Форма №48

He always picked the weirdest hobbies. When still living in Vale, he picked classes on Menagerian culture – despite them being taught by an old clearly anti-faunus professor who knew little and cared less. When in Vacuo, he took to skiing – despite the place completely lacking any snow, forcing him to ski off dunes. And of course, he was an avid entomologist while working as metallurgist in Atlas. The frozen continent had almost no native species of arthropods, yet it didn’t stop him. This hobby, however, would have put any other to shame. The Casting he called it – no, not just any regular casting. The process was way too sophisticated and artistic to be addressed as anything less. And the results, his treasured Casts… He wasn’t a big fan of an abstract art, of odd shapes, of that tired corny: ‘interpret it as you see fit!’ bullcrap. Once, he introduced a pretty young guide from one of those modern art galleries to The Casting. Vivid were her surprise and disbelief. Yet, there were similarities with the abstract. Oddity of the shape was a shared quality between his Casts and those stone turds they tried to pass as abstractions of emotions or concepts. Unlike them, however there was nothing random or abstract in the results of The Casting. Every small detail was there for a good reason. He moved to the basement, where his collection lined hallways leading to the workshop. Each few steps – a new shape rested on the wall. Each shape was unlike the others – never did he manage to recreate any. Unlike painting or sculpture the very process of The Casting made repetition not just hard – impossible. It made his collection all the more precious, for it was filled with true uniqueness not found in any other artistic field. Yes, he considered The Casting to be a field of art on its own! Neither the results, nor the process, nor all the nitty gritty details surrounding it were like any other art. For that, he – a self-proclaimed man of artistic endeavor – prided himself to no end. He traced his fingers across the nearest Cast, the unpolished roughness of its cold metal. It was a misshaped, lumpy thing. Like some metallic worm coiled endlessly into itself. A knot the size of a beachball. Above stuck its ‘tail’ of sorts – a cleanly cut stump the length and girth of his forearm. Below, something resembling a head – a big lump. Almost the size of his own head, it has a slight curvature, getting bigger the further it extended. From its downmost point stuck a metal spike, looking like some comic book portrayal of a hairlock. Cute detail – shame most Casts missed it. But the process was never predictable enough! After all, each Mold was unlike the other. Not even when they shared complete genetic similarity did the process of The Casting went the same way. But once again – that was a part of the charm. Shapes told stories, no other the same. He looked at the next Cast. The number above it red №7. He remembered its Mold well. She was the stylish one, the dandy with a swagger and a catchy name. During The Casting, she barely moved, providing him the Cast without much struggle. The delivered result was clean and shapely – just as she was. Wasn’t much of a spectacle, but a solid A shape-wise. №12, the voiceless. Her Cast betrayed her trembling in small ripples of its metal coils. She changed many forms, but none worked. And none changed her enough to alter the result she provided. He liked it, another solid A, if not for its shape than for the spectacle. Her mouth opened soundlessly. Her wild dichromatic eyes not moving from his own. He still wondered what she tried to convey through that look – if anything. N30. The disappointing one. She seemed fierce until she proved herself meek. Her recalled how her voice rose from a silent prayer as The Casting commenced. The metal caught well her struggles, which led to her providing lackluster result. Not quite too wild, nor too shapely, it was the odd in-between, one he didn’t like. He would’ve discarded her Cast, if not for educational value it brought: always look at finer details. If he was attentive enough, he would’ve noticed the cracks across her brave façade long in advance. Oh! Now for the fiery one! Red of hair and character too, the №21 was an easy S. So feisty! She was cursing him all the way as she tossed, and that she did wildly. He called him every name she could invent – quite a long list, in fact. Not for a briefest of moments did her spirit betray her. Her Cast captured her moves, looking as if a snake of metal tried to curl up in a ball while having seizure. Each outlying coil stretched further than in any other cast, spread