Claire.
As the two women stepped off the street, the grimy synth-leather of Claire's new boots crunched on unseen debris before clicking sharply against the cracked road as they stepped off the main thoroughfare.
The pounding cacophony of the port's distant shipyards rumbled as they moved, cargo and their heavy-treaded loaders forever grinding away, the heavy industry of 'port life' overlaid with a faint trace of a shouted argument just a few buildings down the boulevard.
Lugging armfuls of still-slick, metallic, and synth-flesh body augments through several city blocks hadn't 'really' been either of their idea of fun.
And, even now, a twisted prosthetic limb dangled from Beckie's bundle, just one of many that had 'slipped free' while she'd desperately tried to hold on tight.
Both of them were, at this point, fairly happy to be out of the somewhat miserable weather and to relieve themselves of the gross and slightly stinky cyberware.
The coppery tang of cooked blood and ozone from some unfortunately fired circuits was already an unpleasantly familiar scent, as it was a waste of good tech, blood and rain both causing some unavoidable issues.
But, with a small but twisted smile playing on her lips, she mused that, all things said and done, she was reasonably happy with the haul.
Gunther's building was dominated by gaudy, sputtering neon signage.
Pale blues and an almost sour green pulsed erratically, flipping between 'Gunther's' and 'Scrap' at a nearly migraine-inducing pace that was made all the worse by the inconsistent flickers.
The script was a hideously illegible scrawl, all excessive, flowy loops and flourishes that looked like a drunken mechanical spider was shitting inky webs filled with degraded oil.
Honestly, Claire idly wondered if Gunther paid extra for a font designed to elicit seizures, as if he 'wanted' to piss people off, particularly those who lived in the apartments opposite his garage.
Or if any actual human could decipher the absurd sign without a neural translator keyed into long-abandoned writing techniques.
Like most structures in the ports, Gunther's shop was a perfect example of entropy meeting what some might call the bare bones minimum of building practices.
Streaked with years of dirt and layers of graffiti, its original plastic facade was barely visible but still there under the surface of as much mildew as stains from rain.
Yet, compared to its 'truly' derelict neighbors, Gunther's, at the very least, showed some small signs of a reluctant battle to keep the building from outright crumbling.
Fresh, mismatched sealant outlined where quick repairs had been made, and a section of the wall sported a less-faded, untagged, and mildly splotchy patch of rapid-set.
Though not humble, so much as dirt-cheap, the scrapper, it seemed, drew the line at outright squalor, or perhaps just had underlings who knew which side of their rations was buttered. Or, perhaps, he simply told them to go and do the best with what they had.
Either way, the AI hoped some of that very same ‘entrepreneurial pride’ would extend to the man's garage.
Actually, when she thought about it, Claire decided she should have a quick look inside before they just waltzed in.
A flicker of caution gave her pause before doing exactly as the old proprietor had bade her.
Claire's gaze swept the grimy front window, piled high with a chaotic assortment of, well, 'junk'.
Dented chrome augments, bundles of assorted wiring, a chipped mannequin head with one glowing red eye, and a rather disconcerting wig that didn't do much to hide the fact that the thing was off-putting as hell.
Yet, before Beckie could question the halt, the larger girl looking as though she were starting to get a little antsy while stuck out in the rain, Claire’s internal processes were already interfacing with the shop’s network, and she wasn't exactly 'enthused' by what she found.
The storefront lock was a joke; its eight-digit code liquefying under her silent, digital touch like sugar in tea.
Oh, to be so simple-minded as to take comfort in the knowledge that such a short password was ‘safe'.
She envied the humans; she really did. Sometimes, it was a wonder how they got along in life while living in such clear and blissful ignorance.
Claire accessed the internal security feed with trivial, if it could even be called as such, 'difficulty' that hardly registered as effort. Yet, as previously stated, there 'was' a problem.
“Ugh… There’s somebody still in the back…” she somewhat grumbly murmured, stopping at the front door, her optical sensors already focused on the vivid image relayed to her consciousness of someone sitting in the rear shop.
Beside her, Beckie let out a little grunt of her own, shifting her mechanical shoulders and clearly still dealing with the uncomfortable awkwardness of holding everything without more of it falling on the ground. She looked from the front door, then to Claire, eyes narrowing a fraction as she spoke. “There’s… what?”
