“Let me ask you something,” Kione asks languidly. “How come the food keeps getting worse around here?”

Muted laughter around the rec room. Vola, Nese, Amynta—Radio Girl—and a few others Kione doesn’t really know yet. All bored shitless. Sorties have been few and far between. Nothing to do but keep their heads down while the imperial net closes.

“Terribly sorry, my lady.” Amynta feigns a little bow from her slouched pose on the bench. “Any requests for dinner? Fresh fish, perhaps? A nice salad?”

More laughter. Their banter isn’t exactly high drama, but anything to lighten the mood.

“If you could bring me that,” Kione sniffs, “I’d pay you your mech’s weight in imperial coins.”

“Gods,” Vola grunts. “Don’t you ever get tired of being such a rich bitch about everything?”

“No.”

“Then, don’t you ever feel like putting that ridiculous hoard of yours to good use? A contribution to the cause? That’s what a good rebel would do.”

“No.”

“Can’t you at least share it around a bit? Among friends?

“Got that fresh fish for me?”

Everyone groans at her. Kione drinks it in, of course. She’s never happier than when she gets to play the villain. Plus, all the rebels seem to appreciate having someone to groan at too.

“No fish.” That’s Nese. She’s been quiet today. Sounds dour. “Imperials secured the east bank of the Lethys River a few days ago. We’re cut off.”

That brings down the mood at once. This front of the war hasn’t been doing well—not that any of them have. The imperial war machine crawls across the land like a locust swarm. Let them take what they want, and they’ll never stop. Fight them, and the buzz of resistance drives them into a frenzy. Oh, the rebels fight well, to be sure. They know the land they fight on, and they love what they know. But you need resources to win a war, and on that front more than any other, the empire is unmatched. They have machines that turn mountains into legions. That rip great wounds into the ruined earth, drinking the dredges of its long-spent wealth the way a mosquito might a still-warm corpse. Against a foe like that, victories are only temporary. The accountant’s toll of gains and losses is forever.

The rebel base—Leukon Base, it’s called—is getting surrounded, inexorably but slowly. It’s up in the Orestis Highlands. Difficult territory to claim. And so far, the rebels have managed to remain in the dark. Probably, the imperials don’t know if it’s a fully-fledged outpost or just a few stragglers, and they also probably don’t know which hole or peak they might be hiding in. So, there’s time. But only time. Resupply will keep getting harder. Kione’s glad she got Theaboros all patched up already.

Learning all these proper nouns for places is kind of a pain in the ass, honestly. Kione never bothered with it before. You take a map, you get a job, get some coordinates. You show up, you shoot some people, you get paid, you fuck off before anyone can try to engage you in a scintillating conversation about the weather this time of year. Now, Kione hears the place names coming out of people’s mouths, and they actually mean something to her.

‘Not part of the job’, is what she’d normally say. But she supposes this one stopped being ‘just a job’ a while ago.

“Doubt we were getting much fresh fish out of the river anyway,” Kione grumbles. “That’s fairy tale stuff.”

“Not true,” Nese tells her. “Most of the year, it snows clean on the mountains to the north of here. Keeps the waters pure. There’s a few springs, too. Plenty of fish spawn in the hills around there, and some of them even make it this far downstream without choking on runoff.”

Finally, Kione twigs it. “You’re from around here, aren’t you?”

Nese nods.

“Shit, I’m sorry.” Kione feels oddly nervous about offering condolences. She’s not used to it. “Your people?”

“Don’t know.”

“Damn,” Kione replies. Then she says, “I’m sorry,” again because she’s not really sure what else she’s supposed to say.

“Thanks.” Nese looks up from her game of solitaire and offers Kione a bit of a nurturing smile; ‘A’ for effort, apparently.

“Relax, merc,” Amynta reaches over and claps Kione’s shoulder. “It’s not such a rare story around here. No offense, Nese.”

“Yeah,” Vola pipes up. “I grew up in the Memphin Desert, across the Panropa Basin. They occupied it years ago. Turns out there’s still oil under there, if you dig deep enough.” She takes a breath. Exhales her cigarette. “Hope they drown in it. They probably won’t. Either way, I’ll probably never see the sands again.”

Kione nods slowly as she absorbs that. “You?” she finds herself asking Amynta, because she realizes she actually wants to know.

“Me?” Amynta is surprised by her curiosity. A little delighted, too. “I’m from nowhere, babe.” She flashes a peace sign, just to make Kione giggle. “Born on a refugee trail. Grew up moving here and there. Joined up to fight the first chance I got. Now, your turn. Where you from, Ki?”

“Uh.” She asks casually, but the question lands on Kione like a lobbed boulder. She’s not good at talking about herself. But she’s really in it now; this has already turned into a sharing circle. And worse, she asked first. “I’m… from Kinbashi.”

She sees recognition in Amynta’s eyes. A touch of pity, too. Kinbashi is—was—a large city-state, one of several in the resource belt far to the south of even Vola’s home. One of the sad little comfortable dreams of those who wanted to keep living sad little comfortable lives, as they had done in the days the world was whole.

“Surprised you didn’t join our cause a long time ago,” Nese snorts. “Pay the imperial cunts back for it.”

Kione shakes her head. “It’s imperial now,” she corrects. “But Kinbashi fell a long time ago. Madness and greed. People fighting and dying over all sorts of stupid shit. I grew up running from shelter to shelter with my parents whenever the sirens sounded.” She forces a smile. “Then one day, the sirens were a little too late, and I was on my own. Kinbashi in rubble. Nothing to stay for.”

All around the rec room, sympathetic glances. Kione really wishes they wouldn’t. There’s a reason she doesn’t usually go on about herself.

“’Madness and greed’,” Amynta quotes. “If that’s how you see it, why be a merc?”

Now Kione grins. “Yeah, and it was madness because none of those greedy fucks ever actually got what they were fighting for. Now I make damn sure I’m getting paid before I get out in front of a bullet.”

The smiles return. Everybody loves the rich bitch. Doesn’t quite banish the sympathetic looks, though. They’re all getting a bit too used to it. They don’t see Kione as some merc anymore.

They see her as one of them.

Not all of the rebels do, that’s for sure. Skulking in one of the rec room’s corners is Pela, that Sartha fangirl Kione once dressed down in the canteen. There are plenty of others like her. Rebels Kione has pissed off so mightily it’ll take more than just time to heal the wounds. But on the whole, they’re softening. Kione is too, and she knows their names, and she knows the names of the places they’re fighting for.

It’s… a new feeling. One Kione isn’t quite sure how to get to grips with. Even more uncomfortable is the novel idea that all these rebels might, sooner or later, actually know her.

“I’ve never heard you tell that story to anyone besides me, Ki.”

But for now, there’s plenty they don’t know, of course.

They don’t know about Sartha Thrace. They think they do; Kione can see that plainly from the little looks of adoration and comfort on all their faces as the hero walks in. She’s been in the hangar-cave, helping to calibrate Ancyor’s new upgrades. With her arrival, she warms the room. The world is brighter and better with her in it. The rebels look at her, and see a hope beyond hope. They see salvation.

