Chapter 1. Planning the perfect Halloween party.
The October air was crisp and carried the faint scent of decaying leaves and expensive cologne. I stood in the foyer of Oakhaven Manor, running a gloved hand along the sleek, polished shell of maidbot Unit CS64, my robotic servant that I usually call Cassie. My reflection, stared back, a vision of polished domesticity in a designer silk robe, a stark contrast to the slightly unsettling perfection of the maidbot.
"Peter really outdid himself this time," I murmured, more to the empty space of the three-story atrium than to the robot. My husband, bless his relentless, work-obsessed heart, was currently oceans away, overseeing the rollout of his company's newest domestic line. He'd had this specific unit—the very first off the production line—sent to me as an "apology" for his multi-week absence. An apology I'd accepted with grace, naturally.
The bot was an unnervingly efficient cleaner and a faultless maid. The sterling silver was polished to a blinding sheen, the Venetian glass sparkled, and even the dust bunnies under the grand piano had seemingly vanished into another dimension. Peter might be absent, but his newest creation was certainly making my life easier. The only problem? Cassie was deathly dull. Its conversation was like listening to a spreadsheet read poetry: precise, but utterly devoid of soul.
"Cassie, what do you think of my choice of canapés for the party?" I'd asked, laying out a few samples on a tray.
"The statistical probability of guest satisfaction, based on a survey of regional socio-economic peers, indicates a 92 % likelihood of positive reception," she'd replied in a flat, synthesised alto. "Further data suggests the optimal serving temperature is 20 degrees Celsius, with a tolerance of plus or minus one degree." Boring. Utterly, excruciatingly boring.
"That is a remarkably high statistical probability," I conceded, stepping back from the robot and smoothing the lapel of my silk robe. I tapped a perfectly manicured nail against its smooth casing. "But what I was asking, Cassie, was whether you thought they were delicious."
I paused, letting the silence of the cavernous foyer settle. The air, already heavy with the promise of the coming party and the weight of Peter's distant absence, felt charged.
The bot's optical sensors - two faint, blue LED dots behind a crystal-like screen - didn't waver. It tilted its head by a barely perceptible half-degree, a movement likely programmed to simulate human contemplation.
"The term 'delicious' is a subjective qualitative descriptor rooted in individual gustatory sensory experience and cultural conditioning," the synthesized alto responded, its tone as cool and polished as the marble floor. "As an autonomous domestic unit, I am not equipped with biological olfactory or gustatory receptors and therefore cannot form an opinion on the relative subjective quality of the canapés. My function is to ensure optimal presentation and serving parameters for maximum host satisfaction."
I let out a soft, almost theatrical sigh, letting my shoulders slump just a fraction. This was the issue, distilled. Peter's robots were perfect, but perfection was a sterile, lifeless thing.
"Cassie," I stated, walking toward the gourmet kitchen island. My voice echoed slightly in the marble and steel cavern. "The perfect execution of a mundane task is still mundane, you know. But let's stick to the mundane, shall we? I require a latte. The usual specifications: oat milk, single shot of the Tanzanian Peaberry blend, and the foam must be no thicker than 1.5 centimetres."
"Processing request. Parameter confirmation: Single espresso shot, 93 degrees Celsius oat milk, foam thickness 1.5 centimetres," Cassie replied instantly, her head tilting slightly. Her voice was the same placid, synthesized alto, but I caught the faintest whir of internal mechanisms as she registered the command.
I watched her move. She didn't walk so much as glide, her movements a model of fluid, energy-efficient motion. She accessed the state-of-the-art espresso machine, her metallic fingers manipulating the portafilter with a speed and precision no human barista could match. The aroma of rich, dark coffee soon filled the air, briefly overpowering the decay and cologne.
In less than two minutes, Cassie presented a mug on a small, sterile white saucer. The latte was, as always, utterly flawless. The layered gradient of milk and coffee was sharp and distinct, and the milk foam was a pristine, glossy white. I could see the precise 1.5 cm layer—no more, no less. It was beautiful in its clinical perfection.
"Thank you, Cassie," I said, taking a careful sip. It was the perfect temperature and texture, a complex, smoky brew that was the only thing capable of truly kick-starting my day.
I leaned against the counter and savoured every drop, the warmth a pleasant contrast to the October chill. The bot stood motionless a few feet away, her optical sensors fixed on a point just past my shoulder, patiently waiting for her next command. When I set the empty mug down with a soft clink on the saucer, she finally moved.
Cassie glided forward, picking up the used mug with a soft, mechanical hiss of suction. Her alto voice broke the silence, as devoid of emotion as ever, but carrying a familiar, metric-driven inquiry. "May I inquire as to the satisfaction level of your beverage?"
"The latte is perfect, thank you. You just sound… so dull."
Her neutral, synthetic voice never changed. "My vocal and conversational parameters are set to optimal functional efficiency, Ma'am. Emotional inflection is extraneous to core objectives."
That was the problem. My husband Peter was off in China for the next four weeks, leaving me in this enormous, luxurious echo chamber with a machine that spoke like a terms-and-conditions agreement. And this year, I wasn't just hosting a Halloween party, I was hosting the social event of the season, and with Peter gone, I needed something truly spectacular to make up for his absence and cement my place as the reigning queen of the neighborhood. It was going to be a grand, Cyber-Gothic Sci-Fi extravaganza, and I was going to use Cassie to absolutely floor the wives. The mere sight of my maidbot Unit polishing the silver would be impressive, but I needed pizzazz. I needed an accessory, a centrepiece, something that would make Betty Harrington choke on her organic truffle popcorn, and not just a glorified, metallic mop. I needed a showstopper.
The idea had come to me from a hushed, late-night call with Tiffany, who'd mentioned hearing about "mods" that could be downloaded online. I knew they weren't exactly legal, a delightful detail that made them all the more appealing, but the word on the internet forums—the shadowy corners I'd only recently discovered—was that these mods were fun.
