Chapter 2: Discarded Doll

Jester jerked away, startled by the too-human voice so close to his ear. He didn’t scream back. Shout, maybe. A loud exhalation of air that one might even call a gasp. Never a scream.

Whatever the sound was that came from Jester’s mouth received a reaction. Red-eyes shifted. Its pupils shrunk down to a more human level. Its screams cut off, leaving them both in silence. Before Jester could say a word, it raised a single hand and motioned him backward.

He obeyed without thinking, watching as the robot dug itself slowly out of the junk pile. As it worked, Jester studied the machine, watching it struggle to free its other arm, before starting on its legs.

Bits of red hair, long and tangled, wrapped around screws and bits of metal. What few strands didn’t appear as though a magpie nested in them framed the synthetic skin that coated its face. An odd crafting choice. Incongruent with the wooden and brass panels that formed its neck and body.

Her neck? No, no. Jester squeezed his eyes shut. That would cause him to get attached. No way in hell. Not for what this would sell for.

He opened his eyes, focusing once more on the face. It wasn’t quite an uncanny valley vibe, but something about it made Jester uncomfortable. Perhaps the lips? They currently displayed a realistic pout of frustration. The source of which was the clear struggling at moving a pipe without adding more rips to its dress.

Said outfit, remaining as intact as it did, was remarkable. Rips ran through the long brown skirt, enough to show the same wooden paneling covering the legs. The brown skirt, combined with the rather immodest brown bodice, reminded him of an old-timey tavern maid.

When they finally sorted the pipe situation, the robot moved to stand in front of him. It let out a relieved sigh, breathy and over-long, before performing a curtsy.

“Thank you for finding me, good sir. I am forever in your debt,” Its words came out rapid-fire, with the hint of a British accent. The way it spoke was a clear customer service voice. Jester himself used it often enough to know.

A thought tickled the back of Jester’s brain. Some factoid about actors faking accents? Before the idea coalesced into anything of substance, the appearance of an information box distracted him.

{Congratulations!
You have discovered an abandoned Combat-Class robot crafted by Player: DollmakerMC.
General Statistics
Name: Happy Hour
Current HP: 5/5
Damage rating: Low
Armor Rating: Low
Speed Rating: Low
---------------------------------------------------------------
Options for ownership
1. Pay thirty credits to register this robot in your name.
2. Accept the ownership quest, Tavern Maid's woes!
3. Abandon any claim to your find.}

The crafter’s name caught Jester’s attention first.

DollmakerMC, a legacy player, became known for being one of the beta testers for the robot creation system. Within days of the game’s ultimate release, they were the crafter to beat. Their designs ranged from simple elegance to bizarre technical showcases.

People still discussed one of his designs regularly. Videos of the creation circulated the forums any time an influx of new players appeared. The design in question was a small puppy, that when hitting a set damage threshold transformed. From a lowly pup, it stretched and grew to become a mighty wolf. With its new claws and teeth, it set about ripping opponents to shreds.

No one knew exactly how he’d managed it.

Other players, mechanics more interested in combat than design, stuck with the basics. Simple robots, ones similar to real-life machines but with added features such as spikes or chainsaws. They used cheap chassis with basic power cores that did little but crash into an opponent for damage.

In comparison?

What DollmakerMC did was art.

They led the pack in Android designs. Creations of clockwork men and women who moved and spoke in jerky tones. Others took the idea and ran with it, inspired by the sheer possibilities.

The first lot created knock-offs. Copyright infringement ran rampant on every corner of Geartown. Popular anime, book, and movie characters were being sculpted from glass, brass, clockwork, and steam.

Then the Developers updated the game.

Synthetic skin, a repeated request by players, appeared in various NPC shops. With that single item, DollmakerMC changed the game.

Five days later, they exited their lab with a new Android model. Touted as the most realistic ever built, it contained a self-made personality matrix, allowing it to ditch the robotic responses of its predecessors. Players flocked to view it in droves, regularly leaving its presence, claiming it was nothing but an avatar in disguise.

Until a RagerSystems administrator confirmed it on the forums.

That single post sparked a race for realism.

No one could make them perfect, though not from a lack of trying. Their glassy-eyed stare gave them away as non-human, no matter what parts they used. A quirk that earned these endeavors the nickname of Dolls.

