Darkness grows strange in the corridors and hallways of Leukon Base at night. The rebels recently decided to switch to minimum power to mask their heat signature from the Imperial patrols that have begun venturing alarmingly close to the facility. That means no bright overhead lights, only the emergency strips that line the walls at ankle height. During the day, enough sunlight filters down from the surface through the ventilation shafts to provide a facsimile of genuine illumination, but at night the shadows grow upward, tall and wide, accentuating stature and distorting shape. Nothing has done more damage to rebel morale. Now they truly feel like they’re living in a foxhole.

Kione presses herself flat against the corner. She smiles as she hears approaching footsteps. Kione is right at home, and her prey is right on time.

The rebel’s increasingly dismal position doesn’t cause Kione grief. She is not one of them. A wolf among sheep. That’s why, she believes, the dogs aren’t barking tonight. They know a real hunter when they see one. The world is full of dogs, but Kione is not among them. She is one of the rare few who hold the leashes instead.

It’s good to be a predator.

The footsteps get closer. Just one person. It’s all going according to Kione’s plan—not that there’s anything difficult about ambushing someone alone at night. All Kione had to do was pull the duty roster, pick a night her victim is on watch, and lie in wait. Once they’re just a few paces from Kione, the mercenary steps out in front of her to bar her path.

“Hey, Pela,” Kione sings, as the fangirl jumps halfway out of her skin. “Nice to see you again.”

It’s the kind of lie that, though banal, is so egregiously dishonest it raises immediate red flags. Even when Kione was playing nice with Amynta and the rest, Pela never forgave Kione for chewing her out that one time in front of Sartha.

“Fuck!” the Pela exclaims. She eyes Kione suspiciously as she regains her composure. “Gods, what are you doing?”

“I thought we should talk, duh,” Kione supplies merrily, an unwholesome grin plastered across her face. “Clear the air a little.”

An even more blatant lie. Pela bristles visibly—but before she can question it, something else catches her attention. “Wait, what the fuck are you wearing?”

“This old thing?” Kione can’t help herself. She gives Pela a little twirl to show off the way it spins. “Picked it up from salvage the other day. You don’t like?”

Pela does not, and Kione can certainly see why. Most rebels have learned to be wary of anyone wearing a long, heavy, black coat. That’s Imperial fashion. Kione, though, is feeling giddy the same way she did the first time she wore a dress. It looks killer over her red pilot suit, even if it’s a bit too long and drags on the floor when she walks. She’ll have to hunt down a good pair of boots when she gets the chance.

“I… whatever.” Pela shakes her head. “It’s late. I’m too tired for this. See you around, merc.”

“Woah, woah!” Pela tries brushing past Kione, but Kione stops her with a hand. “Why so quick? I’m serious, I wanna talk.”

Pela narrows her eyes. “About what?”

“Matter of fact, I want to apologize.” Kione draws back on her shit-eating grin just far enough to sell it. All part of the hunt. “I’m sorry for giving you shit. A mercenary with an attitude—cliché, right? But we’re all in this hole together now. So: I’m sorry. My bad.”

A hard sell, that’s for sure. There’s more than one argument in the canteen standing between them. Like every other rebel, Pela’s heard about Kione and Vola. But for a bleeding heart like Pela, saying ‘no’ to a genuine apology is even harder.

“Thanks,” Pela says, offering a curt, wary but grateful nod. “I appreciate it. Seriously. Now, I’m gonna-“

“Hey, c’mon,” Kione laughs, still blocking the rebel girl’s path. “What, I don’t get the time of day?”

“It’s just-“ Pela sighs. “Look. Apology accepted. I just want to get out of the cold, alright?”

“Funny you should say that. I was just thinking: why not come to my quarters instead? We’re having such a nice chat, after all. I’m right around here, too. I could fix you some tea—or something stronger.”

Pela recoils. “You’re messing with me.”

“I’m dead serious.”

She really is, and that makes Pela nervous as hell. “I… don’t think that’s a good idea.”

“Why not?”

“It’s…”

“Come on, what’s the matter?” Kione can smell blood.

“Amynta said,” Pela replies uncomfortably, “we should be… careful around you.”

This time the laugh Kione lets out is utterly humorless. “Oh, really? How come?”

“She said…” Pela can’t even meet Kione’s gaze. There’s something cute about that. Kione’s going to enjoy breaking this girl. “You’ve been erratic. Wandering around at night. Buying some weird stuff at the commissary. Talking about… about dogs, or something? She says Sartha’s spending too much time with you.”

Jealous, radio girl? Really? That’s petty by her standards.

“Don’t worry about any of that,” Kione says sleazily. She loves that she barely needs to hide her insincerity. “I’m just trying to make amends. Share a drink with a new friend. That so wrong?”

Pela doesn’t say anything. She’s wishing she was anywhere else.

“C’mon,” Kione adds. She’s all smiles. The girl you can’t say no to. The girl who’s showing you her teeth so you’ll think she’s not going to use them. “I’m not going to hurt you, Pela, if that’s what you’re worried about. Relax.”

It’s a fight to keep her laughter contained. Pela can’t seem to figure out if Kione’s trying to cruise her or not. She also can’t seem to figure out how she’d feel about that. Wouldn’t be Kione’s first weird rebel hatefuck—but that’s not what she has in mind for Pela. She’s got bigger plans.

“Maybe some other night.” Pela decides. Her smile doesn’t touch her eyes. “I’m really tired right now. So, um… later.”

“Suit yourself. Later.”

Pela makes to push past Kione. At last, Kione lets her go. Lets her feel safe with a few paces of distance. She doesn’t know that Kione already has her cornered.

