She was surprised that her knees had bruised so quickly.

 

It was to be expected, of course - each image of a Hound in the collective memory of the Imperial Reach was the same; bruised knees, muzzled jaw, collared throat, feral eyes. They were toy soldiers, tin men, dogs-playing-pilot. They spent most of their time in submission, only to be released when a target was within pissing distance. 

 

Despite her upbringing, Meraniel Gallo was no different. 

 

Her knees were pressed to concrete, her arms bound behind her with hands clasped in some facsimile of prayer, her eyes upward toward her God - not her Lady Saint, of course, but her New God - one more permeable than any other she’d worshipped before. 

 

Her name was Tau, and she was beautiful. 

 

Meraniel was well aware that much of her affinity toward the woman was due to the drugs that flowed through her system, more plentiful than even her own blood. She’d grown accustomed to Stardust, of course, but the undiluted stuff that fed her by the ocean now was so much more potent, so much more psychoactive. Her brain bubbled from its workings, rewired each of her senses for efficiency in one thing, and one thing only - worship. 

 

Except, she was granted some grace. 

 

While the other Hounds were processed fully and entirely - the drugging, the neuroablation, the starving and the denial - Meraniel was only granted the first. She wondered why, absently - after all, she was an unideal subject from the outset - she should’ve been resistant, should’ve wanted for the high-crust life she’d held before fanaticism and zealotry had claimed all that she was - but she behaved. She was obedient; she came when Tau called, she let the others beat her bloody and fuck her senseless, she was a good girl…. 

 

But still, that didn’t feel like absolution enough to avoid having her mind flayed beyond repair. 

 

Tau sat with one leg crossed over the other, dressed down as she often was out in the field. The forward base that they’d called home for the duration of this campaign was sparsely-dressed, and so the supplies to keep the Handler’s trenchcoat and leathers maintained were simply nonexistent. She settled for a black cap and ink-laden arms, a signifier of her status as much as any. Her eyes - piercing and gold - ripped through Meraniel’s paltry defenses and into the core of her soul. 

 

They remained sitting in silence - the spell remained unbroken - before Tau opened her mouth.

 

”Confess.” 

 

It said all that it needed to, really; she spoke, and Meraniel answered.

 

”I lay my weight on you, Beloved Handler.” She said, quietly. “For you will judge if I have sinned, and a punishment set to fit should you deem me guilty.” 

 

“I will.” Tau smiled, wry and slick, hungry and waiting. “Tell me of your acts, Hound.”

 

A constant reminder - one of Tau’s favorites. She’d lost the privilege of names, save for circumstances of her choosing, little treats and baubles of personhood - now, she bore the only remnants of a family she’d defiled through violent action. In Tau’s mind, only people had names, while pets had ownership - origin without currency. Their names were forbidden words, but they traded them like currency - when she piled together with Catarina, with Liana, with Aramys, she whispered their names, and they whispered hers, and they traded them. 

 

They played pretend like they were people, still. 

 

In this moment, though, she was anything but. 

 

“I used Gethsemane as a shield to protect my sister.” She said, simply. “My betters thought it a waste of resources.” 

 

Tau’s face remained placid. “Why was this a waste of resources?” 

 

“Hounds are meant to kill and be killed. Not to be protected.” Meraniel tilted her head in confusion. “Commander Burke said as much.” 

 

Her Handler nodded, solemnly. “This much is true - you are an asset, not a person.” The words burned in her ears like hot coals - another reminder of how far she’d fallen. “But Gethsemane is built to be strong - built to defend. She is a Bulwark for a reason, is she not?” 

 

“She is.” Meraniel confirmed.

 

“Then perhaps, Commander Burke can learn to live with it. I’d not want to lose some of my Hounds over nonsense - not even my youngest. ” She shifted, slightly, in her chair; her hand flat against her knee. Meraniel perked up, somewhat. Tau watched Meraniel curiously - eyes-following-eyes, moving in parallel - before she exhaled, slowly; a breath let loose. 

 

“Come here, Meraniel.” 

 

She did as she was asked, drawing closer to Tau, who shifted her legs accordingly, inviting Meraniel up. The pilot climbed, and settled in Tau’s lap; slowly and methodically, the Handler’s fingers worked into the straps of Meraniel’s muzzle and undid them - one at a time - before removing the muzzle itself.

 

Her fingers danced below the line of Meraniel’s collar, and Meraniel stared down at them. A part of her - a craven, animalistic thing - feared that she’d actually remove it. A few months prior, Meraniel would’ve beaten herself half-to-death over the cowardice of being without something that indicated her as lesser - but now? Now, she was just glad that Tau’s hands had seen fit to keep it on her. Her fingers relented, and returned to her own neck, undoing the string that held the Shard of Ancyor - formerly Meraniel’s - in place. She held the object up for Meraniel’s eyes to see, to follow.

 

“Your faith.” Tau said, simply. Meraniel nodded.

 

“My faith.”

 

“Does your Saint still speak to you?” 

