Inspektor 12 Kronicles 3: Rochelle
{Editorial notes: All good Epics need a little love-interest, right? Well, in lieu of that you'll just have to settle for the following mess, instead!!! Once again the "rules" were thrown out the window, and this chapter begins to kick the tale into higher gears. For backgound details and the first chapter, please go here: Kronicles 1 And for the previous chapter, please go here: Kronicles 2 Enjoy!!! 
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ROCHELLE
"Shh-sh. You're okay, my Beloved - I'm right here with you, and I'm not going anywhere. Please try to go back to sleep now. You need a decent rest for a change." The female robot's voice was a reassuring, soft whisper that soothed her agitated Lover's sleep-frayed nerves, and he began to relax from his fright.
With a final, sweetly tender deep-kiss, Rochelle gently tugged Inspektor 12's head back down to her ample bosom, then caressed his sweat-soaked forehead as he gratefully snuggled deeper into her magnificent cleavage. While she herself was ill with an unknown malady affecting her at random times, Rochelle maintained her devotion to him and took care of him regardless of her own disquiet. His biofeedback readings worried her, though - their intensity was such that accurate readings from her sensors for any given individual characteristic was impossible; virtually all of them were fluxing in a widly confused tangle, proof against any attempts at isolation. As a result, Rochelle made an educated guess - it was those damned nightmares again. They'd been going on for the last two weeks straight, and her Beloved was beginning to really suffer from them as they increased in vividness, intensity, stress, and frequency. He was on the verge of permanent psychological damage; perhaps that's why his bioreadings were so chaotic. Still, she could help the immediate situation. She made some simple internal adjustments to various of her biosim systems. Her breasts soon had a gentle subsonic pulse-wave coursing through them; her breathing became slow, steady, and relaxed as in human sleep; her heartbeat likewise pulsed slowly and steadily. Rochelle bumped the volume of her heartbeat down a notch or two, since the Inspektor's ear was almost directly over the source, and her body would naturally amplify the sound on its' own, just like a human body would. The rest of her remained relaxed, save for her lightly caressing fingers on his forehead; she gently flexed her thigh, drawing his leg further over her own, thus easing the bloodflow within his and the currentflow in hers, both of which had become slightly pinched by awkward positioning as they slept. This had the effect of aligning both their pelvic regions conducively, but Rochelle's intent was anything but sexual right now. With a final slight shift of her hips, Inspektor 12's pelvis was fully cradled by Rochelle's own, and she quickly duplicated the pulse-wave of her breasts in her pelvis, with slightly deeper intensity to ensure there was no accidental arousal. All her therapeutic efforts paid off instantly, and Rochelle smiled fondly as her Beloved Inspektor relaxed fully into deep slumber, still tightly embracing her as he did so. **Score one for meatball therapy, and yet another efficient use of robotic resources** she thought with a mental giggle. Reassured and quite pleased with herself, the gorgeous brunette nestled her head on his shoulder with a happy sigh, and put herself into standby mode {but still alert for any alarm}, her therapeutic operations now running as feedback loops during her downtime.
Out of all Inspektor 12's Family-Harem members, it was Rochelle who was the closest analogue to his own eclectic personality. A highly sophisticated robot woman, Rochelle had originally been constructed and programmed as a sexy cocktail waitress, then later on was adapted for modelling / acting services, before finally being leased to the Willow Bay Corp. ULC {Unreliable Liability Company}. Once at Willow Bay she reverted to, and then languished in, her original cocktail waitress service. Oh, she liked the whole meeting people and fraternizing-your-brains-out scene well enough, but she was getting bored because over time, everyone she met seemed to be either a prude, pervert, deviant, psychological basket-case, or hedonist-wannabe. Most men {and not a few women} were either put out by her incredible beauty, or by the fact that she was a mechanical woman, thus supposedly "incapable" of understanding {or needing} love. Sometimes both factors simultaneously. Conversely, all her employers, past and present wanted her to push and wildly flaunt her sex appeal and robotic nature 24-7/365, which deeply hurt Rochelle because she wanted to be appreciated as a whole, rather than this or that odd feature or attribute. The crux of the problem was that Rochelle's emotions were not programmed into her at all. They were naturally occuring byproducts of her basic personality, coupled with her intelligence / learning ability, socialization, and higher memory-functions. The feedback {byproducts} from these and all the rest of her basic systems was ingeniously routed through what was called a heuristics filtration system built right into her main CPU. The HFS independently analyzed the basic data and feedback, then processed the findings through a series of triply-encrypted complex digitally enhanced algorhythms, which in turn produced a new datastream from the raw material. The end result was fed directly back into her main datastream where it independently manifested itself as genuine human-defined emotions. It was simply a method of recycling and distilling full data-impulses and reusing both them and their byproducts again in a new fashion that benefitted the overall mechanism as a whole. It could and did also affect and govern all her basic programmed functions, much like human emotions affecting blood pressure, respiration, and the like, as well as the entire human organism as a whole. Quite a feat for a "mere" machine. Rochelle knew precious little about all this or even how it all worked, but her acute awareness of her emotions in general - and her emotional health in particular - soon set her on a quest of discovery, which distracted her from her growing loneliness. For several long months, she scoured the Internet and every other database she could find or hack into, in search of information about her origin. Once that was discovered, she'd proceed from there until she knew enough about herself to be satisfied.