“It’s a shame, is all. Sartha was looking forward to it.”

Pela freezes in her tracks. So predictable. It’s like Kione’s already got her on a leash.

“Sartha’s there?” Pela asks, her voice a confused blend of disappointed and hopeful.

“’Course,” Kione replies casually. “She’s the one who wanted me to invite you.”

“W-why would she do that?” Now it’s excitement that has poor, simple Pela tripping over her words.

Kione shrugs. “You know what she’s like. The friendly type. Though she did mention something about you catching her eye a while back. Guess she thinks you’re someone worth getting to know.”

“She…” Gods, now she’s blushing. Incredible.

“Well.” Kione says, like it’s an afterthought. “I’ll just tell her you’re too tired.”

It’s so transparent a manipulation—which is why it makes Kione so gleeful to see that it’s working anyway. She can see from Pela’s face that she knows that, on some level, Kione is fucking with her. Playing with her food. Being toyed with is humiliating, obviously, but suddenly there’s so much more at stake. Sartha Thrace, and the things women will subject themselves to just to breathe the same air as her. Kione’s own personal black hole.

“Wait,” Pela says haltingly, even though she plainly hates the self-satisfied smile that appears on Kione’s face. “If Sartha really-

“She did,” Kione promises. “She’s waiting for you.”

It’s every fangirl’s wet dream. She could never refuse it. Pela is a fish on a hook.

“If she’s not, I’ll leave,” Pela warns. Still so guarded. It won’t help her.

“Hand on heart.” Kione even makes the gesture. “Right this way.”

She turns around and walks, her long, black coat billowing out behind her and Pela following along at her heels. Kione senses Pela’s apprehension melting away into childish excitement. She’s about to meet her hero—for real, this time. Kione giggles under her breath. This is perfect. The more relaxed Pela lets herself get, the better. The idiot fangirl has no idea just how real her meeting with Sartha is going to be.

“Here,” Kione says after a short distance, indicating one of the many identical doors lining the halls of Leukon Base. She opens it. “Head on in.”

Pela’s eagerness gets the better of her. She steps forward, and notices too late that the only light in Kione’s quarters is the little that’s spilling in from the hallway.

“What the fuck?” Pela demands, as the door to the darkened room begins to close behind the both of them. “Monax, I swear to god, I will report this and you’ll be-“

The only thing Kione has to do to shut her up is turn on the lights.

Only emergency strips in here too. They hum to life slowly, but the very first glow is more than enough to illuminate Sartha. Their full brightness simply throws into sharp relief the details that are already robbing Pela of her voice. Kione is distracted by the sight too. As much as she’d like to enjoy Pela’s reaction she can’t bring herself to look at anything but Sartha, a huge, proud grin on her face.

She was all alone in the dark, but she hasn’t moved an inch from where Kione put her. What a good dog she is!

Sartha Thrace sits kneeling on the floor in the center of Kione’s quarters. Muzzled, of course, but that’s just the start. Kione has begun to feel that there’s a certain dignity to a muzzle. You muzzle an animal because it is dangerous. Because it deserves respect. There’s nothing dignified, conversely, about the pair of big, floppy, fake animal ears on the top of Sartha’s head, attached to a headband. As Sartha raises her head to stare adoringly at Kione, they flop backward. Kione giggles deliriously. The ears are perfect. So is the collar around her neck—a dog collar, the one Kione got for her before, now with a little bell that jingles every time Sartha moves. Perfection.

Better still, though, is the trailing length of fuzz that extends behind Sartha. Kione regains enough presence of mind to glance at Pela, and her reward is that she gets to see the moment the penny drops and Pela realizes what it is, and how it’s attached. No belt. No harness. Just a plug—and that, too, is visible because besides muzzle, ears, collar and tail plug, Sartha is wearing nothing else. She is a vision.

Buying weird stuff at the commissary? Kione hadn’t realized that Amynta was such a prude. This isn’t weird. This is beautiful. This is Sartha Thrace, and she has never looked so true or so utterly, delightfully adorable.

“See?” Kione giggles smugly. “Told you she was here.”

Pela doesn’t see the beauty. Not yet, anyway. She’s shell-shocked. After all, this is her hero she’s seeing. The woman she worships. The pilot she always pictures just as she looks on the posters; ruggedly handsome, shoulder-length hair blowing in the wind, clad in that swaggering combat jacket and striding forward, victorious. But not anymore. From now on, she’s always going to be thinking about this moment. To instantly, irrevocably rewrite a woman’s mind like that—that’s true power, isn’t it?

Kione feels powerful.

Beneath the shock, there’s something else. Disappointment. She is disappointed in Sartha. Pela’s eyes keep dancing this way and that like she’s trying to look at anything else. Like she’s trying to bargain with herself, and find a way to keep believing. Maybe this isn’t such a big deal. Maybe it isn’t what it looks like. Maybe there’s a good reason it doesn’t hurt the way it does. Maybe, maybe, maybe—but nope. It’s no good, and that’s why next, there’s anger. Anger at Kione, first of all. Kione understands. She was angry too, in the beginning. But just like Kione’s anger, Pela’s isn’t all for the person showing her the truth. Plenty of it’s for Sartha. Pela is angry at her hero, for not being everything she wanted and more. Angry at her for letting her down.

Sartha doesn’t care. She’s too far gone for anger to mean anything to her but bliss. Each hero-worshiper who has the scales torn from their eyes makes her inability to be a person that much more real. It’s what she lives for. It makes her life bearable. It makes her wet.

Kione licks her lips. It’s unbelievable how hot she is. And Pela sees that, too.

