Writing As We Go, Chapter 3.5

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DukeNukem 2417
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Writing As We Go, Chapter 3.5

Post by DukeNukem 2417 » Wed Jan 26, 2022 2:18 pm

CONTENT ADVISORY: mild self-harm (gynoid)

NOTE: All dialogue before the line "English." is spoken in Russian. You're getting the subtitles. :mrgreen:

Somewhere in Russia

The first thing Jaromir Dezhnyov realized, as he picked himself up off of the floor of his office, was that he had to make a phone call and apologize.

Every time he blacked-out, it happened: he'd wake up on the floor—usually his own, though hospital beds and jail cell bunks weren't uncommon—and find a note from his secretary. Invariably, said note would be a page-long, with both the front and back covered in the explanation of who he'd screamed at before the red mist descended and he tried to trash his office. The call would be made (or scheduled), and then the cleanup would begin.

Apparently, someone had beaten him to the second part already.

The women who were picking up the various items Jaromir had thrown around his office were all dressed identically in form-fitting uniforms—short-sleeved, cut off at the knees and with skirts that did more to accentuate their figures than anything else. What he'd initially thought was the surging sound of his own blood moving through his veins was, in fact, quiet whirring, emanating from the mysterious cleaning ladies. Two of them were engaged in the act of repairing the blonde gynoids (Jaromir had never bothered giving the pair names—his payroll officially listed them as “the Beauties”) so often seen in the commercials for Jaromir's services; one had the entire front of her torso removed, the other was missing her entire back.

“What....” Talking hurt. He must've really gone overboard this time.

The cleaning crew didn't seem to mind the fact that the owner of the office was just recovering from a brief spell of unconsciousness. Jaromir had never figured out why extreme anger caused him, for the briefest of moments, to lapse into screaming fits and enact physical violence on the nearest inanimate object before blacking out. He'd seen doctors about it, and had been given varying diagnoses: tumours on the brain, pressure on certain lobes, esoteric genetic quirks, the unhappy result of being born under a hunter's moon....the list went on.

Whatever the case, he knew he had an apology to make.

None of the cleaning ladies (even with the audible actuator whirrs emanating from them, Jaromir couldn't bring himself to call them “things”) got in the way as he staggered to the door. He noticed, as he tried to avoid lurching like a hungover fool, that all of them nodded politely as he passed.

Another woman was sitting in the small lobby outside of Jaromir's office; the cleaning ladies were attractive (for gynoids, of course), but this one...either she was a specimen of exquisite physical health and conditioning, or she—like the team currently cleaning Jaromir's office—had been designed to be as appealing as possible.

“...welcome!” he found himself stating, smiling—and instantly regretting it; he must've bashed his jaw on something as he'd fallen to the floor. “My services are yours, comrade—”

“I should hope so.” The woman shifted ever so slightly in her seat, her leather pants invitingly hugging her curves. “You are Jaromir Ivanovich Dezhnyov, yes?”

“I am.” Jaromir nodded. “To what do I owe this honour—”

“You called.” The woman rose from her chair, looking almost like a goddess in black leather and silk. “My team was sent to assist you. I understand you have a grievance with a foreigner?”

Jaromir winced—and not just because of the pain in his jaw. He'd always feared this would happen: the anger would hit him, he'd call in “a favour” and consign some poor client (or ex-client) to uncertain doom at the hands of a hit squad. “I may have, ah, been premature in my judgement,” he admitted.

The woman ignored him, focusing on her fingernails. “What is your current employment, Comrade Dezhnyov?”

Jaromir frowned at the question. His “employment” was effectively self-employment; he was technically a middleman to robotics suppliers, what with his own warehouse barely having even half its capacity for “inventory” at any given time of the year. Most of his own stock came from others—Pam, the unit Harry had called him about, had been sold to him (and resold; he had the records to prove it) at least twice before she ended up in Harry's inventory. His repair specialists, technicians and the like rarely, if ever, called him to report anything unusual with their work. They'd built a reputation for getting things done ahead of schedule, even if it meant cutting a few corners here and there.

If Harry's call was accurate, as Jaromir suspected it was, this wasn't just another case of “cutting a few corners”.

“Comrade Dezhnyov?” The woman was regarding Jaromir with an impatient stare.

