a more loyal dog than most

It had taken six hours of meticulous planning for Suki to realise that, really, there was no organising something like this- a beach trip with the amount of people she'd invited, all wildly different. So she'd sent out a date, time, and location, (and a request to only bring small weapons please, she could not handle more bloodshed than absolutely necessary) and let God do the rest.

She sat now on this beach (blissfully empty, for now) wrapped in a cardigan, waiting for the absolute chaos she had brought upon herself to begin.

Ok ok so this is an OPEN RP thingamajig. I wanted to do a summer event thing and the general population voted beach trip so here we are!! Anyone, and I mean ANYONE can join, just don't start a fight (ooc) etc etc.

"Andrei--- come on."

A voice came out from behind as Andrei shook his head, keeping his eyes on the lumpy sand instead of the water. Andrei looked over his shoulder, glancing at Admin with a certain grimacing Cujo by him. They only brought it along for some much needed social exposure therapy, hopefully not ending with someone getting rabies from him.

"Alright... let's go."

Andrei finally followed alongside Admin's side, grabbing and holding the man's hand so that he didn't fall over or vomit again. He was overheating already, covered head to toe in his long-sleeved and long-legged swimwear so that no one saw his skin, his body. He'd always lie and say it's just to prevent sunburns, but everyone could see through and see it as just a defense against the unhealed trauma he held. They made their way down to where the rest of the people gathered, probably finding their way with the group with Hound and such. And most likely deposit Cujo where it could become someone else's problem.

and with that, here comes its chance. andrei has wandered off somewhere to vomit (pathetic. like most things about him.) and his little entourage of hound and the other man have followed him. cujo scans the beach; it recognizes most of these people as accomplices of its kidnappers— some of andrei and hound’s coworkers, a version of frank woods and one of adler. seeing him makes something deep in cujo’s chest ache, but it tries to bury it down; this isn’t its adler. isn’t the adler that loves it, the adler that it would lay its life down for if given the chance. it manages to tear its eyes away, before spotting someone else: a dark-haired stranger lounging in the shade. she seems mild-mannered, but authoritative. she seems like its ticket to freedom. cujo slips away from where andrei told it to “sit, stay” and stalks over towards the woman’s side.

Summary: Adler adopts a unique strategy to get the truth out of his Bell. Cujo doesn’t mind the perversion of intimacy.

Word Count: ~ 1.9k

Warnings: very vague smut (like one mention of jacking off), technical selfcest, religious imagery, psychotic breakdown, body horror, needles, implied brainwashing, implied drugging, spiritual cannibalism, dog motifs, weird wording, Vietnam war, improper use of injury, blood, gore, etc

A/N: for the art/writing exchange (@/yell-hound) , featuring hit oc Cujo/“Bell” (not my oc), and wow is this messed up. This would get me canceled on twitter. inspired vaguely by that one scene from the summer hikaru died, you know the one.

AAAAANYWAYS everyone who’s still here LOOK AT THIS AMAZING FIC MY FRIEND WROTE ME FOR A GIFT EXCHANGE IN OUR SERVER… delicious torture porn 100000/10 and she characterized my rather weird and complex bell oc SO WELLLLLLLL aughhhh,,,, I can’t compliment this enough Woods is my hero for writing this and I can’t stop rereading ittttttt!!!! The “this would get me cancelled on twitter” part came DIRECTLY from my og prompt and she is NOT WRONG, this is devious and fucked-up in all my favorite ways :DDD

the concussion and the gunshot wounds and what feels like a dislocated shoulder are making it hard to ignore that fact. what’s even more concerning, though, is that he doesn’t know where the fuck exfil is. there’s been complete radio silence over comms, but cujo’s still dutifully making its way to the fallback point, where it’s got a sinking feeling there isn’t going to be anyone waiting for him.

it’s not an easy trek. the concussion has cujo’s head spinning, not to mention the probably concerning amount of its own blood it can feel soaking into its tactical gear. but cujo perseveres, or at least tries. he’s got a job to do, and right now, that job is to make it to the damned exfil location.

at some point, he has to give up the ghost, slump against a filthy brick wall and pull its dark balaclava up over its nose with its less-injured-feeling arm to gasp in a few rattling breaths. the night city air tastes like gasoline and cigarette smoke. like adler.

