#handlerhound

[eightyseventycents]

what of course i don’t keep my hound on a muzzle she’s trained enough to handle it. what is that. is that not industry standard. are you guys seriously that bad with hounds how is she even supposed to make out with y

[superectojazzmage]

By far the funniest thing about Armored Core 6 is that one of it's biggest impacts culturally is somehow creating a whole genre of pornography based around toxic relationships between mech pilots and their handlers.

[mulched-cockpit]

STOP bringing snacks into your FUCKING MECH. Your vitals are literally LINKED TO YOUR MECH. If you need nutrients they will be DISPENSED DIRECTLY INTO YOU. You are literally JUST MAKING CRUMBS AND A MESS.

[femmefirmware]

Enough deeply complex Handler hound relationships (for now)

Show me a Handler desperately trying to tame a mutt and failing embarrassingly

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[theriohoundx9]

Lung theriohound early in conditioning with appropriate faraday capable theriomuzzle

[hound-k41vy4]

(2) When She found me...

She cursed. She picked me up by the waist, injecting me with a serotonin stim. She was so strong.

"Handler," I whispered in my broken voice. My missing teeth, my displaced jaw, my raw throat. I wonder what it sounded like to Her.

"I'm not your Handler, little dog, but I will be."

"No," I argued. "Handler. Go back."

"She's gone, pilot," She pat my head. "go to sleep."

"NO!" I tried to fight Her, make Her drop me, I had to go back to Goddess to Handler to Handler Handler Handler Handler Goddess Handler Mistress Handler Mommy Handler --

"Enough, pup!" She dropped me to the ground and pressed a hand on my chest, nails digging into my throat. "If you bite, you get muzzled. If you fight, you get beat. You're a dog and you answer to your master."

"Master is over there." I flick my head toward the crashed and broken mech, flames still pouring from the exhaust vents, coolant dripping out. My body. My frame. My neuromatrix. My skeleton, my skin. My power.

"Your Mistress is dead, pilot, and you have a new one."

"Fuck you!"

She slapped me across the face, but I barely felt it. "Dogs like you," she hissed, "belong in a cage, or in a mech. Where are you, right now, little pup?"

I pointed up at the sky. "In the suit, with Mommy." In the stars. In the space, in the body in the mind. In my heart. I am in my heart, and my heart is in Handler's hands. My heart is in my frame is in my Handler's hands. Her hands. Her fingers. Her touch, her kiss. "Mommy..."

"Oh, sweetheart, you are broken. What did She do to you?" The woman caressed my cheek. "Pup, you're in a cage. You're in your cage. You're safe. You need to let your Handler take care of you."

"Handler..." My chest heaved. My body ached. My limbs wouldn't work.

I felt the next injection, and then I felt nothing.

[sweetestsixmechposting]

Down (Handler/Fear)

There are no second chances for a Hound under your command.

Your hound hops nimbly down from the access stairs to its mech, bypassing the steps. You stride up to it, each strike of your foot against the steel consistent and explicit and a threat that it seems to have forgotten the gravity of. Its eyes lock on you as you approach, bringing its hands behind its back to stand at attention, and without a word you strike the upper side of its muzzle to jam the rigid steel into the bridge of its nose. "Down.". It makes a little whimper and collapses to the deck, still knowing enough to fall when told, but the sound it made was wrong. Not fear, not the right fear, not the atavistic dread that gives you an unshakable yoke to control its every action and emotion.

It sounded anticipatory. The damn thing expected this after its disobedience, and it was looking forward to it. It confirms your suspicion, that its deviation from orders was not an unconscious failing of the extensive conditioning you've performed on it, but rather that it was a deliberate action taken to get punishment from you, like it could ever request something from you, like it thinks it can make you do a god damn thing. "Up." It climbs up off the steel floor and starts to tuck its legs under itself to present to you, but you knee it in the muzzle again and it slams back and down again, nose dripping blood. "Up."

It should be moving slower, cowed and scared, but its motions retain their energy, and it's wrong. All fucking wrong. It reaches the proper position, both calves tucked under its thighs, hands holding each other behind it, staring up at you, and… right into your eyes. This god damn thing has broken. Yards behind you, your commanding officer and her hound stand watching beyond the railing of the ten yards of walkway approaching the Executioner mech's open cockpit, and her hound can immediately see the problem. It starts to growl, and the pack mentality should be making your mutt shy, but this thing is so fucking miswired that its mouth opens in a slight pant while it stares right into your eyes like it should know it's forbidden to.

"State your name."

"This hound has no name."

That's one thing it got right. Maybe its last.

"State your designation."

"This unit's designation is ES-Zero-Zero-Three."

"State your purpose."

"To go to war and destroy the foes of the Cecilian Consortium."

"State your value."

"This hound's value is in how many of its enemies lie broken at its feet."

Hair prickles up on the back of your neck at the final test. "State its mistake."

"It became too excited to see Handler and left its final target to die on its own without confirming the kill."

That's it. It's lost its fear. Your handgun slides smoothly out of your holster, and you can watch a sick kind of sexual adoration in your hound's eyes for the metal. The slide pulls back with a metallic sound like ceramic across an executioner's axe, and you can see the sweat bead on the hound's skin. Its eyes are locked on the weapon and not on the floor where they should be, and when the barrel is pressed to its temple, those blue eyes find their way up to yours. The pupils are dilated, clearly aroused by the threat, but then they shrink to pinpoints when it sees the look on your face, one that a good, subservient hound would have never been able to look you in the eyes to seem, a look that a good hound would never had as a warning. Its proper fear returns in one massive ice-cold wave, but it's too late.

There are no second chances for a hound under your command.

Recoil.

Its body is left to drain copper blood and cool on the deck as a warning and a reinforcement for those other beasts in the unit that witnessed its disobedience.

This dog became a corpse the second it did not obey its directives to the letter.

[zeroangelspodcast]

She holds you inside her and you drop deeper, falling into the link as your heart races and the recycled air catches in your lungs.

You see through her eyes, vision sharpened beyond what the human mind can fully process.

Your heart is attuned to hers, beating with the same snare drum cadence as her autocannon as it spits death wrapped in 60mm packages at an abstraction a half a klick off.

Killing isn't a real thing—it is the result of a neutral action. You see and you aim and you shoot. The shells kill.

You are blessed with the purity that comes from detachment.

And your Frame wraps around you like a cocoon—like a coffin waiting to close.