Oh my.
How utterly humiliating.
To think that [Hjálparhönd], having only just attained a higher level of cognition, would immediately conclude that her creator was an irrational fool, a man fundamentally incapable of preserving his own life.
The first piece of evidence leading her to this conclusion was irrefutable—my reckless stunt in the bathtub was nothing short of suicidal negligence. A pinnacle of irresponsibility. A moment of pure, unfiltered idiocy, and I had no one to blame but myself.
But the final nail in the coffin? My unconscious decision to roll onto my stomach in my sleep, pressing my face into the mattress—an act she bore witness to with silent judgment.
The Bones in the Ocean incident had already introduced her to the concept of drowning, and from there, she had deduced that humans needed to breathe. That air was life. That obstruction was death. Thus, to her, my careless movement in sleep was tantamount to my bath-time debacle—a self-destructive impulse made manifest. She began cross-referencing, analyzing past moments of negligence, laziness, and foolishness, constructing an intricate web of evidence to support her damning conclusion.
And so, as a response to her newfound revelation, [Hjálparhönd] fashioned for me a straightjacket of her own design.
It was a prison of hands. The left side bound by an array of her disembodied appendages, clutching at my wrist, creeping up my forearm, halting just before my elbow. More encased my ankles, gripping my legs up to my knees. The right side mirrored this arrangement, a cruel symmetry. Two hands gripped either side of my waist, another pair rested heavily on my shoulders, and the final duo interlocked their fingers around my throat in a silent, unyielding embrace.
Looking at myself in the full-length mirror, I could not deny it—this was a striking aesthetic. Ominous. Elegant. A whisper of villainy, an air of mystery. It lent itself well to an illusion—that it was I controlling the hands, that I was the [DOLL] and not the [WITCH].
I could complete the look, I mused. A wild wig, a plague doctor mask, and I would be an enigma made flesh. The thought thrilled me, but a glance at [Hjálparhönd]'s silent, ever-watching form made me hesitate. I felt a flash of embarrassment at my own excitement, and so, as was my nature, I sought to offload that embarrassment onto her.
"You may not know this [Hjálparhönd] but only perverts put their hands on others without their consent."
She tilted her head. No expression. A hand twitched, then formed a response in crisp, unfeeling text:
"AND?"
My days. Her power level was already this high?
No, rather, she likely hadn't even grasped the concept of shame, let alone internalized it. A stark contrast to the first two creations, who had crumbled beneath its weight the moment they became aware of it. She, however, remained unaffected. She had no context for modesty, no preconceptions of impropriety. If I were to command her to strip here and now, she would likely do so without hesitation.
Which, when I thought about it, I should do.
I needed to confirm that the details I had so carefully sculpted in the model had translated into reality. And so, I gave the order.
As expected, she offered no protest. She simply complied, unbothered. And before me stood a perfect realization of my craft—every detail painstakingly replicated from concept to creation. Her doll joints bore an uncanny resemblance to the faux articulations cosplayers painted onto their skin, yet hers were tangible, authentic.
It was then that I realized.
For [MEGIDO ARC], I had sculpted in pure realism. I had no defined artistic style then, so reality was my only guide. But [Hjálparhönd] had been sculpted in my style, in the abstract curvature of my own hand—so why, then, did she appear so real?
I closed my eyes to think. When I opened them, I was met with a revelation.
A filter had been placed over her—an alteration of perception. As though my mind itself had translated her back into the form of my art, shifting her from reality to stylization in an instant. In this state, she was the very embodiment of a doll.
Fascinating.
If I imitated the styles of other artists, could I bring their creations to life? Could I bridge the gap between fiction and reality?
The implications staggered me, sent my mind tumbling toward the abyss of possibility. But then—then, I made the mistake of considering her. My beloved 2D wife, Ibuki Douji.
Ah, the things I would do—
No. No, no, no. Banish the thought. A heresy. A sacrilege against the sanctity of artistic integrity. I slapped my cheeks, hard enough to sting.
A hand darted up to my face.
'THAT FELT LIKE ANOTHER IRRATIONAL ACTION.'
I smirked.
"It was. But [Hjálparhönd] would you kindly define the word 'Irrational' ?"
'IRRATIONAL - NOT USING REASON OR CLEAR THINKING.'
"Then tell me—would cutting off my left hand be irrational?"
'YES, OF COURSE. THAT WOULD BE UNREASONABLE SELF HARM.'
"And what if I cut it off to replace it with one of your [HELPING HANDS]?" I flexed my fingers, the weak, human digits I had been born with. "My left hand is good for little more than motion inputs in fighting games and holding my phone while I masturbate. It can barely fight, and it certainly isn't suited for preventing my death. One of your hands would be far more effective."
For a long moment, she was silent.
Then, in a rare moment of impulse, she rushed toward me, grasping my hands with her own—not the disembodied ones, but the ones attached to her main body. She looked down at my fingers, then up at me, staring deep into my eyes with an intensity I had never seen before.
And in those brilliant azure depths, a message burned:
'YOU MUSTN'T! YOU MUSTN'T LOSE THESE HANDS! NOT UNTIL I CAN CREATE THEM—HANDS FIT FOR MY [Skapari]!'
