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I need to be one with my mech. I need to be submerged in immersion fluid as wires hook up to my body and brain, making me a cog in the machine that is my mech unit. I need to be part of something bigger, I need to meld my mind with something mechanical and cold. Something uncaring. I need to be in the cockpit for the rest of my life. I need orders to obey, enemies to kill... I need it so bad.
a hound that anticipates the feeling of being strapped in the cockpit again. craves the moment it'll train its eyes on its target to deliver the killing blow. its unstoppable on the battlefield. a force to be reckoned with. its Handler's voice fan the flames of triumph that blaze in its chest.
a hound that is maintained with precision, its primed for utilization at a moment's notice. calibrated rigorously. it will never misfire under the will of its Handler.
a hound that tears through the enemy. one that laps up the praise in its ears with a whimper.
Imagining how it would feel for a hound if it ever managed to escape me.
Some dregs of resistance still left in its ruined mind spark, a feeble fleeting feeling of humanity. It reminds itself that it is a person, it deserves better. It should be seen and treated as an equal, with love and desire.
It soon realises the difficulty in its new found task. It is in a completely different country than before it was mine. All of its documentation and paperwork belonging to me. No access to any bank acounts, phones or ways to contact anyone but me.
Everytime people look at it, it is clear there is something fundamentally wrong with it. Its eyes are blank and hollow, every word it struggles to gasp out a reminder than human words are unsuited for its tongue. It feels a deep desire to bark, to get on its knees and to do what its told.
Someone sees this in it, goes out to a bar and begins drinking together. It feels nice, almost happy for the first time since abandoning me. It is told to go back home with her. It gets fucked, abused, hit, strangled. All of it incomplete. Incomparable.
It lies awake in her bed while she sleeps, unable to get me out of its thoughts. How much better my hands feel upon it. How much more complete it felt servicing my cock. How every slap and kick and punch from me was a divine blessing.
It runs away once more, but this time back to me. It finds me waiting expectantly, knowing it would inevitably return. It begs and pleads for forgiveness, desperate for a second chance.
It is given one and it is eternally grateful. Thanking me for every cut my knife makes into its flesh. Grateful for every time my boot slams into its stomach. Telling me how much it loves me and how much it wishes it never left. How much more perfect its life is serving my every whim and desire. Forgetting itself and putting me before all else.
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There are no second chances for a Hound under your command.
Your hound hops nimbly down from the access stairs to its mech, bypassing the steps. You stride up to it, each strike of your foot against the steel consistent and explicit and a threat that it seems to have forgotten the gravity of. Its eyes lock on you as you approach, bringing its hands behind its back to stand at attention, and without a word you strike the upper side of its muzzle to jam the rigid steel into the bridge of its nose. "Down.". It makes a little whimper and collapses to the deck, still knowing enough to fall when told, but the sound it made was wrong. Not fear, not the right fear, not the atavistic dread that gives you an unshakable yoke to control its every action and emotion.
It sounded anticipatory. The damn thing expected this after its disobedience, and it was looking forward to it. It confirms your suspicion, that its deviation from orders was not an unconscious failing of the extensive conditioning you've performed on it, but rather that it was a deliberate action taken to get punishment from you, like it could ever request something from you, like it thinks it can make you do a god damn thing. "Up." It climbs up off the steel floor and starts to tuck its legs under itself to present to you, but you knee it in the muzzle again and it slams back and down again, nose dripping blood. "Up."
It should be moving slower, cowed and scared, but its motions retain their energy, and it's wrong. All fucking wrong. It reaches the proper position, both calves tucked under its thighs, hands holding each other behind it, staring up at you, and… right into your eyes. This god damn thing has broken. Yards behind you, your commanding officer and her hound stand watching beyond the railing of the ten yards of walkway approaching the Executioner mech's open cockpit, and her hound can immediately see the problem. It starts to growl, and the pack mentality should be making your mutt shy, but this thing is so fucking miswired that its mouth opens in a slight pant while it stares right into your eyes like it should know it's forbidden to.
"State your name."
"This hound has no name."
That's one thing it got right. Maybe its last.
"State your designation."
"This unit's designation is ES-Zero-Zero-Three."
"State your purpose."
"To go to war and destroy the foes of the Cecilian Consortium."
"State your value."
"This hound's value is in how many of its enemies lie broken at its feet."
Hair prickles up on the back of your neck at the final test. "State its mistake."
"It became too excited to see Handler and left its final target to die on its own without confirming the kill."
