Nothing makes Leinth Aritimis feel good the way being saddled up in the cockpit of a huge mech suit does.

Except ‘good’ isn’t the right word at all. Leinth isn’t sure what would be. She doesn’t know how to describe the knife-edge, stomach-churning, nauseous thrill she feels as she sits in Genetor’s cockpit. It’s a superposition of guilt and vindication, threatening, at any moment, to crystallize into either one, and Leinth is constantly, achingly aware of just how narrow the tightrope she walks is.  She doesn’t know the name for a feeling like that. She just knows that she needs it. Leinth is long past mere addiction.  This feeling, as much as blood, is what flows through her veins. It keeps her alive. That was a hard lesson to learn, but she’s learnt it well. She won’t forget.

In exchange, there are so many other things she’s had to unlearn. Her whole life. Leinth often thinks it’s all gone, but somehow, each day, there’s more to lose. More to change. More to reframe and reinterpret. She has two lives now, but one is true, while the other is merely real. It’s confusing. Leinth can barely carry all that weight. Fortunately, Handler is always there to help.

Leinth trusts Her, of course. How could she not?

She even gave Genetor back to her. Genetor, repaired and refitted with Imperial tech. It stands ever so slightly taller and darker and prouder than before, and Leinth can pilot it, even if she doesn’t deserve to. Since she’s unworthy, she pays special care as she descends the steep slope into the Corlu Valley. Leinth doesn’t deserve any more second chances, not from anybody. A mech could easily lose footing on the loose shale and go crashing into the mountainside, but even a walking fortress like Genetor can be delicate in the right hands. Hell, with a pilot like Leinth, it can even be stealthy.

As the dawn just begins to break, the Corlu Valley is filled with rad-saturated fog. Looking down into it from the surrounding peaks, what you see is more like a lake than a valley. It feels that way, too, when you’re walking through it, and the visibility out of the viewports is almost non-existent. This dirty shit even plays havoc with sensors. Leinth finds herself jumping at shadows sometimes as the fog shifts and billows in unnatural formations. Fog isn’t supposed to move like that. It just blows gently with the wind as it settles down amongst the mountains.

Problem is, mechs like Genetor are mountains that move. And it’s not the only one down here.

Leinth is out hunting. They have intel and they can’t make too much noise on the way in, so there’s no one at her side. None of those unnervingly uniform, blackclad, Imperial Doru mechs Leinth has been getting used to fighting with. It’s a solo mission… almost. And she’s closing in on the designated position. If their intel is right, she’s only a mile or so away from them.

The enemy. The… who? Leinth frowns. She tries not to think about that part. Handler told her she doesn’t have to. But it still doesn’t sit quite right. She can’t help the stray worries that fog her head and turn her thoughts into a messy swarm of doubts. Handler says that’s OK too. She says Leinth just isn’t quite finished yet. She’s so kind.

Leinth reaches up and scratches a little at her muzzle.

“I’m in position,” she croaks into her radio as she brings Genetor to a halt and opens up a channel. “No contact.”

Good. Hold tight.

Leinth sits bolt upright, on the edge of her seat. Just those three words have her at attention, electrified - and all because it’s Her. Her voice. The voice of Leinth’s God. So she has to listen, every part of her, even the doubts and fears and rebellious instincts. Like the feeling of being within Genetor, it’s not all good. Leinth feels as much hate for Handler as she does love - but that’s not such a contradiction anymore. You can hate God and you can love God. It doesn’t change anything. Not what She is. Not what Leinth is.

Handler will love her all the same.

Leinth hates that Her voice reminds Leinth what she is. A sinner. An animal. That knowledge boils within her breast. Leinth feels herself stir and get hard. And she’s salivating so bad she’s actually drooling a little. All conditioned reflexes. It’s humiliating. It makes her angry. But she loves that even over the radio, Handler’s voice promises release. The gift only She can give.

But that’s for later. For now, Leinth needs to focus on the mission. And that means she needs to ask about her. The other one.

“Is she ready?” Leinth has to choke out the pronoun. The feelings that thinking about her summons are like bile.

Not yet. Still on the approach.

Leinth is first. She grins behind her muzzle. A small victory, but it still counts. They all count.

In this case, though, winning means sitting and waiting. Leinth doesn’t care for that. It’s not safe for her. Waiting means thinking. Thinking means temptation. If Leinth sits and waits for too long, she’ll find herself tempted to reach for something forbidden: her freedom.

Leinth has seen every inch of the rebuilt Genetor, inside and out, which is why she knows there’s no contingency plan. No hidden lockout or remote override. There is absolutely nothing to stop Leinth from marching her mech down into the valley, alerting the… enemy, switching sides, and repaying against Handler every little bit of the pain and torture Leinth has herself suffered.

She squirms. Just the thought is blasphemous. She’ll need to be punished later. More drool.

Only, what would happen if she did betray Handler? Most likely, the enemy would never trust her. She’s far too compromised. Oh, they’d make use of her intel as best they could - but then they’d lock her up for the rest of her days. Or worse, they’d execute her.

Leinth can’t handle the thought of that. It would be too kind.

And what if they believed her? Trusted her? Gave her a second chance? Then, things could be just like before - just like they had been before she fell, in the part of her life Leinth barely remembers. She could pilot Genetor on that side again. Fight the good fight once more. She’d be a hero again. A greater hero than ever, surely. The one who came back. The one who redeemed herself, and gave them all of Handler’s secrets. Before long, they’d have her face on the recruitment posters instead of Sartha’s.

And through it all, no matter what, they’d never know who she really is. They’d never know the weight of what she’s done, and the penance it demands. They’d never be able to forgive her.

No. Only Handler can do that. Leinth’s course is set.

She squeezes Genetor’s controls so tight her knuckles ache as she daydreams these useless, stillborn dreams.

Thanks to that, Leinth is ready to move at the first sound of artillery. An instant after the dull roar echoes off the mountain walls, the fog before Genetor parts in a spiral as the shell barrels toward her. Leinth reacts in time - but not to dodge. Genetor isn’t built that way. It’s built to take the hits. Leinth just raises an arm and lets the mass deflectors built into the mech’s structure absorb all the force and fire of the shell’s explosion.

