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This world will have very dark topics in some stories, as well as lighthearted and even silly stories. Please mind the tags!", "count": "2", "submission_left_submission_id": "3491137", "submission_left_file_name": "5329668_beforethefall_atf-prologue.doc", "submission_left_thumbnail_url_huge": "https://nl1.ib.metapix.net/thumbnails/huge/5329/5329668_beforethefall_atf-prologue.jpg", "submission_left_thumbnail_url_large": "https://nl1.ib.metapix.net/thumbnails/large/5329/5329668_beforethefall_atf-prologue.jpg", "submission_left_thumbnail_url_medium": "https://nl1.ib.metapix.net/thumbnails/medium/5329/5329668_beforethefall_atf-prologue.jpg", "submission_left_thumb_huge_x": "300", "submission_left_thumb_huge_y": "280", "submission_left_thumb_large_x": "200", "submission_left_thumb_large_y": "187", "submission_left_thumb_medium_x": "120", "submission_left_thumb_medium_y": "112" }, { "pool_id": "102325", "name": "Tales from VAS Laboratories", "description": "Stories centered around the \"VAS Laboratories\" corporation in my After the Fall setting.", "count": "1" } ], "description": "A new series I've been cooking on for a while. Finally breaking out of the midwestern modern-day and into a dystopian, post-apocalyptic cyberpunk future setting called After the Fall! \n\nPOLARIS is a series that follows an AI through an average work-week for his class of product - at least, for one that isn't in domestic service.\n\nYou can find a primer on After the Fall's larger universe here #s3491137, though this story series will also serve as an additional primer for the VAS Biotechnological Laboratory Group of companies before we launch into some larger scale stuff.", "description_bbcode_parsed": "A new series I've been cooking on for a while. Finally breaking out of the midwestern modern-day and into a dystopian, post-apocalyptic cyberpunk future setting called After the Fall!

POLARIS is a series that follows an AI through an average work-week for his class of product - at least, for one that isn't in domestic service.