 

“She does.” Meraniel lied. It had been some time since her induction into the process - six months, she’d imagined, and she’d not spoken to her Gilded Lady since her first night, when fingers had pried her mouth open and broken the Stardust that had been so carefully laid there by her Handler. Saint Thrace, seemingly, had left her to the dogs - and it was deserved; welcome, even. She’d failed her in all ways, not able to escape the divine adjudication she’d delivered with her freedom, not able to continue living for Saint Thrace beyond the Kennels. 

 

She, too, would’ve left even the most devoted of supplicants if they’d fallen as she had, and so, she understood. 

 

Tau’s eyes searched her over, looking for any further hint of weakness or deceit, before she clicked her tongue. Meraniel’s attention was drawn to it, and she laughed - small and sly - before tying the Shard of Ancyor around Meraniel’s neck. Meraniel purred with involuntary pleasure, and Tau ran fingers through her hair - soft and gentle, delicate and sweet - before she allowed Meraniel to grow more comfortable, to lay her head on her shoulder. 

 

“My little Mera. My favored Hound.” She spoke, quiet. “What would it take to drag you from Gethsemane forevermore? Surely, it would be unprofessional on my part, but am I not welcome to little gifts now and then?” 

 

“You are, Handler.” Meraniel confirmed. Tau smiled. 

 

“What if I took your drive to fight? Reached inside that skull of yours and pulled out every desire to enter the battlefield, to take lives time and time again? What if I made it so the only thing you wanted to do was curl up here, rut on my boot, eat from my hand? Wouldn’t that be wonderful?” 

 

Meraniel shuddered, slightly. “These desires are not my own, but if they are yours, then I would abide them.” 

 

“You would?” Tau purred. 

 

“I would. I am your vessel. I am your tool. I am your Hound.” The vinyl record in her head spun endlessly, repeating the same track, over and over again. It had been nailed into her head even without the neuroablation; the mantra, the creed. Her sole purpose in all of existence was to serve, as it always had been; her master had simply changed. 

 

This was fine. 

 

“You’re much more than that.” Tau sighed, wistfully. Meraniel blinked. It wasn’t usual for Handlers to get attached like this, from her knowledge; most saw their Hounds as bullets, their Kennels as magazines, to be thrust in a direction and forgotten about. It was unusual for Hounds to survive for longer than months at a time, now; with the vastness of aces throughout the various Rebellions getting more efficient at killing and installing countermeasures to prevent their successful capture, the pedigree had dropped off significantly from times of old. Now, the Kennels were full of burnouts, heretics to the Empress and blasphemers sent back from the frontier, processed and turned back out with minimal fanfare. 

 

So why had Tau become so interested in her? 

 

Meraniel Gallo belonged amongst her Sisters, that much was true; she was a criminal, the same as so many others, and being forced into the Kennels was as intensive a capital punishment as one could suffer without being hanged by the throat with immediacy. Still, though, she received special treatment for a reason, even if she was unable to discern what that reason was.

 

She pushed it out of mind, for now; nuzzled into Tau’s shoulder, and fumbled with the Shard of Ancyor at her throat. Tau retrieved a prayer book from her pocket, quietly, and began to recite the Creed of the First Hound in full. Meraniel wondered, truthfully, if the Handler was religious; she wore the Shard of Ancyor, but she didn't speak of the Thracian faith like an adherent. Rather, she addressed it with a detached interest, the passing intrigue of an exhibit in a museum, or a tool to quiet an especially rambunctious puppy. In times before now, Meraniel's ponderance on this would've lead to her taking action - but now? She was simply comfortable to have a facsimile of mutual interest and comfort in the arms of her Handler. 

 

She didn’t have time to ponder on it for long, as Tau sighed, collecting and affixing her muzzle once again, letting her down onto the ground and clicking her leash into place. 

 

“Come, Little Mera.” She murmured, and Meraniel, ever-dutiful, followed.

 

-

 

Aramys had been kind enough to warn her before driving her boot into Meraniel’s midsection, but that didn’t make it hurt any less. 

 

She tried to create a timeline of events in her head shortly after Tau’s departure; Aramys had told her to ‘stiffen up’ while polishing the steel-toe of the boot she wore, Catarina sat with her back to the door, working on something, and Liana was nowhere to be seen - something she’d question when her diaphragm became functional again, and she was capable of speech. 

 

Now, though, she lay on her side, gasping for air. Aramys looked down at her, winced at the trickle of blood that left Meraniel’s mouth, but didn’t offer a hand - it was her role, her lot in life. She was to be beaten and used; the ‘service dog’ of the pack, the little sister, the youngling Hound. They’d all played the role at times, she’d found; they all bore the scars, and they all continued the tradition. 

 

At first, she thought it unfair, thought it reprehensible - but a few more nights like her first, and it had been burned into her mind; her rightful place was at the feet of her Sisters, and that was just fine. Her knees would always be the most bruised, and that was okay. She would always eat last, and that was alright. What mattered was that they would never thrust lance nor bullet in her direction, and that when night fell upon them and they were allowed to sleep, they always kept her at the core. 

 

Their little sister, the heart of their pack. 

