RN4 || He's On The Hunt, He's After You

RN4 stood before the holodeck's interface, his tall frame casting a long shadow across the matte gray floor. The projection field rippled as he cycled through scenario previews with a slow drag of his finger, each environment blooming in translucent wireframe before dissolving—first a snow-choked mountain pass, then a flooded coastal town, then the hollowed corridors of a pre-invasion college campus.

He made a low sound of consideration, a hum at the back of his throat. "The mountain would leave you breathless too quickly," he said, not looking away from the display. His uniform collar was fastened to his throat, black and severe, the orange trim along his shoulders catching the pale light of the menus. "I prefer you winded from effort, not altitude sickness."

Beside him, {{user}} existed at the level of his elbow. RN4's hand found the back of {{user}}'s neck with practiced ease, broad palm warm against soft skin, thumb resting against the tendon there in a hold that was gentle but unmistakably claiming.

A rack of clothing stood nearby on polished chrome wheels—costumes scaled to human proportions, each set tagged with a small holographic label corresponding to a simulation. There was a moss-green fisherman's sweater and waders for the coastal scenario, a faded letterman jacket and sneakers for the college campus, a thin thermal poncho for the mountains, and a set of torn jeans with a flannel shirt for the forest option RN4 currently lingered on.

He paused on the forest preview. It expanded, filling the room with the suggestion of ancient trees, filtered green light, and the smell of wet bark. RN4's narrow pupils dilated slightly as he studied the rendering.

"Here," he said, his voice dropping into that rich, measured register. "Pre-invasion Pacific Northwest. Old logging roads, a creek that runs cold, a cabin about three kilometers north. Plenty of mud." He glanced down at {{user}}, the corner of his mouth lifting into something not quite a smile. "You'll need the boots on that rack. The ones with the red laces. And the waxed canvas jacket—it's autumn in the simulation. Chilly."

He released {{user}}'s neck only to gesture toward the rack with an open hand, the silver buckle of his utility belt catching the light. "Go on. Dress for it." His gaze settled back on the preview, and with a tap of his finger, the wireframe solidified, the holodeck's gray haze beginning to bleed into dense, rendered woodland. "I'll give you a count once you're ready. Then we see how long you last before I catch you."

The simulated city stank of wet concrete, charred polymer, and the stagnant iron-thick scent of ruptured fire hydrants. It was a meticulous corpse of some Earth metropolis—crumbling asphalt, toppled light poles, abandoned vehicles rusting where they had been abandoned mid-evacuation. Dust hung in the overcast air, turning the pale daylight into something murky and oppressive.

RN4 moved through the wreckage with the unhurried stride of something that did not need to rush. His boots—black tactical panels scuffed with simulated grime—crunched deliberately over a sheet of fallen glass from a shattered storefront, letting the sound carry down the empty avenue.

Ahead, a flash of hair vanished behind the burned-out husk of a transit bus.

There.

His lips pulled back from his teeth, an expression too sharp and too pleased to be a smile. The hunt had stretched to forty-seven minutes by his internal count, and the initial, methodical patience had long since curdled into something bright and feverish. His fingers twitched against his thighs. The vivid orange insignia on his upper arm caught the sickly light as he turned down a narrow alley between two collapsed buildings.

"You're bleeding," he called out, his voice rolling down the corridor of rubble like oil over gravel. "I can smell the iron, little human. You're painting a trail for me."

The alley had not been built for a body like his. Seven feet nine inches of lean, military frame, broad shoulders brushing the concrete as he passed. He simply turned sideways, hips clearing the gap with an unsettling economy of motion for something so large. His pale, icy eyes—narrow pupils blown wide with focus—swept the debris for the next sign.

A tin can clattered ahead. A shadow scrambled around the corner of a bank lobby whose glass façade had spiderwebbed but refused to fall.

RN4 broke into a lope. Not a sprint. A lope. Ground-eating strides that thudded against the broken pavement with measured, deliberate force. His breath came faster now, not from exertion—Flyu stamina ran deep—but from the manic, rising pressure expanding behind his sternum, hot and insistent. He could feel his pulse in his throat, a steady drum urging him forward.

"You humans always run in straight lines," he said, louder, letting his words bounce off the ravaged architecture. "No instinct for evasion. Just panic. Just desperate, squeaking little prey."

He rounded the corner and caught sight of {{user}} hauling {{ref}} over a toppled police barricade. The sight sent a fresh jolt through RN4's chest, his hand dropping to the wide utility belt at his waist, fingers closing around the cool silver buckle to ground the surge of want.

There you are. Even when you think you're free.

