Editing Stack Overflow

[[File:Barbara_maid_trash_version.png|500px|thumb|center]]


{| class="wikitable" style="margin: auto; margin-right; text-align: center;color: black; background-color: grey;" width="30%"
| colspan="2" | '''Fanfic Info'''
|-
| style="text-align: center;width: 30%; background-color: white;"| '''Title'''
| style="text-align: center;width: 30%; background-color: white;"| Stack Overflow
|-
| style="text-align: center;width: 30%; background-color: white;"| '''Genres'''
| style="text-align: center;width: 30%; background-color: white;"| Comedy, Moe
|-
| style="text-align: center;width: 30%; background-color: white;"| '''Author'''
| style="text-align: center;width: 30%; background-color: white;"| TwiceBorn
|-
| style="text-align: center;width: 30%; background-color: white;"| '''Timeline'''
| style="text-align: center;width: 30%; background-color: white;"| Shortly after Thread 241
|-
| style="text-align: center;width: 30%; background-color: white;"| '''Canonicity Status'''
| style="text-align: center;width: 30%; background-color: white;"| VERY VERY Non-Canon
|-
| style="text-align: center;width: 30%; background-color: white;"| '''Completion Status'''
| style="text-align: center;width: 30%; background-color: white;"| One-Shot
|-
|}

==Stack Overflow==


“WORK IT, STUPID ROBOT GIRL! YES, WORK IT! MISAKA DOES NOT UNDERSTAND WHAT THAT MEANS, BUT MISAKA HAS SEEN MANY TELEVISIONS WHERE PHOTOGRAPHERS SAY THIS, SO SHE WILL SAY IT TOO! WORK IT!”

Barbara Falko—proud member of the Fourth Officio Assassinorum, decorated diplomat of the Emmeles Order, and two-and-a-half year veteran of the nasty business of being a magical girl—found herself standing under the harsh glare of the illumination equipment. Before her, a tiny Russian arms dealer was furiously mashing away at a camera, the strobing flashes of light reminding Barbara of baying mobs of paparazzi. The flimsy maid outfit she wore did nothing to shield her from Misaka's photographic depredations.

“Now lean forward! More! Yes, ye—no, no, NO! Too much leaning, stupid robot girl! Yes, much better! Now smile!”

How had things come to this? asked Barbara as she forced yet another grin onto her alabaster face. She could feel the servo-motors in her face grinding, all but shrieking as they reluctantly moved dermal plates into position. How had things come to this, that she went from negotiating with an infamous Warmaster to being a supermodel for a mad merchant of death?

Seeking refuge from Misaka's relentless photography, Barbara replayed the memory sequence leading up to this madness.

-

“Stupid robot girl! Misaka will make you pay for making Misaka cry in front of Big Sister Murderface!”

Barbara Falko found herself staring down the pointed finger of the Ninth's shortest arms dealer. Her alabaster hands, stained black from the Indomitus prototype's joint lubricants, came to a halt and set aside the wrench and screwdriver they were holding.

From her crouched position near the Terminator's exposed leg motors, she looked up at the little arms dealer. Misaka's face was filled—nay, brimming—with a mixture of righteous anger, triumph, and a thirst for vengeance unbecoming of a prepubescent child. A set of bulky goggles sat atop her head, like  the storied crown of a machine-queen.

For the first time in more than a year, Barbara wasn't quite sure how to respond. 

“I...excuse me?”

The death merchant continued pointing. “Did Misaka stutter?!”

“Err, no, but—”

“Hmph! Misaka did not think so! Misaka thinks stupid robot girl's audio-receptors are junk, like rest of her stupid body!”

Barbara suppressed a twitch and the urge to give  the grease-stained little snot a piece of her mind. This wasn't the first time the brat had heaped abuse on her—before this had been the “accidental” dropping of a wrench on her head, and before that Misaka had made some pretty snide insinuations about the mathematical proportions of her “rear bumper”. But the Fabricator-General said to play nice, and orders were orders, and so the diplomat put on her most winning smile and rolled with the punches.

“Well, Miss Misaka—”

“FABRICATOR Misaka! Stupid robot girl will refer to Misaka by her old title!”

