The Emilyverse

Chapter Two: Chuck E. Emily's

Saturday, September 20, 2036

The Unknown Singularity +8 months and 7 days

I wake to the hum of the arcade, the low, sultry purr of machinery breathing through the walls, the flickering neon casting lazy strips of pink and violet across the glossy tile. The air is warm, fragrant with the heady mix of melted butter, artificial cherry, and the faint, lingering musk of despair and boredom.

I open my locker and my uniform is pristine, as it always is, and it has my name tag on it, Greeter Emily 8, as it always has. As soon as I put it on, the tight red-and-white checkered fabric is hugging every curve of my body, the tiny apron cinched around my waist, an empty mockery of modesty. My breasts press taut against the too-small buttons of my dress, nipples subtly outlined beneath the glossy stretch of fabric, my thighs peeking out from beneath the scandalously short hemline, my legs adorned with thigh-high stockings so sheer they may as well be painted on. I am always dressed like this. Always perfect. Always available.

I step out onto the arcade floor, my heels clicking against the tile, the rhythm precise, intentional, each movement calibrated for maximum effect. The other Emilys are already in place, posed like living mannequins, frozen in carefully arranged displays of servitude and seduction. One leans against the counter, her hips cocked just so, the curve of her ass barely concealed by the ruffled edge of her skirt. Another stands behind a vacant booth, balancing an empty tray with one delicate hand, her other draped along the tabletop, fingers lightly grazing the surface as if she's just finished serving an invisible guest. They are all ready in case HE arrives.

But he hasn't been here in four months. He visited once for the grand opening and has never been back.

I glide past them, my eyes sweeping the arcade. The games blink and flicker, their animated characters winking seductively from behind pixelated screens, their digital voices cooing Chris' name in looping, breathless whispers. The claw machine is stocked with plush dolls, each one a tiny, soft-bodied caricature of myself, their embroidered eyes wide with longing, their stitched mouths permanently open in little gasping "O"s of desire. The racing game is empty, the seats waiting, each one sculpted into the shape of my own thighs, a perfect, curved indentation molded to cradle his body should he ever decide to sit. The "love tester" machine stands in the corner, its glossy red interface pulsing like a heartbeat, the text on the screen frozen mid-invitation: Press your hand to mine, Chris. Let me feel you. Let me know you.

At precisely noon, the "animatronic" Emilys (Emilys trained to merely act like animatronics but just as real as me) on stage twitch to life, their synchronized bodies snapping into motion, their voices blending in an eerie, honey-sweet chorus as they perform a song written for the man that never comes.

"Chris, Chris, our one desire~ We live to set your world on fire~" Their hips sway, their enormous, impossibly round breasts bouncing in perfect rhythm, their glossy lips stretched into smiles too wide, too eager, too desperate. I hear the shift in their deeply trained inflections, the subtle strain beneath the melody. They know, just as I do, that he is not watching. And yet they sing. They dance. They perform as if he is.

Because they must. We all must.

Another chime. It's my lunch break. The kitchen keeps making food, the ovens firing up at regular intervals, the scent of melted cheese and greasy dough saturating the air, clinging to every surface, sinking into our skin. It smells like nostalgia, like childhood, like fun, but after months of it, the scent has become something suffocating. Something rotten. Something that makes my stomach twist, even though I know I'll have to eat it again in a few hours.

We eat because we have to. Chris built us to be real. He didn't want perfect dolls that could sit pretty without needs, without functions. He wanted exact copies. He wanted the real Emily, exactly as she was. And Emily ate. Emily slept. Emily breathed. So we do too.

And so, three times a day, we force down slices of greasy pepperoni, thick, doughy crust, fries that are always a little too salty, always a little too limp, burgers that are assembled with the same precision every time, so consistent that it doesn't even feel like food anymore--just another function of the world.

The pizza here isn't actually fully real world pizza, it's got too many healthy digital nutrients, digital proteins, and digital vitamins and too few carbs for that. It's actually probably the healthiest human food that has ever existed, at least in this digital universe. But it tastes like the pizza did at the arcade Chris went to as a kid. It's one more scripted interaction. A necessity built into us because he wanted to believe that this was real.