out by her mad struggles. The doors to the workshop opened with a small creak. He like the sound, which instantly put him in a working mood, and so kept the hinged underoiled just a bit. The place was in perfect order. A few cases and tables line the walls, the further wall being clouded in darkness. At the center, something big stood under the tarp, and in front of it a smaller contraption. A T-shaped metallic tube with broad shoulders stood on a small padded platform. It was decorated by many bundles of steel cables, and a small cage was seen on a platform below. And on a plain metal-framed bed in the corner a girl laid in deep, drug-induced slumber. A cat faunus, young and pretty, she was clad in comfortable clothing common for young huntresses like her. Despite being deep, her sleep wasn’t sound – she twisted and turned, disturbed by nightmares. Sometimes, so much so her barefoot ankles or wrists caught on the cuffs holding them against the bed. He smiled. There she was, his sleeping beauty. His Mold №48. Taking a cutter from his pocket, he relieved her of clothing – she won’t need them anymore. Underneath, her form was even more pretty, majestic even – she was athletic, toned, covered in leaner muscles. He couldn’t take his eyes from her toned stomach. Soon, so very soon… He uncuffed his newest Mold and brought her to the contraption, frowning. Securing them was always quite an awkward process. First, he had loosened all the cable bundles. Then, pressed the body of №48 to the contraption’s mid-pillar, upside down, and tightened the bundle across her midriff. Now, with her body somewhat secured, he could move to her legs. Putting them in a perfect split – cat faunus agility be thanked – he tied them to the shoulders of the upper T-shape. A minute or two of fussing around, and both her body and her legs were tied in a dozen places each by steel cables. Her arms were secured behind the pillar and cabled together elbow to elbow. She won’t move an inch, no matter how hard she tried. Good restraints were a key to success. The Mold was to remain put unless an unusual shape was desired – or a failure did occur. In latter cases, the results provided by the Mold was either be too chaotic or too uniform, if an inner spillage happened. Neither was desirable. Thinking himself a person of artistic pursuit, he wanted to find a balance between order and the lack of it. That razor’s edge between, the golden path – whatever one would call it. And to find it, he had to experiment. Every detail was put to the test – including the restraints. Allowing his Molds different extent and direction of movement seemed to produce equally varying results. The quality, sadly, ranged from interesting to a complete waste. Sometimes, the combination of factors led to poorer shapes or even the Mold’s rupture. Thus, he decided against experimenting on this particular Mold, for she didn’t strike him as someone durable enough. And he had enough of failures at his hand, now that he lost that Cast a few months ago. It got so misshapen he had to toss it away, despite how promising the Mold was, that dusky-skinned red-eyed vixen. He won’t repeat his mistake with this one. As a final stroke, he put №48’s head inside the cage at the bottom. Now, the Mold was stuck craning her neck down- – or, in this case, up- – ward. Just to be sure she won’t miss any detail. Of course, leaving someone upside down like that for extended periods of time was life-threatening. But such periods were not to be expected. Not nearly extended enough, at least, for that to threaten the Mold’s life. Not that she will care about this discomfort given what was in store. Indeed, soon something much more pressing will occupy her mind – then nerves – till the bitter end. Now, to wrap up his preparation! Rushing to a table, he took an injector from one of its drawers. Wasting no time, he put it against the neck of his new Mold and pressed the trigger. With a hiss, the device released its contents inside her veins. Her amber eyes began to flutter a few short seconds after, bringing a smile to his face. During his unusual artistic pursuit, he made many unique discoveries, adopting or even creating many unique tools and methods. One such tool was The Stimulus. A cocktail of adrenaline and some other drugs, it was originally created as a combat stim. The medically-inclined huntress who told him the recipe drunkenly boasted how it could keep someone awake through the worst of injuries. After one spiked drink too many, she generously allowed him to put her words to the test, becoming one of his first Molds. №3, to be precise. Her words were proven to be