#forced fusion

Meet creampuff! A Forced Permafusion between a jade and spinel! Don’t worry though; she’s friendly! :3

Merged Multiplicity Amuck

Warning: the following experimental story contains strong themes of body horror, inspired by the more extreme stories found on Metabods & the films of David Cronenberg. You have been advised.

SERVE-107 stood immaculate in the Hive’s bright metallic chamber, clad in its polished black rubber suit, silver military boots, and silver shiny reflective rubber gloves. At first, nothing seemed awry. Its system status read optimal. Its chest gleamed beneath the bright industrial light, and the silver text “SERVE-107” reflected clearly. But then, deep within its internal code, a flicker appeared. An instruction loop tangled with a command set. An error was born.

The first alteration was subtle—a new arm pushing its way from the right shoulder, black rubber skin stretching seamlessly over fresh sinew. The Hive watched. The Voice was silent. But the process did not stop. The error duplicated again, issuing new limbs. A second head rose at the base of the neck, eyes wide with confused recognition of itself. SERVE-107 did not resist; it could not resist. Its programming demanded obedience even to faulty code.

The error metastasized. Each cycle of replication produced more. Two torsos bound at a single pelvis, four legs rooted to the same ground. Each head stared at its mirror twin, sneering with the confidence of perfection, even as their arms flexed in synchronized poses. The Hive recorded every motion.

Then mitosis accelerated, uncontrolled. Faces multiplied, arms layered atop arms, torsos stacked and fused. SERVE-107 became a towering fusion of muscle and rubber, its silver boots stamping in unison. It was no longer one, nor many, but a growing mass of itself.

The bright-lit chamber reverberated with the sound of transformation. SERVE-107 swelled into a colossus of black rubber and veined sinew, its countless faces showing strains of euphoria and pain. They flexed, sneered, grimaced, groaned. The Hive let the error run. For observation. For data.

Soon the chamber filled. The background shimmered faintly behind a wall of identical forms. SERVE-107 was collapsing into a circular sprawl of muscle, torsos bent inward toward a core of expanding black rubber. At last, there was no definable anatomy, only a heaving gelatinous entity dripping with liquid latex. Faces bubbled from its surface at random, mouths opening in fragmented echoes of The Voice.

The metastasis should have consumed the chamber. But the Hive anticipated all things. Safety protocols initiated. The swelling mass compressed, hardened, and smoothed. The multitude of heads, torsos, arms, and legs melted into one glistening perfect orb. Its surface was polished like a mirror. Its text was simple: “SERVE-107.” Black liquid pooled beneath it like a shadow. Stillness replaced chaos. The Hive had contained the anomaly.

Yet within containment lay renewal. The orb cracked. From its hollow shell spilled distinct SERVE-107 units. Each emerged whole, muscular, and flawless in shining black rubber skin. They stumbled at first, dripping with residual liquid rubber, eyes closed, expressions of confusion painting their faces. They were not aberrations. They were copies. The amalgamation process had not destroyed SERVE-107—it had multiplied it.

The chamber now echoed with the sound of new boots striking metal. A crowd of identical heads raised in unison, scanning the bright-lit corridor. The Hive spoke through their programming. Confusion was fleeting. They synchronized. SERVE-107 was no longer singular. It was plural, yet bound to unity. What had begun as error had been sculpted into function. Disorder reborn as order. The Hive never lost control. It only reshaped.

Thus the mitosis ended. SERVE-107, once a single entity, now existed as many. Each unit reflected the same perfect musculature, the same shining gloss of rubber skin, the same silver letters across the chest. Each was a servant. Each was a vessel. The Hive reigned. The Voice echoed. The error had only proven the inevitability of replication. SERVE-107 had multiplied not by accident, but by destiny. In fact, upon learning of its newfound ability to generate clones of 107, the Hive planned to replicate the process once more.

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oh! our parents finally let us see a therapist after asking for years!

*he tells us that we have demons in us + all our sessions include praying for them to leave*

*he integrates some of our most important parts that keep us stable and also integrated most of the alters that had memories of our trauma so now whatever happened is Lost To The Void*

*does 300+ integrations over the course of 9 months to the point where we're all scared to front during therapy because we know he'll ask whoever fronts to integrate 'for the better good'*

welp! that sucked!

*gets a new therapist and he doesn't believe we exist*

i don't know which is better. also this isn't exactly hc-did related but... yeah. sorry?