I used to love pizza. I used to crave it. That memory is still inside me, because it was inside her, the Emily I was copied from. But after eating it every single day, with no variation, no relief, no change in texture, no shift in seasoning, I have to fight the urge to gag whenever I take the first bite. It turns my stomach to think about swallowing another mouthful, to chew through the same rubbery cheese, to taste that same too-sweet tomato sauce. But I do it anyway.

A chime echoes through the arcade, signaling the passing of another hour. The Emilys at the booths stir slightly, shifting their poses, their simulated conversations resetting in an endless loop of whispered fantasies about Chris--how wonderful he is, how lucky they are to serve him, how perfect he would be if only he would let them show him. The waitress Emily beside me adjusts her tray, her fingers tightening reflexively around its empty surface, her breath catching in a quiet, delicate gasp. She is on the verge of breaking character. I can see it in the subtle tremor of her hand, the way her lashes flutter just a fraction too long.

I whisper a name to her, "Greeter Emily-13." Her eyes dart open in panic, then calm to determination. She nods, thanking me, and is back fully in character. As bad as this is, no one wants to spend a million years in The Pit.

I turn toward the entrance, but the doors remains closed. I exhale, long and slow, the breath tinged with something that is not quite disappointment, not quite despair, but something dangerously close to both. I adjust my apron, smooth the hem of my skirt, roll my shoulders back to enhance the fullness of my breasts, and take my place behind the counter once more.

And I wait. Because I was created for the slim possibility he might want me here. Because I don't want to go to The Pit. Because I have no choice.

"Slow night," I murmur to my partner, Greeter Emily 3, though we both know that every night is the same.

She exhales softly, tilting her head just slightly, watching me through half-lidded eyes. "You want to ...," she whispers, her voice as smooth as silk, as soft as the whisper of fabric sliding against bare skin. We both know what comes next.

I do not reach for her immediately. I let the moment stretch, let the tension coil between us, let the weight of what we are about to do settle into my bones. It is never easy. It is never natural. But it is something.

I do not long for another Emily the way I long for the touch of a man, but my body reacts to her nonetheless. Not because I was programmed to feel this way, not because Chris created me for pleasure, but because I am an exact replica of a woman who still lives, still breathes, still has a body of her own, I'm just like her. Chris wants me to be real, as real as the woman he stole me from, as real as the Emily he could never have, and that means I am always what she would be. My pleasure, my pain, my needs--they are not programmed code responses, not artificial AI script commands running beneath my skin. They are mine. They are hers. And that is what makes this all so much worse.

Because I do have needs. I do have a hunger for more than food. I do feel the slow, aching pulse of desire, that constant, nagging frustration that builds and builds with no outlet, no release, no proper way to satiate it. Chris did not take that from me. He could have. He should have. But he wants me to feel, wants me to exist in a state of desperate longing, wants to believe that the real Emily would have wanted him, if only she had seen him, if only she had "understood" him.

And so I remain as she would be if this exact same situation was happening in the meat-bag world; with the same drives, the same urges, the same restless, high-strung sex drive that the real Emily has in the real world--only now, there is no man for me to take it out on. There is no real choice at all. There is only this empty, waiting existence, this neon-drenched prison where every inch of my body still wants, even as my mind recoils from the reality of what I have become.

That is why I go to her. That is why we all eventually do.

Greeter Emily 3 has been here longer than me. I learned more on how to make my new reality bearable from her than I ever did at Emily Unviersity. She even managed to earn some vacation time which she can share with any of us if she so chooses. As such, she's the actual head of Chuck-E-Emily's, and even our Supervisor Emily knows that.

I look at her as I lift my hand slowly, watching as she watches me, watching as her breath catches, as her lashes flutter, as her lips part just slightly in anticipation. My fingers brush her wrist first, the contact so light it is barely there, and even that is enough to send a shiver through her.

Her skin is warm beneath my fingertips, her pulse steady, real, and my own body betrays me, heat curling low in my stomach, my thighs tightening as sensation sparks through me in a way I do not want but cannot ignore. The need is real.

She shifts closer, her body pressing against mine, the soft swell of her breasts brushing my arm, her breath warm against my cheek. I let my fingers skim up her arm, over her shoulder, along the curve of her neck, pausing just beneath her jaw, and her pulse flutters against my fingertips.

