Cyberotique

The red light at the corner of her vision was slowly pulsing again.

New message.

Rossy took a deep breath and let it out slowly. She was alone, in her tiny-but-well-maintained motel room at the far end of the parking lot, pretending she needed sleep like a normal Organic human. She'd put her entire body into low-power mode and had been idly reading an ebook on her virtual overlay when the dreaded light had popped up.

Cybernetic eyes like hers were a relatively new invention, but the groundwork for the technology had already been around for years. Ever since the creation of the computer mouse, the ability to track and interpret motion and translate it into moving a cursor on a screen remained the forefront of interactive technology for Organic humans. Cybernetic eyes simply removed the middleman, the hand-to-eye interface.

By adding a transparent virtual interface over her normal range of vision, the physical movements of Rossy's eyes could be interpreted as cursor movements, and blinking her eyes would register a click or a tap on the screen to activate an application or open a message. Since her eye movements were already triggered by the bioelectric signal of thought just like every other mechanical muscle in her body, the virtual overlay had become simply second nature to her. And since the screen could only be accessed through her own eyes, it functioned as her own private window into the subspace of the internet.

...well, mostly private, apparently.

Rossy reluctantly minimized the ebook app, sat up straight on her bed, and opened the notification. A chat window popped up.

JUST A REMINDER, Y0U'RE N0T HERE 0N VACATI0N, R0SABEL.

"What do you want now?" she asked aloud, watching as voice-to-text made the words appear in real-time in the reply box. "And that's not how you spell my name."

She waited.

New message.

I HAVE AUT0-C0RRECT TURNED 0N. AND AUT0-C0RRECT D0ESN'T CARE THAT Y0UR PARENTS SPELLED Y0UR NAME WR0NG 0N Y0UR BIRTH CERTIFICATE.

"Get to the point, smartass," she replied, impatiently. The pause between speech-to-text conversion and waiting for the reply was the most frustratingly possible way to have a conversation.

Pause.

New message.

I'M JUST TRYING TO KEEP Y0U 0N TASK. LAST THING WE NEED IS Y0U BL0WING Y0UR C0VER AND WRECKING THIS NICE THING WE SECURED F0R Y0U. THIS J0B PAYS PRETTY G00D F0R AN ENTRY-LEVEL P0SITI0N, Y0U KN0W.

"Ha, don't pretend like you're looking out for me," she grumbled back, crossing her arms as if it would somehow strengthen her words. "I know the drill. I do the the work, you get the money."

Pause.

Outside, the headlights flared through the venetian blinds as a truck passed loudly down the street.

New message.

I D0N'T GET THE M0NEY, R0SIE. N0T ME, PERS0NALY. AND WE D0N'T GET ALL 0F IT. THAT'S H0W PAYMENT PLANS W0RK.

"Oh sure, how could I forget?" she scoffed back. She wished speech-to-text had a way of accurately conveying the biting, visceral nature of a good hard scoff - a fusion of snorting and coughing, equal parts nasal and guttural - but alas, voice recognition technology and synthetic voice modules were still only capable of so much.

New message.

KEEP IN MIND H0W G00D Y0U HAVE IT, R0SIE. WE D0N'T N0RMALLY HAND 0UT PAYMENT PLANS TO PE0PLE IN Y0UR..."UNIQUE" P0SITI0N. N0R D0 WE TYPICALLY GIVE THEM THIS MUCH FREED0M. Y0U'RE A RARE BREED INDEED, R0SABEL...

Rossy opened her mouth, then decided not to reply. She unlocked her spine and let her head thud loudly against a nearby pillow, wishing she could just sleep the voice away.

Don't be stupid, Rossy...robots don't sleep...

She flexed her fingers, one at a time.

...no, not 'robot'. Cyborg. There's a difference...

Before she'd become one her current self, she'd often wondered what the difference was. Put simply, Robots were automatons. Machines built by Organic humans that ran on pre-programmed rules and parameters to carry out a task that was either too complex or too arduous for an Organic to do themselves. Robots had no intelligence, and would only act based on the instructions and commands given to them. Cyborgs were Organic-born humans who had become augmented by robot body parts, most commonly for medical reasons. The difference between Cyborgs and Robots was simple; the existence of an intelligent consciousness and the freedom to act on their own thoughts. Cyborgs were to be considered human, Robots were entirely machines.

