PRIVATE Proserpina

Catriona Devine

Agnus Dei
Catriona Devine
Eddies
429
Character Bio
The Backdoor Motel, Northside

Catriona always wondered why, in the pursuit of discretion, shady motels so often relied upon the power of neon to advertise. Before now, it had always been a fleeting thought, caught in a glance out a moving window and gone as soon as it had arrived, but now, as the woman sat at the rickety desk inside Room 203, the thought was firmly lodged. Eyes traced the violent hues of blues and pinks that crept in from the gaps in the blind, gifting the window a halo of advertised depravity.

It felt a bit more real now.

In the hypothetical bluster, it had been easy to talk, to big up the virtues of owning your own body and doing with it what you saw fit. It was no different from PCS putting her skull on the line in another street fight or Sock putting out his back for eddies under the table at a dock job. Sure, you could shackle sex with all the taboos and sentimentality as you saw fit, but was it not just another function of the human body? People did much worse, for so much less every single day.

She frowned as she lit another cigarette, finding that her rationalisation had less effect without the benefit of time and distance.

It was happening.

Sometime in the next fifteen minutes or so, somebody was going to come through that door with the keycard reserved for James Collinson by discreet appointment on the Net, and she, under the name of Proserpina, was going to fuck him for Eurobucks. Shit. Russian courage was still there to back her up, and the bottle of Bolshevik was opened and poured into one of the half-washed tumblers provided by the room. Just to take the edge off. She was sure there was nothing more depressing than a drunk, chain-smoking escort.

Her boot bounced to the invisible rhythm of anxiety as the woman tilted her head back in the chair and considered the stains on the ceiling, a long drag of the cigarette punctuated by the seedy neon buzz outside. Five minutes to midnight was the perfect time to overthink everything. What if PCS was right? What if he killed her? Damned her to be missed statistic when the motel owner dragged her body to the dump to avoid bad press? Sure, she was packing a stun gun, but it was hardly an acceptable toy to bring to the mattress (well, unless). Fuck. Catriona didn't know what was worse, the fact that she would have been dead or the fact that a woman whose alias meant post-concussion syndrome had been wiser than her.

She couldn't keep still.

Standing brought little relief, the cigarette left in the ashtray to burn as Devine got to her feet and sought composure in the floor-length mirror debauched by old stains. She'd gone thrifting for something to wear, settling on a sensible exposure of flesh with a combination of crop top and plaid skirt, Northside's finest used fashion. She doubted he would care, likely more focused on the parts that weren't clothed. Legs. Cleavage. Midriff. At least living on instant ramen kept her trim.

Somewhere out there, an invisible council of hardline feminists had just docked her a hundred points for that thought.
 
He wore something incognito and unassuming.

The like of a solo merc on their downtime. It showed he was deadly, but without the showy force of Arasaka excellence. It didn't truly matter. Nobody would give a shit that an Arasaka Intelligence Officer was heading off to fuck some new meat. As long as it was just meat. That's why Nikolai Drexler never bothered with dating or romance. It was just another weak link that could be exploited by either rivals or even allies that wanted to hold something over you.

They couldn't hold a pros over your head.

The knock came a few minutes after time. He had arrived much earlier, of course. Watched her walk in, watched her fidget inside and drink and smoke to forget. It wasn't difficult to figure out that she was new at this.

That annoyed him.

The new ones always were saddled with sad expectations that things would get better. That they were between jobs or that they were just going through an episode. He preferred the ones that were working for a longer time. They were more realistic about things and didn't whine so much. Once she opened the door for him, cold steel eyes looked her up and down before stepping in without saying another word.

The room took on an outer-glow as he scanned for bugs or other spy equipment. There was only a listening device mounted under the light fixture, which was directly linked to the manager's booth.

He snorted and crushed it under his fingers.

"Next time check for bugs. I don't need our rutting to become part of some filth's BD." Finally turning around to face her once more. She was pretty and it confirmed to him what he already suspected. She was new to this. Maybe her first time, maybe her third... but she was still hopeful about things. "What do you call yourself?"

@Catriona Devine
 
She'd returned to the ashtray by the time James Collinson knocked, the filter of her cigarette fidgeting between fingers that trembled under the strain of last-minute regretful clarity. Shit fuck. A thousand internal rehearsals kicked in all at once; the only thing she had besides a budget stun gun that may or may not have worked. Catriona Devine had once been middle-class enough to understand the world of false pretence, of forged smiles in the name of networking.

It's just a job.

He's just a job.

A polite smile met him, easy blues appraising the man who entered Room 203. Just as much as the woman imagined he was making snap judgments about her, she was doing the exact same thing. The man, the client, was palatable enough. Good-looking in an obvious manner but worn by life, haggard enough to be noticeable but not haggard enough to be repulsive. Tired, and as he beelined for light, imposing.