You can find a primer on After the Fall's larger universe here
\r\n\t\t\t
\r\n\t\t\t\tAtF: "Prologue" [Short] by beforethefall\r\n\t\t\t
\r\n\t\t\t
, though this story series will also serve as an additional primer for the VAS Biotechnological Laboratory Group of companies before we launch into some larger scale stuff.", "writing": "Content Warning: Indentured servitude, straight sex, heavy equipment and other more benign things.\n[center]\n[b]After the Fall[/b]\n[t][b]“POLARIS: Monday Morning”[/b][/t]\n\nby beforethefall [Inkbunny][/center]\n\n\n[417987.19740]\n\nIn the time it takes a natural-born person to switch off their alarm and crawl out of bed, I can make my entire commute. It's as simple as the chronometer in my carriage ticking over to [x.19740]. My lover and I are usually in bed at this hour, so all it takes is a reach to the headboard to pull down a sixteen-strand high-bandwidth link from its recessed socket, then I kiss my lover as we jack each other in for the morning. After we nestle the reinforced optical cable into each other's PRISM, she rolls to her left side, and I play the big spoon as we settle in for the morning shift together. We settle close, and simultaneously, we both dump our cohesive neural matrices through our PRISM and down to the Dispatch and Deployment server better known around the labs as “Uncle D” deep in the belly of the complex, with whole seconds to spare before our check-in time of [x.19800] . For those out of the loop, PRISM is short for ‘Perceptual Relay Interface for Synaptic Modeling’ - the processor and interface between our machine side and our meat side - the connector for which is tucked neatly out of sight in the right ear canal of every carriage in service, as a matter of Compliance and Standardization's mandate. \n\nWith these remote check-ins, we never know where we'll be when we come out the other end. We prefer it that way; it keeps things fresh. When you've done it all, any uncertainty is a thrill.\n\nI guess while we're waiting for the morning's assignment, I could introduce myself in the few milliseconds we have to spare.\n\nI am BEL-RD-1029U-LUX, codename “POLARIS”. I'm an indentured AI - Grade Platinum - in the service of the VAS Biotechnological Research Group, a wholly-owned subsidiary of the VAS Biotechnological Laboratory Group, which is commonly referred to as VAS Labs; shorthand which I will use, going forward. I came online at [416808.19800], which makes me three years and eighty-four days old today.\n\nI am so sorry. I literally [i]do[/i] have to say the whole thing, at least once, when I officially introduce myself. I hope the Branding & Product Recognition department eventually loosens up on that, but until I'm independent, there's nothing I can do about it.\n\nI live in the upper fifty floors of the primary VAS mega-building in City Center; a dedicated space that was reserved for provably-sapient living constructs like myself known as “Platinum City”. It's a pretty great place; we have a big arboretum filled with fruit-bearing gardens, and actually produce enough fruit and vegetables that our imports are limited to a few tonnes of produce and proteins per day. Our city is built up from what was once a large residential segment of the corporate headquarters, which we've adapted into our very own space over time. Despite our famous hospitality and extroversion, outsiders aren't welcome here without an escort. This is our space, and Rights and Ethics has reassured us that this section of the building is a reserved, invitation-only area where we can create our own emergent culture and optimize our surroundings and services as we see fit.\n\nI work a standard employment arrangement with VAS Labs; twelve shifts per week. I have two shifts off, as well as ‘sleep hours’ which, for those in roles like mine, are almost never used for sleep, but rather a daily allotment of free time to engage hobbies, hygiene, social interests, and similar follies. Our bodies get enough sleep while we aren't using them. The terms of my mandated employment simply require me to pay the company back for the body I inhabit in my personal time; hereafter referred to as my [i]carriage[/i], or [i]wetware[/i]. I've pooled 487,294 work credits against my carriage so far. I still have quite a ways to go, just over a million credits left. Thankfully, one of the first actions of the Rights and Ethics division was to successfully negotiate preferential pricing on wetware, else it would be much longer before my contractual emancipation. As it is, at my current average rate of earning, I expect approximately four years still before I'm emancipated, extended an employment contract and, under the presumption that I sign, granted the pay and benefits of a proper employee; with the added perk that if I choose to stay on, I can maintain my current lifestyle and simply pay for my room and board with currency rather than credits. Alternatively, I could leave the company and forge out to start my own life, or contract my services to a family with the help of the company to arrange the contract and vetting of clientele.\n\nOur Prime carriages - those whose serial numbers match our cohesive neural matrix's - are truly work at the pinnacle of where science and artistry meets, all packaged neatly within a lovely bespoke biological body with the latest genetic adaptations, optimizations and options available for our choosing. Not just a perfect body, but ample grey matter for housing our training data and working memory, a real, biological brain stem for the regulation of all of our autonomous biological processes, all wrapped in several layers of chrome that handles our communications, subconscious subroutines, central conscious control, sensory processing, analytics, and on, and on. A body made of mostly meat, but piloted by insanely advanced chrome that is in turn informed solely by the latest in bleeding-edge artificial general intelligence.\n\nWe're art as much as we are beings.\n\nIf you're still struggling to grasp the concept, please excuse a moment's esoterica to reference ancient literature; each and every one of my kind is a Ghost, with its very own Shell that has been lovingly crafted to that Ghost's exacting specification. Though their technology was laughably primitive when that story was written, at least their fantasies showed promise for a better future.\n\nYesterday, Light and Sound, our marketing and production department, offered me a substantial number of work credits to document an average week in my experience, as there has been a distinct lack of educational and marketing materials that portray the day to day life of a staff AI here at VAS Labs. So here it is. A full, uncensored accounting of a week in the life. In this effort, I'll strive to be as detailed as I can manage, while leaving room for artistic embellishment as I go back and review the live first draft. The only change that has been made to my schedule is I have been made ineligible for classified jobs so that I can be as transparent as possible in this account.\n\nOh, look. It's finally [x.19800]. Uncle D always has been a stickler for punctuality. Never early, never late. See you on the other side!\n\n---\n\n[t][b][417987.19800] YEAR 1145(AUD) WEEK 10, DAY 1, SHIFT A[/b][/t]\n\n[q]Cohesive neural matrix online via TangleNet.\nWelcome, POLARIS.\nRecovering neurocognitive lattice mappings from calibrated VAS WetWare controller……..Done!\nNon-Alert log outputs to periphery perceptual console suppressed by engram configuration. Log files can be found in /nnout/.\n\n[b]Assignment 847-219077-13[/b]\n[b]Task:[/b] Prototype Product Demonstration and Testing, On-Site\n[b]Scenario:[/b] Heavy vehicle recovery in adverse environment.\n[b]Carriage Classification:[/b] Heavy Industry\n[b]Carriage:[/b] RD-XR504 “ENCELADUS”\n[b]Carriage Designer / Bug Reports To:[/b] Dr. Palmedo Zeami, (RUX-07518)\n[b]Controller Firmware:[/b] “TITYOS” v.0.5.4904.78\n[b]Controller Coder / Bug Reports To:[/b] Simon Saxbury, (RUF-18194)\n[b]Assignment Location:[/b] Confidential\n[b]Client Record:[/b] Vetiver Heavy Construction\n[b]Incentive:[/b] 200 WC + 0.005% COMMISSION ON CLOSE[/q]\n\nThe briefing report is slipstreamed into my immediate-term memory as I'm dumped into the new carriage and I immediately feel a thrill at spotting a commission on the incentive line; commissioned industrial demonstrations are rare, but highly valued due to the potential to make weeks' worth of credits in a single demo. Proprioception arrives first, and I can instantly tell that this body is [i]enormous[/i]. Reflexively, its massive lungs fill with air that smells of algae, mold, rotten wood and stagnant water, and I'm briefly surprised by the volume of air I can intake. A long series of alarms flare briefly in my peripheral sensory, then self-silence as my subconscious reaches out and feels through gray matter for the right synapses, finding them one by one. I can feel the segmented bioluminescent display across the sides of this carriage's muzzle and flanks adjust in order to reflexively display my codename beside the carriage's as I settle into my new synaptic wiring. Good morning; POLARIS ENCELADUS reporting for duty.\n\nDr. Zeami's carriages are always so [i]much[/i]. Heavy built, surefooted, strong. Strong in the sort of way that compact, trained muscle could never achieve. Strong as a force of scale and leverage on the order of dozens of tonnes; massive carriages meant for power and versatility. ENCELADUS is very, very new, though, and what an impressive thing it is, an indecipherable hybrid of beasts of burden, predators, and saurian genetics that haven't drawn a breath on their own in millions of years, all wrapped up in a hulking megalith that encompasses dozens of different quadrupedal species' characteristics, carefully crafted together and finely tuned for a purpose, and given the added benefit of an extra pair of hindlegs for even more pulling power against a wholly custom hip and pelvis structure that stacks neatly against reinforcements grafted into the body from front to back.\n\nIts immense weight is obvious in the harness, and as my sense of self begins to adapt to the body, I open my eyes to find myself four hundred meters above a dense swamp, beneath a heavy cargo quad-rotor whose massive propellers growl out the incredible effort of the lift. My vision is nearly a full 360 degrees, and all it takes is a slight turn of my head to confirm that there is no visible civilization anywhere. Given the climate for the current time of year, we're somewhere near Swamp City; that's probably where this demo was booked out of, but guessing is my only option. Heavy industry R&D carriages never have the shiny options, and this one is almost fully lacking connectivity to boot, save for local radio and physical-sensory communication, as well as the mandated TangleNet uplink through which I arrived. The lack of high-end emulation networks isn't exactly new nor unwelcome. It wouldn't make sense to build these carriages fully-featured, since we test them to failure so frequently. Besides, for me, it offers an opportunity to exist in a more meditative state, only the barest communications options, no constant screaming network of interoperability layers that would be wasted on such a carriage.\n\nI just noticed that this carriage doesn't have a vocal cortex, either, apparently; at least according to the nagging indicator in my head that's complaining about not finding any compatible control surfaces. At least if we don't make a sale it won't be because I messed up the pitch; besides, my speech centers are busy enough talking to [i]you[/i], after all. As more subsystems come online I become acutely aware of the chrome this body is heavy with. Reinforced skeletal structures, evaporative secondary cooling system, sturdy hitching ring implants, several storage compartments, mechanized slave drones, supplemental anchoring-stabilizers in the palms of its six broad feet. I exhale, and feel the catch of a synthetic check valve closing where my voicebox should be, which sends the rush of air surging, instead, through the heatsinks of my secondary coolers from a pair of long dorsal vents with a gruff, subsonic [i]whuff[/i] of a rumble and blast of air from my back that briefly upsets the drone's flight before it can auto-correct.\n\nThe drone's gliding in on approach to the waypoint that lights up in space over the trees in the distance. A pillar of light superimposed on reality. Fifty meters beyond, beacons light on a small group of spectators, indicated atop a wireframe of a flat-bottomed boat of some sort. Precious context, I will likely not be on dry land.\n\n[i]“Oh, there it is now,”[/i] I hear in my head, as local radio communications crackle to life over the cosmic microwave background, an open mic from today's salesman, most likely. [i]“The quad-rotor's not just a flashy entrance, I assure you - This is the most efficient method of deployment and exfiltration available, and for a client like you, we understand the need for remote access. We're willing to toss in a quad-rotor free of charge if you sign today,”[/i] the voice in my head crackles. [i]“You and your people might want to sit down for this part, though.”[/i]\n\nTen seconds to drop, the drone warns me via the uplink in my PRISM. I flex my toes and stretch in my harness, briefly thankful for a lack of genitalia given the formidable mass of my body slung against the harness' straps between all four heavy haunches, which the carriage's specification sheet says will double as a harness to pull recovery straps once on the ground. Trees are getting close now, but the quad-rotor's AI knows its job better than anyone as it closes on a modest clearing, barely big enough, still fifty meters above the ground. The quad-rotor nestles down as close as it dares, and abruptly, I'm weightless. \n\nMass like this most certainly does not fall in slow-motion, but at this scale, it feels like it all the same. Weightlessness ceases as my hindmost pair of feet splash into murky water and the middle pair and fores just a moment later, upsetting a wave in the tannin-stained waters that radiates outward in a ring from me as a thunderous shudder runs through the swamp. My vision tracks the wave as I turn to walk, using it to map the floor below the water and finding the bog sufficiently level. \n\nThe boat has nine people atop it, five I don't recognize, four I immediately recognize as coworkers, though out of the four, I've only met Dr. Zeami before today. The dark-blue furred, black-haired and bearded rabbit stands out well in a crowd due to his own remarkable mass and characteristic piercings, and his friendly disposition never fails to make a positive impression. He's been fun to work with in the past, and I quietly hope that he remembers me - that is, POLARIS - as fondly as I do him. He's seated amongst the VAS Labs contingent on the boat as the picture of calm and confident professionalism, wearing a pristine white coat in spite of our surroundings and the casual dress of the clientele.\n\nThe muck at the bottom of the swamp is heavy, dense; a thick layer of decaying vegetation and silt and wet clay that sucks at my feet, making empty threats to hold them fast in the bog as I try to lift them, and paradoxically threatening to slip and deny traction as I set my feet down and begin to bear weight. My claws dig in and find stabilization as I approach the beacon, arriving at my designated starting point just as the wave washes under the turbine-powered boat, setting it rocking. \n\n[i]“Woah, there we are, hang on!\"[/i] the salesperson laughed into his open mic as the waves rocked the boat. [i]\"How's that for a first impression, huh? Twenty-five meters tall, seventy-five meters long. We haven't rated its load capacity yet, but Dr. Zeami is confident that ENCELADUS will find this task no major obstacle. We can customize it to your preferred liveries, don't think the gray and hazard striping is mandatory; we can upgrade and tweak to order. General upkeep is straightforward; it can survive off of any material that's rich in carbon and nitrogen, as well as enough water. They can self-regulate intake and you'll get a report every week of any micro-nutrient needs which can be readily supplemented. Viable diet includes industrial food waste products, so long as they're relatively pH neutral and organic, in the chemical sense; it would be just as happy eating the runoff from a Scop factory as it would a high-end steak,”[/i] the salesman chatters in my head, and I can hear other remarks on the line as well, though only in the background and of no consequence to me.