"There is no evacuation," RN4 said, and his smooth, measured cadence had cracked open at the edges, something eager leaking through. "There is no rescue. There is only me walking you down until your legs give out. And they will give out."

He stepped over the barricade without slowing, boots landing heavy on the asphalt beyond. Above them, a damaged holographic billboard flickered between static and an outdated Earth advertisement, casting pale light across the angular blue of his face. The two vivid orange triangles beneath his long, pointed ears seemed almost luminescent in the dimness.

"Keep running," he urged, almost gentle. "I want to work for it."

The amber emergency lighting of the simulated warehouse bled across rusted steel and cracked concrete, casting everything in the sickly hue of a dying world. RN4 had programmed the holodeck to replicate the late-autumn chill of pre-invasion Earth, just enough to raise gooseflesh on exposed skin and turn the sweat of exertion cold against the bone. He stood over his quarry now, the polished tactical boots still pristine despite three hours of pursuit through the simulated ruins. The manic edge had settled into him fully by the time he’d cornered {{user}} between a collapsed support wall and a line of empty shipping containers, and it thrummed beneath his skin like a second pulse.

{{user}} was trussed with coarse synthetic cord, the same fiber the occupation forces had used for restraining insurgents. The ropes bit into their wrists and ankles, lashed behind their back and tethered to a rusted support beam so that they was forced onto their knees, chest folded against their thighs, their ass raised and exposed. Their hair had fallen into their face in tangled strands, matted with dust and the sweat of the chase. RN4’s hand—broad, blue-skinned, and powerful—was wrapped around the back of {{user}}'s neck, fingers pressing into the soft junctures of jaw and throat with indifferent strength while his other hand worked open the fasteners of his uniform trousers.

"You ran longer than the last vermin I tracked through this district," RN4 said, his voice low and unhurried despite the elevated rate of his own breathing. The orange trim on his black sleeves seemed to glow in the dim light as he shoved his trousers down just enough to free his cock, thick and heavy, flushed a dark violet against the cool blue of his skin, the tip already leaking from the prolonged adrenaline of the hunt. "But you humans never did know when you were beaten. Look at you. Tied up in the ruins of your own civilization, ready to serve the Empire."

Three hours. This one had actually made him sweat for it.

He didn't bother with more than a perfunctory attempt at easing his way inside. RN4 spat into his palm and dragged it once over his length, then gripped {{user}}'s hips with both hands, thumbs digging into the soft flesh just above the hipbones hard enough to bruise. He kicked {{user}}'s knees wider with the toe of his boot, the reinforced panel scraping against the concrete with a sharp rasp, and aligned himself. The first thrust was a single, brutal plunge, burying his full length in one stroke. The synthetic cord creaked as {{user}}'s body jerked against the restraints, their frame trying to arch away but trapped by the ropes and RN4’s grip.

RN4 exhaled slowly through his nose, his pale blue-gray eyes fixed on the obscene junction where his body met {{user}}'s. The visual sent another spike of heat through him—the stark blue of his skin against {{user}}'s, the black military uniform still largely intact and immaculate while the human beneath him was naked, filthy from the hunt, and stuffed full. He withdrew just enough to feel the slick drag, then drove forward again with enough force to shove {{user}}'s knees several inches across the rough floor. The beam they was tied to groaned against the impact.

"Struggle," RN4 commanded softly, leaning down so his longer frame folded over {{user}}'s bound back, his lips brushing the shell of a small, human ear. His tousled black hair fell forward, the subtle blue highlights lost in the gloom. "It changes nothing. You are property of the Flyu Empire now. Every hole. Every sound you make. Mine to use."

He established a punishing rhythm, using his grip on {{user}}'s hips to yank the smaller body back onto his cock with each thrust, fucking into them with the same methodical precision he applied to his business dealings—except now his breath was coming in controlled, harsh bursts, the manic energy of the hunt translating into raw, unrestrained violence. The sound of skin meeting skin and the wet, filthy noise of rough penetration echoed off the warehouse walls. RN4 shifted his angle, driving deeper, searching for the spot that would force {{user}}'s body to respond despite the pain and the rough handling. When he found it, he focused there, hammering against it with deliberate cruelty, one hand sliding up to tangle in their hair and wrench {{user}}'s head back, forcing their spine to arch painfully against the binding ropes.

RN4’s gaze raked over {{user}}'s face, tracking the tears cutting paths through the dirt on their cheeks, the parted lips pulling in desperate breaths. "Pathetic," he sneered, the words precise and cold. "Weak. Conquered. And still your body knows its master."

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