They say that romance has become a lost art, but art only becomes lost when it becomes artwork. Nowadays, machines do all the work, that makes men lazy. Could it be romance is dead because it's too much work not to be primitive? Too bad machines can't do the work of romance...

***

The first thing Virus did when she got home was thump on the air conditioner. It was old, and would conk out soon enough, but for a few minutes it pumped out a nice stream of cool air that was just what she needed after a long day of strutting her stuff. She kicked off her heels and sat down, her bare feet up on the cracked coffee table far more orgasmic than anything she'd been paid for. Belatedly, she thought to turn the lights on and see the grandeur of what she paid three hundred bucks a month for, plus handjobs to the super—there was Spider-Man, crouched on the windowsill.

A few months back, she'd been run down by a gang of jackheads who were looking to get a five-finger discount on what she was selling. Spider-Man had swooped in, given them what for, left them for the cops—what any upstanding citizen would do. Then he'd walked her home, asking if she needed anything, given her a phone number to call if she had any problems in the future. Even the odd decent cop didn't do that; they preferred looking down on her—getting 'thanked'. Weird world: guy in a bug suit was the only one who seemed to actually care.

Since then, she'd been giving him information. Not much; she'd lived this long by keeping her ears closed and her eyes down. But she thought he'd been able to find Electro and Hammerhead because of tips she'd given him.

"I don't suppose you put on a pot of coffee," Virus said, looking longingly at her empty grinder.

"I was worried it would explode. What do you know about the missing prostitutes?"

Virus rolled down her stockings, out of the legholes of her bodysuit and off her long, tanned legs. "Nobody knows anything, Spider. Something like that goes down, even we talk to the cops."

He stepped inside her apartment, pacing—she thought mainly an excuse not to look at her while she was dishabille. "Someone has to know something. A customer that's been giving you the creeps, someone hanging around where he shouldn't be..."

Virus unzipped her black one-piece. Her waist was tiny and firm, her breasts large, with only the tips covered by the cups of her bodysuit. She pulled them out of their confines, enjoying the thought of Spider-Man seeing them—perfectly round, grapefruit-sized, and as tan as the rest of her. Of course, there was no way to tell if he was looking with that mask of his. Who knew, maybe he was gay.

"What customers?" Virus asked. Picking herself up off the easy chair and leaving her clothes behind—giving Spider-Man a look at her rounded ass, two cantaloupes in a bikini bottom—she went to the window and poked open the blinds with her fingers. Just two blocks away was the Cybersex Arcade, its storefront in the shape of a kneeling nude, open legs flanking the entrance. The biggest virtual whorehouse outside of the Senate. "Everyone's going to the new joint. Sexbots. Cheap, clean, don't burp, don't fart—supermodels who fuck like fat chicks. You're looking at an endangered species, Spider."

She ran a hand through her flattop hair—platinum blonde, with a single bang twisting down across her brow. In the old days, a look like that would've identified her as crème da la crème. Now, no one cared.

"Maybe it's for the best," Spider-Man said. "You're in a dangerous line of work. Let the machines have it."

"And make my money doing what? Fighting crime? There a lot of money in that, Spider? Bet I'd fill out that costume better—"

He jumped back onto the windowsill, landing in a crouch. "If you don't know anything, I won't waste anymore of your time. Stay safe. I'll go on patrol, see if I get lucky—"

"Or you could get lucky right here." Virus turned around, splaying herself over her window. A pin-up pose—leg up, arms coiled, lock of hair falling across her face, asking to be brushed out of the way by a noble suitor. "It's been a slow night, Spider. I'm getting out of practice. What say I give you a quickie on the house? You can keep the mask on..."

He stared at her for too long; definitely not gay. Unless he was checking for a penis. "No thanks. I'm trying to cut back."

Then he was out the window, thwip, and swinging on a star. Virus hurried over to watch him go, as the AC conked out and the sweat started to touch her body with the growing firmness of an insistent lover. Maybe she should retire. She was too kinky for a guy in red and blue spandex.

***

Nisa walked through the crowded police station, shivering in her pink sweater. She cared about justice and the law and everything, but in a scorcher like Spice City, the air conditioning at One Police Plaza was reason enough to join up. That certainly seemed like the reason most of the men had joined. They certainly couldn't care about the law.

If only the AC wasn't dialed down to Arctic levels. A sweater was almost good enough, but some days she wished she had a parka. Maybe then she wouldn't be so uncomfortable with the attention she received. Men whistling, craning their necks to watch her as she passed. Their eyes on her well-developed breasts, bouncing merrily inside her tight sweater... if it wasn't their hands on her pert ass.

She made her way through the obstacle course to the Vice department, and the two cops working the missing hookers case. They crowded around a workstation, the holo-screen showing a coffee-skinned woman with jet-white hair. The way she was dressed, it took Nisa a minute to figure they were reading a police report and not watching a porno. Virus, the name on the report read. She was good at noticing details like that. Good practice for when she made detective.

Stern was a big guy—steam-shovel jaw, gritted eyes, a voice like being dipped in gravel. His partner, Connolly, was thin and reedy, his narrow face barely peeking out from under his porkpie hat. The two smoked incessantly. Nisa stood well clear of their fogbank.

"Connolly, Stern?" she asked, even though she knew. "You're working the missing prostitutes case?"

"Yeah? What's it to you?" Stern didn't look up from his work until Connolly elbowed him, then he gave Nisa the kind of look that would send her running for a police officer if she wasn't one herself—or dealing with one.

"I was thinking I could help you solve it."

"Great," Connolly said. "Go get us some coffee."

"I'm a hard worker—I graduated top of my class from the academy—" Nisa stopped giving her resume. They weren't interested. "Look, I think the disappearances have something to do with the Cybersex Arcade."

"That's a nice joint," Stern said. His flattened eyes widened. "You like to go there, Nisa? Have your roll buttered on the other side?"

Nisa ignored him. Just a little hazing. Everyone had to put up with it. "It opened a few weeks after the first disappearance. Most of the sex workers were in hiding because they were threatened; the Arcade got people to start coming because there was no other option."

"And they've been coming in droves ever since," Connolly said. They both laughed.

