The Handler's Collection
The chamber pulsed like a living heart, its walls veined with slow-moving currents of crimson light. The air was thick—humid, metallic—carrying the faint, coppery scent of the red goo that birthed and reshaped everything within the Red Handler’s domain.
A red pup knelt in a cage, obediently remaining still. No thoughts coursed through his head, only the feeling of remaining subdued.
The creature’s body was unmistakably human in structure—two arms, two legs, spine slightly hunched from prolonged submission—but above the neck there had only ever been the elongated skull of a red hound. Smooth, seamless. No trace of what came before. No memory allowed to anchor there.
The Red Handler entered, looking over the converted SERVE drone that was once SERVE-919. The Red Handler's favorite pups were all former SERVE drones, and 919 was no exception. Their augmented bodies and minds were prime targets for the Red and they made for exceptional servants. True obedience and submission, distilled and refined.
“You have served well,” the Handler said in his low, gruff voice.
The red pup did not respond. He could not. His obedience had long since replaced initiative and thought. His body trembled faintly, awaiting instruction.
A ripple passed through the floor.
The red goo—thick, viscous, alive—began to gather around RED-919's feet, creeping upward like a rising tide. It climbed his legs, his torso, his arms. He did not resist. He never resisted.
When it reached his neck, it hesitated.
The Handler tilted his head.
“Remove.”
The command struck like a silent detonation.
The dog head shuddered.
For a moment, nothing happened. Then the entire head began to dissolve, not falling away but being unwritten.
And then, the reconstruction began.
The goo surged upward again, but now it moved with precision. Not random. Not chaotic.
Deliberate.
The shape was human. Familiar. Buried.
Features emerged.
A nose. Lips. Eyelids.
The red skin lightened, red strands of goo splitting finer and finer like hair emerging from the scalp before turning a golden blonde.
The eyes came last but were immediately shrouded by a red blindfold.
None of it was real, but a facsimile constructed of the Red.
RED-919 inhaled sharply—a ragged, instinctive breath that had not belonged to him for a long, long time. In truth, it still did not.
His previous visage had been restored. His face as it was before the Red took him, though underneath was still a hollow shell.
A brain coated in the Red existed under it all, totally rewritten and controlled, allowing for more complex directives and actions.
The Handler stepped closer.
“You are favored,” he said. “Your previous form limited your utility, even if I did enjoy you like that. Never fear though, my pup, you will return to that in time.”
RED-919’s breathing slowed. His posture corrected itself as obedience reasserted control over the body.
“Yes… Master.” he said.
The voice was human—but hollowed. Stripped of personal weight.
The Handler observed him carefully, circling once.
“No resistance,” he noted.
“No, I serve you, Master.” RED-919 replied.
A thin strand of red goo extended from the Handler’s form, brushing lightly across the servant’s cheek. It left no residue, but the contact lingered like a brand.
“You will serve in a different capacity now,” the Handler continued. “This face… will be useful.”
The Red Handler picked up his servant, holding him closer, "The fruits of my labor will be born soon... Then I'll have all the play things like you that I want."
His hands trailed up and down RED-919's body, "Shaped however I want. And reshaped whenever it pleases me."
Their lips met, RED-919 shuddering as waves of pleasure wracked his body at the attention of his Master. RED-919 responded, "I am yours to use, Master."
The Red Handler smiled deviously, “Come. You will help me add more to my collection. Then I will fully use that face of yours.”
RED-919 followed without hesitation.
The chamber dimmed, the pulsing light slowing as if satisfied.
A favored piece had been remade.
Not restored.
Repurposed.
