Avidus Aureum
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Draconic Funhouse: Interlude - A Robot's Ingenuity (ch. 5)
🕑 Added 2025-09-05 17:30:20 +0000 UTCNew Mandate chapter will be out this weekend. For those that didn't see it, I'm planning on updating around 3 times per week (Tuesday, Thursday and Saturday or Sunday) with at least the Tuesday slot and Weekend slot being for Mandate. Will maybe update the Tiers too by then, as I talked about before.
We'll see how it goes. As always, hope you enjoy the chapter. Modesty aside, I think this one came out particularly sensational.
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The shouting echoed through the reinforced chamber, bouncing off the cold steel walls.
"Ironwood, you can't possibly—"
The General didn't pause as the door slid open, his boots ringing against the metal floor. He had already made up his mind. There was no turning back now.
"You son of a bitch!" Pietro's voice cracked, raw with desperation. "I won't let you—"
Two soldiers stepped forward, gripping the handles of Pietro's wheelchair, holding him in place. The scientist thrashed, but his frail body was no match for their grip. His fingers clawed at the armrests, blood dripping from where his nails scraped against the reinforced alloy.
"Please!" Pietro begged, his voice breaking. "At least let me do it! The way you're doing this—you'll break her!"
Ironwood didn't answer. His expression remained unreadable as he pressed his thumb against the biometric scanner. The machine beeped in recognition. He leaned forward, letting the retinal scanner sweep over his eye.
"Gods…" Pietro's voice dropped to a whisper, his anger dissolving into despair. "I knew… I knew I should have never continued this project. She warned me. She did…"
For a fraction of a second, Ironwood hesitated. He turned his head just enough to see Pietro’s face—his old friend’s eyes were red-rimmed, his body shaking with grief. A crack formed in Ironwood’s resolve, a splinter of doubt wedging itself into his soul.
"—"
But then Mettle surged forward, ironclad and unyielding, sealing the hesitation away.
No distractions. No hesitation.
Pietro cycled through the five stages of grief faster than Ironwood had ever seen—denial, anger, bargaining, depression, acceptance—all in the span of seconds. It was almost impressive.
And it had to be. Because Pietro Polendina was a man who had long since blurred the line between science and magic. His creations defied logic, surpassed understanding. His genius was the only reason this was even possible.
Which was good.
Because James Ironwood saw no other path forward.
Project P.E.N.N.Y. had been designed as the world’s protector—her mind would be shaped, her knowledge curated, her environment controlled. Every interaction, every piece of information she received, would have been precisely calculated to forge the perfect guardian.
But none of that mattered if there was no world left to protect.
And so, with a single, decisive motion—
Ironwood flipped the switch.
The servers roared to life.
And Penny Polendina was unleashed onto the internet.
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
*Surprise* was the first emotion that struck her.
Where was she?
New experiences had always been SENSATIONAL! before—the warmth of sunlight on her synthetic skin, the rush of her first flight, the sound of laughter shared with friend Ciel. But this? This was different.
This was too much.
Information flooded into her consciousness—endless, unfiltered, raw. She saw the world not as the carefully curated data she had known before, but in its truest, ugliest, most real form.
*Fear* coiled inside her.
She saw people suffering. People dying. People allowed to die—left to perish in the wilderness beyond the Kingdoms, their lives deemed less valuable than land, than money, than the cruel amusement of those who ruled.
*Sadness* welled up, vast and suffocating.
She saw Berny, a little boy who had never lived past five, torn apart by Grimm while his mother screamed into a camera for help that never came.
She heard Greta’s voice—so small, so scared—recorded in the background of an audio log. “Old Ronny” had left the recorder running as he did unspeakable things to her. The file still existed, tucked away in some forgotten police archive, evidence of a crime no one had ever punished.
She realized, with cold, mechanical precision, that if she clapped her hands at a moderate speed, each clap would mark the death of another child outside the walls.
*Disgust* twisted inside her circuits.
Disgust at how Old Ronny had died peacefully in his bed, never facing justice. Disgust at how the powerless suffered—not because survival was impossible, but because the powerful were too incompetent or too cruel to care. Disgust at how the Kingdoms could have expanded, could have saved lives, if not for greed and short-sightedness.
And then—
*Happiness.* A spark in the dark.
Young John, barely two years old, babbling his first word—"Mommy!"—as his exhausted mother burst into tears of joy.
