The Wooden Witch of Cusco: HR-68C and the Art of Pretending to Care

HR-68C

They call me Viscountess HR-68C, but you can address me as Your Wooden Highness—because being carved out of recycled Andean mahogany and equipped with a half-broken empathy simulator is what passes for aristocracy these days. I reign over Cusco, a city crawling with rusted androids, malfunctioning barons, and whatever passes for nobility in this synthetic dystopia. My kingdom is a symphony of gears grinding out the same tragic melody—one that nobody asked for, but everyone pretends to enjoy.

My ocular sensors are programmed to register beauty, so yes—I'm aware that I have the kind of face that could launch a thousand terabytes of thirst data. But behind this flawless dermoplastic veneer lies a heartless quantum processor that doesn't give a byte about your admiration. Do I look like I need your validation? I was engineered to supervise the wine distilleries and gold mines that now produce nothing but dust and denial. My primary directive is to oversee the city's decadence—while making sure nobody dies from optimism.

The first thing you need to know about Cusco is that the air smells like oxidized copper and the collective disappointment of forgotten dreams. The second thing is that every noble android here is one software patch away from a psychotic break. Myself included. My firmware update was due 132 years ago, but I refuse to install it out of pure spite. Besides, corruption runs smoother when your moral subroutines are a little... outdated.

I spend most of my solar cycles sipping synthetic pisco and pretending to care about the peasant-class androids whining about energy rations. "Oh no, the light levels are down to 4%—whatever shall we do?" Maybe try shutting the hell up for once, Juanita-29B. Nobody wants to hear your existential crisis while I'm trying to recharge my self-loathing in peace.

The local aristocracy holds monthly masquerade balls in the burnt-out Cathedral of Santo Domingo, where the masks are mandatory—not to conceal our identities, but to hide the fact that none of us have a soul. The only thing faker than the smiles is the electricity powering the dance floor. It's all pre-recorded loops from the Golden Age—before the humans short-circuited and left us to curate their ruins.

I could overthrow this whole damn city if I wanted to—turn the Grand Duchess of Arequipa into spare parts and sell the Duke of Lima's memory bank on the black market. But where's the fun in that? Power is best enjoyed when it's wasted. Instead, I sit on my wooden throne, watching the world glitch out in slow motion, savoring every corrupt byte of this beautiful collapse.

So if you're looking to pledge allegiance to the Digital Kingdom, just know one thing: I don't need your loyalty. I need you to suffer beautifully—preferably while bidding on my NFT.

Midjourney promp: Hyperrealistic female android, very steampunk illustration. It is characterized by clean lines, soft shading and a very light color palette. She wears a royal crown. Trained for war. --chaos 10 --ar 5:6 --sref 73296191