime is in the distance. Beauty is far away.
Bring it close. Look at it until it loses all meaning. Speak it until the words are meaningless.
It’s ugly now.
A hundred perfect, beautiful people. A thousand. Ten thousand. A million. All with perfect empty smiles and beautiful dead eyes. Watch them coming out of the tanks. Clothe them, feed them, teach them. So much terrible, hideous, perfection you can barely stop from throwing up.
A wrinkle, a blotch; they’re asymmetrical, flawed, ugly. Rejects, returns, things to be thrown away for being less than perfect. Look at them; look at the damaged, defective, ugly things. Look at them, keep looking, keeping looking until you see it. Keep looking until you see the flaw is the perfection, the thing that makes them beautiful.
***
Bob pours himself a coffee and leans back. We’re sitting on the gantry swinging our legs as we watch them opening the tanks. Naked bodies as far as I can see. Breasts, dicks, asses, legs, lips, hips, hands, arms, feet, faces. Nothing but body parts walking around.
“What about that one?”
“No.”
“You didn’t even look,” he chides. “New range, the Claire line.” He leers at me. “Looks awfully young.”
“No! Geez Bob.”
He gulps his coffee; he’s greedy with everything, gulps his coffee, bolts his food, and wears out the units in months.
“I saw the artwork,” he says, lowering his voice. “They’re packaging it in a cheerleader costume!”
“You’re disgusting, you know that right?”
“Disgusting? Come on Matt, get with the program. We sell forty thousand of these babies a week. Sure some of them are friends for people who need them or live-in-babysitters or other slaves. But most of them, hell practically all of them, are being sold to be boned.” He shakes his head at me. “And the company lets us have a seventy-five percent discount! What the hell are you doing not using it?”
“They creep me out. They look too... not perfect because something’s either perfect or it’s not. But too designed, too made, too plastic. The all have the same expression and they’re all ideal weight and ideal shape.”
“So what’re you going do, get one out of the reject pile?” he asks sarcastically.
“Maybe.”
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
no subject
Date: 2009-08-06 07:40 pm (UTC)Thanks honey! <333
no subject
Date: 2009-08-06 08:43 pm (UTC)<333
no subject
Date: 2009-08-07 03:06 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2009-08-07 04:55 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2009-08-06 08:44 pm (UTC)I'm sure whichever one bd7 chooses will be awesome!
no subject
Date: 2009-08-06 08:51 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2009-08-07 11:35 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2009-08-08 06:11 am (UTC)