Butterfly Quest - Pilot Session - Inspired by Shindol's Emergence

Your name is Sally Yolanda and things are about to get a whole lot worse for everybody involved.

On first hearing, that sentence does not even to make sense. There is no obvious context for the clause after “and”. However, a person more enlightened to your plight would know that the context is right in front of them: That your name is Sally Yolanda. That is all the context that is necessary.

Nine years ago, at the tender age of 14, you were merely another homely maiden. Indeed, back then, instead of long straight hair, you sported pigtails. Instead of contact lenses, you wore a huge pair of glasses. To the majority of the male denizens of this world, what this meant was that you were not pleasing to look at and probably could not please them in bed either.

Why the sudden mention of carnal affairs? It is precisely because of those carnal affairs that things are about to get a whole lot worse for everybody involved.

Aching for approval and social interaction, you decided to go for an “image change”. That’s where it all started to go downhill.

Abandoning your pigtails, you opted for straight luscious hair. And like a caterpillar yearning to become a butterfly, you sought advice on how to use make-up from your mother.

And so, in your high school years, you finally became the butterfly you so longed to be, or so you thought.

Attracted by your nubile and lavish looks, you seized the attentions of a young man by the name of Henry deSwift.

And so, ignorant and unexperienced as you were to the vices of men, you were easily seduced.

It should’ve ended there with the seduction and it should’ve merely ended with a broken heart.

But it didn’t.

Allured by his seduction, he introduced you to illicit drugs, in particular, Ecstasy. You could’ve stopped it there.

But the tale keeps getting worse.

Your friends were false shepherds and they led you down a valley of vice.

And the take keeps getting worse. Worse, worse, worse.

One night, you were violated by your own father, who excused himself by claiming that you were a seductress and that your make-up and teenage cuteness had gotten the better of him and that you had nobody to blame but yourself.

The violation continued, being perpetrated daily. And so you were violated, violated, violated day and night.

And then your mother found out.

Narcissistic as she was, she felt cuckqueaned by your being raped and in spite of all your appeals, you were kicked out of your home.

And so you became dependent on deSwift, as you sought refuge in him. Using drugs to make you dependent on him, he virtually turned you into his concubine. More vilely, now addicted to drugs and mentally and carnally bound to him and earlier having been dragged in by those you thought who were your friends, you sold your body to fund your and his addiction, to shower money onto him and to enrich yourself.

And for the first time, you became pregnant. (1/2)

Dropping out of high school, you were under the absolute control of deSwift, who “sheltered” you.
For your own ends, you killed it. The baby inside of you.
First it’s a tragedy and then it’s a farce. The next five years under deSwift’s spell, you sold your body, drugged yourself and sated his desires and again, you were with child.
Wanting to have a family with him, you expressed your love for him despite the trail of death he had herded you into.
The tragedy was getting kicked out of your mother’s house. The farce was getting kicked out of deSwift’s.
And so you wandered, homeless, sleeping with homeless men, probably contracting more than a couple of diseases.
But this time, there farce would play a little differently from the tragedy. Sinful as you and the scum around you, the son does not carry the sins of the father, the child does not bear the cross of the parent.
This time, this time, you would do things right. Even as you continued to use your carnal means to get money to start again, you swear you would do it right.
But there was to be no messiah saving you from the stoning, so as to speak. In this world, sins are not forgiven, they only compound.
That was all too true, when in your darkest hour, not a single person came to your aid. Used as a punching bag and brutally beaten by a group of “normal” people, you were sent into premature labour. Limping your way into a toilet, your womb bleeding, your child most likely dead.
With nothing left, you were determined to commit suicide via a drug overdose.
Such a masturbatory ambition could never be achieved.
Your name is Sally Yolanda and things are about to get a whole lot worse for everybody involved.

(2/3)

---

Was it Heaven?

Was it Hell?

Opening your eyes, you peer around.

A room of steel, devoid of other furnishings save your own bed and a strange console on top of it.

An equally thick metal door, with a button.

Your stomach hurts.

[] "My child!"

>>383223
>[] "My child!"

<TBQH I think I picked the wrong time to even test the waters.

If this manages to survive by the time I wake up, I will continue. Good night.>

>>383243
Shiiieeet op, that doujinshi made me fucking rage, pointless cruelty, im glad we're getting some kind of happy ending whit this quest.

>>383223
>[] "My child!"

>>383499
>im glad we're getting some kind of happy ending
I think it's going to be more of an "I spit on your grave" kind of ending.

>>383223
My child!

>>383223
[X] "My child!"

File: 40.jpg (538KB, 1280x1889px) Image search: [Google]

538KB, 1280x1889px

>>384230
>>383635
>>383618
>>383240

As pain attacks your abdomen, you instinctively tilt your head upwards, your eyes catching tight of your belly, covered in a whit gown. The sweet misery of your pregnancy fills you with nostalgia, until you you begin to feel that that life inside of you is no longer there.

"My child!"

You grasp at your belly, your blood pumping through your veins in panic. As you press down onto your belly, your fears seem to be confirmed:

Your child is not inside of you.

You had sworn that "this time, I would do things right". A great weight on shoulder grows as you realise the gravity of the oath you have broken.

In your anxiety, you turn around, your eyes darting across the room. The cold and soulless walls offer no comfort. It is a prison in material and spiritual terms.

As every new prisoner must, you turn your way to the door that keeps you in the room. Approaching it, you reach your hands out to it, only to realise that there is no door knob.

The life within you no longer there, you stand frozen.

