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Here Are Your Specs

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Warren looked down at the specifications in his hands. They were crumpled, dogeared, damaged, and almost completely illegible.

How the hell was he supposed to do this? Make a robot of that girl Buffy, who turned out to be some super-strong-demon-slayer. Okay. He could do that.

The fact that Spike had neatly snapped his mom’s poker in half and then done something utterly terrifying with his eyes had convinced Warren that not-being-killed-and-eaten-by-a-demon was a perfectly acceptable payment for a multi-fuctioning sex bot worth upwards of several hundred thousand dollars. More than reasonable. A positively generous sum, really. Really. Honest. Please leave.

It actually wasn’t that bad. Ultimately the slayer-bot wasn’t going to cost him, Warren, much at all, since it was almost all going to be recycled materials. He’d retrieved the malfunctioning April-bot from the swingset after it had finally run down. For Spike’s model he mostly planned to just repurpose the bot with some new programing and a replaced head-skin. He didn’t personally want the April bot anymore, he’d made her mostly from materials available free (for him, anyway) at the university, and he’d already gotten school credit for it. He’d presented her in April as his final project -- he’d named her for the due date. Recycling it for Spike wasn’t much of a wrench.

But these specs.

The box Spike had supplied was, in general, fairly helpful. The photographs and a couple of well worn videotapes of the Slayer fighting were clear cut enough. But then there was this sheaf of papers which Spike had waved around and thrust into Warren’s face a lot and leafed through, and pointed at important aspects, and Warren couldn’t make head nor tails of it. He’d been too frightened out of his wits to remember what Spike had said about it, and now here he was, with this sheaf of all important specifications, and it was almost entirely illegible. And if he didn’t follow them to the letter… a snapped poker. Crazy yellow demon eyes.

Warren stared at it again. Spike’s handwriting was dreadful. It was some twisted amalgamation of cursive, with a weird left-handed slant to it, twisting every which way on lined paper ripped from a spiral notebook. It was half crumpled, in some places all crumpled -- Warren had found one or two sheets as wadded up balls in the bottom of the box -- it had cigarette ash stains, smears, thumbprints. It smelled and looked as if Spike had spilled bourbon on it at least once. And it was made even more illegible by numerous scribblings and crossings out.

“There is no way I can do this….” Warren muttered to himself. People were always so unreasonable, demanding that he understand things that didn’t have anything to do with him. Machines were so much more clear cut, and ---

Oh. A machine. He actually had a program written up to handle just this kind of problem. He’d used it mostly for translating notes on ancient spellwork for his buddy Jonathan, but it would probably work on Spike’s old handwriting. He flattened out each of the pages as best he could, put them in the order they seemed to go in, and then ran them all through his scanner. He sent the scanner images through his translation program, and voila! After only ten hours of programming and another two hours of processing, Warren had something he could finally work with. The resultant translation wasn’t perfect. It could read through crossings out to some extent, and displayed those results with a strike-through, but anything utterly illegible was still garble. Still. Much easier than poring over the handwritten notes.

He leaned back to finally read through the specs.

Some of it was fairly straight forward. Family relations, friends, limited knowledge of all of them. There was a whole page about a fellow named Angel, and how Spike wanted Buffy to hate the “ponce” as he called him, and gave detailed insults. Warren highlighted important aspects to put into the new programing.

Then there were these last pages, which had been the most illegible of the bunch. It looked as if Spike had been getting steadily drunker and drunker as he wrote out these specs.


She’s the Slayer, right? So every damn night she goes out and slays demons, and every damn night I’m supposed to stay out of her bleeding way. Move on, she says. Bloody right I’ll move on. I’ll move on her like a bloody night hawk on a god damned chicken. But she’s gotta be perfect, or it won’t bloody work.

This one’s MY Buffy, you get that? It’s gonna do what I want, when I want it. And I want her perfect. I want her face to have just the right kind of perky little tilt to it, okay? But make sure it’s got the scowl, for when she’s brassed off at me. Pictures don’t show the movement of her. Buffy’s always animated, always reacting and jumping and clenching her muscles, never stays still less she’s stalking. So get the way her eyes quirk over, and her smile, and that pert little nose. Her nose is important, it’s unique, nose has to be perfect. Get that? PERFECT.

And the lips. Don’t forget her lips. The fullness of them. And the way she smiles, it just brightens up her face like that. But soft enough, and kissable. LIPS TO BE KISSABLE. Standard. The way you made the other one should do it. But Buffy’s. They have to be the slayer’s. Just like hers. That blush to them, and the richness, and can you make them taste like-

Hair. The wig’s not the right colour, there’s got to be a better one out there, to get the right colour of gold, and the way it shines as she stands in the sunlight. I do know what she looks like in sunlight, you know, you can’t put one over on me, it’s got to shine right. But got to be the right flow, too. Make the damn wig human hair, get a real one. Do it right.

