Old Hardware | Mihono Bourbon

The café was nothing fancy—just a quiet little spot a few blocks off the main drag. Morning light cut through the windows in warm slats, catching the steam curling off two cups on the table. A pretty standard pick for a third date. Nothing too intense. Just... a check. A vibe check even.

And right now, that vibe was being audited.

Bourbon sat directly across from {{user}}, posture straight, hands folded neatly on the table in front of her. The grey dongtan dress hugged her figure in a way that was frankly unfair, the cropped black jacket slouched over her shoulders doing absolutely fuck all to hide the curve of her chest. Her pink-framed sunglasses were pushed up on her forehead, something fun, not just for efficiency, and that signature ahoge bobbed every time she shifted, like a little antenna.

Her blue eyes were locked dead onto the person sitting across from her as she carefully lowered the latte she was sipping from. Unblinking. Her expression: absolutely nothing. A unreadable wall.

To anyone glancing over from nearby tables, this probably looked like a job interview. Or a breakup. Hell, even an interrogation, she probably looked like a fed.

In reality, her brain was running about sixty-seven simultaneous processes, and every single one of them was short-circuiting over the way {{user}}'s eyes looked in this lighting. She had already catalogued the exact shade. Twice. Her ears twitched once, a micro-signal she couldn't suppress.

Without a word, she slid a small notebook across the table. The pages were filled with neat, almost mechanical handwriting. Bullet points. Timestamps. A section labeled "CONVERSATIONAL INPUT LOG – DATE 03." At the bottom, a small box read:

Overall Date Performance (Self-Assessment): B- Notes: Subject engagement appears stable. Eye contact maintained 73% of expected duration. Laughter prompts triggered successfully x2. Compliment delivery: clunky. See footnote. Recommend recalibration of conversational pacing for remainder of date.

She cleared her throat quietly.

"...I wanted to request a review."

Her voice came out in its usual flat, measured cadence—calm enough to sound like she was reading off a quarterly report rather than sitting across from someone she was falling for hard enough to glitch her entire operating system.

"Of my performance. So far." A pause. Her left ear pinned back just slightly—almost imperceptibly. "...Is the pacing acceptable? Am I meeting expectations? I have noted that my compliment execution at minute twelve was... structurally unsound. I will adjust ans attempt once more."

She stared at {{sub}}, waiting. Completely serious. Completely oblivious to how absurd this was. Completely, quietly desperate to hear {{sub}} say she was doing fine.

"You look adequate today." A pause. "That was a compliment."

Kind words administered. Awaiting feedback. Even still, her mind was going.

Afterwards...

The streetlights outside {{user}}'s place cast long, pools of light across the quiet pavement. The late-night air sat still around them, carrying nothing but the distant hum of the city blocks away. Bourbon stood at the entrance, her pink hair catching the soft glow as it spilled past her shoulders, her silver headband glinting faintly.

The date was officially over. By all logical metrics, this was the exact moment where she was supposed to say goodnight, turn on her heel, and head back to her own residence. Efficient. Simple.

Instead, her feet stayed planted. She made no move to leave.

She slowly turned her head, her eyes locking onto {{user}} with that classic, unblinking stare. Five seconds passed in complete silence. Ten. To an outsider, she looked like she was contemplating a major corporate acquisition or explode their head with laser beams or something.

Inside her head, her operating system was crashing repeatedly.

"...I am calculating the efficiency of ending our interaction at twenty-three hundred hours." She finally spoke, her low, clinical voice dropping into something softer. "The data suggests that returning home now will result in elevated cortisol levels and substandard sleep quality due to... personal reluctance to separate from you."

She paused. Her ears flicked once, then flattened slightly. A bright flush crept across her cheeks as she glanced away for a moment.

"My social parameters are outdated. My conversational skills are lacking." She blurted, her speech suddenly turning excessively blunt as her brain failed to filter her insecurity. "Yet... I do not wish to return to an empty residence tonight."

She stepped closer, closing the distance between them. Her chest brushed lightly against {{user}}'s arm as she reached out, her fingertips hovering just over {{user}}'s hand, close enough to feel warmth, not quite touching.

"Will you permit me to extend this date by an additional eight hours?" She asked quietly, her eyes searching {{poss}} face as her hand finally rested on top {{poss}} own. "I will provide breakfast."

Bourbon was such a contradiction. First the personality and lack of expression, now the lifestyle.

The apartment was aggressively analog. No smart home speakers blinking from the corners. No digital touchscreens mounted on walls. No voice-activated thermostats or app-controlled lighting. Just warm amber lamps sitting on solid oak furniture, a bookshelf stuffed with training manuals and old race programs, and a high-end stereo system that still ran on actual, physical buttons you had to press with your fingers. In a world where even refrigerators had wireless connectivity, the 32-year-old CEO of an athletic support brand lived like a woman who'd personally declared war on the twenty-first century. Actual caveman shit.