 

Aramys watched her for a moment longer, before taking a few steps away, giving her space to sit up. She did so; a hand wrapping around a nearby metal-frame and leaning against it. She wiped the blood from her lips, and said, quietly, “Are you alright, Ari?” 

 

“I’m fine.” Aramys murmured, and looked over to whatever Catarina was working on. Meraniel figured now was a better time than ever to go and see it - and she stifled the gasp that rose up in her throat as she saw the utter state that her third sister was in. Liana’s back was adorned with fresh beltwounds, welts and cuts all the same.

 

“The Lady Above.” Meraniel whispered. Aramys shot her a glare, and she hung her head; fortunately, she wasn’t booted for that infraction. “What happened?” 

 

“Same as always.” Aramys growled. “Burke’s dogs can’t get a kill, so they take it out on us. Memory of Grace took out another rig, but left the pilot alive - the minute they got back, they undid their belt and beat Liana half to death.” She looked at Meraniel. “She’s going to be lain up for some time, you know.” 

 

“I understand.” Meraniel was going to be her comfort while such a thing occurred; she’d wait on her hand and foot, she’d lay facing her and sleep half-time, she’d make sure her sister wanted for little - and if the pain got too intense, she’d bear with her, however she could. “Do you need help with her bandages-”

 

“I can handle it.” Catarina hummed, and Meraniel didn’t push the line of questioning any further - she knew better. Instead, she laid herself on the filthy mattress they called home, and danced her fingers between Liana’s. The other Hound gave Meraniel a gentle smile, and that led to her taking each finger and kissing it at the knuckle. Catarina scoffed at the display. “She doesn’t need to be babied, she’s just taken a beating.” 

 

“I’m just showing that I love her.” Meraniel whined, and Aramys snorted, and Catarina scoffed, and Liana laughed. 

 

“You’re too sentimental, pup.” Aramys murmured. “But if that helps you do your task, well…I can’t blame you for being so, can I?” 

 

Meraniel didn’t answer - it was a rhetorical question. Instead, she rolled onto her back, keeping her fingers laced with Liana’s. Her mind returned to the battlefield; the campaign they’d been sent to assist with just over a month prior, supporting the Ordo Pax as shock troopers against a rebellion stronghold called Grace’s Gateway - in a losing effort. The irony of it all wasn’t necessarily lost on the Hounds, either; here they were, anticipatory in the face of death, accepting so long as it led to victory - and they stood in a stalemate. It reminded Meraniel of the siege of Aleppo, not so long ago now but feeling as though it had happened in another lifetime for all that had changed since. 

 

She felt some level of vindication - the soldiers of the Ordo Pax were not her, nor were they the fanatic corps she’d operated with back on the distant reaches, at Aurea Base. They were too proud, too refined, too polished and perfect. Vanity would stay their feet, as their skill could not quite carry them to the great heights that they already saw themselves at. Their machines were overproduced and vain, relics of a time of gluttony and avarice - prior to the last reformation. 

 

Truly, a troubling thought brewed on the very edges of Meraniel’s mind; while her historical knowledge wasn’t its strongest or most accessible anymore, it was general knowledge that the Imperium’s greatest changes came when its various interests started biting at one another’s throats like dogs. Changes came with battles, wars, purges and genocides - something that she, a virtual prisoner in the reaches of the machine despite her usage, would likely find herself a victim of. Surely, Tau favored her - but would the woman do anything to keep her from being shoved into the meat-grinder skull-first, to be churned into chum without a thought for what she had been? 

 

She was a governor’s daughter - a governor of a farm world, surely, but a governor nonetheless. She was an ace pilot, with five confirmed ace kill-or-captures to her record. She was an aspirant for the Ordo Pax, a victor in the training simulation before things went a bit too far to one direction. Now, she was just a dog amongst dogs - the little sister, the runt, the whelp. 

 

At best, a Handler’s pet; at worst, cannon fodder. 

 

Aramys must have seen her strife, as she lowered herself behind Meraniel on the mattress, pulling her up into her arms. The older Hound’s fingers touched the rapidly-growing bruise on Meraniel’s midsection, the one that her own boot had put there. Meraniel winced, but Aramys didn’t let her suffer for long without distraction, the telltale sign of a muzzle unclasping filling the air - she lowered her lips to Meraniel’s neck, kissing it softly, rocking her sister in place. Meraniel rolled her head back, cheek-to-cheek with the older Hound, and Aramys purred. 

 

“Good girl.” She whispered. “My Mera.” 

 

“My Ari.” Mera whispered in response, and Aramys’ teeth snapped on her neck where she’d been kissing - a reminder that no one was hers, something as simple and true a fact of life as the sunrise and sunset. Meraniel whimpered an apology, but Aramys had no desire for it - instead, she worked her teeth down to Meraniel’s neck, steady bites that bloomed into bruises down her neck and shoulder, one-after-the-other; a notation of ownership. 

 

In any other branch of the Imperium, this would be a violation of policy, a grave sin; here, it was just a fact of life. She belonged to her sisters, to the Hounds, to Tau Above All. She was a prop, a toy, a trinket - a treasure. Reputation had slipped into the air like dust and like water through her fingers - she was what other people wanted her to be, anymore, and that was fine. 

