Requirements

Alongside the numerous photos Spike supplied of Buffy for Warren to model the robot version of her on, he provided a list of explicit instructions of how she should be, what she should do, and how she should do it. He'd been up all night constructing it, but it hadn't quite been the enjoyable task he first envisioned.

Daydreams, it turned out, had a nasty habit of reminding you exactly what you didn't have at the same time as showing you what you want. Nevertheless, he wrote.

I want her to be just like Buffy.

No, too vague. He scribbled that bit out and amended it.

Make her as close to the real Buffy as you can – physically, verbally, and whatnot. Be thorough.

Spike paused. Was he really going to do this? The whole thing could end up terribly counterproductive if the real Buffy found out and staked his ass. Worse than that, she'd probably be upset, and he genuinely didn't want that.

He wanted her to be happy but, more than that, he just plain wanted her. This reminder of his more selfish wants and needs strengthened his resolve to carry on with the list.

Make her lips soft, and have her hair be the right color. It has to be really soft, too. I mean really soft. Are you able to recreate her scent? …actually, nevermind about that.

It was a nice idea – he could happily drown in that scent – but he knew it would probably take a long while to cultivate, and he didn't want to wait. Plus, it'd probably be too hard to get right, and it would wear off quickly enough if his plans for the bot panned out.

His plans. Spike's cock twitched at the thought of all he could do, but he ignored it for the time being. He needed to focus.

Make sure she doesn't smell all synthetic, he wrote. That would do.

Next, he toyed with the idea of including the fact that she had a scar on her neck. Wanting her to be as realistic as possible was one thing, but there was no need to torture himself with a constant reminder that Angel had marked her.

Then again… he noted the mark, then scratched it out again. He needed Bourbon for this.

After pacing around his crypt for a bit, fetching the drink and swallowing it down, Spike decided to move on from the physical characteristics for a bit.

He wrote down some basic facts about Buffy's friends and family, just because it seemed right to have the robot know them. Then he got a little carried away, and started penning a few quips for her, some more suggestive than others.

At that, a thought struck him.

Don't have her say any of the colorful things to anyone but me, right? And don't take soddin' liberties. If I find you've been playing with her – and I would be able to tell – I'll skin you alive. Have her destroy any other tosser who tries touch her.

Was that threatening enough? He hoped so. Spike was living purely off the threat of violence now, never mind the act. Wait a minute…

I want her to have battle skills, and I want her to fight me.

God, it had been forever since he had a decent fight.

Teach her how to use the standard weapons – stake, crossbow, sword – and give her the arty moves to go with. I'm talkin' cartwheels and everything.

Spike paused again. What he really wanted to do was write out long fantasy scenarios, but he didn't really fancy having Warren bloody Mears read them, or risking the chance of the documents falling into the wrong hands when he was done. That kinda stuff was prime blackmail material.

Make her waterproof, he wrote. There had to be vague ways he could say what he wanted that would still leave enough room to deny potentially sinister interpretations down the road, right?

Who was he kidding? He poured more Bourbon and continued, best he could.

Make her sturdy, too.

It wasn't just the sex fantasies he wanted to request. There were a million things he wanted to write – that she should laugh, and have fun, enjoy his company, and talk to him, hold proper conversations, and care about his opinions – but he could no less write that than the explicit stuff. Well, maybe he could request conversations. But it wasn't right. Wasn't enough.

Another sip of Bourbon, and Spike pushed the sheet of paper aside to reach for his battered old journal instead. Inside that he scribed, I just want her to love me – the real her – mind, body, and bloody soul.

I… I'm a sick bastard.