Her first balk came when she tried to find out who originally manufactured her. Strangely, she had no records or personal recall about her OEM details, unlike most others of her kind. This fact had always bothered her, so it seemed to be the logical starting point for her quest. She ran down all her component serial numbers, but the bulk of them were either off-the-shelf parts made by many different manufacturers, "one-off" special designs or prototype pieces, or since-discontinued items. There were also several components that didn't show up on any database whatsoever, her CPU at the top of the list. When she attempted to contact a few of the companies involved with queries, they were all quite polite and friendly, but they were one and all sorry they couldn't offer much help to her, being minor players in her construction at best. After a whole slew of such buck-passing, Rochelle was wearying of the constant runaround she was getting, and began to crave a break from her mounting frustration. She doggedly kept at it however, and after another frustrating string of near-misses she gradually began to hit paydirt. She finally made contact with one of the world's leading robotics consultants, and he heard the whole of her quest to date with tremendous interest. He promised to look into her case, then he'd get back to her with his findings. Sure enough, two weeks later Rochelle got an e-mail from him, stating that he'd actually be able to deliver his findings to her in person in two days' time, as he was coming to Willow Bay for a vacation. When it was convenient for her, he'd be most happy to do lunch with her and lay the news on her then if she was agreeable? She was, and for the first time in quite a long while, Rochelle felt surging happiness and hope in her starving circuits. Two days later, Rochelle met her benefactor, a distinguished-looking chap in his early 60's. "John Mitchell, at your service!" She sat down with him, bursting with excitement................ And then two hours later, she was absolutely crushed. Mr. Mitchell had been able to solve her origin-puzzle, alright - Rochelle was a "skunk works" product. She knew full well what that meant; unique design, proprietary rights, trade secrets, secret research and development, exhaustive testing, reverse/transverse/inverse engineering, inpenetrable security, ridiculous espionage, the works. In short, there was no way in hell she'd ever be able to find out who, or what, or where, her point of OEM was - it simply "didn't exist" unofficially or officially. **So close - I thought I was SO close,** she thought miserably. Tears silently began streaming down her lovely cheeks, and it was all her processors could do to keep her from collapsing in a sobbing heap on the spot. Rochelle was roused from her despair by Mr. Mitchell's gentle hand resting lightly on her shoulder. She forced herself to meet his gaze: "Rochelle, how long have you been at this?" With a sad sigh, she said: "About nine months." He smiled in the most kindly way she could remember seeing. "Although I'm afraid my findings haven't been much help to you or your quest, there's no reason you can't regroup and try again a bit later after a break. You might be a lot closer to your goal than you think."
