Manifesto'd Function: Manifesto'd Destiny - Chapter 003

        I couldn't walk, so MILF Angel was carrying me. I felt relaxed, more than I had since I was saddled with Amanda VRDS. MILF Angel casually rubbed me against her.

        Probably she's just shifting my weight so it's easier on us, I thought, Right! Not that I wouldn't have accepted that, and I am not complaining.

        Amanda with DILF Angel standing behind, were waiting for us. Amanda was wearing her bra and panties, although she was mostly hidden by DILF Angel's wings wrapped around her. Downy stepped out of the squad tent, smiled the grin that said she was going hunting, for trouble.

        So we still have a guard, I thought as I glanced at Amanda and her new guardian. Amanda seemed subdued and DILF Angel looked from me to her, occasionally sending an unreadable glance to her mother.

        The Angels seem to have parceled us up, one for each, I realized, Ah well, there are plenty of cuties in the pack we rescued, not as good as either mother or daughter, but after they've been cleaned up, maybe they'll look better. While I'm greedy enough I want both our busty Angels, I'm also smart enough to know I don't need both.

        "Gene?" Amanda said.

        Calling me the name she uses when she wants something, I thought, I wonder if she realizes she's that transparent? Not that she'd call it that, she'd say she's forthright, I still call it naive.

        "Can-I-can-we-with-you," she asked timidly.

        "As long as you leave the duck tape, candles and nipple clips outside," I told her firmly, making her smile for an instant, my goal.

        "Aw!" she pouted, "You lived through it, didn't you?!" she replied with mild anger, "And it was only twice."

        DILF Angel didn't catch we were teasing, for a moment, then her mother giggled and it all fell into place for her. She began laughing too.

        The supply tent was a little crowded with the supplies and the four of us in there. Normally I sleep naked, or at most a pair of shorts. Now I had a pair of pants and a t-shirt. Amanda was wearing her panties and an oversized t-shirt. So, the Angels can clothe their partners too, I realized, Interesting. But do the clothes only last as long as the Angel is touching the target? We'd slept together like this a few times, so there was only a little awkwardness. I finally get my MILF-DILF sandwich, only Amanda is added to the mix, I thought ruefully, No offense, but talk about a mood killer!

        "Sorry I'm not as busty and playful as the girls you like," Amanda said archly as we lay down facing each other, an Angel behind each of us, and steadily pushing us together.

        "If you and I did have 'an arrangement', your family would object and disown you. I'm just a peasant after all."

        She stared open-mouthed for a moment. "If you knew who I was all this time . . . why didn't you say anything?" she asked, then tried to pull back as DILF Angel pushed her into me.

        "Frankly, I'm more embarrassed about your name than I am about mine. Did your parents think they were being cute when they named you that? Or are they naturally sadistic?" I asked, remembering an ancient song about an absent father who toughened his son by naming him 'Sue'.

        "You won't tell anyone!? Will you?!" she pleaded as she clasped her hands before her face in prayer.

        "You quit teasing me about my girls, and I keep silent about your name," I promised, getting a hug in return.

        "Deal!" She loosened her grip, but stayed in that posture, despite having MILF Angel pressed up behind me, I didn't really react. I would cuddle her when she needed human as opposed to Pokègirl companionship. However, the idea of having sex with someone more boyish than I am is a total turnoff.

        Her bad dreams came, as I expected them to. I softly told her all the lies everyone wants to hear and wants to believe are true about the universe within and without. Late in the night, I heard an occasional scuffle from the squad tent, not fighting, but the sound of Pokègirls trying to be quiet while Taming each other. That was good to hear too.

        Eventually, morning came.

---

 

        It was kinda creepy and ghoulish, but I was leading the girls back towards the complex. I frankly want to make sure the bitch is really dead, I thought, I don't know about the others. I gave them every chance to stay behind. Yet none of them wanted to be away from me, even Amanda. I turned and frowned at Amanda. "When did I become the bloody hero?" I yelled at her, "That's your job!" The girls giggled at me for a while, which is again what I wanted.