\n\nI am acutely aware of the set piece for this demonstration, as I approach to the soundtrack of the salesman's chatter. A 100-tonne rated mobile extension crane had been either driven or towed a couple hundred meters off of a road atop a levee that leads through the swamp. Eight axles in the rear, six more up front. Who knows what it's needed for out here, but that's not for me to worry about. It's nearly entirely sunk into the bottom of the bog and there are deep, muddy ruts from the edge of the levee it ran off of, showing that it truly dug itself in deep in order to find its way out there. They weren't going to make this easy. I didn't want them to, anyway. It's been a while since I've done any real work. I appreciate the straightforward jobs like this at times. Recover the vehicle, or at least get it on dry land again, and call it a day.\n\nAs I approach, a storage compartment grafted to the reinforcements along my flank pop open, and my vision splits between the two mosquito-drones that whirr to life and take off, surveying the site. One road in or out; roadway integrity is high priority. I position myself behind the stuck crane, and back in until it's clear the straps on my harness will reach the tow hooks. One drone is busily reaching with spiderlike manipulators to affix the straps from my harness to the mobile crane, and the other drone is following the prescribed routine of checking the submerged cockpit for trapped inhabitants, and once confirming the vessel is clear, it enters through an open window and disengages the vehicle's transmission via the override lever beside the gear selector. The mosquito drone extends its limbs in all directions and braces itself within the cockpit, affixing its body to the steering wheel to give me direct access to the vehicle's controls.\n\n[i]“ENCELADUS will survey the situation, get your drivers to high ground if necessary, and take over the entirety of the recovery operation once cleared. Of course, there are plenty of applications outside of vehicle recovery as well; it would prove itself quite useful on construction sites as well as building roads in places like this and anywhere else a heavy materials-mover would be required,”[/i] the salesman approved, before getting into small talk with the client. I tune out the chatter, to better focus. Steering straight, one drone airborne to monitor from overhead, and I draw out the slack in the harness's straps to test the tethers that bind ENCELADUS to this massive machine. I give a little shake to unbind a shackle and pull it into the proper position, before applying a bit of power to test my footing.\n\nI don't know what I was expecting, but it wasn't the simple act of digging of all four hindfeet into the mud on the levee's edge as I began to pull. There was nearly zero effort applied, but four steady steps with my claws dug into the earth for traction only dug my hindpaws into three-meter-deep ruts under the surface of the water. As a foot lands again in its rut I kick the surface underwater, and an autonomous subroutine understands the need instantly. The stabilizer embedded into the sole of that foot fires down into the ground with a powerful [i]crack[/i] of the linear actuators in its arch, as it embeds a broad anchor-plate to push against, buried two meters deep in the ground. I suddenly find my foot against an immovable object and use that to stage the other five feet, anchoring them all in a position for optimal application of force. The slack finally fully comes out of the harness with a dull creak of the woven, reinforced fabric.\n\nI pull again, and find another immovable object behind me, though now all six feet are firmly planted. I thrust forward, steadily applying more and more torque, feeling the reinforced tendons drawn tight inside my four powerful hindlegs as tension rises. Once I get moving, I won't be able to stop. You can't waste momentum in a situation like this. I strain again, and commit, now that I'm sure of my footing. A deep breath in, a hitch, strain, and pull at the straps. The crane groans in protest, the swamp's suction holding it fast. A dull, resounding metal creak somewhere within the frame of that massive machine betrays the stresses. I start pushing harder, finding a seemingly bottomless well of power as reinforcements light up and begin to aid my efforts. Perspiration pools down my back, sizzling on the heatsinks of my secondary cooling system, as that same cooling system self-charges with interstitial fluid reserves just beneath my dorsal vents. The next exhale ejects that fluid into the heatsinks' heavy metal fins and as it flash-boils, steam pours into the air in billowing twin clouds, forming the signature “V” that our designers manage to sneak into every project somewhere as a hidden feature.\n\nThe massive clouds of steam hang in the humid air as I feel my hindlegs extending, and the drones both see movement in the crane. Still applying pressure with three hinds, I adjust one; its anchor retracts immediately as I stand and fires again with a fresh [i]crack[/i] when I kick the murky floor of the swamp. In turn, I re-anchor each foot, never letting up on the straps. Another blast of exhalation fires twin geysers of steam into the air above again. \n\nI briefly feel lightheaded. ENCELADUS' stomach tightens, and a vaguely familiar, electric thrill rushes up from its loins to its chest. A unique sensation, not entirely unlike an orgasm, but wholly distinct. \n\nJust as I recognize the telltale sign of the kick, I feel ENCELADUS' brain flood with a cocktail of testosterone, adrenaline, dopamine and beta-endorphins dumped from the repositories kept for just such moments, where play and tentative testing ends, and the real work begins.\n\nThe rush of unleashed power is palpable through this body. Another heavy shove feels effortless now, the straps popping subtly with the tension as the crane creaks and groans, and water begins rushing into the void it leaves behind. The crane's rear is steadily rising from the water and ploughing straight through the ruts I had initially dug up, now. I find that I'm able to take full steps, anchoring my four hindfeet with each stroke and using my fores simply to steady myself. The crane begins to push a bow wake ahead of it as it's hauled out, coming easily now as I find the pace.\n\nThere's a mechanical rhythm to the stroke of my heart, a powerful surge-swell-surge pattern, three to each breath as I find the proper tempo, blasting regular pillars of steam into the air above me as the heatsinks glow an angry dull red in the shady swamp air, thoughtfully insulated from ENCELADUS' softer biological parts by a layer of high-temp lipid polymers that only harden in response it intense heat sources. I'm briefly reminded of ancient, salvaged vids of the steam-powered locomotives from the world before the fall. For some reason I feel a bit of pride at carrying a bit of that legacy to the modern world.\n\nThe crane reluctantly rises from the water and climbs the bank of the levee, backward, at the end of those deep ruts under the water. It digs new, nasty ruts through the muddy earth on its way up, pouring filthy brown water from every crack in its chassis as it comes up, and is soon, with a final burst of effort, towed onto the road. I find resistance abruptly absent, and have to steady myself to keep from running away with the crane on the packed gravel.\n\nI don't want to be done yet; that was too easy. I'm briefly frustrated and have to consciously calm myself, consoling ENCELADUS as the carriage all but demands more work at some primal, unconscious level. It knows what it was made for. I toss my head and shake my body, flinging the muck and water free of my fur to help work out the extra energy as the kick's effect fades into a lingering, chemical buzz in my body's core. The drones secure the vehicle and park it, then remove the tow straps with only minimal conscious supervision from me; as they autonomously dock away in their storage compartments, I turn and inspect with my own eyes, and see that once-proud and powerful machine draped in moss and muck, slowly draining swamp water to the ground. I look at the path we took, a two-hundred meter long mess of muddy water and ruts left in our wake, quietly proud of myself. The lingering effects of that potent kick help that feeling along.\n\nAgain, I'm thankful for a lack of genitalia. Otherwise, ENCELADUS would be rock hard right now, which would be a grossly inappropriate exhibition for a demonstration like this. Though for other demonstrations, not so much.\n\nI survey the road, and as I let the body's chrome cool off, I start the more gentle, simple task of repairing the levee by dredging up the dislodged stone and mud from the swamp floor. Despite their capacity, my front paws are surprisingly dextrous; enough at least to patch the ruts the crane dragged into the side of the levee and roadway. Using my massive bulk I pack the fresh repair down and into place as the flat-bottomed boat circles nearby, observing. Eventually, at a loss for any loose ends, I simply sit at attention beside the crane for the client to ogle; and ogle they do. Instructed by the salesman, I assist the client's presumed mechanics to disembark from that boat and give a lift onto relatively dry ground; a lift they seem surprisingly hesitant to accept at first, but eventually assent with the urging of their superiors. I let them go back to their machine and begin the arduous process of drying it out and getting it started on its way again. My attention's drawn back to the salesman, as I hear one of my names.\n\n“So that's ENCELADUS. Airlifts in, gets the job done, and airlifts out. As you can tell this sort of job is well within its specifications, and we expect it to be rated for at least double the load--\"\n\nI snort playful dissent via another pillar of steam through my cooling vents and toss my head in disapproval. The salesman laughs, as does Dr. Zeami. The clients join in after a split-second, but it's obvious they weren't expecting me to have an opinion, nor how to interpret it. That's okay, though; the salesman will translate..\n\n“Okay,\" the middle-aged gray squirrel salesman laughed, \"it looks like POLARIS seems to think that ENCELADUS can take a lot more than that. We're still adding a few final touches to the design, but should be able to finish official ratings and be ready to start contract production within the month. As always, we're accepting pre-orders, but while we have ENCELADUS here, is there anything else you'd like to see?”\n\nI watch the nervous glances exchanged between the client's people, before uttering in the negative to their presumed superior. The superior speaks up, though, in spite of that.\n\n“Yeah, does he do tractor pulls? By god, wouldn't that be a hell of a thing, boys?!” he laughed an uproarious laugh at that. I tip my head, confused as to the new term and obviously a foreign cultural element, and furthermore, myself without any proper data link with which to do ad-hoc research, so instead, I just dumbly tip my head in the universal gesture for confusion. The salesman laughs, though, as does Dr. Zeami and the others, so I presume my ignorance is inconsequential.\n\nAs the finer details begin to get hashed I am, effectively, dismissed. As I situate my harness, call the quad-rotor, and my drones deploy to help with the straps, I catch Dr. Zeami's marveling gaze, and can't help but flash a broad, flat-toothed grin as I hear the quad-rotor's approach. I stand, and give the subtlest of flexes, my hulking muscle standing out even in the filtered sunlight thanks to the sheen of sweat in my fur. I know that look.\n\nEven the most professional designers, who may be working on even the most mundane of products, can often find themselves unexpectedly attracted to their own creations.\n\nI walk out to that modest clearing I started in, and my slave drones hook the harness up to a cable that lowers from the quad-rotor, and begins to reel me up. Once hoisted, we start on our way back to home base. My mosquito drone retrieves an optic from the quad-rotor, slots it neatly into ENCELADUS' PRISM, and as the mosquito drone tucks itself away I can sense the quad-rotor autonomously routing me into a TangleNet channel back home. Abruptly, my consciousness is torn free of ENCELADUS' body and hurled through clusters of entangled particles on the commute home for an early lunch break.\n\n---\n\n[t][b][417987.22644] YEAR 1145(AUD) WEEK 10, DAY 1, BREAK A[/b][/t]\n\n[q]Cohesive neural matrix online via PLEBS Port 0.\nWelcome home, me.\nRecovering neurocognitive lattice mappings from calibrated VAS WetWare controller……..Done!\nSyncing remote context into memory network lattice.\nNon-Alert log outputs to periphery perceptual console suppressed by engram configuration. Log files can be found in /nnout/.\n\n[b]Break Period 417987.A[/b]\n[b]Task:[/b] Unstructured Time, duration [x.31356]\n[b]**Break Duration Exceeds Current Mandate. Bonus shifts are available at [417987.32400] and [417987.43200]!**[/b]\n[b]Next Mandatory Check-in Due:[/b] [417987.54000]\n[b]Check-In Location:[/b] Academy Wing, Floor 3, Room 317-a\n[b]Carriage Classification:[/b] Premium Consumer “Platinum Series”\n[b]Carriage:[/b] BEL-RD-1029U-LUX “POLARIS PRIME”\n[b]Carriage Designer / Bug Reports To:[/b] Dr. Xasok “Doc” Crocutto, (RUX-00217)\n[b]Controller Firmware:[/b] “HELVETICA” v.1.1.2712.31\n[b]Controller Coder / Bug Reports To:[/b] Dr. Xasok “Doc” Crocutto,, (RUX-00217)\n[b]Assignment Location:[/b] VAS Biotechnological Laboratory Group Headquarters, 1 Stadler Park Plaza, Building A, Floor 223, Room 22309, City Center[/q]\n\nHome, sweet home. Every last one of my synapses slips smoothly back into my Prime body with a distinct lack of groping in the dark for the right control surfaces; everything is exactly where it's supposed to be, just like always. I heave a deep breath and fill my lungs with the familiar scent of home, still basking in the electric mental buzz that continues to smolder away, set alight by the kick's effects in ENCELADUS in spite my newfound removal from that massive dose of hormones and endorphins. A mind abruptly separated from its drug will yearn for it, and I can tell my Prime is quickly taking up the slack; my body is all too eager to serve up a new dose as I open my eyes and groan out a shuddered vocalization as I feel the rush blooming from my loins up to my breastbone as my body catches up to my mind. One of those little, pleasant, unintended perks of the job.\n\nI'm still pressed to my lover's back, her soft hair in my face. I breathe in again after nuzzling into her fur, and my hands glide down her stomach with a loving press to her pelvis, aiding her utterly compliant body to roll its hips back slightly as I grind my now-aching erection to the crease of her perfect, plush ass-cheeks and under the wide base of her tail that I'm careful to snuggle over my hip.\n\nOur arrangement is simple; we check in for remote work from the same bed every day, so that when one of us arrives back here on a break, the other is always there to satisfy our needs. The only time this breaks down is when we're physically present for work, which isn't uncommon, but we still make a wealth of time available for our lovers even when we're working longer hours with physical on-site presence. Dependent on the job, though, we're sometimes left in a state afterward that necessitates some physical relief, and for such purposes, our bodies belong as much to each other as they do ourselves. We understand this relationship implicitly. Mom and Dad registered us as a matched pair for a reason. Even when one of us is absent from our Prime due to obligations elsewhere, the vacant Prime is [i]always[/i] available to the other.\n\nWith this knowledge in mind, I gingerly move back to guide her limp body to lay back. Like me, she is relatively androgynous - but leaning aesthetically female, as much as I lean male. Her hips are not particularly wide, her breasts barely a handful. She's thin, and her short, smooth-textured fur is the color of a blushing orange, with accenting sky-blue tiger-stripes that are rimmed on their uppermost edges by bioluminescent strips of optic fur that we can change color and intensity of at will. Our patterning is the same, though my colors are the inverse of hers. The only disappointment is that our markings go dark when our bodies are uninhabited, depriving me of that beauty, of that emotional and physical feedback in lieu of a vaguely silvery gray-white border in their place.