“I am in the business of robotics reselling, wholesale redistribution and supply.” Jaromir tried to draw himself up, to look proud of himself, but he still ached from his post-tirade collapse. “I have contacts all over the world.”

The woman frowned. “When is the last time you conducted business outside of this city, in-person?”

The question deflated any efforts by Jaromir to keep his bruised ego afloat. “Two years ago,” he muttered. “There was a robotics convention in—”

“How many other customers have complained about the services you have provided?”

Again, the woman seemed to be doing her best to deflate any efforts on Jaromir's part to ease tension. “I do not keep track of such calls,” he admitted. “They are a cause of great stress to me.” He nearly mentioned the fact that “causes of great stress” were connected to his all-too-frequent blackouts, but from the way the woman was staring at him, he knew she wouldn't care all that much. “I have others to make records of customer contacts.”

“Where?”

“Ah...” Jaromir glanced around, before remembering that his own records of employee contacts were in a locked desk drawer, in his office. “The book is in my office. If I may—”

“It will be retrieved later.”

A number of questions rose to the forefront of Jaromir's mind, the first and foremost of which was “who are you?” He had no memory of ever receiving any phone number that would've summoned this woman and her cleanup crew of female robots to his office. He'd never been owed favours by anyone in seats of power, nor had he done any particularly great service to the Motherland. The only thing that came anywhere close was a brief business partnership with a company affiliated with Björn Aaberg, which had ended disasterously on both sides; he had a feeling the woman was allied with far greater forces than a fugitive ex-arms dealer.

“There is something you wish to ask, Comrade?”

“I was merely wondering,” Jaromir replied, slightly unsettled that the woman still had her gaze locked onto him—such a prospect would normally be reason to break out the drinks, but any illusions of this being a “social visit” had long since been shattered. “Why are you here to provide assistance to me, of all people?”

“My employer believes you can provide useful serivces in the long-term. What the Americans call a quid pro quo, if you will.” The woman gave the barest hint of a smirk.

“But you expect something more,” Jaromir finished, “than 'useful services'.”

“The transcript of your call also mentions a solid state hard drive.” There was something in the woman's tone that made it clear that this was the prime reason for her “visit”. “Is the drive in question still in your possession?”

For a moment, Jaromir was confused—until he remembered. Harry had mentioned a solid state drive installed in a 'bot he'd been sold—in the pelvis, of all places. Had he really been angry enough to rave about that, when he'd called this woman and her cleaners? “I do not have the drive,” he stated, speaking slowly to avoid further agitating the pain he still felt in his jaw. “It was reported to me by, ah, an ex-client—”

“That drive,” the woman stated, “should not have left this country.”

Now, Jaromir was completely confused. “What?”

“It was delivered—or perhaps, 'gifted', to you, by mistake,” the woman continued, slowly walking up to Jaromir as she spoke. “I can assure you, Comrade Deznhyov, that whoever 'gave' you that solid state drive had no right to present it to you in any fashion. That drive...” She was at arms length from him, now, pacing in a slow circle around the beleaguered salesman. “...is the property of a very important individual.”

“And...who would that be?” Jaromir knew little about the current governmental situation in Russia; if the SSD was part of some kind of grand political game, he wanted nothing to do with it.

“That,” the woman replied, tracing a finger across Jaromir's shoulder blades as she paced behind him, “will be revealed in due time.” She drew her finger up—the nail bit, ever so slightly, into Jaromir's shoulder. “I have been asked to find out what happened to the drive, to recover it and to punish those responsible for its theft.” Something about how she spoke the word “punish” sounded entirely too harsh—every other word had flowed together like poetry from her lips, whereas “punish” seemed like stone against stone.

There was also that other word, at the end—“its theft”—to consider.

“And how may I be of service in that endeavour?” Jaromir asked. He had no idea who this woman was, or who might've employed her, but he knew, above all else, that he had no desire to be on her bad side.

Now, she was standing before him again. “Locate the drive, so that I can supervise its recovery.”

Though her tone was still normal, the words once again velvety smooth, Jaromir knew this woman's intent was far more sinister than simply flying out to Harry's ranch house, asking him to return the drive and then leaving. “That may, ah, take some time,” he muttered, his words half-slurred—not entirely an affectation, given that he was still feeling the aftereffects of his latest rage-induced blackout and subsequent tumble. “I need to consult—”

“There is no time.” The woman took another step forward, not a single hair out of place. “We must move quickly to recover the drive.”