That's it. It's lost its fear. Your handgun slides smoothly out of your holster, and you can watch a sick kind of sexual adoration in your hound's eyes for the metal. The slide pulls back with a metallic sound like ceramic across an executioner's axe, and you can see the sweat bead on the hound's skin. Its eyes are locked on the weapon and not on the floor where they should be, and when the barrel is pressed to its temple, those blue eyes find their way up to yours. The pupils are dilated, clearly aroused by the threat, but then they shrink to pinpoints when it sees the look on your face, one that a good, subservient hound would have never been able to look you in the eyes to seem, a look that a good hound would never had as a warning. Its proper fear returns in one massive ice-cold wave, but it's too late.
There are no second chances for a hound under your command.
Recoil.
Its body is left to drain copper blood and cool on the deck as a warning and a reinforcement for those other beasts in the unit that witnessed its disobedience.
This dog became a corpse the second it did not obey its directives to the letter.
If a handler is akin to a god for a hound. Then surely it is normal for a hound to think of itself as divine. An angelic messenger enforcing their handlers will unto the ignorant and tainted.
A hound is pure, free of desire other than to please the divine being that controls their every action and feeling.
How could a hound not worship the very ground their handler walks upon. Creating crude shrines to their God out of even the smallest scraps of their handlers belongings. Anything to tie it closer to the one thing that gives them clarity.
A hound is empty, stripped bear and ready to be subsumed by their handlers will. The deliverer of punishment from a being far more powerful than the punished will ever understand.
There are so many beutiful types of angels for a hound to be.
Some gods like their angels empty inside, devoid of life and only knowing action. Receive commands and execute them perfectly.
Always perfect.
Do not fail her.
Never fail her.
To fail a god would mean the god is flawed.
And such sacrilege can only be met by decommision.
Some gods like their hounds to be of the people they save.
Bright souls that are full of life. Putting them to the side to serve the lives of others.
Hounds that have a life, freinds, desires. Who freely put it all on wait to help the ones in danger. Who's fighting may result in their end but they do it anyways.
Many a handler prefers their angels fallen.
Destroyed desecrated filth that has fallen from their once grand glory days. When their scores were at their peak and missions were met with rewards. So far now that the hound is hopelessly reliant on the combat stims forced into its system just to keep its heart pumping. A hound that is past its prime. Worn and broken.
Halo dulled to a dim glow and feathers plucked from wings as the hound devolves into broken peices of what was.
But no type of angel is special to any god.
An angel is a fraction of the infinite. There can be as many as the divine desires and it will leave them no less almighty. Why would a god attach themselves to something so insignificant.
the way I see it, you've got to hate the muzzle as much as you love it. maybe more.
you have to despise that fucking thing. you have to look at it and know that you're completely fucking gone the second it's put on you. you have to look at it and know that if someone puts it on you, they've got you. you're trapped.
you have to hate how it makes you feel. how you feel like someone's clicked the safety on you. how it makes you calm, obedient, and pliant. you're a fucking weapon, and that fucking thing makes you feel like you're floating on a cloud.
you have to hate the muzzle, and still want it more than anything in the world. you have to fucking fight it at every step, so that when you kneel and let someone put it on you without fighting they know that they've got your spine in their hands and could just rip it out if they wanted.
I fucking hate the muzzle, but I'll still ask for it, cause deep down I know I need it. if there's anything about muzzles that piss me off the most, it's that.
The twisted, sickening feeling of hate and love is central to everything of a hound. Hating how much you've been warped, but loving your Handler for doing so. Hating how much you love Her, loving how much you hate Her.
It should never feel truly comfortable, not a coat you can just slip on and off. Something itchy and uncomfortable, buried under the skin, so deep you can't rip it out without bleeding to death. An eternal presence.
That discordant disonance should be a stain on your mind, unable to ever really shake it. Disgust, rage, devotion, adoration, guilt, shame, redemption, emptiness. A swirling maelstrom of emotions ripping you apart at every waking moment, only held together thanks to Her voice and Her presence.
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When you turn a pilot into a hound, you aren't really stripping them of humanity, you're simply giving them freedom.
Some choose to embrace their new animalistic nature, letting them be free of things like "guilt". They're allowed to run free and let everything lose, uninhibited by consequences. They're just a hound after all. Some love the dehumanization their new state offers them, the ability to stop being human, because deep down they never really were. Isn't it freeing to stop pretending?
All this is to say, love your handlers, treat them well. They've given a wonderful gift after all ♥
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mechanic: get out of the mech
hound: you're not my handler
mechanic: get out of the fucking mech i am your MECHANIC
hound: you're not my handler
mechanic: i am your mechanic get out of the mech
hound: im in a mech and youre not
mechanic: GET OUT OF THE FUCKING MECH
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