Inspired by @triruntu‘s gorgeous art, today’s unfinished fic with no future is cyberpunk burlesque, featuring nonbinary cyborg Jack. I want to try coming back to this setting from a different angle, but I realized I set up this particular attempt with no real opportunity for any movement. It’d work as the opening to something MUCH longer, but I’m not going to try that because I can’t finish long things.
***
Gabriel’s never been to a place like this before. His army buddies brought him as a congratulations for his promotion. Major Gabriel Reyes.
Nightclub, brothel and burlesque palace all rolled into one; the place is legendary in gossip circles. They say that if you can afford the admission price then you can find pretty much anything you could wish for: man, woman or enbee; human, cyborg or omnic. Robofucking hasn’t exactly been on the list of socially acceptable pastimes since the Omnic Crisis, but that only ever seems to increase the appeal when it comes to fetishes.
Gabriel’s never really been much for paying for sex, but who is he to turn down a free ride to one of the most exclusive bordellos on the planet?
The greeter—the concierge, she calls herself, in a way that’s absolutely meant to imply she’s there to hook them up with anything their hearts desire—meets them at the door and escorts them into the general lounge.
A couple of Gabriel’s buddies laugh at the look on his face, because this place is palatial. The set design alone would be worth the price of admission. Okay, that’s a geek thought, but a man’s got his hobbies. His just so happen to give him an appreciation of color and texture and the artistry involved in deploying them.
Everything is natural fibers and materials. Wood and leather furniture, with hand-carved detailing and tufting to create patterns; cushions and drapes of jaquarded raw silk and damask velvet; woven bamboo and linen wallpaper; it’s a master class in layering texture and color and pattern to create a sense of carelessly expensive class.
The room is already well-populated with ‘hosts’ and a number of clients. It’s easy to tell which is which because the clients don’t look like living works of art. The hosts and their outfits are as lush and sensual as everything else here, carefully designed to bring attention to their best assets and lend them a half-veiled mystique.
In a conversation nook near the door, a human woman leans over a board game spread across the coffee table, and then glances up to smile at Gabriel’s group. She’s stunning, with eyes deep enough to drown in and a mint green lace gown that gives tantalizing glimpses of her smooth dark body underneath. The skirt parts over her left thigh to show off her elegant cybernetic leg.
Finch heads over to her and she gestures to the seat beside her. When she shifts to face Finch as he sits, Gabriel can see the pistons in her knee move. It’s a work of art in its own right. He wonders whether she was able to afford it on her salary here, or if it was a gift from some suitor, or maybe the house.
The hosts watch their visitors enter with an air of studied, lazy welcome. Every one of them is beautiful and fascinating, Some smile or beckon when one of Gabriel’s group shows interest. Others continue on with their activities: games, chatting with each other about politics, science, movies they’ve seen lately. A male omnic on a sofa looks over the top of his book and blinks his optic LEDs in a robotic greeting when Gabriel glances at him. He’s wearing loose, light pants that drape beautifully and a sort of vest made of cascading strands of dark blue and purple glass beads. Underneath, he’s had bits of himself plated in copper to accentuate his exposed joints and underframe.
Gabriel’s never seen an omnic with so much of their understructure exposed. He stares for long enough that the omnic tips his head in invitation and Gabriel has to wave him off, feeling like an ass.
Gauze and tapestry hangings diffuse the light from the stained glass lamps and create ethereal, shadowed half-private niches here and there throughout the room. Everyone and everything here is so romantically, glamorously alluring that Gabriel feels a bit lost, not sure what he’s looking for. He follows the soft sound of music through the shadowed grottos of the room to find a female omnic playing on a grand piano in a windowed bay at the far end of the room. Nkosi is drifting her way as well, drawn as always by anything musical.
He watches their liaison begin from a tapestry-framed nook. It occurs to him that these things are meant to entice; conversations and activities as carefully crafted to draw in and please their clients as the setting and costuming. He crosses his arms and looks around the room, unable to decide whether that’s appealing or creepy.
“It’s all customer service,” says a deep voice to his right.
Gabriel jerks around. There’s a blond host half nestled into a stack of pillows on a chenille loveseat, looking up at him with eyes so blue they jar against the room’s decor. They’re dressed with the androgyny of an enbee, their body encased in a red and gold satin corset and garter belt that does things to their narrow waist and broad chest. Above it, they’re entirely bare, highlighting the broad, curvaceous sweep of their shoulders, their strong, toned human left arm and the sleek exotically fierce looks of their cybernetic left one.
They uncross and recross their legs. They’ve got great legs; long and sleek, shown off nicely in heeled combat boots and silk thigh-highs, and they happen to also be cybernetic from mid-thigh down. “Our job is to please our clients,” they continue, watching Gabriel take stock of their body. “Considering what we charge, you should expect to get your money’s worth.”
They seem utterly unfazed by Gabriel’s eyes tracking up and down their body. Why should they be? This is their job. But they don’t seem like any of the others in here. They look as completely at their ease as if they were in their own home, but the unusual part is their lack of any discernable emotion. There’s no warmth or allure. They watch Gabriel with a calm neutrality so total that it’s almost icy.
“I’m Gabriel.” It pops out almost despite himself, and he’s not sure whether he’s trying to put some kind of reaction on that pretty, cold face or if it’s because of the way that corset looks like it might split off their body if they breathe too hard. He wants to replace its grip on their chest with his hands.
“Jack.” They give their name in an offhanded way that normally comes with a handshake, but they don’t even offer that. (Dig up the line that was here before.)
Gabriel shrugs. “I like costume design. It’s kind of a hobby. I was just admiring how well put together the place is.”
Jack tips their head. “I suppose. I’d never really thought about it, but the proprietors here don’t pull their punches when it comes to crafting an experience.”
There’s something wry in their tone. It’s not mocking or bitter, but the touch of irony is the first bit of emotion they’ve shown and something about it makes Gabriel laugh. Jack doesn’t quite smile, but the glint of humor that flashes over their face makes their eyes shine in a whole new way. “What did I say?”
“I’m having a workplace chat with a…uh. What are you guys called, anyway? Like, job title. Escorts normally go out and about.”
Jack pushes up out of the pillows to sit a little straighter. “The boss likes ‘companion.’ But clients can do what they want. I’m not gonna be offended if you call me what I am.”
“You’re not what I expected. You’re military.” Military cybertech is hard to miss, finer and more durable than anything to be found on the civilian market. And it means Jack didn’t just serve; they got themselves blown to hell, lost three limbs, and were rebuilt and sent back into special operations till their contract ran out. “Kind of an unusual place for someone like you to end up, isn’t it?”
Jack shrugs those amazing shoulders. The human muscles ripple beneath creamy, scarred skin and glossy black plates shift gracefully against each other, and Gabriel has to swallow the sudden extra saliva in his mouth. “Cyborgs aren’t exactly warmly welcomed in most parts these days. We look a bit too much like omnics for most people’s comfort.”
And Omnics are barely considered people.
“You seem to like what you see.” Jack’s rough voice snaps him out of the path that thought was going down. It’s not a voice he’d ever imagine a hooker having. The gruffness catches him off-guard every time Jack speaks. When he meets Jack’s eyes, they’re looking back with a steady, pinning gaze that makes it clear they’re not talking about the decor.
“Uh, yeah. I mean you’re-” Gabriel gestures, then cuts himself off. What a rookie thing to say.
Jack snorts at Gabriel’s awkwardness. “Thanks.” Right. They must get that from clients all the time. Gabriel can feel himself flushing. Thank god for his complexion.
from Tumblr http://ift.tt/2sAm1My