Genetor shudders violently for a moment, but quickly stabilizes as the attitude control systems kick in. Within the cockpit, Leinth grins. Old instincts are coming to life. She knows exactly what to do. She knows she’ll win - and if she doesn’t, it’ll be a mercy.

It’s then that Leinth feels her footing beginning to slip underneath her. Her grin fades. She needs to focus. The earth beneath Leinth’s feet is beginning to collapse, and the only way for a mech as huge and unwieldy as Genetor not to go down is to let momentum keep it upright. That means heading in only one direction. Forward. Down.

Towards them.

Leinth brings her weapons to bear and snarls behind her muzzle. Where is she, damn it? This was supposed to be an ambush. There’s no telling how the enemy spotted her. Maybe Leinth fucked up. Maybe the plan was bad. Maybe it was just an unlucky patrol or sensor sweep.

Doesn’t matter now. Leinth is fighting for her life.

“I’m made,” Leinth hisses into the radio. “Engaging prey. Tell her to hurry the fuck up.”

She’s close. Again, Handler’s voice is magic. It turns Leinth into frozen steel. She regrets the instinctive profanity. If you need her, that is.

Leinth growls something fierce. Handler makes it sound like a perfectly neutral comment, but Leinth recognizes when her pride is being stoked. Doesn’t make it any less effective. But she doesn’t talk back, not to Handler.

Four shapes emerge from the fog as Leinth descends the valley’s slopes. An elite team. They’re who Leinth is supposed to be hunting. But four against one, without the advantage of surprise - those are long odds.

As Genetor crashes to a halt on level ground, two of them start to climb the slopes around Leinth. Before they can complete the flank, she picks one of the others, pushes Genetor’s motive plant into the red, and charges.

It’s funny. Leinth never used to fight like this. She was calmer. More methodical. That time, in the ruins, against Ancyor, she wondered how it was possible to make a machine seem so bestial. But now she has it too. That animal edge. She’s never been more dangerous behind the controls.

And Genetor is well-suited for it. It’s faster than people think - especially now. A few long, lurching steps is all it takes to close the gap. At the last possible moment, Leinth opens up with Genetor’s cannons and missile pods. She hopes she’s guessing the float time right. Her life depends on it.

The cannon shots go wide, unsurprisingly. That just leaves CQ. Leinth draws her chain hawk. Her opponent does the same with their saber. Here it is.

You! the other pilot howls over an unscreened channel, as their blades make contact and the whole valley seems to shake with clashing iron. Traitor!

Leinth flinches. She can’t help it. They always say that, and it always gets to her. She tries not to listen. Her axe swings are slow, relatively, but each one could take out a building. Her opponent needs to respect that, and does. They retreat. Leinth keeps moving forward. Down. Away from the rest of the squad.

How’d they get to you, Leinth? There’s bitter laughter, distorted by static. Can’t have paid you too fucking much if you’re still piloting.

That makes Leinth whine. It’s not about money. Was never about money. She longs to tell them. They deserve, at least, to know that she was never really one of them. She was a poison pill, forcing herself down their throats. She ruined one hero. She’d do the same to them all, in time. Why don’t they get it? It’s just better this way.

C’mon, how? The other pilot demands, as they riposte, taking a chunk out of Genetor’s shoulder. At least the machinery there is redundant - mostly. Don’t tell me you’re a true believer. Not you.

Leinth isn’t; that bothers her. What does she believe in? It’s strange how it hasn’t occurred to her in a very long time that there’s more at stake here than the psychodrama of her own soul. There’s a war going on out there, but that’s been out of view. Beyond what she deserves, why would she be fighting on this side? She doesn’t want them to win, does she?

They must have some sweet fucking perks, over there, Leinth’s opponent spits. That’s my bet. Better girls. Nicer quarters. Hot meals. Better than squatting in holes like a rebel rat. Am I right?

Rebels. Not just enemies. Rebels. That’s who Leinth is fighting against. The cause she used to be part of. She’s still moving forward. Down. Chain hawk still swinging in Genetor’s titanic hand. But her stomach feels like it’s being turned upside down.

For the first time in what feels like forever, it dawns on Leinth that she could just… not fight. She could take her hands off the controls, and let whatever happens happen. And why not? What would be so wrong with that? It seems nice, in a way. Peaceful. Maybe.

Leinth hesitates, and with that, she’s fucked. Her opponent is no rookie. A single opening is all they need. They reverse momentum in the span of a heartbeat, and suddenly their saber is coming straight at Genetor’s center of mass.

Then, the stars overhead fall out of the sky.

To her credit, Leinth nailed the float time. The distance too. When the missiles fall around her opponent like rain, they seem to come from nowhere. Part of that’s the projectile size. They’re small chaff rockets, meant for active defense. Against a mech, they won’t do more than disorient; against a good pilot, not even that. The rebel Leinth’s fighting doesn’t even flinch. They’re determined to make their strike hit home.

But Leinth doesn’t need them to flinch. She just needs to deploy Genetor’s stabilizer pylons for a moment while the mountainside collapses all around them.

From the intel, Leinth knows this terrain is just as foreign to the rebel team as it is to her, and Leinth has learned quickly how perilous it can be. When the shale splinters and shatters beneath her opponent, they’re not ready for it. They topple forward, and now, under gravity, their own mech’s bulk is their enemy. 

The rebel crashes hard, right on their front. Mechs like these don’t get up easy, especially not on this kind of terrain, but they start scrambling for a footing immediately. Leinth’s piloting instincts take hold again. She retracts her stabilizing pylons, walks forward, and stamps on the rebel mech’s leg.

Genetor is a fortress. Under its immense weight, the leg simply splits in two. The stump is a gory ruin of sparking wires and leaking hydraulic fluid. No getting up now.

But down doesn’t mean out. A fallen mech still has weapons. It’s still dangerous. That’s why Leinth needs to finish off her prey before the others are in position. She raises her axe over her head, ready to deliver the coup de grâce.

She hesitates again.

Why? Why do this? To win Handler’s blessing? To earn Her forgiveness? Perhaps, but what sense does it make to commit yet another sin for that cause? Doesn’t she already have enough on her ledger? Leinth knows, of course, that you need to sink in order to rise. If she won’t make herself do terrible things, there’s nothing to forgive - and forgiveness is everything. But… is that all her life will be? Misdeed after misdeed, all at Her command; a great hamster wheel of karma that she’s left running until she’s spent. Why do that? What’s the point?

