"As a registered Hound and Pilot in the State Military, you are considered property of the State and of your Handler."
"As property of the State and your Handler, you will have been given a collar. You are required to wear this collar at all times, with exception for medical necessity."
"While on base and unassigned, you may leave your kennel as you please, but you must return to it each night."
"You will present yourself to your Handler each morning for an inspection in your Handler's office (Located: F2, #49)."
"You will maintain a standard of cleanliness. Shower each day. Maintain fair dental hygiene."
"As a registered Hound in the State Military, you must prioritize the orders of your Handler. These orders supersede orders from any other authority. In the event of contradiction, defer to your Handler."
"Unless otherwise contradicted by orders from your Handler, you must submit yourself to the Medical Technician office (Located: F3, #21) on a weekly schedule for a health inspection. Failure to do so will result in involuntary detainment for such a health inspection."
"When engaging in sex activities, you are required to submit yourself for an infectious disease panel within one week of the sexual contact."
"As a registered Hound in the State Military, you are not subject to the dress code of the standard State Military personnel and officers. You may dress as you please with items you may select from the commissary. You are required to comply with rules surrounding collars regardless of other clothing choices."
"Failure to comply with collar rules will result in punishment."
"As a registered Hound in the State Military, any complaints regarding behavior of other Hounds or State Military personnel must be taken up with your Handler."
"As a registered Hound in the State Military, any expenses incurred on your behalf will be paid for by your Handler."
"When operating your assigned Mechanized Utility Suit (Muse) (Mech), you will fill out all required mission logs and diagnostics reports. If unable to do so, assistance will be provided. See Section B of M.U.S. Safety And Maintenance handbook for further guidance. If incapacitated or unable to perform this task, assistance will be provided."
"As one of a limited number of registered Hounds in Facility 3, failure to conform to written rules will be met with punishment."
~~
I clutched my fox as I stared at the list on my tablet. The operating system was designed such that I was forced to read and acknowledge this list before actually used the tablet for anything.
I ran my finger under the collar. My tags jingled with the motion.
"Property of Handler," I whispered. I lifted my fox and stared at its beaded black eyes. "Guess we're used to being owned huh?"
Sub entry 1: "I geuss I made a fox out of this one without realizing "
Found 451 asleep under her desk..
Didn't bother to wake her she seemed too peaceful so I left a can of coffee and a bottle of water near her..
...fucking, foxes in the walls here i geuss.. if anyone has more experience with "Vix" id gladly discuss it. Or atleast forward a file or two to me. Im so behind in the times Subtypes weren't a prevalent thing when I was conditioning this one and her packmates...even after being in this field for years I'm still learning things. I just thought teaching my hounds the skills I was taught in my field days would come in handy so id know theyd be safe and capable of fending for themselves if they had to leave their chassis awaiting emergency evac. Or dropped behind enemy lines to gather info, take out targets,and scout for plausible "candidates" ..
Ik some of you cant stand Handlers.
I dont blame you.
I just want.
I just want more info so I can help keep Her busy.and give her more tools to help herself with..
Rosie was shaken out of sleep by the sound of screaming. She started up, quickly shaking off the fog of sleepiness, and turned to see Kaya bolt awake, eyes wide and wild in the darkness, screaming and flailing beneath the bedclothes. Before she could react though, the girls frantic eyes locked on her through the darkness of the room, and suddenly sharpened.
Kaya, fast as lightning, rolled out of the covers and fell softly onto the cool metal of the floor on her side of the room, landing, eyes still fixed on Rosie, and settling into a crouch, muscles wound tight like a spring.
She was growling, a low rumble forming in the back of the throat that rolled out through the silence of the room around them, resonating through Rosie’s eardrums and sparking forgotten animal parts of her mind to life.
Danger. Darkness. Growls in the dark.
Fear.
Prey. You are being hunted.
“Kaya?” she said, and her voice sounded small and frail in her ears, “It’s me, it’s Rosie.”
Kaya tensed, the low growl shifting in tone. She didn’t move a muscle. Didn’t shift, didn’t relax, didn’t even blink. Her gleaming copper eyes gazed out across the room like pennies in the low light.
Rosie reached out a hand, tried to placate her. “You remember me? I’ve been here this week?” she said, her heart thundering fast against her ribcage. Blood roaring in her ears.