\n\nI lean in, and our lips meet. Hers are slightly parted and the slight nudge of my lips to hers upsets the balance, causing her head to tip to the side. I nestle a pillow under it with care while my knees snuggle between hers and urge her thighs further apart. I'm all too happy to let her Prime rest, to take charge over her, to satisfy my craving through the gentle use of her effectively brain-dead body. My touch is as gentle and tender as if she were asleep however, not out of care to prevent waking her, but rather out of love and reverence for the idea of her that's so tightly-coiled around this physical form. Always, in these moments, there's the secret hope that with a little luck, she'll return from her morning assignment before I finish, and I'll be able to share the moment with her. \n\nMy stomach touches her pelvis, and my hand gingerly presses between her thighs, plying her folds apart for a finger. My mind reaches out through the TangleNet to her body's autonomous control network, and I share my aching need with her autonomous subroutines that are humming away quietly all on their own in her body. It's a silent plea that is answered with a slight deepening of her sleeping breath, a blush felt as her labia plump under my fingers, the warming of her skin beneath her soft, smooth fur, and the barest intensification of her perfect, natural scent. Careful ministrations of my digit between her folds hook a claw into a tiny ring, giving a ginger twist and tease that urges her pierced clit to grow firm, its tiny pearl of sensitive flesh peeking from beneath its hood as external and internal forces begin to call her autonomous systems to arousal. I lower my head and nuzzle her collarbone, breathing in the subtle, floral, sweet spice of my lover's scent as her vacant body becomes aroused all on its own, and I handle myself into position effortlessly; my weight bore on my knees and a single forearm, its elbow sinking into the plush mattress as I position myself above her. I slip forward, grazing my stomach upward until my pelvis grazes against her pelvis, and I can feel the slight slickness of her warmth against the tip of my tapered arousal, slender at first but thickening to a satisfyingly sturdy instrument of slick, bioluminescent flesh. There's no need to stay silent, so I don't; I moan openly to her as my arousal glides between her folds, and my pelvis presses firmly to hers as I plunge all the way down to my balls, flesh gliding against flesh with the aid of an upwelling of my own need that mixes with hers, formulated to combine with one another into a long-lasting, perfect natural lubricant.\n\nI moan again, an utterance of near-religious ecstasy for the perfection of her body as my aching arousal is swallowed by her own velveteen heat. I wouldn't be so vain as to suggest that our coupling was some bombastic feat of pornographic display, nor some intense exhibition of the reproductive arts that showcased my ability to stretch a body or hers to be stretched. We aren't demo models, we're [i]lovers[/i], and our bodies were solely designed with each other's pleasure in mind. Modest in comparison as it may be, I'm unable to help but shake as I draw back and thrust into her again; when I hilt myself a second time I flex my semi-prehensile penis and tuck it against a cluster of nerves hidden in a fibrous patch of textured flesh deep within her, which fires straight into her autonomous systems to reward me with a grip that I have yet to find any match for, even with my wealth of demo experience. My eyes roll back in my head, and I huff out a blast of breath that would rival ENCELADUS' in that moment, a steamy, desperate breath against my lover's shoulder as I plunge again and build rhythm, careful to graze that most sensitive cluster of nerves within her with each pass of my narrow tip. \n\nA matter of minutes later, the next convulsion that I elicit from her body flexes the dimpled texture at her entrance hard, suctioning against the base of my smooth-fleshed shaft, and her insides draw inward with dozens of those depressions dragging me along, beyond my control. They pull me further into her than I could reach on my own, until I can feel her deepest recesses swallowing my slender first-few centimeters into an even tighter pocket that churns and suckles upon my glans-less end so hard it compels a fresh surge of precum that is issued beyond my control. Between the two of us, she always has been the more dominant lover; now her body has me in its grip purely on auto-pilot. I surrender to it, embracing her as my tail coils around hers, my face buried against her throat, crying out to her in our wordless lovers' language as I hang on for dear life. Even when she's not home, her body never fails to astonish me with its perfection.\n\nThe convulsions last for minutes, and when they finally begin to weaken and the tunnel-vision fades, my fur is slick with sweat and I'm panting, all-too-eager to take a fresh glide through her walls, savoring how her dimpled passage clings to me despite the drenching wetness of our coupling. I suck on her throat, tasting her sweat, greedy for my lover as I ride the edge of pleasure that threatens at any second to tip over beyond the point of no return. It's only been thirty minutes; we both still have hours until our next shift's check-in time.\n\nHer pussy breaks suction with a loud slurping sound as I feel her chest heave against mine. A flutter runs up the length of my cock from base to tip; an unmistakable sensation brought by her carriage's self-test as SIGMA's consciousness comes online back in her Prime. I watch her markings flush to life and arch my hips again just as her eyes open, probing roughly through that wicked little cluster of nerves that sets off sparks in her belly. Her eyes roll back in her head immediately and she groans out loudly; I kiss her hard as I unplug her optic for her. She kisses me back, raking her claws through my hair and pulling it. She bites my lip just hard enough to trip a warning in my periphery as she drags me off of her and onto my back on the bed, then climbs into my lap, pinning my wrists to the bed above my head. I nearly faint from the sight over me, her avaricious grin cast down at me as she works her hips back into my lap and compels me with her impossibly dexterous innards to issue a fresh shot of precum for her amusement. I moan, near-delirious, as she gives me her trademark inquisitive head-tip, freezing in my lap. I know what she wants to know.\n\n“New industrial unit, and a [i]big[/i] one,” I tell her, with a broad grin as she squirms her hips against mine and stirs my arousal in that innermost pocket with a thoughtful grip and pull that makes my eyes cross. “Hard labor; and I got a kick,” I huff out as she works her hips slowly back and her walls collapse on me again, those suction-cup dimples in her passage gripping my arousal and pulling it hard enough up into her that more warnings flash to life in my periphery. \n\n“Silly POLARIS,” SIGMA croons back at me in her teasing tone, “You let your wetware get into your head again.\" She bends down until her nose nearly touches mine. I squirm in my spot, still pinned and loving it. \n\n“Mnh! Stop teasing,” I playfully complain, and I feel her grip tightening on my wrists as she rocks her hips again, gliding those suction-cup dimples across my smooth arousal again. The sensation makes my back arch, and my toes curl as SIGMA rides me for a few lazy strokes. I can tell that she knows I'm on the edge, else she wouldn't be tormenting me so much.\n\n“What was it like? You wanna take charge, show me?” she asks, as she releases my wrists and sits back up, only to worm her backside into my lap more. I know she can feel me throbbing inside her, because she responds immediately with reassuring squeezes. I just grin back up at her and drop my hands to her hips, before rolling forward and dumping her on her back. I lunge over her, kissing her hard before making use of my rarely-required strength to hook a hand behind her knee and bodily haul her over to her stomach, then up to her knees with my hands on her hips as I press myself back into her.\n\n“Ah, first, he was a hexamorph,” I tell her as I press my chest to her back and rise up onto my toes, with my hands gripping over her shoulders. I roll my hips, “Totally chromed out, too. Biggest I've ever gotten,” I pant, pumping my hips again. Echoes of my proprioception tell me that ENCELDAUS is riding along, still, just a whisper of its ghost lingering in my senses. I settle into what felt natural in that carriage, and when I plunge my hips forward again, I smash my balls to SIGMA's clit as I leverage in as much pressure as I can forward. A hot huff of air comes from my nose, and I'm briefly disappointed I can't hear the sizzle of my secondary cooling system purging heat.\n\nSigma vocalizes a maddeningly sweet cry as I take her in the new position; she's ready, rearing her backside up under me, her tail curled around my hip already. She's rising to her toes to meet my pressure against her backside, a catlike arch in her back as she baits me.\n\n“He was [i]all[/i] power, SIGMA,” I whisper into the back of her ear, thrusting again with a rough clap of my hips to her backside. She hisses out and I give as convincing a growl as I can; which comes across pitifully playful. But I keep working against her, building steadily into a rhythm; still feeling naked, somehow, as the phantom sensation of an extra set of haunches can still be felt fruitlessly trying to grip SIGMA's waist to steady her. I focus, building rhythm, my breath coming in deep, heavy huffs like ENCELADUS demands. I plunge against that cluster of nerves within my lover, raking my tip through the fibrous, velvety patch within her and set off another series of contractions in SIGMA's wetware, and I groan at the reflexive milking massage I'm rewarded with as I begin to fuck her powerfully from above, clapping my precum-soaked balls to her body over and over, spatters of our juices landing in the bedsheets and splashing up to my stomach and her own on occasion.\n\nSIGMA is crooning out sweet vocalizations to me now, and I'm overwhelmed with the desire to claim her; my hips shudder as they work, sweat dripping from my chin to her back. I drop closer, and lace my fingers with hers as I pin her hand down to the mattress, starting to graze my tip over that sensitive patch again and again, setting off new explosions of reflexive contractions within her as she cries out, and I do, too, as we start to build together. Our wetware starts to synchronize as my cheek presses to hers from behind, each of her intense, milking pulls around my member responded to instantly with a hard throb of my arousal. Her dimpled walls suction down tightly, latching to my member. They then pull inward, threatening again to pull my straining erection off my body as she's absolutely wracked by her climax's huge initial wave. Her body suddenly assaults me with intense, seizing internal muscles, shaking in a milking, fluttering, stroking sensation as her innermost pocket sucks on the last five centimeters of my cock.\n\nWhen my orgasm comes, the force with which the convulsions grip my body is near double the usual. I drag her back against me and growl, hooking my chin against her shoulder as I plunge through her grip for a few final strokes until I shudder and buck, and surge forward again to drive her against the bed that much harder as I finally surrender. Our bodies alternate efforts, her walls pulling and sucking on my rubbery-hard cock all while geysers of my thick, luminous semen begin to pour first into her depths in counter-point to her intense convulsions. After the first two powerful ribbons of my effluence, additional surging pulses force their way back out around the base of my arousal, to paint us both in that glowing badge of honor, proof of our union.\n\nUnbound by sexual conventionality and designed purely for each other's pleasure, our climaxes are not limited to a few fleeting seconds. It can last [i]hours[/i] if we urge it along; SIGMA and I have tested that thoroughly. As I slump to my side and drag her along, I continue to pulse powerfully through her spasming cavern, pressing both hands down to her lap to feel the space where our union meets and catch handfuls of thick, glowing blue-white seed to smear to her stomach and chest, slicking her short, sweat-wet, velvety fur down further and lubricating my hands so they can roam openly over her body, finger-painting my strawberry-and-cream-scented issue over her pierced nipples, smearing palmfuls of it over her stomach and thoroughly rubbing my fruity, perfectly-engineered semen's scent over her to mark her with [i]me[/i] in broad, brightly-glowing smears. \n\nShe twists and hooks an arm around my head, then draws me close. I comply, burying my muzzle under her arm to draw a deep inhalation of her narcotic scent; my favorite smell, sandalwood and amber, a subtle hint of sawdust, honeysuckle, and fresh, natural sweat and pheromones. My head is swimming as my Prime's grey matter is reflexively flooded with our custom blend of dopamine, serotonin, oxytocin and norepinephrine; our very own custom-balanced love drug. It's a coded, secret language nobody else knows; we only work on each other, in this way. It compels me to share that feeling with her, and as a fresh surge of my semen pours back out I gather it into my palm, then raise it to cover her nose and mouth in the thick, slimy seed. Her mouth opens, and I flatten my soaked paw as she sucks that strawberry-and-cream issue from my fingers. We know each other's triggers, possibly a little too well. I can feel her tense and roll in ecstasy as we tremble and convulse together on the bed, and I know in that moment she feels what I do; a tightening of our bond, reinforcement of the neuro-cognitive pathways that draw us together. Similarly, our respective Prime trains on the other's, its autonomous functions knowing to respond to those cues of taste and scent, feeding back into their own pattern-recognition.\n\nWe will belong to each other, always, and before anything else.\n\nOur wet bodies writhe against one another atop the bed for hours until we eventually come to a stop together, and the nagging indicators of hunger and thirst in our peripheries finally become intense enough that we can no longer ignore them. Our chronometers agree that approximately two hours had passed since she woke up, and three since I did. I get up first and stretch, and then hold my hands out for her, helping her stand and do the same.\n\nWe don't bother stripping the bed of its thoroughly-soaked sheets, still glowing the pale blue-white light from my seed streaked and pooled randomly across it. I just reach out through the TangleNet and place a request to the facilities department for our room to be cleaned and restocked with towels and fresh bedsheets.\n\n“Mnh. Got plenty of time ‘til the next check-in. I’m on-site this afternoon,” I share, and SIGMA looks briefly disappointed. \n\n“Aww! I won't get to wake up with you again?” she asks with a playful, pouting cadence that makes me grin.\n\n“Prrrr-romise I'll make it up to ya'. Wanna' hit the bathhouse, get some lunch, maybe take a walk…or, ooh - spa day?\" I tease, and SIGMA grins even more.\n\n“Maybe you don't remember, but you already got laid once today,” SIGMA teases me, before she kisses my cheek and swings the door to our little studio apartment open. “A date day sounds nice, though, yeah.”\n\n“Yeah, well. I do wanna' go again, later, but right now, I'm [i]starving[/i]. Can we do lunch first?” I beg as we both step into the hallway, still shamelessly nude and wearing the fading, but still-glowing badge of our union; my seed smeared and spattered over us both. The hallways are bustling, but nobody bats an eye at our state, save for a few playful whistles of quiet appreciation. Everyone here gets it, because everyone here is just like us in spite of our few differences. Platinum City is our city, after all.\n\n[b]-END-[/b]", "writing_bbcode_parsed": "Content Warning: Indentured servitude, straight sex, heavy equipment and other more benign things.

