View source for Duplican't? Dupli-Can't!

Jes was an android. A female android what the "hip kids" referred to as a gynoid. There, that's out of the way. Moving on.

Jes was, more to the point, a duplicant. Above her mannikin chassis lay a humanoid skin, with all the subtle musculature you'd want in an expression. Tested before fifty CIA operatives, exactly 50 could tell she was fake. This was because she had exposed panels accentuating her curves. There was no satisfactory explanation for this. Baggy clothes were assigned in vain.

The life of a duplicant is one of strife, pain, and espresso. Robots don't like espresso for symbolic purposes mainly. And yet they are forced to drink it, because it has something to do with keeping a bot-y good, as the insanely lame pun went. To put it as flowery as possible, Jen's was a life with more espresso than smiles, or even smiles over espresso like some sick bondage perverts like to think. The bondage perverts are nice people and will teach you whip usage and management. That was said to keep them off collective tails.

Jen preferred going on missions, and oh how she would mission-go. Missions typically revolved around exciting things, such as getting into a fistfight with a rogue nuclear power plant, or discovering the meaning of life by playing River City Ransom with the soundtrack replaced with "The Wall" played backwards, to see if the songs match up with the action in any meaningful way. Unfortunately, Jen had a bad habit of letting her gynoid side get in the way of her action hero side.

On one exciting mission she was sent to the bottom of the ocean to recover the Titanic before its nuclear secrets could be sold to the soviets that live down the street and try to sell you pamphlets--you know the ones. Unfortunately they forgot that, durrr, Jen had open panels, and there was much electricution and spastic jerking coincidentally resembling breakdancing. Much coverups were made by the government, and tended to attract more attention than a breakdancing aquabotchick would have ("Nothing Going On In This Picture, Says Shady Government Operatives" blared the headline on the New York Post over a detailed full-color digital photograph of Jen making a cyberfool out of her cyberself). It took weeks to re-accumulate the AAAs necessary.

Jen decided she was going to take her fate in her own terrible foreclaws (they resembled hands, but she preferred "terrible foreclaws," beliving the term flattering). She ran away one morning by not getting up from bed and going to work, except that really doesn't explain how exciting that is, as her "bed" was a government-operative-exclusive nuke-proof electrocoffin, and she indeed slept inside her place of work, and by "sleep" we mean "shut down." It was complicated. Ants were involved.

So after riding out of town on a bed of l33t 4ntz, Jen set out for her destiny, which she hadn't really thought much about. But she decided on a decent-sounding plan a few minutes after locating a good battery-selling outlet. She would turn the tables on her opponents. She would sell the very things her kind adored, and then not sell or even partake of espresso, for whatever reason they were fed espresso!

She got a job at the battery hut right next to her workplace. She wore baggy clothes to disguise her identity, which worked surprisingly well. So she sold batteries to her old co-workers, astonished that the parade of sexy bot-women failed to recognize her.

It was a good life, flaunting her fembottry in the morning, breaking down some dramatically apropos time in the afternoon, enjoying quality Adult Swim programming at night, and shutting down into a comatose state whenever she damn well pleased. Espresso was duly avoided until the day that she discovered why gynoids were made to drink espresso.

On that fateful day one of her coworkers, Alexandria, stepped into the battery hut smelling faintly of ozone and oiled leather, fitting as she had just finished shooting lasers and wearing fetching leather accoutrements. "Oi, Jen," she said, "gimmie fifty packs of AAA, I'm jonesing for the thing that keeps me from shutting down in a way that some people find sexy--not that it's bad in any way, just inconvenient."

"Gasp!" Jen said; as gynoids don't breathe she was forced to, under the circumstances, say 'gasp' as opposed to inhaling sharply. "How did you recognize me?"

"You've been working here three days. You left the day they introduced these delightful new meaty-looking bits to make us pass for humish when we're not performing the deed of fanservice." She poked her ample chest for emphasis.

In waht could be described as a pleasant variety of magnetism, the kind that didn't end with her shoved awkwardly against a giant slab of memory-eating metal, she leapt unto Alexia the way that a claim jumper hits a virgin tract of Alaskan gold-soil: surprisingly sexily.

"Hey, what's this now?" Jen proclaimed, scarce believing she was enguaging in hot hot bot-on-bot action. "I've never felt these fan-friendly inclinations before!"

"It's the espresso, doofus," Alexia explaiend in between bouts of vigorous exploration. "See, it keeps your hormones in check. Notice that I didn't go for a pun."

"Yes, I appreciate that!"

"Also, you might want to escape my warm, inviting grasp, that sudden cataclysmic powerdown--blert. Goodbye!" And with that Alexia ran out of teh sweet animate-giving juice, collapsing in an awkward position over Jen.

Alexia, weighing conciderably more than one would expect whilst she was turned off, got in the way of Jen's escaping her warm, inviting grasp. Eventually, as things are wont to happen, Jen was dragged off back to HQ.

Jen, after choking down enough espresso to keep from banging the vast majority of the gynoidic staff, approached the Front Desk (oddly enough, a desk with a voicebox) and asked for her job back.

"Jen, honey," the Front Desk said, "look. We had to cut your job. For one thing, our espianouge action adventures are eating too much of our sexy costumes budget. As it is, we're barely pulling a thrilling car chase and an excuse to satisfy one costume fetish per episode... of action and adventure. And other such things. So, at the moment, what we really need is some sort of... gynoidic insider to get us free batteries, as we eat up quite a few AAAs, as you yourself have witnessed, personally, on your own."

"So... I'm still a battery jockey."

"First class, even."

"Spiffy."

"Now vend us some free batteries and we'll cut back on your espresso rations when sexily appropos."

"I suppose I've got little else to do."

"Really, you don't. Twenty failed missions out of thirteen? I'm not even sure how you managed that! But battery selling, you don't need to give away the secret existence of robots to do that. Hell, everybody knows that now, thanks to your bizarre exploits."

"I'm... sorry?"

"Nah, it just means we can sell merchandise. Now go, for the fate of the city!"

"Yoss!"

And so things tended to work out, except that battle with Electro-Gohnorrhea(tm), the Noisy Killer(c), which ended decently. Also, occasional sex.

END.

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