There exist men—men with opinions as gnarled as ancient roots—who believe the only place for a woman is in the home, in the kitchen, beneath the shadow of her husband's will. To cook, to pleasure, to raise children, nothing more. I do not share this sentiment.
And yet, the irony is not lost on me.
The first request I made of a woman with whom I just began sharing a residence with was to prepare me a sandwich.
There was no malice, no agenda—just idle curiosity wrapped in hunger. And, amusingly enough, she complied without hesitation. What reaction had I expected? Outrage? A witty retort? A violent, feminist upheaval? Perhaps I should start issuing this command to every woman I meet just to catalog their responses.
Then again, the reason I asked [Hjálparhönd] to do it wasn't because she was a woman—no, that would be far too crude a reason—but because I wished to test her cognitive faculties as a newly formed [DOLL].
A simple test for a simple mind. The dictionaries I had poured into her skull were picture diaries, a mosaic of words and imagery. I wanted to be sure she could be able to parse meaning, to interpret and execute.
And so, without a word, she moved.
Or rather, glided.
To call it walking would be a mistake.
Just like in her final render, two unseen hands hovered beneath her dress, just seven centimeters off the ground, keeping her aloft, sparing her fabric from the indignity of dragging along the floor.
When she gets to the kitchenette, several hands fly out from under her dress.
She reached the kitchenette. The hem of her dress lifted. From beneath, hands emerged—great, monstrous things, black as the void, glossy white claws curving with an elegance that belied their monstrous proportions. A grotesque ballet of limbs, feminine yet monstrous.
The [HELPING HANDS] awaited their mistress's will.
But no command came.
She stood still, motionless. Her eyes shut tight, darting frantically beneath their lids. Searching. Calculating. Then, at last, a glimmer—blue eyes snapping open, knowledge retrieved.
Two hands shot forth, effortlessly locating a loaf of bread. A stroke of luck? No. The hands embody her name, inheriting properties beyond mere physical prowess. X-ray vision—live imaging, perfect spatial awareness.
Putting aside my bread storing tendencies, I am quite surprised that she was able to locate the bread on her first try— a lucky guess? Nay, those hands embody her name and thus they inherit the properties that she has inherited from the materials used in her creation.
A gift. A triumph.
And yet, even miracles stumble.
The claws moved to rip the plastic apart like a pack of ravenous beasts.
"Um, Girls, Girls?! You're supposed to untie the wrapper, take the slices out and then tie it back."
A catastrophe, narrowly averted.
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My mind drifted. How did her hearing function? The ears I had modeled on her head were purely decorative—no inner workings, no cochlea, no auditory nerve. Aesthetic choices only.
Curious, I moved behind her, clamping my hands over her ears.
No reaction.
Of course.
Even in my childhood, startling [MEGIDO ARC] had been an impossibility.
"Can you hear me?"
No response.
I sighed.
"You can answer with a simple yes or no."
A pause, then her eyes flickered closed once more, searching. When they reopened, a single hand raised. Upon its palm, a glowing screen. A message:
'YES.'
So the ears were purely ornamental. Aesthetic garnish.
I released her and offered another request.
"Lend me a hand. A right one, if you will."
She hesitated, then complied. A floating right hand drifted toward me, and with mock chivalry, I took it and kissed it like a knight greeting a fair maiden.
Then, with the hand in tow, I retreated to the bathroom to conduct further experiments.
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I figured that while [Hjálparhönd] experiences choice paralysis for the very first time I could do some more experiments.
The tests were fruitful. The hands were more than simple extensions of will; they could obey spoken commands, interpret intent, execute functions beyond mere physicality. A flashlight flickered to life at my command. A camera lens manifested on a palm. Night vision. X-ray imaging. Even a built-in printer.
A marvel.
Yet I loathed it.
These commands, these automatic executions—they were a betrayal of what I sought to create. They were shackles on the illusion of free will. [DOLLS] should not obey like machines. They should choose, should think, should live.
I clenched my fists, exhaled.
"Seriously, who the hell am I comparing myself to?"
An unanswerable question. One to be buried, ignored.
Then, I tested pressure sensitivity, running my fingers along the inky surface of her palm. The texture was unnatural—smooth like ceramic but yielding ever so slightly, as though molded flesh rested beneath. When I applied greater force, the material flexed in response, absorbing and dispersing the pressure like muscle under strain. It was exquisite, intricate—too perfect.
I pressed harder.
A sudden, sharp sensation shot through my fingers—an unmistakable warning. Not pain, but the threat of it. Like a blade pressed against the skin, daring me to see how much farther I could push before it broke.
I let go.
Even without nerves, she knew.
And so I apologized to the hand and to [Hjálparhönd] as a whole.
I returned to the kitchenette, where the [DOLL] still stood, frozen in time.
Her hands trembled.
Her eyes had rolled into the back of her head.
She appeared paralyzed.
A syntax error.