Not Kione.

The truth of Sartha Thrace stares her in the face. First of all, she sees that Sartha is wearing her jacket buttoned up tight, all the way to the top of her neck. To most, nothing noteworthy; just a concession to the cold. Kione knows that beneath her collar are a bouquet of bruises that match her own fingers. Evidence of the previous night’s excesses, now blossoming into grotesque, ugly purple. Just thinking of it makes Kione shudder.

She went too far, of course. Kione knows that. But she’s already forgiven herself. Her task is to plumb the depths of another woman’s soul. Certain mistakes are inevitable. What counts is that the damage is not permanent. And in the process, Kione grasped something crucial.

Sartha Thrace is not human.

Presumably she was, once, but she gave it up. Traded her humanity for the comfort of existing on the end of a metaphysical leash. She does not think as people do. She does not feel as people do. When she was taken and brainwashed, Sartha was not broken on the surface; coerced into a set of simple, mechanical acts as the core of her personhood buried itself deep within her mind for protection. Oh no. She was broken all the way through. Broken the way glass breaks when an entire pane shatters from a single strike—because she wanted it. Now, her very internality has been crushed into something abhorrently one-dimensional. There is no deeper meaning to be found in her than one would find in a dog scraping the bottom of its bowl for food.

Can you really speak of abusing such an animal? Of violating it? Of course not. Kione’s guilt would be senseless, and that very senseless guilt is what almost drove her over the edge when she had her hands clamped around Sartha’s throat. So now, she has discarded it. She has forgiven herself—and for whatever it’s worth, she knows that Sartha has forgiven her too.

Why? Because they’re in love, of course.

“Hey, Captain Thr- I mean, Sartha,” Amynta turns to greet her. Sartha has been insisting on names over titles, but it doesn’t come easy to most of the rebels.

“Hey,” Kione says too.

Sartha has eyes only for her. She hurries across to Kione’s side, adoring, no hint of fear or resentment over the way Kione tortured and strangled her. That no longer strikes Kione as strange. When Sartha looks into the eyes of those around her, she sees hero-worship reflected back at her. Kione once suffered that delusion—but now, when Sartha meets her gaze, the fallen hero sees nothing reflected other than her own nothingness. Kione sees her clearly. The nothingness is validating. For that, Sartha would gladly trade all the abuse in the world.

She is sick with love for Kione.

But nobody else sees it. Not even as they move aside to allow Sartha to sit next to Kione and rest her head on the merc’s shoulder. To everyone else, it’s cute. They’re a little jealous, probably, but mostly they’re glad Sartha has someone at her side. They can only imagine what the two of them do behind closed doors. They don’t know what Sartha is.

That thought pricks at Kione.

Why don’t they? Can’t they see it? Isn’t it obvious? It is to Kione. She isn’t sure how she ever missed it. She sees an abyss in the dark pupils of Sartha’s eyes, the surrounding color a mere echo of the spirit that had once driven her. She sees nothingness on Sartha’s lips, wet and parted when she looks up at Kione, eager for commands or praise or abuse or the three words that deliver her from the thin pretense of personhood. She sees oblivion in everything Sartha does, even in the way she acts like a hero, so desperate and forced and pathetic.

Why doesn’t everyone else?

That’s why Kione isn’t one of them. She sees. And they are blind.

“How’s the new beast looking?” Amynta asks.

“Good.” Sartha grins as she leans into Kione. “A couple more weeks, and it’ll be ready to tear them a new one. She’ll be the finest machine on the planet.”

A couple of appreciative whistles. “Watch it,” Vola jibes, energized. “Kione’ll be complaining we keep getting parts shipped in instead of haute cuisine.”

“No way.” Amynta answers on Kione’s behalf. “Even she’s not that much of a hypocrite. You were plenty grateful for our supply lines when you were getting your babygirl fixed up, right Ki?”

“Yeah, I’m so ‘grateful’ that they cost me more than I’ve ever made working alongside you lot,” Kione complains. It’s true. Her coffers have never been so empty—not that they’re likely to run dry any time soon.

As she plays up her discontent, Kione reaches across and drapes an arm over Sartha’s shoulder. Accidentally, her forearm ends up pressing against Sartha’s collar and the bruises beneath. Sartha flinches subtly, but then settles in to press even closer to Kione, a look of giddy, drunken contentment settling across her face.

Fucking freak. But nobody else takes any notice.

“From what I heard, you paid so much because you needed some seriously weird shit,” Nese puts to her. “How does that machine of yours work, anyway? The flying, I mean.”

“Antimatter?” Kione shrugs. She has a pretty good idea of Theaboros’s basic engineering—enough to direct repairs, anyway—but the finer points of its machinery escape her, as do the deeper physics underpinning them. “You want much more than that, you’d have to ask the person I got to design it for me.”

“What’s their name?” Nese asks. “I had no idea any rebel groups had the labs and resources to develop this kind of tech.”

“They don’t,” Kione replies. “She’s imperial.”

That gets a few looks. Rebels are no strangers to appropriating imperial technology, but they usually have to steal or salvage it, not commission it.

“How’d that work, exactly?” Vola asks, a touch guardedly.

“First of all, I’m a merc,” Kione reminds her. “If I take a bit of care, I can go wherever I want. Second… have you ever met a mech engineer? Those adorable little freaks are all exactly the same. They’re all gagging for a chance to get their pet prototypes built.”

“So? How’d you get her to give it to you, instead of the empire?”

Kione looks from side to side, then leans in, like she’s about to let everybody in on a big secret. Then she brings her free hand to her lips—and makes a little gesture of sticking her tongue out between the V of her fingers.

All the rebels howl with laughter. Not Sartha—but it’s not jealousy or envy that stop her. She looks up at Kione, awestruck, like Kione’s some kind of goddess for it. Gods, can the rest of them really not see her for what she is?

“OK, seriously,” Kione adds. “You gotta remember, the imperials don’t build like you do. It’s all production lines and interchangeable parts over there. No way you can get their bean-counters to approve some flashy one-of-a-kind machine that’s only as good as whatever fresh-faced academy dipshit ends up in the cockpit.”

Vola nods slowly. It’s a hard thing for some rebels to get their heads around, especially if they’re still a little green. If they’ve only ever fought in skirmishes and insurgency actions, not in the kinds of full-scale battles that showcase the empire’s horrific aptitude for total warfare. Their factories can churn out Dorus on a scale that a girl like Vola could scarcely believe possible. It just doesn’t make sense for an industrial war machine like that to derail its manufacturing, maintenance and support logistics just to build exactly one of something that might turn out to be a terrible idea anyway.

