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Spider-Man 2114	By : Ksennin Category: Marvel Verse Comics > Spiderman Views: 11740 -:- 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
- 7
- 8
- 9
The girls had a laptop that Virus brought up for him, holding it teasingly in front of her breasts. It wasn’t such a tease with her pussy bare, her cunt still a vivid red from what they’d done.
She dropped the laptop onto a pillow and joined Nisa in embracing Peter as he opened it up, plugged in the USB drive Mr. Flaxon had given them. He synced it up to his own drive in the Cloud, cuing up several programs to analyze Melissa’s sequence. Nisa ran her hands through Peter’s hair as the results came up. Even to her, it was all Greek.
“I can see why he wants her back,” Peter said, eyeing the headshot that came with the sequence. Virus took him by the chin, turned his face to hers, and kissed him hard enough to forget the ghost-girl. He barely pulled himself away. “Staying in bed all day will be a lot easier once the bed isn’t on layaway.”
“C’mon, Peter,” Virus chided. “The bed was the first thing we bought.”
Peter’s eyes were only for the screen now. “That’s odd…”
“What?”
“My preferred screener looks for abnormalities, defects. The X-gene, Down’s syndrome, a predisposition for cancer, whatever. Even a benign or recessive trait is something to go off of. But I’m not seeing anything. She’s flawless.”
“Eh,” Virus said. “Her boobs could be a little bigger…”
Peter rolled out of bed, nimbly scurrying over Virus to get to his clothes. “Nisa, stay on it. Let the programs run, go over the results.”
“Since when am I a geneticist?”
“Since now. Don’t worry, it’s easy work, just… tedious. The programs will tell you everything, just, you know, make a spreadsheet.”
Nisa rolled onto her back, sighing. “Great. I let him make me come once and he’s got me doing AI work.”
Peter was hopping into his pants. “Would you rather come down to the Sublevels with Virus and me?”
Nisa rolled over again, grabbing hold of the laptop. “Just call me Cortana.”
***
Peter and Virus rode down the once-an-hour freight elevator, fifty people packed in sardines and dropped like an amusement park ride, barely stopping before they reached the bottom of the city. At least it was fast. The ride back up would be several hours. They climbed out, avoiding the spray of the antiemetics and the line to the bucket for those it just wouldn’t work on, and then there they were. The Sublevels.
Civilization packed in and around the massive foundations that supported the superskyscrapers that made up the city proper. An army of security droids to guard against attacks on the foundations, but that otherwise left the inhabitants alone to debase themselves as they saw fit. It was anarchy with a lid on.
Two minutes and they got a mugging attempt like it was a rite of passage. Peter let Virus send them packing. He didn’t want to give away his superpowers, and she enjoyed it more than he did anyway. Then they made their way to the Meat Market.
It was built in a half-finished foundation strut, a thirty-story structure for a renovation that had never come. Now it was honeycombed with businesses that actually turned a profit, not the favelas that people actually lived in. Inside the one particular enclave was what would be a serial killer’s dungeon in any other century.
Row after row, aisle after aisle of body parts, vat-grown, floating in capsules of green nutria-juice. The glass was half-translucent. If you looked at it from the right angle, you could see a little hologram of someone modeling the part, like the drawing on the back of an action figure’s packaging. All sexes and races were accounted for, here or there. You picked up, went into the back, and had it installed while you waited.
In the back, the Butcher was as much advertisement as operator. Each arm and each leg was a different shade. His eyes were different colors. His nose was a wide, flat African-American’s and his jaw was that of a Caesar’s. All worked together seamlessly. Took skill to manage that.
Skill the Butcher was showing off, installing a new set of lungs in a scraper who’d somehow found two cents to rub together. Butcher was taking the old ones out as Peter and Virus pushed past the plastic sheeting. They were rotten with black tar, like a bit of food that’d fallen between the couch cushions, come up with mold on it.
Butcher’s eyes looked up to regard them as his hands went through the familiar motions. Different colors seemed to regard them in halves. “Peter Parker. Always knew you’d go far. Didn’t know you had the guts for pimping, but you definitely have the brains for it—merchandise like that… here for some replacement parts, sweetie?”
Virus idly adjusted her bra through her shirt. “No thanks. I just had my last upgrade.”
Peter dug into his pocket for Flaxon’s USB drive. “We’re here about a sequence, and the girl it’s attached to.”
Butcher looked back down as he took out the scraper’s other lung, hanging it up like a rack of lamb. “I see a lot of sequences. And a lot of girls.”
“You’d remember this one.”
Peter thumbed the drive, making it project a segment of Melissa’s sequence overhead in double-helix formation. Butcher eyed it like a jeweler would examine the cut of a diamond.
“Now that is choice. Either you got a one-in-a-million trick here… and what would she be doing within a million and one miles of you?... or that is one top-notch pre-po job.”
“Pre-po?” Virus asked.
“Heard rumors of it. Designer genetics, but taken to the next level. Not just screening out defects, not just enhancing, but going through the goddamn source code line by line, marker by marker, like you’re constructing the Mona Lisa one pixel at a time.”
Peter replaced the drive in his pocket. “Out of what?”
“Depends. Heard someone did it for their dog once, and I’m not even sure if that’d be legal.” Like a dog that’d lost the scent, he seemed to forget the sequence. Toed a flap on a canister at his foot, like trash bins had, so the lid opened and he could reach in for a shiny new lung. Pink as a newborn baby. He sat it in the scraper’s chest cavity and rubbed it into life like a mound of sourdough bread.
“So, does it ring a bell?” Virus insisted.
“Second-hand. Knock-offs, you know, genetically hacked by the grinders. All sorts of malware put in to keep me from replicating it; more than it’s worth to pick them all out, you know. Maybe I could point you in the right direction, if we had a gentleman’s agreement…”
“You want coding straight from the source,” Peter realized.
Butcher picked up the second lung. Gave it a slap to get the nutria-juice flowing out of it faster. “It could be worth a lot of money.”
“I’ll see what I can do, if the lead pans out.”
“Or you could just hand over that sequence right there and we’d call it even.”
Peter held his hands in his pockets nonchalantly. “You know I’m good for this, Butch. Don’t have eyes bigger than your stomach.”
Butcher considered it. Then he swiped his finger through the artificial stem cells he’d filled the scraper’s chest with, finding them warm enough for his liking. He started stapling the man up. “A kidney and a liver I bought the other day, fast-grown. Callahan’s down on Barber Street. You know him?”
“I know him,” Peter said with a tight nod.
“Could be dangerous, going down there unannounced. Would you maybe like to leave a sample here? I could cook you up some spare parts while you’re gone; you wouldn’t be the first to need them after leaving Callahan’s.”
“I’ll keep my hide together the old-fashioned way, thanks.”
- 7
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Spider-Man 2114