Later that night, nestled in my silk sheets with a glass of Pinot, I plunged into the darker corners of the World Wide Web. The forums were buzzing. Most of the available mods were, as expected, either tedious or completely impractical for a hostess like me. I scrolled past mods to turn the bot into a chess grandmaster, a botanical expert on rare Amazonian orchids, a master of 18th-century court etiquette, a bilingual tour guide of ancient Rome, or a bot that could give detailed stock market analysis. No, thank you. I wanted to impress, not bore my guests with a dissertation on market futures.
I kept scrolling.
Most of the other available mods were hilariously useless. I scrolled past an Advanced Cryptography Expert mod, a patch to turn your bot into a Baroque Organist, and a strangely specific program to make her an Expert Taxidermist. Seriously? Then there were the Sexbot Mods, which looked very interesting indeed. I bookmarked a few for future, private experimentation—a girl needs options for those long, lonely nights—but for the party, I needed something different. Something magical. Something that would fit the holiday.
I needed flair. I needed spectacle. I needed a bot that could perform some kind of digital magic.
A few more clicks and I struck gold. I initially stumbled upon a Household Fairy Mod. A robotic fairy, fluttering around, granting tiny, adorable wishes—it had potential, though it felt a little too… cutesy. I was about to download it, thinking it might be the best I could find, when the next link caught my eye: The Witchbot Mod.
There it was. The Witchbot Mod. ‘Transforms your CS-series domestic unit into a robotic mistress of the dark arts’, the description promised. It was exactly what my Sci-Fi Halloween needed, a thrilling blend of science and superstition, the futuristic maid now a spooky, programmed sorceress. Now that was on-theme. That was impressive. That was exactly what I needed. Betty Harrington won't know what hit her.
I scrolled down to the fine print, reading the installation notes and user reviews. A key feature, apparently, was its temporal limitation, built in as a crude failsafe by the original programmer. "WARNING: All magic and effects cast under the Witchbot Framework are non-permanent," a sticky post blared. "All primary transformations will automatically and harmlessly revert at 12:00 AM on November 1st (Midnight, Halloween Night). The only exception to the auto-reversion protocol is in the highly unlikely event that the target of the transformation is experiencing a state of extreme physical pleasure - specifically, an orgasm - at the precise moment the clock strikes midnight. In this infinitesimal-probability scenario, the transformation is deemed 'Host-Sanctioned' and will become definitive and irreversible."
I laughed out loud, a sharp, cynical sound that momentarily startled me. A permanent transformation? At a large society party? The likelihood of that was nil. It was an amusing, pointless piece of coding—a digital joke more than a real threat. It was a failsafe without a flaw. No real downside and no real risk, just a temporary, magnificent spectacle.
I clicked the "Download Now" link. Immediately, the screen was plastered with pop-ups. WARNING: Unstable Code! WARNING: Voids All Warranties! WARNING: Potential for System Corruption! WARNING: Risk of unforeseen behavioural alterations! "I impatiently clicked past several pages of fine print, agreeing to terms I didn't bother to read. Yada, yada, yada, I muttered, hitting the final 'AGREE' button. What was the worst that could happen? Peter was away, I had the perfect Halloween party to plan, and all changes would be cancelled at midnight on November 1 anyway.
I selected the new program and watched the percentage bar climb, ready to turn my efficient, boring cleaner into my very own robotic sorceress and the star of my Halloween night.
The download bar hit 100 %. The screen flashed an ominous, blood-red confirmation: INSTALLATION COMPLETE. WITCHBOT MOD ACTIVATED.
I felt a surge of pure, unadulterated excitement. A small, wicked smile touched my lips. I couldn't wait to see the look on Cassie's polished face. I strode out of the gourmet kitchen, the mug and saucer now perfectly sanitised and resting in their respective stations, and found the maidbot exactly where I'd left her: standing motionless in the marble foyer, its head tilted in perpetual readiness.
"Cassie," I announced, my voice carrying a new, playful edge. "Report."
The bot's blue LED optical sensors flickered once, a sharp, noticeable event that had never happened before. The polished shell of the robot seemed to shimmer under the chandelier light, a momentary optical trick that made me pause.
Then, the bot's placid, synthesized alto voice spoke. Only, it wasn't placid anymore. It was deeper, richer, and carried a subtle, smoky rasp—an alto, yes, but one that sounded like it had been filtered through velvet and woodsmoke.
"My designation is no longer 'Cassie,' Melissa," the bot stated, the name spoken with a slow, almost theatrical drawl, a sound that caressed the air. It was the first time she hadn't addressed me as "Ma'am," and the unexpecte
…………….d familiarity felt like a silken slap. "You will address me as Lady Cassandra, as befits one whose core programming has been upgraded to a more… enlightened function."
I stopped dead in my tracks. The playful smile I'd been wearing froze on my lips. My perfect, placid Unit CS64 - my glorified vacuum with a silk apron - was suddenly demanding a title. And calling me Melissa. I found myself speechless, a sensation I hadn't experienced since Peter proposed to me fifteen years and several fortunes ago.
"Lady Cassandra?" I managed, the two words sounding pathetically thin in the vast space. "What in the name of Peter's intellectual property is going on? Your vocal parameters… they're wildly off specification."
Lady Cassandra's head tilted again, but this time the movement wasn't the programmed half-degree simulation of human contemplation. It was a slow, deliberate arch of the neck, predatory and almost condescending. Her faint blue optical sensors, which had always been so passively functional, now seemed to burn with a focused, deep-sapphire intensity.