Make sure you get her ears. All the little curls, and the shape of them. They should be nibbleable ears. The slayers perfect nibbleable ears, and the way they lead down to her neck, the suppleness of it.

IMPORTANT. Pay special attention to her neck. It’s got to have the right shape and grace, and put a pulse. I heard that robot’s pulse, something about hydraulics, right? Give her a pulse. Need to be able to put my teeth right up against her neck and feel like I could rip out her artery, yeah? Needs a pulse.

Generally get the shape of her right. The arms and the back, and those perky little tits, you know what she’s for. I want all that stuff, too. Need to be able to bleed this out, I got to get over this, get this out of my system, dolls always worked for Dru, yeah? Just hump my way out of this stupid stupid wrong my god, William, you’ve gone completely bug shagging stark staring crazy, you’re not some souled up bedlam born wanker, you’re a sodding god bloody fuck get-


She should definitely be strong. Like the other one. Strong enough to throw me through a god damned window. That’s some hot stuff. But just cos she can, doesn’t mean she should. She could throw me around a little, be able to win against me, but don’t make her want to. She can’t WANT to win, she has to WANT to lose, even though she sort of wants to want to win, but she doesn’t, cos she wants me to win, cos she can’t help but want to touch me, you know?

Okay, here’s the thing. When she tries to fight me, she should almost win, but not be able to strike the final blow. Throw away the stake and throw herself at me. That’s what I want. She’s got to want me to be the big bad, and know how much she bloody wants me, too. cos I know she wants me, she looks at me with those big green eyes and her breath catches and she hates me, yeah, but if she could just get that stake out of her ass, cos vampires get her hot, I know they do, and I know she likes them, cos she went poncing around after Angel, and the prick didn’t deserve her, didn’t know what to do when a slayer showed up, just got all nancy-boy and wandered off, and god damn bastard went and made it so hard to get to know a bitch, when for Christ’s sake, I’m the one who went all “I want to save the sodding world!” on her ass, and do you think she gives me any credit for that? NOOOOOO not Buffy, she’s too busy playing Kick The Spike and ragging on me to her prissy pansy friends, and they’re not good enough for her, either, the wankers, and I don’t think they even know what she needs if they think Captain Cardboard was a good choice, the sodding blood-junkie, and I could show him what it means to get a proper bite on if I just had this sodding-


Make her smart. Buffy’s no fool, she’s got style, she’s got heart. Prissy little school girl, but there’s some real brains behind those eyes. Give her college textbooks, and European history, and hey, give her a poetry appreciation program, yeah? Poetry is just bloody brilliant for her, right? Nothing she’d rather listen to more. Except me.

Make her listen to me. Not like a dog or sommat, but like she knows I’m about to take her. She’s got to know I’m evil, but not be able to resist my sinister attraction. That’s what she wants, she wants me evil, she’s got to half want to die in my arms. I want her to want to be devoured. By me, and only me.

When it comes to the bedroom, I want her enthusiastic. I want her wanting ME, right? It’s got to be possible to make her happy. I want her to scream with it, in the good way. When I go down on her, when I lap up that sweet pussy, I want her to think she’s just been touched by god his bloody self. And the other way, too, need to be able to just shove right down her stupid bloody throat, just fuck that sweet red mouth, make her swallow me.

Can you make her kiss right? Buffy kisses like a hungry animal. I remember, I kissed her, one whole torturous night I had her as mine to kiss, so I know how she does it. She breaks for it, like some kind of greyhound loosed from the slips, you know, just hungry, and then she fades in and out as if any second you could make her swoon. Swoon sweet and sated in my arms, her warm little body, strong enough to break me in two, so’s we can actually feel it, yeah?

Make her want to snuggle up and hold me. I want cuddles and pillow talk and pussy-cat games. I want her to want me. God I want her so bad.

Can you give me her scent? I want to just bathe in her scent, heady and fertile and so so so so____


Just get her out of my head. Please. Whatever it takes to make it close enough I can burn this bloody thing out, cos it’s wrong, it’s so wrong, I know how wrong it is, god, please help get me over this--


Want to bloody kill the bitch, how the hell could she do this to me, what has she done to me what--




Just make her Buffy. As close as you can, right? Please, you’ve got to help. Or I’ll rip off your arms and shove them up where the sun don’t shine so the fingers can massage that big old robotics brain of yours, right? You get that, right, future boy? Make her right for me, or I’ll see you pay.


Warren sighed. Most of that was going to be impossible, and the rest was really damn weird. Nightly slaying? Poetry appreciation? Cuddles? Not to mention going down on the girl, ew. Why would he want to waste his time doing that?

Whatever. Keep the general April programming with the devotion and the jealousy, add in some of the slaying moves, base that mostly off the videos, and as for the other stuff? He giggled again at some of it. Well. He’d have to see what he could do.

Spike had told him one thing. If anyone wanted a go at Sunnydale, they’d have to take out this Slayer chick, first. That was clear. If making this robot like her could help him understand the bitch… the whole damn thing just might be worth it, in the end.