On The Dotted Line

"So, we are here to discuss a possible performance contract between you and Miss Merithivm."

James blinked; it sounded like Franc had developed a lisp all of a sudden. "Miss who?"

The suit smirked, icy blue eyes peering through him. "That would be 'Shiv.' I grant her full name is a mouthful, Shiviriamerithivm."

James did a double-take and turned his ear toward Franc, who chuckled.

"Yes, exactly. We had to create a surname, since pride names for females on Polo don't work like ours do for women."

Pride name. Huh. Like a Clan name?

"Oh. Got it. Okay." James waited, then said, "Uh, yeah, I'm here to discuss that scene. Shiv said it was 'specialized'?"

Franc nodded and looked at his file. "Yes. It is just as well she proposed to us a Frother. We're looking for someone who can engage her in a convincing melee prior to intercourse."

Somehow not as bad as he had feared. Their drinks came, and James popped the can, the pssht! attracting a few sidelong glances while Franc blew on the surface of his foaming reddish-brown liquid before sipping quietly. The familiar taste of apple gave James confidence to speak next.

"A fight, eh? Just so I understand, this scene you want is kind of a...mock rape? You want a fight, then sex. So, you want it to seem like I'm raping her?"

The executive's eyebrows shot up and he laughed aloud, richly amused. "Oh! Oh, no, Mr. McManus. I doubt that you could even manage it in pretend. If you had ever watched any of Miss Merithivm's work, you wouldn't be confused now. No, this is combat resistance. It will seem as if she is raping you. Once you're on your 'Ultra Violence,' you should put up a wonderful fight and feel no pain no matter what she does, am I right?"

James stared at him as the Flip and Slosh worked in tandem to reduce the prickling of the hairs on his forearms. There'd been plenty to distract him this last month, but he hadn't even thought to research the Wraith Raider that way. Or maybe he just didn't want that stuff on his Oyster. Still, he kicked himself now, because Franc had an even bigger advantage and he knew it.

The exec pulled out a contract, grinning widely. "Would you like to learn more, Mr. McManus? Or must you bow out if it's not your 'jive'?"

James remained still by virtue of the drug in his blood. Frothers didn't turn tail, and while he hadn't told anyone in his Clan about this opportunity and they might never know, he was aware how execs networked with each other. Refusing this might be the last of any "big breaks" he'd see.

Now it's a violent, alien porno. She's got claws. And teeth. James looked at the familiar logo on his drink and felt annoyed with himself. Really think this is any worse than the Reds they dump us into for a hundred a pop? Up against creaking cyborgs with their faces rotting off? Lucky I got all my limbs after last time. And there's ten grand in it if I do this right. Not like I couldn't afford some KickStart to heal back up.

James shook his head, the familiar swing of his dreads boosting his confidence. "Nah, I'm good, Mr. Bouvard. Show me."

The contract came next, and Franc went over it swiftly as James struggled to read the text in the right places where his flying finger pointed.

"No sex for forty-eight hours prior to reporting to the studio," the suit summarized, "no UV for at least twelve prior. You are forbidden from taking Alice, Flip, Drum, or Beat as those will conflict with our purpose, and we will test you upon your arrival. You are allowed Personal Interest and Streak if you like, depending on how your system responds to them, but not Pain Away or KickStart until after recording is complete."

That was going to suck. And the pay was indeed a measly two hundred credits.

Franc noticed the twist of his mouth at that part and admonished him in that reasonable type of voice. "This is the standard starting pay for a male actor with no experience in the industry. The Channel would be handling all advertising and distribution, and we'll do our part to make you attractive to other sponsors," the suit smiled proud as pearls, "because that's what we do. You only must do your part, McManus. You know, meet us halfway."

Yeah, whatever.

Then there was the medical exam prior to any signing of the contract. They wanted to check him for venereal diseases.

"Ok, well, I got my standard battery of immunities in basic at Meny," James said.

Franc nodded without interest. "We're still going to check. The non-use of condoms is in your contract and you'll be inside our star at some point. You may not pull out, either, though there's a twenty-credit bonus if you do and go manual. There's a reason they call it the 'money shot'." Another oily smile. "You are incapable of getting Miss Merithivm pregnant, so that won't be a concern, but we know you're promiscuous enough and decently endowed."

