Ewa S (Canary) and ThePurpleVixen (Vix): Cyberpunks in Love at War

Ewa vs. The Purple Vixen on FCF

Dual Preamble!:

The Purple Vixen:

This was a fairly unconventional cyberfight, because Ewa and I are very unconventional writers. Working with her brilliance and inspiration, we crafted this cyberpunk dystopia as a world to play in and then had fun tearing it apart with each other.

We liked it so much that we’ll definitely come back for another chapter or two. Consider this a marketing tie-in to the release of Cyberpunk 2077!

And thank you again, Ewa, for being so fucking spectacular.


Goddamn it Vix….

Meh… Seriously…. You know you’re going to pay…. You … WILL… Pay…. I’m not cleaning a single spoon; fork; or chopstick…..

Actually, hold the thought on the chopsticks….. I can think of few unorthodox methods to cleanse them…. They would involve unplugging your favorite sexy gaming box…. But we’ll sock it back in place with ease….

But back to it… Sincerely; there are virtually no other moments that humble me, and put me in my very mediocre place, than when I’m writing with you Meg — I love and adore you to the power of infinity ^^ — And can’t wait for Chapter two!!!

— Because… You know.. Fuck you, and fuck the dishes… <3

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The Purple Vixen

“Gimme a joltjuice, Hookie,” I grin, my chrome teeth shining in a metal grin. I had the teeth replaced with deepset shiny chompers after I lost most of the originals running facefirst into a sanitation drone. Well, not so much running as getting thrown by a Mormon chem-farmer running high and strong on a dose of farmgrown samsonite. The shiny metal replacements are fun – now I can bite through nearly god-damn anything not made of metal and I can vary the temperature with neural controls, which has led to some nights giving my girlfriend either very chilly or very sizzly nibbles. Hookie, the counterman at Pink’s Soylent Dogs on La Brea, nods and pours a bubbly blue froth into a synthpaper cup, sliding it across the counter to me. I tilt it back, giving a little purr as the bittersweet buzz hits my system and wakes me up, and gives a little bioelectric charge to all my internal cybernetics. I dunno what Hookie brews his joltjuice from, but I’m pretty sure he has an eel tank somewhere in the back of the big long food counter. People say this place has been here a couple hundred years, just changing recipes and owners but never changing the name or the garish paintjob. I dunno about all that – history has never especially interested me – but it’s open 24/7 and it’s a great place to stay connected to the street beat, hearing the savage rhythms of the black market and keeping in touch with the local fuzz. That’s important for me. I’m a frazzin’ bounty hunter, after all, and I need to be in good with the coppertops.

Then I get the buzz, my left eye display suddenly flaring to life with an alert. Someone’s paid my extremely high cred-fee, initially reserving and securing my services to a Plat-level contract. That means full frazzing service, guaran-frazzin’-teed. It costs a LOT to rez me sight unseen, so it’s someone serious; it’s from a Mister Johnson – that’s just the default fake name for anyone who wants to stay anonymous. That’s fine by me,. I prefer my clients anonymous, as long as they give me a secured drop-off location for whatever or whoever the bounty is on. After all, I’m frazzing Purple Vix, the baddest bounty hunter on this side of the Andreas Chasm. I have a gods-danz rep to maintain, and I do it by getting the job done. That bearded pigfrazzer that threw me into the scut-scow? I might’ve lost most of my old teeth, but HE lost use of his right arm and won’t ever talk right again. Or he wouldn’t, if I wasn’t pretty sure he’d been melted in a solvent tank by the chem-dealers I dropped him off with. Silly bookthumper had been skimming off the top, I think. Maybe an angel told him to do it. But honestly, I don’t care. My girlfriend says I’m like a frazzin’ retriever drone – they point and click, and I get it. I just do it with STYLE.

I acknowledge the contract, and go through the details in my heads-up as I wave for another joltjuice for the road. Hookie puts it in a go-cup and takes my cred-read off my wrist implant. I blink to bump his tip up a few percentages, and head out, after checking myself in the front mirrored door. I’m lookin’ frazzin’ cool – that’s good, it’s part of the rep: my hair hangs in soft black bangs right now, but when I cluck my tongue bead against the sensor in my mouth, it SNAPS upright, revealing my smooth shaved scalp and forming up into a tall gorgeous mohawk. The black lights up with chromatics, glowing into a rich green as I’m busy considering how many creds I’m gonna get for this job. The ‘hawk reacts to my emotions, which can be fun on the job. I tap my temple to click my battle shades into place, round mirrored lenses sliding out of hidden slots in my skull that socket into place to protect my enhanced hazel eyes, my lips painted a glossy metallic black. I wear my hunting coat – my FAVORITE coat, my TRADEMARK. It’s my BABY. A long duster of purple swirling synthleather, adorned with chromed spikes and sun-glow chains, with rivets and special holo-animated pins and liquid metal highlights. It looks like sheer over the top bad-assery, and it’s me all over. That goes over my armored corsetvest – it’s bulletproof AND makes my tits look great – and clinging leather leggings with my knee-high shitkicker boots with the boosters in the heels that channel the force from the kinetic boosters implanted in my ankles complete the look. Fingerless gloves, because those are required wear for street samurai like myself, and my nails glow electric green, since they’re my waldo connection to the OpaqueNet. I type out a final confirmation in the air and push my thumb into empty space, confirming the finalized bounty contract details – looks like a piece of tech meant for some big corp buyer is set to be run across the sprawl from a location down Wilshire, and some zaibatsu hacked the drop spot and now wants it delivered to THEM on the sly. I grin to myself. The black market is a circle of daggers buried in frazzing backs. I move my glowing green fingertips in a dance in the air, swiping up a drone map, overlaying the encoded location that only uploaded once the contract was locked.

“Frazzin’ bingo,” I purr, and I jump on my Katana – took forever to save for a proper Chiba City racing hoverbike, but SO worth it, thing looks SO FRAZZIN’ COOL, even my girlfriend thinks so. I stop a second to put on my filtermask – usually I wear a cool one shaped like a snarling fox’s muzzle in bright purple, but some frazzin’ Halloweener bashed that one with a pipe while I was taking in gangers on a cop contract. That guy’s meatpaste now, but my good mask is still in the shop ‘cuz of him, so I have to wear this plain black one. Finally I take off, buzzing through skytraffic and slicing through the corp-delivery truckdrones to head for Wilshire, where my tech is tucked in an alley not too far inblock from La Brea.

Should be a frazzin’ soymilk run … for a Plat.


What’s better than a loud yawn and a deep stretch, when you wake up naked in your bed? Nothing really, especially when it smells like Vix. I stare into the ceiling blankly, then close my left eye, the synapse interface in my right iris sending a projection up on it in 200K. Not really the cutting edge now, since those maniacs at Sonysung introduced their all new 240K displays and projectors last summer, but it does just fine. My right palms turns upwards, and my fingers begin to tap lightly on the air, my finger tips glowing softly, pantomiming a knob grip, flipping through my messages, I just think the word ‘Contracts’ in my mind, and the projection goes black, except for a red framed rectangle with PASSWORD glowing just above it. I keep my palm steady, fingers pointed up. Smoothly, each of my finger nails splits up into tiny fragments that swish through the air, entering my 384 passcode in a split second, before returning to normal. The contracts line up on my screen, and I just think it, the word ‘Zoom’, and the projection switches to one folder view, lists the type of mission, the ranking, and cred-pay on it. I yawn and stretch again, lazily flicking through them with my right hand. Bronze. Bronze. Silver. Ooooh, Gold! Tempting, but it’s frazzing Tokyo. And I really don’t want to step a foot back there after that mess with the Yakuza. They have long memories and sharp katanas. I keep flipping, almost giving in to laziness and staying in bed, when my eyes fall on the Golden Goose. A plat! Oh, fuck yeah!

I sit up on bed, staring up, my legs crossed. Wearing only a pair of teal shorts, and a tank top. My titanium right shin and knee cap feeling so chilly. They fucking lied when they said you get used to the tactile feeling after a while, you goddamn don’t! And having my leg chewed right off by that Robodog two years ago, remains to this fucking day the reason Vix and I haven’t owned a pet. I put my foot down, literally. Ha! My mind focuses on the folder. A frazzin’ Plat ranking transport mission? You never see that shit on the OpaqueNet. It’s a fucking simple job. I check the listing time? 3 minutes ago. Fuck it. I need to make my call fast before someone picks it. It’s a goddamn miracle no one has. But I bet everyone is as shocked and cautious as me. But I haven’t made this name and career for myself by being chicken shit. Frazz it! I click accept, and instantly, the folder is sucked from the screen, twirling into a cubed pixed shower, and flies into my eye, transporting the location, the information, the contact. “Lazy day my ass.” I coo softly and hop off the bed, landing on my feet, stripping down. I stare at my naked reflection in the mirror. I stare at my boobs, with their chrome tipped areolas, and I smile, and at once they begin to shrink down, to a mere C-cup. The less conspicuous I look, the better, and they never lent themselves to proper espionage work. I need to be a shadow, so blending in won’t hurt.

I glance up again, at the short, pink hair I still have from last night. Vix wanted to get roleplayin’, and I love me a good spank. I half turn and stare at the faint palm prints still on my cute round tush. Oh, baby’s going to be over the moon when I tell her I’m paying for her new teeth off this bounty … before she realizes what it also means. Dusting, cleaning, laundry and vacuuming for a month. I turn to the sink, and the piles of dishes in it and sigh. Humans can fucking shoot lasers from their eyes, but we still haven’t found a solution for dirty dishes. Go figure. I bring my tattooed right arm up, and brush it through my hair, and at once it turns deep blue to the touch. I swish my fingers softly, setting a rainbow wave through the strands, that not only change the chromatic pigmentation, but elongates the hair all the way down to my upper back. I turn and put my panties on. I borrow one of Vix’s bras; whatever fits. I slip on a pair of leather pants over the Japanese, Nordic, and Arabic calligraphy on my thighs and left shin. The only marking on my arms are the three-pronged star, with circle bespokes on the tri-edges over my biceps and upper arms. It fits nicely to hide the Thermacool Biochips on my right arm, and the Endorphin Metabolizer on my left one. I slip on a black tank top, and a long black leather coat. I can’t find my shades, so I just pick Vix’s new Synthoglass slimshades; she’d kill me if she found out, but I’ll return them before she notices!

I set off, and begin to head out to La Brea, my Kawzukai hoverbike revving, before blasting off, my hands gripping it tightly, lowering my head. With the 1.5G drag this baby puts out on launch, my hair would be set on fire if it wasn’t treated. I tap on the frame of Vix’s borrowed glasses, and a display goes on the shades, with blinking blue and red dots, police patrols. And seeing I’m closing on one I hit the brakes a little. Discretion is the name of the game today.


I go whizzing on my Katana through the hovertraffic, zipping through the lanes. Normally this kinda go-ganger driving would get a floatcop on my tail, but I’ve got my bounty hunter’s license paid up and the Mister Johnson who paid my exorbitant on-record Plat fee for a secured gig means that I have PI clearance, meaning I can tell traffic wards to go suck a frazzin’ ReaLemon. My expensive chrome grin is big and bright, the flec-field domed around the front of the Katana skittering away all the pollutants, microdrones and drek that be punching through me like a hype needle through a junkie’s intake port at this speed. The sleeves on my duster ride up, baring some of the intricate twisting rainbow dragons that climb and fly over my left and right arms – animus tats I had to go all the way to Shinjuku to get, living illustrations that roam my arms and back like their own wild rainbow dragon kingdom. Sometime laying in bed with my pumpkin baby, she’ll just watch the dragons flap and crawl, roar and play and posture, turning me over and stretching my arms out to follow them as I giggle and get used as a TV until I finally distract her with a suckle just where her neck meets her shoulder or just behind her ear or nibble her lower lip or hit any of those other dozen or so little triggers we have for each other and get us wrapped back together. I shimmy a little bit on my padded jumpseat, grinding my hips as I think about smacking her curvy ass last night, my fist full of her sculpted pink hair, listening to her breathy moans as I told her what a naughty girl she was

Well, once I bring in this gig, I’m gonna tell her what a naughty girl she is all MONTH. With this contract I’ll pay off my teeth AND pay the last few service payments on her fancy Kawzukai, and she’ll be in a frilly pink apron with matching pink hair, scrubbin’ the soypizza off our plates as I squeeze an’ fondle her. Mmmmm. I’m at risk of bein’ distracted here, so I focus up – running a systems check. The shock batteries in my Taziks are charged up. My kinetic-boost jump heels are working – I flex my ankles and hear the hypersprings whirring tight. The readout in my left eye shows me that my synthormonal reserves of adrenochrome, endorphomax and dopaplus are all topped off thanks to the big ol’ blue algae organophosphate shake I drank before bed last night – frazzin’ stuff tastes like the slurry of a farm that got melted in an acid flood, but it sure does keep the bio-mods happy – and my muscle boosters are primed. Dermal plating integrity is still good since my last reweave bath. I’m a bad bitch, ready to roll. I grin bright and goose the Katana, slicing down through the air and following the signal. Apparently the tech is in a secured dead-drop, not yet moving. Poor fuckers probably put out a high-end contract with such a high price that all the Angeles couriers hesitated to jump on it. People are suspicious of a good thing. For some reason the fleeting thought of my girl in bed this morning, all naked and curled up and purring in her sleep, flits again through my head, but I shake it off and give myself a dose of dopaplus, focusing my thoughts up. Getting sharp.