For the rebels, it’s just the opposite. Every rebel mech is a mongrel. They’re all one-of-a-kind, so if you have the parts to build something special and a pilot that can make it work, why not? It’ll be no more of a pain in the ass to keep in service than any of the hundreds of thrice-reconstructed imperial mechs the rebels usually fight with. Besides, rebel tactics are necessarily local, flexible, and improvisational. Give them a weird machine, you can bet your ass they’ll figure out an equally weird way to put it to good use. Kione respects the resourcefulness. What she doesn’t respect is that, beyond everything else, the rebels need icons. Symbols. Heroes, like Sartha and her Ancyor. Instantly recognizable on a poster. It’s a way to rally people. All the more reason to favor wacko prototypes.

“So…” Amynta ventures, “you didn’t really eat out an imperial engineer to get Theaboros?”

“I paid her handsomely, and I gave her a chance to see her baby fly,” Kione answers primly. “And then I ate her out. Just for fun. I mentioned she was an adorable little freak, didn’t I?”

Amynta gives her a playful punch whilst everyone else groans.

“Whatever,” Vola snorts. “If you ask me, you’re the freak for trusting it. I’d never want to count on imperial tech to keep me three hundred feet in the air. I’ll bet on my Phassus any day of the week. She’s not flashy. But she gets it done.”

Amynta and Sartha both flash her a warning look, but it’s too late. She said the magic word, and Kione is already wearing her finest shark grin.

“You’d bet, huh?” Kione purrs. “Easy enough to settle that—unless you’re all talk, of course.”

At once, Sartha switches gears. Suddenly, she’s a guard dog. A cheerleader. She partakes in Kione’s smugness, and glares challenging daggers at Vola. The other rebel bristles at Kione’s taunt, but Radio Girl is quick to shut down the suggestion.

“Absolutely fucking not,” she insists. “Command is not in the mood, and neither am I. Try for some dick-swinging duel, and I’ll have both of your machines drained of fuel so the entire base can laugh at you when you try and launch only to fall on your asses. Do not test me.”

She’s really growing into herself. Kione’s a little bit impressed, but mostly just annoyed she won’t get her dick-swinging duel.

“Fine,” she yawns. “No fun allowed.”

A crooked smile forms on Nese’s face. Apparently, Kione isn’t the only one who wanted a show.

“How about you get it out of your system a different way?” Nese suggests.

“What did you have in mind?” Vola asks. She’s game.

Nese licks her lips. “Nobody’s gonna complain about a little arm-wrestling. Right?”

And nobody does. It only takes a few moments to set it up; Kione and Vola on chairs, a table between them, staring menacingly at each other, while the other rebels pretend to be an appropriately riled-up crowd. They’re all in Vola’s corner, of course. She’s the hometown girl. Kione stands apart. She’s the heel. She’s not one of them. Only Sartha stands behind Kione, resting a hand on her back with a doting affection.

She’s so damn obvious about it. They’re going to see you, Sartha. They’ll see the nothingness in you. They’ll see that you’ll always betray them in the end.

Kione hopes they see. She hopes Sartha sees that none of them could love her the way she does.

“Three,” Amynta counts, as Kione and Vola plant their elbows on the table and grip each other’s hands. “Two. One. Start!”

Kione tenses the muscles in her core as well as her arms as she begins to push against Vola. She feels the other woman’s palm shifting in her grip as both of them jockey for angle and position. Vola is young and strong. She gives it her all from the first signal, and Kione has to give it hers just to stay in the fight. She can tell at once, though, that she’s being underestimated. Kione likes to keep herself looking pretty, and she knows she looks a little slight in her jumpsuit—but she’s a merc, and sometimes that means having to carry a lot of heavy shit all by yourself.

So Kione relaxes into the hold, letting her wider shoulders give her a better angle, and lets Vola huff and puff until she’s all out of juice. It’s not so easy that she doesn’t sweat from the strain, though, and Kione’s not such a poor showman that she won’t let Vola force her all the way back like she’s on the verge of defeat.

But just as her rebel comrades are already beginning to whoop and cheer for their hometown girl, Kione flashes them a grin and starts pushing back. Every grunt from Vola’s lips and every grimace on her face is a little gift to Kione, and the gifts only end when Kione plants the back of the other woman’s hand flat on the table.

Victory.

Lots of groaning. Kione takes that as applause. Sartha rubs her back and coos for her. That makes her feel kind of nauseous. Vola grimaces again, then amicably shakes Kione’s hand. She gets up—and Amynta sits down.

“Come on, then.” Radio Girl winks at her. “Can’t have everybody think a merc is better than a rebel.”

Kione’s arm is already tired. She really shouldn’t—but she just rolls her eyes and meets her grin for grin. She just can’t say no to a good flirt.

“Fine,” Kione replies. “You’re on. Just one moment.”

She makes a little performance of the way she reaches up and unzips her jumpsuit from the neck, before peeling it away to her waist in order to expose her shoulders and her belly. Only a thin, fabric sports bra covers her torso, and Kione’s dark skin is covered in a sheen of sweat from her bout with Vola. Everyone is ogling her. Especially Amynta.

Kione smiles. There’s more than one way to skin a cat.

“OK.” Kione makes a show of stretching, too; bending left, then right, folding her arms across her shoulders, making sure Amynta gets a fine look at her back muscles flexing. “Let’s do this.”

“Yeah,” Amynta pants. “Let’s.”

The atmosphere in the room has changed. Amynta is openly leering at Kione. She can’t help it. The poor girl has been sweet on her ever since that first mission together. Sartha is the only thing that’s kept them from sharing a bed. Now she’s feeling a little more than just rebel pride. And she’s not the only one. The rest of the rebels are watching with a voyeuristic interest. They want to see who might come out on top.

In many senses of the word.

“Three.” Nese counts this time, as the two women grip each other’s palms. “Two. One. Go!”

Kione tenses up again as she and Amynta begin to grapple. Amynta can’t hide her interest; her eyes keep flickering to Kione’s stomach and shoulders as Kione flexes her trim figure. She’s distracted. Kione has a wild grin on her face. This is going to be fun. But not right away; no, she lets Amynta get a little warm and a little riled. Lets her marinate in her own stupid animal brain chemicals for a moment.

Then Kione flashes her the filthiest look Amynta’s ever seen, licks her lips, and does something truly sinful with her extended tongue.

Amynta blushes and squirms and, just for a moment, lets her concentration slip completely. Slamming her hand down onto the table is the easiest thing Kione’s ever done.

“No fair!” Amynta protests, while Kione throws back her head and howls with victorious laughter.

“Love and war, babygirl,” Kione tells her. That forces another blush into Amynta’s cheeks. “Merc two, rebels zero. Kind of embarrassing for all of you, honestly. Surely you can do better than that.”

“We can,” Nese retorts.

And looks at Sartha.

A heartbeat later, and everyone’s looking at her. Their eyes are full of expectation. They already know: Sartha will save them. Sartha can’t lose. She’s a hero. Sartha, to her credit, doesn’t flinch from it, although Kione feels her tense invisibly at her side.