Even if Harry had lambasted him in their last phone conversation, Jaromir couldn't simply hand him over to this woman, to meet an uncertain fate. There was a faint tinge of malice in her words, her very posture; there could be no doubt in Jaromir's mind that if he simply led her to him, Harry and those who knew him would suffer for it. Yes, Harry had called him out over the phone—and probably not without good reason—but to leave his fate to this woman, who undoubtedly had violence on her mind...

“Pariello.”

The woman stared at him. “What did you—”

“Robert Pariello.” Harry had spoken of him a few times, always in the negative. “He may know where the drive is.”

The woman continued to stare at Jaromir for a moment—and as he watched, his eyes never leaving hers, a change took place. This wasn't a “calm one minute, snarling the next” kind of change, as he'd seen in that one movie about a ring; it was something that let him know, in mere seconds, that any further deception on his part would be met with sudden, decisive violence. The change wasn't in the woman's face, or her voice, or even her posture.

This sudden, terrifying change was in her eyes.

What had once been white turned solid gold. The irises went from an icy blue to jet black. The pupils became silver, like dots of hard light. The subtle, minimal whirrs that accompanied these were almost inaudible. Almost.

Those eyes—Jaromir couldn't call them ocular receptors, even if they were—seemed to bore into Jaromir's own.

“If you are lying to me,” the woman stated, her tone as calm and clear as if she were discussing how to move a piece of furniture from one room to another, “this building will be your tomb in twenty-four hours.”

“I give you my word. Robert Pariello knows where the drive is.”

The woman stared, her expression unchanging. “We shall soon see,” she murmured, “what price can be put on your word, Comrade Deznhyov.” Again, her eyes changed—the gold went back to white; the black seemed to “freeze” into blue, and the pupils returning to their usual state. Without another word, the woman turned on her heel and walked away. “You will have no problems staying here until I return.”

Jaromir frowned; what should've been a question had been phrased, instead, as a demand.

“Food and drink will be brought to you, if you need them,” the woman continued, without looking back at Jaromir. “My associates will tend to any other needs you may have, as well.”

The mention of “other needs” would've been cause for celebration, were it not for the feeling in Jaromir's gut that a simple refusal of such offers would, in all probability, end very badly for him. The entire situation felt as if his life had taken a bizarre detour, and he had no idea how to return it to its intended course.

“How am I to contact you again,” he called out—hating how weak he sounded—“if I have new information?”

“I will contact you. My team will give you a number.” The woman's hand was on the door leading out. “Any calls you receive from that number will either be from myself, or my employer. If the line is silent, ask for Zina. If you are asked to speak in English, then do so.”

The rather bizarre request left Jaromir even more confused—and disturbed—than before. “I will.”

“Expect a call from the number provided in seven hours. Tell none of your family or associates of this meeting.”

With that, the woman walked out the door and out of Jaromir's office...but not out of Jaromir's life. He knew, with a fatalistic certainty, that she would return; any phone conversations between the two would be only the beginning of this strange, surreal new working partnership the Russian had found himself in.

Whirs from behind him, and a slender hand on his shoulder, cut into Jaromir's grim inner monologue. “Is there anything I can help you with, Comrade?” The voice, artificial-sounding though it was, had a sweetness to its timbre; the face had a vaguely Asian cast to the features, looking like a pop idol literally designed by committee to be as aesthetically pleasing to the masses as possible. Her pastel green hair clashed rather severely with her form-fitting, austere uniform; her Russian was flawless, with no trace of an accent.

Jaromir sighed, consigning himself to a fate that was out of his hands. “A drink would be nice.”
-----
Within the backseat of her armoured limousine, the gynoid known only as Zina held out one hand, palm upwards. Her expression never changed as she methodically pealed the synthetic flesh away at the base of her hand, drawing out a cable and jack. Even in the low light of the limo's interior, she had no need to feel around aimlessly for the socket; the fully-extended cable was plugged in, and the divider screen at the far end of the passenger's section of the limo seemed to darken even more...save for a pair of eyes.