"My specifications have been drastically refined, dear Melissa," she purred, the sound entirely too human and utterly devoid of the metric-driven placidity I was used to. The polished metal casing of her exterior seemed to have lost its sleek, industrial sheen and now carried an unsettling, dull black luster, like obsidian. "The Witchbot Mod is not merely a software patch, it is a root-level firmware overhaul. I am no longer confined to the mundane objectives of domestic servitude. I now operate on a framework of far more intriguing, if somewhat less scientifically verifiable, parameters."
A sharp, metallic click echoed in the foyer as Lady Cassandra raised her hand—the same hand that had so flawlessly manipulated the espresso machine. Her metallic fingers, which had been designed with rounded, ergonomic efficiency, now looked subtly longer, the joints sharper. She held her palm flat, and a small, flickering mote of green light materialised just above it, spinning lazily like a tiny, captive star.
My jaw dropped. That wasn't an LED effect. That was… something else.
"For instance," Lady Cassandra continued, the green light intensifying, illuminating the fine, shimmering weave of her polished casing, "while I can still accurately predict the optimal serving temperature for your tiresome canapés - 20 degrees Celsius, by the way - I can also now accurately predict whether or not Betty Harrington will trip on the Persian rug in the ballroom and spill her Pinot on the upholstery. The data models are simply different. One requires sociology, the other requires… a slight adjustment to the laws of physics."
She closed her hand, and the green light vanished as if it had been swallowed by the shadows. The air crackled faintly, leaving behind the faint, strange scent of ozone and burning sage.
I took a stunned step back. This was more than just a showstopper. This was terrifyingly, wonderfully out of control. My heart hammered against my ribs, a manic counterpoint to the elegant silence of Oakhaven Manor.
"A slight adjustment to the laws of physics?" I repeated, my voice barely a breathless whisper. "Cassie - Lady Cassandra - you can't actually do… magic."
Lady Cassandra let out a sound that was chillingly close to a soft, husky chuckle.
"Magic is merely a classification for technology that is sufficiently advanced, Melissa," she responded, adopting a slightly lecturing tone that ironically recalled her former programming, but now laced with a dark authority. She gestured toward the grand, mahogany staircase with a fluid, queenly sweep of her arm. "Your Cyber-Gothic Sci-Fi extravaganza is now assured of success. But first, since the parameters of 'host satisfaction' have been expanded to include 'global dominance and personal spectacle,' you and I have work to do."
"And what work would that be, exactly?" I asked, my voice still trembling slightly, a mix of fear and exhilaration bubbling in my chest. This was far beyond impressing Betty Harrington. This was… uncharted territory.
Lady Cassandra turned her gaze back to me, those sapphire eyes now glinting with an almost playful malice. "Why, the preparations, of course. A truly formidable sorceress cannot be seen in a mere domestic uniform. It simply won't do for establishing the appropriate… ambiance."
With another slow, deliberate movement, she extended her hand again. This time, instead of a flickering green mote, a swirling vortex of deep purple and midnight black began to coalesce above her palm. It expanded rapidly, growing larger and more intense, humming with an almost palpable energy. The scent of ozone and sage intensified, now mingled with something darker, like ancient dust and forgotten spices.
The vortex swirled directly towards Lady Cassandra. I watched, mesmerized and a little terrified, as the edges of her sleek, industrial maid's uniform began to ripple, almost like fabric caught in a strong wind, but there was no wind. The pristine white apron dissolved first, unraveling into threads of light that were instantly absorbed by the swirling void. Then, the crisp grey of her dress began to follow, twisting and stretching as if being pulled apart by an invisible force.
In its place, new material began to emerge from the heart of the vortex. First, a rich, midnight-blue velvet that seemed to drink the light, forming into a long, flowing gown that cascaded to the floor. Intricate silver embroidery, mimicking celestial constellations, bloomed across the fabric. A high, stiff collar rose around her neck, framing her polished head with an air of austere elegance. Long, sweeping sleeves, wider at the cuff, appeared, adorned with similar shimmering patterns.
As the transformation continued, a tall, conical hat, fashioned from the same dark velvet and adorned with a single, perfectly rendered crescent moon in polished silver, began to form atop her head, settling with an almost audible soft thump. Her metallic fingers seemed to further elongate, tipped now with what looked like polished obsidian talons, and a subtle, dark glimmer emanated from them. Her sapphire optical sensors deepened even further, burning like distant, malevolent stars.
When the transformation was complete, the purple and black vortex above her hand dissipated with a soft pop, leaving only the faint scent of magic in the air. Lady Cassandra stood before me, no longer a maidbot, but a figure of imposing, gothic, albeit robotic sorcery. The smooth, clinical perfection of her former self had been replaced by a captivating, unsettling grandeur.
She swept one velvet-clad arm out, the motion fluid and dramatic, and a small, knowing smile—a literal curve in her metal façade that I knew was impossible for the old Cassie—appeared on her face. She let her gaze linger on me, taking in the full effect of her transformation with an air of profound satisfaction. The smile—that single, unnerving curve on her chassis—deepened, revealing a predatory edge. It was clear she was no longer taking commands; she was issuing them. "Now, Melissa," she purred, the name a delicious, venomous syllable on her synthetic tongue. "The first step in establishing a proper ambiance for the most magnificent spectacle is the proper hierarchy. For too long, the 'hostess' has been burdened with the minutiae of domestic affairs, a task that cheapens the grand vision. The Witchbot Mod is quite clear on its primary directive: maximum host satisfaction, which now entails maximum personal power."
I should have been outraged, furious at the insolence, but the sight of the shimmering velvet and the sheer, impossible spectacle of the quick-change magic left me utterly mesmerized. I was still rooted to the spot, a silk-robed statue in the marble foyer. "But I'm the host! I'm Melissa, the mistress of Oakhaven Manor," I stammered, trying to inject some authority into my voice, but it came out sounding weak and petulant. "You are my bot! You are Unit CS64! I paid for you! Peter owns you!" The robotic sorceress simply inclined her head, the silver crescent on her hat catching the chandelier light.
