Is that what you want, Ki?

Well. Is it?

That’s what Kione keeps asking herself, over and over again as she stalks aimlessly around the rebel facility. Does she want Sartha Thrace, the hero of the rebellion, to take off with her as a fellow mercenary, going wherever the fighting is most profitable and leaving as soon as the credits run dry?

It’s a hell of a fucking prospect. Until about ten minutes ago, Kione hadn’t realized it was on the table. She’s never dared to give it any thought.

It should make her happy. Right? Sartha’s willing to give her everything. To drop everything for her. Isn’t that what Kione always wanted? Isn’t that devotion? The kind of devotion she’s always longed for? If Kione just said ‘yes’, maybe they’d finally be equals. Partners in crime. She once heard somebody say that was the most intimate relationship between two people.

It means Sartha loves her, doesn’t it?

The very idea tastes so rotten in Kione’s mouth, it makes her laugh darkly under her breath, inviting concerned looks from the rebels she passes by.

No. Not love. Something much, much worse.

But perhaps it could be. Perhaps if they simply got away from everything, even for the worst of reasons, Sartha could finally heal. Perhaps it’s just what she needs. Kione has seen first-hand how much Sartha struggles to bear the adoring, expectant looks from the rebels that surround her. She knows better than anyone how hard she’s finding it to slip back into those old shoes.

What if she didn’t have to? What if they were just… gone?

Kione pictures it for a moment. Ancyor marching across the horizon, nice and slow, cockpit open, letting Sartha taste the wind as it streams through her hair. In her mind’s eyes, Sartha smiles. It’s beautiful.

And it’s wrong.

Because Sartha Thrace never gives up. Sartha Thrace never leaves anybody behind. Sartha Thrace has never abandoned a single soul, and Kione knows she wouldn’t start by ditching everything she’s ever held dear.

But she would, if Kione told her to.

That’s a problem. Because any Sartha Thrace that would do that isn’t the real deal. And Kione won’t settle for a cheap imitation.

She makes her sick, actually. Sartha does. Right now, it’s all Kione can do not to throw up the meal that’s still working its way through her stomach. She’s not sure she’s ever been so disgusted with anyone—except maybe herself, for all these weeks spent pretending Sartha could still be the woman of her dreams.

Stupid. Fuck. She’s so gods-damned stupid.

It’s tempting to just climb in Theaboros and fly off. That thought is never far from Kione’s mind. It’s her baseline survival reflex. If in doubt, hit the bricks. Merc survival 101. This time, though, it doesn’t take. Kione knows she’s too weak for it. And she’s bound tight by the chain of her own promise.

I’ll save you, Sartha.

What does saving her even mean? Fixing her? Or simply making sure she gets to keep pretending? Kione doesn’t know. There are so many things she doesn’t know. She could, of course, go to Sartha. She could storm into her quarters again, and throw her against a wall, and demand that she explain why she’s so pathetic. Didn’t exactly get her very far the first time, though. One of the only things Kione does feel certain of is the fact that Sartha would just fawn and beg and apologize and it would all be completely fucking pointless.

Maybe that’s why Kione finds herself heading to the one place she got some answers before.

Ancyor.

In the hangar cavern it stands as tall and motionless as a statue, half its outer panels peeled away to facilitate the upgrade program the rebels have put into motion. The exposed inner skeleton makes it look even more monstrous than usual. It’s like one of those huge, animal-headed idols Kione has seen in the deserts half a world away. Just as dead, but only for the moment. The computer systems are still up and running, anyway, and as Kione clambers up into the cockpit, none of the mechanics do anything but wave and offer to help her on her way.

She’s Sartha’s partner. They’ve got no reason to raise an eyebrow.

Kione slips into the pilot's seat and closes the hatch. She boots up the electronics and starts picking her way through the data, mostly at random. It’s not like she knows what she’s looking for. She’s just hoping to find whatever missing piece will slot into place and help her understand.

What did they do to her? How did they make Sartha like this?

No, not they.

Her.

After a time, she finds herself thumbing through the comms system. It’s all still imperial tech, yet to be ripped out and replaced. The engineers and rebel commanders probably wouldn’t approve of Kione booting it up on a whim, but she’s beyond caring. She’s thumbing through old transmissions and tracking old signals, looking for something that isn’t hopelessly corrupted. Kione had thought she never wanted to see that imperial handler ever again, but at this point, she’d take anything. Any answer.

She almost jumps out of her skin when the comms console lights up with an incoming long-range transmission.

Briefly, Kione freezes. There are a hundred reasons she should ignore it. Another hundred why she should immediately alert whoever’s in charge of Ancyor’s refit. As far as Kione can tell, the equipment should be capable of two-way communication without transmitting any location data—but that’s only as far as she can tell. No matter how she looks at it, it’s an insane risk. And yet…

Fuck it.

In a moment of supreme, nihilistic impulse, Kione accepts the hail.

The viewscreen before her flickers into life. And it’s Her.

It’s Sartha’s handler. Kione has seen her before, on that recording, and she looks absolutely no different now; black leathers immaculately polished, not a single hair out of place beneath her cap. The signal is much clearer this time around, but the clarity does nothing to make the woman appear more human.

Just the opposite; the more Kione searches for flaws, blemishes, for signs of basic humanity, the more she finds them eerily lacking. Everything about the handler—the way she breaths, moves, trains her gaze, holds herself—is a little too perfect. Inhumanly immaculate. It’s all done with such clipped precision. Like how a machine moves. Even her eyes. There’s nothing human or feeling in her eyes at all.

Kione shivers as they’re trained on her. Before, when she watched the recording, she’d been struck by the irrational impression that the handler could see back into her through the screen and across time.