“What do you say, Ki?” Sartha asks, with cocksure lightness. “Think you can go another round.”

Asking for permission, of course. She can’t do anything here without Kione’s permission. But she threads the needle, and finds a way to ask while still acting like the confident ace everybody wants her to be. Cute.

How does that work, exactly? Kione makes a mental note to pry into that, the next time she’s playing with Sartha’s head. Is it a conscious deception? An anxious lie? If so, is it motivated by simple self-preservation? Or by a twisted, not-quite-obliterated sense of pride? Alternatively, is it simply second nature to the dog Sartha Thrace has become? Has the fundamental lie of her identity been seared so deep into her soul, she no longer realizes she is deceiving everybody who has ever trusted her?

Kione’s nostrils flare. She has so much to learn, if she’s to become the equal of Sartha’s handler.

“Sure,” Kione answers eventually. “One more.”

Sartha sits opposite her. Nese, Vola, Amynta are all cheering. Others too. The atmosphere is bordering on riotous. Several more have heard what’s happening, and come to watch. Who wouldn’t want to see Sartha Thrace arm wrestling another dyke? On the surface, Sartha is a perfect match for their expectations. She sits easily in her chair, a slight, smug smirk on her face; it’s easy to imagine her sitting in Ancyor with the same ease as she readies herself to deliver a hammer blow against the empire.

Kione, though, can only imagine her one way: on her knees, wearing a muzzle.

What would all the rest of them think if they saw her like that? Even once?

“Ready, Ki?” Sartha challenges. As loyal as she is, she means to win. Kione can see that in her eyes.

“Ready.” Kione is no less competitive. She plants her elbow on the table. The two of them lock hands.

“Three,” Amynta counts. “Two. One. Start.”

Sartha starts slow the way an avalanche starts slow. She eases into the grappling—but gods, she’s strong. Stronger than Kione, that’s for sure. Even if she’d been fresh, Kione couldn’t have beaten her. She strains every sinew, of course, but Sartha is already pressing her down, down, down. Her fellow rebels drink in her impending victory. They urge her on, yelling and cheering. The looks on their faces are jubilant. To them, it’s fate. It’s justice. In the end, their rebel hero wins the day.

Something about that just pisses Kione off.

Don’t you get it? She betrayed you. And she’d do it again.

Maybe Kione should show them. Just a little bit. Just in a small, harmless way.

She looks straight into Sartha’s dead eyes and tells her: “Sartha. Let me win.”

Most of the people who hear it laugh. They think Kione’s begging. Sartha doesn’t laugh. Her eyes flash wide in shock for a moment. Kione can tell it’s not surprise. She’s not surprised Kione is doing this to her. It’s just the bow shock of a cold, clear command spearing through the persona she had been wearing. A moment later, color hits her cheeks. Gratitude. Arousal. Every chance to obey is a chance to submerge into obedience. Sartha is always glad of those. Kione’s lips curl.

They’re all watching you, Sartha. Show them.

“Yes, Kione,” Sartha replies, very quietly.

And lets her win.

Sartha’s arm goes limp. Kione feels the fight drain from her. No more smug hero act. She is a doll in Kione’s grip. Something she can pose with ease. The small crowd turns hushed as they see it happen. As they see Sartha give up. Kione looks over each of them, delighting in their half-amused, half-disturbed shock, before slowly forcing Sartha’s hand to the table.

Clean sweep.

The audience churns uncomfortably. A few of them are tittering with approval. They think they know what they saw: a kink dynamic, spilling out from the bedroom. Even some of those, though, seem faintly disappointed. Most of the watching rebels are plainly discomforted. They suspect nothing, but this isn’t what they wanted to see. Sartha Thrace doesn’t just lose. Not like that. The natural order has been subverted. And Radio Girl is looking between Sartha and Kione like she’s suddenly not sure she knows either of them at all.

That’s right, Kione thinks. We can play nice and swap stories all we like, but the truth is: I’m not one of you.

And neither is Sartha.

***

“Here,” Kione commands. “Strip. Take everything off.”

It’s late at night. The whole of Leukon Base is asleep; that’s the only reason nobody has seen Kione leading Sartha through the base’s narrow corridors, muzzle bound tight over her face.

“Yes, Kione.”

Kione had wondered, idly, if this would prompt any questioning from Sartha. Any hesitance. Of course not. A fervent eagerness shines across the surface of Sartha’s deep, dead eyes as she reaches up and begins to pull her jacket away from her body. The more clothes she removes, the more bruises she reveals; a discolored necklace around her collar, then a few irregular rows down her sides and a couple of huge, yellowing marks on her belly. All of them are two days faded now, but all the prettier for it. As excessive as the violence might have been, Kione is proud of the proof of her handiwork. She made Sartha look like exactly what she is.

A kicked dog.

The most wretched creature on the face of the world. And Kione’s beloved.

As she sees her now, naked, beginning to shiver against the nighttime chill, Kione almost bursts with love for her. Her love for Sartha threatens to drool out of the aching grin fixed on her face. She’s so lucky. Nobody has ever been more lucky. She and Sartha are joined, utterly. They have stared into one another’s darkness, and they have not blinked. They accept each other totally. Partners in atrocity. What bond could be greater? Purer?

And what’s more, they’ll do anything for each other.

“Chin up,” Kione instructs.

As the tip of Sartha’s muzzle tilts upward, Kione reaches into her pocket and fishes out a dog collar—a real one, sized for a large breed. She was able to pick it up at Leukon Base’s commissary. The rebels have a relaxed policy around pets. In multiple senses, actually. Kione could have bought something nice and leather, hand-crafted, padded on the inside, with a nice big D-ring on the front for ease of use.

But no. Kione thinks this ugly, red nylon thing that fastens with a cheap clip instead of a proper buckle is a much better fit. Sartha’s opinion on the matter doesn’t count, but Kione is pleased that she seems eager enough; her eyes widen with palpable excitement as Kione twirls the collar around her upraised index finger for a moment.

“Long overdue, right?” Kione grins. “Here.”

She fastens the collar tight around Sartha’s neck. Sartha relaxes eagerly into its embrace, grateful for the chance to be a pet instead of a person. And now Kione has Sartha Thrace collared. Owned. It’s the stuff of dreams. Kione lifts her hand, and strokes her fingertips lovingly across the high part of Sartha’s cheek, the part that peeks over the muzzle’s cage.

Then she snaps out of it. Then she remembers. Sartha doesn’t want gentle. Sartha doesn’t want loving. And she’s a filthy fucking traitor who let them break her.

“Get down,” Kione barks, scowling. Before Sartha can possibly react, Kione grabs the end of her muzzle and uses it to shove her downward. “On your hands and knees, dog.”

Sartha stumbles a bit in surprise, but obeys instantly. Kione’s rictus grin flickers back to her face. Sartha might be a subhuman bitch, but that doesn’t mean Kione can’t enjoy this. Mastering her own emotions is still new to her, and still a struggle. But she’s determined to keep her adoration well-aimed. She will not love the false idol that is Sartha Thrace, hero. She will love the dog.