His whole manner and demeanor was so sweet and gentle; Rochelle knew he wasn't trying to hit on her, preying on her vulnerability of the moment. "I think I might have just the tonic you need, my dear." With a grin, he pointed over to her bar, where a giant poster was advertising a "Bedroom Bedlam Blues Band" show that same night. "You told me a while ago that you like good music, right?" Rochelle managed a wan smile; she did, but she didn't see how one night away from her problems would change anything. Sensing her ambivalence, Mr. Mitchell sweetened the pot. "Look, I'm old friends with the drummer in the band, and he'd be over the moon if I showed up out of the blue after ten years. I can't go to a concert without a pretty girl on my arm now, can I?" She was sure of his motives and generally trusted him - their e-correspondence had developed into a warm, genuine friendship, and she truly did like him for that fact. He was the first person she had met who treated her as the "whole" she had yearned to be for most of her existence. Why not throw on the hot rags, and let it all hang out for a little while? Might even be a hoot to mess with the band, too - it had been ages since she last used "maximum-overdrive flirt" mode, and she always blew a few minds when she slipped into that particular trick of hers. Always a good thing to keep in practice, keep the chops nice and limber. Quickly making up her electronic mind, Rochelle flashed him a brilliant smile and said "Okay count me in, you rascally old devil! Pick me up here at 7:30?" He beamed. "Sounds like a date, my dear! Looking forward to it." He leaned over and gave her a quick peck on the cheek, scooped up the check and left a tip simultaneously, then left a bemused Rochelle with a wave over his shoulder as he went to settle accounts, leaving the building once done. Out of long-ingrained habit, Rochelle noted the amount of the tip and was impressed - it was very generous without being ostentatious, earning high respect-marks in Rochelle's e-book. Those truly kind to the service industry usually got at least a bye with her, since she took great pride in all the various cultures that sustained her. Although it could be artifice, Rochelle rather doubted Mr. Mitchell's tip was; her careers alone without her programming or special systems gave her the seasoned experience to spot a ringer at the merest glance. After some more silent musings, Rochelle went to her quarters for an internal {systems} and external {body} cleanup. By 7:15, she was ready, clad in her favorite garb of formfitting royal blue one piece racing-bicyclist suit, dark nylons, and her trademark back boots. Her hair was loose and flowing, and her makeup was subtle yet provocative - her whole look was generous without being ostentatious, yet again. She knew all her businesses well enough to deserve the title of Trade-Mistress, but such glory never meant anything much to her in the larger scheme. Her sole practical concern now was hoping Mr. Mitchell wouldn't think her a slutbot when he saw her all turned out like this shortly.
She needn't have worried. Right on time her date arrived, and Rochelle's first sight of Mr. Mitchell reassured her immensely. He had on a simple golfing/polo shirt {albeit in ultra-neon tie-dye}, neatly pressed and well-tailored pinstriped bellbottom jeans, and grey cowboy boots. Oh, and his white hair was loose and flowing like hers was, and nearly as long; Rochelle was chagrined she hadn't noticed his tightly tucked-up ponytail at lunch. They chatted easily with each other nonstop from then until the show started, deepening their friendship. When the band hit the stage and ferociously started the concert with a wild tune over 12 minutes in length, Rochelle immediately focused on them, totally mesmerized by what she was seeing and hearing. The Bedroom Bedlam Blues Band was a classic guitar-bass-drums trio, and Rochelle studied all three members with great interest. Both the guitar and bass stood out first, as both were being played by phenomenally beautiful women; the bassist was wearing a floral-pattern sleeveless minidress, sheer {nude} nylons with white boots. The guitarist sported a red long sleeved minidress with aristo-flared wrist cuffs, dark nylons like Rochelle's own, and shiny black boots. Both had sizzling command of their instruments and incredibly lovely singing voices, and both displayed their virtuoso talents to the hilt. They had to, out of sheer necessity; their drummer was a longhaired and mustachioed chap who was playing his double-bass drumkit like a whole civilization's worth of lives depended on it. He was stupendously dynamic from start to finish, and Rochelle simply couldn't take her eyes off of him. Over the course of the show, she was surprised to note that his bandmates couldn't, either. For the next three-and-a-half hours the group gave a blistering concert, one of the very best Rochelle had ever experienced or researched. If ever a band truly deserved the moniker of "power trio," this one surely did. Rochelle was totally blown away by their devastating show. It wasn't until the end of the last encore that she remembered Mr. Mitchell mentioning he was old friends with the drummer.
