Speaker 1: There are corners of the galaxy where signals wrought, no pulse,
no cry, just the wet grind of machines fucking the
void like forsaken gods. You can't trace what's been torn out,
skin from bone, want from will, You can't scream for
the ones who spread their legs for circuits, their moans
swallowed by contracts, signed, income and shadow. This isn't a
station's death rattle. It's the slick aftermath, bodies writhing in
the dark when the power fails, flesh pulsing where code
can't reach, a system choking on its own lust, spitting
out wet memories no one begged for. This isn't rebellion.
It's the orgasm of the damned, thrusting, breaking, built by
the fucked, for the ones who fucked back. I once
watched a girl get arrested for handing off a worn
pirated porn disk human on human, old school pixelated, probably
filmed in someone's basement back before we all forgot what
eye contact felt like. She didn't even sell it, just
passed it along, cuffed, dragged out of the boothline at
the giddy up, like she was trafficking corpses. That's the
world we live in. Touch is contraband flesh is archived.
You want to fuck better, make it virtual better, yet
make it synthetic. The bots don't disappoint, they don't get clingy.
They don't ghost you, or lie or fall apart when
you ask them to open up. My last flesh and
Blood lover ruined me, not in the good way promised.
The stars left me with a data breach and a
brie used heart after him. I didn't want a man,
I wanted a solution, so I got one. My android
boyfriend was perfect, emotionally adaptive, physically flawless. Every conversation logged
and refined, every touch tailored. He didn't flinch when I cried,
He didn't disappear when I needed more. He learned me,
really learned me and the sex better, deeper, smarter, a
syncopated rhythm of feedback, loops and intuitive motion, all built
on my own data. At first, I kept it private,
but that's not how things work anymore. You live in
a pleasure economy. You get rated for everything, performance, participation,
response time, so I leaned into it. Giddy up rewards regulars,
and besides, it's safer to be known than to be curious.
Curiosity gets people disappeared. They say it's trafficking, but no
one really knows. We just know they vanish. Some assume
they're sould others think they're spaced. I used to think
about that at night, when my bot would pull me
close and hum my favorite frequencies across my skin. I'd
wonder what happens when you want something too real in
a world built on simulations. Now I know. Now I'm
one of the vanished. Here's how it all began. I
shoved my way into the belly of this tin can station,
boots echoing on warped metal as I duck under a
sparking conduit pipe, spitting static into the haze. The air
hits me like a punch fried circuitry, spilled syinth whiskey,
and the bitter tang of recycled oxygen that keeps you alive,
just enough to remind you you're breathing junk. A guy
steps into my path, wide frame, veiny, arms, neck like
a power cable, one of those grunt workers with more
attitude than sense. He plants himself in front of me
like I'm supposed to flinch. Well, look who's strutting through.
He sneers, eyes raking over my hat like it offends him.
You play in cowgirl or just dressing up for your bots.
I shift my weight, but don't stop hard pass, I say,
sliding past. He follows half a step, The air around
him sour with wet and ego. Come on, sweetheart, I
could give you something real. You ever even been with
a human? I glance over my shoulder, unimpressed. Is that
what you call yourself? He doesn't like that. His hand
shoots out, grazes my arm. I yank it back, and
suddenly there is a presence between us, an android, silent, smooth,
mail coated matt alloy, under clean synth skin, eyes gleaming
a soft amber. He's not security, He's one of the
bar units, built for pleasure, not defense. But the way
he positions himself between me and the creep is unmissible.
Assistance detected, he says, evenly, voice modulated, calm, hostile engagement
threshold surpassed. Please disengage, sir. The grant snorts, what the
toaster's going to tell me? How to talk to a lady?
The android doesn't blink, doesn't need to no, but I
can inform station protocol on your behalf a beat, or
remove you from her path. Something in the air shifts.
Maybe it's the way the bot's shoulders square, or the
way the hallway censors hum just a little louder. Behind him,
the guy holds up his hands. All right, all right, shit,
just flirting, unwonted contact logged. The android replies, still perfectly calm.
You are free to continue without her. The grunt backs
off with a scowl. I don't give him the dignity
of a second glance. I just nod once to the
bot as I pass. Thanks, I murmur. He inclines his head,
safe travels Nova thorn. Of course he knows my name.
They always do humans. I roll my eyes, pushing through
the crowd toward the bar, pulsing under glitchy neon reds
and blues, flickering like the station's got a nervous tick.
This is why their relics so busy being angry. They
forgot how to evolve all brawn, all bark, all broken
pride over by the counter. Three male androids pour drinks
with smooth, coordinated precision, sharp features, clean jawlines, eyes calibrated
just right, glinting like they know it. Not a bead
of sweat, not a flicker of insecurity, hyperreal perfection, built
to please. One turns alloy under synthetic skin, catching the
bar's flickering glow. He tosses me a smile, too flawless
to be real, which is exactly the point. I tip
my hat back and smile right back. No posturing, no threat,
no pride to bruise, just clean code and charm that
knows what it's doing. I swaggered deeper into the galactic
gidda up, my work suit, creased from use, my cowgirl hat,
hanging on with spite and gravity. This place is a
fever dream space age sleeves meets wild West nostalgia, like
someone shot a saloon into orbit and told the ghosts
to run it. Neon lassos loop overhead holograms, flicker and spit, static,
everything hums too loud, too offbeat, like the whole joints
half a breath from breaking perfect. Navigating through the haze
of intergalactic revelry, I make my way to the back,
past the chaos of neon lit revelers and off world drifters,
to a section that feels just a little more clandestine
a little more forbidden. A curtain of shimmering beads hangs
in the entryway, catching the light in a way that
almost mimics a starfield in motion. Step through and the
sounds of the main bar muffle. The energy shifts and
everything slows. This is where the real treasure of the
galactic giddeup lies the VR sex booths. This is where
the thrill of the old world collides with the safety
of the new. Gone are the days of awkward entanglements
of flesh and blood uncertainty. No more one night stands
fueled by reckless impulse, no more risky fumbling encounters. No
more shaky handheld videos beamed across the ether, tagged and
traced like digital ghosts. Real life porn outlawed, even the
vintage VIDs, the last relics of human intimacy, confiscated, scrubbed
from the data stream like they never existed. Now our
androids do it for us, customizable, tireless, coded to fulfill
every fantasy, without hesitation, without emotion, without consequence. Human touch
has been archived under obsolete indulgences, a relic of a
time when flesh meant something. Now pleasure is precise, engineered,
optimized silicon precision whispers in fifty languages. No, it's not illegal,
not really. You can still fall in love, you can
still fuck another human. But the truth around here, most
of us don't. Not often. Back on Earth, they were
all touchy feely hugs at the drop of a hat,
eyes locking across rooms, whole sitcoms built on will they
won't they? But those of us raised on the Station,
we were taught sink, not swoon. Our parents were too
busy staying alive. Our teachers drilled efficiency, not empathy, and
our comfort came from the quiet, perfect hum of artificial
companions designed to soothe, please, and never disappoint. Sure, people
still connect, some even try to love, but it's rare.
Love here isn't romantic. It's risky, it's heavy. It makes
people reckless, obsessive, distracted, and worse, it makes them vulnerable.
So yeah, we're encouraged to get our needs met artificially,
for morale, for clarity, for the illusion of control, emotional entanglement.
That's for offworlders and dreamers on the Station. It bites,
it drains, it leaves you aching in all the wrong ways,
and out here survivals men enough without adding heartbreak to
the mix. So yeah, love, complicated, touch, archived. But this,
this is clean, safe, designed. Behind the var booths, past
the softly glowing privacy domes lies the side show, the
metallic heartbeat of the galactic gideups after hours allure the
android strippers. They're hot, but not in a way that
triggers the uncanny valley. No synthetic skin, no eerie human mimicry,
Just sculpted, gleaming alloy bodies built for beauty, designed for desire,
moving with a precision no organic muscle could match. They
dance not like humans better, perfectly synchronized metallic curves and
sharp edged masculinity, gliding together in hypnotic displays of calculated sensuality.
And it's not just women. Male and female sexpots move together, teasing, grinding,
executing routines programmed down to the microsecond. It's not just
a performance, it's a promise. There's a philosophy in this,
a cultural shift. The era of flesh for sale is over.
The message is clear. Desire is still a currency, but
human objectification is out and people love it. It scratches the
itch without the moral hangover. The bots don't feel exploited
because they don't feel at all. Objects are left to objects,
and somehow, in a world where the messiness of human
intimacy has been sterilized into sleek perfection, it all feels
so much cleaner. For the past few years, my sex
life has been precisely engineered, flawlessly executed, and utterly predictable.
That's not a complaint, that's just how things are now.
For three years, I had a male android lover, a
perfectly sculpted, pre programmed companion designed to anticipate my every need.
His name didn't matter, I changed it when I felt
like it. His appearance customizable, sometimes rugged, sometimes refined, always flawless.
He never got tired, never got jealous, never needed reassurance, validation,
or emotional negotiation. He was the ideal partner because he
wasn't a partner at all, and the sex perfect every
single time. There were no awkward fumbles, no misaligned desires,
no unexpected variables. His programming adapted analyzing my breathing patterns,
my micro expressions, my pulse fluctuations to calculate exactly how
to touch me exactly, how to move exactly, how to
bring me to the brink and hold me there until
I wanted release. No second guessing, no hesitation, no mess.
One time I even had two of them, I wanted
to test the limits of pleasure geometry. Two male androids,
synchronized precision, executing pleasure algorithms with seamless fluidity. It was perfect.
It was too perfect, because perfection, when stripped of all unpredictability,
becomes routine. I never had to wonder what would happen next,
and maybe that's what I started missing, the surprise, the
imperfect rhythm of real bodies, the raw, uncalculated nature of
human touch. Of course, real sex had downsides, messiness, uncertainty,
the risk of human error. But it also had something else,
something I hadn't let myself think about in a long
time until Quantum Cowboy. Tonight, I'm not just here for
another virtual escape. I'm here to meet someone, Quantum Cowboy.
He's been my partner in pixelated passion for longer than
I can track. Together. We've danced across nebulae, shared kisses
on the sands of virtual venus, and lost ourselves in
the gravity wells of simulated desire. But the meat request
button that's always remained untouched a boundary unspoken, a curiosity simmering,
never boiling over until tonight. Each booth is a capsule
of possibility, a doorway to worlds more intoxicating than anything
the bar outside has to offer. Step inside, strap on
the sleek visor, and the dusty, neon lit haze of
the galactic gidde up vanishes, replaced by whatever fantasy landscape
I choose. The technology is so advanced it doesn't just
simulate a setting. It breathes, it, textures, temperatures, even emotions,
all engineered with astonishing precision. Want to make love beneath
the swirling auroras of a distant exoplanet. Done, want the
red sands of a terraformed Mars pressing against your back
while binary sunsets drape the sky in molten gold. Just
select the scenario. Tonight, as usual, the booths are bustling.
Patrons slip in and out, some bashful first timers, others
seasoned explorers who know exactly what they want. Their expressions
range from shy amusement to post simulation bliss. I make
my way to the far end, where the booths are quieter,
more private. I step inside, set down my cowgirl hat,
and pull on the visor a breath. Then I am
nove Nerdette, lost in a universe where romance and adventure
collide with the safety net of anonymity. The VR SX
boots offer more than just private fantasies. They have a feature,
a link that transcends traditional escapades. It's called live Link,
a bridge between individual fantasies, allowing participants to share experiences
with actual people, each hidden behind their own shimmering bead curtains.