The stillness is broken as the heavy metal door slides open and a disheveled, tired looking doctor with a clipboard stand before you, temporarily astonished by the sight of you standing.

The voice is clearly that of a woman's.

"Hello. My name is Alice Fitzroy. I am your prescribed doctor. This is all very sudden, but please rest on the bed. I'll try and explain the situation to you as much as you can."

Like a terror-stricken child, you make your way back onto the bed.

It's a real, soft, well-made bed. You haven't rested on one for months.

You almost freeze as the memories of your degeneration start to bubble up. And as your eyes turn to the doctor, her short hair and large-framed glasses makes you wretch, before you stumble back into the reality that she is a doctor and not an old client and merely a woman with short hair.

Pulling in a folding chair, she sets it by your bedside.

Shaken, confused, the first thing to come out of your mouth:

"My child..."

A understanding frown from the doctor marks her face.

"I'm sorry Miss Yolanda."

She breathes in, then crushes you with the truth.

"Your daughter is no longer with us."

Reality crushes you. That dream of a summer day at a park's bench was only, a dream.

"I can postpone the checkup and details if you need time for yourself."

[] "Yes please."
[] You have nothing left but the cold reality around you. "No thanks."

>>385513
>[] You have nothing left but the cold reality around you. "No thanks."
There's a lot of killing to be done, best to get ourselves checked out and see how ready we are to go.

The more time we spend getting stronger, the more happiness our tormentors can accrue, and the more we can take from them.

>>385513
>[] You have nothing left but the cold reality around you. "No thanks."

>>385513
>[] You have nothing left but the cold reality around you. "No thanks."

>>385574
>>385837
>>386284

Without your child, according to the doctor, a girl, you have nothing.

It is beyond question that those people from your past now have no relation to you. There is no relationship between you and those who have abandoned you and given the death of your child, there is not even a tenuous link of shared parenthood.

The cold wall and ceiling around you makes that all the more clear.

With nothing left, there was nothing to mourn.

You harden your heart, almost sobbing as you rip yourself away from that past. You manage.

You feel empty, but you manage.

"No thanks. What's my situation?" Your voice was not the voice of a young girl anymore. Hints of cold bitterness and stoicism rendered it monotone.


The doctor, with a short, strong breath:
"To put it in perfectly honest terms, you've been conscripted by a secret government organisation and turned into a cyborg. You are considered legally dead, so effectively, you have got no legal rights. And I have no discretion over any of this, the government's pressed me into service as well."

No legal rights...

"The officers in charge of managing this program absolutely terrify me, it's like they don't even any people under them human."

Been there, nothing new.

"So, I just need to get my equipment and use it to scan your body for any technical problems, okay?"

You nod.

She pulls out a scanner in the form of a metal stick. Waving it above your stomach, various beeps and blips come of it. She pulls out a phone, as if the cylinder shared its results:

"Yeah, nothing wrong. The surgery went fine."

"Did you operate on me?"

"No, I'm one of the more junior doctors. But I've done some experimentation on it, so I know some of the technical details. And I'm just about done. Goodbye."

"Wait. What kind of things does this organization do?"

"Well, from what I've seen, bullet wounds are the most common things the medical department has to deal with and from what I've heard, the folks that those in the line of duty deal with aren't exactly pleasant either, so my best guess is you're part of something between black ops and a police department. Secret police essentially. I'm not sure if we're political, but we're definitely secret."

[] "How do they even keep employee morale up?" Conscription and hard combat sound quite stressful.

[] "I guess it can't be helped." It's not like you have a choice.

[] "When do I get started?" It sounds like a good cause.

[] "Does no legal rights mean no legal responsibilities as well?" A sadistic expectation fills you unexpectedly.

>>386625
>[] "When do I get started?" It sounds like a good cause.
Improving this world, even if only a little bit at a time.

>>386625
>[] "How do they even keep employee morale up?" Conscription and hard combat sound quite stressful.

>[] "When do I get started?" It sounds like a good cause.

>>386625
>[] "Does no legal rights mean no legal responsibilities as well?" A sadistic expectation fills you unexpectedly.
Lets go hard with the whole "done everything" and go deeper

>>386648
>>386658

"When do I get started?" Secret shady government department or not, you owed something to whoever brought you back from the brink of death. The best way, you guessed, to repay that would be make the world a safer place.

So that others would not have to go through your pain.

"It usually takes a month or so for the fresh recruits to start getting ready for service from what I've seen. Weapons training, psychological training, whatever they do, one month in and I start seeing the bullet wounds, so I guess it'll take one month for you too. It's nighttime right now, so you meet your handler tomorrow."

You almost wince at the term "handler", until you remember that you've been drafted into a black-ops outfit and that it is a completely different context to what you've been through before.

She pauses, raising her eyebrows. They meet her hairline, merging as if they were one.

"You're somewhat more enthusiastic compared to the other draftees I have had to check up on."

[] "It just feels like I owe something."

[] "No comment."

[] "Better than staying in this room all day."

[] "People shouldn't have to go through what I've went through."

[] "I swear, I am going to make them all pay."

---

<Right now, I doing this during uni term, so I won't be able to write until Thursday. I'm aiming to see on Friday if this really picks up or not and if it does it might turn into a weekend regular or a one-post-a-day. If there's discussion, I'll try my best to fully engage with the pilot on Saturday.

Good night
>

>>386913
>[] "No comment."

>>386913
>[] "People shouldn't have to go through what I've went through."

>>386913

>[] "I swear, I am going to make them all pay."

>>386913
>[] "It just feels like I owe something."
>[] "Better than staying in this room all day."