Cyberspunk 2069 - Bk. 01

"I'm sorry," Penny looked genuinely sad.

"Not your fault. And I still talk to them now and then. They're safe, mostly. Over in Ecuador with some relatives."

"That's good. If there's ever anything I can do..."

"I know. Thanks, Pen," I offered a slight smile and patted her hand on my knee. Short of running for president and lifting the paranoid national lockdown, I didn't think there would be any way she could really help. But stranger candidates had won elections in the states before, so who could say?

We made our way back inside the mall as the sky outside turned a bruised shade of violet, and we rode the escalators back down to the first floor. Outside a lingerie store we passed a woman in a silky, scarlet sash, on her knees getting facefucked by a security guard. The woman looked too posh for debt relief, but the sash spoke for itself, and her slobbery gagging was as good for advertising as anyone else's.

"I think I know that lady," Penny said, hushed, as she looked over her shoulder. I looked too but all I could see was the guard's ass above his dropped pants, and the posh woman's tits pulled out from her blouse.

"Who is she?" I asked.

"Can't remember her name, but she showed me some houses before I found the one I'm at now."

"Guess times are tough in the realty game," I raised my eyebrows.

"Guess so."

We pushed through the crowd at the stocks outside the mall entrance, and crossed the street back to the parking garage. Penny's little yellow coupe was on the third floor, and I paid for the parking since she was kind enough to pick me up. The whole way home I was thinking about Allie, and Brawnswick, and my parents. When I shut the door to the car Penny smiled and told me not to worry -- that things would get better, I just needed to be positive.

I know she meant well, and I appreciated it. But as I rode the elevator up to the 14th floor, my stomach still felt strangely queasy.

Chapter 5

Lafayette Highrise Apartments, #1406

Trenton, New Jersey

April 29, 2069

11:42 P.M.

"¡Hijole, Manny! I'm gonna start making you take sponge baths if you're always gonna hog the shower!" I blatted my palm against the electronic door to our shared bathroom, wearing just a green bra and holding two fluffy white towels tucked under one arm. My vanity-prone sibling was notorious for his long grooming sessions, scrubbing and shaving every inch of himself that still grew hair and produced sweat. He always emerged from the bathroom in a cloud of fragrant steam, looking like a 6'3" newborn babe with an angular face and muscular hypertrophy.

I could hear him crooning along badly to some Bluetooth hyperpop, and knew he either couldn't hear me or wasn't listening, so I huffed and dragged myself to the couch. The puffy, black leather cushions wheezed around me as I commanded our 70-inch pinscreen to turn on and start the Discovery app. There seemed to be fewer and fewer shows about nature and wildlife over the years, but I always enjoyed watching little furry guys bumbling around and being cute.

As if she'd read my thoughts, Rhino appeared on the back of the couch and pranced behind my head, purring as she slunk down my chest to twitch her tail in my face.

"Well hey there, princess," I smirked, scritching the rump of my blue Chartreux while she purred and arched her back. She turned and nuzzled her fuzzy head against my boob before looking up at me with her sunny, yellow eyes. I'd asked Manny once if he was copying her with his own iris implants, and he'd vehemently denied it. The plump kitty permitted me another few moments of affection, before disappearing to tend to the rest of her nightly agenda, whatever it may have been. Then the prodigal son of primping finally emerged from his domain.

"Hey puss!" He made kissy noises at Rhino as she trotted by him, and she paid him no mind.

"Any water left in there?" I asked smugly without turning from my plush seat.

"Just the recycled kind," he joked, "but don't worry -- it always smells better after it washes me." He strode naked into the living room, toweling his pits and dripping onto the recombined hardwood. His 12-inch, satin-black cock with the flared head hung limply between his powerful thighs, significantly darker in color than the rest of his body. He'd dropped almost $12k on the thing, tuning it the way a street racer soups up an engine. Like most masc-lete cocks, it was composed of a DuraMAX SynDerm blend for sprain and friction-burn resistance, and connected to little SemSac and EverHARD pumps implanted along his perineum. He'd sprung for a urethral splitter, so that his piss wouldn't get clogged behind waves of ejaculate, as well as the flared head that not only looked imposing, but made it just a little bit harder for femme-letes to dislodge the thing during a match.