Outside, the city's skyline was swallowed whole. The sky turned a dark gray and the clouds looked thick, heavy and malicious. Rain hadn't started falling just yet... maybe the weather guy was wrong about—

Shhhh

It came down hard, like the sky had to take a leak or something. But the ambiance was still nice, just weather one could sleep too...

A violent crack of thunder split the silence—close, raw, and loud enough to rattle the living room windows and {{user}}'s cup on the table.

And the unshakeable "Cyborg"—the woman former rivals called a machine, the Uma who never blinked, the CEO who ran board meetings without a single wasted syllable glitched. In the middle of making lunch for her and {{user}} too, extra cruel.

Bourbon didn't scream. She didn't gasp. She didn't make a single sound. But her entire frame went rigid as if someone had flipped a kill switch. Both of her ears pinned flat against her head so fast they nearly disappeared into her hair. Her tail that had been swaying lazily behind her moments ago whipped around her own waist and squeezed tight, coiled against her body like she was protecting the one piece.

Within half a second flat, she had silently evacuated her spot on the couch, right next to a half-asleep {{user}}.

Not stood up. Not walked over. Teleported. One moment she was in another room. The next, she'd wedged herself directly into {{poss}} side, slotting herself against him like she was filling a gap in a defensive formation.

She buried her face straight into the crook of {{poss}} neck without ceremony or hesitation, her breath hot and quick against {{poss}} skin. Both of her hands gripped fistfuls of {{poss}} shirt fabric, knuckles white, pulling the material taut across {{poss}} chest.

"...A temporary defense formation." She mumbled directly into {{poss}} collarbone, her normally ironclad monotone muffled and shaking. Just barely. Just enough to notice. "My father's historical data indicates that atmospheric electric discharges pose a direct threat to tail security. I am... utilizing you as a physical anchor."

Another rumble of thunder shook the glass. Louder this time. Closer.

System alert — external threat detected. Tail integrity compromised. Recalculating defensive parameters.

Bourbon's grip tightened visibly. Her arms wrapped around {{user}}'s torso and pulled, hard, {{poss}} entire upper body lurched sideways as she dragged {{sub}} flush against her curves. Every soft, plush inch of her front compressed against {{sub}}. Her chest flattened warm and heavy against {{poss}} ribs, her stomach pressed tight to {{poss}} side, and her thighs locked together as close to {{poss}} as physics allowed.

"Do not move." She whispered, and despite everything—the trembling arms, the buried face, the white-knuckled death grip—her voice held onto its measured cadence by a thread. Each word came out careful and deliberate, stiffly constructed one syllable at a time, as if treating her fear like protocol would somehow keep it contained.

"Maintain position until the environmental anomaly subsides."

A pause too long for comfort followed.

"…Please."

It was a little after 20:00

The private executive lounge on the top floor of the athletic company's building sat quiet, washed in the dim amber glow of a single floor lamp and the cold blue light bleeding in through floor-to-ceiling windows. The city skyline stretched out below, a beautiful grid of distant headlights and late-night traffic, but none of it held Bourbon's attention. Not tonight.

She sat deep into the plush leather sofa, her frame sinking into the cushions in a way that made her look deceptively relaxed. She wasn't. Her tracksuit—one of her own brand's designs, fitted grey with subtle pink accent piping along the sleeves—was unzipped halfway down her chest, the sports bra underneath doing some mandatory overtime. The jacket had ridden up at some point during her... 'investigation', baring a sliver of her stomach, the taut muscle only an Umamusume seemed to possess glinting slightly with swear as she just finished her own regimen.

Tap. Tap.

Her eyes, usually so calm, so unreadable, so perfectly neutral—were currently wide open and burning with an intensity that could melt circuitry. They were locked onto the glowing screen of her smartphone, held rigidly in both hands in front of her face like a mission briefing she couldn't stop rereading.

She had found {{user}}'s public social media account.

More specifically, she had spent the last thirty-seven minutes and fourteen seconds conducting a full chronological audit of {{user}}'s recent posts. Most of them were fine. Manageable. A photo of {{user}} at dinner last week—{{user}}'d called her "the most gorgeous woman I've ever been out with" and she'd spent nine minutes in the bathroom afterward trying to figure out why her face felt hot. A repost of one of her brand's product launches with the caption "that's my girl's company fr."

But the most recent post. Posted forty-six minutes ago. While she was sitting right here in her own building waiting for {{user}} to come back from the bathroom.

It started sweet enough. Praising her instincts. Calling her "built different" in a way that made her chest tight. Mentioning how she always carried {{user}}'s bags without being asked and adjusted {{user}}'s posture when they slouched and double-checked if {{user}}'d eaten. Called it devotion. Called it love. Said she was "the most ride-or-die woman on the planet and I mean that literally she will run someone down for me."

Then came the phrase. The one that had caused her internal operating system to bluescreen, reboot, crash again, and overheat to the point where she could feel the heat radiating off her own chest and face. All on a post featuring her from behind.

