The night wind blew cold through his leather jacket, ruffling his thick black hair, and the bare branches of the trees clattered overhead. Lincoln preferred more southerly climes, but this was where the job was, and you went where the job was. Maine. In winter. Ugh.
He cycled the zoom on his visor, making sure he'd fully cased the little storage unit where the thieving bastard was keeping the files he'd been hired to retrieve. Of course, Lincoln was hardly one to talk when it came to thievery. Sure, this time Pads had him retrieving, not obtaining, but you went where the job was. Security was light, at least on the outside. There was a reason this was a one-man job, no team necessary. This was just a place people kept their extra stuff when they didn't want it around the house, not even a commercial warehouse. Couple of security cameras, nothing high-end, easy. Too easy maybe? Maybe just easy for him.
Lincoln was a Maker, so lots of things came easier to him. Most folks in the 'Dream had to get things the old-fashioned way: buy simulated stuff made of simulated materials obtained from the simulated planet. Shortages were a thing of the physical, but the supply chain of the digital economy looked a lot like it always had. A Maker, on the other hand, took a different view, looked deeper, could see that he was a collection of simulation routines swimming in a sea of code. With a little practice, a Maker could write localized code of his own, not on a datapad or at a terminal, but right there in the Dreamspace he inhabited. So Lincoln traveled light, carrying no tools that would give away his less-than-legal occupation; he'd just Make what he needed on the spot.
The visor, his drone? Birdwatching, officially. Unofficially, as he unfolded the light, silent flying machine, they gave him more than enough to get past two security cameras. He closed his eyes, the air above his hand glitched and flickered, and two small holoscreens displaying the scene he'd been surveying were ready to go. The drone dutifully delivered them to their appointed places attached to the cams, and the watching eyes were blinded. Lincoln clambered down from the roof and approached the storage unit that was his target.
It was locked, of course. With a key. Quaint. He rested his hand over the lock for a moment, reading it, knowing its shape and size and the positions of the tumblers, and the clever little circuit that would recognize only a key, not a set of lockpicks. Shame for the thief that Lincoln didn't carry lockpicks. A moment's concentration, and he had a perfect copy of the key he needed. Maybe the thief was just starting out, couldn't invest in better yet. You could keep out a Maker, just not like this. The door swung open, leading to...a hallway? The place was bigger on the inside. Damn, it had been too easy. Still, as he moved silently inside and gently closed the door behind him, Lincoln saw the alarms that hadn't been triggered, the security panel a little ways ahead that hadn't shut, and (best of all, the knot that had tightened in his gut loosening) the mini-turrets that hadn't activated, because he had after all entered with a key.
Okay, so not a total newbie, this thief. He had some resources at least, to put together a hidden space like this, to hire the right people to make a small warehouse fit in a glorified closet. Feeling confident but cautious, Lincoln made his way down the hall. He knew the owner would be out; the jerk was down in Orlando (warm there, the lucky bastard), and wouldn't be back for a couple days at least. He would have no reason to think Pads would have sent anyone for the files, at least so Lincoln had been assured, and after years as an information broker, Pads hadn't been wrong yet. There were a few rooms in here, and Lincoln checked each one as he passed. Mostly junk, stuff acquired legally or otherwise, like a fairly well-organized attic. He ignored the room of clothes and shoes, the shelves of labeled boxes, one room set up like a bare-bones study with a small kitchen in the corner. Apparently this could serve as a living space if needed, but it didn't look particularly lived-in. The files would be elsewhere, on an off-grid server, as much as anything inside the 'Dream could be considered 'off-grid', anyway. Accessible only locally, whatever.
Say what you will about him, the little scumbag had a flair for the dramatic. This space felt less like a warehouse or safehouse, and more like a lair, with the real treasure hidden in the Inner Sanctum once you beat the Big Bad. As he opened the door at the terminus of the hallway, Lincoln realized he'd called it. Inner Sanctum found. This was the best-appointed room in the place, a bedroom with a comfy chair next to a reading table and lamp, a king-size bed stacked with pillows and a comforter, the lights warm and soothing. More importantly, across the room, through a doorway, he spied a workspace with a respectable terminal and a few server racks. Bingo. As he stepped inside, though, he found out this place wasn't quite as empty as he'd thought.
For a moment, Lincoln couldn't quite comprehend what he was looking at as the door to the bathroom of this suite (quite nice, big jacuzzi tub, shower that could fit three people; scumbag knows how to prioritize his luxuries) swung open and the...figure floated out. Some kind of drone? But who would put two peach-colored basketballs on a drone, and why? The door closed behind him, his eyes adjusted to the light, and Lincoln's brain caught up to his visual percept. Flying out of the bathroom was no drone, but a small naked woman, the size of a girl's doll, maybe a foot from head to toe, with dragonfly wings buzzing rapidly on her back. Not that physics would have actually let them hold her up, because preceding her into the room were some seriously big tits, round and firm, tipped with delicate pink nipples. As she turned in the air to come around the bed towards him, ass cheeks the size of tennis balls shimmied a lovely hello; compared to her miniscule frame, her butt was enormous. This was obviously some kind of pet AI creature, and with a body looking like a child's plaything with sports equipment strategically attached to make a parody of femininity, it was almost certainly a sex toy.
The ludicrously busty pixie approached Lincoln, a joyous and slightly naughty smile on her luscious lips. Her face was beautiful in the way only an artificial being could be, cute and sexy in just the right measure, the product of a conscious design effort to be appealing.
"Hey there cutie pie," she said, her voice high pitched enough to make sense coming from such a small thing but not shrill or squeaky, built to be adorable, "have you come to play with me? I've been so lonely, and you're so handsome."
She reached up to push waves of still-wet blonde hair back from her face; not that she'd likely been actually showering, it was probably just part of how she was programmed to greet an owner who obviously valued his bathing time. If he weren't on a job, Lincoln wouldn't have turned down that kind of proposition from this definitionally sexual being. She was just so cute, tiny but huge, playful but sultry. Alas, the files were his goal, not some eminently fuckable faerie hooters.
"Thanks doll, not today. Maybe I'll look you up sometime soon, when I'm not so busy," he said with a half-grin.
After all, he knew that slimeball's schedule, and he could get in here any time he wanted. Maybe Maine wasn't so bad, eh? Lincoln took a step towards the workstation, but the little flying fuckdoll interposed herself. She moved close, turning sideways so that the first thing that touched his chest was her itty-bitty hand instead of her tits. Seriously, they were over two feet across each, on a one-foot-tall woman! They'd be huge on a full-size person; on her, they dominated her frame, and necessitated her ability to fly. She looked up at him with puppy-dog eyes, her tiny, dextrous fingers working at a buttonhole in his jacket.
"Awww, really? You can't spare just a liiiiitle time for a gal like me? I'd be ever so grateful."
That last bit was in a tone that sent a thrill through him, just like it was doubtless designed to do. He felt his pants tighten; damn she was hot, and so needy, and so fucking cute. Maybe, just a minute, just a little...no. Do the job, Lincoln.
"Sorry sweetheart, I'd love to, honestly. Just can't spare the time right now" he said, as he gently pushed her back.