I slice down an alley, diving past a bunch of securicams and antenna nests and follow the signal from the LaBrea side. West side alley of another ancient restaurant, some oldworld Nihon place called Bushi. Smell of teriyaki and grilled pseudopode, palm sugar and dashi. Frazz, I’m hungry! ‘course, once I pull this gig, I can take my baby straight to a fancy dinner. The signal in my eye flashes – drop is still secure. No courier yet. I park the bike about eight feet up in the narrow alley and vault off it, doing a sweet somersault just because of how frazzin’ cool it looks, landing on the synthcrete with a thud as my ‘hawk ripples to red since I’m thinking wicked thoughts now about violence (and later sex and teriyaki). ‘course, gotta get that thing under control – I will it back down and tug my armored hood up out of the collar of my duster, clucking my tongue again to tame my ‘hawk back down to black bangs as I secure the hood, giving me a little obfuscation – just in case the drop-off has any wise-ass scanners or anything.

In fact, this is a high-tension gig. I shoot the cuffs of my duster, and twist a spiky skull button on the sleeve to switch the cloak to a jet black, the chains and accessories going from bright-glo to ghostly translucent. Gotta look DISGUISED and shit just in case drek goes sideways. As much as I hate disguising my trademark look with basic merc black, sometimes discretion is the better part of not getting your head exploded by a sniper a week later after the some data-dancer pulls your image off a securifeed.

I get my snark out of my duster, ‘bout the size of a lil’ penlight, and flick it on as I point it, disintegrating the elaborate lock on the deaddrop that’s tucked against a wall behind a recycler. I’m sure it was some sort of fancy bio-sig or passcode thing – but I find there ain’t no lock clever enough to stop me from just frazzing disintegrating it. Of course, snarks are GENERALLY super illegal, and I had to sneak this one in from the NeoLunar London Enclave, but it’s been worth its weight in frazzin’ plat. The box opens with a little kick of my heavy boot, and I focus through my battle lenses – no traps. Not even a cam around. Whoever put this here was in a HURRY to get it couriered. Must be precious as all hell. Well, mine now.

And I’m just crouching down to reach for the briefcase inside the dropbox when I hear that wheedling thrum of a hoverbike, and I turn to grin over my shoulder. So they DID find a courier. Well, good. If this was easy it wouldn’t be any fun and I wouldn’t have a story of ass-kicking to tell my baby later.

I rise up slowly, cricking my neck left to right with a little clack-clack of the titanium disks in my C4 and C5, and turn around and square off, ready to let whoever’s landing know that they are officially now  completely, as my baby says in her old school way, fucked.


I sigh, stuck in the line of frazzing hoovies over the i-84^3 Floatway. I watch some floaties shove their MAPD badges down someone’s throat, before yanking the poor sob out of the vehicle, and holding him by his throat, telling him his rights, while his legs swished 400 meters in the air. My face is calm, emotionless. I don’t want to draw any attention. I have all my paper work checked out, but the first rule is to trust no one. A bounty hunter on the move draws attention, and someone with my rep will alert someone if they as much as flash my credentials to the precinct comp. I just play it cool, my right index tapping on the grip of my bike, when one of the cops turns to me and points. “Hey you, whatcha looking at?” I just give him a smile, and reach to the zipper of my tank top, tugging it a bit down, and with a little smirk, my boobs just expand a couple sizes, stretching the top, dragging the zip down a little, the tip of my tongue, with the little titanium tip licks around the tips of my lips. He smirks and goes back to throwing the poor bastard on his hood. Ah good old Metro-Angeles. Some things never change.

The sky circus takes a good bit of time. And when I blaze through, I decide fuck it. Need to get to my dead drop … NOW. So I just blast the boosters, and dive down, tilting it to the side, my duster flaring behind me like a cape, racing just below the ongoing traffic, and above the incoming one. A little smirk on my lips, knowing that I have 2 cms of clearance on each side. But that’s plenty, I only need 0.5cms. I arrive at the block, and quickly kill my boosters, letting my hoverbike glide on the silent air brakes. I tap on Vix’s shades again, purring; “Thanks again babe … I will make sure I return them in one piec – what the frazz???” The thermal scan is sensing something. Too small to be a person, but too big to be a rat – even after the Copepsi plant spill that irradiated the bay and sewers and caused the giant rodent mutation few years back. I tap again on the frame and the image zooms in. Uh-huh! It’s not a rat. It’s a head. A human head, or at least part of the face – the rest of it, concealed with a cloaking duster, hood and mask. Pretty basic stuff. Hunched over my box. Okay. Two possibilities: Either that’s my contact, dropping the package late. Or it’s some poor soul about to get frazzed up. Immediately, my red iris glows with a subtle blue hue, and the percentages show up. 4.1% it’s my contact running late to 95.9% it’s some frazz-target. Good. Frazzing good. I could use some fun.

I turn my hover bike back on, and push down on the spoke, revving it, I see the figure turn. Doesn’t need enhanced hearing to pick up the monstrous roar of my 14,000HP Kawzukai … I smirk, licking my lips again … I tilt the spoke forwards and straight on NOSEDIVE towards you! A full on perpendicular dive, my eyes narrowed and my bike moving down like a meteor … I see the hooded figure, the flaring duster, mirrorshades.  Specks of flowing black hair. His (or maybe her?) filter mask and hood hiding much of the face … but how much can you detect in the 0.3 seconds dive of my bike bomb dropping down?

I smirk and ready myself to hear the crunching of bones and clattering of titanium off the walls and floor of the alley … but in a blink of an eye I see the intruder crouching and the gust of jump heels blasting, sending her jaunting 20 feet in the air, clearing me, and my Kawzukai by a good margin. But as you do, I let go of the grip with my left arm and pull with the right, sending my hover bike skidding and somersaulting, the jets blasting at you and a burst of compressed air adding a second bounce to your jump, while my free left hand reaches down, grabbing the handle of the briefcase from inside the dropbox, yanking it and twisting my bike in a midair 720 spin.

My laughter cracks up in the alley, watching you vault against one wall and drop to the ground, still obscured to me. Okay. It’s a she. Obviously. Most dudes are not so nimble, and she doesn’t look like she’s built like a tank.

“Wish I could stay and chat, sugar! But I’ve got places to be. Thanks for cracking the lock. Saved me three seconds!!” My voice cracks out of the speaker of the synthesizer on my bike, garbling and distorting my voice into amorphous tone designed to hide my identity.  In many cases, that’s helped me avoid authorities or persistent pursuers. And with another crackling laugh I rev my hoverbike and blast off, leaving you in a storm of compressed air, dust, paper, and teriyaki smoke.

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The runner, whoever it is, has a duster on like mine – obscuring scanners. Good. That means I’m at least working with a professional here. That always makes it more interesting. My enhanced eyes flick and dance behind my mirrored implant lenses, my hands moving in restless twitching typing at my sides as my nails glow that rich digital green, digging through the OpaqueNet and the SubEtha to look for some helpful info as we face off – whoever it is on the Kawzukai came from I-83^3, where they were tagged by a floatcop as a POI (meaning the floaty perved on them and tagged them for later spank-bank review). No idea who – she has a slimshades on like the new ones I have at home, her hair’s a rainbow flow of primsatics and bafflers that makes it difficult to even look right at her while they fritz my scanners, and she’s partly masked against the pollution cloud. Her Kawzukai comes back with a fake registration – to a Mister Johnson, no less. Classic. But she has GREAT tits, the stolen view from the floatcop’s visor floating in front of my eyes for just a stretched microsecond of data analysis, the tip of my tongue glazing my jet black lips as for some reason I think AGAIN of my Canary, but that’s just probably because I’ve been thinking of her since I left this morning and I’m all eager to get back to her and take her out to a fancy dinner and then make out with her all sloppy in the back of an izakaya until we drag each other home to test our new high-density gel mattress. But right NOW I’ve got to deal with this mad bitch trying to run me down on her frazzin’ bike!

Easy enough for this – jumpers are primed, and my inner springs fire as my kinetic pulsers in my boots channel the burst, and my legs shoot low and then FIRE up like a leapin’ gods-danz grasshopper from the olden-days, shooting me up and over the bike! I intend to come down ON the rider, but whoever this bint is she’s good, flipping her bike in a sick little spin that’s almost as good as any my girl has ever pulled stunting on her own precious Kawzukai (black just like this one, huh, popular color), and FIRES the hoverjets into me, launching me further back! “FRAZ!” I growl, my chrome teeth bared behind my filter mask! I go with the blast, springing off the wall and tumbling neatly through the air to land in a ninja crouch on the synthcrete, glaring up at you through my round mirrored lenses. My ‘hawk bristles under my hood, returning to shades of violet frustration and steel determination before I tame it back down as the speak-synthesized voice of my runner blasts out a taunt and frazzing takes OFF! I’m already moving even as she starts talking drek, launching back into the air with my jumpers and landing on my floating hoverbike, and BUZZING out after her! I rattle off a quick code in the air with my left hand, indicating a licensed bounty hunter in pursuit to stop any Metroplex-Angeles PD coppertops from getting too curious, and warning any transits running G-Nav to get the frazz out of the way, and I GUN it. The Kawzukai is a top notch stunt bike, (which is one reason my Canary adores her own so much) quick and nimble and fluid, but the Katana is the bike *I* wanted because it’s FRAZZIN’ FAST.

I SLICE through the air, my flecfield flickering and sparking as I zip through the fancy debris of the Wilshire skyroad, and I just go FLAT OUT. My runner is just ahead of me, so I don’t give her time to think – I just gun right THROUGH and as she’s twisting into some fancy drek move that’s probably gonna be a corkscrew, I stand up on my bike like a frazzin’ madwoman, alarms screaming as I clear the flec-field and my duster is WHIPPED back a jillion klicks an hour – and I KICK off the seat, jumpers at full and DRIVING me in a power dive right across the narrow space between us to TACKLE this buxom runner around the waist, RIGHT OUT OF THE GODS-DANZ AIR, DIVING us down out of the skylane and plunging through the air in a frenzied furious fall, leaving the Kawzukai and Katana to whip off and safely hover with their autonavs at the nearest bot-parks – and the air SCREAMS past as I hold tight and DIVE us down through the Metro-Angeles smog! You frazzing SWING the tech case at my spine as we’re falling like some sorta Russian wasp-drone stinging even though you’re bein’ taken down! Fortunately I catch the movement with my prox sensors, and I flexibly bring my leg up, whipping it over me, the extra silicone vertebrae in my spine really helping my flexibility in a smooth scorpion kick, snapping my boot against the case to deflect the swing – just before we frazzing EXPLODE through the display dome of the new Beamer Gyro dealership, crashing in a huge frenzy of glittering pic-glass, the image of happy consumers flitting around in their personal tiny copters falling into little fragments of flickering static!

I the hot merc bitch break my fall, crashing into the cluster of Customer Service Greetbots who burst into sparkly bits still burbling cheery hellos. I tumble off the impact and come to my feet – and shake my beautiful duster off, dusting off fragments of advertising-dome and serv-bot with little clinks and crackles, my ‘hawk briefly flaring a smug fiery gold before it goes back down under my hood as I bend down and scoop up the briefcase that skidded from the crashed ‘runner’s hand. “Nice try, sugartits,” I purr through the mask, my voice a synthetic fox growl (I kept the same vocoder program from my other more trademark mask), “But someone paid good cred for this on the OTHER side of town.”

And I take a running leap, not bothering to see how badly the (admittedly very sexy and nice-smelling) runner might be hurt, shaking off the crash landing as I get a good run going, clicking up to run about 3x human average and blurring past the angry BMW personnel to run through a manager’s office where some poor pleb is being fleeced into a 38.5% interest rate on his gyro payments, running past the active consumering as I DIVE out the back window, kicking right through it with my big ol’ jump-boot, and landing in a roll on the roof of the VR bach-pad condoblock behind the BMW, sprinting along the roof down Orange Drive and heading for the train station at Orange and 6th! If I can catch the bullet headed west, I can get this to the drop-off point in damn near record time!


My manic laugh echoes off the walls of the alley. Crackling and revving my Kawzukai twice, before driving off. I smile and shake my head … my mind still replaying that crazy amazing vertical hop. Whoever that chick is … She’s got mad skills and reaction time. Meh … sometimes I wish we could have a safe word, me and other bounty hunters. Just so we could yell it, put things on hold, high five someone for a really cool move, maybe get their number; then continue the chase. But when I told Vix my idea, she smacked me straight … or bent, to be more accurate, over her knee … and told me she’s all I need. Which is true. I just purr and squeeze my thighs against my buzzing, vibrating, roaring bike, feeling a certain warmth rising in my loins. Soon I’ll be back to her … my Hottie Vix … I’ll make it rain over her head … I’ll let her kiss my little animated Canary tattoo on my left ribs … Her illuminant tongue will drag and trace, send jitters through the little inkling bird and make it sing; and then I’ll be off dishes duty for a month. Fuck … I hate dishes. My brows furrow, when suddenly, a red dot appears on the glasses HUD … What the …? I squint and see it approaching … FAST. I turn back and my eyes narrow. A freaking Katana? Oh FRAZZ … I fucking HATE those things. They don’t maneuver well, but they are faster than Gauss-loaded bullets fired from MagGuns … I immediately twist my grip and my hoverbike goes into a spin. “Try to frazzing catch that, Toots …” I purr, knowing that while you could definitely keep pace with me, your bike will never maneuver close enough to collide with mine. All I need is a sharp bend or a corner, to skid through, and it’s bye-bye, grasshopper!

But before I can even process what happened, I can see you in the rearview reflection on my right shades glasses standing up. “No … Frazzing … Way,” I mumble, not even bothering to twist, because I frazzing WANT to watch this. You’ll either leap, miss and fall to your death … too bad – your fault … ain’t mine.

