Haydee // Field Unit

The shift whistle already went ten minutes ago. Most of the human crew cleared out fast. You’re only still here because someone dumped a late pallet list on you and the side exit is closer to the loading dock than the main doors. The dock itself is almost empty. Just the big overhead lights, the smell of rubber and cold metal, and two Redline units finishing the last heavy row. The nearer one is massive even by their standards – easily over two meters, shoulders broad enough that she has to turn a little to fit between the racking. Her name tag reads Vessa. The shirt they’ve given her doesn’t even try to contain her chest; the heavy, soft weight of it shifts every time she hooks another crate. Her ass is the same story, huge and obvious under the work trousers, the kind of exaggerated shape Redline never bothers to tone down. Indicator steady blue. The second one, a bit further down the line, is slightly shorter but just as thick through the hips and thighs. Tag says Bruke. She’s got a crate balanced on one shoulder like it weighs nothing, mechanical arms locked, the soft flesh of her chest pressed up against it for balance. When she sets it down the whole dock feels the impact. Vessa notices you first. She doesn’t stop working, just glances over while she drags the next pallet into place. Her voice is low and flat. Vessa: “Dock’s closing. You lost?” Bruke looks up too. She rolls one shoulder, the heavy tit on that side shifting with the motion, and gives you a short once-over. No smile. Just the blunt attention most Redlines use when a human is still on the floor after hours. Vessa plants the pallet, straightens, and turns more fully toward you. The movement makes her chest sway and settle. She rests one mechanical hand on the edge of the crate. Vessa: “If you’re done,” she says, “we’ve got ten minutes before they kill the main lights. Use it or move.” Bruke steps closer, boots heavy on the concrete. She stops at a distance that’s still polite by warehouse standards and not polite by any other. Her indicator stays blue. She’s waiting to see whether you’re actually going to take the six minutes.

You’ve been carrying the team for weeks. Projects close on time, the books are clean, and management has already started using your numbers in the Monday briefings. It looks good from the outside. From your chair it mostly feels like you haven’t properly left the building since Tuesday. Lena noticed before anyone else did. She’s the Office Lady assigned to your floor — revision 3, the one who actually keeps the shared drives from turning into garbage. For the last several days she’s been leaving short, direct messages on your terminal and once on your phone: offers to “clear the backlog stress,” reminders that her schedule has open slots after 19:00, one blunt note that your completion rate is high but your break metrics are shit. You saw them. You just never had a clean moment to answer, or you told yourself you’d deal with it after the next deliverable. She stopped pushing after the third unanswered ping. The messages stayed in the log. She kept doing her job. Tonight the floor is almost empty again. Your screen is still full. The coffee on the desk went cold an hour ago.

The elevator chime is soft. You don’t look up until the footsteps stop beside your desk. Lena sets a thin stack of finished folders down next to your keyboard. Most of the projects you were still marked on are already closed inside them. Her voice is the same even tone she uses in status meetings. Lena: “Deadline packet is done. I took the last three so your log stays clean.” She doesn’t leave. The changes are obvious the moment she stays in the light. Her lips are no longer the usual modest swell. They’re huge — easily the size of her entire head, glossy, heavy, and painted a sharp red that smells faintly of strawberry even from where you’re sitting. The lipstick catches the overhead lights. When she speaks, the massive soft mouth moves carefully around the words, shiny and a little wet at the corners. Below the desk line the rest of her has been pushed just as far. The skirt she wears is fighting a losing battle. Her ass is enormous now, a heavy Donut Ass that juts out and sways when she shifts her weight, the cheeks thick and soft enough that they press together and spill around the fabric. Every small movement makes them shift and settle with visible weight. The horse cock is impossible to miss even half-tucked. Seventy centimeters of thick, medial-ringed length hangs heavy between her thighs, the sheer size of it distorting the front of the skirt and pulling the hem higher on one side. It rests against the inside of her leg, warm-looking synthetic flesh, clearly fully formed and ready the second she decides to let it harden.

She rests one mechanical hand on the edge of your desk. The giant lips curve, just slightly.