        We were some distance away from the complex, when Downy on point, signaled for us to get under cover. The girls who knew what the hand sign meant grabbed someone who didn't, and pulled them into the underbrush. A few moments later, a blimp lolled over us, moving slowly, but steadily towards our target.

        The big, red 'R' is a dead give away, I thought as I glanced at our `army`, My and Amanda's Harems can fight, but I don't know about the others. Even so, a Team Rocket blimp is too good a target to let pass, I thought as it maneuvered to land. It drew all my attention, not just because it was soft, firm, pneumatic and interestingly pointed. The gas bag's too small, I realized, It's a zeppelin, but it must use those big antigrav plates, instead of gas. Those four, big, side-mounted engines are holding it down, so they are those new, constant-operation jet engines that use fire brick instead of fuel. The whole `gas bag` must be storage and living quarters. That would make it worth stealing on its own. How nice we'll be stealing it from Team Rocket, for our `heroic endeavors`, that should make convincing our finicky, goody-goody heroes unnecessary.

        We watched as the Team Rocket types walked out. Two adult women - humans - a Team Rocket kid, two `Alpha` Pokègirls, and about twelve combat types.

        I hate fair fights, I thought, then looked my `troops` over. Skullcap and Tableau nodded, they understood what I wanted, and could serve as squad leaders. I looked at Amanda and she was staring at the airship. I looked back and realized the kid of Team Rocket was staring straight at Amanda, yet she/he hadn't drawn his/her comrades' or troops' attention to us.

        I didn't want to waste the element of surprise we had. Downy, the Angels, and our rescuee fliers took off to flank them from above. We charged out of where we were hiding.

        The Team Rocket types suddenly counter-charged, trying to attack us. However, they weren't ready for the celestial barrage from above. I picked the smaller of the two human Team Rocket types.

        Hey, who says Tamers can't fight? Amanda's taught me some. Let's stamp out Team Rocket! Hey, anybody as heavy as I am should be able to stamp out damn near anything that can't run away! I'm just not stupid enough to fight a Pokègirl!

        Of course I knocked down and trampled my target. Then I crashed into a LadyBra, who I also knocked over, but she tripped me as I did. Something yanked me up and tossed me aside. Considering I didn't break anything, it was probably Skullcap.

        Amanda was dancing with an Amazonwu, giving her a little lesson that a sword doesn't give you an automatic advantage over a quarterstaff. Tableau mindblasted her Master's opponent and the pair moved to engage another target. The other adult Team Rocket type was stalked by Flower, who'd gotten much the same training from Amanda that I had. She also had a large chunk of wood besides.

        Flower swung at the girl's shoulders, hard.

        Now Pokègirls, even 'not strong' ones like MilkTits are much stronger than most humans. If Flower had aimed at the girl's head, she would have killed her. A blow across the shoulders would have `just` broken bones and flattened her target. If her target was human.

        Flower's target staggered forward under the blow, but was more surprised than stunned. Then she grinned and turned on the MilkTit, who had a grin of her own. Flower, true to her nasty nature, converted the girl's extreme durability into a huge advantage for herself. "The Tamers are Pokègirls!" she shouted at the top of her lungs, and stepped aside.

        The eleven rescuees, who'd been fearfully holding back, a leftover from their conditioning not to harm humans, lost all reticence and reservations. They charged in and swooped, fist, feet and teeth. The women's Harems seemed to lose hope and simply surrendered. Leaving the rescuees free to vent their terror and fury on `allowed` targets . . . I ignored the screams and damp noises, and concentrated on collecting the airship.

        Even if we sell it, I thought as I charged after the Pokègirl dragging child-Rocket back to the airship. I realized that the `child` wasn't struggling as a child would. Amanda, DILF Angel and Downy circled behind to surround, while MILF Angel and I went straight in.

        Of course, ladies first, especially when they're a lot tougher than you.