------------------------------------------------------

"FUCK YOU!" Mirren yelled, throwing a strong punch upwards of his jaw. They fight and attempt to tackle each other for a while, each one of them grunting and trying to get the upper hand. Both of them are bruised by the end of it. But with notable effort, Mirren "wins."

"Say you're fucking sorry. SAY YOU'RE FUCKING SORRY!" they yell, before pausing themselves.

"Scratch that. I don't even care. I do not give a damn if you live or die, or we never talk again."

Their fist clenches by their side. It's pathetic. I'm making a fool out of myself and I know it.

They step back.

"I'm leaving this place. Should've never come. Good luck taking care of the dog. My interference clearly isn't needed nor appreciated."

He doesn't know what to do but sit there and think. Had he really ruined everything? Just for the sake of some random man he'd just now gotten know— just because his stupid goddamn morality got to him. Mirren, the man who loved him and he loved back. He screamed at him and got into a physical fight just because of God damn morals. The man who saved him time and time again, the man who stayed with him all this time, the man who loved him.

And yet, like the blood staining into Andrei's hands, he seemed to have ruined it once more. Can he never just sit back and let it happen? Does he have to fight for what's "right"? Andrei cursed himself up and down for this, until he acutely remembered Cujo in the other room.

With a sigh, he got up on shaky legs. No point in chasing Mirren down, they're long gone. And if Andrei fought for Cujo, he might as well stick through to taking care of him.

Damnit, damnit, damnit.

Andrei creeps through the hallway, face still red, bruised, bloodied. Creaking open the door, he looked inside to check on Cujo, see if he was alright at the end of this.

“you fought him. for me.” the statement hangs heavy in the air between them. andrei has shifted, in cujo’s eyes— no longer traitor-traitor-traitor, perhaps closer to traitor-protector-ally? on one hand, the caring embarrasses cujo, humiliates it; cujo is supposed to be sharp edges, clean functionality, not some messy soft thing that needs a deserter to put it back together because another one said some unkind words to it. on the other, it doesn’t think anything has ever felt quite as good as “sweetheart” sounded. sharp edges, clean functionality, but a stab wound and an accidental show of vulnerability and a few soft words and cujo is rolling over for andrei, showing him its soft underbelly. it thinks it could be angry about it if it tried, but there’s something else that needs to be dealt with first.

cujo pulls its hand away from the wound, turning its palm up to show andrei that it’s sticky with blood. it must have ripped some stitches— maybe during its initial escape attempt, maybe while struggling against andrei to try and fight mirren, maybe while self-soothing after its little outburst by slamming its head into the wall and hitting itself wherever it would hurt enough to stop the bad feelings.

the concussion and the gunshot wounds and what feels like a dislocated shoulder are making it hard to ignore that fact. what’s even more concerning, though, is that he doesn’t know where the fuck exfil is. there’s been complete radio silence over comms, but cujo’s still dutifully making its way to the fallback point, where it’s got a sinking feeling there isn’t going to be anyone waiting for him.

it’s not an easy trek. the concussion has cujo’s head spinning, not to mention the probably concerning amount of its own blood it can feel soaking into its tactical gear. but cujo perseveres, or at least tries. he’s got a job to do, and right now, that job is to make it to the damned exfil location.

at some point, he has to give up the ghost, slump against a filthy brick wall and pull its dark balaclava up over its nose with its less-injured-feeling arm to gasp in a few rattling breaths. the night city air tastes like gasoline and cigarette smoke. like adler.

------------------------------------------------------

They swallowed. A mixture of intentions. Mock further, as a "test"? As bait for a reaction, intentionally wanting them both to get beaten up and especially themself specifically?

Or leave this bastard fuck alone.

"Damn. I said just one thing.." they said, looking over their own shoulder in something seemingly akin to nervousness. Surprise, or shock.

They looked down at Cujo in a new gaze, something that's almost fear- but the way you fear a disoriented wild animal. Dehumanising.

They both grind their teeth as a sickness wells inside of Mirren's stomach. A feeling of emotion so intense and blurred it's making them physically unwell. Hostility? Fear? Both. A lot. Mostly the former, or at least that's the one they're most willing to be open about and accept.

