How To Pilot College Girls
How To Pilot College Girls
chapter 1
by
Silicon
"Why does it look like that?"
My sister blinks. Then she rests a fist on her chin like the problem isn't obvious. "Look like what?"
"Like that!" I jab one of my tiny fingers at the abomination.
What stands before me is a perfect replica of a slouched woman. The only reason I can even tell it’s a replica and not the real thing is that my sister ripped off her face paneling as proof. But even after being shown exactly where one plastic pseudo-skin shell connects to the next, I can’t see this thing as anything more than a rigid corpse, seated in the basement of our house. I knew my sister was some kind of robotics genius, but I always assumed she was off building one of those Roomba things that trace lines for some competition.
But this is nothing short of a hyper-realistic android.
And that’s not even the part that bothers me. The problem is that she has taken some artistic liberties with the design. It looks human—yes—but a very peculiar human. She has blue hair that’s far too bright and far too long to be natural and a pair of tits that would look oversized on an anime figurine. The only part of her design that’s somewhat grounded is my academy uniform.
My sister turns back to me—suddenly offended. "I asked you to send me some reference images. This is what you sent me."
I can’t deny it. She asked me what my favorite character was, and I responded with the—uh—"reference images." What I didn’t know was that she was going to turn these into a girl for me to pilot.
Her plan was simple. And stupid. What my dear sister wants me to do is finish this year of college while at the helm of this blue-haired robot. You can tell that she’s passionate about this stuff because it’s not like any of the credits will carry over (plus I got a full refund for a year that I was supposed to miss due to the pandemic).
My sister slaps her ass the same way you would a car's fender. "I spent a long time putting this girl together, so you will make good use of her." Reaching down, I instinctively go limp as her giant finger locks around my tiny waist. "Or else…" My older sister has always been a scary girl. She’s gone out of her way to be extra gentle ever since I shrank, but the fact that I decided to take an extended holiday until the tiny communities open has put her in a sour mood.
She is a genius and will tolerate nothing less from her little brother.
I’m about to object, but all the air is squeezed out of my lungs. Instead of talking back to her, I just nod vigorously until my big sis gives a satisfied sigh and releases her cruel grasp.
"So." I strike the same faux philosophical pose as she often does. "How do I get inside?"
THUD. With a painful sound of strained plastic, I watch as my sister pulls the robot’s jaw the same way I would that of a dog that had swallowed something suspicious. What’s revealed is a plush pink cavern of her moist mouth. Beyond it lies the dark abyss of an oesophagus.
I wince. "No."
My sister smiles. "Yes."
With a fling of her finger, I’m thrown into the darkness. On some level, I know that this is nothing more than pistons squeezing a tube of silicone. At the same time, it feels exactly like being swallowed. Her insides move with a clockwork rhythm that mimics a heartbeat, and I slide toward her stomach the same way a globule of food would.
PLUP. Finally, I enter a free fall and notice a chamber of water and light that resembles one of those storage tanks dams have. Since this is the inside rather than the outside, my sister felt free to make this android’s "stomach" look as industrial as possible. There’s even a little ladder for me to climb out of the pool of water—how convenient!
Pulling myself to the shore, I take in the faint sloshing sound. It’s almost serene—hearing the way it reverberates with each faint movement. This must be why sensory deprivation tanks are so popular.
Onward and upwards. Literally. There’s an elevator going all the way up and down her spine. I step inside, quickly reading over the buttons before selecting the one corresponding to her brain, appropriately labelled CONTROL ROOM.
Just as I’m taking in the elevator music, a sound comes over the tiny speaker built into its control panel.
"HEY, LIL BRO! HOW’S THE BOT—TELL ME, TELL ME."
"Why is it a mouth?!" I cry out, punching the control panel as if that’d somehow hurt my sister in turn. "You didn’t have to make it a mouth!"
"OH, STOP COMPLAINING." I can practically see her rolling her eyes by tone alone. "YOU DO REALIZE HOW SUSPICIOUS A HATCH WOULD LOOK ON A HUMAN BEING? HUMANS DON’T HAVE HATCHES."