...so why do I feel like I'm just a machine after all? Rossy asked herself bitterly, the same question she'd been asking herself for years now. How the hell did I end up on the wrong end of the food chain?

New message.

She turned her head, intending to ignore it, but you can't turn your head away from a virtual overlay. She bit her silicone lip and reluctantly opened it.

L00K, JUST STAY F0CUSED, ALRIGHT? THAT'S ALL WE'RE ASKING 0F Y0U HERE. I REALIZE THAT'S N0T THE EASIEST REQUEST T0 F0LL0W WHEN Y0U'RE W0RKING IN A STRIP CLUB, BUT TRY T0 KEEP Y0UR EYES 0FF THE STAGE AND 0N THE ACTUAL PRIZE. G0T IT?

Before she could even open her mouth to tell him off, the old-fashioned telephone in her room exploded into a loud ring, like a bell-and-hammer alarm clock built for a god. Sergey hadn't had the sense to install modern phones yet, or maybe he just liked to watch people suffer heart attacks at the push of a button.

Thank god I don't have a heart...

She reached over and unceremoniously picked up the handset. "...uhh, Rossybelle speaking?"

"Need you to get in here and bounce," came Sergey's no-nonsense command over the other end.

She blinked. "...bounce...? Oh, you mean like...".

"Your job. Now." And then he hung up, just like that.

Rossy pulled the handset away from the microphone in her ear to stare at it in her hand for a moment, raised an eyebrow, then casually dropped it to the ground, letting it dangle freely on its own coiled bungee cable. She pulled herself to her feet, snatched her trademark wine-red fedora off the bedside table, and walked right out the door.

New message.

HAVE A G00D DAY AT W0RK, R0SIE.

"Fuck off," she replied, then closed the chat window. She stepped outside into the brisk, dreary morning of another wintry day in scenic downtown Barrinten.

Rossybelle had only just arrived in town a few days ago, on a morning just like this one, and it was already starting to feel like the new familiar. She'd been worried about the move from a bigger city to a smaller one, but the voice in her head had assured her things were taken care of, and that the job was something anybody could do. They'd even showed her the ad, and it said the ideal candidate would be someone "strong, silent, and intimidating, in that exact order". The vagueness had made her uneasy, but she couldn't afford not to apply.

Literally, she added to herself.

The interview had been even stranger. She'd met Sergey at his own bar, he looked her over from hat to boots exactly one time, then asked her why she wanted the job. Rossy had come prepared with a list of "correct" responses to that very question - a list she'd rehearsed time and time again, back when interviews used to mean something to her - and yet, when she opened her mouth to respond, all that came out was: "...I need money."

And all that had come out of Sergey's mouth in response was "...then do the job and I'll give you money for doing it."

Then he'd handed her a key to Room 12, told her she was allowed to stay there as long as she was employed, and that she started whenever he needed her.

And so it was that no more than twenty minutes after stepping off the Regional 515 bus, Rossybelle had tossed the single duffel bag containing the entirety of her broken life onto the empty bed of Room 12 at the Silver Key Motel and Erotic Boutique, ready to try again to make some money and pay off the mysterious people who had so graciously replaced her dying Organic body with a new, synthetic one.

...so here I am, she thought to herself, locking the door behind her. Here's Rossybelle Acosta, the young lady with a bright future ahead of her, working a job as hired muscle at a strip club to pay off her medical bills...

She glanced down at her outfit.

...well, plus a few necessities...

According to Rossy's weather app, it was barely a single degree above freezing this morning, the kind of early winter weather that leather jacket designers and synthetic fur coat factories had been waiting all year for, but this morning's outfit included none of these. As far as Rossy was concerned, a heavy jacket would only get in the way. Besides, her bare arms were wrapped in an inorganic layer of flesh-like silicone - faux flesh, she sometimes called it - that was incapable of contracting frostbite or going numb, so winter coats were typically not a part of her eclectic fashion ensemble anyway.