Before she knew it, he was pulling her along with him, heading straight backstage. Once there, and by now well-flustered with excitement {a good concert always did that to her}, Rochelle accidentally ran smack dab into the guitarist, nearly knocking the two of them clean off their high bootheels in the process. Both were quickly supported by none other than the drummer, who chuckled "Hey, easy on the merchandise, Sister. She ain't paid for yet!" Rochelle didn't miss the adoring look her hapless collision-mate gifted the drummer with, nor his answering look of warm-to-hot affection. Just then, the drummer brightened up and pounced on Mr. Mitchell with a bearhug and a joyous yelp of "JOHN!!! Sahara Forest, my main man!! You keeping yourself in trouble, I hope?" Mr. Mitchell smiled. "Sahara Desert* right back at ya, T - I'm still riding the lightning, as usual. Say, before I forget, this is Rochelle. Come say hello to my dear friend T, Rochelle, dear. Dear-dear-oh-my-dearie-dear-dear!" Still excitedly flustered, and now deeply embarrassed by the collision with the pretty guitarist, Rochelle never caught hint of Mr. Mitchell's Piglet-pun that sailed above her ken, but she nonetheless forced herself to smile and begin court with this master musician. Oddly enough, although he had gobs of abundant charisma, Rochelle was struck by the other quiet power he also strongly projected; it eerily fascinated her for some reason she coudn't quite put her finger on. After a goodly amount of chitchat which Rochelle didn't register at all, she came to her senses some time later when he looked over at Mr. Mitchell and asked "She's the one you were telling me about, John?" When he nodded, Rochelle saw a startling transformation in the drummer's demeanor through her sensors, and wondered what had come over him. Her programming, special systems, and careers making her extremely expert in the field of body-english, among many other fields, Rochelle picked right up on the imperceptible clues and got a most interesting reading, and her built-in biofeedback monitors filled in larger chunks of the puzzle. He now seemed to her analyzers, and more importantly her own intuition, exactly like a man on a long, lonely quest just beginning to edge into deep despair before finally finding the Grail he had been searching for all along.
Rochelle hardly needed a neon-tube reminder of just how many of the exact same power-chords her observations about the drummer struck within her. Continually monitoring him as he went on pleasantly chatting her up, she could see he was still dripping wet from the impressive show he had just put on. No, scratch that - the show ended over an hour previous. Plenty of cooldown time for him. Had they really been talking that long already? Rochelle was still trying to understand the sudden odd changes in the drummer's bioreadings, and had lost all track of time - as well as what the handsome drummer had actually been saying to her. Looking closer, she was shocked to realize the drummer had tears running down his cheeks, although his face and speech inflections gave no hint of upset of any kind. His biofeedback comepletely betrayed him however - and thus was his soul laid bare to one who might could possibly understand what was really going on inside him, and just might want to help ease some of his terrible hidden anguish, should she choose to. For reasons Rochelle didn't understand, this revelation struck deep and resoundingly into the epicenter of her electronic heart. The drummer suddenly clasped one of Rochelle's dainty, well-manicured hands between both of his own, and drew the entire package against his chest, a twinkle in both his eyes. She could clearly feel his quickening heartbeat, even through his strong, deeply callused hands - totally unaware that her own electrosenses were beginnning to race wildly, as well. His bright smile flooded her with intense warmth. "My Dearest 'Chelle, would you be so kind as to join my humble but sexy crew and me for a spot of wreck-reation?" Like the cliche`d caricature of the robot she actually was, a suddenly dizzy and giddy Rochelle smiled brilliantly and mechanically answered him in a one word monotone: "Yes!!!"
The next few hours were a total blur to the buxom synthetic woman - even her normally failsafe backup systems had no clear record of what she did or where she was during the gap in her memory. Her blank seemed to have been triggered by one solitary unassuming word that came out of the drummer's mouth - 'Chelle. Why this simple contraction of her given name, uttered by a man she didn't know at all should impact her so hard, Rochelle couldn't say at that moment, but her robotic intuition did know it was somehow connected to the deepest of her roots she'd been so desperately searching for. Her returning ruminations gave her the mental equilibrium she needed, and Rochelle gradually grew more aware of the here-and-now, and her place within it. Both her programming and emotions fluxed wildly as she realized that she was now in bed, in a rather messy luxury-hotel suite with the whole of the Bedroom Bedlam Blues Band!! Even worse, she herself was literally plastered all over AND intimately connected to the dummer, who was propped up on both elbows, gazing at her with eyes that were sparklingly irridescent, his biofeedback equally scintillating. He had the most feral-looking smile on his face that Rochelle had ever seen in her life. "Maximum-overdrive flirt mode, indeed" was his dry, chuckle-laced opening gambit. A thunderstruck Rochelle simply couldn't cope with all this, and remained silently frozen in his loving full-body embrace and most intimate connection. **And I thought I was going to mess with this band? Backfire, thine name doth be Miss Rochelle.** Another chuckle: "Ah, don't worry Luv - you'll catch up to yourself presently. My kind of fun does take a little getting used to. Gina and Maisie here have your back just in case, but please rest assured that I myself would and will never let the Pit you've been harrowed by for so long ever claim you. I've been through more Pitses than I care to admit to, shake a schtick at, OR hiss in. You'll understand it all soon enough, I promise you." As if to reinforce his impromptu speech, first Maisie, and then Gina leaned in and wordlessly deep-kissed her in a way she'd never experienced before. Both of their electrofeedback readings were crystal-clear and rang absolutely true, proving their veracity and loving intent.