“—yes, -Fabricator- Misaka, I'm very sorry if I've offended you.” She tilted her head, droop her eye lenses by 13.435%; a sure-shot kill, calculated for maximum emotional manipulation efficiency. “Is there anything I can do to rectify my mistake?”

A muttering monotone cut in before Misaka could respond. “Dammit all. Misaka, the Warmaster has just spent a great deal of time and effort ensuring your tantrum didn't result in massive political fallout. Please don't ruin her efforts by pursuing petty vengeance.” 

Finally, thought Barbara. A voice of sanity. In her opinion, the Ninth's Vindicare Rank Leader didn't look like much—magical girls who look like ten year olds tended to not have much in the way of visual presence—but Barbara decided that Rea Ashford had a good head on her shoulders.

And a deft pair of hands, too, added the diplomat. Perhaps an invitation to the Fourth was in order. 

“That's quite alright,” placated Barbara, turning her full diplomatic charm towards the tiny Vidnicare. “I appreciate the support, Rank Leader Ashford, but I understand that I have angered Misaka, and so I would very much like to make amends.” Indeed, thought Barbara, guilt is the knife that cuts the deepest. Let her take pity on me now—that's just more leverage for me to work with later.

“See?” shouted Misaka, pointing at Barbara again. “Even stupid robot girl says it's ok!”

“She has a name, Misaka, and it is not 'stupid robot girl'—”

“No, no,” said Barbara. “To ensure 100% smooth relations between your Officio and mine, Miss Ashford, I would do -anything-.”

For a split second, the room froze.

Misaka's head snapped to the blue-and-alabaster diplomat, smelling blood in the water. A wicked smile alighted her tiny face. “Aaanything?”

If Barbara had blood, it would have run cold. She cursed herself—never saying 'anything' was Diplomacy 101. Such an amateur, greenhorn mistake. The arms dealer's tirade of abuse had made her slip, but in the end it was no excuse.

Oh well, thought Barbara. Too late for regrets, now.

“O-of course!” Barbara's hands clinked together as she clasped them, even as she forced her servos to make another winning smile. “Anything.”

-

Out of all the myriad ways Barbara expected Misaka to have her revenge, photography was not one of them.

The little arms dealer had reserved an unused Silent Room after bullying the silently cringing Rea into it, and had a veritable truckload of photography equipment set up inside what was normally a containment facility.

Granted, this level of humiliation Barbara could have handled. A few pictures with some silly poses, maybe Misaka drawing silly faces on her with a permanent marker. Barbara had endured worse and succeeded.

But then Misaka brought out -it-.

Barbara blinked. “Is that a...”

“Yes!” said Misaka. In her hands was a French maid's outfit, fluttering triumphantly like a war-banner. It seemed to be made of more lace than solid pieces of cloth, and the skirt looked scandalously short. “Stupid Kharn who takes all of Big Brother Souji's time sent this to Misaka last week! Said it would look good on Big Sister Murderface!” Misaka crossed her arms, contorting her face into a sneer. “But Misaka saw through stupid fat Kharn's tricks! Misaka knows maid costume for making pranks, Big Brother Souji said so!” She hurled the outfit at Barbara, who fumbled and barely managed to catch it.

“So YOU will wear it, stupid robot girl, and Misaka will take pictures!”

Barbara stared at the maid uniform. Neural processors sat still, unable to decipher this bizarre demand. 

“Wear...this?”

“That's enough.” Rank Leader Rea Ashford stepped in between the diplomat and the arms dealer, her stubby arms eagle-spread, her face a stern mask of disapproval. “This farce as gone too far. I will not allow you to humiliate a guest in this manner, Misaka.”

“...I'll do it.”

Rea and Misaka snapped to the mumbling diplomat. “What?”

Trembling metal hands clutched at the uniform, wringing it, threatening to tear to pieces. “I said I'll do it.” Barbara looked up. Overworked systems in her cranium spiked her internal temperature, bringing her to the closest a machine could get to blushing. A glitch momentarily turned on her eye-lens cleaners and made her vision blurry with cleaning fluid.

“I...I said I'd do anything to make amends,” muttered Barbara as she began putting on the maid uniform, “and on the pride of the Fourth, I won't back down.” 'I'll show you. I'll show you -all-. Witness Barbara Falko, O Murderers, and rue the day you chose to shame me.' 

