[Draft] Cyborg Noodle, objectification

First draft, 1500 words, will lead to sex probably

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God how she hated him.

She was a cyborg, a creature made of machine and flesh. Her DNA didn't belong to her – it came from Noodle, a girl she'd never met. The original Noodle was a trained supersoldier, an artist and musician, world famous, and presumed to have died in a music video accident. Cyborg Noodle wasn't Noodle, she only looked like her, and had some of her skills. None of her memories, none of her mind. All of that had come from Murdoc. He'd made her, even given her a name. Most people called her Cyborg Noodle. Murdoc, with his twisted sense of humor, liked to call her Evil Noodle.

God, she hated that motherfucker.

Cyborg Noodle was his bodyguard, his replacement bandmate, and most importantly, his slave. His word was her command, in every sense of the word. If Murdoc said jump, she wouldn't ask how high, she would simply jump, to the best of her ability, and to the exclusion of all other tasks if necessary. She was incapable of disobedience, not just unwilling, but absolutely and intrinsically unable to disobey Murdoc's commanded. She followed the law of Murdoc in the same way she followed the laws of physics. Only in her mind was she free. As a meager act of rebellion, inside her own mind, she refused to call herself Cyborg Noodle. To herself, she was simply Noodle. In all other ways, he owned her.

But she could still hate him.

It was a recording session, or what passed for those in an average day on Plastic Beach. Murdoc had invited some colleagues over, musicians or drug dealers or both, Noodle didn't care. Murdoc was sharing a couch and a hookah with someone who was a longtime friend, some Welsh guy in his late 30's, and the two rambled on tangents, philosophizing about life and art in a way only possible for someone semi-high but not quite completely stoned. Noodle sat near the corner in a high-backed stool, wearing the same clothes she'd worn during the highway chase slash submarine ride to get here. She had other clothes, but Murdoc thought the all black outfit looked badass, so she rarely dressed differently. Her guitar case was at her feet and her assault rifle leaned against the wall next to it. There was little need for the weapon as she plucked away at her guitar, trying to find a tune that interested her. Plastic Beach was a fortress, a place so remote and so unimportant to make it utterly worthless to attack – and thus completely safe from attack. Still, her job was to serve as Murdoc's bodyguard, and she had to obey.

The conversation between Murdoc and the Welsh guy drifted in her direction, and she took notice of their slightly mumbled conversation.

"…even with the bullet hole, she's got a better head on her shoulders than a proper bodyguard," said Murdoc, nodding in Noodle's direction. "Totally loyal. Never asks for the day off. Doesn't even need a paycheck, legally speaking… 'course she gets a cut of the royalties from the album, y'see, otherwise the record people wouldn't let her work on it. Union stuff and all that, y'know."

Actually she *would* have liked a paycheck, and some vacation time would have been nice. She didn't need to sleep, but her body could get tired and sore just like anyone else's. Her titanium inner chassis would outlast the longest-lived human, but her flesh was still made of just that; flesh.

"…modeled her off of Terminator logic, of course," continued Murdoc. "Sans the time travel. She's robot underneath, so she's tough and strong enough to bench press a lorry. But you can't have a chrome death robot hanging around in our line of work yeah?"

"Right, right," said the Welshman, nodding knowingly.

"So her outer parts're made of real flesh and skin, muscle tissue too, where it's needed. Real hair, fingernails and toenails. All the accoutrements, no corners cut."

"She's got no tits," the Welshman said bluntly.

Noodle missed a chord and stopped abruptly. She stared straight ahead, trying to act like she hadn't heard the conversation, trying to pretend that being talked about like she wasn’t in the room didn't make her synthetic blood boil. The two men didn’t seem to notice.

"Of course she's got no tits!" said Murdoc, slapping the arm of the couch for emphasis. "She's an authentic recreation of the original, and I'm not about to sully Noodle's image by giving her big fat fake tits like a porn star past her prime. And anyway she's nineteen and Japanese, that's just what he body type is like over there."

"I've seen Japanese chicks with big tits," said the Welshman. "Tits and ass is the ideal body type, that's universal. That's what's sexy. Doesn't matter where you are."

"Listen you philistine," said Murdoc, with a candor that feigned having been greatly offended, "Unless you're MC Sir bloody Mix-A-Lot, you have no room to look at a teenage girl wearing black leather hot pants and tell her that her ass is anything short of spectacular."

Noodle clenched the neck  of her guitar so tight she threatened to snap the thing. Murdoc was trying to defend her, and in his unique, repulsive, slimeball way, he was doing it by totally objectifying her. This was a conversation he'd had before, with other colleagues. He loved to show off his creation, and refused to listen to any naysayers who felt she was not, in fact, sexy. Noodle didn't care what any of them thought. She was anatomically complete, even if not anatomically exciting. She'd inspected all her parts when she was alone, and compared herself to girls from the internet. She was nineteen years old – well really she was about a year old, but physically she was a teenager – and barely five feet tall. For her size and age, Noodle was… typical.

"Oi! Noodle! Get over her and help me prove a point," said Murdoc, gesturing emphatically. Internally, Noodle rolled her eyes and sighed heavily. At least he didn't call her Evil-Noodle this time. Externally, Noodle hopped off her stool and set the guitar on the ground before crossing the room to the couch. She stood at attention, hips cocked slightly, putting on her default bodyguard face that said "I'm too cool to give a shit, but I will absolutely kick your ass if I have to." The haze of smoke would have made her cough, if she had lungs.

"Give us a little spin, would you luv?" Murdoc said, making a little twirling motion with his hand. Noodle complied, turning in place, stopping every 90 degrees, like a fashion model showing out every angle of a flamboyant dress. She felt the eyes of both men slide up and down her body, and as she faced them again, she felt goose bumps that she didn't actually have.

"Turn around," said the Welshman. Noodle ignored him, cocking her hips again. She looked to Murdoc, waiting for him to give her another order or to dismiss her. She had no obligation to obey Murdoc's Welsh friend.

"Go on, go on, do what the man says," said Murdoc. He explained to his friend, "She'll only listen to you if I tell her to listen to you. Failsafes, y'see. Can't have her going all robot uprising on us."

As Noodle turned away from them, the Welshman said, "What if you tell her to do something impossible? Or something that's clearly meant as a metaphor, like 'take a hike' or something?"

"I'll be honest mate, I never had the balls to try and figure out. Logical paradoxes and deadly robot guitarists don't mix, yeah? I programmed her not to hurt me, even if me or someone else tells her to do it. Can't have her getting too literal if I yell, 'fuck my life!' or something  after slamming my thumb in a car door. Beyond that, she does what I tell her and that's it."

"Stick out your ass," said the Welshman, and Noodle complied, bending at the waist. Facing away from them, she grit her teeth in anger. The couch creaked as the Welshman stood up. "You're right about the short shorts," he said. "Your girl's got a boney ass but shapely legs and camel toe can make up for anything."

There was a pause. "May I?" asked the Welshman. Noodle couldn't see what he was doing.

"Oh by all means mate, go ahead," said Murdoc.

There was a resounding SMACK as he slapped her ass, centered squarely on her right cheek. Noodle's bent-over pose afforded her almost no balance to begin with, and the blow sent her tumbling forward with a shocked gasp. She threw out her hands and barely caught herself as she fell forward head-first.

The two men laughed, as her cheeks flushed red. The humiliation and degradation left her wishing she could cry – or tear their heads off, that would be nice too. Instead she slowly picked herself up off the floor, waited just a moment to see if the two men had more orders for her, before walking back over to her stool. She picked up the guitar and tried to find some music.