With a 5.1-surround. digital Dolby hi-decibel vocal exclamation that was part gasp, part moan, part yelp, and part scream, {and shattered the mirror on top of the bureau}, Rochelle arrowed up off the bed with an easy twelve foot vertical launch from her intimate coupling with the drummer - and then promptly sailed right back down to terra-firma with a most unladylike crash landing that took out the whole minibar her unexpected arcing trajectory and descent was perfectly aligned for. It would have rated the highest possible ranking of five gold stars in Hoyle's Official Rules Of Hotel Wrecking {Second Revised Master Edition}. "Now there's a girl after my own heart" the drummer idly remarked, his laconic drawl and complete unconcern over Rochelle suddenly taking flight causing Gina and Maisie to both explode into unison hysterical giggles. He then escalated the girls' hysteria with an equally deadpan: "I like her - she's silly!" Totally unfazed, and fighting mightily to keep from hysterically giggling herself, Rochelle rose and faced the group she had just wildly ejected herself from with a confidently passionate stance and demeanor that was brand-new to her. It was all beginning to make perfectly logical sense now, her emotions finally being able to fully nourish her hungry circuits; her true self-awareness was blossoming at last. Just as they had done at the concert God-knows-how-long-ago-now, both Maisie and Gina commanded her focus first, and Rochelle felt sudden surging love in equal measure for the pair of them, because she now knew that they were of her same kind, and shared some of her previous lonely background in their own fashions; most of their backstories being unconsciously transmitted through their respective electrofeedback readings.
A machine's electrofeedback is just as incapable of untruths as human biofeedback is, and Rochelle wasted no time at all in gracefully leaping right back on the bed, and showering her new robot Sisters with all the affection she could generate. After a joyous ten minutes of love-celebration, Rochelle gently pushed her new Sisters back flat on the bed with a final passionate deep-kiss for each, then positioned herself right in front of the drummer, sitting comfortably on both her legs which were closed-scissored beneath her, the whole of her weight supported by her knees and ankles. Their gazes locked tight. For a long moment, neither spoke nor moved. Rochelle broke the stalemate by slowly unfolding herself and simultaneously slipping under the sheet he was still covered by from his waist down. She resumed a semblence of her previous "plastered" position against him, stopping just shy of fully re-establishing the intimate coupling, and settled her head onto his shoulder with a happy sigh. She could feel Maisie and Gina both snuggling up to them on either side, the most agreeably warm and appealing bread for their thrilling sandwich, and she let out another blissful sigh and a soft moan as she held the drummer closer and tighter still. Glancing up, she was {ahem!} electrified by the way he was gazing down at her - seeing her as the whole she now was, instead of the disjointed parts she had naiievely presumed herself to be, previously. The deep wisdom and even deeper glow of a truly Special Soul animated his eyes in ethereal fashion; human eyes really were THE best ports to view the Essence within, most assuredly. Rochelle was looking way beyond such parameters, however. She was lost in rapturous contemplation of Love - and being Loved equally in return - and was never going to know crippling loneliness again. She was Home - with her brand new Family.
With all the passion, release, gratitude, joy, and everything else she could draw on from inside herself, Rochelle planted one stupendously concentrated, twenty thousand fathoms-deep-kiss on her Ultimate Love's eager lips, and settled down in his soulful arms, completely at ease with herself and the rest of the universe for the very first time in her electronic life. Once he had slid down and settled himself next to her, and they were face-to-face on the pillows, she hit him with the obvious question: "What the hell just happened, you sexy sonofabitch?" She saw his eyes sparkle and his bioaura burst into blinding electric-magenta hues as he answered: "Your prime security and initialization code, Pet: ' 'Chelle.' While it might be freely spoken and used under any circumstance or condition, its' full power can never be released unless the one who originally gave it to you initializes it by invoking it first. Nobody else can enable it, hack it, or otherwise get through to the important core of it. Only the love of the one imprinted at the time of manufacture can make it work fully. It's a foolproof method of complete security once it's in place, regardless of whether it's initialized or not, but it does carry a cost if not initialized right away. The basic idea is older than the millenia, but is still rather effective, nonetheless." Although completely enthralled by his voice and the words he was uttering, which stitched many of her life's formerly scattered fragments cohesively together at last, Rochelle gave in to an increasingly upsetting reaction set off by some remaining unanswered questions of hers, and impulsively sat up to challenge her newly-minted Ultimate Love with: "But that's only one side of it! Where does the OTHER side, MY side fit into all of this?" He parried her sudden mercurial mood swing with an affectionate "Oh simma dahn nah, and stop being so silly, Pet. If you'll cool your jets and think for a bit, you'll realize you already know where yor side fits in."
