Wrong Cyberware - TG
Tags: Cyborg TF, Gender bend, Gender swap, Voice change
The year is 2083 and everything is poison. The air chews your lungs if you breathe it raw. The water tastes like acid, so everyone drinks processed soda in forty flavors of lie and the meat, look, you don't talk about where the meat comes from. Nobody talks about where the meat comes from. But the…
This work contains adult content.
This work contains adult content.
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The year is 2083 and everything is poison. The air chews your lungs if you breathe it raw. The water tastes like acid, so everyone drinks processed soda in forty flavors of lie and the meat, look, you don't talk about where the meat comes from. Nobody talks about where the meat comes from. But the cyberware? The cyberware is AMAZING. Want to taste strawberries with every bite of your gray tofu brick? There's a module. Want eyes that zoom, skin that shrugs off knives, a liver that laughs at anything? Module, module, module. Chrome fixes what the world breaks, if you can pay. You can't pay… not really. You're in your twenties, born about as far from corpo heaven as you can get without being literally underground, not even a mid tier family and you've gigged your ass out of the shithole one courier run and back alley job at a time. Now comes the next step of the plan: full body remodeling. A few years back, that was suicide. Cyberpsychosis ate anyone who chromed up too fast, and then they ate everyone around them. But the new treatments changed the math. The modern modules don't push you into kill crazy meltdown. They trigger a CRAVING instead, huge, specific, personal, something you just HAVE to do or have. Manageable, mostly... if your craving turns out to be something lethal, well, then you're screwed, so it's still no children's game. But better a craving than staying a soft little bun with baseline meat in a city of chrome.
You'll keep your eyes. You like your red cyber eyes. Everything else is up for modification or full replacement and the list your ripperdoc got hold of, gods, the LIST. Sensitive skin, real sensation, not like your current budget arms where you can barely feel shit. Upgraded genitalia, five star sensory suite and yeah, you can't wait to field test your dick with that installed. Filtration lungs. Brain modules, processing boosts, netrunner adjacent stuff. All of it secondhand, all of it CHEAP, cheap enough that going a little into debt makes sense. There are two things you never ask a ripperdoc. Where he got the parts and why he isn't in jail. Ask either and you wake up with your dick attached to your forehead, or worse. Doc Vasile's clinic sits behind a noodle stall, smelling of antiseptic, solder and old blood. The doc himself looks exactly like the kind of guy you don't ask questions: wiry, wild gray hair, four optics crammed into one socket, a giggle that comes out at wrong moments. He looks up from a tray of organs and giggles at one of those wrong moments. "Ohhh. You're here for the secondhand batch! You SURE, boy? That's a lot of chrome and very, ehm… SPECIFIC chrome." You scan the crates. You spot the genitalia module casing. Your ears go hot. "Yeah, yeah. Don't look at me weird. You get it, right?" Vasile smirks. "Whatever my client wishes. Relax. I'll make you a Mona Lisa. You'll wake up so improved your own parents wouldn’t tell it's you." You giggle, weird and nervous, and lie down in the chair. The anesthesia takes you mid thought.
You wake up nude in the aftercare room, which is trashy as hell. Stained cot, flickering light, a poster of a liver with a phone number on it. You've been here before, after the arms. You lift your hands. The arms are new, matte gunmetal with red trim lines, sleek and slimmer than your old ones. Noticeably slimmer… delicate, almost. 'Huh... Slim design. Whatever. Specs matter, not looks.' Then you look down, and your brain bluescreens. "Wait… why do I see a pussy?! WHY IS IT THROBBING? WHAT THE FUCK!" You shout it into the air and shoot up off the cot, and your body moves WRONG, weight in wrong places, balance swinging from hips you never ordered. You have BREASTS, modest, perky, sitting high on a smooth white synthetic chest. You have a huge soft ass. Your gym gains, years of natural muscle, as natural as anyone gets these days, GONE, all of it, replaced by seamless smooth synthskin, pale white with thin black data lines tracing your joints. Your nipples are bright blue. You stumble to the cracked mirror and your tongue, when you check it, is blue too. Your pussy? Blue. 'Is it color coded to every internal part?! Am I THEMED?!' You look down, spread the plush blue lips with two trembling gunmetal fingers and blush so hard your new face burns. It's already dripping, glistening, a thin string of slick connecting your fingertips when you pull them away and the TOUCH, gods, the touch rings through you like a struck bell. 'Oh no... oh no no no, it's SENSITIVE~'