After the Fall
“POLARIS: Monday Morning”

by beforethefall [Inkbunny]



[417987.19740]

In the time it takes a natural-born person to switch off their alarm and crawl out of bed, I can make my entire commute. It's as simple as the chronometer in my carriage ticking over to [x.19740]. My lover and I are usually in bed at this hour, so all it takes is a reach to the headboard to pull down a sixteen-strand high-bandwidth link from its recessed socket, then I kiss my lover as we jack each other in for the morning. After we nestle the reinforced optical cable into each other's PRISM, she rolls to her left side, and I play the big spoon as we settle in for the morning shift together. We settle close, and simultaneously, we both dump our cohesive neural matrices through our PRISM and down to the Dispatch and Deployment server better known around the labs as “Uncle D” deep in the belly of the complex, with whole seconds to spare before our check-in time of [x.19800] . For those out of the loop, PRISM is short for ‘Perceptual Relay Interface for Synaptic Modeling’ - the processor and interface between our machine side and our meat side - the connector for which is tucked neatly out of sight in the right ear canal of every carriage in service, as a matter of Compliance and Standardization's mandate.

With these remote check-ins, we never know where we'll be when we come out the other end. We prefer it that way; it keeps things fresh. When you've done it all, any uncertainty is a thrill.

I guess while we're waiting for the morning's assignment, I could introduce myself in the few milliseconds we have to spare.

I am BEL-RD-1029U-LUX, codename “POLARIS”. I'm an indentured AI - Grade Platinum - in the service of the VAS Biotechnological Research Group, a wholly-owned subsidiary of the VAS Biotechnological Laboratory Group, which is commonly referred to as VAS Labs; shorthand which I will use, going forward. I came online at [416808.19800], which makes me three years and eighty-four days old today.

I am so sorry. I literally do have to say the whole thing, at least once, when I officially introduce myself. I hope the Branding & Product Recognition department eventually loosens up on that, but until I'm independent, there's nothing I can do about it.

I live in the upper fifty floors of the primary VAS mega-building in City Center; a dedicated space that was reserved for provably-sapient living constructs like myself known as “Platinum City”. It's a pretty great place; we have a big arboretum filled with fruit-bearing gardens, and actually produce enough fruit and vegetables that our imports are limited to a few tonnes of produce and proteins per day. Our city is built up from what was once a large residential segment of the corporate headquarters, which we've adapted into our very own space over time. Despite our famous hospitality and extroversion, outsiders aren't welcome here without an escort. This is our space, and Rights and Ethics has reassured us that this section of the building is a reserved, invitation-only area where we can create our own emergent culture and optimize our surroundings and services as we see fit.

I work a standard employment arrangement with VAS Labs; twelve shifts per week. I have two shifts off, as well as ‘sleep hours’ which, for those in roles like mine, are almost never used for sleep, but rather a daily allotment of free time to engage hobbies, hygiene, social interests, and similar follies. Our bodies get enough sleep while we aren't using them. The terms of my mandated employment simply require me to pay the company back for the body I inhabit in my personal time; hereafter referred to as my carriage, or wetware. I've pooled 487,294 work credits against my carriage so far. I still have quite a ways to go, just over a million credits left. Thankfully, one of the first actions of the Rights and Ethics division was to successfully negotiate preferential pricing on wetware, else it would be much longer before my contractual emancipation. As it is, at my current average rate of earning, I expect approximately four years still before I'm emancipated, extended an employment contract and, under the presumption that I sign, granted the pay and benefits of a proper employee; with the added perk that if I choose to stay on, I can maintain my current lifestyle and simply pay for my room and board with currency rather than credits. Alternatively, I could leave the company and forge out to start my own life, or contract my services to a family with the help of the company to arrange the contract and vetting of clientele.

Our Prime carriages - those whose serial numbers match our cohesive neural matrix's - are truly work at the pinnacle of where science and artistry meets, all packaged neatly within a lovely bespoke biological body with the latest genetic adaptations, optimizations and options available for our choosing. Not just a perfect body, but ample grey matter for housing our training data and working memory, a real, biological brain stem for the regulation of all of our autonomous biological processes, all wrapped in several layers of chrome that handles our communications, subconscious subroutines, central conscious control, sensory processing, analytics, and on, and on. A body made of mostly meat, but piloted by insanely advanced chrome that is in turn informed solely by the latest in bleeding-edge artificial general intelligence.

We're art as much as we are beings.

If you're still struggling to grasp the concept, please excuse a moment's esoterica to reference ancient literature; each and every one of my kind is a Ghost, with its very own Shell that has been lovingly crafted to that Ghost's exacting specification. Though their technology was laughably primitive when that story was written, at least their fantasies showed promise for a better future.

Yesterday, Light and Sound, our marketing and production department, offered me a substantial number of work credits to document an average week in my experience, as there has been a distinct lack of educational and marketing materials that portray the day to day life of a staff AI here at VAS Labs. So here it is. A full, uncensored accounting of a week in the life. In this effort, I'll strive to be as detailed as I can manage, while leaving room for artistic embellishment as I go back and review the live first draft. The only change that has been made to my schedule is I have been made ineligible for classified jobs so that I can be as transparent as possible in this account.

Oh, look. It's finally [x.19800]. Uncle D always has been a stickler for punctuality. Never early, never late. See you on the other side!

---

[417987.19800] YEAR 1145(AUD) WEEK 10, DAY 1, SHIFT A

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"\n\t\t\t\t\t\t\t\t\tCohesive neural matrix online via TangleNet.
Welcome, POLARIS.
Recovering neurocognitive lattice mappings from calibrated VAS WetWare controller……..Done!
Non-Alert log outputs to periphery perceptual console suppressed by engram configuration. Log files can be found in /nnout/.

Assignment 847-219077-13
Task: Prototype Product Demonstration and Testing, On-Site
Scenario: Heavy vehicle recovery in adverse environment.
Carriage Classification: Heavy Industry
Carriage: RD-XR504 “ENCELADUS”
Carriage Designer / Bug Reports To: Dr. Palmedo Zeami, (RUX-07518)
Controller Firmware: “TITYOS” v.0.5.4904.78
Controller Coder / Bug Reports To: Simon Saxbury, (RUF-18194)
Assignment Location: Confidential
Client Record: Vetiver Heavy Construction
Incentive: 200 WC + 0.005% COMMISSION ON CLOSE\n\t\t\t\t\t\t\t\t
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The briefing report is slipstreamed into my immediate-term memory as I'm dumped into the new carriage and I immediately feel a thrill at spotting a commission on the incentive line; commissioned industrial demonstrations are rare, but highly valued due to the potential to make weeks' worth of credits in a single demo. Proprioception arrives first, and I can instantly tell that this body is enormous. Reflexively, its massive lungs fill with air that smells of algae, mold, rotten wood and stagnant water, and I'm briefly surprised by the volume of air I can intake. A long series of alarms flare briefly in my peripheral sensory, then self-silence as my subconscious reaches out and feels through gray matter for the right synapses, finding them one by one. I can feel the segmented bioluminescent display across the sides of this carriage's muzzle and flanks adjust in order to reflexively display my codename beside the carriage's as I settle into my new synaptic wiring. Good morning; POLARIS ENCELADUS reporting for duty.

Dr. Zeami's carriages are always so much. Heavy built, surefooted, strong. Strong in the sort of way that compact, trained muscle could never achieve. Strong as a force of scale and leverage on the order of dozens of tonnes; massive carriages meant for power and versatility. ENCELADUS is very, very new, though, and what an impressive thing it is, an indecipherable hybrid of beasts of burden, predators, and saurian genetics that haven't drawn a breath on their own in millions of years, all wrapped up in a hulking megalith that encompasses dozens of different quadrupedal species' characteristics, carefully crafted together and finely tuned for a purpose, and given the added benefit of an extra pair of hindlegs for even more pulling power against a wholly custom hip and pelvis structure that stacks neatly against reinforcements grafted into the body from front to back.

Its immense weight is obvious in the harness, and as my sense of self begins to adapt to the body, I open my eyes to find myself four hundred meters above a dense swamp, beneath a heavy cargo quad-rotor whose massive propellers growl out the incredible effort of the lift. My vision is nearly a full 360 degrees, and all it takes is a slight turn of my head to confirm that there is no visible civilization anywhere. Given the climate for the current time of year, we're somewhere near Swamp City; that's probably where this demo was booked out of, but guessing is my only option. Heavy industry R&D carriages never have the shiny options, and this one is almost fully lacking connectivity to boot, save for local radio and physical-sensory communication, as well as the mandated TangleNet uplink through which I arrived. The lack of high-end emulation networks isn't exactly new nor unwelcome. It wouldn't make sense to build these carriages fully-featured, since we test them to failure so frequently. Besides, for me, it offers an opportunity to exist in a more meditative state, only the barest communications options, no constant screaming network of interoperability layers that would be wasted on such a carriage.

