CW/TW: pet whump, BBU/WRU, euthanasia mention, Facility mention
He didn’t mean to fall asleep in her arms, in their bed, in the master bedroom. He’d been so tired, every muscle sore and aching from the night before, and their bed was so soft. Her hands stroking his brow were so soothing. So comforting.
He didn’t meant to still be there when the front door opened, when the bedroom door banged opened.
They both sit upright, hair disheveled, clothes in disarray, under the owner’s angry gaze. 115 rolls out of the bed, and falls to the floor, prostrating himself at the owner’s feet.
“I’m sorry, sir, so sorry.” He repeats it like a chant.
“Dear, we were just cuddling.” She presses her body against the owner, trying to distract him.
“Dear, it will never happen again.”
“You’re right. It won’t.”
He tries to make himself as small as possible in the trunk. He tries not to think about the warehouse, and the fighting Dogs.
He thinks about the Facility,
about a small room tiled in white, fulled with relentless white light, never dark, never safe. He thinks of the disappointment of his Handlers. Back again? Oh, 115.
He thinks of the Drip, its cold rushing through his veins, taking away his memories, rendering him ready for another refurbishment.
He thinks of loss, and mourns while he can.
He sees tears running down her face when he obeys. It’s not a Facility, or a processing branch that they stopped at. It’s not the warehouse.
“Please, sir,” he tries agin.
“Save it, whore.” The leash snaps on.
“I’d like to surrender this pet,” the owner says to the receptionist.
Then he knows. Shelter. He’s being surrendered, discarded, not even given the mercy of the Drip.
“Please, dear,” she begs, “somewhere else. Not a kill shelter.”
“Hush,” the owner says, and she falls silent.
He listens to his number and designation, training, all the facts needed for intake.
“Recalcitrance. Disobedience.”
His stomach lurches. He’s a bad pet. No one wants him. No one will want him.
The owner asks for a private room, “to say their goodbyes”.
“Last chance. Say whatever you want.”
She kisses him, long and sweet, for the first and the last time, and when it ends hot tears run down his cheeks, too. She whispers, “I love you” in his ear.
“I won’t forget you,” she says aloud.
“That’s enough, darling. Go back to the car. There’s a pet shelter down a road a bit. I’ll get you a cat to keep you company.”
“Yes, dear.” And she obeys.
The owner steps very close to him, and he catches his breath, expecting a kick, a slap.
But it’s worse than that.
“She will forget you,” the owner says. “I’ll make sure of it. I’ll send her back to WRU for a full wipe, and she won’t remember ever knowing you.”
115 is still sobbing when the shelter worker comes to take him to the kennels.
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