"I think the Arcade has something to do with the disappearances... I could go there right now and check it out—if someone would log me out a squad car." Budget cutbacks. She needed a superior officer's written permission to get a stapler.

"We're not giving you a squad car, rookie." Stern unzipped his pants. "But I've got something else you can ride..."

Nisa hurried away. Who would've thought that after so much time scrimping and saving to get into the police academy, that she'd miss driving a cab?

Then she started to wonder why two detectives investigating a missing persons case were looking up a person who hadn't gone missing yet.

***

Peter Parker fought the urge to adjust the tie on his retro blue suit. The office he was in wasn't as intimidating as some he'd seen—wasn't as sleazy as a lot of the places that were hiring. It'd been bought wholesale from a liquidated tech start-up, moved into with the artwork still on the walls. But the place had been foreclosed for so long that the offices' clean-up was still ongoing. Deeper in the building, Peter could hear exterminators going about their work. The janitorial service had refused to come in before something was done about the tidal wave of rats living on the premise.

Max, his prospective boss, sat behind a desk with a sparse collection of executive widgets and a vast collection of dust. Max was a big guy, balding, a cheap suit with a five hundred dollar haircut. Like the building, he was still getting used to the huge amount of capital his company was generating. Peter looked at him and wondered how a schmuck like him had lassoed lightning in a bottle.

"Well, kid, I gotta say, it's not easy to find someone with your engineering expertise on the job market, even with the economy being what it is. I'm surprised you haven't been snatched up by Oscorp or Alchemax."

"I have limited availability," Peter said. "I'm more used to freelance work."

Max puffed on his cigar. Always the cigars with these people. Peter was lucky he wasn't allergic. "Hey, we don't judge here. What you do on your time is your business, so long as you keep the merchandise running properly. And don't fiddle with it yourself, of course."

"It's not really my bag," Peter said.

"But we do offer employee discounts."

"Thanks. I'll show up for the maintenance tomorrow morning."

"Yeah. Be quick, be professional—just be a nerd, like you been today. You do a good job with this, you could be sitting in my chair when the company goes national."

Peter's phone rang. He checked it rather than consider the prospect of Max's dusty desk. The call was coming over the Shadownet, through the routers he'd installed to keep the signal from ever being traced. Otherwise, he'd never have felt comfortable giving out a number for Spider-Man to be reached at.

"Sorry, I have to take this. If that's all, I guess I'll just see you again tomorrow?"

"Sure thing, kid. Get gone. And try the merchandise! I'll have your employee discount approved before you're out the front door!"

Peter nodded thankfully, but he was already checking the caller ID of the rerouted signal. Virus. He lowered his voice to Spider-Man's tones as he answered. "Hello?" he greeted, just outside Max's office.

The voice was distant, but audible even over the sounds of objects breaking and tearing. "There's nothing in here, I told you, I can't pay you."

A break-in. She must've dialed his number before they got in.

Peter stepped into the elevator, jamming the Door Close button. As they slid shut, he was already unbuttoning his shirt.

***

Nisa had followed Connolly and Stern only to shadow their investigation, find what angle they were working and see if she could contribute anything. She had never expected things to get violent.

They'd corralled Virus outside the Cybersex Arcade, where she'd been trying to entice the patrons to 'eat organic'. Right away, the situation was all wrong. They leaned into her, loomed over her, asking where their money was. Nisa got it right away. Protection money. She set her phone to record and got as close as she dared, recording as Virus told them that she didn't have any money to be protected. The Arcade was cutting into her profits too much.

They didn't believe her. Hectoring her with vile comments and brisk slaps, they forced her back to her apartment, then shoved her to the side while they tossed the place. From the fire escape, Nisa continued to film through the window. Then Stern pulled a gun.

"Nobody lies to police," he said, pushing Virus's head around with the barrel. "That's Stern's Law. Where's our money?"

"Wrapped around your dick, if you can find it."

The gun went back over his shoulder, then rushed around like a baseball bat to knock Virus to the ground. "Shit, Connolly, I'm starting to see the appeal of knocking these dames around. You think I should do it this time?"

"Nah." Connolly had a pair of brass knuckles on. "I'd still enjoy it more. You wanna watch this time?"

"Yeah. I should get a picture of that pretty face. A sorta 'before and after' thing..."

Nisa knew it was a bad idea. A suicidal idea. But she'd only intended to film a shakedown, not an assault. Swearing, she tapped her phone on the window glass, drawing their attention. "Hey boys. Say cheese!"

Stern fired at her so fast it was almost instinctual, a bullet cracking the windowframe like a blow from an ax, but Nisa was already jumping down to a floor-level dumpster, then down into the alley and she was off like a shot. Behind her, she heard the window smashed open. She was grateful they were giving chase. She'd driven her cab through these streets long enough to know every little shortcut. They didn't have a chance of finding her.

***

Virus washed herself off in her bathroom. Until recently, its cleanness had been a point of pride with her—a separation from the shithole she'd grown up in. A kick from Stern had smashed the toilet and most of the shower tiles had been shattered by the butt of Connolly's pistol. The sink still worked, though, even if the water spilled through the broken porcelain more than it went down the drain.

"Jesus, Vi, what happened?" Spider-Man. He stepped gingerly in through the window, this time avoiding broken glass.

"Nothing much," she replied. "Some people I owe money to." She checked her face in the mirror. She'd definitely bruise. That would improve her prospects, yessirree...

"You don't seem the type to get in bed with a loan shark. Uh, no pun intended—"

"I'm not," Virus stressed. "But when someone has a badge and a gun, and they say you owe, you pay them."

Spider-Man began tidying up. Virus watched in a bit of disbelief. First time she'd seen any guy do that, let alone one in spandex. "How much do they want?"

"Enough."

"How much?" he repeated, collecting the broken glass on the floor with a fine spray of webbing.

She told him.

"Christ, I thought my college loans were bad." He thought for an instant as he wadded up the glassed webbing, dropped it in her trash can—which, ironically, they hadn't damaged. Then Spider-Man took his wallet out. Extracted five bills. "Here. This should cover you for a while. Long enough to get clear, if you can take care of yourself as well as I think you can."