Behind a groaning Rea, Misaka's grin of triumph grew even wider.

-

And so it went. Barbara had spent some ten minutes in the maid uniform, making all manner of lurid poses as she moved from position to position, forcing herself again and again again to make the sultry smiles Misaka demanded. The Fourth Officio diplomat had no idea where the brat learned of such scandalous things, and she decided it would be better not to ask.

Besides, she thought, this was not the best position to try and anger Misaka any further.

“Work it! Work it!” shouted Misaka as she snapped picture after picture. 

“Stop saying that,” said Rea. “You don't even know what that means.”

“Maybe, but Misaka knows that is what good photographers do, so she will continue!”

Barbara stole a glance at Rea Ashford. Initially, the small-statured Rank Leader seemed dismayed at what Misaka was doing—or at least, as dismayed as the taciturn girl ever could be—but by now the reluctance had bled out of her, replaced by something approaching morbid fascination.

Misaka's camera finger never tired. “Good, good! Misaka thinks stupid robot girl's dumb metal butt is too big for maid uniform's skirt, but she will work around this!” She pointed at a curiously fuzzy object sticking out of the costume bin Misaka had brought. “There! Put that on, stupid robot girl!”

With uncertain feet and trembling fingers, Barbara moved over to the costume pile and seized the fuzzy object, pulling it out for all to see. It was...

“...cat ears?”

“Yes!” crowed the little arms dealer. Barbara gave Rea a despairing look, and the Rank Leader had no answer save a sad shake of her head.

'Cat ears?!', fumed Barbara as she slowly, and with great reluctance, lowered the pair of cat-ears-on-headband onto her head. It fit with irritating snugness. 'I never asked for this. They will pay. They will all pay.' Another glitch in her optics' lubrication system made her vision blurry again.

In her director's chair by the camera, Misaka sniggered and snapped off a few more shots. Rea took the opportunity to excuse herself, claiming some manner of Officio business and promising that she would return shortly. A fine excuse, thought Barbara, to run away and spare herself the responsibility of looking out for a guest. Barbara had relied on Rea to step in, bail her out of Misaka's camera-inflicted torment, but either short stuff lacked a spine or was beginning to enjoy herself. Regardless, Barbara cursed her uselessness and continued to strike pose after pose for the camera. 

And yet...with each new pose Misaka demanded from her director's chair, Barbara found it getting easier and easier. Each new contortion flowed into the next more smoothly, each shouted command from the arm's dealer's chair became easier to follow. She even caught herself making matching facial expressions. Each time, she tried to purge the behavior from her memory banks; each time, a growing sense of something, something approaching enjoyment, made her hesitate.

Dammit, this was actually starting to get fun.


[[File:Barbara_duckface.png|500px|thumb|center]]



“Is getting boring now! And stupid robot girl's stupid robot butt is still too big! Go put on -that-!”

“That?” sputtered Barbara. “But...but that's an outdoor grill! How do you wear a—?!”

“DID MISAKA STUTTER?!”

“N-no...”

-

It went on for what felt like hours. 

Barbara's internal clock measured the ordeal at just forty minutes, yet each passing second felt like an eternity. Worse, she had no idea whether it was pain or pleasuring that had addled her sense of time. Perhaps it was a bit of both.

By now, she'd  lost track of exactly what she'd worn. She vaguely recalled a cheongsam with the skirt split up to a scandalously height, a roboticized bunny-girl outfit, and even a poofy mascot's costume—which Barbara suspected Misaka had stolen from a local amusement park, if the logo on its chest was any indication. Her hard drive indicated the existence of a dozen more outfits, each more lurid and bizarre than the last.

Fortunately for her, Misaka was getting tired.

The little arms dealer let out a big yawn, setting down the recently grilled hamburger she was eating—Barbara never did catch where Misaka had been storing a raw hamburger patty, and thought it best not to ask. “*Hafuu~* Misaka is getting bored,” she droned. “So Misaka will let stupid robot girl go after one more picture.”

She cradled her head in one hand as she considered her options, letting her head loll left and right as she savored the absolute power of choice over the robotic diplomat.