The door bangs open. Vasile strolls in, sipping soda. "Ohhh, I see we're enjoying the new body. Hehehe." "WEIRDO! Why did you turn me into a fucking CHICK?! Where's my dick, can I HAVE IT BACK?!" Your voice comes out smoky and feminine and that makes everything worse. Vasile looks away. Actually looks away. "That would be... difficult. Natural sized big ones are hard to source these days, very in demand. So it was, ah… sold. As part of your debt." "Wha. WHA. WHAT?! You MORON, you did all this over my fucking DICK?!" you say, blushing furiously. "What do you mean, MY fault?" Vasile giggles. "The parts were labeled FEMALE, dumbass. Did you not check the part descriptions?" "I... I... wait, there's an identifier for that?! Can't you just slap cyberware on anyone?!" The ripperdoc laughs so hard an optic recalibrates. "Oh my god, you DIDN'T. Well! Mistakes were made, I sold off your bad parts. Your lungs are in the trash, by the way, smoked to near cancer levels, disgusting and THIS batch I got cheap, even made some cash on the side. Some old school cyberpsycho hit a brothel last month, whole inventory flooded the market. Look at you! Best deals in the district! Best BITS, too, don't worry, I selected the less used ones. But hey, so much new chrome at once, I can count your original parts on one hand. You're basically a psychosis lottery ticket. Hahaha!"
Your pussy spasms at nothing and you press your thighs together, mortified. This body is a fucking sex toy. A sex toy with GREAT specs, though. Even your thoughts run faster now, cleaner, the brain modules humming. Maybe you could actually try netrunning soon. Vasile, who knows he messed up and is angry at himself about it, mutters, blushing behind his optics, "FINE... my bad. My stupid ass mistake. Maybe I'll, I don't know, TELL clients 'hey, you'll wake up a chick' beforehand." "Why WOULD you, though," he adds immediately, "it's so fun and my guy, I made you PRETTY as fuck. Freakiest Frankenstein I ever built. Five times sensitivity. Hahaha!" "...Okay," you manage. The blush deepens. "Now, customers are lining up. You brought no female clothes and your old ones won't fit that ass, so." A bag hits the cot. "Don't ask where they're from or walk naked, your call. Five minutes, or I tell the next client he can have fun with you. Oh, and if you DO go psycho, better for me, I repo everything. Just don't get shot in the pussy, eyes, head or chest. Those parts are PRICY." You dump the bag. Skimpy doesn't cover it. You dress anyway and check the mirror, and a blue haired cam girl stares back at you, red eyed, blue lipped, criminally hot. 'Fucking ripperdocs. Greedy as always...'
The walk home is twelve blocks and every single one of them humiliates you differently. The skimpy top does nothing against the evening chill and your new five times sensitivity skin reports EVERYTHING. The synthetic mesh dragging across your blue nipples with each step. The shorts riding up between your soft ass cheeks. The night air itself moving over your bare midriff like breath. You walk stiff and weird, arms crossed, trying to minimize surface area against the universe. Loud music thumps from a bar doorway. "Hey, blue! Smile more!" someone calls from a food stall line. You flip him off with a gunmetal hand and the whole line laughs, and your face burns, and your body responds to the ATTENTION with a warm little pulse below your navel that you absolutely did not authorize. 'Stop that! We do not pulse at catcallers.' The worst part is your eyes. Not the hardware, the SOFTWARE. Women pass and you check them out same as always, hips, chest, ass, old habits. But then a courier guy jogs past, tall, forearms, jawline and your gaze snags on him the exact same way, sliding down his back to his ass before you catch yourself. 'WHAT? Since when do I~ that's the body. That's the cyberware doing that. Brothel wetware comes with brothel taste, that's~ that has to be it!'
