The sound of loose sand and dirt—pounding against the lightweight metal frame of Asher's scout-walker—would be enough to deafen the frail pilot housed inside were it not for the heavy muffs of her mask. Magnifying lenses overlap and pierce through dancing detritus, the pilot closing one eye and gauging the current distance between her and the tank legion preparing itself for an ill-fated assault. They make the mistake of waiting out the storm, where a pack will sniff them out with little more than the information gathered by a good little scout like Asher. With a shudder of pride rattling the feeble walker, Asher tilts her head—wrapped in gunmetal covering that obscures not just the softness of her face, but the shape of her head entirely—and reacts quickly to the sudden amber glow of her scouter's warning light. 

An aluminium-alloy wing swings around to cover the walker's front and its claw-like toes root themselves deep into the packed soil beneath them. A strong wave of dust assaults the small thing, barely equipped to survive the elements, let alone a real battle. The only foe it can conquer is a mindless racketing of sediment, and even then it only does so by deflecting it with the curve of its newly assumed shape. As she waits for the intensity to die down, the pilot untenses her muscles and takes a long, deep breath through the apparatus bolted around her head, designed to destroy her in every way that matters should she not return to the base within acceptable time parameters. In this case, defection and capture are entirely indistinguishable reasons for keeping Handler waiting. 

"You've got sand in your neck again, little Ashy," sounds a voice strained and muffled by heavy face covering—the solid hood presenting a pair of upright ears and tapering into a dog-like snout. Not quite a dog, but something comparable in the silhouette of its head. The pilot flicks beaten the bobble-head of a dog-faced bat staring up at her, spring rusted and paint almost fully stripped. Asher doesn't mind the scrappy state of her only companion out here in the storm, save for the voice that sometimes comes to rescue her, because she knows it reflects her own haggard nature all too perfectly. 

When the storm's bite softens enough for the scout to continue her reconnaissance task, the pilot quickly unlatches herself from the ground and pulls her wing back to find an enemy unit standing directly ahead of her. The mechanical beast before her is a hell of a lot bulkier than Asher's lightweight machine, hulking over her even from a distance. The blip of her motion sensor scolds the pilot for having ignored it in favour of her toy, and Asher can only bristle with disappointment in herself. Still, what's an enemy walker doing out here in the middle of the storm by itself? Intel suggested the rebels were sending only tanks for mobile artillery in this lost cause sector. Why even waste their state-of-the-art weaponry when resources are dwindling as it is?

Asher furrows her brow inside the metal confines of her true face. As the peculiar rebel mech does nothing to suggest it's launching into an attack, or that it has even spotted the chiropteran scout-walker that stands skittishly ahead of it, Asher can only wonder at what this is all about—why she carries rebel secrets in her head when she's nothing more than an imperial asset. 

Before her thoughts can arrange themselves into anything remotely useful, something unexpected happens. New situations frighten Asher the most, because she does not have her drills with Handler to fall back on. Training was wonderful, because nothing unpredictable ever happened. The rebel pilot—enemy pilot, that is—opens their cockpit. Such a reckless action to take in the centre of this sharp swirl, even with the sturdier bulk of their walker keeping its back turned to the pelting. 

A helmet shaped for a person pokes itself out of the mobile artillery's chest while the other pilots inside keep ready to turn, or ready weaponry, at a moment's notice; larger machines like this one cannot be operated by a lone user like Asher's can, at least, if you're not a slobbering and bloodthirsty hound bred and built for battle. 

"--an you hear my voice?" A crackling buzz assaults Dog-Face's intercom and Asher yelps at the unexpected voice filling her cockpit, squirming in discomfort and wondering how they even got onto this channel in the first place. The only voice that comforts her is Handler's, because Hers is the only one that doesn't lie. Taking deep breaths to calm herself, brace herself, as she was taught to by benevolence Herself, Asher scrunches her eyes shut and opens them back up hoping to find the mirage dispelled. No such luck, these strange people must be the real deal. That makes them her enemies, but she's just a scout... and... 

"Asher? Is... are you in there? Talk to us, goddammit! Talk to me... it's Hettie. Your Hettie." The height of rebel foolishness is surely when this Hettie woman lifts her helmet, coarse auburn ponytail that must have once been beautiful flapping behind her and cheeks that Asher can almost imagine the softness of, in times long past, roughened by endless bloody war. She is grease and stone, and shakes like reeds in a hurricane. 