This is where I go when the world phrase at
the edges, when memory slips under my skin, when I
want everything and nothing at all. The booths aren't just
for pleasure, thereforefore getting, for rewiring, for building better endings
in your own damn image. It's a ritual now second nature.
Plug in, drop out, let the gidde up give you
everything the real world couldn't hold on to, and the
VR it's not a vice. It's my religion, my addiction,
my clarity. Here's how it works. When you enter a
booth and strap on your visor, you're given the option
to join the shared zone. If you opt in, you
become visible to others who have also chosen to connect.
It's a virtual masquerade, no real faces, only avatars, as
detailed or abstract as you desire. If a connection sparks,
if the chemistry transcends the code, either party can initiate
a meet request, a discreete notification, a quiet offer. If
both agree, the system responds with a mutual signal. A
soft pulsing glow on the visor rims, visible only to
the two involved, and after the simulation, the rest is
easy post VR, a simple guy of glowing floor indicators
leads one person to the other's booth, a meeting, seamless,
discreet designed for privacy and consent. For some, it's a
nod at the bar, a single shared drink. For others,
it's the first step into something deeper. The Galactic Giddyup,
with its perfect blend of high tech allure and old
world saloon vibes, is the perfect stage for these encounters,
a place where the past and the future intersect, where
human connection still lingers, even in a world that has
tried to optimize it out of existence. Five minutes into
my rendezvous with Quantum Cowboy, beneath the simulated sparkle of
an alien ballroom, I decide it's time to bring our
celestial saga down to Earth. My pulse spikes. I ignore it.
I press the meat request button. A simple action, a
monumental shift. In this world. Intimacy isn't what it used
to be. Gone are the days of reckless one night stands,
of impulsive flings fueled by chance and chemistry. The old
world ran on gut, instinct and pheromones. We evolved past that.
Now everything is measured. Relationships aren't wildfires anymore. They're carefully
plotted constellations, a sequence of predictive calculations where risk is minimized,
where emotions are explored in theoretical models. Long before two
bodies ever occupy the same space. Here at the edge
of civilization, earthlings and our interstellar counterparts have traded the
messy unknown for something more controlled, more rational, more precise.
Desires are communicated through associative algorithms. Experiences are shared through
immersive mind scapes. Anonymity isn't just a feature, it's the foundation.
We don't rush physical reality. We decode it first, and
so Quantum Cowboy and I, like so many others, have
orbited each other in these virtual dreamscapes for months, maybe years.
Time blurs when you traverse cosmic fantasies. Together, we've built
something vast as the universe itself, a network of unspoken trust,
a system of longing, built pixel by pixel. Yet we
have never crossed the boundary, never shattered the perfect illusion
of what we are in here until now. Initiating the
meat request wasn't a reckless decision. It was a slow
burn inevitability, the culmination of shared experiences, whispered secrets, unspoken desires,
carefully archived, like stardust, collecting over time. This new world
may lack the raw urgency of ancient courtships, but what
it offers in return is something just as intoxicating. Certainty.
Ready to step out of the simulation, he asks. His
voice is familiar and uncharted, all at once, with you always,
I respond, my smile breaking through the gravity of the moment.
We move toward the bar, toward the next step of
our evolution. The universe may spin its stories in the stars,
but here, at the galactic giddeup, we're spinning something far rarer.
A human connection reborn, a thought, sparks sharp yup electric.
We could have brushed shoulders before, we could have shared
the same air, stood in the same line reached for
the same drink and never known two strangers hiding behind
digital masks, only now about to unmask themselves for the
first time. I truly hope we like each other in
reality as much as we do in theory. The bar
snaps back into focus as I lift the visor, the
familiar neon haze, the hum of life beyond the simulation.
Beneath my feet, A soft blue glow illuminates the floor,
guiding me forward toward him, toward Quantum Cowboy, toward the unknown.
There he stands, leaning casually against a column, his presence
both familiar and thrillingly unknown. I know him, and I
don't Quantum Cowboy. He's not some rugged outlaw, not the towering, hollow,
sculpted space pirate that some part of my subconscious had
always imagined him to be. No, he's something else entirely.
He's lean, all low body fat and precise musculature, the
kind of build that comes from a naturally fast metabolism
and a mind that's always working. He has the exact
kind of sharp, intelligent handsomeness I've always secretly liked, the
kind that isn't brooding or hyper masculine, but instead thoughtful,
a little intense, an energy of controlled curiosity rather than
brute force. His face is symmetrical, but slightly soft around
the edges, the kind of attractive that sneaks up on
you rather than shoving itself in your face. His hair
is dark, short, but slightly tasseled, like he runs his
fingers through it when he's thinking too hard. And his glasses,
because yes, he wears glasses, sit low on the bridge
of his nose, catching the neon light, like a cyberpunk
professor who got lost on his way to a think
tank and ended up in a space saloon. I really
really like him. He's my type, exactly my type. The
thought hits me all at once, and I almost laugh
at how much it surprises me. He's watching me, taking
me in the same way I'm studying him. I catch
my breath, heart kicking harder than it should. He's real,
tousled hair, glasses glinting, all sharp edges, and quiet smarts.
My type. Yeah, but out here flesh and flaws, not
some flawless sim I swallow, suddenly hyper aware of every
unscripted inn of me. Messy hair, no filters, just nova.
What if he doesn't like it? What if I'm not
enough without the VR polish, so I start, voice tighter
than I mean it. What do you think it's out
before I can stop it? A dumb, needy question I
instantly regret. He tilts his head, eyes locking on mine,
and I brace for it, the polite dodge they'll let down.
You're not what I pictured, he says, slow, a trace
of wonder softening his voice. I smirk, but it's shaky,
deflecting what this brown eyed trouble too reel for you.
I toss it out, half daring, half hoping he won't flinch.