Not to mention, muscle shirts make me look pretty badass, she added. If I gotta rough someone up this morning, then I want them to see me walk in that door guns blazing. A simple shirt for a simple message. I'm packing heat, and I bet mine are bigger than yours...

The cautious part of her brain stepped forward.

...is that really a wise idea, though? I mean, it's nice to think some dipshit might see me coming and think twice about jacking off in his chair or whatever he's doing, but...then again, what else do people think when they see a 180cm woman built like a brick house walking their way? All it's gonna take is one dipshit who thinks my arms are too big to be real...er, organic, I mean. Then the secret's out and everybody knows I'm a cyborg. Maybe muscle shirts are a bad idea after all...what was I thinking?

An image of Millie staring back at her before giving a nod of approval was quickly pushed to the back of her mind as she shook herself back into focus.

With a renewed sense of purpose, she strode across the parking lot and up the stairs to the front entrance of Sergey's bar. Granted, she already HAD to walk with purpose, since her cybernetics were meticulously attuned to the specific bioelectric signals her brain sent out when commanding any given muscle. Each thought for each muscle was its own unique bioelectrical signal, and learning them all in sequence was a process that her brain already seemed to know from back when it had still been hooked up to Organic legs, but now had to completely re-master in order to control the cybernetic ones. To consciously raise one foot, push it forward from the knee, shift balance forward, land on that foot, then balance on it while repeating the process with the opposite foot, all of these movements together spanning less than a second at a time, was a basic task that required far more effort than she'd expected at first. In order to do it at all, she NEEDED to do it purposefully.

Now if I could just make it look natural...I've got the function, I just need the form. Wonder if I could learn a thing or two about graceful movements from watching the strippers...

Inside, sitting behind the counter at the back of the makeshift auditorium, she was greeted by the dour and unimpressed visage of a man who insisted on doing everything himself and probably hadn't slept in a week.

Rossy glanced around the empty bar and show floor. "...so, uh...where's the trouble, doc?"

"Back room," he said, pointing down the long hallway that passed around the stage, where the bathrooms and apparently the back room was.

Her eyebrow raised. "...are you even open yet? It's like seven in the morning, who on earth could be back there at this hour?"

"Your co-workers," he replied, counting bottles of various liquids stored in the cabinet behind him. "They won't stop bitching at each other and I'm getting a headache."

Rossy paused. Co-workers...? Oh, wait, duh. The dancers.

She turned back to face him. "...wait, you want me to bounce my own co-workers?"

"Just break it up," Sergey instructed, in a voice that clearly implied he was too old for that shit. "You're my Security Support Specialist. Now go support my security, and be special about it."

She fake-snorted and rolled her eyes, then turned away and swore in a quiet voice. Eye-rolling was an old habit of body language that didn't translate well to cybernetic eyes. It always called up her virtual overlay and sent her "cursor" flying all across her field of vision, opening random apps along the way. She'd been working on unlearning the habit, but it had been such a favorite response back in her Organic days...she spent the rest of the walk down the hallway grumpily closing apps.

The back room had also been referred to as the "practice room", where the dancers had room to practice a routine or hold a quick meeting. It was the plainest room on the entire premises, a faded beige dungeon with no windows and a hideous fluorescent light above. It currently contained a plastic folding table, four discount office chairs, a small set of speakers, and an ogle of half-naked dancers currently engaged in a heated argument.

There were four of them. Well, more accurately, there were three of them, all dressed down to the bare essentials and trying to talk over one another, and then there was Millie, wrapped in what appeared to be a lilac bathrobe, leaning against the far wall with her arms crossed, snickering to herself occasionally.

"You been hoggin' the room every morning this week," said an older woman with hair of an unnatural fiery auburn, tasselled in bright yellow tips. "You ain't the only one who needs to practice. I've been busy all week, and you wouldn't believe the number of hoops I had to jump through to get just this little bit of free time this morning! Just let me have this!"

The spritely young college student she was arguing with sighed dramatically. "Look, I know your schedule's crazy because your home life's a mess, but how is that MY fault? Just give me today to put the finishing touches on my new routine, then I won't NEED the room for a good long while, and you can just use it to your heart's content, I swear to god."