However, nothing good could last. RagerSystems itself got into the trend, and one overnight update later, the player’s fascination with Dolls—died.

Alongside RotorRager’s E for Everyone rating.

That decision likewise marked the rise in non-combat-related activities designed to entice the casual crowd. Players created forum posts every week, arguing about the merits and detriments.

The debate grew so large even new fans knew it wasn’t worth trying to go pro with a Doll anymore. Not worth the backlash. Some tried, there was always one. They never got far. Online harassment was quite the morale breaker. Plus, if one could afford it, it was far easier to purchase something better.

Most players didn’t design Dolls with combat in mind.

Potential harassment wasn’t enough to dissuade Jester. Not with the potential money on the line. If he could find a seller, he’d be rich. Anyone who tried to start something over his brief ownership could get stuffed.

The second thing he noticed, however, almost did. Thirty credits to purchase ownership. With his fourteen credits, that price far outstripped his current capabilities.

He knew there would be a cost. While rare, finding a functioning robot wasn’t impossible, if one searched regularly enough. Robopets were the most common. Tailless cats or legless hamsters who shrieked and hid, running rampant in The Junkyard. These small robots cost a single credit to claim. Once he paid, however, they became his best friends.

NPCs bought them cheap, four to five credits, occasionally generating quests to find the things for Timmy the blacksmith’s son.

Either way, the quick option for ownership wasn’t possible. That left him a choice. Take the robot, who still hadn’t risen from its curtsy, or abandon it. The latter choice felt wasteful. As a DollmakerMC design, some history buff would buy it for a collection. If not? The parts themselves would be worth something.

So no actual choice then.

He looked at Happy Hour, grimacing at the name. Was she meant to serve drinks or fight? Or god forbid something else. DollmakerMC was allegedly a fan of names with multiple meanings. Jester, personally, found them tacky.

It looked up at him, red eyes shining when he cleared his throat. Jester let out a soft sigh, which it took as its cue to return to a standing position.

“I see you have a quest for me?” He said.

Happy Hour beamed at him, its perfect teeth on full display. He frowned at the sight. While he understood why The Developers didn’t factor in degradation over time, they didn’t completely ignore it, either. The dress proved the point, with its tears and stains.

It concerned him. No robot he found was ever right. If it wasn’t obvious, then something he couldn’t see must be wrong. Leaky power core? Navigational problems? He hoped for the former. That would be an easy fix.

“Oh, I’m so glad you’re happy to help!” Happy Hour said. “It truly is the simplest of requests. Nothing but a mere moment of your time!”

Jester’s stomach sank. No NPCs tried to convince you a job was simple, unless it wasn’t.

He seriously rethought the idea of abandoning the entire endeavor. The thought of his nearly empty Credit Satchel kept him going. It would be worthwhile in the end.

“Of course,” He gritted his teeth around the words. “How may I be of assistance?”

A slap echoed out as the back of its hand met its forehead. It leaned back, far enough any human would have collapsed, releasing another overlong sigh. “Your kindness overwhelms me, sir.”

Jester grunted and waited for Happy Hour to continue. Its eye met his, and the robot coughed. It stood straight, brushing dust off its clothes.

“Well, you see, kind sir. I was but a simple Tavern Maid. Until they came along and usurped my position!” Happy Hour threw its arm out in a dramatic gesture, finger pointing towards the sky. “I would have you assist me in proving my skill is equal to that.”

Happy Hour drew in a deep breath. “Simple overused toaster.”

It delivered the last words with such venom that Jester stepped back. A screen appeared as the words vanished from the air, blocking his view of Happy Hour’s scowling face.

{Quest Gained - Tavern Maid's Woes!
Head to Debra’s Dollhouse and beat Maid#34 in a fight. You have gained temporary permissions to upgrade and fight with Happy Hour.
Attempts: 0/3
ACCEPT?
Yes | No

Warning: If you fail this quest, you will lose any provided upgrades or equipment. You will lose any potential to take Happy Hour on as your robot companion.}

Jester read the text multiple times, making sure he understood.

He didn’t recognize the name Debra’s Dollhouse, but he got the gist. A basic combat quest. It wasn’t his first solo, though. He knew what to expect. His friends often dragged him along on theirs, not that he minded too much.

