#handlerhound

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.