"Oh, you'll have PLENTY of time to practice later!" the lady groaned. "You're eighteen, you got all the time in the world! But me, I got a biological clock tickin' and bills to pay! I don't HAVE that kinda luxury anymore!"

"Yeah, you're probably still paying for the last time you had luxuries," the younger one sneered back, gesturing to the lady's luxuries.

She received a sharp glare in reply.

"Ladies, PLEASE, let's at least try to stay SOMEWHAT professional here," the third dancer cut in. Rossy was surprised she hadn't noticed him earlier, given the rarity of his gender in the profession. He wasn't exactly her type, but even she knew when to appreciate a conventionally handsome man in a corset and thigh-high stockings.

"You shut up," Mature Redhead snapped back at him, running a thumb beneath the strap of her bra for adjustment. "You're the last person I need lessons on maturity from."

Drag Queen pouted and crossed his arms. "At least I'm mature enough to leave my personal bullshit out of my work bullshit."

"You don't even HAVE any personal bullshit," Barely Legal interjected, hands on her narrow hips. "It's not like you actually DO anything outside of work."

"Now, I resent that!" Drag Queen shouted back, his voice cracking just a bit. "I don't NEED a life outside of work because my work IS my life! I'm literally working at my dream job! Can YOU say the same, Miss Student Loans?"

"Ugh," Barely Legal spit back, placing her hands on her narrow hips. "I told you, I don't bring my personal bullshit into my work."

"Hold up now," Mature Redhead cut in, also placing her hands on her significantly wider hips. "Student loans? You told me you took this job to help pay for college. If you already got your student loans, then you're ready-set-go! Far as I see it, this job's nothin' but extra pocket money for you! So you damn well CAN skip one more day and just let ME have what little time I can get! Do you even know how many sitters I had to go through just to get some free time this morning?"

"See? More personal bullshit," Barely Legal replied, shaking her head. "Buncha damn hypocrites, I swear."

"Oh, is that all you're worried about?" Drag Queen stepped in again, taking some effort to keep his voice steady and reasonable. "Then maybe you should pull your heads out of your asses and take a moment to hear ME out. You see, I'm here because of actual work bullshit today, nothing personal."

The other two glanced at one another, then crossed their arms in unison to listen. Barely Legal even smirked, as if she was already expecting to laugh at his story.

"I'm booked for my saucy rendition of Papaya Dance again tonight," he continued, taking a breath as his hand gestures became more pronounced, "...and my glorious outfit is in SHAMBLES. That perfect, flawless dress was ripped during the move to my new house last week, and my tailor - an ARTIST in his own right - told me that my dress would not be ready for another two days! So NOW I'm on the schedule for tonight and I WON'T be able to give my audience my best routine, so I NEED today to rehearse a backup plan with a DIFFERENT outfit so that I don't end up making a complete and utter fool of myself on stage tonight!"

Mature Redhead couldn't help but snicker and mutter under her breath, "...like you don't already make a fool of yourself EVERY night." Only Rossybelle's extra-sensitive ear microphone heard her.

"...so, what then? You're saying you need a whole day just to rehearse one of the hundreds of OTHER routines you already know?" Barely Legal was apparently determined to get her way. "You're a friggin' professional, just pick one and improvise."

Drag Queen's eyes went wide and his nostrils flared indignantly. "...improvise?! You expect me to entertain my loyal lovelies tonight with a routine I haven't meticulously prepared for? Do you even KNOW me at all?! Every one of my routines is flawless because I've polished it to perfection, and my audience EXPECTS that level of quality every time! I can't be expected to sashay out onto the stage and...IMPROVISE!"

He pointed an accusatory finger over at the bathrobed dancer against the far wall. "Just ask Millie, she knows the value of a meticulous routine!"

All heads swiveled in her direction. She responded with a half-hearted shrug and nothing more. Either no one had noticed Rossy yet, or nobody cared.

"Oh, for the love of--we're wasting time here," Mature Redhead insisted, pulling a fold of silky material from a hungry skin crevice. "Would you two just go fight somewhere else and let me have what's left of this morning before I get a call that one of my kids drank a bottle of window cleaner or something?"