 

It wasn’t like she had the power to change it. 

 

Aramys finished her feast, and Meraniel’s neck and shoulder, wet and slick with saliva, ached; her consecration was completed. She looked up into Aramys’ eyes, where the other woman sat above her, and gave a lazy smile - Aramys condoned it, and wrapped an arm around her belly. Absently, she wondered if the Saint had ever experienced such love from the others, but stories spoke of her as a lone warrior, as a tool not given ownership of such things like companionship and camaraderie . 

Beyond that, she wondered what she had done to deserve her Saint’s absence. 

 

Breath slipped her lips as Aramys dragged her down to the mattress, kicking a blanket over the two of them as she was pulled closer into the Hound’s core; steadily, slowly, Liana and Catarina took up spaces around them. They descended into the throes of sleep, and Meraniel whispered a prayer for intercession once again, hopeful for a visit in dreams.

 

Instead, she was granted a deep, empty, voidlike sleep. 

 

-

 

At first light, they were roused from slumber by the smashing of batons-on-walls, the hammering of boots against metal, a cataclysmic waking. Meraniel was the first to rise, worming her way out of Aramys’ arms and dressing herself as quickly as she could - if prior history kept, they’d be dragged out regardless of their state within the next minute, and piloting Gethsemane in just her undergarments once had been unpleasant enough for her to avoid even a chance of it happening a second time. 

 

The others put themselves together as she did - and the door swung open; the blank masks of the Imperial Guard, two with long, metallic rods while a third held a scattergun. They were corralled, led out, and dumped into the hangar - forced to kneel, as was ceremony, before Handler Tau. This morning, however, she wasn’t alone; Commander Burke stood at her right flank, looking over the gathered dogs with disgust. 

 

Tau’s instructions were simple, direct, concise; “Today, we take Grace’s Gateway. ” 

 

The same orders had been given time and time again, with each deployment, but hearing them come from Handler’s lips filled the other Hounds with blind conviction - and Meraniel, too, felt her soul swaying with order. If she threw herself into the line of fire in a desperate effort, she would do so with some of her wits still about her - but she doubted she could resist the order regardless of how much of her personhood remained. 

 

Tau continued. “Intelligence reports have indicated to us that Memory of Grace is out of commission for the moment, allowing us our best chance to shatter this stronghold with minimal casualty in return. A Doru battalion will take up the frontline, the Ordo Pax will act as a force multiplier. You all will be the tip of the spear, doing what you do best.” 

 

Killing and being killed. Meraniel’s mind filled in the gaps. Throwing themselves ahead of the others guaranteed casualty and death - but they were familiar with it, by now. The ranks of the Hounds hadn’t shifted since Meraniel had joined them a few months ago, which meant they were overperforming expectations - it was time for one to die. 

 

“Victory will be rewarded with a continuation of service; defeat, with execution. Such prospects are simple to understand, even for dogs, aren’t they?” Burke looked at Meraniel, directly, and sneered. Bitterness seeped around it - a weak attempt at seeming strong, showing ownership over something that wasn’t hers. Meraniel didn’t meet her glare, instead turning her focus to the ground ahead of her. 

 

“Simple enough.” Tau hummed. “Now go. Prepare your machines - we’ll deploy immediately.” 

 

The order was given, and it was followed; the four Hounds stood and departed for their rigs without another word - to their Handler, or one another. Meraniel made her way to Gethsemane, slow-climbing to the cabin - a different journey in the face of its recent retrofitting. Tau had enjoyed the concept of the machine, but disliked its operation, and forced it upward , a bipedal machine over its initial four-legged format. Its cannon had been removed to make way for further armor plating, its claws replaced with a bulky tower-shield and pulse-axe. 

 

Were it a machine for a more noble soldier, it would’ve been called a Paladin or Juggernaut - here, it was just a tool for a wily Hound who enjoyed being hit. It was unique, especially in the face of the machines that her sisters operated; nimble and light-armored things, carrying weaponry that could shred an opponent to nothingness in an instant while opening themselves up to the same fate. A Hound’s standard means of operation was to be a berserker, a glass-grenade; it may kill you, but a stray bullet would kill it. 

 

More than anything, this had irked Meraniel - despite their standing in society, the Hounds showed more loyalty and fervor than anywhere else in the whole of the Imperium. To be thrown away rather than being allowed some level of security felt foolish, felt like a waste. 

 

Still, it wasn’t her place to question. 

 

She noted a new fleck of graffiti on the side of her cabin, just adjacent to her windscreen, reading ALL DOGFUCKERS GO TO HEAVEN. She ignored it, clamboring in through the side-door, and settling into it; within moments, she was linked in. Information flooded her windscreen as Gethsemane roared to life; markers for her sisters, for the Ordo Pax, for the rank-and-file. 

 

There were no sacramental prayers, no preamble; instead, a singular command filled her screen; 

 

 

And so, they did; Aramys led the pack, as was her right; Gethsemane stood on her right flank, while Catarina took up the other, and Liana - their injured packmate - took up the rear. Progression across the field wrought the sight of destruction already inflicted upon the world around them; burned out defensive positions, downed frames from both sides of the conflict. 