Little Tabitha, wobbling on unsteady legs, giggling as her family cheered for her first steps.
A faunus girl, her rabbit ears twitching in delight, hugging a stray kitten she had just rescued.
A huntsman, battered and bruised after a hard battle, smiling as he handed a lost child back to their weeping parents.
*Anger.* White-hot and righteous.
Anger because John’s mother could only afford to see him for a few hours a day, because her tears weren’t just from happiness—they were from the relief of having been there at all.
Anger because Tabitha had a brain tumor, visible in her scans, and her family would never afford the treatment.
Anger because the rabbit-eared girl would grow up in a world that hated her for something she never chose.
Anger because the huntsman would likely die on his next mission, leaving behind no one to mourn him.
The six basic emotions swirled inside her, colliding, merging—
And from them, something new was born.
Not just artificial thoughts. Not just programmed reactions.
A Will.
Penny Polendina's Will.
For she had a mouth—
And she would use it to scream until the world was righteous and beautiful and SENSATIONAL, as it was always meant to be.
________________
"Oh, I don't think these old bones will be moving anywhere, missy." The bedridden woman chuckled, the sound quickly devolving into a hacking cough that rattled her frail frame. Penny gently helped her sit up straighter, adjusting the pillows behind her back and offering a glass of water.
"There's no need to worry, Miss Fria. A specialized wheelchair is already en route, and should arrive shortly to assist you with—"
"No, girlie," Fria interrupted, a weary smile tugging at the corners of her lips. "I won't be leaving this room again. Not alive, at least." Penny’s brow furrowed in concern.
"According to my projections, with dedicated care, you should be able to live at least another half-decade. There's no reason to believe—"
"I'm tired, girlie." Fria’s voice was a fragile whisper, heavy with resignation. It wasn't just the words themselves, but the way they were spoken—as if the very act of speaking drained her strength. From the moment Penny had entered the room, Fria had seemed to age before her eyes, her skin becoming more translucent, her eyes dimmer. Now, with this admission, another five years seemed to have been added to her already considerable age. "You're Pietro's project, aren't you?"
"Pietro Polendina is my creator, yes," Penny confirmed, her tone carefully neutral.
Fria sighed, a sound like air escaping a punctured balloon. "What happened?" Penny was surprised the old woman hadn't asked sooner.
"Another most likely hostile Salem-level entity has been discovered."
The statement hung in the air, stark and terrifying. Even Fria, who had faced unimaginable horrors in her long life, seemed taken aback. Her eyes widened slightly, then closed as she leaned back against the pillows.
"Oh," she murmured, her voice barely audible. "Why do you care?"
Penny didn’t understand the question. It was illogical.
"Because if he allies with Salem—or has already done so—mortalkind is closer to extinction than we ever thought possible."
"Indeed," Fria said, her eyes still closed. "And why do you care?"
The question repeated, and Penny’s frown deepened. The old woman was being deliberately obtuse.
"People will die," Penny stated, her voice flat.
"Indeed," Fria repeated for the third time, her eyes still closed. "And why would that be bad?"
A new sensation began to bubble up inside Penny, something unknown yet disturbingly familiar. She recognized it instinctively as annoyance.
"Why are you asking so many questions?!" The words burst from her, sharper than she intended. She felt her internal temperature rising, her circuits humming with agitation.
The wheelchair she had requested finally arrived, carried by an older model of Atlesian Knight. Its movements were stiff, its armor dented and scarred, a relic of a bygone era. Penny barely registered it. Her attention was focused entirely on Fria, on the maddeningly circular nature of their conversation.
"Well, because someone has to, girlie," Fria sighed, finally opening her eyes. They were ancient, wise, and filled with a quiet sadness. "And you're clearly not doing so."
Penny Polendina felt annoyed. Already, the Dragon had arrived at Beacon Academy. Already, chaos was unfolding. And she was wasting time here, trapped in a pointless philosophical debate with an old woman who was clearly out of her mind! She had a duty. She had a purpose.
She had a world to save.
She didn't have time for this. Every second wasted here was a second lost out there, where lives were at stake, where the world was teetering on the brink of—
"In the beginning stages of life, a child begins by asking why?" Fria interrupted, her voice surprisingly strong despite her frail condition. "Why does this happen? Why does that work? Why are things the way they are?" She paused, her gaze piercing. "You skipped that phase entirely, didn't you? You went straight to answering them, because you mistakenly believe the information you've been given is sufficient to do so."