"Uh. How do you know that?"

The executive grinned. "Oh, that's easy. In any case, you may trust us that we always give her the same exam, and she's always been clean."

"Oh, good."

"Are we ready to go, then?"

"Go where?"

"To the clinic. We've covered everything important. Everything's on the table." Elbows on the table, fingers tapping together. "Now you tell me if we should invest in you, Mr. McManus. In this proposal."

Now? Decide now.

The executive's fingers drummed the table, and he sipped his coffee, chilling eyes peeking over the rim. James' heart beat harder in his chest, in his ears; a persistent pulse against the restraints of the drugs. This was his only opportunity, the only attention they'd give him. If he walked from the table without signing on, Franc wouldn't call back. They'd just look for someone else.

Do it or not. Walk away, or walk out with him. Like breaking from cover, stopping midway gets you killed. Only this time, it could get my family killed if I just hide behind that dumpster and never come out swinging.

The Frother tipped Slosh to wet his lips. "Already runnin,' Mr. Bouvard. Let's go to that clinic."

Between the red tape, the doctor visit, the business talk, James had a splitting headache when he left at the end of the day, heading back to the Gauss station alone. To think he and his brothers talked about how it would be cool to be paid to have sex.

I signed. Fucking signed. Now what?

It was a bit late, but he felt the need to download some fetish porn and pay for the privilege of watching Shiv in action.

Before he was supposed to let her fight and fuck him next.

*****

Most of the porn came through the widescreen in the Commons at House McManus. The only private bits streamed on the tiny screens of Oysters. Since the Commons of his dorm was rarely empty and big screen porn displayed only the types of sex any Clansman would admit to liking, James realized most of what he'd watched over the last three years was generic and predictable. Even the "violent" stuff always had the man on top.

James sat on the couch in the dead of night when most were out partying, universal remote in hand, temporarily alone, and sober enough to notice the cravings. To notice the time passing. Once Ma and Seana were sponsored by him and moved out of Downtown, they'd be safe. If—or when—something happened to him, the clause in his employee benefits would see them set up, and they'd have all his earnings. His Clan would help take care of them if they got sick or needed a job, but he had to move them and get them registered with the Clan first.

Best chance, won't have another. I signed the contract. I don't do this, it's gonna backfire on me. Someone I know is gonna see it anyway. Why worry about a download or two now? Just man up, McManus, ain't gonna live forever.

James found the correct she-Wraith, he was pretty sure. Those were her spots, and her frown. Her fans called her "Icespot." He supposed as a pun on a "hotspot" erupting, with a nod to the kitties being from a white planet, ball-bitingly cold while their bodies ran temperatures way above human. Shiv was listed in the "Extreme Fem-dom" category.

The Frother whistled lowly at the number of downloads and shares on her five vids—her star was clearly on the way up—and tried to decide which to pick as a sample. All were "combat copulation" with male Wraiths; there weren't any other races yet, but now the ASC wanted to branch out.

Sort of. They're still expecting me to get my arse kicked by a pussy and my pole used by her twat. The only reason James wasn't worried about that was because he always got a hard-on when he took Ultra Violence. Just never had a girl wrapped around it at the time.

James picked the most recent one. He watched a decently edited set-up that showed a prowl and a stalk on a studio set mimicking some snow-blown wilderness. He'd heard the purple pussies turned white when it got cold enough, and funny, he could see some white streaks showing in both Shiv and her mate's dark purple hair. It made him wonder how long this recording had taken, and how fast they changed colors.

The scenes switched back and forth between the two nude Wraiths doing what they did best: hunting. Wraith Raiders had no tails and were lean, muscular, and sleek. Thinking back, James had never seen a Wraith with a potbelly nor any curvy, jiggly females among them. Cleavage was non-existent. They had some high standards for fitness. James idly pondered if he was watching any kind of real mating rituals between the boy cats and the girl ones? He couldn't really tell.

Wraith Raiders had far more patience than any Frother, that was clear. This was why some of the best snipers he'd heard of in SLA were Wraiths. James' knee was bouncing, and he kept looking over his shoulder at the Commons' door, briefly fast-forwarding the video to get to the sex. He came upon it abruptly, when Shiv burst out of hiding and tackled the male Wraith, tumbling with the speed of a car wheel across the screen.