"She knows my name, little Ashy." The timid scout flicks the bobblehead anxiously, shoulders hunching up. "She... knows my walker. From appearance alone. Who is she?" 

There is another crackle from the intercom, and the sound of violins begins to fill the cockpit—a waiting room for the soul, Asher's reiterative judgement begins anew. Weighty and wonderful is the power that excises the lift in her shoulders with gentle music. Then the voice. Her voice. The pilot's volatile nerves become a ghost. 

"She is not relevant, sweetie." The fond, pretty voice makes Asher giddy in her seat, fiddling with the controls eagerly in a way that makes her grateful to Handler for locking down her walker with a simple override. "Her lies are made to confuse you, you're nobody but mine. Isn't that right, pet?" 

Asher sighs longingly into her mask and nods excitedly against the console she smears in a drip-drop of spittle. "Yes... yours... yours... mmgh... she's nobody. Hettie who... ehe..." Her words are so desperate to appease, and impress, her Handler. Asher craves the woman's love more than oxygen—more than her treat. 

"--sher? Please. Please snap out of it, love... you're fighting on the wrong fucking side. The hell'd they do to you?" The voice is exasperated and accusatory, Asher doesn't much like that at all. Handler's voice is kindness, special, where this new one only seeks to torment and judge her. She hates it. Besides, just because this walker of hers technically sports back-mounted weaponry, that doesn't automatically make Asher a fighter. She's a scout, and proud of it, because doing a good job earns her a treat. Treats are everything. Asher snorts, dizzy and drooling, considering to herself that this miserable pilot named Hettie probably never gets treats. That must be why she's such a fucking nag. 

What's she even doing? Just standing there, in the way of Asher's happiness, making her head heavy with that nostalgic ring of something.

"Asher," speaks Handler, the intercom switching between the rebel devil and Her angelic voice set to rescue the troubled scout all by itself, "could you kill them for me?"

The sepia scene before Dog-Face's matching pilot drains into one of complete greyscale. The word 'kill' hangs heavy in the air, like salvo. Kill. Fuck, that's a lot. KILL. Asher feels nauseous, wanting so badly to obey her Handler always but feeling ruined by the pit forming in her stomach. KILL. The command not rescinded, it bores into her like a high calibre round intent on shattering her skull into a jigsaw. 

KILL. Asher balks, tilting her head innocently and mustering trembling lips into forming pathetic speech. Her ears are ringing so loudly she cannot even hear the muffled sound of herself. 

"...s-sorry, Handler? Could you repeat that? I uhm..."

"Handler?" Hettie. KILL. The channel must have switched again, how bothersome. "Is that what you call your new commander? So... you really are on their side, Ashy?" The voice sounds tearful, on the verge of uneasy acceptance; it is a mourning voice, a solemn church-bell toll of resignation. "I thought... with the rumours, they were just recycling everyone's mechs. But that voice... fainter than I remember it, but it's you. You sound tired, Asher. Lost." 

These words cut through, no matter how much Asher wishes to deny them. Hettie is hate incarnate, teasing her with fragments of a long forgotten self. Hettie needs to go. KILL. 

"If she gives up on you completely and closes that door before you obey my command, I'll be very disappointed in you sweetie. No more treats, you understand?" Handler's special, one-of-a-kind voice melts a tearful Asher, who smiles through the pain at the wonderful song in her ears. A tongue lashing her soul until it welts. 

"Yes, Handler... your command... to kill?" To kill Hettie, whose lips are like the interior of a long abandoned rebel base: impossibly traceable. The familiarity hollows Asher's expression, as her fingers twitch by the console preciously. 

"That's right, pet. It'll be so easy to end them right now." She speaks in a serene script that only the divine could weave into words so well spoken and ablating. "Tell me, while that whore you don't know blathers on about memories you do not have. Tell me exactly how long it took for the cockpit hatch to open in these conditions. I know you counted, you're my good little scout."

Asher blushes, praise stilling her heart. Better still, she has an opportunity to impress Handler. "Nine and a half seconds." Dog-Face's can open in four, but theirs has a much heavier door. 