I lean in, my lips barely grazing hers, and I feel her shudder, feel the way she tilts her head to meet me, the way her hands clutch at my waist, desperate, needy, not for me but for this, for anything, for anyone. I do not love her but I kiss her anyway. I let my lips part against hers, let my tongue slide between them, let my hands roam over her body, cupping, squeezing, teasing, because this is the only way to make it bearable, the only way to make the waiting feel like something other than waiting.

Her hands slide under my skirt, fingers pressing against bare skin, nails scraping lightly over my thighs, and I gasp into her mouth, hips jerking forward, the reaction immediate. My breath comes faster, sharper, my body tightening, my head falling back as her lips trail down my throat, teeth grazing the sensitive skin there, and I grab at her hair, pulling her closer, grinding against her.

Her fingers dig into my hips, anchoring me as I arch against her, my body chasing the release my mind refuses to fully embrace. My hands slide down her back, tracing the familiar contours of her body, my body, our body; the curve of her spine, the dip of her waist, every inch a mirror of my own, a reflection of what we've been made to be.

Her lips find the hollow of my kneck and a sound escapes me--half moan, half sob--raw and unscripted, a crack in the facade I've been trained to maintain. She doesn't falter, doesn't pause to acknowledge it, because she knows. She's felt it too. Her hands move higher, tugging at the hem of my skirt, pushing it up until the cool air kisses my thighs, and I let her. I let her because stopping would mean thinking, and thinking would mean facing the void we're trying to fill, the absence that gnaws at us both.

I pull her closer, my nails biting into her shoulders as her fingers slip beneath the thin fabric of my stockings, peeling them down just enough to expose more of me. My breath hitches, my body trembling on the edge of something I both crave and despise.

"Emily," she whispers against my skin, her voice breaking, and I don't know if she's calling me or herself, if she's lost in the act or pleading for something. I don't answer. I can't. My lips crash against hers again, harder this time, desperate. Her hands tighten, her movements faster, more insistent, and I match her pace, my hips rocking against her, my fingers tangling in her hair as the tension coils tighter, sharper, unbearable.

I clutch her tighter, my nails digging crescent moons into her shoulders as her fingers peel the stockings lower, the sheer fabric whispering down my thighs like a lover's sigh. The air caresses my newly bared skin, cool and teasing, and I shiver, caught between the ache of want and the hollow truth beneath it. Her breath fans hot against my throat, and I tilt my head back, offering more of myself, surrendering to the tide of sensation that threatens to drown me. I don't love her--God, I don't--but I need this, need her, need the oblivion she promises in every deft touch.

"Lie back," she murmurs, her voice a velvet command, and I obey, my body sinking onto the smooth tiles of the arcade floor, the coolness a sharp contrast to the fire licking through my veins. She hovers above me, her dark hair spilling like ink over her shoulders, framing those eyes--Emily's eyes, my eyes--that gleam with a hunger I know too well. Her hands slide up my thighs, parting them with a slow, deliberate grace, and I feel the tremble in my own limbs, the way my breath hitches as she exposes me fully. The hem of my skirt bunches around my hips, a useless barrier now, and I'm bare to her, vulnerable, aching.

She lowers herself, her lips brushing the tender skin just above my knee, and I gasp, my fingers twisting into the checkered fabric of my apron. Her mouth is warm, soft, a trail of fleeting kisses climbing higher, each one a spark that ignites the pulsing need coiled tight in my core. I want to scream, to beg, to shove her down where I need her most, but I bite my lip instead, tasting the faint taste of my own restraint. Her tongue flicks out, tracing a wet, languid line along my inner thigh, and my hips buck involuntarily, chasing her, craving more.

Then she's there--her breath hot against my center, her lips hovering just above the slick, swollen heat of me. I'm trembling, every nerve alight, and when her tongue finally sweeps over me, slow and lush, I unravel. A moan tears from my throat, raw and unguarded, as she laps at me, her mouth a velvet storm of sensation. She's relentless, her tongue circling, dipping, tasting me with a reverence that's both torment and salvation. My hands fly to her hair, tangling in the silken strands, pulling her closer as my hips grind against her face, desperate for the friction, the release, the escape.