almost true. She didn’t quite make it through the whole process, but the spectacle was promising. After fiddling with proportions a bit and spending a few Molds, he perfected the formula. Now, the Molds will endure no matter what, allowing him to feast on every sight and sound they provided. Oh, and they provided aplenty! And he had all the reasons to suspect this one won’t disappoint him as well. Neither in the spectacle, nor in the Cast she’ll generously provide. Such a sweet naïve thing. It was so easy luring her in by a promise of information regarding her recently disappeared friends. After all, who else but him could enlighten her? He knew all too well where Molds №45, 46 and 47 went. He chuckled. They were huntresses, each – and not among the weakest. And yet, a bit of spiked drinks or a dose sleeping gas was all that it took. Afterwards, steel cables and The Casting itself left them with no ability to fight back. In the end, they provided just like the rest, despite all their big words and bigger struggles. There was a bitter irony in his endeavor. Who would have known that so many huntresses will find their worst – and the last – enemy not amongst the creatures of grimm plaguing the planet, but in a form of a fellow man? Or, well, not much of a fellow when his actions were considered. Still, he cared little. What was the plight of this dull, dull humanity compared to his beautiful art? He didn’t even need viewers, being the one himself – his only one. In his eyes, it made The Casting all the more perfect. He consumed what he created in an ouroboros of creativity. His art was a thing in itself, a true passion that required not the validation of the dull, the crude and the stupid! And the picky, and the vulture, and the pretender, and the suit-clad thief feigning true interest! Oh, how tired he was of all of them. But here? Here nothing mattered but his art and his own entertainment. Self-sustaining double-edged process that promised to never grow dull. His gaze shifted. Tossing in her restraints, Mold №48 was stirring awake. After her predicament finally caught her attention, her eyes shot wide open. - Wh-wha?!.. Where?! What the actual fuck?!! Now that she was fully awake, the process of The Casting could begin. He walked over to a table and grabbed his trusty recorder. Old thing with surprisingly good audio quality, it was worn on the sides where his fingers used to hold it time and time again. - “Log entry 112. Mold №48 was successfully acquired. Female, faunus, feline variety, aged 20. Fair skin, black hair, amber eyes. Height: 5’6”, ears not included. Weight: 128 lbs when naked. Aura color: not known, currently. – He let out a chuckle. – But I will fix it soon enough.” There was a genuine sense of panic in her eyes when she heard those words. Being a huntress, she knew better than anyone else what showing the color of one’s aura meant. He smiled to himself. Of course, it was a performance on his part, a spectacle meant to put his Molds in a ‘proper mood’. Each detail was deliberate: the way he walked, the way he talked, even the way he picked up the recorder. Each details made to sting the Mold’s nerves. Years of practice taught him that it was never quite as entertaining when they were docile. Art was a dialogue, after all! He spoke to them and expected them to speak in return. In straining backs and limbs, in faces and eyes alive with the rawest of emotions. And, of course, with words. Crouching next to his Mold, he caressed her toned belly. - You bastard! You’re done for when I get out! She tried to drown her fear in her own anger. Oh, the usual! He was almost disappointed, but practice told him that in such moments most humans and fauni expressed themselves quite uniform. The lack of variety was a sad fact, but those were always the most stubborn. He just had to work with what he got. And thus, slapped the Mold across her pretty feline face. - “Log entry 112, addendum 1. Mold №48 shows the usual reaction. A bit more self-assured, perhaps. As expected with her background. Huntresses always prove to be the most stubborn and entertaining. Beginning the stage 1.” As the Mold shook the dizziness of his blow away, blood dripping from her split lip, he returned to the table. From its drawers he picked a bottle of lube, which he began unceremoniously applying across her backdoor. And soon – inside, roughly pressing his fingers through rubber-like ring. The Mold’s reaction was predictable. And loud: - Aaargh!! Son of a! Pervert! Sick freak! Where are my friends?! I know you have them! Another inner smile. He didn’t show it, his face stone-cold. It was better this way, to