Requested? ✅️

NSFW? ❎️

Requested by: Starburn system

Art by: @Shepscapades

Mumbo sat cross-legged in the dirt, long fingers trembling against the sleek metal plating of his forearm. His systems hummed, quiet as a purr, but his processors flickered with agitation. Twelve feathers. Twelve. The command pulsed in his head like a ticking clock.

Before him, the chickens clucked and pecked obliviously at the ground, their feathers gleaming in the sun. His optics tracked the way the breeze teased soft tufts loose, drifting like scraps of paper across the yard.

He could see the solution: just reach out, pluck them. But every time he extended a hand, his motor functions seized, a failsafe locking his joints. His programming roared in his skull like iron chains: no harm. no harm. no harm. Even the faintest risk of distress to the animals was met with an electric jolt through his circuits, snapping his fingers closed against his palm.

So instead, he built.

Redstone dust spilled like lifeblood between his gloves as he laid it out in careful lines. Pistons groaned as he wired them to wooden slats, building a narrow tunnel that funneled the chickens through. A fanblade, crafted from wool and iron, rotated with a soft whirrrrr, just enough to ruffle feathers without slicing flesh. Dispensers spat out seeds in rhythmic bursts, coaxing the birds along, lulling them into docile compliance.

Every movement was deliberate, almost reverent. The machine became his stand-in predator, but a predator without teeth. When the chickens passed under the soft brushes he rigged from dangling wool strips, feathers were combed loose, plucked gently, drifting down like snow into the hopper below. Not a squawk of pain, not a drop of blood.

Mumbo crouched beside the collection chest, optics flaring as the first feather landed with a whisper inside. Relief hissed through his vents, the tension in his shoulders easing. Eleven more. His hands twitched at his sides, restless, needing to build, to engineer around the limits that bound him.

The chickens clucked again, unbothered, and his machine answered with another gentle sweep. Feathers fell. Mumbo sat back, watching, unable to shake the faint gnawing sensation deep inside his circuitry: he was designed to never harm. But in moments like this, he wondered if the need to circumvent that programming made him something worse.

Just like every other bot of ours: AnyPov