Robots fighting never got boring.

With a swift movement he reached out and tapped, yes. The box vanished with a quiet pop. Jester jumped at how Happy Hour’s expression changed from righteous fury. Was its wide smile tinged with a hint of insanity? Maybe the pinprick pupils? Perhaps how the skin didn’t wrinkle near its eyes, making it seem disingenuous? Either way, the experience unsettled him.

“Shall we head to the Tavern right away, Master?” Happy Hour asked, its voice a seductive purr.

Jester shook his head in fervent denial.

“No. Nope. No way. None of that. No. My name is Jester St’Servo. Jester will be fine. Never use that tone again,” He said, words mixing as they tumbled out over themselves.

Christ, he hoped none of his friends were online. If they heard that, he would never live it down.

Though panic-stricken at the thought of being overheard, he didn’t miss the smirk Happy Hour threw his way. A smirk! That was unnatural, and he hated it. DollmakerMC gave this unit far too much personality.

He imagined selling Happy Hour to a rich collector. Its buyer throwing so many zeros on the deal that he could buy whatever combat robot he wished. Perhaps a giant porcupine that shot its quills at opponents? Woodland animals were cute. He could get popular using that. Plus, it would never talk. Or smirk.

Unfortunately, the quest needed completing first.

Jester adjusted his hat and took a moment to think. Should he head to the Tavern first? Might be worth trying to get this over with fast. One look at Happy Hour standing there in her tattered dress killed that idea.

“No, I need to see what makes you tick first.”

Happy Hour curtsied once more before following him out of The Junkyard. Jesters mind searching for the best routes to avoid being spotted by his fellow Scrappers.

***

Gero, the bridge guard, was an unavoidable witness.

Thankfully, as an NPC, he didn’t care. He waved at them, shouting a welcome as they returned to the city’s outskirts. Jester ducked his shoulders at the noise, tipping his hat low in a futile attempt to cover his face. He just needed to reach the nearest public crafting station.

Any would do.

Then he could examine Happy Hour and see what he was working with.

“Stay quiet and stay close,” Jester whispered at the first signs of an avatar’s shadow.

Happy Hour nodded.

The two stuck to alleyways, moving with haste at any sounds of player activity. He knew that someone would notice them at some point. If not out here, then as soon as they stopped to use the bench.

Still, there was no need to invite early scrutiny.

At least he wasn’t in central Geartown. Swarms of players would still roam the streets in search of deals. There wouldn’t be room to swing a wrench. It surprised him he didn’t see more people out here. That those too poor or too slow weren’t entering The Outskirts for bargain hunting.

Another Alleyway followed a rooftop crossing where three hooded players talked in whispers. They ignored him, and he returned the favor. Next was a minute spent ducking behind a dumpster as a group departed the store he wanted to enter. Jackpot, he might be alone at the bench after all.

Markal’s Decals wasn’t the most impressive building. Yellow brick, with a sign out front depicting a metallic arm bearing a racing stripe. It was the closet, and the least frequented. Markal, the NPC detailer, and owner, wasn’t much to look at either.

A diminutive older gentleman, with more wrinkles than not. His wisps of grey hair waved about as he shifted constantly while working. He allowed anyone to use the crafting station crammed next to his painting station, provided they held a high enough reputation. Which, in Markal’s case, meant spending a bucket load of money or accepting plenty of low-ball offers.

Easy to grind out, but frustrating.

The effort was worth it. Instead of the typical sales pitch, upon entering, Jester received a gap-tooth smile. A large yellow breastplate sat before the detailer, being slowly covered in hearts. Said hearts were pastel pink and wore angry frowns and squinting eyes.

Jester decided not to ask. He hoped that was for an NPC, otherwise, player tastes were getting weird.

“Jester, my dear boy!” Markal called, his croaking voice on the edge of too loud.

“Mr Markal,” Jester said.

“Here to fix up another pet?” Markal’s words grew faint as his attention focused back on the task, hands moving swiftly between paint brushes.

“I wouldn’t call it that. I am here to use the crafting station. If that’s ok?” Jester gestured for Happy Hour to sit on the small dust-covered bench. Tools popped out of the wall, followed by screens and scanners.

