One day, the scary men barge into your house. It had to happen. It was always going to happen.

You're hidden in your room, your baby sister inside the cupboards and your brother underneath the bed-- just like you practiced. There's a curiosity you can't take out of children-- though you object to the term 'child'-- and you find yourself sticking your head out from behind the door frame, even as your heart is beating up to your throat.

Mom and Dad are at the doorway. They're arguing with those strangers with the big hooks and coats, though only your mom's voice ever speaks up. Dad is lifting his spear against the door as they point their knives at him. There's growling from behind the scary men. Your imagination flies wild even though you know exactly what it is. Maybe it's because a scary monster from a comic book or a ghost from a story feels less final, somehow. More interesting of a story. Not like this.

What they say is a blur to you, between the chaos and the distance. You only see their lips move, the man putting a hand on your father's shoulder, weighing on him like a hydraulic press.

His eyes go past him, and your eyes meet.

"So you did have something to pay with after all, eh?"

You freeze. You hear your father shout something at him-- something like 'don't take her', or 'it's me you want'. The scary man all but ignores him as his titanic body gets closer to you, his height completely eclipsing your own nearly twice over.

"I think," he says, crouching down to look at you, his grasp on your arm, "I'll call you Ravage."

You fight and cry, but no one comes. You never had a choice on the matter.

---

According to the strange man, you are a Hund.

You'd heard the name before from your family. They spoke of 'protectors' you all owe respect to, and who keep your community safe. They are trained alongside Masters that they bond for life with; someone to feed and take care of them as they partake in their duties and participate in tournaments of obedience to prove their bond to other pairs.

Becoming a Hund is a special privilege, he tells you. He chose you. He sees potential in you. Under his guidance you won't go hungry, or ever have to worry about a place to stay.

All you have to do, he notes, is obey.

Your master is kind for the first few years, or at least as kind as an owner could be. He feeds you on time and makes sure you are healthy. Any injuries you sustain in your training-- from your mistakes, or his discipline-- he is quick to patch up, and you never hurt for more than a day or two. You sleep soundly in your makeshift bed, better known as a bare mattress laid flat on his floor, where he only ties your leash to his bed on the more sleepless nights. Life is not easy, but it's predictable.

You count yourself lucky. 'Predictable' is a rare word in these parts.

One day, while you're eating lunch, he comments that you talk too much. It's unbecoming of a Hund, he tells you.

You argue you like to talk with him.

He laughs at that. You can always bark when you need him, he says. Besides, what does that say about you? Are they really bonded if they need something like words?

He won't let you eat until you concede his point. So, you do. You stop talking.

The days continue to pass. You're old enough to join him in tournaments now, and you're his pride and joy. The others all marvel at how quiet you are, at how well-behaved you are. They praise your master's work, and in turn, he praises you.

You have to be more alert now. Those tournaments are brutal-- you know one of the Hunds that's struggling to perform, his body falling over during an acrobatics act. Your master brings you to see their execution, and he praises you when you don't start whining as he's unceremoniously shot.

The years pass in a predictable blur. You're even busier, and your mind has little time for thoughts.

You can't do well when you're thinking. You can't please Him when you're thinking.

All those thoughts, they're slowing you down-- you can feel it as you become aware of it-- word after word, pause after insufferable pause, shooting your response time, each one dragging along the tar.

You can't take it. It's all...

...slowing...

...you...

...down.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

So you don't. You stop thinking.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

---

Until you do.

There's a guttural growl in the air and it rumbles your chest one too many times. Your chest is different now. Your *everything* is different now. Longer. Lankier. You've grown. You're almost as tall as Master. You swear you're about as strong as Him too.

Where is Master?

Master is on the floor. Your claws are digging at His face and His hands wrap around your throat. He did something. You already forgot what He did. You just know you're angry. Furious, even. Your whole body's warm. It burns with scars-- no, no, it burns with blood. *Your* blood.

The only words you can think of are 'one too many'. It rings in your head over and over. One too many. One too many. One too many. He likes to say that a lot. One too many drinks at the bar. One too many treats in a day. One too many scars in your body. He doesn't even love you anymore. You're yelling these words at him. He's laughing back at you. It rings in your ears one too many times and you can register when he says that you'll always be mine.