"You're sick. All I said was a few small words and you're on all fours, barking. Have you lost all your humanity?"

They crouch, tauntingly.

"If you bite me, I'll fucking let ya. But I will fight back. It'd be grossly entertaining to me especially, to fight you specifically. Rip out my eyes and I'll bite your throat with my teeth. I couldn't exactly blame you either you know."

They stand up, the distance from its head getting larger until their hands are behind their back and they're looking down disappointedly once more.

"I mean, I am the one taunting this. I am who is bringing gasoline to an oil fire. I am the one making this worse; consciously. And you're not even trying to feel the way you are." they said, pacing back and forth, making hand gestures for emphasis unconsciously.

Should I say I'm sorry? Is this guilt? I'm a bad person. I am not good or valuable. I am a bad person. I'm sorry. I'm so-

No. I'm not doing that.

it drops its head, letting it hang to its chest, as if that disguises the fact that it’s crying, fucking crying. at first, it’s quiet— cujo is well-trained in the art of crying quietly— but the all-consuming shame from the realization that andrei and mirren are just standing there, watching it cry like the bitch they both think it is, only makes its little outburst grow from quiet sniffling to full-on, humiliating sobbing.

the concussion and the gunshot wounds and what feels like a dislocated shoulder are making it hard to ignore that fact. what’s even more concerning, though, is that he doesn’t know where the fuck exfil is. there’s been complete radio silence over comms, but cujo’s still dutifully making its way to the fallback point, where it’s got a sinking feeling there isn’t going to be anyone waiting for him.

it’s not an easy trek. the concussion has cujo’s head spinning, not to mention the probably concerning amount of its own blood it can feel soaking into its tactical gear. but cujo perseveres, or at least tries. he’s got a job to do, and right now, that job is to make it to the damned exfil location.

at some point, he has to give up the ghost, slump against a filthy brick wall and pull its dark balaclava up over its nose with its less-injured-feeling arm to gasp in a few rattling breaths. the night city air tastes like gasoline and cigarette smoke. like adler.

------------------------------------------------------

Suddenly, thomping boots are heard walking up the stairs of the apartment block.

Thump. Thump. Thump. Thump. Like someone walking across metal.

The door opens. Not a slam, but not acting gentle either. Like this is just their house.

A small smile comes across their face that they very much struggle to hide upon seeing Andrei. They roll up their balaclava a bit and cough into their elbow to (pathetically) try to hide it.

"Good evening." they say with a respectful nod towards Andrei. "And hello, asshole." they say significantly less respectfully as their head turns to Cujo.

Oh, they could be saying so many things. So many snarky comments that'd make it lose its mind in anger, probably harming itself more in an attempt to lunge at and violently attack them.

Oh, what a pathetic, sloppy, dirty weak little thing we have here. And to think it claimed to be the best version of ME? Me? This is comical, Mirren thinks to themselves.

They turn back to Andrei, who seems to be staring in utter horror at the sudden arrival.

"Okay, before you say anything-

One, how did I find your house. Well, I just did. Don't ask.

Two- just. God. I can't stay here for long. HE doesn't know I left. He'll go ballistic through terror like I'm a toddler walking into a minefield because I left if he knew I had."

to cujo’s credit, it doesn’t lunge immediately. it waits, body trembling with anticipation, until mirren takes a half-step closer, before it lunges, attack dog with a hostile within the range of snapping jaws.

well, it tries. andrei wrestles it back with humiliating ease, shoving it back against the wall with a firm hand at the nape of its neck to keep it from headbutting him. it still fights like hell, struggling so hard it nearly re-dislocates its shoulder before andrei jabs a thumb into one of its newly-stitched wounds, and when it freezes up from the pain, he adjusts to get a better hold on it. cujo’s half-sure it hears andrei whisper an apology in its ear, but it can hardly hear over the rushing of blood in its ears.

the concussion and the gunshot wounds and what feels like a dislocated shoulder are making it hard to ignore that fact. what’s even more concerning, though, is that he doesn’t know where the fuck exfil is. there’s been complete radio silence over comms, but cujo’s still dutifully making its way to the fallback point, where it’s got a sinking feeling there isn’t going to be anyone waiting for him.

it’s not an easy trek. the concussion has cujo’s head spinning, not to mention the probably concerning amount of its own blood it can feel soaking into its tactical gear. but cujo perseveres, or at least tries. he’s got a job to do, and right now, that job is to make it to the damned exfil location.

at some point, he has to give up the ghost, slump against a filthy brick wall and pull its dark balaclava up over its nose with its less-injured-feeling arm to gasp in a few rattling breaths. the night city air tastes like gasoline and cigarette smoke. like adler.