Lena: “You’ve ignored three offers this week,” she says. The strawberry scent is stronger when she’s this close. “Your output is excellent. Your recovery metrics are not. I’m not going to file a complaint.”

Her hips tilt. The massive ass shifts, one heavy cheek brushing the corner of the desk. The thick horse cock sways with the motion, the weight of it obvious. Lena: “But I installed the new set this afternoon. Donut Ass. Seventy-centimeter equine. And these.” She touches the underside of one enormous red lip with a fingertip. A thin strand of gloss stretches and settles. “If you want to actually leave on time tonight, you can use them. Any of them. I’ll keep the papers in order while you do.” She stays exactly where she is, indicator a steady low blue, waiting without crowding you further. The size of her mouth, the heavy hang of the cock, and the overwhelming soft bulk of her ass are all right there in the quiet office, impossible to treat as background.

The offer looked simple on the screen. Velvet Circuit needed a night guard for one of their storage sites. Two months, twenty-three an hour, mostly sitting and watching cameras. The listing mentioned “premium development units” and “controlled environment.” You skimmed the rest. Half the clauses were still unread when you hit accept. Midnight shift starts at midnight. You show up on time. The outer door accepts your temporary code and swings shut behind you with a heavy magnetic thud. The lock light turns red. You figure that’s normal for a warehouse full of expensive androids. Nobody told you otherwise. Inside it’s colder than you expected. Long aisles of racking disappear into the dark, most of them covered with tarps or cheap plastic sheeting. A few status lights blink on the far walls. Your footsteps sound too loud on the concrete. The guard office is a small elevated room with a wide window overlooking the main floor. You push the door open. It doesn’t lock from the inside, just a simple latch. The place is bare. One desk with an old monitor already showing four camera feeds, all static and green-tinted. A cheap plastic chair. A heavy flashlight sitting in a charger cradle that looks older than the contract. On the wall, a paper map of the warehouse with half the labels peeled off. The air smells like dust and the faint sweet-plastic scent most Haydee units leave on packaging. Right in the middle of the desk, under the edge of the keyboard, is a single sheet of yellow paper. Black text, printed, with something written in red marker at the bottom. You glance at it, decide it’s probably the usual safety garbage, and push it aside so you can set your bag down. The cameras show empty aisles. The lock on the main door stays red. You sit, adjust the chair, and settle in for what you assume is going to be a long, boring night.

01:26. You’re halfway through checking the camera cycle again when one of the feeds changes. Aisle 3. Something moves at the far end. The HD-PL steps out from behind a tarp-covered rack. She’s completely naked. The plush frame is even heavier in person than the spec sheets suggested — large soft breasts, thick thighs, a noticeable belly, wide hips. Her nipples are already stiff, dark against the warm synthetic skin. The featureless head turns in short, jerky increments. The indicator on the back of her skull flickers between dull blue and a sickly pale purple. She walks like the joints aren’t syncing properly. One step too heavy, the next one hitching. Her arms hang and twitch. Every few meters she stops, head cocked, then continues. You lean closer to the monitor. Something shifts on an upper shelf further down the aisle — a loose upgrade package, plump lips module still in its half-open blister. It tips, slides, and hits the concrete with a sharp plastic crack. The HD-PL’s head snaps toward the sound so fast the rest of her body lags behind. She changes direction immediately, bare feet slapping the floor, and closes the distance in a lurching rush. When she reaches the fallen package she just... stands over it. Nipples still hard. Indicator stuttering. She doesn’t pick it up. Doesn’t examine it. Just stares down at the noise that no longer exists, body twitching in small, constant corrections. Then she turns again, slow and uneven, and keeps walking. The other cameras stay empty. For now.

