Sandbox for NSFW tales that aren't WWYDFTLTIMD
rating: 0+x

The following tale contains sexual content. Please be advised that this is an +18 story.

It was halfway through a stranger's incoherent rant regarding the music industry that Lyre realized how much nightclubs sucked when your friends inexplicably cancel.

"And you know, fuckin', like Raccoon Punching Center. Derivative bull by a bunch of fuckin' fascists, you get me?"

Lyre did not, in fact, "get" the inebriated, pompadour'd man who had inexplicably chosen a seat at their table, but they couldn't do much more than nod. It was that or plugging themself into the wall for the next few hours, or heading home to feed loose screws to King Roomba until they powered off from boredom.

"Christ, fuckin'…" At the very least, this weird man had yet to make a move on them. "Keep tentacore to the fuckin' roots, you know. I ain't about to fuck with authpunks lookin' to score cheap body mods, ya hear?" The strange man hiccuped, briefly illuminating the dim little corner of the King Butterfly Nightclub with a greenish flame. "Buncha goddamn sellouts, lookin' for a manager they don't gotta pay."

Lyre's fingers unconsciously plucked a three-string tune on their hair, kept consistent through the knowledge that their master output had been muted the moment they came in. Not that it mattered; they weren't quite sure how many patrons would hear it over the pounding of sugar-pop and synth.

"Shit, you tense? Christ, sorry, I'm here to have fun and shit, but if I'm fuckin' up your day, I can leave, need be. Like, not about to rain on someone's fuckin' parade."

Speech output reactivated, Lyre supposed. "No, no, you're fine." If confusingly opinionated and terribly inebriated. "I, well… you know, it's my first time at a nightclub nightclub and WAN willing I'm not sure what to do, you know?"

Finally, the odd man shut up, and Lyre had some peace and qui-

"You know," Ugh, not again. "I got some… you know, shit that could calm you down. You, uh… you cool?"

Lyre blinked. Might as well, if this man wouldn't leave. "Cool… yet?"

"Nah, sis, I'm fuckin'… I mean, you coolant?" The weird man was now attempting something between a whisper and a yell over the din of the music, and accomplished neither. "Fuck, uh, that a slur in your… yeah, sorry, I ain't got much Mekh friends." That much was obvious. "Like, fuckin'…"

Fishing into his pocket, the weird man tossed a plastic bag containing an inconspicuous, if highly suspicious flash drive onto the table.

"Get this: top quality shit. No installation, no downloads, no wifi, sub-gig of RAM, you know. You adjust the time and strength of the high. That sound nice? Sure as fuck beats being sober and alone. Hell, you can get some fuckin' bouncer to watch you for glitches or like… I don't fuckin' know, livestream for some lifeline? I'm new to this shit."

Lyre squinted, not that it helped when their eyes were LEDs. "… right. And you expect-"

"Ten bucks, take it or leave it."

"… do you take BitCarter?" Lyre ran a quick check on their antivirus, and readied a tripwire alert.

Things were going real nice right about now.

Between the steady pulse of MXWL radio's electrohouse, the gentle vibrations of the table their upper half laid against, and whatever greeneyes.PSYC was currently doing to their nervous system, Lyre was pretty certain things were going to be alright.

Naturally, this train of thought had not but 13.11 seconds earlier collided with a packet full of Lyre's worst anxieties, which they had necessarily needed to continuously shove into the back of their queue. This was a bit of a cycle; an unintended consequence of their last CPU upgrade meant Lyre's clock speed outpaced their ability to bottle feelings.

So, naturally, that meant things were not nice. Until they were.

And in any case, greeneyes.PSYC was almost loud enough that Lyre's focus remained on the feeling of Good Vibes.

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