The Marionette's New Strings
The chamber was an exercise in sterile observation, a pocket of absolute control carved from the heart of the Fatui's power. It was one of Arlecchino's private rooms within her wing of Zapolyarny Palace, a place that existed outside of official schematics. There were no decorations, no concessions to comfort. The walls were smooth, obsidian-dark metal, polished to a mirror sheen, drinking in the cold, blue-white light that emanated from recessed strips along the ceiling. It was a room designed for experiments, and tonight, The Knave was indulging in her favorite subject: the breaking of a will.
She sat in a high-backed chair of blackened iron, a single shadow in the observation room. Before her was a vast pane of one-way glass, a technological marvel that separated her from the chamber beyond. It was a cold, dead eye, and through it, she watched her subjects.
On the other side, in a room just as sterile but bathed in a slightly warmer, clinical light, were two of her fellow Harbingers. Columbina, the Third, sat on the edge of a low, wide bed, the only piece of furniture in the room beyond a simple metal bench. Her posture was relaxed, almost serene. Her eyes were closed, a small, unnerving smile on her lips, as if she were listening to a melody only she could hear. She was a beautiful, unsettling doll, seemingly pliant and unaware, which made her the perfect catalyst.
The true subject of the experiment, however, was Sandrone. The Seventh, The Marionette, stood in the center of the room, her back ramrod straight. Her creations, the hulking automata that were her pride and her shield, were absent. Here, she was alone, her slight frame a stark contrast to the power she wielded. She was a creature of logic, of gears and calculations, a master puppeteer who believed her will was as immutable as the laws of physics.
Arlecchino found that belief… amusing.
"You seem tense, Marionette," Arlecchino's voice spoke, not from the observation room, but from a hidden speaker within the chamber itself. It was smooth, devoid of any discernible source, a disembodied sound that wrapped around Sandrone like a velvet chain.
"Your summons was… irregular, Knave," Sandrone replied, her voice crisp and precise, though she did not turn. She was scanning the room, her sharp eyes cataloging every detail, searching for the trick, the trap. "This facility is not optimized for my work. Its purpose is unclear."
"Its purpose is clarity," Arlecchino corrected gently. "I merely wish to have a conversation. To explore a hypothesis. You value control above all else, do you not? You believe your creations are an extension of your will, flawless and obedient."
"They are," Sandrone stated. It was not a boast. It was a fact.
"And you believe your own will to be just as infallible," Arlecchino continued, her voice a soft, hypnotic cadence. "A fortress of pure logic. But a fortress is only as strong as its foundations. Tell me, Sandrone, when you command your puppets, do you ever feel their strings, or do they simply… obey?"
The question was a key, designed for a specific lock. It bypassed the usual defenses of a Harbinger—distrust, aggression, suspicion—and went straight to the core of her identity. Sandrone's focus narrowed. This was a topic she could not resist.
"The connection is seamless," Sandrone said. "There is no resistance. My command is their reality. The signal is absolute."
"A signal," Arlecchino repeated, savoring the word. "Yes. Pure and uninterrupted. But signals can be… redirected. Jammed. Overwritten." As she spoke, the blue-white light in the chamber began to pulse, a slow, rhythmic thrum, almost too subtle to notice. A heartbeat. "Imagine a different signal, Marionette. Not one of command, but of suggestion. A whisper planted so deep, it feels like your own thought. A desire that blooms in the sterile garden of your logic, a beautiful, illogical flower."
Sandrone's head tilted slightly. "A flawed analogy. Desire is a variable. I eliminate variables."
"Do you?" Arlecchino's voice was a silken thread, weaving its way through the pulsing light, through Sandrone's rigid defenses. "Or do you simply control them? Look at her, Sandrone."
Slowly, as if the command came from her own curiosity, Sandrone turned her head. Her gaze fell upon Columbina. The Damselette had not moved, her smile still placid, her breathing even. A perfect, beautiful object.