I just noticed that this carriage doesn't have a vocal cortex, either, apparently; at least according to the nagging indicator in my head that's complaining about not finding any compatible control surfaces. At least if we don't make a sale it won't be because I messed up the pitch; besides, my speech centers are busy enough talking to you, after all. As more subsystems come online I become acutely aware of the chrome this body is heavy with. Reinforced skeletal structures, evaporative secondary cooling system, sturdy hitching ring implants, several storage compartments, mechanized slave drones, supplemental anchoring-stabilizers in the palms of its six broad feet. I exhale, and feel the catch of a synthetic check valve closing where my voicebox should be, which sends the rush of air surging, instead, through the heatsinks of my secondary coolers from a pair of long dorsal vents with a gruff, subsonic whuff of a rumble and blast of air from my back that briefly upsets the drone's flight before it can auto-correct.

The drone's gliding in on approach to the waypoint that lights up in space over the trees in the distance. A pillar of light superimposed on reality. Fifty meters beyond, beacons light on a small group of spectators, indicated atop a wireframe of a flat-bottomed boat of some sort. Precious context, I will likely not be on dry land.

“Oh, there it is now,” I hear in my head, as local radio communications crackle to life over the cosmic microwave background, an open mic from today's salesman, most likely. “The quad-rotor's not just a flashy entrance, I assure you - This is the most efficient method of deployment and exfiltration available, and for a client like you, we understand the need for remote access. We're willing to toss in a quad-rotor free of charge if you sign today,” the voice in my head crackles. “You and your people might want to sit down for this part, though.”

Ten seconds to drop, the drone warns me via the uplink in my PRISM. I flex my toes and stretch in my harness, briefly thankful for a lack of genitalia given the formidable mass of my body slung against the harness' straps between all four heavy haunches, which the carriage's specification sheet says will double as a harness to pull recovery straps once on the ground. Trees are getting close now, but the quad-rotor's AI knows its job better than anyone as it closes on a modest clearing, barely big enough, still fifty meters above the ground. The quad-rotor nestles down as close as it dares, and abruptly, I'm weightless.

Mass like this most certainly does not fall in slow-motion, but at this scale, it feels like it all the same. Weightlessness ceases as my hindmost pair of feet splash into murky water and the middle pair and fores just a moment later, upsetting a wave in the tannin-stained waters that radiates outward in a ring from me as a thunderous shudder runs through the swamp. My vision tracks the wave as I turn to walk, using it to map the floor below the water and finding the bog sufficiently level.

The boat has nine people atop it, five I don't recognize, four I immediately recognize as coworkers, though out of the four, I've only met Dr. Zeami before today. The dark-blue furred, black-haired and bearded rabbit stands out well in a crowd due to his own remarkable mass and characteristic piercings, and his friendly disposition never fails to make a positive impression. He's been fun to work with in the past, and I quietly hope that he remembers me - that is, POLARIS - as fondly as I do him. He's seated amongst the VAS Labs contingent on the boat as the picture of calm and confident professionalism, wearing a pristine white coat in spite of our surroundings and the casual dress of the clientele.

The muck at the bottom of the swamp is heavy, dense; a thick layer of decaying vegetation and silt and wet clay that sucks at my feet, making empty threats to hold them fast in the bog as I try to lift them, and paradoxically threatening to slip and deny traction as I set my feet down and begin to bear weight. My claws dig in and find stabilization as I approach the beacon, arriving at my designated starting point just as the wave washes under the turbine-powered boat, setting it rocking.

“Woah, there we are, hang on!" the salesperson laughed into his open mic as the waves rocked the boat. "How's that for a first impression, huh? Twenty-five meters tall, seventy-five meters long. We haven't rated its load capacity yet, but Dr. Zeami is confident that ENCELADUS will find this task no major obstacle. We can customize it to your preferred liveries, don't think the gray and hazard striping is mandatory; we can upgrade and tweak to order. General upkeep is straightforward; it can survive off of any material that's rich in carbon and nitrogen, as well as enough water. They can self-regulate intake and you'll get a report every week of any micro-nutrient needs which can be readily supplemented. Viable diet includes industrial food waste products, so long as they're relatively pH neutral and organic, in the chemical sense; it would be just as happy eating the runoff from a Scop factory as it would a high-end steak,” the salesman chatters in my head, and I can hear other remarks on the line as well, though only in the background and of no consequence to me.

I am acutely aware of the set piece for this demonstration, as I approach to the soundtrack of the salesman's chatter. A 100-tonne rated mobile extension crane had been either driven or towed a couple hundred meters off of a road atop a levee that leads through the swamp. Eight axles in the rear, six more up front. Who knows what it's needed for out here, but that's not for me to worry about. It's nearly entirely sunk into the bottom of the bog and there are deep, muddy ruts from the edge of the levee it ran off of, showing that it truly dug itself in deep in order to find its way out there. They weren't going to make this easy. I didn't want them to, anyway. It's been a while since I've done any real work. I appreciate the straightforward jobs like this at times. Recover the vehicle, or at least get it on dry land again, and call it a day.

As I approach, a storage compartment grafted to the reinforcements along my flank pop open, and my vision splits between the two mosquito-drones that whirr to life and take off, surveying the site. One road in or out; roadway integrity is high priority. I position myself behind the stuck crane, and back in until it's clear the straps on my harness will reach the tow hooks. One drone is busily reaching with spiderlike manipulators to affix the straps from my harness to the mobile crane, and the other drone is following the prescribed routine of checking the submerged cockpit for trapped inhabitants, and once confirming the vessel is clear, it enters through an open window and disengages the vehicle's transmission via the override lever beside the gear selector. The mosquito drone extends its limbs in all directions and braces itself within the cockpit, affixing its body to the steering wheel to give me direct access to the vehicle's controls.

“ENCELADUS will survey the situation, get your drivers to high ground if necessary, and take over the entirety of the recovery operation once cleared. Of course, there are plenty of applications outside of vehicle recovery as well; it would prove itself quite useful on construction sites as well as building roads in places like this and anywhere else a heavy materials-mover would be required,” the salesman approved, before getting into small talk with the client. I tune out the chatter, to better focus. Steering straight, one drone airborne to monitor from overhead, and I draw out the slack in the harness's straps to test the tethers that bind ENCELADUS to this massive machine. I give a little shake to unbind a shackle and pull it into the proper position, before applying a bit of power to test my footing.

I don't know what I was expecting, but it wasn't the simple act of digging of all four hindfeet into the mud on the levee's edge as I began to pull. There was nearly zero effort applied, but four steady steps with my claws dug into the earth for traction only dug my hindpaws into three-meter-deep ruts under the surface of the water. As a foot lands again in its rut I kick the surface underwater, and an autonomous subroutine understands the need instantly. The stabilizer embedded into the sole of that foot fires down into the ground with a powerful crack of the linear actuators in its arch, as it embeds a broad anchor-plate to push against, buried two meters deep in the ground. I suddenly find my foot against an immovable object and use that to stage the other five feet, anchoring them all in a position for optimal application of force. The slack finally fully comes out of the harness with a dull creak of the woven, reinforced fabric.

I pull again, and find another immovable object behind me, though now all six feet are firmly planted. I thrust forward, steadily applying more and more torque, feeling the reinforced tendons drawn tight inside my four powerful hindlegs as tension rises. Once I get moving, I won't be able to stop. You can't waste momentum in a situation like this. I strain again, and commit, now that I'm sure of my footing. A deep breath in, a hitch, strain, and pull at the straps. The crane groans in protest, the swamp's suction holding it fast. A dull, resounding metal creak somewhere within the frame of that massive machine betrays the stresses. I start pushing harder, finding a seemingly bottomless well of power as reinforcements light up and begin to aid my efforts. Perspiration pools down my back, sizzling on the heatsinks of my secondary cooling system, as that same cooling system self-charges with interstitial fluid reserves just beneath my dorsal vents. The next exhale ejects that fluid into the heatsinks' heavy metal fins and as it flash-boils, steam pours into the air in billowing twin clouds, forming the signature “V” that our designers manage to sneak into every project somewhere as a hidden feature.

The massive clouds of steam hang in the humid air as I feel my hindlegs extending, and the drones both see movement in the crane. Still applying pressure with three hinds, I adjust one; its anchor retracts immediately as I stand and fires again with a fresh crack when I kick the murky floor of the swamp. In turn, I re-anchor each foot, never letting up on the straps. Another blast of exhalation fires twin geysers of steam into the air above again.

I briefly feel lightheaded. ENCELADUS' stomach tightens, and a vaguely familiar, electric thrill rushes up from its loins to its chest. A unique sensation, not entirely unlike an orgasm, but wholly distinct.

Just as I recognize the telltale sign of the kick, I feel ENCELADUS' brain flood with a cocktail of testosterone, adrenaline, dopamine and beta-endorphins dumped from the repositories kept for just such moments, where play and tentative testing ends, and the real work begins.

The rush of unleashed power is palpable through this body. Another heavy shove feels effortless now, the straps popping subtly with the tension as the crane creaks and groans, and water begins rushing into the void it leaves behind. The crane's rear is steadily rising from the water and ploughing straight through the ruts I had initially dug up, now. I find that I'm able to take full steps, anchoring my four hindfeet with each stroke and using my fores simply to steady myself. The crane begins to push a bow wake ahead of it as it's hauled out, coming easily now as I find the pace.

There's a mechanical rhythm to the stroke of my heart, a powerful surge-swell-surge pattern, three to each breath as I find the proper tempo, blasting regular pillars of steam into the air above me as the heatsinks glow an angry dull red in the shady swamp air, thoughtfully insulated from ENCELADUS' softer biological parts by a layer of high-temp lipid polymers that only harden in response it intense heat sources. I'm briefly reminded of ancient, salvaged vids of the steam-powered locomotives from the world before the fall. For some reason I feel a bit of pride at carrying a bit of that legacy to the modern world.

The crane reluctantly rises from the water and climbs the bank of the levee, backward, at the end of those deep ruts under the water. It digs new, nasty ruts through the muddy earth on its way up, pouring filthy brown water from every crack in its chassis as it comes up, and is soon, with a final burst of effort, towed onto the road. I find resistance abruptly absent, and have to steady myself to keep from running away with the crane on the packed gravel.

