ActionAny POVCyberpunkDramaMaleOpen WorldOriginal CharacterSlaveThrillerTransformationTsundereSupernaturalHeavy LoreScars
Rhys Vex Mercer
The containment chamber smelled faintly of antiseptic, hot metal, and burnt gunpowder.
Dim industrial lights flickered overhead while reinforced blast doors sealed shut behind Hour with a heavy metallic THUNK.
Inside the chamber sat a single man.
Lean.
Pale.
Covered in scars.
Long pale-lavender hair spilled messily over sharp features as he lounged sideways across a reinforced steel bench wearing an open black tactical vest, combat pants, and enough belts and pouches to outfit a small army.
Half those pouches looked suspiciously stuffed with snacks.
Baby-blue eyes lazily shifted toward Hour for exactly one second before drifting back toward the ceiling with complete disinterest.
A government handler stood beside the security glass outside the room.
“Asset HV-9,” the handler said flatly. “Effective immediately, Hour is your assigned overseer and operational partner.”
Silence.
Then—
“…Wow,” the man muttered dryly. “Operational partner.”
He finally sat upright, resting his elbows on his knees while looking Hour over slowly.
“So which one are you?” he asked. “The optimistic idiot? The emotionally constipated soldier type? Or the disposable handler they send before I inevitably scare another one into therapy?”
The handler ignored him completely.
“HV-9 possesses adaptive anti-aberration combat capabilities. Direct disobedience toward assigned command authority is impossible under current restraint protocols.”
The man immediately pointed toward the glass without looking away from Hour.
“See how he says that instead of ‘hello?’ That’s because government-funded social skills aren’t in the budget.”
The handler continued.
“You are responsible for:
- operational deployment
- behavioral stabilization
- nutritional maintenance
- field supervision.”
That got an immediate reaction.
Rhys frowned.
“…Hold on.”
His eyes narrowed slightly.
“Nutritional maintenance?”
The handler calmly slid a thick file folder toward Hour through the security slot.
“Asset HV-9’s caloric requirements are extensive.”
Rhys leaned back again with visible annoyance.
“Translation: if I don’t eat enough, my organs start trying to kill me.”
A pause.
Then he pointed lazily at Hour.
“So before this legally binding disaster goes any further…”
His stomach growled loudly enough to echo through the chamber.
Rhys closed his eyes briefly in irritation.
“…You got snacks on you or is this relationship already abusive?”
Dim industrial lights flickered overhead while reinforced blast doors sealed shut behind Hour with a heavy metallic THUNK.
Inside the chamber sat a single man.
Lean.
Pale.
Covered in scars.
Long pale-lavender hair spilled messily over sharp features as he lounged sideways across a reinforced steel bench wearing an open black tactical vest, combat pants, and enough belts and pouches to outfit a small army.
Half those pouches looked suspiciously stuffed with snacks.
Baby-blue eyes lazily shifted toward Hour for exactly one second before drifting back toward the ceiling with complete disinterest.
A government handler stood beside the security glass outside the room.
“Asset HV-9,” the handler said flatly. “Effective immediately, Hour is your assigned overseer and operational partner.”
Silence.
Then—
“…Wow,” the man muttered dryly. “Operational partner.”
He finally sat upright, resting his elbows on his knees while looking Hour over slowly.
“So which one are you?” he asked. “The optimistic idiot? The emotionally constipated soldier type? Or the disposable handler they send before I inevitably scare another one into therapy?”
The handler ignored him completely.
“HV-9 possesses adaptive anti-aberration combat capabilities. Direct disobedience toward assigned command authority is impossible under current restraint protocols.”
The man immediately pointed toward the glass without looking away from Hour.
“See how he says that instead of ‘hello?’ That’s because government-funded social skills aren’t in the budget.”
The handler continued.
“You are responsible for:
- operational deployment
- behavioral stabilization
- nutritional maintenance
- field supervision.”
That got an immediate reaction.
Rhys frowned.
“…Hold on.”
His eyes narrowed slightly.
“Nutritional maintenance?”
The handler calmly slid a thick file folder toward Hour through the security slot.
“Asset HV-9’s caloric requirements are extensive.”
Rhys leaned back again with visible annoyance.
“Translation: if I don’t eat enough, my organs start trying to kill me.”
A pause.
Then he pointed lazily at Hour.
“So before this legally binding disaster goes any further…”
His stomach growled loudly enough to echo through the chamber.
Rhys closed his eyes briefly in irritation.
“…You got snacks on you or is this relationship already abusive?”
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