Your pussy grows warmer with every block, a slow throb building between your thighs, moisture starting to seep into the cheap shorts, wicking through the fabric like a sponge, and by the time your apartment door hisses shut behind you, you're pressing your thighs together with every step. Because here's the thing you've been refusing to look at directly: the psycho craving. Every new heavy chrome build gets one. You've been praying yours would be something normal, collecting soda cans, a specific noodle flavor, whatever. If it's something lethal, you're doomed, back to Vasile in pieces, sold off a limb at a time. You got into your apartment and sit on your mattress. The throb doesn't stop. It GROWS, hot and insistent and specific, radiating up from your pussy into your brain modules like a priority alert you can't dismiss, and understanding arrives all at once. 'Oh no… IS THIS the CRAVING! It's THIS!?' The brothel body knows what it was built for, and it WANTS. You hold out eleven whole minutes. Then your rough gunmetal fingers slide down under the waistband and the first direct touch on your soaked pussy folds you in half. "AHHN~" Five times sensitivity is not a marketing number. One fingertip dragging up between your slick blue lips feels like a whole mouth. You circle the swollen little bud of your clit and your entire body TWITCHES, back arching, toes curling against the mattress, a moan pouring out in that smoky voice you still don't recognize. "Hnnn~ ahh~ ahhhn~ okay~ okay this is~ fuck~"
Your fingers are clumsy, too rough, built for gripping crates not this, but the body forgives everything, wetness flooding over your knuckles, hips grinding up into your own hand, and the first orgasm ambushes you inside two minutes, crashing through the new nerve suite like a power surge, pussy clenching hard around nothing. "AHHHHN~" You lie there gasping. The craving dims for exactly eight seconds. Then it comes back HUNGRIER. 'More. It wants more! Okay okay okay.' And that's when you remember the dildo. Bottom drawer, still in its packaging. One of your friends gave you the crazy thing as a gag gift, huge, blue, ridiculous, and you kept it meaning to sell it, but you were always too embarrassed to list it. You dig it out with shaking hands, and it's BIG, thick as your new slim wrist, and the color matches your nipples, which feels like the universe laughing at you. You suction it to the floor. You hover over it, holding it steady, and lower yourself, and the fat head presses against your dripping entrance and SPREADS you, and the stretch is unlike anything in your entire previous life, plush walls parting around it, every ridge of the toy reporting in individual high definition as you sink down inch by inch. "Ohhh~ oh fuck~ oh FUCK~ hnnnn~" **SCHLORP**
You bottom out, thighs trembling, stuffed absolutely full, the pressure deep in your belly, and for one long moment you just kneel there vibrating. Then the body takes over, and you RIDE it. Slow at first, hips rolling, learning the angles, then faster, bouncing, ass clapping down against the floor, your breasts bouncing, blue nipples stiff and electric, your metal hand coming up to grip one and squeeze. The wet sounds fill your tiny apartment, obscene and rhythmic, and your mind goes progressively, gloriously offline. **PLAP PLAP PLAP PLAP** "AHN~ AHN~ HNNN~ AHHHHN~" You squit again then again, harder, squirting a hot gush down the toy's shaft, drooling onto the floor. Then AGAIN, blue tongue lolling out, drool sliding down your chin, eyes rolling back, the brain modules helpfully timestamping each orgasm like they're logging benchmarks. Orgasm number four whites out even the timestamps. Some unknown amount of time later, you slump sideways off the toy onto the cool floor, steaming, twitching with aftershocks, cum and slick cooling on your thighs, and lie there staring at the ceiling while the craving finally, FINALLY settles into a warm satisfied purr. 'Okay,' you think, when thinking becomes available again. 'Okay… assessment...' The craving is masturbation or sex. THIS constantly, probably daily, maybe worse. As psycho cravings go, it could have been murder or eating batteries, so honestly? You got lucky. Embarrassing, thigh trembling, neighbor complaint generating luck, but luck and the specs. Gods, the SPECS. The brain modules cut your thought lag to nothing, netrunning is actually on the table now. The lungs filter District 9's air like it's mountain breeze. The body is durable, gorgeous, and, as extensively tested tonight, ludicrously functional.
Then there's the money math, and the money math is where your eyes narrow at the ceiling. Because you know this city and this city pays STUPID money for hot pieces with premium sensory suites. Brand deals. Escort work at the mid tiers, where it's safe and vetted. Braindance recording, gods, Braindance studios pay per orgasm and you just produced four in an hour like it was nothing. The debt to Vasile, the number that was supposed to haunt you for two years, suddenly looks less like a mountain and more like a speed bump. 'If I don't mess this up,' you think, one metal hand resting on your bare soft belly, feeling it rise and fall with your filtered breath, 'I pay this off in MONTHS! And then the chrome is mine, all mine, best specs in the Stacks.' The dildo stands in the middle of your floor like a monument. You look at it. Your pussy throbs once, hopeful. "...Give me five minutes," you tell it, out loud, in your smoky new voice, and you hate how little you hate any of this.