Cyberotique

Sergey hadn't bothered teaching her any history lessons about the place. Beyond the fact that he owned the building, managed the finances, served the food, swept the floors, and apparently never slept, Rossy found that she knew next to nothing about "The Silver Key Roadside Motel and Erotic Beautique". Aside from the words "Roadside Motel", the name felt more appropriate for some kind of swanky, plush-carpet, glass chandelier establishment for rich, extravagant types, rather than a budget rest stop that just happened to have a full-service bar, an entertainment stage with a stripper pole, and a cast of dancers on the payroll. Something about it all just seemed...fishy.

Of course it's fishy, Rossy thought bitterly as she turned the page of the thick book she was pretending to read. Everything about this whole "arrangement" is fishy. How the hell did I get stuck working as hired muscle anyway? I wanted to be an astronaut when I grew up...

She sighed, if only out of habit. Without any organic lungs to speak of, sighing served no actual function anymore; it was just simple body language.

...no, "hired muscle" isn't the right word, is it? What'd Sergey call it again? "Security Support Specialist", or something...heh. Guess the guy has a sense of humor after all. And he's even being nice enough to let me live out of a motel room here until I figure out what I'm doing with my life. How does a guy with a receding hairline and wrinkles around his eyes end up running an "erotic boutique" out in the middle of nowhere? Is he some kinda pimp or something?

Rossy snuck a glance at him, washing dishes in the cramped kitchen behind his bar.

...never heard of a pimp who washes his own dishes. He doesn't even look the part. He looks...well, like a bartender. Blue-collar shirt, white apron, wizened face with a finely-trimmed goatee...he looks like the kind of guy who'd never ask you to do anything he couldn't do himself, because you'd never be able to do it as well as he did. It's a miracle he'd hire any employees at all...

She flipped another page in the book she still wasn't reading.

...so how did a mechanical monster like me end up one of the lucky ones?

The creak of a nearby barstool interrupted her thoughts. The world came back into focus as a fair-skinned young woman took a seat beside her. She was a bit short, but it wouldn't be fair to call her small - not with a low-necked cocktail dress like that one, anyway - and she sported a light sweep of wheat colored hair that ended just above her shoulders; a pixie cut that had overstayed its welcome. She knew it was considered rude to stare, but Rossy was certainly having some trouble putting her eyes back on the page.

A red light blinked in the corner. New message.

ENJ0YING THE VIEW, R0SABEL?

She scoffed and ignored it.

"Sergey, can you get me a gin and tonic?" the young lady asked in an unexpectedly low, rich voice. Hard to place the accent exactly, but then again Rossy had never been an expert in the finer nuances of eastern European linguistics.

There was a grunt of acknowledgement from the kitchen.

Rossy had just managed to put her attention back on the page as the woman turned her way. The custom-textured silicone skin of Rossy's forehead was incapable of producing sweat, and there was no blood inside her carbon fiber body to turn her ears red, but nonetheless, Rossy swore she could FEEL the woman's gaze upon her. Old organic habits die hard, after all.

"Hey," the woman called over, turning the rest of her body to face her.

Rossy's mechanical body was not equipped with a heart, or any other of the leading sensory organs most humans have at least one of, so the typical natural symptoms that most organic humans display when being spoken to by an attractive young woman - heart palpitations, flushed cheeks, or excited pants, to name a few - weren't things that could physically happen to a cyborg like Rossy. Robots don't do bodily responses.

That didn't stop her brain from imagining them just the same, though.

Rossy turned her head, slowly and deliberately. "...me?"

"Sorry to bother you," the woman replied with a friendly wave, "...but if Sergey's not going to introduce you, then I guess it's up to me to do his job for him."

Rossy gave her a strange look, trying to identify her. She looked somewhat familiar. It wasn't until she pushed a stray lock of hair from her face that Rossy lit up with recognition. It was a face she knew, she just hadn't recognized her with clothes on.

"Saw you taking out the trash last night," the dancer continued, crossing her legs politely. "I take it you're our new bouncer?"

Rossy nodded, barely remembering to smile and extend her hand as she focused on keeping her eyes pointed in the right direction. "Rossybelle. And no, apparently it's not called 'bouncer' anymore. I'm a 'Security Support Specialist'."

The dancer muffled a laugh and shot a raised eyebrow in the bartender's direction. "...really, Sergey? Don't tell me you're going corporate on us."

