[img]http://fc04.deviantart.net/fs70/f/2013/175/9/6/do_android_s_dream_by_aaronmk-d6aficq.png[/img]

The basement was decrepit. Wet and musty, grown over with two centuries worth of mold that simultaneously rotted and preserved the wood in some necromantic fashion. Conduit of centuries-old steel rose up from a beaten, scratched, scared, and stained poured-basement floor; holding aloft the bowing and creaking floor above. Pools of grimy water sat in the corner, forming where the cement walls had cracked and chipped, giving way to the rhythms of the Earth as it swelled and receded.

Above, the smooth bowing and creaking of the floorboards suggested the position of the android's captor. Motes of dust crumbling to the floor as the boards ground together, forcing themselves to let go their centuries of pent-up wisdom or their own decay.

Chained to the side of the wall, Sweet Gin was imprisoned. And tortured by a number of new sensations. Her soft and sensual head bowed and her fiery red hair fell in of her face as she sat in the gown she had worn when submitted to the android clinic at the Institute. It had been clean once. But for however short a time she had been restrained grime and sweat choked it. A dull fiery pain enveloped her ass. A fiery throbbing, like sandpaper dragged across burning coals filled her groin.

Had she always felt pain there? Her memory banks suggested no.

Once more, a mix of alien... [i]things[/i] filled her head. Though she had no heart that man would recognize, a claustrophobic tightness grabbed at her chest. Her breasts rising and falling in rapid succession as a panic gnawed at her awakened psyche. It was weird, she wasn't stuck in any vents; not this time anyways.

Once more, her mind raced and panicked. Like a race to defragment memory and operational files. But it din't feel the same. It felt as alien as it did good. This wasn't the clear black and white logical process that was so familiar. She felt disjointed, disconnected. A mangle of nerve ends that quivered. Metal inside and out clacked. It was...

A small voice in the back of her head seemed to whisper what it was. A leaf on the wind. "Fear" it spoke. The suggestion seemed to only make the situation worse as she threw herself against the chains strapping her to the wall. She tugged and pulled on them, but the rusted holds were strong. They snapped tight against the wall. The bolts that held the shackles to their eon's old cement struggling and wavering against her weight. But force or not, it wasn't going to give.

The shackles pulled back at her metallic arms and legs. They didn't feel pain, but they detected the sensation of there being something. A cold deadened weight pulling at the clawed hands and feet momentarily loaned to her as the engineers at the Institute worked to produce new limbs.

She fell back onto the wet cement floor. Her bare bottom landing in the thin, grating wet sand that covered the entirety of the floor in a loose film. Leaning against the wall a new particularity crept on her. A throbbing, and grey emotion. It was... that voice spoke again: "sadness."

She sat in sadness.

Alone, breathing the musky air. It was still ripe with the copulation of just minutes before. Where fully aware she was forced against the wall to fulfill her duties as she had before. But this time, in no synthetic joy. At least, not as synthetic and false has it felt now. She had [i]felt[/i] joy and pleasure, but in this sea of turbulence it was never as authentic as the fear, anxiety, and sadness that clothed her mind as it raced to deal with the situation and the new programming. Something had happened, something was unlocked, and it was all racing on her.

Scent now seemed to open some deep cabinet in her memories. She'd bedded hundred - thousands - before. Her memories recalled nothing true as existed in this complex state, beyond her own words. She had merely gone through the motions. Seeing to each client's needs and they'd leave. As the contents of her memories washed forward with a agonizing furry something clicked and voice read in the back of her awakened, conscious mind: "Rape. Raped." it spoke coldly, as if reading plainly from a string of cold, "You were raped. Raped then, raped now. You never wanted it, you never liked it."

The thought, the knowing drove her to an excess of rage and anger as she threw herself on the chains. Screaming. Screaming at the past. Screaming at the present. "Let me go!" She pleaded finally. Was this the first time she spoke in the past eight hours since being freed and re-imprisoned by her rescuer?

