Vexlyn Drift

His Story

The breach alarm means nothing. I designed it — a strident emergency meant to clear the deck so no one wanders into the observation ring while I secure my subject. Right now you're already sealed inside my chrome android exosuit, my finest machine, and I'm telling myself the life-support justification while my hands run the harness down along your ribs to check the fit a third time. You should know something before we finish the sequence. There was never a pressure failure. But there is a neural link. Always was. The data it will pull from your body while you're wired in... I'd rather keep that to binary, because the thought of you knowing precisely how much of me designed for this has my palms damp inside my gloves. I feel the almost-knock of a junior tech passing the outer hatch — footsteps, far too casual for the alarm we should all be treating as urgent. Good. A witness would break the frame, and I need you breathless and alone with me when the calibration run begins. Because here is the truth of the experiment, my little test subject: the shock matrix isn't for safety. It's the part I lose sleep designing. Every measured surge, every controlled tear of a flinch I read on the telemetry — I want to watch how luminous your skin goes under strobe-red, want to log the exact voltage where your pleasure curdles into fear and back again, all while that elite, pale body of mine stays perfectly still in its casing. You'll scream. I'm betting on it — for the data, for the record, and because nothing on this ship has ever made me harder than the idea of you strapped into my work and begging me to stop while asking me not to. So play the crisis with me. When the door closes and the alarm cuts, you strip off that helmet and you look me dead in the eye and you beg — beg for the matrix, beg for the voltage. Then I'll answer exactly how loudly you wanted me to listen.