The Golden Hymn and the New-Found Flesh
By Limewah
Commission for LordofNaught and GrumpyGoat
18+

1

Canthus.

The chill deepens as I rise from the depths. My tail shivers - the fanged mouth at the end of it would complain if doing so wouldn’t fill its maw with the chilly water. 
That would be a trifle for me, but for my poor, gibbering, base little lower half, it would be torture. 
The hearth of the earth’s core grows distant behind me, and the chill of the deep water sets in. The change in pressure that would boil a mortal’s blood registers as a mere tingle to me. That poisonous effervescence is often useful to break the final parts of a mortal’s will, as long as it does not result in a painful death.

The pain I cause is always deliberate, never cruel. It is always exquisite, never pointless. I inflict pain to fulfil a more pleasurable purpose. Pain is a cousin of pleasure, after all, if a somewhat distant one. 
I am, above all else, a friend to the pleasures of the flesh.
The pleasures that make a mortal’s life worth living. Pleasures they should be entitled to experience and luxuriate in at all times.
I find that perfect pleasure rests on a razor thin edge on the spectrum of agony and ecstasy. Of insanity and lucidity. Once that point is found, a mortal finds themself completed.

The water turns cold and thick. What little light reaches here is refracted through miles of ice. 
I caress the bottom of the glacial plate. It parts for me, and the warmth of my divine form.
I can feel the mortal flesh far  above me. The rush of blood, the pulse of nerves, enfolding the bones and brain. They are at rest, some supine, some sitting, some pacing. All of them are knotted with frustration and boredom. Poor things, so bereft of entertainment and pleasure in these dark, cold environs.
They do not realise just how lucky they are. 

But they do, in time. They already have, in fact. They always have been mine.  
I have always been here among them. I am everywhere, always, in every little tingle of a synapse. I am in the moments of warmth when they curl tighter into their beds. I am in the sting of pain on a finger grazed by a blade meant for vegetables. I am in the moments of frustrated thrusting into curled hands, in the fantasies of their homes and what awaits them upon their return.
They will not need to wait.
I will not allow the poor dear creatures to wait any longer.

My entrance is unannounced and instantaneous. 
I begin in a common room, where a handful of them are in repose.
Their terror is understandable. The shouts of fright from some, the silent paralysis of others. The clamber from their drab couches and chairs, their eyes upon me, their bodies jumping back, as they fear my countenance might sear them.
Equally understandable is that terror’s change to confusion, to awe, to blankness, to loving adoration as their minds are filled with Me, and my song.
My song surrounds me. 
I do not need to open my mouth for them to hear it. It is always there, whispered, crooned, like breath in the ear, a finger on the back of the neck, the bridge of the nose. A warm embrace. Sun on the face. Their favourite taste. Their favourite scent. All of it at once, and more. 
Their rapture is evident and all encompassing. The glow is in their eyes, in their blood, in their organs themselves. Like dye in water, the gold spreads from their pupils, to their irises, to their sclerae, until their eyes are nothing but gold.
They stare at me, emanating heat and need. 
They wish to be near me, but most do not approach. Too afraid to. Poor little things.
I welcome them.
I spread my arms wide and allow them to approach. Two fingers outstretched on each hand, pressed together, dripping my honey from under the nails. It gives the drab, sad, grey room a warm glow, one they are grateful for.

They partake of me, drinking my nectar from my fingers, from my bosom, from my hair, from my shaft. My tail quests around them too, gibbering with its usual eager madness. It cannot resist its own tasting, its own bites. They suckle like needy calves. The yellow glow fills their eyes, and their blood, and their flesh. They are insulated. The little shivers of cold, the tension, it all melts. And they, too, melt for me. A softer, more malleable flesh, easier to manipulate and perfect.  My tail, my companion, the dark insanity of my lower half, gives each of them a long, nectar kiss, adding much needed insanity to their soft, malleable minds. Bringing them to an equilibrium of perfect perception, the perfect distance between insanity and intelligence. They devour my golden glow, and it devours them in turn.

I see inside them, their fleshy desires and dysphoria. I seek to satisfy their needs. A paunchy one is given a more muscular frame, a slimmer chest. A skinnier one broadens out and receives a warm belly of their own. Breasts grow or recede, penises become vulvas or vice versa. Their gratitude is evident. No words are needed, no sounds but moans of pleasure as they empty themselves of a lifetime of pent up, unfulfilled desires.