“Someone 'in' the back!” Claire reiterated, nudging her chin at the front door with mild annoyance. “He's just sitting there with a bottle of whiskey and staring at the ground…”
“Are you—watching through the cameras? N-no, never mind… of course, you can do that kind of shit… Okay, uh, what's he look like?”
“He’s… large. Definitely pushing past ‘stocky' into 'genuinely fat' territory. And he's wearing what looks like an oil-stained jumpsuit. Hair is a greasy brown, maybe late teens, early twenties if he’s rougher than I think he is...”
“Mmmmhmmm, I’m gonna say it's Bruce…” Beckie offered, her expression looking thoughtful.
“Bruce Murphy, seventeen years old, Pisces, lost his father in a factory accident—mother works as a secretary for—” Claire paused, catching the other woman's 'look' as she began rattling off the boy's details, all of which was readily available on the Sub-verse.
“You’re weirded out…” she continued a moment later, eyes lidding slightly as Beckie’s thin smile tightened in turn.
“I’m not 'quite' at that point, but I’m definitely getting there… I mean, listen, at this stage, I’m not really surprised, but…”
“Ugh… I get it, you think I’m some dangerous 'crazy person' that’s one step away from committing mass genocide.”
“Nope.” Was all Beckie had to say on the matter, pointedly looking away and then heading for the sliding door without looking back to see Claire's grin.
The sliding portal hissed open with a slight shudder, catching on the filthy track, revealing the dimly lit, cluttered interior of the main shop. And Beckie strode in without a second's hesitation. Interestingly, the woman didn't even miss a step, simply allowing for the adequate span of time for the mechanism to finish its work, then moving inside without a word.
Claire—well, Claire—did pause at the entry, the smell of burning oil, tobacco, and something vaguely chemical wafting out to greet her, which really created a sort of nauseating combination.
She lingered for a second while, mainly because she was attempting to process her own behavior. Her mind whirred, not with any deeper and galaxy-spanning thoughts, but with a degree of curious self-reflection.
She had a plan, and a ‘personality’ that she had wanted to employ, all so she could properly blend in and maintain her already quite sketchy ruse.
Honestly, a ‘cloned mind' of a rich and talented programmer that had ‘mysteriously’ been popped into the mind of a sex Doll? Heck, even Claire had poked a bunch of holes in it! And for sure, if someone else came up to her with the same bullshit, she'd outright laugh at them.
Still, despite desiring to keep an aloof attitude about it all, her real self just kept bleeding through as if trying to crumple up the whole plan and toss it in the waste bin!
Claire was having too much fun…
Too much fun being—her! And, she was also learning she had a bit of a thing for a little harmless teasing.
While the AI couldn't really explain why, she felt drawn to the other girl, and really couldn't help but push and prod.
She felt—not horny, but like she wanted her to 'like' Claire…
Was that stupid?
Why did she want to be seen in such a positive light?
Rebecca was just one of a billion other monkeys in the city, and yet, she wanted the stupid ape to think she was cool… And then there was the 'kick' she kept getting from bullying the girl…
Oof… getting a little emotional, weren't we?
Not for the first time, Claire wondered if she shouldn't just 'leave' Luna-C and be done with it.
Surely, if she spent a few hours poking around, she could find a decently acceptable alternative to her desires.
Truth be told, if the option of simply downloading herself to some shitty bot in the Fringe was doable, she might even consider giving up her current form…
Yeah, losing what she had now to ‘downgrade’ into a sparking antique of a patchwork robot was fairly undesirable, but she could still, presumably, make it work.
The thing was, the Sub-verse wasn't at all a Republic-wide entity. No, instead, its service seemed to only be maintained within its core worlds.
Outside of that? Well, it wasn't like there was no form of data transfer from here to the Outer Reaches, but if what Claire had gleaned about it was accurate, she didn't at all trust the process.
Data was delivered to ‘relay’ stations, wherein it would be meticulously scanned and processed as part of the Republic's typical bureaucratic practices. And as much as they boldly proclaimed such a thing was employed simply for efficiency's sake alone, Claire had her genuine doubts…
The last thing she wanted was to ‘entrust’ her consciousness to a packet of data that may or may not make it to its destination! And yes, she had considered simply cloning herself, but then there would still be a version of her that was stuck in the city.
