>>sci-fi, cyberpunk but not Cyberpunk(tm), decap, luggage girl, dubious consent, body mods, easy restoration, nerds

David sighed, staring at the christmas tree, swirled the whiskey in his glass.

It was the second glass he had this morning.

From when Sarah had gifted him the bottle five years ago, and they had a taste together, this was…

He glanced at the expensive crystal bottle, filled with an expensive liquid between amber and straw colours, labels all swirling, swooping, slashing black letters on a white background, all over a red circle.

He couldn't read japanese, but it was good stuff.

He could tell it was down by two and a quarter, now.

She had grimaced, wrinkled her button nose hard enough to pop her big square glasses off her face. He caught them as she coughed, he managed to keep his own spasming throat from sending into the same coughing fit she was having.

The burn was agonizing. He never drank, and this shit hit like-

It didn't hit like a truck, he got whalloped by the whole damn shipping company.

It was just raw will, a power he didn't have but she, SHE meant he could do anything. So he tanked the hit, held her with his scrawny arm, and looked as proud as he could as he set her glasses back on her adorable chipmunk face.

She smiled so wide, her two big incisors resting on… Okay, let's be blunt, she was an adorable chipmunk-faced nerd with straight-up PORNSTAR lips.

He kissed her on the forehead, and they giggled and snorted together, nerds in love.

That was five years ago, and it was a long slide downhill into shit.

He tried. They… They loved so many of the same things, worked so well together in the labs, churned out discovery after groundbreaking discovery, spoke together long and in depth to enraptured crowds of brilliant minds, all trying to comprehend scraps and fragments of what he and Sarah desperately wanted to help them all learn.

But every time? He saw her eyes wandering. Not to other men. And not to other women.

Not to other women - as a whole.

She glared with first furious envy, and then just self-loathing and regret, at bits and parts of every other woman at every convention and seminar.

Long legs, perky asses, tight waists and tummies, big proud bouncy tits.

Five years ago she glared raw venom at the booth bunnies draped across the console of the newest electron microscope on display.

Mid-october this year, she had broken down sobbing, ugly tears of self-hatred, from seeing two bimbos in tiny devil costumes riding the big transverse beam of the XK950 Carbonizing Spectrometer, every squeal and giggle from their painted lips and empty skulls a crushing blow to Sarah.

She glanced at it, instantly wanted it, comprehending all its myriad complexities and capacities, the pentaquats of data it could wrestle from the universe with the lightest brush of her finger across its silvery switches.

And those two idiotic bimbos were riding its Primary Transverse Manifold Manipulation Cross-slide Beam Carriage like drunken cumdumpster ARTS STUDENTS rode a mechanical bull.

And the whole convention was hooting and cheering as those two… CLUSTERS OF FUCKHOLES made ditzy noises, while she listened to that beautiful machine wail in agony, servos and pistons buzzing and groaning as it strained under their fat asses' extra weight, desperately trying to compensate for their thrashing movements, to wrench itself back into sub-picometre precision while they wrenched it far beyond its design limits.

They were killing it, MURDERING it, the smell in the air letting her know they were GETTING OFF as they mutilated that precious machine.

And everyone who should've known better, were cheering them on.

To watch their titties bounce.

David had carried her away in his arms. He had worked so hard on himself, for her. He was still his same six foot self, long and gangly, narrow across his chest and shoulders.

But five years of I Want To Make Sarah Happy had turned weak, noodly arms into titanium lattice beams wrapped in carbon-moly spring steel cables.

David could never be bulky, but he made himself into whipcord steel, for her.

And she was revulsed. Not by him, but why he would… "Stain that masterpiece by letting a wretch like me touch it", she said.

There was never much sex. But now she refused… Well, it boiled down to, she refused to touch him, or be touched in return.

Whether she hated him, or if she hated herself and felt unworthy of his touch?

Both blades cut the same.

And now… December 19th, she had made an excuse, and Sarah never came home.

9am on December 20th, and their home was cavernous and empty. David had muted all his data links, just… Didn't go in today. At 0910, he had sat down and started day drinking.

At 1030, he was about to finish off that second glass when something buzzed in his head.

It wasn't a data stream. It wasn't a missed call or unanswered text, that had given up sending individual alerts when both icons at the edge of his peripheral vision had hit +999.

It was their doorbell.

A glimpse through the electric eyes of the security camera showed a KuroKary delivery van, a delivery driver, and a big luggage case on wheels. Red, wound with green ribbons, and with a big From SARAH tag.

He was actually gasping for air when he threw the door open, hunched from the exertion of the sprint, had to lift his head to gaze into the delivery girl's wide, inviting blue eyes.

The Iris Handshake Protocol completed, and she smiled broadly. "Thank you for your eyeprint! Here's your package, and have a Merry Christmas!" She froze for a moment with a choked gurgle, and her eyes went dark and cold, her voice dropping in pitch. Her words were hard and stern. "Make SURE Sarah has a happy… Chriis-tu-mass."

The delivery girl gasped and stumbled, grimaced as she pinched the bridge of her nose. A tiny plastic chip ejected from behind her ear, bursting into flame in midair, its tiny mass a quick flash before its ash dissipated on the breeze.

"S… Sorry, sir. Hurts a little when they attach a message." The delivery girl straightened up, gave something between a salute and a wave, and sat back on the extended seat of her van.

It lifted her up and drew her back as the roof and sides and front panel reassembled itself around her, like a maw of metal and glass, scooping her up on its tongue to pull her into its mouth before the jaws clamped shut.

She gave a cheery wave, the big wheels on the little box lighting up blue and softly whining as she gave it voltage and it whisked away.

David blinked a few times behind his glasses. Then blinked with purpose, trying to pull the waybills for the delivery.

It was shipped to him from Kurosawa Heavy & Medical, but from a department he didn't…

No.

This had to come with the direct command of Kurosawa Aramaki himself.

… But "From Sarah".

He grabbed the handle of the huge rolling case, and dragged it inside. It was heavy even for him.

Sitting down, he stared at that tag.

From: Sarah.

It was her own swirly, loopy handwriting.

He took a deep breath, tossed the last of the precious whisky in his mouth, sucked breath through his teeth to pull the fire down his throat, and started snapping the latches as he swallowed it down.

He nearly vomited it back up as the lid rose up, hinging up on its narrowest side.

He fell back over his chair as the case lid lifted a slowly swaying wreath.

In the middle of the wreath, looking waxy and cold, milky eyes staring at nothing through frosting-over square glasses, plump lips painted festive red with little dots of white, pursed as if ready to take either kiss or cock.

His sweet, sad chipmunk.

Sarah's severed head swung gently, framed by the wreath.