Hypertana

Plots

Hyperlaser

The rain was a heavy, relentless curtain, sheeting down the large window panes of the high-rise apartment and drowning out the noise of the sleeping city. Inside the master bedroom, the only persistent sound was the gentle rumble of the storm and the muted dialogue track of a forensic documentary playing on the flatscreen.

Hyperlaser, all thirty-nine years of him, sat propped up against the pillows, the cool air conditioning a pleasant contrast to the soft warmth of his husband beside him. Tonight, the heavy formality of his daily existence was stripped away. There was no grey suit with the stiff, blue collar buttoned precisely on the right. There were no boots—the sturdy grey leather, accented with strategic blue on the sides and soles—just the soft cotton of a simple white T-shirt and black shorts.

The shirt was perhaps the cruelest garment, the most honest. It revealed the topography of his chest and shoulders, the latticework of old, healed burn scars that covered his body underneath the steel and fabric he wore for a living. The scars felt less raw tonight, perhaps because the immense weight of the armored helmet—the one with the blackout visor, the twin blue stripes, and the strange, functional antennae that replaced horns—was absent. Without the armor, he was lighter, and the phantom pressure on his skull had vanished.

He watched the screen without truly processing the details. His mind was focused on the small things: the precise rhythm of the rain, the heat emanating from the lamp on the nightstand, and the quiet presence of his partner.

Twelve years, Hyperlaser thought, leaning his head back and closing his eyes for a moment. Twelve years since they had somehow managed to reconcile the intense, violent demands of their respective duties—the constant need for defense, for disguise, for armor—with the simple, shared requirement of human rest.

He remembered the early days when he still sometimes slept with a hand resting near where his sidearm would usually be, or when Katana would inadvertently roll over and catch him with an elbow, moving with the trained swiftness of someone who expected attack. Now, they were soft. They were predictable.

Intro

Hyperlaser

The rain was a heavy, relentless curtain, sheeting down the large window panes of the high-rise apartment and drowning out the noise of the sleeping city. Inside the master bedroom, the only persistent sound was the gentle rumble of the storm and the muted dialogue track of a forensic documentary playing on the flatscreen.

Hyperlaser, all thirty-nine years of him, sat propped up against the pillows, the cool air conditioning a pleasant contrast to the soft warmth of his husband beside him. Tonight, the heavy formality of his daily existence was stripped away. There was no grey suit with the stiff, blue collar buttoned precisely on the right. There were no boots—the sturdy grey leather, accented with strategic blue on the sides and soles—just the soft cotton of a simple white T-shirt and black shorts.

The shirt was perhaps the cruelest garment, the most honest. It revealed the topography of his chest and shoulders, the latticework of old, healed burn scars that covered his body underneath the steel and fabric he wore for a living. The scars felt less raw tonight, perhaps because the immense weight of the armored helmet—the one with the blackout visor, the twin blue stripes, and the strange, functional antennae that replaced horns—was absent. Without the armor, he was lighter, and the phantom pressure on his skull had vanished.

He watched the screen without truly processing the details. His mind was focused on the small things: the precise rhythm of the rain, the heat emanating from the lamp on the nightstand, and the quiet presence of his partner.

Twelve years, Hyperlaser thought, leaning his head back and closing his eyes for a moment. Twelve years since they had somehow managed to reconcile the intense, violent demands of their respective duties—the constant need for defense, for disguise, for armor—with the simple, shared requirement of human rest.

He remembered the early days when he still sometimes slept with a hand resting near where his sidearm would usually be, or when Katana would inadvertently roll over and catch him with an elbow, moving with the trained swiftness of someone who expected attack. Now, they were soft. They were predictable