In the neon-drenched sprawl of Sprunki, where the skyline pulsed with electric pinks and blues, Klerk and Garnold’s home was a chaotic masterpiece of futurism gone awry. Their sprawling house buzzed and whirred, a labyrinth of half-assembled robots, blinking control panels, and gadgets that seemed to have minds of their own—usually malfunctioning ones. Klerk lounged on a sleek, chrome-plated couch in the living room, her long legs draped over the armrest, a glass of synth-wine in one hand and a scowl on her face. Around her, the room was a battlefield of tech debris: wires snaked across the floor, holographic schematics flickered in midair, and a particularly annoying robot butler, affectionately dubbed “Clankers,” tottered toward her with a tray of coffee.
“Careful, you rusty heap of bolts,” Klerk snapped, her voice sharp as a laser blade, as Clankers tilted dangerously. “If you spill one more drop on me, I’m turning you into a coat rack.”
Clankers, its optic sensors blinking erratically, let out a pitiful beep. “Apologies, Mistress Klerk. My balance matrix is—bzzt—undergoing recalibration.”
“Recalibration, my ass,” she muttered, snatching the cup just as it tipped. A splash of hot liquid hit her thigh, and she hissed, glaring daggers at the bot. “You’re as useful as a paper umbrella in a plasma storm. Get lost before I reprogram you to self-destruct.”
As Clankers shuffled off with a series of pathetic whirs, Klerk sighed, her sharp green eyes scanning the chaos around her. This was her life now—drowning in her husband’s obsession with machines while her own desires burned hotter than a malfunctioning reactor core. Garnold, sweet, clueless Garnold, hadn’t touched her in weeks. Not in the way she craved, anyway. He was too busy playing god with his circuits and servos, dreaming of robotic offspring while she ached for something far more primal.
“Garnold!” she called, her tone laced with irritation and a hint of sultry challenge. She adjusted her posture, letting the sheer fabric of her crimson robe slip just enough to reveal the curve of her shoulder. “You planning to come out of that workshop anytime this century, or should I start flirting with Clankers for attention?”
From the depths of the house, a muffled voice echoed through the intercom. “Just a sec, babe! I’m this close to cracking the neural net for our first robo-kid! You’re gonna love it—think of the family picnics!”
Klerk rolled her eyes so hard she nearly strained a muscle. “Family picnics with a walking toaster? Oh, be still my heart. Get out here, nerd. I’m feeling... neglected.” She purred the last word, letting it hang in the air like a charged particle.
A beat of silence, then Garnold’s distracted chuckle crackled through the speaker. “Soon, Klerk. Promise. Just gotta solder this last—oh, damn, that’s hot! Ow!”
She groaned, tossing her head back against the couch. Useless. Utterly useless. Her mind wandered, as it often did these days, to Brud. Brud, with his devil-may-care smirk and hands that knew exactly how to handle a woman like her. Brud, who didn’t spend his nights whispering sweet nothings to circuit boards. A slow, wicked smile curled her lips as she imagined his touch, the way he’d look at her with that hungry glint in his eye, like she was the only thing in the universe worth inventing.
But first, she’d give Garnold one last shot. Rising with the grace of a predator, Klerk sauntered toward the workshop, her hips swaying with deliberate intent. The door slid open with a hiss, revealing Garnold hunched over a workbench, his goggles reflecting the glow of a holographic blueprint. Tools and spare parts littered every surface, and the air smelled of burnt metal and desperation.
“Garnold, darling,” she drawled, leaning against the doorframe, one hand sliding up to toy with a strand of her dark hair. “You’ve got a living, breathing goddess standing right here, and you’re making bedroom eyes at a circuit board. I’m starting to think I should be jealous of your soldering iron.”
Garnold looked up, blinking owlishly behind his goggles. His boyish face broke into a sheepish grin. “Hey, Klerk! You look... wow. Really wow. But check this out—” He held up a shiny new circuit board like it was a trophy. “This little beauty is gonna revolutionize synthetic emotion! Our robo-kids will feel, babe. Actually feel!”
Klerk’s smile tightened into something dangerous. She stepped closer, her boots clicking on the metal floor, and leaned over the workbench, giving him an eyeful of cleavage as she plucked the circuit board from his hands and tossed it aside. “I don’t give a damn about synthetic emotion, Garnold. I’m real. Flesh and blood and very, very frustrated. How about you revolutionize something in the bedroom for once?”
His cheeks flushed a delightful shade of crimson, and for a moment, she thought she had him. But then his gaze darted back to the discarded circuit board, and he stammered, “I—I will, Klerk. I swear. Just... after I finish this prototype. Timing’s critical, you know?”
She straightened, her expression icing over. “Timing, huh? Well, don’t let me interrupt your precious schedule. Wouldn’t want to delay the birth of your next motherboard.” With a huff, she spun on her heel and stalked out, leaving him muttering apologies to her retreating back.
Back in the living room, Klerk’s frustration simmered into something darker, more reckless. If Garnold wouldn’t give her what she needed, she’d damn well find it elsewhere. Her eyes landed on a small, palm-sized mini-robot—one of Garnold’s discarded projects, no doubt. Perfect. With a few deft tweaks of her own (she wasn’t married to a tech genius for nothing), she hacked into its rudimentary AI, programming a coded message for Brud. A smirk played on her lips as she typed, her fingers flying over the tiny interface.
“Midnight. Neon Alley. Don’t keep a lady waiting, handsome. –K.”
She activated the bot, watching it skitter off into the night through a cracked window. Her heart raced with the thrill of it—the secrecy, the danger, the promise of Brud’s hands on her skin. Let Garnold tinker with his toys. She was done playing the patient wife. In the distance, the hum of his workshop continued, oblivious to the storm she’d just set in motion.
Klerk poured herself another glass of synth-wine, raising it in a silent toast to rebellion. “Here’s to temptation,” she murmured to herself, her voice low and dripping with intent. “And to hell with anyone who thinks they can ignore me.”
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