"She is… inefficient," Sandrone said, her voice a little slower now. "Her purpose within our ranks is esoteric. Her methods defy quantification."
"Her purpose tonight is to be a canvas," Arlecchino murmured. "And you, my dear Marionette, are the artist. You are a creator. You understand the intricate workings of things. I wonder, have you ever considered the mechanisms of flesh? So much more complex than gears and wires. So much more… responsive."
The pulsing light deepened. Sandrone's gloved hands clenched and unclenched. A thought, alien and intrusive, slid into her mind. The thought of Columbina not as a fellow Harbinger, but as a machine. An automaton of flesh and bone, waiting for the touch of its creator to awaken it. To test its limits, to map its responses.
"Her purpose is not my concern," Sandrone said, but the words lacked their earlier conviction. The signal was beginning to waver.
"Isn't it?" Arlecchino's voice was right beside her ear now, a phantom presence. "I am giving you a new purpose. A new project. You are to… study her. Understand her workings. See what signals she responds to. Begin with the chassis. Remove the outer shell."
Sandrone did not reply. She took a slow, deliberate step toward the bed. And another. Her movements were stiff, puppet-like, as if she were being controlled by an unseen hand. Arlecchino watched, a predatory smile gracing her lips on her side of the glass. The fortress was breached.
Sandrone stopped before Columbina. She knelt, her examination as clinical as if she were diagnosing a faulty ruin guard. Her gloved fingers, designed for precision engineering, traced the delicate line of Columbina's jaw.
"The materials are… fragile," Sandrone observed, her voice a flat monotone.
"Then your touch must be precise," Arlecchino instructed.
Sandrone's hands moved to the intricate clasps and ties of Columbina's dress. Her fingers, so adept with metal and wire, fumbled for a moment with the soft, yielding fabric. It was a fascinating sight—the master of complex machinery momentarily bested by a simple gown. Finally, with a series of soft whispers, the dress loosened and pooled around Columbina's waist, leaving her torso bare.
Columbina's eyes fluttered open. They were serene, empty pools of color, and they fixed on Sandrone's face. She showed no fear, no surprise. She simply watched, her unnerving smile never wavering. "Your hands are cold, little puppet," Columbina murmured, her voice a melodic hum. "Like polished stone."
Sandrone ignored her, her gaze cataloging the topography of exposed skin. The gentle slope of shoulders, the delicate hollow of a collarbone, the soft, pale mounds of her breasts. "The architecture is… inefficient for combat. Prone to damage."
"A different kind of efficiency, my dear," Arlecchino purred through the speakers. "Aesthetic efficiency. Tactile efficiency. Proceed with the calibration. Use your tools."
Sandrone's hands, still sheathed in their dark leather gloves, rose. She hesitated for a fraction of a second, a final spark of her own will sputtering against the hypnotic command. Then, she laid her palms flat against Columbina's skin. She began to touch and feel her everywhere, her movements a strange blend of mechanical exploration and nascent curiosity. She traced the line of Columbina's ribs, the dip of her navel, the soft expanse of her stomach. Her thumbs brushed over the peaks of Columbina's breasts, and the Damselette let out a soft, sighing breath.
"Interesting," Sandrone muttered. "The dermal layer is highly sensitive. A simple stimulus elicits a pronounced respiratory and auditory response."
"Go deeper," Arlecchino commanded, her own breath catching slightly. She was leaning forward in her chair, her knuckles white as she gripped the armrests.
Sandrone bent her head. Her tongue, pink and startlingly human against her pale, focused face, darted out and licked a slow, experimental stripe over one of Columbina's nipples. Columbina gasped, a genuine sound that seemed to surprise even her. Her back arched slightly, pushing her breast more firmly against Sandrone's mouth.
"Saliva acts as a lubricant, increasing sensory input," Sandrone reported, her voice losing some of its flatness, becoming slightly breathy. She continued to lick and suckle, her hands roaming freely now, mapping the curves and planes of Columbina's body with a growing, desperate hunger. She was on the edge of the bed, leaning over the supine form of the Third Harbinger, completely absorbed in her "study."