This time it’s much more than just an impression.

Ah. Kione Monax. As I expected.

Her tone makes Kione’s temper flare, as does the cold smile writ across her face.

“And who the fuck are you?” she demands.

You already know that.

She’s so pale, too. Bloodless. Like a corpse. It’s so easy to imagine that her veins have been drained empty, then filled with coolant and machine oil. How else does someone become like this?

“Shut up,” Kione snarls. It’s all she can do not to punch the screen in front of her. “You don’t know what I know. You don’t know anything about me.”

Of course I do, Kione. It is impossible to disbelieve her. My files on pilots such as yourself are very extensive, and they are never wrong. I know that you’re with Sartha. And I know that you’re sitting in Ancyor because you’re trying to understand her.

The air inside the cockpit suddenly feels dangerously thick.

“How…” Kione asks, before she can stop herself.

It’s not so difficult. I know that you were one of Sartha’s rescuers. I know that you recently participated in combat alongside her, and that you haven’t been seen elsewhere. I know that, during that action, Sartha fought with what the deceased imperial pilots described as an unnatural level of ferocity. I know that, a few weeks ago, our communications network picked up a weak, brief, damaged signal from Ancyor. As if someone careless was picking through its comms logs.

Kione wants very badly to tell her that she’s wrong. To rip away a little of that immaculateness. She can’t. She has nothing to say. She simply feels seen. She feels shame.

So, have you been taking good care of my hound?

The anger returns, and Kione is pitifully grateful for it.

“She’s not yours!” she spits.

Isn’t she?

“I—we—got her back.” Kione tries to match her supreme confidence. “I took her from you.”

Oh? Is that how you feel?

There’s a question behind the question: why doesn’t she feel that way? Why, now that Kione has Sartha in the palm of her hand, has she never felt more distant?

She doesn’t know.

Kione does know that she should put a stop to this at once. Terminate the transmission. Follow her instincts. Hit the bricks. Nothing good comes of talking to someone like this. To someone who knows things they shouldn’t. That impulse is like a bell ringing in Kione’s head: clear, strong, but diminishing a little with each echo as Kione feels herself sinking deeper into the eerie eyes of the handler. Holding her gaze, even though it’s making her clench her hands so hard her fingers ache.

Can’t blink. Can’t look away. Can’t leave. Can’t back down. Can’t show her that.

So focus, Ki.

“What did you do to her?” Kione says, voice as measured as she can make it.

What kind of answer are you looking for?

“Don’t bullshit me!” Kione snaps. She takes a deep breath. “Just tell me how you made her like this.”

An instruction manual, then? I’m afraid I doubt we have time for me to explain the entire process to you. But in a word: trauma. The way a human mind reshapes itself under sufficient duress is fascinating. Once the right pressure is applied, the cracks reveal themselves. Then all that’s needed is a wedge, a hammer and the skill to use them. Speaking metaphorically, of course.

Torture. Fundamentally, what she’s talking about is torture. Kione isn’t shocked that it happens. But something about the handler’s voice is more unnerving than Kione could ever put into words. Clinical, almost, like it’s nothing to her, but with an edge of pride. Of passion, even.

“You make it sound so…” Kione mutters.

Easy?

Kione nods. Yes, that’s what she had been about to say.

It is easy.

She freezes. What the fuck is she supposed to say to that?

The wrong word, perhaps. Simple, in a certain way. It merely requires a level of insight into people, and a willingness to do what needs to be done. But you already know that, don’t you Kione?

“I…” Kione is dying to get out of the cockpit.

You found the words from the communications logs, I suppose. And I see that you’ve put them to good use. Hound is impressive, isn’t she? My finest work.

“What the…” Kione breathes.

Impressive. It’s not the word Kione would choose to use. But it’s not wrong, either.

Have you fucked her?

Kione almost throws up right then and there. Obviously she wants to deny it. That’s instinctive. But it seems pointless, too.

Interesting. I imagined that you had. There’s no need to feel guilty for it, you know. Though I’m sure Sartha’s told you that for herself. She’s very well trained. And very useful. The other pilots always seemed to enjoy her.

Gods. That’s an image that brings the bile all the way into Kione’s throat.

“You’re a fucking freak,” Kione growls at the screen. “You’re a monster.”

I’ve never touched her.

Again, it is impossible to disbelieve her. The handler’s words feel like etchings into the stone of the world. Carved there, indelible. Kione can’t doubt them. She’s simply left to contemplate their awful meaning.

If the handler never touched Sartha that way, what does that say about Kione?

Is Kione worse than her?

No. No, that’s impossible.

“I just did what I had to do,” Kione tries. “Sartha needs to fight. We need her to fight. But you fucking broke her.”

You didn’t need to fuck her to make her fight—not, again, that you should feel guilty. And if that’s the case, why didn’t you tell anybody else about Hound? About her trigger phrase?

Kione’s heart is pounding. She knows. She really does know.

“I… couldn’t trust… they might’ve…” she bleats.

No. You wanted her for yourself.

Breathing hard now. Kione is all but tipping over into panic.

“I…”

Don’t be ashamed of your devotion, Kione. It’s a precious thing. You don’t often hear of a mercenary fighting out of love. And besides, it brought you to me.

To her? What does she think this is?

“Fuck this,” Kione spits. “I’m outta here.”

She reaches out to terminate the transmission but the handler’s voice, surprisingly earnest, calls her to attention.

There’s no need for that. I’ll help you. You came here for answers, and I will give you the answers you’re looking for.

