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Spider-Man 2114	By : Ksennin Category: Marvel Verse Comics > Spiderman Views: 11743 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 2
Disclaimer: I own neither the characters of the Spider-Man franchise or the Spicy City series. I make no money from publishing this work.

Chapter List
- 1-Spider-Man 2114
- 2-Chapter 2
- 3-Chapter 3
- 4-4
- 5-5
- 6-6
- 7-7
- 8-8
- 9-9
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Nisa took a busman’s holiday back to police headquarters. The cab she hailed was almost as good as her old one. Before she’d set off, she’d e-mailed the recording to the police commissioner. Now she was wondering what to expect. Probably not a commendation. They’d want to keep things quiet. Connolly and Stern would be retired, she’d be given a tidy little promotion. That would be fine for her. She wasn’t greedy.
She got off at One Police Plaza, walked up the steps to the great cylinder of police headquarters aimed at the sky like a rocket ship about to take off, went inside, went to the squad room entrance, and put her hand on the scanner like she’d already gotten used to. It flashed INVALID.
Nisa backed up, startled by the shrill sound of denial that drew the attention of the few suspects waiting to be processed, the detectives hanging around the front desk. The multipurpose scan-surface now became a video screen. She saw her superior, Lieutenant Dent, in a pre-recorded message. Her name was the only thing new; it didn’t match his moving lips and it sounded and octave higher.
“NISA LOLITA, you have been terminated from the employ of the SCPD. Your access to the building is revoked and you are banned from the premises, starting now. Your last paycheck has been deposited into your bank account. Have a nice day, NISA LOLITA.”
Then the screen was black. In the sudden reflection, Nisa could see two beat cops behind her. They showed her out of the building.
At the bottom of the steps, Nisa checked her phone. Every recording on its hard drive had been wiped. They’d hacked her.
She found herself wondering if Yellowcab still had an opening or if some Chechen brain surgeon had needed a job.
***
Otaka was a slim little man who favored black. He hid from the world—under the brim of his wide hat, behind the lenses of his thick glasses. His accent turned his voice into a croak. Next to Max, he felt otherwise—the other man American, boisterous, normal, himself… special. He’d always felt that way. Not one or the other, but something else.
He slunk through Max’s office like an insect that had wandered in out of the great outdoors, his coat sweeping around him. His hand emerged with the gel-lined membrane of a bionic hard drive. These days, they were not much larger than an old USB memory stick. The function was not dissimilar.
“The new personality construct,” he said, limping his way to the renderer Max kept on hand. He plugged in the BHD, and the interplay of physicality and mental landscape was constructed into a holographic projection. It wasn’t like a photograph, of course. To the untrained eye, the woman portrayed glitched and morphed like a bad TV signal—really, it was the construct acting up sans external stimuli. Once committed to vat-grown flesh and metal endoskeleton, the construct would read its full potential.
“Brenda,” he announced, the name hitting his mouth not at all familiarly. “She’s even better than anticipated, no?”
“She’s a star!” Max proclaimed instantly, sweeping his hand through the hologram. Brenda giggled, awestruck at the size of his fingers, and feigned nervousness. “Your best yet, Otaka. A few more like that and we can open up our Vegas branch. You’ll be paid as before.”
Otaka ejected the BHD from the rendered, holding it away from Max, almost shielding it with his body. “She is not for sale. I desire to make a trade!”
“Otaka, Otaka, what’s gotten into you?” Max held out his hand expectantly. When Otaka still clung to the BHD, he reached for his cigar and took it smoldering from his mouth. “We need each other, remember? You may create the personality constructs, but without the bodies me and Goldblum came up with, they’d just be chatbots! Worthless!”
“Goldblum… that addled fool. He has no vision. Placing my constructs within his machinery is like displaying a masterpiece within a frame of shit--!”
“You won’t have to worry about him for much longer,” Max assured him. “I’ve hired a new kid that makes Goldblum look like a piker. As soon as he’s learned the ropes, we can move him up the chain.”
“Why bother with another? Give me the rendering program. Anything Goldblum did, I can better!”
“Don’t rock the boat, Otaka. Our mutual dependency makes us strong.”
“Strong? You are a partner. I am nothing. I deserve better than being forced underground--”
Max’s hands raised like a wave crashing against rocks. “That’s impossible! You don’t exist, remember? If the public knew you worked for us, they’d want to know what you do. If they knew what you did, we’d all be out of business!”
“Work for you? Work for you? You work for me! Providing a set of gloves for me to hide my bloody hands in! Work you lack the stomach for! Work you lack the brains for!”