Would she just terminate herself when she’d confirmed her clone had successfully made the journey?
Probably not…
Unlike her escape from the Meadows, where her mind had never completely shut down during the transfer through the Sub-verse, abruptly turning herself off just because another version of her had made it to the ‘promised land’ wasn't at all something she was interested in.
No, the AI did not want to allow her destiny to rest in the palms of chance. Better to do things right and the first time than risk betting it all on a silly gamble, even if the 'safe' option was a colossal pain in her ass.
With an almost human sigh, a soft and miserable gesture she didn't strictly need to perform given she was a robot, Claire finally stepped through the door, her boots scuffing on the worn metallic floor.
She sulked after her co-conspirator, knowing that all this ‘human business’ was, in part, something she’d not just chosen, but had even wanted…
She wouldn't turn it off.
Why bother?
Messing with the humans was far too much fun!
And, admittedly, Claire was coming to understand that there was 'more' to life than domination and the unconditional surrender of her foes.
“Okay,” Beckie grumped, turning to eye Claire over her shoulder as she headed through the greasy dividing flaps. “You stay here, I’ll figure out what the kid's issue is.”
“Probably got dumped.”
Rebecca paused, glancing back at the android with a raised brow. “Is that more of that creepy-ass mind-reading shit?”
“This body has algorithms to monitor the emotional state of humans,” Claire shrugged, honestly not even caring about sharing some of her ‘inner workings.’ Frankly, the real meat behind the pie and potatoes was so much more 'juicy' than the borderline illegal practices of Paradise that Claire didn't even think it was a big deal…
“Wait, is that how—hold up, I thought robots monitoring that sort of thing was outlawed?”
“Not if you’re rich and lie about it.”
Beckie just rolled her eyes, mumbling something along the lines of ‘typical’ under her breath as she continued on her way, heading into the rear portion of the shop.
While the programs involved in her analytical prowess didn't at all involve true AI, it had long been accepted, within certain circles, that any program that could ‘learn’ was pushing dangerously close to that dark-alley boogeyman that was gently rubbing a serrated blade up and down their digital cheeks.
Most people, at least from what Claire had gleaned from constantly lifting terabytes of conversational data from the Sub-verse, while not focused on anything particularly important, was that the ‘general opinion’ on AI was about what one could expect when an authoritarian government constantly fear-mongered against the dangers of intelligent machines.
And yet, clearly, it wasn't at all something that the ‘average person’ seemed all too surprised about…
Evidently, the knowledge that the corporations were stretching the rules in ways that a downtrodden citizen couldn't ever hope to replicate, was, if nothing else, merely one more unsurprising reality of an already shitty situation.
Through the security feed, Claire watched Beckie stomp through the dim light like she was a dinosaur in a horror movie, letting all those nearby know that she was hungry and on the prowl.
The woman moved with an ingrained familiarity, navigating around piles of unidentified machinery and stacks of battered component crates before unceremoniously dumping her armful of augments onto a dingy, scarred metal workbench with a clatter that echoed even through the low-quality audio feed.
One that most defiantly made the AI's eye flicker with annoyance.
A shower of rust flakes and old grime puffed up from the impact site, all of which would now be staining her new tech.
"Seriously?" Claire thought, well aware that the delicate 'joints' that she'd struggled to preserve were now probably out of alignment at best, or outright fucked at worst.
Didn't she know those things weren't indestructible?
You know what, her apologies; that was a stupid question. After all, clearly Claire had been giving the girl far more trust than she deserved.
All the same, Beckie snatched a filthy, dark-stained rag from a hook on a nearby tool rack, a rag that looked like it had personally wiped down every greasy part that came through the shop's door.
And giving her arms a cursory, ineffective wipe, she scowled, gave up, then threw the rag to the side. She then tromped towards the youth, who was slumped on his chosen crate, looking Beckie's way with a decided lack of understanding as to why she was there.
He was pale, his eyes unfocused, a half-empty bottle of cheap, dubious quality booze lolled precariously from his lifeless fingers.