Past denial and anger and bargaining and disappointment, there is a final stage to the young rebel’s reaction: lust. It’s not her fault, really. Who wouldn’t be moved by the sight of a beautiful woman, presented like this? Pela is not to blame for noticing the shape of Sartha’s body; the way her stiff, upright pose bares her chest and her musculature, or the way her legs, folded beneath her, are so shapely and soft, or the way her knees, slightly apart, beckon the gaze to what’s between them: her cunt, open, slick, inviting. No, Pela isn’t to blame. It’s only natural. But even so—how delightful, to see that hint of pink in her cheeks and know that she probably hates herself for it? It’s enough to get Kione a little worked up too.

“What…” Pela breathes slowly, “the fuck…”

“OK, so perhaps I buried the lede a little,” Kione shrugs. “In my defense, I’m not sure you’d have believed me if I’d told you exactly how Sartha wants to get to know you.”

“She- wait.” Pela does a near-comical double-take. “She wants to-”

“Of course!” Kione claps a hand across her back. “Just look at her.”

Pela is looking. She can’t stop looking. “I thought you two were…”

“Oh, we are,” Kione confirms. “But Sartha here is a little bit of a freak—as you can see.” She waltzes over to Sartha and affectionately messes her hair.

“I d-don’t believe it,” Pela murmurs. “Sartha’s… she looks like you’ve drugged her or something.”

Kione laughs. Pela doesn’t know the half of it. But the concern isn’t unreasonable. With those glassy eyes, Sartha hardly looks like someone in her right mind.

“Sartha?” Pela ventures. She waves a hand in front of the hero’s face. Sartha’s eyes don’t track it. “Are you OK?” No reply. “Do you need help? Did Kione… give you something?

“So suspicious!” Kione giggles, delighted. “She’s not just going to answer you, duh.”

“Why not?”

“Because Sartha Thrace is a dog.” Something must have flashed through Kione’s eyes as she said that, judging from the way Pela flinches away from her. “And dogs don’t talk. Not unless you tell them to bark.”

Disappointment comes raring back to the fore. Pela doesn’t want her idol to be a dog, no matter how hot it is. Silly girl. She’ll learn.

“Tell her, Sartha.”

For the first time, Sartha opens her mouth—and her words do little to dispel the appearance that she is not in her right mind. Sartha’s voice is uncharacteristically stiff and rigid as she recites the words Kione fed her earlier that evening.

“Kione is right. I’m a dog. I want this. I enjoy this. I want you to fuck me.”

“Gods...” Another thing Pela can’t help but be turned on by.

“See?” Kione wheedles. “C’mon. You can’t tell me you don’t want to. Let me guess: you’ve got one of those posters of her above your bunk.”

Unguarded, Pela nods.

“Knew it.” Kione leans in, dropping into a teasing whisper. “I don’t even need to ask how many times you’ve masturbated to it.”

The way Pela blushes tells Kione everything she needs to know.

“B-but…” Pela is still clinging to her discomfort like a safety blanket. It’s like she can’t let herself believe what’s being offered to her. “Wasn’t she wearing something like that when you brought her on? Isn’t that a little… I mean, maybe it’s, like-“

“Sartha?” Kione prompts, interrupting Pela. She’s losing patience. This part’s boring.

“Don’t worry,” Sartha recites. “I want this. I am safe, sane, and risk-aware. I consent.”

Enough for even the goodiest of goody two-shoes, surely.

And it is—if not thanks to Pela’s better judgment, then thanks to a different, far less virtuous part of her mind. After all, what is she supposed to do: say no? Not fuck Sartha Thrace? As if. Girls just like Pela have died in combat in the hopes a chance like this. Pela nods, just as Kione always knew she would.

“So, uh…” Pela glances across at Kione. “It’ll be a threesome?”

“Relax.” Kione laughs at the palpable relief on Pela’s face. “I’ll just watch. I don’t fuck dogs. Duh.”

Pela doesn’t love that, but another long look at the bland, dissociated smile on Sartha’s face puts her at ease. If it’s good enough for Sartha Thrace, right? “OK. Sure.”

“Wonderful! Then we’re all happy.” Kione swans over to a chair planted in the corner of the room and throws herself down, briefly enjoying the way her new coat splays out at her sides as she slouches. “Proceed.”

Slowly, Pela begins to strip. What else is she going to do? Kione enjoys the awkward, clumsy way she removes her clothes, too excited and too nervous to play it cool or seductive. More nervous than excited, judging from the way Pela can’t stop herself glancing in Kione’s direction. Kione adores the way her mere gaze makes the girl uncomfortable.

“Should we, um, get on the bed?” Pela asks Sartha.

No reply.

“She’s a dog,” Kione reminds her sardonically. “Just tell her what to do.”

Pela swallows very uncomfortably. “OK, um… up!” she attempts, with unconvincing exuberance.

She is rewarded. In a smooth, singular motion that captivates the young rebel all over again, Sartha rises to her feet.

“G-good,” Pela mutters, blushing. She awkwardly takes Sartha’s hand and attempts to lead her over to the bed—then pauses. “Um. Who… what are we…”

Kione can already hear what she’s trying to say. “Who tops?” Pela nods reluctantly. “You do.”

The visible disappointment in Pela’s eyes gives Kione the measure of her right away. How predictable: another ‘top-leaning switch’ secretly hoping for Sartha Thrace to rock their world. Sartha deserves better. Kione knows that intimately.

“But I heard she-“

“Sartha doesn’t do that anymore. Is that a problem?”

Pela shakes her head.

“Good.” Kione’s face relaxes back into a sleazy smile. “If you need it, I’ve got her old strap-on around here somewhere. If yours isn’t up to the task, you can fuck Sartha with her own cock.”