“There we go.” Kione bends down and starts petting Sartha’s head—oh, and it’s so hard not to love her when she starts looking stupid and brainless like this. “That’s where you belong. How do you feel, Sartha? Not too cold?”

“No, I’m- ah!”

Kione cuts her off by knotting her hand into a fist in Sartha’s hair and yanking so hard Sartha’s hands lift off the floor. Her face is pained, but Kione sees the ecstasy beneath.

“Wrong!” Kione laughs. “Do you know why it’s wrong, Sartha?”

“No, K- f-fuck!”

The same treatment again, only harder. “You really are a dumb bitch,” Kione scorns. “It’s wrong because dogs don’t talk. What do dogs say, babe?”

Sartha gets it at once, and as Kione releases her grip and lets her pet slump back to the ground, a look of voracious, submissive glee settles across her face.

“Woof!”

Kione laughs a little at that, but she isn’t completely satisfied. Sartha says it a little too much like a person-word, rather than a sound.

“Try again,” she encourages. “Bark, bitch.”

To her credit, Sartha senses exactly what Kione wants from her. “Arf!” is what comes out of her next. A simple, brute, guttural ejaculation. Now Kione truly throws back her head and cackles.

Gods, doesn’t she know how fucking embarrassing that sounds?

“Good girl,” Kione mocks. “Now. Louder.”

“Arf!”

“Louder!”

Now Kione senses a touch of hesitancy—although only a touch, before Sartha lets out another wretched, bleating: “Arf!”

Kione knows exactly why Sartha hesitated. Yes, it’s late at night, but a military base never quite sleeps. There are sentries. There could be people awake and wandering around for all kinds of reasons. Hell, the walls around here aren’t so thick that someone awake in their bunk might not overhear a loud bark and decide to come and check it out.

A little shiver of danger races down Kione’s spine as she thinks on it. Yes, this is going to be delicious.

“You really do make a good dog,” Kione announces. “And honestly? I’ve been a neglectful pet owner. I’ve waited this long to take you out for walkies.”

Deep in subspace though she is, Sartha’s cheeks redden from sheer embarrassment. She’s not completely beyond it—not until Kione gives her the words. For now, all she can do is twist and turn in her own nauseous delight. In the shame of being, and the bliss of being less than human.

“Arf!” is her only reply. That, and the sound of a drop of Sartha’s wetness hitting the floor.

“Good,” Kione repeats. “Now, here.”

Kione pulls out a leash. Her next commissary indulgence. It takes no more than a moment to clip it to Sartha’s collar—and then Kione turns on her heel, and she’s away.

She picks her pace carefully. Not rushing, but not slow either. Leisurely—but not leisurely enough for Sartha. Shuffling on her hands and knees, she struggles to keep up. Unfortunately for her, Kione was careful to pick a short leash. After just a short distance, Sartha’s pace slackens as she pauses to breathe. Kione steps forward again, heedless—and pulls Sartha up short. As soon as Kione feels the barest hint of resistance, she yanks. Hard.

“Keep up,” Kione orders merrily. “Or do I need to find a bone to throw for you?”

Being pulled along by her collar only makes Sartha’s task harder. She’s forced up onto her feet, not her knees, and into a desperate, headlong scramble just to relieve the pressure on her neck. When she catches up, it’s no better. Kione is still walking just a little bit faster than she can comfortably crawl or shuffle, so Sartha ends up settling into an awkward, exhausting, half-raised gait just so she can keep herself at Kione’s side.

Kione’s face hurts from grinning. But she can’t stop. You’re perfect, Sartha. Perfect like this. Maybe this is simply the way you were always meant to be.

“Good girl,” Kione tells her again. Sartha deserves to keep hearing it. And then, for her own benefit: “I promise. I’ll keep you safe. With me. Just like this. Forever.”

You don’t need that handler, Sartha. I’ll be her. I’ll be better than her. Just you watch.

As they walk through Leukon Base’s corridors, the two of them pass door after door. Most of them, closed; a few of them, open, leading into empty rooms or other passageways. Each of those that they pass makes Kione feel like she’s going to throw up and blow her load at the same time. Each time, she glances into the dark doorway and thinks the shadow she sees has a pair of eyes. The threat of discovery is ever-present, and it activates all the small danger-instincts Kione has honed in her time as a pilot.

Would happen if someone saw? Kione keeps running through it in her head. What would they think of her? What if they saw her use Sartha’s trigger? What then? Would they hate her? Would they punish her? Would they envy her?

It’s too much. The adrenaline is kicking her something fierce. Kione can’t stop giggling as they walk.

And what if they saw Sartha? What then? Would they hate her? Would they think she’s let them down? They’d be right to, of course. But would they look upon her as a traitor? Or merely as a broken wretch?

Kione is desperate to find out. It’s the only thing that could snap the merciless tension gnawing at her.

Gods, maybe some of them would envy Sartha too. She’s not the first rebel girl to enjoy being collared. Plenty of them would look good that way, too. A sudden vision hits Kione, as the flames of arousal lick at her: Amynta Tet, Radio Girl, muzzled and kneeling.

Kione laughs long and loud. She’s not sure if Radio Girl swings that way. But it sure would be fun to find out.

“How you doing, Sartha?” Kione abruptly comes to a halt. “Getting some of that energy out of your system?”

That’s an understatement. Sartha looks wrecked. Fit as she is, scrambling on all fours after Kione has left her bedraggled with sweat and shivering from both cold and exertion. Kione’s heart swells with the knowledge that Sartha would keep going forever if Kione told her to. Until she collapsed into sleep from exhaustion.

“A-arf!” Sartha answers. Her voice trembles, but she’s no less eager for being so tired. “Ruff!”

Love and contempt fight for primacy in Kione’s bosom. It’s strange how accustomed she’s becoming to those two emotions coexisting. She wants Sartha to be so much more than this, even as she adores her being lesser. In the end, a perverse sense of pride sweeps through Kione’s mood.

She remembered! She remembered not to speak. Who could ask for a better pet?

“Good girl,” Kione purrs gleefully. “You’re doing so well. Almost perfect, in fact. You’re just missing one last piece.”

There’s one other thing Kione got at the commissary. Something that really got her some looks from the quartermaster sitting behind the counter. Kione plucks it out of her pocket now, already giggling at the thought.

A butt plug. With a long, canine tail attached to the other end.

“Turn around,” Kione orders. “Ass up.”

Shaking with need, Sartha obliges. While she turns, Kione uses her spit to get the plug nice and slick. Then she bends down and pushes it all the way into Sartha’s ass. Sartha yields to her without question, but then her legs almost give way from the sensation, and she lets out a wild, throaty moan that fills the dim corridor. Kione can’t help but notice that Sartha seems used to being taken this way. Jealousy rises in her. She would rather not picture all the ways imperial pilots have been using her.