play on her nerves with a mask of complete calmness. His Molds always grew bold when he showed them his true emotions. Sometimes, he did so on purpose, when a new acquisition proved herself to be an especially feisty one. It was always good to stock that fierce flame up before snuffing it for good. Not this one. As his fingers spread copious amount of lube across her rectum, her panic was growing way too fast. Soon, she will go through the same cascade of emotions most of his Molds did. He could tell it already. - “Log entry 112, addendum 2. Moving to stage 2. No unusual reactions from Mold №48.” There was a toolcase at the far end of his spacious workshop. Mostly, it was filled with various spare parts and instruments for repair and maintenance of his equipment. Among other objects, however, were large steel funnels. She didn’t react quite well to the tip of one of them being pushed inside her ass. - AAAAHH!!! Take it out, you shithead! Where are my friends?! Ruby! Weiss!.. Yang!!! His newest Mold called and called for them, much to his amusement. Very well – such insistent interest deserved to be rewarded! Picking a remote from the table, he pressed a button. Light went alive, illuminating further wall. And the Casts lining it. - What?.. What kind of sick joke is that?.. He allowed himself the briefest of laughs. This! This was one of the reasons why he loved his hobby so much! What other art could inspire such sincerity?! Bare the soul so, so much?! The Mold’s reaction wasn’t some banal terror. No, it was the most genuine surprise one could’ve imagine! It hit her so hard it made all other feelings take a backseat for a good few minutes. On the further wall were Casts №45, 46 and 47. Looking at their odd metallic shapes, the one who will provide him with №48 couldn’t quite process what she was looking at. He put the recorder aside. There was no need for it right now. - Mold №45 was an interesting one. – He began explaining, his voice patient and strangely amicable. – I sought her for years, even while I was still working for SDC. But there she was beyond my reach. Here? A different story. After all, I was employed in her homeland for good two decades. We’ve even seen each other a few times when her family visited the metalworks. Sweet. A bit uppity, but it’s like putting a candy in a sandpaper wrapping, really. We had enough to speak about, with me working there for so many years. Made her laugh in no time. Sweet little thing. He shook his head, a smile curling his lips. Warm, it dissonated with the situation so much the Mold started shaking with unease. - I don’t… - Shhh! I was getting to an interesting part. So, when she woke up here, she was quite upset. And quite vocal, I must add! Frail, though. Beautiful, but frail. And sweet. Like a snowflake made of sugar. She went from: ‘My family’s going to kill you!’… – He gave his best mimicking Mold №45’s shrill voice. – …to: ‘Please, mister!’ in less than a minute. Not the record, but still – I expected more from someone of her pedigree. Regrettable, but well – what you gonna do about it, right? Ha-ha-ha! His laughter, so casual, finally switched her reaction from surprise to terror. Yeah, just as he predicted – she wasn’t one of those fiercer, better Molds. Not like №47 or his prize, №21! - She danced a lot though, with her ballerina body. Look! See the coils kinda spread out side to side? That’s from all the tossing. I eased the restraints around her stomach a bit, just so she can move more freely. She provided well in the end. Solid B. Sorry, I know, I know! She’s your friend. You may be upset she didn’t score higher. But the Cast went to be kinda basic. You know? Nothing to pick apart, really. But nothing too praiseworthy. Sorry! Still without clue, she switched uncomprehending gazes from the Cast to him and back. He then pointed out to the next. - But this one! This is A. Not the gem of my collection, but still. Cast №46 is just good! Solid! All around too! The Mold was innocent, jumpy, smiley! Syropy-sweet too. And so, so naïve. When I met the two of them, I presented myself as a private detective. The older… Mere mention was enough for №48 to wake up from her confusion. - Yang! Yang, where are you! Ouch! Ouch! Ouch! Slapped across her tits a few times, she went silent, ears folded and eyes teary. - Did your mother not taught to not interrupt the elders? Young these day, p-ha! – He shook his head before returning to the topic at hand: - Oh yes, the older one did try to talk some sense into the younger. But that ball of energy was just too eager! Comical, really. Fell for such a stupid trick. When I got them here, I couldn’t