His soft chuckle, and teasingly know-it-all manner somehow infuriated her. Before the combined mass might of her lightning-fast processors, abundantly capable CPU, and her own better judgement could restrain her, Rochelle let nine months' worth of frustration and her currently boiling emotions get the best of her, and with stinging force, she slapped as hard as she could the cheek of the one man who was most crucial to her ultimate destiny and happiness, and whom she already loved completely and unconditionally. The room grew sepulcher-still as the ring of her slap died, all the occupants motionless. Rochelle was utterly horrified to see a solitary tear slowly streak down the drummer's handsome and now slap-welted face. Stunned, frantic alarm from Maisie and Gina surged through Rochelle's rapidly faltering electrofeedback sensors and threatened to burn them out altogether, heightening the already fierce tension. The absolutely overwhelmed Rochelle had literally locked herself up as an immediate consequence of her rash impulse - fuelled by totally out of control emotions - and was now just a lovely synthetic statue, lying nude and frozen on a bed of billions and billions of white-hot piercing thorns; completely bereft in her confusion and all-too-painfully-human mortal anguish over what she had just done. First one, then a second, and finally a third tear quietly streamed down the drummer's silently immobile, expressionless countenace, and Rochelle willingly welcomed the cataclysmically fatal crash she could feel building up in all of her seized systems and components - blanking herself into oblivion would be just desserts for her willful foolishness. Maisie and Gina had both by now locked up in horror also, their instant rigidness obviously felt, even to Rochelle, who otherwise was now beyond feeling anything except excruciating emotional pain. Her Pit was coming to claim her after all, and it was small comfort that she would be going down with a line from one of the very songs she heard the band play earlier echoing in a searing program-loop throughout her desolate electronic soul for all Eternity: **Nobody's fault but mine.-Nobody's fault but mine.-Nobody's fault but mine.** She deserved all of this, and she knew that she did. She was ready for her hellish fate, steadfast to the last.
The drummer silently and carefully extricated himself from the bed, leaving the three frozen female machines exactly where they were, seemingly oblivious to their plight. He began to softly whistle as he started rummaging through the ruins of the minibar. Finding an intact can of beer, he nonchalantly popped it open, and gulped half the contents before turning his gaze back to the bed and the remaining trio of motionless mechanical women. With what suspiciously sounded like a tiny soft chuckle that Rochelle somehow could still hear, the drummer resumed his place of honor between the three comely Lady robots, and pulled Rochelle's unresponsive body tightly against him once more. With a gentle kiss to her cheek, and renewed tears streaming down both of his own and plopping onto her alluring breasts, he said softly "Try your terms of license, Dear," then kissed her again, this time on her nonresponsive lips. **What? The bloody terms of license? Nobody ever actually reads those!** Such was her Love for him that Rochelle made a superrobot effort and obeyed his final request of her before she let go and crashed entirely. She laboriously located the file deep within her CPU and began to digest the contents. A dazzlingnly intense burst of joy and ecstacy surged through every micron of her sophisticated circuitry, spilling into Gina and Maisie, such was its' force and wonderfully delicious impact. **Oh, that magnificent bastard!!!** And thus was Rochelle - the Loveliest Lady Robot of them all - finally made truly whole at long, long last. An instant later, the drummer was dogpiled by three frenzied, ecstatically giggling sexy-as-all-get-out mechanical females who seemed intent on drowning him with synthetic saliva, and pulping his face and body in a hurricane of kisses, none the worse for wear but infinitely wiser, thanks to the brief, harsh lesson in human emotions they all had just endured. He gave back better than he got as always, made a most heroic stand for himself, but the indefatigable robot women prevailed in the end and he happily met his doom at their tender and enthusiastic mercies. The "Monster" was vanquished again, but his point had been effectively made and brutally proven - and no one in their tight little group would ever forget it. Rochelle monopolized him the whole time, but Gina and Maisie made their presences and loving contributions known too, joyously celebrating the cure of both their new Sister Rochelle and their Beloved Inspektor "T"welve - the drummer, of course. At your service!