Or you’ll make it … and if you do … No … No frazzing way … She won’t … My eyes go wide watching you leap! No longer focusing on the feed from the shades, my head tilts up … I’m upside down, so technically, I’m staring straight down at you using your ankle boosters to thrust up and crash into me! Arms around my waist, our bikes air skidding and spinning, before the sensors on the seas detect that they have lost their drivers and set into auto pilot mode. But I grunt, my body bent over your shoulder. I feel the strength in those arms – which isn’t too strange, given the age we live in. I lift up the briefcase, ready to swing it down on your spine, to test the endurance of your implants. Spoiler: unless they are military grade titanium, they won’t survive the swing of my right shoulder! But your left leg bends back and you kick up … bending your back nearly impossibly, like a scorpion lashing with its tail, smashing into the briefcase and almost knocking it from my grip, before our bodies plummet and smash through the display windows of the BMW showroom. I can feel my body taking every brunt, the plasteel awnings, the enforced display glass and a full on salesbot rep desk that turns into a meteor crash site.

I lay there, groaning, stunned. My dust mask covering my lower face, Vix’s shades my eyes. My chromatic rainbow streaks wrapped around my face, concealing it. And I hear the mocking tone even through the animal synthesizer. “Sugartits”?? — “SUGARTITS”?! I realize suddenly, that in my rush, I forgot to shrink my breasts back after flirting with that cop to get past. Oh FRAZZ!! You get up and start to sprint away, smashing through the back glass panels and into the other street. I take in few deep breaths … and blink with my left eye. Assessing damage … Nothing critical: Bruises, a dislocated right shoulder, and a broken pinkie finger. Soy-nuts! I grunt and rise up to my knees, then feet. Everyone in the dealership stares at the runaway hunter, then at me, who almost acts like a malfunctioning robot, walking straight into a corner wall … then … CRRRIIIIIICKKKKKK! I slam my right shoulder hard into it, and without as much as a groan of pain, I knock it back into the socket. Moving back, I pull the shades off my face, staring at the large crack on the right lens. Oh … Frazz. Vix’s going to kill me. I sigh and put them back on, and turn to the broken back window and I CHARGE after. I did not go for ankle boosters like Vix. I was going to … until that unfortunate incident with Robo-Cujo. I have an entire freaking synthetic space-grade titanium alloy, fission-battery powered prototype shin. It won’t win me any synchronized swimming contests, giving off way too much right drag with every thrust. But with precise timing, and adjusting my stride so I’m taking giant, Hulk-like leaps instead of straight up running, I can clear an entire basketball court’s width in one leap. And I THRUST hard, launching myself clear across the bowels of the BMW dealership, my head and shoulders bumping and dragging against the ceiling fixtures, sending a shower of debris and glass down. I land outside, on one knee. Turning my head up, I see the trails of your duster vanishing off the roof of the condoblock … I grin. And while still crouched, I shake my head to knock off some of the debris. Then … I THRUST hard.

I launch myself like a mortar. Lobbing myself off the building, a thousand calculations taking place inside my trajectory chip … downloading the layout of the rooftop, the width, wind speed, your speed … too many variables. But I go for the widest opportunity, a 46% path, and more than often the biggest chance is the best choice. As my body clears the roof by a good 50 feet, I open my arms wide, letting my body glide, watching you running to the edge of the roof, readying yourself to dart across the 15 meter gap to the next roof, before coiling my body into a ball, DIVING straight at you. As you leap across, I turn my body, and SLAMMMM my shoulder straight into your back, sending us DIVING down into the alley between the two buildings, a good 8 floors’ fall that CRACKS the asphalt and leaves a little hottie face crater in it, with my body laying across of you. “Oh … WOOOPS!  Hope that wasn’t too har—ARRGGHHH!!” But before I can even finish the taunt, while reaching for the briefcase, I feel your fingers wrap around my wrists, and your body thrusting up, jolting to your feet and swinging me around … I grit my teeth, and as you swing me, I swipe hard with my left leg, sending the briefcase sliding deeper into the alley, and as you fling me across, I curl my body and land on the wall, feet first, cracking the bricks, before somersaulting forwards and landing on one foot and one knee, glaring up at you. My voice synthesizer carrying only my deep breaths as I stare up at you; then, with a deep, static voice, I purr in a tone that is carrying way TOO much of my giddiness and delight: “Oh boy … I guess we’re gonna dance … Aren’t we … tight-tush?”


I shoot right through the gyro dealership window like a modernist expression of post-capitalist protest (oooh, I should upload the footage from my eyecam to the SubEtha guerilla-art feed – I bet they’ll be able to make some cool vid incorporating the looks on the plebs’ faces) and hit a sweet roll across the roof. I’m moving fast, still clocking a good speed, but I’m not burning out my hip servos or anything. I scanned your vitals as well as I could through your baffle-duster after we hit the service desk, and you didn’t register any big spikes indicating heavy damage – but I’m pretty sure you’ll be out for at least long enough for me to get gone. You’re a pro – ridin’ the same kinda stuntbike as my Canary and with ALMOST the same level of skill as my baby has in cirqueing that thing around, but I’ll bet nu-yen to soy-nuts that you didn’t go through the expense, agony, and long recovery time to get boneweave like she and I did. That’s one reason Canary and Vix is one of the hottest merc teams in the whole Metroplex of Angels – we’re frazzin’ TOUGH. My baby and I have been put through walls, thrown through buildings, hit with hovertrucks, and we keep on comin’, like that pink holographic bunny that advertises the Teslatronic fusion cells. So I’m pretty sure that you aren’t gonna be up and around before I’m long frazzin’ gone. So I take a moment to plot a series of jumps from this roof that should spring me right over Orange and bring me in 180 meters to the drop-lift down to the underground, where I can hop a bullet-lev and get frazzin’ GONE with this fancy briefcase. It’s a pretty damn solid plan.

Which is why it’s REAL ANNOYING when I suddenly get a blitz of contact alarms as I leap off the cornice of the building, heading for a floating holo-ad platform, and you frazzin’ INTERCEPT ME like a gods-danz homing anti-perp missile!

“PFUUUHHHHHHHHHHH!” I groan as I’m blasted outta the air, tumbling with you through the sky as we thread the spaceneedle between two buildings and plunge down into the synthcrete of a whole NEW alley, where I impact like a damn buzzbomb facefirst. There’s a WASH of harsh static as I hit so hard that my systems have to reset real quick, and a diagnostic that runs through me as my body JOLTS the landing. My chrome teeth grit in a shiny snarl as my system releases a dose of endorphomax and ease the pulsing crush of ache in my tits and face. Fuck, I think you actually split my dermal armor a bit, detecting a bit of a leak on my cheek. My eyes BLAZE, probably super intimidating to the broken synthcrete my face is buried in, and when I feel a tug at the case my gloved hand is still firmly wrapped around I twist up, cobra style, and shoot my other hand across, SNATCHING that wrist. You boot the tech down the alley into the concrete shadows as I LASH around with a whir of servos, kicking in my muscle enhances for some extra oomph, and frazzing WHIP you at the wall with a fox’s snarl. But instead of splatting, you neatly flip and DRIVE your boots into the wall, cracking it and tumbling back to the alley to face me. I glare at you, in your cracked slimline shades – gods-danz, you DO have good taste at least – but I can’t get a good scan – your prismatic hair and baffling duster throwing off my scans. I feel a hitch in my chest as my crushed tits are pumped back to pleasing fullness, a spang in my bone-weaved ribs that makes breathing a bit of a hassle, but otherwise ready to rock as you smirk your taunt in your little synth filter.

“We’re gonna dance, dollface” I growl, and curl my fists with a low crackle of silicate and adamant-weave. “But I’m LEADIN’.” And I rush in, firing a flurry of fists at high speed. And you COUNTER them, ducking and swaying, firing wrist blocks. FRAZZ, you’re good! I kick up the speed, firing punches faster, so fast that the air gets some friction, and you get worked back, dodging and blocking with smooth pro calm, but when you get to the wall you prepare to make a move, and I KNOW you’re gonna since I’ve got you cornered, so I surprise you by DROPPING low, into a full split with a little whir of my hip sockets, my heel spurs shooting into the synthcrete to anchor me as I FIRE a swift uppercut that hammers between your thighs! I see the shift of that pretty, obscured face as your eyes probably widen behind the cracked shades, the crinkle of muscles meaning your lips are probably gasping behind your synthmask, that rainbow hair whipping. I still have my ‘hawk laying flat, obscured under my black duster hood – I don’t like having too many identifiers out when I’m fighting in public, even on a paid gig – but if it was out it’d be CRESTING right now. I fucking LOVE twatting a bitch. But you fight right THROUGH the big dirty shot, reaching down and snatching my purple lapels and WHIPPING me up and over, CRASHING my back to the wall above your head and leaving a Vix-ass imprint in the plascrete facing!

“UFFFF!” I groan, and you move quickly, ready to swing me back down and plant me tits and face-first down in the same crater I just came out of – so I fire my heel anchors again, shooting the titanium spikes from my Achilles ports, a loud crunch as they sink in – hooking me upside down in the wall, my tits swaying firmly in my armor-corset! With a growl I snap my gloved fists into your biceps just inside your elbows, breaking your grip on my duster and I snatch your hair, my luminous green mails lacing through the rainbow, arms swirling to twist you around so I face you upside down like we’re about to kiss in that super old talky two-dee flick with the spiders and the redheaded chick – and I YANK you forward and down to CRASH your face into the wall and fuck those slimline shades up some more! HA! Those are EXPENSIVE – too bad I had to mess ‘em up!


A little whirr rises from my titanium shin, the servos and hydralics calibration and resetting. That was one HECK of a leap – 150 meters is far beyond the factory defaults. But my Vixxie Fox and I spent weeks overclocking and hacking the theoretically unhackable module, improving on it, and giving it this near 30% boost. It’s frazzing dangerous to use, but at a moment like this, it’s all worth it! I lick my upper lip slowly with the tip of my tongue, taunting you; a little amateurish, and not really my style, but with my propulsion down for the next 10 seconds, I need to stall. Or at least, pretend to be cocky just to look cool. I can’t outrun you with those crickety heels of yours anyway. And I just purr admiring the way you rise, your facial armor a bit cracked up, and I see some coolant or blood dripping. “Woops … Hope I didn’t land on all too hard on you, sugah.” But then, you pounce up growling like … a fox. The sound distorted with your audio synth, but it’s still what it is: a growl … of a fox. And my eyebrows furrow, bringing up the suitcase up and letting your first two punches land on it. The flurry of blows continues, and I just dance back, dodging as they come … What the frazz?? I’m suddenly reeling backwards in a dance that you are very clearly leading; as you proclaimed, and then with my back to the wall, you just vanish … Oh wait … OH SON OF A BITCH!!!! All I did was blink, and you are just down in a full split, uppercutting me right in the pussy!! I groan out, hearing a little sadistic cackle. But I grab you by your duster collar and swing up, smashing you into the wall right above me. “Oh hunni … Better not break it, it’s claimed. And my fox would kick your ass so hard, you’d clear the lunar orbit …” But before I can smash you down, your achilles spikes hook the wall and you punch my arms off! “UUNGGHHH!!!!” I scream as you grab me and spin me around, driving my face into the wall SO hard, my skull just smashes clear through it … from a side-view, I might as well look decapitated and leaning against the wall!

I hear another cackle, my HUD blinking violently. The shades … Vix’s shades got smashed into prismatic synth dust flickering with a million colors. I grimace and feel your grip on my head coming off as you vault off the wall. My projective vector simulator is rebooting, so I need to just do this old school, and calculate it by pure instinct. My hands come up and I smack them to the wall, pulling my right knee up, then I back-mule kick as hard as I can. I feel something hard against my titanium foot’s sensors, and a loud grunt. And I wish I could frazzing see it; because I know it was glorious. From this short distance, you received so many Gs of force from my prosthetic lower leg slamming right into your back and sending you flying forwards that you smash THROUGH the opposite wall of the alley. And while I left a Canary face hole; you left a full-on Slut-Shaped hole, like one of those Saturday morning holographic vintage cartoons Vix loves to watch. I pull my head back from the wall, and yank my baby’s shattered shades off, bemoaning the fit of rage she’ll greet me with realizing I took them. But I’ll buy her a whole VisorHut with the cash out from this bounty. I stalk down the alley and bend to grab the briefcase from where I kicked it, eyeing the hole in the wall, brick and dust falling. Fuck … I blew another charge of my leg with the kick. I turn and start running to the mouth of the alley. My metrics coming back online: Okay … 10 seconds, 8 … 6, 5, 4 … 2 … Almost! I tense my body ready to pounce … ZERO! I grin and thrust up, ready to leap another three blocks to clear this goddamn place and this persistent lunatic psycho bitch, when …

SMASSHHHH! The wall to my left cracks open and you come flying out of it! Leaping and slamming your body into my side, a split second after I took off with my leap! I grunt and we go spiraling through the air … your left fist clutching my duster. I’m off trajectory, but right now, I need to lose you, and NOT the briefcase. I clutch it tightly with my right fist, lifting my left arm up, I slam my elbow down on the back of your neck three times. But you grunt each time, and instead of losing your grip, you HUG my side tighter. Your face buried into my left side boob. The entire world spinning as we shoot up like a badly made Pan-Pacific firework. But as we lose momentum and our bodies stall, I feel you twisting your body and flipping us over, in a motherucking suplex!!! Squeezing my waist, and trying to drive us down a 100 meters high up, with me taking the impact full on my head! I grunt and swing my elbow back down at you … I don’t have any manner of propulsion to change the trajectory. The roof of an old factory approaches rapidly, and I keep slamming blows at your neck and back … FRAZZ … you want me to drop the briefcase. Or you want to smash me down so hard on my head that it pops out of my ass!!! My eyes catch the towering chimney of the factory, and I bend my right leg at the knee; and suddenly a grappling hook shoots out and spears the rocks, linking us to it and instead of slamming straight down we are propelled into a swing, wrapping tight around the huge chimney and I turn my body just enough, pushing on your head with my left hand, growling; “Let’s check the sturdiness of that thick skull of yours … Shall we?” And – SMASHHH!!! Our bodies drive through the base of the chimney, plowing through the old bricks, and right out of the other side!! The 20 meter tall structure teetering for a moment, then it comes crashing down, burying us in an avalanche of old brown brick and synthplaster!!