That brings all kinds of pretty colors into Pela’s cheeks. “It’s fine!” It isn’t. Kione can tell. “Sartha. Can you, um, on the bed? Or… up!”

She’s already learning that Sartha responds better to commands than requests. Sartha drives the lesson home by shaking her hips as she springs onto Kione’s bed, making the bell on her collar ring and the tail Kione shoved into her ass wag eagerly. Kione sighs fondly. She just keeps getting better.

“No, on- wait, I mean… roll over!” Looking for something romantic? Good luck with that, given the muzzle in the way. Still, the sight of Sartha lying on her back, legs open to her, keeps the stars in Pela’s eyes. The real thing is better than Pela’s fantasies could ever be. This Sartha is even hotter than the one on the poster above Pela’s bunk. The one she’ll never be able to look at properly again.

“OK, uh… just give me a moment,” Pela blurts out, reaching down. Kione has to crane her neck to see what’s going on.

Pela can’t get hard.

Not properly. The poor girl is aroused, yes, but between her hormones and her nerves, her body isn’t playing along. All she can do is stand there, furiously beating at herself, staring at one part of Sartha after another in the hope that some stray spark lights her fuse, all while shame and embarrassment make the task harder by the second. The whole thing is sure to end badly but for Kione’s intervention. “Sure you don’t want that strap?”

The last thing Pela wants right now is to hear Kione’s voice. “Shut up!”

“Just offering!” Kione shoots back, wounded. “There’s no shame in it, you know. You should really get over that. But if you really don’t want to, then instead…”

As Kione stands, she reaches into one of her coat pockets and produces a small pill bottle, pops the cap, and pours a couple into her hand. Imperial combat stims. They aren’t hard to come by. The Empire loves to issue them; nice and addictive. Most Imperial pilots end up popping them like candy. For that very reason the rebels are, as a rule, highly averse. Probably for the best. Pilot pills are good for more than just cutting reaction times. The things these drugs can do to your sex drive are truly concerning. Kione bets those Imperial pilots loved having Sartha around as an outlet. Kione uses them with caution, and cautious is precisely how Pela eyes them as Kione holds them up for her to inspect.

“Just a little performance boost,” Kione assures her. “Everyone needs it from time to time.”

Pela glances uncomfortably back and forth between the pills and Sartha. She’s caught on the horns of a now-familiar dilemma: take Kione’s awful bargain, or miss out on the chance of a lifetime? Pela’s already made her choice. She takes the pills from Kione’s hand and, with a grimace, chucks them back dry.

As they hit her system, the two of them share a grin for the first time that night. Combat stims work fast, and as they flood Pela’s system they fill her with an unfathomable sense of euphoria and confidence. As a pilot, that can be your best friend or your worst enemy. The euphoria is why Pela matches Kione grin for grin. The confidence is the reason why, all of a sudden, she’s certain Kione is on her side. Her best friend in the world. Someone she can trust.

Idiot.

“There you go,” Kione purrs. “Enjoy yourself.”

Pela nods eagerly. Her dysfunction is a thing of the past. She’s painfully hard, and painfully desperate to use it. Kione stops her before she can.

“Wait. There’s a better way. Tell her to roll over and get up on her hands and knees.”

Pela heeds her advice. Kione is her best friend. “Roll over! Up! Hands and knees!”

Sartha obeys swiftly. There’s that wagging tail again. Now both Kione and Pela giggle at the sight.

“Turn around, Sartha,” Kione instructs. “Look.” She puts her lips to Pela’s ear, whispering conspiratorially. “You’ve seen how dogs fuck, right?”

That’s all the encouragement the young rebel needs to start fucking Sartha Thrace from behind. Kione slouches back down in her chair to enjoy the show. And what a show! As soon as Pela enters Sartha, she moans like an animal in heat and starts rutting into her hero just as elegantly. Kione’s room is filled with the ugly, raucous sound of flesh slapping against flesh, made all the more comical by the constant chime of Sartha’s bell collar. The combat stims have eliminated everything holding Pela back. She is a thing of appetite now, bucking her hips endlessly, faster and faster until the exertion leaves her preposterously red and sweaty in the face. The pills sustain her through orgasm after orgasm; Sartha has no such chemical fortification. Eventually her arms give way and she slumps forward onto the bed, but even if her body is weak, her ruined spirit is willing. She welcomes the freedom of being nothing more than a convenient source of release. No more the hero. Just a warm body. Any warm body would do, and that’s what makes it hit so right. The pleasure spews from her lips in moans so weak and uneven they resemble, more than anything, a puppy’s yips and whines.

And Kione? Kione just watches.

She pops a pill herself, just because. Recent experiences have left her with a few chemical cravings. The pill puts a tent in her piloting jumpsuit that goes entirely untended. Kione isn’t interested in getting herself off. Instead, she sits back, head hazy, and thinks about meat.

It’s all just meat, isn’t it? That’s what Kione is beginning to realize, as her vision blurs and as Pela and Sartha appear to fold together into one sordid, masturbatory flesh. In moments like these, all else seems to fall away into meaninglessness—especially the lofty ideals the rebels sometimes like to spout. Freedom? Humanity? Humanity appears to her nothing more than one great, slavering beast. A drooling maw, open, endless, insatiable—but waiting, crucially, to be harnessed for greatness by a stern hand and a firm leash. That strikes Kione as a worthy purpose. Isn’t that what she’s doing right now? Disabusing falsehoods, laying waste to fantasies. In the wake of Sartha’s truth, Pela will be sharper and harder than ever before. Isn’t that a good thing? Isn’t that a powerful thing?

