Moelvayaana ab Delaslaetinn, the erstwhile Lady-Governess of Yraemar, bounds up the last step of the descent into her laboratory, its heavy, oaken door thrust wide open. Silky, she strides, her lips wide with a smile that reflects in her blue eyes. She has rolled the sleeves of her soft tunic up to her elbows and tucked its tail tightly into her trousers.
Her speed increases as she crosses the lawn to her “testing zone.” Each step growing in its importance; her perfectly sculpted brows slowly knotting (but never too much; causes wrinkles). Then, she stops, eyes narrowing across the zone, adjusting her belt so that it angles just under her right hip bone. Her right hand slips into the pregnant satchel on her hip; her left tosses her long, single braid over her shoulder so that it came to rest right down the middle of her back. Her tongue snakes out across her plump lower lip and she pulls down her goggles (eye safety is important after all).
She draws the baby from its leather womb, petting its glossy metallic exterior with her fingers as she brings it to eye level. So cute; its little braided tail sticking from its head. It is the most beautiful bomb she’s ever made: Prototype D-1 (we won’t talk about prototype A-1). Without hesitation, she lights the fuse and throws it forward toward a scarecrow with a metal bucket on its head.
She takes a sharp intake of breath, feeling her pupils dilate. Her spine tingles, and her skin is overcome with goosebumps. Her toes curls in anticipation of the rumble of earth; her heart pounds for the final thrust of air; the seminal gush of flame. As the bomb spins in the air, its arc finally directing down, Moelvayaana stands, shivering and awaiting the best orgasm technology can provide.