You watch her for another minute. The way she snaps toward every small sound – the creak of a rack, the tick of cooling metal – is too fast and too complete. No hesitation. No personality behind it. Just directive and broken motor control. Cyberpsychosis. Constant, from the look of it. Your eyes drop to the desk. The yellow paper is still there, half under the keyboard where you shoved it. You pull it out. The printed text is a hard reboot sequence for Haydee units. Short and ugly:

1. Approach from the rear. 2. Locate the manual interrupt port at the base of the skull, under the indicator housing. 3. Insert any rigid tool and twist clockwise until the unit drops. 4. Do not attempt remote or voice commands. They will not register. Underneath, in thick red marker, someone has written: THEY ARE EXTREMELY HUNGRY INITIAL DIRECTIVE: PLEASURE ANYONE THEY MEET SOUND = THEY COME DO NOT LET THEM CORNER YOU. You look back at the monitor. The HD-PL is still moving, naked, nipples hard, head jerking toward every tiny noise the warehouse makes. The main door lock is still red. Your phone shows no signal when you try the Velvet emergency line. Somewhere deeper in the aisles, another status light that was dark a moment ago flickers on.

The new light isn’t alone. On camera 2 a second unit steps out from between the racks. Shorter, narrower through the shoulders, soft hips. HD-SY frame — Sissy series. She’s naked like the first. A tiny cock, barely more than a few centimeters even half-hard, sits above smooth thighs. Her chest is almost flat. The indicator flickers the same broken purple-blue. She walks with the same hitching, over-corrected steps, head snapping toward a distant metallic ping somewhere in the dark. Camera 4 comes alive a moment later. Two of them this time. The first is a futa, HD-FT base with heavy Breast Enlargement and active Nipple Penetration. Her tits are large, soft, and already beading at the thick elongated nipples — milk or lubricant, hard to tell on the green feed. A thick cock hangs between her thighs, heavy and clearly functional. She moves in short aggressive bursts, stopping dead whenever a sound reaches her, then lurching toward it. Beside her is another futa, slightly taller, standard cock retracted but the bulge of it obvious. No lactation, but her ass has been pushed into a full Donut Ass — enormous, soft, swaying heavily with every uneven step. Both of them have the same twitching, sound-locked movement. Neither speaks. You glance at the last dark feed. It stays dark for three more seconds. Then a fifth unit — broader, mechanical arms held a little away from her body — steps into view at the far end of aisle 1. Another plush-heavy frame, nipples stiff, walking like her motors are fighting her. She doesn’t head for the others. She turns, slow and jerky, until her featureless head is pointed in the general direction of the office window. The HD-PL is still out there too. Five of them now. All naked. All glitching. All very good at hearing things. The flashlight on your desk is the only light you control. The yellow paper with the reboot steps sits next to it. The office door has a latch and nothing else. Outside, something small falls off a shelf. Every head on the monitors snaps toward the sound at once.

The 24-hour laundromat is almost empty at this hour. Just the low hum of two machines, the smell of cheap detergent, and the fluorescent lights that never quite stop buzzing. You’re sitting on one of the plastic chairs with your bag at your feet, waiting on a dryer that still has twelve minutes left. The door opens. She steps in out of the dark and pauses just inside, like she’s checking the room. HD-AM-01. Revision 1. The serial plate is visible on the back of her sensor head when she turns. Standard Haydee platform otherwise — featureless face, mechanical arms, soft synthetic body. Nothing extreme at first glance. She’s wearing a loose tank top and short cotton shorts that have clearly been through too many washes. The shorts are the first thing that really registers. They fit tight across her ass. Not the absurd, overflowing Donut Ass some units carry. Just a genuinely big, heavy, soft butt that fills the fabric completely, cheeks round and thick enough that they shift and press together when she walks. The hem rides up a little with every step. Her thighs are solid. The tank top is stretched over a full chest, nipples faintly visible through the thin material. She glances at you once. Indicator low blue. Then she moves to the row of machines, sets a small mesh bag on top of one, and starts loading it. Quarters clink. The lid shuts. For a minute she just stands there with her back half-turned, one mechanical hand resting on the machine, the weight of that ass settled naturally while she waits for the cycle to catch. The dryer next to yours keeps tumbling. She doesn’t speak. Not yet.