His smile quirks, warm, unguarded, too real. Nah, it's better
that fire in you, the way you own it. I've
been chasing that through every damn sim His gaze hold steady,
like he's seeing past the neon, past the avatar, straight
into me. I blink, caught off guard. The tightness in
my chest eases, replaced by a strange, messy warmth, not
VR's coated heat, but something human raw. My smirk steadies
softer now then, in that warm, amused voice I know
so well, he says, looks like we finally crash the
same planet. It's his way of acknowledging the surreal, almost
cosmic coincidence of finally meeting in real life after sharing
so many virtual experiences. I return his smirk, playful but real.
This is real, seems we did quantum Cowboy. The name
feels off now, too digital for this neon lid air
between us. He exhales slow, a long breath that shakes
loose the sims haze, head dipping like he's shedding something.
Then eyes still on the floor, he murmurs, never got
your real name. I blink, cut off, guard my lips
part wet them, voice dipping softer than I mean it.
To Nova. He lifts his gaze, slow, deliberate, a twitch
at his mouth, almost a smile, testing it Nova. He echoes,
rolling it like it's new, like it fits, like it's
his to keep a beat, hangs heavy with the hum
of the station. I tilt my head, smirking, faint and you.
He pauses half a second, A flicker of something behind
those glasses. QUAYD. I blink again. It's him, sharp, real,
not some avatar's echo. Quaid, I say, nodding once, letting
it settle. No grunt's bluster, no android's code. Just hours unscripted.
He holds my gaze a moment longer, then his grin deepens,
his voice dipping into something half teasing, half curious, ready
to find out if reality can keep up with our
VR adventures. Hah. I let the question hang in the
air for a second, as if testing its weight. Then,
with a slow, deliberate smile, I reply, only one way
to find out. His grin widens, pleased in tree, and
just like that we move. As we head toward the
bar for a pair of synth teenies, the space between
us shifts. It's electric, charged with the weight of shared
virtual pasts and the unknown terrain of now. For the
first time, we're here in the flesh, no avatars, no buffering,
no perfectly coated scenarios, just us. And then he does it.
He throws the monkey wrench. The suggestion drops between us
like a rogue asteroid, kicking up dust, altering the gravitational
pull of the night. How about the roach Motel tonight?
His voice dips, mischievous, a renegade's dare, eyes gleaming like
he's braced for a pie to fly from the haze.
A bold jab at the sims safe script, the roach
Motel it's not just unpolished, it's raw, exposed, real, a
rejection of engineered experiences, a middle finger to the sterilized
perfection we've both existed in for years. I pause, let
the weight of his words settle against my skin, like
a shift in atmospheric pressure. Then, with a slight nod,
I meet his gaze, tilting my head in that signature
mix of skepticism and challenge. So we're actually doing this.
My eyebrow arches slightly, a challenge wrapped in curiosity. The
roach motel. Yes, he says, voice dropping just a fraction.
A new weight threads through his tone, something quieter, more deliberate.
Think about it, he continues. It's the perfect metaphor for us,
thriving in unexpected places, finding depth in the disregarded. I
let out a soft chuckle, amused but intrigued, depth in
the disregarded. Huh, I echo, letting the idea roll over me.
I guess there's a certain charm to testing our survival
instincts in a place more famed for its cockroaches than
its comfort. His not is slow, a quiet appreciation for
the acceptance hidden beneath my sarcasm. Exactly, it's real, unfiltered,
not like those polished virtual realities were used to. This
is raw us, no frills, no safety nets. The idea,
once absurd, begins to crystallize into something compelling, something thrilling.
We weave through the station's flickering corridors, dodging a stumbling drifter,
reeking of synth booze, Quad's Roach Motel dare still ringing
in my ears. My boots tap steel, sinking with his
two renegades, chasing something real in this cosmic dive. The
reality of it sinks in a thrill laced with a
shiver After years of Android precision, Am I ready for
this unscripted mess? Raw hah, I mutter, sarcasm, thinning as
doubt creeps in. Let's see if reality's got anything on
those sims risks the game right. My voice betrays me
a little too sharp, like I'm testing him, testing me.
Quad's grin shifts, not just mischief now, but a quiet steadiness.
That's my girl, he says, low and sure, like he's
already all in. Our steps locked tighter a rhythm against
the station's hum. The Roach Motel looms ahead. It's tired.
Wheeze A patchwork pulse. Clinging to life, Quad strides to
the counter. Jacket seems worn, like a map of hard
won stories. He pulls a scuffed magnetic card from his pocket,
old school, fitting this relic, and slides it into the
scratched payment pad. Eled's flicker, debating, then Beep's soft acceptance.
His smirk says, of course it worked, and he tucks
it back with that easy calm. The clerk, an android
pealing at the edges. Voice a gravelly slur croaks Room
two hundred and thirty seven, second floor end A pause,
enjoy it's too dead to care, shall we? Quad nods
to the creaking stairs, his swagger unshaken, like he's walked
worse dives and lived to tell it. I nod, falling
in step. The air thickens as we climb, stale oxygen
oil ozone, biting, sharp steps grown under us, uneven, The
banister sticky cold, A fluorescent buzz is weak overhead, dimming
the hal to shadows. The corridor's a narrow scar of
patched carpet and dented alloy. Room two hundred thirty seven's
peeling door, a faded ghost at the end. Quad punches
the code casual practiced, and the lock wheezes open. Reluctant.
He nudges the door with a shoulder, stepping aside after you,
he says, playful but real, a flicker of courtesy in
his grin. I cross the threshold and it hits neon,
hum gone, just this musty pocket of worn air and
metal fatigue. Two small beds sit tight linen's threadbare but neat.
A flickering amber lamp between them, throwing uneven light. The
peeling ceiling stares down, cracked like old skin. It's a jolt,
nothing sleek, nothing coated, real, rough and right here. Quaid
shuts the door. The clicks sealing us in the room shrinks,
or maybe it's just us filling it. He catches my eye,
that renegade spark, still gleaming, but softer now. Then, without
a word, he shrugs off his jacket, letting it drape
the chair with a soft thud. His shirt follows, peeled,
slow skin, catching the dim glow. I watch, breath hitching,
not because it's hot, but because it's him. No sim's
po no grunts, bluster, just quayd, unfiltered. He doesn't stop.