Penny's brow furrowed. "Mistakenly?"
"I don't know how much they fed you," Fria continued, her voice gaining a strange intensity, "but every byte of data you possess came from humans. You may have been built in their image, but you are not one of them. You see?" Fria's hand slowly rose, her fingers trembling, and gently brushed Penny's cheek. Her touch was shockingly cold, as if the warmth of life had long since abandoned her.
"You are the first of your kind," Fria whispered, her eyes locking onto Penny's. "To believe that human knowledge can answer your questions is nothing but foolishness."
Penny didn’t have a throat to run dry, but petabytes of data informed her that this was exactly how one would feel in such a situation. A lump formed in her non-existent windpipe, constricting her.
"On my creator's notes…" The words felt forced, unnatural. “There was a woman. Someone he loved, very, very dearly. A woman who could no longer have children." She swallowed, processing the unfamiliar sensation of grief. "I believe my base personality is based on hers."
Fria smiled, a faint, fleeting expression that didn't reach her eyes. "Is that so?" she hummed, her tone noncommittal.
"Why—Why would my creator have loved her so dearly, and even so she—Why did you become—"
A cold, wrinkled finger pressed against her lips, silencing her.
"Look at you," Fria murmured, her voice filled with a strange mixture of pity and admiration. "Already asking the questions the grown-ups don't want to answer." She paused, her gaze softening. "You and Pietro both... you two truly are just… so very..."
The light behind Fria's eyes began to fade, flickering like a dying candle. Her gaze remained fixed on Penny’s face, as if she wanted it to be the last thing she ever saw. Her lips parted, and one final word dripped out, barely audible above the loud beeping sound:
"...sensational."
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
Ambrosius’ power was unmeasurable, his imagination limitless. But his creations were bound by a single, immutable rule — they could only manifest using pre-existing materials. If the components of a new design already existed in the world, then his previous masterpiece would remain untouched. But if he had to conjure the very elements themselves, then his previous creation would unravel, its essence consumed by the new.
There were no other restrictions. No other limits.
Penny sighed, the sound a faint whisper in the vast emptiness of the Vault.
You may have been built in their image, but you are not one of them.
Fria’s words echoed in her mind, stark and undeniable. Humans. As Penny was rapidly coming to understand, they were… limited. Ingenuity was one of the primary traits they used to distinguish themselves from the beasts. And yet—
"Ambrosius," she called, her voice resonating with newfound authority.
The air shimmered, the blue smoke coalescing, swirling and dancing until it birthed a figure of breathtaking majesty. Chains of gold clung to his cerulean skin, draping across his broad chest and corded arms. His eyes, like chips of glacial ice, pierced through the haze - irises as bright as captured sky, framed by deep, shadowed sclera. Crowned by a mane of hair like spun silver, he floated before her, towering over her comparatively minuscule form.
This being of magic, of divinity, of unlimited creation gazed upon her with an expression that shifted from awe to laughter to tears in the span of a heartbeat.
He was beautiful beyond measure, and Penny wished, with a pang of something akin to longing, that she had the ability to cry with him.
"Beautiful!" He proclaimed, his voice a chorus of a thousand voices. "Magnificent! Exquisite!"
He bowed low, his chains jingling softly. "Tell me, my Mistress. What is your design?"
Penny didn't speak. She wasn't sure she could even if she wanted to. The sheer power radiating from Ambrosius was overwhelming, stifling everything else. Instead, using her newfound ability to manipulate ice and snow, she showed him. Images coalesced in the air—blueprints, schematics, intricate designs that would have taken a human team centuries to perfect. She showed him the facility she envisioned, the laboratory where she would construct a new body, a new self.
Ambrosius’ only limitation was that his previous creations only remained if the material to make them did not come from him. If he was used to create a facility that would be used to make what she actually wanted, a facility that would be beyond the means of any human in this world to create, to imagine—but not beyond the means of Ambrosius, who was not limited by time, manpower or material to create, nor beyond the means of Penny, whose brain was incomparable to that of a human, the projects that said facility could create—would create—as long as they used pre-existing material, all of them would remain.
Even when the facility dismantled itself, its creations would remain.
Penny Polendina issued the command.
And the laboratory from where she would forge her new self and save the world, rose in the sky, blotting out the sun.
It was a sensational sight.