What was it PCS said precisely? Flatlined in a fuckin' week?

Catriona nodded at his suggestion before taking another drag. The revulsion was easier to push down, the idea of unwittingly expanding into peddled smut more palatable than the lingering mortal fear.

"Proserpina," she replied, the name an homage to the ill-advised tattoo on the small of her back, a tributary piece to Rossetti's painting of the Roman Goddess, "and what would you like me to call you?" The woman didn't over-egg it, didn't feel the need to behave like some horned-up joytoy with a chronic dick addiction, not unless that's what he was going to pay for. God, she hoped not. Instead, Catriona opted for calm, at least externally, as she turned to the desk and picked up the bottle of vodka.

"Care for a drink?"
 
Proserpina.

Well, that was a haughty as fuck name. He looked her over once more, taking note of some things when she turned her back to him. Definitely some sort of intellectual, because the usual working girl didn't go past "Diamond" or "Lavender". Which was going to be interesting because exactly what sort of things would she balk to do? "You can call me Drex." He said quietly after a moment of thought.

His full name was out of the question.

With a fancy arse name like that she might have just enough brains to track him down and try to blackmail him. Then he'd have to get rid of a body, which he didn't want to do when he wasn't being paid for it.

He blinked and his optics scanned the bottle.

'Drex' didn't even try to hide that fact, letting the blue hues flash slightly as he gave the bottle a once-over. "Sure, why the hell not." He pulled one of the chairs back and sat down. It creaked under the weight of the cybernetics that made up his body. These days he was more machine than man. Not quite fully transformed like the handful of ironheads that were under direct Arasaka employ, but close enough the difference was marginal.

"Shall we talk contract details?"

@Catriona Devine
 
Drex.

After setting down her cigarette, she poured him a generous double in the second tumbler of questionable cleanliness and brought it over to him, fingers splayed around the rim to deposit the glass into his hand. At least she wasn't alone in taking the edge off, although a small voice in the back of her head unhelpfully whispered notions of a violent drunk at her. With nothing to do but shake the thought away, she offered him another smile, placid and accommodating, more akin to an upscale restaurant hostess than a joytoy.

"Of course."

She returned to the ashtray, the cigarette now nestled back between her fingers as a creature comfort, the only remaining indication of any nerves on the surface. "I hope you don't mind." Not everybody wanted a taste of tar, and goodness knows what else on their elicit paid evening of pleasure. Then again, Catriona doubted kissing would be a part of the contract.

"Why don't you let me know the specifics of what you want? Then we'll take it from there."
 
He took the glass and gave it a soft sip before finishing the rest of it in a single shot.

Glass put down.

It wouldn't do wonders to assuage her concerns about him being a violent drunk or not. Nikolai looked as she returned to her cigarette. "I smoke a pack or two a day, you won't find me complaining." Niko muttered in amusement. Good thing for him that his longs had been replaced a long time ago. Now all that tar and other chemical crap was properly processed and filtered away.

One leg crossed the other, he leaned back, the chair groaned again.

"Got any implants? I am heavy." Eyes on hers.

He wondered if she would be able to handle him even once, much less multiple times.

@Catriona Devine
 
Watching the man neck the vodka, indeed, wasn't a soothing sight. Maybe she should have just skipped the foreplay and handed him the bottle. Maybe she would come to find that it was common. Everybody spent so much time disparaging the sex workers of the world; did they ever stop to look at their clients?

Another thought flicked away in the ashtray; at least she could still smoke.

She had to bite her tongue not to pass comment at the protesting chair or even just the sheer absurdity of the thought of being crushed by him, creating a brand new concern that Catriona hadn't even dared to consider. Christ, she couldn't afford the medical bills if he broke something. Doubt he'd tip if he broke the whore. Was she supposed to negotiate a down payment in case of damaged goods? Goods! Fuck, even she was thinking about herself like an object.

Lost in the moment, she had been staring into space for a few molasses moments, unaware of his gaze.

"Contraceptive," she replied distantly, the truth humourous but her voice lacking. The woman found herself again, looking at him and offering that same customer service smile after the slight waver. "But no, no bodywork."

She leaned back against the desk, palms either side of her against the edge.

"I'll let you know if it's too much unless that's an issue for you. Anything else? Fetishes?"
 
Some people paid good money to have a toy that was practically unmarred by metal and cybernetics.

Most whores at this level where decked out on it. Cheap shit, more plastic than steel, but wired to tune-down their pain receptors or to recede into a shelter while their bodies were used in any and every way possible. Nikolai wondered if she realized she could have asked the premium. Probably not. It was pretty clear she was so far over her head she had no idea what she was doing.

Fetishes.

