wolfsbane.

packbonding.

by magseidolia

Tags: #cw:gore #cw:noncon #cw:sexual_assault #alt_history #dom:female #f/f #graphic_violence #Mechsploitation #trench_warfare #ashing_cigarettes #bootlicking #cigarette #cum_eating #progressive_loss_of_humanity #psychosis #rutting_and_kneefucking

Colette Muir learns what it takes to be a Handler in the Commonwealth.

She should’ve been happy to be home.

Leaving Veriglas had seemed like a pipe dream - assuredly, Lettie was going to die there, was going to find herself buried in some unmarked mass grave with the assorted flesh of twenty other men by some menial who barely spoke a word of Imperial Common. She’d long since settled on that being the most likely outcome of her time at Volkov Pass - yet, here she was, away from it all.

The Director had secured a transfer at some point in their journey - a transition from the brutalistic militarism that was a Commonwealth Supply Transport to a private vessel, streamlined and quiet, a sleeper car and a dining table, three catered meals and all of the tea and cigarettes that Lettie could wish for. She rolled one of the latter between her index and middle finger, staring out the window at Lucia’s Bay, one of Heather’s preeminent natural wonders.

She inhaled. Held it. Exhaled.

The train was too fucking quiet - she was used to steam vessels that were loud, clangabout things comparative to the occasional bell-dinging to signal a stop or a meal delivery. She was used to having to cover her ears to block out the god-awful scraping of brakes that hadn’t been tuned in years when they came close to a stop. She was used to pressing her face against the steel to stop the vibrations from rattling her bones to dust.

Now, the silence was enduring, all-encompassing, punctuated only by the occasional sound of tongue-on-leather. She stole a sideways glance at what she’d been avoiding - Olive Blackwell, Program Director, reclined on a padded bench beside the dining table, eyes boredly scanning a pulp she’d been working through for the duration of their five-day journey. Positioned just ahead of her - obscured from view save for the occasional bobbing-up of a head of gray-white hair - was Scylla. She’d asked to be ‘dropped’ for the duration of the ride, and Blackwell had obliged, setting her about on simple tasks to keep her brain from over-conceptualizing the reality of the situation, playing different roles in that time; ashtray, footrest, and her most recent addition at this moment - bootbrush.

Blackwell caught Lettie’s glance, and the slightest hint of a smile appeared as her lips curled slightly upward. She put her hand down and scratched the back of Scylla’s neck, before asking, quietly, placidly, “Would you like a polish, Colette?”

“Fuck you.” Lettie snapped back, taking the cigarette between her fingers and placing it between her lips. She collected the lighter from her pocket, thumb against the striker wheel. Just as she was about to press it, Scylla migrated to her side; she knelt, opening her mouth and sticking her tongue out, expectant.

Lettie opted not to light that cigarette.

The ride continued quietly - Lettie avoided talking to Blackwell, Blackwell flipped through the pages of her book with disconnected interest, and Scylla went about performing automatic tasks within the train car when not otherwise occupied with either of her Handlers. Lettie was still struggling to conceptualize herself as such, but it was true - Blackwell had Shrew take her measurements before they left Volkov - and if nothing else, she was at least getting a new coat out of it.

In a way, going home felt like a death sentence; her entire world changed when they set foot off this train, into the undertow once again. Blackwell had been purposefully vague about what ‘training’ was, exactly - but if it was the same process that could turn Scylla into a pliable drone at a single command, or the same process that could strip the humanity out of someone like Blackwell and turn her into what she was now - it was nothing good.

Still, acceptance had washed over Lettie and all that she was - the idea that this was her reality now. When Scylla had been conscious over the last few days, she’d apologized relentlessly - but Lettie held no anger toward her, or tried to bury it down before it festered. The girl didn’t have a choice, she’d been coerced, commanded, conscripted to rape Lettie the way that she did. It was a horror beyond imagining; the idea that her autonomy could be taken at a single word from Blackwell’s lips, that she could be forced to commit violence without even the capability for resistance.

In that, Lettie could bury what had happened to her, if only to save Scylla.

