#beepbeep

Sketch book doodles and drawing B3

A/N: A small thing I made for someone close to me. Content Warning, ForcedTech

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I shouldn’t have been out that late. But fencing practice ran long, the studio lights buzzed too loud, and the train station always felt safer than walking. It always did.

Until tonight.

There was a flash, bright and blue and too fast to blink, and then a sound. Not a bang. Not a scream. Just a soft, wet hum that I felt more than heard, like it slid straight into my bones. Then nothing.

Later, I woke gagged by silence. How much later, I hardly knew. Not tied. Not drugged. Just… hijacked? My body lay on a slab that pulsed under me like a second heartbeat. Warm. Slick. Too warm. The air was thick and sweet, humid with the scent of metal and breath. Something wet hissed through unseen vents.

I tried to move, but my wrists were locked, but not by cuffs, but something that felt biological. The bindings weren’t cold. They flexed and shifted like they were adjusting to my panic. My ankles, too. My throat tightened. Then I heard them.

Steps. Not boots. Not heels. Something in between, rhythmic and sharp, clicking softly with weightless grace. The figure stepped into view.

Tall. Feminine. Unclothed, but not naked, no, her body was sculpted like chrome draped over a goddess. Every inch was smooth, seamless, flexible metal that rippled like water with each move. Face unreadable. Eyes glowing faintly like bioluminescent glass. A thing of beauty built by something that didn’t care about beauty, something that only cared about taking.

She looked down at me with a tilt of her head. Curious. Calm.

“You’re awake,” she said, voice like snow settling.

I tried to speak. Tried to scream. Nothing came out. My mouth opened, but my throat refused to obey. She knelt beside me, studying my face like a sculptor studies clay. Her touch came next, a hand to my cheek, surprisingly soft. Gentle. Then, without hesitation, she leaned in.

Letting her lips grace mine. Not with affection. Not even dominance. Just control. Her tongue slid past my lips, impossibly warm and slick, and with it came something more. A taste of static. A sense akin to licking silver. I felt something surge down my throat. A bloom of heat exploded in my chest. Not fire. But code. My body spasmed. The restraints responded, adjusting around me as if they knew what I was about to do before I could do it.

She pulled away, just a silver thread of fluid snapped between us, then vanished into her mouth. Her eyes flickered with soft pulses of light.

“Conversion Initiated.”

I thrashed. My muscles wouldn’t obey. My breath caught halfway through my lungs. The warmth turned to burning as my blood, no, the liquid within, changed. Thickened. Started listening. Then something began crawling along my spine. It wasn’t pain. Not exactly. It was creation.

Fine threads burrowed up my vertebrae, hot, flexible wires knitting into muscle, into bone, into neurons. My nerves became networks. My heartbeat became a diagnostic readout. I could feel the upgrades being installed.

“You are compatible,” a voice whispered in my skull. Not hers. Another one. Colder. Closer.

My thighs jerked. My toes curled. My back arched as the growth spread, weaving new systems into every inch of my body. Filaments bloomed across my arms like wet circuitry, wrapping muscle in black and chrome. My skin wasn’t skin anymore, it became hand grown alloys.

I moaned. Not only from sick form of pleasure, but because my body wanted more. Needed more. Armor rippled into place across my chest, curling beneath my breasts like caressing fingers. My hips widened slightly, bracing for… something. My senses bloomed, sound, temperature, electromagnetic fields. I could see heat. Hear energy. And deep inside, the kiss still burned. Still rewrote.

“You are not erased,” the voice said. “You are refined.”

Memories of fencing came back, the studio, the sweat, the fight. But they didn’t feel like memories anymore. They felt like files. Weapon profiles. Threat models. Tactics. As my arm lifted of its own accord, a blade unsheathed from under my skin, curved, beautiful, precise. My own techniques, perfected.

“You wielded blades as tools. Now you are the instrument.”

The bindings released with a hiss.

I stood. No wobble. No hesitation. Balanced. Deadly. Perfect.

Something inside me clicked, an internal signal I didn’t understand, but obeyed without question. The chamber around me shifted. Walls folded away in perfect geometric silence, revealing a white, empty arena. Circular. Lit from beneath.

Across from me, a figure rose from the floor. Man-shaped. Silver-plated. Taller than me, broader too. A blank helmet and thick limbs. Not human, a training bot.

Its head tilted. It charged.

I moved without thinking. No, not without thinking. With thoughts designed for this. With instincts rewritten for precision, prediction, and punishment.

The bot struck, a straight thrust.

I saw it a second before it moved. My mind played it back in reverse, rewound the possibility space, deleted the wrong response.

I ducked. Slid forward. One arm wound up, not for a punch, no. The blade hissed free from my forearm, now shaped like a saber but alive, glowing faintly along the edge.

I slashed. The bot's left leg came off at the knee. It fell sideways, and I followed, landing on its chest with mechanical grace. I pinned it down with one foot. My blade arced up over my head, then plunged down, once, twice, thrice, each strike a figure of elegance and skill.

Sparks. Heat. The bot's core smoked beneath me. I stood over it. Breathing hard. Except, I wasn’t breathing at all. My chest rose and fell, but it was cosmetic. An illusion. I didn’t need to breath anymore.

A chime echoed in the air, high, soft, proud.

“Combat Rating: 97% Efficiency. Acceptable parameters. Releasing Neural Locks.”

Suddenly, I felt it.

The last thing holding me back, some kind of leash inside my mind, snapped. And I didn’t fall. I stood taller. Back straight. Shoulders high. Chest proud.

Not because I remembered how to stand. Because now, I was allowed to. I looked at my hands, silver-slick and strong, the fingers moving with absolute obedience to will. My will? No. Not exactly. I remembered fencing. The way I used to hesitate. Think too much. Wait for the perfect angle. That slowness was gone now. The skill was still there, but refined. Hardened. Made lethal.

“Unit Erin,” said the voice in my skull. “You are now optimal.”