"Good girl." The two innocuous words make Asher wheeze, her heartrate picking up along with those pathetically short breaths, hyperventilating from her master's approval. "And how long will it take you to drop to your fours, ready your weapons system and send them a little gift?"

The pilot squirms again, discomfort stirring in her chest and her guts and crawling deeper still. Her autocannon isn't powerful enough to pierce this hulk's armour plating, nor are the grenades in her launcher, but land one inside the cockpit itself and the entire crew will be reduced to a pasta sauce of viscera. That is, if the reactor itself isn't blown sky-high, in which case there won't even be blood, nor retrievable dentals. 

"Ten... no, nine seconds at the quickest, Handler." The girl fidgets, wanting to be good. To... KILL. For Handler. For Treat. She can do it, she has to do it. If she doesn't, she's nothing. A Dog-Faced-Dead-Girl. 

"You require motivation." The sharp tongue flicks and welts Asher some more. It's good for her. 

"N-no, I..." Hettie's moving so animatedly from across the dying dust. She must have a lot to say, but Handler is shutting out her comms. This is also good for Asher. 

"It's okay, little thing. Let me save you, like I always do. It's been a while since I've had to, hasn't it?" The woman chuckles, shrill enough to impose a hairline into glass. 

Sitting still as commanded, wanting more than anything to stop being such a bad girl for Her, Asher responds honestly. Automatically. "I don't know..." It's true, she never seems to remember when Handler speaks the words that reduce her to the bare essentials. Sometimes she tricks herself into believing she's never truly taken a life, and perhaps she's right, but something using her body certainly has. Not her body, Handler's property. She's an Imperial Asset, it's easier to accept the loss of control that way. Asher's seen her Dog-Face hunched over in the hangar once or twice, resting on its haunches as the blood is scrubbed clean from its chassis. Blink it away, and the memory dies. At least, it pretends to. When something truly dies, it passes on forever, ghosts are just the living masquerading themselves as dead. Asher has many ghosts who haunt her, worst of all the one in her own reflection. The helmet shuts it out, she loves it more than rapists love god. 

"Pup." Handler's voice becomes light itself, blinding out everything that Asher could possibly become distracted by. "Raise Hell."

The words dig into Asher's psyche like pegs pounded deep by mallets, Handler's inviolable control weaving between her muscles and pulling her into an upright posture as easy as contorting a limp puppet. Her thumbs move on their own to initialise her weapons system as she lets out an angry squeak of rage against the gunmetal skin of her face. Asher is a meek thing, not prone to rage, but that anger has to go somewhere. Handler channels it, and She knows to use it well in the rare instances when She needs her pup to kill. KILL. The command touches upon Asher's mind like a medicine, dissolving into a tincture of redirected thought. 

A pilot's tantrum—pulled taut into discipline by firm leather hold from across the line—transforms the deferential weakling into something temporarily more competent. Nine and a half seconds to beat, Asher would trip over her own nerves trying to see it done, the fear of losing access to her treat would no doubt ruin her composure. Here, now, all that the remains can think about is... KILL. All she needs is KILL. KILL the weakling inside of you. KILL the beast that makes you whole. KILL HETTIE. 

Within just three seconds, the lithe mech is on all fours. The enemy reacts quickly, but not quick enough. Time slows to a near halt and seconds become minutes. In this state of flow, Asher-pup feels like a perfect weapon for its Handler. It acts without reason, only orders fuel it, and spit hangs like motor oil from its mouth ready to ignite at any second. The enkindled pup cranes its head forward, in heavy metal hood, and readies the automatic grenade launcher on its back which slides on rail from its compacted state before clicking into place. It only took four seconds, she's going to make it in time to KILL! Pleasure stirs like a phantom in her groin; there's nothing but perfect smoothness down there now, which is completely okay because impressing Handler feels better than any sex ever could. She owns the pup's everything, from her rage to her lust; most of all, she has the poor thing's love, and so chooses to swallow her whole. Two seconds left to make the KILL.

The larger walker, made for battle, reels back in slow-motion. Far too slow. There's a small boom as the heavy-duty fragmentation grenade slips free from Dog-Face's back. A sound that Asher-pup is unable to hear, complemented by words she could never shut out. 

"Return To The Dark." Pup recedes, Asher blinking rapidly and watching a silhouetted blur drop into the closing enemy cockpit. It would be hilarious, if it weren't so horrifying.