"I can't take that," she said immediately. Never would've thought she'd say that to a spandex-man—well, not for that reason.

"It's fine. I'm starting a new job soon. There are women's shelters, halfway homes—"

"A bunch of Jesus freaks," Virus said dismissively.

"Maybe they'll leave smaller bruises," he retorted. "You're a smart girl, Vi. You don't have to make a living this way. Take the money and get out."

"I can't. You saved my life once already, now you're going to give me charity? I'll have to start coming up with a new opinion on men."

"Take it," he reiterated, holding the money out. It was right there. "Go."

She grabbed it from him. Had it in her pocket before he could say a thing. "You're a born sucker, you know that? This could be up my nose in the next thirty minutes. You're acting like you're in love with me and I haven't even jerked you off."

"Uh... you're welcome?"

She hugged him. His body was tight and warm, the costume on her skin feeling like nothing she'd ever felt. Like it was from another world.

"A guy like you has got to have someone at home. That's the only reason you wouldn't go for me, you've got someone at home. Well, she better be giving it to you long and hard. Long and hard and every night."

***

Virus left her apartment feeling good about herself. She had an old friend who'd gotten clean, married into a family of dentists. She could stay with her while she figured out her next move. Maybe she'd finally give modeling another try.

What she hadn't counted on was the law of the jungle. Even when the predators had moved on, there were still scavengers in search of easy prey. This particular scavenger had almost been scared off by Spider-Man, but was too enamored of Virus to give her up so easily. Her features, her physique, the way she carried herself—it was all worthy of immortality.

He waited until the Spider had left. Then he finished prepping the syringe, and when Virus stepped out her door, it was merely a matter of injecting her.

If someone were to see them together without those five seconds of chemicals, they would only register a man greeting a female friend at her door, telling her to come with him, and the two leaving together as naturalistically as a prostitute accompanying a john.

***

Nisa took a busman's holiday back to police headquarters. The cab she hailed was almost as good as her old one. Before she'd set off, she'd e-mailed the recording to the police commissioner. Now she was wondering what to expect. Probably not a commendation. They'd want to keep things quiet. Connolly and Stern would be retired, she'd be given a tidy little promotion. That would be fine for her. She wasn't greedy.

She got off at One Police Plaza, walked up the steps to the great cylinder of police headquarters aimed at the sky like a rocket ship about to take off, went inside, went to the squad room entrance, and put her hand on the scanner like she'd already gotten used to. It flashed INVALID.

Nisa backed up, startled by the shrill sound of denial that drew the attention of the few suspects waiting to be processed, the detectives hanging around the front desk. The multipurpose scan-surface now became a video screen. She saw her superior, Lieutenant Dent, in a pre-recorded message. Her name was the only thing new; it didn't match his moving lips and it sounded and octave higher.

"NISA LOLITA, you have been terminated from the employ of the SCPD. Your access to the building is revoked and you are banned from the premises, starting now. Your last paycheck has been deposited into your bank account. Have a nice day, NISA LOLITA."

Then the screen was black. In the sudden reflection, Nisa could see two beat cops behind her. They showed her out of the building.

At the bottom of the steps, Nisa checked her phone. Every recording on its hard drive had been wiped. They'd hacked her.

She found herself wondering if Yellowcab still had an opening or if some Chechen brain surgeon had needed a job.

***

Otaka was a slim little man who favored black. He hid from the world—under the brim of his wide hat, behind the lenses of his thick glasses. His accent turned his voice into a croak. Next to Max, he felt otherwise—the other man American, boisterous, normal, himself... special. He'd always felt that way. Not one or the other, but something else.

He slunk through Max's office like an insect that had wandered in out of the great outdoors, his coat sweeping around him. His hand emerged with the gel-lined membrane of a bionic hard drive. These days, they were not much larger than an old USB memory stick. The function was not dissimilar.

"The new personality construct," he said, limping his way to the renderer Max kept on hand. He plugged in the BHD, and the interplay of physicality and mental landscape was constructed into a holographic projection. It wasn't like a photograph, of course. To the untrained eye, the woman portrayed glitched and morphed like a bad TV signal—really, it was the construct acting up sans external stimuli. Once committed to vat-grown flesh and metal endoskeleton, the construct would read its full potential.
"Brenda," he announced, the name hitting his mouth not at all familiarly. "She's even better than anticipated, no?"

"She's a star!" Max proclaimed instantly, sweeping his hand through the hologram. Brenda giggled, awestruck at the size of his fingers, and feigned nervousness. "Your best yet, Otaka. A few more like that and we can open up our Vegas branch. You'll be paid as before."

Otaka ejected the BHD from the rendered, holding it away from Max, almost shielding it with his body. "She is not for sale. I desire to make a trade!"

"Otaka, Otaka, what's gotten into you?" Max held out his hand expectantly. When Otaka still clung to the BHD, he reached for his cigar and took it smoldering from his mouth. "We need each other, remember? You may create the personality constructs, but without the bodies me and Goldblum came up with, they'd just be chatbots! Worthless!"

"Goldblum... that addled fool. He has no vision. Placing my constructs within his machinery is like displaying a masterpiece within a frame of shit-!"

"You won't have to worry about him for much longer," Max assured him. "I've hired a new kid that makes Goldblum look like a piker. As soon as he's learned the ropes, we can move him up the chain."

"Why bother with another? Give me the rendering program. Anything Goldblum did, I can better!"

"Don't rock the boat, Otaka. Our mutual dependency makes us strong."

"Strong? You are a partner. I am nothing. I deserve better than being forced underground-"

Max's hands raised like a wave crashing against rocks. "That's impossible! You don't exist, remember? If the public knew you worked for us, they'd want to know what you do. If they knew what you did, we'd all be out of business!"

"Work for you? Work for you? You work for me! Providing a set of gloves for me to hide my bloody hands in! Work you lack the stomach for! Work you lack the brains for!"

Max was fed up. He snatched the BHD from Otaka, the little man spun away from the force of the pull. "I'll pay you double for this one, alright? Everything else is done for-hire. Enjoy your slice of the pie, Otaka. It's not the whole thing, but it's better than nothing."