I guess she has a point. "Ugh…" I fling the remaining water off as I step into the control room. Both digital and analogue controls crowd the walls. Screens slide into position like saluting soldiers, tracking my face to ensure I remain in view. It feels like one of those old sci-fi sets, except made for one instead of a colorful cast.
As the captain of the ship, I take my seat and stretch onto the armrest as everything begins warming up around me. "Wow…" I slip out in a filtered feminine voice. I'm assuming it sounds alright on the other end, but I'm hearing myself double.
"Wow indeed." Sis shoves her face right up to the camera sensors hidden in the eyes. I didn’t think I’d be able to stand face-to-face with someone—anyone—until the tiny communities opened. And yet, there’s my big sister: only slightly taller than me (instead of monster-sized). "How about you get used to the controls?"
"…"
"Bro?" Saying this to a robot of a college girl apparently doesn’t faze my sister. "What are you doing-"
"…"
"You moron!" she growls, trying to restrain my—well, the robot’s—arms. "Stop playing with her tits!"
Fortunately, I’ve played a flight simulator once, so I grasp the controls fairly quickly. There's software which smoothes the chassis from one pose to another—as well as one which mimics breathing—so my full attention is directed towards getting from Point A to Point B.
Point A is my home.
Point B is the all-girls academy.
It feels redundant, doesn’t it? All academies nowadays are all-girls. It’s not as if you can mix tiny men and giant women without something going wrong. People can’t agree on whether being shrunken counts as a disability or how coexistence should be managed. I think most are simply too afraid to try and would rather retreat to their own communities once those inevitably open.
Trust me. I want that too.
My introductions to the class were fairly normal—at least, I think they were. I’m not really used to girls walking up to me, so I kept my cool… by which I mean I barely spoke at all. That's probably for the best, too. I have no idea what girls usually talk about. I guess things like farming games or makeup? Honestly, who knows (and no, I couldn't ask my big sister, since she is far from normal).
I begin to spin slowly in the chair as I wait for the others to fill the changing room. I should probably get something for the control room. Mini mini fridge in the corner. A few posters. Maybe a plant? Anything to get rid of that new phone smell.
Hm? Why am I in the changing room? Trying to catch some tit, of course. Real voyeur action—none of that fake crap you see on the porno sites. If I'm to pretend to be a girl, I should learn how to pretend to be snooping around the changing room.
Okay. Listen. The novelty of being a woman is probably going to wear off very quickly, so let me enjoy it while I can. This is the only chance I get to stare at a female body and not immediately freak out due to the size difference. Ever tried jerking off to a curvy industrial crane? That’s what watching most post-pandemic porn feels like.
I wonder if girls actually compare boobs in the changing room (like in my Japanese anime). Probably not.
…
Unless?
Oh boy. Is it getting hot in here or what?
No, I’m fucking serious. The temperature inside the cockpit suddenly began skyrocketing. We went from late autumn to early summer in a matter of seconds. I turned towards the monitor, and it did that scary thing where it goes dark for a fraction of a second and then comes back on, but now with lower brightness.
I think she’s overheating.
I wipe my face—feeling the sweat cling to my hair. My sister might be a genius, but I don't think she's ever had this thing running for 12 hours non-stop. Nothing is responding, so I rush over to the elevator and press the STOMACH button. It still works, and I ride the carriage down her spine while clumsily taking off my clothes.
We’ve officially crossed into the sauna territory, and I can feel my poor heart beginning to palpitate. When I see the pool of water that is her stomach, I don’t even think before jumping in.
Ah. Much better.
…
No. Not really. I think it's about to boil!
EMERGENCY DRAINAGE message flashes above me. The water begins to swirl like a toilet, and I find myself caught in its spiral current. I think about reaching for the ladder, but my hands burn the moment they make contact with the metal. Instead, I scream with my mouth underwater—allowing myself to be flushed out.
PLOP.
I end up on the floor. The robot still looms above like a stroke-ridden Colossus of Rhodes—her eyes twitching as the camera underneath struggles to focus. She’s still rigid as ever, so I don’t think she’s going to fall onto me.
What a heap of junk.