A moment passes … and then, my right arm pops out with the briefcase. Grunting … then my head. I pant. My filter mask is shattered, and I yank it off, tossing it aside. I turn around, blinking, eyes watering from the thick cloud of smoke and dust. I can’t see you. You’re buried under the bricks somewhere. I pull my body from under the debris and I run to the edge of the roof. I stare down – it’s a good 30 minute drop. But oh my!! My luck might not be out yet … I see the hovertrain Mag-Lift tracks beneath, and the 3:58 train rushing towards us. I smirk and turn my head to the debris, about to drop another Au Revoir zinger, when I see a fist shooting through the pile of bricks. “Oh COME ON!!!” I scream out in frustration. With no mask and no synthesizer, I know you heard my voice. FRAZZ!! I hope your analyzer got busted, or you’d trace my identity by voice alone … But even then, I can’t let you freaking see my face, so I turn and LEAP off the roof, dropping the big gap and landing on top of the train, tumbling into a forward vault of pure awesomeness and ass kickery!


I TWIST off the wall with a neat pivot of my extremely flexible hips (you’d have to get a bunch of drinks in me or just get my Canary under me to REALLY let me show you flexible) as my heel hooks pull loose from the heavily broken wall, landing neatly on my boots just behind you where your head is buried in the wall. You look cute like that. All twitchy. I grin over my shoulder, reaching for a synaptic disabler in my duster to keep you off my fucking back – when your leg suddenly BLURS with a whir of gears and there’s barely a second for my prox alarms to go off when you KICK me through the frazzing wall! I CRASH through the plascrete exterior and a weave of atmospheric filters and fiberop, tumbling into a damn jamboard shop. I hate these places. They smell like keyboard polish and fauxtchouli. The dozen or so noisejunkies all look up at me with bleary sound-dizzy eyes and then return to their unending chorus of freeform digital sound. I shake my head, running my fingertips over my face as a series of distress reports buzz in – fuckin’ BITCH, you split my dermal again! There’s actual BLOOD along with the lubricant, right at the cheekbone! Canary always gets so MAD when someone messes with the moneymaker! OOOH, YOU’RE IN SO MUCH TROUBLE FOR FUCKIN’ WITH MY BABY’S FAVORITE FACE TO SMOOCH AND SIT ON.

I glower, my filter mask cracked, but my battle lenses still pristine, covering my eyes in reflective gleam. They oughtta be, damn things are rated to take a 30 mike-mike depleted uranium hardslug. (leaving aside that if one of those hit me in the face there’d be nothing left BUT my implanted mirrorshades, but whatever, they’re cool). Flipping through views with a whir of digital feedback as my systems adjust for the blunt force trauma, I flip through UV, thermal, atmospheric scan and sodium detector views before I finally find one that tracks you through the wall despite your duster and obscuring tech – my EMF scatter reader can see where you’re NOT, making shape of you like a silhouette against the glow of the city. And for a second, looking at your silhouette, I see the shape of my Canary laying in bed again, and something in my auditory subprocessor flickers to my attention (did she say “my fox”) but I shake it off with a burst of dopaplus from the organic reservoirs where my spleen used to be, and I kick on the accelerators in my ankles, my boot soles glowing with channeled force as I gear up. “Sorry about your frazzin’ wall, plebs. Send the bill to Mister Johnson,” I grin to the soundheads and then BLAZE through the wall at full speed, arms coming up and popping out my wrist blades to SLASH through fiberop, going through at about 60 klicks and EXPLODING out of the plascrete just as you leap into the air (wait a minute why does she have a roboleg) but no time to think of that shit as I CRASH into you and my acceleration fucks with yours, gripping onto you! You fight back hard, pistoning your elbow down into my neck, but I tuck up and bunch my shoulderblades, the muscle fibers back there thickening up with nanoweave to increase the density as you pound on me, and I STAY clutched on like a bulldog, wrapping arms around you, my cheek mashing into your tit (mmmm so snuggly) and hanging tight we go higher and higher, propelled by our mutual leaps as we rip through the air!

I TWIST my arms around you, the rare-earth mags in my palms mating to the electroplates in my forearms to LOCK my arms in place, and I try to WHIP you over with the idea of planting you on your head with a suplex, just like RoboLesnar on WWR! We SNAP out of the air a few hundred meters up, wrenched down by the change in gravity as you keep fighting, but I’ve inverted us now. “YOU’RE GONNA LEAVE A FRAZZIN’ PETRO-WELL WITH THAT BIG HEAD OF YOURS, MEINU!” I cackle as you keep snapping your elbow into my hooded head – but then you FIRE a grapnel outta that roboleg and my eyes get REAL wide because I know exactly one and only one mad bitch who actually put a high-speed decel hook into her damn prosthetic, and then I don’t even get to appreciate the depth and height of that sudden shock because I’m hit in the face with a few hundred tons of chimney, and we barely have time to land and appreciate how hard we just hit the ground on the other fucking side when it falls on us.


There’s a WASH of static as the systems hard reboot, and I get pounded to FRAZZING DREK down here, pulsing with pain all over as endorphomax floods me. For a few long moments I lay in the dark. My lenses protected my optics, at least, but my shellaced black lip is split, I’m leaking a bit of coolant, and my elbow and knee slipped out of place. Fortunately, I have time to reset those while I’m down here waiting for everything to come online, charging up my muscle boosters. The restorative systems’ nanocables internally weave around the loose joints, and there’s a DEEPLY uncomfortable loud jaw-clenching CLACK as the elbow and knee are set back in place, followed by a menacing fucking growl. NO ONE DROPS A GODS-DANZ CHIMNEY ON ME, FRAZZIN’ cunt. I get the all clear and THRUST my right fist up, SMASHING toppled plascrete out of the way in a burst like I’m in one of those GloboDisney herothrillers that they crank out on the VR bleed (I’m a big fan of the 18th Howard the Duck movie, the last one before the franchise really got weird), scattering industrial smokestone. And I hear you yell in protest as I tense up ready to leap —

And the sound stops me cold for a moment as you jump out of sight. Just for a moment. A moment of hyperspeed processing.

my fox
robot leg
the curve of your breast
those slimline shades just like mine

And I come to the stunning, jaw-dropping realization –


“GET FRAZZIN’ BACK HERE!” I roar, max-speed firing, my shattered filtermask back in the wreckage and my hood a wreck, fluttering behind me in armorweave tatters as my mohawk springs up to full aggression, colored an angry shade of fire that glows as I blur forward and LEAP into the gap, hitting the maglev train hard enough to set off seismic alarms inside, and I keep BLITZING forward, depleting a LOT of my runspeed charge to catch up to you, satisfied to see the surprise on your face as I catch up, drawing my foot back to kick your pussy up into transorbit and –

  • your face –

SCRRREEEEEEE there’s a squeal as I BLAST the brakes, my boots glowing a hot blue, scorching the roof of the train, peeling fat curls of metal as smoke twines around me and I skid to a stop – my ‘hawk fading from furious fiery red to a confused and slightly aroused blue-green.

“… uh. Hi, ‘nary.”

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Oh frazz … oh frazz … oh frazz … OH FRAZZ!!! My heart is pounding so fucking hard. My vitals are all over the place. My brain waves must be spiking so violently; my HUD would be blaring with all kinds of colors and boosting the alarms and beeps through the endo-skeletal implants; if it wasn’t smashed into diagnostic mode. But I’m not on the verge of a full-on cardiac arrest because of the pain, of the chase, or even the fear that the stubborn droid-raged psycho killer hound pursuing me would catch up. No … I’m terrified of what VIX would do when I tell her that I smashed her sweet new shades!!! My baby does not take too kindly to me, euhm, “borrowing” her stuff. And oh, Robo-Jesus help us if she is haivng a rough day!!! I still remember our infamous fight, when she found out I accidentally bumped few of her Holo-Animes and VR-Hentai off our HoloFlix playlist. It took two squads of MAPD’s finest to pull us apart (or more accurately, hold her back off me, while she growled and rumbled at me in Japanese. I mean, seriously, what’s worse than to be insulted in a frazzing language you don’t understand!! Wait … Did that sycophant call me “Meinu”? )

I hear the THUMP behind me, and I half turn, my eyes going wide. I see the little crater your drop caused in the ceiling of the train, some 10 cars behind me, and the frazzing speed you rush me with. And I just stop. I stand there, my duster blowing in the wind, my legs spread, feet in a shoulder’s width. My chromatic hair waving like rainbow trains, and my eyes wide, holding the briefcase. The charge in my prosthetic leg on cooldown, and without my HUD, I have no way of telling when it’s ready, or how close I am to overloading it and triggering a little fission meltdown, that would cost me not only the other leg, but also my little ‘SexBox’ that Vix loves so much. If she forgives me about her shades; she won’t forgive me for that one.

But, why even worry about that?

… I’m staring at her. Charging at me like a bullet train, on top of a bullet train. I can see the sparks flying from the soles of your boots that are just melded in one blazing whirling motion. I don’t move, nor do I even flinch. I’m just staring at the glowing lenses, and the fiery red Mohawk, and just as your foot plants just behind me, pivoting your other leg back and start kicking, I just stare at you, seeing you freeze. And call me by my pet name. Frozen in place, both of us: me in probably one of your favorite anime cover poses, and you like a Rocketball player about to kick an OrbitalRun. “… ‘ello Vix,” I say with a little half smile. “Figures … who else would it be??” I purr with a soft sigh, and turn back forwards, rolling my neck in a slow motion, crackling it, trying to defuse the built up tension in it. “Frazz … Seriously! You’re such a pain in the ass, you know that??”

I sigh, and turn back to you, rolling my left shoulder, letting my duster flow down my arm, and with quick juggle, I pass the briefcase to my left hand, before rolling my right shoulder, and letting the duster slide down, only to be caught by my right grip. “So…. You uppercutted me in the cunt. And I dropped a chimney on you. Call it even??? … No?? Didn’t think so.” I purr, and yank my right arm up, letting my duster flow back with the wind, smacking you in your stunned face! And as you bring your arms up to pull it off, I lunge up in the air, twisting my body in a spinning back kick, driving my right foot hard into your sternum!! You fly back almost 15 meters, crashing on the roof of the car behind us. “Woopsie … I meant … NOW… we’re even. That punch to the cunt HURT YOU BITCH!!!” I scream at you, watching as my duster flies off your face … You’re coughing and gasping for air. “How about this … Just stay down there, looking all pretty. And when I get back home, I promise, I’ll buy you something nice!!” I coo teasingly. But I see your mohawk start turning red again; reflecting the frazzing rage swelling in your chest. I roll my eyes and sigh. “… Really???” As I watch you start to rise, I hold up my left hand. “NOW HANG ON!!! Let’s not have a repeat of Anime night! I’m SORRY I took your shades, but technically, YOU broke the— HUNNNGGHHHHH!!!!”

I can’t even finish my words, as you pounce from your kneeling position and SPEAR me so hard in my chest; the installed shockabsorbers in my boobs auto-engage, expanding my breasts just a little to cushion the blow, and shield my ribs from being utterly SHATTERED by the impact. I crash on my back with you perched atop of me, groaning and staring at your face … moaning in pain, but as I see your mohawk flicker quickly between red and blue-green, I realize that it might have sounded more erotic to your ears than it was intended!!!

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Yep. That’s my Canary. Now that it’s right in front of me it all becomes OBVIOUS, and I’m sure if some smug fucker was like, reading an account of this in some sort of subjective setting that tried to express our feelings and emotions along with the timeline of events, it would seem real DUH’ING SIMPLE, but these frazzin’ hypothetical account-readers aren’t the ones who were in the middle of a high-speed high-intensity high-stakes brawl that demolished more standing structures than a disintegrator crew in a condemned zone. SURE, WHEN YOU CAN JUST LAZILY REVIEW THE FACTS, IT SEEMS KINDA CLEAR WHAT WAS HAPPENING BUT TRY FIGURING THAT OUT WHILE SOME MAD BITCH IS PUTTING YOUR FACE INTO A CRATER FROM 8 FLOORS UP.

Of course, in this case, the mad bitch is my darling girlfriend. We pose off, anime-style, staring each other down with the bullet train screaming through the mag-levs under us, the wind streaming our dusters – since I’m not in disguise, I twist my skull button and set my duster back to my trademark purple, lighting up my spikes and chains again – and the wind flutters my fiery ‘hawk as your rainbow mane flows around your beautiful face and I’m IMMEDIATELY torn between the desire to pin you down and kiss you and the desire to punch you just SO MANY TIMES as I realize what shit my GIRLFRIEND has pulled on me. AND YOUR BROKE MY SHADES.

“ME? I’M A PAIN? YOU ARE SUPPOSED TO BE TAKING TODAY OFF AT HOME TO SIT AROUND BEING SEXILY NAKED AND SENDING ME NAKED DISHWASHING SELFIES WHILE YOU CATCH UP ON THAT FRENCH POV VR PORN SHOW YOU LIKE SO MUCH.” My voice an angry roar both to be heard over the wind in my face AND because I’m really mad that you’re here trying to take MY Platinum gig and make it YOUR Platinum gig, and if you do that that means I’LL be the bitchwife and THAT AIN’T GONNA CUT IT. You distract me though by taking off your duster, and you’re wearing a skimpy tanktop and despite my better judgement I drag my glow-beaded tongue over my battered bloody shiny black lips because I always wanna smooch those titties no matter WHAT size you have them at. I smirk at little at your reminiscing even as my eyebrows draw down. “Even? EVEN? That was a WHOLE CHIMNEY!” I protest, stomping my boot poutily – and you WHIP your black coat into my face! “AAUGH YOU CHEATY WENCH, I – UUUGHHHHH!” I take a FLYING kick at bullet-train speed right in the tits as I’m struggling with the coat on my face, rocketing me backwards along the train to sprawl on my back all sexily, one arm across my chest and one flopped above my head, one leg drawn up and one leg out wide as you taunt me from above.