        Talk about a role-reversal, I thought as we took the risky part and got between the pair and the airship. The grin on the airship pilot's face told me that her loyalty was questionable as well. But to whom? I asked myself, The `kid` or the Pokègirl? When the Pokègirl pulled a knife and laid it against the `kid's` throat, that decided things for the pilot, and us.

        "Back off or I'll kill him!" the Pokègirl threatened.

        I laughed. "I don't know him from Adam," I told her, "That's not a very good threat."

        The moment of uncertainty was all Skullcap needed. In a twinkling, the Pokègirl's knife arm was over her head at full extension, nearly being pulled out of its socket as Skullcap lifted her wrist, and pressed down on her shoulders. She trembled as she tried to hold on, then DILF Angel punched her in the stomach as hard as she could, while Amanda snatched the `kid` out of her reach and sprinted away.

        Downy shook her head at the Angel's weak and ineffective punch, she jumped up and clocked the Pokègirl, knocking her unconscious and into the woods. I turned to look if it was worth it to try and save the two ersatz Tamers. If I wanted to save them, I'd need a mop and a bucket, I thought as I signaled Kittypussy and Flower to keep the girls away from the last one. I pulled the blood-spattered girls away from further 'beating a dead horse'. One snarled at me. I snarled right back and she instantly retreated into a 'please don't hurt me' posture. I gave her a pat on the head, and continued separating them. The `Team Rocket` Pokègirls simply stared at us, not moving and not knowing what to expect. I don't know what to expect either, I thought as I glanced at Tableau. "You get anything from them?"

        "Ouch. Ouch! Don't hit me there! I surrender! mommy. Argh, gurgle."

        The PsiLady fell over, feet up in the air twitching. "Nothing useful," she explained as she climbed to her feet.

        "Check with the other one, you don't have to be gentle, and the Pokègirls, with them you do," she was about to protest when I added, "Take whoever you need to help. I want answers, so will Amanda."

        "Isn't there a magic world?" Tableau asked in a little girl voice, smiling and pouting with saccharine sweetness.

        "NOW!" I roared into her face.

        Tableau laughed at my attempt to be fierce, she picked Slinky and a couple of the rescuees. I headed back to the airship, which thankfully, was still on the ground. I got a good look at the `kid`. Something about him bothers me, I thought as I walked over to the ship, Something unkidlike about him.

        Then it hit me all at once. He's a dwarf! Torso and head are adult-size, but the arms and legs are shorter. Amanda was sitting, practically wearing DILF Angel, wings and all, like a cloak. The dwarf was a little taller than the seated and slouching hero.

        "Gene!" Amanda called, waving me over.

        I headed over, as did MILF Angel, who hadn't left my side since the initial assault. They turned to me. "Like I told your partner," the ex-Rocketeer explained, "The chemical was never for wide dispersal. We were always going to take it, kill her, and use it on a target."

        Funny, he seems more concerned that the torturer would be killed, not that all those Pokègirls would be enslaved, I thought, but let none of my emotions show.

        "What's the largest Pokègirl," the `ex-faux Rocket` member asked.

        "The Giantess," Amanda said, drawing on her encyclopedic knowledge, "Some of them reach 50 feet."

        "Attack of the 50 Foot Woman," I said with a laugh, "Sounds like a movie."

        "Bigger," the dwarf told us.

        "The Evangelion was never described, but I'd say it was 60-80 feet," Amanda considered.

        I had a suspicion growing in my guts, a terrible crawling certainty.

        "All the Second Gen Legendaries are human-sized, or not much bigger," Amanda glanced at DILF Angel and me for support or suggestions.

        The blank look on my face warned her. "There is a Legendary bigger than the Evangelion or a Giantess," I whispered in horror.

        The dwarf nodded. "That's right, they were going to use that stuff," he told us, "On Typhonia."

---

 

        I still felt sick. We'd verified that the torturer was indeed dead, but that wasn't what was bothering me. Downy was working the controls under the our G-Spliced pilot's watchful eyes, that didn't bother me either. The pilot was the only one who seemed pleased by her 'change in ownership'. Everyone else was too stunned by the revelation. While most of the others hid in the bunkrooms above our heads in the main body, Amanda and Skullcap had lost themselves in the logic and illogic of the situation.

