It dreams of flying, not the poor facsimile of Its mech forcing itself through the air, not the brutal efficiency of the transport.
Instead, updrafts, headwinds, cold air against its greying skin. Flight, with wings and feathers and canvas, not... It
Its mind had wandered again, surely the mainframe caught it. Its gaoler Handler would reprimand and recondition it for the mistake. That would mean more painful memories, less time outside, and no balcony access. Its window would be overridden and opaque, stuck in that flat grey box it was told was home.
The mainframe had indeed caught the lapse in attention, the attempted recollection, those old memories that would eventually break a Hound but were needed to keep it viable. Within a minute, a report was printed and delivered to the Handler at her desk.
She had been delaying it, there was something sentimental about the Hound's dreams. Similar to hers, however long ago, before the protests, the boycotts, the uprisings, and the tightening noose. Hard to ignore what was already obvious, regardless of what orders she got anymore said. The blockade had not been lifted, her facility sieged for the past week.
Leaving her office, she turned off the lights and left her coat in her chair. Some historian type would probably vilify her worse than the demons at the gates by the end of all of this. There's some small satisfaction in a final denial, though.
It hadn't been ordered to stand down, and It had been active and awaiting the deployment order since the facility went to Full Alert 126 hours ago. The buzzer at the door sounded, Its implant shocked It to attention. Surely, Its warden staffer had come to confirm the order soon to arrive, and It waited for the door to open, revealing the-
Handler.
That didn't make sense, the Handler (for even thinking of gaoler was impossible, so close to the authority) was out of uniform, no precedent for this had ever been made before. Its conditioning overrode the feeble cognition still left to the Hound, forcing it back into the commands of the Handler, following them into the service elevator.
After a tediously uncertain wait, the Handler and the Hound arrived on the rooftop of the Facility's Citadel. Seems the devils were starting their assault now, their first and final, having simply waited them out. The Handler brought her dying, sagging sack of bones that barely resembled the Hound who she had instituted herself to the precipice. They took one last look at their Hound, removed Its collar, and pushed.
And for one, glorious, beautiful moment, the distant artillery an orchestra and the fireworks above, It flew.
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amandla
yousharknotpass
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