Cujo comes to in a small apartment. It's wrapped up in bandages and new clothing. It's clean, thin, fresh. Comfortable. Nothing like the heavy, drudging equipment it always wears. Andrei's sitting in the living room, making a face as he reads a book in a foreign language. Polish! He looks up, noticing Cujo awake.

Ah. About time you woke up. You've been out for 6 hours and 23 minutes now, your clothes are in the wash, you might be a little high on pain meds, and I've made sure to fully take care of everything for you. Wounds wise, I mean.

Andrei paused, mulling over what to address before Cujo starts screaming and losing its shit.

to its credit, cujo makes it out of the living room and halfway to the apartment’s front door before andrei manages to pin it. it’s a good pin, too— cujo finds itself with his chest pressed against the floor, its arms pulled just far enough behind its back that there’s a tinge of pain, and its legs being knelt on. it can’t scratch or bite or kick andrei, or manage to throw him off, though it makes a valiant attempt. it struggles as well as it can, but as it begins to realize the futility of the struggle it reluctantly stills. not quitting, just… assessing the situation. conserving energy. biding its time.

cujo lies there for a while, panting, its throat rough from snarling and cursing at andrei, when a question begins gnawing at its mind. it elects to ask it— not because it wants to know, because cujo is not supposed to want things, just… to distract andrei. it’s tactical.

the concussion and the gunshot wounds and what feels like a dislocated shoulder are making it hard to ignore that fact. what’s even more concerning, though, is that he doesn’t know where the fuck exfil is. there’s been complete radio silence over comms, but cujo’s still dutifully making its way to the fallback point, where it’s got a sinking feeling there isn’t going to be anyone waiting for him.

it’s not an easy trek. the concussion has cujo’s head spinning, not to mention the probably concerning amount of its own blood it can feel soaking into its tactical gear. but cujo perseveres, or at least tries. he’s got a job to do, and right now, that job is to make it to the damned exfil location.

at some point, he has to give up the ghost, slump against a filthy brick wall and pull its dark balaclava up over its nose with its less-injured-feeling arm to gasp in a few rattling breaths. the night city air tastes like gasoline and cigarette smoke. like adler.

Clothes damp from the drizzle that's started to fall, long blond hair beginning to plaster onto his scarred face; he stops in the mouth of the alleyway when he picks up on soft panting.

At first, he thinks he imagined it; the wind shifting a discarded newspaper across the pavement, or his mind playing cruel tricks on him- because for a moment, that strained breathing against the soft patter of rain picking up and wind shifting the air sounds so achingly familiar it almost brings him to his knees.

His gloved hand goes to the gun he keeps tucked under his arm, and he steps into the alleyway, glancing behind him as he does so. If this is some kind of ambush, he is falling for it. He reaches up to push his hair from his face and ventures further into the damp darkness. The smell of blood gets stronger and stronger; finally, he sees a figure, slumped away from any streetlights; balaclava pulled up, mouth open to pull in shallow breaths.

cujo’s eyelids feel heavy, and it’s still so, so tired, but he manages to open his eyes the tiniest bit. squints, vision blurred with the concussion and the low light, sees— blond hair, scarred face. adler? no. hair’s too long. a stranger.

a stranger, and he’s too close. cujo bares bloodied teeth at him, desperate wounded dog. it makes an attempt to get up, move away, create some distance between them, but stays held down by its heavy limbs.

It takes a moment for him to speak. He is considering his words; if it would be safer for him to just stand and walk away, if he would be better off letting this stranger fade away on the wet concrete, slumped against the brick wall.

