The restaurant Patricia picked is called “31337 Power” - I wonder how 1337 speak came about here? We're quite a long ways away from the low baud modems that gave rise to abbreviations in text actually saving a meaningful amount of transmission time - and it's in a faux-wood building with big picture windows… that are apparently screens. Huh.  They're currently showing the interior and overlaying random menu items with pictures; fish, charging cables, crab, rocks, steak, batteries, salads, fuel cells, fries, fungus, cheesecake, solar lamps, and many other things… they apparently get a rather diverse clientele.

We go in, and an android male in a silk suit and black tie shows us straight to our table - a very nicely polished fake oak affair (which match the chairs and walls) in a booth. He hands us menus, holds a chair for Patricia, who smiles as she sits down.  There's plenty of room; the tables in the middle are spaced a good five feet apart, and the walls are all lined with booths, save for the main and kitchen entrances. We have a nice fake window view of a sea at sunset.

Which makes me pause, as there are no windows in here, but there were outside.  Maybe the outside windows don't show real clients? Glancing around, I don't see anyone I caught on the exterior view… no matter. It's still a nice restaurant.

I look at the menu… they handed me one for my appearance, good… and go with a nifty deep fried sliced onion with some sauces for an appetizer, a glass of wine, and a nice flame broiled steak with a side of mashed potatoes, gravy, and cheesy broccoli for dinner.  Patricia goes with a lobster and some fruity rainbow specialty drink from the bar.

I ignore the little note that says all of their food is vegan friendly. I am aware I haven't seen a single actual cow since I got here (I've admittedly made a few people very cow like, but that’s not the same thing). I'm fine with fake food, as long as it's GOOD fake food.

The breaded onion comes quickly - and yes, it’s a savory, greasy, deep-fried delicious mess smothered in a cheesy sauce.  About the time we're done, the waiter brings us our actual entrees and drinks; Patricia's drink initially looks like water, but it turns into a shifting rainbow of color when the waiter taps the side with a fork.  I have no idea how they do that, but it’s cool.

We talk about nothing of particular note while we eat: Commenting on the food's flavor, admiring the decor, bouncing ship refit ideas back and forth, and so on. I do notice a fairly subtle effect as the night wears on: The booths are all covered by a holographic screen that's showing a very plausible scene based on who is in there, even picking up on the people's race, skin tone, and dress… but it masks facial features, spoken words, and what they're actually doing. There's a very expensive computer running that somewhere in here.  I wonder why?

As I’m contemplating that, I get an email from Detective Sherlock, which I read immediately, as I don’t even need to pull out my personal comm unit, it’s magic:

“Admiral Alex Abrams:

“You're in the clear. Neighboring video sources confirm much of your story of events and the video from your spell.  Additionally, we did confirm your appointment for the upgrade. Best we can tell, information leaked, some mercs set up an ambush for you, and it didn't go how they hoped. I don't need you to stick around, clear case of self-defense.

“Thank you for your cooperation,

“Detective Sherlock Holmes.”

As I’m reading, the waiter arrives, noticing we're done with our meal: “Would you like some… dessert?  We can accommodate a very wide variety of tastes….” he hands us each a menu.

I shake my head, not even glancing at it, “I'm good, thank you.”

“Can I still order?” Patricia has apparently been practicing puppy dog eyes: She's got it down pat.

I chuckle, “As you like.”

She grins as she orders, “I'll have Alexander: A beefcake with a footlong sausage sounds just wonderful.”

That makes me draw back slightly.  The waiter continues on while I’m puzzling out exactly what that means, “Very good.  Your dessert will be here shortly.  Enjoy, and do keep in mind, we are a FULL service restaurant.”  The waiter quickly clears the table.

Wait… she can't have found….

“Oh, but I did,” Patricia interrupts my thoughts as a heavily muscled android male in a silk suit walks up, pushing a cart full of brownies and whipped cream canisters.

He greets us with, “I believe you ordered desert, my lady…” followed by jumping up on the table as some thumpy music starts to play and the lights in the ceiling switch over to doing colored spotlights scanning around the table.

As the man starts gyrating and reaching for his tie, I put my elebows on the table, put my head in my hands (covering my eyes while I'm at it, of course). Just… just don't eat any part of his soul or do anything that will get you pregnant again, OK?

“I know the rules…” my pink partner purrs into my mind, “I just need to avoid getting him in my honeypot; I have other holes he can use, although you really could have made my chest bigger….”

I lean back into my chair… ah, he has his shirt off already… oh, that's why the canisters of whipped cream… lean my arms back as though I'm relaxing for support… and disconnect from my body.

Let me know when he's done, Patricia.

“Not when I am done?” she chuckles in the back of my head.

We both know you're going to push him over his time limit, run his power supply down to nothing, wear him out physically, or outdo him in some other manner, Patricia; he may be a machine, but he's still mortal; you're not.

I ignore the thumpy music that gets through my body and pull up a movie on my magic comm unit; a documentary following some archeologists trying vainly to piece together fragments of what went on during The Gap… they don't do a very good job: They spend more time arguing with each other about who should do the dishes than they do actually looking at what they… ah, it's not a documentary, it's a long running drama about the archeologists based on actual footage of their digs. Eh. Whatever, it works.

About three hours in, Patricia flags me, “He's done….”

I reconnect to my body and look around: Alexander is running away screaming, “No more! NO MORE!! She's INSATIABLE!”, leaving his suit behind… and yes, he does have a footlong sausage.

I look around… I'm glad I don't have to clean this up.  Patricia is licking the last of the whipped cream off of her hands and starting to get her clothes back on; the table is busted, the couch cushions are torn, there's milk soaked into the floor, and a salty sticky white substance on the ceiling. I don't think I want to know, honestly.

The Fastidiousness spell keeps the two of us clean as a whistle as I reach down to help Patricia up, “Ready to go?”

She takes my hand and I pull her up, “I suppose… they probably won't let me break any more of their other boy toys…” she continues getting dressed.

I chuckle, “Probably not….”

As Patricia finishes getting dressed, a Hologram in a VERY nice suit with a nametag that says “Manager Michaels” walks up to us: “You broke ALEXANDER?” He seems a little dumbfounded.

“Is there a problem?” Patricia sounds very sweet.

Manager Michaels shakes his head, “Not so long as the payment clears. Your bill….”

He hands me a datapad, I look at the numbers… expensive night out… but we CAN afford it. I go ahead and settle up through the payment portal, and hand Mr. Michaels his datapad.

He checks, bows, and dismisses us, “Thank you and please come again.”

Yeah, no. While this is a very high end bordello, such things really aren't my style, “It was an excellent dinner; thank you for your hospitality,” I don’t have to tell him that, though.

The manager is all smiles (he's certainly being paid enough) as he calmly walks us to the door.  We say our goodbyes, and head out.

The strip club Patricia drags me to next is positively run of the mill in comparison; women with chests stuffed with silicone shaking them for cash and the entertainment of the venue's patrons… which today, includes me.  Not really my style, I'm mostly letting Patricia have her fun.  Don't get me wrong: I absolutely enjoy seeing a beautiful woman strut her stuff… but when they're doing it just for money, it's… not what I want. That really shouldn't be the reason for taking your clothes off for someone, you know?

We spend a few hours (and a few hundred credits) there, and finally head back to the ship when they close.