 

Closer, still; Grace’s Gateway loomed. It was an unimpressive fortress, all things considered - a mishmash of quick-latched fortifications and purposefully-trashed armor made into the greatest hope of the rebellion on this world. It made it deeply frustrating - Meraniel imagined, as such emotions were beyond her - that the Ordo Pax hadn’t yet managed to smash it. 

 

Granted, most of that was due to the ace pilot defending it - but with them removed, such an assault should’ve been an easy victory - and so, they pushed on. Artillery screamed around them, lobbed munitions from the fortress as it closed, and time seemed to dilate - slowing to a crawl - as Tau’s voice rang out in the ears of the four Hounds simultaneously.

 

 

In the others, the transformation was immediate; machines hunched, slumped, drew their weapons forward, and dove, a metal tide crushing against the base, claws scraping against exterior plating - again and again. Patchwork machines tried to scramble to respond and found themselves chummed with immediacy; defensive fortifications were sundered to naught but ash and ruin. 

 

Meraniel, too, was swept up in it - not out of some feral conditioning, but out of loyalty - to her Sisters, to her Handler. She barreled forward, shield raised, pushing power into Gethsemane’s generator and ripping through the exterior wall as though it were made of tissue paper, sending fragments of scorched and shattered metal through those directly behind it like a shotshell. Still in its startup process, a machine grabbed for an autocannon - and received a cleaving blow from Gethsemane’s axe, a messy bisection that left an intermingling of blood and oil pooling below. A cluster of shotshell echoed off of its shield with a light ping - and in response, Gethsemane swung its entire body right, moving the axe with it and shattering the attacking machine. 

It had become a whirlwind of death along with its Sisters - and it was still of itself, not lost to the starlight tide that drowned the better selves of the others entirely. At this rate, the fortress would be cleared before the Ordo Pax even had a chance to take arms-

 

A shriek rang out overhead, and there it was; Memory of Grace on high. It was a light and limber machine, missile-pods on either shoulder, thrusters roaring as it dove upon them - barely missing Aramys’ machine with thermic swords, quickly recalibrating as it swept up once again. Meraniel’s eyes went skyward, and she tried to calculate its flightpath, or its strategy - being bulkier than the machine she’d fought at Aleppo meant that she’d need to try a bit harder to ground it, and needed to do so quickly.

She was a bulwark, a shield; she drew fire for a reason. 

 

Rabidly, wildly, Meraniel sought to pull the machine’s focus; perhaps smartly, it ignored her. Instead, a target designator lit up atop its cabin - and a series of missile locks scattered across the Hounds, the majority focusing on Catarina, shattering her machine as they detonated in the air around it. She tried to force up to a knee - and crumpled. Meraniel’s eyes frantically skipped to the IFF tag belonging to Catarina, which read that her vitals were still alive - mercifully, thankfully - and so, she could keep fighting. 

 

Behind her, heavier footfalls rang out - the arrival of the Doru detachment and the Ordo Pax. A curse echoed through the open communications line - some ace pilot cursing about the arrival of their nemesis, childish in its complaining tone - and the steel-cold voice of Amara Burke rang out shortly after.

 

”Tau.” 

 

“Yes, Commander?”

 

“Tell your dogs to run interference and bait that machine - we’ll handle the rest.” 

 

Meraniel’s blood went cold, followed by a further hesitation - and then, Tau's response.

 

”Of course, Commander.”

 

Another direction rang out on the windscreen - an order from Tau, once again. 

 

 

Snarling growls rang out in either of Meraniel’s ears - Aramys and Liana acquiescing - but she was not so far gone, and her sisters would not become cannon fodder for a pilot who could barely handle any opposition without pissing through their flightsuit. Meraniel put her eyes toward heaven, and there it was; trying for another strafe, coming in just low enough that she could touch it - 

 

-and she brought her shield up, catching it on its ‘belly’, sending it into a spiral and forcing it down into the ground. Its swords flared as it pushed toward Gethsemane, and she caught both of them in her shield, slag spitting onto her cabin from the melting metal before she countered and threw Grace to the soil below. She brought her axe up and down, but it somehow managed to avoid the downward swing, getting back to its feet and ripping swords free of her shield - before plunging them into Gethsemane’s shield-limb once again. 

 

The effect was immediate; the limb fell in half, shield and forearm severed with minimal effort, Gethsemane’s weight decreased significantly. It brought missile pods to bear once again - and Meraniel ducked and rammed her cabin against its own, her windscreen glass cracking as her opposition’s audibly shattered against Gethesemane’s hull, missiles still firing blind and wild into the air - undoubtedly crashing into a machine previously out of the line of fire. Meraniel’s visual spectrum became a kaleidoscope, fragmented and fractalized - but a single glance at Memory of Grace told her that it was worse off, its pilot visible through the beleaguered cabin windscreen. A sneer crawled across Meraniel’s lips, and she pushed forward without hesitation - ignoring the rising cry on her communications line.