Whoa! Okay, back up.

The audio kicked in with the accurate speed; the pair screeched and caterwauled as they brawled was terrible. James hit the mute button fast. He watched in silence as Shiv displayed better martial arts and wrestling training than he had, against a better opponent, and now the Frother finally swallowed. He watched as the she-Wraith gained the superior position on the male, putting him on his back; she took him by the throat with one strong hand, choking him. The asphyxia caused an instant erection in the male; James had never seen it before, but maybe the rumors about male Wraiths having a "penis bone" could be true.

When the flared, blood-red prick disappeared between a swollen, ruddy set of dark purple labia, Shiv visibly purred, eased up on the choking as her partner cooperated. The male Wraith turned his head away, showing her his throat, and Shiv and leaned down to sniff at and lick at his neck, nipping his jaw. Then the fucking proper began, the male was willing, the female in control, and it looked like it was just as noisy as the brawl.

Weird for those silent, sneaky fuzzies.

Although at first it seemed like it could get really vicious between the two, the tone of the hunt had changed and now it looked to the Frother like both were having some fun, getting off. Releasing some stress. Fast and intense, like a really serious work-out. Squats and toning galore.

Not too bad, I guess. Maybe I can do this.

"WHOA, James! What the fuck, Fro?"

He jumped in his seat, nearly shutting off the TeeVee but dropping the remote instead and letting it play. James grinned and shrugged as Tim and Kelly walked in and went straight for the cool box despite round eyes pointed at the widescreen.

"Just settling a bet about the cock-bones," James said.

"Yeah? Who with?"

"A McGiver. He wouldn't download it."

"HAH! Yeah, that Clan is a bunch o' wusses." Grabbing his Slosh, Tim leaped over the side of the couch and landed hard, his kilt flipping up and James looked elsewhere. "So, do they?"

"Looks like it. Want me to reverse?"

"Pfff, nah! Pre-morning Glads are on! Only time I get to see cutie Catie Rourke. Change the channel."

"Sure," James said, and turned off the video before Shiv had cum.

****

When the day came, he woke up alone for the second time in a row. James had to consciously resist the urge to shoot up anything, or put a piece of film under his tongue. He jumped into the cool shower and past his usual routine, dressing afterward in his kilt and an off-white shirt, repainting his long dreadlocks with a fresh coat. He looked at the time.

Got five hours, still.

With Bossgirl Cage and the others giving him a clear day, he had nothing to do that wouldn't tempt breaking some of his restrictions, so he headed to the Gauss station early, taking a train to an area of the city he'd never been before. There were far fewer monolithic skyscrapers disappearing into the low rain clouds. His destination was a campus-like cluster of squat, blocky buildings bearing a wide footprint in Mort City.

Unlike in that first café, no one here batted a lid to see a Frother strolling about; there were many others, all dressed in exaggerated tartan armor, wearing helmets on their heads and the classic power claymores on their back. This was pretty much the first image he ever remembered seeing of these guys on TeeVee. If his mother hadn't told him how he'd been conceived, he never would have thought to put himself up for testing.

He passed three Frothers of Clan Connaucht, and they were jumpy and tense so he gave them a wide berth. A fourth from the Donoghue House was in a chair staring off into space. Though humans filled most jobs around the studio grounds, from the tidy and pretty suits to the meandering cleaning staff, other races popped up as he got closer to the zone where he would report.

Around the next corner, a Brain Waster argued loudly with an Ebon, no surprise there. The agitated brooders stared blank eyes at each other; one set was blue and the other white-green. James still couldn't get over how the skin around a 'Waster's eyes was actually charred from doing whatever it was they did. It as one of the only ways to tell a Waster apart from an Ebon, but it also reminded him of a trash bandit's mask. Not that he'd ever say that to one's face.

Just give 'em an excuse to melt yer face off.

James had to take a shuttle to get to the next lot over. He was really glad he hadn't started a video game back in the Commons after skipping breakfast; he'd underestimated how long the travel would take. When he arrived, he stepped off to notice the usual "magic number" of seven Shaktar guarding the courtyard leading into the "J" series of studios.