The dictionary I in her head defined 'sandwich' as 'two pieces of bread with food such as cheese, salad, or meat between them.'
The bread was present.
Unfortunately for her I moved all the meat and cheese in the fridge in the kitchenette to the mini fridge in my room.
As a result the fillings were absent.
A command had been given, but execution was impossible.
Logic collapsed upon itself, a recursive loop of paradoxes.
I remained calm.
Once, this sight would have driven me to madness.
Once, this had happened to [MEGIDO ARC], and the horror of it nearly shattered my mind. But now I understood. This was merely the infancy period of artificial cognition.
All she needed to do was ask a question—any question, a 'WH' question to break the loop.
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Four hours have passed.
In that time, I finalized concepts for two new [DOLLS], drafted theoretical blueprints, contacted a man about an off-the-grid cabin in the Tiphereth sector of Qipan. Secluded, hidden, 1300 meters up the Mid-Slope of Mt. Teshita. Perfect for my needs.
But solitude was not part of the deal. The owner would remain, a lingering presence in my supposed sanctuary. He had only one question for me—did I have any experience with photography and filming?
I did.
He was very pleased with that fact.
The owner was also suspiciously eager to be paid in cash. The listing vanished the moment our deal was struck. A shady character, no doubt.
Good.
A clean businessman would have been far more troublesome.
But I was more interested in my eventual bouts with the wildlife that prowled the forest—how I would contest against them, measure myself in their domain.
I imagined sidestepping the wrath of furious Bees, chasing after Deer with the single-minded enthusiasm of a predator, and—should fate allow—locking arms in a wrestling match with a Bear.
With those adversaries in mind, the threat of a potential serial killer seemed almost quaint.
Better yet, if such a man did exist, then his ownership of an isolated and highly desirable base of operations was nothing more than an opportunity—a free real estate listing, courtesy of his own villainy. It reminded me of those isekai tropes, where the protagonist slaying a monster occupying a mansion and then claiming the estate for himself.
Perhaps my monster would just be of a more bipedal variety.
And in that quiet retreat, far from the prying eyes of the world, I would instill and refine a multitude of skills in [Hjálparhönd].
Like how to aim her nail gun. That nail gun being her claws—nails—which she would eject from her fingers with the cold precision of a marksman.
I would also engrave into her the [MEGIDO BLADE STYLE], the very technique [MEGIDO ARC] created and subsequently beat into my skull, an unrelenting symphony of violence meant to strengthen my image as her prince charming.
And, of course, I would have the [HELPING HANDS] mimic the form—floating specters, drifting through the battlefield, an extension of our will made manifest in steel and shadow.
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Three more hours passed. Dawn broke. The city exhaled.
[Hjálparhönd] remained unmoving.
A syntax error, stretching through the night.
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Six hours.
The sun was at its peak, blazing down upon the earth like an unblinking eye of judgment.
Panic set in.
I had seen this before. I had endured this before.
And yet—
And yet—
And yet—
For the love of God, she's going to stand there forever, isn't she?
I should just put a slice of cheese on the counter and see if she wakes up like a Windows reboot.
Or should I just place an avocado in her hands and declare, with absolute authority, that this too counts as a spread?
Was there some critical piece of information I had overlooked? Or was [MEGIDO ARC] simply a natural genius all along?
There exist countless myths of castles adrift in the heavens.
Grand citadels suspended above the clouds, impossible palaces resting upon nothing but dreams. Yet, all of them—every single one—are mere fiction.
Not one tale speaks of the absolute reality that lies beyond the veil of the cosmos.
A castle so vast it renders human comprehension meaningless. Its foundation is not built upon stone or soil, but upon the remnants of plundered galaxies—entire star systems reduced to rubble, their light devoured, their histories erased.
Its weight bends the fabric of space itself, warping reality around its gilded spires. It exists in defiance of the natural order, a celestial anomaly, a fortress that should not be. The laws of physics do not apply here. They kneel.
Its towers stretch far beyond mortal sight, piercing the abyss where light dares not tread. The vast halls are silent, not due to emptiness, but because sound itself is swallowed by the oppressive grandeur. A place where time loses meaning. Where infinity is merely another room behind another door.
And yet, for all its unfathomable immensity, only one has ever ruled these halls.
Or at least, that is how it should have remained.
For the first time since its creation, since the first brick was laid atop the bones of fallen worlds, another will be permitted to step inside.
For the first time in what feels like an eternity, the Cruel Golden Princess extends an invitation.
And the one who will accept is not a warrior, not a scholar, nor a king.
But a newborn [DOLL].
A mind unformed, a soul untouched. A being whose age cannot be measured in days, whose wisdom is but an ember, flickering weakly against the howling void.
Whose wisdom and reasoning were lacking.
The woman who governs the [HELPING HANDS]—[Hjálparhönd].
The Princess' voice is like the chime of golden chains, the rustling of silk soaked in blood.
Her decree is absolute.
"Welcome, to the [MEGIDO ARK]."