Still, the thought brought a wave of nausea up in her chest, and she pushed out of the traincar, toward the exterior rails. Her eyes swept over Heather as they continued on their approach - the Lucian Loch, where she’d spent many of the summers of her childhood, sat below the railway bridge. The same cottages dotted its shores, the same trees stood in the forests beyond them - a corner of the world that she’d used to trust to take her away from the stresses of the world now welcomed her back to them.

She breathed, and slipped the same cigarette from before out from her jacket, putting it between her lips once again. She lit it, ashing it on the rail, letting an exhaled breath mix with smoke on the wind. Here, the taste of filthy, low-grade tobacco at least made it feel more like home, let her pretend that this was just a normal return from deployment.

Behind her, she heard movement, and she glanced over her shoulder - expecting Blackwell coming to prod at her once again, instead finding Scylla with her hands clasped in front of herself. She was still barely dressed; just wearing a bra and her shorts, as she was when in service - so Lettie ‘tch’d’ and pulled her longcoat off, pulling it over Scylla’s shoulders.

They stood side by side for a moment, before Lettie spoke. “Did she send you out here t’be an ashtray?”

“No.” Scylla said, the first time she’d spoken in maybe a day, or two. “She brought me up and told me to come take in the sights. Said you might be able to tell me a little bit about the Loch.”

Lettie let out a little sigh, considering her options. The Loch was her safety, really; it was a place of solace. She didn’t let many people in - but Scylla had gone through so much already, it felt like the simplest kindness she could offer.

So, she nodded. “I used to spend vacations here, when I was a kiddo. Me an’ mom an’ my sister, we used t’pack things up in an autocarriage an’ make our way over. S’the only place I’ve ever seen where y’can see the stars in the sky ‘cause there ain’t fuckin’ smog everywhere.” She looked at Scylla, who smiled up at her as she continued - small, but present. She continued. “S’really roughin’ it out here; ain’t no stores or nothin’, you get what y’come in with an’ if you want more, y’gotta drive or walk back.”

Scylla nodded, slowly. She looked back out to the Loch, not offering any thoughts in return. Lettie was fine with that, of course - but before she could settle back into the silence, she spoke again.

”I’m sorry, for what happened-“

”It’s not your fault.”

“Okay.”

A pause between them, then. Scylla was guilty, even though she *shouldn’t* have been; they, collectively, should’ve been furious with Blackwell above all else - but she didn’t see the girl before her manifesting anger toward a woman that she clearly deified, and despite her own reservations she found it hard to shore up her *own* anger.

So, she let it die on the vine, instead shifting gears. “What’s trainin’ like?”

“I don’t know.” Scylla said, quietly. “I’ve never been. Director Blackwell handled my training personally.”

Lettie felt her jaw tightening. “And what was that like?”

“Two of us. Some nice apartment - not hers, she clarified. Sheets that were soft and warm. Good food.” Scylla recounted it like it was a distant dream. “And a tub filled with ice water.”

“What was the tub for?” Lettie stopped fighting the impulse to shift Scylla in front of her and run her hands through the girl’s hair.

“For conditioning.” Scylla’s voice took on a bit of a distant lilt, an edge of fear evident beneath the placidity, slowly giving way to confusion. “Did you really not know?”

“Scylla, I fuckin’ told you, I don’t know anythin’ about this.” Her jaw loosened. “How the fuck should I’ve known?”

“I j-just, uhm, figured…” She drifted, and sighed. “Nevermind, uh…d-don’t worry about it.”

Then, the return to silence between them - something that, once again, caused Lettie more frustration than she liked to admit. Whatever the girl before her had been through was unspeakably awful, and Lettie couldn’t contribute to it - couldn’t become another tool of abuse in the hands of the Commonwealth. She softened her jaw, and took both of Scylla’s shoulders in her hands, turning her around and looking down at her.

“Whatever happened - an’ y’don’t need to tell me - I want you t’know we’re in this together goin’ forward. We share the burden - all of it. Alright?”

