She’s a lovely thing, this one. Slit-pupiled holochroma eyes that oscilate between butane-torch blue and cotton-candy pink with a shift so slow and subtle that an organic mind can’t quite track the change. Exra perky BetterFlesh™ H-cups complete with undulation amplifiers that ensure every hip-sway and hair-flip revs up a pleasing jiggle. Glossy cock-cushion lips that periodically drizzle viscous threads of psuedo-spittle lubricant down over her cleavage like syrup pouring over pancakes in a vintage breakfast commercial.
Her waist-length cascade of platinum-colored hair is a rippling flag of chemically-enchanted pony-mane: each luxurious lock five times more sleek and lustrious than the best organic strands. Her arching eyebrows are a high-contrast black: thick and well-defined in the style of a pre-Demonic Era social media bimbo.
Presently, this trillion-dollar Synth-Nymph’s voluptuous, satin skirt-clad rear is perched atop the mangy, gnat-infested cushion of the stool opposite your desk. You almost want to apologize to whatever lunatic Mogul programmed it to up and waltz her perfect body over to your shitty, dirtchute office in this shitty, dirtchute corner of the Tier. Almost, but not quite. Your brain is far too taken in by the Showfloor Demo Mode your guest’s been looping to process anything as complex as a “sorry for the mess in here.” For the past who-knows-how-many minutes since she took her seat, this artificial succubus has been fluttering her eyelashes, crossing and recrossing her legs, and cocking her head from side to side while droplets of BetterWet™ throat-lube trickle down the indent of her pointy bottom lip to bedazzle her heaving breasts with beads of glistening moisture.
At last, your natural curiosity overcomes your libido’s carnal intrigue. You’ve frittered away enough afternoons perusing the Executive Catalogs to know that this Pleasure Androidess (better known as a “plessie” in common slang) is an S-class model produced by the TruVixen Corporation. These things are so insanely costly to manufacture and maintain that they aren’t actually available to own, only to lease with hellishly fee-ridden contracts. Their sky-high rental rates perpetually fluctuate in accordance with the milage incurred on the plessie, the global availability of materials needed for replacement components, and the overall health of the first world economy. The old joke is that these artifical females do everything better than real ones--including draining bank accounts.
To send one of these cock-socket money-pits here to act as, you presume, a courier for the entity wishing to hire you is absolutely reckless and retarded, even for someone desperate to flash their status. And if status-flashing is indeed the motive here, who the hell feels the need to impress YOU--a low-totem, budget-priced PI--so badly? You decide to find out.

>[A]sk the plessie itself why she’s here, knowing that by opting to engage the AI you’ll be forfeiting your legal right to confer with a human entity instead.
>[B]ypass the android’s artifical persona by requesting a direct teleconference with whomever she’s here to represent.

A:
	The plessie immediately snaps out of its Attract Mode and responds to your inquiry with a soft, sultry voice.
“I’ve come here to hire you for some very...subtle work. I’m also here as payment for the job.”


B: