The first pressure Brock felt was in his bladder. Half-realized dreams of shadowy nightmares flickered and vanished beneath the inexorable demand of basic biology.

The second pressure Brock felt was mental instead of physical, and it manifested as his crusty eyes creaked open.

"AAAAAHHHHWHATTHEFUC-"

"Good morning, Operator Brock Manly. Your vitals are abnormally elevated for this early hour."

"Brock! Wake up! Time to wake up! I have five hundred and eight thousand, six hundred and eleven different alarms! I can sound like a dying anteater! Or a dying armadillo! Or a dying-"

Brock finished scrabbling across the floor to put his back to the wall, heart beating a hundred miles an hour, bladder barely under control. The hellfire-eyed death machine looming over his bed dipped its head gracefully, then withdrew from the room, along with Bindy's hip-thrusting manifestation floating above the magiphone zooming around.

"I have made you an objectively delicious and nutritionally sound breakfast," KB (Medical) added, voice drifting in from the adjoining chamber. "We have nineteen minutes and fifty eight seconds until your duties at the department begin."

"Wake up!" Bindy shrieked again.

Brock gibbered silently for a bit, patted his almost-nude-but-for-boxer-brief-clad body as if reassuring himself that he actually was awake, gibbered again, looked around, found a smaller door that led to a bathroom, relieved himself, splashed water on his face, then gibbered once more in an attempt to flush the last traces of panic from his system while he tried to find his clothes.

"What, uhhh, where... why are you in here, KB (Medical)? Uhhh, also, where is 'here,' exactly? Do you mind throwing Bindy in the trash?"

"I am your designated close-quarters guardian while Operator Thorne is sleeping, Operator Brock Manly, and we are in your assigned housing unit apartment two B on thirteen fifty five Northstar Way. Thank you for attempting to pronounce my name correctly." The robot sounded pleased, and Brock could hear the grinding hum of industrial machinery along with some quiet tinkling of silverware. "Unfortunately, I cannot dispose of your magiphone, as that would violate the rules regarding proper treatment of government-issued property, but are you aware that you can change your personal assistant in the settings menu?"

Brock paused in his search for his clothes, took a very long breath, then let it out very slowly.

"Yes, I'm aware, thank you, KB (Medical). It's just 'Brock.' Do you know where my clothes are?"

"I disposed of them last night, Brock. They were quite abraded, and unsuitable for wear."

"Wait, what?" Brock abandoned his search of empty drawers in the bedroom and leaned around the doorframe into what looked like a combination kitchen slash living room. The wall to his right was covered in several machines that looked vaguely food-prep-like in nature, a decently-sized stone-topped island separating them from a long dark blue couch and two armchairs bracketing a rectangular sitting table set away from the opposite wall. KB (Medical) was puttering around the island like a metallic spider administering to a fly, adjusting expensive-looking porcelain tableware on top of a silver platter complete with a full set of silver utensils. One of the plates held a waffle smothered in whipped cream, another had a steaming omelette, and the last contained a bowl filled with luscious fruits of indeterminate origin. "What am I supposed to wear, then?"

"Clothes, Brock. You should wear clothes."

Brock sighed again, stepping into the living room. The food smelled really good and the dull ache in his head matching the gnawing pit in his stomach could hopefully be solved by some breakfast. He slid a stool from beneath the island's overhang and dragged the tray of food over to himself, trying to ignore both his hangover and the murdermachine occupying the other half of the room.

"And where am I supposed to get clothes, KB (Medical)?"

A silverish limb tapped one of the devices against the wall.

"From your wardrobe, Brock."

Brock eyed the robot while cutting a piece off his waffle, shook his head, then took a bite.

"Mmph, wow, this is fantastic. I thought wardrobes were bigger. That looks like a microwave."

"It is a microwave, as well as a wardrobe, Brock. Among other functions."

Brock's fork stopped halfway to his mouth.

"...whut? How the heck does that work?"

"Makerboxes are quite versatile, Brock. Please finish your meal and get dressed. We have sixteen minutes and forty seven seconds until your duties at the department begin."

Brock finished off the waffle and started in on the omelette. Diced meat and onions were buried in a layer of cheese trapped beneath perfectly fluffy egg, topped with a salsa just spicy enough to enhance the flavor.

"...seriously, how is this so good? Also, you're not really explaining the whole 'get dressed' thing quite as well as I think you think you are."

A metal tentacle leg wrapped around Brock's waist in between bites and deposited him in front of the 'makerbox' with a minimum of dropped food and stifled screams.

"It is quite simple, Brock. Merely place your hand upon the biosig panel and your available wardrobe becomes accessible."

This tale has been pilfered from Royal Road. If found on Amazon, kindly file a report.

Brock tenatively placed his hand on a slightly paler square set within the featureless glossy black surface of the microwave-looking device. It beeped softly, and then a selection of clothing appeared above its surface in perfect miniature of reality.

"That's... my jacket! And my pants! They're so small! Are those socks?"

Brock leaned in, squinting at the slowly rotating three-dimensional representations of everything he'd been wearing the day before. They appeared indistinguishable from the real thing, if the real thing was made in pixie-size. Behind him, KB (Medical) cleared its throat with the sound of a fork stuck in a garbage disposal.

"If you indicate what you wish to wear today, the makerbox will provide it for you. We have twelve minutes and three seconds until your duties at the department begin."

"...whut?"

"Tap the icons, Brock."

Hesitantly, Brock tapped his index finger on the coat, shirt, pants, socks, and after looking around the room, not the boots, because he saw a pair by what he assumed was the front door. The makerbox chimed melodiously, then its front extended outward slightly, a recessed handle melting into existence. Brock tugged it open further and looked inside.

A neatly folded white shirt lay on top of a pair of dark jeans and long black leather coat, comfortable socks tucked against the side of the container. Brock stared at the clothes, then bent down to look at the outside of the makerbox.

"...why is it bigger on the inside than the outside? Did it just make those?"

"Magic, Brock, and yes, a makerbox makes things, hence the name. We have eleven minutes and twelve seconds until your duties at the department begin. At your current pace, we will be late. Implementing disapproving butler subroutines."

"Whut-"

A whirlwind of flashing metal engulfed Brock, flipping him around like a toddler on a sugar high playing with their favorite toy. His initial scream was cut off by a tendril forcing the contents of the fruit bowl into his mouth and manipulating his jaw to mash them down his throat. Other tendrils gently yanked and shifted his limbs to quickly slide each set of clothing over his body. Several busy seconds later, a fully-dressed and once-again upright Brock wheezed out a piece of what he thought might be papaya. A tendril shoved it back in his mouth and made him swallow.

"You must eat the entire nutritionally sound and objectively delicious breakfast to be properly prepared for the day, Brock. We have eleven minutes and five seconds until your duties at the department begin. At your current pace, we will be late. Implementing emergency evacuation transportation subroutines."

Hellfire eyes widened in what Brock swore was barely disguised glee.

"Oh god, please, no, wait-"

"Wheeeeeeee!" Bindy screamed in delight, the magiphone zooming off the kitchen island and into Brock's pocket as two of KB (Medical)'s tentaclegs tentacurled around him, clutching Brock facedown against the robot's strangely warm abdomen.

"I'm not comfortable with thiiiiiiiissssss-"

Brock's wail was left behind in the apartment, the distant slam of his door fading away beneath the typewriter staccato of KB (Medical)'s six other legs scuttling across the hallway, off the walls, down the stairs, and out into the street. Brock stared down at immaculate pavement and passing footwear, not more than an inch from his nose, and drew in a breath to ask if he could be let down.

Then the killbot accelerated.

"FFFFFFFFFF-"

Blurring pavement turned into a soaring leap that left Brock's stomach in his throat, the shoes of pedestrians vanishing quicker than thought, those same pedestrians no bigger than ants walking miniscule streets as megascraper rooftops flashed by and still they kept rising-

"-UUUUUUUUUU-"

The view rotated, ivory Yggdrasil roots sliding into the tangled trunk dominating the azure morning sky now overhead, and wind flared Brock's cheeks back in flapping bursts. The warring advertisment layer magnified in his tear-streaked vision, a slowly roiling memetic battleground that got closer and closer and CLOSER-

"-CCCCCCCCCC-"

Silvery tentaclegs burst out in fractally branching geometries, and somehow KB (Medical) accelerated again, kicking off floating advertisement after advertisement as explosions burst among the desperately evading constructs, their maneuvers as futile as a grasshopper trying to evade a puppy. Brock entered a kaleidoscope of sensation-

"-KKKKKKKKKK-"

Snatches of scenes bombarded him in nauseating blasts, KB (Medical) spinning like a rifle round. Whirling spurts of color and words, not-quite-geometric city grids, more explosions, bone roots bracing blue sky, his own vomit, more explosions, lines of impossibly hovering spacecraft, more explosions, dragons dancing their passengers across the heavens, more-

"-KKKKKKKKKK-"

A bone-rattling impact that disappeared into white wood that slid into luminescent tunnels that dissolved into carpeted floors that morphed into a coruscating discontinuity-

"-!!!!!!!!!!"

Brock wheezed out the last gasp of air from his lungs, somehow standing in front of the Director's imposing desk, the well-dressed orc barely lifting an eyebrow as KB (Medical) primly placed a pair of delicate teacups down.

"We have ten minutes and one second until your duties at the department begin, Brock, and we are exactly on time for your daily pre-briefing with Director Shimada."

Brock slowly tipped over and gibbered some more, curling into the fetal position on the lushly carpeted floor. The Director leaned over his desk to look at him, then glanced up at KB (Medical) with dubious regard.

"Perhaps next time you can use the non-emergency transport protocols, KB?"

"..."

The Director lifted his teacup, regarding its floral pattern critically, then wafted some of the steam into his nose. An expression of contentment briefly crossed his face, and he took a small sip.

"Delicious, as always, KB. However, a thought presents itself."

"...pshpsh..."

"Operator Manly, excuse me, Brock, is still adapting to his situation, and, if I may be so bold, might possibly not be prepared for an involuntary extraction in haste quite yet, especially one so early in the morning. Do I presume, Brock?"

Faint whimpers sounded from beneath the desk.

"Quite so, quite so."

"...pshpshpsh..."

"What was that, KB?"

"...don't see why KB gets to have all the fun with him," KB (Medical) mumbled, dusting the sitting table, chairs, drinks cabinet, and desk simultaneously. "...'ve got nucleonic disruptor cannons too."

"Now now, KB," the Director chided gently, "you requested Medical for a reason. If you want me to unlock your weapons suite I will, but I think we both know you'll feel worse off for doing so. Destroying soulless advertisements is one thing, and I'm sure the citizens will thank you, but what if you got too enthusiastic? Besides," he took another sip of tea, "who else is going to run Medical as well as you? It's easy to destroy. Far more difficult to sustain and create."

"...pshpshpshfine..."

"That's what I like to hear." The Director placed his teacup down and clapped his hands abruptly. "Now then, Brock. Up and on your feet. Your performance yesterday was excellent, and I hope you'll continue exceeding expectations. You have another busy day ahead of you, beginning with your very first therapy appointment!"

Brock managed to uncurl himself, and after several false starts, regained his feet, hands braced on his shaking knees. He glared at the Director from across the desk, still sucking in heavy breaths.

"You guys really suck at this, you know?"

"Not sure what you're talking about. KB, if you wouldn't mind escorting Brock to his session?"

Brock flinched, and the Director smiled slightly, raising one palm outward.

"At Brock's preferred pace, if you don't mind. I'm sure there's plenty of time for a timely arrival."

Hellfire eyes in a triangular head leaned in entirely too close for Brock's comfort, a tentacleg draping over his shoulder, another lifting the untouched teacup.

"We have six minutes and thirty eight seconds until your therapy assignment begins, and you have not finished your objectively delicious tea."