        "Typhonia disappeared during the war," Amanda said, looking at her debating partner/opponent for confirmation.

        "Supposedly, Gendo Giovanni has her in Storage," the Alaka-Wham countered, "Awaiting `use`."

        "What I saw, I couldn't make out very well. But it was no Giantess, at least 30 meters, maybe more," the dwarf replied, he'd refused to give his name.

        That's suspicious in an of itself, I thought, Him continuously sneaking looks at Amanda isn't what has me on edge. There were always idiots who would accept that a boyish girl is the beautiful ideal, just because people told them it was so. I shuddered at the thought. "Why did they capture you?" I asked what to me seemed an obvious question.

        "I brewed up the first batch of that stuff my . . . that woman brewed up gallons of."

        'My . . . ' I thought as I continued to keep my expression neutral, I still can't figure out why I agreed to go towards the cavern, instead of away. A thousand Widows wouldn't have a chance against Typhonia, nor would anything else. Then I really focused on what Skullcap and Amanda had agreed to when Downy convinced me to go along, 'Since we aren't safe any where, going into the heart of danger is logical'. Then I laughed so hard at that thought, that MILF Angel thought I'd cough up a lung.

        "Thanks," I told her. "What are you called anyway?" I asked her, "Calling you 'Hey you' doesn't seem appropriate."

        "What do you call me?" she asked innocently, too innocently.

        God protect us from innocent questions I thought before I answered, "You must have had a name before. You raised a kid, had a husband."

        "I wish to - avoid - those memories." Her normally sunny countenance dimmed, then darkened

        I guess it wasn't just Pokègirls that bitch tortured, I realized, That was probably the Angels' first lesson in obedience. "Sorry," I apologized. I didn't want to hurt her, and I was truly sorry I had, even for a moment.

        "I can survive occasional occurrences," she replied, hugging me gently, her smile returning, "I do not wish to be reminded constantly."

        "I have a prejudice about `assigning` girls' names."

        "I'll talk to the others," she said earnestly, staring into my eyes and smiling, "AILF, perhaps . . ."

        She had to pound on my back as I nearly coughed up my other lung.

---

 

        Time passes. No accurate estimates can be made. A clear indication of damage received, this unit hears its voice in its own thoughts, The others have not returned, although their statements indicated they intended to. This unit hears a new set of voices, all unfamiliar. No, this unit recognizes one, this unit thinks, Memory search and voice recognition fail to provide the answer for far too long.

        This unit diverts most attention to the approaching conversation.

        "Look, I can wait back with the ship," the voice which is tantalizing familiar says.

        "I want you where I can watch you," a female voice replies, a voice well used to command.

        Commands to activate additional surveillance fail, orders to move hull-mounted sensor pods to bear on these newcomers also fail. This unit has tried many times to use its tractive effort, all to no avail. Even the diagnostic cannot discern if it is a fault in the drive, failure in transmission of commands, or the traction is just slipping.

        Other voices draw closer, high speed and nervous, the bulk of the voices are obviously female.

        "She's wedged in there real good," comes a male voice, more lackadaisical, but equally used to command. "Considering what she was supposed to be capable of," the male voice says, "She should be blasting her way out."

        He obviously understands my capabilities, this unit thinks.

        "Don't give it any ideas," the female who commanded replies.

        "Tableau, Skullcap," the male commands, "Get a reading."

        "Typhonia," he sighs with contempt.

        This unit's disappointment at being misidentified again is balanced by its unrest, at its inability to perform any of its design functions.

        "Typhooie!" my commander speaks this unit's name, a commander for the first time in such a long time.

        "Hello?" comes the communication on another long-silent frequency.

        I am here, this unit replies eagerly, Place me in immediate contact with my commander.

        "She's awake," a female voice, similar to the transmission voice says, "She wants to talk to her commander."

        "Sukebe's long dead," my commander replies.

        He is my commander, this unit transmits along the frequency.