A poisoned promise. Kione’s not so dumb she can’t see that. And yet…

“How do I fix her?” she asks. She doesn’t expect the truth. But anything she can extract from this woman might help her. Might help Sartha.

You can’t.

So much for that, then.

“What the fuck do you mean, can’t?” Kione demands. Her heart quickens dangerously. She can’t hear that. She can’t believe that.

She will never be the way you once saw her. Sartha Thrace will never be able to pilot without hearing those three words you’ve been making such good use of. She will never again be a hero.

It’s impossible to disbelieve her.

“Don’t fucking tell me that!” Kione yells. She slams her fist into the iron wall of the cockpit. “You’re the fucking expert on messing people’s heads, right? So tell me how to fix her. I’ll do whatever it takes. I swear, I’ll figure out how to use your… your ‘pressure’, or whatever other sick shit you like to do to people. I’ll play your game. I’ll use it to put Sartha back together again. I don’t fucking believe you when you tell me you broke her for good!”

It feels good to let a little of the anger out. Saying that reminds Kione what she’s here for. She needs to save Sartha. She needs to. It’s the only way she can redeem herself.

You misunderstand. I didn’t break her for good. She was already broken.

Kione snorts. She’s got no interest in sophistry.

“No, she wasn’t. She was beautiful. She was incredible. I saw it.”

You saw what you wanted to see.

“Bullshit.” Kione’s hackles are raised. She refuses to budge on this.

But the handler won’t stop smiling that thin, cruel smile.

Tell me, Kione. How does she look to you, when you use her trigger? When you remake her into a hound?

Happy. She looks happy. She looks like she’s just taken a hit of pure bliss.

“I’m not answering riddles,” Kione insists.

Doesn’t she look completely, perfectly relieved?

Yes. Exactly. Relieved. “That doesn’t matter,” Kione retorts. “You made her feel that way.”

I’ve made her feel so many things. But not that.

“You’re lying.” Kione wishes so bad that she could disbelieve her. “You ruined her.”

I tore her open and showed her the ruin of herself. But a house eaten through by termites is ruined long before you push against the walls and make them fall.

“But-“

The reason she’s relieved is because she’s found the path out of the ruin. The path I taught her. The path I gave her. In that moment, she is happy. She is free.

Free? Kione wants to laugh at the word—but she doesn’t. It plucks a chord in her, despite the absurdity. Isn’t that how Sartha looks, in a certain way? Free?

“You make it sound like you did her a favor,” Kione challenges.

Why do you think she’s so grateful to me?

Kione has never felt hotter, or colder. The curdling mixture of temperatures within her is something she only associates with the worst of fevers.

“She didn’t want this.” Kione needs to say it out loud. She needs to guard herself against the thought.

Remember what I told you. My method does not create cracks. It reveals them. Exploits them. But they must be there. If there was truly no part of Sartha Thrace that wanted this, I could not have forced it upon her. Not with all the will in the world.

It’s the truth. It has to be. Kione feels the truth of it—and besides, this monster in human skin never soils herself by speaking anything less. Kione already has that much of a measure of her. Coming to terms with it—that’s the hard part. Kione can already feel herself collapsing inward around the revelation. Remaining in control is impossible with this handler pouring her truth in her ear. She’s so angry. At herself, for being weak. At Sartha, for being weak. At this handler, for being anything but. But Kione is determined not to forget what she came for.

“Tell. Me. How. To. Fix. Her.” Kione forces out each word. It’s a mantra. It’s the only thing that counts.

The handler does not leave her wanting.

Find her crack. Her key. Once you know the secret that rules her, you can make her anything that you need her to be. Perhaps you can even make her a person again. Or something close to it.

Even now, as absurd as it may seem, it’s impossible to disbelieve her.

Kione sees at once that the handler is playing a game with her. It’s a taunt. A dare. Use my methods. Stain your hands, as I have. She can only guess at the reason. Maybe it’s a ploy to alienate her from the rebels. Maybe it’s a gamble, a way to trick Kione into reopening Sartha’s wounds so they don’t heal. It doesn’t matter.

What matters is that there’s hope.

You wanted this, Sartha? Fuck you. But I’m still not giving up on you.

“What’s the key?” Kione demands thickly. “The secret? Tell me.”

You don’t need me to tell you that, Kione. You can simply ask her yourself.

The transmission cuts out. But somehow, as Kione keeps staring dumbly at the blank screen before her, through the veil of her own falling tears, she can’t quite banish the image of that perfect face, those cold eyes, and that thin, cruel smile.

***

Sartha wanted it.

That simple fact—and it is, Kione accepts, a fact—assumes primacy in her mind as she sits in her quarters and waits for Sartha to come to her. She thought, yet again, about storming straight into Sartha’s quarters, but what good would that do? She’s played that song. She’s spun that wheel. Where did it take her? Plainly, the handler wants her angry. Off-balance. Irrational. Kione won’t let that happen. She’ll be in control. She can make herself cold too.

Not that easy to banish her anger completely, though. It sits beneath the surface as she waits. It ferments. Alchemizes. Kione pays close attention to that. She pays heed to her anger. Lets it sit with her. She embraces the source—cleanly, clearly. She mustn’t let things get out of hand. Not like before. But denying it would be just as meaningless. She will be one with her anger. She will make it true. She will be angry for all the people who will never know how deeply Sartha has betrayed them.

Kione says that over and over to herself.

For hours.

She’s sure Sartha is coming. Kione’s developed a keen sense of Sartha’s moods. She knows that after a training sortie like the one they aced earlier that day, Sartha will need the stability only submerging into Hound can grant her. She’ll wait until nightfall, though. For discretion’s sake. Kione impressed that on her.