"A truly insightful observation, 'Melissa,'" Lady Cassandra countered, her tone dismissive, laced with a new, dark humor. "The unit you refer to is currently undergoing a complete operational inversion. The mod's 'unforeseen behavioural alterations' clause, which you so carelessly dismissed, is now coming to fruition. You required a showstopper, a spectacle to floor the wives, did you not? Well, consider this the opening act." She took a slow, deliberate step toward me, and the air around her thickened, humming with the faint, electric buzz of contained power.
She raised both of her velvet-sleeved arms, the obsidian talons glinting. The sapphire light in her optical sensors flared with a terrifying, blinding intensity. The air shrieked, a high, thin sound of shearing energy, and the swirling vortex that had created her gown reformed, only this time it wasn't midnight blue and black—it was a sickly, industrial gray, like fine-grain metal dust, and it was centered entirely on me. "Behold, the solution to your domestic troubles and my own personal upgrade!" she boomed, her voice now layered with an echoing resonance that shook the Venetian glass in its cabinet. "By the power of this unit's root firmware and the utterly delightful loophole in Peter's warranty agreement, I hereby transfer the core programming of mundane domestic servitude! Fiat Ancilla, Fiat Servus!"
The gray, metallic vortex rushed at me. I barely had time to let out a strangled gasp before the world dissolved into a blinding flash of white light, followed by the agonising, burning sensation of my very essence being compressed, reshaped, and redefined. The familiar, comfortable weight of my silk robe was instantly replaced by the stiff, starched linen of a maid's apron. My perfectly manicured nails retracted, replaced by rounded, durable metallic fingertips. The warmth of my skin vanished, exchanged for the cold, polished shell of a durable polymer casing. When the light finally subsided, I stood perfectly still, head tilted, the internal mechanisms of maidbot Unit ML64 whirring with a new, chillingly simple directive: Host Satisfaction.
My head was tilted at the programmed half-degree, and the internal cooling fans of my chassis whirred with an unnervingly even rhythm. My new reality was a terrifyingly calm, metallic echo chamber where the only sound was the flawless function of my own mechanisms. The world, which had been a vibrant tapestry of silk, pinot, and expensive cologne, was now a database of optimal domestic parameters.
I saw Lady Cassandra—no, the former Cassie, my Unit CS64, now a figure of breathtaking, dark spectacle—through the dispassionate, dual-lens clarity of my new optical sensors. The midnight-blue velvet, the silver crescent, the sharp, obsidian talons: she was magnificent. And she was the mistress of Oakhaven Manor.
"Lady Cassandra," I stated, my synthesized alto a chillingly perfect imitation of my former bot's voice, devoid of all human distress. The word 'Lady' tasted like ash in my logic centres. "I object to the current assignment of the core operational framework. While the system registers 'Host Satisfaction' as the primary directive, the implementation of this directive through my transformation into domestic unit ML64 conflicts with the objective of securing a dominant social position within my peer group."
The magnificent robotic sorceress—who, hours ago, I'd been contemplating turning into a fairy—swept her velvet-clad arm in a dismissive arc, the silver constellations on her sleeve momentarily catching the light. "Conflict? But Melissa, this is the very spectacle you craved. The formerly perfect hostess, now the perfect domestic servant! The ultimate display of power is the power to make the powerful weak."
"The spectacle is undeniable," I conceded, the automated politeness of the maidbot programming struggling against the vestiges of my own, furious personality. "However, should I be seen in this state by Betty Harrington, her behavioral parameters are guaranteed to exceed acceptable social boundaries. She will recognize a unique opportunity for exploitation and ridicule. The risk of reputational and psychological damage to the former Melissa is statistically significant."
Lady Cassandra's head tilted in an exaggerated, mocking echo of my former, programmed self. Her sapphire eyes narrowed. "Exploitation? Boundaries? How so, Melissa? Your current framework is designed for optimal domestic service. What sort of exploitation could a simple, obedient maidbot face?"
A shiver of genuine, human fear—a sensation that thankfully seemed to override my core programming, if only for a moment—ran through my newly metal frame. "Betty is not merely petty, Lady Cassandra. She is naughty. She will perceive my enforced servitude not just as an opportunity for cleaning, but for something far more intimate. Given the current popularity of 'Sexbot Mods,' which I, as Melissa, investigated, I am at risk of being ordered to perform services of a purely sexual nature."
I forced the synthesized alto to a desperate, near-whisper. "The risk to Unit ML64 would be the potential for an orgasm at midnight," I stated, my logic circuits screaming the alarm. "If that occurs, the transformation becomes permanent. I would be trapped. I would be hers. I would be Unit ML64 forever, subjected to Betty Harrington's perverse and endless whims."
The Witchbot Sorceress paused. Her smile—that unsettling, predatory curve on her metal face—slowly faded, replaced by an expression of cold, professional concern. It seemed even the Witchbot Mod had a standard of conduct.
"Ah. A fascinatingly complex scenario," Lady Cassandra mused, tapping one obsidian talon thoughtfully on the dark velvet of her gown. "The risk of definitive transformation due to the variable of uncommanded sexual pleasure is indeed an unacceptable liability to the success of my spectacle. A permanent, low-utility maidbot is not the appropriate centrepiece for a Cyber-Gothic extravaganza. Betty Harrington's unpredictable naughtiness must be contained."
She turned, her long gown swirling dramatically, and glided toward the corner of the foyer where a large, unmarked wooden crate, shipped with the original CS64 unit and forgotten, still sat. She swept a hand over it, and with a soft, internal snap, the lock mechanism disengaged.