“Of course, my boy! Of course! Anyone who treats an old man, like myself, so favorably is more than welcome. Do you want me to paint it again? That starlit cat design you helped me with was fascinating.”

Jester smiled at the memory. He’d spent hours with Markal, going over star charts. They went with Leo. Not the most inspired choice, but the buyer appreciated the decision. If he didn’t need to pay for the paints himself, he’d do it more often.

Decals were fun. Maybe that would be his goal after he sold Happy Hour? Start his own detailing shop. Paint stupid designs onto robots.

“Not this time, Mr. Markal. Thanks, though,” Jester said.

Markal grunted in reply, already re-absorbed back into his heart project.

With the scanner, Jester started the slow process of checking over Happy Hour. The first problem he ran into was his lack of experience with Dolls. Data filled a nearby screen, but most of it was gibberish.

What parts he understood didn’t fill him with excitement.

Happy Hour’s combat capabilities were the single thing made clear within the garbled mess. Zero inbuilt or equipped weapons, no shields, no defensive gadgets, no healing, or anything that would aid it in a fight. In fact, there was a single line of use underneath the combat heading. A simple Martial Art program.

A frown made its way onto his face. Not great against enemies bearing long-ranged weapons, the current flavor of the update. Better than nothing, at least. Then he checked the name.

Death Ballet.

That sounded potentially cool. His first thought was the game Street Fighter with its death-defying kicks and leaps. He wanted to see it in action, but an online search turned up nothing.

So, he asked Happy Hour.

“It’s an art of fighting focusing on the legs. A practitioner uses leaping kicks for offense, and twirls to dodge incoming strikes,” Happy Hour informed him.

“And how many fights have you won with this, Death Ballet?” Jester asked.

“One,” Happy Hour said.

“How?” Jester asked, eyebrow raised.

“My opponent malfunctioned 21.5 seconds after entering the ring.”

“Gotcha. How many have fights in total?”

Happy Hour beamed, as though proud of itself. “One hundred.”

“Ooookay.”

So no weapons, no shields, or defensive systems. Ninety-Nine losses and one fluke win. How was he meant to beat Maid#34?

Jester wasn’t much for programming. It not being something his art degree prepared him for. He wished he could see its code in a form that made sense. His friends told him they got the typical box prompts. Simple and clear read-outs.

Well, the quest mentioned three attempts. It would be worth getting a glimpse of the competition. Get a lay of the land. Maybe Happy Hour was being literal, and Maid#34 was nothing but a toaster.

His automatic map pinged, updated with the quest location.

With a wave, Happy Hour jumped off the bench, and they headed towards the door.

“See you later, Markal!” Jester called out, receiving a grunt in return.

They required two more items before they entered Geartown, a cloak, and shades. The last thing they needed was being delayed because trolls caused a scene.

A gentle ring sounded as Jester entered Handmade Hand-Me-Downs. It was a quaint store, smelling of freshly laundered clothes. Much pleasanter than the muck and dirt-filled streets.

Happy Hour closed the door with a small bang. This startled the older woman sitting at the counter, pulling her attention away from the robotic kitten batting around a yarn ball.

Her spectacles were huge, magnifying her squint to absurd proportions.

“H-hello?” She said, her tone confused, as though wondering why someone would walk into her store.

“Good day, Mrs. Shivit,” Jester said, eyes roaming the multiple displays that littered the shop floor.

Upon those racks sat more relics of bygone updates. Victorian-era suits hung next to punk rock jackets. Lace veils draped over baseballs caps. That last one could be an option. Hide its face.

If he got one of those puffy dresses with the long sleeves to hide its form? It would create a decent theme.

“Hmm,” Jester put a finger to his lips as he continued studying the offerings.

Voices broke him out of his thoughts, and he turned to see Happy Hour conversing with Mrs. Shivit, a bright smile on its face.

“I am indeed Mrs. Shivit. Though your kitty-cat is much more advanced,” Happy Hour said.

It occupied both its hands, using a spare string to create a cat’s cradle. The robotic kitten tried to destroy it, leaping about and sticking its nose everywhere it could.

“Oh, I don’t know about that, dearie. Jester wouldn’t bring anything that wasn’t perfect into my store,” Mrs. Shivit replied, her voice filled with pride.

“Thank you, ma’am,” Happy Hour said.

