Handler training her Hound to resist interrogation
"Kneel," she commands, and the order is obeyed without hesitation. The Hound stares up at the master of its universe with rapturous adoration. "Good," she coos. "Now, tell me what I want to know."
"No," it replies, though it takes an immense force of willpower to defy its Handler, even if that is the point of the exercise. It barely has time to flinch before a hand strikes it across the face, leaving its cheek burning red and stinging. The Hound catches its breath and stares up at its Handler.
"I'll reward you if you tell me," the Handler promises. It almost cracks at the temptation, but the Hound resolves itself to defiance.
"No," it repeats. The second smack is harder, more deliberate, a greater windup behind it. The Hound flinches too quickly and is almost knocked off balance by the force of the strike. It hopes to itself that the bruises will last a long time. It will be proud of them.
"I can do this all day," she says and the Hound knows she isn't lying. The pain will not stop until it breaks. "Tell me."
"No," it states. The Handler's boot connects with its stomach in the blink of an eye and the Hound is left doubling over, battling the urge to retch. "I wont-" it begins, before she interrupts it with a followup smack across the face. The Hound accidentally bites its tongue as the blow sends it reeling. Pain spreads throughout its body like a virus, infecting every part of it. It adores the sensation. It finds it beautiful, perfect, utterly desirable. The Hound tilts its head back up, and braces itself for the next hit, eager to feel its sting.
"You want to be a good dog, don't you?" Handler asks, her voice smooth as silk and honey. The Hound almost barks out the word 'yes' but somehow restrains itself at the last possible moment. It must not tell Handler anything. It must not fail. "Don't you?" There is almost genuine sorrow in her voice, a desperation to hear her Hound admit that it wants to be good for its Handler. It causes a pain to the Hound more acute than anything the Handler has done so far.
"I see," the Handler scowls and grabs the Hound by the throat, yanking it forward. She slaps it once, twice, three then four times, each hit harder than the last, all the while the hand around its neck is like a vice grip, cutting off all air and threatening to crush the windpipe. The fifth hit sends the Hound crashing to the floor.
The Hound tastes blood in its mouth, the sweet, sharp iron tang of blood fills its senses. The taste is like nectar. Its vision is swimming, its arms weak, but somehow it summons the strength to push itself back upright. The Hound sits proudly upon its knees and regards its Handler, meeting her uncompromising gaze.
"Thank you, Handler," the Hound smiles as it feels blood trickle down its lip and drip onto its thighs. It wants more. It craves more. It knows it will never give up any secret to the enemy. The pain will only make it smile again, as it brings memories of its Handler flooding back.
Its eyes wander to the knife strapped to Handler's hip. She follows the Hound's sight and they share a moment of understanding. The Handler reaches for the hilt of the blade. It is time for the next lesson.
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