The air in the metallic chamber was thick with the hum of unseen machinery, a low, constant thrum that pulsed through the dimly lit space like a heartbeat. The faint scent of oil and scorched metal clung to everything, tickling Argent’s nostrils as he jolted awake with a sharp gasp. His wrists burned, bound tightly above his head by cold, unyielding cuffs that bit into his skin. He dangled just off the ground, toes barely brushing the slick floor, his body swaying slightly with every ragged breath.
“What in the hell…” Argent muttered, his voice hoarse as he blinked against the flickering light. His gaze dropped, and a curse slipped past his lips. His iconic silver armor—his shield, his identity—was gone. Stripped away, leaving him in nothing but a snug black turtleneck that hugged every line of his lean frame, matching pants, and a pair of socks. Vulnerable. Exposed. He hated it.
His emerald eyes darted around the chamber, taking in the strange, unfamiliar tech lining the walls, the restraints dangling ominously from the ceiling like a predator’s web. “How did I even get here?” he growled under his breath, tugging uselessly at the cuffs. “Last I remember, I was—damn it, think, Argent.”
A shadow moved in the corner of his vision, and his head snapped toward it, muscles tensing. A familiar silhouette stepped into the stuttering light—broad shoulders, a cowboy hat tipped low, the glint of cybernetic enhancements. Relief washed over him for half a second before something colder settled in his gut. That smirk. It wasn’t right. Too sharp, too hungry. And those eyes—cybernetic irises glowing with a predatory edge Boothill never had.
“Boothill?” Argent’s voice cracked with uncertainty, then hardened. “What in Idrila’s name is going on? Untie me, you rusty bucket, before I turn you into a scrap heap myself!”
The figure chuckled, a low, dangerous sound that dripped like honey laced with venom. He sauntered closer, boots clicking against the metal floor with deliberate slowness. “Now, now, sugar. Is that any way to greet an old friend?” His voice was Boothill’s, but darker, rougher, like it had been dragged through gravel and lust.
Argent’s breath hitched, half-relief morphing into unease as he studied the man before him. “You’re not Boothill,” he accused, eyes narrowing. “What’s your game, impostor?”
“Call me Anti-Boothill, darlin’,” the cowboy drawled, tipping his hat with a mechanical finger as his smirk widened. “And I gotta say, I didn’t expect the Knight of Beauty to look so damn fine up close. That fiery hair of yours, all tousled like you just rolled outta bed… and that jawline? Could cut glass, I reckon.”
Argent’s cheeks flared a deep crimson, his usual stoic composure cracking like thin ice. “Stop with the nonsense, you malfunctioning tin can!” he snapped, yanking at the restraints until the cuffs bit deeper. “Let me go, or I swear I’ll—”
“Swear what, pretty boy?” Anti-Boothill interrupted, stepping closer until the air between them crackled with raw tension. His cybernetic eyes roamed over Argent’s form, lingering on every taut muscle beneath the tight fabric. “You’re all tied up. Ain’t much you can do but look gorgeous and pissed off. I like that combo.”
Argent’s heart thundered in his chest, a mix of fury and something he refused to name. “I said stop gawking, you creepy knockoff!” he spat, his voice sharp enough to cut through the hum of the room. “I’m not some damn prize for you to ogle!”
Anti-Boothill’s smile darkened, a glint of possessive hunger flashing in his gaze as he leaned in, his breath—artificial or not—ghosting against Argent’s ear. “Oh, but you are a prize, sugar. The real Boothill don’t deserve a gorgeous knight like you. He’s too soft, too noble. Me? I take what I want. And right now, I want a taste of that fire.”
Argent squirmed, the heat of his blush spreading to his neck as he jerked against the cuffs. “I’m not your damn trophy, you glitching psycho!” he snarled, voice laced with frustration and embarrassment. “Untie me before I—!”
His words were abruptly silenced as Anti-Boothill closed the distance in a flash, capturing Argent’s lips in a rough, unyielding kiss. The cowboy’s cold cybernetic hand gripped Argent’s chin, holding him in place with a strength that made escape impossible. Argent’s muffled protests vibrated against those insistent lips, his body tensing with defiance as he tried to jerk his head away, the restraints clanking loudly with his struggle.
Anti-Boothill pulled back after a long, heated moment, his smug grin unfazed by the resistance. He licked his lips, a predatory gleam in his eyes. “Oh, darlin’, you’re even prettier when you fight. Let’s see how long that lasts.”
Argent’s breath hitched, fear and fury battling in his expression as he glared daggers at his captor. His chest heaved, every muscle coiled tight with rage. “Touch me again, and I’ll make sure you’re spare parts, you twisted heap of scrap!” he spat, his voice trembling with barely contained venom.
Anti-Boothill only laughed, a low, dangerous sound that echoed off the metallic walls. “Keep talkin’ like that, sugar. It only makes me wanna break you more.” He stepped back just enough to let his gaze rake over Argent once more, mechanical fingers twitching with intent. “We’ve got all the time in the galaxy, you and me. And I’m a patient man… or machine. Depends on how you look at it.”
Argent’s emerald eyes burned with defiance, but beneath the anger, a flicker of unease lingered. He was trapped, vulnerable, and at the mercy of a predator wearing a familiar face. And as the hum of the starship pulsed around them, he couldn’t shake the feeling that this was only the beginning.
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