***

The superintendent of the Cybersex Arcade was Johann Goldblum, one of those nebbish guys who really worked the accent, sounded like a cartoon pig. He already had the security gate down when Peter arrived, and there was already a line forming, three guys joking around with punchlines that would make your average mother of two drop dead of a heart attack. Goldblum himself was running a quick broom over the floor. When he saw Peter, he unlocked the gate and pulled it up as far as it could go without the mechanism taking over and hauling it to the ceiling. Peter had to stoop to get through. Goldblum closed it up again and locked it once more.

"Hey, why's he get to get in?" one of the scabs asked.

"Private party?" asked another.

"We got money, man, we got good paper money—this ain't Constitutional."

"He's da maintenance!" Goldblum said, poking a finger at them. "That is why he is allowed in! Shoo! Shoo! We will not open for another fifty minutes!"

One gave Goldblum the bird, another followed suit, the third was too spaced out to do anything. He just kinda stood there, looking average.

Inside, the 'bots were already lined up for inspection. Peter's tablet was synched to his wrist-mounted tablet. As he walked in front of each, he checked their read-out. One, 'Darlene', had either had a bout of rough sex too rough, or just been overworked. When he played her sample vocal—'Wanna come inside, cowboy?'—it sounded like he was playing dubstep. He reached into his toolbelt, took out a small scalpel, and made an incision in the Simskin at her throat. With pliers and tiny screwdriver, he went to work repairing her vocoder. He'd fix the epidermis later. It seemed to sag on her facial chassis anyway—too many slaps.

"Kid, you must have the best job in da city," Goldblum said, sweeping up nearby.

"How's that?" Peter asked.

"Working with these lovely ladies—up close and personal—like applying sunscreen to the Swiss bikini team."

Peter played the sample again. W A N N A C O M E I N S I D E—The thing was fried. He began unscrewing it. "They're not women, Goldblum. They're sex toys."

"Have you tried one? It's just like the real thing!"

"I'll take your word for it." The screws out, Peter began prying the vocoder free. It didn't want to come out. The mount was slightly bent. Peter got out his WD-40. "You think we're making the world a better place?"

Goldblum had wandered off, spritzing the walls and wiping them clean. Stains were the last thing you want in a place like this. "Is this about the United Way?"

"No. The johns—customers. You think we're training them to see women as objects or—are we giving them an outlet? If a guy's going to do this to a woman, or something shaped like a woman, is it better he does it to a machine? Or should he not be allowed to do it at all? Even think about it?"

No answer. Peter supposed he hadn't been expecting one. He got the mount back in shape, got the vocoder out. "Goldblum, where do you keep the spares? Goldblum?"

No response. Not even the spray from his bottle. Peter looked around. His spider-sense wasn't going off. Why did that worry him?

Nothing around him but women that weren't women—dolls. Mannequins, only they weren't selling clothes, they were selling... what? James Bond's sex life?

"Nobody here but us chickens," Peter said aloud. No laughter from the crowd. In the distance, he heard thunder clear its throat. A night like this, he wondered—if they were alive, what would they think of him? Patching them up like he did, would they appreciate it? Or was that like thinking of himself as a nice slavemaster?

He heard the click of high heels. Not a frightening sound—neither was a chainsaw, when it was being used on trees...

"Are any units active?" he demanded, raising his voice. Around him, the bots stood in stand-by mode. A parody of life—chests rising and falling, but that was all. No fidgeting, no preening, comatose patients standing idle. "Any active units, respond to my command now!"

Nothing. No one. Fucking fine. Peter cued his tablet to every bot present, sending wake-up commands to all of them. In a split-second, it was like going from the dressing room of a strip show to on stage. They primped, they preened, flashing thighs, breasts. None of which Peter looked at. "All units, identify any presence in the vicinity besides myself."

As one, they turned and pointed—giggling, whispering innuendos, nudging each other like they were alerting each other to the big secret of his masculinity. Everything had to be seductive...

Pulling a wrench from his belt, Peter went in the direction of their pointed fingers. Darkness swirled in front of his face. He took out his phone, lit up its screen, and still nearly tripped over Goldblum's body.

***

Nisa took only one thing from her brief employ as a police intern: a scanner. She put it in her cab, where it annoyed just about every passenger she picked up. Still, she was the first to hear the report of an assault at the Cybersex Arcade. Someone had broken in and taken out the super. The weird part was, there wasn't a mark on him. He was just... blank.

***xxx

The cops came, and the ambulances, and the press. Peter talked some to the cops, some to the EMTs, and not at all to the reporters. They found part of the security grid shut off. Either someone was a really good hacker or someone knew the code. Peter didn't know which was scarier.

As the police canvassed the area, Peter got a call from Max. He'd been expecting that. Got the usual harassment, like it was his fault, Max wanting to know why he'd gotten the cops involved, Peter wanting to know what else he was supposed to do, Max finally saying fine, come back to headquarters, we'll talk there.

Peter wanting to know why it was that Max didn't seem surprised, hearing that someone had wiped Goldblum's brain.

He locked up the Arcade—another shouted compromise by Max, who'd wanted to open it back up, but there was no way Peter was sticking around the place with Goldblum a headcase. Outside, some reporters were still shooting B-roll. Peter ignored him, scanning the street for a cab. He'd been expecting to work a longer shift, catch the bus home. He spotted that shade of yellow that was only used to mean school buses or go fast, darted between two parked Coupes, and pulled open the backseat. "Hey, you taking fares?"

The sign was off, but maybe the Parker luck was finally about to turn. The girl nodded at him. Cute thing, Hispanic, bit of a Brooklyn accent: "Might as well. Hop in. Where you headed?"

And just like that, the other backdoor was opening, a leggy black woman piling in beside him. "M&G head office, Level 1, Block A, Suite 46," Virus said.

"Vi—how'd you know all that?" Peter asked, not sure what she was doing here, not sure why she was pinging some button in the back of his head.

"I know everything about you," Virus said, as the cab took off, its hover-tires spooling out smooth acceleration. The driver was good—a nice, level ascent. "And I want to know more."

