Valeria Korsakova’s Private Journal
March 3^rd, 2085

Journalistic integrity’s important to me, so while I can’t put this in the second (woo!) Toronto Servos article, I can definitely put it here behind this new form of 3D encryption not even a quantum computer can breach! But enough about that. We’ve put out four more issues since my first interview with them, and it turns out that article was shared across NATO, and my editor gave me the green light to go back, as did Ruby Eve. She says they saw an uptick in foot traffic and made some nice sales, so she was far less cagey this time around. Besides, she had a story she really wanted to tell me. But first, the story right up until we went on record.

I walked in expecting to see Ms. Eve at the front desk, and to get my shoes a little dirty, but it turns out the entire entrance was spotless, and there was a new guy at the desk. Young guy, I’d say early 20’s, nicely cut blonde hair, blue eyes, not overly handsome but approachable. He smiled at me as I came in and stood to shake my hand, and at that point I’ve done enough research on Toronto Servos to know that skin wasn’t real. His nametag said ‘Reece’, which felt a little too on the nose for a receptionist. Turns out my suspicions were right, as Ms. Eve walked down the stairwell from her office.

She walked up to me and pulled out a freaking Colt .45 M1911A1, and flicked the safety switch on. “This means we’re off the record, got it? I take the safety off, and you can use whatever happens in your article.”

“Do you have to be so dramatic?”

“You have a Master of Journalism from Carter University, and you’re calling me dramatic? I know that place, got a flair for the dramatic. I’m just glad that they replaced that horrid generic name from the 20’s with something worthwhile.”

“You… is that loaded?”

“Do you understand metaphors or not?” Ms. Eve laughed.

“Okay, okay, we’re off record…” I had to admit, “Nice gun.”

“Thanks, I just bought it. Was a bitch to track down a complete one, and I’ve been wanting to show it off; I always wanted one of these. Anyways…” She pointed square at Reece. “Our ‘spider web’ security caught that dipshit trying to steal some of our garage’s equipment.”

“And he’s still, alive?” Lethal security systems on private property were legalized decades ago and used nearly everywhere. Then I remembered the touch. “Or he was, before you did something?”

“You’re here to learn about our humanitarian efforts. Our security doesn’t kill, it paralyzes. I get a notice on my cell when it happens. We have a sign out front advertising our non-lethal/ “humane” security as part of the trap, because it brings us fresh material.” She paused, “So maybe calling it humane is a little generous.” Eve walked up to the front desk and told Reece to turn around in a manner I imagine a Victorian governess would order an unruly child. Sure enough, he had a plug at the base of his spine, one of those PD-4’s (Power & Data v.4) ports they created.

“So, you turned him into a receptionist?”

Ms. Eve laughed, folding her arms. “I can’t believe I didn’t think of it sooner, I fucking hate taking phone calls. The name was Harry’s idea though, so all credit to him.” She forcefully grabbed Reece and put him back in his chair. Reece kept his personable, friendly appearance throughout the whole thing. I doubt he had any other emotions available. “So now we took a wayward young man and gave him a job, and really turned his life around- to the point where no one can recognize him, and Clockwork worked his magic tweaking some of his records around to imply he was headed to the Distillery Sector. Thank fuck GPS doesn’t exist anymore.”

“That can’t be the story you wanted to tell me.”

“Nope, Reece wasn’t here when we met.” Ruby drew out a cigarette and offered me one, but I declined. “But now we have something that can take multiple calls at once, interface with our calendars, greet customers, sweep up the place, and we offer 24/7 call in service because he hasn’t left the building since. He broke through a window that anyone with grey matter would have recognized was suspiciously unbarred like the rest.” She struck Reece across the face with a sound which I could feel yet left no trace on his skin or change in his friendly demeanor. Ms. Eve leaned in close to him, “I hate you, and now you get to spend the rest of eternity serving us. If it came down to sparing the life of a cockroach or you, I’d start looking for another receptionist. Eat shit, you hideous blighted worm. One wrong move, and I’ll painfully tear your body apart for scrap.”

