Shackle.exe: Episode 1: Shackle.exe, #1

By Van D Vicious

In the wake of the biotech boom, the gap between the haves and have-nots grows wider by the day.

 

Ashton Westworth is a disowned heiress whose only desire is to create. Leather and functional wings dominate her dreams, but to succeed in the moguls' world, she needs money. Lots of it. The shadowy crime lord Alpha offers her a future—his money for her submission; now Ash is struggling to pay the price.

 

Corporate son James Buchanan is stuck under his abusive father's thumb. When he's only as good as the marriage he secures, James can't reconcile his own desires against his father's demands. Every weekend, he stalks the darkest corners of Pittsburgh's tech-heavy underbelly in search of flesh and fun. But the illusion of control will never be enough…

 

When Ashton and James meet, sparks fly, but neither of them is willing to fan the flame—not when it means breaking a billion-dollar engagement or ending up in crippling debt. But attraction transcends the bounds of contracts, and theirs runs deeper than most…right into the Pittsburgh underground, and it threatens to expose secrets better left buried.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Van D Vicious
• Release date: Jan 7, 2024
• ISBN: 9798224503292

Book preview

VAN D VICIOUS

Shackle.exe, Episode 1

© 2020 Van D Vicious

Excerpt of Shackle.exe, Episode 2 © 2020 Van D Vicious.

All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner without the express written permission of the author except for use in brief quotations in a book review.

This is a work of fiction. All the characters and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

Printed in the United States of America.

First printing: 2020

Cover by Fantasia Covers, http://www.fantasiacoverdesign.com/

Interior design by Trash Goblin Express, http://www.facebook.com/trashgoblinexpress

Diesel typeface by Eduardo Recife, http://www.misprintedtype.com/

CONTENT WARNING

This series began as a therapy session after years of abuse, and it explores dark topics beneath the guise of a cyberpunk/dystopian fugue state. Though the author has taken pains to handle the material with care, it very well might be damaging to those who have experienced similar situations. Possible triggers include GRAPHIC VIOLENCE, GORE, BLOOD, ADDICTION to narcotics and alcohol, DOMESTIC VIOLENCE in the form of EMOTIONAL AND PSYCHOLOGICAL MANIPULATION and allusions to SEXUAL ABUSE. For a chapter by chapter list, please visit https://www.patreon.com/vandvicious.

If you or someone you know is a victim of domestic violence, please reach out for help: NATIONAL DOMESTIC VIOLENCE HOTLINE (US): 1-800-799-7233

If you are struggling with addiction and need help finding counseling or rehab services, you can find referrals here: SAMHSA NATIONAL HELPLINE (US): 1-800-662-4357

Table of Contents

Content Warning

One

Two

Three

Four

Five

Six

Seven

Eight

Nine

Ten

Eleven

Twelve

Thirteen

Fourteen

Fifteen

Sixteen

Dedication

About the Author

Bonus Content

I am a whore, Ashton whispered in time to the music. She squinted through the magnification lens strapped over her right eye, resisting the urge to sway to the beat of her favorite song.

The mechanisms in the breastplate were so tiny it was like operating on an amoeba. When the lens zoomed in, she slowly angled the screwdriver and twisted. The screw slipped.

Well shit. She leaned forward to see where it had fallen between the metal cogs. Without taking her eyes away, she blindly reached for the magnet stick and ran it above the crack. Come here, you little bastard.

The music cut out of her subdermal implants and she nearly jumped out of her skin. Magnet, screw, and screwdriver fell with a clatter as her phone rang. Pushing the monocle on top of her head, she glanced at the name on the holo display.

M.

Stomach tightening into knots, she glanced to the window to find it dark. Another peek at the screen showed it was almost ten pm already. She chewed at her cheek as the call kicked over to voicemail. It was the first day she’d had free from work in two weeks; she’d fully intended to spend it doing something for herself.

A moment later, the phone buzzed again, a text popping up to scroll across the holo in all caps: YOU HAVE THREE HOURS.

Cursing, she cut the link to her implants and shoved out of her seat. She looked like hell. Black curls tossed up in a messy topknot, wearing nothing but her panties and an oversized tee, absolutely no makeup. She panicked, hand trailing from her hair to her face and back again. She hadn’t even showered!