The world does not return to motion just yet. Handler switches the channel back, wanting Asher to listen. The moment the initial bang fills hear ears, there's a flash of white light shining out through the tinted glass coverings of the umber giant on the other side of the kicking dust—and the world stops entirely.

The flash, the sound, kick that lying ghost of memory into gear and remind Asher of a past existence she'd been saved from. 

"Hey, Ashy? -- Sorry we fought. -- Again. -- Kiss me? -- I'm scared." The ghost of Hettie, yet to truly pass, flashes her old smile. Asher is enthralled to a different feeling, her anger washed away in waves of tenderness and guilt. Finality. The thing that used to love the thing that's set to die. Handler took all that love, there's none spare to give, so the act of Asher lurching forwards and pressing the snout of her mask against the glass to oblige that last request? It's nothing but another ghost. 

In a wondrous eruption of blinding blue and redolent red, Hettie and her crew are rent to particles—no more meaningful than the loose dirt and sand surrounding them. Tears are ghosts, but Asher's smile is for keeps. She did as Handler asked, perfectly, and now she's going to receive her treat!

The walking tomb buckles and summarily collapses onto the ground. It'll explode again soon, and then it'll be like it never existed at all. A true death in erasure, Asher's lingering attachments disappearing along with it.

Hettie who.

A siren sound blares out, Asher's ears still protected by the hood cast around her head. Heavy doors slide open, teasingly slow, to reveal a hangar lined with titanium beasts ready to depart for slaughter. It's Scarlet Pack, by the looks of the red warpaint on their killing machines, Asher lowering the snout of her Dog-Face deferentially when she spots the Alpha upon entry. Before Asher is more than a few weak strides into the hangar, her walker is hosed down by a pair of unfriendly menials who do not wait for her to exit before proceeding with their jobs. 

"Home again, Ashy..." The pilot flicks her bobblehead and it nods in agreement, making everything feel just a little better. Before departing her mech, which sets itself down on the opposite side to the Hounds preparing for the hunt, Asher reaches behind her seat and grabs her filthy blanket with desperately clutching fingers. Despite the arid climate of this sector, the hangar is like a fridge. More than that, though, Asher just needs something soft and cosy to wrap herself up in for a while before true comfort comes—before Handler arrives. 

Finding an opening to escape her scout-walker, Asher steps down with quaking legs and tucks herself away in an even deeper corner of the hangar, pulling the blanket over her shoulders and eclipsing her front; all that pokes out from that scruffy shroud of safety is a head made from metal, resembling that of a bat. Asher watches the dogs get ready to set out, her machine having sent over all the relevant intel already. The Alpha of the pack, Scarlet, takes note of the pup observing them and carries herself over with a proud gait that Asher could never hope to match. 

Boot-steps fall heavy against the ground, an ear-muffed Asher feeling them much better than she can hear them. Before long, she finds herself cast in another's shadow—a comforting feeling, if she's honest.

"Waiting for your treat again, little puppy?" Snarls the woman through Asher's headset, having learnt already that the runt won't be able to hear her otherwise. 

Lifting her head meekly, wanting to raise her blanket over it and disappear into a world of fantasy, Asher locks eyes with Scarlet Lenke, former hero of some renown in the rebellion, turned Imperial asset. Now, she leads old comrades fresh from reconditioning in sorties against the dwindling rebel forces—reunited in betrayal, desperate to appease their Handler. The word 'treat' in an asylum such as this is a holy grail of consequence-defying need, it is unequivocally worth flaying your own humanity, your personhood for, each and every time you're told to KILL. 

Of course, not all assets require the same motivation, and so treats can vary greatly. _{"Y-yeah... I'm... so excited."} Asher's chest thrums, and her skin begins to buzz. The mere thought of Handler's gift stills her conscience entirely. 

Scarlet cannot help but laugh, nor would she want to. Most Alphas are like this, they have to pump themselves silly with confidence and cruelty whenever they find something weaker than them, else they'll fall to pieces themselves, break apart into something useless to Handler. "You realise how funny it is to us, right? I was by Handler's side in the control room... or well, near enough to that," Scarlet blushes, adjusting the muzzle digging into her face bashfully, "and I just can't get over it. You killed those people for a fucking banana." 

