Handbook of Erotic Fantasy: Technophile (Patreon)

It’s tough being the odd cyborg out. When you find yourself blasted through a planar portal and surrounded by a fairies and dwarves and assorted high fantasy bullshit, there’s something of an adjustment period. Gone is your access to black clinic augments. There’s no cowboy riding your cortex on the job; just a bunch of no-tech weirdos with silver mirrors and bowls full of “mystic visions.” The dragons don’t have the decency to run for president. The Johnsons don’t have the decency to meet discrete. And if you do get lucky enough to get paid, you have to carry physical freakin’ currency around like a savage. 

Sure as shit you can’t get a decent cup of soykaf. 

But even if the lack of modern conveniences is a major inconvenience, it’s not the worst. For a cyberware specialist like Street Samurai, the sudden absence of augments is more than a professional headache. It’s also a (very) personal deprivation. When your “wetware” is tuned to the frequency of all that is shiny and chrome, knights in shining armor don’t exactly cut it. We can only hope that regular applications of electricity damage are enough to keep her batteries charged and her “Very Boring Tax Document” files available for private perusal. Failing that, she’ll have to hope that local gnomes invent several centuries worth of technological innovation in short order. Gods know the necromantic version won’t do the trick. Even for a razorgirl with highly specific tastes, that mess is the opposite of sexy.