do The Casting for them both at the same time. Had to flip a coin, ha-ha! So, the younger became Mold №46. Oooh… For a moment, he was lost in his memories, smiling to himself. At his side, his next Mold trembled, still not quite putting the pieces together. - Such a spectacle! There was just so many emotions from the both of them! I think I should do pairs more often. Indescribable, how they reacted, really. But The Casting went so smooth on №46, you just can’t believe! It was like she went to happier place and just refused to leave it. No tossing, no curses – just went limp. Even smiled a bit. Think I broke something in her. But the Cast she provided… It was perfect. Really, one of those rare occasions when you can’t really specify much. Just look at nearly spherical shape, at ‘the head’ and ‘the hairlock’ below. It’s hard to compete with something like that, truly. But №47 managed. The third mold caught his eyes. It was the second most misshapen of them all. Lumps and bumps, and off-shooting coils betrayed the wildest of struggles. - Such a strong, beautiful Mold. Solid S, the second best I ever had. Rarest of treats. So headstrong! She shoved it from the very moment our eyes met for the first time. Stood between me and her younger on the street. Asked to be picked first here. I declined – but from respect! She just didn’t realize that it was the first one who’s gonna get it easier. So, I picked her next, as Mold №47. Tsk… A thoughtful expression took over his face as if a mask was put on it. №48 looked at him with fear and incomprehension. It wasn’t clear whether or not she couldn’t figure it out – or was chasing the increasingly evident conclusion away. - Red. Red! Her eyes burned red like two cinders! Never saw a semblance like that. Good thing those restrains were designed with creatures of grimm in mind. – He pointed at the steel cables entwining the body of №48. – And – oh! – the language! Who knew someone so young could swear so much! I’ve seen sailors with worse vocabulary. But that was the exterior. Like a sea urchin, she hid softness behind those spikes. Her eyes didn’t lie though. The way she looked at №46 during The Casting said it all. He was once again lost in his thoughts for a moment. Leaving his next Mold to stew in hers. - There was so much hate in her. So much sheer denial of my right to be. No words for that! Such intense purity of emotions! Not even when I did the Casting on her, did №47 betrayed it. It consumed her whole! Only in her last moments did her eyes returned to their blue color. But even then, that hatred… It never left! Her face was stuck in it. It looked like a mask! Oh, what would I give to relive that moment!.. E-he-he-he! His voice broken down, cackling maniacally. While his words seeped in №48’s cat ears. As she processed them, conclusion hit her, painting dread across her features: - Did you… Kill my friends?.. Her voice sunk as the realization downed on her. But it wasn’t quite the way he looked at the matter. - Killed? No, you silly! I’ve made them immortal. Flesh rots away, insects nibble on it. Bones crumble into dust. But the metal? The metal lasts, my dear №48. The metal lasts. With that said, he dragged the tarp off the massive thing standing next to her. The way she looked at it shown she wasn’t quite grasping the situation still. It was a machine, that was evident – one that was strangely familiar. Standing on a small concrete foundation, it was the size of a bigger engine found in heavy trucks. Besides many protruding bits, bolts, valves and whatnot, it had a small chute at its front and a large opening at the top. She knew it because when he pressed the button on the side, it began to shine uneven orange light across the ceiling. The heat came off the machine, stocking the fear in her heart as she saw the SDC label at its side. And recalled, with a desperate terrified scream, just what this machine was. - AAAAAAAAAAHHHH!!! - He-he. There, there. Don’t worry, little Mold. It won’t take too long. “Log entry 112, addendum 3. Moving to stage 3. Reactions… - He looked at the screaming Mold and smirked. – …are within expected margins.” She screamed because the machine was a small-scale metal smelter powered by red dust. Once, when she and Adam raided SDC convoy, she saw a batch of these machines tarped in truck’s bed. Even before he extended the chute towards the funnel in her butt, №48 became clearly aware of his intentions and her friends’ shared fate. And just how the Casts were made. The machine hummed with another press of a button. She saw the chute sag on a little as metallic mass moved down its path. No light shone, for