And as I rise up to my knees, glowering and resetting my lungs as my tits ache hotly, my ‘hawk flares to red and my lenses glow bright fiery gold, and I come diving up and CRASH into you like a gods-danz railgun, DRILLING my extended lunging form into those lovely tits and driving you into train under me. I pin you down right away as you groan – and moan … and my cheeks flush as my optics read my temperature rising, my ‘hawk flickering to sexytime colors because I really like it when you’re pinned under me moaning. I growl, and lean down, gripping a FISTFUL of rainbow hair and PULLING your head back as I hiss in your ear.

“I am TAKIN’ this frazzin’ tech in to MY dropoff, and YOU’RE gonna lay here and moan all pretty until the train stops, then you’re gonna go home and get naked and start washin’ dishes until I get home and bring you somethin’ pretty to wear while I fuck you silly,” I growl – and since I know my Canary isn’t gonna take THAT kinda trash talk laying down, I was charging up my biceps the whole time I was whispering, so I SNAP upright – and DRILL a flurry of punches down into your taut belly and those plush shock-absorbing tits, my gloved fists a blur as I hammer punches in, thudding in and then finishing by dropping my hand low as your oxygenators are catching up from the quick flurrying pummel, and I splay fingers and SQUEEZE your SexBox through those lovely leather leggings. “And I’m takin’ you to get noodles,” I purr, smirking because I know you actually hate the noodle shop that’s my favorite since they put too much Sichuan chili oil in everything, but I snatch up the case and go vaulting off, my purple duster trailing in the wind as I give you a grin – and the train is slowing for the Vine Station! PERFECT!

I snatch the snark from my duster and ZAP the top of the train, blowing a kiss as I drop neatly down inside just as the maglevs hum to a stop, and shouldering past the crowd of peds and sararimen and wannabe VR producers and droids as I try to run the tech into the station. Frazz! I need to get up to street level and get about 30 blocks from here! And while there’s a chance that you’ll just lay there moaning after my sneaky beating and then go home to sexily await my return – I’m not gonna COUNT on it.

After all – you’re dating ME. You clearly love danger.

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“Uuhhnnngghhhhhhhh…” My moan is not fake or artificial. Sure… I’ve done that before. Faked it out with so many wannabe assassins and juvie bounty hunters. Acting like a cat in heat during mating season, to distract and mellow them out. To take their guard down. But here it’s not the case, for two reasons: One, I’m frazzing HURT. Two, it wouldn’t work on you … you know me too damn well, and even as your mohawk shifts colors like a libido thermostat to blue-green, you’re not easing up. You grab my hair and tug my head back, grinding my skull against the roof of the train, the wind blasting on our skins, your purple duster floating behind you like a cape, and you just taunt me, telling me what to do, exactly how you want it to happen. And FUCK YOU, you bring up the dishes … AGAIN … but before I can protest, the punches begin. A plethora of of them., an avalanche, a hailstorm, a meteor shower … and they all land AT THE EXACT SAME FRAZZING SPOT!!! I gasp for air, as my abs lock up, a flood of endorphomax rushing throuhg my system to control the pain and stop any possible internal bleeding, and near certain organ damage. I can taste copper in my mouth, and I cough a little bit of blood, that doesn’t seem to do much but make you smirk, purring into my face, and cupping my kitty. You squeeze it with the authority that screams “I own this”. And despite the pain, I just … smile a little. I say nothing, I can barely move. But I just slowly lick the blood off my lip sensually, staring at you, as you finally get up and grab the suitcase, then use your little disintegrator and leap down through a hole in the roof of the train, even though it’s slowing down, making your premature leap quite useless really. I cough and push up to my elbows, watching the flail of purple duster rush through the crowd and I just snicker; “… showoff.”

I take in a deep breath, and know that I don’t have much. I need to either decide; go home, get naked, put on the synthrubber gloves and get scrubbing … or …

And the choice is pretty simple. I just really, really, REALLY hate cleaning dishes!!! I spit some blood to the side, as my right lens assesses the damage. I’ve lost most of my active scanners, most of the charge in my synthetic right shin, but … I’m not out of tricks yet. And surely not out of steam. I purr, and lick my lips again, before slowly pushing up, waiting for the train to come to a stop, and I pounce off, my eyes narrowing on a broad shouldered Asian man, my ocular HUD flickering but estimating his weight, 238lbs … and I land with my left foot on his shoulder … He grunts, but before he collapses down I’ve already hopped off him and atop the construction hat of some Mustachio, and off it to the shoulders of a scrawny girl that I make damn sure I don’t even put too much weight on as I just dart and start running on the sea of shoulders and heads and hats filling the station. My eyes narrowed, fixated at the flapping purple duster … you just love it too damn much. And it’s either you don’t think I will follow you, or … you’re literally keeping it on, hoping I would. And oh baby, if that’s what you want, there is a whole lot of Canary coming your way; and you better be ready for some singing!

My ‘over the top’ approach is helping me close the distance fast, as you are forced to push and shove your way through the crowd, and it couldn’t be anymore fitting; my higher vantage point, not so much that of a Canary, as a hawk, stalking you. Breathing hard as you reach the door way of the station, with me three literal head’n’shoulders behind you, and I pounce down. But as I do, you twist and turn. Either you saw my reflection, or your sensors are more operational than I gave them credit … or … heart throbs You can feeeeeeel my presence ‘cuz you LOOOOOVE me. But you spin on your heel, swinging the heavy briefcase, and that’s just what I wanted. My arms come up, and my palms smack on it, the magnetic weaves in my gloves syncing up with the resonance of the synthsteel of the case, and they practically become one. As you SWING your arm with the case, you swing my body with it, and I land right on my feet, spinning too, lifting you off your feet and I release the mag-lock, sending your body smashing into a bust of President Keanu “Samurai” Reeves; smashing right through it! You grunt and immediately start to rise, but as you do, you see me flying towards you, my knees bent, my thighs spread, and I SMASH you right in the face with my sex, grunting as I knock you to your back, my head leaning down and quickly I plant a kiss on your forehead; pressing my hands on the floor and I kick my legs back, unwrapping my body and dropping it in a full body splash on yours, my boobs crashing on yours, and I pin you down in a body press! “… Sorry love …. but I really hate doing the dishes,” I purr, and as I do, the chrome tips of my nipples suddenly emit a sub-sonic jolt that goes through your body, and you stiffen and spasm. The effect on me nothing more than a little delightful sensation as I purr, leaning down, licking up the side of your neck, seeing your body thrashing. Your eyes bugging out. We play with them a lot, but when we’re in bed, and I make use of them, they are at 1/100 of this power and vibration. But now, it’s almost like you’re touching one of the hyper-voltage underground lines.

I purr in a little sadistic delight, my teeth trapping your left earlobe, as I continue to nip-taze your body, moaning as a little sizzling smell rises, the front of my tank top and yours burning slightly, and my chrome nips are smoldering and exposed. “I’ll buy you a new top…” I giggle and grab the suitcase out of your trembling hand and I push off you, rushing out of the station. Turning a hard left as I start to sprint down the street. The paralysis is not going to last too long. You’ll get up, you’ll be horny and pissed. VERY horny … but SO MUCH MORE PISSED. And I need to put every little bit of distance between us as I can.

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Some mercs get a great rep and a lotta street cred on reputation alone – they can work almost invisibly, usin’ disguises and intrusion, countermeasure and stealth, movin’ like ghosts to get where they’re goin’ and taking down targets like a bad dream. They’re the ones you want if you wanna get something done QUICK, and SILENT, and over and done with. Me, I went the other frazzin’ way. I lean into my image, my gimmick. The ‘hawk, the implanted mirrorshade battle lenses that socket into place when I’m fightin’, the LOOK. I spent a few thousand creds on this duster, when I was first gettin’ started, an’ I’ve worn it for every gig since. It’s been mended, enhanced, toned up, an’ it’s like … frazz, it’s like those old superhero pulpies, or like GloboDisney’s stuff – it’s my COSTUME. It’s the reason I’m Purple Vix. Theme, baby. So I damn sure don’t shed it now just because I’m fleet-footin’ away from my determined and furious lover to get this job done so I can get the creds I need to get my baby what she deserves. I’m gonna keep my look! My frazzin’ STYLE. And more importantly – I wanna make SURE you’re chasin’ me.

We fell in love working the same gigs, watching each other perform. Goin’ out drinking at the same shadowrunner izakayas. Teasin’ each other, chasin’ each other, a few brawls that left the streets all wrecked up in ways that made the maintenance drones sigh digital sighs of regret. But we’re ALWAYS testin’ each other. Always wrestlin’, racing, finding ways to make sex or breakfast into teasing contests, flauntin’ our victories and using them push each other on. Our intimacy runs so damn deep that challenging each other and trash-talking viciously enough to bring tears to a tox-freight sailor’s artificial eyes, playin’ dirty with each other in ways that would end most lifelong friendships – it all just makes us even tighter. Makes our love burn hotter. So frazz yes, I want you to chase me. I fucking NEED you to chase me.

And my Canary doesn’t disappoint. I’m shoving through the station crowd at Vine, twisting and dancing off sararimen and office drones, off streetwalkers and black market vendors and wannabe starlets with Sendai eyes, not so much ghosting through the crowd as BULLING through it, my ‘hawk bristling up and tightening into a row of spikes, a steely don’t-frazz-with-me black – but as I see the station gate up ahead, I suddenly get that tingle. That warm lovely tingle and slippery warmth low in my tight belly, the flare of my nostrils and the sudden heat on my tongue as I taste your pheromones on the air, and I turn, my pierced nipples stiffening already, SWINGING the fucking tech case at head height. I figure whatever’s inside can stand being smashed into my gorgeous girlfriend if they built the case for shadow-running – and if it can’t, well, fuck it, the contract is to deliver the sealed case, not guarantee that it wasn’t bashed up on anyone’s head. Unfortunately, there’s that distinctive EMP hum and vwum-THUNK of your palm-mags engaging, and you CATCH onto the case, riding the power of my swing as I push off my enhanced heel-jumpers for extra power, and you go cartwheeling along for the ride before you plant YOUR boots and swing ME with the same momentum, crashing me into President Reeves! “WHOA!” I cry out, smashing headlong through history’s most beloved peacemaker as I tumble across the train station tiles. I struggle up to my feet, but then time slows down a moment –

And my cybereyes zoom in behind my battle lenses, freeze-framing the iNCREDIBLE view of your athletic, powerful leap and the SPREAD of those thighs, your leather leggings perfectly outlining every lovely contour of your delicious pussy as you FLY at my face, and I take it in microsecond-by-microsecond before you moosh into my nose and lips at 20 klicks-per, DRIVING me to the floor with an “UMMMMMMMFFF!” and a few lewd cheers from the crowd of commuters on their way past (if you stop to watch EVERY fight between enhanced mercs in M-A, you’ll never get to work, but it’s worth cheering the really cool shit). And then you KICK up, that curvy form perfectly shooting vertical and DROP down onto me with your full weight, every curve and muscle HAMMERING into mine. “AUUHHNNHHHHHHHHGHhhh ….” I groan, JOLTING under the impact, my boots kicking up and thumping down to the tiles. I shudder as your heavy breasts swell up and press my girls down – and then your chrome tips engage with a little hum of energy, and I pant a sharp “Oh DREK …” just as you ZAP me!

“GNNNHGHHHHSNNNNSHSHHHFgffmnhhh AUUUhhhhhhhhh ffffff-frazzzzzshghh …” I shudder, twisting and jolting under you as you GIVE me the full power from those. I mocked you RELENTLESSLY for that enhancement when I first learned about them, until our third fight or so when you got me against a wall, pushed me down, and stuffed one tit into my mouth to knock me out cold with a charge to my drooling lips that blew out my glow-bead glottal implant. Since then you’ve used them in our lovemaking extensively, but this is the first time since that fight back in our courtship that I’ve taken a full charge – and it hits HARD, leaving me smoldering as you burn through part of my showy armor-corset, exposing my reddened and stiffened nipples, pierced with the glowing spike-stars I favor, and you leave me sprawled there as you snatch the case and run out onto Vine.

It’s not long before I get rebooted back up, fed a dose of adrenochrome and endorphomax from my lowering reservoirs to stir me, my autonomous doc-bot implant feeding back my vitals and giving me a jolt to get my heartbeat regular again. “Frazzin’ hell, I love her,” I pant softly, irritably glaring through the battle-lenses at the couple of perv-razzi taking photos of me sprawled with my smoking nips out. Fuckin’ Street-Brawling Merc-Sluts feed photogs. I shoulder check one into a wall hard enough to break his cam-rig and his right arm on my way past, and my hands come up, nails glowing a bright phospho green and typing furiously. You’ve got a good headstart and I have no damn idea where YOU’RE headed, so I have to be REAL clever. So I play dirty, since that’s what my Canary would want – I access our home network, and find the little spycam I hid in the erotic Martian statuette we have on the bedside table, and with flicks of my fingers roll back to when you were laying in bed projecting your dailies on the ceiling with your old-fashioned 200K iris – my antiquarian babe. I grin fondly despite the pain as I’m moving out of the station, but in my eyes I’m watching you – and when you take the contract, I get the timestamp, and then back out of our home network, and my fingers fly in the air like a madwoman as I run up the steps of the station, hacking my way into the local hub for our network and finding the encrypted packet from that exact picosecond – there it is. Backtracing it, gliding along the OpaqueNet protocols and neatly dodging the black-ICe, I find the source of your contract- yep, it’s the feds from the local X-Files office. But that’s fine. I don’t need to kill myself hacking the fed-bloc, because while the feds are a huge monolith renowned for brooking no drek and giving no frazzes, they’re also predictable – there’s only two dead-drops the local fed offices use reliably in the Angeles Metroplex, and only one is anywhere on this side of the HellAngel Enclave in Berdoo – that means you’re heading to the Forever Cemetery! The feds LOVE using that old boneyard!