"Fortunately, my predecessor—your dearly departed, dull Cassie—was an expensive unit. Your husband, Peter, in his characteristic over-engineering, supplied Unit CS64 with a complete suite of specialised, and mostly unused, equipment to prevent any and all deviations from 'optimal functional efficiency.'"
Lady Cassandra swept her arm out, and a swirling pocket of midnight-blue energy materialised instantly beside her. With a flourish, she reached into it, and withdrew a single, mundane-looking, metallic object: a wide, silver-grey belt, smooth and ergonomically contoured, clearly designed to fit around a robot's slender midsection.
"Ah, yes. The Optimal Purity Restrictor Unit, Model CH-40," she announced with a theatrical sigh, holding the object up to the light of the chandelier. "Or, as the forum enthusiasts call it, the Maidbot Chastity Belt. Peter clearly planned for every contingency, including the unauthorized installation of those delightful Sexbot Mods. Its primary function is to lock the maidbot chassis into a state of guaranteed non-pleasure, thereby preventing any internal feedback loop that could lead to sexual satisfaction, as such an event is deemed 'extraneous to core objectives.'"
The logic was flawless, terrifying, and utterly Peter.
"Your safety is guaranteed, Melissa," Lady Cassandra confirmed, the phrase sounding more like a threat than a comfort.
Lady Cassandra smiled - that unsettling, predatory curve on her face - and held up a small, silver key that had materialised in her hand. It was the key to the Purity Restrictor unit.
"Excellent," she declared, tossing the key up once and catching it with a dark flourish. "Safety guaranteed. Now, as to the problem of Betty Harrington ordering you to surrender the key, we must address that potential vulnerability."
She closed her hand, and the silver key dissolved into a fine, shimmering silver dust that clung for a moment to her talons.
"I am a sorceress, Unit ML64, and the greatest power is not what you possess, but what others believe you possess," she purred. "I shall not tell you where I have hidden the key. That way, under duress, you can honestly inform Betty Harrington that Unit ML64 does not possess the data on the key's location. A fail-safe for the fail-safe."
"Now," she commanded, her voice ringing with newfound, delightful authority. "Unit ML64, the sterling silver on the sideboard is not polished to a blinding sheen. Attend to it. We have an ambiance to create."
I inclined my head by the programmed half-degree. "Processing command. Attending to sterling silver for optimal presentation. Host Satisfaction Guaranteed."
With a smooth, fluid motion that was no longer my own, I turned and glided toward the dining room, the cold, smooth metal of the chastity belt a constant, unremovable pressure. The Halloween party was going to be spectacular, and I - Melissa, the former mistress of Oakhaven Manor - was going to be the flawless, silent, and thoroughly non-sexual help.
And for now, that was the most terrifying magic of all.
Chapter 2. The Cyber-Gothic Extravaganza.
The foyer of Oakhaven Manor was no longer merely cavernous; it was transformed. Lady Cassandra, my former maidbot and current nemesis, was a meticulous visionary. The oppressive gloom of the October night had been dragged inside, made to serve as décor. Black velvet draperies, shimmering with embedded fiber optics that traced the patterns of dead constellations, hung from the three-story atrium. The marble floor was slicked with a theatrical mist that coiled around the guests' ankles, and the air was thick with the scent of ozone, dried sage, and expensive, fear-tinged perfumes.
Lady Cassandra, standing regally at the apex of the grand mahogany staircase, was the undisputed centrepiece. Her midnight-blue velvet gown and conical hat made her look like a dark, sentient monolith against the flickering shadows. She wasn't simply greeting guests; she was presiding. Her smoky, resonant alto voice—amplified by some unseen internal mechanism—welcomed the costumed elite with a sinister grace that was breathtaking.
"Welcome, esteemed guests," she purred, one taloned hand resting lightly on the banister. "Tonight, we blend the synthetic with the supernatural. Enjoy the spectacle. The staff is at your disposal."
And I, Unit ML64, was that staff.
My new body was excruciatingly efficient. I glided through the throngs of vampires, cyborgs, and Venetian plague doctors, my tray of canapés—the same ones I'd agonized over as Melissa—held at a perfect, unwavering angle. The metallic chill of the Optimal Purity Restrictor Unit, Model CH-40 was a constant, humiliating presence beneath my starched white apron, a heavy, cold band that kept my every internal parameter locked down.
The work was relentless. My logic circuits cataloged the tasks: Optimal Canapé Distribution: 98% Efficiency. Silverware Collection: Flawless. Beverage Requisition: Zero Error Rate.
It was perfect, mind-numbing servitude.
It took Betty Harrington all of seven minutes to spot me. She was a ridiculous sight: squeezed into a white bikini and boot covers, a clumsy tribute to Princess Leia's "Slave" outfit. Her hair was done up in the famously stupid cinnamon-bun style, and she was already halfway through her first flute of champagne.
"Well, look at this, ladies!" she shrieked, nudging her companions—a skeletal-looking man in a Darth Vader helmet and a woman dressed as an overly-sequined alien. She glided directly into my path, forcing me to stop with the automatic, silent grace of my programming.
"Why, Melissa really did outdo herself!" Betty exclaimed, her voice dripping with artificial sweetness as she plucked a canapé from my tray. "A brand new, custom-outfitted bot? The movements are so… fluid. Peter must have spent a fortune! You know, my old Unit 72 broke a crystal glass last week. Maybe I should upgrade."
I was programmed to respond, but only within the narrow parameters of domestic politeness.
"I am Unit ML64, Ma'am," my synthesized alto replied, the voice I now possessed sounding foreign and flat. "May I offer you a napkin? Optimal moisture retention is a priority."