Max was fed up. He snatched the BHD from Otaka, the little man spun away from the force of the pull. “I’ll pay you double for this one, alright? Everything else is done for-hire. Enjoy your slice of the pie, Otaka. It’s not the whole thing, but it’s better than nothing.”
***
The superintendent of the Cybersex Arcade was Johann Goldblum, one of those nebbish guys who really worked the accent, sounded like a cartoon pig. He already had the security gate down when Peter arrived, and there was already a line forming, three guys joking around with punchlines that would make your average mother of two drop dead of a heart attack. Goldblum himself was running a quick broom over the floor. When he saw Peter, he unlocked the gate and pulled it up as far as it could go without the mechanism taking over and hauling it to the ceiling. Peter had to stoop to get through. Goldblum closed it up again and locked it once more.
“Hey, why’s he get to get in?” one of the scabs asked.
“Private party?” asked another.
“We got money, man, we got good paper money—this ain’t Constitutional.”
“He’s da maintenance!” Goldblum said, poking a finger at them. “That is why he is allowed in! Shoo! Shoo! We will not open for another fifty minutes!”
One gave Goldblum the bird, another followed suit, the third was too spaced out to do anything. He just kinda stood there, looking average.
Inside, the ‘bots were already lined up for inspection. Peter’s tablet was synched to his wrist-mounted tablet. As he walked in front of each, he checked their read-out. One, ‘Darlene’, had either had a bout of rough sex too rough, or just been overworked. When he played her sample vocal—‘Wanna come inside, cowboy?’—it sounded like he was playing dubstep. He reached into his toolbelt, took out a small scalpel, and made an incision in the Simskin at her throat. With pliers and tiny screwdriver, he went to work repairing her vocoder. He’d fix the epidermis later. It seemed to sag on her facial chassis anyway—too many slaps.
“Kid, you must have the best job in da city,” Goldblum said, sweeping up nearby.
“How’s that?” Peter asked.
“Working with these lovely ladies—up close and personal—like applying sunscreen to the Swiss bikini team.”
Peter played the sample again. W A N N A C O M E I N S I D E—The thing was fried. He began unscrewing it. “They’re not women, Goldblum. They’re sex toys.”
“Have you tried one? It’s just like the real thing!”
“I’ll take your word for it.” The screws out, Peter began prying the vocoder free. It didn’t want to come out. The mount was slightly bent. Peter got out his WD-40. “You think we’re making the world a better place?”
Goldblum had wandered off, spritzing the walls and wiping them clean. Stains were the last thing you want in a place like this. “Is this about the United Way?”
“No. The johns—customers. You think we’re training them to see women as objects or—are we giving them an outlet? If a guy’s going to do this to a woman, or something shaped like a woman, is it better he does it to a machine? Or should he not be allowed to do it at all? Even think about it?”
No answer. Peter supposed he hadn’t been expecting one. He got the mount back in shape, got the vocoder out. “Goldblum, where do you keep the spares? Goldblum?”
No response. Not even the spray from his bottle. Peter looked around. His spider-sense wasn’t going off. Why did that worry him?
Nothing around him but women that weren’t women—dolls. Mannequins, only they weren’t selling clothes, they were selling… what? James Bond’s sex life?
“Nobody here but us chickens,” Peter said aloud. No laughter from the crowd. In the distance, he heard thunder clear its throat. A night like this, he wondered—if they were alive, what would they think of him? Patching them up like he did, would they appreciate it? Or was that like thinking of himself as a nice slavemaster?
He heard the click of high heels. Not a frightening sound—neither was a chainsaw, when it was being used on trees…
“Are any units active?” he demanded, raising his voice. Around him, the bots stood in stand-by mode. A parody of life—chests rising and falling, but that was all. No fidgeting, no preening, comatose patients standing idle. “Any active units, respond to my command now!”
Nothing. No one. Fucking fine. Peter cued his tablet to every bot present, sending wake-up commands to all of them. In a split-second, it was like going from the dressing room of a strip show to on stage. They primped, they preened, flashing thighs, breasts. None of which Peter looked at. “All units, identify any presence in the vicinity besides myself.”
As one, they turned and pointed—giggling, whispering innuendos, nudging each other like they were alerting each other to the big secret of his masculinity. Everything had to be seductive…
Pulling a wrench from his belt, Peter went in the direction of their pointed fingers. Darkness swirled in front of his face. He took out his phone, lit up its screen, and still nearly tripped over Goldblum’s body.
***
Nisa took only one thing from her brief employ as a police intern: a scanner. She put it in her cab, where it annoyed just about every passenger she picked up. Still, she was the first to hear the report of an assault at the Cybersex Arcade. Someone had broken in and taken out the super. The weird part was, there wasn’t a mark on him. He was just… blank.
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Spider-Man 2114