“Quiet, slut,” Kione snarls coldly. “Unless you’re really that eager to be overheard.”

The pathetic little whine Sartha lets out fixes her mood at once. She really is being loud, though. If she carries on like this, it’s almost inevitable that someone will overhear them. Suddenly Kione wonders about that.

“Maybe you actually are,” Kione muses. “Is that what you want, dog? You want people to see you? Hear you?”

“Aarrfff,” is the only reply Sartha can give. Kione can’t tell if it’s meant to indicate yes or no—but it’s certainly eager. Sartha is incapable of anything but eagerness. Her eyes are as wide and shiny as any puppy. Her shivering is now more pleasure than anything else, and Kione can see rivulets of drool trickling down her chin behind her muzzle.

Sartha is lost to this. She’s exactly where she wants to be. Maybe she really does want to be discovered. Maybe that would be a release for her, or an ending. Kione finds herself craving that same ending more powerfully than she had expected. She fights to keep a tight rein on the self-destructive impulse. Not now. Not when they’ve both come so far. She’ll give Sartha a climax, oh yes. But of another kind.

She’ll make sure that, for a little while, there’s no Sartha at all.

“Sartha,” Kione says. Her tone is enough to make Sartha yip with glee. “Off The Leash.” Kione giggles. “Not that you’ll be coming off this leash any time soon.”

She’s growing used to Sartha’s dissolution, but that doesn’t stop it from feeling like a fresh miracle each time. The way Kione appreciates the transformations keeps changing, though. More and more, she finds beauty in it. When she wields those three wonderful words against Sartha Thrace, she is a sculptor with a chisel, cleaving away at all the rough edges and imperfections of her. Removing what is not needed. Removing what is impure. Her hero’s facade, made a lie of so many times. Her confident stance, her smug grin, her warm smile, her hopeful eyes—all of them made meaningless by the ravages of the handler’s brainwashing. The gossamer-thin facade of personhood, which she is so much better without.

It breaks away. It falls apart. In its wake, there is nothing.

In its wake, there is the hound.

There is no confusion in Hound when she wakes. She understands her place perfectly. Kneeling, muzzled, collared. Beyond the obvious eagerness and adoration, there’s a kind of comfort in her dull, brainwashed eyes as she looks up at Kione. This is exactly where she belongs. All is right with the world. To her, the dehumanization is a balm. She doesn’t want to walk on two legs, because that’s what people do. She doesn’t want to speak in words, because that’s what people do. Better to be this. A thing. A weapon. A pet.

Kione’s heart aches in love for her. Sartha’s better half. Sartha’s truest self.

“Come along,” Kione says sweetly, adoringly. “You deserve to stretch your legs too, puppy.”

Kione turns her back again and begins to walk. The same awkward pace as before—only now, for Hound, it’s infinitely harder. The way she has to move her hips with each scrambling step works her new tail around inside her, prompting high, vicious moans from her lips and drooling droplets of wetness from her cunt. After just a short distance, she’s shivering violently, plainly struggling to keep herself from collapsing onto her belly.

It’s so wonderful. Kione keeps grinning and laughing unsteadily. She’s so hot, and so pathetic, and so needy, and so easy, and she’s all hers. Kione must be merciless with her.

“Keep up,” she warns, and yanks on the leash.

Hound does, although it’s almost more than she can take. Her panted moans turn ever more whined and strained, and her whole face is drenched with sweat and drool. Taken with her bruises, she’s never looked less like a person. The tail is the final touch, of course; as Hound moves, it sways from side to side to match her gait, just about stiff enough to stick a little way into the air when she fully extends her hips. It’s ridiculous and frivolous and hot and absolutely fucking humiliating all at the same time. Kione keeps giggling over and over again.

“R-rarf!” Hound bleats, as her legs give way. From the arch of her spine and the helpless tremble of her thighs, Kione can tell right away what happened: she came.

A crooked smirk comes to Kione’s face. Just from that? Adorable.

“I said,” she hisses, “keep up!”

Kione barely misses a beat before she yanks the leash again—hard. Hard enough to drag Hound’s limp body across the cold, rough ground for a pace. It’s not a choking collar, but even so, nobody likes being dragged around by the neck. By the time Hound has recovered enough to claw her way back up onto her knees, her face is a deep, pained red and there are scrapes down her shins.

But she makes it. She catches up.

“Good girl!” Only now does Kione pause. She reaches down, she ruffles Hound’s hair, she pets her for all she’s worth. “Oh, aren’t you a good girl? Who’s a good dog? You. Yes, you are. Yes, you are!”

The look of stupid, lovestruck, praise-drunk glee on Hound’s face makes it all so very worth it. And it might just be from the pleasure or the cold, but Kione still adores the way that Hound looks for all the world like she’s wagging that dumb little tail of hers.

“Let’s head back to my room,” Kione decides. She’s gotten exactly what she wanted out of this little excursion—and besides, Hound looks exhausted. “This way. Should take us a full circuit.”

She leads the way. Slower, this time, to let Hound crawl more comfortably at her side. Kione still holds the leash tight, though, so it tugs on her a little with each step. She knows Hound will appreciate it. Walking just like that, they make it almost all the way back to Kione’s quarters, before Kione notices something dangerous.

An open door. A light. And voices.

It’s the rec room. It’s unusual for anyone to be in there so late, but not unheard of. Sometimes soldiers find themselves sleepless, and in need of company. As they come to the doorway, Kione comes to a halt. Two people inside, from the sound of it. She thinks she recognizes the voice of Pela, Sartha’s fangirl. Less sure about the other person. It seems like they’re sitting a fair way distant from the door. Probably facing away from it, too. It should be easy enough to pass quickly and quietly, without anybody taking any notice.

But…

A wicked mood takes Kione. Was their little walk really enough for Sartha? She’s used to much worse; of that, Kione’s certain. Used to being watched, too. Kione can’t quite suppress a hint of disappointment over the fact that nobody happened across them during their walk. It would have been a disaster, of course. But she wanted to see what might have happened.

“Hound,” Kione instructs quietly. “In the doorway. Now.”

She doesn’t even need the gentle leash-tug Kione provides for guidance. Unquestioning, unhesitant, Hound crawls into the doorway. The yellow light within spills out onto her face, leaving a long, canine shadow behind. Hound shivers. Even now, it seems, she retains a certain pilot’s instinct, flooding her with adrenaline.

She’s exposed.

And what a sight she’d be, down a mech suit’s targeting scope. The slower pace Kione struck was easier on her, but there’s only so easy moving can get with something so large and intrusive inside her. Hound is stuck on a permanent hair trigger, and her body is already covered with proof of her deprivations. Bruises, scrapes, sweat, drool, her own slickness. She’s a mess—and then, of course, there’s the muzzle itself.

What would any of the rebels say if they saw that?

The rictus grin is carved so deep into Kione’s face that it hurts. Maybe she’ll finally get to find out.

“Up,” she hisses, not loud enough to risk anyone overhearing. “Sit.”

