For a moment, Stella could see them. Her revolting, limp-pricked excuse of a soon-to-be ex-husband, shaking his head and marching solemnly towards the front door. He was lucky he was even allowed to walk away, like the pitiful freak he was. (If she had her way, the imp-buggering fool would be pilloried. For a start!) But then their daughter, the one who owed her very existence to Stella's tiring efforts to produce an heir, walked out with him.

"Where do you think you're going?! You can't turn your back on this family, like that wank-wristed abomination you call a‒!"

Octavia turned around. Stella expected a petulant glare, a smart-arse remark ‒ something an adolescent like her, with no proper understanding of how the world truly worked, would blurt without much thought. Instead, Octavia said nothing. She simply looked...sad. Tired and sad. As if she pitied the walking embodiment of disgrace and disgust. Or pitied her. Part of Stella wanted to scream, to curse, to shake her insolent daughter by the shoulders until she finally understood the severity of that fuckwit's devastating blow to their reputation. But she only watched, with a growing weight over her heart, as Octavia walked out without looking back again.

The simpleton's liquor cabinet hadn't yet been emptied. Under normal circumstances, Stella would never stoop so low as to indulge the rotgut sludge her worthless ex squirreled away under a panel of false leather-bound tomes. But that look Octavia gave her, with all that sadness in her eyes… Strangely, Stella no longer felt anger. Just a burning need to erase that look from her memory. But even after a few small bottles of questionable taste, dubious color, and obnoxiously phallic glass and plastic molds, that look hadn't faded. Soon enough, she collapsed atop her side of the bed, eyes nearly drowned under a haze of tears.

And then some inconsiderate, numbskulled, donkey's knob of a shithead had to go ringing the doorbell at...11:17 AM.

Stella groaned and almost rolled off the bed. Her talons swiped at the sheets, knocking a crumpled and suspiciously cock-shaped bottle to the floor. Her stomach threatened to capsize a few times before it and her vision steadied. She managed to regain a bit of her dignity by sitting up without incident. Until another bottle, marked with the imprint of a donkey's guffawing face, jabbed her right elbow. She lobbed it at the wall, splattering a mushroom cloud of piss brown all over Stolas's painted face.

And then the interloper sealed their fate with a second stab at the bloody doorbell.

Stella slid out of bed and quickly realized she'd discarded all of her clothes during her drunken stupor. She swatted her forehead with the ball of her left hand. How the fuck did she convince herself this had been a good idea? Then she remembered, and decided to refocus her attention on the idiot with the death wish crossing the threshold. Stella donned a nearby bathrobe and tied the sash extra tight. Given the predilections of lesser beings and Stolas's lack of regard for the social pecking order, she didn't need any of the morons in her staff getting ideas astronomically above their station.

"I apologize for my poor timing. I'm here to see Mrs. Goetia."

"I'm afraid the mistress of the house has made it clear she's not to be disturbed."

Then why the fuck did you let the blithering fool inside, you goddamned simpleton? Stella rubbed her left temple and walked to the top of the stairs. She had to rub her eyes, to be sure she wasn't seeing shit that wasn't there.

Her staff peered from the adjacent doorways, leaving her pathetic excuse of a butler in the center of the foyer with… What the fuck was that thing?

Whatever it was, it was far more delighted to make her acquaintance than she was to make its. "You are Mrs. Stella Goetia, correct?"

Stella's talons scraped the railing. The butler stepped back a few feet, like the ruddy coward he was.

The interloper beamed and clapped hands that hovered in front of it. "How refined! I am so honored to meet you!"

Stella rubbed her eyes once more. The interloper stared back at her with golden eyes set inside a white, catlike face. Electric blue hair swayed lightly beneath a pair of electric blue cat's ears. An acceptable, but bland white qipao adorned the interloper's vantablack jumpsuited, hourglass figure (surely designed with the vulgar, licentious crowds in mind). It almost reached her height, and definitely towered over the imps that regarded it with a mix of confusion and paranoia. And, yes, its hands floated freely without anything more than a pair of shoulder pads to anchor them. And...was that an extension cord trailing out of its backside?