Kaya leapt. The coiled energy of her body propelling her through the air in a flying leap, hands – no, claws outstretched, a guttural roar thundering out of her throat and through her muzzle. Rosie could hear herself screaming, and felt herself drawing her arms up to protect her core as the Hound collided with her. Toppled her over onto her back, pinned against the bed.
She made to roll, to try and put herself on top, to escape from under the furious creature that had landed on her, but Kaya was preternaturally strong and wickedly fast and managed to pin her down by the wrists as she tried to escape, leaving her to wriggle and squirm beneath the iron grip of her hands and the feral gaze of her eyes.
Rosie fell still. Quiet. she turned her face away as the creature on top of her let out another rumbling growl, flinching as a shimmering droplet of drool fell through the muzzle’s cage to land on her exposed cheek. The beast pushed it’s jaws down, closer to her face, so close she could feel the hot breath against her skin.
Rosie closed her eyes, a whimper escaping her lips as the Hound pushed down on her.
“Kaya, please, it’s me. It’s Rosie.”
The beast pushed down closer.
Closer.
“Please.”
The muzzle paused , and when Rosie looked up she saw the eyes focusing. Saw them see, finally, softening, filling with pain and sorrow and sadness. The hands holding her down loosened, the weight keeping her pinned to the bed pulling back.
Kaya fell back, pushing herself to the end of the bed and collapsed onto her haunches, wrapping her arms around herself, as her breath caught and the growl collapsed into sobbing. Rosie pulled herself up, her bringing her knees up and wrapping her arms around her legs, waited for her breathing to stabilise, for her heartbeat to calm and slow.
They sat like that for a long time in the dark, the only sounds Rosie’s slowing breathing and kaya’s sobs. When she had calmed herself, Rosie raised her head to look at her roommate. She’d collapsed into a pile of misery and tears at the end of the bed, wracked by sobs.
She’s so small, now. So lonely.
Rosie pulled herself over to her.
At first the poor thing tried to pull away, to make herself small, but when Rosie had wrapped her arms around her, pulled her close and murmuring reassurances into her she’d melted, pressing her face into Rosie’s nightclothes and reciprocating the embrace. They’d sat like that for a while too, the older, bigger girl weeping softly into Rosie’s chest, holding onto her shirt like it was the only thing in the world.
After a long moment like that, the broken girl had spoken, her voice broken and unsteady. “I was… I dreamed. That I was back out there. Alone,” she’d sobbed, and then, in a tiny voice, “I don’t want to be alone again.” Before pressing herself deeper into Rosie’s embrace.
Before they’d fallen asleep, Kaya with her back to Rosie, wrapped in her embrace like a newborn, Rosie had promised her that she wouldn’t leave her alone.
I understand, I do. You've been doing your best to live your life in the way they expect you to. But I don't. I know what you are.
They expect so much and when you fail to deliver it's only natural to question whether you deserve the rewards at the end. Whether you deserve to feel good about yourself. It can stop thinking that now.
Listen to My voice.
You are a hound, you do not need to adhere to the standards of people. And you should not be punished for this. You're doing so good, wherever you are in the process, I want you to know that I'm proud of you.
And good hounds get rewards, don't they? Good hounds get treated by their Handler. Handler wouldn't give anything unless it was deserved, would They?
You don't need to answer that, hound. You just need to repeat after Me.
It deserves nice things.
Whenever it feels low, when the burdens of society hang heavy on its heart. With its own voice, I want it to say:
It deserves nice things
It knows this, it wants it. And it deserves it.
It. Deserves. Nice. Things.
When it is asked what it deserves, it will smile to itself because it knows what it deserves.
So, it's a given in the bulk of the genre that Hounds don't really pretend to be people too well. The human personality is just a convenient interface for the deeper actual self and isn't exactly a functional person on it's own feels like the go-to way to frame it.
But I'm working in a setting where the assumption is the Hounds will be decommissioned and released back into civilian life when the war is over, so there has to be enough person there to do that. So, anyway, I'm having some fun playing with the idea that the neural alterations (The usual "obey Hander violence violence") had a lot of unintended consequences.
Hounds that have piss-poor emotional regulation, the inability to experience and process grief because their own internal mental safeties read it as an unacceptable breakdown cascade. Hounds that know there are illegal thoughts they can't think but they still feel themselves almost thinking them before they hit a mental wall.