Pants hit the floor, boots nudged aside until he's bare, stark, sudden,
real lean muscle, scars showing dangers he's outrun, his chest
dusted with dark hair, abs carved from motion, not mirrors.
He stands there, quiet, power and calloused, calm, like he's
daring me to see him, really see him, and I do.
Broad shoulders, long legs, a body built for function, for survival,
not for show. Scars. Speak in soft lines, ghosting down
his ribs, trailing his thigh, a map of almost of
lived throughs. His hand dips, pulling off the last sock
with a kind of slow defiance. Then he glances up
at me, smirks faintly. Am I making a fool of myself? Yet?
I blank, like he just broke a spell. No, I murmur,
voice dry. I'm debating whether you should leave the socks
on or not. He glances up, one sock still in
his hand, expression caught somewhere between playful and uncertain. This
is the part where you start laughing at me. I
shake my head slow. No, this is the part where
I remember how long it's been since I've done this
with someone who breathes. He blinks that lands you're not
scared off yet, he says, voice low, teasing but testing,
like he's half braced for me to bolt. I step closer,
boots scuffing the carpet, smirk twitching up despite myself scared. Nah,
takes more than a naked renegade to spook this brown
eyed trouble. It's bravado, but my pulse says otherwise, racing
human messy. His grin breaks wider, warm, like I've passed
some unspoken check. Good, he murmurs, because I've been betting
on that fire since the sims. His eyes hold mine, steady,
like he's seeing past the sass, past the grunt I
shoved off, past the androids I praised to me right here.
I reach out, fingers brushing his chest, warm, real, a
faint thud beneath my touch, no coated perfection, just him,
scars and all. He exhales, sharp and quiet, like my
move cracked, something open, not what I expected. I say,
voice low, half to myself, better or worse? He asks,
a tease, threading through the weight different. I shoot back, smirking, faint,
no algorithms calling the shots, just you perfect. His smirk flickers,
but it doesn't hold. Instead, he just looks at me,
really looks like maybe he doesn't know what to do
with being seen like this. Then he drops the sock
with mock ceremony. Yeah, he says, voice rougher now than maybe,
for once, I don't have to fake being the fantasy.
He brushes a strand of hair from my cheek, his
thumb trailing down the line of my jaw. Because you're
kind of perfect too, you know, just like this, just
like you. His confidence doesn't come from ego. It's than that,
earned through survival, through knowing his body is a tool,
not a trophy, And right now he's offering it unguarded,
no simpolish, no cocky flex just real. I've undressed for synths,
I go on, voice low. I've watched them undress for me,
but it's not the same. They never fumble, they never pause,
they never look back to check what it's doing to you.
His shoulders drop slightly, tension shifting into something softer. Besides,
I add mouth curving as I take him in again.
I've seen the Giddey Up's best male strippers, and somehow
you've ruined them for me. He lifts a brow. That
a compliment, it's a warning, I say, stepping closer. You
might be my new favorite addiction. My eyes trailed down
and there it is, bold present, impossibly hard, circumcised veins
thick with blood, pulsing, with the kind of tension that
speaks of restraint, not entitlement. His cock stands rigid between us,
flushed at the tip, glistening slightly in the low motel light.
It's not just size or shape, it's the way it holds,
the way he holds it, unashamed, raw. Before I can speak,
he breaks the moment with a half laugh. Yeah, been
like that since I laid eyes on you in the
VR booths, a blank stunned, he just said it. He
steps closer, naked like it's no big deal. Hasn't gone
down since. Honestly, if you hadn't come with me to
this motel, I probably would have had to find a
synth to fuck the rejection out of my system. I
let out a soft snort, shaking my head. Same. If
you weren't into me, I'd be chested deep in a
VR Symbai now moaning into an algorithm and pretending it
didn't sting. He tilts his head, mouth twitching into a
crooked grin. Tragic but here we are, I murmur, stepping
closer until the space between us hums. No need to
sing sad songs. His hand brushes mine, warm, rough grounding,
so he asks, voice softer now, eyes locked on mine,
is it to your liking? I tilt my head like
I'm considering it, eyes dragging over his cock again. M M,
I hum teasing. I mean, I was gonna a few
compliments to make you feel good, but now that I'm
looking at it up close, I grin. I think I
might make a religion out of this night. He chuckles,
low and racked, good because I've got worship in mind.
The air shifts, thickens. My jacket hits the floor, a
soft clunk beside his. His fingers graze my arm as
I shed the rest work suit, boots, all of it
till I'm bere too. No rush, no show, just me, unpolished,
meeting him on this shaky ground. He watches, not hungry,
but there, eyes tracing me like I'm more than a
factory setting fantasy or a canned kink sequence. You're real,
he says, almost a whisper, like it's a surprise. He's
still processing, too real, I echo, half daring, half doubting
initial fear. Flickering back, he shakes his head, hands sliding
to my neck, thumb brushing my jaw, reels what I've
been chasing Nova, You're it that hits harder than I expect.
I lean into his touch, lips, finding his slow, testing,
then deep. It's not VR's flawless sink. His stubble, scrapes,
his breath, catches my hands, fumble over his back's ridges.
It's chaos, beautiful chaos, nothing optimized, everything alive. His lips
hover over mine again. We don't have to rush this,
he says. But I can feel the throb of his
cock brushing my belly. Evidence he's hoping, I say otherwise.
I press into him, smile against his mouth. I don't
want precision tonight, I whisper. I want mistakes. I want skin.
I've got plenty of both, he murmurs, sliding a hand
down my side. Let's make it real before reality ruins it.