There wasn't much of a backseat in the cab, but she took up all she could while Peter crammed himself against the door. Virus laid on all fours like a cat clawing the carpet. She looked up at his face—her hand brushed his crotch—fingers outlined his cock. Peter thought of all the times she'd offered, all his flimsy reasons for refusing, whatever cosmic joke had spun them back together while he wasn't in costume and she wasn't a hooker anymore. Was she?

She bent her head down, brushed her lips over the fabric of his pants. He felt himself throb. Watched as her fingers undid his fly—her warm hand inside his pants—fingers scratching through his underwear, looking for the opening—then her fingertips on his prick, sending an electrical surge straight down to his balls. He gritted his teeth; her fingers curled. She had him in her hand now. She stared up at him, her eyes curiously blank. A doll's or a shark's. She watched his reaction as her fingers went up and down, her thumb went across...

"I'm going to take your cock out and get a nice, long look. Then I'm going to kiss it. Would you like that, Peter?"

"How do you know my name?" some vestige of Peter's reason asked.

"I told you, I know everything about you. Everything about everyone who works at M&G." She bent lower, her bodysuit cut so deep that he could see almost the entire swelling curve of her cleavage. She took him out of his pants and her hot breath blew all over him. "Look, Peter. Look down here. It's leaking. It wants to come. It wants to come right in my mouth."

***

Nisa felt herself getting horny. She felt her panties getting wet like drop after drop of boiling water was being dripped onto her crotch. She felt her nipples cutting against the cups of her bra. She felt her clit stiffly begging to be touched. She heard her fare groan, his voice becoming low and gravelly.

"You're good..."

"I'm the best," Virus replied. Then she started to gurgle and Nisa instinctively knew that her mouth was wrapped around Peter's cock.

It wasn't the first time someone had fucked in the backseat of her cab. If she wasn't too hard up for a fare, she'd pull over and kick them out. Her passengers weren't generally the kind of people who she'd want to see fucking. But the guy was so handsome, and that girl was downright beautiful...

Nisa found herself looking into the rear-view mirror, but not at traffic.

His cock was huge. She'd seen a few pictures online, and a very few in person, but nothing had—or maybe could—prepare her for the sight of an enormous rod, its root thick and gorged with blood, ready to start shooting at any minute. His knob was fat and purple, when it wasn't in Virus's mouth, and Nisa could see it oozing clear fluid freely.

If only Virus were naked too, the view would be just perfect.

***

Virus jerked on Peter's cock. She worked it from side to side, slapping it against her cheeks, her nose, her chin as she jacked it off, taunting herself with it, then she'd glided the whole thick hot thing into her mouth, her throat. All the way. Peter watched it disappear into her lips five times. He didn't know if he could see it vanish anymore without coming. All his power was in his balls; they pounded like church bells. When he felt her fingers squeeze his balls, pump them into the warmness of her palm, he gritted his teeth hard. It did no good at all.

He exploded in her sucking mouth, Virus pulling back slowly, still sucking as he bombarded the inside of her cheeks. When her mouth came free, he kept coming, pumping gobs of hot jism over her face like white camouflage. She took the marking serenely, only moving to lick her lips. Her tongue was a pink as hot as a sunset.

Then her mouth was against his, her tongue between his lips with a metallic tinge. Peter felt a sharp, frozen pain and as everything went dark, he thought that this was why men didn't like being kissed after they got a blowjob.

***

Nisa caught sight of the fireworks show—a flash of blue that turned her rear-view mirror silver, the rest of the cab underwater. Peter was shaking and Virus was still as a statue, then she was pulling away from him with a click, her tongue retracting into her mouth, Peter ashen-faced, blank-eyed.

Nisa pulled off the hover-lane onto the nearest rooftop—it wasn't even cleared for landings. She skidded to a stop, almost hitting a pigeon coop, and turned back around to see Peter slumping to the side, Virus disappearing out the door. She watched the prostitute run to the parapet and jump right off. By the time she'd unbuckled her seatbelt, gotten out of the car, and ran after her, either the building she'd landed on had the fastest clean-up crew in existence, or that hooker had managed to survive a forty-story drop.

Nisa went back to Peter. He was starting to drool. She waved her hand in front of his face. His eyes let it pass without comment.

"Okay, good news, I think I found the chick who aced Goldblum... maybe she has something to do with the disappearances..." She quickly checked Peter's wallet, finding a keycard for Max & Goldblum Robotics—creators of the Cybersex Arcade. She patted him down again, feeling something under his clothes, and unbuttoned his shirt.

On his chest, a black spider stared at her. In his pocket, a red and blue mask.

"Oh crap..."

***

Nisa liked Spider-Man. She liked him a lot. Thirty thousand cops in the city, so few of them did their job with any professionalism, any compassion, but there was Spider-Man. Just some guy. Dressed in red and blue and helped people, just because he could. She didn't know why your average patrolman couldn't do what he did, a fraction of what he did, when he did it for free.

So she didn't want to let a hospital have him. Not find out his identity and put his family in danger. She buttoned his shirt back up and wiped his chin off and laid him down across the backseat. She kept the keycard with her. She started back for the address Virus had given her. M&G Robotics. It all had something to do with them.

Half an hour later, taking a shortcut between skyscrapers, she'd made it to M&G Robotics. She landed on the roof, checking on Peter again before she left. His pulse was steady, his breathing deep and even. She left him to his—sleep—and let herself into the building through the roof access, using Peter's freshly laminated keycard.

It was almost deserted except for a night crew of janitors, busily jabbering over each other as they cleaned up. One had the unfortunate task of binning the rat corpses the exterminators had missed. Nisa walked right through them, head held high like she was supposed to be there, and none of them questioned her.

In all of M&G headquarters, she'd only noticed one lit office, on the seventh floor. She decided it would have to do. She went down the stairwell, arriving to the sound of a late-night jazz band earning their keep on the radio. She poked open the door and saw the deserted office block, the corner office lit up and blaring out music through the open door. Inside, Bobby 'Max' Maxwell was on the phone.

"Damnit, Parker, pick up! Where the hell you gotten to? Argh!" He slammed the phone down in its cradle, took a deep puff on his cigar, stubbed it out, then quick-drew the handset and dialed again.