Reece smiled, “I understand, boss!” He then went back to focus on the front door.

Ms. Eve beckoned to me, “Let me show you the showroom.”

“I- I uh, with all due respect, already saw it.”

“You barely glimpsed it; I saw you hesitate going in last time. Come.”

I gathered my nerves, having forgotten her sadistic streak in preparation for something lighthearted, but followed her past the front desk and to sliding frosted glass doors which led into the showroom. As she keyed in the door code, she made some small talk. “I looked it up, that name of your university makes me nostalgic. I remember being ten years old, watching him hit that walk off homer at the SkyDome. ‘Touch ‘em all Joe, you’ll never hit a bigger homerun in your life!’, gives me chills every time.”

I put my hand on hers to stop her from opening the door. “That happened in 1993. You were born in 2004. If you were ten when Carter hit that homerun, you’d have been born more than a century ago. I thought you looked good for your eighties, and now you’ve got two more decades weighing on you?”

It was only me, Ms. Eve, and Reece who paid (and had) no mind. Ms. Eve seemed impressed, “I chose you for these interviews because I knew you were sharp. Yes, I was born July 16^th, 1983.”

“Why does your record say January 2^nd, 2004?”

“Vanity. My passport has the real date, but that’s the only place you’ll find it. I have Clockwork sometimes bump the public date up a bit, just when we feel like fucking with the government in ways that won’t become enough of a problem to pull agents off other projects.”

“You look like you’re thirty-five. How? I mean, I know how- but how did you afford that?!”

Ms. Eve sighed quietly, but I believe she was honest with me. “You reported that I disappeared from this city for about a decade, right after K36. It was a chaotic time for all of us, every single one of us, and the billions we lost. However, it was also a period of opportunity and new ideas, and I’m drawn to those. You’re not my friend, you don’t get the whole story, but before I open these doors, I’ll just say that an opportunity too good to pass up came along. You don’t get to know what I did, but it landed me S-Class treatment to my cellular structure, and they even wound back the clock a couple decades. That’s all you’re getting, now for the fun stuff.” She pulled on a heavy metal lever and the doors slid open.

She invited me to walk in first, and the moment my feet crossed the threshold it was like I’d been transported somewhere else. Pedestals evenly spaced and facing each other, in a room unlike the rest of the garage. The rest of Toronto Servos wouldn’t look out of place in the old-world, but the showroom looked like a nightclub, with Dolls posed or standing at attention just row on row of them, all with lights beneath their feet to give some emphasis in the relative darkness, along with strategically placed spotlights. The floor was a hard, dark glass that Ms. Eve’s heels clicked on in a way that I know would drive some customers wild.

“For customers who can’t afford to design a Doll from scratch, these are models we’re currently highlighting, but if you want to see our full offerings you can flip through one of the catalogues on the pedestals dotted around here. We’re also always looking for new ideas to expand the roster. In here we’ve got your basic ‘Barbie’ and ‘Ken’ bimbos, French maids, wanton cumsluts, daddies, kitsune, sissies, Dolls who could pose for a firefighter poster, dominitrixies…” We walked down the line. “I actually hate the ‘Barbie’ and ‘Ken’ models being here, too vanilla for my liking, but they’re our best seller when it comes to premade. However, this thing…” She pointed to a young woman with long brunette waves, dressed in a black and gold school uniform of some kind, topped with a corps hat. “This thing was licensed from NATO’s newest state. Even if people don’t know the franchise (it’s more than a half-century old by now), its singing voice and charm sells with people knowing or not. Comes with this gorgeous alternative outfit. I have a soft spot for the series, so… I just had to put it up here. Popular with professors.

We’re hoping to license more Dolls, people want to fuck the characters they see on screen, although I know Japan has already started up some fierce competition in this department; I do like a challenge, though. We have licensed the blueprints to four Dolls from an American made anime, but they’re only listed in the catalogue for now.”

