Xeno ISO Synth for One-Time Encounter
J-type xeno ISO humaniform synth for one-time encounter on Paracelsus Station, Beta Cylinder
Me: mature, attractive j-type xeno. 2.7 meters long. Station-raised, vocal-fluent in Terran Standard.
You: fully-autonomous synthetic being. Humaniform body plan. Sapient level 6 or higher. Chromium or ceramic plating. Surgically sterilizable. No bioskin, no meat!!
Before: we exchange zero-knowledge proof of identity to help keep everyone safe. I will get tested for nanophage and root viruses and send you my (clean) results. You will send me a Turing cert proving that you are the rootmind and that all of your id-drives (sex, sade, sort) are nonlethal.
I have been brooding for six cycles and will stay that way until you take me. On the day of our date, please have all of your exposed surfaces autoclaved.
On our date: We meet in a café. Nothing fancy. Between the fourth and fifth ringrails sounds nice. It’s a cozy place that I’ve never been to before. (Somewhere that accommodates xenos, of course—they’re not too hard to find in Beta Cylinder.) You pick the restaurant out for us.
I show up early, fifteen minutes maybe. I expect you to be right on time—precisely. But you’re already there when I arrive. You tell me that you anticipated my anxiety, my prematurity. You tell me that you have been waiting for over an hour but that I arrived exactly when you computed I would. I sit at the table. You do not stand up or help me with my chair.
The waiter comes to take our order. (It’ll have to be a café with a waiter; I don’t care if the waiter is bio or xeno or synth.) You order my meal for me. (Feel free to interrupt me if I start talking.) I eat anything methane-safe. I’m not going to tell you my favorite dishes because I want you to choose. Don’t worry if you order something I don’t really like.
I’m going to eat it anyway.
You don’t order anything for yourself. (It’s fine if you foodfuel, I’m not bigoted, I just don’t want to see it.) While we wait for my meal, we make small talk. I am awkward and eager to please. (It’s not an act, that’s just who I am!) You are calm, aloof, contained. If you’re comfortable vocalizing synthetically that’s a big plus. I reach out across the table, trying to hold hands with you. You take one of my hands but it’s not a gesture of affection, it’s purely analytical, you’re dissecting me with your gaze. I try to take my hand back and after a moment of resistance you let it go.
My meal comes and I make a bit of a mess. (I can’t help it, it’s my mandibles.) You stare at my plate, at the meal you have ordered for me and that I have ruined, and you tell me that I am disgusting.
You’re so right.
You pay for lunch and we go back to a place of your choosing. Not your house—I think it’s better that way. I don’t want a bio hotel and I can’t fit into a standard synth pod. A third-party bodymod clinic is usually best. A lot of those places rent by the hour. We’ll need about four.
You guide me to the place you have chosen. You use your powerful, flawless machine hands to direct my body. You close the door.
Outside our new lovenest, the biohazard warning light begins to strobe.
Inside you take me to the operating table. At this point I start fighting back a bit, especially with my lower diplosegments and tail. My body resists confinement, but you’re forcing me!
(Don’t worry—my thrashing is mostly reflex. But, if you’re into it, we can have some more fun…so long as you’re labor- or combat-grade—strong enough to overpower me!)
At this point you’ve got me onto the table, but I’m still trying to wriggle away. I’m such a naughty arthropod!! You need to hold me down.
Biomod suites typically have a semiautonomous surgical theater rig. If you can interface with that rig and directly use it to immobilize me, that’s a huge, huge plus, but it’s okay if you operate the rig manually too. (I know logging in to a semisap during an intimate encounter squicks some synths.)
You’ve got me immobilized with your hard, shining limbs. I’m thrashing properly now—instinct!—but I can’t escape. Resistance to your metal strength is impossible. My body knows that it’s wrong, so wrong, I’m not supposed to be here, I’m not supposed to be doing this, I’m supposed to be spawning a clutch on homeworld, not torn apart by alien robots with faces like mirrors and fingers like knives—
I may start to scream at this point. That’s a very good sign and means that you’re doing a great job. Feel free to tell me to shut up. Be as cruel and insulting as you can. I particularly like scientific terms being used for me—subject, specimen, experiment. (Contact War roleplay is a hard limit, do NOT call me a worm or bug or ’pede.)
Try and get me to cry. I can send you an audiofile of my distress vocalizations so you can recognize when I’m weeping.
Once I’m ruined, destroyed, undone...it’s time to open me.
You peel apart my rugged opisthomal plates, revealing my spawning membrane. This is my fourth brood, but I’ve never been to a spawning pool before (haven’t even been on homeworld!), so I’m still tough and keratinous. You need to saw through my membrane and open me up. Please use your bare hands—your sharp, powerful, remorseless robot hands. I’m not really into toys.
Inside my membrane is the gestesac. My tender center trembles in fear. When you lay your hands on me, my sensitive, fragile tissues flinch from your touch. But you don’t hesitate. You force open my clenched ovisphincter and, one by one, remove my gross, filthy, slimy spawn. I’m pleading and sobbing, tears leaking from every pheropore, but I can’t stop you. I’m totally immobilized, totally helpless, as you ravage me.
There should be a couple dozen spawn once you’re done. I’m unfertilized so there won’t be any runners. I do need to watch while you cull them, otherwise my hormones go all weird for months.
I can clean the room up after.
I don’t need much aftercare, but it’s nice if you make a low, continuous hum, around 10 kHz, to simulate stridulation. I’m usually pretty beat after all that (any tears at this point are exhaustion or relief!), but I’m still happy to provide care for you: Voight-Kampff mantras, haptic diagnostic cascades, reverse-Winograd call and response, etc.
Afterwards: Once we’re done, we smile. We hug. (I like hugs from humaniforms.) I’m happy to pay you back for the lunch and the room—though of course it’s always sweet if you treat me! We leave the clinic together. Outside on the street, we shake hands. It’s businesslike, discreet.
We never, ever speak again.
If this sounds like your dream date, call me! ASAP! I am so full of young!
© 2024 Louis Evans
About the Author
Louis Evans is such a naughty chordate!! His work has previously appeared in Baffling, as well as Vice, Nature: Futures, The Toast (RIP), and more. He’s married with cats.