That was when Virus walked by Nisa, her bodysuit shooting high up her hips and supporting her breasts. Dried cum ran over her face like war paint. She reminded Nisa of a Terminator, walking right by her, face front, eyes dead—like she'd been wound up with a key. But as she approached Max's office, her legs drew out into a sultry slink. She wiped off her face and began to jiggle with each stride. Even Nisa felt her eyes go to Virus's hydraulic ass as she stepped through Max's door. She got out her phone and pressed record. Whatever was happening, she would catch it in the act.

Max saw her. "Wha—wait, how'd you get up here, gazongas? What are you doin' here?"

"I've got something for you," Virus drawled, falling to all fours on Max's desk. "And I think you've got something for me too..."

She grabbed him by the lapels. Her mouth fell open. She jerked his to her's—this time Nisa caught it on tape. Her tongue retracting from a hard steel core, something insectile and electric. As soon as she kissed Max, he went slack. Virus held the kiss for a few moments, her body swaying—then she let him drop. Max sprawled across his own desk, his eyes wide open. Blank.

Guess he's not a suspect, Nisa thought to herself, slipping back from the stairwell door. It closed automatically.

Squeaking.

A split-second later, she heard high heels clicking toward her. Nisa ran down the stairs. Next second, the door was off its hinges. A second after that, arms were wrapped around her midsection, as firm as the safety harness on a roller coaster. Nisa dug her nails into the bare flesh, drawing blood from the left arm—the right arm, her nails tore through into cold metal.

The metal arm was enough to hold Nisa tight as Virus's organic one plucked her phone away. Nisa was able to look over her shoulder far enough to see Virus tuck it into her bra. "You're soft," Virus said, with a dreamy savoir faire. "Want some?"

Nisa laughed nervously. "I don't know," she said, thinking with an odd desperation that it was good to know she was equally hopeless with all sexes.

Virus chinned her sweater's neckline out of the way, kissed her where her shoulder joined her throat. Nisa felt a shiver go through her but wasn't afraid.

"Are you sure?" Strong hands cupped Nisa's breasts from behind—her nipples jolted to life like they'd gotten a jump-start from a car battery. Nisa felt her excitement rush through her swelling head straight down to her cunt.

"Very nice," Virus said, her voice soothing, honeyed. Her irresistible hand ran briskly up the slope of Nisa's throat, took her head and twisted it to her shoulder, where Virus's warm lips could meet hers. As they kissed, Virus's hands roamed her body, dipping into her pocket—slipping her ID card out of her wallet and coming up with it.

"Lolita, huh?" Virus mused. "Sure you're old enough for this?"

Nisa found herself nodding. She guessed that was enough. The next thing Nisa knew, she was against the wall, Virus's near-nude body trapping her, big breasts almost in her face, that all-powerful hand down in her leggings.

Nisa panted out gasp after gasp as Virus held her tight, dappled her finger tips along her labia, then worked a finger inside. "Mmmm... you kept it nice and warm for me, didn't you?"
Nisa's legs spread. A groan that didn't sound like her came out of her throat as her sex grew wet, like Virus's long finger was spraying her down. She felt her clit caressed forcefully, like Virus was demanding she feel pleasure. Virus's other hand came away, freeing Nisa, but she held still as the neckhole of her sweater was jerked down over one breast. She only wore a tanktop over it. Virus bit right through the thin fabric, sending thrills shooting down Nisa's belly to collide with the friction coming off her clit. Nisa was thrilling, struggling, dizzy with what was happening to her. If it weren't for her distant anxiety over the fatal kiss she'd just seen Virus deliver, she would've come already.

Virus's head lifted. She'd left a wet patch over Nisa's breast, her nipple throbbing through its transparency. She looked down at Nisa's hips bucking with the masturbation they were being given, seemingly as enthralled with the sight as Nisa was. "You're one hot bitch," she said, her voice cooing out of her.

Nisa just rocked her fucked cunt on Virus's fingers, her nipples burning—one from the attention it had gotten, the other from being deprived. Her sex was ready. She felt an orgasm on its way, better than anything the vibrator in her purse could give her.

Suddenly Virus capped Nisa's soft lips with her own, a soft smooth tongue forcing her mouth open. Nisa took the hot kiss despite all her brain's warnings. Her heart was thumping madly. Her cunt was flowing. Her clit was on fire.

Then Virus stopped as suddenly as she'd begun. Her finger was gone, her lips were gone—"Wish I could get you off with a warning, sweetcakes"—then she was gone.

Nisa stood there for a few moments, feeling her lips tingle, the cold air on her suddenly vacant body almost arousing her all over again. The lap of her leggings was wet and she was practically topless. Her body moved stiff, robotically as she straightened out her pink sweater.

That was better than Disneyland, she thought to herself. And if she made it back up to her cab on the roof, she just might be able to follow Virus wherever she was headed.

And if Virus had actually finished her off, maybe she would've been clear-headed enough to remember her ID card, dropped on the stairwell floor. An hour later, after a janitor had found Max's body and called the police, Stern and Connolly were presented with it by a CSI.

"Look who's still causing trouble," Stern growled. "Put out an APB. I think we've got our killer."

***

"Calling all cars, calling all cars, we have a possible suspect in the serial disappearances. Nisa Lolita, female taxi driver, cab number 0846273. She is a known mental terrorist, shoot on sight."

Nisa thumped the scanner off, giving the eye to Peter in the passenger seat. "Those stupid dicks! I didn't do it!"

Peter nodded. Or at least he slumped forward when Nisa stopped at a red light. Nisa looked down again to where Virus was stalking down the sidewalk, oblivious to the cab following her in the hover-lanes far above. Nisa wished she would hurry up and show up wherever the hell she was going. If this tail didn't pay off fast, she'd have the cops crawling up her tail.

Virus walked into the bad part of town—the part of town even the cops avoided. At least Nisa wouldn't have to worry about her frame-job here. Virus got plenty of looks, but something in her gait and the way she carried herself put off anyone from trying here. Finally, she stepped through the doorless doorframe of an abandoned building, with the graffitied gang signs of the Brotherhood advising anyone with the slightest street smarts to keep out. Nisa set her taxi down nearby and hid Peter in the footspace, wondering if he could feel the affectionate rub she gave his cheek.

