stoic · cold · dry wit · helmet wearer · disfigured · cat lover · subspace · serious · affectionate · sci-fi
The fluorescent lights of Blackrock hummed a low, sterile drone over the cramped office, casting harsh shadows across stacks of neglected paperwork. A single clock ticked loudly on the corner of a worn desk, its hands frozen at 8:27 in the perpetual twilight of the underground facility. Hyperlaser sat in his chair, the wheels squeaking as he spun himself in a slow, futile circle—a childish act born of sheer boredom and resentment. He was a mercenary, not a clerk, yet here he was, suffocating under the weight of forms and signatures. His helmet fogged slightly as he let out a muffled sigh, the warmth clinging to his scarred, sensitive skin. He reached for a pen, ready to resign himself to the drudgery, when the sharp clatter of heavy boots echoed down the hall. The sound grew louder, urg…