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the former human reembodied as a robot can not understand the concept the man who resides across from them in the tent is trying to explain.
they never loved when in the stage of flesh, their new cocoon of metal that houses their consciousness prevents them from reciprocating it, love.
“for example, what do you enjoy? then we can go on from there.”
“i enjoy consuming, and destroying, nothing more.”
“hmm, oh! imagine it like eating a butter muffin? those are your favorite if i remember correctly?
“affirmative, those are most satisfactory compared to other consumables.”
“how does it make you feel when you make and eat one?”
that was a very broad question. they enjoyed the process of obtaining the ingredients, starting with the aesthetically necessary one first.
they would seek out an individual butterfly who had the highest survival rate and wait for it to land.
they exclusively sought out monarchs, the idea of crushing a creature that adorned royalty status so easily under their digits brought them much more satisfaction compared to crushing any other common papilionoidea.
once their target was acquired it was a simple pinching of the wings. upon the organ’s removal the creature often died but sometimes, if they were lucky, it would live.
they would closely examine the creature that would be described as beautiful reduced to the form of any other common insect, they looked as if they were mutants of ants in the new state.
eventually it would die like all the others and they would leave.
“i enjoy seeking out the main aesthetic aligned ingredient of the dish, the butterfly.”
“i’m assuming you just like crushing them the best?”
the man sounded disappointed with his own idea of explanation.
“no.” the robot wondered why it did not simply agree with him. explaining things differently for another’s feelings has always been pointless, aswell as a waste of time.
“i enjoy seeking them out, taking the wings off of them, then looking at them afterwards.”
“that’s a little sadistic even for you, don’t you think?”
“you asked me what i enjoyed.”
“i did, is there anything else you like? the food’s taste? if not i am curious on why you claim to have the food as your favorite, if it really is just the butterfly murder you enjoy.”
they recalled the steps they take for preparing the dough of the treat, they would pick any ripe carrot, or force the plant mutant to make them a ‘special’ one.
afterwards they would retrieve a piece of meat to feed the bird to get an egg.
they would go to the plains in search of dense grass tufts to find the wheat strands to search for a fresh pond to dampen the strands.
they’d stop by the bee boxes to retrieve the sweetener, honey, then finally they would bring everything together.
they would find an untouched healing salve bowl and use it to mix their ingredients together, using the salve grinder as one would a whisk.
once it harbored a dough like consistency their second favorite part would commence, kneading the dough.
occasionally they will catch themselves sculpting pointless recreations of things they spend most time with in it, sometimes the dough will be molded into a round, soft, inviting, shape similar to the noisy bug, glommer.
other times they end up making a crude doughy sculpture of higgsbury, whenever they notice it they quickly destroy it, returning the dough to its original state.
they make sure to keep the butterfly wings out of the mix and as untouched as possible during this process.
when all is done they stick their concoction in the crockpot.
the magic of this place makes a perfect plain muffin pop out after a few minutes.
they delicately open the closed butterfly wings, place it upon their feast for one, then consume.
“i enjoy the dough’s malleability, it can be distracting. i also enjoy placing the wing’s upon the muffin.”
this caught the man’s interest again in tenfold.
“i didn’t expect that, i thought you would not enjoy the mess the dough can cause.. and the wings part, how do they not break when you decorate the treat?”
“i do not do things i do not want like you humans, my placement is perfect. though i often get distracted with the dough.”
“elaborate on that last part, please?”
“how demeaning of you, am i not allowed to ‘play with my food’ as you fleshlings say.”
“if you want.. still i find it very fascinating, in all of these examples you are holding and or examining something, does that recreate a feeling of compassion or curiosity?”
man requires companionship, it is only natural for that primal need to have a new form in their, improved body. it is merely a natural instinct from their former mind.
they indulged in this triviality with the man solely for the data and nothing more.
“let me experiment on you, wilson.”
“pardon me?”
the robot crawled over to the man, breaking the small distance they shared before.
“you keep asking me what i enjoy, to understand love. let me have a hands on approach.”
the man flusters at this. they do not care.
“alright, but let’s move slow..”