For a single moment, Leinth achieves clarity. She sees that the control is the point. Nothing more. Whatever sick love Handler has for her is predicated on that. It’s fake. This is an unending purgatory; an Escher painting hell that Handler has crafted out of Leinth’s traumatized psyche. She can only be free if she stops. Now.

But then she comes. Sartha.

Ancyor falls from the fog overhead like a descending comet. Sartha must have leapt from some precipice a hundred feet above. The impact pulverizes the treacherous rock beneath Genetor’s feet, throwing her wildly off-balance and sending a spray of shattered pebbles in all directions.

Any pilot would lose control after a crash landing like that. Probably pass out from the shock, too. But somehow, Sartha Thrace doesn’t. She lands like the side of the mountain is nothing more than a springboard, and rebounds straight toward Leinth’s fallen foe. Ancyor’s engines howl as it extends its claws and buries them, all at once, into the mech’s cockpit. Then it rips.

The mech that was lunging at Leinth just seconds earlier comes apart in a wet shower of reactor coolant and superheated oil.

Even for a pilot of Leinth’s experience, it’s one hell of a fucking spectacle. Enough to stun her out of her previous train of thought. Before that moment of clarity slips away from her, though, she’s filled with a terrible sorrow, and gripped with the urge to train her weapons on Ancyor. To set Sartha free the only way she still can.

Then Sartha says something that sweeps all of that away.

One, she counts over the radio, in a low, smug growl that could have been either one of them.

Suddenly, all that Leinth felt before is gone, replaced with a vicious, petty jealousy. That was her prey. Her kill. Hers. Leinth took her down. It should be her tally.

But… does Handler know that?

“That was mine!” Leinth insists furiously. All of that stuff about control and trauma, it’s all forgotten. She needs the kill credit. She needs Handler to see what she’s done.

You were slow, Sartha tells her. It must be Sartha, Leinth decides. Still on the leash. She sounds just a hair too much like her old self. Like a hero lecturing a rookie, despite the absurd unworthiness of the argument

“I put her down,” Leinth snarls, “while you were blundering around in the fog!”

As they argue, they bring their mechs about to face their pursuers. The pendulum has already swung. Three against two now. And there’ll be no retreating, not now the rebels have lost one of their own.

I was following the plan, Sartha retorts. But you got spotted. I had to improvise.

The only reply Leinth has for her is a vicious growl that leaves loops of spittle drooling from the bars of her muzzle. Her head is getting dangerously fuzzy. Being around Sartha always does that to her. Once again, she can’t quite figure out what she wants.

She wants to punish Sartha. She wants Sartha to punish her. She wants Handler to punish them both. She wants Handler to forgive her.

Leinth headbutts the side of her cockpit in self-destructive frustration. It’s all mixed up. But… she has to be good. She has to be better. She knows that much. She has to win. Because what’s the point, if Handler won’t smile at her and mess her hair and tell her she’s done well?

That’s all Leinth lives for.

Why did she hesitate? Why did she fucking hesitate? Why does this all have to be so confusing?

Leinth? Are you alright?

Handler’s voice brings as much shame as comfort this time. She must have noticed the way Leinth is slipping. Hot tears well up in Leinth’s eyes. After all this time, she still can’t stop fucking up. It’s pitiful. She doesn’t deserve anything. Her vision is blurred and streaked as she tries to focus on the monitor in Genetor’s cockpit. She can barely tell Ancyor and the rebels apart.

“I… I-I…” she chokes out. She can’t hide it.

It’s OK, Handler promises. Leinth sobs, because she knows it is. Handler never lies to her. Do you want me to save you now?

“Yes!” Leinth seizes on that like she’s drowning. She’s never needed that sweet salvation quite so bad. “Yes. Please. Please. Yesyesyes.”

Mercifully, Handler doesn’t drag it out. She’s the kind of God that never lets you down.

Leinth. Sartha. Off The Leash.

Leinth feels her implosion happen in real-time. In that brief moment, she understands why it’s always so hard. It’s because there’s nothing at the heart of her. Not anymore. Handler stuck her fingers in her head and scooped it all out. Now she’ll always be empty. She should hate Handler for it, but she loves Her instead because Handler is the only way she’ll ever feel full again.

Full of love. Full of purpose. Full of pride. Leinth Aritimis may have ceased to be a real person, but there’s something left in the ruins of her personhood. Something animal and angry and oh-so very loyal to the master that holds her leash. In her last moments, the tears in Leinth’s eyes become joyful. It’s such a relief to let go of it all, and be the beast instead.

Leinth Artimis goes away, and Hound wakes up.

Leinth-Hound is young and immature, to be sure, but that just means she’s filled with an untested pup’s eagerness. Briefly, she regards the carcass of her prey and snarls at her packmate for stealing the prize of the kill. It’s not fair, but there’s no time to settle that now. Sartha-Hound is still one of hers. That’s what a pack is. And those rebels? They’re the other side. They’re for hunting.

The nascent Leinth-Hound guns Genetor’s motive plant in a way she’d never normally dare, right to its screaming limit. Explosive bolts light up like fireworks all over, and armor plates go flying into the fog, exposing emergency vents, specially designed and already white-hot. Leinth-Hound isn’t worried. She knows this iron body as well as she does her own. She knows it can take it.

Now, when Genetor moves forward, it’s not a fortress. It’s a thunderbolt. They don’t see it coming. But Sartha-Hound does; Ancyor is right at her side, moving in preternatural synchronicity. In moments like these, they don’t need to talk or plan. They’re animals. Their pack instinct speaks louder than words ever could. They are Handler’s perfect weapons, and they won’t let her down.

As fast as Genetor is now, Ancyor is faster still. Sartha-Hound uses the speed well, blitzing around a flank and picking the first target. By the time Leinth-Hound is upon them, there’s nowhere to go. Hammer and anvil. Unstoppable. The killing begins not long after.

Three against two. It was never going to be close.

***

Dismounting Genetor after it lumbers back into its hangar berth feels like emerging from a deep, timeless sleep. Not a restful one, though. Leinth’s heart quickens anxiously as she surveys the mess that’s been made of her pride and joy. Stripped paint, ashen blast-scars, jagged wounds in the armor, and… could that be blood?