She ran across the room and shoved the closet door aside, reaching inside for the garment bag at the very back of the rack. It was hidden behind a mass of winter clothes. She threw the tamper-proof chain mesh on the bed, unlocked it with shaking hands, and unzipped it.

Her stomach threatened to bottom out. Most of the gear was outdated or unfinished. The newer pieces had already been showcased. No!

Her eyes went to the breastplate on her desk. Clockwork. Not her usual fare for the performance house. M preferred a doll aesthetic. She’d intended to use the piece as a cosplay in October, but it would have to do.

Hurrying back to her desk, she snapped the monocle in place and retrieved the screw. A big breath and she steadied her hands. It took another two tries before she was able to tighten it. She secured the wiring into the battery house, hiding it in a concealed compartment along the edge of the enclosure, and then snapped the V-shaped door closed. Grabbing her phone, she backed up a pace, switch app at the ready.

Please work. She tapped the button. Beneath the clear cover, cogs spun and arcs of lightning danced. She could hear whirring though. Shit. Hopefully it would be too loud for anyone to notice. She tapped the button to shut it off and ran for the shower.

She rushed through washing and shaving, jumping out a sopping wet mess. Hurrying through her hair, she secured it in a lazy chignon with a half card of bobby pins and a ton of hairspray. Her makeup was a sloppy Geisha-inspired aesthetic—ultra white foundation with black contour, red lipstick that only touched enough of her lips to form a heart. She spent more time on her eyes, making sure the winged eyeliner matched and the copper and black eyeshadow was flawless. It made her blue eyes pop. Her brows hadn’t been lasered, so she was forced to clean them up and quickly fill them in with a black pencil.

When she went back into her room, the phone’s holo flashed with another text: Running out of time.

I know!

Less than two hours. If she didn’t make it to the Bullet in twenty minutes, she would miss the window. She shoved her feet into specially made stockings, pulled on cheeky cut underwear, and shimmied into a pleated, leather miniskirt. Then came the arduous task of getting herself into the breastplate. It was made to fit snugly, but her chest threatened to spill from cups a size too small. Where she was going, the exposed flesh wouldn’t be a problem. She secured her nipples just inside the cups with double-sided tape. After throwing on a black, cinch tie overcoat, everything else was gathered and thrown into a purse. She’d put on the rest of it in the Bullet.

Grabbing her stilettos, she tucked the boots under her arm, slung the purse over her shoulder, and rushed for the door. She drove like a mad woman, screeching to a halt outside Unionville Station twelve minutes later. The automated announcements blared last boarding call as she slipped inside.

Ashton sat in a cubicle and secured the belt just as the doors slid closed. The ridiculous speed of the Bullet carried her almost three hundred miles to Pittsburgh. The forty-five-minute ride gave her plenty of time to secure dangling copper cogs in her ears, tuck a clock-themed ornament into her hair, and get her feet into the boots before the train stopped in East End.

As she sprinted through the underground tunnel, her heels clicked out a forceful rhythm. The concrete caught the noise and tossed it back like a round of applause. It fueled her excitement. Behind her, the Bullet roared on to its next destination, momentarily drowning out her harried flight.

When she emerged onto Penn Avenue, she checked her phone and saw thirteen minutes. She still had time. Jogging in an awkward huff past the drunks clogging the sidewalk, she darted into the street and caught up with the slow-moving street car. She vaulted onto the back end, jostling the hovercraft with her sudden added weight. Her fingers gripped the pole like a lifeline and she threw her head back with a breathless laugh.

She spread her other arm wide, looking up at all of the neons that flashed against the smoggy sky. Some might find it ugly. To her, it was home.

Not so long ago, East End had been a dying star, an unfortunate byproduct of the recession in the 2080s. Pittsburgh was too big to go under completely, but it had been a close thing for some of the districts in the hub. Ashton could remember a time when dozens of stores stood empty on this stretch of road. East End had gone from a thriving business district to a ghost town in a matter of months. All of those posh stores had been lifeless husks, playgrounds for the homeless.

M had changed that. He was rich. Filthy rich. Part of the 1 percent of the 1 percent, and he’d used it to rebuild. East End boomed now—a thriving night spot to rival New York City.

With the invention of the Bullet, everything had changed, and M had been one of the first to capitalize on that. She respected him for clawing his way to the top on a gamble when so many others had stuck to sure things. But she also despised him for it.

Without him, she was nothing. She swallowed down rising regret and concentrated on what the night would bring—fun, escape, adoration. She craved it all.