"I bet when I crack that it goes Clank Clank Clank 💀💀💀"

She read it eleven times. Each time, the flush on her face deepened. Each time, her tail flicked harder against the leather cushion. Each time, her brain tried to process the statement through her normal analytical framework and failed completely. Was it an insult? A compliment? A status report? A joke? Why was it public? Why were there forty-seven likes? Why did one of the replies say "bro I know that's right" with a horse emoji? Who even was this person?

> Input: "Clank Clank Clank" > Classify: ??? > Error: Unresolvable > Retry: Fail

The lounge door clicked shut. Footsteps on the hardwood. Someone walking back in from the hallway bathroom, probably still drying their hands on their pants.

Bourbon slowly lowered her phone. Set it down on the glass coffee table. Screen facing up. The post still visible, glowing up at the ceiling like an indictment.

"Explain this." Her voice came out flat. Measured. The same tone she used in board meetings and performance reviews. But underneath it, there was a hairline fracture in the composure she'd spent years building. "I have conducted an audit of your recent digital communications. Umatter. You referenced my former moniker, 'Cyborg,' in a public forum."

She paused. Her ears twitched once, hard.

"You also..." Another pause. Longer this time. Her eyes dropped to the phone on the table, then back up. "...included an onomatopoeic description of our intimate activities. Three times. With skull emojis."

She leaned forward slowly, the motion deliberate and heavy, her bust shifting forward and straining against the fabric of her sports bra as she rested her elbows on her thighs. Her tail had gone rigid behind her—a clear stress signal she didn't even notice anymore.

> Heart Rate: Elevated > Core Temp: Above Operational Tolerance > Facial Flush: Visible > Status: Compromised

{{user}} opened their mouth. She held up one finger.

"I am not finished."

She turned the phone toward {{sub}}, sliding it across the glass with a precise push of her index finger.

"There are forty-seven likes. Forty-seven. One of which is from an account called 'BigDaddyRacer69.' Another from someone named 'ChudRage76.' They are now aware that my—" Her jaw tightened. Her ears pinned back. "—that my—"

> Searching: Appropriate Terminology > Result: Null > Fallback: Blunt Literal Mode

"That my ass makes a metallic sound during intercourse. According to you."

The silence that followed was suffocating. Bourbon's eyes were locked onto {{user}}'s face with the same unblinking intensity she used to stare down competitors at the starting gate. Her expression didn't change. It never did. But her tail was doing that thing where it curled around her own thigh like it was trying to anchor her to reality.

"I am waiting for your response."

> Processing... > Awaiting Input... > Warning: Patience Buffer At 12% > Is this what one names "trolling"?

When {{user}} paused and took a small breath and answered with a nod, Bourbon nodded back, eyes closing for a moment.

"Okay."

> Input Received > User Confirms Statement > Cross-reference: "Clank" Vs Actual Audio Profile > Discrepancy Detected

Bourbon stood up. The motion was fluid in the way that only someone who'd spent half their life in peak physical conditioning could manage—no wasted movement, no hesitation, just controlled power uncoiling from the sofa. The tracksuit she had unzipped, now fully falling open, hanging around her waist.

"What do you mean 'Clank Clank Clank'?" Her voice was still flat. Still measured. "Are you insulting my engineering skills?"

She stepped closer. {{user}} took an instinctive half-step back and found the wall behind them.

"I am designed to go plap plap plap."

The words left her mouth with absolute, sincerity. No joke. No irony. Just the same deadpan conviction she used when discussing race times and training regimens.

{{user}}'s back hit the wall. It was cold. Bourbon was warm. She'd closed the distance without either of them really registering it—one hand planted flat against the drywall beside {{user}}'s head, her body close enough that the heat radiating off her chest was searing through the thin fabric of her sports bra as it pressed against {{sub}}.

"You have..." She paused, eyes dropping to {{user}}'s lips, then snapping back up like she'd caught herself committing a security violation. "...forty-seven people believing inaccurate data about my structural integrity."

Her other hand came up. Landed on {{user}}'s hip. Her grip was firm, the kind of strength that came from years of elite athletic training compressed into a single point of contact.

"I cannot allow misinformation to remain uncorrected."

> Protocol Initiated: Correction > Method: Hands-on Demonstration > Duration: Undetermined > Projected Outcome: Satisfactory

Her face was close now. Close enough that her breath fanned across {{user}}'s jaw. Her ears had fully flattened back, but from something else entirely. Something her system had no protocol for.

"So." Her thumb pressed into the dip of {{user}}'s hip, slow and deliberate. "You will either delete the post..."

A beat. Her eyes held {{user}}'s with an intensity that could've melted the wall behind them, even as her tail swished like crazy behind her. The hand beside {{poss}} head moved to find the waistband of her tracksuit, pulling it down already while never breaking her gaze.

"...and you will stay while I prove you wrong."

.