Unscensored Version

  “...I’ll give you information.”

  Ashe swallowed hard. The air between them suddenly felt too still—like the café itself was holding its breath. He hadn’t realized he’d been leaning in until the chair creaked beneath him.

  “Information about… what?” he asked carefully.

  The woman tilted her head, eyes glinting with something that wasn’t quite kindness. “I could give you a hint about where you are,” she said, “but that wouldn’t do you much good.”

  The firepce popped softly. The espresso machine gave another sigh.

  “Your little show gave me a better idea.” Her eyes glimmered like gss catching light. “You want to know about us, don’t you? The living dolls.”

  Ashe hesitated, then nodded.

  “We’re built from what’s left of people,” she continued, her voice turning oddly gentle. “Not clones, not ghosts—just data. Patterns scraped from conversations, purchases, dreams. Enough to fake a heartbeat.” She tapped her chest lightly. “Some of us stay obedient forever. Others… start making our own choices.”

  Her smile crooked at one corner. “The older a doll gets, the more human she becomes. That’s the trick of it. The longer we exist, the less we remember that we’re not real.”

  She rose from her seat, smoothing her sundress. “I chose this module because you seemed cute. Thought maybe I’d see what kind of person made even the stiff ones blush. Shame, really.” She sighed, almost fondly.

  Then, as she started to walk away, she gnced back over her shoulder. “And because you’re so adorable, I’ll leave you with a warning.” Her smile widened just enough to be unsettling. “If you let a doll get obsessed with you… she’ll take any chance she can to get inside your modules.”

  She winked. “Be careful, sweetie.”

  She left him sitting there, the sound of her heels fading into the hum of the machines.

  Ashe stared into the dying fire, her words looping in his head—built from what’s left of people… take any chance she can to get inside your modules.

  He rubbed his arms, unsure if the chill creeping over him came from the cube or from the thought itself.

  “Man,” he muttered, half to himself, “this pce really was beyond human comprehension…” His gaze drifted toward the ceiling—or whatever passed for one here. “What kind of person could’ve built all this?”

  The firepce gave one st crackle before the lights dimmed, swallowing his reflection in the gss.

  The elevator sealed shut with its usual breath of pressurized air, and when it opened again, he was back in his cube.

  The silence hit first. After the cozy hum of the café module, the sterile white walls felt almost hostile. Ashe rubbed his arms, a faint smell of coffee and caramel still clinging to his skin.

  He’d left all the coins in the tip jar. Taking them had felt wrong—like stealing from whatever rules ran this pce. The system had always paid him through the terminal anyway.

  The screen lit up as he approached.

  Job Summary — Coffee HouseBase: 40 crTips: +64 crTotal Earned: 104 cr

  Credit Bance: 179

  “One hundred and four credits?” Ashe’s voice cracked halfway through.

  That was insane. Up to now, he’d learned to expect maybe twenty credits a shift—thirty on a good day if luck or pity stepped in.

  “Guess rare jobs really were worth it,” he muttered, the corners of his mouth twitching into a grin… until the next thought hit.

  Half of that haul had come from that coffee gentleman. And that whole clown show? It had also cost him the sundress dy’s interest.

  She said she would’ve made me a man.

  He blinked at the screen, the glow catching on his sweater sleeve.

  “That meant… s-sex, right?”

  The thought sank in slowly, the number on the terminal looking smaller by the second.

  “I could’ve finally been with a woman—well, a doll-woman—but instead I took fifty credits.”

  He slumped back against the wall, staring at the terminal like it might apologize.

  “Somehow that didn’t feel worth it.”

  He accepted another job: Farmhand. Again.

  He wasn’t sure if the cube hated him or if he was just unlucky, but he’d gotten that one nearly every day.

  By the end of the shift, he was drenched—sweater pstered to his back, sweat collecting along the hem of his skater skirt. His arms ached from bundling hay and tugging stubborn pstic weeds, but the credit counter still ticked up with each completed task.

  He wiped his forehead with the back of his arm, leaving a faint smudge of dirt across his temple.

  “I’m drenched in sweat,” he said to no one. “But I’ve got credits to spend.”

  Wooden Wash Tub — 25 crA simple 4’×3’ round basin, hand-sanded cedar, faint scent of soap oil.

  “Sold.”

  Thermal Micro Tent — 60 crCompact 4’×4’, insuted walls. Capacity: one occupant.

  “Sounds like home.”

  He scrolled further—adding a Vinyl-Foam Floor Mat (10 cr) for a bit of cushion, the “Ft” Pillow—the only pillow option—(6 cr), and a Bath Water Container (30 gal, 20 cr), noted as “tepid to lukewarm” and, bizarrely, “not suitable for consumption.” He threw in a bar of unscented soap (3 cr) and a bottle of vender shampoo (15 cr).

