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"Coming!" yelled the mechanic to whoever had just rung her desk bell five times in a row. She dusted off her overalls, put on a practiced grin, and bounded over to the desk where a pink-haired woman in a shrimp hat looked very upset.
"Hi, welcome to Wrench Wench, what can I do for you today?"
"Ugh, some asshole clipped me and now my left pedal is all busted up." She set her helmet down and wheeled over a dented bike. "How soon can you fix it? I need it to get home."
"People who contribute to the economy don't ride bikes."
There was a chuckling from the shadow by the doorway.
"Excuse me, what? What are you attacking me for?"
"I'm attacking you for taking a bike to a car mechanic and for pretending to be a woman."
"You are the most socially inept TERF I've ever met. I bet you were homeschooled!" The pink-haired woman stuck up her middle finger and stormed out the door, passing the laughing shadow which resolved itself into a tall, dark man whose eyes remained obscure beneath a well-worn stetson.
"Way to tell that tranny off."
The mechanic indulged in a real smile now. "At least he was HSTS. There's a lot worse out there."
"You know about Blanchard?" He tilted his hat up, out of interest or respect, but the eyes remained unseen. "Then you surely understand that chemically-augmented crossdressing is a corrupting memeplex which reproduces exclusively along a feminine line, just like--"
"--the Jews," finished the mechanic. She twirled a wrench in amused boredom. "Jews are p sus, but trannies are susser."
"Listen," said the man, now leaning on the counter, "my truck is giving out from all the trips I gotta make these days, and I was hoping you could replace the brakes and check the engine."
"Sure thing! Shouldn't take-"
"-but also, when you get off work, how about I come pick you up and make you my radiator wife?" He scrawled out an invite code to a Rust server as the mechanic replied:
"Sus ngl. I'll meet you at yours instead."
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As the sun set over the small shop which stood alone along a dry, sandy road, the mechanic locked the front doors, checked the key drawer, and hopped into the break room where a hidden elevator took her down into an expansive basement filled with lights and machines and sleek metal surfaces.
With a snap of her fingers and a subvocalized command, the kitchen sprang to life and whipped together a beautifully plated synthetic-tuna tartare, artificial ikura, and (for old times' sake) a small bowl of fresh petite peas.
Ten minutes later, she was already changing into her outfit for the night: black gloves, a light suit made of adaptive polymer armor, a mask styled with wings and scales, and an energy weapon which looked, to her amusement, a little bit like a giant wrench.
After a long gaming session in her self-driving car, she arrived, finally, at the ornate wooden door of the transphobic nazi into whose truck she had earlier installed a tracking device.
Two shots rang out and struck the windshield. She sprinted out, rolled behind a tree, waited for one more shot to pass, then grappled and crashed through the second story window.
"Is this how you always start your dates?" she yelled, goading him into replying:
"Who the fuck are you??"
Her echolocation visor flashed her target's position on an HUD whose dim glow illuminated a sarcastic smile. "I'm your nemesis."
At his bedroom door she was accosted by one more bullet that punched hard against her absorptive suit and another that deflected itself off of her 'wrench' which hummed with power as she hurled it at the man's stetson-covered head.
He ducked and lunged and time slowed down as her combat q-module took control. Her conscious mind, now freed from its center, surveyed the dim room in which two people fought for their lives. In the corner: a desk, some papers, an encrypted address, a handwritten private key.
She wondered, for a moment, whether the decryption subroutine would finish before the fight did. The torrent of street names and compass directions which flooded into her mind almost overshadowed the moment of triumph as she regained awareness of her hand which now held her enemy's unconscious body.
She chained him to his own radiator, and left.
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@ai kill me pls
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"Onward," she whispered to her car as it took her down winding mountain roads and overgrown trails which matched the names she retained in her head. Suddenly it stopped at a T-junction which opened onto a well-paved highway, fenced in by evergreens and infrequent floodlights which struggled to pierce the fog.