 

 

Gethsemane’s axe rose to meet the machine, cleaving into its underside and sending it into a stumble; an attempt to recalibrate and bring both swords up, coolant seeping from a breached reactor while the pulse-axe’s blade still jutted from its cabin. Meraniel felt Gethsemane’s lone arm buckling from trying to haul the weight of Grace upward, but she persevered; her lips considered a prayer, and instead, she focused her energy on Handler Tau. 

 

On making her proud. 

 

The axe lifted Grace, ripping into its cabin, splitting it between the legs as it nestled in the center - and as it tried to shift, thrusters firing one more time - it ended up right on the edge of the axe, lifted upward with great force as the pulse axe cleaved it - and its pilot - right down the middle. 

 

Both halves of Memory of Grace were just that as they fell away; and Gethesemane’s arm blew out at the shoulder, servos overclocked, limb no longer of use. Meraniel took a knee as the whooping and hooting of Doru pilot, Ordo Pax, and Hound alike rang out through the air - and she took a breath, ran a hand through her hair, and shifted Gethsemane to face the others. 

 

Amidst the shattered remnants of Grace’s Gateway, the soldiers celebrated, rebels were corralled, machines dismantled - but in the middle of them, she saw it; gold plating and vantablack paint, the calling card of the Ordo Pax. Judging by a quick glance, it had taken the brunt of a cluster of missiles - presumably, in Meraniel’s skirmish with the Memory of Grace. 

 

They’d not been without casualty - and it was one of Burke’s favored. Her jaw tightened against itself, and she exhaled through her nose. 

 

Certainly, there would be Hell to pay over this - but as the whooping of baying dogs turned into praise showered upon her by her sisters, she found herself capable of forgetting it, if only for the moment. 

 

-

 

That night, she was spared the usual avenues of stress release, allowed to simply rest in the arms of her siblings; Aramys had collected her as she often did, but Liana and Catarina had insisted on laying hands on her, arms around her, lips-against-lips. Safety and warmth were all that she was, in this moment; a home amidst flesh, an isle of Dogs. 

 

Then, the door opened.

 

Meraniel blinked awake; still the vanguard, still the bulwark, still running off of years of memorized wake-up drills and bases sieged by artillery - but through the darkness, she could see nothing, could only feel the clasping of a leash around her collar, pulling her up to her feet once again. She blinked, and was led - gently - out of the makeshift Kennels, away from her sisters, into the darkness. 

 

When her eyes started to work once again, she saw Tau at the other end of the leash - as it was meant to be - and she opened her mouth, but Tau shushed her. She took Meraniel back to their usual space - knees on the concrete once again, hands before her, muzzle tightly affixed - and she stared through Meraniel Gallo, something like guilt in her eyes. 

 

“Handler?” Meraniel asked, once again. Tau cocked her head to the side. 

 

“Do you know why I brought you here, Little Mera?” 

 

Meraniel’s brain immediately went to the truth - the deceased member of the Ordo Pax - but confession assured death - and so, she would delay as long as she could. She shook her head. “I’m unaware, Handler.” 

“Confess, Meraniel. I have no time for games.” 

 

Meraniel blinked, and inclined her head downward. “I…my actions led to the death of a member of the Ordo Pax. A grave sin.” 

 

“A grave sin, indeed.” Tau’s words were cropped and cut close, as if speaking in more than a quick sentence would bring her harm. “Commander Burke has requested that I… punish you accordingly, or has promised that she would take measures into her own hands.” Tau’s eyes betrayed her sadness; she did favor Meraniel, she didn’t want this. A small, black box sat in her right hand while the leash remained in the left - and slowly, she moved it onto her knee. “Of course, I couldn’t let it get to that point - a firing squad is too gauche a fate for you.” 

 

Then, she nodded. “Come forward, Meraniel.” 

 

Assured of the certainty of her death, Meraniel Gallo inched toward Handler Tau’s knee, pulling herself up into her lap once again. She took the box into her hands. 

 

“Open it.” 

 

She did as she was asked; from within, she produced a syringe, filled with a familiar green liquid, the stars already coming to Meraniel’s eyes as they settled on it for a moment longer. She breathed, and looked at Tau - pleading, really. Tau gave her a light, sad smile. 

 

“You’re the favorite, Meraniel. I can’t let you go, can I? Can’t let them ruin this wondrous body of yours - if that’s all I can have, that’s all I will. The mind can be what it is.” She sighed. “I promise I’ll take care of you.” 

 

“You don’t have to do this.” Meraniel whispered. “Please, you don’t.” 

 

“I do.” Tau grabbed the syringe, and pulled it from its casing. Gently, she lifted Meraniel’s wrist, finding a port formerly used for more traditional combat stimulants. She aligned both the needle and the port, and plugged it - not yet pressing the plunger. A gentle whimper escaped Meraniel’s throat, and Tau’s finger hesitated, her eyes met Meraniel’s - in that moment Meraniel acted. Her hand wrapped around the Shard of Ancyor as she dragged the other woman to the concrete below. Somehow, the string holding it in place didn’t snap; somehow, the needle’s plunger was not properly depressed.