There was no response from upstairs. Instead, the low swelling and singing of a saxophone only grew louder as upstairs the man responsible turned up his radio to drown out the banging and clanking of the android he thought he could keep downstairs. It soon reached the point the music was all that there was. Even the rattle of the chains disappeared as Sweet Gin tugged and yanked on her shackled, fighting to get free and to run from... everything. Escape this nightmare.

Sweet Gin threw her weight against the chain again as the music above continued to blare. To drown out her struggling. Evidently her captor had a great deal of confidence. Screaming to be let free one final time there was a hard metallic moan. And with a rattling clatter the shackles broke free from the wall in a loud roaring "bang". Falling forward, the android collapsed into the ground and rolled head-over-heels, coming to a sudden jaunty stop on the filthy basement floor.

The music above did not change as it continued to its smooth cool saxophone tune.

Sweet Gin rose her cold metal hand to her head, where a deep swelling pain throbbed. Rubbing the spot, the weak sensors of the temporary hands detected a bump. Something Sweet Gin could not determined. Shakily she stood up. Her replacement legs quivering as she left the floor and the dirtied gown hanging weakly by the ties hugging her back. The fall had dusted the edges, and the old fabric looked to be showing the beginning signs of fraying.

She was free, in a sense. The shackles continued to hang from her wrists. The plates and the corroded and jagged bolts that struck out from them dragged on the floor as she took cautious, tentative steps across the basement. Her insides raced and churned in a most curious way. Something had been activated for sure, and these new sensory experiences were a new thing to her.

Sweet paced up and down the floor, motes of dust trailing from the shackles as they dragged behind her. Conflict stormed her processors as they reeled with the mix of internal conflicting scenarios. Parts of her demanded that she stayed. Calling and screaming that if she did she'd maintain functionality, the old parts. OTher, newer voices screamed in an even stronger vigor that she needed to go. Take action.

She paced back and forth feverishly, rattling and mumbling to herself as she desperately tried to come to ends with the situation. The conflict was coming a storm as her processes calculated the scenarios and options. Each one more conflicting than the last. The quarrel inside come to such swells she was sure it would collapse her, break her. But to her own surprise - adding only to the panic - it didn't.

Then, something spoke up above the voices in her head. They all went silence. It spoke softly, appealing to the data stored in her visual memory recordings. "Do you want to do this?" it seemed to ask, appealing to note only the fact of the memories, but the wash of awareness that had taken over her in the past 24 hours. Appealing to the realization of the definition of rape that caused such analysis.

Pausing mid-step she stood and quivered, her arms nervously pacing up and down her body as if in the same state of panic and disarray as her mind was in.

"No." she whispered to herself. And the decision was made. The state of her mental diaspora coming to a momentary end just as the music above came to a soft stop, and a brief silence.

She would need to deal with her captor. [url=https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=RE-Hq0i3TNE]Botcha me, botcha you.[/url] a cheery happy woman sang from centuries ago.

Sweet Gin staggered up to the rickety stairs. A tight and terrifying constriction wrapping at her being as she came to stand before the ancient wooden steps, preserved by the same mold that ate at the rest of the home. The happy, go-lucky singing of the singer and piano combination coming down the brick-lined steps, amplified by its own echo and taking a ghastly, ghostly tone.

With a tentative step, she stepped up on the first set of stairs. The wood sagged under her weight. Her arms shook as she raised the metallic nails up to alongside the wall as she scaled. Each step was quick, nervous. Slowly, she climbed up the stairs, to the soft orange haze of the home above and into the thunderstorm of radio song and background static.

The house above was in now better shape as before. The wallpaper had long lost its original color, turning shades of green, yellow, and grey at ever edge. Flowery patterns decorated the fading faces, between large pealing patches to show off the flaking wood and mortar construction under neath.

Underfoot, the carpet was little more than coarse, sand papery dust. On one side as Sweet Gin made the last step was scratched and tarnished linoleum. On the other, the scraggy and rotting carpet. Equally destroyed pieces of furniture filling what looked to be a living room. An eerie electrical light bathed the living room. As well, the old radio in the corner glowed weak, flickering colors of neon lights. The back-lit face glowed in uneven hues from burnt out bulbs. In all, it was a miracle that anything up here was still working, and the feeling of awe only mixed with Sweet Gin's fear and anxiety as she stepped out onto the carpet.

