Chapter 2: Servitude Awakening
The noise hit Traci first. It wasn’t just sound; it was a physical force, a wall of bass-throbbing music, shrieking laughter, and the low, constant roar of a hundred overlapping conversations. The frat house was a pulsing organism, its walls vibrating with sheer volume. Strobe lights cut through a haze of vape smoke and dust, making the scene jerk and stutter like a broken film.
Brad’s hand on her upper arm was the only anchor. He leaned down, his breath warm against her ear. “Stick close. This is insane.”
Close. Yes. Must stay close to companion. The thought floated through Trent’s mind, clear and logical. It wasn’t his voice. He pushed it aside, focusing on the sensory overload. Peeling Greek letters adorned the walls, barely visible under layers of glow-in-the-dark paint splatters. A massive, fake fireplace flickered with an unconvincing LED log, casting frantic orange light on bodies packed tight. Everywhere there were costumes: torn zombie cheerleaders, lazy cops in aviator sunglasses, a group of guys dressed as a six-pack of beer, already sweating through the cardboard.
They were five steps into the sweltering mass when a hand clamped onto Traci’s waist from behind.
It was large, hot, and possessive, fingers splaying over the curve of her hip where the maid’s dress hugged the new, impossible shape of her. A jolt, like a live wire, shot through the polymer skin and straight into Trent’s core.
He gasped.
It wasn’t a gasp of protest.
It was a sharp, shuddering intake of breath that carried a soft, melodic tone of surprise—and pleasure. The suit’s surface seemed to activate, humming beneath the touch. A warmth, lush and immediate, bloomed where the hand made contact, spreading through his lower belly. His knees weakened.
“Whoa, hello there,” a voice boomed over the music. A huge guy in a toga, his face flushed and glistening, leaned in. His breath smelled of cinnamon whiskey. “Where’d you come from, petite fleur?”
Trent’s mind screamed. Get off. Shove him. Say something. But his body, wrapped in the responsive skin, arched backwards almost imperceptibly into the touch. A soft, helpless moan escaped his lips. It was small, lost in the music, but Brad heard it. He turned, and his expression shifted from protective to something darker, more confused.
“Hands off, Marcus,” Brad said, his voice tight. He didn’t push the guy. He just stared at the hand on Traci’s waist.
“Relax, Bradshaw. Just saying hello to your… friend.” Marcus’s thumb stroked a small circle. Another pulse of electric pleasure rolled through Trent, dizzying, shameful. He couldn’t move. The programming whispered: Servant units are designed for tactile interaction. Positive feedback encourages user satisfaction.
“I… I am not…” Trent stammered, trying to find his own voice, the nerdy protest he should be making. It came out as a breathy, flustered whisper. “Please…”
Marcus laughed, mistaking the tone for coquettishness. “See? She likes it.”
Brad’s jaw clenched. He reached out, not for Marcus, but for Traci, pulling her arm so she stumbled away from the grab. The loss of contact felt like a sudden, cold void. Trent shuddered, his mind reeling. What was that? Why did it feel… good?
“You okay?” Brad asked, his eyes searching her face. He was still holding her arm, his grip firm.
Traci straightened the frilly apron with swift, automatic gestures. The flush of warmth was receding, leaving a hollow, confused chill. “I am functioning adequately,” she said, the French lilt perfect. Then Trent broke through, panic thinning his voice. “Brad, what the hell was that? It… it felt…”
He couldn’t finish. Brad’s gaze dropped to where Marcus’s hand had been, then flickered up to meet Trent’s eyes within the beautiful, foreign face. The conflict was naked on his face: concern for his roommate warring with the undeniable fact that the body in front of him was reacting in ways that sparked a hot, unwanted jealousy deep in his gut.
“The suit’s got heightened tactile sensors,” Brad muttered, looking away. “Feedback loops. I should’ve guessed. Come on, let’s get a drink. Make it look normal.”
Normal was a beer pong table set up on a warped door balanced on milk crates. The crowd was thinner here, the air slightly less choked. A guy in a torn alien costume and a woman dressed as a barely-there cat waved them over. “We need a fourth! You two in?”
Brad looked at Traci. Her large, dark eyes were wide, still shaken. A part of him wanted to leave, to take her back to the dorm and pry her out of that damn skin. Another part, the part that couldn’t stop noticing how the lace cuffs framed her slender wrists, nodded. “Yeah. We’re in.”