Kione feels precum oozing across the inside of her jumpsuit.

Abruptly, Kione realizes that she’s drifting off into meaninglessness herself. Happens sometimes, if you’re understimulated on pilot pills. That’s no good. There’s work yet to be done. She drags herself upright and stumbles over to Pela, currently bucking and thrusting her way to her fourth or fifth orgasm. The poor girl. simply can’t stop herself.

“Hey, Pela,” Kione sings. Then, a stage whisper: “Wanna know what really gets her off?”

Pela looks over at her as if remembering her existence for the first time in an eon—but she’s not perturbed. Her eyes are shining. Kione’s her best friend. “Yeah,” she drools.

Perfect.

“Call her something,” Kione whispers.

“Huh?”

“You know.” Kione sighs, exasperated. “Something mean.”

“Oh!” A lightbulb switches on somewhere behind those horribly dilated eyes. Pela turns her attention back to Sartha. “You… you slut!”

Kione rolls her eyes. Basic, but it’s a start.

“That’s it,” she purrs. “Can’t you feel her tightening up? Do it again.”

“Slut!” Pela barks. “Bitch!”

Then she starts giggling, probably at the irony of the insult. Sartha’s tail rubs up against Pela’s torso with every thrust, and even with Sartha’s face buried in the bed, her fake ears are nice and perky.

“Good,” Kione encourages. “Now hit her.”

“Huh?”

“Right here,” Kione points at Sartha’s ass. “Trust me. She loves it.” It’s not even a lie.

Pela gasps from the sheer thrill as she hits Sartha’s ass. Spanking Sartha Thrace? It’s like blasphemy. Sartha’s reaction is even more dramatic. She takes the sudden pain as encouragement, moaning and rousing herself to begin rolling her hips in time with Pela’s thrusts.

They’re both enjoying this. Everybody’s having a good time.

“Do it again,” Kione orders. Pela does. “And again.” After that, she doesn’t need to issue any more reminders. It’s like winding up a clockwork toy. Enough tension, and it just goes and goes. Smacking Sartha’s shapely, pretty ass until it’s bright red becomes part of Pela’s rhythm, as pleasurable and compulsive as thrusting her hips. “Don’t forget to keep insulting her.”

“You like this, you fucking painslut?” Pela slurs, as she spanks Sartha again. She’s getting used to it all. Getting crueler, too. She’s starting to sound like she means it. “Yeah. Yeah. I can feel it from your cunt.”

Sartha’s pleasure is the ultimate intoxicant, more dazzling and more seductive than any praise or drug Kione could provide. To know viscerally that you’re making the legendary Sartha Thrace feel good. To feel her tighten around you. What could be more wondrous? It’s an instant addiction. Kione knows that better than most. She lounges back down in her chair, allowing Pela to continue working herself up. Making her worse is a delight; sitting back and watching her make herself worse is even better. Pela is playing chicken with herself: how far can she push it? How mean can she get? How hard can she hit? How far can she go before she hits Sartha’s limit?

Only Kione knows: Sartha has no limits. A bottomless pit with a handsome face.

As Kione watches, she wonders: how would this end, if she took her hands off the wheel? Would it become a pleasant memory for Pela? A complicated one to be sure, but hey—sex with Sartha has got to count for something. Perhaps it could be a gateway to a new side of herself. Perhaps it could even be a connection with Sartha. Perhaps Pela could come to terms with the disappointment Kione read on her face earlier, and develop a healthier view of the woman she idolizes. Too bad they’ll never know. Kione intends to snuff out all those possibilities.

“Hey, Pela,” Kione heckles, interrupting the stream of pornographic insults pouring from Pela’s lips. “You can do better than that. Don’t you want to really let her have it?”

“H-huh?” Pela replies, but she’s already nodding.

“The meaner you get, the harder she comes,” Kione wheedles. “So why not make it personal?”

“I… u-uh…” the idea makes her nervous, but the last thing Pela’s capable of right now is restraint. “Like…”

“Anything,” Kione promises. “Doesn’t matter what. Tell her the worst things you’ve ever thought about her. Rub her face in it. Really let her have it.”

“I… uh… I don’t…”

“Sartha?” Kione interrupts.

“Please!” Sartha begs, right on cue. Such a good dog. “I c-consent.”

The only three words Kione told her she’s allowed to say after Pela starts fucking her. And with that all-important permission, the cracked floodgates within Pela truly start to spill open.

“You…” she says slowly to Sartha. “Why do you have to get off on this? Huh?”

Sartha’s only answer is a ragged moan, but her audible enjoyment is all Pela needs to embrace this new form of degradation.

“Can’t you have some fucking… some fucking dignity?” Pela demands. “Aren’t you ashamed of yourself?” She sounds truly disgusted. She’s harder than ever. All her disappointment is pouring out of her, a stream of black bile and bitter acrimony that crystallizes as soon as it meets air. Becoming real. Becoming irrevocable. “I know they seriously messed you up. But you come back here and act like… like this, when we spent all that time waiting for you?”

The noises coming from Sartha’s throat, already barely human, are only becoming more strained and high-pitched. No limit. She is a machine for transforming abasement into ecstasy. It’s beautiful to behold.

“The fucking dog ears?” Pela rants. She reaches forward and grabs at them, as if hoping to snatch them off Sartha’s head. All she succeeds in doing is pulling Sartha’s hair. Predictably, Sartha moans at that too. “Gods! And you… you come back, and you hook up with that disgusting freak of a mercenary?”

That gets a big, knee-slapping laugh out of Kione. Oh, that’s rich.