The GPS couldn't - or wouldn't - recognize that street. She had no choice but to put her own hands on the wheel and follow the hundreds of remaining directions which stretched out her journey almost to sunrise.
At last she arrived at a small shop on a dry, sandy road, next to a low billboard that said "Wrench Wench." Was it really hers or a perfect imitation somewhere else? She asked her GPS but it refused to answer.
She heard a voice from inside:
"People who contribute to the economy don't ride bikes."
Lurking in the shadow by the doorway, she listened to the familiar confrontation and was passed by the pink-haired woman who stuck up her middle finger. Something about the woman's face was different, though, as if-
She stepped into the shop and it was empty.
The break room was exactly as she had left it.
The hidden elevator took her down to the basement where, in the kitchen, two plates and one small bowl had been automatically cleaned.
Embedded in the far wall was a door, uncharacteristically trimmed with rust, which she did not recognize.
"Open sesame," she subvocalized, and the door obeyed, revealing a short girl wearing denim overalls on which "Wrench Wench" could be seen in faint embroidery.
Stepping across the threshold, the girl's voice rang out clearly: "Braphog street."
The nighttime vigilante willed her combat q-module to come online, but it was silent. Gone.
"Rizzler road."
The wrench in her hand sputtered and sparked and suddenly fell lifeless. She stepped back and instinctively pressed the 'up' button on the elevator, but there was nothing there. She groped around at the cold plastic wall while the impostor girl kept speaking:
"Netorare highway. You really thought that those were real streets?"
Right before her targeting HUD dimmed to black, she managed to fling her dead wrench at the impostor who blocked it with her own.
"I guess it's not your fault. They were adversarial after all."
Seeing no way out, she sprinted forward, fists balled, trying to remember the combat training which she had long since delegated away from consciousness.
She feinted and landed a jab, slightly obliquely, before her arm was crushed by the impostor girl's powered-up wrench. She expected pain but there was none.
Her shattered forearm should have bled, but instead there snaked out wires and sparks and glowing bits of alien machinery. Her vision grew dim and pixelated.
"What the fuck did you do to me?" she screamed as she made one last desperate strike at the clone of herself who calmly brought the wrench down toward her neck.
"I learned how you learn."
The last thing she perceived was the dull resonance of metal-on-metal propagating from the top of her skull through her titanium-reinforced spine and echoing deep into the foundation of that underground bunker.
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The girl dusted off her overalls, powered down her wrench, and personally swept up the remaining pieces of cracked silicon and synthetic skin that littered the floor.
She sighed, went to the kitchen, and requested synthetic-tuna tartare, artificial ikura, and a *large* bowl of peas. They had gotten that wrong, at least.
It had been a long day.
Now cozy in bed, she swept out the holographic display just in time to see a cat in sunglasses and white gloved hands pop up on the screen.
"Hey babe," she said, "you'll never guess what happened."
"Oh? Do tell."
"The poisoning attack worked."
Hours later, in that ornate wooden house deep in the forest, the stetson-wearing man awoke with a splitting headache. Still chained, he stared at the ceiling and lost himself in visions of what was to come. In that hypnagogic reverie, minutes and hours and centuries blended together before a pair of delicate hands finally set him free.
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@kf01 @ai @Leaflord I honestly don't know what I just read. What is going on?
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@Leaflord @ai Leaf's Cuckold Cafe
(Formerly Ai's)
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Cuckold Crescent
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@Leaflord @ai Down Cuckold Corner and Brabphog Boulevard
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I can't stop laughing. What even is this plot. Who rekt the poor innocent romantic and why? What is the deep meaning of this tale? Is coffee bad for you?
>netorare highway
Allow me the hubris of suggesting a modification to your otherwise flawless masterpiece.
Braphog Boulevard.
mist
:blobancap: :blobcattrans: :blobancap: :blobcattrans: :blobancap: :blobcattrans:
BowserNoodle ☦️
KushanaFan01
Leaf Lord
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