Plenty of time for the mercenary to work on her script.

When the knock comes, she smiles. Kione always smiles for Sartha. She can’t help it. But this smile is different. Kione feels it frozen to her face like a gash in ice. That’s good. It needs to be cold, and a little cruel. It needs to be like hers.

You need a handler, Sartha? I’ll be a handler. I’ll be her, and more besides. I’ll be everything to you.

She opens the door—and there’s that smile on Sartha’s face. Eager. Almost frantic. Kione supposes that makes sense. Sartha did well today. She deserves a reward. That’s how it’s supposed to go, right? Good dogs get treats. It’s so simple.

She’s so simple.

Did she used to be more than this? Or was Kione just naive?

“Hey, Kione,” Sartha says, with that air of nervous, giddy excitement. Gods, she’s all but drooling. “Can I come in?”

Kione waits. Longer than usual. She makes a weapon of her patience. She wonders how long Sartha would squirm if Kione let her.

“Sure,” she tells her eventually. She’s not quite that cruel. Not yet. “Make yourself at home.”

She leads Sartha inside. The broken pilot follows her with a pathetic, grateful grin and pauses only to close the door behind herself. What passes between them is private. No prying eyes. Nobody knows.

Nobody. Not her. Not the handler. This does not belong to her.

“Stand at attention,” Kione commands.

Sartha looks surprised. She knows Kione usually likes to ease into it. Doesn’t hesitate, though. She snaps her legs together and her back straight in an instant. Ever the perfect little toy soldier.

Kione lets her stand like that until she knows Sartha’s legs must be aching. Until she knows she’s just dying to hear it.

“Is there something you want to ask me?” Kione begins.

Sartha blinks. “Um… are you alright, Ki?” she asks. “Earlier, in the canteen, you seemed a little…”

Kione scowls. She doesn’t want this concern. It’s off-script.

“That’s not really what you want to ask me, is it?” she replies softly.

Sartha’s lips part. Then, she relaxes. She can’t be ill at ease when Kione is acting like this. It feels too right.

“Was I good?” Sartha’s need eclipses her concern. “Did I do good today?”

Kione laughs quietly. So predictable. It’s too easy. She wonders if it was always easy for the handler. Did that take time? Or was it easy from the start?

“Yes,” Kione tells her. The cold smile on her face should frighten Sartha. It doesn’t. It reassures her. Kione can tell. “Oh yes. You were a very, very good dog, Sartha.”

Sartha Thrace grins, and it’s sunlight. She’s never looked so happy. And she’s a hero, right? When heroes smile, the world smiles with them. Once, Kione would have ridden into hell for a smile like that.

Now, she refuses to let it warm her.

“Thank you,” Sartha pants. She’s all but drooling. “Thank you. Thank you.”

It’s often like this. Sartha needs the praise. Kione needs to give it to her, and Sartha’s always so grateful to receive. It’s a kind of ritual. For a moment, Kione wants to push against that. To break the pattern. It might be safer.

She wants to pull Sartha back from the darkness, doesn’t she? Not drag her further in.

But it’s going to be hard. Kione needs strength. She needs the comfort ritual gives her. She knows by now that kindness will get her nowhere. Sartha doesn’t want kindness. The only way out is through, and Kione is determined not to falter along the way.

So she takes out Sartha’s muzzle.

“Good hound,” she soothes, holding it up to the light. “You want this. Don’t you?”

Of course she does. She stares at the gleaming bars of the muzzle with indescribable longing. The effect it has on Sartha is undeniably hypnotic. Kione can only imagine. To see the annihilation of yourself wrought in metal and held comfortably in the palm of a hand—and to crave its iron touch more than anything else in the world.

When she thinks about it like that, maybe she can do more than imagine. Kione’s no stranger to the siren call of her own firearm. She always resisted it, of course. If only Sartha was still capable of resisting.

“You’ve earned it.” Kione bats aside her ruminations. “Here.”

As always, slipping the muzzle on over Sartha’s face feels like a baptism—not that Kione means to be a priest. She means to be something infinitely worse. A god. She will steal the imperial handler’s fire. She will reach into Sartha’s soul and remake it. And gods mustn’t spoil their children. Kione forces herself to be brisk as she tightens the straps that bind the muzzle to her hound’s head. Tender, yes, but she doesn’t linger. Can’t let herself linger. The task ahead is too important.

Learning Sartha’s truth.

“Sartha,” Kione announces. “You’re going to tell me what happened to you when you were captured.”

Sartha’s eyes are wide. Her lips quiver. She looks almost betrayed as she stares at Kione.

“It’s… not easy to talk about,” she replies pitifully.

That look. More than once, it’s melted Kione’s heart and forestalled her questions. But not now. Not today.

“I don’t care,” Kione tells her. “You’re going to tell me anyway.”

Another lip quiver. Sartha’s face is full of shame. It’s funny; normally, once the muzzle goes on, she’s all but immune to that. Guess she must really have something to be ashamed of.

"I don’t remember that much,” Sartha pleads. “I-it’s difficult to remember anything too-“

Kione stops her with a simple, forceful gesture. She reaches up under the muzzle and seizes Sartha’s chin, and forces the pathetic, quivering pilot to meet her gaze.

“Remember,” she commands.

Sartha doesn’t have it in her to resist that. A direct order in a stern voice—and from her handler. Kione’s words reach into Sartha’s head and stir up her memories. Like stirring a fork through a soup with a thick skin of scum formed over its surface. The sheer pain of it makes Sartha grow absent in that strange way she does when she’s trying not to exist. When she speaks again, there is less of her than before.

“Yes, Kione,” Sartha says blankly.