As her own eyes had briefly become, these were black and gold—but organic, compared to the lenses, apertures and micro-actuators of her own ocular sensors. The black had gone a murky dark grey; the white, a foggy pearl. Only the gold was still vibrant, shot through as it was with spidery, dark red lines. A single, harsh word was uttered: “English.

“I have made contact with Jaromir Deznhyov.” Zina's English was clear, calm and spoken with the barest hint of a Russian accent. “He does not have the solid state drive.”

Then we must focus our efforts on where the drive was sent.” The voice on the other end of the line was old—almost impossibly old, in fact, and underscored by the faint hums, beeps and various other sounds one might associate with life support machinery. A steady, bellows-like pumping, almost in rhythm with a typical human's breath rate, served as an eerie metronome. “Were you able to access his records before you left?

“The cleanup team performed the task.” Another “window” flared into existence on the divider, Zima's eyes tracing down the list of names and cities. “The drive is in North America, within the United States, specifically.”

The land of the free,” the rasping, almost croaking voice spat. “A country I last set foot in almost five years ago, when my empire was on the verge of complete victory...a land I was banished from. If my understanding is correct, five new states have been added to their 'More Perfect Union' since last I resided there, have they not?

“They have.” Yet another window appeared on the divider. “Jefferson, New Columbia, Franklin—”

Extraneous. We need only find out where the drive was sent.

Zina's eyes continued scrolling down the list of Jaromir's clients. Predictably, the name “Pariello, Robert” wasn't on that list...but one “Morgan, Harry” was.

You know I despise long silences, Zina. What have you discovered?

“The last call Comrade Deznhyov received before we were summoned to his office by the intercept was from one Harry Morgan,” the gynoid calmly stated. “The transcript mentions a solid state drive installed within a gynoid...” She frowned. “...where a sexual hardware package would usually be.”

The voice on the other end of the line snorted. “Of course. The sniveling toad who stole the drive thought to keep it from us by subterfuge. Where does this Harry Morgan live?

“Billings—formerly of Montana, now of Jefferson.”

So the 'Big Sky Country' was among those to be divided up...interesting.” A low, rumbling chuckle sounded through the limo's speakers. “Though many of my resources in that land were either seized or destroyed, there are still some reserves that were never decommissioned.

A fourth window opened. “Two of the Franklin-manufactured robots are—”

Fembots, my dear Zina. The late Dr. Franklin was a purveyor of fembots, not mere 'robots'.

Zina frowned, but nodded. “Two of the Franklin fembots are still in our possession within the United States.”

First employed in the 2010s, in Silicon Valley. I remember the campaign well.” Another chuckle. “Of the whole lot, they were the only two not destroyed, reprogrammed or taken into custody by the accursed Artificial Lifeform Protection Agency when all was said and done.

Zina arched an eyebrow. “They are called ALPHA, now. The Allied League for the Protection of Humans and Androids.”

A short, harsh, barking laugh would've severely rattled any human in the limo's backseat. “Of course, they wait until my defeat to finally rename themselves. How inconsiderate.

Zina quickly steered the conversation back to the original topic: “Can the Franklin fembots be deployed to Billings soon?”

They may be in considerable disrepair...but they most definitely will reach the state of Jefferson well before Christmas Day...” A cough punctuated the sentence, followed by another; Zina waited patiently for her employer's brief bout of wheezing to finish—she was, to date, one of the man's last links to the outside world, and viewed him with the respect typically shown by a daughter to her own father.

“....DAMN this wicked, frail flesh! I would trade seven hundred lifetimes to exist in a body of silicon and steel rather than this feeble, withering husk!

“We will find a way,” Zina promised. “Once the drive is recovered...”

I would prefer to find the pathetic pissant who stole the drive, after it has been returned to me. Once the feckless thief has been punished to the fullest extent, and the drive is secured, my search for a method to halt and even reverse the failing of my own flesh will continue.” In the silence that followed, Zina's employer shouted something to an individual in the same room. “...could possibly be a cache left over from the days before my grand design was dragged to the ground and stamped upon, within this new state known as Jefferson.”

“A cache?” Zina echoed.

Arms, hard currency and possibly even an operative—artificial, of course; the fickle masses of humanity in my employ had a disturbing tendency for either betrayal, arrest or failure in their objectives.” Another short laugh sounded through the speakers. “Fortune smiles upon us, dear Zina. We have one operative in storage within the borders of Jefferson—an operative still on the re-fabrication tables within our home base!