This is not ideal. How am I supposed to get in contact with my sister? If I let my classmates find me like this, there’ll be questions.
THUD. THUD. THUD.
And I might not even make it that far.
The pounding of distant artillery that are the footsteps of college girls snaps me back to the reality of a shrunken life. Best case scenario—and I do really mean best case—is I get labeled as just another peeping tiny and turned over to the police. The worst-case scenario is that they decide to dish out frontier justice with their feet.
Not good. Not good at all.
The two figures come into view, crossing the threshold between the hallway and the changing room. The sheer motion of them throwing the doors open sends gusts my way, and I have to shield my eyes for a second before taking in the visitors: it's freckles-small-tits and chunky-blondy (although I believe their government names are Sophie and Maya, respectively).
"Ah. There she is," Sophie huffs out while approaching. She would be fairly lanky if we stood head to head as humans. From the ground, she looks like an impossibly tall willow tree—the long, messy black hair hiding a part of her pale and freckled face. On her feet (since that's the first thing I see) are a pair of dangerous-looking sneakers, with rubber thick enough to cushion my body getting obliterated beneath them.
"Hey. New girl," Maya adds, waving a hand at the robotic corpse. Her build is more stout, and her hair is cut into a practical bob rather than the messy Sophie. We haven’t spoken much, but Maya seems like a nice girl. "Are you alright?" she asks while sitting down to take off her white Converse—revealing her chubby size 8s underneath. They are covered by a pair of nice socks that were probably once white but have since been claimed by Maya's feet.
Of course, there is no response from the robot.
"Yo." Sophie has a face that’s a mixture of both a concerned and an insulted look. "You there?" Taking a step towards the slouched metalgirl, I’m forced to dodge as huge slabs of engraved, dirty rubber that are the soles of her sneakers appear over the horizon.
Watch where you're walking, beanpole!
I really wish that Sophie would stop tapping her foot while looking over the machine. Each time she does, I’m flashed her grimy sole—able to see each intricate detail and the little bits of dirt trapped within the patterns. The thought of joining these pebbles makes me nauseous.
Such an insignificant motion—just the bounce of a leg—and I’m being tortured down here.
"Is everything okay?" Maya asks—peeking her head up while rubbing the hanging fabric of her sock taunt around her wide sole.
Sophie pounds her foot more harshly. "She looks sick. Or something." Slapping the robot’s face, she recoils with an unpleasant hiss. "Ouch!" I dodge as Sophie twists her heel with the unpleasant sound of strained rubber—casting me in darkness with her dirty sneakers. "Yo!" For the first time, panic creeps into her voice. "Maya! C’mere!"
Maya does just that, and I’m not forced to contend with four pairs of feet instead of two waddling above me. She has also taken her shoes off, so hot sticky mist wafts from her socked feet. Maya’s feet fall on either side of me. Immediately, sweat begins building up on the tiled floor like morning dew.
I clasp my face in response. I really wish that girl had time to finish changing her clothes, since she clearly needed it. Her sweet, earthy scent clings to my lungs. Each time she as much as wiggles her little piggies, more of the miasma is released to pollute the air.
"What’s wrong with her?"
"I dunno." Sophie shrugs. "You took—like—nursing classes, right?"
Maya nods, suddenly looking very proud of herself. "Got it." She then rises onto her tiptoes, lifting her heel, as she examines what she assumes is a catatonic classmate. "Let’s see…"
After finishing her examination, Maya brings her feet down. She unfortunately doesn’t bring them down at the same spot they were raised—oh no. A few millimeters' difference is enough for me to be caught in the splash radius of her heel. I try to run—to jump to safety—but it is no use. The socked foot falls on top of me like a moist mattress, immediately pinning me to the ground.
"And?" Sophie demands.
Maya's heel keeps turning and grinding my face across the floor, with my naked body now caked in a sweat-dirt mixture. I would've tried flinging some of it off if my arms weren't pinned. The pressure puts force on my ligaments, and I can feel my ribcage being pushed in. I grit my teeth and try pushing back, but I can't. The most I manage to do is twist my face to the side.