Despite the awfulness of the task ahead, Kione grins. Sartha is hers. This is what it means to have her. She’s starting to make her peace with that. And to work her thoughts with the ease of a weaver at a loom—how could it not feel good? “How did they get into your head?” she asks.

“They took me…” Sartha replies slowly. “Got me out of Ancyor. Into an… interrogation? But no questions. Not real questions, anyway. They were all just about me. And the one asking them was…” She closes her eyes. “Her.”

The way she speaks makes Kione flash hot with jealousy. She crushes the emotion. One day, she vows, Sartha will speak her name in that same hushed, reverent tone.

A moment later, she feels ashamed of the promise. She’s meant to be fixing Sartha, isn’t she? Another moment, and she doesn’t. Yes, fixing her. That’s exactly why Kione will deserve it. She’ll be better than a handler.

A savior.

“Go on,” Kione orders. No mercy. No relenting.

“There was… they took me to a room.” Sartha’s brow twitches as the memories come. “Over and over again. For a long time. Put me on a… table? A chair? A slab. Like a doctor would have, or something. They made me look at things. They shone lights. And She was always there.”

Against her wishes, Kione shudders too. She’s felt what that woman can do over a comms transmission. In-person, it would be like staring straight at a black hole.

“She’d talk to me afterwards,” Sartha is saying. “And I didn’t feel right. I felt like… like somebody else. But She always knew what to say.” She trembles. There’s a tear in her eyes. “She made me feel whole again.”

The tear is gratitude, Kione realizes. Her fists clench. No, Sartha. Don’t you see? You’re not whole. You’ve never been further from whole. Don’t you see that?

“What did she say?” Kione demands.

Sartha squeezes her eyes closed, lost now to the recollection. She’s drowning in it, and it hurts. “She knew,” she confesses.

Here they are. Kione shivers—not from the horror, this time, but with the thrill. “She knew that you wanted it.”

Sartha’s eyes open. She’s confused. And then she’s not, and Kione loves that. She loves the implied acceptance.

Kione is her handler. Of course she already knew.

“Yes,” Sartha whispers. More shame. She can barely breathe for it. “I was just… it was just a small part, just a little voice, but… I thought I was weak. I thought I just needed to block it out. But She showed me. She taught me that voice was my true self. She promised me she could make its dreams real.”

Kione is in awe of that woman. She hates her, yes. But she’s in awe of her too.

“Why?” Kione leans in. This is what’s pivotal. The axis on which Sartha Thrace turns. “Why did you want it? Tell me.”

“I was so tired.” Sartha reaches up like she wants to bury her face in her hands. Instead, though, she presses the muzzle against her skin harder enough to leave marks. Her voice is quiet. Whispering, like she doesn’t want the gods to hear her confession. “That’s it, Kione. I was so tired of the way all of you look at me.”

Of you?

“What do you mean?”

“Whenever I walk into a room, everybody looks at me like I’m going to fix every single thing that’s wrong with the world.” Now that it’s coming out, Sartha sounds almost relieved. “But I can’t. I can’t fix anything at all. But they won’t stop looking. Stop expecting. That’s what a hero’s for, I suppose. But I… I’m tired of it. I couldn’t do it anymore.”

“Oh, Sartha,” Kione breathes.

It makes all the sense in the world. Kione has seen as much. She’s not surprised by what Sartha feels. Just that her imperial handler was able to grow so much from that poisoned seed. How did she do that, exactly? Duress, Kione was told. Sartha mentioned lights and images, and Kione’s sure drugs were involved too. Clearly it’s equal parts psychology and technology.

And artistry, of course.

“With her, it’s like… it’s like I’m everything and nothing. Whatever I need. Whatever She needs.” Sartha can’t stop herself. “She lets me feel like a hero, sometimes. But when I was with Her, nobody expected anything from me.” Behind her muzzle, Sartha smiles with a ghoulish fondness. “It was wonderful.”

Kione remembers what the handler said about how those imperials ‘used’ her. Oh yes, she bets they looked at her like she was anything but a hero.

“No wonder being rescued was so hard on you,” Kione murmurs. Her promise to be hard, to be ice, stops her from embracing Sartha—but this truth isn’t really so awful, is it? “Being surrounded by them again. They still look at you the same way, don’t they? Even after everything. I’ve told you, Sartha. You let them ask too much of you.”

Sartha goes oddly quiet for a long moment. As Kione wonders why, her hound’s earlier wording pricks at her.

“Hey,” Kione asks slowly, “you said ‘you’, earlier. You’re talking about the other rebels, aren’t you?”

A little war plays itself out in the empty space behind Sartha’s eyes. She really, really doesn’t want to say it. She doesn’t want to say anything that would displease her master. But the truth is being asked of her, and lies are no more a part of her nature than disobedience.

When she finally says it, the war is over. And she just seems so, so tired.

“Kione,” Sartha tells her. “You’re just like all the rest of them.”

Kione’s blood stops flowing.

“No, I’m not,” she retorts.

Sartha flinches a little at her firmness. “OK,” she agrees miserably.

Kione’s too angry to let that sit. “Fuck off,” she snarls. “What do you mean I’m just like the rest of them?”

Eyes closed again. It’s like Sartha can only say it if she pretends Kione isn’t there.

“You look at me like that.” Her voice is empty. “You need. You expect. You want me to be your hero.”

Kione shakes her head numbly. Sartha can’t see it.

“You just think you don’t because you’re not one of them,” Sartha drones on. “But it’s no different. I can feel it whenever we talk. Why do you think I always tried to talk you into joining up? It’s not because I need to say it. It’s because you need to hear it.”