The saurian aliens stood straight and proud, silent and stern in their traditional armor; they were spread out to see each other and coordinate as needed, and it would be hard to drop an ambush that got all of them at once. This was one alien which James grasped a little better than most. They were like his own Clan, if more rigid. They had the traditions and ancestral armor and weapons, the respect for courage in battle, and the rites of passage to belong in marked groups.

Heh. They even have dreadlocks. Kinda.

The black extensions flowing off the crown of their ridged heads were made of flesh, and James didn't know anybody who had actually touched one to say what it felt like. Even guarding the ASC complex as proudly as they would a promoted restaurateur or a Cloak Division Head—hardly a difference in duty, it was an honor regardless—the word had it there was no chance the porno suits could get a Shaktar into one of their movies.

Just wouldn't happen.

Each one of this group noted him, no doubt having already selected the most efficient way to "neutralize" him if he became a problem. While other security in places he'd been carried everything from pacifier batons to GASH Fists to vibro-sabers, most of these guys carried unpowered swords where anyone could see them, and it was anyone's guess what they might have in reserve. The dark red tails were calm as James walked between their owners.

Good sign.

Then one broke away to approach the Frother, and James stopped to wait, keeping his hands visible. He tilted his head up as the tall warrior blocked his way. The Shaktar's SCL card was displayed prominently on his chest and showed a SLA Clearance Level of 7.2. Far higher than James' pitiful SCL 9.3.

"Business and permit," the Shaktar said.

James got out his Oyster and showed the digital code, which the guard scanned. "Reporting to Studio J-45 slash 3."

"Operative Callgarhy-McManus." After verifying the code's authenticity, the Shaktar nodded and took one heavy step aside. His voice rumbled like a deliberate machine behind his face protection. "Forward to the corner, turn right, straight to the blue and green marked building. Main door is facing away, so follow the bronze plaque. Do not deviate."

"Cheers—er. My gratitude, soldier."

The Shaktar nodded, almost a bow of the shoulders, and let him by. James took a deep breath and let it out once he got around that corner. The Shaktar remained behind, eyeing the "flux couple" who were still being quite vocal.

When James finally got inside out of the drizzling rain, he walked up to the check-in desk. The dark-haired receptionist was bored, middle-aged, and watched him, mildly curious. She's seen his kind before.

"New file, right?" she commented, tapping her keyboard while barely glancing at the inlay screen.

"Yeah, first time."

That piqued her interest. She leered a bit, heavily-painted, red lips drawing his eye as her bespectacled eyes swept over him with more interest. "Guess you are pretty young. Should I ask which cherry they're taking?"

James hadn't thought that he could blush for a woman, but he did when video of Shiv with that other fuzzy flashed behind his eyes. The woman laughed in delight, now less bored.

"Oh, Clan-boy, you're cute!" she said. Then she cleared her throat. "Second hall, hon, then the lift up five floors. Ask the next receptionist there. Come by afterward, maybe we can get tea. I get off at four." She winked. "Every day."

"Ah. Yep, maybe," he mumbled, nodding and taking the door pass she offered. "Cheers."

"Cheers, Laddie!" she repeated brightly and in a horrible Clansman accent, then got on the phone to tell the receptionist upstairs to expect him.

James got a second dose of fluttering eyelashes at check-in, but no flirting or welcome whatsoever when he found the right place at long last. He was over an hour early.

"Ah, good, the Frother's here on time."

The dark-haired stage manager bustled up fast, and James got the feeling he was about to spring away again after delivering terse instructions.

"We're still setting up the lighting and cameras, and that it would take a while. Go entertain yourself until you are called. Don't break anything, or it's coming out of your pay."

The stage manager's name badge was on his belt, visibly only as the manager left, so James muttered to himself, "Whatever you say, Roberts."

Sighing, he snagged a sweet roll from the breakfast table, and sat down in a folding chair to munch it. He had his drugs with him, but he couldn't decide what to take that wouldn't lull the next couple hours into a haze, make him slow, or cause him to blow his load too early. He just sat, his right leg bouncing, and he played with his Oyster, tapping at a timewaster shooter game but quickly lost interest. He stood back up and got some coffee, the caffeine a poor substitute for his real jones, but it gave him something to think about besides the needle as he listened to the orders and equipment going about with an overload of griping and complaining.