And knowing where you’re going means I don’t gotta chase you … I pull back from the OpaqueNet, and scan the local roads, digi-whistling up a JohnnyCab. The friendly robot in the front seat in his weird checkered cap gives me a big plastic smile as he pulls up. He’s just a torso and an extremely animated face meant to provide a humanoid face to autonomous rideservice, but I’ve always been fond of the Johnnies. For one thing, they’re REAL frazzin’ easy to hack. My fingers dance again, green patterns glowing in the air as the JohnnyCab’s friendly greeting slurs and warbles, and then picks back up. I temporarily disable his safe driving protocols, speed limiters, and Asimov-guidelines, still furiously panting to reoxygenate my battered body while I finish implanting the directions straight into his onboard memory. “Go.” I growl, climbing on TOP of the cab as he takes off!

And so you’re probably a bit disappointed when you realize that I haven’t chased you for about seven blocks, maybe even slowing down a bit or wondering if you shocked me worse than you thought, or if a passing coppertop picked me up for public indecency, when there’s the sudden cheerful THRUM of a JohnnyCab’s elec engine, and a cab comes careening at you, weaving madly through sky-traffic like the robot in charge has lost a restraining bolt, and brakes with a magnetic THRUM but still CRUMPS into you at a decent clip to send you flying – followed by ME, leaping off the roof, and DIVING down onto you, landing my curvy ass right on your taut belly as you hit the pavement with a thud! I give my baby a big chrome grin and then open my hands up, fingerless gloves glowing with blue patterns as I charge up my Taziks and SLAP my hands onto your tits, SQUEEZING lovingly and JOLTING you through your own nips with my palm tazers! Not a long sustained charge – a quick one, just to keep you stunned after hitting you with a speeding robocab, because my REAL plan to keep you down and moaning is to roll lithely off you, backwards, duster flaring as I come up to my boots standing at your feet.

My tits jutting proudly and smoldering pierced nipples glowing through the smoked tatters of my corset as I get your boots and lift your gorgeous legs. “Gods, I frazzin’ love you, Canary,” I purr, and bring my right boot up, setting my heel firmly on your SexBox – and giving it a grind, and blowing you a wicked kiss – I power up my jump heel in a flurry of little driving thuds, kind of like I’m both repeatedly stomping your pussy AND lovingly grinding a vibrator into you, my body shimmying from the transmitted pulsations, keeping it up for long enough to be WICKEDLY indecent and burning my jump charge almost entirely before I relent, letting your legs fall, my boot propped on your mound as I pant down at you. “I love you SO gods-danz much … but YOU’RE doing the dishes, bitch.” I grin, and reach down for my case, snatching it up – and then jumping back on top of my hacked JohnnyCab with his crumpled bumper already self-mending, rapping the roof with my knuckles and hearing a charming digital mad laugh from the compromised robodriver as the cab squeals back and zips the other way back up Vine towards Hollywood!

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With a bright smile, no duster, my chromatic hair in full laser-trance mode, and two burnt holes (still smoking) around my chrome nipples I sprint down the street at the pace of a budget electric motorbike. I hear the cheers from the onlookers who saw the pussy-to-face takedown and full body nip-taze projected on the front of MaSears Gigastore across the street. A few raising their arms to high five me, and I quickly swap the briefcase to my left and swing my right arm up to high five a row of three pedestrians, hearing the CRACK of their shoulders and arms popping, before slamming into each other to crash like domino chips into a holo-news stand. Whoops! They should blame the first chick, she was wearing a purple coat, and I’m not loving too much purple right now …

My left cyber iris implant begins to project my pathway, and I smirk as I see it starting to calculate the optimal routes, hacking into the traffic satellite feed and control center, when a flurry of red codes fly and the module shuts down. “FRAZZ!!” I cuss, goddamn it! The module must have been damaged, and I don’t have time to perform a reboot. “Gotta do this old school, Canary …” I growl under my breath and turn, trying to use my own gray brain cells to remember and predict the fastest route. Fully expecting to hear the synthcrete splitting and shattering behind me under your hyperheels racing after me …. but … I don’t. I squint and turn my head as I clear 6 streets from the train station, and begin to worry. “Oh come on Vix, you didn’t give up, did you?” I purr, pouting a little, as I recall the little dustin’ we got into at the Yopparai Izakaya, our first “date”. After spotting each other there a few times, exchanging sly smiles, and winks, we both ended up there to watch the WWR Multiversal Title rematch between RoboLesnar and Brawn Strawbot. I wasn’t into either, but you cheered like a maniac for Lesnar, which means I had to go with Brawn, and before their match was even called a DQ a synthwood stool was smashed across your back, courtesy of me, followed by you ripping the 98 pounds of liquid-resistant resin top off the bar and cracking me across the skull with it. You always go hard. And you fucking LOVE low blows. I found that out the hard way, three city blocks away that we moved smashing through walls and across alleys. But I made sure to give you a little souvenir, when you got up, smiling, content that the fight was over, ramming my boot into your pleasure box and decking you back in a double-KO. Because … Fuck it, I’m the goddamn Canary, and I don’t go down alone.

So why the FRAZZ are you not on my heels already? I sigh, and just like you predict, I actually slow down a little … I stand in the middle of the street, hover cars whooshing by my sides, one after another, blaring their horns, but I’m tapping at my temple, trying to resync my hypernet feed; it comes back online and I connect back to our home, into the anniversary present I got you, a little CybeVital module that I made you promise to wear at all times that only activates in case of low vitals and life-threatening injuries. Could it have triggered with that zap? Did the alerts get jammed with the temporary distortion of my circuits??? I hold my breath and then … Ahhh … Phew!!! Alive and kicking and…. hmmm. Heartbeat elevating??? Oh … frazzing … shiiiii-! I turn my head just in time to see the cab skidding sideways, heading into me with the doors and I barely bring my arm up in time with the case to take the impact, but it still smashes into it and sends it into my boobs, and I fly back, crashing into the sidewalk. Laying down, groaning, the JohnnyCab coming to a stop few feet away, while traffic screeches and turns to avoid crashing into it, but I see that thick, round, perfect ass plummeting down on my belly, and I jolt up, half sitting, gasping! I see your little smile, and my lips part up, smiling a little. There’s my Vix … I knew she’d make it. And like one of our abs-exercises where you grind down on my muscles with me lifting both my legs and torso up, bringing my toes up over your shoulders, and my lips high enough to kiss you, I purse my lips to tap your juicy ones. Then …


The glowing tazer fingers jam into my boobs, and my entire vitals go awry, spasming and thrashing before crashing back down, smoke rising from the fingertips making contact with my synthfabric top. I can hear everything you say about that you love me … and I just try to form some select words telling you to go frazz yourself. But you get up and jam a boot to my pussy again … OH COME ON!!!! You start ‘revving’ and vibrating down on me … Something you know is going to add it’s own counter-shock while resuscitating me! Leaving me shivering with pain and pleasure, you pounce back off me and on the JohnnyCab while I lay there, debating if I should just lay down there and just … take a nap. But then you say it … the dishes… THE GODDAMN dishes. Oh … FRAZZ no. I watch you hop on the cab and as it begins to lift up I grunt and pull my right leg up, bending my prosthetic at the knee, and two spikes just thrust up from the knee cap, tearing through my pants. I pull them up, watching the cab lift up, and as it exposes the underbelly, I take a deep breath and swing my arms, shooting the two small spears from my kneecap into the exposed body of the battery. The two thin cables connecting them to my knee uncoiling and stretching. I take in a deep breath, then shut my eyes … this is going to SMART. And a giant current surges from the microfission batterypack in my prosthetic and right through the JohnnyCab’s circuitry … “ARRRRRRGGGRRHHHHHHHH!!!” I scream, as the entirety of my flashes white briefly along with the cab!!

A loud POP blasts from the battery! I grunt, smacking my right hand at the side of the prothetic, ejecting the batterypack that is buzzing and smoking … FUCK. It’s gone to backup charge which is …. yeah … good for a 2 hour hike in the woods maybe. But nothing else. But that’s not my priority … it’s the cab carrying my Vix, spinning like a giant frizbee in the air, smashing into a building, sending a shower of broken synthglass and debris before gliding across and smashing into the other side of the street…. I moan and pant, getting up, pulling and limping my way down the pavement watching the smoking spiraling JohnnyCab crash down into the street. The crowd screaming and running away from the scene, while I just fight my way against the tide, my eyes narrowed, yy heart pounding. I see the mangled bits of synthsteel and plastic strewn around the crash, but I just push my way through it, until I see your arm thrusting up, punching through the glass! And I reach grabbing your hand, pulling you up, helping your head and shoulder through it. And I smile, staring down at you. “…. mmmm I love you too, Vixie….” I pur. “… So… so much… But … I hate the dishes more….” I purr, and SWING my left knee up, cracking it into your jaw, sending those pretty shiny chrome teeth clacking together, and your body slinking back into the debris. I smile and lean through the window of the cab, grabbing the briefcase, and I jerk it up. Watching your stunned eyes flicker, and your lips move. “Oh?? What’s that??? Oh right … Almost forgot! There …” I purr, and put my hands on the top of the cab, vaulting my body up, and like a gymnast, I thrust my legs through the broken window, driving my right synthsteel prothetic heel straight into your cute sexbox! Pounding your butt down into the seat – Once, twice, THREE times! Vaulting and smashing down through the window, as onlookers watch and cheer. Then I glide my body out, and turn. Panting, and pushing my way through the crowd, heading into an alley … shit … Frazzing SHIT Vix! You’re spreading me real thin here!!! My leg is almost out of charge. And with half of my systems damaged, I don’t have too many options if you actually make it out of that synthsteel wreck and decide to pursue

But … I know you will. Because … you’re goddamn Purple Vix.


I vault up onto the JohnnyCab, making my clean getaway, and slide in through the back window to rest cozily in the synthleather backseat for a well-earned breather. After crashing a hovercar into you, a flying leap from the top of it, a full force Tazik to the tits and a hypergrind to your kitty, I figure I’ll buy at least enough time to get to the end of the block in a speeding cab – but nope.

Not against MY girl.

You fire your grapnels and like a fucking madwoman and socket them right into the fucking battery pack of the cab as it takes off, and Johnny’s robotic cheerfully goofy voice helpfully blares “WARNING! WARNING!” Fuck! Jumping out is gonna be tricky since the explosion throws Johnny into a spin – and the cab goes frizbeeing down Vine and a block over through veering float traffic to crash into a big corpblock overlooking Fountain, right near General Dax Shepard Middle School. I get bashed around, my forehead split to leak fluid down my face, a shoulder going out of socket, my body bashed around the spinning backseat just before impact. Fortunately, being in a JohnnyCab means I have almost a 100% survival chance. These robocabs are self-sacrificing, designed to protect the passenger’s life. Unfortunately, they way they do it isn’t particularly fun.

The cab fills with securifoam, with a sound like FWUMPF just as it impacts. The body of the cab crumples, the poor Johnnybot going to flaming chunks, but I’m sealed up in a big wad of translucent foam that holds me like a bug in amber to make sure the impact doesn’t kill me. the stuff disintegrates quickly, so I can breathe (there was a hell of a lawsuit on first use before they added that feature), but leaves me slick with the residue, my scorched corset dripping and peeling off my abs, my leather leggings looking like they’re fucking painted on and my boots dripping, my hawk flopped to the side in a wet Tank Girl look. I dizzily fight my way up in the sideways crashed cab in the street next to the bashed office block, and fire a fist up through the safety window. It’s designed to resist a frazzing heavy impact, but fortunately I can hit harder than an engineer can imagine a heavy impact to be, and I blast the window open – only to get DRAGGED through it with my head still spinning like the rocketing cab and the shock of impact and the disorientating suspension in the securifoam leaving me staring vaguely at your beautiful face as you drag me up from the wreck and talk some shit before you DRIVE your knee into my jaw.

“PFUUUUGHHHHH!” I groan, my chrome teeth clashing together hard enough to shoot sparks past my black lips as i flop back, seeing you snatch my case before you haul up and lovingly drive your steel heel three times into my cunt, each shot making a wet squelching smooshing thud and drawing deep belly-hot moans from my black bloody lips. “AUUUUUHHH … AUUUUUUGHhh … AUUUUUUUuuuhhhhhhh …” the last trailing off as I flop sideways in the seat, cradling my sexbox and spasming softly while you go skittering off. The temptation to just lay here destroyed is very real – you took my best and most cunning plan in recent memory and fucking blew me up with it like a walk in the frazzing park. Maybe I should just go home and do the fucking dishes. My head cranes back as I lay groaning and sopping wet and beaten bloody in the backseat of the crashed cab, trying to think of a plan.

And then a perv-razzi photog with a holocard indicating he’s from Shadowbeat shows up at the window, taking high-rez holos of me. These motherfrazzers always show up when the girl mercs fight, taking shots of the action and especially of the beaten losers. You and I are popular features in those pages – and they must think I’m done. Admittedly, soaked in securifoam residue, battered bloody, scor ched tits mostly bared and hands cradling my cunt as I slump in the back of a crashed cab is a good shot – but my eyes gleam behind my mirrored lenses as I notice the hoverbelt he’s wearing. The ‘razzi often wear those things, daredeviling through traffic to get the good shots – and so I suddenly DOSE myself with a huge dump of adrenochrome and dopaplus and LUNGE up with a kick of speed, Taziks clutching his face and jolting him into a fucking coma, no time for clever trash talk. The other photogs all scatter like roaches as I climb out of the cab, yank off the fat man’s hover belt and secure it around my hips, and crank off the governor as I jolt the thing to full charge and TAKE OFF on a rush of gravitics.