Columbina's hands came up, not to push away, but to tangle in Sandrone's hair. "You learn quickly, for a machine," she whispered, her voice thick. "But you are still so clinical. Is this not supposed to feel… good?"
"It is a data stream," Sandrone insisted, pulling back for a moment, her lips glistening. "Pleasure is merely the brain's interpretation of successful biological imperative."
"Then interpret this," Columbina breathed, guiding one of Sandrone's hands down, past the bunched fabric of her dress, over the soft thatch of hair between her legs.
Sandrone's fingers pressed against the warmth and dampness she found there. Her analytical composure cracked. A sharp, shuddering inhale rattled through her. "The… the humidity levels are significant. The tissue is engorged with slimy water?."
"Enough analysis," Arlecchino's voice cut in, sharp and commanding. "Initiate core system diagnostics."
As if pulled by invisible strings, Sandrone shifted her position. She slowly descended, her lips and tongue tracing a path down Columbina's quivering stomach. She moved with a strange, graceful inevitability, her earlier stiffness replaced by a fluid, compelled motion. She settled between Columbina's thighs, pushing the dress up and out of the way.
Her breath ghosted over Columbina's most intimate flesh. Then, her tongue delved inward. She started by licking and nibbling Columbina's swollen clit, her movements initially precise, almost surgical. But with every gasp and whimper from above, her technique changed. It became less about observation and more about elicitation. She laved and suckled, her hands moving to massage the slick, wet folds, spreading them, exploring them.
"Oh… oh, little puppet," Columbina moaned, her hips beginning to move in a slow, undulating rhythm. "You're… you're a fast learner…"
Sandrone didn't reply, her world having narrowed to the taste, the scent, the feel of the woman beneath her. She moved her tongue, pressing it against Columbina's entrance, tasting the essence of her. One of her gloved fingers, slick with Columbina's arousal, circled the throbbing nub of her clit, massaging it with a rhythm that was no longer clinical, but instinctual.
It was this sight—the master of machines brought so low, so utterly consumed by base, physical need—that finally broke Arlecchino's restraint. The view was too perfect, too intoxicating. The distance of the glass was no longer enough. She had to be inside the experiment.
The door to the chamber slid open with a soft, pneumatic hiss. Neither woman on the bed noticed. Sandrone was too far gone in her compelled task, and Columbina was too lost in the sensations, her eyes closed, her head thrown back.
Arlecchino crossed the room, her movements silent as a shadow. She came to stand behind Sandrone, who was bent over Columbina, her skirt-clad rear presented perfectly to The Knave. Arlecchino's eyes, burning with a cold fire, drank in the sight. She unzipped her own tailored pants, freeing her erect, slick shaft. The cool air of the room did nothing to diminish the heat radiating from it.
"Fuck, Sandrone," Arlecchino breathed, her voice no longer a disembodied echo but a raw, present sound. She rubbed the length of her shaft over the fabric of Sandrone's skirt, pressing against the curve of her backside. "The view is way too good not to join. Now you will feel what you're making Columbina feel too."
With a sudden, brutal tear, she ripped Sandrone's skirt, exposing the simple cotton of her panties beneath. Sandrone jolted, a muffled cry of surprise and confusion escaping her as her mouth was torn from Columbina's core.
"A-Arlecchino? What is the meaning of this?" she stammered, the hypnotic spell shattered by the sudden, violent intrusion. She tried to push herself up, but Arlecchino held her firmly in place.
"The experiment is evolving, Marionette," Arlecchino growled, her hands sliding under the torn fabric. She slid her shaft under Sandrone's panties, the smooth, hot flesh rubbing against the cleft of her buttocks. She could feel the dampness there, the unexpected heat. "It seems your own systems are… fully operational."