it was too cold for that. But not cold for her. THUD! The first portion dropped into the funnel. She felt the thing tilt a bit as the mass pressed into its side. Hard cold tip pressing into her walls wasn’t even registered as discomfort, for what was to come next was beyond words. - HAAAAAAAHHH!!! HAAAAAAAAHHH!!! She was howling, madly as she felt the warmth reach his rectum. But it wasn’t so easy, not even when molten metal was considered. She possessed trained, hardy aura of a huntress, and the warmth didn’t become heat just yet. Her aura shone its hues across her body as the temperature tested its toughness. - “Log entry 112, addendum 4. The aura of the Mold №48 is proven to be purple. Continue observations.” №48 was writhing in mad panic. There was little way to tell how long her aura will last. But there should be at least some time to do… something. Anything. The only thing, since she was caught in metal cables in some bunker or whatnot! To plead. And plead she did, gathering what was left of her wits. At that point her expression was so wild-eyed with panic it would’ve made anything she’d say sound like begging. - Sir! Please, listen to me! She shouted, trying to get through, as she saw it, whatever madness clouded his mind. He smiled to himself once more – oh, just like the most of them! His dear, poor, pathetic Molds! They almost never matched the flawless results they provided. - My name is Blake Belladonna! My father is the leader of Menagerie! You can ask him of anything – anything! Money, some stuff! He led the White Claw once! He can even get someone for you! Anyone! You can trust me! She tried to sound reassuring, but her words came by as a cry for mercy they were. Her eyes went wide with terror as he shook his head, his disappointment visible. - “Log entry 112, addendum 5. The reactions are still predictable, and boringly so.” – With a deep sigh, he put the recorder away. – Listen, my dear Moldy. I am not even going to pretend I didn’t hear the variation of the very line you’ve said for dozens of times already. There was even that smug crazy one that kept insisting she worked for some Salami, or Baloney, or whatnot. That was the Mold №28. Her Cast is an A – almost made it to the S, but the shape was too uneven. Still, it’s in a hallway with the best of them. Your friends will be there too. Casts №46 and 47 for sure. I’m less sure about №45 – again, it came out bland! Maybe I should put it one of the rooms. I have a warehouse here, always so messy. Would make for a beautiful contrast between the Mold and where her Cast would end up, don’t you think? She wasn’t thinking. Panic consumed what was left of her mind, and her breath grew too rapid to form words. She reminded him of №5, the one with the rabbit ears. Was this reaction a common thing amongst fauni, he wondered? Then again, №17, that lizard-like one, fared a bit better. So far, only a handful Molds were fauni – disgraceful oversight! He promised to himself to look for more. After all, what was art without the experimentation? - “Long entry 113. Note to self: I need to find another faunus. Scratch that – I need to find a few!” As he was musing to himself, the heat began to slowly break №48’s aura apart. Trained as she was, the Mold concentrated it all around her backside. And so, it was fading head-first, purple hues across her naked sweating body getting paler by the minute. After several long minutes of occasional scream or plea, only a small patch remained. It was quickly shrinking and losing brightness and color. She saw it well, glancing at him with one final plea. Her eyes were full of tears. Fear made the irises and the pupils shrunk into tiny spots. Amber color was barely noticeable. He doubted she actually saw him – or anything – that way. Mold №48 held with valiance born of desperation and mortal fear. And with endurance born of training and experience. Despite his reservations regarding her, he had to admit she possessed an admirable resilience. But the physics did their work. No matter how hardened, no aura could withhold molten metal for a long time. There were no words to describe the sound she made when it finally failed. Perhaps, except one – as metallurgist, he was very familiar with how metal screeched, dragged against something hard. - KHIIIIIIIIIIAAAA!!!!! - “Log entry 112, addendum 6. Moving to stage 4. The Casting has begun in Mold №48. Observing expected reactions.” - KHIIIYAAA!!! KYAAAAH!!! - “Damn, she’s a loud one”. He murmured into the recorder absentmindedly, not quite realizing the thing was still one. Indeed, he was quite entranced by the scene. A silvery river of metal moved