What a clinical way to ask in what way his mind was malformed and interested in things out of the ordinary. "I like to control, to dominate." He said absently as he pulled out a cigarette of his own to light up. Proving beyond the smell of smoke and oak clinging to his clothes that Nikolai was the serial smoker he claimed he was. "I expect obedience. You will do anything I say in bed and if you step out of line, I don't mind applying some force."

His eyes on hers as he breathed in the tar-filled smoke.

"Have you been fucked before?"

Nikolai already knew the answer by the dilation of her pupils, the way her heartbeat rose. Beyond her physical signs, it was all spelled out from the moment she stepped foot into this decaying room.

He was just wondering if she'd lie about it.

@Catriona Devine
 
Well, that wasn't foreboding in the slightest.

As if it wasn't enough to be concerned by the prospect of being crushed, she now had to contend with the prospect of being crushed and quite possibly slapped around by vodka downing control top. Fucking hell. Her hands squeezed the side of the desk, the cigarette tab between her fingers crushed much like her own neck had the potential to be. I'm going to die. Yet, Catriona nodded with the same smile and pretence that everything was fine.

Then he skewered her with a new question that gave cause for a deep drag.

"Yes, I've had sex," came a cool reply after an exhale, attempting to be as detached as possible.

Good sex. Bad sex. Regretful sex. If Night City University didn't exist as a networking degree factory, then it existed as a hub for students to fuck. She might not have been the picture of a worn-down street kid forged by NC's finest poverty, but the woman was hardly a paragon of virtue either. Bad one-night stands. Friends with benefits. A shitty boyfriend here. A clingy girlfriend there. Even an awkward threesome once, where everybody fumbled around like actors who had forgotten their lines, leaving nobody satisfied and unable to make eye contact afterwards.

"But I've got a feeling that's not what you're asking," she continued, flicking another head of ash into the branded tray. If her client was asking what she thought he was asking, then she had to set terms and be firm. "There will be a safe word regardless. If I or you say it, then this all stops. No exception."

Nobody else was going to advocate for her here. Boundaries needed to be firm, lest she end up like that chair bound to break under his ass.

"If you can't agree to that, then we are done here. Do you understand?"
 
Yeah because he didn't ask if she had sex before.

A virgin as a sex worker? They weren't in a tragic rags to riches story.

But her reaction told him everything he needed to know. He was her first. Internally he sighed at that. Next time he'd need to be a bit more specific about his needs. The appeal of someone experienced was lost to the average fixer apparently.

"Come now, darling, I would never go past your safe word." Niko purred softly. It would cause too many problems.

He wasn't a fan of complications.

"However..."

There was always a but when you were dealing in this line of work. It was something she ought to have expected. "If by the end of the encounter you haven't used your safe word, I will give you a bonus."

A soft cold smirk.

"Let's say... Five thousand eddies. Does that sound fair?"

It would be entirely up to her if she managed to collect it or not.

Call it a good girl fee.
 
What Catriona was learning, on the spot, outside of the ego-driven concepts of sex-positive feminist lecturing that she had practically screamed into PC's face, was that the most dangerous element of this venture was trust—an elusive concept in Night City. Trust was as rare as a meal with real meat or a corporation with your best interests in mind. She had to trust that her client, this Drex, this stranger, was true to his word.

No other guarantee. No safety net. His word, her life.

As if the waters weren't already muddied enough, he came with the bonus. Five thousand eddies. What, six months ago, it would have been unthinkable. Five thousand to give a strange carte blanche to do what he wanted to her body. Forget it. Fuck off. But it wasn't six months ago; it was now, and now was hungry and now had boosters breathing down her neck to repay debts (with interest).

She stopped and turned round to the desk so he couldn't see her face as she deliberated. It was a pointless exercise, really; he would have already caught her eyes bulge after he said it and the way she bit her bottom lip in instant consideration. Practically outed herself as fucking desperate.

"The safe word is Ophelia," she said, casting a distant silhouette, the tumbler finding its way to her hand for a more measured stiff drink of vodka. Devine would make his offer wait, exercising what little control she actually felt in the moment. Let it breathe. She cradled the glass in one hand and watched neon hues through the reflections highlighting the grime. PCS would shit a brick if she came back with five thousand on top of payment.

"And your terms sound agreeable," Catriona finally answered, attempting to be as sterile and business-like as possible. "If there's nothing else on your end, I do require the agreed-upon payment upfront."

A paltry grand for the entire session. The cost of four factory specification Quartz wheels. Her apparent worth when it came to undercutting market value.
 
@Catriona Devine

Ophelia.

