Triplicate Tora, Techwizard

Bittercup grimaced at her reflection in the smeared dressing room mirror, tube of gold lipstick paused mid application.

Woof. If her parents could see what she was seeing right now.

She decided to take inventory of the girl peering back at her. Pretty green eyes, ringed with lack of sleep. Rose-pink skin, liberally flecked with cheap golden glitter. The exceptionally plump rack she got for a steal, stuffed into a particularly unsubtle mesh tank top. The long, elegant tail, studded with a row of cheap heart-shaped costume gems. She was hot as fuck, but still. No question about it. Bittercup's parents would take one look at all this and declare what they saw to be a Grade S piece of go-nowhere stripper trash. One who had no idea how good she had it wiping out grease traps at the Sausage Hole franchise that both of them slaved away at. Food Hole Sustenance Solutions had clothed her, fed her, and educated her for so many years. How could she just turn her back on that?

The nayaling finished applying her lipstick with a flourish, giving her reflection a decisive pop of her luscious lips. What a fuckin' joke.

Clothed her in a threadbare work uniform, you mean? Fed her end-of-shift leftovers, that is? And what, educated her just enough to hopefully never be able to do anything more than muck out fast food gunk while getting her ass grabbed by an unending stream of pimply-faced assistant managers? Fuck that noise. And fuck her parents too, while the matter was up for discussion; if you're gonna name your baby 'Bitter Taste From the Cup of Inevitable Regret', you're basically recusing yourself from being able to have any damn opinions about where said baby winds up stripping when she grows up. Compared to all that nonsense, shaking her tits at strangers jackin' it under their tables wasn't so bad.

She still got her ass grabbed by managers, of course. But at least at The Hoi Polloi it was less institutionalized sexual harassment, and more of a business negotiation.

Though. Who's the say where different choices may have led? Maybe she'd have gotten knocked up by one of those blackhead-festooned assistant managers. Had a kid she gave a name even more filled with parental ennui than the one she got. Whatever. No reason to dwell on it. Her fellow exotic dancer couldn't have missed her sigh, though, the android still in the process of slotting in the pieces of that night's face as she offered Bittercup a sympathetic hum. "Life's tough, right?"

"Meh." The stripper managed a shrug as she began to give her large, curling horns a quick buff. "You know how it is."

"Fuck yeah I do." The artificiate pressed in her brow plate with a satisfying click, cheekily sticking out her tongue at the Asiatic visage that greeted her in the mirror. "How's this? This face cost a damn sight. Apparently it's supposed to resemble some big J.A.V starlet. Don't know how close my dealer got it, but it's sexy, isn't it?"

"Sure." Bittercup cocked a eyebrow as she glanced down at her friend. "Does this starlet have fucking beach ball tits, too?"

"Oh these~?" The android stripper shimmied her shoulders coquettishly, though the best her elephantine tits could manage while they were spread out expansively over the makeup station's counter was a ponderous wobble. "Nah. But I always make stupid tips when I install these fat fuckers. You organic dum-dums really go ape shit for the thought of well-fed offspring; it's cute and gross and hilarious all at once."

"There it is, Petty: you've nailed the basic organic experience." Bittercup rose up from her seat with another sigh, quickly adjusting the string of her itty little thong. "Cute and gross and hilarious."

"Well you should get better tiddies too, girl!" Petty waggled her eyebrows as she fitted her azure blue wig over the exposed cybernetics of her head. "We can do a double act. The meat bags'll see us and be all 'Oh shit they could feed FOUR babies I'ma cum all my money straight down my pant leg'. It wouldn't even be fair."

"Bitch, my boobs are perfect. And besides, dancing's already hard enough with horse feet." The nayaling plopped one of her hooves up onto her chair, quickly applying a few decorative stickers to the well-polished keratin. "Anything more than these triple dees and I'd topple right over during the spins."

"Pssh, dancing." The android stretched out her arms as far as she could manage, just barely able to affix a pair of woefully over-matched pasties over her giant nipples. "Dunno why you bother with all that. No one cares. Besides, you're not on floor tonight anyways."

Bittercup huffed in irritation. "Seriously? Again?"

Petty shrugged as she wiggled into her miniskirt, her petite rear and delicately pretty face making her look even more obscenely top-heavy. "Dunno what to tell you, girl. The Boss loves that demon pussy."

"First off, I'm not--"

"Yeah yeah," The artificiate waved her hand dismissively as she gave herself a final once over, "Nayalings are genetically modified humans and not super evil scary demons rawr."

"...right. And second, I haven't fucked Tank." At Petty's disbelieving snort, Bittercup felt compelled to expand. "I mean, I haven't fucked him yet. Figure I can weasel running the ledger out of the deal; that dunce hates addition and subtraction anyhow."

"You're seriously planning that far ahead? For this place? Sounds like wasted effort to me, girl. But whatever!" The android scurried off towards the door before Bittercup could respond, her humongous rack clearly visible from behind as she called back to the nayaling. "Good luck with all that!"

Alone now, Bittercup glanced at her reflection again. Hm. The girl in the mirror was frowning. Must be because she knew that Petty was probably right. Megacity Montalban's Lower Ninety-Nine were as rough as anywhere in the Cardinal Holdings, and this neighborhood in particular was just barely better than a war zone. Tank was a lot tougher than the schmuck who used to own The Hoi Polloi, but that was part of the problem. The burly Jerboan was simultaneously too strong for other interested parties to ignore and too weak to be able to go it alone. Maybe if he was smarter, or had someone smarter whispering in his ear...

