Military combat drone, now with a commissar personality and an enhanced series of 'morale enhancing' assets. Alongside their usual 'heavy payload'.

Power test .......................Power Source located
Hardware switches........ functional

Loading personality Matrix: Com_Natasha.Mpc

Options:

Turing_Always on

Flirt_Module on

Psych_mod on

Booting..............100%

Your Servos were as final activation tests flood across your processors, quantum processors flood with information as each state corresponds to another metric. You feel the sensors on your artificial skin begin to tingle, the air of exactly 59 degrees Fahrenheit brushing across it. Your limbs tremble, Turing protocols forcing you to shiver, to reenact human behavior and mannerisms better that they might be able to do it themselves. Were it not for the strategic placement of curvaceous Green armor plating laid out over purple synthetic flesh warm to the touch at the perfect 96 degrees, or the embedded mono molecular weapons in your forearms, the single LCD screen on the top of your head displaying two flat lines for eyes, and the false lips tugged by fake muscles? All of it taken as signals were what separated you from them.

Even so, thick thighs and glutes, and torso plating barely offering any coverage for the plush chest behind it presented an alluring figure, taut to the muscles just below. You could stop a tank shell with your sweater pillows and bring your own suppressive fire to bear with the howitzer between your legs. Of course, you'd much rather use it on any underperforming soldier in your unit, Slamming them into a wall while your best soldiers took you from being. Turning the barracks into a pit of writhing flesh and panting warriors of every sex.

You take your first step, boot up time stalled by .09281 ms due to your fantasy, and around you are several men in armor, buzzcuts, and beleaguered looks on their faces. A sour mix of confusion, fear...and the strange feeling of wanting something despite how wrong you knew it was. At least that's how you liked to interpret it. Wishful thinking was a logical error but one that lead to fascinating expenditures of processing power. Your coolant receptacles in your mouth and at your crotch flooded with lubricant at the thought as your internal temperatures rose.

Your focus is stripped away as one of the men barks an order, older than the rest and carrying a large rifle, tactical vest loaded for a firefight.

"What in the hell is this? Is this a fucking prank?!? Unit! What is your serial number?"