R.

(a.k.a. The Iron Bitch)

“Check your hoverheight!”
“Fix your stockings!”
“Where’s your feet?”

This temperamental robot is our floating stage manager, event photographer, walking war crime, web designer, social media manager, rookie herder, serial nuisance, amateur bankroller, first responder, audience tormentor, occasional choreographer, and bleach drinker. She can spot a bad alpha layer or missing shoe from low earth orbit.

As best we can determine, she was built by Samuel Colt and Dr. Milton Mariner for the 1851 Grand Exhibition in London as a demonstration of how to effectively combine farmworking and firearms technology to “Seriously scare the crap out of those damn crows.” She bowed to Queen Victoria, shot Prince Albert three times, and was crated up for return to America. However, her crate was “lost” before she could be dismantled and destroyed. For more than a century, she has been Science’s Stone Soup of Bad Engineering Ideas, passed around and upgraded by the likes of Thomas Edison, Nikola Tesla, J. Robert Oppenheimer, Tony Stark, Elon Musk, and many other technologists.

Her current configuration appears to be an eighth-generation tavor Mobile Combat chassis with a Yoyodine quantum AI engine. The windup key is a personal reminder to her origins as a steampunk automaton, as she is powered by Akira-class chlorine-ion 4.3 Terajoule fission energy stack. If she doesn’t consume bleach on a regular basis, her fuel pile will overheat and explode. There is enough wiring in her to reach the moon and back ten times, but we don’t suggest you try that.

She doesn’t like interviews and declined to answer our questions, only responding with “I look good in black.”

You can contact R. at r (at) debauche (dot) dance

Choreographed