contains: child living weapon, canine living weapon, panic attack, bathing/washing, a muzzle, conditioning/deconditioning, vomit mention, parental captain, and all the soft I could fit
•••
The Wea— Shale sits on the floor in front of the Quartermaster. Tips its head.
‘It’s just a harness. I just need to make sure it fits—it shouldn’t hurt,’ she telepaths at it. “Put your head here, please. Good, thank you. Mid-arms through here…. Yes. Good.”
Mana adjusts the straps around it instead of arms. Over its shoulders and around its stomach. The material is soft, padded. Not heavy: it’s a comforting weight, like the calm-blanket Captain Edgar gave it.
“Kid, run down the hall until you reach storage, then walk back,” he says.
The run is slower than it’s used to, but the harness stays on, and it’s a forgettable weight. The storage room is big, but the distance to it isn’t much. It’s back pretty quickly.
“Status report.”
“I—The Wea—” it flicks its tail, irritated. “The weight of the harness reduces its—my speed, though not significantly. The arm slots have ample room, and the storage will likely make me more effective. I do not have any complaints about the material,” it reports.
Does not stare at Captain Edgar and listen to Quartermaster’s surface-thoughts to get a sense for how he’s feeling.
I do not have any complaints. The words, its words, imply it might complain about other things. Hint at the Weapon’s….
The words are tainted with insubordination and rebellion. It cannot revoke the words.
It cannot unspeak them.
“That’s good, Shale. If that changes, I’d like you to mention it.”
“Kid, stand down.” Edgar lunges for it— “Weapon, stand down.”
He grabs the handle on its harness with a mud-slick hand, dropping to hold Shale properly. Pries its mouth open with some effort.
Tracker’s tail is bleeding. The venomous barb wasn’t punctured, and the Weapon restrained it so she couldn’t sting it.
“Are you okay?”
“The Wea—The Weapon did not intend to— It—it—” it ducks its head, eyes clamped shut, taking choking, gasping breaths that consume its body.
Trembles, little scales fading in and out of existence, and he can barely pick out the words— “disobedient—will not happen again—it’s sorry—will make sure to comply—sorry—”
He leans on its side, breathing deeply and audibly. “Breathe. Breathe, kid. It’s just a bite. You’ll be okay. Tracker will be okay.
“Tracker will be okay, and we’ll learn why this happened so we can work on fixing it. Not yet, but once you’re calm.”
Eventually, eventually, its breathing settles. It still trembles, watching him, but he gives it a peanut butter bite, and it seems to understand he won’t punish it, even if the fear is still there.
“Do you want to lay down for a bit, or wash the mud off?”
“The bath, sir.”
It stiffens before leaning into his touch. Presses the top of its soapy head into his chest while he rubs shampoo into the fur on its neck. Buzzes, softly.
Dr Gabriel can’t touch its neck without it closing its eyes and tensing, but Shale lets out the tiniest whine when his hands move down to its shoulders.
By the time it’s ready to be rinsed and dried, it’s less on edge. Doesn’t flinch when he trips over the ramp and curses himself for putting it there.
Shale eyes the small metal cage in the Captain’s hands from its place on his bed. “What is it, sir?”
“A muzzle. You said running reminds you of chasing people down, right? That it’s hard to tell the difference?”
It does. It hasn’t run in weeks, and suggested a tether in case it sees someone else run.
“It’s soft, on the inside, and it’s got four little screws you can put in to suppress your magic, in case you get overwhelmed or triggered by people’s thoughts. They go in this pocket on your harness, but I’ll carry spares just in case.”
He puts it on.
“Thank you, sir.”
“Now take it off,” he says.
It reaches up, with shaking hands, and undoes the buckle. Hesitates. Does not get hit. Does not get shocked. Does not get whipped.
Hesitates, looking at Captain Edgar.
Slowly, carefully, it removes the muzzle. Gives it back to the Captain. Gets a reward.
Gets a reward.
“Sir, why is the muzzle removable?”
“I want you to think before biting,” he says, fluffing the fur on its chin. “I want you to use it as a tool to remember biting is not your first option, and I want you to be able to remove it if you rethink it and decide biting is the right choice.”
It places its head onto his lap. “The Weapon may not be able to—”
“We’ll work on it. Good job, kid.”
It does not buzz loudly at that. It is perfectly dignified and professional and the vents make weird noises sometimes.
He brings it to the cafeteria, and gives it a big bowl with peanut butter on top. And a turkey neck. And is something it has to work on, rather than choking down the whole thing at once.
Which is good, because it likes tasting things. Its fur is shinier, it’s gained some weight, and it’s….
It hasn’t jumped up to the Captain’s bed without permission, but it could. He wouldn’t hurt it, and there aren’t any thoughts in his head: he means what he says.
In the beginning, he said it could sleep on his bed.
They go out to the hall. He puts its muzzle on. “Go run five laps between here, the garden, and the gym.”
“The Weapon can run sixty-five, sir.” It would vomit on the final lap and collapse from exhaustion, but it could. It has run that much before.
“Ten,” he says firmly. “If you remove your muzzle, stop. If you get tired, stop. If you get thirsty, there’s a water bottle—”
“In my harness, sir. I am aware, you showed me. It even has a straw!”
“Yeah, kid. You can stick it through, if you want, but I’d prefer if you stop to drink.”
The muzzle is…. The ability to remove it makes it less effective, but it doesn’t tell him that. Just runs, snapping at people who seem to be running away, but the muzzle doesn’t let it do anything more.
By the fourth lap, it’s aware of the urge to bite, and by the fifth, manages to stop itself from snapping at two different people.
Shale crashes into its Captain, and presses its head into his leg. “No causalties.” it reports, shoving the straw in its mouth and taking a long sip. “Thirty-one attempts. The muzzle is functional, sir.”
“Good job, kid. I love you,” he says. It would do anything to hear that. Ten laps is nothing, fifty laps is nothing, seventy laps is nothing, compared to the way his voice goes soft and special and just for it.
“Thank you, Captain.”
They play tug-war to help it feel successful. Like it caught something, the Captain says, but it doesn’t really care about the reason.
It gets to play tug-war.
It gets to win tug-war, and get told it’s strong and crafty and good.
Play makes it buzz. Play makes it buzz loudly, bobbing its head in anticipation.
The Captain could ask it to do anything, to push itself past its limits until it’s sick and wheezing and pathetic, and it would do it for play and affirmations and gentle hands. It tells him.
“I know, kid. I’m sorry.”
It brushes against his leg. “I love you too, sir.”
The muzzle is comfortable. It’s removable, and Caretaker is working on making sure Weapon can remove it without distress. Without it panicking about disobedience.
It’s a barrier. A way for it to think before striking, a way to check if it really means to attack.
“Can I play tag, sir?” it asks, already wearing its muzzle.
“Permission granted, kid. Just keep it on, and report any attempts to me.”
When the game is over, it runs into their arms. “Three, sir. Only three! And zero casualties!!”
“Good job, kid.”
Weapon’s muzzle is freedom. It’s a way for it to run and chase and play without hurting anyone. It’s a way for it to learn it doesn’t have to.
