[Story] Subject 1R-14 - Rebirth

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[Story] Subject 1R-14 - Rebirth

Postby MysteriousShadow » Wed Aug 22, 2018 1:13 pm

It's been long. Too long since I posted a story here. I've been working on various things outside the purview of this website, but I still feel a calling to post stories about fembots and gynoids here as I come up with ideas.

So, here's a conversion fic I just whipped up. There's no specifically naughty bits in it, nothing too explicit or in the vein of mekabare, but I think you guys might appreciate it.


---

The first thing she remembered about that fateful night was the sunset.

She really couldn't forget it; the way the hues of coral pink, periwinkle blue, and vermillion orange tinged the sky, fatefully fading into the remnants of violet and black on the horizon, the clouds massing in clumps that made them look like puffs of cotton torn from the stuffing of the world's largest loveseat, stained with the colors of dusk.

It was beautiful, and poetic, in a sense. This sunset was the last she'd ever see with the eyes she was born with. When the night would be over, by that time, she'd be watching the sunrise in high fidelity, unobstructed by things like the disease running through her body.

She stood there on the balcony for a while, admiring the way the sun dropped down before disappearing from view, God's little lanterns twinkling on and off in the heavens. Behind her, the ediface of the grassy knoll poked out over the sheer cliff face below.

This was a fateful night, indeed. The culmination of her life's efforts to combat the muscular disease that was starting to claim her. She couldn't stand for a while like this without support, and the railing was enough for a moment.

She stepped back and sat down in the wheelchair behind her, rolling into the laboratory room as the shutters to the balcony closed.

Iria Montague, the head scientist of Montague Cybernetics, was ahead of her time. She had made quite a bit of money off her prosthetics, manufacturing them at reduced cost thanks to integrating sophisticated processes for manufacturing artificial skin and plastic platings with new plant-based polymers, in conjuction with her grandfather's grants to produce new ways of farming trees and crops for the purpose of restoring the environment. Almost eighty-seven percent of her profits went to NGOs dedicated to cleaning up the oceans, recycling the massive dredges of refuse in the Pacific and repurposing those plastics in new biodegradable formulas to reduce the impact humans were having on the environment.

Of those profits, amazingly, the remaining thirteen percent was exclusively reserved for the licensing costs and tariffs to pay for the titanium and carbon fiber composites used in the skeletal structure of her prosthetics; any and all precious metals used for circuitry and servo components was salvaged whole cloth from electronics landfills she had bought and leased as a youth. Factories for her used sophisticated new procedures for alloying and purifying metals in environmentally-friendly crucibles and factories operating off geothermal energy.

Iria strongly believed that humanity could clean up the mess they had started, and by far and large, she was doing everything she could to further that goal; but one day, five years ago, she had a bad back spasm that almost paralyzed her. Nobody could pinpoint the exact cause why until she went through physical therapy to recover. By that point, three months into the procedures, they found it.

A wayward glitch in the cell walls of her neuromuscular makeup, that's what it was. A degeneration of the mitochondria operating the cells, breaking down in the nucleus, causing a chain reaction where her immune system, it began attacking her muscles. Or something like that.

Truth was, it didn't matter the cause, only the effect remained. Iria had begun to suffer, and after five years, she was ready to close the cover on this chapter of her life and move on.

She rolled over to the tub in the center of the room. A couple scientists under her personal tutelage were ready for her as she stood up, taking off all of her clothes. Now stark naked, she submerged herself in the biopolymer solution, a clear gel-like plasma in the tub, and lay down in it. The artificial; oxygenation of the solution meant she could breathe as the procedure began.

The scientists plugged away at the computer terminals hooked up to the tube as several mechanical arms pivoted from the ceiling, the servomechanical motions whirring away in subdued notion as a grid overlaid itself holographically on Iria's body. Lasers lit up on the ends of the arms, tracing patterns into her skin, literally burning circuit patterns and pathways across her body; the biopolymer reduced the pain and swelling, and Iria flinched regardless, wincing as the intense tingling across her skin felt like needles stabbing into every inch of her flesh. Her barely-bald head, stubby brown hair shaved close to her scalp, tilted backwards.

