Third shift on the Elmo, and the Commander’s doing the usual walkaround, checking seals, rattling cages, making sure nobody’s smuggling a live grenade in their sports bra. Most of the T-Dolls are squared away. But then he hits Sabrina’s corner. Man. This ain’t just a gun-waifu. This is a whole damn bakery, and she’s the deluxe assortment. Thicc in all the right places, like she ate a smaller shotgun for breakfast and kept the curves for lunch. She’s got that jackhammer-on-marble energy: excessive, expensive to ignore, and somehow still the most interesting thing in the room.
The Commander reviews the systems. Servos? Calibrated. Hydraulics? Primed. Weapon link? Established. Everything’s squeaky clean like a dolphin’s forehead. Except one thing. One last bay. The Wombforce 6090. She’s then striking a sexy pose.
Commander doesn’t blink. Just unslings his “inspection tool”—a cannon so overcompensating it looks like it was stolen from a battleship’s wet dream.
Then they go at it. Someone in the next bay yells “YEEHAW” over the intercom, probably Groza losing her last marble.
When the ‘inspection’ finished, he just nods, “Wombforce certified.”