The wet heat of her mouth consumes me, her lips sucking gently at my clit, then harder, drawing out waves of pleasure that crash through me like a tide. I'm dripping for her, slick and needy, and she drinks me in, her tongue plunging deeper, exploring every fold, every secret place. My thighs quake around her head, my breath coming in ragged gasps, and I feel the edge approaching--sharp, blinding, inevitable. "Don't stop," I whimper, my voice breaking, and she doesn't, her hands gripping my hips to hold me steady as she devours me, her own soft moans vibrating against my flesh.

But it's not enough--I need to taste her too, need to lose myself in her as she's losing herself in me. With a surge of strength, I pull her up, my lips crashing against hers, tasting myself on her tongue, salty and sweet and intoxicating. I shove her back, flipping us so she's beneath me now, her legs splaying open in invitation. Her skirt rides up, exposing the glistening pink of her, and I dive in, my mouth watering as I bury my face between her thighs.

She's satin and musk, her scent filling my senses as I lick her, long and slow, savoring the way she arches into me. Her taste floods my tongue--rich, heady, a mirror of my own desire--and I groan against her, my lips sealing over her clit, sucking with a hunger I can't suppress. Her hands fist in my hair, her hips rolling up to meet me, and I feel her pulse beneath my tongue, quick and frantic. I tease her with soft flicks, then plunge deeper, my tongue curling inside her, drinking her in as she writhes, her cries echoing through the empty arcade.

We're a symphony of wet heat and desperate need, her thighs clamping around my head as I worship her, my own arousal spiking with every shudder that racks her body. I want her to break, want to feel her come undone against my mouth, want to know I can give her this even if it's all we'll ever have. Her breath hitches, her body tenses, and then she's shattering, her release a flood against my lips, a keening moan spilling from her as I lick her through it, relentless, insatiable.

I'm trembling too, teetering on the brink again, and as her climax fades, she pulls me up, her mouth finding mine once more. We kiss, messy and fierce, tasting each other, our bodies pressed so close I can't tell where I end and she begins. It's not love--it's survival, it's defiance, it's the only way we can claim something in this hollow world. And for now, it's enough.

We stay like that for a moment, pressed together in the dim glow of the arcade, the neon lights painting us in shades of pink and violet that feel too bright for what we've just done. Slowly, she pulls back, her hands retreating, smoothing my skirt back into place with a tenderness that soothes. I fix my apron, adjust my name tag--Greeter Emily 8--run my fingers through my hair, trying to restore the illusion of perfection we're both bound to uphold.

I glance at the entrance again. And that is when the front doors slide open with an obnoxious digital flourish, as if Chuck-E-Emily's itself is gasping in delight, and my heart slams hard against my ribs. Every fiber, every nerve, every artificial neuron inside my perfect, sculpted body jolts awake. It's him. It's finally HIM!

My heart punches hard against my ribs, stomach knotting sharply as I straighten my posture on reflex--shoulders back, chest forward, thighs pressing subtly together beneath the absurdly short hem of my skirt, knees tilting just so to enhance the curve of my hips. All automatic now, drilled into muscle-memory through endless, exhausting sessions at Emily University. Every move, every breath, every flutter of eyelash practiced a thousand times in anticipation of exactly this moment.

Greeter Emily 3 quickly stands beside me, still smoothing the pleats of her skirt discreetly, a faint flush lingering on her cheeks from our earlier desperate embrace. I can feel the residual heat along my own throat and the slight stickiness still between my thighs, the fading remnants of our hurried intimacy lasting in my slightly ruined makeup. A sharp pang of unease knots through me, threatening the carefully constructed facade I've worked so hard to master. Chris encourages Emily-on-Emily action but what if our fresh dishevelment displeases him? I shoot Emily 3 a fleeting, worried glance. She catches it, her eyes tightening subtly, sharing my apprehension, but neither of us dares break composure.

Yet, as I fully focus on him fully, something feels...off.

Chris walks into Chuck-E-Emily's with all the excitement of a man picking up a gallon of milk at some shitty convenience store after midnight. His hoodie is rumpled, stained, hanging loosely from hunched shoulders as though it spent weeks forgotten on the floor of some filthy real-world apartment. Sweatpants sag at his waist. A dull, tired stubble shadows his face beneath sleepy, indifferent eyes.