Hot Neon - Segment 01.1

// Hot Neon Segment 1.1 : Rattled

The girl looking across at me, her gaze unwavering, has clearly seen better days. I'd know; that girl is me. A shining black eye, vicious and swollen, looking like a bullet hole in the fucking front of her head. It really does underscore the darker violet shade of her eye, making it all one bruised haze. A trickle of blood from a fat, split lip. The tip of one broken tooth glinting through the gap. She's got a fresh cut on her left cheekbone and a bruise blooming purple around her right eye, where she was sucker punched by some fuckhead with brass knuckles who thought a woman making a deal alone was an easy mark. Even that vivid, purple hair she's so proud of looks dull as shit now, tangled and matted down to her skull.

Her name is Pepper. Nineteen years young, a little spitfire full of distemper when she wants to be, but that's okay. She can typically take care of herself. No, that isn't her real name, obviously, but anyone who's anyone in Sunset City bears an alias, and one doesn't just get to fucking choose. She's a spritely little thing, all sharp edges and litheness, a bit like a ramble, like a wild thing. Say what you want about her, and so many do, but she's got street sense. Not usually one to be caught off guard, but tonight went differently for her.

She's wearing a tattered, pastel yellow tee, proudly bearing a logo for SolarBurst Energy Drink. Feel the sunshine. Yeah, everyone in this city is a fucking walking billboard, one way or another. Over that, a raggedy denim vest, and a pair of black, steel-toed, shitkicker leather boots. Her jeans are ripped, frayed at the cuffs. She had a ball cap too, but getting slugged in the face, unexpected, had that flying off, lost in the scuffle.

I'm eyeing myself up in the girls' toilet at one of the Bronze District's many, many shithole bars. This one just so happens to be called Judith's, not that it really matters. They're all the same when you get past the neon sign out front. It doesn't matter if this one's owned by a mobster or a crooked exec - it's still run-down and nasty inside. The acrid smell of stale piss lingers everywhere, and discarded chem hypos crackle under every other footstep. A fluorescent, buzzing light flickers above, casting my shadow onto the grimy tile walls, all etched and covered in graffiti. The trashcan overflows with used condoms and empty beer bottles, while the mirror behind the sink is so filthy there are probably more germs living in its cracks than anything else in here.

I do my best to shake off my injuries and straighten up; there's no time to bleed, especially not in this place. There's a job waiting for me outside and I can feel it calling. A quick sweep of Harmex to mask the worst of my wounds, and then I leave the toilets, stepping back into the clammy, sweaty darkness of the bar.

"Took you long enough, Pepper," comes a deep, though female, voice from behind me. I don't startle easily, but the sudden change in tone takes me off guard anyway. I look over my shoulder, trying to work out what's changed. "You were supposed to have been here five minutes ago."

"What, a girl can't take a fucking leak without your permission?" I try to keep my temper in check. But the fact is, I'm pissed off, and getting my head knocked just an hour before is starting to make me short-tempered. Not good when I've already fucked things up once tonight.

She's a brawny woman, about thirty years old. Her skin is tanned darkly, and she wears a pair of faded jeans tucked into heavy combat boots, with a gray sweatshirt zipped halfway up her chest. Augged out, too. I can see the cybernetics in her eyes, her hydraulic arm, a plate of solid steel that augments half her head. That means that livewire blonde hair of hers only goes half around.

I believe the operative term here is "built like a brick shithouse," although I'm imagining the steel under her flesh is a lot fucking sturdier than a brick ever could be. And she's carrying something, too; a big gun strapped to her hip. AFJ Arms, class-700 Magnum. Takes rounds about as fat as my thumb, and launches them hard enough to blast them through... whole fucking buildings, let alone people.

"I take it you're Rhino. Corp-dammit, they're getting less and less creative with the names these days." I offer as she dispassionately raises a fist, her organic one, and clenches it, cracking her knuckles.

"Guilty as charged, little girl. Makes some sense. How's a purple-headed little shit like you get the name Pepper?" she shoots back. I notice then, with some surprise, how she speaks with a bit of a lisp. Maybe even some speech impediment. It sounds like she's struggling to form each word properly. Yeah, I'm going to have to be conscious not to mock it, or she'll slug me straight through the fucking wall of this dump. Adrenaline has a way of making you miss the glaringly obvious, at times.