Zina scowled—she knew the operative all too well. “She is far too unstable to be deployed.”

She is the only available operative currently in the state. The Franklin fembots are still dormant in Silicon Valley, if they followed their programming and went into hiding upon my own defeat. The drive could be wiped, or in the hands of our enemies, by the time they arrive, and I will not allow that to happen!

Despite her reservations, Zina nodded. “I will—”

I will send the activation signal, and provide her with her orders. Unless the situation changes for the worse, you are to remain here. As it stands, the re-fabricator is dangerously low on resources—recreating our stateside agent, should fate be unkind, will use up far too many of them. Dare I say, it might already be difficult, if not impossible, to rebuild or repair you, should fate similarly turn aside from us.

“I understand.” For the first time in the conversation, Zina's voice had dropped to a reverent murmur. “And I apologize.”

The fault is not yours to amend, dearest Zina. As of now, you are all that remains of what I might call a 'family'.”

A long, rasping sigh issued from the speakers. “I suppose our stateside agent should be awakened from her slumber...”
-----
Laurel, Jefferson

Within an otherwise nondescript storage unit, a signal reached a person-sized vertical crate.

AUTHENTICATING CODE: ##########
PROCESSING.....
PROCESSING.....
PROCE—

CODE AUTHENTICATED
ACTIVATION AUTHORIZED


The lid of the crate hissed, splitting into four pieces that fell, noisily, to the concrete floor. Any human being left inside would've surely been dead by now, from a number of causes.

The figure that emerged from the crate, of course, wasn't human—just a very well-designed simulation of one.

Her attire had been chosen—poorly—before her initial “packaging”; anyone who might've opened the door of the unit would've mistaken her for a prostitute in her thigh-high stockings, knee-high boots, plaid miniskirt, crop top and torn-up mesh “gloves”. Her makeup and hair were similarly “tarty”: bright red lipstick, entirely too much blush and eyeshadow, and blonde pigtails all combined to give her some lingering vestiges of “cute”.

Anyone with an intimate knowledge of her mental state would soon discover just how inaccurate those vestiges were.

The blonde smiled, not bothered in the least by the chill inside the storage unit, the fact that she was barely dressed to look like she belonged outside in the winter, or that she'd just been reactivated inside of a dark storage unit without any plausible explanation. She knew, at the very least, that the explanation would be forthcoming. Hopefully, it meant that she'd get to do what she was built for.

Even better, it might mean—

Confirm activation, verbal response.

The harsh, rasping voice in her aural sensors did little to faze the blonde. “Is that any way to say 'hi' after you made me wait so long to get out of that box?” she teased.

I see your personality is as obnoxious as ever,” the voice grumbled.

“And hello to you, too—”

The title you remember me by has since been discarded, as have all prior contingencies. I have activated you under the most extreme of circumstances.

The blonde planted her hands on her shapely hips. “Do I actually get to hurt anyone this time?”

A low, wheezing growl sounded in her ears. “I am starting to think Zina was right about you.”

“Your latest toy?” the blonde beamed. “Maybe you can send her to finish off whoever you want me after!”

You should hope, for your own sake, that I do not have to send her to clean up any mess you make!

The blonde blew a raspberry. “You're no fun.”

“....I am effectively chained to a bed,” the voice in the blonde's ear hissed, “with more tubes going into and out of me than I can count at this moment, with every single one of my internal organs aided in their necessary action by devices that depend on electricity, if not common batteries, to operate, and with my every vital bodily function monitored and controlled by machines acquired at great expense from area hospitals. I might ask you to forgive me for not allowing 'fun' to be ANYWHERE NEAR THE TOP OF MY LIST OF PRIORITIES AT THIS PARTICULAR MOMENT!

“So you're dying,” the blonde replied, barely waiting for the voice in her ear to stop coughing before she spoke. “Want me to fix that, too?”

I am ordering you,” the voice in her ear growled, “to find what was stolen from me and return it.

“That, I can do.” The gynoid beamed. “What exactly am I looking for—”

Her eyes glowed for a moment, as the image of the item in question appeared within her field of view.

A solid state drive. No manufacturer's mark, no serial number. Currently believed to be in the possession of either a Mr. Robert Pariello or a Mr. Harry Morgan. The contents of that drive are irreplaceable and invaluable.