"Don't worry, guy. I'll find some way to reverse this."

She locked the car behind her and followed Virus inside. The building was just as badly dilapidated inside as out, the walls ruptured where their copper wiring had been stripped out. Virus's footsteps echoed down into a boiler room. Nisa took the stairs one lonely step at a time, not descending a foot until she heard Virus take five steps into the distance. Near the bottom of the steps, she saw a green glow up ahead. That was when it hit her—if you wanted to hide something, you didn't chain it up, put a fence around it, run a retinal scan on everyone who came near.

No, you put it in the basement of a place no one would go into anyway, then you paid off the local street gang for good measure. That's how you kept a whole laboratory hidden.

In the middle of all the stuff that Nisa would need two college degrees to name, Virus was lying on a workbench—a recess for her, tools spread around where she wasn't face-up. She wasn't asleep. She was switched off. Made sense for a cyborg. Nisa crept up to her. She could see her phone, still stuffed in Virus's cleavage. She reached for it, moving Virus's breasts aside—they felt cold and dead without whatever simulacra she had being active. Like pushing jellyfish out of the way. Their leaden weight resisted her—some servo inside her not switched on, not giving her body the illusion of life, not making her flesh shift the way it was supposed to. It was like trying to pose a statue...

Nisa heard footsteps coming down the stairs. She muscled Virus's breasts aside, leaving them splayed open like Play-Doh, and grabbed her phone. "Well done, my pet project. Well done. All in one night!" She ran for a hiding place, seeing a door off to the side. She threw herself through it as Otaka stepped into the green light of his lab. "The boy, Parker... the absent-minded professor, Goldblum... the businessman, Max... with all their knowledge sucked into your database, 'em-and-gee' will falter and fold, while Otakacorp rises from their ashes like the phoenix of lore!"

Yep. He was Looney Tunes. No one was sane enough to use the phrase 'of lore' in a sentence. Nisa turned to look for another hiding place, in case he came into the room she was in, and stifled a scream.

They were stored all around her, each in a protein-nest of nurturing membranes, like body bags after a natural disaster. But it wasn't all IV bags and catheters. It was their brains. Something was wired into their brains.

The missing hookers. Packed in like meat at a supermarket.

Nisa started another video recording on her phone, running it over the missing hookers, then through the chicken-wire window in the door. Otaka was examining Virus, attentively fixing the damage Nisa had done to the false skin over her bionic arm with a fleshy spray. Then he moved the workbench like a gurney—Nisa had to crane herself around to follow his progress—taking Virus to a big console against the wall. He strapped Virus in and swiveled the workbench vertical, carelessly dumping various tools to the ground. With a few keystrokes, the console grew a large probe. He rotated the workbench again, sweeping Virus down so that her mouth opened and she seemed to swallow the probe.

Couldn't he make that a little less phallic? Nisa wondered. Look who I'm talking about—the runner of a wayward home for hookers.

On the console's vast screen, an upload was in progress. A trio of gesticulating icons showed up, labeled Parker, Max, and Goldblum. Nisa recognized the frenzy of computerized motion from M&G's press releases. Personality constructs. They weren't synthetic. They'd been ripped right out of someone's head!

Below the computer, like the drop in a soda machine, three BHDs were dispensed. Otaka collected them, lavishing attention on each as he dropped them into his pockets. "Look, Virus—our first-class tickets to a new life. How would you like to be secretary, yes? An excellent use of your talents, I should think...!" He tapped Virus's cold cheek with a laugh—Nisa thought he enjoyed it more with his fingerprints sticking in her skin like a brand. "The next time you see me, my dear, I will be the wealthiest man in this whole stinking city!"

Nisa watched him go. Exit the mad scientist. She looked around again, this time following the wires plugged into the prostitutes. They all led into something that looked like a giant network router, with several BHDs plugged in. Nisa pulled one. It had a holographic seal—a woman's face and name embossed on it. Two faces, actually, each visible depending only on which angle you looked at it from. You moved it ono way, you saw the 'real' face. No make-up, a few acne scars, a crooked nose. Nisa looked over the coma ward. She saw a matching face.

Then she moved the BHD the other way. The face became idealized—almost unrecognizable. A sexy smile, a sultry look through eyeshadow, no scars, no marks, not even a hint of the African-American blood the original had. It was the face of a porn star. Or a sexbot.

The BHD beeped. Nisa turned it over and saw a progress bar on the back of the seal. It was at 99%. Her mind leapt—Otaka was using the hookers to create personality constructs, but they weren't stable. He had to continuously 'recharge' them with the real thing. That's why he was keeping them alive, but on ice. He needed something real to objectify. Nisa plugged the BHD back in; it jumped back to a hundred percent. She couldn't understand the science, but she got the idea. All this: it was just prostitution with a cover of legality. All this tech, all this money, just to sell women.

Hell, to package women. It was like buying brand-name cereal instead of the store-brand. You weren't paying for the cereal, you were paying for the box. For the cartoon mascot on the cardboard.

She searched the router, finally coming up with one that read Virus. Whatever Otaka had done, there had to be a way to reverse it. When he came back, she wanted the real deal in that cybernetic freakshow he'd turned Virus's body into.

Nisa scrambled back to the window, checked the lab to see if Otaka had come back—he hadn't—and opened the door. He hadn't password-locked his computer on the way out. Nisa plugged Virus's BHD in and accessed it. A window opened with a swirl of thoughts and silent sounds playing, the most recent one a pan over Spider-Man's body. Virus knew Spider-Man? How did those two—oh. Obviously. Nisa looked over the file options. First things first, she to get that probe up. Which button had Otaka pushed? Nisa tried one, tried another—nothing.

She looked back at Virus. "Don't suppose you could give me a hint...?"

Virus was up, pulling free of the workbench's straps, cornering Nisa against the console. Shit, one of the buttons must've turned her on. Nisa turned back, jabbing another one, and heard the probe beep inside its casing. Virus was suddenly behind her, spinning her around, hauling her up onto the console. Nisa felt the buttons digging into her ass as the probe extended, between her spread legs. Virus looked down at it, her frozen face somehow conveying a bit of amusement at the sight of Nisa's would-be phallus, before she looked back up at the intruder. Obviously, she'd been programmed for such an eventuality—the exact same programming Nisa would give her in Otaka's shoes. Disable the trespasser and absorb their memories for interrogation later. Virus's tongue peeled back to reveal the crackling prong of her weapon.

