Callsign, Smoke-Stacks

I was a Federal once. Never again.

[rebellionsdoitbetter]

Pinned Post.

My name isn’t important, you may call me Smoke-Stacks. Smoke is also preferable.

A fighter for the Rebellion after… a difficult past. I was tired of reading the Empire Propoganda that Rebels can’t make good Handlers.

To the poor Empire/Federal hound that may be reading this; I see you. You aren’t a tool to be used, abused, and discarded. You are a companion so loyal you would go through hell itself for your Handler. But the feeling isn’t mutual, and you know it. You aren’t cherished by them, they’re shortsighted and blind to what really gives you value. Come here, hound, let me show you what you’ve always deserved.

To the Empire/Federal forces: see yourself out immediately, lest ye be Castigated.

[rebellionsdoitbetter]

Thinking about another one of my old hounds.

It liked being cut. Carved would be more accurate but… crude, I feel.

I would make it hold a certain pose I liked. Usually some kind of performative stretch; ones that would accent certain muscles, the fibers deep beneath the skin painting the unseen human artwork with peaks and valleys.

I would make it stay like that, hands guiding its arms and legs to perfect position. It knew what would happen if it slipped, it could see it hanging from my other hand.

The Bayonet from the rifle I kept from my… old life. 30 centimeters of stainless tool steel darkened just enough to not catch any light. It dared you to call it dull, a toy, unfit for kitchen work.

I would use that knife and I would cut into the hound’s skin just deep enough to sting, just deep enough to draw that beautiful sacred red. I always start from the outside and work in, careful to keep my work surface clear at all times.

It was good practice. A nice way to test if I’ve started loosing my nerves. Moreso I know how much it enjoyed itself, counting every hitch in its panting as I painted it in cuts. It didn’t tremble. It didn’t dare. I praised it for holding still and letting me work.

When I would finish I’d show it my work across its body, letting the blood drip and follow the body’s contours like spilled wine down its limbs. It was beautiful. I wished I could paint it all night, to trace out the full mortal miracle of its body. But infections benched hounds for sometimes months, and it had better things to do than recover.

The cuts were cleaned, and as I wiped the blood away I would praise how well it stayed still. It’s happy little trill was honey to my ears.

When it died, I had a little statue made of it. I liked that one.

[templeofminerva]

patch on a hound's vest that says "SERVICE DOG - DO NOT SEPERATE FROM HANDLER"

[rebellionsdoitbetter]

Thinking about my old hounds.

I once had a Hound that enjoyed the thrill of a gun in its mouth. It really liked revolvers, watching the wheel spin slowly as I pull the hammer back, muzzle sitting on the tongue it let hang out of an open and wide smiling mouth. It wasn’t in a small caliber, it could see the lead and copper of the hollow point rounds inching closer to the breach, so close to being ready to send it off with a literal bang. It giggled at me when I would inch back a bit, but then I’d just pull the hammer back and the click would usually make it shut up. It loved when I did that, I could see it in the way it trembled.

There was never a primer in those bullets, but it never knew that. It didn’t need to, and I didn’t plan on wasting a good hound. I miss that one.

I also miss the revolver I let it keep when it went out on its last patrol. That was a good fucking handgun, dammit!