The street car carried her three blocks before she jumped off, finishing the short walk along the edge of the performance house. After hitting the switch app, she tucked her phone into the overcoat and rounded the corner. Her form was bathed in a muted, red glow from the Marionettes sign. A long string of patrons milled down the block, disappearing into the night. No doubt the performance house was at capacity. The latecomers would linger until dawn for just a chance to peek inside. As the name of the place suggested, all of them were merely puppets on the master’s strings.

She completely ignored the line, smirking at the angry remarks as she stopped at the chain cordon before the stairs. Softly caressing the cool links, she glanced up at the bouncer’s back with a wicked gleam in her eyes. Unlike the people who came for the scene, he was all business in his black trousers and button-up shirt. His stage name captured his persona to a T. If that wasn’t enough, the holo mask that hid his face would do the job.

I missed you, Judge. She smirked and looked up from beneath her lashes, noting how clean his blond fade looked from behind; the last time she’d seen him, he’d had an undercut and what looked like a bushy beard. She’d teased him about the lumberjack chic.

He turned, the mask showing his happy face. The hologram’s pixels projected a white facade with black holes for eyes and stitches through a smiling mouth, black plus sign over the forehead. Even in happy mode, it was a disconcerting view. Coupled with his size, Judge looked every bit as intimidating as his moniker suggested.

Omega! He moved the chain out of the way and led her to the other side with a soft grip on her fingers. A gentle giant, but only for her. It’s been a while.

She laughed at the veiled chastisement. It’d been a little over three weeks, but life got in the way, and not even M could issue an order to change that. I was summoned, and here I am.

Leaning back, he glanced over her outfit, the dead eyes of the mask lingering on the cinch tie. What’s hiding under the coat?

Secrets. She slipped the knot free and pulled the flaps of the coat aside to give him a peek.

I like this one. He looked up to her face. "A lot."

With a sly grin, she leaned forward to give him a better look, running a finger along the overemphasized line of cleavage. Of course you do, she purred. I wouldn’t be doing my job correctly if you didn’t.

The way his body curved toward her, she knew she’d hit just the right button. It was gratifying, knowing she could make men drool with even a subpar design. Mixed and matched though it was, she’d managed to make it work.

He made a low noise a second later. Jerk. Laughing, he pressed a kiss to her knuckles, and then nodded toward the door. Get in there before I get myself fired!

It was probably wrong of her to tease him, but friendship was inviolate, as was her contract. Blowing him a kiss, she hurried up the stairs and touched the X-shaped crossbar handle. The V where the two wooden planks met had been polished smooth and worn down with repeated use. It felt cool in her hand, welcoming. She tugged the heavy door open and crossed the threshold.

Inside, she was assaulted by a suffocating cloud of smoke and the muted thump of bass. It reverberated through her very soul. She paused to check her handbag and coat before moving down the hallway and into the Preshow. The view of the lounge’s occupants brought a wicked twist to her lips. She would never tire of that sight. It had the singular effect of helping her shed the last vestiges of the totally unremarkable Ashton Westworth.

Omega—the shadowed queen who was adored by all—had come home.

With slow steps, she wove her way through the labyrinth of bodies. Seats were fully occupied, the glass overlays of each table sporting a plethora of multi-colored drinks as the Gothic, cyberpunk, and fetish-oriented patrons drank their way into a stupor. She surveyed revelers with veiled eyes. Many of them were wearing her designs—unfurling wings, press on tracer tattoos in constant motion, cracked leather that looked like a cooling lava flow.

Her near-strut through the overly crowded area revealed her mad science at work. While this place was run by the puppet master’s whim, she momentarily felt like a goddess. She was Frankenstein to these misunderstood monsters.

Omega! One of the patrons rushed over, followed by a tight press of fan girls.

They wore the summer styles, various shades of red, yellow, green, and black in the Shadowland line. Apoc wasteland inspired. Leather minis and hot pants that looked acid washed or mimicked radioactive waste spills. Halter harnesses that barely hid their nipples. Faux gas-masks covered their mouths and noses, the cinch straps weaving into elaborately braided hair.

Omega loved how they’d adapted the look around their own styles. She took time to appreciate them and vice versa. They showered her with compliments as well as questions about new designs. Like the magnanimous queen she was, she flattered them and dropped vague hints about what they could expect in the coming weeks.