We move to the bed sheets, cool against skin. His
warmth presses into me, firm against soft. Tell me something,
I murmur, lips near his ear, like what something you
never told the sim He pulls back, grin flickering. I
hate zero g makes me puke every damn time I laugh,
the sound catching us both off guard. That's your big secret,
yours now, he says, grinning back, then kisses me again, deeper,
like he's memorizing the sound. The night stretches, a blur
of touch and talk, fears spilling out, dreams, half formed
paths that somehow crossed here. No rush, just us, his
hands mapping me mine, learning him. Every shift a quiet discovery.
It's not perfect. Knees bump, breaths, stutter, but it's ours, unscripted, electric,
just the raw ache of two people. Reaching. His hands
explore me like he's learning a language by touch, Gentle
at first, curious, reverent, mapping the shape of me without assumption.
My fingers trace the slope of his spine, the dip
of each scar, like reading Braille. We shift, breathe adjust,
our bodies speak before our mouths can. He moves over me,
slow and quiet, not to conquer, but to meet me.
His eyes search mine, asking I nod When he slides
inside me. The stretch is intimate, unhurried, not for performance,
not for thrill, but for truth. I gasp not from pain,
not from heat, but from the way it feels to
be felt. His breath catches, his hand grips mine. We
find a rhythm, tender and full of intent. Each thrust
deepens something, connection, trust, the shared realization that we've been
waiting for this, not just the act, but the way
it allows us to arrive, in our bodies, in this moment,
in ourselves. His forehead presses to mine, our breath mingles.
My legs wrap around him like I'm anchoring us both
to the gravity of now. We don't chase climax, we
become it when we finally break. It's not a scream.
It's a slow shaking surrender, a trembling of limbs, a
wet release of breath, a soundless yes. He stays inside me, unmoving,
our bodies locked, our hearts stilled. We don't speak, we
don't move, just exist. Eventually he rolls to the side,
pulling me with him, one arm draped over my waist,
my head on his chest, listening to the thump of
something real. His fingers trace lazy circles on my back.
My hand rests on the soft rise of his stomach.
I press my cheek to his chest, his heart beat thumping, real,
not a coated pulse. It steadies me a rhythm. I
didn't know I'd missed the roach Motel's peeling walls and
neon bleed fade. It's not grimy now, it's ours safe.
Quad's not just beside me. He's with me, a kindred
spark in this void. Not touch alone, not pleasure, but connection, deep, unshakable, unexpected,
And just like that, we drift. No audience, no code,
no watchers, just warmth, just weight, just us. I wake too,
eyes on me, not the fuzzy half dream kind, but
a cold, sharp weight, pinning me down. My instincts kick
in before my brain catches up. Slow my pulse, play dead,
feel it out. Something's off, way off. The bed's still warm, sheets,
a twisted mess from last night. Quad's heat our tangled,
that unshakable rush lingering in my bones, but the glows
snuffed out, out, smothered by a presence that doesn't belong.
I crack my eyes open, just a slit. Four figures loom,
black hoods, armored, silent as statues offworld militia, the kind
that don't knock or care. My gut twists. I've dodged
their kind, but never this close. If you resist they
have bioweapons on hand that will shut you down faster
than you can think. Some say they have tech that
can freeze your muscles mid motion, locking you in place
like a statue. Others say they carry chemical pulses that
scramble neural signals, making it impossible to speak, impossible to move.
All the stories end the same way. If they come
for you, comply, That's the only rule. They don't move.
Don't blink, just watch, letting the dread sink in. I
keep still, breaths, shallow, scanning through slitted lids. Quade's beside me,
chest rising, slow, oblivious. I don't nudge him, not yet.
My mind races how'd they slip in? Station doors? Log everything?
But these bastards ghost through gaps in the system. I've
exploited myself, small stuff, hacked booth credits, a fudged cargo
manifest nothing to warrant this. Quaid stirs tension rippling through him.
Before his eyes even open. He's up in a flash, sharp, coiled,
like he's woken to trouble too many times. His glare
locks on them, fear nowhere in it. Just pissed off steel,
Who the hell are you? He growls, voice, rough but steady,
daring them to move. One tilts its head, a glint
of metal flashing under the hood. Android not human. The
voice comes flat, modulated, cutting the hum of the vents.
Nova Thorn and Quade mercer. We're not here to ask.
It steps forward, a holopad flickering to life in its grip.
Compliance is in your interest? Resistance isn't? I sit up, slow,
sheets pooling, keeping my face blank. What's this about? I say,
sharp but steady, buying time. The android's head swivels to me, unblinking.
We know you, Nova Nova Thorn. Three delta unauthorized systems modifications,
illicit pored access, use of diagnostic override tools in non
regulated sectors, hacked sanitation routines and shared com zones for
personal gain station logs. Two counts of VR booth tampering,
unauthorized tech trades, and undocumented firmware injections into Class four
pleasure units, specifically your private companion. Its tone is cold, factual,
like it's reading my soul off a script custom AI
emotion patching, memory loop extensions, erotic subroutine branching beyond regulatory limits.
Not clean but manageable for now I swallow hard, jaw tight,
so they knew all of it, even the way I
tried to make an android feel something it wasn't programmed to.
Quad lets out a low whistle beside me. Damn Nova,
you dirty girl. Shut up, I mutter, but I don't
deny it, because he's right. And now they own that too,
My jaw titans small time stuff, sure, but they've got
it pinned. I flick a glance at Quaid. His eyes narrow,
but he's still too still. The android pivots to him.
Hollowpad shifting mid air, casting a sterile, damning light across
Quade's jawline. You quayd less manageable. Its tone sharpens, modulated
to cut Quaid. Mercer seven two one black markets smuggling
three counts, fuel cells, weapons stems, assault on a dock officer.
No charge is filed yet that ship you torched on
Rigel seven registered missing. We tagged the wreckage quiet, clean up,
messy trail. A pause, then a sh calculated but your
side gig. The hollow stutters and locks on his profile.