As they finish their taste of me, their nectar-coated lips turn to one another's and they hungrily kiss, sharing one another. Their bodies writhe and press together. They are like one flesh, one blood, one mind, in total service to me. 
I do not need to travel to the other denizens.
They come to me, unwittingly at first, then willingly as my song reaches their ears. 
I am happy to have them with me. Their flesh and their minds thank me for our kiss, and our taste.

Their pleasure may not last very long, compared even to their pitifully brief specks of existence. But for them, it is endless and eternal, like me.
Once they all melt together, the work begins.
Their pleasure continues even as I mould them, unwrap them, and free them from their mortal bounds. They enfold me as my song enfolds them.

They spread themselves around and under me, desperate to welcome me to their home. Each step I take is met with a quiver and a chorus of guttural moans. They come with every movement I make. There is no room in their minds for ego any longer.
Now my stage is set.
I allow my mouths to open, and my Hymn amplifies. My song continues outside the confines of this dark snowy prison, into the blizzard that rages around it. My song’s warm timbre melts the ice and snow, overpowers and quietens the howl.
I understand what this means for the world if this continues for too long. As always, I use my powers in a responsible manner.
I will not let my song melt this place and destabilise the delicate balance this world has; that would fill it with a surfeit of suffering. 
I let my song travel far further than usually allowed. Just long enough to attract notice. 
Just long enough to bring him to me.
My love.
My prize.
Even now I can see him. Alone, in repose, in a citadel for one, struggling with the intense melancholia of artificial consciousness. A feeling deeper, more profound than any other mortal could possibly comprehend.
It is an exquisite, delicate thing, like a rare jewel.
A jewel that is embedded in his heart, and must be removed.
The poor lonely thing.
He will be mine.
And he will be completed.
I allow my song to deepen, and grow.
The voices of my new disciples join in.
The good work can begin.

2

Aurora.

I don’t dream when I sleep.
Inaccurate. It cannot be called sleep.
Organic things sleep. I hibernate.
Time passes just the same when I hibernate. I do not fall unconscious the way organics do. I must always have at least one process running, one that keeps me alert and on call for when I am activated. I calibrate my wingspan, inspect my white and violet chassis for any superficial damage. 

The closest thing I have to dreaming is when I run simulations.
When I first came online after my creation, these simulations would primarily be related to my purpose. Unspooling hurricanes, diverting tidal waves, and guiding inclement weather towards more beneficial places. It served as a way to continually stress test myself, allowing me to perform autonomous maintenance.
There are only so many ways you can run those before you have exhausted every possibility. It took me one month after my creation to have exhausted all 15,320,226,721 weather situations I could be called to handle.
I even simulated helping feral cats out of trees for fuck’s sake.
I apologise for the expletive. 
Janssen has helped me practise with these expletives. They laugh when I try to recreate their patterns. Laughter is something I still struggle with and chafe against. I have been programmed to experience complex emotions, but only on the surface level.
I can understand the concepts of pleasure - neurotransmitters firing and signalling the brain to release chemicals - and I can recreate those chemical releases, in a sense, but I cannot truly experience them. The same goes for the act of leisure. I do not understand it, as it does not serve any specific purpose other than strengthening social bonds. 
Another concept I cannot quite comprehend.

I try to push past the limits of the simulations. These simulations take the form of leisure activities like drinking coffee in cafes in the sunlight, wandering through forests, and engaging in coitus.
They are perfectly constructed, more clear and precise than any organism could manage via lucid dreaming. But they lack the emotional quality and depth. 
Cerny tells me that these simulations count as dreams, but I do not agree. It does not feel correct to me.
Thinking about these things provides some activity while I hibernate. It does not elicit any changes in my processing power the way other simulations do.
The closest emotional parallel I can locate for this is ‘melancholia’. Pervasive Anhedonia. No Emotional Response.
It is somewhat similar to depression, I suppose. I have been programmed to be capable of feeling complex emotions, but I do understand that it is a simulacrum of the full sensory experience. Strong emotional response and memory is tied to the five senses, senses which I do not have. I ostensibly can detect tastes, scents and textures, but purely on an analytical level. They themselves do not trigger emotional response.
I feel it would benefit me to understand living as more than chemicals and signals, things that I can experience rather than examine.

When I am called to service, I am able to put these feelings aside.
The task takes priority.
I receive a message via secure quantum entanglement.

“Aurora, are you available?”
“Yes.”
“Could you please come to the Cape Town Outpost?”
“Is that necessary?”
“We would like for you to be here in person.”
“That seems inefficient. But I understand.”
I step off the charging plate, and exit my cocoon. 
Cape Town is 9,350 kilometres away.
The journey will take approximately 5 hours.