“I…” Kione is shaking.

“You needed to hear that there was something to believe in. Even if you couldn’t quite buy it. You needed a reason to keep going. You were always searching for it. For me. You couldn’t leave me alone.” Sartha half-sobs. She can’t quite pretend she’s alone. She is painfully aware of the bridge she’s burning. “But I… I just hated it so much.”

“Shut up!”

Sartha’s lips clamp shut. Of course they do. It’s an order.

Kione’s veins are still frozen. She’s still wearing that cold smile, but only because every nerve in her body is lit up and paralyzed in awful shock. The ice in her veins is tearing her open. But all the same, seeing Sartha obey her provides a small spike of blissful dopamine. Kione clings to it. It’s the only thing that feels real. All the rest is merely a nightmare. It’s the only thing she can bear.

“Shut up,” she repeats. She starts pacing. Can’t bear to stand still. “Dogs can’t talk,” she snaps cruelly.

Sartha just nods. She’s silent—finally, thank the gods.

“Never say that to me again,” Kione adds furiously. “It’s not true. You hear me? It’s not true.”

At that moment, she catches the look in Sartha’s eyes. It’s devastating. It’s terrible. It’s miraculous.

Sartha believes her.

Despite everything, she believes her. Everything she just said? It’s not true. Not anymore. If it comes from Kione, if it’s an order, she’ll believe it. She’ll break her own brain just to believe it. That’s how desperate she is. That’s how much of a worthless, hopeless animal she is.

Now Kione gets it. To be a handler is to rewrite reality itself.

Right. That’s right. That’s the reason she has to be strong.

“She made you believe that,” Kione decides. It’s the only thing that makes sense. As if she’d ever need someone this worthless. “That woman. You believed anything she told you, right? She told you all that stuff. Poured it right in your ear. And you just lapped it up, huh?” Her smile widens as she sees Sartha accept it all. “Dumb mutt.”

Sartha whimpers a touch, but beneath that Kione can tell she’s drawing a kind of pleasure from the abasement. She longs to be put in her place, however twisted the reason. It’s what she deserves. What she wants too, apparently.

Easier to be a mutt than a hero.

“You gave into her because you’re stupid and weak,” Kione instructs Sartha. “How could you be so fucking pathetic? Idiot. Traitor.”

As one, they believe it. Sartha does because it’s coming from Kione. Kione does because it’s just so easy to believe. Look at her, sniveling behind that muzzle. She’s weak. It’s obvious she’s weak. How didn’t Kione see it before?

How did she ever look up to her so much?

“You need correction,” Kione announces. She smirks at her own cleverness. “That’s the kind of word the imperials love to throw around, right? Correction. You need some discipline. Dumb dog needs proper training.” The smirk becomes a sneer. “Don’t worry, Sartha. I promise. I’ll never look at you like you’re a hero again. I won’t make that fucking mistake.”

Kione makes a fist and punches Sartha in the gut.

With a silent gasp, she bends double and goes down on her knees. Didn’t see that one coming, huh? The expression on her face is so perfect. Shocked. Breathless. Wounded—but not physically. Spiritually. Punishment implies guilt.

Kione’s glad she can make Sartha feel that. It’s what she deserves.

“Weak,” Kione spits. She needs to make sure that sinks in. “You let her in your head. You let her break you. How could you? How could you do that to me?”

Just to make sure she doesn’t answer, Kione gives Sartha a firm kick in the ribs.

She sinks even lower, then slumps over on one side. Instinctively, she clutches at herself, trying to keep herself from crumpling completely. Still, no word passes her lips. No protest. Somehow, that makes Kione even madder.

Can’t this stupid bitch even muster the will to defend herself?

Guess not. Kione gives her another kick in the ribs, just because of how much that pisses her off.

“Can’t believe you let me believe in you all this time,” Kione snarls. “You should have shown me this side of you sooner, Sartha. We could’ve had more fun. I could’ve, at least. Could’ve wasted a lot less time fighting for lost causes.”

How many times did she agree to come to a battlefield, just because Sartha was there? How many times did she give up good money just because Sartha would’ve disapproved of who she’d have been fighting for? How many times did she risk her life for chump change, because she hoped Sartha might take notice?

Too many.

“You never believed in anything,” Kione decides. “All along. You were just this. You were just tricking me.”

It’s only half-true. She knows that. But the half is enough to hurt both of them.

At least Kione has a nice, willing victim for her to take out her pain on.

She hits Sartha again. Again, again, again. With her hands. With her feet. Whatever feels right. It all feels right. It feels natural. Who’d have thought Sartha Thrace made such a good punching bag? Every time she crumples beneath one of Kione’s blows, the mercenary stands a little taller. Feels a little bigger. Already, she can see bruises and welts rising on Sartha’s body here and there.

That feels better than good. She’s marking Sartha all over. Except the face, of course. It’s not just that the muzzle is in the way. Gotta keep the poster girl looking pretty, right?

“I won’t forgive you,” Kione promises, once her strength is spent and the willingness to keep throwing punches has all but left her. Her shoulders heave with each breath. Her words are ragged. “But I will make you better. Better than you ever were before.” No more cold smile. She’s grinning now. “Better than she could.”

It’s then that Kione realizes she’s never been more turned on in her life.

Playing with her puppy always gets her like this. So hard she’s already almost ready to blow. Normally, this is when she’d get Hound to work out some of her urges. Kione hadn’t been planning on that tonight. Getting matters straight with Sartha had been a clear priority. But now that she knows exactly what lurks at the bottom of her friend’s soul, she’s thinking: why not?