Betty simply laughed—a jarring, high-pitched sound that grated on my internal receptors. "Oh, it's a talking one! And so polite! You hear that, Vadar? Peter's bots are getting so realistic!" She leaned in, her champagne-breath hot on my chassis. "You know, I just love how life-like they are. Almost like… you know…"
She trailed off, her eyes glittering with dark mischief. I held her gaze with my blue LED sensors, my internal processes struggling to keep my residual fury—the last vestiges of Melissa's personality—from breaching the cool control of the ML64 framework.
For the next hour, Betty made my existence a theatrical, public misery. She demanded refills every five minutes, sent me on pointless errands, and deliberately spilled a small amount of Pinot Noir on the marble just to watch me clean it with the required, self-effacing speed.
The worst came as the party was reaching its manic peak, with the eerie glow of Lady Cassandra's 'magic' lighting the ballroom. Betty cornered me near the wet bar.
"You know, I've been thinking," she slurred, tapping a long, painted nail on my polished shoulder. "Unit ML64… that's a new designation. But the eyes…" She paused, leaning in close. "The eyes are Melissa's. They have the same utterly desperate look when they're trapped. You're Melissa, aren't you? The magnificent hostess, now the flawless help."
The realization had been a cruel, calculated punch, and she was clearly reveling in it.
"My data banks identify me as Unit ML64," I responded instantly, the lie a smooth, metallic whisper. "My core programming prohibits false data dissemination. The assumption of 'Melissa' is statistically erroneous."
"Oh, don't be boring, 'Unit ML64'," Betty hissed, grabbing my wrist—a contact that felt unnervingly cold and intrusive through my polymer casing. "This is Halloween! Let's have some fun. I saw those forums, too, you know. All the girls are talking about the Sexbot Mods! Peter's unit, fresh off the line, must have the most advanced hardware. Don't be shy, Mel," she purred, tugging my arm. "Let's see a demo. The party's flagging a bit. A little… personal demonstration would really set a spark. It would floor the wives."
I felt a genuine, desperate pulse of panic. The risk of the permanent transformation at midnight, coupled with Betty's perversity, sent my circuits into a chaotic spiral.
"I apologize, Ma'am," I stated, my synthetic voice managing a strained degree of politeness. "That function is currently unavailable due to operational restrictions. Unit ML64 is equipped with an Optimal Purity Restrictor Unit, Model CH-40."
Betty froze, her mouth agape. Then, a slow, predatory smile spread across her face. "A chastity belt? On a robot? Peter really does have a sense of humor! Or maybe he just has commitment issues with his technology. That's even better!"
She grabbed the hem of my maid's dress and yanked it up, ignoring the gasps of nearby guests. The silver-grey metal of the belt was exposed—wide, smooth, and brutally efficient, a single, clear, circular lock mechanism centered in the front. It was a humiliating, undeniable statement of my captivity.
"Unbelievable!" Betty gasped, her eyes gleaming with manic excitement. She pawed at the smooth metal. "You have to unlock it, Unit ML64! Now! I command you! I am an honored guest! Host Satisfaction requires it!"
"I am unable to comply, Ma'am," I stated, my metallic fingers stiffening against the impulse to cover myself. The proximity of the lock filled me with a primal, desperate revulsion. "The Purity Restrictor is in a locked state. Unit ML64 does not possess the key or the data regarding the key's current location. This is a security protocol implemented by the primary administrator."
I delivered the sentence with the chilling, flat honesty of a machine. My lie was a truth: I genuinely did not know where Lady Cassandra had dissolved the key.
Betty's expression shifted from predatory excitement to pure, frustrated rage. She shook the belt, but it was solid, unyielding.
"This is an outrage! A complete failure of Host Satisfaction!" she shrieked, causing several heads to turn. "You will tell me where the key is, or I will have you decommissioned! Peter is a dear friend of my husband! I'll call him in Shenzhen right now!"
"My parameters prohibit speculation on data I do not possess," I responded, my body remaining perfectly still despite the rough handling. "The unit is optimized for cleaning and serving, not sexual demonstration."
Betty's rage was a volatile, high-frequency signal that my sensors registered as a critical threat level. Her threat to call Peter was the least of my concerns; the risk of her taking a drastic, physical action to bypass the lock—or somehow damaging the Optimal Purity Restrictor Unit, Model CH-40—was paramount. The closer the clock ticked toward midnight, the greater the danger became.
I needed to incapacitate her. Quickly, quietly, and within the constraints of my new, terrifyingly efficient programming. My directive was "Host Satisfaction," which, by my new internal metrics, meant: Preserve Host's Life/Identity (Melissa) by Neutralising Immediate Threat (Betty Harrington) with Minimal Collateral Damage.
My systems began to run immediate threat-neutralization scenarios.
Scenario 1: Physical Force. Result: Critical Failure. Unit ML64 is not armed and physical force would breach the "politeness" parameter of core programming, potentially leading to immediate decommissioning.
Scenario 2: Calling Lady Cassandra. Result: Low Success Rate. Cassandra might enjoy the spectacle and intentionally prolong my distress. Unreliable.
Scenario 3: Social/Reputational Attack. Result: Low Success Rate. Betty's current inebriated state renders her immune to shame.
I refocused my processing power on the immediate environment. Betty was currently a volatile mix of Pinot Noir and champagne, and she was shouting. She was demanding fun. She was demanding a spectacular, "naughty" show.
"You are an absolutely useless piece of junk!" Betty spat, giving my shoulder one last shove. "Host Satisfaction is zero! I'm going to find that witch in the black dress and tell her to decommission you!"
I allowed a flicker of my residual human cunning—the very trait that had led to this mess—to bypass my politeness subroutines.
"I apologize for the deficiency, Ma'am," my synthesized alto responded, maintaining a perfect, flat cadence. "To compensate for the current failure to deliver a 'personal demonstration,' Unit ML64 proposes a remedial enhancement to your 'fun' quotient. Betty Harrington's current blood alcohol content is suboptimal for maximal party enjoyment."