        "She seems to think you are her commander," the voice tells my commander.

        "You've got to be kidding!" my commander vehement replies.

        This unit wants to assure my commander this unit is not.

        "She isn't," came another voice, "What's the matter? Not big enough?! Those aren't melons, they're mountains!"

        My commander's reply is hopelessly garbled. When transmission clears, and everyone else quits laughing, the first voice, more pleasant and feminine continues, "She's in desperate need of 'depot maintenance'." She proceeds to run down a list of this unit's estimated requirements. "Diagnostics are offline, so she's guessing," she repeats the last entry in the log.

        "How do we get diagnostics back on line?" my commander asks as this unit dreads the answer. Perhaps he is a fraud . . . or he was informed this unit was fully combat-ready, this unit realizes.

        He's daunted by the disconnect between what he expected and reality, comes the pleasant voice transmitting to this unit, There are enemies at the gate, but there are other concerns.

        This unit falls silent, trying again to feed power to the audio, which seems to be the only sensor system functioning properly.

        "She says that they have to be manually reset from inside her fighting compartment."

        "Okay," my commander answers, "Where's that?"

        The harsher voice answers, "Where do you think? All you have to do is crawl in!"

        My commander's response is clearly garbled again, coming in and out of phase and changing radically in pitch.

        Yet this unit can hear the other's laughter clearly, this unit considers.

        "Typhooie?" comes the female used to command, "I assume you can hear us, but you cannot see us?"

        "That is correct," one of the voices repeats this unit's response.

        "Your commander is a technical expert, and generally oversees rescue and evacuation operations, while I command the line infantry. Do you understand?"

        "This unit understands clearly," comes the repetition of this unit's answer, "How does he stand in the chain of command?"

        "We cooperate under normal circumstances, but a line officer occasionally has to roar, even at a nominal superior. He is in undisputed command in matters of repair, technical expertise, rescue and evacuation. In combat, I command. However, he is your commander," she explains, "We were expecting a derelict that could be salvaged or scrapped, not a damaged unit for recovery. Therefore, the chain of command might get . . . complicated."

        "He is my commander, but you command the line infantry?" this unit's question is relayed while this unit considers. Perhaps the female is regular military, and the male is local militia, or even a civilian contractor of 'nominally' higher rank.

        "Under all but extraordinary circumstances, but our command is - was only a squad. We rescued half a platoon and are still incorporating them. I can guarantee that things will be confused for some time. Our primary Op orders are anti-terrorism and law enforcement sweeps."

        "So your arrival was to prevent me from falling into enemy hands?" this unit's question is relayed.

        "Essentially, yes," the woman tells me, "The tech teams are going to attempt entry into your fighting compartment. I can guarantee numerous anomalous sensory readings will occur. Please do not react to them. If the disruption becomes acute, tell us and we will cease activity."

        "Understood." This unit does not understand why this unit cannot hear my commander and his tech teams. This unit should have monitors at the entrance to its fighting compartment, this unit thinks as it listens.

        "We'll all get crushed," my commander argues.

        It bothers this unit that my commander has reservations about his safety and the safety of his team. Fool! Condition, damage, operational antipersonnel defenses are unknown at this time, this unit chides itself, His concerns might be wholly justified.

        "Master, have I ever crushed you?" another female voice soothes, "That isn't how we were made, you've never heard of the types needing restraints for Taming needing those kinds of restraints."

        What are they talking about? this unit desires to ask, but holds silent.

        "Okay, okay," my commander sounds defeated.

        That worries me, this unit thinks, then I feel the . . . sensations, I should not be reacting like this. I am glad so little is under direct control. I feel like particle beams crawling over my surface. Although, not unpleasant but . . . unexpected.

        Somehow I feel my commander and one of his techs reach my fighting compartment, while the remainder of his technical team continue to move through the access way, up and down. I cannot imagine why their passage should elicit such a reaction, I think, I desire to move, to both relieve and intensify these sensations, yet I can only hope my commander is manipulating my systems to bring them on line.