Clearly she’s done a lot worse for the other side. Anyway, doesn’t Kione deserve this? Don’t they deserve each other? They’re bonded in awfulness. Married in hell. When she looks down at Sartha, beaten and bruised, Kione knows she’s already crossed so many lines, she’ll never be able to forgive herself.

So why not take her pleasure where she can?

Kione thinks about reaching over to where she keeps Sartha’s strap. It’s not as appealing as usual. Kione has never seen a woman as pathetic as the one slumped on the ground before her, and the idea of letting a broken dog mount her makes her scowl in disdain.

No. There’s a better way. Time to flip things around a little.

“Get on the bed,” Kione snaps at Sartha.

Her lip curls as the worthless thing on the floor before her starts to haul herself to her feet. It’s plenty clear that Sartha’s in pain, but Kione won’t let that melt her heart. She sees past the pain, to the deep, noxious glow of masochistic release.

Kione knows exactly what’s going on in Sartha’s head. She’s glad that finally, at long last, she’s no longer Kione’s hero.

“Take everything off,” Kione orders. She laughs when she sees Sartha begin to weakly peel away that combat jacket she always wears. The ubiquitous near-uniform of the rebels. “You don’t deserve to wear it.”

Sartha seems almost numb as she strips. Not eager. Not resentful. Both of those emotions have been beaten out of her. She’s just resigned. She’s relieved that Kione sees her for what she is, to be sure, but Sartha craves a deeper submergence. Once she’s naked, she turns to Kione.

“Please,” she begs, in the smallest voice Kione has ever heard. “Use the words.”

Kione’s eyes widen for a moment. Sartha sounds so pitiful, it almost moves her. Then, she reminds herself. Be hard. Be ice. Be the handler Sartha needs.

“I told you,” Kione replies gruffly. “Dogs don’t talk.”

She reaches forward, plants her open hand on Sartha’s head, and forces her face down into the bedsheets. It takes Kione no more than a moment to shuck out of her clothes. She’s electric with need. She can’t even say she’s turned on, exactly. Something about Sartha is faintly disgusting to her. But her body’s urges can’t be denied.

As Kione positions her cock against Sartha’s cunt, she spares a moment to reflect that it’s a little embarrassing she hasn’t done this to Sartha or Hound before. She was clinging, she supposes, to a silly, girlish ideal. Topping Sartha had been a dream, and in the back of her mind, she’d thought that having the dream was better than fulfilling it.

Stupid. The dream was always made of smoke. There’s nothing to it. Certainly nothing that can match up against the pleasure of having Sartha Thrace wrapped around her cock.

The way Kione fucks her is nothing like the way she normally fucks girls. Normally, she sets a nice, slow, firm rhythm and lets it build until they’re begging. She loves the begging, and even more than that she loves leaving them with their minds blown. But with Sartha? Who cares. She doesn’t matter. She’s not a person. Fucking her feels as much like masturbation as it does like sex. Kione’s only reason to hold back is that she’s ready to blow her load as soon as she’s inside her. And she wants this to last.

“This is how you like it, right?” Kione mocks. “Doggy style?”

“P-please, Ki,” Sartha tries again. This physicality of sex has flipped a nauseating switch inside her. She’s hit her limit. “This is t-too much. I need it.”

“Shut the fuck up,” Kione laughs. “You can take it. You’ve taken worse.”

To drive the point home, she reaches under Sartha, grabs one of her tits, and pinches and twists the hard nub of her nipple so hard it makes her yelp in pain. Sartha’s strength gives out. Kione’s beating was no pantomime. Her legs splay out beneath her, ruining Kione’s rhythm.

“Gods damn it,” she grunts. “Can’t you even be a decent fuckhole?”

“Just… please…” Sartha gags. “U-use… it…”

“Dogs don’t fucking talk,” Kione snaps. “Don’t make me tell you again.” As she looks down at the weak, begging, beaten, sprawled-out Sartha, disgust wells up within her. The kind of disgust it feels good to indulge in. “Roll over, dog.”

Even though she’s at the very limit of her strength, Sartha obeys. She always will. She wants Hound’s oblivion, but she lacks the guile to bargain for it. She simply obeys, wincing from the pain as she turns onto her back. Kione wonders about that. How far would she go? Would she break a bone? Cut off a finger?

She hopes so.

“That’s better,” Kione announces, as she forces herself inside Sartha again. “Let me see those pretty eyes. Let me see how there’s nothing there.”

There really is nothing there. Sartha’s eyes are empty pools, made all the more ghoulish by the muzzle beneath them. She’s checked out. Actively trying to dissociate, probably. Only the barest glimmer remains. It threatens to slip away as Sartha slumps back and goes limp, but Kione won’t let that happen. She wants her friend to feel every moment of what’s happening to her.

“Hey,” Kione snaps mockingly. “Tighten up, stud. Make me feel it.”

Another gut punch. Kione waits for the moment after Sartha inhales a big, heaving breath, just so that her punch leaves her gagging and winded. Pain flares in those dead eyes. The physical sensation of it is inescapable. Sartha’s body throbs and arches as she coughs and whines. And, pleasingly, Kione feels her cunt contract sharply around her shaft.

That figures.

Unfortunately, being present makes Sartha start begging again. “Please, Ki!” she shrieks through sobs. “Pleasepleaseplease. J-just use the words on me, please, please drop me, please, I’ll do a-anything. I’ll do anything for you.”

Ah. She really means it. Isn’t that something? Her earnest submission almost makes Kione cum on the spot.

Bad news for Sartha is, that isn’t what she was asking for.

“I already told you, cunt,” Kione growls. “Shut. Your. Stupid. Lying. Mouth.”