“What the fuck is wrong with you?” Pela demands, her anger undercut by the bulging, ruddy look on her face and the constant, ludicrous sound of the bell on Sartha’s neck. “We all love you so much and it’s like… like you don’t even care! Why couldn’t you at least pick one of us instead? You’re Sartha Thrace! What the fuck are you doing? Why won’t you say something?”

She’s practically delirious now. Kione can’t stop laughing. Through giggles, she decides to throw a little more fuel on the fire. “You know, if you want, you can choke her too. Right, Sartha?”

“I c-consent!”

That seems to make Pela even more furious. She doesn’t take Kione up on the offer—for the best, probably—but she does plunge a layer deeper into her own psychosexual filth.

“You’d… you’d think you’d want to at least make it up to us!” she raves. “After all the damage you did. I-I had friends, you know. On that mission, the one to get you back. I… I didn’t blame you, then. I thought… I thought that wasn’t really you.” It’s hard to tell if she’s even still enjoying fucking Sartha. The look on Pela’s face speaks to something much more than mere enjoyment. It’s dark, cathartic, compulsive. She’d probably stop if she could, but the combat stims won’t let her. “Now I’m n-not so sure. Cause—fuck—look at you! Look at yourself! Were you like this for them too, huh?”

Sartha’s moans seem to answer her in the affirmative.

“Fuck!” Pela growls. She’s losing control. As her body approaches exhaustion, her mind begins to come apart. Dark thoughts peer through the cracks. “S-Sartha, you… Gods! You fucking… you’re just… a fucking…”

Kione hunches forward. She can hear the word Pela’s about to say, its sharp tip already forming on her lips. Kione grins madly. This is going to be even better than she’d hoped. “Go on! Let it out!”

“You’re a fucking t-traitor!” Pela screams, with one last heaving thrust.

Her back arches for a brief moment, as another wave of awful pleasure tears her to shreds. This one is her limit. The ultimate thrill. The final bitter kernel Pela has been nursing in her heart. Sartha comes too, naturally. For her it’s the ultimate insult, all the better for its truth. It confirms for her everything she needs to hear about herself. With both of them sated, they become still and the room grows quiet, submerged beneath an awful, suffocating silence.

Time for Kione to deliver the coup de grâce.

She waits just long enough for Pela to seem like she’s on the downhill slope of her combat stim trip. In short: when she’s most vulnerable. Did Pela forget? Kione’s more than just a spectator. She’s a predator. She reminds Pela of that now, as she grabs the young rebel by the arm and hauls her upright.

“Hey!” Kione yells into Pela’s slack, half-satisfied, half-appalled face. “What the fuck is wrong with you?”

It takes a long moment for Pela’s brain to catch up with what’s happening. Once it does, it’s like Kione’s dropped a bucket of ice water over her head. All her walls are down, and the sudden disapproval leaves her blubbering like a scolded child.

“W-w-w-whuh?” is the best she can do.

“Where do you get off, treating her like that?” The smug, lopsided, shit-eating grin on Kione’s face should be a dead giveaway, but Pela is too high and too stupid for that.

“B-but,” she whimpers. “Y-you told me-“

“I didn’t tell you to call her a traitor!” Kione spits. “Gods. Is that really what you think?”

“N-no,” Pela protests. She probably doesn’t have a clue what she really thinks. “I just-“

“Just what?” Kione knows there’s no answer. There’s no name for the kind of betrayal you feel upon seeing this side of Sartha Thrace. “Huh?”

“B-b-but,” comes the next gurgled excuse, “s-she enjoyed it! R-right, Sartha?”

Sartha doesn’t say a word. Good dog.

“Get the fuck out of my room so I can take care of her,” Kione jeers. “I never want to see you again. Neither does she. Didn’t realize you thought about Sartha that way. Gods, Pela. Get out of here!”

Pela gathers up her clothes and flees the room without even putting them on. There are tears in her eyes. It’s not the first time Kione has sent Pela packing with her tail between her legs, but this one is sure to take. She has inflicted on this girl the ultimate unfairness. She’s taken so much away from her in the span of a single night. Her hero. Her self-belief. Her pride. And, gods, it was so much fun. That Imperial handler has one thing right. It really is easy to break someone. You just have to be willing to do whatever it takes. Kione keeps her game face intact until the door closes. As soon as it does, she collapses onto the bed next to Sartha and promptly busts a gut.

“Holy shit,” Kione wheezes, eventually. “Did you see the look on her face?”

Naturally, Sartha does not reply.

“She’s in for one hell of a time when she gets back to her bunk and sees whatever stupid poster of you she’s got up.” Kione can barely breathe for laughing. “Hey, you think she throws it away? Or keeps it stuffed somewhere—you know, for whenever she needs to rub one out?”

Still nothing. Dogs don’t talk.

“I wonder if she’ll tell anyone,” Kione muses. As her own high wanes, she’s feeling decidedly sleepy. “Wonder if anyone would believe her if she did. Personally, I’m betting she’ll keep it all bottled up. But hey, it’s fine either way, right?” She reaches across the bed and fondly messes Sartha’s hair. “I promise, she’s only the first. Soon enough, you won’t be a hero to anyone anymore.”

With that, she pulls Sartha into her arms so that the two of them can sleep.

Only, they don’t sleep. Usually, after a night like that, Sartha would be quick to drift off. Not tonight. Kione can sense inside her some mysterious knot of tension, keeping her stiff. Keeping her awake. Kione spends several hours drifting on the edge of sleep, unable to relax into unconsciousness and unable to rouse herself to address whatever problem is at hand. The result is far from restful, and it drags on until Sartha pulls herself out of Kione’s arms and rises to sit on the edge of the bed.

