What's that coming through the door? Is it a monster?

1 MINUTE BEFORE NOW

You are Eigel. You are also hungover as shit. Startling yourself awake, you hear screaming and yelling from the outside.

Pretty sure you smell smoke. Like the entire outside world is going up in flames. Then again, it wouldn’t be the first time some fucking idiot **** you to light them on fire. When was the last time? Somewhere in Old Germania? Fucking hell, you really don’t like thinking about that. Every time you do, you get this flash of images. Flesh rolling over flesh, pulsing and throbbing, calling your name over and over.

There’s a rustling of keys outside. That’s new. You’ve only ever punished one fucker dumb enough to try steal from your workshop. Wobbling to your feet, you grab a bottle by the neck, ready to give a presentation on manners to some punk.

The sound of keys turning.

You eye the robot, still standing motionless. The thing inside of you clacks with joy – yet another reason to release it upon your slut daughter. Sure, you’re not in any danger, but… you could have been.

Sound of door unlocking.

As it swings open, you charge with a loud roar.

NOW

As you swing the door open, your father rushes towards you. Arms open and smiling. No… wait… Just like…

D O M E S T I C A B U S E N O N O N O N O S C E N A R I O

The bottle barely misses you, as you throw yourself to the ground. Everything is wet. Wet and dirty. The suburban ‘what ever the hell that was’ blinks away in an instance, replaced by the same old, grimy workshop and cozy village town.

D I A L I N G L A WNONONONONONONO E N F O R C E M E N T

Stumbling for balance, your father provides ample time for you to crawl away on your hands and knees. Behind you, you see the inferno spreading across your town. The machine floats in front of the doorway, too big to enter. Doesn’t look like a stool anymore. Just a round thing, the three legs extending into infinity. Your eyes follow the outline of one. It splits into several smaller tendrils – somehow – and you manage to trace one to its destination: Mute. Then another: Jorrel. Another: Some guy you don’t know. Another: You.

With dawning horror, you exude effort in an attempt to grab onto the thing burrowing itself in your neck. What ever this thing is doing, It wont even let you attempt to rip it out. Can't even get your hands close, as if an invisible **** shoves them away.

L U C I DNONONONO S T A T ENONONONONO E X T E N D E DNONONONONO

Plan. You need a plan. Think, Shiv, think!

Thankfully, your father seems to be distracted by a tendril attempting to grapple with him. Coiling itself like a snake, it lunges for him, and he swings for it with his bottle. Watching your dad fills you with admiration.

A D J U S T I N G F O R D E N I A L

Fills you with fear. No!

D E N I A L P L E A S E S T A N D B Y F O R P O L I C E

Fills you with fear. It fills you with fear, you know. You can’t think like that. It’ll kill you. Your dad is good. He’s kind and loving.

D E N I A L P L NONONONONO F O R P O L I C E

Fills you with fear. It always has. But you needed to lie - to twist your perception - or you’d have gone mad.

D ENONONONONONONO

You can stop lying. You're already mad.

NONONO O L I C ENONO P L E ANONONONO—

With a sharp, stabbing pain, the tendril is ripped from your neck. The **** yanks you backwards, sliding across the floor. Robbington is standing a few paces from you. Plates hisses into position, rotating with violent motion, and locking itself firmly. In its hand, the tendril It tore from your neck, coils and thrashes, jerking back and forth.

“Heart palpitation detected in USER SHIVA.” Its not looking at you, not at your father, gazing out beyond the fires. It's waiting for something.

“Modulate truth by TWENTY-FIVE percent. USER SHIVA,” Robbington says, holding the tendril at an arm’s length, “This unit cannot inflict damage on another PLEASURE TECH product on its own volition.”

Outside, your dad isn’t just fighting a tendril, anymore. Several townspeople can be seen trying to reach out for him, but he keeps them at bay. At some point the bottle got smashed. Flashes of red light occasionally gleams off its jagged edges. The machine now looming above him, tendrils puppeteering the scourge of townsfolk.

It’s just a matter of time before Dad realizes it, stops swinging, and starts stabbing instead. For some reason machine isn’t releasing the others, like it did you. Doesn’t matter, there’ll be time to think about it later.

“USER SHIVA. Robots do not have feelings to consider,” Robbington reminds you. “Please call SUPPORT at ERROR if your product is defective.”

Yeah, yeah, you get the hint. Steady, you stand and make your way to THE CLOSET. With bravo and drama, you tear it open. Robbington’s sword hangs there. The sword is at least twice your size and twice as heavy, dense metal folded upon itself, meticulously maintained and kept impeccably sharp. Looking at it fills you with pride. It’s sharp. Nothing else to say. Adjectives would be wasted on it, since you’re pretty sure it’s sharp enough to cut thoughts.

You roll a castor carriage infront of it. Heave it out of its socket and, with a loud clatter, it falls onto the carriage. With a kick, you send it rolling towards Robbington.

It picks up the sword and looks at you.

Your hair matted with oil and sweat. Your skin greasy and uncomfortable. Your friends hijacked by a weird robot thing. Overall - this has been a special day in the worst way possible.

Oh, also, the whole, '**** to stop denying what terrible piece of human garbage your dad is' happened. It’s a lot to take in and – understandably - All of this makes you very upset. It makes you want to cry. It makes your skin crawl. Uncomfortable. Yeah, that describes it pretty well.

"Robbington, user Shiva is very upset." Tears burn in your eyes, but your mind is steel, your expression one of anger. Angry, mostly, at yourself for constantly making the wrong choices. You give the command, "Please, comfort me.”

Nodding, Robbington displays a looping low-res image of a wolf being beheaded.

Then It attacks.