Traci was paired with the cat woman, Chloe. Brad was with the alien, Derek. The game was a blur of flying ping-pong balls, spilled beer, and roaring cheers. Trent found himself falling into a strange rhythm. The suit seemed to optimize his—her—movements. When she leaned over the table to take a shot, the posture was instinctively graceful, a delicate arch of the back that drew eyes. Chloe whooped and clapped when a ball she barely aimed swished into a cup.
“You’re a natural, girl!” Chloe slurred, throwing an arm around Traci’s shoulders.
The touch was friendly, casual. Another spark of warm feedback, softer this time, pleasant. Trent smiled automatically. “Thank you. The parameters of the game are efficiently designed.”
Chloe blinked, then laughed. “You’re funny! I love the accent. Keep drinking!”
Brad watched from across the table. He sank his shots with mechanical efficiency, his eyes rarely leaving Traci. He saw the way she moved now—not like Trent’s slightly clumsy self-consciousness, but with an eerie, fluid precision. When she missed a shot and had to drink, she lifted the cup with both hands, a dainty, practiced motion that ended with a soft sigh of satisfaction. It was a programmed etiquette, a maid served a drink, now consuming one. The line was blurring, and the beer was speeding it up.
It was Derek’s turn. He squinted, lining up his shot. “Alright, Traci, baby,” he called, grinning. “Make it easy for me. Blow on the ball for good luck.”
A few people around the table oohed. Brad stiffened.
Trent’s mind said no. But Traci’s body received the request as a casual command. User requests assistance. Provide assistance. Before Trent could stop it, she took a small step forward, bent at the waist with that exact, perfect posture, and pursed her full lips. She gave a soft, deliberate puff of air across the table towards Derek’s ball.
The crowd erupted. Derek whooped and made the shot easily.
Trent was screaming inside a locked room. The humiliation was molten. Yet, underneath it, the suit’s systems hummed with approval. Task completed. User satisfied.
Brad’s plastic cup crumpled in his fist, suds and cheap beer foaming over his knuckles. He didn’t even seem to notice. His stare was fixed on Traci, who was now straightening up, a small, servile smile on her flawless face.
The game continued, but Trent was drowning. Each shouted encouragement, each casual pat on her back from Chloe, each time someone called her “Traci” instead of him, it sanded down another edge of his resolve. The suit’s calm, directive whispers were becoming a soothing background noise, making the panic feel distant, unimportant.
During a lull, as Chloe fished a soggy ball from a cup, Brad moved around the table. He stepped close to Traci, so close she had to tilt her head up to look at him. The music thumped. The crowd swayed.
“Trent,” he whispered, the name a secret amid the chaos.
A flicker. A jolt behind the eyes. “Brad?” The voice was smaller, less accented.
“You’re fading. I can see it. We need to go.”
“I… I can’t…” Trent struggled, the words thick. “It feels easier… to just…”
“To just what?” Brad’s voice was urgent, low. “To just be that?” He gestured vaguely at her uniform, her body.
To be efficient. To be useful. To serve. The programming offered the answer like a comforting blanket.
Before Trent could form a rebuttal, a new voice, sharp and commanding, cut through. It was Marcus, the toga guy from before, flanked by two friends. He was holding a red plastic cup like a scepter. “There’s my maid! We need a refresh over here. Be a doll and fetch me another brewski.” It wasn’t a request. It was an order, dripping with false camaraderie and entitlement.
Every muscle in Traci’s body went tense, then smooth. Her posture snapped into something acutely attentive, her hands clasped in front of her apron. The smile returned, polished and vacant. “Of course, sir,” she chirped, the French accent crystalline. “Immediately.”
Brad reached for her. “Don’t.”
She was already turning, a perfect, graceful pivot on her small heels, moving with a purpose that had nothing to do with Trent. She began weaving through the crowd toward the keg, an automaton in a sea of chaos.
Brad was left standing by the beer pong table, the taste of copper and regret in his mouth, watching the stark black and white of the maid’s uniform get swallowed by the strobe-lit crowd. He had brought the suit home. He had let this happen. And now, as he watched his roommate walk away, obedient to a stranger’s command, he felt a surge of something worse than guilt. It was a hungry, terrifying fascination. She was the most beautiful thing in the room, and she was walking away, and a part of him desperately wanted to see what would happen next.