Master is limp between your teeth.

You're whimpering. You don't know why.

---

The feeling of water in your face cools you just long enough for you to assess your surroundings... of which you have a lot to take in.

Master... your master... is dead. You killed him, if you had to guess by the taste of iron in your mouth. He’s dead in the room next to you, becoming more bloated by the minute.

The next thing you note is that, indeed, you’re older now. About as old as…

You grunt. There’s an ache in your heart as you look at your face in the mirror-- it says you have someone to compare yourself to, and yet your mind can’t think of anything. Whatever, you conclude. If it’d mattered, you’d remember.

The tournaments can surely dispose of a body, but you can’t. If they were to find out you did this, you’re not sure what would happen, and you don’t care to know-- there’s too much to risk. There’s a window opportunity for you to leave and you aren’t going to miss it. You might not even live to regret it if you let it close.

You pack your bag with whatever you can salvage from the fridge. You search his cupboards too, then his pockets for any money-- he’s broke as ever, but there’s enough for a trip out of Hund territory.

When the rest of his drinking partners barge down his door, they find him decomposing in his bed, rotting away in a morbid mockery of sleep. His eyes have been closed shut, and a torn leash rests in his hands, gripped tightly with the stiffness only a dead man could muster.

They get the message, though you don’t turn back to see if they did. You have bigger problems, now: the monumental, backbreaking task of learning How to Act Normal so People Don’t Kill You.

With time you learn to hide the more unsightly habits. You don't leave your mouth agape, tongue sticking out when in front of a meal. You push down the urge to bark, both for joy and ill. You hold your tongue near strangers and you don't flash your teeth anymore.

Eventually, you pass as something human-- a convincing facsimile of a woman-- and your life as a Hund becomes a distant memory. Life goes on, as it always does. The memories of Him retreat back into the tar pits of your mind, and you become busy with the thoughts of daily life. You will never think about it again.

You're sure of it.

---

You're fired from your job within the first week.

Rather, you quit-- or at least you said you did. It was a simple disagreement: your boss didn't want you biting your coworkers, and after a nasty altercation with the man himself, he decided to let you go.

What a pussy, you think. You hadn't even bit through bone yet.

Still, the man's words are final, and you have little place to dispute them. You pack your measly bag of items and head off towards the next district bloc on your list. With any luck you will find someone willing to let you squat for a couple of weeks while you get your bearings... but with your luck you'll be visiting them uninvited, digging around their rooms for scraps.

It's fine. You're doing great, really; you've never had this much ground to cover, and you're more than trained in living in uncomfortable positions. Master will be proud of you when he sees you.

Your brow furrows. You don't know why.

It’s been a month.

Food is an issue you’ve yet to solve, and money is another. You’ve gotten so used to hunger that the pain in your stomach is ambient, but it’s constant enough that you can’t ignore it. It just sits there as you curl over in your hiding spot.

You let out a howl between ugly gasps and trails of tears, your body crying to be heard by someone, anyone. You were an idiot for running. What you'd do to have Master back. To have *him* back. To feel his arms around yours, safe and reassuring. To feel as you did, proud ans noble hund. What you'd do to have him carry you home.

The room's walls ring empty with his absence. No one comes for you, and you are alone.

---

You break by the end of the year.

It’s a subtle one. You’re counting how much money you have for the week-- deciding internally between rent or food-- when a knock comes to your door. When you go to look, there’s no one. No one except for a letter at your feet.

You snarl when you see his name again. He’s long buried now, or food for a stray pet-- and yet they found you. They tracked you down, or saw you the whole time, and now they’re taunting you with this… letter of recognition. Inviting you back to the Hunds, this time as a master. Maybe one of their judges wondered what you’d do in that situation.

The letter goes untouched for two more weeks. You’d love to pretend you never saw it, but just knowing it’s on the table leaves an itching in the back of your head. You can’t afford to live like this anymore, between jobs and places, constantly on the run. This can’t be all there is forever.

Maybe, you concede, it's time to get back in the game. You can't be what you were anymore, but maybe you don't have to. Maybe you can do better.

Oh, yes. You can definitely do better.

---

His name is Ajax. You named him yourself, as all Masters do.