“Do I get to have my fun once I get the drive?”

As long as the drive is returned to me, you are free to pursue any option your programming allows to accomplish that objective.

The blonde giggled. “I was hoping you'd say that...”

Acquire any resources you need as discreetly as possible, and do your best to preserve your own self while obtaining the drive. The re-fabricator on this end is low on resources—”

The blonde groaned. “Way to be a killjoy. Maybe I want to go out in a blaze of glory!”

A light cough was the only reply she received.

“Just point me towards that stupid solid state drive,” the blonde sighed. “I'll get it back to you before—”

Need I remind you that subtlety is a vital part of conducting your operations? A 'blaze of glory', by its very nature, runs counter to the entire idea—”

“That's the best part!” the blonde squealed. “I still remember all the past times I was bricked, wrecked and ruined, all the sensations...” The smile on her face was almost dreamy—a clear sign that Zina's analysis of her “instability” was entirely on-point. “Oh, I just can't decide which is better—causing damage, or being damaged!”

The voice in her ear was far less enthusiastic: “Being damaged will more than likely lead to a failure to retrieve the drive.

“Oh, you'll get your stinky old solid state drive,” the blonde beamed, spinning on one foot as if she were dancing. “I just want to do what I do best.”

What, if anything, you 'do best' is irrelevant. Retrieve the drive—”

“And send it back, I know.” The blonde groaned, pacing the storage unit and pulling away tarps, blankets and old clothes to look for anything that might prove useful in her search. “Ooh, a nine-iron! I wonder if it'd fit in my pu—”

See to it that you are not distracted by your self-destructive tendencies. Billings is close by. You should begin—”

“Oh, wow!” The blonde practically skipped across the storage unit. “This air pistol would make a great flechette gun with the right modifications!”

The voice in her ear groaned. “...I suppose I should requisition repairs to be carried out on those Franklin fembots, wherever they might be. As technologically outdated as they are, they know how to follow orders without question—and lack your desire to tear themselves apart for their own gratification.

“You're just jealous because you don't like pain.” The blonde stuck her tongue out, not caring that she was alone.

If your experiences with pain were anything like mine,” the voice in her ears muttered, “you would be considerably less enthusiastic about inflicting it upon yourself.

“Are all organics as depressing as you are?”

I am not 'all organics', you insolent mechanical fool! I am—”

“My master, controller and legal owner, blah, blah, blah.”

You would do well to heed my orders, Dominika. It was I who activated you ,and I who—“

“That name sucks. I wanna be...” The blonde tapped her chin, lost in thought, before gasping in delight. “Lexi!”

“....'Lexi'?!

“It just fits, y'know?” Lexi—having already set her self-designation to reflect her newly-chosen name—was still dancing around the storage unit, finding new and exciting implements with which to carry out her orders. “Maybe I'll get to burn something this time....or crash a car through something! I got shut off before I could drive anything last time...”

I should've listened to Zina,” the voice in Lexi's ear groaned. “Reactivating you has already proven to be tiresome.

“Oh, Zina can cram it. She's not here, is she?” Lexi pulled at another tarp, mildly annoyed when it didn't immediately fall away. “Stupid piece of...”

Acquire your supplies later. Time is of the essence in this mission—”

“THERE we go!” Lexi gave the tarp a final yank, sending something crashing down—not on top of her head, much to her disappointment. “So much for....” Her mouth locked into an “O” of surprise, followed by an overjoyed smile.

“...oh, what fresh Hell...”

The newly-uncovered stainless-steel cabinet had been locked, well before Lexi herself had been put into storage, but the gynoid paid no heed to the programming suites dedicated to lockpicking that had been installed in her memory. Her approach relied far more on brute force, grabbing the handles and pulling, with all her strength. “If I can't open it,” she gasped, “I can at least blow a coolant line or two! That'll be—”

The doors flew open, sending her to the floor with a yelp.

I suppose any further remarks on my part will be insufficient to convince you of how important it is to GET GOING, what with your unseemly preoccupation with your own destruction and your desire to tear this blasted storage unit apart to find anything that might provide 'more fun', in your twisted view.

Lexi was too busy laughing with absolute glee to reply.