After a few minutes, the lasers stopped, complete pathways drawn, punctuated by several burn marks in her upper arms, breasts, hips, outer thighs, and ankles. The lasers served to organize and denote the path for the next phase to follow.

The arms retracted back to their points in the machine above as jets of neon orange fluid, a specialized version of nanorobotics, injected themselves into the tub. They instinctively found the points in Iria's body burned into her skin and traced themselves into the marks, where they then lit up along the pathways through her skin and muscles. From these lines, when the biopolymer turned clear once more, the nanorobotics spread across her body, turning her entire form a pure neon shade of orange, her body frame now seemingly like a silhouette, like a neon sign hanging out above some seedy bar somewhere.

Her stubby hair began to fall out. Her flesh glowed, changing at the cellular level, into a sophisticated array of mechanical synth-flesh. Her eyes changed, coating themselves in an emerald green crystal, the vitreous fluids mechanizing into camera systems through a process Iria designed herself.

More drastic changes began to form. Seams across her shoulders, her wrists, her legs and thighs, and across her belly, began to come into being. Her hair started to grow back, this time raven black, with threads of fiber-optic cable throughout, whip-thin, lighting with an array of rainbow color. The burn marks were no longer visible, the orange glow fading to a rich sandy tan.

The scientists watched as the procedure entered its final stages. Below the base of her skull, a silver metal port began to rip its way into the forefront, poking through her skin, revealing a shimmering stainless steel cabling that formed her new spinal cord. LEDs lit up in emerald green across the spine of her back through the skin, and from the bottom of the tub a metal coaxial spike plugged itself into the port on her skull. Data transferred itself into the automaton body; rudimentary programming for her BIOS, then the operating system and autonomy drivers after that.

After a while, the coaxial spike unplugged itself, and retracted into the tub. The biopolymer drained as she sat up, curling her legs into her chest. She poked her left leg out, and slid her hand down the side of it, feeling the sensation of the synth-flesh on the black polymer sensor pads that now formed the tips of her fingers. She held her hand up to her face and admired the pads, touching them, her face lighting up in glee as the LEDs lit up in green behind the black polymer, illuminating it with the touch of her fingers.

She looked down, curiously, at her nipples, now gone, and further down, at her crotch. The paneling was smooth there, a module of black flat polymer between her legs. Like a cat she daintly touched the sensor, rubbing it as it lit up in response to her touch. She traced a circle in the sensor before poking her finger in, watching the path of the light fade away into a point as she pushed in. The sensor gave gently to a gel-like consistency, her finger submerging itself, sending waves of pleasurable sensory data throughout her body.

She stopped for a moment and pulled herself to her feet, motioning for a scientist to move a mirror into view. From the mirror, she could see she no longer had a mouth; the only traces of her face were the two emerald green camera eyes, the point of a nose--no nostrils--and a beauty mark under her left eye tracing down.

"Fascinating," She heard herself say, and noticed the fidelity of her voice, crisp and synthesized, a slight buzzing in her vocals. It came from the breast of her collarbone, where there was now situated an emerald green triangle gem framed by a wire of stainless steel polished to a chrome consistency.

She watched the way her short black hair, strands of fiber optics now shining in a solid green, bobbed in the mirror as she turned every which-way, flexing like a cat on a fence in the moonlight of an alleyway. Iria--or rather, the gynoid that was once Iria--admired herself openly, sighing contently.

There was no surge of pain throughout her body. Everything moved with fluid precision, synthetic muscles and mechanical servos whirring silently throughout her body with every pivot and turn.

"Ma'am? The procedure was a success," One of the scientists, a young man, spoke up, almost jarring the gynoid from her appreciation. "Subject 1R-14 has shown complete acclimation to the new mechanical adaptations. Would you like to retire to your bedroom now?"

"Hm... affirmative," 1R-14--Iria be damned, she thought--said, the non-verbal vocalization opening the doorway out to the hall.

"Prepare yourselves. We make to run conclusive tests on my new hardware. 1R-14 is ready for her new life..."

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