by Dr. Noh
(mirrors http://s2b2.livejournal.com/74257.html)
“One hundred an hour,” they’d told him, and he’d jumped at the chance. Now, four hours and thirty-one minutes later by his internal clock, he was still happy with his decision.
The next guy unzipped and shoved into his ass, already more than slick enough with lube and come. His legs were getting tired, but he had another five minute break coming up, and he’d be able to walk around a little.
“Uhn, yeah, fuck,” the guy grunted, slammed into him hard and fast. The pulse of the music was temporarily overwhelmed by the slap of skin meeting skin, at least in that small corner of the club.
The boy yawned. He’d lost count of the number of men who’d fucked him. More than eleven, less than fifty. He was a little sore, but he’d been designed well. Dr. Dad had gotten the very latest molecular synthetics to reinforce the parts of him most likely to be abused. He didn’t even technically need lube, but people made assumptions, and what was he going to say?
As hour four flipped into hour five, he held out his hand to the side of beef that stood beside him. “Pay up,” he said, and got the next hundred slapped into his palm.
“You want another break or…something?” the beef said, lines growing between thick black brows on a full-moon pale face.
“I can take it.”
He was taking it. Another cock, ten more hard fingers to bruise his hips, since Dr. Dad hadn’t thought to augment him there. He imagined that conversation briefly.
“Hips,” he’d say. “Everyone’s favorite handle.”
“Not mine.”
“Not everyone’s you, Dr. Dad.”
“Don’t call me that.” The same words, forever, like two divided by three was point six repeating forever. “Don’t call me that,” was a certainty.
Dr. Dad didn’t have a fetish that would make his nickname easier to bear and had in fact never had occasion to use the boy’s hips as a handle. The boy had run away while he was still too young for the doctor’s tastes, or at least while his body still looked too young.
“Take it,” the guy behind him growled, ignoring the fact that he was taking it already, that he could take it all day and all night. “Gonna shove my cock in your fuckhole, yeah, Jesus.”
Don’t call me that, the boy thought, and smiled. Dr. Don’t Call Me That Dad had explained god to him. He liked the idea. Sometimes he imagined Jesus being taken off his cross and put into a tank to heal, resurrection and eternal life, a tank just like the one the boy had been born from. It was so neat. All the pieces fit together. He liked that.
“Can I fuck his mouth?” someone said, but the answer was lost when the police broke down the doors and poured in, filling the room like black tar, sticking everyone to stillness with their stun nets.
The guy who wanted to fuck his mouth was gone and so was the side of beef. The boy stayed where he was. He didn’t want attention.
There was an absence of music, a sunrise of house lights, waves of conversation with spikes of protest.
After twenty two minutes, a hand touched his shoulder. It was gentle, but its skin was rough and dry.
“You okay, kid? You need a medic?”
“I’m all right.”
The rough-gentle hands helped him stand and draped a long coat around his shoulders. It stretched all the way to the floor, just brushing his toes. It was cool and silky and heavy. It made him want to pet himself.
“I’m Detective Avery. Just gotta ask you a few questions. Name?”
“I don’t have one.”
Avery gave him a sour look. “Gonna be like that, huh. Address?”
“I don’t have one of those, either.”
“I’m authorized to give you a teller, y’know, if you won’t cooperate. ID number?”
“I don’t–”
“Fine, yeah.” Avery leaned in slapped a dermapatch on his neck. The boy could feel the drug penetrate his skin with a simmering warmth. “Okay, again. Name?”
The boy smiled. “I still don’t have one.”
Avery grinned a rictus grin at him, and they went through it all a few more times, with the addition of a fingerprint scan to prove he really wasn’t in the WID.
“Everyone’s in the WID,” Avery’s boss said. She was a hulking thing, as big as the side of beef with big muscles and bigger hair. The boy watched her carefully as he always watched women. He wasn’t used to them.
“Not him. So what do I do with him?”