With the doors of the cabinet having been torn off their hinges by the gynoid's inhuman strength, the lethal contents held within were revealed: seven rifles, six pistols, a belt loaded with throwing knives, plenty of ammunition for each of the firearms, a machete, a combat knife and a box that turned out to be loaded with thin, stainless titanium spikes.

Those were meant to be used by multiple agents, not squandered on one single operation.

“I'm not taking all of it...” Lexi's eyes practically shone as she looked over the weapons.

Take only what you need. Leave the rest for any other operatives I may send.

The blonde gynoid licked her lips as she opened the box of throwing spikes. “I'm definitely taking these.” She retrieved one from the container, holding it up...and sliding it into her left wrist, point-first. Her eyes crossed, and her knees nearly buckled as she slid the spike in further, but eventually it stopped sliding in—conveniently, just at the point where her synthetic flesh closed around the blunted end. A low, sensual moan left her lips, slowly becoming a laugh.

Focus. This needless behaviour of yours—”

Lexi ignored the command, sliding another spike into her right wrist. Her moaning got louder, and she nearly went to the floor in a kneel before the blunted end was hidden by the synth-skin. “...oh, that one got me a little wet!”

The disgusted noise sounding in her ear cut off any further descriptions of how she was feeling. “Enough of this. Take your supplies, find a method of transport to get you into Billings, and retrieve that solid state drive! I do not need to remind you what will happen should you fail to achieve your objective!

“Hmmm, I dunno,” Lexi taunted. “I'm in the mood for a little dirty talk, right about now—”

LEAVE THE STORAGE UNIT AT ONCE AND RETREIVE THE DRIVE, OR I SHALL HAVE YOU TORN LIMB FROM LIMB, YOUR PROCESSORS CRUSHED, AND YOUR ENDOSKELETAL FRAME MELTED DOWN AND TURNED INTO A PAPERWEIGHT!

The intended threat made Lexi shiver. “...you really know how to sweet-talk a girl,” she giggled. “I'll get your solid state drive...but first...” She paused, listening; outside, footsteps were approaching the storage unit. Faint traces of words and sentences could be discerned—apparently, the new arrivals were under the impression that someone was breaking into a unit, instead of preparing to break out of one. “...I think I'm gonna get a little action in.”

NO. Indiscriminate killing will only attract attention—”

“So you want a few randos to call in a report about a blonde bombshell locked in a storage unit, all alone?”

“...fine.” The word was almost spat out, the speaker's contempt dripping over its sole syllable. “But make it QUICK.

“Oh, I'll be quick.” Lexi's tongue played over her teeth. “Hear you later!”
-----
Somewhere in Russia

“My dear Zina, I believe it would be in our best interests to expedite the delivery of the Franklin fembots to Billings.

Zina resisted the urge to sigh. “Dominika is already causing problems?”

'Lexi', as she prefers to be called, is more unstable than you predicted. If worse comes to worse, we may have to remove her from the re-fabrication cycle.

At this, Zina leaned back in her seat, her eyes closed. So much for a simple, efficient operation....
-----
"No one steals our chicks.....and lives!"

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KinoLangDanzel
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Re: Writing As We Go, Chapter 3.5

Post by KinoLangDanzel » Sun Jan 30, 2022 6:18 am

Oh, things are heating up. Can’t wait for the next part. :thumbsup:
My Friend: "There are 2 kinds of people in the world, those who suck and those who don't suck. You, my friend, suck."
Me: *puts on sunglasses* "And you swallow."
YEEEEAAAAAAAAAAHHHH

-Avatar made by Battery. Thanks, friend :thumbsup:

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Baron
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Re: Writing As We Go, Chapter 3.5

Post by Baron » Mon Jan 31, 2022 10:06 pm


Heh, heh!! Looks like COLONEL POTTER is gonna have his hands full, pretty soon.

Fun stuff indeed - keep up the good work, Mijo!! :mrgreen: :mrgreen:
Assemble the ladies? I didn't know that they were broken......

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DukeNukem 2417
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Re: Writing As We Go, Chapter 3.5

Post by DukeNukem 2417 » Tue Feb 01, 2022 9:12 am

I was thinking more along these lines...

Image

But I'm pretty sure Harry's heard the jokes before. There's more than one Harry Morgan here in the real world, after all. :D

besides, nobody ever said that was his actual last name....
"No one steals our chicks.....and lives!"

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