Sergey shrugged, placing the drink on the bar beside her. "Professionalism keeps the cops away. Most of them, anyway."

New message.

WELL THAT'S A T0TALLY N0RMAL RESP0NSE...

The dancer chuckled, shaking her head softly. She finally took Rossy's hand, giving it a brief shake. "Rossybelle, huh? And which name should I give you?"

"...what?"

"Who was I up there tonight?" she continued, rubbing her chin thoughtfully. "I change the name every day...was it Brandy Foxx? Cherry Liplock?"

It was Rossy's turn to raise an eyebrow. "...Sherry Cashmere?"

The dancer grinned back. "Terrible names, aren't they?"

"...well, I mean...they're all very, uh..." she paused, watching her take a small sip of her drink, "...indicative of your profession?"

"Thanks, I like to think I'm pretty good with making up porn star names," came the reply, with a dismissive wave. "You can call me whichever one's your favorite, I won't mind."

"Oh," Rossybelle nodded, uncertainly. "O-okay, uh...".

...is there a right answer to this question? Should I take the high road and pick the one that somehow sounds like a compliment to her brains instead of her boobs? Or maybe she'd like the boob compliment more, she IS a stripper after all...which of those names sounds as nice as her body looks?

"OR," the dancer added with a knowing smile, "...you can just use my real name. It's Millie."

...oh thank god.

"Millie," Rossy repeated, logging the name away in memory. Literally. "A pleasure to meet you."

"Ooh, so formal and polite," Millie commented, dramatically placing a hand over her heart. "Sergey, I like this one! You finally take my advice and hire a bouncer with some actual manners!"

There was another grumble from deep within the kitchen.

Unsure how to follow up, Rossy simply offered a shrug. "What can I say, Mama raised me to be polite. And it hasn't let me down so far, so why stop now?"

"Well it's a refreshing change of pace," Millie said approvingly, raising her glass for another sip. "Usually we get stuck with some crusty, greasy jackoff. You know, the sort of guy who looks at us like we're a free show even when we're not on stage."

"I can only imagine," said Rossy, who definitely wasn't looking at her like she was a free show when not on stage.

New message.

She wanted to just ignore it, but there was an empty lull in the conversation as Millie took a long draught, so - if only to keep her eyes busy - Rossy took a moment to read it.

AWW, THAT'S CUTE. AREN'T Y0U GLAD I G0T Y0U THIS J0B?

She opened her mouth to reply, her internal speech-to-text app at the ready, but then realized talking out loud to a text message in her head was probably not how she wanted Millie to remember her.

Besides--

"What are you reading?" Millie asked before Rossy was ready.

"Uhmm...".

"God, what a huge book," she remarked, reaching out a slender arm to pull it towards her. "What is this, 'War and Peace'?"

"No, it's, uh...". Wait, what was the name again?

With a click faster than the blink of an eye, Rossy scanned the spine of the book as Millie examined its front, and they both said the title aloud in unison. "'The Stone and The Flute?'"

Millie gave her a curious look, glanced back down at the cover, then back up at her. "...weird, I wouldn't have pegged you as a swords and sorcery kind of girl."

"Eh, I don't put too much stock into what I read," she replied, rather truthfully. "I'm just using it as a distraction."

It was actually Rossy's way of subtly telling people to leave her alone, but Millie didn't need to know that, especially given how Millie was exactly the sort of person Rossy wanted to keep around...

Millie took a few seconds to flip through the 800-some pages of the book. "...just a distraction, huh? I take it you don't get out much."

Rossy frowned. "It's not like that. I get out, I just...well, no, I guess I don't get out as much as I used to. I mean, now that I have a job again...".

Millie shrugged and handed the book back. "What, Sergey already working you like a dog, even on your first week?"

If looks could kill, Sergey's expression would be wanted in four states.

"Nooooo," Rossy replied, stretching the word to buy herself just enough time to stretch the truth as well. "It's more like...I don't really have a lot of places TO go."

New message.

G00D ANSWER. KEEP DEFLECTING. THE LESS SHE KN0WS, THE BETTER.

Unfortunately, Millie seemed more curious than caution accounted for. "Hah...you're definitely not from around here, then. There's always a place for nerds like you, even out in a sleepy little hick town like this."

"Nerd?" Rossy protested, crossing her arms.

Millie replied with a sound like a muffled sneeze. "Oh come on, look at yourself. Fantasy books as thick as my fist, giant Carmen Sandiego hat, and a total shut-in? Face it, you're a bonafide nerd."