I was listening, but one called to me, and I’m not even a lesbian. “That one looks like a badass bitch!”

Ms. Eve took notice of the one I pointed to and smiled. “She’s, my favourite.” She walked over to my side and looked up at the Doll on the pedestal. “Badass bitch is right. That girl is all punk, through and through. This model is for buyers who are risk takers, metal heads, hard rock motorcycle fanatics who could drink an elephant under the table. Topping or subbing, she wants it heavy, loud, rough and bloody.”

“A Doll after your own heart?”

Ms. Eve paused; in a way I hadn’t seen before. “She’s intense, I respect the hell out of that.” She walked away from the Doll and I followed.

I had to ask, “And all of those used to be ‘material’? How does this work? Does a customer just take one out from the showroom and uh- drive it off the lot?”

“Yes to question one. I told you the human brain is essential, plus other bits stay too if needed. The client can make a few alterations for a price, but nothing terribly drastic (or else, why buy a floor model?). But this is a showroom. You probably noticed the doors way at the back? You’re a journey, you’ve got eyes.”

“I did.”

“There you can ‘test drive’ to continue your analogy any of the floor models, if you put down a small deposit, can’t have people coming in and fucking up our Dolls for free, and any serious buyer wouldn’t think twice of the amount. But because of that, even if we clean them up after and patch anything that needs patching, we don’t sell floor units. What we do is: a client orders a model, and we use the grade of material they requested, the blueprints and code in our database, and the parts we’ve got in stock to make an exact replica, down to the last detail, plus any alterations that they wanted.”

“Can I ask you something?”

“You’re a journalist so I’d be surprised if you didn’t, but the safety’s still on.”

“How much… material do you have in this building, at any one time?”

“Tess prefers fresh, so what we keep on ice we don’t count as A-Grade. Even with modern preservation techniques, there’s no substitute for a fresh one- ideally still working as we alter it. That’s A-Grade. Briefly dead? B-Grade. We use iced material for cheaper orders and have a few dozen in cryo. Sometimes for repairs we break one down for parts, but once frozen it’s all considered C ‘good enough to work, not enough to impress’ grade.”

“Then, if you get a lot of high-end showroom orders, how do you find A-Grade material quickly?”

Ms. Eve looked me right in the eye and just gently shook her head. I got the message, but that only compelled me to pursue my reason for being there further. “Okay, I get it.” I quickly changed the subject. “So, if it’s all right with you, and I can’t believe I’m going to say this- could we head up to the lounge (if it’s not full of smoke like your office) and you take the safety off that pistol, and then we can talk about the actual good you’ve done?”

Ms. Eve laughed at that, “Fine. I suppose I really was in the mood to show off, and I guess last time I did saturate the air with smoke in that office. Force of habit. Come on, let’s go to the lounge. Would you like to try our VR Entertainment?”

“Ms. Eve, I intend to walk out of here exactly as I entered.”

Sarcastically she snapped her fingers, “Damn! Almost had a sexy reporter or librarian model! Wait, why don’t we have those…” That got a small chuckle out of both of us and was a nice way to break the tension.

“You wish you could have me.” There was a shift, an opening between us. I was becoming more confident, and I could see she respected that.

“I’ve certainly thought about it a few times since our interview. Come on, to the lounge. I give you my word, I won’t shoot you or alter you. Wanna have Reece bring you coffee? You can punch him where his dick used to be after.”

When we arrived in the lounge, which really did have couches you could just melt into, Ms. Eve unholstered her Colt, placed it on the long glass coffee table between us (barrel pointing at neither of us), and unlocked the safety. I leaned forward and put my dedicated voice recorder on the same table, hitting record. She sat back and was about to light a cigarette before stopping herself, until I said I didn’t mind at that distance. “I’m glad we’re forming an understanding. Now, you wanted to hear a story of how I helped someone in depression and need find happiness and purpose?”