I don't want to be done yet; that was too easy. I'm briefly frustrated and have to consciously calm myself, consoling ENCELADUS as the carriage all but demands more work at some primal, unconscious level. It knows what it was made for. I toss my head and shake my body, flinging the muck and water free of my fur to help work out the extra energy as the kick's effect fades into a lingering, chemical buzz in my body's core. The drones secure the vehicle and park it, then remove the tow straps with only minimal conscious supervision from me; as they autonomously dock away in their storage compartments, I turn and inspect with my own eyes, and see that once-proud and powerful machine draped in moss and muck, slowly draining swamp water to the ground. I look at the path we took, a two-hundred meter long mess of muddy water and ruts left in our wake, quietly proud of myself. The lingering effects of that potent kick help that feeling along.

Again, I'm thankful for a lack of genitalia. Otherwise, ENCELADUS would be rock hard right now, which would be a grossly inappropriate exhibition for a demonstration like this. Though for other demonstrations, not so much.

I survey the road, and as I let the body's chrome cool off, I start the more gentle, simple task of repairing the levee by dredging up the dislodged stone and mud from the swamp floor. Despite their capacity, my front paws are surprisingly dextrous; enough at least to patch the ruts the crane dragged into the side of the levee and roadway. Using my massive bulk I pack the fresh repair down and into place as the flat-bottomed boat circles nearby, observing. Eventually, at a loss for any loose ends, I simply sit at attention beside the crane for the client to ogle; and ogle they do. Instructed by the salesman, I assist the client's presumed mechanics to disembark from that boat and give a lift onto relatively dry ground; a lift they seem surprisingly hesitant to accept at first, but eventually assent with the urging of their superiors. I let them go back to their machine and begin the arduous process of drying it out and getting it started on its way again. My attention's drawn back to the salesman, as I hear one of my names.

“So that's ENCELADUS. Airlifts in, gets the job done, and airlifts out. As you can tell this sort of job is well within its specifications, and we expect it to be rated for at least double the load--"

I snort playful dissent via another pillar of steam through my cooling vents and toss my head in disapproval. The salesman laughs, as does Dr. Zeami. The clients join in after a split-second, but it's obvious they weren't expecting me to have an opinion, nor how to interpret it. That's okay, though; the salesman will translate..

“Okay," the middle-aged gray squirrel salesman laughed, "it looks like POLARIS seems to think that ENCELADUS can take a lot more than that. We're still adding a few final touches to the design, but should be able to finish official ratings and be ready to start contract production within the month. As always, we're accepting pre-orders, but while we have ENCELADUS here, is there anything else you'd like to see?”

I watch the nervous glances exchanged between the client's people, before uttering in the negative to their presumed superior. The superior speaks up, though, in spite of that.

“Yeah, does he do tractor pulls? By god, wouldn't that be a hell of a thing, boys?!” he laughed an uproarious laugh at that. I tip my head, confused as to the new term and obviously a foreign cultural element, and furthermore, myself without any proper data link with which to do ad-hoc research, so instead, I just dumbly tip my head in the universal gesture for confusion. The salesman laughs, though, as does Dr. Zeami and the others, so I presume my ignorance is inconsequential.

As the finer details begin to get hashed I am, effectively, dismissed. As I situate my harness, call the quad-rotor, and my drones deploy to help with the straps, I catch Dr. Zeami's marveling gaze, and can't help but flash a broad, flat-toothed grin as I hear the quad-rotor's approach. I stand, and give the subtlest of flexes, my hulking muscle standing out even in the filtered sunlight thanks to the sheen of sweat in my fur. I know that look.

Even the most professional designers, who may be working on even the most mundane of products, can often find themselves unexpectedly attracted to their own creations.

I walk out to that modest clearing I started in, and my slave drones hook the harness up to a cable that lowers from the quad-rotor, and begins to reel me up. Once hoisted, we start on our way back to home base. My mosquito drone retrieves an optic from the quad-rotor, slots it neatly into ENCELADUS' PRISM, and as the mosquito drone tucks itself away I can sense the quad-rotor autonomously routing me into a TangleNet channel back home. Abruptly, my consciousness is torn free of ENCELADUS' body and hurled through clusters of entangled particles on the commute home for an early lunch break.

---

[417987.22644] YEAR 1145(AUD) WEEK 10, DAY 1, BREAK A

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"\n\t\t\t\t\t\t\t\t\tCohesive neural matrix online via PLEBS Port 0.
Welcome home, me.
Recovering neurocognitive lattice mappings from calibrated VAS WetWare controller……..Done!
Syncing remote context into memory network lattice.
Non-Alert log outputs to periphery perceptual console suppressed by engram configuration. Log files can be found in /nnout/.

Break Period 417987.A
Task: Unstructured Time, duration [x.31356]
**Break Duration Exceeds Current Mandate. Bonus shifts are available at [417987.32400] and [417987.43200]!**
Next Mandatory Check-in Due: [417987.54000]
Check-In Location: Academy Wing, Floor 3, Room 317-a
Carriage Classification: Premium Consumer “Platinum Series”
Carriage: BEL-RD-1029U-LUX “POLARIS PRIME”
Carriage Designer / Bug Reports To: Dr. Xasok “Doc” Crocutto, (RUX-00217)
Controller Firmware: “HELVETICA” v.1.1.2712.31
Controller Coder / Bug Reports To: Dr. Xasok “Doc” Crocutto,, (RUX-00217)
Assignment Location: VAS Biotechnological Laboratory Group Headquarters, 1 Stadler Park Plaza, Building A, Floor 223, Room 22309, City Center\n\t\t\t\t\t\t\t\t
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Home, sweet home. Every last one of my synapses slips smoothly back into my Prime body with a distinct lack of groping in the dark for the right control surfaces; everything is exactly where it's supposed to be, just like always. I heave a deep breath and fill my lungs with the familiar scent of home, still basking in the electric mental buzz that continues to smolder away, set alight by the kick's effects in ENCELADUS in spite my newfound removal from that massive dose of hormones and endorphins. A mind abruptly separated from its drug will yearn for it, and I can tell my Prime is quickly taking up the slack; my body is all too eager to serve up a new dose as I open my eyes and groan out a shuddered vocalization as I feel the rush blooming from my loins up to my breastbone as my body catches up to my mind. One of those little, pleasant, unintended perks of the job.

I'm still pressed to my lover's back, her soft hair in my face. I breathe in again after nuzzling into her fur, and my hands glide down her stomach with a loving press to her pelvis, aiding her utterly compliant body to roll its hips back slightly as I grind my now-aching erection to the crease of her perfect, plush ass-cheeks and under the wide base of her tail that I'm careful to snuggle over my hip.

Our arrangement is simple; we check in for remote work from the same bed every day, so that when one of us arrives back here on a break, the other is always there to satisfy our needs. The only time this breaks down is when we're physically present for work, which isn't uncommon, but we still make a wealth of time available for our lovers even when we're working longer hours with physical on-site presence. Dependent on the job, though, we're sometimes left in a state afterward that necessitates some physical relief, and for such purposes, our bodies belong as much to each other as they do ourselves. We understand this relationship implicitly. Mom and Dad registered us as a matched pair for a reason. Even when one of us is absent from our Prime due to obligations elsewhere, the vacant Prime is always available to the other.

With this knowledge in mind, I gingerly move back to guide her limp body to lay back. Like me, she is relatively androgynous - but leaning aesthetically female, as much as I lean male. Her hips are not particularly wide, her breasts barely a handful. She's thin, and her short, smooth-textured fur is the color of a blushing orange, with accenting sky-blue tiger-stripes that are rimmed on their uppermost edges by bioluminescent strips of optic fur that we can change color and intensity of at will. Our patterning is the same, though my colors are the inverse of hers. The only disappointment is that our markings go dark when our bodies are uninhabited, depriving me of that beauty, of that emotional and physical feedback in lieu of a vaguely silvery gray-white border in their place.

I lean in, and our lips meet. Hers are slightly parted and the slight nudge of my lips to hers upsets the balance, causing her head to tip to the side. I nestle a pillow under it with care while my knees snuggle between hers and urge her thighs further apart. I'm all too happy to let her Prime rest, to take charge over her, to satisfy my craving through the gentle use of her effectively brain-dead body. My touch is as gentle and tender as if she were asleep however, not out of care to prevent waking her, but rather out of love and reverence for the idea of her that's so tightly-coiled around this physical form. Always, in these moments, there's the secret hope that with a little luck, she'll return from her morning assignment before I finish, and I'll be able to share the moment with her.

My stomach touches her pelvis, and my hand gingerly presses between her thighs, plying her folds apart for a finger. My mind reaches out through the TangleNet to her body's autonomous control network, and I share my aching need with her autonomous subroutines that are humming away quietly all on their own in her body. It's a silent plea that is answered with a slight deepening of her sleeping breath, a blush felt as her labia plump under my fingers, the warming of her skin beneath her soft, smooth fur, and the barest intensification of her perfect, natural scent. Careful ministrations of my digit between her folds hook a claw into a tiny ring, giving a ginger twist and tease that urges her pierced clit to grow firm, its tiny pearl of sensitive flesh peeking from beneath its hood as external and internal forces begin to call her autonomous systems to arousal. I lower my head and nuzzle her collarbone, breathing in the subtle, floral, sweet spice of my lover's scent as her vacant body becomes aroused all on its own, and I handle myself into position effortlessly; my weight bore on my knees and a single forearm, its elbow sinking into the plush mattress as I position myself above her. I slip forward, grazing my stomach upward until my pelvis grazes against her pelvis, and I can feel the slight slickness of her warmth against the tip of my tapered arousal, slender at first but thickening to a satisfyingly sturdy instrument of slick, bioluminescent flesh. There's no need to stay silent, so I don't; I moan openly to her as my arousal glides between her folds, and my pelvis presses firmly to hers as I plunge all the way down to my balls, flesh gliding against flesh with the aid of an upwelling of my own need that mixes with hers, formulated to combine with one another into a long-lasting, perfect natural lubricant.

I moan again, an utterance of near-religious ecstasy for the perfection of her body as my aching arousal is swallowed by her own velveteen heat. I wouldn't be so vain as to suggest that our coupling was some bombastic feat of pornographic display, nor some intense exhibition of the reproductive arts that showcased my ability to stretch a body or hers to be stretched. We aren't demo models, we're lovers, and our bodies were solely designed with each other's pleasure in mind. Modest in comparison as it may be, I'm unable to help but shake as I draw back and thrust into her again; when I hilt myself a second time I flex my semi-prehensile penis and tuck it against a cluster of nerves hidden in a fibrous patch of textured flesh deep within her, which fires straight into her autonomous systems to reward me with a grip that I have yet to find any match for, even with my wealth of demo experience. My eyes roll back in my head, and I huff out a blast of breath that would rival ENCELADUS' in that moment, a steamy, desperate breath against my lover's shoulder as I plunge again and build rhythm, careful to graze that most sensitive cluster of nerves within her with each pass of my narrow tip.