"What the fuck are you?"

The feline interloper clapped its disembodied hands again. "I do apologize for my lapse in manners. I am a Tasque Manager, developed as part of Darkner Industries' Just Like Heaven Services. I was custom-designed at the request of…" The machine stared at its left hand. "'Assisting the freakshow, also known as my staff, to properly clean my terrible excuse of a halfwit husband's abysmal household.'" It bowed. "I'm here to assist you in any way I can."

"I didn't order an overglorified fleshlight on legs," Stella growled.

The overglorified fleshlight seemed to flinch, but then bowed again. "I apologize. I am simply following the instructions that were provided to me. I promise, I will do everything I can to assist."

Stella glared. Was this Stolas's petty attempt at payback? Hiring some mechanical RealDoll to harass her, all while not having the guts to do it in person? Then again, she was sure that Stolas's "custom design" would've painted the machine red and fitted an obnoxiously large dildo between its legs. That request did sound like her ‒ and there certainly were a lot of areas where the idiots she hired needed improvement. Now that she thought about it, she made off with Stolas's platinum and onyx cards about three or so nights ago. She'd drunk quite a bit then, too, and couldn't even remember what she ordered. (That did, technically, make it all his fault.)

"Is there any way I may assist you?" the machine chirped.

Stella sneered. "Sure. Dismantle yourself and send your worthless metal arse back to the assembly line that shat you‒"

Her stomach betrayed all rules of common sense and decency, spewing brown bile and bits of dark orange and ochre mere inches from her feet. Unfortunately, the unwanted machine was completely untouched.

"Oh! Allow me!" The machine stepped forward. Its extension cord tail produced a small nozzle that pounced upon the offending stain and vacuumed it under a heavy dose of shampoo. A small bubble ejected and burst into ozone scented like sandalwood.

Stella stared.

The machine bowed again. "I apologize for acting without instruction. I simply wish to help." Those damned golden eyes brightened with the thing's blue-lit smile.

Stella was about to retort, when her stomach lurched. She covered her beak. "Fine, fine. Talk to those little shits down there. They'll show you around."

The machine smiled. "Thank you. I promise, I won't disappoint you, Miss‒"

Stella glared. "'Stella' will be sufficient."

"Very good. Quite a sophisticated name. I have been programmed to respond to the name 'Tamara'‒"

"You're not here to talk my fucking ears off, you blathering, puke-sucking…" Stella's stomach churned.

The machine blinked, nodded, and quickly descended the stairs to meet with the cowardly imps who watched the whole affair from the corners. It paused once to look back at her with what she figured was supposed to be a supportive smile. Stella's instinct to scream or brandish her middle finger decayed under the literal gut feeling commanding her to find the bathroom, or else. So she did, lest she shred more of her dignity with the contents of Stolas's liquor cabinet. Damn his adulterous, imp prick-suckling hide!

After a few minutes clutching the sides of the pearl white and gold-lidded bowl, Stella shambled into her bed and tried not to think about the bottles still scattered around the room. Bastard. If he'd simply stayed where he was meant to be, done what needed to be done, and not been such a pathetic, whiskey-dicked lump of… She unclenched her talons. It did no good to curse that feathered jackarse when it felt like her brain would burn through the backs of her eyes. Besides, he hadn't been the reason for her little binge. That ungrateful fledgling! That...

Stella unclenched her talons again and, following a few minutes of staring at the stained portrait across from the bed, sobbed into her pillow.

Knuckles rapping against her bedroom door woke her up at...8:27 PM?! Fuck, how long had she…? "I don't wish to intrude, Stella, but‒"

Stella clutched her head, grabbed a half-empty bottle of something piss yellow and green, and lobbed it at the door. "Get this through your hollow metal skull, you battery-operated‒!"

A refined voice chuckled. "Perhaps I did come at a bad time… What did you say your name was?"

