Welcome to Gaia! ::

"Gentlemen, what you are seeing before you is an abomination. A mistake of production that somehow believes itself to be... human. And yes, it 'possesses' many traits that you may have - a 'job,' a 'family'. But these are shams, as artificial as its mechanical body. It is pretending to possess these things, trying to hide its true nature. It has made a conscious decision to be 'human,' not an inborn trait. And because of that, there are marked differences in the ways humans and constructs react to... pain."

Avodotya Semyonovna Nizamiev paused, surveying her small "class," made up of interested captains and colonels stationed at the mansion. A few shifted, one coughed. They all seemed slightly unsettled by the screams coming from behind her.

"The man on my left, an Dmitri Petrovitch Dashkov, shows all the usual responses men have when their leg is cut off. He is serving as our control."

Dmitri Petrovitch screamed, sobbing and jerking up against his bonds, as two lab assistants took a hacksaw to his leg, drawing out the pain as long as possible. He screamed for forgiveness (for he had once crossed Avodtya, failing to perform basic duties in his job as an assistant), for mercy, for the love of an uncaring god. It really was quite poignant.

Avdotya couldn't have planned it better.

"On my right, you see a construct of a type that many of you should be familiar with. It is a class A armored Bachimov, stripped of it's usual protective suit. We will be performing a similar procedure with this construct as with Dashkov." Avdotya glanced at the two waiting assistants, dressed in face-shields, aprons, and large gloves. "You may begin, ladies."

The two women positioned themselves on either side of the Bachimov's left leg and, aiming first, turned on their welding torches. The roar of the torches was soon joined by a peculiar sound - the construct was screaming.

"Note the differences in pitch and expression, gentlemen. There are none. It is mimicking, exactly, what it hears from Dashkov. While it believes it must respond to the 'pain' of having its leg severed, it lacks the necessarily.... humanity to decide on a proper, realistic response."

The torches biting further into the metal, the Bachimov struggled against its heavy restraints, screaming something about a family, about a farm. Avdotya smirked.

"This particular Bachimov is from a small settlement of these malfunctions. It has created an elaborate ruse for itself of family life. But these machines do not feel love - they feel that they are required to love if they are, in fact, 'human,' and create the appropriate feeling from nothing.

"Likewise, these machines do not fear. Fear is irrational and comes from a deep level of the subconscious. Dashkov fears quite a bit - and while most of these fears are understandable due to his present circumstances, there are others which are not. For instance - he fears the shape of the masks of field doctors, though he has never seen one in person. He fears the flight of geese, though we rarely see them in this part of the world. He fears eating bland foods.

"Constructs do not possess these 'illogical' fears, unless they choose to, to further their grand illusion. And their 'logical' fears, such as the one I'm assuming that this Bachimov now possesses of blow torches-" the group laughed, albeit slightly forced- "come only from a desire to function properly and serve their purpose. This is a characteristic we gave to machines - not one developed through personal 'life'."

She walked over to the Bachimov, looking down at it. It stared back up at her when it could, still convulsing.

"That is enough for now, ladies," Avdotya said, holding up a hand, when she heard the clank of a metal leg hitting the ground. "This experiment is done for now, gentlemen. You ma-"

In an explosion of speed and force, the Bachimov ripped upwards, breaking his bonds and grabbing Avdotya by the throat. It lacked much of its armor-given strength, but it was still more than powerful enough to kill her. It began to squeeze, growling, lifting her off of her feet.

Avdotya stayed still, watching the Bachimov. Her lips trembled from the growing lack of oxygen.

There was a shuffle, a mad scramble, as soldiers tried to get their weapons ready. They rushed for better vantage points, stumbling, caught completely off guard. One got off a shot well-placed enough that the Bachimov released Avdotya, who staggered as she landed, roughly, on her feet with her high-heeled boots. One of her ankles twisted out from under her, and she fell. Hitting the ground, she grabbed a small pistol from underneath her lab coat. She aimed at the spot right below the Bachimov's 'jaw,' and fired two shots.

It fell to the ground, twitching for a moment.

"Be more alert next time," she commented drily, standing up. She bit back a wince at the pain in her ankle. "Ladies, please dispose of this wreckage. And..." She looked over at where two of her other assistants stood poised by Dashkov, who was sobbing and whimpering, going pale with blood loss. "Dispose of Dashkov, if you would. We're going to have to start the experiment all over again. We have no use for this control."

She surveyed the room, sighing and rubbing her right cheek, scarred by an old chemical burn.

"Apparently, it feared you," one of the colonels said, smirking. "Do you know what they're calling you, Dr. Nizamiev? In the construct colonies?"

Avdotya glanced over her shoulder at him. "No. Do inform me."

"The Angel of Death."

She laughed. "... I think I quite like that. Now, gentlemen - perhaps you would enjoy some tea before returning to your posts?"