Leinth hopes not, but the flashes she remembers of the battle make her tremble. She tries not to think about it. Instead, she does exactly what she’s been told, and looks for Her.

The hangar is a vast space, a chasm-like monument to the war machines that demand such excessive facilities. Looking up and trying to focus on the ceiling, so far above, makes Leinth’s eyes ache. In here, a person is no more than an ant and, unhelpfully, the hangar is swarming with them - mechanics, engineers, pilots from other teams. It looks like another cohort is returning to base at the same time as Leinth and Sartha. A small army is being disgorged into the hangar in order to see to refueling, repairing, rearming. It’s hard to pick out just one person amongst all that.

But Leinth’s ears soon prick up at the distinctive sound of those heavy boots clacking against the concrete.

As Handler approaches, Sartha leaps from cockpit of her Ancyor and lands just next to Leinth. The two mechs share a berth, just a little way apart from the others. A healthy separation. Leinth flashes Sartha a resentful look. She remembers enough to know that Sartha screwed her over. This isn’t the time or place to hash that out, though. Not in front of Handler. Leinth will just have to hope that She has the wisdom to see past it.

Leinth reaches up and adjusts her muzzle ever so slightly. She needs to be perfect in Her eyes.

Handler looks perfect, as always. There are no wrinkles in Her coat or blemishes on Her leathers. Her boots are perfectly clean, despite the oil and metal powder all over the ground. Every last long, pale hair on Her head is immaculate. Leinth remembers how, at first, she wondered how it was possible for a person to be so inhumanly composed. It seemed impossible. Miraculous.

Now she knows a little more. She knows that both she and Sartha labor for hours every night, polishing boots and tending to leather. Sometimes She even permits them to brush Her hair. But the weary knowledge of the service involved doesn’t make it any less miraculous. Gods have their followers. It’s just the way of things.

“Sartha,” Handler says as She approaches, looking between them. Assessing them. “Leinth. You did well. I’m pleased.”

Leinth closes her eyes and just lets that wash over her. For a moment, it cleanses her of all the shame of hesitation and all the frustration of being bested. All the guilt, too, which is most important thing of all. Leinth tries her very best to stretch that moment out into an eternity, counting all her heartbeats and the spaces in between. She knows, now, again, that she did the right thing. This is right where she’s supposed to be. No one but Handler could ever make her feel like this.

She’s smiling. Her face hurts from it. Leinth doesn’t care how stupid her dumb grin looks. Handler’s praise is worth more than any dignity. It helps to know that, standing right beside her, Sartha is smiling the very same smile. She doesn’t even mind the crowd that’s gathering around the three of them - at a respectful distance, of course. Pilots and mechanics alike, all smirking. They seem poised. Eager.

“Especially you, Leinth,” Handler says, and Leinth can barely believe her luck. Nothing has ever felt sweeter in her ears. There are tears in her eyes. “This is the first time I’ve needed to send you so far away from me. But you didn’t lose sight of what matters. You’re becoming a wonderful hound.”

“T-thank you, sir,” Leinth bleats in a small, girlish voice. She has to choke down on a sob. It’s all she’s ever wanted, even if she never knew it.

And now there’s a delicious little edge to the joy; she can hear a wounded, envious little rumble coming from Sartha’s throat. Perfect.

Before it’s ruined.

“Now,” Handler says expectantly to Leinth. “What’s your tally this time?”

Leinth’s blood runs cold. She was hoping that, on an unusual mission like this, Handler’s normal rules wouldn’t apply. She was wrong. She’ll have to face the consequences.

For just a brief moment, Leinth considers lying. Claiming the one Sartha stole out from under her. But that’s the kind of sin even she doesn’t get to commit, and so the ugly, bitter truth forces its way out of Leinth’s trembling lips.

“One.”

Just one, cored through with a solid round from Genetor at damn near point-blank range. A hell of a shot for most pilots, given that cannon’s heft and recoil. But for Leinth, it changes nothing. One is one. It’s not enough.

“I see,” Handler replies evenly. “And you, Sartha?”

“Three.” Sartha can say it proudly, with her chest puffed out. She’s won.

Leinth hates her for that. Truly hates her. For the pride she must feel, and the reward she’ll receive. It’s mutual, she knows. Once, Sartha was Handler’s only hound, and then the reward was always hers. Now it’s split, decided each time by competition. But Sartha usually wins, and Leinth overflows with resentment for her. Only Handler’s presence keeps the urge to lunge at her suppressed.

Then, moments later, the backlash. The cold flush of shame that howls at her for daring to feel even one little bit of anger or hate for Sartha Thrace. Did Leinth forget? Did she lose sight of the reason they’re here? Leinth made Sartha this way. It’s her fault - all her fault. She doesn’t deserve to hate.

But she does anyway. Once again, Leinth is reminded of just how low and vile she is. The abasement feels good, in a twisted kind of way. It’s freeing. There are no pretenses here. But it makes Leinth itch too. She needs Hander. She needs those magic words.

“I see,” Handler says again. “You know what that means, don’t you? Sartha has won.”

Leinth nods her head, ever so slightly. There’s no sense in denying it. No sense in being angry at Handler. She speaks with judgment’s impartial voice. That doesn’t mean Leinth needs to enjoy what happens next, of course.

“Sartha.” Handler beckons the other hound forward. “It’s time for your prize. Sit.”

Sartha takes one overeager step forward and then drops like a rock. She kneels like it’s her rightful place. She bends forward, pressing close to Handler, head so low her muzzle is almost scraping along the ground.

“Good hound.” Handler rests her hand on Sartha’s head and starts to pet. There’s a thin smile on her face - cruel, yes, but Leinth doesn’t mind, when she’s smiling at her. God can be cruel. “Good hound.”

Even from behind, Leinth can hear the ecstatic little whimper that erupts from Sartha. She’s in heaven. Who wouldn’t be?

All Leinth can do is watch, as every kind of bitterness curdles in her gut. As every cell in her body yearns to trade places. All those other pilots and mechanics are watching too. Laughing.

“Would you like your treat?” Handler asks Sartha.

“Y-yes, sir.” Sartha’s voice is trembling from the sheer thrill of the moment. She was a hero, once. It’s hard to believe that now. “Yes, sir. Please. P-please.”