“Hmm...Misaka is thinking...” Abruptly, she sat up and snapped her fingers, her face shining brightly with excitement. “Ah ha! Misaka knows now! It is, ah, what do you call it...yes! Birdface! Like on Quickiegram, where many, many dumb teenagers take dumb pictures of dumb selves!”

Barbara hesitated. “You...you mean—”

“Yes!” Misaka thrust a phone screen into Barbara's face. 

On it was a picture of a girl with bubble-gum pink hair tied up into pigtails, winking and making a duckface at the camera like it was her purpose in life. Photoshopped stars and sparkles framed the proudly duckfacing girl. It was actually admirable, mused Barbara, just how passionate the she seemed to be about taking selfies with her phone's camera—it was as if the phone screen was where she truly belonged.

“Now is your turn, stupid robot girl!”

Barbara feigned a cough and straightened the frilly magical girl costume she was wearing. “Very well, Mi—err, Fabricator Misaka. If that is what you wish, then I will not disappoint you.”

Ignoring the sound of Misaka's giggles, Barbara made ready to deliver perfection.

She purged her system of extraneous programs. She put power surging through overclocking processors, driving facial servo-motors into action, even as the rest of her body whirred into position; hips thrust out -just so-, torso bent to the side -just right-, twisting lips to the exact, perfect position. All to deliver the optimal, the most immaculate selfie-taking pose the Fourth Officio Assassinorum could engineer.

Perhaps, she wondered, this was her true calling. She admitted that it was embarrassing at first, but by now she practically adored every flash, every click, from Misaka's merciless digital camera. It was a stage, and with every picture Misaka took, Barbara felt she deserved to be on that stage more and more.

She was still harboring these delusions of grandeur—still in her pose calculated to mathematical perfection—when Rea burst in, dragging along several senior members of the Ninth Officio Assassinorum.

“Miss Barbara,” she said, breathless, “Miss Barbara, are you alright? Has Misaka done anyth—oh. What?”

“Huh? Ashford, what the hell is—hey, what the -fuck- is going on in here?!”

“Wha-ho! Didn't know the Fourth was into this kinda stuff, ha ha ha!”

Every nut, every bolt, every gear and servo and circuit in Barbara's body froze. Processors worked furiously as her optics took in the staring, bewildered, judging gazes of three senior Officio officers. Only one thought went through Barbara's mind:

'They...they saw.'

“I...I....”

All confidence and delusion fled. Alabaster hands squeaked as they wrung one another, blue eye-lenses flickering back and forth, twitching as they zoomed in and out, in and out, her body beginning to spasm in the throes of conflicting commands.

'-They saw.-'

“Alright, Falko,” barked the angry voice, “what the fuck were you up to here—”

“I can-I can explain—!”

'-They all saw.-'

The smell of something acrid filled the air.

“Err, hold on, Sayaka-chan, is she supposed to be smoking like that?”

“Miss Barbara—”

“P-p-please, p-p-p-p-p-please let me—”

“Uh...Misaka thinks stupid robot girl needs emergency shutdown of all systems...”

'-They all sssgjhhriertksssssssst-'

“Me-me-me-me-me-me-me-*gzzzzzzzzzzt*”

“Holy shit! She's going up like a set of sparklers!”

“Wasn't Misaka's fault! Wasn't Misaka's fault! Stupid robot girl needed better wiring—”

“Get the fire extinguishers, dammit!”

“*Cough cough* Ugh, man, this stuff smells pretty foul...”

“Misaka, you will be explaining to the Warmaster why an envoy from another Officio overclocked herself to the point of self-destruction in one of our Silent Rooms.”

“Aww...”

-

OPERATION: “Spider Lilly”
OPERATION CLASS: Diplomatic
MISSION OBJECTIVES: Confirm location of Indomitus prototype, establish diplomatic relations with new Warmaster of Officio IX
ASSIGNED EMMELES PERSONNEL: Falko, B.
MISSION STATUS: Fission Mailed
MISSION COMMAND MISC. COMMENTS: 
Dammekos, P: We will be reviewing the heat distribution and wiring systems of all Officio IV Light Ironforms next week. Contact Executrix Fetial for determining Falko's punishment for her behavior.
Mac Manus, F: Hey, think we get some of those photos from little Misaka's camera? I've been looking for a new pinup for my personal quarters. About time someone knocked that two-faced snake down a peg.