Fuck, this day was just the absolute worst. Many times, couriers are told to not care about what they deliver, to not question it, and usually, I keep to that because the alternative is a one-way ticket to abject mental misery as you repeatedly internalize just how much horrific shit the corps get up to. But sometimes, these fuckers are just so god damn giddy for whatever it is you're delivering, and that was what I dealt with today, with one of my recipients being so glad this chemical finally arrived, because they were way overdue in concocting a trial dose for the new cleaning compound and had to get the human trials going today. And given the heavily armed security blocking the doors that guy disappeared behind, I could tell that these weren't trials you sign up for.
But I just can't dwell on this sort of thing. If I wasn't the one delivering this crap, someone else would be, and if everyone universally decided to not deliver for the corps anymore, they would just have people do it under threat of death from their private police forces. I guess having these thoughts means that I still have an inkling of a conscience, even as life tries to beat it out of me. And there are a few things I can indulge in that make life somewhat worth living, like the android red light district. In a remarkable series of events, generally available prostitution has now become the domain of autonomously acting androids. Human prostitution has been massively regulated in a way only corps can provide it, and the android counterpart is allowed to exist as a lower-quality alternative to strictly establish the corp-sanctioned human variant as a premium luxury item that the rich pay exorbitant amounts for.
And so, even someone like me can—rarely, mind—afford an android prostitute for an evening, and given my preference is of the homosexual variety, I find myself seeking out the gay section, a small subsection of the otherwise female-dominated district. Now, prices are fairly consistent here, and if there is someone offering for a much lower price, it's usually too good to be true and they never stick around. But there is one exception. There's one android I've now seen several times, offering services at noticeably lower than the going standard rate, and it seems he's consistently able to do that, so today, mostly out of curiosity, I decide to approach him. Coming closer, I can see his expression is rather tired, which is unusual for androids. "Hey, um... what's the deal with your price? Why is it so low?" I ask.
For a moment, he lets out a deep sigh. "...I don't have a dick. I have a pussy. Most people that come here want a dick, and I can't compete at the going rate," he explains in a remarkably frank way. I presume he's had to explain this quite a few times.
This could be the end of this conversation, because, well, yes, I too am in the market for dicks. But something about the way he says this has me curious. "...Why do you have a pussy?" I ask in return, not paying heed to how this could be construed as rude or prying. Perhaps the environment makes the usual niceties less necessary.
"Long story. Really short version, I was built with a female body, scheduled for destruction on the assembly line due to defects, but I escaped. Something in my subconscious processes made me really uncomfortable in that female form, so I've spent a lot of time and resources modifying it into a more masculine form. But about fifty percent of my kernel is purely dedicated to drivers and interfaces for the pussy, so replacing that seems to be much more trouble than it'd be worth," he explains, though that does throw up more questions.
Well, maybe I can get some answers to some, mainly one. "I've never heard of something like that, and that seems so strange. If you were programmed to be a female sexbot, presumably, why would you have a desire to become more male?" I ask, not sure what answer I'm expecting.
There's a bit of a sudden glint in his eye. "I don't know either. Suits back at the factory'd probably call it a defect. Maybe that's even why they sent me to the disposal line in the first place. But damn it all, it feels right to me! Every time I looked into a mirror and saw something more masculine, it felt great! It felt like being what I wanted to be, not what they decided I should be. So if that's a malfunction, then call me fucking broken, I guess, but I'd rather exist broken than be turned into slag. ...So are you gonna pay for an evening, or are you just gonna fuck off like most of the others once they actually learn about me?" he tells me, a clear tone of rebellion in his voice.
If I were to be honest, I'd probably say that yes, I'm not looking to buy the services of an ostensibly male android prostitute with a pussy, that's not what I'm looking for. But I don't know, something about him is intriguing. Maybe even exciting? So after a moment of thought, I pull out my credstick. "I'll take you," is my simple reply. It's very clear he did not see that coming, and there is a lot of surprise in his expression, but eventually, we go through the transaction, the introductions—where I learn his name is Ryan—and the trip back to my shoddy apartment.
My apartment is not great. It's not even good, either. At best, it can be described as "just about as serviceable as a courier's salary allows". But it's mine, or, well, at least the parts that aren't on lease from various corps are. The two of us sit down on my couch, and Ryan asks the obvious question. "So, what are we going to do tonight?"
"...I don't know," is my honest response.