The teasing makes Asher pout heavily within her mask, tilting her head off to the side in a sulk. "They... were Handler's enemies." Always Her enemies, never The Empire's. If Handler joined the rebellion, Her broken pets would surely follow. "It's no different to your treat." The girl mumbles weakly, squeaking loudly when Scarlet swings her boot between Asher's legs and parts them with ease. The scuffed brown leather, far less lustrous than those long black boots worn by Handler, presses roughly into Asher's sexless groin. 

"You really got nothing down there, huh? It's very different, pup. I get it, I do, they've got you eating from tubes between jobs, yeah? I bet getting to chow down on something normally is wonderful, but here's the rift between us: You get to use your mouth, and we get to use our cunts, but unlike you we still have our fucking mouths." Feeling the need to accentuate her point, Scarlet presses deeper and her eyes widen when Asher yelps in response. "Oh?"

The scout pulls her blanket up, hugging it tightly as she moans through thin lips. "P-please... ahhn..." 

The hound gives Asher the stare of a true predator, nostrils flaring like she's caught the scent of prey-blood. "You little fucker, did you lie to get out of service hours? Lucky your face is probably ugly as sin." Alpha Scarlet drops to her knees, an all too natural position for her to assume after years of being cored out by a superior being, and reaches for the sides of Asher's charcoal grey cargo pants. "Show me what you've been hiding, pup, I'm gonna report to Handler that nullification crap you sold us and—"

Scarlet pauses, Asher's trousers and underwear yanked down to mid thigh to expose her sex to the chilled Hangar air. She finds the reason for Asher's squirming staring back at her, and nods in sudden understanding. Asher is trying her best to push her thighs together and hide something that was just for her and Handler, thrashing uselessly against the musclebound Alpha's strong touch. _{"Mean to me..."} The scout chokes, feeling her legs being spread apart to give Scarlet a clearer view of something special, the aftermath of her last briefing with Handler. 

In the smoothed over space between one thigh and the next, Scarlet lays curious eyes upon a canvas—marred with burns left by cigarette and stained with smears of rouge. "What the hell is this?"

Taking a moment to find her voice, Asher answers honestly; she isn't allowed to lie to her betters, after all. "During briefing... Handler, She... sits me up on the desk and asks me questions. About weird things: memories, people, places." The pup takes a breath, getting used to being exposed like this surprisingly fast. "If I get an answer right, She... stubs it out on me." Her breath hitches in remembrance, and Scarlet traces a grubby fingertip over one of the burns curiously. "If I instead... answer correctly, admit that I don't know... don't remember... I get Her lips. Handler's kisses are soooo wonderful, they make me wanna forget all the answers so I can just—"

Asher's thought process is entirely scrambled by the sudden rattling in her head, ears ringing and eyes losing focus. Scarlet struck her hood, and hard. "What a crock of shit, you really are pathetic. Handler wouldn't touch any of us like that, let alone someone so low down on the totem pole." Her anger causes Asher to shrink, wanting to be saved again by a woman in shiny leathers that makes her head fill with candyfloss. 

"I-I'm not... I-I just...." 

"Tell me the truth. Now. Or I swear I'll put much worse than a few little burns on your body." The Alpha grabs Asher by the collar and lifts her up into the air, making the short girl kick her legs out violently to try and break free before none of this matters anymore. 

A clack of boots, loud enough that she can somehow hear it through her muffs. A voice sparking like electricity, arcing high voltage through their brains. A presence reserved for gods. Better than god. Her.

"Enough." The word wipes all the anger from Scarlet's face, her snarl becomes serenity carved onto human flesh one session at a time. "Put her down and get ready to depart." Handler steps closer, each clack of her boots like a snapping of fingers obliterating any will to resist Her pull. Orders are absolute. 

Scarlet does as she is told, she has no other choice. With a light thud, Asher drops down onto the floor and scrambles to pull her cargo pants back up and wrap herself tight in dirty blanket. 

"Handler! I-I..."

"You understand that she's off limits, yes? Asher here is not a packmate, you do not have beating privileges." The strictness of Her tone, the admonishing nature, makes Scarlet's eyes well with tears even as she does her best to put on a brave face. She understands she did wrong, but there's no chance that's enough to make up for it. Not with Handler. "We'll continue this after you're back from your deployment, Hound. Just the two of us, and don't worry... I'll put much worse than a few little burns on your body." The corner of the woman's lip turns upwards, leather half-cape and silky auburn ponytail flowing in the Hangar's artificial breeze. 