“why…” it manages to grind out in a voice choked with pain “…why should i trust you.” regrets it a second later; what if this man really is a doctor, and he gets annoyed with cujo and leaves? cujo doesn’t want to die, and certainly not here, his blood mixing with all the other rubbish strewn around the alley. desperate enough to want to apologize, but too tired to do so, it tries to communicate with its eyes instead; gives the blond man his best pleading look, green eyes hazy under half-open eyelids.

He is not impervious to that pleading look; never has been, in all honesty, very good at resisting puppy-dog eyes gazing up at him desperately. Remembers too-similar blue green eyes exactly like that, looking at him as a dog looks at its owner.

He makes a split second decision then. It is too late; he can not simply stand and run. There is blood on his gloves now; he is involved. He has to help.

There's a first aid kit in his car. He can picture it clear as day, tucked into the glovebox next to another (concealed) gun and an unopened bottle of painkillers. He glances at the stranger once more.

“…maybe,” it finally chokes out. “with— with help. ‘n i might pass out halfway through.” cujo doesn’t know how it feels about being told by this strange man not to trust him, but it can feel its consciousness starting to fade and the man has offered help in his fleetingly familiar accent. cujo knows he will die if he refuses. he thinks adler would be angry if he died.

the concussion and the gunshot wounds and what feels like a dislocated shoulder are making it hard to ignore that fact. what’s even more concerning, though, is that he doesn’t know where the fuck exfil is. there’s been complete radio silence over comms, but cujo’s still dutifully making its way to the fallback point, where it’s got a sinking feeling there isn’t going to be anyone waiting for him.

it’s not an easy trek. the concussion has cujo’s head spinning, not to mention the probably concerning amount of its own blood it can feel soaking into its tactical gear. but cujo perseveres, or at least tries. he’s got a job to do, and right now, that job is to make it to the damned exfil location.

at some point, he has to give up the ghost, slump against a filthy brick wall and pull its dark balaclava up over its nose with its less-injured-feeling arm to gasp in a few rattling breaths. the night city air tastes like gasoline and cigarette smoke. like adler.

Clothes damp from the drizzle that's started to fall, long blond hair beginning to plaster onto his scarred face; he stops in the mouth of the alleyway when he picks up on soft panting.

At first, he thinks he imagined it; the wind shifting a discarded newspaper across the pavement, or his mind playing cruel tricks on him- because for a moment, that strained breathing against the soft patter of rain picking up and wind shifting the air sounds so achingly familiar it almost brings him to his knees.

His gloved hand goes to the gun he keeps tucked under his arm, and he steps into the alleyway, glancing behind him as he does so. If this is some kind of ambush, he is falling for it. He reaches up to push his hair from his face and ventures further into the damp darkness. The smell of blood gets stronger and stronger; finally, he sees a figure, slumped away from any streetlights; balaclava pulled up, mouth open to pull in shallow breaths.

cujo’s eyelids feel heavy, and it’s still so, so tired, but he manages to open his eyes the tiniest bit. squints, vision blurred with the concussion and the low light, sees— blond hair, scarred face. adler? no. hair’s too long. a stranger.

a stranger, and he’s too close. cujo bares bloodied teeth at him, desperate wounded dog. it makes an attempt to get up, move away, create some distance between them, but stays held down by its heavy limbs.

It takes a moment for him to speak. He is considering his words; if it would be safer for him to just stand and walk away, if he would be better off letting this stranger fade away on the wet concrete, slumped against the brick wall.

“why…” it manages to grind out in a voice choked with pain “…why should i trust you.” regrets it a second later; what if this man really is a doctor, and he gets annoyed with cujo and leaves? cujo doesn’t want to die, and certainly not here, his blood mixing with all the other rubbish strewn around the alley. desperate enough to want to apologize, but too tired to do so, it tries to communicate with its eyes instead; gives the blond man his best pleading look, green eyes hazy under half-open eyelids.

the concussion and the gunshot wounds and what feels like a dislocated shoulder are making it hard to ignore that fact. what’s even more concerning, though, is that he doesn’t know where the fuck exfil is. there’s been complete radio silence over comms, but cujo’s still dutifully making its way to the fallback point, where it’s got a sinking feeling there isn’t going to be anyone waiting for him.

it’s not an easy trek. the concussion has cujo’s head spinning, not to mention the probably concerning amount of its own blood it can feel soaking into its tactical gear. but cujo perseveres, or at least tries. he’s got a job to do, and right now, that job is to make it to the damned exfil location.

at some point, he has to give up the ghost, slump against a filthy brick wall and pull its dark balaclava up over its nose with its less-injured-feeling arm to gasp in a few rattling breaths. the night city air tastes like gasoline and cigarette smoke. like adler.