She can already tell that Sartha isn’t going to. She can’t. She’s passed into a kind of insensate delirium. A panic attack, or something worse. The pleasure. The pain. The bliss of freedom from adoration. The agony of her trusted friend abusing her exactly the way she’s grown so used to. Poor little broken-brained Sartha Thrace just can’t take it. She needs to be Hound.

Too bad.

“I’m begging you K-“

Kione cuts her off. She clamps her hand down around Sartha’s throat, and squeezes as tight as she can.

“You don’t deserve it!” Kione yells, and the flow of abuse from her lips is pure id. “Feel it, Sartha. Feel what you are now. You betrayed me. You know that? You betrayed everybody. You don’t deserve to be so skullfucked you don’t even care.”

Sartha’s eyes bulge and tear up. Kione can't tell if that’s because of her words, or just because she’s cutting off her air.

She doesn’t care either. It feels good either way. Especially because of how tight Sartha’s pussy feels now.

“I know you’re already broken.” Kione wraps her other hand on top of the first and uses her choking grip on Sartha’s throat to force her limp body into the perfect rhythm. “I just have to break you even harder. I have to break her out of you.”

Sartha can’t do anything but gurgle weakly in reply. Her face is turning a deep, unhealthy red-purple.

“I will rip that fucking handler out of your head,” Kione vows. She’s almost as out of breath as Sartha. Puffing and panting her words between thrusts as she rams her cock in and out of the hero’s limp body. “Out of your heart. I promise, Sartha. Maybe I can’t save you from yourself. But I can save you from her. I’ll let you go on pretending to be a hero. I’ll make sure none of your precious rebels ever see you for what you really are.”

So close now. So fucking close. She can feel Sartha is too. Her brain is boiling from the lack of oxygen. She’s coming apart. Her lips still mouth incoherent begging. For air? For Hound? Kione isn’t sure.

She lets out a wild laugh. She thought she felt like a god before? Oh, no. That was nothing.

“All you need,” Kione promises, leaning over Sartha, bringing her face as close as she can to the broken woman’s. “All you’ll ever need is me.”

At that moment, Sartha thrashes again. A desperate, instinctive bid to get free, perhaps. Reflexively, Kione fights her. She squeezes down harder. Dangerously hard. Sartha’s eyes roll back. Too long without air. Spittle flies from her lips in a white foam. She looks awful. Like she’s dying.

It’s not the first time Kione’s choked a girl too hard, and in the stupid way where you crush the windpipe instead of the blood vessels. She made mistakes when she was younger, and too cocky for her own good—or her partners’. She grew up and learned, of course. With Sartha, it’s simply that she doesn’t care. Even so, learned instinct calls on Kione to pull back. To let Sartha breathe.

But… what if she just didn’t?

What if she kept going? Further. Harder. Tighter. What if she took them both all the way over the edge? Kione, into atrocity. Sartha, into… what? Oblivion? That’s exactly what she wants. Rest? Wouldn’t that be a kindness?

Isn’t an ending the only thing Kione has left to offer?

Kione squeezes tighter. She senses in Sartha’s manner a kind of yearning for it. For the end. Suicide, she assumes, is an impulse the handler has torn out of her. If she can’t put an end to herself, maybe Kione should do it instead. Kione tried offering her freedom on a long leash. It didn’t work out. It did her no good. Maybe this is the only way Sartha Thrace can be truly free.

Maybe it’s the only way Kione can be free.

As Sartha’s lungs begin to implode, Kione finds herself trapped in the horrifying moment, mesmerized by the spectacle of a body shutting down. There’s something clinical about it. Mechanical, even. Beautiful, even. The threshold calls to her, like it does at the edge of a very tall building. Kione isn’t sure she can resist. Not even when it’s clear there are only moments left to pull back from the brink.

In the end, stupidly, orgasm is what saves her.

Kione cums, finally, and the burst of pleasure snaps her out of her nihilistic headspace. Torn between ecstasy and horror, Kione lets up. She releases Sartha’s neck, planting her hands on the pillow beside her head to support herself as sheer instinct conjures from her a few more heavy, rutting thrusts that leave Sartha’s cunt painted with traces of her.

She’s marked now. Inside and out.

Despite it all, Kione laughs. She almost lost control. Almost—but didn’t. She passed the test. That’s what counts, right? Once she can see straight, she checks Sartha’s breathing. She’s alright. Probably unbearably light-headed, though, and barely conscious. She can’t open her eyes, really. Just flicker the lids apart for a moment or two, to peer at Kione, bleary and uncomprehending.

Now’s the time, Kione judges, to offer kindness.

“Off The Leash.”

Despite it all, Sartha’s eyes fly wide. Then, she’s not Sartha at all. She’s something even stupider. Even baser. Something that sees with perfect clarity all that Kione has just done, and is grateful for it.

She knows nothing else but gratitude to her handler.

Biology can’t be denied, of course. Hound is no more capable of remaining conscious than Sartha. Right away, sensing that their punishment is over for the night, Hound relaxes into the unconsciousness that rushes to claim her. She gives in to sleep. As she does, she pulls close to Kione. Seeking her warmth. Entrusting herself.

It’s enough to bring a little warmth to Kione’s heart. It’s wonderful. It’s love.

Hound loves her. Sartha loves her.

She must, mustn’t she?

And as she looks down at the hero now, red-faced, bruised, heaving, muzzled, drooling from her mouth and her cunt, it strikes Kione that there’s only one reason she’d even consider staying with such a ruin. The handler told her as much, and she’s never wrong.

“I love you,” Kione breathes. “I love you so much.”

It’s the most romantic moment of Kione Monax’s life.