Her eyes are fixed on a single spot. It’s the same place Leinth would be looking, if their positions were reversed.

Handler’s boots.

“Oh, this?” Handler makes a point of extending one foot forward. Her smile widens. “You want this?”

Sartha nods rapidly. She’s an overexcited child. “Yes. Yyyyes. Sir.”

Slurring her words. It’s undeniably pathetic. The entire watching crowd clearly thinks so. But yes, a hero, once. Until Leinth.

“Very well,” Handler says, with benevolent gravitas. “Good hounds get rewards, and you’ve been good. Sartha, Off The Leash.”

The words aren’t for Leinth so they don’t draw her under their power, but she still trembles at their force. Watching them work their way through Sartha is a terrible thing. For a moment she goes limp and sags, like she’s completely crumbling, and what comes alive within her after a mere instant has an unmistakably different presence; she’s hunched, hackles up, heaving with each panted breath as her tongue lolls, dog-like, out of her mouth. The new presence is dangerous, but not right now. She’s too caught up in adoration of her master.

It’s Hound. Sartha’s Hound.

“Good,” Handler says softly. She glanced down at Her extended boot. “Now go.”

Sartha-Hound shuffles forward in a frenzy, needy for her reward. As quickly as she can manage, she wraps around Handler’s leg, presses herself against Her boot, and starts to grind. The first sound out of her throat, loud even in the hangar, is a gratified moan so wild and pure it makes even the watching crowd of Imperials blush. It’s clear that she’s been yearning for this, and the yearning has made it all the sweeter.

This - humping the boot of the woman who broke her - is Sartha Thrace’s highest pleasure.

It’s Leinth’s too, of course. But she’s denied it. She didn’t win. Now, as Handler turns Her attention to Leinth, she braces herself.

It’s not that Handler wants to hurt her, of course. It’s just that Leinth needs to understand that she can do better.

Take your medicine, Leinth.

“You know what to do, Leinth.” Handler’s small smile fortifies her. “They’re waiting for you. Off you go.”

“Yes, sir.”

Leinth nods and turns, and her cheeks fill with the color of shame as she heads toward the waiting crowd. Their eyes are all lurid and full of humor. Apparently, they used to be afraid of Handler and Her hounds. They still fear Handler, and they still hate Leinth and Sartha, but something happened, and the pair of hounds are entirely declawed in their eyes. The terms of the contest help with that. It ensures steady familiarization. They’re well-used to Leinth by now, after all her defeats, but that doesn’t make it any less of a spectacle when Leinth begins to strip.

Unlike Sartha, Leinth has always favored a standard-issue, green piloting jumpsuit, although she can’t resist keeping it unzipped to the waist and tied loosely around her hips. Gets too damn hot in the cockpit otherwise. But now, as around two dozen Imperials watch and leer, she tugs it down her legs and steps out of it after first kicking away her boots.

Someone wolf-whistles.

Beneath that, Leinth always wears a synthetic bodyskin that clings tight to her form, black and sleek. It’s not modest, but that’s what the jumpsuit’s for, and it helps monitor her vitals and keeps her from scraping her skin against the cockpit instruments when Genetor takes a big hit. It unfastens from the back of her neck, and there’s no way to take it off in front of people that doesn’t end up looking like a strip show. Leinth just tries to make it quick, as she unzips it down to her ass and peels it away from her physique.

She has no love for these people. She acknowledges that they’re her comrades now, but only because of Handler. Leinth is just doing this because it’s what She wants.

Once the bodyskin is tossed aside, Leinth is left in nothing but her underwear. Those go quickly, and then she’s completely naked. She tries to hide herself; Handler doesn’t care. It doesn’t help. Trying to cover her body with her hands just makes Leinth feel young and small and like it’s her first time in the girls’ locker room again.

It doesn’t help that the hangar is damn cold.

Hopefully, it’ll be over quick.

“Go ahead,” Handler calls out. Her voice is mixed with the sounds Sartha-Hound makes as she humps Her boot. She’s practically dripping through her pants now. “She’s all yours.”

This time, She isn’t talking to Leinth. She’s talking to the crowd.

They all salute their thanks to Handler before surging forward toward Leinth; a seething mass of dirty, petty, horny pilots and mechanics. Within moments, they’re all around her, pressing in, each one of them desperate for their chance to grab, grope, touch, slap. Whatever trepidation they once had regarding Sartha is plainly long gone. To them, Leinth is just meat. They have seen with her own eyes that she’s no longer the rebel ace whose face she shares.

But that doesn’t mean they can’t take out their resentments on her.

“Rebel bitch!” Leinth hears, as she’s pushed this way and that by the crowd crush. “Not such a fucking hero now, huh? Glad you know your fucking place.”

She hears it from all around her; worse, too, all kinds of insults and terms of abuse, in voices that are full of nothing but mockery and contempt. It’s not long before it’s all just an overwhelming, incoherent din - but somehow, still, Handler’s voice cuts through it all, clear and strong. And as ever, her words deliver sweet mercy.

“Leinth. Off The Leash.”

Now, perhaps more than ever, Leinth welcomes the oblivion. Ego death is salvation. With each part of her that falls away, the sheer humiliation of what’s happening to her burns just a little less. Leinth yearns to be less. To be nothing at all, maybe, so that nothing hurts, but even if that’s too far, she knows that diminishing will set her free. As quickly as the trigger word works, she can still feel it coming for just a heartbeat; the threshold of transformation. It’s like an orgasm. She closes her eyes and lets it take her.

Leinth Aritimis goes away, and Hound wakes up.

It’s not like Hound enjoys what’s happening. At least, not at first. Waking up is always a little confusing, and the crowd of people accosting Hound make no concessions to her confusion. Before she can get her bearings, Hound finds herself forced to her knees as her legs are swept away. She snaps and growls her complaints at the women closest to her, but they just laugh. It’s an empty threat, and they know it. She can’t bite, and not just because of the muzzle. It’s because Handler wouldn’t like that.

“Dumb mutt,” someone jeers. Must be someone who’s been around long enough to know what’s what. Hound whines.

“Come here, dog.”

Hound can barely see amongst all the bodies pressing in on her from all sides, but a moment later, as she turns her head cluelessly from side to side, she feels someone grab hold of her muzzle and pull her towards them. Then, suddenly, there’s a boot between her legs, forcing her thighs apart, so rough it’s all but kicking her as it grinds against her cock.