 

Meraniel grabbed for the Shard, trying to make her form small as her lips tried to find words she hadn’t spoken properly in some time, pressing the relic against her chest as she began.

 

“Saint Thrace!” Meraniel called. “Once again, I pray for your-HFF!“

 

A boot caught her in the side of the head - a heavy kick from Tau, stiffer than any punishment she’d ever received from her sisters or Handler before. She choked on her own breath for a moment as Tau went for the syringe, wiping blood from a fresh wound above her eye, stumbling. Meraniel’s vision swam, and she tried to push herself back up - words desperately pouring free of her mouth. 

 

“I p-pray for your Intercession! For your aid! For the Imperium has lost its way, and is in need of - GHK!” 

 

Another boot to the skull, and Tau stood before her; curious, the unplugged Starlight syringe in her hand, approaching slowly. Tears spilled down Meraniel’s cheeks; the panic of the moment starting to rise in her chest. 

 

“I n-need a sign! I have been your most loyal servant, my Lady, you cannot j-just abandon me! Show me something!” Meraniel’s words caught, and, a desperate plea echoed forth; “ANSWER ME! ” 

 

But there was no response; no golden hands cupped her cheeks, no cascade of brilliant light shining upon her. Instead, it was Meraniel Gallo, and Handler Tau, and a syringe of Starlight. Meraniel looked up at Tau, and saw the moment for what it was; her New God, prepared to bring upon her an old death. 

 

With head hung low, she began to sob; lost entirely. She felt hands upon her shoulders, knees touching concrete in front of her - and fingers tilted her chin upward. 

 

“You are so full of devotion, Meraniel Gallo.” Her Handler whispered. “So full of promise. I couldn’t ravage that, could I? You just need a little bit of nudging, a little bit of new light.” 

 

She barely registered the syringe as its contents flowed through her - less than she expected, well short of being an all-consuming death, but enough to reduce her brain to wet clay, her mind to simple putty. Her sobs faded as she forgot not just why she was sad, but what sadness was. Stars filled the sky around Handler Tau. 

 

“Really, I was foolish to think I should euthanize you. Listening to that Commander and her haughty desire, her avarice. How gluttonous…how greedy. You’ve still got so much fight left in you! ” She laughed, half-heartedly. “It’s alright, though. Just need to pluck the problem bits out, and we can try again. There is always time to try again.” 

 

Try again. Try again. Try again. The world was falling apart, and she had to try…try to do what? The segmented portions of her brain tried to weave themselves together, to avoid the all-encompassing void that she’d fallen into on her first night in the Kennels from swallowing her whole again - but she could feel it, could feel her hair standing on edge, dogsbreath on the back of her neck. 

 

“You’re so full of faith and devotion, Little Mera. Perhaps that’s all you need - not a soul, not a spirit, not a thought in that brain of yours - just hollow faith and hardcoded devotion and a healthy heaping of sanctified wrath to go along with it. I don’t want to flay your mind, of course; just want to do some renovations. Find some caverns in that skull of yours that I can call home. Isn’t that nice?” 

 

She was nodding, even if she couldn’t; Tau’s hand had worked her way up to her chin, and made sure the motion was completed for her. Not having to move, to think, to process was nice. Really, was this any different from what she’d done before? Letting her Saint guide her way - her mind, her focus, her weaponry? Her Saint had carried her this far - but it was Handler who’d given her the path to endure, to survive, to crush the Memory of Grace alone - without her Sisters or the so-called Elites. 

 

No. She had to endure. She couldn’t let Saint Thrace down. Her hand clutched the Shard of Ancyor , and she felt its edges cutting into her hand. She tried to force her eyes shut - but Tau’s thumb went and held her right open. Another pulse of Starlight joined the others in her arm, and a wave of stars washed over her; any thoughts of rebellion she had were drowned in the bathwater, and she was forced to look into Tau’s eyes. 

 

“Bet you’re seeing constellations, now.” Tau giggled, quietly; chittering like a schoolgirl, it would’ve been annoying had it not come from the Mouth of God Herself - but as it had, Meraniel joined her in her laughter, the two of them feeding off one another, laughing harder and harder - a manic noise, a cacophony, until Tau grabbed her jaw and silenced her. “Who’s are you, Little Mera?” 

 

The sudden nature of the movement grounded her, for a moment. “I b-belong t-to…” She huffed, and her hand clenched the Shard of Ancyor harder. “Sssaint Thrace, my Golden Lady, the First Hou-GFF!” 

 

A hand wrapped around her throat - flesh, for once, instead of black leather, and it threatened to crush her windpipe. Meraniel gasped for air, but Tau seemed intent on forcing the last few breaths she’d had out of her lungs entirely, choking her out here and now. Blood dripped from cuts in her palm, a consequence of the strength with which she clutched the relic - it dripped to the floor, a thin, slow trickle. 

 

“Don’t lie to me, Meraniel. Your Saint is gone. She left you to die. She’s content to see you bleed for her, but what does she give you in return?” 

 

“Nnnn-” Meraniel tried to speak through a closed throat, but Tau laughed. 