"I'll show you bonafide," she challenged, though she honestly had no idea what she meant by it or how it would help her anti-nerd case. "And how would you know I'm not from around here anyway?"

"It's a pretty small town," Millie answered casually, then transitioned to grave. "We KNOW an outsider when we see one...".

That word...

Whether it was something in her tone or something about the word itself, spoken so casually, so nonchalantly...it set a chill to Rossy's spine. Or at least, that's what her brain registered. Having a mechanical body like hers meant never actually feeling chills, or any temperatures at all. All she had was an internal thermometer would display a prompt on her virtual overlay if the number went too far in either direction. But her body never shivered unless she explicitly told it to. In moments like these, she was grateful that her mechanical body language was now entirely voluntary.

"...outsider?" Rossy repeated, voice low.

"Well you don't have to make it sound so ominous," Millie replied, brushing it away with a sweep of her wrist. "All I meant was there's a certain attitude people have in small towns like Barrinten. Something in the air, you know? And you don't have it. That's all."

Rossy exhaled. Figuratively, of course.

God, for a second there it sounded like she KNEW. Last time someone called me an "outsider", it didn't end well. Hell, it NEVER ends well...

Before she could take a moment to digest any further thoughts, Millie pressed the conversation again. "So where are you really from, then?"

New message.

DEFLECT...

"Oh, uh, you know..." Rossy answered, warily, "...around."

"Oh, Around, huh?" Millie pushed her glass aside and propped her head on her elbow. "Never been there myself, but I heard it's very nice in summer."

Rossy made a noise like a synthesized snort, consciously straightening her spine and puffing out her chest for effect. "Oh, we're playing smartass now?"

"I'm always playing smartass," she replied plainly, not taking her mysterious brown eyes off Rossy's.

"Alright then, game on," Rossy challenged, placing a hand facedown on the table. "Yeah, I'm from a lovely little place called Around, sometimes known as Privileged Information, located on the island of Nunya."

Millie gave her a slow blink, followed by a raised brow, clearly taking some painful measures to avoid breaking into a smile at this point. "...ah, yes, of course, Nunya. I hear that place is all Business...oh wait, that must be why you're out here in little old Barrinten! You came in on a Nunya Business trip, fell for the town's quaint and rustic charms, then decided it was high time for a career change, and took a gamble on a job as a Security Support Specialist for a glorified strip club in the asscrack of nowhere during the coldest part of the year...".

She let the suggestion hang in the air for a moment before breaking into an innocent smile. "So...am I right?"

Rossy tried to resist smiling back.

...god, that smile though...

The tricky thing about facial muscles is that there are over forty of them, and they make up an incredibly complex network of nerves and joints that most people never have to think about while using them. In order to make a cybernetic face that could properly replicate the functions and form of any organic one, designers and programmers had to build a system of simple mechanical joints that could quickly respond to a wide variety of possible inputs from an organic brain. In a typical organic body, when the brain generates a thought to move a muscle, it creates a bioelectric signal that travels to the appropriate body part to stimulate a response. Many of these thoughts happen "in the background"; simple automatic reactions like smiling at a joke don't require the brain to consciously think about the action of smiling to generate that bioelectric signal, making designers' and programmers' jobs much easier. This simple "call and response" system was what kept Rossy's wholly mechanical movements looking natural, almost indistinguishable from any other organic's.

New message.

Y0U'RE STARING AGAIN, R0SIE. GUESS I D0N'T BLAME Y0U, BUT TRY AND KEEP Y0UR M0UTH CL0SED, 0KAY? G00D THING Y0U CAN'T DR00L.

With an almost eerie sort of ESP, Millie seemed to pick up on the situation and broke the eye contact with a chuckle. "...sorry, I'm just picking on you cause you're new. I forget how dry the sarcasm can sound to outsiders. You live here long enough and you'll come to depend on it."

She shot a side glance toward the kitchen. "You could almost say it's contagious."

"Too bad you're out of sick days," came Sergey's reply, as if he'd been listening the whole time. "...'til January, anyway."

Millie chuckled, shaking her head. "See? What an asshole, this guy. Love that guy."

Rossy simply nodded. The text message stowaway in her head was probably right, now really wasn't the best time to get involved with making new friends. Especially not in some small town, where people might not take kindly to the idea of people like her. She knew she needed to keep as low a profile as possible. But staying invisible wasn't the hard part. Even if you're invisible, people will sometimes bump into you anyway.