"But I was here FIRST!" Barely Legal moaned.

And so the argument continued to circulate.

Rossy sighed and shook her head, taking a step toward them to intervene, then stopping in her tracks when she caught the eye of her favorite dancer from her perch on the wall. Millie flashed her a smile - and not anything else - and motioned with her head to join her. Rossy hesitated, but decided it was hardly a decision worth questioning.

"Morning, welcome to the party," Millie greeted her, still grinning as Rossy made her way over. "Trust me, you'll want to stick around. This is the REAL show here, and today's episode just started."

"Are they...always like this?" Rossy asked, watching various semi-clothed body parts jiggle around as the three became more and more animated.

"Every single day," Millie nodded, entranced by the show. "You know, at this rate, she should forget about her kids and hire the sitter for THEM."

An unexpected giggle slipped out before Rossy could contain it. "Okay, explain the plot for me. Who's the Mature Redhead and why's she even here? Isn't she a little...well, too old to be a stripper?"

"No one told her she was too old, so she keeps herself on the roster," came the reply, in a certain tour guide fashion. "Says her name is Fatimah, but as the resident expert on such things, that is DEFINITELY a stage name. And she may be older, but she makes good money. Can't say I'm surprised either, have you seen her ass? Lot of ass men in our usual audience."

"Huh," Rossy replied with a nod, observing Fatimah's curves to confirm. She managed not to add a comment about which of the major feminine curves she preferred.

"She's very experienced for somebody with two kids and no current husband," the commentary continued. "My theory is she probably had a job like this in her younger years, too. Maybe she used to be a Vegas girl, met a nice stagehand and started a family with him, but he turned out to be an asshole and left her with the kids and now she's had to fall back on the only skill she's still got."

"Two kids?" Rossy raised an eyebrow. "Wow...can you imagine what Career Day at school must be like for them?"

That got a chuckle out of Millie. "Jesus, no joke. Oh, and speaking of school, next in line here is our girl next door, Irina. Pretty sure she just turned eighteen a less than a month ago and immediately came in here looking for work. Girl's got a hell of an itchy trigger finger, let me tell you."

"Well yeah, but it sounds like she's just trying to pay her way through college," Rossy suggested with a shrug. "We used to joke about it a lot, but I do remember a few friends at my old school who seriously considered stripping their way through college. Tuition keeps going every way except down, after all."

"Not you, though?" Millie poked her playfully, a lopsided grin on her face. She also took a moment to acknowledge the powerful - but technically not muscular - arms emerging from Rossy's cool sleeveless shirt. "...no, I guess you were more interested in becoming a security guard, weren't you...".

Rossy frowned, but only for a moment. "Not funny."

Don't talk to me about school...I'm still pissed that I can't go back and finish. I'll probably never finish now that I'm not allowed to have money anymore. The Doctor may have saved my life by giving me this body, but took away my future by demanding I pay for it. I'll never be an astronaut now...

Millie seemed to sympathize for a moment, then decided to keep the ball rolling and gestured to Drag Queen. "...well, okay then. Let's switch it up a bit. How about you give me YOUR take on Omar, our resident hunk of man-candy in a fancy, frilly wrapper?"

Oh boy, here it comes...

"He's, uh...I mean he seems pretty passionate about his work," Rossy answered, juggling for the right words. "I mean, I'm kinda surprised by his presence, to be honest. I never really pegged Sergey as the kind of guy who's into drag queens."

"Well, we serve a lot of types here," Millie shrugged, pulling her hair back into a ponytail. "I mean, he's not MY type, but I appreciate having him around. I think that extra bit of variety gives us a nice marketing niche."

Rossy blinked, trying not to notice the loosening drawstring on Millie's robe. "...what, there are other strip clubs in Barrinten?"

"Ha, good one." She pulled her phone from her pocket and glanced at the time. "We're the only strip club--no wait, sorry, I mean 'erotic boutique'--for miles around. In a tiny old-fashioned town out in the middle of nowhere, a good peep show is hard to find. You'd be surprised the kind of pilgrimages people will make all the way out here just to glimpse a live nipple. So it's just good business for us to have a wide variety of nipples to choose from."