Gods, she really was some fancy pantsy college girl. Maybe trying to pay her way through it, maybe desperate for some other reason. She reeked of desperation and if Nikolai was a good man he would have helped her. Some advice, some kind words, hell, just giving her the money and send her on her way. But Niko wasn't a good man. Once upon a time maybe, when his parents were still alive and he was young and free. But decades later with them buried and his body ran through with metal and wires? Some days he looked into the mirror and could barely recognize himself.

Some days he walked through the streets and he understood why people went cyberpsycho. The dissociative state was palpable on his tongue every step he took outside. At his worst he didn't feel human. Didn't recognize other humans. Just meat, bone, sinew versus metal, alloy, wire. The latter would always win... and wouldn't it make a happy scene to just tear into-

Niko blinked and nodded.

"Ophelia it is." Then he pulled out a credit chit and placed it on the table. "Verify it in front of me, please. I do not want to hear back from you later that I tried to shorten you."

Tone bored and cold again.

She'd never know how close she had been to being ripped in half.
 
There it was.

Eddies on the table, the point of no return. There was still time to baulk, to say, 'Sorry, I've made a huge mistake,' and walk away. It would have felt shitty, an acknowledgement that she was all talk and no trousers. She placed the tumbler down next to the chip, a finger tracing around the rim in consideration of what it all meant. Nothing, right? It had no bearing on her worth any more than it did his—just consenting adults chasing set desires, financial and physical.

Just business.

Just sex.

Then why did she hope that his money was no good? What was giving her hand the most pause out of the throng of regrets? Fear of failure? Fear of self-degradation? Fear of being fucking murdered and left to rot in a shitty motel with rooms by the hour? The latter seemed valid as if it were a foregone conclusion.

Catriona swiped up the chip and took several 'last' drags of her cigarette, almost reaching the filter before finally being stubbed out in the tray. "Your money's good." Even if it wasn't, she doubted that she'd complain; it might have been enough to dissuade her of any festering delusions of independence. She placed it back on the table and finally turned to face him once again.

"I think that's everything in order," she smiled, this one a little more frayed at the edges, her breath a little quicker caught in the rise and fall of her chest. "I am yours to control."

Just how Drex liked it.
 
A slow stretch there as he began to loosen his jacket.

"Oh, darling... you have been mine since you closed the door behind us."

The usual things happened afterwards. The things that often happen in dirty hotel rooms once cash was exchanged. There was sex. There was alcohol and cigarettes. There was more sex. Luckily for @Catriona Devine she'd find that Nikolai wasn't one of those fuck 'n' kill types that left a broken body in his wake. Too much paperwork, too much hassle. He might have little empathy for the human condition, but he sure as fuck had a lot of empathy for his own schedule.

In the end he got up from the bed, slowly stretching, casual and relaxed. No hint of shame or hesitation.

"Money well earned, Proserpina." But then a yawn as he began to put his clothes back on. "No bonus for you though. That was disappointing... better luck next time."

Not that he assumed there would be a next time. Just as he expected, she was new to this and a chicken shit. It wasn't a value judgement. Not everyone was made for this sort of business.

Some people were too soft in the heart.
 
Fuck.

So much for an easy bonus.

In the aftermath of a quick-drawn safeword, Catriona remained on her back and stared at the ceiling, the once generic off-white paint having long since been stained yellow by nicotine and a lack of functioning ventilation. A worn-out room for worn-out people to commit acts that would only wear them down faster. Her hand rested upon her chest, fingers delicately tracing the flesh of her neck as if acknowledging the frailty of form.

He'd squeezed too hard. A hand bolstered by chrome unyielding as it found purchase around her throat. Control. Dominance. Obedience. He'd laid out his preferences as asked and Devine wasn't born yesterday; she knew choking would come into play.

But she still got spooked. Had stepped out of her skin for a moment and saw the scene of the crime. Legs splayed. Eyes empty. Before she could even rationalise it, the word had left her lips in a panicked, strangled cry.

Treacherous fucking survival instinct.

"Next time...?" Devine repeated slowly, propping herself up by the elbows as he clad himself in the clothes of whatever lie he was living.

Frankly, the fucking had far exceeded her expectations, with Catriona expecting a tragically rhythmic three-minute headboard wobbler. Pump and dump, and not in the financial sector. The kind of sex you have with a guy you were drunk enough to let back into your place after a night out, brief, unsatisfying and regretful. It was quite the opposite by virtue of foreplay, for a start, leading her to question if Drex was paying to find his own happy ending or to give one to her. Mores the pity that she ended the session early.

Shit.

Maybe he needed to forge his own career as a joytoy, albeit an intimidating model.

"Are you sure I'm not too disappointing for a next time?" Catriona inquired, with an edge of sass in her voice, temporarily bolstered by his respect of the safeword. She remained on the bed, unabashedly confident in her own nude flesh, even if she was less so in using it to pay the bills.
 
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