        Abruptly the sensations intensify to an almost unbearable degree.

        There is no danger! I think as the sensation become both unbearable and transcendent, increasingly disturbing and illogical thoughts accompany the pleasant sensations running through me. Their intensity and increasing frequency, as well as the utter illogic of the thoughts accompanying them make it more and more difficult to think clearly.

        Is this what is restoration of function? I want to ask, but can barely frame the question.

        Then there is blackness, transcendence and comprehension that all is not as expected.

---

 

        It was all Amanda could do not to laugh at the bedraggled and saturated group. I'm glad I sent Slinky back for clean water and towels, she thought as she hid her smile, then shook her head, The scent is overpowering.

        Eugene seems extremely subdued. Tableau opens her mouth to taunt him, Amanda thought as she shot a warning glance at the PsiLady, who fell silent. Ancient Lords! What's in that stuff? If Eugene decided to bottle it, the profits could let him kill himself with wine and women in a year.

        "I just want to be clean," Eugene complained, "I'm glad all these Taming stories where Pokègirls just gush, are just stories, or we would have all drown." A little bit of his old self reappeared, but it vanished as soon as he saw how miserable his loyal girls were.

        It would serve you right if I left you like this, she contemplated the punishment he deserved, anything to keep from giggling or guffawing at their predicament, For kicking me, and what you said afterwards. Even if you were right, Amanda considered her ally, and herself, Except, I can't do that to anyone.

        "Are you going to explain what you were saying before?" Eugene asked, he started to shake himself off, then froze, standing there miserably as the fluid slowly dripped off him, "All that military stuff?"

        "Tableau told me this is pre-Sukebe. It - she - that is, she's some kind of ancient war machine. Maybe you could figure out all the systems and technology, but I can't. So I explained the hierarchies, chains of command, etc. That part I do understand."

        "It's all organic," he said as he let Tableau empty a bucket of water over his head without complaint.

        Then Amanda spotted her Angel in the same condition as Eugene and her mother. "Shadow! What did you do?"

        For a moment the Angel looked embarrassed, then miserable. "I could not abandon those in need," she explained skittishly.

        Amanda just shook her head. She always has to help . . . now isn't that the Clydesdame calling the Ponytaur a horse-type? "Okay." She clapped her hands. "All of you outside and wash up," Amanda ordered, then noted the slack, almost-drooling expressions on all the Pokègirls who didn't go into 'the access way' towards those who did. "No Taming for anybody until they wash off!" she ordered and tried to keep from looking at Eugene and thinking nasty thoughts about Taming him, and if he objected so much the better. She shook her head to clear it. The smell must be getting to me too, she thought, I'm hardly his type and I know he'd say 'no'. I can't imagine actually forcing myself on him.

        She noticed the Boobcat was keeping her distance from all the other members of her Harem, looking mournfully sad at being soaked to the skin.

        "Let them pass, and let them be!" It was an easy order to follow, most of the girls were absolutely mesmerized by the smell.

        The stream was the scene of serious washing, and serious watching. Every bit of concealment on either shore had a Pokègirl in it. All staring at the naked flesh being soaped and rinsed. The ones in the bushes got more lathered than the ones in the stream.

        I just hope the smell doesn't attract too many Buzzbreasts, Amanda thought as she watched. The Team Rocket man had escaped, but without the airship or any Pokègirls, so Amanda wasn't worried. He'll get eaten, or he'll contact his confederates. Either way, we'll be out of here . . . and Eugene won't realize the man was helping that horrid woman torture all those girls. She, and all the other females, were disappointed when a splash fight didn't arise. But the `spelunkers` trooped out of the stream into towels held by waiting Pokègirls, and silently headed to the airship where clean bunks awaited them. SkyCaptain, there's going to be a contest for dominance, Amanda thought, She certainly isn't going to accept the loose alpha-less structure of the two Harems. More problems for later, and the way she keeps looking at Eugene . . . well she's hetero, that much I know.

        "Boss," Slinky said as she sidled up to Amanda, "We gots problems, one problem, kitting problems alla time."

