You still have a delivery to make. You're only one stop from your destination so you decide to just leave the station and walk the rest of the way. You try to think about how long it would take you to save up for new hardware. Maybe another four years. Math feels more difficult than it used to be. It isn't even the cost of new hardware. It's installation. You could attach a new leg by yourself, but you'd need to hire a surgeon to replace anything directly hooked up to your brain. You've barely been making enough to pay rent. You pull down the front of your top and hope nobody notices the bulge in your pants.
You come across a sex shop and can't bring yourself to walk past it. All you can think about is how badly you want something inside of yourself. You buy an over priced butt plug with credits you shouldn't be spending. They don't have a washroom so you use the one in the bar across the street. You work it into yourself using pre cum as lube. Or what passes as pre cum these days. It's blue and slippery and tastes vaguely like strawberries. You slide the toy in and out while stoking yourself. Slowly at first, but faster as you get closer and closer. Finally you cum. You feel relieved, but only for a moment. Then you find yourself licking your strawberry cum off of your hand while desperately looking at online ads for sex workers. You could rent an android for only like twenty credits an hour. Hiring a human would cost hundreds. You don't have the credits. You don't even really have the time. You still have a delivery to make. You need it though. You step out of the washroom and absentmindedly bump into a guy. He'll do. The next thing you know he's shoving your plug into your mouth and fucking you. His cock is this ridiculous artificial thing. It isn't shaped like any natural human cock. It isn't the size of one either. You can feel synthetic intestines rearranging inside of yourself. You take the plug out of your mouth to tell him to go harder and deeper. You can see and feel your abdomen distending. You'd worry about being torn apart, but you're beyond caring about your well being.
By the time you arrive at your destination your delivery is hours late. Your clothes stick to your skin. You don't realize it, but there's a very obvious blue streak down your left cheek. Your client opens the door and begins to ask if you know just how late you are, but then stops and looks you up and down. You hand him the data cartridge. In the background a notification sound begins ringing out from his computer. He checks it. Then he asks you if you know how unsafe it is to leave wireless access enabled when you're running such out of date insecure software. You always kept it disabled, but it's the kind of software setting some perv on the subway could change if they got control over your hardware. He looks at you and then back at his computer. You hear him typing for a moment before the world goes mute. Then your eyes shut off. In place of a live feed of the outside world you're treated to a looping video. The video is cut together with quickly flashing clips of porn and spirals and text telling you that you're nothing but a worthless fuck toy. Your other senses are disabled. Time loses meaning.
When you come to, it's the year twenty something and you're laying in a dumpster with one leg hanging out. You're surrounded by a combination of old computers, broken android parts, and used condoms. You climb out and realize that your chest plate has been replaced. Your tits are now almost the size of your head. You're wearing a frilly pink dress and nothing else. It's torn. Your left arm is irreparably damaged. You detach it and leave it behind in the dumpster. You walk barefoot out of the alleyway and a man in a trench coat asks you how much. Your mouth tastes like strawberries. You tell him twenty credits an hour.
