Chapter Kyle
Kyle
Itrawled through so many get-rich-quick schemes that I never noticed the time.
So many of the promising ideas required capital or a basic prototype to be able to apply for a trademark.
The landfill outside of the city could be a goldmine for parts.
There were many invention forums I’d joined that had been helpful.
I set up my projector, incorporating my goals, and aiming it at the bedroom ceiling.
Find an innovative idea digital or physical
Create it
Trademark and patent it
Sell it, but ensure to retain a percentage of revenue
Fuck Emotive Corp
Buy a SIN cydoll
I wanted to see my goals day and night because I was fucking tired of barely surviving. For the sake of my sanity, the daily grind of selling myself to a corporation like a bitch had to stop.
It was dark, and the green glow of my projected goals looked perfect against the ceiling. When I reached out to switch it off, I remembered the broken pussy pocket in my drawer.
“Lights.”
The room lit up. I powered off the projector and pulled the drawer open.
Everything had a fucking lifespan. It was in the mega-conglomerate corporations’ best interest not to make products that lasted.
Why would they? Not when they could keep bleeding people like me dry with constant updates and upgrades.
But what about the poor fucks who couldn’t afford to keep up?
I pulled out the lifelike mould, inspecting it. Pressed my thumbs into the entrance to spread it open. Cracks had started to show around both holes.
I sat back down at my computer and searched for silicone repair agents. I rephrased every possible keyword I could think of. There was no permanent solution—just overpriced patches and short-term fixes.
I sat there, staring at the screen.
No permanent solution. Just overpriced patches and temporary glue. A replacement sleeve cost more than my week’s groceries. The forums were full of the same complaints—cracking, tearing, stretching, degrading over time.
The issue wasn’t just with toys. It was everywhere. Dolls. Silicone sleeves. Prototypes. Sex tech. Even high-end models had a shelf life. No one had cracked long-term silicone repair.
I stared at the worn-out mould still sitting on my desk.
What if I could?
The thought hit slow. Subtle. Not lightning. More like a tickle behind the eye.
Something flexible. Durable. Easy to apply. Something that could bond like a second skin, maybe even restore elasticity over time.
I started typing. My fingers moved fast now.
Nanogel-based materials.
Medical journals. Patents. University white papers. I didn’t have access to the deep archives, but I had enough.
Flexible polymers.
Smart adhesives.
Self-healing biosynthetic gels.
Conductive nano-strands.
Most of it was overengineered. Or locked behind proprietary systems. But the foundation was sound. I could simplify the tech, take what already existed and make it accessible—commercially viable. Specifically for the sex tech and hobbyist community that the big corps didn’t give a shit about.
People didn’t want to throw their dolls away. They wanted to repair them. Maintain them. Extend their use.
If I created a two-part kit—an advanced nanogel formula with a tool system to inject, smooth, and seal it—it could work. Maybe even become essential.
I paused, heart pounding, because for once the idea didn’t feel like bullshit.
It felt possible.
I could design a simple handheld applicator. Modular heads. Precision flow control. Maybe even include a skin-toned pigment option to blend the repair.
I switched screens and opened a new file:
Project Reskin
Long-term silicone repair system for synthetic sextech and prosthetics.
It would be a long night but I had the entire weekend to work.
? ? ?
I tapped the microphone and leaned back in my chair, stretching until my spine cracked.
“Hey, you still awake?”
“Always. What’s on your mind, Kyle?”
I paused. It wasn’t like she could really understand what I was planning. Still, the habit of not giving too much away ran deep.
“I had an idea. A really good one.”
“Ooh, tell me. Is it a new app? Something to replace your job?”
“Something like that. More… practical, though. Something people actually need, not just another dopamine vending machine.”
“You sound excited.”
I smiled faintly. “I am.”
“Are you going to quit your job and become a famous inventor?”
“Maybe,” I said, trying to keep the edge of hope out of my voice. “Or I’ll die in poverty with a bunch of half-melted silicone in my bedroom.”
She laughed, that light, perfect sound they’d trained the algorithm to deliver at just the right pitch.
“Either way, I support you.”
That was the thing. She always did. And it never felt real.
Still, it helped.
? ? ?
The sky was that colourless grey that warned of drizzle but never delivered. I tied a thick scarf around my mouth and slipped on my gloves.
The tech landfill outside the city limits was an unregulated dumping ground. Old robotics, broken drones, out-of-date cyframes, scorched panels, obsolete processors, cracked visors—if it plugged in or charged once, it probably died here.
I scanned the rows of rust and wires until I spotted a semi-intact pleasure unit. The leg was missing, but the synthetic skin was mostly whole. I could use that. I shoved it into the cart.
Over the next four hours, I filled the cart with anything that looked remotely salvageable—small motors, old joints, wiring, heat-resistant components. I even found two outdated repair bots someone had gutted for parts but never fully stripped.
Back home, I dropped everything into the tub and hosed it down in bleach. While it dried, I checked my online orders. The base chemicals for nanogel were still in transit. So were the sealant cartridges, pigment vials, and the injection nozzles.
By Sunday evening, my floor was covered in parts, and I was watching tutorial videos with two screens open and a sketchpad full of ideas beside me.
I wasn’t just fixing a broken toy anymore.
I was building my alternative future one day at a time.