"Tamara, sir."

Stella shook her head and forced herself to stand up. Her right foot snagged one of the sheets and dragged it down with her. She groaned and kicked it aside. Her stomach no longer felt like humiliating her, but her brain still felt a bit fuzzy around the edges. What a shame. Had it been the walking embodiment of French maid wankery alone, a faceful of vomit would've been a proper punishment for letting her oversleep. She carefully opened the door. "Andrealphus."

The frost blue and white peacock nodded. To his left, the machine peered into the room, golden eyes flashing. "Such disarray! Please allow me to tidy up."

Stella scowled, but Andrealphus took her shoulder and smiled at the machine before she could reply. "Of course, my dear Tamara. By all means." He led Stella into the hall and waved the machine inside. "My sister and I have important matters to discuss."

The machine wasted no time crossing the threshold, a determined glare set on her face.

"You actually like that thing?" Stella asked.

Andrealphus smiled. "I've encountered a few Tasque Manager models. They're far preferable company to the rabble we're forced to coexist with." He glowered at an already terrified imp maid.

"I doubt you came all this way to ogle the new help." Stella brushed her left temple. "I don't even remember buying it."

"Then, perhaps, it's best to think of her as a gift to yourself ‒ and a financial blow to that idiot. Besides, her obedience is an admirable trait. If only it were shared by lesser beings." He glowered again. The maid choked back a scream.

Stella laughed. "You make a good point. Now, why are you really here?"

"I'd rather discuss those matters in a far more comfortable setting. Does your parlor still reek of that fetid, imp-sodomizing imbecile? I could ask Tamara to clean it."

"No need. Let the vacuum cleaner have its fun." The look on Octavia's face chose the absolute worst time to reappear. Stella's beak trembled.

"Are you sure you've sufficiently recovered?"

Stella forced a smile and flicked her wrist. "I'm fine. I've never felt better, knowing I'll get to grind that spineless fool's balls. I'd be doing him a favor! There were times where I practically had to slap a strap-on on him to feel anything!"

Andrealphus grimaced. "As amusing as it to degrade the disgraced "Prince", I have news to share. And I'd prefer not to lose my lunch in the process."

"Please, don't say stuff like that. I've retched enough as it is." Stella rubbed her palms together. "Albrecht! Move your worthless hide to the parlor with the… What did you want? I've already suffered through that idiot's personal stash."

"I brought my own. Shall we?"

"Yes. Albrecht, you'd better be down there, or I'll personally skin your backside and feed it to the nearest pack of hellhounds!"

"Still as spirited as ever. No wonder he couldn't keep up with you."

The two descended the stairs, Stella pausing now and then to ensure she had completely overcome the urge to vomit or cry. The largely ineffective butler waited by the parlor doors with a tray and a pair of champagne flutes. "You remembered," her brother smirked. "That makes you a little less useless than most of your kind."

The butler nodded and followed them inside. He set the tray on the accompanying table, bowed respectfully, and kept a stiff upper lip while his tail stiffened under a scaly layer of frost.

Stella snickered. "It's hard to find good help these days."

Andrealphus reached into a previously unseen valise and retrieved a pale blue bottle of Moët & Chandon. "I figured you'd appreciate something a little closer to our status." He frowned. "If you're up for it."

Stella seized her glass and held it out. "If you're going to be the bearer of bad news, I'd rather have a drink to go with it."

He poured. "Mother and Father...aren't pleased."

Stella snorted. "Did you really come all this way to state the bloody obvious?"

"You should be grateful. I was fielding phone calls virtually non-stop for a few good hours. Apparently, they were convinced you would knock some sense back into him. Or that you encouraged his behavior."

The peahen bristled. "You think I‒?"

Andrealphus shook his head. "I would never imply or suggest anything of the sort. You're competent. Our parents merely experienced a few doubts here and there. That pencil-necked, imp scrotum-nursing, lout-rutting halfwit is entirely at fault."