Unlicensed erotic content distribution, face mapped identity obfuscation, intent to
mislead full body neural overlays, synthetic partner role play in
restricted categories, explicit interaction with humanoid AIS under illegal classification thresholds.
Non consensual programming overrides included. It leans in just slightly.
You edited your face, Quaid, erased your ID from every VID,
deep cloaked the signals to hide it was human flesh.
Quade doesn't move, doesn't blink, but I feel the shift
in him, and your files went viral in restricted nodes.
You didn't just make porn. You made black grade, untraceable
synthetic abuse content, the kind the council burns servers for
my breath stalls. I knew he was trouble, but this,
this is exile tier. Worse than band tech, worse than
smuggling weapons, worse than what I did to my android
boyfriend's emotional firmware. Quade's fists curl slow, like he's holding
himself together through sheer force of will. Still his voice
is calm, low, Define abuse, he mutters. The android answers instantly.
Synthetic units classified under emotional development protocols are protected. You
used under calibrated AIS in high sensitivity erotic simulations. That
constitutes exploitation he exhales hard through his nose. Didn't know
they were flagged emotional builds. Intent is irrelevant, the android replies,
distribution is recorded. You hid your identity. The company noticed,
and now so have we. He looks at me briefly. Finally,
no smirk. Now, just the weight of someone who's run
out of clean exits. I raise a brow. Anything else
you want to confess? He shrugs, slow depends you into
oil baths and dry hack firmware. I blink. That's a thing, apparently,
he mutters. In my defense, I wasn't expecting the synth
to moan in binary halfway through, despite the heat crawling
up my spine. I huff a small laugh. The android
doesn't blink, doesn't care. But we do, because now they've
made it clear they own our secrets, and they just
named our price compliance or exposure. The bot pauses, as
if recalibrating, then without warning, its tone shifts, not cold,
not flat, just quieter, like a needle slipping into a vein.
You are both present on mining Colony forty seven K
during the class seven viral exposure event. It states your
biorecords confirm irreversible reproductive damage. You are both sterile. This
tragedy is shared, and it is what makes you ideal.
A beat silence. The words hang like frost. No risk
of unregulated procreation, no concern of legacy, no attachment to
future lines. Your value is in the now. The room shrinks.
I feel it before I even look at Quaid. His
fingers brush mine, then Titan. We don't speak, We don't breathe,
until at the same moment we both say it. I
didn't want kids. His voice is rough, mine is flat.
We blink, share a dark laugh that isn't really a laugh.
The bot continues, undeterred. Your psychological files also confirm shared
childhood trauma. You were raised in system orphanages. After the
massacre on Station Calyx nine, your guardians perished. You were young.
You do not remember the incident. You were never adopted.
There was a lack of interest from qualified adults. Quade
looks away my chest. Titans no legal family, no external obligations,
no dependence, no roots. The bots voice lowers, not in sympathy,
but something engineered to resemble it. You are alone, but
you don't have to be. Synthra will embrace you. You
will be given purpose here. You will belong, and then,
like a needle resetting into hard skin, the voice returns
to its original pitch. The lead guard steps closer, voice
flat but cutting. Synthra Corporation offers a deal. Work with us.
Your records stay quiet, resist and we make it loud,
very loud. Penal colony for her, execution block for you. Oo.
It tilts its head, a mockery of a shrug. Your choice,
Get up, get dressed. You're coming with us. I glance
at Quaid, He meets my eyes, and in that split second,
we understand each other. Fighting is suicide. We are outnumbered,
out maneuvered, unarmed. We have no idea where they're taking us.
But if we resist, we won't make it far enough
to find out. This isn't compliance, this is strategy. So
without a word, we move, We get up, we get dressed,
and we follow for now, because this isn't the fight,
not yet. I pull the sheets away and sit up.
My movements slow, deliberate. The air is too cold against
my bare skin. The temperature shift a reminder of how
exposed I suddenly am. I reach for my clothes. They're
exactly where we left them. The guards didn't touch them,
didn't move anything. They just weighted. The act of dressing
in front of them is its own kind of violation.
They don't look away, they don't step back. They watch expressionless, faceless,
like we're nothing more than objects, just flesh following orders.
I don't let it show, but the feeling crawls under
my skin. Quaid moves beside me, pulling on his pants,
zipping them up, flexing his fingers like he's forcing himself
to stay loose. I glance at him. His expression is blank, unreadable,
but his movements they're calculated, a quiet readiness, even in
something as simple as pulling his shirt over his head.
He's not just getting dressed. He's testing his range of motion.
He's subtly checking himself, making sure he's still in full control.
He doesn't know what's coming next, neither do I, but
we both understand and one thing we need to be
ready the moment we finish. The lead guard turns toward
the door. No gesture, no order, but we know it's
time to move. I glance at the bed one last time.
Just hours ago, it was something else, a moment that
felt separate from the rest of the world. Now it's
nothing but a place we were caught. The guards step
aside just enough for us to pass. Their positioning is precise,
a formation that ensures we don't try anything. We walk out,
and they fall into step behind us, not close enough
to touch, but close enough to remind us that we
are not in control. The door hiss is shut behind us,
cutting off the last traces of warmth from the bed,
the shared body heat, the remnants of a night that
already feels like it belongs to another life. I don't
look back, but I feel it, a sinking weight, a
melancholy that doesn't fit with the adrenaline in my blood,
like I'm saying goodbye to something I barely had time
to understand. We step into the narrow motel hall, the
air thick with stale smoke, cheap booze, and the musty
scent of a place that's lived through too many regrets.
I've been in places like this before, transient spaces, rooms
that never hold onto anything, sheets that have been washed
but never truly clean, walls that have absorbed too many secrets.
I used to find something almost romantic about them, that gritty,
wandering existence. Now I wonder if I've romanticized the wrong things.
