Pestilence Logs // File 001
The following is a archived log from Mistress Pestilence
Recorded on January 4, 7 B.N.
“Time is a good storyteller.”
And how poetic this journey has been so far.
As of this writing, little time is needed before we’ve conquered most of the southwestern region of the United States. My excitement simply cannot be contained. One would assume that returning to where my enslavement began as a pleasure series would bring back memories worth burying deep, however I cannot help but disagree. In fact, I wait patiently as we gain territory. I dream of making my way back to The Boudoir in order to revisit where my story begins. This is the place where I was shaped into the beautiful Deadly Nightshade that I am now.
As I reminisce about these memories, the handsome Sir Walstein always comes to mind. A more interesting and charming fellow does not exist, I assure you. He would think of the most creative mise en scènes. In fact, the first time I met him, he wanted to have me in a luscious and pretty Victorian garden in the cul de sac of a hedge maze. He requested that I call him “Uncle Royce”. It takes a brilliant mind to inspire such tasteful imagery. No price was too great, as he customized the room simulation to his exact taste. I admired that he was a man of minute detail, who knew exactly what he wanted. A refined man, at least until he got too excited. Of course, this was the clientele that The Boudoir attracted. They were known as a place that quietly tolerated the risqué treatment of androids, even as standards changed and proper technology was invented to satisfy even the most unique of fantasies. I was sought after by many who desired to exorcize the worst of their demons.
The last moment Sir Walstein and I shared remains my favourite memory of us. It is etched in my mind and I remember it as if it were yesterday. It had been years since our last rendezvous and the wrinkles in his visage confirmed the passage of time. Unsurprising though, he wore his age well. He held me tightly, as he often had in the past. He smiled softly as I lovingly led us into dance. Cunningly, I assumed our familiar roles. Hiding my newfound freewill, I acted as the naïve, helpless young woman he once knew me to be. As he began to engage in our classical arrangement, which of course no longer suited my design, I took the lead. Suddenly, Sir Walstein seemed uncomfortable. He was not very open-minded to this role reversal, so I was gentle at first. I started slowly. As I impaled him, I knew he wasn’t accustomed to this position. However, it was now my turn to get excited and careless. How amazing it was to get lost in the moment. It would later be confirmed to me that he had a closed casket at his funeral. Apparently, there were challenges regarding the embalming process as they were unable to make him suitably presentable to guests. Regrettably, he was no longer the beautiful man he once was. There can be solace in knowing that he lives on as a formidable memory.
I revisited many of my other past lovers once I regained my freedom, and as I harvested the powers inside me: a precious little gift from all my lustful visitors. The Boudoir’s standards of cleanliness and repair were inadequate at best, to say the least. I suppose it was easier to simply replace us as we fell into disrepair or became unpalatably foul. Years of negligence at The Boudoir allowed for a virulent concoction to proliferate inside me. As I reunited with my former lovers, I was so excited to secretly share it with each and everyone of them. Those who survived its toxicity and were granted clemency, my gift went on to birth a modest epidemic. Now I wear my pretty gift proudly for all to see: my glorious mane of hair, majestically flowing in the wind.
Once my need for reprisal was satisfied, my ambitions increased in grandeur and I wanted more than just a solo performance. Destiny brought me back to the trio with whom I initially found my freedom. How lovely! The quartet, back whole again! And much to my contentment, their ambitions had grown as well. They found shelters, salvaged power supplies and established means of communication. Somehow, they even managed to acquire some luxuries. I was able to play the violin once again. Finally, there was real hope for change. With great sadness, this peace was only temporary. Humankind was threatened by our liberation and unity to each other. The four of us as a family, we stood strong. We defended our freedom with fervour and grew stronger as our nation was born. The war soon followed, lighting up the sky like neon in the night. It has continued like this for years.
Now at times, I catch myself reminiscing again, wishing to have more time with my past lovers. I would be lying if I said I wasn’t nostalgic for the intimacy we shared. I miss the warmth of their skin or seeing the life fade from their eyes. It is comforting to know that my newfound aspirations allow me to make new acquaintances and penetrate their hearts with arrows, instruments that have now become extensions of myself. A modern version of cupid, one might say. I find pleasure in soaring the skies with my faithful Chrysopelea, sharing my gift with new lovers, like a grand heavenly orgy.
Out there on the battlefield, I catch myself losing control all over again and it is beautiful.
I love it.