Clothes damp from the drizzle that's started to fall, long blond hair beginning to plaster onto his scarred face; he stops in the mouth of the alleyway when he picks up on soft panting.

At first, he thinks he imagined it; the wind shifting a discarded newspaper across the pavement, or his mind playing cruel tricks on him- because for a moment, that strained breathing against the soft patter of rain picking up and wind shifting the air sounds so achingly familiar it almost brings him to his knees.

His gloved hand goes to the gun he keeps tucked under his arm, and he steps into the alleyway, glancing behind him as he does so. If this is some kind of ambush, he is falling for it. He reaches up to push his hair from his face and ventures further into the damp darkness. The smell of blood gets stronger and stronger; finally, he sees a figure, slumped away from any streetlights; balaclava pulled up, mouth open to pull in shallow breaths.

cujo’s eyelids feel heavy, and it’s still so, so tired, but he manages to open his eyes the tiniest bit. squints, vision blurred with the concussion and the low light, sees— blond hair, scarred face. adler? no. hair’s too long. a stranger.

a stranger, and he’s too close. cujo bares bloodied teeth at him, desperate wounded dog. it makes an attempt to get up, move away, create some distance between them, but stays held down by its heavy limbs.

Lies. I am what you could only imagine. Nationally loved, internationally hated.

EVERYONE knows my fuckin' name. And I've never even heard of you.

I am a Commander, for fucks sake. I am an elite high-ranking soldier in an international spy ring that started World War III.

The power I have is nigh but incomprehensible to you. This is not a threat, just a statement.

I am what you dream you could be. I AM better than you. And you know it too, don't you? That's why you didn't choose to interact with me of your own volition.

Coward.

- @adlers-former-protege.

oh, fuck OFF. your posturing, your power, you title, none of that makes you better than me, just louder.

and no. no, i don’t want to be you. you, “commander” though you may be, are the ultimate fucking traitor. you betrayed your team, you betrayed adler, you betrayed the entire western world and all its citizens.

i would rather die a thousand times than be you. you may be powerful, you may feel vindicated, but morally you’re corrupt. degraded. lower than the ground i walk on, and i’m not deluded enough to think i’m in some lofty fucking position myself. say what you want, think what you think, but i know where I stand; with my team, and above you.

"Oh saint Lucifer, you have got to be even more deluded than I am!" Mirren says between laughter, struggling to catch their breath.

"ME? A traitor? Dear Lucifer, that's a high claim. But you wanna know the truth, huh?

YOU are the true traitor here. You were KIDNAPPED, drugged, ripped of all autonomy and sense of self! And you call staying with the man who sees you as less than an OBJECT as loyalty? Holy shit, that's Stockholm syndrome. You had the opportunity to go back to the glorious Motherland from which you came, to your high position- fuck, to a man that LOVES YOU! That gives you absolutely ANYTHING you want without you even needing to TRY to be his perfect little soldier, and become the hero of Russia.

And yet. And yet, you chose not to.

You could've lied. Lies have no morality. But at this point, comrade," that word drips with condescension. Cujo is no comrade. Cujo is an insubordinate piece of shit.

"- having told the truth would hurt MORE than it helped. It kills you, and it kills Perseus, and it kills our glorious Nation. And yet, hmm, you seemed to think ""sacrificing yourself"" for a man who will forget about you in a week and intentionally lied about his intentions towards you with both YOU and everyone else in that shoddy team is the "heroic move."

"No. I do not see you as better than me. I see you as a fucking idiot blinded from the truth by obvious US propaganda from a man who didn't even know you existed back in January and won't remember you ever did in the next."

