Fukureru Shogun

A witch's tea party is a much more complicated affair than your average get together. I don't mean that in an arrogant, "Oh you mundane folk just can't understand the ways of magic" sort of way. I am speaking quite literally: older witches use these gatherings as a way to judge an evaluate their peers on multiple levels. Choice of tea and food, sipping versus slurping, how one crosses their legs; all these things supposedly display hidden truths that the senior practitioners of witchcraft will analyse and discuss with great enthusiasm as soon as the younger ones go home.

Your skin crawls as you slowly open your eyes. It's dark - of course it is, as it it's the middle of the night. You're lying in a reasonably comfortable bed in a strange motel. Not your first choice, but it worked for a night.

Or so you assumed.

Poor Rosa, I know you're going to die in this scene. You, the voice of reason, whose only sin was being curvy and Hispanic in this otherwise white and assless travesty. I’d toast to you, but I’m pretty sure we are out of soda and I don’t feel like checking.

So far, so good. I've gotten in without triggering any alarms, the display glass around the target is cheap, and I'm awesome robot with a wide array of tools built right in. I took a moment to admire my smooth, vaguely feminine metal form before beginning to cut a perfect little window for me to reach through and grab my quarry.