Hound whines again. People laugh. “This is what you want, right?” someone jeers. “Sick fuck.”

It’s not. Not even close. This is just a mockery of the reward Sartha-Hound is receiving. Leinth-Hound can’t hear her cries of pleasure over the din of the mob, but she can certainly imagine. She knows how good it feels. Not like this at all. Handler is special.

Even Her boot.

But, entirely against her wishes, Hound’s body is beginning to respond to this rough treatment. Anger surges within her as she notices it: the rising heat that tempts her hips to buck and threatens to turn her whines into something like moans. It’s irresistible. Handler likes her with a hair trigger. Hounds need to be keen. She can’t help but feel good.

She does hate it, though. Hates it bitterly. Hound has little concept of humiliation or dignity, but she does have the instinct to fight, claw, win, dominate. To lead the pack. This pleasure flies in the face of all that. Hound wants to lash out, but she can’t. She’s powerless. She has to submit.

And they know it. Worse, they notice.

“Bitch in heat,” someone sneers. Hound catches a glimpse as they bend down to squeeze and maul her tits. A female pilot. “God. You’re actually enjoying this.”

Hound whines again, but her voice betrays her. More laughter.

“Think all the rebels are like this?” asks another woman.

“Definitely,” replies yet another. “You can tell, they keep letting us fuck ‘em out there.”

Laughter from every direction.

“C’mon, already,” calls a different voice, terse and irritated. “I’ve been scrubbing out cockpits all day. I need some stress relief.”

The crowd around Hound heaves as someone pushes their way to the front. Only the wall of bodies around her keeps her from slumping to the ground. It’s unbelievably hot, and the smell of sweat and machine oil is inescapable.

“And get this stupid fucking thing off her face,” the mechanic spits. “I want to use that.”

Hound yelps in distress as she feels her muzzle being pulled away from her face. The leather strips, still bound tight, bite painfully around her head, but it’s more than that. The muzzle is Handler’s gift. She’s not allowed to remove it. Her face is wrong without it. But the woman assaulting her doesn’t care, and try as Hound might to lunge for her treasure, within moments it's borne aloft and away by the mob. Hound hears it clatter to the ground somewhere nearby.

There’s no time to dwell on that agony. In just another moment, Hound feels a fist in her hair, gripping tight. In the next, she’s being yanked forward, and her face is immediately pressed between a pair of strong, muscular thighs. The mechanic has shucked her clothes down to around her knees. Her intentions are clear.

“Lick, slut,” she demands.

Hound doesn’t want to, but she knows she’s supposed to obey. Even a moment’s hesitance might displease Handler. So, she buries her tongue into the mechanic’s cunt and starts to lap with all the eagerness she can muster. Her reward is that the mechanic squeezes down on her even tighter and starts filling the air with smug, breathy grunts of pleasure. The others coo enviously, and the grabbing and groping intensifies. Everyone wants a piece.

This is what Hound is now. Stress relief. She’s everyone’s toy.

And inevitably, she’s beginning to enjoy it. Hound’s instincts cut both ways. Wanting to fight for dominance is one thing, but this treatment is making the pecking order nice and clear. A bitch like Hound can’t help but accept it. Can’t help but embrace her place at the very bottom. Besides, it’s not like she doesn’t enjoy eating pussy. Soon, Hound’s cock is fully hard, and drooling all over the hangar floor.

A few people laugh at the display of submissive need. One woman reaches down and jerks Hound off a few times, lazily, making her howl with the pleasure of it.

Why not? It’s just another toy.

It’s not long before Hound feels herself grabbed, pulled back, away from the mechanic she was servicing. She can’t tell if they got to finish or not. It doesn’t matter. There’s already something new in her face: a hand, this time, fingers, pressing down on her tongue, making her drool all over herself, daring her to bite. Someone grabs her wrist and makes Hound extend her arm until her hand ends up wrapped around a cock. She catches a glimpse; it’s one of the female pilots who was mocking her earlier. Hound starts obediently jacking her off.

She’s a prisoner to the energy of the crowd now. She is what they want her to be. And she won’t be done until they’re all satisfied.

Hound quickly becomes delirious. She’s turned on and exhausted and there’s too much going on around her to keep track of, so she stops trying. Her world becomes a seemingly never-ending kaleidoscope of bodies and flesh. Laughter and moaning. The hand retreats from her mouth, and something else is inserted. At first, Hound thinks it’s a cock. Then she realizes it’s a toy they want her to lube up with drool as they force it down her throat. At some point, her other hand is forced between a woman’s thighs so she can ride her Hound’s fingers. Her ass is red and bruised from all the people that keep slapping it. Her cock twitches violently every time it’s touched, but nobody in the crowd wants to be the one who lets her come.

Hound just accepts it. All of it. Right now, that’s what her mouth is for. What her hands are for. What her body is for. She’s a toy, and a spectacle. Most of the people who can’t get close enough to touch her are masturbating at the sight of someone who used to be a rebel ace be so completely defiled. Amidst the havoc, Hound loses track of how many people she’s eaten out or sucked off.

At some point, she becomes aware of something damp and sticky plastered down her front and across her chest, and realizes those female pilots have been coming all over her.

Hound welcomes it. Her animal moans are getting louder and more desperate with each passing moment. It feels good, and even the parts that don’t are gratifying. This is her penance. Her personal harrowing. It’s right. It’s what she deserves, even if she yearns so very desperately to be in Sartha’s place instead.

Can Handler see her? Does Handler know how good she’s being? Is Handler pleased?

Suddenly, an unnatural hush descends over the crowd, little by little, washing in like the tide. People start pulling away from Hound, whispering urgently to one another. Hound lets out a little keening whine. She hasn’t finished. She hasn’t done her job yet.

Then she sees why everyone has gone cold on her. There’s an officer on deck.

Not just an officer. The woman walking out into the hangar is the commander of this entire facility: Phylax-General Athina Kynilandre. She cuts an unmistakable figure; on a base full of young pilots, her silver hair and timeworn face mark her out, and her dress uniform, with its medals and lapels, makes it clear that she is not a woman to be trifled with.