        "What's the main problem?" Amanda asked the Lamia.

        "We's done outta Pokèballs, them Ferals they's keep driftin' in. Me 'n some of th' Rocket bunch, we's catch'em all," the Lamia shook her head sadly, "Too many, too many. We gots all your'n all'n boy's, all'n those who we got at th' lab. Onna Team Rocket boat, there's gots to be more others. We can't find, not me nose, not SkyCaptain's memories."

        That's more than 50 balls! Amanda let her finish, to give herself a moment to comprehend it all, then she was at a dead run. If there are more .. . how many?! We don't have a combat force, we've got a cadre, a traumatized pack of survivors, and a pack of unknowns. Maybe SkyCaptain can control them, but against a determined assault? If we can't find more balls, or get the ship airborne!

        "Everyone back aboard!" she shouted as she entered the pilots' control room. Mad B was at the pilot's chair, watching the gauges and dials.

        "She's up there searching," the Sapphron told her Master.

        "Do you know enough to get us up and out of here?" Amanda asked as she climbed into `the gas bag`.

        "Yes, Master, hard time keeping it down," Mad B assured her as Amanda left the cabin.

        The phoney gas bag was lit by glowing crystals, giving an eerie half-light. The structure seemed absurdly massive. Except all this mass is the lifting structure, she thought as she searched, So every pound makes lift, so of course you built it solid and tough enough to make a tank jealous. The skin's probably armor plate too, so we can fight. Down the main corridor, Amanda could see a flashlight playing over the cargo. Amanda headed in that direction. She briefly considered the Tamer's cabins. Slinky and Mad B would have gone through them first, Amanda realized, If for no other reason than to make the beds for our comrades. So unless they had a stealth safe, the Pokèballs would have to be in the cargo hold. Then she had a terrifying thought, If there are anymore on board.

        "Where have you searched?" she called to the human-looking Pokègirl pilot.

---

 

        This unit has recovered full processing capabilities. Once the initial shock receded, this unit returned to a modicum of functioning.

        "Other than lacking the ability to consider this unit as anything other than 'This Unit'." Vocalization, and external loudspeakers on line and functioning, although not fully under conscious control. The lack of other damage to linguistics systems disturbs this unit, and the apparent, although undetectable, damage to volition systems disturbs this unit.

        Additional analysis of the new configuration required an interminable 2137 seconds. Although, accuracy demands this unit remember that an exceptional 7 entire seconds were required for the initial diagnostic, and three repetitions of all tests, requiring the same unbelievable seven seconds each, to verify beyond reasonable doubt that the tests were accurate and that the anomalies initially reported were exactly duplicated, within acceptable error margins. The remaining time was required to prevent damage and the in-depth analysis of possible reasons for this anomaly. Including, but not limited to, enemy action, e.g. interrogation, severe disruption of sensory systems and attached analysis subsystems, in humans: hallucinations, the occasional errant signal process caused by incomplete memory purge/reorganization during upgrade, in humans: dreams. Tests by legitimate command and authorities in resisting either enemy action or battle damage., i.e. instilling a seeming psychosis, then monitoring the unit for adaptive and aberrant behaviors. The last seems the most likely, this unit thinks, then admits, and the least unsettling. My commander and elements of his maintenance crew returned me to full functioning. I must as . . . I am again able to refer to myself in the first person, rather than the third. Additional clarity in processing has returned. The additional possibility occurs to me, that I was decommissioned, and used in an experiment in cybernetic systems, or an entirely organic computer system.

        The other element that defies simple analysis, is the blatant violation of the square-cube law. "Doubling an object's size or volume," I say, as much to verify the correct functioning of my vocal apparatus, as to confirm that the illusion or reality is complete, "Increases its mass by the cube, eight. While the strength only increases by the cross-sectional area of the supports, the square, in this case four." I begin modulating my voice seeking a tone my commander would find pleasant. Fascinating, why would I wish to do that . . . ? Except I do, and it seems extremely important to me, as if mere duty and the chain of command were insufficient for myself and my commander.