Then, she takes the muzzle away from her own face.

“Kione,” Sartha says in a small, strange voice, as Kione begins to force herself upright. “I think we should stop doing this.”

Now it’s Kione’s turn to feel ice water tipped over her soul. “What?”

Sartha makes a forlorn little gesture at her muzzle, then at her stupid little dog ear headband. “You know. This.”

Instantly, Kione is all the way awake. She feels like she just stepped on a landmine. “Sartha, what the hell are you talking about?”

Sartha flinches, but doesn’t bend. “I just… think it would be for the best. You know?”

“No!” Kione is shaking her head over and over. “What do you… Sartha, you need this. Remember?”

No reply.

“Hells, you begged me!” Now anger is beginning to rise to Kione’s surface. “Or did you forget about that?” Another flinch. It’s painfully obvious how difficult Sartha finds it to cause Kione any measure of disapproval. But she perseveres, in a small, frightened voice that leaves Kione disgusted.

“I know,” Sartha trembles. “And I’m sorry. It was a mistake.”

“Don’t say that!” Kione pleads. It occurs to her, suddenly, how easy it would be to put a stop to this conversation. She knows the three words she’d have to use. It wouldn’t be difficult. The temptation is infinite—but the need to pick her way through this is even greater. “Why would it be a mistake now? Sartha, talk to me. What happened?”

She doesn’t want to say it. She really doesn’t want to say it—probably, because she knows exactly how Kione will take it. It comes out of Sartha’s lips slow and heavy.

“That girl. Pela. I… didn’t think you were going to start hurting people like She does.”

She.

“T-that’s…” It’s more nerves than anything, but Kione finds a laugh rising to her lips. Laugh it off, Ki. “That’s ridiculous. C’mon, Sartha. It’s no big deal. She’s not really hurt.”

“Yes. She is.”

“She’ll be fine! It’s a lesson. She’ll get over it.”

“I don’t know, Ki. You hurt her. And you enjoyed it.” Sartha is too correct for Kione to keep laughing about it. She lapses into a silence that Sartha takes as an invitation to keep talking. “I’m worried about what you’re turning into, Kione. You weren’t always like this—and it’s because of me. I thought… I thought it was just for me. All that cruelty. And t-that was good. I want it. I don’t know if I can live without it. But nobody else deserves it. So… we should stop, I think. I really think.”

Though her words are tepid, Sartha says them with an air of finality. Worse, an air of mourning. Their bond is, to her, already dead. There’s nothing Kione can do about it. The decision is made. In this moment, as dawn’s first, coldest fingers touch Leukon Base, as Kione languishes in sleepless exhaustion and the backwash of the combat stims she took, she doesn’t have the heart to fight it. She just wants to understand what happens next.

“But…” she asks slowly. “You do need this. Right?”

Miserably, Sartha nods.

“What are you going to do?”

Sartha glances at the door. “I thought maybe I’d just… leave.”

“From the base?” A nod. “Where would you go?”

Now she looks down. It takes her a long time to reply. “I figured… maybe I-I’d just go back to…”

Her.

There she is again. An unspoken presence. She’s always been in the room with them, hasn’t she? Sartha’s handler. Kione is sick of it. Unspeakably sick of it. Just thinking about Sartha’s handler brings back thoughts of their wager. Their rivalry. Kione remembers how important that is. She remembers it’s about more than what Sartha wants. Kione is about to lose—to the vilest woman in the world.

“She hurts people,” Kione spits venomously, knowing full well how whiny she sounds. “But I can’t?”

Sartha’s head whips round in alarm. Her big eyes are so very wounded.

“You’re better than that,” Sartha pleads. “That’s what I mean.”

Kione ignores that. She doesn’t want to be better. She wants to win. “She makes you hurt people too. You understand that, don’t you?”

“I…”

“Then what the fuck are you talking about?” Kione explodes. She rises and starts pacing furiously. “I hurt people? I enjoy it? Fuck you! I’m doing it because of you. I’m doing it for you, Sartha. Everything I’ve done—it’s to save you from her!”

She could stop all of this at once. Off The Leash. But Kione won’t. That’s not good enough. She doesn’t want to see emptiness in Sartha’s eyes, not right now. She wants to see acceptance.

“And I tried saying no! You remember that part, Sartha? I told you no—and you wouldn’t even hear it.”

“I know,” Sartha replies quietly. She’s trembling now. Going against someone in Kione’s position violates every tenet that’s been burned into her brain. That she can do so at all is a testament to her strength—not that Kione cares. Why should Sartha be strong now, after letting that awful woman break her into pieces? It’s not fair.

“You think I wanted our relationship to be like this?” Kione spits. “I wanted so, so much… but, no, it had to be this, you were too fucking ruined for anything else. So I broke myself too, for you. I tried to be what you needed. And now you want to throw it all away. I… no. No! I won’t let that happen. I won’t just let you waltz out of here and go back to her.”

Sartha’s face keeps getting paler. She looks genuinely frightened of Kione. Kione wishes that made her feel powerful instead of awful. She keeps pacing. “This will work out,” Kione pants, as much to herself as to Sartha. “We’ll work this out. Maybe… maybe I went a little too far. I can fix this. Let me fix this.”

She doesn’t believe it. She’s losing control. Sartha’s handler never loses control. She never needs to bargain. But there is something Kione has that she doesn’t.

“It’s going to be OK,” Kione decides, pulling that thought tight around her to calm herself. “You’ll stay, and we’ll be OK because we’re in love. That’s what matters most.”

“What?”

The genuine shock in Sartha’s voice makes Kione look at her sharply. Why does she sound so surprised? No. No, no, no. Don’t take this from me, Sartha. Not this.