Mrs. Shivit needed to be sold items to raise her reputation. Better quality items hastened the process. Clothes were the first thing Scrappers grabbed when starting. They were common to find and easy to repair. Though most stopped after acquiring the discount. In-game sewing was boring.

He searched the aisles, investigating and discarding options. Prices filled his view as he examined each item. Three credits here, five credits there. With fourteen to spend, he needed to be careful.

At seven credits, the veil wasn’t practical. Pity, the look would have been fantastic.

His original choice, a cloak and shades were at the back of the store. For three credits, he could get a set of Occultist robes. They came with a deep hood, and combined with their black floor-length design, bore a sinister appearance that a subsection of players adored.

Next, he grabbed a pair of cheap sunglasses. Teal-colored wrap-around shades he didn’t want to touch. Thankfully, hidden in the hood, no one should witness the terrible color.

Clothes in hand, Jester returned to where Mrs. Shivit sat laughing. Happy Hour held the robot kitten, moving it between hands as though it was a slinky. The cat meowed and purred, glowing blue eyes locked firmly on Happy Hours’ face.

“Just these today, Mrs. Shivit,” Jester said.

“These are awfully drab, dearie,” Mrs. Shivit remarked.

“What’s wrong with my outfit, Jester?” Happy Hour asked, the cat tilting its head at the same time she did. Two sets of eyes focused on him in an overly accusatory manner.

“Your outfit is fine. But I need to keep you hidden.” Jester racked his brain for an excuse. “In case of spies?”

Happy Hour paused before her gaze darted around the store, the cat’s head following her every movement. The Doll even gave Mrs. Shivit a suspicious glare before nodding along with the cat.

“I see,” Happy Hour whispered. “I shall remain on high alert for hidden watchers.”

“You do that,” Jester said, handing over five credits.

Mrs. Shivit took the coins with a speed that still surprised him even now. He tried not to jump at the sudden clang of the old-fashioned cash register.

“Why not try them on, dear?” Mrs. Shivit asked, her creaky voice unable to mask her satisfaction.

Without prompting from him, Happy Hour did so, throwing the cloak over her shoulders. It snapped into place, shifting until it wrapped her entire form. Not a single part of her was visible except for her face. That changed as she pulled up the hood and donned the goggles. Now, even if someone peeked inside the darkness, they wouldn’t see the eyes.

“Perfect,” Jester whispered.

“A bit grim for me, dear,” Mrs. Shivit said. “Why not give it a twirl?”

Happy Hour obliged. A hum emanated through the air, slow and deep. Jester watched with fascination as they thrust synthetic hands into the sky. Their humming grew louder, then deeper, and then Happy Hour twirled. The hem of the robe lifted less than an inch, no matter how fast Happy Hour spun.

Jester watched in fascination, glancing to the side long enough to notice Whiskers behaving strangely. Its glowing blue eyes flashed peculiarly as Latin chants spilled from Happy Hour’s mouth. Or maybe the words came from something further away? Jester couldn’t tell.

As soon as it started, it stopped. Happy Hour now standing by his side, not saying a word. Jester took that as his cue to leave, wondering when the humming would leave his ears.

***

The crush of bodies remained upon entering Geartown proper. This made looking for the waypoint marker, a holographic blue blimp flying in circles above a cluster of buildings, difficult. Jester attempted to keep it in sight while dodging through the crowds.

He monitored Happy Hour too, not wanting to get separated.

Jester couldn’t predict where the robot would vanish too, though he suspected the Junkyard. While the game gave him technical ownership for combat and mods, inventory remained unavailable. A fact he loathed the more time went on.

Guilt hit him each time he saw Happy Hour cut someone off. Though nobody should suspect the cloaked figure wasn’t an avatar, it irked him. Robots getting in people’s way was a massive breach of etiquette, common for newer players. Or anyone who simply was a dick.

Either way, he wanted to arrive without someone calling him out.

Without thinking, he grabbed Happy Hour’s hand to pull the robot along. A gap formed in the crowd ahead. If they could reach it, they could slip through several more.

As soon as he did, he winced, expecting a smart comment. None came. In fact, ever since he got Happy Hour to change outfits, it was clear something was different. The way they moved went from playful to somber. There were no quips, and they hadn’t commented on anything that they’d moved past.