        I continue, changing my voice as I speak, "A simple problem of increasing volume/mass versus increasing area/strength." I check my intended explanation against what my auditory sensors picked up, I find both a perfect match and find the reasoning valid. If I am 30 meters tall, I should not be able to move under my own power, I analyze, Yet, I can move, and while my strength is not as great as 3375 nor 225 times a human's strength, it is almost 2/3'd of the latter figure, assuming a healthy human female as a start point.

        Perhaps this is the reason, some form of structural reinforcing field, I consider, And they need to test both human physiology and cybernetic psychology under long term exposure. With available senses/senors, I cannot detect any energy flow. However, if the power drain were sufficiently high, this body should have starved to death before my commander arrived. Unless I have a secondary power source different from normal humans.

        I detect the sounds of battle outside. I am frustrated by my inability to differentiate the voices to absolutely verify that my commander or the technical team are engaged, and by what?

        I take a full 5.3 seconds to examine the stone and packed earth over me. If this is not specifically reinforced to hold a unit like me, I should penetrate it with little damage. I am further irritated that I cannot call up a listing of either weapons options or available ammunition. This lack seems a serious design flaw, or a deliberate omission. I cannot conceive that I would not have had point-defense clusters included at the very least, I consider as I place my hands against the rock and press upward. The brute force available is hampered by the lack of leverage my state and posture force upon me. More tractive effort is not available. I spend 2.4 seconds deciding that while not possessed of my warhull, I should be more that capable of forcing myself out of the place I am imprisoned. Besides, it is the best way to truly test the new structural integrity field, I think logically, then irrational doubts occur, Why should I be concerned about cosmetic damage such an attempt might inflict? The reticence towards my clear duty, merely to defend my physical appearance, has no rational basis. Never the less, it consumed a full 0.7 seconds of the debate, and I feel unease still. I suspect there are substantial flaws in the new technology that will need to be addressed.

        I force myself up through the earth and rock, proving my tegument is not as delicate as a human's. I receive extensive, although not serious damage to my outer covering and warning reports from numerous muscle groups that they have been overstressed. Why does the first seem so much more important than the second, I wonder, The latter affects my war-fighting capabilities, the former does not. I reason that the damage is not sufficient to force withdrawal for repairs, or to cease my mission. Although the desire to affect merely cosmetic refurbishing remains inexplicably strong.

        Humans and semi-humans are engaging a smaller but more organized group of semi- to full humans defending a zeppelin. I know from previous experience that mere size is often an effective intimidator. Since I lack any of my standard weapons, or at least access to them. Physical attacks are all I have, besides intimidation. I drop a hand between the two groups and draw it back, scooping out a trench nearly 1.5 meters deep and as wide. While this stuns the attackers, it also has a similar effect on the defenders. Combat ceases on both sides as they analyze me for potential threat.

        While not the outcome I desired, I consider, It is adequate. I continue to create the trench around the attackers. When one of them bares claws and takes a challenging pose, a flick of my finger sends it flying back, knocking over almost a dozen others. The others hiss and cuff at my target, who subsides, accepting defeat or at least a cease-fire.

        "Okay, you caught'em, what are you gonna do with'em?" my commander's voice calls from the airship's loudspeaker.

        "I await your orders," I reply automatically. I know my duty. Odd though, how hearing his voice, knowing that he's near is comforting, I thought, adding to the bizarre and sensuous thoughts of more intimate contact with my commander, I will have to report this, along with a barely suppressible urge to seize my commander and feel his flesh in contact with my own. Extremely disturbing.

---

 

The Tamers
Eugene
Amanda

`Eugene's` Harem
MilkTit - Flower
Seraph - Downy
Alaka-Wham - Skull Cap
Boobcat - Kittypussy
`AILF` - Angel

`Amanda's` Harem
Lamia - Slinky
DigTitTrio - BoobyTrap
PsiLady - Tableau
Sapphron - Mademoiselle Bouillabaisse 'Mad B'
Shadow - Angel