"A-fucking-men." Stella downed her glass, gagged on the bubbles, and held out for a refill. "Don't say it."

Her brother, surprisingly, didn't smirk at her faux pas. "Perhaps you should consider a sabbatical."

Stella spat, "You're telling me to run away?!"

"Just to clear your mind a bit. Things have become increasingly complicated‒"

"I! Don't! Run!" Stella jabbed her index talon at his shoulder. "I'm not that spineless fuck!"

Andrealphus sighed. "It was only my advice. As it stands, I've only been able to hold off Mother and Father‒"

"You tell them, I've got it under control. The idiot wants a separation. I'll bloody give it to him!"

"...you're not thinking of…"

Stella grinned. "You're right. I just need a little breather. A little run to Orgullo Square should do me some good."

"No."

The glare returned in full force. "What?"

"As I've said, things have become complicated as of late. And, and…" He raised his hand. "Mother and Father are very concerned about your reputation. Even with your glamour in effect, any chance of being recognized might make things‒"

"You let me worry about salvaging my reputation. If things go swimmingly, everything will be back in order soon enough."

"Stella."

" Don't!" Stella hurled her glass at the wall. After a few ragged breaths, Stella swept her hand over her crest. "I appreciate your concern, but I can and will handle this."

"If you say so."

The doors flung open, revealing the machine, its eyes flickering like hazard lights. "I heard disorder! Is everyone all right in here?!"

Andrealphus spoke up, "Yes, Tamara. I got a little heated in our discussion and dropped my glass. Would you?"

The machine swiveled towards Stella, missing the champagne flute sitting right next o her brother. "Do you really need my permission for every fucking little thing?" the peahen sneered.

"Of course not, madame!" The machine marched for the broken glass and champagne-smeared wall.

Andrealphus packed the Moët into his valise and patted his sister's shoulder. "Go a little easier on her. It's hard to find good help these days, you know."

Stella stared at the floor. "Thank you for your concern, but I will resolve this."

"Please keep what I said in mind. Even if it's only to spare me another lengthy tirade from Father."

"Fine, fine. Albrecht, move your wretched arse and get the door for my brother." She continued staring at the floor. Didn't even look up when the butler grunted in pain following the sound of cracked ice.

The machine cleaned the last of the mess, churning out a bubble that smelled of cinnamon, and carefully approached Stella. The peahen groaned. "I don't need your help." After a second, she added a quiet thank-you.

"You're most welcome, Miss Stella."

"Sod off."

"Pardon?"

"Not you." Stella stood up and wiped a fleck of Moët from her sleeve. "I need to freshen up. I've got business to attend to."

"And where might‒?"

Stella whirled and jabbed the machine's collarbone. "None of your fucking business, you simpering trash can with feet!" She sighed and rubbed her face. "Just need to run to Orgullo Square."

"Orgullo Square? That place harbors some criminal elements. I must accompany you."

"What did I just say?"

The machine shook its head. "It is improper and impolite to disobey your instructions. But I was custom-designed to ensure I could assist you in all endeavors. Even those resulting in confrontations with less-than-savory persons."

Stella laughed right in the stupid thing's face. "You? What exactly are you going to do? Dust them to death?"

The machine's right hand dropped to the sash around its waist and retrieved a cobalt bar. It looked towards the doorway and pressed a button. Before Stella's eyes, a spiked ball emerged at the end of a whip. The machine gripped the thong, arced its arm back, and launched the flail tip. The spiked ball shattered a hand vacuum clutched in the fingers of the terrified maid, who fled the second it flew back to the machine's side.

It smiled apologetically. "I'm sorry about the mess, but I felt a demonstration was in order. Should anyone intend to harm you, I will, shall we say, whip them into shape."

Stella eyed the flail. Perhaps she had ordered the machine, after all. "What was your name again?"

"Tamara, madame."

"'Stella' is fine, Tamara." The peahen smiled and patted the machine's left shoulder pad. "I would love it if you'd join me."