He was Borg-5, like Allie, but much more muscular. That was due in part to little electrodes implanted into his major muscle groups that gave him a somewhat constant workout, based on a "regimen" schedule laid out by his trainer. Some guys, like Brawnswick, went to the extreme of total muscular replacement in certain areas, but there was always a risk of rejection. And once you took the organic muscle out, it was pretty much impossible to put it back in.

"Do not get the couch all wet -- it'll start disintegrating like the last one," I smacked one of my towels at him as I stood to get in the shower.

"Yes, ma'am," he grinned, and told the pinscreen to switch over to a music app.

The bathroom smelled like sandalwood and joint grease. Manny's left knee had been jamming up since a match with a Borg-6 femme-lete named Yoko damaged the synthetic joint. He'd been greasing it with at-home injections hoping he wouldn't need a total replacement, since he'd just splurged on a new sound system for his truck. I always told him he needed to be more careful with his money, but I couldn't blame him, really. For a long time we weren't used to having any. So when wrestling finally started paying some decent dividends, we bought a lot of the things we'd been wanting but couldn't have.

Over time we upped our mods, he got a car, I bought a high-end pinscreen and app package, and we rented a decent apartment in an area that didn't have gunshots lulling us to sleep at night. The Lafayette tower complex was definitely overpriced for the size and quality of the units, but it was close to the river, and Cadwalader Park, and downtown Trenton -- for what that was worth. We didn't mind. It was ours, and we finally had separate bedrooms -- which made things much less awkward when he would bring home another of his little fangirls to pound into his mattress all night long.

I stepped into a shower cube speckled all over with dark little hairs and cursed under my breath. But I'd leave it at that, because half the time when the drain needed snaking it was a clump of my own soapy sheddings that was to blame. I unclasped my bra and tossed it onto the sink, before spinning the shower dial to create a scalding waterfall from the grated panel overhead. I let it soak my hair and relax my shoulders as another day's frustration melted down the drain. The little illuminated switch on the wall in front of me was supposed to dispense body wash into the stream, but it kept flashing yellow which meant that my brother had used it up.

"Hijo de..." I muttered, leaning out from the opening in the glass partition to smack my hand around on the stone shelf for a bar of soap. I didn't care if I had to lather up like a caveman, I just wanted to go to bed. The little ivory bar slid around easily up my ribs, beneath my pits, between my tits. I let myself enjoy the vague stimulation of excessively soaped nipples, and wished slightly that my abused clit had the same capacity for excitement anymore. Femme-lete orgasms in the ring weren't worth any round points, like masc-lete orgasms were -- but they could be handy for wearing us down.

My first couple of years in the amateur circuits, the guys mostly fumbled around my pussy like virgins on prom night. But once I made the big time, even on the lower rungs, I was being matched with some virtuosos of the female instrument. In my third month after getting signed, a guy named Percy Pinklove cinched my arms overhead with his legs, and rubbed my clit raw until I was gushing over the first row of the arena audience. By the time my eyes quit swirling around in my head he had me laid flat on my stomach, and was filling my ass with so much cum that I swore I could taste it on the back of my tongue.

Even so, my ratio was still better than lots of other girls in the league. I was 49-71 in the Spring of '69 -- and only the really hardcore vaginal terrors had a positive ratio, so being even close to a 50-50 split was impressive. It was always obvious that the sport was intended to favor the super-cocks and the jerks who owned them, but it was still more real than the classical TV wrestling of our forebears. We kept some of the silly names, the dramatic performances, and of course the adrenaline fixation -- but none of the scripting or other fakery. What you saw was what you got. And every win was as real as the full-body soreness coma the next day.

I hummed one of mom's favorite old songs, La Rebelion, while I washed and conditioned my hair. I'd spoken to her a week earlier, on the phone. She and papá were staying in a little cabin on the coast with a cousin, and she sounded serene. She told me they were fishing their food and reading books by candlelight, living off-grid. I envied the idea, a little bit. She said they missed us, and that we had to come visit when things settled down and got back to normal. I didn't want to disrupt the fantasy by telling her I wasn't sure that would happen, so I just said we would do that, and that I loved her.