I see, I see those stars I saw were actually flames.
Oh.
Oh.
So that was it.
The stars I saw in her eyes were not stars at all.
They were flames.
The flames of ambition.
Ah… Ah…
I'm so happy I could cry.
No, in fact, I am crying.
Did I truly deserve this joy?
Oh my.
How utterly humiliating.
... ... ... ... ... ...
... ... ...
About an hour and thirty minutes have passed, and [Hjálparhönd] and I have been locked in an in-depth discussion about hands—their anatomy, their artistic representation, and their essence. As a result, we settled on a contract with two clauses:
I - I buy her art materials for every hand she wants to draw with simultaneously, and in return, she signs off on my decision to go into the mountains to fight a bear.
II - I teach her how to draw hands, and she teaches me how to maneuver the [HELPING HANDS]' Straight Jacket.
And thus, I embark on the happiest shopping trip of my life—a lengthy forty-seven-minute walk to one of the less populated areas of the Binah Sector. My only company is a red, hard-shell carry-on luggage box, my usual partner on trips where I plan to buy in bulk. But unlike my usual trips, this time, there are four disembodied hands nestled inside.
On a street lined with small businesses stands an old-fashioned, brick-and-mortar art supply store—unpopular but steadfast. It deals exclusively in supplies related to traditional and ancient art.
I step through the door and am immediately assaulted by the most obnoxious door chime in existence, only to be stopped short by a comically large paintbrush.
The one holding the brush is a stubborn old man with an unusually thick mustache and a haircut that makes you think he might just start a "King of Iron Fist" tournament any day now.
"Well, well, well. Look what we have here. If it ain't the traitor who gave himself over to the digital leviathan."
His voice has the grizzled weight of a badass old man from anime, which annoys me because it automatically makes me feel like I'm on the back foot in any argument.
"Oh my, have you gone senile you old bastard? I'm pretty sure I've stated over and over again that clay, metal wires and a bunch of paint wasn't enough to fully realize my creative vision."
The old bastard clicks his tongue.
"Bullshit, you're just relying of digital crutches like the rest of your generation!"
"What does my generation have to…"
Deep breaths.
Deep breaths.
I almost got baited.
"You know, unlike you, I come to this store to do business and not argue all day. So I'll just duck under this fake Bankai, go buy some art supplies and engage in some actually productive activities."
... ... ...
Thirty minutes later, my cart is filled to the brim with sketchbooks, pencils, sharpeners, and erasers—far too much for any one person. A fact the old bastard is quick to point out.
"What the hell is this? You running an art class or what?!"
"Yes actually. Just earlier today I saw it the flames of ambition burning like stars in the eyes of the youth."
"I see, so even an ignorant bastard like yourself can meet someone like that?"
"Indeed. When I left you I was but a student but now I am the master."
Our conversation stalls as I pay for the supplies.
The old bastard strictly insists on cash payments only. It's a principle I might have respected if it were just about skimping on taxes rather than his "Old Good, New Bad" mentality.
As he painstakingly counts the bills by hand, I notice his fingers tremble—an affliction that has kneecapped his growth as a painter. A damn shame, really. I used to buy every new piece he made, to the extent that I had to store most at Klono's place, and those I couldn't display on my boat ended up decorating my rented storage unit.
I can only lament as there's noth—
"Hey, stubborn old bastard. Would you cut off your hands if it meant you could get better ones that'll allow you to keep on painting?"
"Of course. You may be under the impression that the only things I care for are the things of old but what I truly value is tradition. These failing hands of mine are naught but a hindrance to my ability to partake in it."
"I see, then you're in luck you old bastard."
I unzip my luggage and pull out one of the hands.
"What the hell is that?"
"Your golden finger. You see, a certain relative of mine is developing the next step in the evolution of prosthetic hands."
The hand springs to life, crawling onto the counter. I place a pencil and paper in front of it, and it picks up the pencil, writing:
'HELLO.'
"You see at the moment they are capable of acting independently but soon they'll be at the level where they can be integrated into the body and enable the user to use them as if they had always had them. What do you think of that, old man?"
There's an eerie silence.
He's visibly stunned. It takes a while before he finally speaks, and his words surprise me.
"Get out! Get out of here you!"
He pushes himself up from the counter and starts shoving me toward the door.
"Wait, you old bastard! I'm not pulling your leg or anything you know!"
"I know! But of course someone as ignorant as you won't just allow me to save face as a bitter old man. Do you really really think I want you of all people to see me sniffling and crying like some young lad whose still wet behind the ears? Out and take this thing with you!"
Before I know it, I'm outside, and the shutters slam shut behind me.
It's strange how people can mask their intentions with harsh words only to reveal their true feelings in the same breath.
What a Tsundere.
I wonder if the negative karma I would have gained from trying to farm [VangaVeltur] from that old man has been canceled out by the emotions he felt because of my actions. But with that, I am halfway through fulfilling my secondary goal—sharing the joy [Hjálparhönd] inspired in me with those close to me.