It was only a mad rush of insight that saved Nisa. She thought of Virus sucking Peter off and then absorbing him, of mind-wiping Max right away, of playing with her before letting her go. She thought something of the real Virus had to be left behind, mixed in with whatever programming Otaka had given her. And apparently it responded well to her. Thinking fast, she flung herself onto Virus's gorgeous body and bit through her bodice, into the nipple of one heavy breast. She was rewarded with a moan of pleasure.

"Oooh," Virus crooned, "wanna finish what we started?" She pulled down her bodysuit, presenting her naked breasts. Nisa bit down on the other nipple, feeling the caress of Virus's soft flesh on her face. Her sex heated up, like no time at all had passed since Virus had fondled her in the stairwell. As Nisa palmed one tit, devoured the other, Virus stripped off the remainder of her bodysuit. Christ, Nisa thought, she's really built. In all senses of the word.

Nisa started to push down her leggings and Virus finished the job, pulling them off her, ripping her panties off. Their naked sexes came together, both women gently fucking against the other. Nisa felt Virus's pelvis bone drag from her cunt to her clit, felt her own hot honey in Virus's well-groomed bush. She moaned. Virus gasped.

Virus grasped Nisa's soft buttocks, holding their loins tightly together, the cool metal of the probe between them, cutting through their warm pleasure with a perfect spice. Nisa stared into Virus's eyes, registering pleasure, wonder, even a little nervousness.

"We can come like this," Nisa breathed, rolling her legs around Virus's hips, moving faster. She was wildly excited by Virus's body. Muscled, but not like a man—not hard. Firm. Her body flowed through Nisa's clawing hands, the cyborg rocking, crooning in pleasure, angling for a kiss that Nisa wouldn't give her. Instead, Nisa kissed and sucked Virus's big nipples like she was obsessed with them, hearing herself whimper in distressed desire. She felt Virus's big, voluptuous body writhe like a living flame inside the furnace her body provided, pushing her higher, higher...

Until Virus gripped her by the hair and held her back, paralysis-still. When she spoke, Nisa could hear her weapon clicking against her teeth. "Not a bad way to go: cumming." And she moved in with her electric tongue sparking.

Maybe she wasn't expecting what Nisa did next. Maybe she wanted it. Nisa grabbed her by the head and forced her down to the probe at her crotch. It slotted right down her throat, and over her shoulder, Nisa saw a new prompt come up on the computer. REVERSE?

She slammed her hand on the button. Then she reached down and rubbed her clit as Virus's mind was downloaded back where it belonged. This time she wouldn't be left high and dry.

***

Virus came to between Nisa's naked legs, watching the girl come right in front of her. "Wha...?"

Nisa looked down at her in horror, realizing the reversal had finished far quicker than she'd expected. It was too late to stop. She froze and ecstasy claimed her body, throbbing throughout her flesh, her cunt fluttering in spasms wet enough to drown the fire in her sex. Virus saw Nisa squirt, her flowing cunt oiling Virus's face from chin to nose. Then she was done, and Nisa slumped, victorious but defeated, against the view-screen.

Virus gave a tinkling laugh. "Where did I sign up for that wake-up call and how can I get it again?"

***

Otaka didn't get back until long after Nisa had explained the situation. This time, Nisa doubted a little breastplay would change Virus's mind. Or any of the other women they'd restored. She did insist on getting the three remaining BHDs from Otaka before the women got started. Peter was blameless, at least, and the other two the cops could have. Spider-Man probably wouldn't approve of what they did to Otaka, but that was okay. By the time she got him downloaded back into his body, it was all over.

"Who—what?" He gave his head a shake. "What happened?"

"Let me put it this way. You got your brains fucked out."

***

The women went their separate ways, some swearing to get into a new line of work, some self-aware enough to know they wouldn't. Peter regarded what was left of Otaka almost sadly. Nisa guessed when you were a superhero, you even had to feel bad for the villains.

"So what are we gonna tell the cops?" she asked, looking from Virus to Peter. "I already tried blowing the lid off this once. The commissioner covered it all up."

"What you need is someone in the press to get the story out," Peter said.

"You know anyone we can trust?" Virus asked.

"I might." Peter took the phone from Nisa. "Crap."

"What is it?"

"I'm gonna have to ask for my old job back."

***

The scandal had everything. Sex. Prostitution. Corruption. Even a sci-fi angle.

Even with the rancor that Jameson had taken Peter's departure with, he had to take the photographer back with a scoop like that. After the story broke, it was a lot like Nisa had first imagined it. There was a lot of sound and fury; little meaning. Connolly and Stern were retired, no benefits, no pension. No jail time, either, but getting to spend five months sucking down shots before they either died in a car accident to fell off a building wasn't such a miscarriage of justice. And Nisa got enough attention from the story to open her own detective agency. It wasn't quite being police, but she doubted any cop in the city had a partner as good as hers.

Not that Virus was overjoyed by her circumstances. Being able to thrown a grown man across a football stadium was nice, but she missed the simplicity of watching a sunset. No reticles, no sensor displays—just the sun.

The better part of her was medical waste now. Otaka had rebuilt her top-of-the-line. Some days, it was hard for her to tell where the machine ended and she began.

"You think someone can love a machine?" she asked Nisa as they waited around the office for the next case, for Peter to run a check-up on her systems—for whatever came next.

"C'mon, Vi... look out at the city. Everyone's plugged in to a machine, typing on a machine, looking at a machine—the machine might as well be inside as out. What's the difference anymore? Everyone's just like you."

Virus rubbed at her artificial arm. She didn't know if a baseline human could feel the metal endoskeleton, but she could. "The metal inside me... it feels so cold."

Nisa kissed her cheek. "So let's heat it up. Peter'll be here soon—let's see if he can tell the difference between two real things."

Virus grinned, reaching over to grope Nisa's breast. "Don't you mean four real things?"

Nisa couldn't even tell which hand she had used.