Handbook of Erotic Fantasy: Forged for Each Other (Patreon)

It was only a tiny blip. A single ping at the edge of her scan limit. But it had grown, as had her curiosity.

It was three weeks from Plotsville to the sea. It would have been longer, but after a dozen charge cycles she had stumbled upon the remains of a discarded glider. A few mods later and the thing was a workable aircraft… at least until the great wide blue of the Roaring Archipelago. Street Samurai was confident in her work, but taking a jury-rigged cyberdactyl out over open water was asking for trouble. She would have to find some other kind of transport.

She’d found it with the stone knight. The woman had called herself an oread, and Street Samurai’s much-perused file of Bulfinch’s Mythology got yet another consultation.

“You’re a stone nymph?”

“I am a Knight of the Order of the Shell.”

“What’s with the mutant tortoise?”

“He is a turtle. This sturdy fellow is my loyal steed. His name is Brick, and I have had him from an egg.”

“How much for a lift?”

“I give my aid and succor to the needy and to the just.”

“Supposing I’m just needy?”

Negotiations were touch and go from there. So was the ride. The knight lady talked in the worst kind of Sim-Faire Ye Olde.Worse, there’s nowhere to hide from storms on the back of a giant snapping turtle. All of Street Samurai’s ware was wetware by the time they’d closed in on the blip.

“Ping,” said her scouter.

“These are pirate-haunted waters,” said Cavakuer. “Canst thou not silence thy machine?”

“You want a five star review or not?”

There had been silence for a time. And then: “There are bottled waters in the back.”

By the time Street Samurai had stepped ashore, the ping had become insistent. It was driving her crazy! Somewhere on this frustratingly anachronistic island, some kind of interface terminal was beckoning. Insisting. Telling her that the long search for a way back home might be buried among the techno-ruins and neon tombs.

But then she saw the source — the reason for her solo adventure standing in the ruins, arms spread wide and alloys gleaming. And the source was magnificent. In  that moment, the long sojourn in the wrong genre was worth it. For the first time since she’d arrived in Handbook-World, Street Samurai was no longer interested in the search for home. Home could wait. But her urge to link up with the “interface terminal” could not.