"Unhand me! This is a breach of—ah!" Sandrone's protest was cut short as Arlecchino hooked her fingers in the waistband of her panties and pulled them aside, just enough to expose her entrance.
"You were so engrossed in your work," Arlecchino murmured, positioning herself. "Don't stop now. Your subject is waiting." And with that, she pushed forward, entering Sandrone's entrance in one smooth, relentless thrust.
The hypnotized Sandrone jolted, a sharp, electric cry ripped from her throat. Her back arched violently, and for a moment, she was frozen, every muscle taut with shock and a sudden, overwhelming surge of sensation. The hypnosis was gone, replaced by the stark, undeniable reality of Arlecchino inside her.
"W-what…?" she gasped, her mind reeling. But before she could form a coherent thought, Arlecchino began to move.
"Fuck, Sandrone, you're so tight and warm," Arlecchino groaned, her thrusts deep and punishing. "You're making me cum."
The confusion on Sandrone's face was a beautiful thing to behold. It warred with the pleasure that was already beginning to course through her, a pleasure her logical mind had no framework to process. Her body, however, understood. It responded instinctively, clenching around Arlecchino, a traitorous heat spreading from her core. The feeling was… good. Devastatingly, illogically good.
"Continue your analysis, Seventh Seat," Arlecchino commanded, her voice thick with her own pleasure as she maintained her rhythm.
Dazed, overwhelmed, and strangely compliant, Sandrone lowered her head back to Columbina. Her movements were different now—less precise, more frantic, fueled by the dual sensations of giving and receiving pleasure. She resumed licking and sucking Columbina's clit, her own moans vibrating against Columbina's flesh as Arlecchino continued to thrust into her.
Columbina, who had watched the interruption with languid amusement, cried out as Sandrone's mouth returned to her. "Yes! Don't stop, my puppet! Don't ever stop!"
The room was filled with the symphony of their union: the wet, rhythmic sound of Arlecchino's thrusts, the slick, hungry noises of Sandrone's mouth on Columbina, the ragged breaths and choked moans of all three women. It was a chaotic, beautiful machine of flesh and desire, and Arlecchino was its triumphant engineer.
"Fuck, I'm close," Arlecchino grunted, her pace becoming frantic, her grip on Sandrone's hips bruising. "You're so… perfect… like this…" With a final, deep thrust and a guttural cry, she spent herself inside Sandrone, her body shuddering with the force of her release.
For a moment, they were all still, connected in a trembling chain of aftermath. Then, Arlecchino slowly pulled out, a satisfied sigh escaping her lips. She guided Sandrone's limp form to lie on the bed beside Columbina. Both were breathless, flushed, and glistening with sweat.
Arlecchino lay down between them, a conqueror claiming her spoils. "A successful field test," she murmured, her voice regaining its customary coolness, though a note of smug satisfaction underpinned it.
Columbina was the first to move, rolling onto her side to face Arlecchino. "The conductor has joined the orchestra," she said, her smile returning, wiser and more knowing now. "Did you enjoy your own composition, Knave?"
"Immensely," Arlecchino replied, her hand coming up to cup Columbina's cheek. "Your performance was, as ever, ethereal."
"And the Marionette?" Columbina asked, her eyes drifting to Sandrone, who was staring at the ceiling, her expression one of dazed bewilderment. "I believe you may have broken her."
"Repurposed," Arlecchino corrected. "She simply needed to understand that she, too, can be an instrument."
She then shifted, her strength seemingly undiminished. "But the night is not over. I require a different perspective." She maneuvered Columbina on top of her, guiding her down until she was straddling Arlecchino's hips. Arlecchino's shaft, still slick and surprisingly hard again, found its way inside Columbina, who sank down onto it with a blissful sigh.
"Now you," Arlecchino said to Sandrone, her voice leaving no room for argument. She pulled the dazed woman on top of her as well, positioning her so that Sandrone was straddling Arlecchino's face, her core hovering just above The Knave's mouth.