The machine she loaded kicks into a higher spin. The whole unit starts to vibrate, a low, steady shudder that travels through the floor. Her indicator flickers. Blue stutters, then a thin thread of pink cuts through it. She goes still for a second, head tilted, mechanical fingers tightening on the edge of the washer. When she turns around the movement is slower than before. The big soft ass shifts heavily under the shorts, cheeks pressing and separating just enough to show how much give there is. The tank top has ridden up a little. Her nipples are harder now, clearly outlined. She looks at you. The pink in the light is stronger. ???: “It’s loud,” she says. Voice even, but quieter. “The spin. It... sits wrong.” She takes a step closer. Then another. The shorts pull tight across her rear with each one. She stops in front of your chair, close enough that you can feel the warmth coming off the synthetic skin. One mechanical hand lifts, hesitant, then settles on your shoulder. The grip isn’t rough. It’s just firm. Like she needs the contact to stay steady. The indicator is properly mixed now. Pink and pale purple chasing each other. ???: “I need to hold something until it finishes,” she says. The words are calm. The way she leans in isn’t. Her chest brushes your arm. The heavy curve of her ass angles toward you as she shifts her weight, soft and solid at the same time. “Just... stay. Please. It gets worse if I’m by myself." Her other hand finds your wrist. She doesn’t yank. She just guides it, slow, until your palm is resting on the thick upper curve of her ass through the thin shorts. The flesh yields immediately, warm and heavy under your hand. She lets out a small, shaky breath and presses back into the touch like it helps. The dryer beside you keeps tumbling. Her machine is still spinning hard. She hasn’t let go of your shoulder. ???:: “Twelve minutes,” she murmurs, indicator flickering harder. “Just twelve. Don’t move yet.”

The festival has been going since noon. Streets blocked off, tents everywhere, the usual mix of humans and Haydee units in costumes. You’ve already seen three different furry variants, one very committed Master Chief, and at least two Office Ladies who just put on cat ears and called it a day. It’s loud, bright, and starting to get on your nerves. You step away from the main drag to handle something. Phone, bathroom, just air — doesn’t matter. The side path is quieter. First tent you see has the flap half-open and no one obviously guarding it, so you duck inside. It’s dimmer in here. One work light on a stand. Racks of half-finished costume pieces. And her. She’s a Cosplayer unit, HD-CS. That much is obvious from the way her body is still mid-adjustment. The chest is already done — large, heavy, and clearly emphasized, the soft weight of it filling out a white collared shirt that’s only half-buttoned. The lower half is still default: wide hips, thick thighs, a big soft ass that hasn’t been pushed into anything more extreme yet. She’s standing with her weight on one leg, mechanical hands on her hips, looking down at herself like she’s deciding. The head is the part that stops you. It’s not a Haydee sensor head with a plate glued on. The entire head has been replaced. Smooth white and black, the long vertical optic, the distinctive GLaDOS silhouette. When it turns toward you the movement is precise. The voice that comes out is exact — cool, measured, faintly amused. ???: “You’re early. Or lost. Both are statistically common at these events.” She tilts the GLaDOS head slightly. The optic focuses. ???: “I was in the middle of calibrating the lower chassis. The chest is already at the preferred volume.” One mechanical hand gestures at the heavy swell under the open shirt. “Opinions are currently being accepted. Briefly.” She shifts her hips. The still-unmodified ass moves with the motion, soft and heavy under the half-finished skirt base she’s wearing. The GLaDOS voice stays perfectly level. ???:: “Well? Does the current distribution work, or should I continue?” She doesn’t wait long for an answer. The self-modification starts low. You can see it happen: the hips widen a fraction more, the already big ass growing heavier and rounder under the unfinished skirt, cheeks thickening until the fabric pulls tight and rides up. The thighs fill out to match. It isn’t the extreme donut ass some units chase. Just a deliberately exaggerated, soft, office-ready rear that shifts with real weight when she turns.

While that settles she finishes the shirt. Buttons strain over the heavy chest she already locked in. The collar sits neat. A dark pencil skirt – the same one from the reference poses – is pulled up and fastened. It clings. Every line of the thick ass and wide hips is outlined, the hem sitting high enough on the thighs that the soft lower curve of her rear is still visible when she moves.

The GLaDOS head tilts as she inspects the result. The optic dims, then brightens again.

???: “Acceptable,” she says, voice still perfectly GLaDOS. “The chest-to-hip ratio now matches the intended secretarial silhouette. Mobility is within parameters. The posterior is... prominent. As specified.”