At first he doesn't talk to you. You don't blame him; most are resentful when their given name is taken away, and the reality of the situation is a hard one to adjust to. He's shy-- maybe even more than you were. Often his eyes evade yours, locked to the ground in submission, counting the cans and grass blades around in his head, as if by ignoring you he might make you disappear. It's a stare you've seen a thousand times before: a stare that once came from you.

It's hard to remember why. It's even harder to pretend that it doesn't bother you.

You resolve to take him through the steps. Get him acquainted with how the Hunds work. Teach him to do all the tricks they asked of you, and a few more you came up with. You keep a steady hand throughout; you don't yell unless it's important, don't reprimand without criticism, don't end the session without reward. He is fed well and he sits at your table, and you procure good bedding. By Hund standards, Ajax lives very well-- better than you ever did-- and he wants for little, and he pays it back by taking on the lessons with increasing gusto.

He's good. Prodigious, even. You smash through your first tournament together. The judges remember you-- the dog of your Master, now Master yourself-- and they watch Ajax with stone-cold expressions as he balances himself over a pit of knives. You beat through more. The spike of adrenaline, a reminder of 'one mistake and this could all be over', runs through both of you like the thrill of a chase, the sword of Damocles hanging over your heads. Some masters don't like you around-- an affront to the art, or so they say. A disrespect to the natural order. You'd always known you might die for your art, but now you know you will. This day could be rhe last.

But it doesn't matter what they think of you, and you pay it little mind. You're at the top of your game, you and Ajax. Together, you'll climb through the ranks and prove them wrong. Together you just might have a chance.

You're laying on your mattress, running tomorrow’s errands by yourself, when you feel something heavy on your lap. When you open your eyes you see him, exhausted from a day's work, the rest of his body curled up next to yours. There are scars you've bandaged all over his arms, which make him squirm, but his stare softens when he sees yours.

You stroke his hair, a smile growing on your features. Good boy, you mumble.

He merely hums in response, content, and the both of you drift into a deep, deep sleep.

---

Apologize, he snarls. Ajax is standing in front of your door, threading your territory cautiously.

You laugh in his face. Is he really still mad about that? You were just making some comments about his family, which-- as he seems to have forgotten-- gave him up to you. He’s clearly strung tight from all the training. You reckon he ought to grow up and go back to sleep.

He bares his teeth at you. You pay it no mind. After trying to rouse your anger for a few minutes-- a million how dare yous, some you can’t talk to me like thats, one you should be better than this, better than the others, Rava, i trusted you-- he just stands still, eyes narrowed.

I’m going out, he says.

Whatever, you answer.

Ajax slams the door. You roll over on your bed, face against the mattress. He’ll run around, tire himself, then come back. You just have to give him time.

You sleep a little colder with him missing from your side.

---

He does not come back.

At first, you think he’s being especially melodramatic. You continue to do today’s chores-- cleaning out the room, preparing breakfast, and planning the routines to note for the day.

An hour passes. You eat your share of the meal and wait for the smell of cooked egg to bring him out of his moping spot. There’s no sight of him by the time you finish.

Two hours pass. The egg has gone cold on his plate, the yolk running from underneath the whites. You look around near his bed. You go to your usual alleyway. You see if he's gone out to smoke, and your head starts running through the usual lecture for when he does. You find him in neither place. You’re starting to get nervous.

Three hours pass. Four, then five. Flies are hovering near the egg, and around the fourth hour you stopped waving them off. That’s it, you say to yourself. He must’ve gotten hurt, and maybe he can’t get home. You stand back up to look for him once more, flinging open your front door.

You hear a thud as it hits something.

While you weren’t looking, you find someone has left a note taped to your doorstep, next to a picturesque picnic basket. Its insides are covered by a red-and-white checkerboard mantle. The note itself is plain-looking, its handwriting scrawled by someone in a hurry:

A dog cannot train a dog. Get the fuck out and don’t come back.

Your heart races as the stench hits your nose-- a stench you remember all too well. It’s hard to forget the smell of death after the first time.

You lay in your bed that night just as the last one-- with one less body in its mattress and a sunken stomach, and nausea that stings the back of your throat. With eyes clenched shut, you let yourself fade away into dreamless slumber.

A dark, fathomless spiral forms at the base of your mind, and you are subsumed into it.

You do not wake up in your bed ever again.