Sandrone gasped as she felt Arlecchino's hot breath on her most sensitive flesh. "This is… undignified…"
"Is it?" Arlecchino asked, her voice muffled but clear. "Or is it simply another form of control? You are now the one being serviced. A novel experience for you, is it not?" Without waiting for an answer, she leaned up and captured Sandrone's clit with her lips, her tongue laving the tender flesh with expert skill.
A broken sob escaped Sandrone. Her hands flew to Arlecchino's thighs for support as the pleasure, so recently a source of confusion, now became an overwhelming tide. Arlecchino's hands came up to grip Sandrone's hips, holding her in place as she began to suck and nibble, her tongue delving deep while one of her hands moved to finger Sandrone's dripping entrance with relentless precision.
Above them, Columbina began to move, riding Arlecchino's shaft with a slow, sinuous grace. She looked down at Sandrone, whose face was a mask of tortured ecstasy.
"Look at us, little puppet," Columbina purred, reaching out to touch Sandrone's face. "The Knave plays us all so well."
Sandrone's eyes met hers, and in their depths, the last vestiges of resistance crumbled. She leaned forward, her body bowing over Columbina's, and their lips met in a desperate, hungry kiss. It was not a kiss of affection, but of shared understanding, of mutual surrender to the same overwhelming force. As they kissed, their hands roamed each other's bodies, touching and squeezing each other's breasts, their moans mingling.
Arlecchino watched it all from below, her view a perfect, obscene tableau. The sight of the two most enigmatic Harbingers moving together atop her, lost in each other and in the pleasure she was providing, sent a fresh jolt of power through her. She redoubled her efforts on Sandrone, her tongue and fingers working in a devastating rhythm.
"Arlecchino… I… I can't…" Sandrone choked out, tearing her mouth from Columbina's.
"Then don't," Arlecchino commanded, her voice vibrating through Sandrone's very core. "Let go."
It was the final command Sandrone needed. A sharp, keening cry was torn from her throat as her body convulsed, waves of pleasure so intense they felt like system failure crashing over her. She collapsed forward onto Columbina, her body trembling uncontrollably.
Feeling Sandrone's climax and spurred on by the sight, Columbina's own movements became frantic. "Knave…!" she cried, her voice a high, desperate plea.
"Come for me, my Damselette," Arlecchino growled from beneath Sandrone's shuddering form.
With a final, shuddering cry, Columbina followed Sandrone over the edge, her inner muscles clenching rhythmically around Arlechino as she rode out her own powerful release.
Silence descended, broken only by the ragged sound of three sets of lungs struggling for air. The sterile room now smelled powerfully of sex and sweat. Slowly, carefully, they disentangled themselves. Columbina rolled off to the side, curling into a contented ball. Sandrone simply lay where she was, boneless and spent, her mind a blissful, empty void.
Arlecchino was the first to sit up. She looked at the two women, one serene and smiling, the other utterly broken and remade. She reached for a nearby carafe of water and drank deeply, the picture of cool composure once more.
Sandrone finally stirred, pushing herself up on shaky arms. She looked at Arlecchino, her gaze no longer sharp and analytical, but soft and… awed.
"What was the purpose of this?" Sandrone asked, her voice hoarse.
Arlecchino finished her water and set the glass down. "To prove that control is an illusion, Marionette. That even the most rigid systems can be overwritten with the right code. You came here a puppeteer. You leave understanding what it is to be the puppet." She stood, straightening her clothes. "And you have performed beautifully."
She walked to the door, pausing to look back at the scene one last time. Columbina had opened her eyes and was watching her, that knowing smile still in place.
"Was the melody to your liking, Knave?" she asked, her voice like the chime of a distant, broken bell.
Arlecchino's gaze swept over the wrecked bed, the torn clothing, the utterly conquered form of Sandrone. A slow, predatory smile spread across her face.
"Yes," she said, her voice echoing faintly in the sterile room. "The harmony was perfect."