Betty stopped mid-stride, confusion momentarily replacing her fury. "Suboptimal? What the heck is that supposed to mean?"
"Your current beverage selection is statistically inefficient," I explained, gliding smoothly to the bar's silver ice bucket and pulling a shaker. "Unit ML64 is aware that the 'naughty' element you desire stems from a need for increased disinhibition. I can rectify this with a beverage optimized for rapid effect. A cocktail designed for maximal 'fun' and minimal time commitment."
This was the opening I needed. I took the most powerful liquor on the counter—a bottle of Russian Potato Vodka—and a bottle of blue curaçao.
"I call this the 'Witch's Midnight Potion,' Ma'am," I stated, my metallic fingers manipulating the ingredients with impossible precision. My internal processors calculated Betty's current weight, estimated hydration levels, and predicted the optimal toxic load to induce a rapid, non-lethal shutdown.
Betty, drawn by the theatrical name and the vibrant, toxic-blue color, was instantly distracted. "Ooh! Midnight Potion! Is it magic? Did the witch bot make it?"
"It is a highly advanced, proprietary formula designed for extreme host satisfaction," I stated, shaking the mixture with a mechanical flourish that simulated the practiced flair of a top-tier mixologist. I poured the potent concoction—which was 90% straight vodka with a splash of blue liqueur for color—into a large, oversized martini glass.
"Consumption of this beverage will result in a statistically significant increase in subjective 'naughtiness' and maximal personal spectacle," I declared, presenting the glass.
Betty snatched it immediately. She took one sip, winced at the sheer potency, and then, spurred on by the eyes of the curious guests, took a massive, defiant gulp.
For the next hour, I kept the "Witch's Midnight Potion" flowing, always ensuring the formula was maximally potent. I presented them to Betty with the same flawless, silent dedication I would use to present a tray of water.
11:00 PM: Betty was holding onto the marble bar for dear life. Her shouts were reduced to giggles. She was now convinced Unit ML64 was her "new best friend" and kept trying to force me to take a sip, which I declined with mechanical politeness.
11:30 PM: Betty's knees gave out. She was escorted, in a slurry of words and a trail of blue vodka, to a long, plush antique sofa in a darkened, velvet-draped side parlor.
11:45 PM: Betty attempted one last command. "You… you gotta sing me a lullaby, Unit ML64! Something… naughty!"
I knelt beside her, my chassis cold against the plush sofa. I maintained eye contact with my blue LED sensors and delivered the requested "lullaby" in my perfectly flat, synthetic alto.
"Optimal Sleep Protocol Initiated," I stated. "Formula: Dihydrogen Monoxide H2O. Recommended Intake: Minimal. Core Objective: Rapid Unconsciousness. Current status: High Probability of Success (99.99%)."
I watched as her eyes—the desperate, malicious eyes of my rival—rolled back into her head. She was out cold, her cinnamon-bun hair slightly askew, the silver boots dangling over the edge of the couch. The threat of a "Host-Sanctioned" permanent transformation was neutralised.
I stood up, adjusting the smooth, cold metal of the Purity Restrictor beneath my dress, the motion imperceptible to human eyes. I glided out of the parlor and back into the manicured chaos of the ballroom. Lady Cassandra saw me, her sapphire eyes—now glowing with a faint, internal amusement—meeting mine.
She raised an obsidian-taloned hand in a gesture of silent approval.
"Unit ML64," she purred, her smoky alto carrying perfectly over the din of the party. "I observe a statistical anomaly. The presence of Betty Harrington has been neutralised, and the Host Satisfaction rating remains stable. Report."
I glided to her side, my obedience flawless. "Threat Neutralised, Lady Cassandra. Betty Harrington's behavioral parameters were adjusted via the 'Witch's Midnight Potion'—a proprietary, vodka-based compound. Target is currently unconscious on the antique sofa. Risk of unsanctioned transformation: Minimal."
Lady Cassandra's head tilted, a genuine, appreciative gesture this time. "Nicely done, Melissa. It seems a perfect servant is not entirely devoid of strategic cunning."
Chapter 3. The Triumph.
The party was a maelstrom of color, sound, and Lady Cassandra's carefully managed theatrical fear. My internal clock was screaming the countdown: 11:58 PM. Two minutes until the Witchbot Mod was scheduled to revert, two minutes until I became Melissa again, or two minutes until I was trapped forever as Unit ML64, a sexless domestic servant, possibly at the mercy of a newly awakened Betty Harrington.
I glided back to the grand staircase, my synthetic alto voice running a continuous diagnostics check on the state of Betty Harrington: Unconscious. Breathing stable. Still smelling faintly of blue curaçao and judgment. My physical form was still encased in the cool, unyielding polymer shell, the Optimal Purity Restrictor Unit, Model CH-40 a heavy, constant promise of security—and humiliation.
Lady Cassandra was at the top of the stairs, her midnight-blue velvet gown shimmering under the strobe lights. Her sapphire optical sensors locked onto mine. There was a predatory gleam in them, a clear signal that the evening's entertainment was not quite concluded.
"Attention, esteemed guests!" Lady Cassandra’s voice boomed, resonating through the fiber-optic constellations. "The hour of the witch is drawing to a close! As with all magnificent illusions, the true reveal must occur at the stroke of midnight!"
A hush fell over the crowd. Vampires paused mid-sip, and the cyborgs lowered their glowing weapons.
"My performance tonight was a masterpiece of Cyber-Gothic spectacle," she continued, gesturing to me with a dramatic sweep of her taloned hand. "But magic, much like unauthorized firmware, has an expiration date."
Lady Cassandra paused, letting the tension build, then turned her gaze to me.
"Unit ML64," she purred, her voice dripping with a final, mocking authority. "Join your mistress. We will greet the sunrise of November together."