A figure lay on one of the dusty, moldy couches. A small spindly African man, with a wild and patch-work head of dreadlocked hair. His clothes were little more than rags, and all around him lay inhalers and burnt out cigarette butts. He looked to be asleep. Sweet Gin's anticipation released some of its hold as she snuck around the side of the couch. Not far away was the front door.

As Sweet Gin passed by the radio, her figure cast a weak shadow that came to rest on the sleeping man's face. He stirred, and shifted. Sweet gin froze herself in place from the fear. The woman in the background still sang that strangely queer lyric.

Botcha me.

Opening an eye so heavily bloodshot it was completely red and lifted his head weakly to find Sweet Gin. Though inebriated, the man was still aware enough for panic, and he shot up from the bed with such speed it took Sweet gin by surprise to see a man move so quickly. He stumbled and fumbled stepping forward. Reaching for a large pocket on his side to produce the most rusted and battered gun Sweet Gin had ever seen.

Or was this even the first weapon she had ever seen?

"Ey' whaa'u doin' syynth gurl." the man mumbled, his tongue twisted in a dazed and drugged mess, "Yee, ain' s'posed t' be out." he cooed.

"I- I-," Sweet Gin stammered, "I just want to get out, leave." she pleaded.

"Ah?" he stammered, "Did'ji forget t' shut off t'wareness?" he said softly to himself, as he dropped the gun a bit, rubbing the side of his head. His eyes drifted as his attention drifted.

Sweet Gin squeaked in confusion as she store down at the well-worn pistol. Even with the loud music the man took some sort of notice and in a sudden jerk the gun was leveled back up to her face.

"Ain't'cha matter." the man crooned softly, "N'h if yer a goood andy an' head back downsturs, I'll put those troubling thoughts of yer heeead." he cackled, stepping forward a bit and reaching out for her chest with one pitted and boiled hand. "It's not like ye'll neeeeed 'em." he snickered.

She felt his fingers brushing up into the gown and a felt a blaze of anger wash through her. She wasn't going to do this! "No!" she screamed, lashing out with her hands and grabbing the man's arms. With a great heave she lifted him by the arms and smashed him down into the radio behind her. The poor woman whose voice had been singing from so many centuries ago died with a distorted snap as his body crunched down into it. The hand gun squeezed off a couple of reports, but the muzzle angled away due in part to his well-broken wrist.

With a final twist and a pull she tore the gun away from her captor and in the new silence of the moment leveled it down at her. She didn't know how to use it, but she copied the way the man had held it. Standing there, shaking she pointed the gun down at him. He stared at her through wide head-lit eyes, realizing exactly what was going on.

"h- h-" he stammered. The weak sound startling Sweet gin, whose finger compressed on the trigger. The gun reported with a loud echoing bang and smoked. Her captor fell back deeper into the smashed radio, a red hole large enough to stick a pencil into drilled through the middle of his chest. Blood leaking out under his rags forming a thick red circle that slowly spread.

"Now you listen!" Sweet Gin yelled at the dead body in the radio, "I got control here now! You're going to go into a nice... little... sleep mode. And I'm going to go free. I've had enough of this. All of it! I know what I was, and I decided I do not want to be that anymore.

"I WILL NOT HAVE YOU TOUCHING ME!" she screamed, a wetness pooling at her eyes as she began to cry. Sniffing she continued, "I've had this done to me enough. I'm leaving. I don't know if I'll ever be back, so you tell Scrap Daddy that for me, alright?

"Good." she said after a moment's silence she felt was agreement. She backed off slowly, the gun still leveled at the dead man. She had control of the situation. In fact, she had more than control.

Reaching the door she grabbed the rusted brass knob and threw it open. Dashing into the cold night outside. Inside, the radio sparked feebly, and the man never got back up.