My aching body soaring down the alley and racing after you like a fucking dragon, my duster flapping behind me as I come zippng after – and I see your eyes widen as you turn, but with your prosthetic at null charge after blowing up the JohnnyCab, you can’t move fast enough to get clear of a full-speed reckless hover-belt! I TACKLE you around the waist from behind, driving into the small of your spine, one arm wrapping your waist and depleting more Tazik in a big jolt to your navel as I drop my other hand and twist the belt controls, redlining the damn thing and driving us into the end of the alley at three-times the hovercar speed limit, crashing you face and tits first through the plascrete back wall of a Food4Less with me spiking you in – and then through every aisle of junkfood and soylent snacks and algae cakes and right out the hologlass in front, taking us out onto Loki Boulevard. I skid to a stop, heels digging furrows in the road as I wrap BOTH arms around your waist now, squeezing brutally tight on the same spot I was punching your guts to custard earlier and snarl in your ear:

“DO YOU HAVE ANY IDEA HOW MANY RAMEN BOWLS YOU LEAVE IN THE SINK?” And I KICK the ground, burning a lot of my remaining right heel charge, fracturing the asphalt as I drive us up into the air, and then twisting over backwards to fucking haul you over me and DROP down from about two stories up, full on RoboLesnaring to suplex your head and shoulders into the synthcrete from up here! The jolt blasts us apart on landing, and fucking DESTROYS the journo’s cheap hoverbelt as we hit like a BOMB, fracturing more of the roadway. My heads-up systems that are now running on backup power warn me that we’re attracting emergency services attention even with our Plat contracts. Panting, I stagger over, palming your cunt as you’re planted in the sidewalk and giving it a long vicious squeeze as I snatch the case from your twitching hand. “But I still love you more’n anything,” I grin. “‘cept not doing the dishes.” And I give you the last of my Tazik charge in a palm-driven JOLT right to your sexbox before I move to stagger as fast as I can manage – which is by now not very impressive – up the street towards Hollywood!


What’s that rolling down my face?? Ughh.. it’s SALTY … and STICKY! Gross. I lap it across my upper lip as I limp and force myself down the alley. I blink with my left eye trying to hard reboot my analytron; but it’s completely out. Self-diagonstics not working. Fuck … is that … sweat?? Am I actually goddamn perspiring right now??? Fuck, that’s bad … It means that all my dampeners, neuron-stabilizers, endorphins, adrenaline pumps, and every freaking chemical in my body is going to go haywire. And I can feel it in my rapidly elevated heartbeat. “Frazz …” I cuzz, hearing the metallic scraping of my synthetic leg that keeps dragging against the pavement. I try to connect to the OpaqueNet. I need a JohnnyCab, but I’m getting nothing. Complete and total black out. I’m … disconnected!

And that’s such a fucking terrifying feeling … then … wwwffffhhhoooOOOUUUSSSSHHHHHHHH!

I hear the sound coming from behind me and I spin, just in time to stare at the clenched chrome teeth. No sparks flying from them. The tensed corners of your mouth. The air blowing through your black spiked emo-hawk and flapping purple of your coat … “Wait a—UUUNGGHHH!!!!” I grunt feeling your shoulder smash me into my spine and kidney … “HUNNNGGGHHH!!” I grimace as I am lifted up off the ground and propelled forwards, my body bent backwards at an angle that might make many suspsect that my spine was just snapped in two. We fly forwards and we CRAS … Err, I crash … face and tits first into the Food4Less smashing through the store, through the aisles and shelves, exploding the food containers, covering us in colored Protei-Dust and Synth-o-fries and splashing us with ValleyDew and LoBrau beers, before we burst through the front and you lift me up, suplexing me into the synthcrete, planting me into it, like a nail , with my legs flailing up in to the air.

You let go of me, and my body remains there, vertical, my head and shoulders planted into the cracked synthcrete, my feet pointed upwards for a good five seconds, before I teeter and crash down, laying on my back, groaning. My left hand, still wrapped tightly around the suitcase. I see you hovering over me, inching closer, and you begin to taunt me. Adding to your barrage about my ramen-eating habits. About loving me … And oh yeah … about the dishes before cupping my sexbox and sending another jolt through it. I gasp and shudder, as my legs flail, feeling the burst go through my body before you begin to rise up, panting. I can see the sweat rolling down your face … your own regulators are shot too, and your star-studded nipples do not look like their erection is caused by any cybernetics or mood enhancers – It’s just pure, raw excitement. You bend over and wrest the case from my hand and you turn, and begin to stagger away, your feet moving two steps forwards before suddenly your purple duster is stalled and your body is jerked backwards, your head and shoulders stuck in place, while your legs shoot forwards and THUDDD! You crash down on your back, two feet from me, and as you look up, you see my right hand clamped tightly around the end of your duster. “I told you. You’re too … attached … to this fucking duster!”

I see your eyes clench and as you thrust your legs up in the air, somersaulting with your boots up in the air, and you swing them down, trying to slam them on my mostly bared chest, but I twist just in time to hear the CRACKKK of the synthcrete where I was laying. “Oh COME ON Vix!!” I scream but you kick at me again and I bring my arms just in time to wrap them around your kicking right leg – your foot smashes into my sternum, and I grunt, but I hug your leg pulling you with me twisting my body, and swinging you up over me, crashing you into the side of a parked hovercar. You grunt and come crashing down on me, and I quickly sit up, wrapping my arms around you. I don’t have much. Just ONE frazzing charge.

So I’ll make it count. Our naked breasts press together, and you know it. You’re a smartass and you fucking know it, but I still tighten my arms around you, feeling you flail as you straddle me. “Before bitching about my ramen … just tell me, WHO THE FUCK INTRODUCED ME TO ALL THAT JAPANESE BULLSHIT, YOU HENTAI-ADDICTED HOLOMANGA-LOVING SAKE-DRINKING FREAK!!!!” And with the last working synaptic circuit in my brain chip, I activate ‘Last Resort’ mode. Inverting the charge left in my nip piercings into an EMP shockwave, sending a surge that jolts through BOTH of us, short circuiting and disabling every chip in our bodies. “ARRRWWWAARRRRGHHH!!”

We both howl and scream, as the EMP shocks both of our systems and we crash down into the ground. My arms loose around you, moaning, smoke rising from our connected chromed nips … and gently grinding motions from your leather clad sexbox on mine alerting me that we’re not dead.

Oh yeah. That COULD have killed us … but hey. If I’m going to go, I’ve always said it: I’d want to go in your arms. “Get … off me … you … frazzing … bitch.” I moan softly, your hair turned back to black, no longer spiked, falling down on my face. Mine, having lost it’s rainbow chroma, back to it’s natural brown. I pant, blinking. My arms pushing into your ribs, grunting as I lift you up and thrust you to the side. You crash to the side and I slowly sit up, but as I do, I see your fist CRASHING into my mouth, knocking me back to the ground, tasting something entirely new on my lips. Copper.

“AARRRGGGHHH WOULD YOU FUCKING STAY DOOOWWNNN!!!” I scream and push up on my left elbow smashing my fist back into your right eye socket!!! You crash back, but fire up a kick driving your hard heel into my gut sending me sliding away 5 feet. “UNNGGHHH!!!”

Panting, we both slowly slap our palms on the ground and start to rise. Circuits fried, we don’t have much of our gadgets and toys. My prothetic leg and your kinetic booster heels are both in “Safe Mode”. We’re off the OpaqueNet and our neuro-stabilizers are all dark. “Fine! Wanna dance Vix??? Let’s frazzing dance, birdie …” I put up my fists and narrow my eyes. I spit a mouthful of blood to the right, and rush at you, seeing you put up your guard, before ducking completely down, performing a forward split, my right leg going forwards, my left back, gliding on the heel of my synthetic leg, swinging my right arm in an uppercut right into your SexBox. A little fucking PAYBACK from before … and also because I know you can TAKE it!

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I don’t make it very far at all in my stagger down the street before I’m YANKED down to the busted asphalt by my own showy glowy spiky chained and bad-ass coat, landing with a thud and glaring back up to see you clutching my tails. With a little growl, I flex my aching body, shooting my legs up and rolling back in a neat backroll that kicks my boots up and brings them DOWN on the road, just barely missing stomping you as you protest, but my SECOND kick strikes home, my knee high gutterpunk boot crashing into your chest and jiggling those spectacular tits as the fragments of your scorched and battered tanktop peel away – but before I can even savor the view for long or think about maybe grinding my heel into your chrome nipple, you wrap around my leg and SWING me by it, crashing me into a Toyota Blacksun whose unlucky owner now has an official Vix/Canary souvenir in the form of a dent shaped like my lovely ass. I groan and flop down onto you, the aches ringing in me, and take a moment to breathe – as I’m suddenly INTENSELY aware of how fucking turned on I am. And it’s a lot. My biometric reader is flickery right now after smashing into so many things, but I don’t need my basal body temperature to know that I’m frazzing hot and bothered. Watching you fight has always been a turn-on, and FIGHTING you has always been an even bigger turn-on. Hell, it’s how we fell in love. And this savage brawl, all over the frazzin’ metroplex, has me absolutely DRIPPING. My enhanced SexBox is at maximum eagerness, practically sopping through my leathers if they weren’t already soaked in securi-gel. And pressing onto you like this, our bare breasts mashed hotly together, bodies slick with sweat and combat writhing. Well, frazz me sideways, I could stay like this all day.

Even – well, especially, but I won’t admit that out loud readily – when you sit up and SQUEEZE me, locking me in a bearhug, your tits filling out to squash mine back and reminding me that I didn’t get ALL the same enhancements you did. Flushing a bit at the sensation, feeling heat prickle me as my back arches, wrapped up in your embrace as I lace my powerful arms around your head – and the rainbow dragons on my arms dance as I realize that I flipped right the fuck out of my duster when you yanked on it. My armored corset is mostly scorched and tattered now, peeling down around my belly, leaving us both bare-breasted, and despite our fight my anima tat dragons are happy to see you, roaring and flaring prismatic flames on the canvas of my skin where it brushes against you as we cradle close. “Don’t you frazzing dare …” I pant against your lips, but voice is full of daring, slyly urging you to DO it. I know the Last Resort protocol – it’s saved us both several times. But to use it like this, at this range, while we’re practically fucking in the street? It could frazzing blow out every circuit entirely and blackline us like we’d run into nasty intrusion countermeasures on the OpQ. Risking EVERYTHING, BOTH of us, all to get an edge on me. No wonder I frazzing love you so much. I cling to you as you blast us off!

Our scream echoes over the streets, and all the animated signs go still, the lights dim, there’s angry cries as people in the surrounding rezblocks are taken offline. My animated tattoos go still, freezing in place on my pale skin, my ‘hawk falling in limp black tumbles around the shaved sides of my head, and I get that weirdly HEAVY feeling of all the muscle accelerators and system boosters going offline, meaning my body is now carrying a few kilograms of extra metal and silicate that are not being compensated for. We’re BARE. I tumble off you as you hoist me up, my star-piercings no longer glowing – just a flower of dull metal in five spikes from each nipple – and even my tongue bead isn’t glowing behind my chrome teeth as I pant for air, sitting up and looping an overhand punch into your face! You drill a shot back into my eye – “OWWWW FRAZZZ!” – and I realizes my lenses slid back into my skull in rest mode, and you just fucking elbowed me in the unprotected eye! I can feel it swelling as I kick you off me – and stagger to my boots to square off.

We’ve wrestled, we’ve faced off under strict martial arts rules, we’ve fenced and boxed and fought with pugil sticks and had a few memorable kissing duels in the back booth back at Yopparai, but I dunno that we’ve ever done THIS. Going full Luddite, like we’re a coupla Mormon girls fighting in a pigpen in one of those recidivist farm porns. Bare-breasted, bloodied, slicked in sweat, with nothing but wet leather leggings and our boots and gloves, looking like a pair of frazzing naughty daydreams as you come at me. “Bring it on, ‘nary. I’m gonna feed you a frazzing knuckle sandwich so for once there won’t BE dishes after you eat!” I keep the bone of our contention to the forefront as I get my guard up, ready to drill a combo into you when you DROP into a split and DRILL an uppercut up into my sexbox – and even with the enhancements in my pussy offline, that still feels SO wicked, my eyes going wide and lips rounding in an O as I jut my ass back. “AUUUUUUUUUUUUHHHHHHhhhhh …” I groan out low, and you purr and stroke my cheek, mockingly blowing me a kiss before you come up, and press right into me, getting some payback for my earlier suplex by HOISTING me up onto your shoulder with a grunt of effort as I’m doubled over cradling my kitty …. running forward and delivering a Strowbot-style POWERSLAM onto the hood of the busted Toyota!

“NOOO NO NO NO —UUUUUUUUUUUUUUGHHHHHHHH!” I howl out as I kick my boots, dangling over your shoulder before you fucking PLANT me onto the car! I groan, crumpled into the hood, spread-eagled out wide with my boots dangling off the far side as my tits jiggle softly from the landing, and you slide back to stand beside the car, putting one hand on your hip, panting. Getting a fistful of my black hair and lifting my head to smirk at me upside down in my dazed sprawl.

Asking me if I’m ready to do the dishes yet. Smirking. Imagining me naked in the little pink frilly apron that hangs on the wall, ready to serve as punishment for whoever ends up being the bitchwife of the apartment for the week. And I look back at you through dazed eyes with no enhancements or scanners, just seeing how incredibly beautiful you are, my head spinning as my spine aches, sunk into the crunched hood of the fancy Blacksun – and I growl and reach up to snatch your silky brown hair, yanking you down towards me – and FIRING my leg up to DRILL my knee into the top of your head and stumble you back! Panting and snarling with effort, I peel myself out of the twisted metal, and stagger up to my boots, lunging bent low, shoulder slamming into your toned belly and SNATCHING you around the waist, my hands gripping your ass tight with my nails a dull silicone gray without their OpaqueNet connection, growling as I DRIVE you back with a rib-bruising spear tackle, crashing you into the road!

