My Wives Are A Divine Hive Mind

The term 'Mechanoid' evokes a fusion of the mechanical and the organic, a concept rooted in speculative fiction and engineering philosophy that bridges the inanimate precision of machines with the unpredictable vitality of life.

It derived from the word 'mechanism' and the suffix '-oid', meaning 'resembling'.

A robot or mechanical being, especially one designed to resemble and imitate a human or other living creature in appearance and function

This nomenclature, popularized in mid-20th-century science fiction like Isaac Asimov's robot tales or Philip K. Dick's replicant explorations, isn't mere nomenclature.

It was a philosophical scaffold.

A mechanoid isn't just a robot—cold, algorithmic, devoid of qualia—but a hybrid entity where silicon synapses mimic neural firings, where alloy limbs emulate muscle contractions, and where code emulates cognition.

Real-world analogs abound, of modern robots with its balance algorithms approximating human gait through inverse kinematics and PID controllers, or brain-machine interfaces, threading electrodes into gray matter to translate intent into digital commands.

Yet these are crude precursors; a true mechanoid would transcend, incorporating biofeedback loops where synthetic skin senses pressure via piezoelectric sensors, or neural networks trained on human engrams to simulate empathy, blurring the Turing test into existential ambiguity.

But herein lies the crux.

The mechanoid's efficacy hinges on its human core, not as a vestigial relic, but as the vital spark that elevates utility from rote function to adaptive genius.

Without the human element—the chaotic, error-prone, brilliantly improvisational essence of consciousness—the mechanoid devolves into a tool, efficient but soulless, like a factory arm welding panels without question.

The human part infuses intent, morality, creativity. Or well, it's the ghost in the machine that Descartes pondered, the qualia that Nagel queried in bats.

In engineering terms, it's the feedback from lived experience—Hebbian learning in neural nets, where connections strengthen through repetition, mirroring synaptic plasticity in the hippocampus.

Imagine a mechanoid not programmed with 'if-then' logic, but imprinted with human memories.

A soldier's tactical intuition, a surgeon's haptic finesse, a farmer's intuitive yield prediction…

This core isn't bolted on; it's integrated, perhaps via cortical implants or engram uploads, where the brain's 86 billion neurons interface with quantum processors, allowing quantum superposition for parallel problem-solving while retaining the human bias toward survival and novelty.

The danger, of course, is corruption—human flaws amplified.

A mechanoid with a tyrant's psyche might optimize for domination, its algorithms turning empathy into exploitation.

Yet the reward of achieving this idea is symbiosis, machines gaining soul, humans shedding frailty, a cyborgian evolution where the mechanoid becomes not servant, but partner in transcendence.

In Vaingall's undercroft sanctum, deep beneath the fractured plains where blessing moved like veins pulsed akin to living arteries, Oizys worked with the precision of a sculptor wielding obsidian.

The sterile lab gleamed under rune-etched lights. At the center, on a slab of polished of a medical bed veined with glowing filaments, lay the unconscious form of a rabbit duplicate—its slim, feminine body splayed.

Tubes and probes snaked from its temples and torso, monitoring neural spikes and psyches flows, as the runes on the bed suppressing regeneration to keep the subject pliable.

Oizys's fingers danced over a console of crystalline controls, her expression focused yet laced with that trademark mischief, her black feather wings folded neatly behind her.

With a subtle flex of will, she conjured a void tentacle—manifesting from the slab's surface itself, its shadowy appendage coiling like ink in water, tipped with a scalpel of solidified darkness.

The tentacle extended, precise as a surgeon's hand, and with a whisper of void essence, it incised the duplicate's scalp, peeling back flesh in a bloodless flap to expose the brain—a quivering mass of gray matter laced with relic-tainted veins, pulsing with faint, corrupted light.

Kivas watched from the observation alcove. Her golden eyes reflected the lab's glow, curiosity mingling with the lingering resolve from the plains.

Beside her, Samael stood with arms crossed. Karen also hanged around nearby, notepad in hand, her braided hair tucked behind an ear, expressing a blend of fascination and mild discomfort as she jotted notes.

Karen glanced at Kivas, her voice tentative. "Is it okay for me to be here without sanitization? This is a full dissection—germs, contaminants…"

Kivas's smile was gentle, her halo casting a warm arc across the alcove. "No need, Karen. I've blessed this room—to put it precisely, my divine presence is actively rendering it sterile, every surface, every breath purified with my will. Microbes wither at the edge, it's as clean as a newborn's first cry~"

Karen's pen paused, her brow furrowing in that mix of awe and exasperation she reserved for Fathomi's wonders. "Magic's always one step ahead, isn't it? Just… enact the result, no fussing with causes. Back on Earth, we'd need autoclaves, laminar flows, the works is quite a lot when you put it into paper. Here? A blessing, and poof—sterile paradise."

Kivas chuckled softly, her eyes twinkling. "Science isn't obsolete, though. Without understanding microbes—their shapes, their spread—I couldn't tailor the miracle so precisely.

"It's the knowledge that lets me weave the effect. If my portfolio were cleanliness alone, yes, a thought would suffice, reality bending without question. But harvest demands balance, soil teems with life, death feeds growth. Yada yada, you get what I'm saying.

"Magic breaks rules, but science grounds it—cause to effect, or the miracle scatters like unharvested seed."

Fymnhendyr, perched on a stool near the console, leaned forward, her burnt sienna skin aglow under the lights, antler-like horns casting intricate shadows.

Her prismatic gold eyes fixed on the exposed brain, fascination etching her features. "Exploring biology like this… it intrigues me. The neurons firing like stars in a neural galaxy, synapses bridging chaos into coherence. Mmm~"

Oizys shot her a mild glare over her shoulder, the void tentacle pausing mid-probe, its dark tip hovering above a cluster of relic-tainted lobes. "Poetry's fine from afar, Fymnhendyr, but don't touch. This isn't a curiosity shop— one careless prod, and I lose my mapping."

Karen's pen scratched furiously, her voice curious. "Does the blessing make direct touching sterile too? Like, if I poked that brain right now…"

Kivas nodded, her tone casual, as if discussing weather. "Well, in our case, maybe. But if you're talking about Fymnhendyr handling the organs like they are a recreation tool, it is a different story, heh.

"Exo Humans like Samael and Fymnhendyr aren't bound by mortal biology—their forms retain human shape and behavior, but not the frailties. No pores harboring bacteria, no gut flora negotiating truces.

"Their skin's a barrier of essence, insides a forge of void and cosmos—sterile by nature, cleaner than any lab on Earth if you put it into perspective."

Karen laughed, a short bark of amusement, her notepad flipping to a fresh page. "Earth's doctors would lose their minds. 'Sterile by birth? No microbiome? That's not human!' We'd have virologists rioting, microbiologists rewriting textbooks."

Samael's lips quirked, her draconic eyes glinting with rare humor. "Speaking of Earth, what invention from there would shatter Fathomi's scholars?"

Karen's eyes lit up, pen flying. "Internet, hands down. It's not magic—no incantations, no dangerous body-duplicating relic—but it connects minds across distances, shares knowledge in seconds, spawns realities in virtual spaces.

"Fathomi's got scrying orbs and all of those fancy farsight, sure, but the web's a living archive! Memes birthing cultures, algorithms predicting wars, cat videos toppling regimes. It is a massive iceberg on its own."

Samael tilted her head, a faint smirk playing. "Actually, not as shocking as you think. The Karasu's High Nest has networks similar to it."

"Ouch."

"You said it like you know what the internet is, Samael," Kivas commented.

"And then there is also the High Maosh," Samael pointed out.

Before Karen could retort, Oizys's voice cut in, sharp with triumph, the void tentacle retracting into the slab with a whisper of shadow. "Mapping complete. The brain's a relic-riddled mess—neural clusters hypertrophied for aggression, all that complex stuff.

"But the schematic we created is viable." She tapped the console, holographic runes blooming, the data she reported from the procedure.

Kivas clapped, her halo flaring in approval, golden threads weaving from her fingers to interface with the hologram. "Perfect. Let's actualize it—the first prototype~"

Vaingall's research center transformed into a forge of creation, the air humming with alchemical fervor.

Oizys directed the void tentacle to etch the initial frame, Eulanite ingots melting under rune-fired heat into a humanoid skeleton—tall and lithe, feminine curves etched with conductive channels for Mana Psyche flow.

Kivas oversaw it all, her harvest miracles blooming golden vines that integrated synthetic biology—veins of bio-luminescent fluid mimicking blood, synthetic organs pulsing with regenerative essence.

Not slaves, not machines—half programmed, half-mortal. Their regeneration feeds creation without emergence, their malice mutes to memory only known to them.

They'll till, forge, defend—endless in aspect, unbreakable in concept.

Hours blurred into a symphony of sparks and incantations, the prototype taking form: a sleek, feminine chassis of modified Eulanite alloy, wearing a skin of flexible material weaving over synthetic musculature, eyes glowing with subdued red light.

It was almost like a human in itself, with the inner of a complex combination of all kinds of science fiction tarnation combined.

In a way, it looked even more evil than the replication relic they had erased from this world days ago.

Neural scaffolds interfaced seamlessly, the brain's core was then slotted in with a hum of alignment.

Rapid Autonomous Battalion Unit, otherwise shortened as 'RABU', had been born.