"It's because I'm a spicy little fucker, that's why."

"Yeah? Well, not spicy enough to keep from getting the shit beaten out of you, and covering it poorly with Harmex. I thought I was meeting a chem-runner who could keep up with the pack, not some tart who looks like she face-fucked a grenade." She snorts, crossing her arms.

I appreciate my pusher setting me up with a gunner, I do, but this Rhino bitch isn't doing much for my mood right now. In truth, I should be glad that someone is coming along to help me out on this op, since it's apparently a huge deal, with a worrying margin of error. A gunner makes great fuckup insurance when the deal you're coordinating is this big; gotta be sure the other party will think twice about screwing you over.

"Blow it out your ass, tin can. I'm just doing my job here, and ideally, so will you." My words are meant to sting. Rhino just chuckles and shakes her head, as if marveling at the nerve of me when she could pretty simply peel me like a ripe grape.

But the thing is, I need the creds, and I need them bad. The last few weeks haven't gone well for me. Two jobs botched, and two more in progress that might go sideways any day now. I can't afford to fail again, and that means I have to rely on the skills of others. Even if those others happen to be a total pain in my nuts. Like this Rhino chick.

We stare each other down, sizing each other up. "You sure have a smug attitude for a girl who's got some cosmetic mods of her own. Permanent, vivid purple hair pigmentation, colorant name: 'Flamingo.' Light-reactive tattoo, blue-green inks, 'Neko,' a cat design." Her eye whirrs, and she lets out a little chuckle. "Genital modification, too, huh? Nice prick, girly," she taunts.

I suppose this bears mentioning, and now's as good a time as any. See, with the rise of bodily augmentation and the general lack of medical regulation, some very cool things tended to happen - not just in Sunset City, but across the board. For example, there's this procedure called "gene therapy," which allows people to choose whatever body part they want augmented genetically. So a person wanting a larger dick can just buy himself some extra junk and call it a day.

The lines of gender, and accordingly, the expectation of what each should have under their clothes, became a lot more fluid. Women started wearing men's clothing, men started wearing women's, and both sexes began experimenting with new genital configurations.

In the hands of a good body-doc, these modifications weren't cheap. Even a very modestly-endowed, fully functional penis transplant cost around seventy thousand creds, and we're talking about a fairly small organ here. Thus, for a lot of girls, it became a sort of symbol of one's status, to have something to show off even as a tasteful bulge. A lady could flaunt her fancy jewelry, or she could hike her skirt and... well, flaunt the jewels in a very literal sense.

When I started making solid, drug-money type creds? Yeah, I splashed out for the permanent hair pigmentation - and yes, that does mean that my body hair also happens to be a shocking shade of purple. I spent big on glowing ink that lights up on its own, and seems to move and shift under the right lighting conditions. And, you know it, I decided that I wanted to have a nicely above average package swinging between my legs.

Now isn't the time to boast about the exact size, shape, and texture of said package, but it's more of a 'widened eyes, pleasant surprise' kind of moment rather than a dropped-jaw 'corp-damn, Pepper, that's a big fucking weiner' shocker. I'll let you use your imagination on the latter.

Anyway, I can say confidently that girly-girl lovin' goes a whole, whole lot better when one of the ladies is packing some beef to stick wherever it needs to be stuck.

Rhino probably has a basic scan which includes my full medical history and records. If she did, then she knows that my cock ain't exactly the most modest appendage known to man. Girl's gotta have some solid meat and potatoes to back up that lipstick, assuming she wants to be a draw in Sunset City.

I snap out of my reverie and roll my eyes at Rhino. "Oh, good. You're able to perform the most entry level med-scan I've ever seen."

She smirks. "I don't give a shit how many surgeries you've had. Just don't be all high and mighty about me being augged, girly. We both know I'd kick your ass in a fight anyway."

"Yeah?" I challenge.

Her face is still impassive, but her eye whirs. She looks away from me. "Yeah," she concludes, decisively, flatly. "I suppose you're here for the details, rather than to play the dozens with me?"

I shrug. "If you prefer."

She nods. "Not here. Too many damn eavesdropping ears. Let's have a walk and a little smoke while I fill you in on what I know."