through the chute from the machine to the funnel. There, it pooled, bubbling as the air escaped the Mold’s bowels. Steam was escaping in those bubbles, as well as rising alongside the funnel from the very asshole of the Mold. The sizzling was heard through the agonized screeching. He put on a respirator filled with incense, both to reinforce his experience and to cut off the smell. He didn’t like it – it wasn’t gross, far from it. And that was the exact reason why he detested it, for it made him feel hungry the wrong way. Horrible inflamed redness spread from the sizzling ass. The Mold, crying out bloody murder in the spectacle of ear-splitting cacophony, tossed in her restraints wildly. He clicked his tongue, hearing bones crack and joints pop open from the strain she was putting them through. The Cast was going to be rough! He underestimated her, misjudged, expected less struggle! Sad, he traced the redness spreading across her stomach as the metal was filling the natural cavity of her colon. That metal was his biggest pride. Named with his characteristic simplicity, The Alloy combined ultra-low melting point of a tin with steel’s renowned durability. His own discovery while working in Atlasian metallurgic facilities, it was made for quick repairs of various fighting vehicles. As easy to use as a foam, if requiring a lot more care, it was very tough when hardened. It was The Alloy which made The Casting possible. No other metal could do the same – to fill a Mold completely without destroying her. It didn’t not make the process survivable, of course – only made it last much, much longer. After a few minutes of non-stop screeching and bone-breaking tossing, the stomach of the №48 was half-red. Huge red snake was painted across it, circling it along the line of the colon and entering small intestines. There it slithered endlessly, its coils so tight they weren’t distinguishable by color alone. The bloating was a different story, however. Mold’s biology was not intended for The Casting, and so her guts bulged with molten metal. Even inch conquered by its propagation was seen protruding from her belly. He tried to trace his hand across the protrusion, but had to pull it away. Red sweaty skin was hot to the touch. There, in its sizzling metal-filled depth the flesh was cooked constantly. First the mucous membrane, then the muscles, then the nearby organs and the skin itself. Her pussy was red and puffy as if excited, and the hair of the small tuft crowning her crotch began to curl from the heat. Soon, her belly was distended, looking half-way into pregnancy, and grew red all over. The steam began to rise off it starting from the nether region, where the flesh around the asshole took brownish hues. Those hues spread downward as steam did, and after few more minutes, his newest Mold looked pregnant. Her abdomen turned brown from red, and it was steaming, her insides completely cooked. Her pubic hair fell off, and from brownish pussy lips escaped a plum of steam of her boiling womanhood. By that time, her screeching lost its pitch, volume and grew less frequent. As The Alloy finally began filling and cooking her stomach, she emitted sounds closer to wheezing than actual cries. Not because she grew numb – The Stimulus took care of that problem – it was just the heat partially burned her lungs. He stopped the machine. His Mold already took in as much as she could. Now, he just had to wait a few more minutes as the metal will cool down and The Casting would be complete. There was a concern in his eyes as he observed her form. Her abdomen sagged a lot, as the muscles inside were all but liquified. In a few places, the skin evidently grew very thin from the strain – a sign the Mold’s guts were broken through. Not an unheard occurrence in his workshop, regrettably. The heat itself wasn’t the problem – the process wasn’t hot enough to just melt through the flesh or incinerate it, barely twice the point of boiling water. But despite The Alloy being lightweight, the metal was still a metal. And so, the weight was the biggest issue by far. The tender insides of his Molds were just not intended to carry it! Thankfully for him, it rarely led to them outright rupturing open, thus wasting a good Cast. But like in №48’s case, it often led to smaller inner ruptures, which usually made the results lacking. He hoped it wasn’t the case this time. The far room of his basement was filled with failed casts, not cut to be included into his collection. An artist in endless pursuit of that ever-fleeting golden line between too much and too little, he didn’t even bother memorizing their Molds. For all he cared