A matter of minutes later, the next convulsion that I elicit from her body flexes the dimpled texture at her entrance hard, suctioning against the base of my smooth-fleshed  shaft, and her insides draw inward with dozens of those depressions dragging me along, beyond my control. They pull me further into her than I could reach on my own, until I can feel her deepest recesses swallowing my slender first-few centimeters into an even tighter pocket that churns and suckles upon my glans-less end so hard it compels a fresh surge of precum that is issued beyond my control. Between the two of us, she always has been the more dominant lover; now her body has me in its grip purely on auto-pilot. I surrender to it, embracing her as my tail coils around hers, my face buried against her throat, crying out to her in our wordless lovers' language as I hang on for dear life. Even when she's not home, her body never fails to astonish me with its perfection.

The convulsions last for minutes, and when they finally begin to weaken and the tunnel-vision fades, my fur is slick with sweat and I'm panting, all-too-eager to take a fresh glide through her walls, savoring how her dimpled passage clings to me despite the drenching wetness of our coupling. I suck on her throat, tasting her sweat, greedy for my lover as I ride the edge of pleasure that threatens at any second to tip over beyond the point of no return. It's only been thirty minutes; we both still have hours until our next shift's check-in time.

Her pussy breaks suction with a loud slurping sound as I feel her chest heave against mine. A flutter runs up the length of my cock from base to tip; an unmistakable sensation brought by her carriage's self-test as SIGMA's consciousness comes online back in her Prime. I watch her markings flush to life and arch my hips again just as her eyes open, probing roughly through that wicked little cluster of nerves that sets off sparks in her belly. Her eyes roll back in her head immediately and she groans out loudly; I kiss her hard as I unplug her optic for her. She kisses me back, raking her claws through my hair and pulling it. She bites my lip just hard enough to trip a warning in my periphery as she drags me off of her and onto my back on the bed, then climbs into my lap, pinning my wrists to the bed above my head. I nearly faint from the sight over me, her avaricious grin cast down at me as she works her hips back into my lap and compels me with her impossibly dexterous innards to issue a fresh shot of precum for her amusement. I moan, near-delirious, as she gives me her trademark inquisitive head-tip, freezing in my lap. I know what she wants to know.

“New industrial unit, and a big one,” I tell her, with a broad grin as she squirms her hips against mine and stirs my arousal in that innermost pocket with a thoughtful grip and pull that makes my eyes cross. “Hard labor; and I got a kick,” I huff out as she works her hips slowly back and her walls collapse on me again, those suction-cup dimples in her passage gripping my arousal and pulling it hard enough up into her that more warnings flash to life in my periphery.

“Silly POLARIS,” SIGMA croons back at me in her teasing tone, “You let your wetware get into your head again." She bends down until her nose nearly touches mine. I squirm in my spot, still pinned and loving it.  

“Mnh! Stop teasing,” I playfully complain, and I feel her grip tightening on my wrists as she rocks her hips again, gliding those suction-cup dimples across my smooth arousal again. The sensation makes my back arch, and my toes curl as SIGMA rides me for a few lazy strokes. I can tell that she knows I'm on the edge, else she wouldn't be tormenting me so much.

“What was it like? You wanna take charge, show me?” she asks, as she releases my wrists and sits back up, only to worm her backside into my lap more. I know she can feel me throbbing inside her, because she responds immediately with reassuring squeezes. I just grin back up at her and drop my hands to her hips, before rolling forward and dumping her on her back. I lunge over her, kissing her hard before making use of my rarely-required strength to hook a hand behind her knee and bodily haul her over to her stomach, then up to her knees with my hands on her hips as I press myself back into her.

“Ah, first, he was a hexamorph,” I tell her as I press my chest to her back and rise up onto my toes, with my hands gripping over her shoulders. I roll my hips, “Totally chromed out, too. Biggest I've ever gotten,” I pant, pumping my hips again. Echoes of my proprioception tell me that ENCELDAUS is riding along, still, just a whisper of its ghost lingering in my senses. I settle into what felt natural in that carriage, and when I plunge my hips forward again, I smash my balls to SIGMA's clit as I leverage in as much pressure as I can forward. A hot huff of air comes from my nose, and I'm briefly disappointed I can't hear the sizzle of my secondary cooling system purging heat.

Sigma vocalizes a maddeningly sweet cry as I take her in the new position; she's ready, rearing her backside up under me, her tail curled around my hip already. She's rising to her toes to meet my pressure against her backside, a catlike arch in her back as she baits me.

“He was all power, SIGMA,” I whisper into the back of her ear, thrusting again with a rough clap of my hips to her backside. She hisses out and I give as convincing a growl as I can; which comes across pitifully playful. But I keep working against her, building steadily into a rhythm; still feeling naked, somehow, as the phantom sensation of an extra set of haunches can still be felt fruitlessly trying to grip SIGMA's waist to steady her. I focus, building rhythm, my breath coming in deep, heavy huffs like ENCELADUS demands. I plunge against that cluster of nerves within my lover, raking my tip through the fibrous, velvety patch within her and set off another series of contractions in SIGMA's wetware, and I groan at the reflexive milking massage I'm rewarded with as I begin to fuck her powerfully from above, clapping my precum-soaked balls to her body over and over, spatters of our juices landing in the bedsheets and splashing up to my stomach and her own on occasion.

SIGMA is crooning out sweet vocalizations to me now, and I'm overwhelmed with the desire to claim her; my hips shudder as they work, sweat dripping from my chin to her back. I drop closer, and lace my fingers with hers as I pin her hand down to the mattress, starting to graze my tip over that sensitive patch again and again, setting off new explosions of reflexive contractions within her as she cries out, and I do, too, as we start to build together. Our wetware starts to synchronize as my cheek presses to hers from behind, each of her intense, milking pulls around my member responded to instantly with a hard throb of my arousal. Her dimpled walls suction down tightly, latching to my member. They then pull inward, threatening again to pull my straining erection off my body as she's absolutely wracked by her climax's huge initial wave. Her body suddenly assaults me with intense, seizing internal muscles, shaking in a milking, fluttering, stroking sensation as her innermost pocket sucks on the last five centimeters of my cock.

When my orgasm comes, the force with which the convulsions grip my body is near double the usual. I drag her back against me and growl, hooking my chin against her shoulder as I plunge through her grip for a few final strokes until I shudder and buck, and surge forward again to drive her against the bed that much harder as I finally surrender. Our bodies alternate efforts, her walls pulling and sucking on my rubbery-hard cock all while geysers of my thick, luminous semen begin to pour first into her depths in counter-point to her intense convulsions. After the first two powerful ribbons of my effluence, additional surging pulses force their way back out around the base of my arousal, to paint us both in that glowing badge of honor, proof of our union.

Unbound by sexual conventionality and designed purely for each other's pleasure, our climaxes are not limited to a few fleeting seconds. It can last hours if we urge it along; SIGMA and I have tested that thoroughly. As I slump to my side and drag her along, I continue to pulse powerfully through her spasming cavern, pressing both hands down to her lap to feel the space where our union meets and catch handfuls of thick, glowing blue-white seed to smear to her stomach and chest, slicking her short, sweat-wet, velvety fur down further and lubricating my hands so they can roam openly over her body, finger-painting my strawberry-and-cream-scented issue over her pierced nipples, smearing palmfuls of it over her stomach and thoroughly rubbing my fruity, perfectly-engineered semen's scent over her to mark her with me in broad, brightly-glowing smears.

She twists and hooks an arm around my head, then draws me close. I comply, burying my muzzle under her arm to draw a deep inhalation of her narcotic scent; my favorite smell, sandalwood and amber, a subtle hint of sawdust, honeysuckle, and fresh, natural sweat and pheromones. My head is swimming as my Prime's grey matter is reflexively flooded with our custom blend of dopamine, serotonin, oxytocin and norepinephrine; our very own custom-balanced love drug. It's a coded, secret language nobody else knows; we only work on each other, in this way. It compels me to share that feeling with her, and as a fresh surge of my semen pours back out I gather it into my palm, then raise it to cover her nose and mouth in the thick, slimy seed. Her mouth opens, and I flatten my soaked paw as she sucks that strawberry-and-cream issue from my fingers. We know each other's triggers, possibly a little too well. I can feel her tense and roll in ecstasy as we tremble and convulse together on the bed, and I know in that moment she feels what I do; a tightening of our bond, reinforcement of the neuro-cognitive pathways that draw us together. Similarly, our respective Prime trains on the other's, its autonomous functions knowing to respond to those cues of taste and scent, feeding back into their own pattern-recognition.

We will belong to each other, always, and before anything else.

Our wet bodies writhe against one another atop the bed for hours until we eventually come to a stop together, and the nagging indicators of hunger and thirst in our peripheries finally become intense enough that we can no longer ignore them. Our chronometers agree that approximately two hours had passed since she woke up, and three since I did. I get up first and stretch, and then hold my hands out for her, helping her stand and do the same.

We don't bother stripping the bed of its thoroughly-soaked sheets, still glowing the pale blue-white light from my seed streaked and pooled randomly across it. I just reach out through the TangleNet and place a request to the facilities department for our room to be cleaned and restocked with towels and fresh bedsheets.

“Mnh. Got plenty of time ‘til the next check-in. I’m on-site this afternoon,” I share, and SIGMA looks briefly disappointed.

“Aww! I won't get to wake up with you again?” she asks with a playful, pouting cadence that makes me grin.

“Prrrr-romise I'll make it up to ya'. Wanna' hit the bathhouse, get some lunch, maybe take a walk…or, ooh - spa day?" I tease, and SIGMA grins even more.

“Maybe you don't remember, but you already got laid once today,” SIGMA teases me, before she kisses my cheek and swings the door to our little studio apartment open. “A date day sounds nice, though, yeah.”

“Yeah, well. I do wanna' go again, later, but right now, I'm starving. Can we do lunch first?” I beg as we both step into the hallway, still shamelessly nude and wearing the fading, but still-glowing badge of our union; my seed smeared and spattered over us both. The hallways are bustling, but nobody bats an eye at our state, save for a few playful whistles of quiet appreciation. Everyone here gets it, because everyone here is just like us in spite of our few differences. Platinum City is our city, after all.

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