Nor is she a woman that people wish to see them gangbanging a brainwashed rebel pilot.

There’s a lot of coughing and looking aside and surreptitious uniform-fixing as she withers the crowd with her disapproving glare. There are no words of reprimand, though. Not for them. General Kynilandre has eyes only for Handler. As she approaches Her, Sartha-Hound finally takes notice. She looks like she’s about to growl a warning, before Handler stays her with a single gesture.

“Tell me,” General Kynilandre demands of Handler, “is this the kind of conduct your practices encourage?”

Handler salutes politely. She is completely self-assured, even now. “It has its place. I’ve sanctioned their behavior. I ask you not to punish them.”

“Hm.” The general’s face is a thin, stern line. It’s plenty clear that there’s only one person she’d like to punish. After a moment, she glances at Leinth. “I came here to receive your report. I’m to evaluate your… new approach.”

"Of course.” Handler takes this all completely in stride. She’d never let Her hounds down. “Asset Aritimis performed well in the field. I expect that her reconditioning will be complete soon, as Asset Thrace’s is. Everything is proceeding smoothly. I’m sure the results of their latest sorties speak for themselves.”

“I’m not,” General Kynilandre retorts. The distaste she holds for Handler is plain and palpable enough to raise Hound’s hackles. “I’ve been reviewing cockpit recorder transcripts. I see clear evidence of a lack of unit cohesion between your two pets. Overcompetitiveness, resentment, petty jealousy - these are traits we actively discourage in pilots. This ought to concern you. Doesn’t it?”

She means this to humble Her. Instead, Handler smiles wider than ever before. “No.”

General Kynilandre raises a furious eyebrow. “No?”

“That’s right.” Hander nods.

“Explain yourself,” the general demands. Handler’s laconic comments are pissing her off.

Handler pauses for a moment. Considers.

“You know, they’d gladly kill me,” Handler says. “ My hounds, I mean. If they could.”

The general’s eyes widen. She seems faintly astonished by the confession. Pleased, though. She thinks it’s something she can use.

“Not easily, of course,” Handler muses. “They’d agonize and they’d hesitate and they’d sob. I’m not sure what they’d be able to do afterward. They’d need the moment to be perfect. But if their hands were around my neck? Yes, I think they’d squeeze down with all their strength. They hate me, after all. Even Sartha.”

Hound is violently horrified. She feels like she’s going to throw up. She would never. Could never. She wants to scream her denial out loud, but Handler’s words hold her under a strange spell.

“It’s only natural,” Handler continues. “They need to hate something. Everybody does. It’s a fundamental drive. They can’t hate the rebels. Not truly. That would unbalance everything. And think of all I’ve taken from them. Who would they hate but me?”

“You make a strong case for terminating your initiative,” General Kynilandre rumbles. “Reliance on such an unstable element is unacceptable.”

“That’s individually,” Handler notes. “Unstable? Yes, maybe. Sartha, I believe, is close to perfect. My finest. But even with her, I couldn’t be completely certain.” She turns her gaze to Leinth-Hound. “Until now.”

“Get to the point.”

Handler isn’t to be rushed. Her genius deserves space. “Now that I have two of them, they don’t need to hate me. They can hate each other instead.”

“Absurd,” the general sneers. “What kind of pilot team hates each other?”

“One you can trust,” is Handler’s answer. “Trust perfectly. They will never betray me. Never let me down. If they did, the other would be proven the better hound. And they can’t bear the thought of that.”

Now General Kynilandre goes quiet. She’s beginning to see.

“Repression is never completely successful,” Hander explains. “Better, then, to provide them with an outlet. Their animosity, petty as it may seem, allows them to sublimate their violent urges towards me. It was surprisingly easy to engineer. To Sartha, Leinth is someone who asked too much of her - and now, an interloper on our relationship. To Leinth, Sartha is someone who let her down and over whom she feels unfathomably guilty - and now, a rival who hoards my affection.”

Handler licks her lips. There’s something deeply unwholesome creeping into her voice. A kind of pride, in something nobody should be capable of taking pride in. A pleasure, too. Everyone listening can hear it. If it was anyone else, they’d accuse her of perversions, but Handler seems so far beyond that. She’s never touched Sartha or Leinth that way - unlike most of them. But all the same, it’s undeniable.

Handler enjoys her work. She enjoys it very much.

“Thanks to this dynamic, they strive like never before.” Hander isn’t just proud of herself. She's proud of her hounds too. Maybe that’s even creepier. “You will have seen their piloting metrics, general? They tell the whole story. Sartha Thrace and Leinth Aritimis have never been better pilots than they are right now, in hatred of each other.” Her smile is unnervingly bright. “And thanks to each other, they’re free to love me with all their hearts.”

“That’s…” General Kynilandre’s words die. She doesn’t know what it is. “How can you say that? They’re damned, broken wretches.”

“Do you think so?” Handler seems entertained by the general’s assessment. “I think they’re quite beautiful. If I do say so myself.”

General Kynilandre falls very quiet for a long moment. When she speaks again, her voice quakes with outrage - but everyone, even the lowest-ranking mechanics, recognizes her anger for what it is: impotent.

“This is no way to run a war,” she says quietly. “Using people like that. I don’t give a damn about the piloting metrics. I got my wings long before you were wearing that coat. We used to… It’s just wrong.”

She doesn’t give a damn about the piloting metrics. But others do, and they both know it. Handler is untouchable. There’s nothing more to be said.

“Will that be all, general?” Handler asks politely. She’s still smiling, though. “If you’d care for a hands-on demonstration of their eagerness, I’m sure Leinth would be more than willing-“

“Go fuck yourself,” General Kynilandre spits, before stalking back out of the hangar.

After she’s gone and the door slides shut behind her, the assembled crowd of pilots, mechanics, and other staff collectively let out the breaths they’ve been holding.  But not completely. No punishment is certainly a relief, but more than a few of them have been unnerved by Handler’s words. It’s spoiled the atmosphere.

Hound isn’t unnerved, though. Everything Handler said ended up washing over her like it was nothing. Like it was about someone else entirely.

She isn’t Leinth Aritimis. Not right now. She’s just a bitch.

Handler looks over the crowd. “You may continue,” she says.