She sighed. “I don’t know. We’ll have to process him. Throw him in the lock up till morning.”
“No, don’t,” the boy said, when she was gone. He held Avery’s wrist hard enough to grind bones together and heard Avery’s soft grunt of pain. “I don’t want to be in the WID or this lock up.”
“Who are you? What are you?”
“I am biologically human, with some enhancements.” He could feel the drug still working on him and smiled. “Ask me more questions. Take me home with you. I’ll tell you everything you want to know. I’ll be everything you want me to be.”
“Don’t get any ideas, kid. I know where you’ve been. Shit. Don’t know how you’re even on your feet right now.”
“It is preferable to sitting down, even with my advantages.”
Avery made a hoarse noise, probably meant to be a laugh. “Let’s go.”
Avery made him ride in the back of the car, metal mesh between them. He sprawled out on the backseat and let Avery’s coat fall open. Avery looked once and didn’t look again, but the boy looked at him.
His hair was dark and wiry, faint grey at the temples. He wasn’t as old as Dr. Dad, but he was old enough for wrinkles to have colonized his face. Wrinkles fascinated the boy, always had. Scars, too. Permanent marks, things that didn’t change or fade.
“You can call me Frank,” the boy said.
“It’s not your name.”
“It’s from Frankenstein.”
Avery glanced back at him. “Frankenstein’s monster didn’t have a name.”
“I’m aware of that.”
“How old are you?”
“Chronologically, my body is four years old.”
“Well, that’s disturbing as fuck.”
“Obviously, my aging has been accelerated. I would guess, physically speaking, I’m in my early twenties.”
“Yeah? What about if you measure it in sex and cynicism?”
“Fortyish?”
Avery snorted. “I’m fortyish.”
“Then we have something in common already,” the boy purred.
Avery’s place was way up in the cubes, a twelve foot square concrete box on the fortieth tier, but at least it was on the outer wall. The boy hated the ones with no windows, and the airshafts were almost as bad.
There was a mattress, a sink, a hot plate, a small wall fridge, a basic bathroom behind a floral print curtain. That was about it. The boy let the coat fall to the floor.
“Fuck me,” he said.
“Take a shower.” Avery shoved him towards the curtain. “And remember to scrub behind your balls.”
***
Avery boiled water and dumped two heaped spoonfuls of orange-flavored stim in it, stirring until the lumps of powder were mostly broken up. He stood by the window and sipped at it. It made his mouth tingle and his heart beat faster.
The boy was a clue, Avery’s only clue in more than a decade of patient detective work. A slip-up, an accident. A gift, Avery thought.
He flexed his hands and felt the implants, claws waiting to break through the skin of his knuckles at a single twitch of nerves he shouldn’t have. He hadn’t made himself bleed that way in years, but he played with it now, letting the tips press, press, press at his flesh from the inside.
It was sophisticated work, the doctors had told him. No one knew who could have done it. No one knew how to undo it.
The boy stepped naked from the shower and dripped on Avery’s floor. He looked less like a badly used Realdoll and more like Aphrodite rising from the waves, granting the waves were made of concrete. Avery threw him a towel.
“You don’t want clothes, do you?” he said.
“No,” the boy said. “I’m clean now. I want you to fuck me.”
“Heightened sex drive. Strengthened immune system, I’d guess. Reinforced tissue?”
The boy gave him a sunny smile. “Yes. I self-lubricate, too. Would you like to see?”
“Not really.” Avery looked out the window again. He couldn’t see much beyond the next cube, just the grey street that separated them and the jagged silhouette of the Broken Towers rising above, perfectly black against the city lights. His eyes focused closer, on the boy’s reflection in the glass.
White male 18 to 22, read the police report Avery wouldn’t be making. Green eyes, blond hair, approximately 5’11”, no identifying marks.
“Why green?” Avery said, and the boy looked startled for the first time. “Your eyes, why green? Blond and blue-eyed, that’s classic. Why the deviation?”