Together, we step out into the city night. Hovercars whirr just above, coming and going, ever bustling. I withdraw my smoke-stick from my pocket, then, and smack it against my thigh to light it. A sharp double lungful of smoke, flavored of cherry and spice, hits my aching nose and lungs like a punch. Then, I exhale, and smoke the color of arterial blood drifts upward toward the night sky.

The streetlights are mostly broken, and the neon signs look tired. They blink and wink, but they only do so intermittently. Some of them are out completely.

"The deal is for a device, not chems. This is some heavy tech, and SCPD is going to hammer up your ass if they should catch wind of what, exactly, you're running here."

I nod, absently. Some kind of major bad artillery, huh? It figures. I'm a convenient scapegoat in case anything goes wrong. "Well, that's fine by me," I reply, nonchalantly. "What am I supposed to be picking up from the sellers, then?"

Rhino takes a lengthy draw from her smoke-stick, the glowing light of it illuminating her face. She looks up at the darkening sky overhead, and puffs out a cloud of shimmering blue. "MaraTech, restricted division. Serial number 007-ZC-HXKL-YZG. The Rattler. In short, it's a megawatt tachyon cannon."

My brows rise. "That's... pretty serious. How much would a piece like that go for?"

"A billion creds. Easily. This thing has the potential to fucking level an entire building block. Turn it into a glowing crater where there once stood a ten story skyscraper. We're talking real, terrorist-level weaponry here, Peppertongue. Not something to take lightly."

I consider this. It seems like the kind of job that's way, way over my head. But, hey, that's why I need a partner. Right? If the MaraTech defectors just decide to fuck us over, at least Rhino can shoot our way out of the mess. At least, that's what I'm envisioning.

"And why would your associates farm this task out to a low-level chem-mule like me, anyway? I know my reputation can't be anywhere near THAT stellar. And yet..."

Rhino gives me a long, hard stare. Her eyes, in that moment are as black as the night sky itself, somewhere far from the city and its ceaseless light pollution. "Because you're expendable, girly. This deal has potential for someone to get busted, killed, or otherwise screwed over. So, they'll sell their piece to someone who can afford to catch the heat. You? You don't matter. You're nothing. You're no one. Without Stripes putting in a good word for you? Shit, you're just some stupid, skinny white lady from nowhere."

Pow. Right in the self-esteem, what little I have left after having a drag-out brawl with a fucking junkie. I'll have you know that at least ended with my tazer discharging its last charge and electrocuting him, too. Still, maybe the way this night unfolded is a sort of sign. Maybe I need to aim my sights higher than I thought possible. I mean, hell, I'm already working for a goddamn crime syndicate. Why not work for a more established outfit? Why not become a bigger fish in this cesspool of a city?

"Fuck it, then. I guess I'm in," I conclude, defiantly. "Let's get paid."

Rhino wheezes out a humorless laugh, tinged with the glimmering blue fumes from her smoke-stick. "Figures. Tomorrow night at 8. My coordinator will comm you the address an hour before the meet. Keep your dance card clear till then. This is priority. Tomorrow, you don't run chems. The only damn thing you do is show up for the meeting. Got it?"

***

What a fucking day. I throw open the door to my 26th-floor apartment, nestled in a shitty complex called the Black Diamond Towers, and drop my bag on the floor. Time to kick off the boots, lose the jeans and the top, and quite possibly crank out a load to ease all the tension built up inside me. Might as well save the shower until that's done.

I squirm out of my dull gray panties, effortlessly kicking them aside as they cling to my feet, and plop my bottomless ass down on the couch. No roommates, meaning my place, my rules.

That accomplished, I tug the entertainment display down over my eyes, and with my mind, scroll through the various programs that I have saved for such a time as this: softcore, hardcore, fetish, BDSM, you name it. I want to relax. I want to feel the warmth of another body against mine; I want to forget about the constant itchiness between my legs that sometimes won't quit.

Little Pepper, sensing that she's about to get some hands-on attention, already begins to fatten and swell, no doubt working her way towards her full, proud eight inches. The display flickers, and then, as sure as if I were there myself, the scene kicks in right where I left off when I last watched it.

The girl beneath me pants in my ear, the bed creaking its protests as we rock together. My fingers dig into her hips, kneading her flesh. The other hand slides up under her hair, gripping a fistful of locks. She's one of those athletic, brunette yoga chicks. Pretty face, nice figure, and plot wise - happy to follow me home so I can help with her stretches.