The water from overhead started cooling down, so I knew it was coming time to return to reality. My silky sheets awaited, as did Rhino who would reluctantly settle into the crook of my knees once I was good and settled. Manny would probably be up for another three or four hours trawling around wrestling message boards and shocking people who didn't believe he was really THE "Minotaur" -- he never stopped getting a kick out of the little bits of fame that followed us out into the world. But he'd be in his room, on the other side of the apartment, and his boyish laughter wouldn't penetrate the many layers of sleep that washed over me well past sunrise.

Chapter 6

Bulldog Bar

Fieldsboro, New Jersey

May 7, 2069

8:24 P.M.

"Sal -- Sal! Can you turn it up?" I gestured to the bartender standing beneath the jumbo pinscreen above the center island of bottle racks. Bulldog was a popular haunt for U.B.S. fans, and I'd go there with Manny sometimes to watch matches that interested me. It was a decent way to study opponents, and the drinks were generous, too.

"... times known as the Blonde Bomber, measuring 6' even and weighing in at 210 pounds -- Allie, Suuuuuuunnnn!" One of the announcer's voices became audible over the crowded chatter and droning music of the semi-sports bar. Plenty of people were just there for greasy food and topless servers, but the real league fans were mostly gathered around the bar top with my brother and I.

On the screen, Allie strutted confidently down the colorfully lit walkway, between the thunderous sections of fans filling the arena seats. Her shiny platinum mane was pulled tightly back into a banded ponytail, with additional ties every few inches to keep it from coming loose. She wore a fluttery, pink, kimono-style robe that teased her sculpted thighs with every step toward the ring. Close behind her was the little entourage of her trainer, her mod doc, and her sponsor rep -- a beady-eyed man wearing a Cosmos Cosmetics lanyard around his skinny neck.

Allie reached the edge of the mat where her "stool" -- they were more like large, egg-shaped chairs -- was waiting for her. The fiddly music that accompanied her entrance swelled as she slid the robe from her body and tossed it into the air, sending the audience into a frenzy of cheers while she greeted them with a raised-arm turn. Her peachy tits were large and firm, and branded with little SD initials like her thighs, and mine. She had a slim waist and rocking biceps, which she flexed beneath the spotlights as she finished her showy little spin. Then the music gradually transitioned, and the announcer spoke up again.

"And her opponent tonight: standing at 6'9" and weighing 305 pounds, the Mountain Man, the Battle Beast, the Undefeated -- the one, the only, Brawnswiiiiiiiiick!" Apocalyptic drums and horns reverberated through the arena, and mostly male voices howled with admiration for the massive creature thudding down the opposite walkway through the stands. He wore a ragged black cloak that covered his head and face from view, as the frayed edges swept along behind each heavy step of his cinder block feet. His trainer was a pallid man with a grim face, who had the physique of a street boxer beneath his sleeveless black vest and slacks.

Brawnswick's trainer arranged a few squeeze bottles around their team's stool, and the sponsor rep from Zeta Firm scanned the audience without expression. Zeta Firm was a defense contractor, and the rep didn't need a lanyard because his black and white fatigues with the huge ZF on the back made it pretty clear who he was. My hand involuntarily tightened around my whiskey cola when the bald-headed hell brute emerged from his black cloak, and the spotlights bathed his rippling mass in harsh shadows.

He somehow looked even larger on the screen than he had at the gym. He was impossibly broad, and had the kind of swollen muscles in his neck, obliques, and calves that could only be achieved through implants. I'm certain other muscles were implanted too, but those were the most obvious, to me. His firehose of a cock was rippled with smooth chrome studs like one of those Japanese Kanabō clubs, and the shaft was the same deep red shade as the serpent tattoos that encircled his limbs. As it stirred to life just above his reinforced knees, you could make out a dark ring near its base, where it connected to his hairless crotch. I lifted my glass to my lips and finished the remaining half of it, rattling the ice when I dropped my hand back down to the counter.

"Fucker's barely human," Manny shook his head, watching the beast indent the mat beneath his feet. I wondered what the chances were that Brawnswick's Borg-7 classification was fake. He was just too damn big.

"Another one?" Sal stepped into view.

"Huh? Oh, yeah -- please," I relinquished my empty glass so he could fill a new one for me. On screen the ref stepped onto the mat in his black and gold jersey, and motioned for the two wrestlers to join him at the center of the large, round ring. There were no ropes, no turnbuckles, just a row of metal railings set a few feet back from the edges of the large, padded blue mat. There had to be 10,000 people packed into the building. High-tier matches always drew the biggest crowds.