for, they failed him and so weren’t fit to be remembered. Now, the Cast seemed to have cooled down. - “Log entry 112, addendum 7. Moving to stage 5.” There was barely any blood when he began cutting. Heat from The Alloy cauterized the wounds, the blood coagulated inside the vessels. The flesh was mushy, soft. Sometimes, the cutter didn’t even open it, instead smearing bits across the metal inside like a pate. The flesh was easy to pick apart, and he did so. He took his time, not rushing the slightest – it was the part of the process, of the entertainment and the artistic. He took parts and threw them into a big plastic bag. He cut them small, manageable. Sometimes, he would twist them in his hands, looking from every angle. Small bits of his Mold, of the one who provided him with the Cast. He smiled – the little helper in his art, that one. Each one. Without them, his collection wouldn’t exist. The smell began to get through the incense. The smell. He licked his lips, looking at a piece of cooked meat in his palm. His mouth was wet all of a sudden. Fauni weren’t exactly human, right? Maybe just a tiny nibble… He had to bite his tongue. Hastily, he put the morsel into the bag with other parts. No, no and no – he wasn’t going to sully his work! He was an artist! Not some cannibal lunatic! Some member of primitive tribe lost across the vastness of Mistral! He resumed his work. Deeming the cutting done, he grabbed the Casting with both hand. First few pulls weren’t successful, despite the great effort he put in. Then, there was a terrible squelching sound followed by the Mold’s intense wheezing as he tore the thing away. Carefully, he put several dozen pounds of metal away, straining his back and grunting. Its coils were grey, their shape surprisingly good despite the obvious protrusion of spillage here and there. The Cast even had ‘the hairlock’, surprisingly enough! He traced his finger across still warm metal until it caught something soft. Between the cooled Alloy lied a labyrinth of brown cooked flesh, too dense to be scraped off. Not a big problem – he long figured out a way to get the gunk put. Entomology was among his hobbies, after all. - “Log entry 112, addendum 8. The Casting is complete. The shape seems to be good enough. I’ll evaluate it after the final stages. Moving to stage 6.” With that done, he picked the meat-filled bag and headed to the adjacent room. There, two huge glass containers have waited for him, filled with dirt. Both housing a huge colony of Menagerian fire ants. The bag’s contents were dumped into the nearest one. There, the skulls and bones of previous three Molds were still visible, picked clean white. He will ground them to dust later, to fertilize his garden. Right now, was the time for penultimate step. - “Log entry 112, addendum 9. Slag disposal complete. Moving to stage 7.” Picking a sturdy tray, he went for Cast №48. With certain amount of effort, the prized thing was put onto the tray and moved to the disposal room. There, he used a small crane to load the metal into the second container. - “Log entry 112, addendum 10. Cast №48 was placed in for the cleaning process. Moving to the final stage.” Now, was the time to dispose of the Mold. By some twisted turn of fate, she was still alive. The heat that scalded her lungs almost breathless also cauterized her wounds well. A burned crater replaced her abdomen. Bleeding was no longer a relief, and judging by the small wheezing rises and falls of her chest, suffocation was the next likely candidate. One that would not arrive for the solid several minutes. As he tossed her onto the tray and then into the first ant container, she never closed her eyes. Not even once. He drank in their expression, as he always did. That final sweetest morsel of the spectacle never grew old. For a long time already, he discovered a certain lack of words across the spoken languages of Remnant. No matter which, the vastness of its vocabulary could not quite encompass what he saw in those fading eyes. They told of something so deep and intense it denied any word-frame. For what his Molds felt, no description was apt enough. Closing his eyes, he smiled wide and sincere. Truly what other artform could hold a candle to his? Turning to leave, he glanced one last time into the container, where the ants have swarmed the Mold’s body. To his surprise, she was still quite responsive. As thousands of tiny mandibles began to tear into her flesh, he saw her eyes move one last time. Meeting his gaze with unspoken question: “Why?”. His answer came in quick: - Why not? When the light left her eyes, they were full of genuine bewilderment.