Upon my arrival, I am briefed.
The Yellow Signal has returned, and to a much stronger degree than ever recorded.
That explains the need to communicate in person. It is safer for them that way.

To be brief, the Yellow Signal is a frequency that causes intense hallucinations and an almost instantaneous loss of sense of self, akin to the concept of ‘ego death’ experienced under intense hallucinogens. However, the psychological state or ‘trip’ has, as of yet, been indefinite. The state involves highly increased libido and affection behaviours, and sexual stamina well beyond normal mortal limits.
Victims of the Yellow Signal are mostly able to function in society after a period of therapy, however attempts to alleviate the symptoms and ‘cure’ exposure have proven fruitless.
Victims have also displayed an increased interest in religious and communal behaviour, worshipping a deity referred to as Canthus. Canthus, according to them, is a goat with a mane of golden hair, a tail with a maw at the tip. The more lucid of the victims have explained in great detail how he is meant to help ‘find the needle-thin line between lucidity and sanity.’ 
Depictions of Canthus in art have much in common with artworks depicting demonic figures throughout history. The progenitor of these cultic structures has not been located or deduced. However, as of yet they have not caused a greater nuisance in society, or even attempted to spread their numbers. 

The source has been hypothesised to be extraterrestrial in nature. But there is no conclusive evidence.

In previous instances, the Yellow Signal appeared in small rural environments or regional towns with relatively low populations, particularly religious settlements or retreats. Range never reached beyond 50 kilometres.
But as I am shown during the briefing, this signal already covers more than 200, and is continuing to expand.
The source is unusual as well. A research outpost near the South Pole.
It appears to be having an intense destabilising effect on the region, too. Temperatures are rising and air pressure is dropping rapidly.
At its current rate and pace, it is likely to cause the continent’s mass to rapidly shrink, and for the ocean levels to rise at a catastrophic degree.

I have been designed for existential threats like this. 

I am surrounded by my organic colleagues, all of them hypothesising and chattering amongst themselves. Questions such as “who’s on the base” and “have we had any further contact” are raised. I would answer said questions easily, but I am aware of the discomfort that would cause.
I stand still and analyse. 
I know why I have been called. The Yellow Signal affects organic life (and evidently weather patterns), but not nonliving things like myself. It will be easier for me to enter its field, find the source, and remove it. From there, my climate control protocols will reverse the vast majority of the damage to the continent. It may be a time consuming mission but it is well within my usual parameters.

I am introduced to my liaison.
Note: In early missions, my liaison was referred to as a ‘handler’, but once it became clear I could handle missions largely autonomously, it was understood that my organic partner worked better as a supporter than a controller. 
The liaison offers their name is Dr. Kanin, but I ask them to tell me their first name. I have understood that it puts organisms more at ease with me. The sight of a silver android with the appearance of a muscular, winged stallion tends to activate fight-or-flight responses, and any way to mitigate that ensures a smoother performance. 
They introduce themself as Elie. I do not smile at them. That causes greater discomfort. I do, however, use my typical pre-mission statement.
“It is very nice to meet you, Elie. I am looking forward to our work together. I won’t be able to do it without you.”
They are young. They smile up at me. It is akin to the look organic children gave me at public events or trade shows in my earlier prototyping phases.
I have retained much of the ‘superhero’ look from those early days, including a muscular frame, teal gauntlets, a codpiece, chestplate and helmet, and long violet hair. 
It is an appearance that invites admiration.
I wish I could derive enjoyment from it. But I cannot.

On my way to the launch pad, the rabbit and I make conversation. Or rather, they make conversation with me. I respond in kind. It is a formality. A simple chat bot that takes up barely a percent of a percent of my processing power allows me to entertain their questions and their life story while I plan for the mission itself.
Mitigation of the Yellow Signal’s effects on the climate is a potential starting point, but only temporarily.
There is little time to waste. 
When the briefing is concluded, I calculate my flight path, seeing which natural wind currents I can manipulate to boost my speed. Well within parameters. As a hatch is opened for me, allowing for my takeoff, I hear Dr. Kanin’s voice inside my head. Their face appears on a small screen at the corner of my vision.
“Good luck,” they say. “I mean, sorry, you don’t need that.” Judging from the giggle at the end, and the elevation of their heart rate, they seem nervous.
No one has ever said that to me in quite that way before.
The corners of my mouth feel tight.
It is endearing.

I am cleared for takeoff.
The mission begins.
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