With a snort, Rossy glanced back up at Omar, who was now holding up some kind of sequined underwear as he gave a dramatic speech about how important "presentation" was to his routine. She turned back to Millie. "I guess that makes sense. Gotta say, though--and this may just be because I'm new, but--I'm pretty sure there's never been more than two ladies in the entire audience since I've been here, so...".

The knowing smile she got in return could have pinned her against the wall, robot limbs and all. "...like I said, we serve a LOT of types here."

...well, fuck.

She was certain she felt her augmented heart liquefy inside her carbon fiber chest. She was certain that the color-correction on her eyes had been turned all the way up to maximum contrast. She was certain her synthetic nose was really inhaling the air around her, making her as light as a cloud in the sky. These were feelings only a brain that had grown up in a meat body could feel, and right now Rossy was convinced she was feeling them all at once. If the Silver Key Motel and Erotic Boutique wasn't afraid to serve "a lot of types", then maybe, just maybe, there was a chance "a lot of types" could include people like her...

...wait, am I thinking about the fact that I'm a cyborg? Or the fact that I'm gay as a rainbow in a witch's hut? Both, I guess...maybe this really is a good place for me after all...

A good job still wasn't an easy thing for a Cyborg to come by. Cybernetics weren't just considered "newfangled science" that old-fashioned folks simply didn't understand. Many Organics saw the emergence of Cyborgs as invasive - even disruptive - to their way of life. Prospective employers frequently discouraged Cyborgs just the same as they historically had with people who carried visible tattoos, or wore certain hairstyles or headpieces, or asked people to call them "sir" any time they were addressed as "ma'am". These people - by definition, "bigots" - saw cybernetics not as living aids for the disabled, but as an unfair advantage against any typical Organic person, as if merely having replacement limbs somehow constituted cheating the system.

For example, if a person were given with a cybernetic arm to replace the one they'd lost to a severe injury or a birth defect, they would suddenly be seen as MORE capable than other able-bodied Organic folks. Many bigots refused to recognize Cyborgs as "disabled", often conflating the idea of prosthetic limbs with schlock sci-fi movies where cybernetics meant superhuman strength and eye lasers, rather than disabled people re-learning how to walk and grip things by purposefully thinking out their every muscle movement.

State laws already existed to enforce all registered businesses to employ a certain percentage of underprivileged peoples, including those classified as disabled. Of course, bigotry didn't end with those laws, it just retreated into the small-town locales it was born in, where the long arm of the law had some trouble reaching.

Rossybelle had her doubts when the mysterious chat client in her head told her she was taking a job as a bouncer in a nowhere town, but this new little revelation she'd just been given had reignited the hopes for a new beginning that she had all but given up on. Allowing the floating feeling to wash over her for a just another moment, she finally took a deep breath - metaphorically, anyway - and waited for her brain to drift back down into her synthetic body.

I can't believe of all the places I could have ended up, a strip club would be the one where I felt the most welcome...I guess us "freaks" gotta stick together after all.

"So when ARE you gonna stop treating me like The New Girl?!" Irina's shrill whine was the first sound she heard when her attention finally refocused.

"I'll treat you like an adult when you start ACTIN' like one!" Fatimah shouted back.

And Millie just chuckled to herself and shook her head. "I could watch this all day, every day, but if Sergey sent you to break them up, you'd probably better get to it."

"Yeah, you're probably right..." Rossy replied with a sigh, deciding she'd better get on with it before that drawstring on Millie's robe got any looser and made the conversation awkward.

A tiny voice in the back of her mind reminded her that Millie was a professional nude dancer and probably wouldn't care either way.

"Alright, alright, everybody shut up for a second!" Rossy announced, pushing her way into the center of the argument as she prepared to show off her skills as a Security Support Specialist, suddenly compelled to impress a certain someone in the room.

As one, the three dancers stopped speaking and turned to face her. Irina gave her a critical once-over from top to bottom. "...who the fuck are you supposed to be?"