“How should I know? Maybe he likes green eyes.”
“Were you made for sale or his personal use?”
The boy slunk closer and pushed up against Avery’s side. His cock was half-hard, nudging at Avery’s hip. Their eyes were on a level, even with the boy barefoot. Avery revised his height estimate slightly upward.
“You seem to know a lot about it,” the boy said. He pushed Avery’s glasses up on top of his head. “About me.”
He looked into Avery’s eyes and didn’t say anything else. He didn’t have to. They were the same shade of green as his own, a color Avery’s somewhat poetical ex-partner had described as leaves on sunlight. You mean the other way around, Avery had told him, but he’d no, he knew what he meant. A few minutes later, he’d hanged himself with Avery’s belt.
Until he was thirty-two, Avery’s eyes were best described as shit brown. He wore tinted glasses all the time now, even during winterdark.
The boy touched Avery’s lips. “He wanted to make my teeth retractable. That would be useful, don’t you think?”
“For some things.”
“What are you useful for?”
Avery flexed his hand and a few synapses. He forced himself not to wince as the claws tore through his skin.
“Ooh.” The boy touched them curiously, a slow drag of fingerpads over knife-sharp synthetic bone. Blood dripped down Avery’s knuckles, and the boy bent to lick at it. His tongue curled around one claw, lapping, a too-intimate caress of something that was never meant to be touched. Avery felt it in a distant, dulled way. It made him shudder. It made his stomach twist. It made his cock thicken.
The boy smiled at him and licked blood from his lips. “I like them.” He pulled Avery’s shirt free of his pants and unfastened his belt buckle. “I’m going to suck you off now.”
Avery didn’t think he’d be up for it, literally, but the boy had a talented mouth, soft lips, perfect technique. He sucked Avery’s dick in long, wet glides from base to tip and back, again and again, hand on his balls, soft noises of pleasure or the artifice of pleasure. When Avery grabbed his hair and fucked his mouth, he moaned louder, swallowed and swallowed and swallowed around him, and Avery reached his tipping point with a curse that sounded a lot like rage to his own ears. The boy took it all and smiled afterward. His own climax was evident in pearlescent white on the dull grey floor.
He smelled good, Avery thought. Not like anything in particular, but like something Avery had wanted without knowing it. Pheromones, maybe.
“That was good,” the boy said. “Do you have any food?”
Avery shook his head. “Just stim, orange and lime flavors. Payday’s tomorrow.”
The boy pulled a hundred credit chip out of a fold of skin on his thigh. “Can we order out? I like Chinese.”
***
The boy ate till he felt his stomach uncomfortably swollen inside him, more food than he’d ever had at one sitting before. Eight potstickers all by himself, and moo shoo pork and General Tsao’s chicken, and some noodly things. Real food, the kind you couldn’t get without being registered in the World Information Database, because no reputable merchant would take your credits.
“I want more for breakfast,” he told Avery, and Avery gave him a tolerant smile.
“We’ll go out. Your pick. You can gorge yourself on pancakes or congee or whatever.”
“Maybe I’ll get fat,” the boy said, as they both climbed beneath the grubby sheets on Avery’s mattress, and this time Avery actually laughed.
“You do that, kid.”
He wondered if he could, if his metabolism would allow it. He wormed closer to Avery’s body and slid under his arm, hooked a leg over his. Avery let him. His arm curved around the boy’s shoulders and drew him closer.
“Are you going to kill him?” the boy asked.
There was an over-long pause. “Who?”
“Dr. Dad.”
“Heh. I hoped you’d know his name at least.”
“Are you?”
“I don’t know. If I said yes, would you help me?”
The boy thought about potstickers and green eyes that were like looking into a mirror, and Avery’s arm around him. Touch that wasn’t for sex. He hadn’t known that was something he could want.
“Yes,” he said. “I’ll help.”