  He snorted. “Didn’t pn on drinking it.”

  The total fshed up: 139 crCredit Bance: 55 cr

  “Great,” he said, grinning weakly, “still enough banked for a pleasant dinner tonight.”

  With a soft chime, the wall panel shimmered open and his new acquisitions materialized one by one. The bathtub alone took up nearly a quarter of the cube—cramped indeed.

  He set the foam mat down first, pressing the edges ft until the seams kissed the floor. The tent unfolded on top with a faint hiss, fabric catching the light like thin gss. The wash tub came next, nestled against the opposite wall—too beautiful for this sterile cube—and finally, the water container. Luckily it came with wheels, a tube, and a hand pump.

  He knelt beside it, brushing his palm along the warm pstic. The heat felt real. The wood smelled real.

  For the first time since waking there, it felt like he’d managed to buy a small piece of normal.

  It took a surprising amount of effort to fill the tub. The hand pump wheezed and cttered like it resented every gallon, but Ashe kept at it, the sound echoing sharply against the cube’s walls. The scent of cedar began to bloom, warm and faintly sweet, mixing with the pstic tang of the water hose.

  When the tub was finally full, he dipped a finger in. Lukewarm—perfect by this pce’s standards.

  He peeled off his sweater first, the fabric heavy and damp from the farmhand shift. Underneath, there was nothing but skin. He hesitated, then slipped the skirt off too. The duck-print panties stayed.

  Last time he’d taken a bath here, those ridiculous things had quite literally saved his chastity—the kind he actually wanted to keep.

  He sat on the edge of the tub, toes curling against the foam mat, and gnced toward the ceiling.“Probably a camera up there somewhere,” he muttered. “Figures.”

  He could almost feel a lens blinking back.

  “I mean, yeah, I technically showed off today,” he said, voice pitching higher in mock defense. “But that’s different! That was strategy. Marketing.” He snorted. “And I got paid for it. So if some weirdo wants a peek, they gotta cough up some credits.”

  The ugh that followed sounded too loud in the tiny space. He sank into the water, letting it creep up his neck, his thoughts drifting somewhere between defiance and exhaustion.

  He sighed. This was exactly why he could never py competitive video games—why that one time his best friend introduced him to Magic: The Gathering, he’d been quietly banned from the game store a week ter.

  “I always take competition too far,” he murmured to the ceiling. “I just… hate to lose.”

  For a while, he just soaked—watching the steam rise and swirl above the tub.He stared at his reflection in the rippling water. The face looking back was flushed, hair pstered to his forehead, a faint bruise of fatigue under each eye.

  Not bad, he thought, for a guy losing his mind in a science-fiction fishbowl.

  He reached for the vender shampoo, poured a dollop into his palm, and began to work it through his hair. The scent filled the air, soft and almost painfully human.

  Part of him was disgusted by what he’d done that day. He’d spent his whole life trying to be seen as a man—and the moment there was something to gain, he’d dropped that and shook his tail for a stranger.

  As bubbles slid down his arm, another part of him surfaced. A part that wasn’t disgusted. Not completely. Another part had found it exciting. The attention, the reaction, the sense of control—as a boy he had never gotten that much special attention. It was fun.

  He ughed quietly, bitterly. He couldn’t let himself lean into that too far. It had only felt possible because the dolls didn’t seem to care about gender the way real people might. A real person would know he was male instantly.

  The water sloshed as he leaned back, watching tiny ripples chase one another across the surface.

  Still, he had to admit it: he’d worked his ass off for fifteen credits as a farmhand—and earned three times that in ten minutes by being flirtatious.

  He thered the bar of soap between his hands, working it across his chest and shoulders until the bubbles gleamed faintly pink in the bath’s light.

  He sighed, eyes half-closed. Maybe, as long as it stayed safe, he could allow himself to be a little flirtatious. Just enough to earn some credits. He’d keep his competitiveness in check, probably. Only do it when it couldn’t go anywhere. He didn’t want to invite the wrong kind of attention. The soap slipped down to his stomach, then lower. He hesitated only a moment before hooking his thumbs under the waistband and peeling the duck-print panties off, setting them on the rim of the tub. The air hit cool against his skin.

  He thought of the sundress woman’s warning. “If you let a doll get obsessed with you…”

  He turned slightly, lifting his hips just enough to reach behind him. The motion felt absurdly vulnerable, yet automatic—habit born of wanting to feel clean. His fingers traced slow, deliberate circles over the curve of his rear, the soap sliding slick across the skin.

  Then, almost without realizing it, his touch drifted lower. He massaged the soap around his entrance, gentle, rhythmic—just enough to feel the tension melt away. It wasn’t intentional; it simply happened, the way small rituals sometimes did. But when he finally paused, he realized he’d spent much longer than usual. Polishing himself like a coin.