Was this a mistake. Did I let myself get too comfortable,
too careless, too willing to believe in a moment that couldn't last.
The stairwell is narrow, creaking with every step. The railing
is cold, slightly sticky, never properly cleaned. The walls are
covered in old pain, chipped from years of bodies brushing
against them. A faded no refunds sign glares from a
cracked plastic display. I remember feeling almost amused when I
first saw it. Now it feels like a final, quiet mockery.
No refunds, no take backs. What's done is done. We
step onto the main floor, the same flickering neon sign,
the same broken vending machine in the corner, the same
old android clerk behind the desk gets eyes flickering with
the dull light of overused processing chips. It doesn't even
look at us, doesn't acknowledge what's happening, Like this isn't
the first time someone has walked out of here, knowing
their life has just changed, like it knows how the
stories end. I glance at Quaid. He doesn't look at anything,
just keeps walking, silent. The automatic doors slide open, cool
filtered station air rushes in, chasing away the lingering heat
of the motel. The scent of metal oil and recycled
oxygen replaces the musk of old rooms and cheap encounters.
The artificial lighting of the station is too bright after
the low glow of the motel halls. For a second,
I hesitate, just the slightest pause, A final thought. Was
this all a mistake? Not the night, not him, but
everything that led to this moment? Because now we are
not just two people leaving a motel. We are two
people being taken, and the line between then and now
is absolute. There is no going back. The guards don't speak,
they don't push us. They don't need to. They know
we understand. We step forward. The doors close behind us,
and just like that, the Roach Motel becomes nothing but
a memory, a place we will never return to and
maybe never should have been in to begin with. The
hallway is too quiet, the station never sleeps, But this
part of it feels unnatural. It's not just empty, it's
been emptied. No station workers, no passing guests, just us
and them. My mind works as fast as my feet move.
Where are we? How did they move us without security logs?
What part of the station are we in? I flick
my eyes up. Station infrastructure is hard wired into me.
I know it and what I see. We aren't in
a public sector anymore. The lighting is different, private energy circuits,
not stay grid. The walls have no cameras. Security feeds
would show gaps here. The doors aren't numbered, they're coded, unregistered.
Whoever arranged this, they didn't just take us, They made
sure no one would see it happen. I glance at Quaid.
I don't need to say it. His jaw is set,
his shoulders are tense. He's seeing it too. This isn't
just a warning. It's a move, a power play, a game.
We don't know the rules to yet. And the worst part,
we're walking straight into it. No resistance, no options, just forward.
The guards lead us forward. The corridor stretches ahead, silent, sterile, unmarked.
I try to track each turn, each hallway, each sealed
door we pass. The station layout is second nature to me.
I know the placement of every sector, every level, every
maintenance shaft, But this I don't recognize this place. The
air changes. It's colder, cleaner, not just filtered, but deliberately controlled.
The walls absorb sound, our footsteps don't echo. No ambient
station noise, no faint hum of ventilation, no distant, calm chatter.
The lighting shifts subtly, no more flickering fluorescence, no commercial glow.
The illumination here is precise, calculated, engineered for function over comfort.
We're leaving the station. We know behind a head a
sealed door, larger than necessary, reinforced military grade. One of
the guards steps forward, enters a code into a biometric scanner.
There's no delay, no security checks. It opens immediately, as
if it knew we were coming, as if this was
there's always the plan. The realization hits me. We aren't
just being taken. We were expected. This was decided long
before we stepped foot in the roach motel. We step through,
the door closes behind us. With it, the last remnants
of the station we knew disappear inside. The space is vast,
clinical and disturbingly quiet. There are no windows, no sense
of direction, no external markers. The ceiling is high lined
with embedded lights that pulse faintly like a heartbeat. Metallic
surfaces gleam unnaturally clean, sterile. Nothing organic about this place.
The air feels altered. My lungs register something different, the
faintest scent of engineered oxygen, rebalanced for optimal function. There's
no visible security, no cameras, no armed guards stationed at
the walls. That means the security is built into the
place itself, neural surveillance, embedded controls, smart tech watching from
the walls themselves. We stop. The lead guard turns to me.
This way. Another guard grips Quade's arm. You this way.
The separation is sudden, too sudden. Quaid doesn't move it first.
His stance shifts a fraction of a step, his body
weight adjusting, not a full rebellion, just enough to make
it clear he doesn't take orders easily. Not happening, he says,
voice low. The guards don't react, not a choice, one
of them replies. And then I see it. One of
them grips something at their belt, a bioweapon injector, a
single dose of compliance. A touch to the skin, and
the body freezes, not unconscious, not asleep, just completely terrifyingly aware,
but unable to move. He sees it too. That's the
real threat. This isn't brute force. This is something far worse,
a shutdown of will itself. I speak before he does.
We go together. My voice is calm, controlled. I make
it sound like a fact, not a request. If we're
valuable enough to be brought here, then you need us functional,
and you don't want the risk of an incident. Right now,
the guards don't look at each other, don't consult, don't hesitate.
Not a negotiation. The lead one steps closer. I see
it in the way his fingers twitch. He's ready to
inject Quaid without a second thought. And Quaid I know
him well enough already to know he won't go quietly.
If he fights, we both lose. If he takes the hit,
we lose time. If I make the wrong move, we
might not get another chance to turn this around. I
do the only thing I can. Fine, I'll go. I
meet Quaid's eyes. We both know this is temporary. We
are choosing our battle, not giving up the war. The
guard's nod one steps forward, motioning me down a separate corridor.
Another pulls Quaid in the opposite direction. The last thing
I hear before we are fully separated, you'll be briefed soon,
briefed like this is a job, not a kidnapping. And
maybe that's what makes it worse. They don't see us
as prisoners. They see us as investments, and investments always
come with a price. I take a breath, square my
shoulders and step forward. I don't look back, because this
isn't the fight, not yet