A pair of heartbeats pass as Hound works her fucked-up brain to try to figure out what kind of pose Kione wants from her. But she gets there in the end. Hound straightens her back and then lifts herself up, balanced precariously on the balls of her feet, her torso bared into the rec room.

Still, Kione can hear voices coming from inside.

“Go on,” she urges gleefully. “Paws up, too”.

It doesn’t matter how dumb and humiliating Kione’s orders get, there’s no question that Hound will obey. Trembling, fighting for balance, Hound lifts her arms up to around her shoulders, wrists hung limply to make her hands into feeble, ludicrous impressions of paws.

Kione is about to bust a gut laughing. At this point, if anyone hears anything, it’s going to be her dying of laughter. Not that she isn’t also insanely turned on. That’s always a given, with Hound.

“Legs apart,” Kione orders next. She’s grinning so wide she’s showing teeth. Her voice sounds wet. “Let’s give your friends a good show.”

A drooling whimper comes from Hound’s lips as she spreads her thighs apart, adopting a truly pornographic, bow-legged pose that sends shocks of pleasure up her spine as her butt plug digs all the way in. A moment more, and she can’t take it. Can’t keep the pleasure in.

She moans.

Kione’s heart stops. Did someone hear? She isn’t sure. The voices from inside the rec room have stopped—which could be a red flag. The last warning Kione is going to get that they need to get the hell out of there. True, Kione might be able to talk her way out of it. Excuse what she’s doing with Sartha as some kinky sex that got out of hand. But there are those who would immediately see in Sartha’s muzzle something far, far more sinister. Anyone who saw Sartha as they brought her in from the rescue, or who participated in her rehabilitation. Kione should put a stop to this, right now.

But she doesn’t. She doesn’t want to.

The ludicrous risk of what she’s doing crashes over Kione. When her heart beats again, it’s in her throat? What is the point of this? Gratification? Hers, or Sartha’s? She’s risking everything. All her progress. All her efforts to reclaim Sartha from the handler’s jaws, just so she can… get her off?

It doesn’t make sense. She can’t make it make sense. But she can’t stop, either.

The voices from within the rec room resume. A reprieve. Clearly, it’s time to end this madness.

But then Kione looks at Hound.

Fuck. She’s a mess. She’s such a mess. And she looks so fucking turned on by it, too. By the abjection and dehumanization. By being turned into a stupid, exhibitionist bitch for Kione’s amusement. Beneath her, a small but distinct puddle of her wetness has formed on the floor, and she’s got a look on her muzzled face like she’s riding the edge again. Like she craves discovery every bit as much as Kione does.

Before the merc can think better of it, the order slips out.

“Speak.”

“Rrrrarf!”

The eager yip erupts instantly out of Hound’s throat. Ever the good dog. Ever obedient. At once, she tenses up and, for the second time, cums her bitch brains out all over the floor. It makes Kione moan her laughter—even as the voices from inside the rec room cut off for the second time.

“Hey?” someone calls out. “Who’s there?”

A chair shifts.

Immediately, Kione’s instincts take over. “Quick,” she hisses, and for good measure she yanks hard on Hound’s leash while she’s still in the throes of orgasm. Beleaguered, Hound does her best to walk, to crawl, to keep up with Kione as she hurries away from the rec room. Luckily, the next corner is only a few paces away. Not far beyond it is Kione’s quarters, and safety.

Kione’s heart is still pounding something fierce. She’s terrified—but she’s grinning too. She’s never felt more alive. She’s never felt more in tune with Sartha Thrace, with Hound, with her dog, with her love.

“I love you,” she says quietly, swept away in the moment.

She hopes to hear it back. But of course, dogs don’t talk. All she gets in return is an eager, doting “Arf!” from Hound.

It’s just as good. It’s perfect. The night has been perfect. Kione knows, more than ever, that she is Sartha’s, and Sartha is hers.

Her only regret is that she couldn’t be there to catch the looks on those rebels’ faces when they stumble upon the mess Sartha left for them.

***

“I win.”

Kione actually feels the truth of her boast as she stares up at the viewscreen that’s displaying an image of the imperial handler. She’s in Theaboros this time, not Ancyor. Copied over the comm codes. Continuing to slip into Sartha’s mech seemed unwise. Arguably, letting this bloodless ghoul into Theaboros is even more unwise, but Kione’s pretty sure her systems are secure and untraceable. Besides, if talking to the handler is a red line, it’s one Kione has already crossed.

And how is that?

Above her, the handler is a monolith. She looks exactly the same as when Kione last saw her. Not a single hair is out of place. Not a single hair seems to move as she opens her mouth to speak. She is one with her black leather uniform; the coat, the cap, the way they frame her icy face. She is perfection itself.

Kione wants very, very badly to see that composure of hers shatter like glass. She wants to do it somewhere Sartha can see. She wants to ruin her in Sartha Thrace’s eyes.

“I asked her,” Kione brags. “Just like you said. I got Sartha’s secret. I know what she is—and I’m still here.”

What is her secret?

A shiver races across Kione. She is being weighed and measured. She puffs herself up.

“She wants this,” Kione answers. “Deep in Sartha’s soul, she wants what’s happening to her. You brought that desire to the fore, yes, but it was always there. She needs Hound, because otherwise the sheer hypocrisy of her being would tear her apart. But it’s a mask she wears willingly. She’s… happy, like this. In a way.”

The handler nods. Her smile sharpens. She’s impressed. Kione grows warm.

Correct. Sartha Thrace’s spirit grew thin under the weight of her own weariness. She conceived a broken longing for freedom—from strength, from expectations, from the burdens of heroism. From humanity itself. That is exactly what I gave to her. On some level, she wanted it. That was enough.

Another shiver. Kione’s heart is beating the way it usually only does in combat. When she flies Theaboros high above the battlefield, looking down on all the rest of humanity, she is gifted with a delicious sense of superiority. This is no different.

“It’s… it’s why there’s no fixing her.” It’s the first time Kione’s said that out loud. That truth should weigh heavy on her, but she feels as light as a feather. Talking to the handler like this feels like sparring. It’s energizing. “She doesn’t want to be fixed. She knows she can’t carry all that weight again.”

Just so.

“But.” Kione glares daggers at the viewscreen. “I can still save her from you.”

The handler laughs, just once. A quiet sound. Snow trampled into ice underfoot.

She does not want to be saved, either.

“No,” Kione admits. “But she deserves it. For… for who she used to be. At least I actually give a shit about her. At least I won’t make her betray her own people.”

I assure you, I care for her deeply. Regardless, what makes you so confident that you can—as you put it—save her?

“Because she loves me,” Kione answers firmly. She was ready for this. She rehearsed her answers in the shower. “And I love her. I’m… still learning how to do that, exactly. But I can give her what she wants. Last night, I stripped her naked and walked her around the rebel base. Muzzle, leash, tail. And she fucking loved it, and I took care of her afterwards. I can give her everything she wants. She doesn’t need you anymore.”