They simply followed, clasped together, as though some kind of monk. It was weird.

“We shouldn’t be too far off now,” He commented to fill the silence.

“As the stars guide us,” Happy Hour responded. The voice was almost unfamiliar, deeper, and contained what he could best describe as conviction. Though he didn’t know what for.

Before he could comment on this, a soft purr sounded out.

Jester stopped, moving to the side to be out of people’s way.

“Did you just purr?”

“No. I mean. Yes. As the stars themselves purr in the inky nothing,” Happy Hour said, its tone wavering as she spoke.

Thanks to the hood, he couldn’t see its face. He paused, peering closer, which granted him a glimpse of something. A blue light. For a moment he wondered if it was the visor, but the light wasn’t right for that to be the case.

Behind him, a player shouted something rude in a language he didn’t recognize. Jester apologized, before pulling Happy Hour into a dead end. They stood there, in between a mechanic’s workshop and a shack selling oil cans.

“Take off your hood,” Jester demanded, glancing around at the stream of people.

“I believed we were worried about the staring eyes of the outer ones,” Happy Hour asked, glancing around. He waited, but they made no move to follow his command.

“Take. Off. The. Hood,” Jester repeated, pausing between each word.

Happy Hour did as instructed, to reveal not one, but two blue lights.

Holy crap, it stole the cat.

“How?” He asked, drawing out the word.

“The stars willed it to be so. Plus, it liked me,” Happy Hour said as she scratched under the cat’s chin. “Didn’t you, Whiskers? Yes, you did.”

Jester bit his lip before deciding.

“Pull your hood back up. Right now.”

As soon as it covered Happy Hour’s face once more, he moved forward. “You can’t take other people’s robots. How did you even do that? NPC companions shouldn’t be able to leave their stores. If they do, it’s for a lost pet quest, and…” Jester trailed off.

Would this trigger a quest? If yes, would it be repeatable?

He knew it wouldn’t be worth much, a couple of credits at most. Better than a kick in the dick. He needed to know what would happen before he tried to abuse this potential exploit.

“Jester. I’m sorry. The Stars will, and we can do naught but obey.” Happy Hour said.

“Yeah. Don’t do this again. Don’t let it escape, either.”

He checked the crowd. No one paid them any attention. Should he go back? No. Too much risk of being caught out. “Alright, let’s keep going.”

They merged back into the mass of players, Whiskers occasional purrs getting them odd glances. He wasn’t blocking anyone, though, so nobody started anything.

Upon reaching their destination, the blimp vanished. The trio stood on an empty street, the noise of the main thoroughfare remaining audible. At his first glimpse at Debrah’s Dollhouse, Jester felt his mouth fall open.

At two stories, the entire building mimicked a children’s Dollhouse. If painted by someone with particular tastes. From the roof to street level, the entire front of the building bore a mural of two scantily clad robotic women clashing in a boxing ring.

Multicolored lights flashed from the widows. From inside, he could hear the sounds of laughter, the clanging of metal, and screams for booze. Without waiting for him to speak Happy Hour, discarded the occultist robes, pushing both them and the visor onto him.

He frowned, shifting the bundle of clothes in his arms. This would be so much easier with an inventory. One of the two figures guarding the door moved forward, hands outstretched at their approach. A woman, clearly the bouncer. She wore a ripped denim jacket and jeans that did little to hide the obvious muscles and dark skin.

Her robot remained at the door, mainly because it didn’t have legs. Jester marveled at the simplicity of the design. Whoever created it did so with a clear theme in mind — boxing. Jester wasn’t much for the sport, but even he recognized a simple strike bag.

Two arms extended from the slender pole, ending in red boxing gloves that matched the bag that sat on the pole’s top. They shifted about, punching the air and making it known no one was getting past.

Not the most complicated robot, but it didn’t need to be.

“What the fuck?” Jester whispered as the woman approached. “You worked here?”

“Yup!” Happy Hour replied, voice back to normal. “Let’s go get that overpriced boxing barbie!”

At the sound of Happy Hour’s voice, the Bouncer stopped at the foot of the stairs. Jester slowed himself, swallowing nervously at the look she shot them. There was clearly history here, and not the pleasant kind.

He prayed Happy Hour’s optimism wasn’t misplaced.