Bittercup quickly shook that thought out out her head. No way. Not a chance. She'd fuck Tank if it'd make things a bit easier for her right now, sure. But actually tying her fate to the guy? Food Hole Sustenance Solutions may not have given her much of an education, but the stripper was no one's dummy. She'd find a better cart to hitch herself to.

Someday, anyhow. Right now, she was on office duty. And it was better not to keep the Boss waiting.

The nayaling pushed her way out of the dressing room and into The Hoi Polloi proper, immediately enveloped in a wave throbbing bass and the fog of fuck scent that the ever shifting olfactory palate worked into the DJ's full-sensory club mix could never fully cover. Electricity was still cheaper than a contractor on this floor, facilitating the club's decor of giggling holographic girls and hard light countertops. It was early still, but the artificial suns rarely worked on the Lower Ninety-Nine anyhow, meaning there was already a respectable crowd gathered in the dim light of the club's velvet embrace. No rest for the depraved, after all.

The main stage was occupied by an exceptionally busty wukong Bittercup had never seem before, the overripe little marvel using her own extra-long tail as a pole to shimmy and shake for the wild enjoyment of the gathered degenerates. But the other girls weren't working any less hard; at a quick pass, the nayaling counted at least five girls chatting up guests and another four mid-lapdance. Though judging by the increasingly wet splats issuing from beneath the school girl skirt of the gyrating gobbo to her immediate right, a few of said 'dances' had already shifted to full on fuck jobs. Par for the course. Petty had already managed to ramp things up herself, the android secured away in a comfortable corner with two guests clutching needfully to her triple head sized tits as a third humped away at her rear. Damn. That chick worked hard. Not that she showed it; based on the artificiate's expression she might as well be in line at the bank. Did she actually just yawn?

Petty waved when she caught Bittercup's questing eyes, offering her friend a cheerful shrug and a roll of her eyes at the furious mating ritual she'd made herself the nucleus of. What a fucking champ. Literally.

Bittercup didn't have long to take in the ambiance, however. A familiar door opening in the back of the house caught her eye, and a familiar bulky silhouette emerged long enough to crook a finger in the nayaling's direction. Tank was calling for her. Guess it was time for her to get to work, too.

...She had time for a drink first. Petty wasn't the only one who had to work hard in this place.

The stacked street elf bartender who's name Bittercup could never quite remember flashed her a crooked smile as the stripper leaned her elbows onto the bar, raising her voice over the music. "Hey!"

"Hey! What'll it be?"

"Hmmm~" Bittercup made a show of thinking about it, pausing long enough to offer the patron groggily eyeing her boobs a teasing wink. "What's best for bracing a gal against a night of fumbling gropes and cock prods?"

The bartender opened her mouth to reply, only to be interrupted by a honey-smooth voice to Bittercup's side. "That's easy." The dancer raised her eyebrows, following the voice's silken trail to find herself eyeing a woman in a tailored suit and sunglasses. "Junmai Twelve Peaks. The finest defense there is against the grotesqueries of this world."

"Uh, thanks." Years spent interacting with horny and potentially dangerous customers had honed Bittercup's observation, skills to a bleeding edge, giving her the tools she needed to quickly size up this new arrival. That hand-tailored suit was a Ginza, and there were maybe six people on this floor or lower who could even dream of affording one. Corpo? No. Her lithe physique and buzzed head screamed 'Field Work', not 'Desk Jockey', and no actual corpo field agent would waste time in the Lower Ninety-Nine. Not to mention the little flairs of red, green and gold peeking out of the open neck of her crisp dress shirt. Those looked like some serious fucking tats.

Long and short of it, Bittercup had no fucking idea who this was. And that could only mean the woman was someone to step lightly around. "That's sake, right?" The nayaling offered the woman a pleasant smile. "I'm a thousand percent certain we don't have that in stock, sorry to say."

"Ah." The woman shrugged, then to Bittercup's surprise pulled what looked to be a damn stick of bubblegum out of her suit pocket. "Second best choice is whatever's strongest, then."

"A woman after my own--" Bittercup swallowed her playful retort at the thunderclap of impatience that rumbled from the back of the house, Tank's wide shadow having emerged yet again. The dancer had wasted too much time at the bar. She quickly offered the woman a regretful smile, rising up to leave. "Sorry; I've really gotta--"

She bit back her words again when the woman rose as well, dropping a hand with three cybernetic fingers onto her shoulder. "Off to see the Boss, are you?"

Bittercup swallowed. "Yeah."

"Tank Loader?"

"Y-yeah?"

"Good. You can introduce us." She popped the stick of gum into her mouth. "We need to have a little chat."

Bittercup did her best to stay steady on her hooves, her mind racing with nervous possibilities. What was going on? Who the fuck was Tank screwing around with? She'd always figured the Jerboan meathead would get taken down by some up and coming local, some day, but did he even know anyone outside of Megacity Montalban? Not that Bittercup was going to get between him and some out-of-town heavy. She may not have been the most educated stripper in the New World, but Bittercup's entire life might as well have been one long class with a single ultimate lesson: never give a boss loyalty that they'd never give to you.

Still. She had to know. "W-who shall I say is calling?"

The woman stared at Bittercup for an unbearable moment, slowly blowing a perfectly round bubble. The nayaling couldn't help herself from giving a start when it finally popped, flushing in embarrassment when the woman answered. "Name's Tora."

"O-oh! Okay! And, um, what shall I say is the, um, p-purpose of your call?"

Another slow bubble, and another startling pop. "We need to talk about his insurance premiums."