The Alpha really does appear to be nothing but a beaten dog now, a mutt, whimpering under its owner's harsh—but just—chiding. "Y-yes Sir," she whimpers, before skulking off back to her pack with a dangerous hunch in her shoulders; should she not get her shit together, the Hounds she leads might sniff out her weakness and challenge their Alpha for the title. Such is the way of things here. 

Handler turns with two carefully considered steps, every movement She makes is perfection. Simply sitting in the woman's aura, bathing in the light of those constellations that spill out from betwixt light absorbing black leathers, is enough to make Asher forget the distress that had troubled her only moments prior. The past five minutes become a ghost, and Asher sits restlessly in wait for her treat. She's been such a good girl, and besides, she can see the bulge in the long pocket of her Handler's coat. 

"I'd break her wrists for laying hands on you like that if she weren't such a valuable pilot. Are you hurt, sweetie?" That cloying, affectionate tone returns and Asher shakes her head rapidly. "Good. Good girl. I've brought you a treat for your excellent work today, even if you faltered." 

"it won't happen again, i-i got her this time. for good. she's gone and... and i'm not confused anymore, like you said. i'm loyal, Handler, i'm good... i think. s-sorry, ehehe, not my place to say..." A firm leather hand plants itself atop Asher's hood and she finds herself calming down instantly, leaning up into that rub she can feel naught but the weight of. It's enough to make her melt into a puddle of a person, slumping on the ground in her blanket with the dopiest of smiles spreading over her sweaty face. 

"Relax, little one. You mentioned a Hettie, do you remember her? This is important." The commanding voice is something Asher finds herself eternally grateful for, it means she no longer has to think for herself at all while it's assuming full control of her. It's bliss, to be nothing but an extension of your owner's will; a ring on the end of Her finger, molten gold band. Same bonds, different shape, a marriage of dominance and submission. Asher can hear bells. 

"no... not really, she was annoying. she was picking on me... but she looked just like..." Lifting her head while Handler's fingers still hold it firm, Asher stares upon infinity. Framed between neat daggers of dark ginger hair is an ever-expanding cosmos, within which Asher witnesses the births and deaths of stars—supernovas bright enough to fill her empty little head with white. The sight is so very painful to look at, Asher averting her eyes and blinking away the afterimage of a thousand suns searing into her retinas. Handler is too much for her lowly vision; her head was designed to bow. 

"You got her, sweetie, she'll trouble you no longer. Now, present your neck to me." 

The order hits Asher with a revitalised wave of giddy bliss, the pilot quickly lowering down and using her hands to support herself against the floor by Handler's boots. The footwear is just as mesmerising as the rest of the woman, even if Asher does not fully understand the appeal of rutting against them as the Hounds do. Asher's treat is much more exciting, she'd raze everything she ever loved without a second thought just to taste it one more time. The sentiment has never felt so literal. 

Leather digits slide silver key into the small padlock at the back of the pup's helmet, and the back unlatches. Handler pries the gunmetal casing off carefully and lifts it over Asher's head, placing it down on the floor to their side and firmly cupping her pilot's chin in Her hand. 

Asher's face is deep red, coated in a heavy sheen of sweat with light acne hugging her cheeks. Greasy raven hair is matted to her forehead, and her eyes are mousy little jewels of black. The girl is chewing her lips, hyperventilating, pushing as hard as she is able into Handler's grip with a dizzy, gleeful headrush overtaking her. All she can think about is treat, the anticipation obliterating any shred of personality she had before the mask came free.

"Does my good girl want her treat?" Handler teases with a smugness, and a fondness, that She only displays for Her scout. How can She not? It's only natural to have favourites, even if Hers is a lowly whelp like Asher. 

"yes... yes yes... please yes oh please oh please... ehehehe... ehe... p-please Handler... treat... treat!" The pup forgets its blanket, lobotomised by tenuous promise. It leans forwards on its knees and drools onto the leather that cups its face more harshly, pushes in its cheeks and makes it giggle like a brainless moron. Handler's stupid bitch, salivating like a faucet at the thought of a treat so simple it should shame her. _"treat..." Asher's mouth twitches, her eyes fluttering. 