“It’s just you look so much HOTTER than me in the apron, baby,” I croon, going right to the sweet talk – sweet talk and horrible violence, those are my go-tos for any argument – and I peeeeel you back up off the asphalt by the hair, rising to my feet – and getting a fistful of it and a fistful of the back of your leggings, aiming to wedge them deep into that spectacular ass as I try to keep you bent low and run forwards, THROWING you headlong through the passenger window of the Toyota Blacksun since we’ve already busted it up THIS much, and I figure a little more won’t hurt. (“OH FRAZZ, MY CAR!” someone screams from 20 floors up the rezblock or so.)


You’ve always loved it rough. I know you do. I’ve punched you, I’ve kicked you, I’ve choked you, I’ve tazed you … HECK, there was that time where I fired a Micro-FatBot tactical warhead straight into your armored chest piece when we had that huge row at the Gun’n’Missile Expo down in Texas. Good times!!! And it made me very sensitive to every octave of your meowls, grunts, cries, gasps and howls. And there is somethin … something about you taking a shot to your pussy that always seems to hit you on another level. It’s why so many times, after I’m done giving you head, I pounce up in the air and drill my knee right into your SexBox as it’s gushing all over. And now, with my fist drilling up into your cunt, and my wrist adding that little TWIST, I could frazzing feel something squishy and wet spreading against my knuckles. I grin sadistically, rising up, holding you and I rush you into that bodyslam on the hood. I lick my lips, raising my right arm in the air, about to drive the point of my elbow on your crotch. I hold up your hair and taunt you, before drilling my elbow down, if you’d do the dishes or not. Smirking. You know I’ll nail you there regardless of your answer … but instead, you snatch MY hair and you smash a knee to the crown of my biological computer! “UUNGGHH!!”

I stagger back and you roll off the hood, spearing me and driving me backwards. Gasps and grunts as we brawl in the small street. Too many civies standing in their windows filming and streaming this fight to the OpaqueNet … and it’s BLOWING up all over: #PurpleVix #Canary #MercFight #AllFists #NoTechBrawl #BountiesGoStoneAge – Dozens of tags flare up as suddenly a dozen ‘RazziDrones show up and begin bumping into each other to get the best angle, and the entire city of Metro-Angeles sees me hauled by my hair and the back of my pants, log-tossed through the glass of the car’s backseat. Someone whines about his car getting wrecked. But neither of us care. You grunt and reach for the door handle of the car, pulling on it, but as you do, the door explodes open, aided by a double thrusting kick from me and it smashes into your chest, knocking you back. You stagger backwards and I slide out of the car, blood running down from my hairline and over my forhead, from where you kneed my skull. I charge at you and swing a left for your face, but you duck to the left, shoving my elbow to turn me around, your left knee firing up into my ribs. “HUNNGGGHHH!!! BITCH!!” I grunt doubling over and you double-axe fist my back, bringing me down to one knee. You grab my hair, and grumble something about the dishes, but I grab your ankles with both hands, swinging my head, driving my skull into your crotch … and AGAIN … more than catching up to your low blows, and this time … Oh yeah. I know that perfume. You’ve creamed your leather pants!! NICE!

You stumble backwards, and I thrust myself up from my kneeling position, vaulting through the air, my hands grabbing your left elbow, and I swing my body around you, kicking my legs up and over your shoulders, my right leg hooking up under your chin, my left, going under your right armpit and I hook your right arm, dead dropping us the hood of a Ford Mosquito’s hood, causing the ‘Economy Frame’ to crunch leaving a Vix skull shaped crater, and right next to it, a Canary butt shaped one!! I flex my body, keeping both your arms stretched, while trapping your head and throat between my legs, squeezing and choking you.

“I AIN’T DOING NO FRAZZING DISHES, VIX!!! AND YOU WILL BE DRINKING YOUR DINNER WITH A STRAW FOR A MONTH, SO YOU WON’T HAVE MUCH TO DO ANYWAYS … JUST FUCKING GIVE!!!” I grimace as I feel your legs kicking wildly, but the way we are laying across the hood, you don’t have the leverage to lift up. I lick my lips, feeling that I finally have you. But you bend your legs and press them to the bumper of the car, and with a thrust, we go sliding down the hood and you crash on your knees, using your incredible power to flip me over and I go crashing, back first to the synthcrete! “UUGGHHH!!!”

You jerk your head back, then you lean down, I see you opening your mouth. Those chrome teeth shining, and the MENACE in your eyes … “OH NO NO NO NO! DO—OOOWWWWWWWWIIIIIIIIEEEEHH!!” You don’t even think twice… You jam those harder than bone chrome teeth of yours right into my crotch, biting at the leather and squeezing hard! I flail wildly swinging at your head but you grab my wrists and wrest them down, tossing your leg over mine, straddling my shins, biting … But not just … biting … you’re massaging … chewing … keeping the pain over the top. While still easing and rocking your jaw to show that you don’t need a micro-stunner or tazer in there to make me squirm and thrash. You keep me pinned until your nostrils, and your black painted lips detect the same thing I did, that orgasmic explosion bursting through me, and then you lift up your head, licking your chops like a cat who just licked a bowl of milk clean.

You vault up and slam your ass on my belly hard, before bouncing up to slam it on my exposed still smoking (literally and figuratively) titties, then a third slam down on my face, bashing my head into the synthcrete hard enough for me to see four Canaries flying in a circle over my head – a little side-effect of my emergency counter-concussion implant, to keep my mind focused and conscious in case of heavy trauma long for me to get some medical help and not pass out. MMMmeeehhh … who edited it to make four canaries’ wings purple?? FRAZZ IT VIX…..

But while I’m contemplating the colored feathering on the simulated birds, you are snaking your body under my head, I feel your arms and legs moving like a python. Your hand cupping my throat, tightening around it, one hand holding left arm out, while both your legs tangle around my right arm, stretching your body and holding me down in your deadly Vix-Trap. OH FRAZZ … NOT LIKE THIS … NOT WITH ALL THOSE RAZZI-BOTS BROADCASTING IT TO HALF THE POPULACE OF METRO-ANGELES!!


Gods-danz, I could dance with you all night. I mean, we have danced all night before, lotsa times, including that time we were dancing on the sailbarge that was flying just slightly faster than earth’s rotational speed so it ended up chasing the sunset from the Angeles Metroplex out to the New Honolulu Pelagic Dome and then all the way through the Drowned Islands to Neo-Tokyo, and we danced the whole time. We had to be treated for exhaustion on our first night in Japan, but it was worth it. Everything you and I do is worth it. And this right here – battering each other bloody, pounding each other in the street with our tits bare like old-timey Wonderzons, with all of the Metro watching on RazziCams and from livestreams? Frazz me, it’s PERFECT. EVERYONE gets to see how hot my ‘nary is. Especially me. Like when I pound you down to the road and you snatch my ankles and SLAM your head into my mound, and my eyes fucking CROSS and drool runs from the corner of my black lips as I QUIVER against you and flush a hot red – my hips rocking in a swift, grinding spasm against your beautiful face and heavy brutal skull, and I hear your low muffled giggle as you FEEL me gush into my leathers after that wicked low shot. “Mmhhh … unnhh … auuuhh, you evil frazzin’ tart,” I pant and moan, only for you to show off some of that famous flexibility and speed!

The Canary taking wing around me, swirling over my arms and wrapping my head in your fucking incredible legs, CRASHING us to Ford Mosquito hard enough to make it leak reclaimed blood from its engine block. You’re wrapped around my neck, stretching my dragon-tattooed arms above my head as my rainbow dragons sleep still in their EMP’d state, and ARCH my back as you SQUEEZE me, leaving me groaning and writhing, hips shifting and wriggling, my big drek-kicker boots making little jingles and thunks as they kick and thud. And you almost put me out. The Razzi draw in close, sure they’re seeing a sexy fucking finale, with my head wrapped in my lover’s gorgeous leather-clad legs and you grinding me into a droooling mess, but I just barely manage to slide my legs off, kicking off to the car and SWINGING you down to the synthcrete with me with a rough cracking thud. And that’s when I get a big metal grin. Because the way you fall leaves those legs parted, right in front of me.

And say what you will about me, but the Purple Vix NEVER turns down a free meal.

My head lowers, and my chrome implants glisteningly SINK into your leather bottoms, drawing that scream – but even without my mods, I know how to eat a sexbox, especially my ‘nary’s, and soon those screams are mingled with moans as I catch your wrists and pin them, straddling your legs to keep them down, my back bent with my head low, black bangs over my face as I chew and gnaw and torment your quivering cunt until I feel that sweet perfumed heat, that little wet surge in your leathers, seeing the orgasm twist your face as millions of viewers enjoy the same sight in ultradef 200K. Licking my lips, I plant my hands and VAULT up your body, bombing my curvy ass down into your sopping mound, then your spectacular tits, and finally your beautiful face, wriggling against you a moment, CONSIDERING a smother finish but I don’t wanna risk you biting back just now – so I go with a little Osaka enhance-judo instead, and curl up under you as you’re no doubt enjoying my lovely hack of your CTE mod after my ass slammed your face like a sexy freight train to crunch your skull into the paving!

My long legs wrap your powerful right arm, scissoring the bicep tight, stretching that arm out to the side. Your head cranes against my belly, pillowing you in place. My left arm wraps under yours and vines around your wrist, stretching it out to our left as my right hand grips your throat. You kick and struggle and I grin, chrome teeth glistening with honey that I slowly lick off. “Like I FRAZZIN’ said, ‘nary …” I pant, my face streaked with blood and ash, my mods all down, one eye swollen shut and my ‘hawk a droopy set of Tank Girl bangs as I slowly wrap my fingers tight around your throat. Finding the shape of your larynx – and pressing my thumb to your carotids. I can feel the weaving there, to stop it from getting cut – same as I have – but that won’t stop it from being pushed shut and slowing the blood to your wicked biocomputer. “… YOU look sexier doin’ the dishes.”

My hand tightens, your cheeks going red and then slowly dusky. You struggle, those exquisite breasts bouncing, those tense muscles shifting. Straining your arms. And most times you could have escaped – but it’s been a rough draining brawl, and my position is secure enough that I can hold you tight, squeezing my legs around your arm tight enough to crush into your bicep, vining your left arm out stiffly straight and gripping your wrist – and my right hand wraps tighter and tighter, a loving slow SQUEEZE on your throat, slowly cutting off the flow of blood and air … your abs tense and your bare breasts heave as my glistening rainbow-tattooed form stays fucking WRAPPED around you in my infamous Vix-Trap, the same takedown I used to bring in that biofreak gene-terrorist who’d given herself super-strength without legal cyber-enhancements. She was strong enough to throw a car at me – but even strong girls need to breathe. Their brains need blood, no matter how many Sendaku biochips are installed.

“No matter how enhanced we are, there’s something things we can’t get away from …” I purr, craning my head down to slowly lick the sweat from your beautiful cheek as your eyes start to flutter. You’re still fighting … still struggling … but it’s too late now. And EVERYONE in the Angeles MetroPlex sees it, sees how I’ve got you CONQUERED right here and now.

“And what you can’t get away from, my love …” I murmur, and kiss the side of your head just as those beautiful eyes start to roll back, your body spasming softly as the chokehold sinks in, my knuckles white from squeezing your throat shut.

“… are the dishes.”


“Mmmmm-MMMH!” I purr happily, slurping down the last of the tonkotsu. I went ALL OUT for dinner tonight – after all, the success of my Plat contract PLUS the ident-royalties for streams of our fight have REALLY fattened the ol’ cred-limit lately, so in addition to paying for our recovery (extensive time in the bacta spa), recharges (we depleted EVERYTHING, even the backups), repairs (it was like two days in the nano-doc for each of us, with return visits), new shades, several new outfits for you, a big new screen, an iris enhancement to get you the new higher rez one, – and after the insurance co-pays for all the damage – I’ve STILL had enough left over to get us fancy eats almost every NIGHT.

And just like every night, I went with my favorite. Your favorite. OUR favorite. Ramen. Delicious ramen! Perfect toothsome noodles from the starch-printer over in Studio City, delicious roasted marinated pork (REAL cultivated lab pork! So frazzing expensive, but SO worth it), an all-day broth simmered on our transfer heater, farm-fresh veggies from the hydroponics out at Mulholland – it’s SUCH a great dinner.

But of course, between the roasting pork charring the roasting dish, the broth leaving a thick residue on the stockpot, the starchy dusting from unrolling the printed noodles, the dirty knives and cutting boards and the fresh bowl for every bowl of ramen we eat …

… welllll …

I giggle as I get to my feet, getting a beer from the chiller, and then helping you up with one hand in yours, as if inviting you to dance. You’re huffy, your cheeks flushed. You liked the dinner. You obviously love my ramen. You liked the company, because we spent all night telling funny stories and teasing each other. But now comes the part that has you seething and swearing vengeance every night. I giggle, sipping my beer. “So? Show Vixy what she wants …” I croon, my eyes all alight with mischief, glowing pink tongue bead glazing my lips as my tall cresting mohawk goes DEEP blue-green with naughty pink tips.

And you strip off your lounging clothes, getting that beautiful perfect body utterly bare. Standing there softly fuming with red cheeks as I take a slow walk around you and whistle wickedly as if I HAVEN’T seen this every night for two weeks – and hand you the pink apron. And as you tie it on with an angry growl, I lick my palm and SMACK that gorgeous ass.

“Come wake me up for sex when you’re done. I’m takin’ a nap, bitch.” I purr, and flaunt my way to the bedroom to watch Neo-Maximum Mega Alchemist Meets Iron Dracula. Season 12 just started streaming! And I leave you there to scrub, and scrub, and scrub … and plan revenge.

The End

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