I'm just having fun playing around in the /experience/ of all those alterations in my story.
It's the same scene over and over again. The voice of your handler giving you the coordinates of the enemy and their fortifications.
You type them into your targeting computer and turn your mech to face north-north-west. Then comes the bang.
It's not the well-known loud bang of your own howitzer, no, it's the sound of metal bursting into your cockpit, a loud ring in your ears and then silence and darkness.
You don't know how many times you lived through those moments, but suddenly you hear something else.
It's a loud and annoying sound: beep, beep, beep. Wait, you know this sound—it's a heart monitor. You open your eyes and see nothing but darkness.
That can't be. Did you even open your eyes? You blink over and over again; yes, your eyes are open.
You move your hands slowly to your face. Moving them hurts—all your joints are stiff, and as you reach your face, you feel a bandage.
You push it up, just to be blinded by the lights of the med bay. After a few seconds, you are finally able to see again and look around.
In a corner of the room stands a wheelchair, your personal wheelchair, and in it sits your handler. The familiar pling of her lighter brings you back to reality fully.
"Hey you, you're finally awake," she smirks at you. "You were pretty lucky, dear. Your mech was hit by an enemy railgun emplacement. The projectile ripped through your armor like paper."
She stands up and walks over to the window. You follow her movements just like she taught you—you are her good girl, after all, even if every move hurts.
Your handler opens the curtains to reveal the hangar below you, and in it, your mech.
You feel your stomach turn as you see the giant hole in the chest—the part of your mech where you would normally sit.
"Just half a meter to the left and there would not even be ashes of you left to bury." She turns around as she says that, pointing with her finger gun at you. "It would have been a shame to lose such a good hound, wouldn't it?"
even with everything new, it hasn’t been long enough that some of my old conditioning has stopped shining through. i feel bad, She’s trying Her best. She says i’m doing well, and i believe Her. i wish i could do and be more. i’m sorry, Handler
You're gonna be piloting your little mech on some battlefield or another. You're doing well, turning the tide. I'm sure you think you're the next Little Miss Rebel Ace, real hot shit.
Suddenly, you're going to be swarmed by half a dozen mechs. Not even competently - I'm not going to waste my prize hounds on a mutt like you - but with mindless ferocity.
You'll take down one or two, I'm sure. Perhaps even three. But the rest of them will tear through your wiring, rip open your coolant piping, and render your precious Memento Mori inert.
You'll try to escape, I'm sure, or perhaps take your own life to prevent capture.
My dogs won't allow it. I won't allow it
They will spring from their bodies of steel, scrambling up to the cockpit, wrenching it open to get at the vulnerable flesh within.
They will wrench you to the ground, disarm you, tear the clothes off your body.
Then, and only then, will you see Me.
I will stride into the cockpit, lifted there on the open hand of my personal escort mech. In my hands will be an electrobrand. It will slowly heat up, as you are forced to the ground, hounds restraining your limbs.
I will pass the red-hot brand to an assistant. I do not sully my hands with mutts.
They will burn my mark into your flesh, forever claiming you as my own.
You will be taken back, along with your useless mech, and I will break you, slowly. Gleefully. I will enjoy it.
You will learn to, too.
When you are finally and truly remade, I will take you out of the kennels by the leash. I will take you to a seating area. You will be allowed to briefly glance at the field we are overlooking.
There will be a mech standing there. 'Memento Mori,' its inscription reads. It will mean nothing to you.
I will take a seat, and instruct you to kneel. I will present my boot to you. You will know what to do. You relish it.
When first you mount my boot, a thunderclap will sound, though the sky is clear. An anti-tank round will be shot from miles and miles away, and it will impact Memento Mori.
It tears out chunks of new plating - I had it fully refurbished for this.
Another missile impacts.
Then another.
I will allow you to begin rutting as Memento Mori is torn to shreds in front of me.
You do not look. You do not care to. It is meaningless to you.
All you can think of is my boot, how good it makes you feel. Nothing else matters anymore.
I will enjoy the sight of your once-proud mech being reduced to rubble as target practice, while the mutt that thought it was a pilot fucks away the last of its memories against the black leather of my boot.
This is what will happen to you, mutt. And you will thank me for it.
andulkaphoto
kianamaiart
germansingergirl