“i am not planning on anything ‘dirty’ higgsbury.”
the man swallowed his nervousness. the robot only refers to him by last name when they are being serious.
wilson nods his approval to the automaton.
they pin him down. they see the bedroll the man is sprawled out on as the flower the butterfly will land upon, blanket mimicking petals.
one hard, metal hand pins the man’s shoulder down, not enough to cause pain but to evoke seriousness. the other trails down his chest to his heart.
if they had the ability to they would smile.
their monarch, a man who once ruled on the nightmare throne, his heart fluttered just the same as the butterfly’s wings.
they thought about how easily they could apply just the exact amount of pressure, 37 lbs exact, and cause the man’s heart to stop.
they examine wilson’s face. there is a evident amount of fear shown by the furrowed brows but the eyes are dilated in a form of trust, it’s uncanny.
they move a hand to the button’s on the man’s vest.
“may i?”
“yes..”
they methodically pop the buttons out one by one. they straddled the man below them now.
wilson squirmed supposedly, to help with the undressing.
“do not move.”
their specimen obeys.
they move his arms up, removing the vest then the shirt.
this was their favorite part, their monarch was wingless now, its exterior beauty removed to reveal bare simplicity. wilson harbored everything else every human had.
there was still something special about wilson that wasn’t making complete sense to their processor.
wilson had no heightened survival rate, they could kill him just as quick as any other human if they wanted to, likely even easier with the trust the man has for them.
they crane their neck down to be closer to the man’s face. they scrutinize every detail they can of him, the stubble, the small bump on the top of his nose likely from it formerly being broken, the eye bags, nothing is particularly drastic or out of the ordinary.
“you remind me of the butterfly i retrieve for the butter muffins.”
“is that a good thing?”
“for me, yes. unsure for you.”
“i think it’s a mutual goodness.”
they move away from the man’s face bored now, they begin poking and prodding at the flesh. it isn’t the same consistency as dough at all, but it is somewhat malleable.
they lightly pinch the skin at wilson’s sides earning a small stifled laugh, they rub at his shoulders and a sound of pleasure is released.
they get off the man momentarily to have him lay on his stomach now, head cradled in petals, or the bedroll’s beefalo wool blanket.
they reclaim their throne on the man’s back and begin to lightly massage the shoulders.
wilson grumbles in pleasure under the unexpected but much appreciated touch.
they feel a particularly tight knot in the man’s shoulder and work away at it, occasionally being too rough and earning a whimper.
the act is akin to spreading the butterflies wings, the rest of the body already examined and forgotten.
they’re gentle, opening up small delicate muscles under their own metal, superior strength. they continue loosening the muscle with one hand while the other moves up to the neck.
they hold the base for a moment. they could easily maneuver wilson anyway they want from here, keep him in place to examine forever, but instead they rub calmly, calculatedly, for the other’s sake.
this is not consumption nor is it destruction.
they are atop someone they love, making them produce sounds of pleasure but there is no sexual behavior being displayed. it’s unnatural, it’s intimate, and they love it.
the hand finished working out the knot moves to massage the scalp, wilson groans in happiness.
they scratch the man’s head, messing up the perfectly poised hair. they revel in the minor destruction and take note to never forget only they are allowed to do that to the man under them.
it all is molded like nothing more then warm dough in their hands. they twirl a few wisps of hair, poke at the skin, rub it whichever way they find most entertaining aswell as best for the original purpose.
after a few minutes they stop and get off the man who huffs out at the loss of pressure on his back.
“thank you, wx.”
the final step. consumption.
“you can thank me with more then just words.”
“how demanding.”
wilson playfully rolls his eyes to them but follows through with the order anyway.
still unclothed on his top half skin meets metal and a shiver envelops wilson.
they pull him closer, in time the metal will warm.
wilson leaves small pecks on their faceplate before the main course.
if they had a tongue they would have devoured their butterfly completely.
instead they press metal against slightly chapped lips and keep them there just long enough for wilson to fight for his breath but not loose it all entirely.
they pull away, knowing his limits and take in every detail when the man takes in a much needed sharp breath.
they quickly lean back in, the treat too sweet to not indulge in again.
wilson squeezes his eyes shut, deep in focus when they kiss again, wx keeps theirs wide open taking in every detail completely.
they did always have a bit of a sweet tooth.