Handbook of Erotic Fantasy: The Ship Who Banged (Patreon)

Her left eye twitched. Near-infrared light struck the center of her pupil, causing detectable reflections in the cornea. These reflections, along with the vector between her cornea and pupil, were calculated and interpreted by a battery of photoreceptors. A string of characters jumped into sharper focus on her eyepiece.

4 years | 5 months | 9 days

That was subjective time though. Bouncing between continuities made it hard to be sure. It felt longer. Street Samurai hoped it was shorter. And if she never made it home, it wouldn’t matter either way.

Coming up on five years since she’d popped up in Handbook-World. Five years since she’d been able to gleam a cube. Five years since upgrading her ware, going on a proper run, or living anywhere at all besides a drekky fantasy campaign.

“I swear to Gibson, if there’s another dragon in here I’m going to splash the bastard. I don’t care what color he is.”

The dull light of the ancient halls waxed and waned by turns. It was a burnt reddish color, and seemed to pulse along with the heartbeat sounds effects. That had to be what they were. Street Samurai hadn’t spotted any pinhole speakers, but manufactured panels and bits of tech poked out amongst the bio-goo. It felt like an analog-immersion exhibit she’d visited as a kid. Some long-ago museum full of medical equipment and twinkling bulbs hidden among paper mache branches. Vague memories of a storybook voice over an AV system: “Those fairy lights measure the heart rate of each and every patron that walks through The Infomatic Forest.” She’d thought it was dumb then, too.

The light of her finger-torch sliced through the gloom. It was yet another dungeon, but it didn’t seem to be a magic dungeon. That idiotic “wizard” was getting closer. The leap to Post-Apocalyptic Australian Outback had been encouraging, but it seemed like a lucky shot. The elf was throwing darts at a multidimensional dartboard, hoping to get anywhere close. Her aim was erratic at best, and some of the worlds were 180 off. Too much fantasy, not enough sci-fi. They kept trying though, unlikely as the team up was, trading multiversal intelligence for one more spin of the wheel. They seemed to be getting closer lately. And if this latest weirdness wasn’t home, it was at least in the same neighborhood.

She’d appeared inside this vast labyrinth of hallways. Twenty-four hours to explore and discover if the setting could solve her problems. No landmarks though. Just passageway after conduit after maintenance tunnel. At least it was getting warmer. Street samurai was getting closer to the heart of…whatever this thing was. She loosened her suit. Hit the collar jets around the nape of her neck; glistened in her own special sauce of machine oil and sweat.

“You are positively glowing,” said the hallway.

Her arm erupted into a tight grouping of thin red rays. The smell of meat and burning chrome was suddenly in the air. A trio of black craters blossomed in one fleshy wall.

“Ouch,” said the hallway. And then: “She’s got sugar and spice. What’s not to love?”

“Where the hell are you!?” A thin tendril of smoke curled from the barrel of her arm. She scanned across multiple bands of light and radiation. No one.

“You’re inside of me,” said the hallway. “Not that I have any objections. But don’t you think it’s fair we try a little role reversal?”

The heartbeat sound increased in volume. It became a funky bass line. And by the time a saxophone kicked in with the cool sounds of smooth jazz, Street Samurai had a pretty good idea what kind of setting she’d wandered into.

“What the hell?” she said. “At least you aren't dragons.”