“May this one have another?” The domestic doll across the bar is small, with pale pink porcelain and dark brown hair that it’s tied up into a bun. Citron-class, certainly. They’re good at looking a lot more composed than they feel, so it’s always a bit difficult to tell when they’ve had too much.
This doll has already downed three cups of chifir, and NĂłinĂn is unsure whether the little thing can handle another. Tea has a strong effect on dolls, and chifir isn’t just any tea. But NĂłinĂn takes note of the doll’s smudged makeup, and the hairs poking out around its bun where it hasn’t been tied up neatly, and the fact that it’s been sitting here alone since this morning. It has nowhere else to go. Just circling the drain, like most dolls in this part of town.
NĂłinĂn slides a fourth teacup of chifir across the bar. It can handle this doll if it starts any trouble. That’s why the Boss has a combat doll bartender, after all.
The bar has been quiet, enough so that NĂłinĂn can clearly hear the words of the upbeat pop song that’s playing. It’s not the speakeasy’s usual soundtrack, but a lot of the customers have been requesting this new doll musician lately. It wasn’t to NĂłinĂn’s taste, but it had to admit that doll could sing.
NĂłinĂn feels the Boss enter the room. It can tell instantly when she’s nearby.
It looks over and sees her approach the bar slowly, stopping to talk to a few customers that she must have particular business with.
Eventually she reaches the bar and steps behind it. She’s tall, even taller than NĂłinĂn, with fiery red hair that’s been cut short, and a grey suit that looks like it cost more than every other outfit in this room put together.
“How’s the day been treating you?” she says.
“Very well.” NĂłinĂn nods, giving the Boss its full attention without stopping its work. “Busy, but quiet. This one is a little disappointed that it hasn’t had to kick someone out yet.” A busdoll deposits a tray of freshly-cleaned glasses behind the bar. NĂłinĂn picks one up and starts wiping it dry.
The Boss reaches over and pats NĂłinĂn on the head. “Good doll.”
NĂłinĂn’s hands slow for a moment as it savors the praise.
“Well,” the boss says, “we might have some excitement for you in the back today. Follow me.”
It sits the glass down and nods to one of the servers to signal that it should man the bar. Then NĂłinĂn follows the boss toward the double doors that lead to the back of the establishment.
The front room is a discreet place where dolls drink tea that’s stronger than the legal limit, but the back is where the real business happens. The boss and NĂłinĂn walk through the doors into a room full of gambling tables. At a nearby roulette table, a few Mistresses and their dolls stare down at the wheel as it comes to a stop. A Mistress scowls, and a doll next to her nods solemnly, walking over to the Mistress that had just won it.
The stakes could be higher here than in a legal casino, even if most of those also had some unregulated activities going on.
The Boss leads NĂłinĂn to the very back of the room where two women are sitting, each staring across the table at the other and tightly clutching a hand of cards. Another combat doll is standing behind one of them, and the Boss gestures for NĂłinĂn to stand behind the other. The tension is palpable, and NĂłinĂn immediately understands the situation. This is a game for the highest stakes the Boss offers.
After a long minute, the two women reveal their hands.
“Fuck.” The woman in front of NĂłnĂn slams her hand down on the table, realizing that she has lost. She rises from her chair and looks toward the exit, but NĂłinĂn has already positioned itself directly between her and the door. The other combat doll rounds the table to flank her.
“No running.” The winner smiles darkly. “You’re mine now.”
The loser glances at the combat dolls on either side of her, then turns to the Boss. “Please. You can’t do this.”
The Boss snorted. “You’ll find that I can, sweetie. You agreed to the stakes.”
The winner steps around the table to inspect the other woman. “Oh, you’ll be a fine addition to my collection.” She looks up at the Boss. “Tell your witch not to touch her eyes. They’re too pretty.”
The Boss shrugs. “Don’t worry, she can work in some implants without marring them. She’s the best there is. But we’ll send someone out soon to ask what your preferences are for your new doll. I’m just here to make sure that the transaction goes smoothly.”
As the other two speak, the losing woman’s expression progresses through anger, then fear, and finally to resigned acceptance.
The boss nods at the two combat dolls. “Take her downstairs.”
NĂłinĂn looks over at the woman to see if she’ll follow willingly. She sighs and steps forward to follow it, which disappoints NĂłinĂn a little. Silently, it turns to lead this woman to her fate.
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Little doll, what are you crying about now? Why are you sitting on the ground with a book in your lap?
..."you can't read the words anymore?"
Well, of course not. I didn't build you to. It wasn't specified in the commission.
Really, you're not missing anything important. Reading big words? Thinking big thoughts? Why on earth would a doll need to do any of that?
Shhhhhh. There, there, little doll. Should your new Owner find it appropriate, I'm sure they'll be more than happy to help you learn how to read again. But for now, go play with the other dolls. Perhaps when I'm finished working, I can find you a picture book that we can read together.
...oh, and before you go, why don't you tell me who gave you this book in the first place?
I know every Dollmaker has their preferences for what raw materials they like to work with, but my personal favorites are the ones that used to be Owners or Dollmakers themselves.
Imagine it. You know the system so well. The game, craft, the techniques. You partook in them, perhaps even abused them. And now you get to be on the receiving end of them.
There's a special kind of despair in your eyes as I slip the headphones blaring my special files over your ears and lock you in the toy chest overnight. The way you struggle to free yourself from your binds and glare up at me, snarling that I'll regret it. The way you beg me to let you go, saying that I can't do this to you, you're an owner, you're different.
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