With forty-eight hours to himself, Kal treated himself to an embalming ritual from stem to stern in an effort to cleanse himself of his demons. He had to if he wanted to enjoy Saturnalia during the next cycle. So the cleansing was a private affair.
Falling into that old routine, he settled his restlessness behind a wall of influencer-pushed products and free samples from the cosmetics shoppe two levels down from his apartment and kept his fucking PC on do-not-disturb. He soaked his hair in conditioner for an hour, waxed the fine hairs off his toes, and listened to Echonocht's latest album on repeat.
It was like casting a spell, he knew, and that was why he couldn’t be interrupted. Any deviation from the ritual could upset the outcome and let the demons back in.
The only communications that could come through were those from his direct supervisor and even then, Macaw knew he had to call twice for the link to go through.
[*** 1/5] Kal moaned in agony as the display on the inside of his arm flashed blue in the dark, pending answer. He could lie again and say he rolled over on it. But he knew Macaw would just call him again. And if it was that important, the precinct would send a runner.
The thought of Ten or Four busting through his door while he was in a state of carnal dishabille made his sanitizer-shiny toes curl with imaginary mortification.
He hissed under his breath, “My one fucking cycle off in the last ten, and this bitch…” Kal was obviously more annoyed than usual because the light had started going off in the middle of his final step—the one that would effectively banish all his worries and make him amiable and placid until he could get his hands on a submissive. If Macaw had only waited another twenty minutes or so, Kal would’ve been on his stomach with a book, basking in those satisfying, afterglow chemicals.
As for now, he was still flat on his back, baring angry teeth at his unoccupied hand. He swiped his PC with his nose and growled, "Yes, Officer-3?"
"Wake ya?" Macaw asked. Before Kal could answer in cutting tones, Officer-3 said, "Nah, I know you. Finish jerking off and get to Oro Bridge, Tower Six, on Green Side. We've got a body."
Kal's heart leapt up into his throat. Tower Six. Jayeon’s Tower. The Tower he’d infiltrated only a few cycles ago. Oh shit, oh fuck, oh—He struggled to go back to his happy place as he groaned, “Isn’t that Green Precinct’s problem?”
“Jayeon Whitney is a paranoid rich-blood who doesn't trust anything whose primary is binary, and you're the only flesh 'n' bone not on mandatory crew rest with homicide experience. The enforcers in the Green have their hands full dealing with other, more important shit.”
“Lightsake.” So much for Officer-3 not wanting to burn him out.
“Was that a Yes and a Sir in a specific order? Hoho. Someone's been reviewing their Medji Creed. Next thing you know, you'll be doing your paperwork same-day instead of five minutes before a delinquency ping comes through from Scythe-Bravo, you lazy piece of shit.”
“Hold on. Keep degrading me, I'm almost there.”
Macaw croaked a disbelieving laugh. “I'm sending ME-0999 ahead of you. Did you know it suggested you over Technician-10 for this job? I didn’t even know they could submit assessments like that without being prompted. Shoulda sent you to that Unity maintenance certifier course instead of Onesie.”
Nines. Fucking Nines. Kal blinked. “Wait, I thought you said Jayeon didn't like tech.”
“No, I said he had a problem with non-verbal droids. Bolter Brain here wouldn’t shut the fuck up about insisting it take this one, so I don't think binary's gonna be the problem... Hey. Reminder. Don't blow this toaster up, Jackal. It's proprietary. And patented. And that means expensive in two different litigation lingos.”
“So I've been told,” Kal grumbled.
After Macaw hung up, the officer sent a pin with the location. Green Side. Check. Serpentine Syndicate risk assessment package. Check. Seventeenth floor? Wasn’t the terminal he’d hardlined into on the twentieth deck? So, maybe the homicide had nothing to do with this extraction?
Kal didn't like that his only back-up would be a quirky bot who preferred him, but if he had to pick a partner... Nines didn't labor on about regulations like other Metal Enforcers did. He was shrewd, sure, but he seemed to understand on a human-level that some things were better kept off the record.
Granted, Kal’d never accompanied him on a homicide call, and Nines had very specific Habits formed around the preservation of human life, so maybe this would make or break their working relationship.
So, maybe Kal could get out of this with none the wiser.
Preference.
A robot that wanted things.
Kal snorted to himself. The truth was, Kal was conceited enough to wonder if Nines’ interest in him was something unique. Unity tech was weird like that, wasn't it? Alien, and yet designed by human hands—impossible to repair, but virtually impossible to reverse engineer.
Nines was supposed to be assigned to the Blue Zone, like Kal. But he’d volunteered both himself and Jackal to take on this assignment, using an assessment to back up his claim. Was that why he’d been running diagnostics on the other MEs? Could Nines know more about Kal’s involvement with the Dogs? Could he be protecting Kal again?
Even with this new development upsetting his ritual, Kal had taken a pick-me-up half an hour before the boss had bothered him, so he was still hard. He sighed and instead of using his rather robust imagination to take care of himself, he figured a vid was advisable, to help expedite things.
One way or the other, he wasn't responding to a murder scene at full mast, and even if he managed a cold shower conversation with himself, he'd be too pissed off to handle any of the volatile human elements with any decorum. So, an expeditious orgasm was in order.
Normally, a play scenario would get him there in about five minutes if he really focused, but as he was scrolling through his suggestions, his eye snagged on something a little off the beaten path (so to speak) and he decided, Ah, what the hell.
It was only when the clarity hit him afterwards that maybe watching a public exhibitionist indulge in the back of a transport, straddling the vibrating chassis of a commuter minder, was in poor taste.
What's the hang up? I've busted to worse things, he assured himself as he got cleaned up and dressed. May as well be mad at someone getting off on top of a clothes drier. But as he gathered himself, he worried at the change in routine like a loose tooth. Exhibition, public play—those were things he'd been into before, had even partaken of himself. But mechaphilia? That was a little bizarre. Admittedly, maybe he’d been unconsciously shying away from exploring it because of his job.
He forced himself to mentally shrug and go about his business. He was overthinking it, surely. So what if his tried and true overlapped garbage every now and then?
He was just keeping things fresh. [*** END]
[To Be Continued 12AUG25]
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