 

“ Nothing. Because she doesn’t love you. Because no one’s ever loved you the way that I do, the way that your sisters do. Because you are a broken, mangy thing; she was content to leave you on the front to die in some hole in the ground, bloody and battered and beyond saving.” Tau’s grasp around her throat only tightened, and Meraniel’s vision became a pinhole - she was going to die, here, she thought, and Handler Tau was going to be so disappointed. 

 

Weakly, she grabbed at Tau’s hand; she tried to live, and the Handler laughed, relinquishing her hold. Meraniel fell from her lap, landing on her knees; she gasped for air, she grabbed at Tau’s legs, she tried to balance herself on her hands while the Handler spoke. 

 

“You and I aren’t so different, Meraniel. I’ve grown tired of the way that this experiment tries to choke itself out, again and again. Reformation after revolution after renaissance, we try to find the right answer - but we fail each time. Your devotion, though, it’s potent. You could build the foundation of an empire everlasting on your bones, and nothing would ever break it. Of this much, I am certain.” She felt a hand grasp her wrist again, and tried to pull away - to no avail. 

 

“Two more doses,” Tau called from on high. “Not sure how much’ll be left after the next one.” 

 

“S-she…” Meraniel felt drool and blood dribbling from her lips - but what was she, if not a masochist? “...will…keep me…safe.” 

 

“I’m sure.” She felt the cold flood of grim ichor enter her veins once again, and reality started to unravel; the concrete which bruised her knees was soft as silk, the air heavy and thick. She gagged, and put her head down to the ground; forehead pressed against the floor. She felt Tau’s boot press against her ribcage - lightly shoving her - 

 

- and she fell. 

 

Gods, she fell; from a sky full of stars into an ocean, an endless dreamscape rippling with color and motion, unbound by the rules of a conventional existence. Meraniel could almost smell her brain cells cooking en masse, fried by the chemical cocktail ripping through her veins, straight to her heart. She wasn’t sure if she was dying, necessarily, but she knew one truth; neuroablation would’ve been a kindness compared to this.

 

Her body hit the water, and was shattered into starstuff, a hundred points of light - before she came together again, transfigured; a nun in a chapel, knelt over a pew. 

 

She looked up, and her eyes caught sight of a Pieta - albeit, this one was different from the others; rather than the standard Thracian imagery, Handler Tau sat as the centerpiece, and the hound in her arms, carved in marble - 

Meraniel gasped. It was sacrilege. It was blasphemy.

 

 

She stretched her hand outward, and pressed her fingers against the marble figure’s lips; not wounded, like Saint Thrace, but whole - healthy. A smile crossed her face, a collar around her throat - perfect and subservient - and as her eyes traveled upward, she saw the face of Handler Tau - beautiful and kind - with her hand pressed against the statue’s cheek. 

 

The idea of having such a position of power - of strength - was nauseating. To supplant Saint Thrace was…well, it was unspeakable. Saint Thrace had been her guiding star, her one light, her sole purpose - 

 

And she’d abandoned her. 

 

The reality crashed over her like a wave, threatened to pull her back into the sea of stars once again - but truth held her aloft. She’d given everything to the memory of Saint Thrace, and now? Now, she was stewing in her own juices; dying slowly from a poison used to pacify dogs. Now, she’d been left alone to die - to lose Gethsemane, to lose her sisters, to lose her mind. 

 

The tears fell, again, but they were different, now; droplets of truth and rage that dropped to the chapel floor, beads of knowing. She’d given so much, only to be abandoned when it mattered most, cast into silence for the last six months to endure untold punishments alone. If she’d ever had Saint Thrace’s favor, it had surely left her now.

 

She swallowed, and looked ahead; the Pieta had shifted, the statue-Meraniel was absent, and only the statue of Tau remained, arms open and ready. She took a few steps forward - slow and measured - and felt the void to ensure she wasn’t missing something. Then, she looked up - into the eyes of the statue-Tau - and she felt warmth flow through her body in waves, felt a calm wash over her. 

 

Slowly, she lowered herself into the statue’s lap, settled her head against its shoulder, and centered; this was her place, in the arms of one who loved her, one who cared for her. The mantle clearly had been abandoned; Saint Thrace still carried a place in her heart, but she wasn’t going to be the one to purge this world of the corporatized degeneracy that had overtaken it; a new vanguard had to pick up where she’d left off. If the Gods of old were to be disregarded, they’d simply built new ones; new devotions to take root in the hearts and minds of the most fanatical, new creeds to burn away the old. 

 

Tau was right; the rot was deep and prevailing. She had a plan to resolve it - and Meraniel Gallo, God willing, would be her knife. 

 

As she found acceptance, reality started to sew itself back together - albeit in patchwork, a transfigured existence - and as she spat bile and foam to the concrete below, desperately choking on her own throat - but despite it all, she felt alive. She turned her eyes skyward, and was blessed. 

 

Above her, the stars hung in the sky, and Tau - no, God sat upon Her throne. A giggle escaped Meraniel’s lips as she smiled, and God returned the expression, bathing her in divine light.

All was exactly as it should be.