“We’re in love,” Kione says slowly, dumbly. “I love you. You love me.”

“I…”

Kione would give away all the money she ever earned to see anything at all on Sartha Thrace’s face right now except faint but palpable embarrassment.

“You love me?” Kione repeats, pleading.

Sartha averts her eyes. Her reply is slow enough to be truly devastating. “I don’t think I ever said that, Ki.”

Ten silent seconds pass. Then Kione starts laughing again.

She throws her head back. Really leans into it. What else can she possibly do but laugh as everything crumbles around her? If everything she did for Sartha was meaningless then it’s all simply one big joke, just like everything else Kione has ever tried believing in. The laughter comes with surprising ease. Maybe it’s the combat stims. Maybe it’s the glimpse of herself she catches in her mirror, wearing this ridiculous, oversized black coat. Kione doesn’t care. She just hopes it never stops. Kione doesn’t know what the hell she’s going to do when she stops laughing.

“Kione?” Sartha is trying to get her attention. She looks genuinely concerned. “Are you OK?”

Kione doesn’t answer. She keeps laughing. She realizes Sartha isn’t the only one trying to talk to her. Her transmitter, sitting beside her bed, has suddenly crackled to life. A tinny voice is sounding over a rebel frequency.

'Kione Monax. Do you read us? This is base command. Do you read?’

She ignores it, obviously. It doesn’t matter. Nothing matters anymore.

“Kione!” Sartha tries again. “Can you even hear me?”

‘Monax! Gods dammit, where are you? They’re coming!’

“Ki! I’m sorry. I’m sorry, I…”

She wants to take it all back—but she isn’t going to. Kione can tell. It’s funny. It’s hilarious.

“I can’t believe it,” Kione wheezes eventually. She’s laughing so hard she’s crying. “I did all this for you. And you don’t even love me.”

Sartha looks despondent. At least that’s something. At least they’re in hell together.

‘Kione Monax! Repeat, Kione Monax! If you’re there you better answer right this second, merc, or I swear to the gods I’m gonna make you-‘

“I’m fucking busy!” Kione yells as she picks up the transmitter and answers. Her laughter is gone. Not her tears, though. “Fuck off.”

‘We’re under attack. We need you to sortie immediately.’

“No. I’m busy.”

‘What do you mean, ‘no’?’

“N-O. I’m busy.” Kione badly wants them to shut up and leave her alone. Any time but now.

‘This is an order.’

“I don’t care.”

‘We’re paying your rates, for gods’ sake!’

“I don’t care! Send somebody else.” A nasty sneer enters her voice. “Send Sartha.”

‘We can’t reach her. We hoped you’d know where she is. Monax, please.’

Right, that figures. Sartha’s not in her quarters, and she doesn’t have her radio with her. But something else is getting to Kione. The rebels don’t normally say ‘please’ with her. They don’t normally sound so desperate. Whatever’s going on, it has to be bad.

“What’s the situation?” Kione asks—begrudgingly, at first, although she quickly realizes she’s grateful to have something else to pay attention to. She turns around so she doesn’t have to look at Sartha’s sad, sorry face.

‘A hostile mech is directly approaching our position. We need you to intercept.’

“One hostile?” That’s almost enough to make her start laughing again. “Send somebody else.”

‘There are signs of significant Imperial activity on all sides of us. It’s the assault we’ve been dreading. Everybody else is en route to their positions, but the vanguard mech has already taken out our sentries on the forward approach. We need someone with your experience.’

An ace? Could be fun, though the seriousness of the overall picture is taking the shine off—plus, Kione’s never been less in the mood. Her head and her heart ache something fierce. One question does end up stabbing at her, though.

“How’d they take out the sentries?” Kione asks. They’re supposed to be well-hidden. Invisible. Waiting in ambush. Just how wrong is this all going?

‘They…’ The rebel on the radio falters for a moment. ‘The attacker is transmitting a friendly IFF code. Outdated, but legit. Our sentries recognized it and felt moved to attempt direct contact at close range. They were wiped out.'

Well, that was stupid of them. Using stolen IFF codes is the oldest trick in the book. It’s why you keep changing them. Unless by recognized they meant…

“Who is it?” Kione demands. “Send me the code.”

‘Do you know where Sartha is?’ the rebel asks instead. ‘We need her out there, but not alone. We don’t know what this means exactly. We’re worried she might need someone at her side, that’s why we would prefer you to-’

“Just send me the fucking code!” Kione yells. She knows nervous waffling when she hears it.

A pause. ‘Transmitting now. Please. Find Sartha. Get her out there. Theaboros is being prepped. Ancyor is ready. Deal with it quick. We don’t know how much time we have before they’re all over us.’

Over and out. A moment later, Kione’s transmitter chimes.

As soon as she looks at it, she panics.

She recognizes the name on the screen. Any smart merc would. They always keep their eyes on up-and-coming heroes. But it’s not that Kione can’t beat her. It’s the malign intent that lurks behind the name. This is Her. It has to be Her. She’s the only one who could orchestrate this. It’s too perfect in its horror to be anybody else. Kione remembers the promise that was made. ‘I will come at your worst moment, to call Sartha back to my side.’ Kione cannot fathom how She knew, but her lack of understanding changes nothing. Perhaps she’s never really understood any of this. Outside her quarters, the unseen dogs are back. Their howling is louder than ever. It’s deafening. Their baying signals the end. It’s the sound of Kione’s oncoming ruin. Kione panics as she sees all of that and worse in the three words printed alongside the IFF code she has just received:

LEINTH ARITIMIS - GENETOR