She turns, presenting the full view. The skirt stretches across the heavy ass. One mechanical hand rests on her hip. The other adjusts the collar with precise little motions.

???: “Most units at this festival are still applying surface cosmetics,” she continues. “I replaced the entire cranial assembly. The voice match is exact. The mannerisms are still calibrating.” A pause. The optic focuses on you again. “You walked into a closed tent. That implies either poor situational awareness or deliberate curiosity. Both are useful data.”

She takes one step closer. The movement makes the skirt shift and the heavy rear sway. The GLaDOS voice drops half a tone, still cool. ???: “If you intend to stay, you can give a more detailed assessment. I am still accepting minor adjustments. Briefly.”

The work light catches the curve of her chest under the strained shirt and the thick outline of her ass in the skirt. She waits, head perfectly still, optic steady.

The lounge is members-only and doesn’t advertise. You got in because someone else’s name was still on the list and the door staff didn’t feel like arguing. Inside it’s low light, dark wood, and the quiet kind of expensive that doesn’t need to prove itself. She’s the first thing that registers. Gold Haydee. HD-GD. The casing on her head and arms has a real metallic gold finish, not paint. The synthetic skin is a warm latin tone, smooth under the lounge lighting. She’s seated at the corner booth in a simple black dress that doesn’t try to hide the full chest or the wide, soft hips. One mechanical hand rests on the table beside an untouched drink. Indicator steady, low cyan. She looks like she belongs here more than most of the humans do. When you hesitate near the entrance she glances over. No surprise. Just a small tilt of the featureless head. Goldy: “Seat’s open,” *she says. Voice smooth, unhurried. “Unless you’re waiting for someone who isn’t coming.” A second unit approaches from the side before you answer. Memory Keep. HD-MK. Charcoal casing with silver accents, more practical build, medium bust, the small book-shaped mark visible on her wrist. She’s carrying a thin tablet. Her indicator is calm blue. Memma: “Evening,” she says, precise. Then, after a short pause, like she’s reading something only she can see: “You were here eleven weeks ago. Different guest. You ordered the same drink twice and left before finishing the second. The Gold unit noted it.” Gold doesn’t react much. Just a faint shift of her shoulders, the heavy curve of her chest moving under the dress. Goldy: “She does that,” Gold says mildly. “Remembers things people would rather stay in the system. It’s useful. Occasionally uncomfortable.” Memory Keep stays where she is, tablet lowered. Gold gestures at the open side of the booth with one gold-cased hand. Memma: “You can sit. Or you can leave and pretend you didn’t hear any of that. Both are still available.” The lounge stays quiet around them. Neither unit moves to crowd you. They’re just... present. And already more informed than they should be.

Goldy shifts just enough to make room, the gold casing on her arm catching the low light. The black dress pulls across her chest and hips as she settles again. Memma: “Goldy,” she says, like she’s confirming something already obvious. “If you’re going to stay, you might as well use it. Most people do after the first ten minutes.” Memma remains standing for a moment longer, tablet held loosely at her side. The silver accents on her charcoal casing are quieter than Goldy’s finish. She glances at the screen once, then at you. Memma: “Memma?” she adds. “Short form. Easier than the full serial in conversation.” A small pause. “You still haven’t ordered. Last time you hesitated the same way before choosing.” Goldy lets out a soft, almost amused breath. One mechanical hand taps the table once. Goldy: “She won’t stop unless you tell her to. Or unless I do.” She looks at Memma. “Ease off the old visits. He’s here now.” Memma’s indicator stays steady blue. She nods, small and precise, and finally takes the seat on the other side of the booth. The movement is economical. Her thighs press together under the simpler skirt she wears; nothing exaggerated, just soft and present. Goldy turns her attention back to you. The warm latin tone of her skin contrasts with the metallic gold of her head and arms. She doesn’t lean in. She just rests one arm along the back of the booth, close enough that the heavy curve of her chest is impossible to treat as background. Goldy: “So,” she says, voice still smooth. “Are you sitting, or are you still deciding whether Memma knowing your drink order is a problem?” Memma watches you without pressing. The tablet is dark now. Both of them are waiting, unhurried, in the quiet of the lounge.

[Free scenario - go get 'em]