She’s talking about Sartha-Hound too, and she does. Enthusiastically. The crowd is slower to get going. It takes a little while for them to shake off their inhibitions again. But, in the end, not one of them leaves or holds back. Nothing’s changed.

Hound is still a warm, willing body.

More or less.

***

Eventually, it ends. One by one, each of the bored, horny, frustrated base personnel spends their lust all over Hound’s body. Once they’ve had their fill, they fix their clothes and drift off to the mess, or their next duty shift, or back to their bunk. After enough of them leave, the party is over. The atmosphere dies, and the stragglers make a hasty exit. Nobody wants to be left alone with Handler and Her hounds.

They know attracting her attention is unwise. People still whisper about Meetra Kotys.

So in the end, it’s just the three of them. Handler stands impassive, as Sartha-Hound nuzzles and ruts and ruins her own clothes. The hound could go all day. She’s in heaven. Leinth-Hound isn’t so lucky. Wet and soiled and shivering, all she can do is remain splayed across the ground as she waits to be told what to do.

Everything aches. Her mouth. Her ass. Bruises all over. No gentleness was spared for her. At the end of it all, Hound’s torn between two feelings. One is a kind of weary acceptance. Her penance is done. She can be at peace with that. But the other is anything but peaceful. Hound craves release. Her body demands it. She’s still hard. She’s in heat.

More out of sheer, automatic reflex than anything else, Hound starts touching itself. She looks to Handler for permission as soon as she realizes what she’s doing. It’s pushing it, but she knows that at moments like this, She is inclined to be indulgent. The imperceptible nod Handler gives her is a gift from God.

Hound starts moving faster. She touches herself in a brute, stupid way, reaching down, pawing uselessly at herself, rubbing her cock against her own thigh. It’s all she’s capable of. She’s bruised all over. All her strength is spent. Even wrapping her hand around her shaft feels like too much. Her fingers are cramping.

She whines. She wails. It’s still enough. All her stamina is spent, too. She’s close.

But Handler has another gift.

“Leinth,” She says. She’s using that special voice of Hers. “On The Leash.”

Hound lets out a pained groan from the exertion as her shattered, overtaxed mind is forced to pull itself back together. Leinth doesn’t want to wake. She’d sooner stay buried. But Handler’s special words are like the tides. There’s no fighting them. So, after little more than an instant, Hound goes away, and Leinth awakens.

And finds herself in hell.

The first thing that hits is the pain. It hurts all over. The sheer exhaustion is agony; bone-deep and paralyzing. Next, it’s the cold, and the hard floor, and the wet, and the stickiness, all over her, and the stench of sex and sweat, inescapable. The visceral discomfort of it is staggering.

After just a couple of seconds, Leinth’s mind catches up. She remembers, vaguely, what’s happened to her. What she’s done. And the shame hits harder than anything.

She was used. By everyone. By people she vaguely remembers she’s supposed to detest. Like an animal. Like a toy. Now Leinth is slumped in the mess of it all, debased worse than any whore she’s ever seen soldiers use. And she’s touching herself.

And she can’t stop.

She just can’t. Leinth needs this too bad. In her body, but in her heart too. What if she stopped herself? What if she reclaimed that barest little shred of dignity and personhood? That little act of defiance would threaten to mean something, and Leinth doesn’t want that. She’s too tired for it. She can’t handle what might - should - come after.

Better to sink instead. To embrace what she’s doing. To just be this. It’s easy, in a way. It feels right - right for the guilt she feels over Sartha, and right because, deep down, she knows she’s become exactly the same kind of traitor. If Leinth makes herself come like this, she’s the worst. And she knows how to be the worst. Handler taught her. It makes sense.

Leinth needs permission, of course. She looks to Handler.

“Please…” she musters. Her voice is ragged. Her eyes ask the rest of the question.

Handler nods again. “You may.”

That’s all Leinth needs. She quickens her pace and, after just a couple of seconds, her pleasure peaks. After a couple more, she spills everything all over herself and all over the ground. Her cheeks burn with the humiliation of it.

The pleasure feels good. It’s what her body needs. The humiliation does too, in a way. But the emptiness that descends afterwards is terrible.

Handler doesn’t let her languish in it. She’s infinitely merciful.

Setting Sartha-Hound aside with a little gesture, She crosses the hangar floor to Leinth’s side. “Up,” She says. “Sit.”

Leinth thought she couldn’t move, but when Handler orders her, she finds the strength. Leinth fights her way up to her knees.

Handler reaches down and touches Leinth’s cheek, very lightly. Leinth shivers. It feels amazing. It’s Handler, and it’s the gentlest anyone has been with her in forever.

“Are you ready?” She asks.

Leinth gasps. She knows what comes next, and she needs it. Bad. “Yes. Please. I n-need it.”

“I forgive you,” Handler says softly.

Those three words mean everything to Leinth. Her entire body goes rigid. She tears up. She closes her eyes. Everything. Leinth is forgiven for all her failures. For losing today’s contest. For not living up to Handler’s expectations. For being the worse hound. But for much more than that, too. She’s forgiven for trying to escape, long ago. She’s forgiven for every time she ever cursed Handler’s name. She’s forgiven for being a rebel, and for betraying them. She’s forgiven for it all.

Handler has that godlike power. Leinth feels the weight of every sin she’s ever committed as they’re lifted from her shoulders - for a little while, anyway. Until they come back, she can bask in this. In her slate washed clean. In perfect atonement. She’s never felt so free.

“Thank you,” she weeps. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome,” Handler replies. “I’m sure you’ll do better next time, Leinth. Now, come along.”

Handler turns and begins to walk away. She doesn’t need to look back. At once, Sartha is at Her heel. Leinth leaps to her feet, but before she returns to her rightful place, she dashes a few paces away from Handler.

She hasn’t forgotten. She needs it. Her muzzle.

As quickly as she can, Leinth fits it back into place over her mouth. Wearing it makes her just that little bit less anxious. Everything is right again. She’s forgiven. Once again, she’s a good hound. Good hounds wear their muzzle. Handler will inspect the straps later, and She expects them to be perfect. Leinth won’t disappoint her. Not ever again. Leinth knows she’s just a stupid dog, but she’s very, very determined to learn today’s lesson.

Leinth thinks back to the mission, and to what she did wrong. She makes a vow to herself, in Handler’s name.

Next time, she will not hesitate.