"Let's have a fair fight tonight -- no ring-outs, no breakers, and if you hear 'Mercy' you drop the hold then and there. Got it?" The ref looked from one face to the other, and both competitors nodded. Allie looked determined, Brawnswick looked straight-up hungry. They were sent briefly back to their stools for a final team chat before the match began, and so that the ringside girl with the "ROUND 1" sign could strut around the edge of the mat in her glittery gold heels and nothing else. The girl holding the signs that night was Celeste, a gorgeous black vixen with long, kinky curls and an absolute dump truck of an ass. She wasn't a Pet or anything, more like a league model/mascot. The closest thing U.B.S. had to cheerleaders.

When Celeste finished her lap, the ref called the wrestlers back into the ring, raised his arm in the air, then dropped it to signal the electronic starting bell. Brawnswick wasted no time -- he was quick for his enormous size, and lunged across the mat with a leering grin painted onto his face. He aimed to circle Allie's hips and sweep her up into a bear hug, but she managed to sidestep and duck out of his grasp. I didn't like her, but she was good. Her win rate was higher than mine, at 67-73 -- but Brawnswick had never been defeated in his six-year career. He entered the league at Borg-5, and was always out of tier for me, so I honestly never really watched his matches. I knew about him, everyone did, but I didn't really care. He was one of those sadists who got into the sport for the misogyny of it all, not the spirit of primal competition. So I didn't care to watch or learn about him, up to then.

"Sun's going to need that speed to stay out of reach tonight, Tony, she does not want to get swept up in this guy's grip," the first announcer, Lester Graham, commented while watching from a glass box suspended above the audience.

"Absolutely -- very few femme-letes can even outmaneuver him in the ring, let alone compete with his strength. Let's just hope we at least get a show tonight." Tony Castille was relatively new in the announcer booth, since his predecessor retired at the end of the year prior.

Brawnswick turned to face his dwarfed opponent and they circled each other cautiously, searching for openings. Allie's hands flexed open and closed as she tried not to watch the huge, imposing phallus inflate to life in front of her. It filled like a hydrogen blimp beneath the deep cuts of the masc-lete's pelvis, and a heavy drop of excited precum swelled from the slit. I couldn't fathom having that ridiculous, knobby thing jammed into my guts, and I crossed my legs at the thought as Sal arrived with my refill.

Allie zigged toward the giant, and then zagged around him as he reacted. She dove to the mat just behind him and thrust a heel into the back of his knee, hoping to break his balance. But the joint barely moved, and he shot his thick hand down to seize her ankle. She tried to roll away out of his grip, but he held tight and swung her around once before tossing her tumbling across the mat. The ref gave him a cautionary look that went unheeded, as Allie climbed to her feet.

"I've heard the physical therapy for those carbon-fiber sockets is brutal, but we're seeing here exactly what a difference they can make in the ring," Tony marveled.

"Still, Brawnswick will have to watch that he doesn't go overboard with the ragdolling. Even a pro like the Undefeated can still lose on a technicality." Lester had seen it happen before, plenty of times.

Despite the combo of MMA and classical wrestling styles, there were some clear rules that had to be followed to avoid disqualification. You weren't allowed to intentionally eject your opponent from the mat, though intent could be hard to judge, and deliberation was largely up to the ref. You couldn't attempt to break or otherwise severely injure your opponent's body -- even the wholly synthetic parts. And if either opponent cried "Mercy" at any point during the match, it was an automatic forfeit, and their counterpart had to immediately release or get clear of them. Obviously, it could be hard to enunciate if you had a massive cock crammed down your throat, so a hand sign could also serve as a Mercy forfeit. You just had to raise your fingers to the ref in -- ironically -- an "OK" symbol, in order for him to call the match.

I'd never cried Mercy yet, which had earned me the uncreative ring moniker of "No." As in, Mia "No" Murcia. It was a point of pride for me that I'd never surrendered to anyone. I'd only been beaten by bigger and/or better opponents. And sometimes that pride came with a fair amount of pain. I watched Allie slide under a single-arm sweep from Brawnswick, and then slam herself against his back, causing him to stumble forward a couple steps before recovering. Even through the distant perspective of the screen stream, I could detect the intimidation growing on her face, and in her posture. She could barely move the guy. And she'd need to do a lot more than that if she was going to win.