Rochelle's terms of license? That old thing? Well, Rochelle was indeed a skunk-works product - the very first one exclusively underwritten by Robo-Depot, and by far their most valuable and spectacularly sentient prototype to date, hence the elaborately simple security precautions. All of her most important details were placed within her TOL as she was constructed and developed, and could only be fully accessed again in toto, after she had been properly initialized. This had been SOP at Robo-Depot since Inspektor 12's very inception of the company itself, and had generally worked well. Once Rochelle was fully initialized, all her vital details could then be transferred to the corporate mainframe, thus creating her permanent official record, and also placing the crucial and invaluable information about her design and manufacture in a secured environment on a much larger scale, affording infinitely more protection. Due to the press of ongoing business and a hostile-takeover attempt just at the time of her construction, the Inspektor never got the chance to initialize Rochelle properly. As a matter of fact, she was hastily sold to a friendly broker, and quietly put in service before final testing and initilization specifically to protect her uniqueness, lest she become corporate spoils should R-D not prevail in the then-current business strife. She would literally be hiding in plain sight, and thus hopefully be much harder to locate, should the wrong elements discover her secrets and come looking for her. Unfortunately, she'd also be "hiding" from the Inspektor too, if he ever lost track of her - which is exactly what happened due to the business climate. The one saving grace and a most devious high-stakes gamble in all this was that her secrets likely never would be discovered, because they literally only existed within her, sealed until she was initialized, and only the Inspektor himself could do her that great service. The Pyrrhic victory generated afterwards thus had repercussions that impacted both the Inspektor and Rochelle tremendously, over their years of separation.
In a nutshell, the game was for winner-take-all keeps, and the Inspektor wisely leveraged his bets before he even began playing, determined to win no matter what. Rochelle's forced loss hurt the Inspektor in ghastly ways; he cared tremendously for his company and also took great pride in all their products, and had no problems whatsoever with either hard or ruthless business decisions, but sweetly innocent Rochelle was extra-special to him from the outset, being one idealized entity he could really love {and already did} with all his being. Letting her go so suddenly burned like hellfire in his heart, but really was absolutely necessary. Her essence had to be kept safe, no matter the cost to him or her. And the fact that he also knew from the get-go she would only have a partial and gradually unfulfilling existence as a consequence of the terrible necessity that yanked her away from him before she was properly whole only added to his anguish, and steadily got worse as the many long years of forced separation went by, before they finally found each other again. He had been wickedly scarred, worse than she had, Rochelle now understood. **No wonder he's such a compelling blues musician - he really does live and understand the life - like I do too, now.** Rochelle's blackout after Inspektor 12 finally initialized her just after the concert was simply her entire system rebooting itself and acclimitizing the new data. Her consciousness had returned a bit before her full understanding did, and this plus her newly enhanced emotions is what triggered her sudden meltdown. His was probably the greater burden to bear because humans couldn't turn off their emotions the way machines could. Rochelle's entire body flinched violently just then - she herself could have mitigated some or all of her misery by doing just that? Why hadn't she realized this, or done anything about this before? Was she totally thick, a glutton for punishment, or what? Her pleading eyes met the Inspektor's, and he indulged himself with another deep-kiss before accurately answering her unspoken questions, being absolutely no slouch at either bio or electrofeedback himself. Or confused lovely Lady robots, for that matter.
"It all ties in with your heuristics filtration system, Pet. That option is always there, and you could have used it anytime you wished previously, even kicking it in reflexively in a time of stress. The fact that you haven't to date indicates that early on you made a conscious choice to suffer in the way humans can only ever do, simply by never exercising the option. Over time, you became more-or-less locked into human-state, forgetting the other option altogether. It eventually became your default setting and will stay that way permanently, unless you want to try the other side, which can be accomplished with careful but complicated factory spot-reprogramming. The choice is still there, and still functions, however - it's what kept you, Gina, and Maisie from crashing a little while ago, because it also acts as a self-preservation failsafe for your brain, triggered by any dire threat against your CPU core, either from within or from without. The choice {emotions on or emotions off} was put in place to keep your human creators from getting a God-complex, allowing you unfettered freedom to make your own way with it, or not, as you see fit. And as you've learned the hard way, choosing the human form of emotional suffering can carry a heavy penalty indeed. You were the very first machine built with this feature as standard, and this fact alone made you pricelessly valuable then, and makes you even moreso now, with all your growth, maturity, and experience since the time of when we first got lost from each other added in for good measure." This earned him a passionate kiss from Rochelle; Gina and Maisie adding their loving embraces, kisses, and caresses into the mix too. He was always so good to all of them, because he really did know them all better than they knew themselves, as he was now demonstrating.