"I see," Maya mutters—trying (and failing) to move the robot's joint. "Rigor mortis has set in."
I can hear the two of them freaking out over a fake person dying while a real one is on the floor suffering. Maya takes a step back, pressing the ball of her foot to the floor and propping her heel into the air. As she does so, I flex my shoulder blades to free myself of the sock… only to fall face-first atop Sophie’s sneakers, who has walked up behind her friend to see for herself.
"Call an ambulance—call an ambulance!" Sophie cries out, placing a hand on Maya’s shoulder. "I’m going to get the professor. You just. Wait with her. Fuck…" As she pivots, I nearly get flung off the top of Sophie’s sneaker from the sudden motion. Like a sailor threatened to be thrown overboard, I instinctively lock my arms and legs around a rope (i.e., one of her grimy shoelaces).
Up. Down.
The drop tower amusement ride continues as Sophie picks up speed. I keep holding onto her shoelace like my life depends on it. Because it does. I manage to jam my hands into the faint gaps in the lace zigzag pattern, ensuring extra grasp at the price of peripheral circulation.
Up. Down.
Her shoelaces fling around widely, and I feel like a part of a chaos theory demonstration—the way it keeps pushing me into seemingly random directions. Twisting. Turning. Flipping. I’m sure there’s still an "up" and a "down," but I’ve lost track.
…?
Now that she’s reached the stairs, Sophie twists her ankle, and the torque catapults me onto the ground. I skirt across the laminated floor before coming to a halt some way off the stairs.
While catching my breath, I just lay there. On my belly. With my arms outstretched. Breathing for air that now smells only faintly of rubber. My headache has gotten worse than before, and I close my eyes as hard as possible to make the pounding sensation go away.
But the pounding isn't coming from inside, is it?
I throw my eyes open just in time to see an avalanche of college girls descending the stairs. Maya and Sophie were merely the first ones down, with the rest now joining the changing-room party. The sky is blacked out by what feels like hundreds of soles. New. Worn. Dull. Gleaming. The differently colored soles—ranging from harsh whites to darker yellows, electric blues of sports sneakers, and dark reddish-brown of natural rubber—form a discordant rainbow above me.
Is this my untimely end? This sucks. I haven’t even gotten to see a tit.
The hallway is a warzone now, and I'm the lone soldier lost in the middle of the artillery barrage. The first sole lands with a THUD that rattles my ribs. Then another. And another. One shoe throws me forward, another sends me backwards. There is no end to the stampede. The only thing still keeping me conscious is the unique pain caused by the different sole patterns.
My world becomes hammered with rubber and leather. The summation of all the footsteps combines into a blanket of painful force that prevents me from even moving my head. I try to scream, but my lungs are pancaked under the weight of a pink sneaker. The owner just shifts her weight like she’s stubbing out a cigarette—barely conscious that she's even stepped on something.
Lights out.
When I come to, I’m lying on a hard wooden surface: my sister’s workbench. She looms over me—her expression unreadable due to the harsh shadows. If I were to guess, I'd say she looks… disappointed?
I sit up, but the pain forces me back to the ground.
"The trial run was a failure."
"I'd say," I gasp, clinging to my side. I can't even be angry without it hurting. "You traumatized two girls (three, if you count me) with that machine." I'm not sure what kind of story my sister spun or how she recovered the hardware, but let's not gloss over the fact that Maya and Sophie essentially found a corpse in the changing room.
"Unfortunate." My sis shrugs. "Don't worry. The next model-"
"No!" I hiss through the pain, because I know what she's about to say. "Oh no—no! I'm not going back there!" I shout like a man about to be taken back into custody.
I can see my sister's face cycling between a few different modes like a malfunctioning android before she finally settles on one: a gentle smile. "You have so much potential."
"What?" It feels weird to hear these words. It's not like when your mommy tells you that you are a really handsome boy. I know my sister, and this is nothing short of an expert's opinion.
"I'm proud of you. Do you really want to throw it all away by stunting your education?"
I can't believe she's guilt-tripping me.
"Fiiine…"
I can't believe it's working.
I guess I really do love my big sister.
Fun idea.