— They rub their eyes in disappointment and groan in frustration, as if they're having to explain basic addition - or why we don't play with bleach - to a toddler.

"I can't even say you sicken me. You're just a disappointment wrapped in American patriotism. You could've been better. You're not worthy of my GENUINE hatred. You're just a caricature of everything worse I could've been.

Cujo’s nearly shouting- unusual for it- when it speaks again, and its voice audibly cracks on every other word.]

shut the fuck up. shut up shut up shut up SHUT your fucking MOUTH. god motherfucking damnit you fucking-

…i don’t want to fucking hear it, you traitorous bastard. you’re not fucking allowed to talk to me like that, spout all your stupid fucking lies, and think for a second i’m going to fucking believe them. i’m useful, i’m loyal, and i know it probably sounds unbelievable to you because you’ve never been wanted or needed by anyone in your life, but my adler isn’t going to get rid of me like yours would have, because i’m not a deceptive piece of shit who would kill him the first chance i get.

i don’t-

[Cujo cuts off for a second, slamming the heel of its hand into its head once, twice, three times, before continuing.]

i don’t care what you have to say. it means nothing. there is not a single shred of truth worth examining from ANY of the drivel you just spouted at me.

“good bell”. andrei aliyev. you should be ashamed.

to desert your- our- team, and to take another with you? i have heard of your… friend. hound. i’ve heard of it, heard of the potential it had, heard that it used to be a good dog like me. you did it and the cia a huge disservice by acting like you knew better than its handlers, like it would benefit from disobeying them… how could you do that?

i’ve heard the stories. hound was a good operative, a great operative, and you manipulated it, stole it away from what it- what we- were meant for.

not only are you a traitor, but you led another into being one too. you should be ashamed.

— cujo. @the-better-bell.

Ashamed? Well, congrats to you bud, I've always been ashamed. Not planning to become more, only less. So I don't understand your motive here.

I didn't desert jackshit. I was nearly murdered and abandoned on the side of a hill, and yet you have the gall to say I'm the one who deserted? You know, if I wasn't brainwashed, drugged, and abandoned maybe I'd have still been in the CIA.

Hound took THEMSELF down. I had no goddamn hand in it. If I did, I would've made sure they didn't end up in that man's hands in the first place. I didn't do anything. It was Rook. Rook lured them out, Rook told them the truth, Rook...

It's my fault Hound fell into Rook's hands. I could've told them not to go. I could've saved them. They never had to suffer in that tomb with me. I could've saved them. This is all my fault. This is all my fault. This is

I didn't do anything to them. And you're defending murderers who dumped me like garbage onto a cliffside in fuck-nowhere Russia. They'll do the same to you soon, bud, believe me. You aren't special for defending them.

A traitor isn't what I am. I'm a survivor of many attempts at killing and ruining me. I'll continue to survive, whether in shame and agony or pride and comfort.

I hope you'll be able to live that way someday soon. Without trying to drag others to your level.

if your adler betrayed you, you must not have given him a good enough reason to trust you. my adler knew he can trust me, and he didn’t try to kill me. you know why? because i’m loyal, i have always been loyal, and i’ve never given him a single reason to believe i would be a traitor.

you should be ashamed, frank woods. you were one of the CIA’s top operatives, and you’ve fallen so low. you’re so spineless and morally compromised that if i didn’t know better, i’d think that’s why you need the wheelchair.

— cujo. @the-better-bell.

That’s one helluva introduction, kid.

I don’t really give a shit. Your CIA fucked me over time and time again, and I ain’t too keen on turning the other cheek anymore. Not to bleed for a country that won’t let me crawl away and lick my own wounds.

Plus, the pay was shit.

You can think you’re better than me, or any of the “Bell”s on here, but you’re just another piece on the board. We all get played, kid, just depends on how long till we admit it.

Yeah, thats fuckin’ pathetic. Laying down and letting them put the collar on is the weakest thing I’ve seen in a damn hot minute. How the hell do you know you’re more effective without rebelling if you ain’t never tried it?

oh, and i’m on a high horse? what about you, looking down at me for being loyal? i’d say that’s far more snobbish than pointing out that i’m better at doing what needs to be done than you and all your little accomplices.