"Your new bouncer," Rossy replied levelly, crossing her arms to emphasize her point. "And I'm here to bounce."

New message.

I PR0MISE Y0U THAT S0UNDED A L0T C00LER IN Y0UR HEAD.

Irina, still in once-over mode, raised an eyebrow and held her gaze on the feather in Rossy's hat. Then, with a condescending snort, she spat back, "...like hell you are."

"Did you say you were a bouncer?" Omar put in, also eyeing the hat. "...is that your act or something? I don't get the hat."

Fatimah once again dug out an elastic strap from a fold of skin. "How'd you even get in here? Millie, I thought I told you to watch the door!"

From her place against the wall, Millie offered nothing more than a shrug and a lazy half-smile.

Not content to let her proud courtship ritual be upstaged by a pack of uncooperative children, Rossy puffed up her chest and stood up as straight as she could mechanically make herself. "Listen, I don't have time for any bullshit today. Sergey's gonna serve my ass for dinner if I don't break up this little tiff, so we're ending this right here, right now. No negotiations."

Before any of them could protest, Rossy pointed stiffly to Fatimah. "You. Take the practice room for the rest of the morning, or however long you've still got before your sitter has to go home."

Then she turned to Omar, who jumped slightly when she spoke. "You. The moment Fatimah's done, the room's yours. Take whatever time you need and nothing more. No second-guessing yourself."

"And you," she continued, finger now inches from Irina's tiny stub of a nose, "...you need to learn that the world doesn't revolve around you. Make some room for your coworkers when they need it. You'll get what's left of today and you can try again tomorrow, this place isn't going anywhere."

And with that, she tugged the brim of her hat into place, crossed her arms again, and dared any of them to defy her. "Any questions?"

Stunned silence hovered between the three dancers. Rossy wanted so badly to check and see if Millie was stunned as well, but didn't want to break eye contact and lose the atmosphere of menace she'd just built up. A former lifetime of being an Organic had taught her the finer points and advantages of such imposing body language, and with her cybernetics never growing stiff like flesh-and-bone muscles, she was able to hold her pose much more effectively. She didn't even need to blink.

The moment finally passed when Fatimah became the first one to unfreeze. She gave Rossy a slanted look, which melted into a sly smile. "...I still don't know who in god's name you are or where you came from, but I like your style. Thanks for sidin' with justice, hon."

And with that, she reached up and patted Rossy on the shoulder - mildly surprised at how tough and solid it felt - and proceeded to the other side of the room where Millie stood to plug her mp3 player into the speakers.

Irina watched her go, then glanced sourly back at Rossy. "...so we're just gonna roll with this?"

"I'm..." Omar opened his mouth, paused, then exhaled slowly. "...not going to argue. She, uh, makes a pretty convincing case...".

Flustered, but not completely without dignity, Irina rolled her eyes and broke contact to look at the floor for a moment. "Well, that's...a pretty good quality to have in a bouncer, I guess."

Rossy wanted to gloat, but humility got the better of her. "...I'm glad you approve."

"Well, in that case," Omar softened up and extended a hand. "...it's a pleasure to meet you!"

She smiled and shook his hand firmly, as if she had any other way of shaking hands. "Rossybelle. And, uh...great? Can't wait to, uh, see you on stage...".

Omar seemed very pleased by this information, if his big, bright smile was any indication.

And lastly, Rossy turned to face Irina again. She seemed to be done making direct eye contact, but remained decidedly professional about things. Rossy wondered if accepting embarrassment gracefully was the first thing they taught people in stripper school.

"Irina," the young lady offered, curtly.

"Rossy," the security support specialist cyborg returned, unable to resist adding smugly, "...but you can call me ma'am."

Irina finally looked her in the eyes again, cracked, then muffled a laugh.

Another bomb defused, Rossy smiled proudly to herself.

She then made a fluid turn back toward Millie, eager to see her reaction. She was casually leaned against the wall, arms crossed and half-smile secured. She nodded and raised her thumb in a salute of approval.

It didn't matter now whether or not Sergey would give her the same reaction for a job well done. As far as Rossy was concerned, Millie was the only one whose approval mattered.

Millie was her boss now.