If I'd bothered to strap into the haptic suit, I'd be feeling that slick little furnace of hers doing its best to wring the soul out of me. But alas, I don't want to deal with the hassle or cleanup afterwards, so following along by hand should suffice.

Her moans grow louder, deeper, her breathing becoming more ragged. In response, I lick and suck on her neck, gleaming and sweat-slicked flesh blocking my view. I can imagine how delicious she must taste. Just imagining makes me hungry, and I pull back to watch the action.

My cock juts obscenely outward, radiating heat, a pillar of pleasure ready to burst forth any second. It's easy to forget that I'm actually on the couch, my hand tugging away at her like a woman on a mission. I'm peripherally aware of its drooling stringers of pre-cum oozing onto my palm, but mostly I'm focused on the two girls who are locked in a passionate embrace, one of whom is me - at least, a digital embodiment of me, though both Peppers, in this case, are getting damn near to orgasmic bliss.

The brunette squeals, her climax clearly hitting just as I am about to release. Her head falls forward, her mouth opening wide, her breath coming fast. If I had the haptics on, I know the way her orgasm would make her interior walls contract and tug incessantly around my dick. Instead, I have to settle for watching the screen, my own pulse throbbing as my orgasm builds within.

Soon, I know, I'll blow, shooting hot spurts deep inside her pussy - as I, on the couch, splatter out a hefty load of my own. As the brunette writhes and wails in ecstasy, I thrust hard against her onscreen, forcing myself past the point of no return.

My knees buckle, my toes curling tight into the carpet, breath ragged as the surging tingles of impending ejaculation sweep across my entire being. Little Pepper is raging hard, heartbeating pulses of sensation washing over me as she broken-faucet trickles glistening juices down to the purple thicket of pubic hair at her root. My core tightens, my balls clenching up against my shaft.

Then, just as the brunette's screams of ecstasy reach a crescendo, I huff out a heavy breath and pull the headset off.

"Aanh... fuck, mmnnn...!" I grunt as a very unladylike first rope of steamy, pearlescent spunk lashes out of the tip of my aching rod, streaking across my bra and cleavage.

"Unnh...!" Another fat spurt follows soon after, spraying into the air and landing upon my stomach with a wet thump. A third, fourth, and fifth follow in quick succession. They land on my belly, dripping down towards my lap in a slow, stubborn ooze.

After that, I'm done. Nothing but residual, viscous droplets to work out of Little Pepper.

Spent, I sit there, panting heavily, a goopy mess across much of my torso. Yeah, probably best that I saved the shower for afterwards. That was definitely something, and the dull ache in my crotch seems testament to how badly I was needing to bust loose.

Even now, my cock has begun to shrink, the urge to stroke fading quickly. As it does, I carefully stand up from the couch, grumbling and trying not to dribble any excess spunk onto the carpet as I make my way down the hall towards the bathroom.

***

I step into the shower. The water is steaming hot in no time, and it feels good. The jets massage me all over, relaxing muscles stiffened by tension and sexual exertion. With the spray blasting against me, I let my mind wander.

Tomorrow night is going to be a big deal. I'm either going to secure this Rattler device, and for some major dubious ends, or I'll be in SCPD max-sec by the night's end. So few things that happen in this city have such a clear, distinct binary.

This thing might just be my ticket out of the slums and into the world beyond, which means I've got to be careful, even if I do get pulled in.

The reflective clarity that comes along with getting a decent load off is always nice. Usually helps me focus better on what needs to be done next. Always important to tug one out, or splash the creds on a quick hookup, if you don't have someone on speed-comm that you can visit and take care of yourself.

I try to keep those numbers low, though, because when you start using them too often, you become vulnerable. Girls can be guilty of thinking with their dicks too, and doing so usually leads to them getting robbed, taken advantage of, or worse. I prefer to keep my relationships with women simple, and short lived. Better to burn bright than burn out.

As I rinse away the sweat and cum that still cling to me, I sigh and swipe my palm over the soap dispenser. It beeps when it reads my chip, deducting twelve creds from my account and burbling out a foamy lather. I rub it gently across my skin until the suds are gone.

The shampoo is almost as good; a little more expensive, but worth every credit. Freshening up is always important, given the occasional downpour of filthy, foul rain that sluices into the Bronze District, washed straight down from the Silver District's gutters - which, in turn, already filtered through the Gold District and its filtration plant.