"Hey," Millie popped her thought bubble, leaning a bit closer. "Try not to let it get to you, okay? If I'm bothering you, you let me know. You work at the Silver Key, that means you're family. So if you need me to piss off, you tell me."

"Family..." Rossy repeated vaguely. The word tasted strange in her mechanical, tasteless mouth. For a brief moment she even remembered her own family...then pushed them aside.

"That's what I said," Millie nodded, tugging the strap of her dress back into place. "You live in our house, you're family. Maybe if you're good, I'll even let you call me mommy."

She wanted to laugh. She even tried, for Millie's sake. But somewhere inside, she still felt the sting of the word "family". She had to wonder about them, just once in a while, even after all the ties had been cut and the bridges burned. Something still remained...

...family...

But if nothing else, the very attractive lady with the wheat-colored hair and the sharp slender nose and the deep dark eyes did have a point.

This isn't just another job. This is it. My home. My life.

My family.

...and honestly, I can imagine a worse family to be stuck with.

Feeling something was expected of her, Rossy snapped back into reality and gave Millie the warmest, friendliest smile her cybernetic cheeks could manage. "...thanks, Millie. I appreciate that."

"Alright then, let's make it official," Millie added, scooting her stool up closer and pulling out a phone from some exciting and mysterious pocket inside the hem of her dress. "Show me your worst duck face!"

Her mechanical limbs seized up and her synthetic heart began doing cartwheels as Millie sidled up beside her. She opened the camera app and threw an enthusiastic arm over Rossy's shoulder, almost sloshing the remains of her drink over the side of the glass in the process.

"Whoa there," Rossy cautioned, instinctively reaching up to grab the brim of her trademark hat to obscure her face. Not that she didn't think of herself as photogenic - by design, her cybernetic face was a faithful recreation of the organic one she'd had before her entire body had been replaced - it was just that taking selfies with strippers was not a particularly low-profile thing to do.

"Oh wait, you need a drink," Millie prompted, firing a glance over at the bartender. "C'mon Sergey, hook the girl up."

"She's on the clock," he replied sternly, but began pouring a glass anyway.

"Uh, yeah no, that's okay," Rossy insisted, waving her hands back and forth. "I-I'm not...I don't drink--I mean, I don't, y'know, NEED a drink...".

"Don't worry, it's on me," Millie assured her, taking the glass from Sergey.

"Yeah but I'm serious, I CAN'T--er, DON'T drink...".

"It's just for aesthetic, you don't actually have to drink it," she waved it off, angling the phone to center the frame. "Just a quickie. Send it to your friends back in Nunya and make them all jealous."

"Fine, just hold on a sec, I need to--"

Millie handed her own glass to Rossy and grabbed the fresh one from the counter. "Alright, now clink me!"

And as she held up the glass, the entire bottom of it, the little foot between the liquid itself and the counter, abruptly detached from the rest of the glass and fell onto the counter with a loud clunk, along with all the contained beverage therein. Millie instinctively hopped backward as beer flooded the countertop, and yelped as her phone slipped from her hand and into the air.

Time slowed and reality hiccuped as Rossybelle automatically made three distinct, superhuman movements. Flexing her spine, she pitched herself backwards in the stool to avoid the beer, snatched the phone with a frog-tongue lunge of her free hand, and landed on the floor behind her with her legs split, in a move so instantaneous that it should have rightly torn every fibrous muscle from her knees to her ass cheeks...had they been made of traditional flesh and bone, that is.

Stunned - either by the glass falling apart or by Rossy's quick maneuvers - Millie's first response was to glance down to see if her cocktail dress had been ruined. She either hadn't noticed Rossy's feat, or was just so accustomed to the idea of superhuman dance moves that it didn't register. Instead, Millie shot a curious glance at the empty glass in her hand, then an accusatory one over at Sergey.

...who, during the few seconds this had all taken place in, had dove forward with a towel in hand, slipped on the wet linoleum behind the counter, and involuntarily followed Rossy's lead in executing a perfect split. He uttered a painful growl, wondering if he'd just torn every muscle from his knees to his ass cheeks.

And, as Millie held the glass horizontal, poking an experimental finger through the newly-formed hole in the end, something incredible happened.

For the first time in as much as a year, Rossybelle laughed.