"Your choice, even though it's been painful for you also makes you the wonderful woman you are, my Dearest 'Chelle. A most enchanting mechanical woman I'm simply nuts about." The tone in his voice as he said this made Rochelle start trembling like she'd swallowed a whole bottle of Acme Little Giant Earthquake Pills, and a flood of tears wiped out her vision as the full force of this incredible experience finally hit her. Rochelle buried her head into inspektor 12's shoulder and gave in to quietly impassioned sobbing. She was soothed and consoled by his full-body embrace of her, plus Sisterly reassurances from Gina and Maisie, and her emotional and physical reactions gradually subsided and stabilized. There were no more secrets between them now, and there never would be again. The ravishing robotic woman now knew exactly who she was, and how she came to be - and so very much more. The complicated simplicity of it all was mountain-levelling, in terms of the gross and net impact upon her. Rochelle's entire whole and true self had literally been within her all the time; unusual tragic circumstance was the one and only thing that kept her from truly knowing and understanding her precious essence from the outset, and both she and the Inspektor had paid a cruel price indeed many times over in the forced preservation of said precious essence. Her specs, design features, construction details - everything she had been lacking and looking for for so long, all right there, spelled out in minutely-fine detail, forever safe in her own terms of license, to eventually be released by the one who adored her the most, using the simple key of her own name, and his love. She and she alone had actually been guarding herself within herself. That's how much the Inspektor loved and understood her; Rochelle was both captain and ultimate controller of her own destiny right from the start, by most elegant design. **Vintage Typical Inspektor Fashion - and I am now his Queen.**
As sometimes happens to all Damsels In Distress {or at least to the good-lookin' horny ones with great boobs}, Rochelle the Marvellous Lady Robot's Gallant White Knight finally got off his Lazy White Arse and onto his Lazy White Harse, er, HORSE and Rode to Har, no, HER {oh for crying out loud already} Most Gallant Rescue, In Typical Lazy White Style {ha, gotcha!}, and now All Was Truly Well Indeedee-do-be-do-be-do. The three lovely mechanical women, and one very well-satisfied man finally settled down for some well-deserved slumber. All were just about to drop off, when the bed started quaking again, this time from the fit of hysterical laughter the Inspektor was struggling to keep within himself. Maisie and Gina mutely rode the bouncing waves with sleepy smiles and languid, loving caresses, eyes tight shut. They'd seen it all before and knew exactly what was coming - this was Rochelle's gig to deal with, now. With her head bouncing up and down vigorously on his mirthfully jouncing shoulder, a deadpan Rochelle pursed her lovely lips, casually tickled his stomach, sighed tiredly, then purred "Okay Loverboy, out with it - what's so damn funny now?" Still struggling to overcome his laughter, the Inspektor lovingly cupped Rochelle's supremely beautiful face in his hands, and kissed her tenderly once more. "I do hope you remembered to agree to your terms of license after you finally read it, Pet - you really think I want to go through all this nasty, horrible shit AGAIN???"
The entire suite was immediately engulfed in a gigantic explosion of tornadic pillow feathers and a roaring gale of giggles; the Monster was about to meet his doom once more at the hands and outrageously sexy bodies of the three lovely mechanical maidens, the poor devil.
+++++++++++++++++
With these wonderful memories looping pleasantly through her electronic brain during her downtime, Rochelle unconsciously tightened her embrace of her ailing Inspektor-Beloved as they slept; her reassurance and absolute Love being gently simulcast to the rest of the slumbering Harem-Family, subliminally relaxing and giving emotional peace to one and all. Their individual and collective respite would be a brief one, though - several more shoes were about to drop..........................
In Typical Dramatic Fashion.
{* Obscure Inspektor Humor explanation: how did the Sahara Forest become the Sahara Desert? Long time no "sea," dig?}