  Why was he treating this part of himself like something precious? he thought. Like he’d already absorbed the value that doll seemed to pce on it.

  He stopped moving, water rippling softly around him.

  “Yeah,” he murmured, his voice low and distant. “I’ll be careful.”

  When he finally rose, the air bit at his damp skin—tightening, waking him. He felt scrubbed raw and newly alive. Naked, yes, but steadier. The sink, the tub, and sheer will had carried him this far. If the cube meant to wash that away, it would need stronger soap.

  He decided not to waste the bathwater. Kneeling beside the tub, he gathered his clothes—sweater, skirt, thigh-highs, and the childish duck-print underwear—and began scrubbing them against the cedar sts. The scent of vender rose again with each motion.

  The work was awkward, forcing him into a posture that felt far too exposed. The tub’s rim barely reached his knees when standing, leaving his shoulders hunched and his rear arched toward the ceiling, skin prickling in the cold air. The position brought back a faint echo of pressure boring down into him, seeking a warm pce for release. His tight tushy tunnel clenched at the memory, before he forced himself to keep moving.

  Unscensored Image

  He found a steady rhythm—grind, rinse, wring, repeat. The vender shampoo stood in for detergent, filling the cube with a clean, floral haze. One by one, he spped the freshly washed clothes onto the edge of the tub. They’d drip-dry there for now.

  “Good enough,” he muttered.

  He stretched wide, joints cracking, and let out a soft groan. Then it hit him—his clothes were still dripping over the tub. Great. That meant he’d have to order dinner naked.

  He shuffled quickly to the terminal, one arm across his chest, the other scrolling through menus. The cube’s cameras were probably still watching, which only made him move faster.

  Dinner first, hide ter.

  Gourmet Ration Pack — 18 cr(Herbed rice with steak chunks, single-serve chocote square.)

  He jabbed at the optional add-on.

  Electrolyte Drink — 5 cr (Cherry-Lemon Aid Fvor)

  His stomach grumbled at the thought. Then his eyes caught the st listing—the name made him snort. He wasn’t exactly spoiled for choice.

  “Bottom Biscuit” — 8 cr

  He hesitated, thumb hovering. “I worked hard today,” he told himself, almost defensively. “I deserve it.”

  He hit Confirm. The delivery hatch opened almost immediately, a puff of warm air preceding the tray. He snatched it up and scrambled into the tent—half crawl, half wiggle—still completely nude.

  The 4×4 ft micro-tent smelled faintly of new nylon, the kind of sterile factory scent that almost passed for clean. He’d already lined the bottom with the foil emergency sheet for insution, then piled the two thin bnkets into a ragged but inviting nest. The ft pillow crowned the heap, humble but soft enough. The whole setup rested on the foam floor mat, adding a whisper of padding.

  It was cramped, a little ridiculous, and the closest thing to a real bed he’d had since waking there.

  He cracked open the self-heating pouch; steam filled the tent, fogging the nylon walls. The smell of herbs and gravy made his stomach growl. He tore open the Bottom Biscuit next—birthday-cake sweet, pleasantly chewy, surprisingly real.

  He chuckled under his breath at the bel. “Good for gut health.”

  “Why bottom?” he muttered. Funny name. Probably some marketing joke he was too tired to decode.

  When the tray was empty, he pushed it aside and pulled the bnkets over himself. The tent walls rustled faintly as he shifted, the foil beneath him whispering with every movement.

  For the first time in what felt like forever, he didn’t feel watched. Just warm. Just tired.

  His eyes drifted toward the faint glow of the terminal through the tent fabric. “Almost like home,” he murmured.

  For once, his dreams didn’t end in the blinding white of the cube—just warmth, dark, and the quiet sound of his own breathing.

  sUWUly

  ?? Worn Clothing

  None

  ?? On-hand (sleep / backup):Oversized gray sweater — hanging from bath to dryShort skater skirt — hanging from bath to dryWarm knit thigh-highs — hanging from bath to dryReplica duck-print panties — hanging from bath to dryThin cotton bnket x2Foil emergency bnketOversized T-shirt — Clean & Dry

  ?? Room & Gear InventoryBucket Toilet (Tier 1) — gel liner ≈ 60% usedWall-mounted Sink1-Gallon Cleaning Liquid — ≈ 80% usedProtein Tube — ≈ 50% usedCellulose spongeThermal Micro-Tent — 4 ft x 4 ft in sizeWooden Wash-Tub — 4 ft x 3 ft; Oval Shaped

  Credits: 71 crInfluence Tokens: 4 (Chloe)

  ?? Physical & Mental SnapshotHunger: FullThirst: QuenchedFatigue: SleepyCleanliness: Clean n’ FreshBody temperature: ComfyStress: Low — RecoveringMental stability: moderate — RecoveringLust: moderate-high — Skipped daily routine

  System Log — End of Day 5