A quick glance at the clock over the bar brought her fun to an end. One o'clock. She broke free and continued the long walk across the lounge. A sharp whistle drew her gaze to a table full of Neos. They combined elements of a hard-boiled detective—black trench, suit and tie, derby or fedora hats—with cyberpunk flair. Her nose wrinkled. Most of them were pretenders to the culture of Marionettes despite playing to the aesthetic.

One of the men grasped at his chest, falling to the floor to mimic a heart attack, and then crawled forward to grovel at her feet. Omega lifted a brow as she watched.

Hands hovering around the square toe of her boot, he slowly licked the leather and looked up through a Cyclops lens. It spun back and forth, focusing on her, the low lights bouncing off the glass. Unlike so many others who only accessorized, he’d had the monocle fully installed into his face. A ragged scar ran the length of his forehead, disappearing behind the lens, and ended on his cheek. Industrial accident maybe.

When he tipped back his fedora, his unaugmented eye met hers. A dark gleam in the electric-blue depths begged her to play. I licked it, so it’s mine.

Throwing her head back with a delighted laugh, she placed her boot beneath his shoulder, nudging him upright. She leaned down to grasp his chin with a gentle hand, knowing full well he was ogling her chest. Her one and only gift to him. Despite the Cyclops lens, she could tell he wasn’t worth her time. True players never took a table in the Preshow, and Omega was not nearly vanilla enough for that.

That boot and everything in it belongs to another man, she told him, placing a condescending kiss to his nose before shoving him away. Now crawl back to your table.

Ignoring the continued catcalls from his friends, she made her way to the bar and wormed between two people. She leaned forward to wave at the bartender. Poison!

He looked over his shoulder. The red, digital eyes of his plague doctor mask curved into twin U shapes to mimic smiling. Though the metal helmet covered his entire head, she knew he was hiding an orange slick back and deep, brown eyes beneath. She’d always thought he was adorable and hated that he had to hide it. It might or might not color her interactions with him.

She’d known both Poison and Judge before donning Omega’s skin, well before coming to the dark heart of Marionettes. They’d been friends before coworkers. She missed the innocence of those days even as she basked in the environment that had changed it all.

Glad you’re back, Poison called over his shoulder, the microphone in the mask projecting his voice over the din. He continued to mix drinks. You want the usual?

You know what I like! She was ready to begin her night, but the ritual needed to be satisfied first. Like the cogs in her breastplate, time rolled forward. Her master would not wait forever.

A few moments later, Poison was back with a chilled shot of vodka and a Black Santa. Omega downed the shot and greedily sucked at the drink. A euphoric smile graced her face when she put the empty glass back on the bar. When he hovered, head angled to the side as if in question, she nodded. As if he needed the ego boost. He always made her drinks to perfection.

She leaned over, taking one of his hands in a soft grip. Why aren’t we married yet?

That made him cackle and shake his head. "You’re bad."

Scrunching her nose playfully, she smirked and nodded at the glass. One more and I’ll get out of your hair.

He nodded and moved away to make another, rounding back with a flourish as he presented her drink. When she grabbed it and would have moved away, he called, Hey!

Not bothering to answer, she sipped her drink and raised an eyebrow.

He was looking for you.

Her eyes crinkled under the force of her grin. Then I’m sure he’ll find me soon enough. She tiptoed a few steps away, giggling at the way the mask’s red eyes narrowed to flat lines.

Spreading his hands, he tilted his head. Omega, he's waiting in the Dungeon.

Another few steps.

He pointed at her and shouted, Don’t make him wait!

Giving Poison a wicked smile, she sauntered toward the back of the lounge. She cast one quick look at the red door of the Dungeon but shrugged and turned into the hall instead. She could hear Poison swearing at her as she disappeared into the dim corridor.

Though he’d given her a friendly warning, it hardly mattered. No doubt her master had known the minute she stepped through the door. If he hadn’t met her in the Preshow, she considered her time unspoken for. But this wasn’t just about him or the contract. The performance house had become more real to her than the broken reality of Ashton’s life. When she came to Marionettes, she could be everything she wanted to be. Her past and the limitations of her name didn’t matter.

True, Omega was willing property, but the cost of even a glimpse of freedom came from signing on the dotted line. Her contract stipulated weekends belonged to her master. He’d called; she’d come. That three-hour