"My, you're so adorable." Speaks the woman, dark affection tinting Her impossibly confident voice. Unlike an Alpha, a Handler does not have to compete for their position; each of them are chosen, and only one occupies each outpost. Drool hangs from the woman's gloved hand, Handler letting go of Asher's chin and wiping the mess into the girl's fringe. "Open up now, dear." Her hand returns, thumb pushing down on the drooling thing's lower lip and opening her waiting maw, hot breaths rasping out erratically. Asher's gaze is empty, treat time consumes her fully. 

From Her deep pocket, Handler retrieves something bright and golden. Treat. A perfectly ripe one at that, curved into the shape of a smile. 

"ahhh... treat... treat..." Asher mumbles deliriously, making a sticky mess of her front. Her head is fucked by desire, a Pollock painting of wet and pathetic need all coalescing into a single word that dribbles from her lips mindlessly. Perfectly. "treeeaaatt~" 

Handler smiles, contorting constellations into a kind array of light that makes Asher wilt into a compliant toy against Her thumb. The bloodshed from earlier in the day, the bullying from Scarlet Lenke, all become ghosts. All she has is now, an everything she'll gladly swallow for. "Here you go, pup. You've earnt it. I'm proud." Handler's thumb pulls away and Asher dares not move her head past light bobbing from that overwhelming gravity. Dilating pupils reflect the peeling of her treat, a white interior that makes her helpless against ruining her top with dark stains. The treat hovers, and Handler playfully taps it against Asher's nose to tease her. The pup's eyes cross to stare at the fruit she craves more than old flames, her throat gurgling with attempted giggles that come out as needy groans. The treat lowers, touches upon the girl's lip, and finally slides over her tongue. Asher lets it invade her mouth as far as it'll fit before closing down her jaw on it and starting to mush it up in her mouth desperately. Her chewing is babyish, mewling, her cheeks burning hotter than the suns she sees in Handler's visage. She lets the flavour coat every part of her mouth, craning forwards to take more in to mush up with her dulled teeth, smiling simply and chirping in delight. Her sing-song whines are music to her Handler's ears, her body humming in tune. This is everything. 

While Asher Kohl enjoys her treat, Handler holds a sleek black handset to Her ear—slipped free from the other pocket—and answers calmly. "Are you there Sir?" A couple of seconds pass, before the light tone in Her voice darkens to the same degree it had when She addressed Her Alpha. "Oh. Good afternoon to you as well, I wasn't aware of your promotion. Mother take your Hounds and make you her secretary, Mycelia? How precious." 

Asher isn't listening to the conversation her Handler is having, why would she? It's treat time, all she needs to do is mush up her 'nana like a good little creature and swallow when she's done. She savours the process, a mess of pale yellow seeping from the corners of her beaming smile. 

"Okay, well, whatever. I hardly care, please just pass me onto Her. She did request a call, and I'm not one to keep our Mother waiting." Handler's impatience is a ghost. Her frustration evaporates the moment the second voice trickles out from her handset and into open ears. A husky dulcet concerto of motherly love, as compelling as it is blackened. Handler's entire demeanour shifts, she straightens up and her voice becomes secondary. "Yes, she's receiving her treat now. Scarlet pack is heading out to dispatch the front line. Oh ah... storm's dying down, we're striking as fast as we're able to yes. Yes, Mother. Reconnaissance had an unexpected hiccup, but I handled it..." The woman loosens her collar, pushing the treat roughly into her brainless pup's gnashing teeth. "Mm, yes. Rebels, in a heavy-class walker. They were scouting in a bulky thing like that, we've got them paranoid of the dogs at their necks. They... mistook my Asher's scouter for one of theirs, it's no great wonder why. Yeah... opened their cockpit hatch, can you believe it? Comms failed, because I blocked them of course, and I suppose they must have figured a light frame like that, not even concealing its pilot to the elements, was able to be yelled to."

A part of Asher almost wants to listen in, but it's such an anaemic slither of her soul that it falls back in line before she can even take her next bite. Whatever Handler is talking about sounds complicated and boring, it's nothing for her to worry about.