Fascinating. The handler’s smile is like a needle. I have a question for you. After your walk with Sartha, did you fuck her again?

“What?” Kione splutters. That takes her entirely off-guard. “What the fuck is wrong with you? Do you need all the lurid details to jerk off to or something?”

The handler smiles politely. It’s simply a question. We’ve already discussed your proclivities—and hers.

Kione finds herself red in the face. Gods, it’s like talking about sex with a teacher. Or a priest.

“I’m not answering that,” she growls. “I don’t have to give you shit.”

I see.

And she really does. That’s the truly awful part. She sees all of Kione. Her blue eyes flash with something, and Kione has never felt more seen. The color of the stars, perhaps.

You aren’t embarrassed because you fucked her. You’re embarrassed because you didn’t.

“The fu-“ Kione has to fight to calm herself, but it’s hard when she suddenly feels cold all over. “H-how do you know that?”

Tell me why. Why not use her?

Her words are a fishhook down Kione’s throat. Before she can think better of it, she finds herself answering.

“It seemed…” she spends a moment grasping for the word, “perfunctory.”

The handler nods thoughtfully. Say more.

“And…” Kione’s brow tightens. She had not thought to put a name to the feelings that moved her to release her urges on her own time, rather than with Sartha. But she must find the words now. She must master herself. She has so much to prove. “For me… demeaning?”

She didn’t mean for it to come out like a question, but it did. The handler lets it hang in the air for a moment. Kione has time to ask herself why she’s so stupidly fucking nervous, and the answer only unsettles her further.

She’s nervous because she’s waiting for approval.

You’re doing very well with her indeed. It’s true that Sartha has been conditioned to crave sexual gratification and objectification, but it needn’t be from you, in quite such a… direct fashion. You will find that she prefers a certain separation. Authority is as essential to her as degradation. Beasts fuck other beasts. Their master provides something altogether different.

Kione nods slowly as she absorbs that. It doesn’t occur to her to doubt it. She would never dream of trusting the handler, but she hasn’t misled her yet. Besides, Kione feels as though she’s already seen much of that in Sartha. It all stands to reason. The harder part is maintaining her grip on her own emotions as she digests. She doesn’t want the handler’s praise to feel good.

But it does.

“Well, thanks for the notes,” Kione says sarcastically. Brashness is her refuge. “Really helpful. But I think I’m good, actually. No need for any more of these delightful little chats. I just wanted to give you a friendly heads-up. Sartha’s mine. I win.”

How amusing. What makes you so sure that she won’t come running back to me the very first time she hears my voice?

Kione’s blood freezes.

“I… she won’t,” she replies lamely.

Why not?

“Because… because she loves me!”

I can make her love me instead.

Cold, then hot. Kione’s fighting not to throw up. She’s embarrassed that’s all it took to plunge her into a panic attack, and the shame only deepens her struggle. She can feel sweat on her brow. No. No, no, no. She wouldn’t. She couldn’t. Not love. She loves me.

Me.

I’m the one who saved her, Kione. I’m the one who broke her in the precise way she most needed to be broken. You forget yourself. You believe that because you hold on the other end of the leash, you are my equal. You are not. You are a pale imitation. I know it. You know it. Sartha knows it.

A nightmare unfolds before Kione. She sees it happening. Sartha, running away from her. Towards the loathsome, beautiful creature on the viewscreen before her. Slipping Kione’s leash. She’d be eager. It’d be a homecoming. And all the words in the world couldn’t stop her.

It’s a knife in Kione’s heart. She starts fumbling for the hatch release to her cockpit. It doesn’t even occur to her to end the transmission. This place feels more like it’s the handler’s domain than her own. She can’t breathe. She can’t believe she was so stupidly fucking cocky. She needs to get out of here.

Calm yourself, Kione. I meant what I said: you’re doing well. But you’re still finding your footing. You must go much, much deeper if you wish to make Sartha Thrace truly yours. Don’t worry. Did you forget? I promised you that I’d help you. I always keep my promises.

Kione can just about hear her words over the sound of her own pounding heart. “How?” she asks thickly, before realizing that’s the wrong question. “No… why? Why pretend you’re fucking helping me?”

Because you and I are not entirely dissimilar. And I would hate to see someone else with such rare qualities remain so aimless.

“We’re nothing alike,” Kione growls. She can’t hear this. Not when she’s already so fucking angry. Being made anxious always gets her angry.

You should hope to be wrong about that. If you’re right, you stand no chance.

“Fuck you.” A furious spray of Kione’s spit hits the viewscreen. “Fuck you! I don’t care what you have to say. I’m gonna beat you. Understand me? I am going to reach into Sartha’s head and rip you out of it. I don’t care how deep I have to go. I don’t care what I have to do. I will tear your face and your voice out of her memories. I will make her hate you. I. Will. Win. Bet your fucking ass on that.”

All the anger in the world wouldn’t have made the handler flinch. Kione should have known that; now, as the corners of her lips turn upward, Kione merely feels petty in her rage. Still, petty is better than panicking.

I am no gambler, but you can call it a wager if that makes you more comfortable. I admit, there’s a certain charm to the idea. Sartha Thrace is the game, and the prize. If you can take her from me, I invite you to do so. I’ll even show you how. Your next lesson is already on its way.

Before Kione can question the sinister implications of that, the handler makes her another, even darker promise.

But one day—and it will not be so very far off—I will come for her. Mark me well, Kione. I will come for her. I will come at your worst moment, to call Sartha back to my side. And if you are not prepared for me, you will lose everything.

Strangely, Kione’s heart has begun to slow. A game. A wager. A challenge. She can handle that. Kione’s life has been nothing but challenges. That’s life, as a mercenary. Nobody’s ever had her back, and it’s never kept her from winning. Kione meant what she said. Whatever it takes. She’ll learn every lesson. She thinks back to that night she had her hands wrapped tight around Sartha’s throat. Kione knows that moment was the cusp of something. A metamorphosis. She gazed into the darkest black, and held its stare. There is nothing she is not capable of.

For love. For Sartha.

Kione nods. It’s on. But as she girds herself to cross the threshold and enter the handler’s world, another question comes to her. Another why. An embarrassing one, really. One any sane person would have asked right at the start. Kione feels almost childish as she asks it—but she really does need to know.

“Why do this?” Kione says quietly. “Like… any of this, I mean. Turning people into… like that. I can’t even imagine… I get it, it’s useful. It works. But, fuck, how did you ever even begin to think of something like that?”

The handler raises an eyebrow. She’s not truly taken aback, but the question seems to have surprised her a little. Perhaps it’s just the incredulous simplicity of it. The tall, black-clad corpse of a woman takes her time to properly consider before answering; before speaking the words that take root inside Kione and grow there like a tumor.

Kione, the handler says slowly, and with great weight. Haven’t you ever moved through your life and felt like you were surrounded by nothing but dogs?