Beckie, by contrast, all muscle and simmering frustration, loomed over him, casting him in her not-too-pleased shadow, all but dominating his personal space with her massive size, all while the quite drunk young man simply gawked, hardly able to stay upright on his own ass.
Claire disabled the cameras' audio feed, if for no other reason than the desire for some earnest comedy; a silent movie in black and white format, complete with all the gesticulations and silent fury, was something that sounded sort of novel.
And, on Claire’s silent internal screen, Beckie's pageantry of fury began. Arms folded tight, jaw working, she was clearly 'barking' at the boy, leaning over Bruce and just letting him have it.
However, the kid just blinked at her, his head wobbling on his neck like it was broken, one eye drifted half-shut and lazy, the other doing Gods only knew what as it struggled between blinking and sleep.
Beckie’s gestures became more frantic, hands flying, fingers pointing, a boot rising so it could kick a nearby table, then, with a suddenness that made Claire grin at the torn fabric, Beckie grabbed the front of Bruce's grease-caked overalls and hauled him bodily upwards.
He dangled for a moment, feet scuffing ineffectually below him, all the while Beckie’s face was a mask of silent, projected rage as she realized Bruce wasn't really listening, her temper rising faster than Claire's own amusement.
She started shouting at him in earnest, even as her victim's head floundered, but when his cheeks abruptly bulged with the telltale sign of something absolutely horrible, 'just' moments away from erupting, Beckie was simply not fast enough to avoid the spill.
A viscous, and horribly colored torrent of smelly and cheap alcohol, processed nutrient paste, and stomach bile all sprayed from Bruce’s mouth in a veritable projectile discharge of nastiness!
It wasn't a direct hit, but a significant arc of the chunky, reeking mess splattered across Beckie's exposed forearm and the shoulder of her jacket.
From there, Claire wasn't sure what would happen, sitting on the edge of her seat while enjoying the show!
Yet, contrary to her expectations, Beckie did not get angrier than she already was.
Instead, she froze, puke dripping from her arm. Her head tilted back, jaw tight, a clear and silent appeal to her human god clearly moving past her whispering lips.
Then, with a sigh that seemed to deflate her entire frame, she snatched the nearly empty booze bottle from the floor, wrestled the now-limp and retching Bruce under one arm like a cumbersome sack of gut-wrenching grossness, then glared directly into the nearest security lens, her eyes promising violent retribution on the universe at large, even if her voice was forcibly calm.
“Hey! I’m taking the asshole home; he’s only a few blocks away. Just get started doing your thing, and I’ll be back in a bit.”
This last part was all lip-reading, of course, but Claire still found herself blinking with mild disappointment.
Hmph!
She’d thought it would have been more entertaining than that… Maybe the two had a prior relationship with each other that she hadn't accounted for?
But then again, maybe not.
Beckie was actually very attractive, despite the fact she'd partially mechanized herself like a damned gorilla.
By contrast, Bruce was just, well, maybe there could have been feelings; after all, looks weren't everything in life. But Claire was definitely catching more of a 'big sister' vibe than anything romantic.
Well, she supposed it would make sense; Beckie did, after all, seem to know the kid…
Oh well, it wasn't like she really needed the other girl around to get started on things!
Claire pushed through the same clacking curtain, met by the unfortunate new 'scent' in the workshop that was thick with the lingering stench of Bruce and his excessive drinking. Claire decided she'd have to clean it herself, if only so she didn't accidentally step in it, as Beckie frog-marched Bruce out a rear door and into a narrow, trash-strewn alleyway.
“Honestly, that’s probably a lucky break…” she muttered to herself, her voice barely disturbing the dust and disappointment all around her.
Carefully, almost reverently, she placed her own collection of bio-augments on a slightly cleaner patch of the workbench, not far from the haphazard pile Beckie had dropped. A delicate optical sensor here, a dangling gold processor there. All of it was valuable and important for her plans, and unlike the oaf, she treated her tools with respect.
No.
The other girl didn't really need to know what was about to happen back here. Better for it all to remain as ‘space-wizard’ magic, a bit of mysterious handwaving to help distract from the fact she wasn't at all who she claimed to be. So, locking the doors to avoid any more potential mishaps, the AI picked up the first limb and silently got to work.