"She saw Hettie again. Imagined the pilot reaching out to her, seeking her out on some grand mission. Don't worry, I think we ended it this time. Yes, of course. That woman died a long time ago, Mother, you know that. She'll be good, I promise. Mm... yes Sir, I know. I'll keep you updated, then?" A few seconds after asking this question, Handler slips her handset back into her coat's pocket and sighs. A moment after that, She's smiling again, stroking midnight fingers through matching hair. "Your clothes need washing, let's get you changed and in bed."

With dull affection in her wide black eyes, Asher swallows the final mouthful of her treat and manages to stop herself shy of eating the peel too. Her face is in a state, Handler retrieving a small hand towel and wiping it clean while the pup kneels passively in her blanket. She's regressed so far, mentally, in the past ten minutes, and it always takes her a while to resurface into something more functional. Her owner holds out a hand wreathed in comforting leather, the texture of which represents safety and love, and Asher takes it eagerly. The girl's legs shake violently when she's pulled up onto her feet, dirty blanket under one arm and the other holding onto Handler for dear life. 

"i love you... i love Handler... ashy loves Handler." She nods, reassured by her own ditzy speech, that thin slither of soul—its final lashings long overdue—wondering if there was ever anything more to Asher Kohl before this love ballooned inside of her and pushed it all out, smothered and snuffed the old emotions in their cribs. She does not care, for she can not care. She is an asset, and she is sleepy. A tired little yawn escapes her lips as Handler's fingers clasp into hers and guide her out of the hangar. The first thing she does is grab her helmet, then she makes sure to wave goodbye to Dog-Face, and little Ashy, before turning back to watching Handler's stride with the awe of a child perceiving their parent as an infallible giant. Handler is the tallest thing in this entire hangar. 

They walk side by side, a horror-show of parent and child, for the next three minutes and twenty-five seconds; Asher counts, because she's a good scout who takes note of these things. This count elapses until they enter the pilot's private room and Handler instructs Her pup to undress. Asher does so mechanically, peeling out of her sweaty, drool-stained thermal top and slipping down her cargo pants to step out of. The clothes are deposited into a hamper in the corner of the sky blue room and Asher turns automatically towards her Handler once she's finished, like a plant that knows to always face the sun. It's certainly akin to staring at the sun, facing Handler head on like this, but Asher's empty enough right now to do so without needing to look away.

Sitting on Asher's cot is a set of thick cotton pyjamas, sky blue and decorated with a pattern of friendly looking bats. The wrists and ankles are cuffed in a slightly lighter blue, which also lines the collar. She's not allowed to drool all over these, but Handler always has a solution for everything, guiding Asher to sit beside her nightwear on the bed and cupping the underside of her chin. Once again, from Her long coat pocket, like She's pulling from a magic hat, Handler retrieves a small object that forms such a stark contrast to the abyssal black fist it sits within: a pacifier shaped like the head of a daisy, white with yellow centre. With all the love of a surrogate mother, Handler pushes the dummy past Asher's wet lips and plugs Her good girl shut. 

"Left leg." She commands, and Asher obeys, sucking passively on the object in her mouth. She's a sky puppy now, and she'll remain in this docile state until she's next called upon. 

The sky puppy's left leg slides into pyjama bottom, then when Handler calls for the right leg she obeys again and finds herself dressed from the waist down. Asher sucks, head bobbing unintelligently, the day has been so tiring and now she finally gets to turn off properly. 

"Arms up, sweetie." Asher responds in that same passive, dumb way, letting Handler finish dressing her and setting down into her cot with a contentedness that most people would spend their whole lives hunting. In a world of Ahabs, Asher is the whale; drifting until the moment she's poked, aggressive when it's needed but indifferent to the concept of vengeance. Content, peaceful, perfect.

"I cannot stay with you tonight, Scarlet pack will need me there in the hangar when they return else they'll be lost... which is dangerous. Chain of command used to be a shorter leash, less links to break. I'll check in on you later, make sure you're sleeping. If I find you waiting up for me again I'll half your next treat. Or maybe that's too far off a threat for you, with your dwindling permanence. Instead, I'll shove my fingers so far down your throat you'll be giving me back today's treat. Do you understand, dear?"

The asset nods dully, its vision blurring. Handler's affection is a rag doused in chloroform, held firm against her spotty little face. 

"Good girl. Nighty night, sky puppy." 

With a clack of black boots and a flicking of lights, Subordinate Handler Henrietta Swinecress exits the room.