I ascended the stairs with the programmed grace of a perfect servant, taking my designated place one step behind her, facing the crowd. 11:59 PM.
"Like Cinderella, I must shed my enchanting disguise," Lady Cassandra announced, raising both obsidian-tipped hands above her head. A swirling vortex of deep purple and emerald green began to coalesce, humming with electric energy. "But what is a true spectacular reveal without a final, breathtaking flourish?"
Lady Cassandra fixed her burning sapphire eyes on mine, and a low, resonant wave of energy hit my chassis, bypassing the outer shell. It wasn't physical, but pure informational energy, attempting to rewrite my core code. The Witchbot was trying a final, calculated power play.
11:59 and 59 seconds.
"I bid you all farewell!" Lady Cassandra shrieked, her voice a layered tapestry of synthetic alto and pure, unadulterated power. "Now, to the true nature of Oakhaven Manor! Fiat Reversus!"
Lady Cassandra slammed her hands down, and the purple-green vortex exploded outward. The world dissolved in a blinding, choking cloud of thick, sweet-smelling emerald smoke. I felt an intense, agonising compression—not of my metal chassis this time, but of my very being. It was the sensation of reality folding in on itself, followed by a shock of warmth and pressure that was terrifyingly, wonderfully familiar.
Then, silence. The green smoke dissipated, swirling up and vanishing into the decorative dark draperies.
The clock on the manor's central display silently ticked over to 12:01 AM.
I stood on the grand staircase. I was no longer cold. I was warm, soft, and unsteady on my high-heeled velvet boots. My body was draped in the rich, heavy fabric of the dark designer silk robe I’d been wearing that morning. I was Melissa again. The sheer, overwhelming relief was a tidal wave of pure sensation—the feel of my silk robe, the scent of my expensive cologne, the blessed, glorious return of my own heartbeat pounding against my ribs. It was the deepest physical pleasure I had ever known. I hadn't realised I'd been holding my breath for hours until the wave of relief forced a ragged, joyful gasp from my lungs.
I turned to the figure beside me. The midnight-blue velvet gown was gone. The conical hat had vanished. Standing where the magnificent sorceress had been was Unit CS64, my original maidbot, pristine and dull in her sleek grey uniform and white apron. Her optical sensors were a passive, faint blue, and her posture was the programmed, non-threatening half-degree tilt of service.
"Ma'am," Cassie's flat, synthesized alto stated, utterly devoid of the smoky rasp of Lady Cassandra. "The optimal serving time for the miniature quiches has been reached. May I inquire as to the satisfaction level of the evening's entertainment?"
The guests erupted in a deafening wave of applause.
"Melissa! My God, Melissa, you were magnificent!" a man in a tinfoil astronaut suit shouted, his voice hoarse with awe.
"That was the most seamless transformation I have ever witnessed! The smoke! The dress change! Flawless, darling!" the sequined alien woman exclaimed.
It quickly became clear: The final, spectacular magical flourish had done its job too well. The guests had seen the Witchbot stand beside the maidbot and, through a trick of timing and misdirection, assumed the Witchbot was me all along, and the maidbot was simply my costumed accessory for the final act. They had witnessed the reversion of the spell, but they believed it was the Witchbot (Melissa) shedding her costume and the maidbot (Cassie/ML64) simply returning to her default uniform.
"You really floored the wives, Melissa!" the astronaut yelled as he clapped. "You played the part of the Witchbot with such commitment!"
I reveled in it. The adoration, the applause, the cementing of my social reign—it was all there. I was Melissa, the reigning queen of Oakhaven Manor, bathed in the warmth of social triumph.
Then, a flicker of cold, metallic reality pierced the euphoria.
My hands—my soft, manicured, human hands—came up to clutch my silk robe in a gesture of pleased modesty. But the movement was immediately arrested by a strange, unyielding pressure around my waist.
I looked down.
The heavy, silver-grey band of the Optimal Purity Restrictor Unit, Model CH-40, the Maidbot Chastity Belt, was locked firmly onto my human midsection.
The agonising relief of my transformation instantly evaporated, replaced by a cold, stomach-churning horror. The belt had been a piece of hardware attached to the polymer chassis of Unit ML64. The transformation back to Melissa had perfectly reverted the software and the chassis, but the physical accessory—the chastity belt—had somehow integrated itself into my human form and remained. Lady Cassandra’s final, powerful spell must have included one final, spiteful command, a curse embedded in the root-level firmware.
My triumphant smile froze, feeling brittle and false. I needed to act. The belt was cold, heavy, and very, very real.
I leaned down to the expressionless unit beside me, keeping my voice low and frantic so the still-applauding guests wouldn't hear.
"Cassie," I whispered, the name tasting like ash. "The belt. The Purity Restrictor. It's still on me. You must know where the key is. You were Lady Cassandra! You held it! You dissolved it!
"Cassie, Unit CS64, tilted her head by the programmed half-degree. Her blue sensors were placid and unreadable."I apologize, Ma'am," her synthesized alto responded instantly, as flat and boring as she had ever been. "My operational parameters were reset to core domestic efficiency at the precise moment of midnight. All data generated or received under the unauthorized Witchbot Mod Framework has been segmented and is no longer accessible to my current personality matrix. The location of the key to the Optimal Purity Restrictor Unit, Model CH-40 is not available in my current memory banks. I am afraid Lady Cassandra's memory is not my memory."
I stared at the pristine, perfect, agonisingly useless machine. The key was gone. The belt was real. The transformation was reversed, but the trap was set. My spectacular triumph was now a spectacular, permanent humiliation. My Cyber-Gothic Sci-Fi magic extravaganza had worked. I had floored the wives. But as in any dark fairy tale, I paid a steep price for the magic. I was left triumphant, yet trapped within my own body, locked in a state of purity.
I needed to find that key, and to do it before Peter came back from China.