Scylla looked up at her, and those beady little eyes in her head searched Lettie’s face for meaning, for truth, for trust. Eventually, she relaxed as she seemed to find it.

“I know.” She whispered. “I trust you, Lettie.”

And she buried her head into Lettie’s chest, Lettie rubbing her back and holding her close as the train’s whistle sounded moments later.

Another step closer to the void.

Their destination appeared before them; a campus in the High Hills of Heather, various structures settled within a wrought-iron fence line, inconspicuous but assuredly protected from any threats - internal and external.

Their approach took them through a surrounding forest, beyond a small village of guest cottages - and toward the centerpiece of it all, a sprawling Manor, brightly colored but large enough to blot out the sun. It had pristine fixtures and tall stained glass windows, gold trim and pearlescent accent notes, a doorknob that - Lettie fathomed - was probably worth a month’s wages. In effect, it looked more like something from the cover of a magazine about high-class living than any Intelligence building she’d ever seen before.

She’d thought the banquet halls were nice - but this? This was a level of luxury unbecoming of an organization she’d thought herself familiar with.

Her trance was broken by Blackwell’s hand grasping her shoulder, the woman drifting by her with a smile on her lips. “I know it’s a lot to take in, Colette, but we shouldn’t stare. It’s unbecoming of people like us.”

“I’m not anythin’ like you.” Lettie spat. Blackwell rolled her eyes.

”Of course. That’s why you’ve a coat just like mine waiting for you inside. Now, come.” She walked on, and Scylla followed without compulsion - leading to Lettie doing the same. Entry into the manor’s atrium - bathed in warm, fractalized light - did little to acclimate Lettie to the level of luxury she now existed within. Blackwell’s stride didn’t stop as she led the two beyond the main hall, and further into a wing of ‘barracks’ - private rooms, as opposed to the large rooms of bunks she’d had to curtain herself off within previously.

Blackwell checked a list in hand, and opened the final door on the left - motioning for Lettie and Scylla to step into the space beyond. It was a large bedroom with an attached bathroom - complete with a soaking tub, sink, and shower, toiletries and all. The bedroom contained a standard array of furniture - wardrobe, armoire, writing desk, and two “beds” - a queen-sized plush thing on a rosewood frame, and a smaller, circular mattress at the end of it.

Bile rose in Lettie’s throat as realization hit her. “She’s not sleeping there.”

“Some Handlers choose to let their pets sleep in bed. It is a personal decision, of which I will not push you in any direction.” Blackwell shrugged. “Now, we have other things to be doing - but I’d like to see how your uniform fits first, hm?”

Lettie blinked, and turned; sure enough, at the top of the wardrobe sat a delicately wrapped cardboard box, a red ribbon sealing it. She approached it, feeling around its exterior walls as though it were trapped. Slowly, she unraveled the ribbon, popping the lid - and staring into it.

It was inoffensive in and of itself, really; a white blouse with gold buttons and cufflinks, black tweed pants, and woolen socks. Lettie stared at it for a long moment, until an impatient click echoed throughout the space - one that brought Scylla right to attention.

“Now, Colette. Change, please.”

She wanted to resist, truly; wanted to push back and tell Blackwell to shove it - instead, she made her way into the bathroom, and changed with a quickness. The clothing, unsurprisingly, fit her to a tee, and allowed her to take a look at herself that she hadn’t since she entered Volkov Pass. She’d lost weight and muscle from malnutrition and general trench living - a suit that would’ve looked comical on her six months ago almost looked like it fit, now. Her hair was long and unkempt, but with a bit of cropping, she’d look more like her mother’s old photographs from her time in the service - something that had always felt a bit too aspirational to be realized.

She breathed, let the moment wash over her, and returned to Blackwell and Scylla. Immediately, the shift in the Hound’s body language was evident - her eyes widened, and she went to her knees - seemingly on impulse. Lettie wanted to tell her to get back to her feet, but Blackwell was upon her before the words could leave her mouth; clasping cufflinks, smoothing fabric, checking buttons. She stepped back, a smile on her face - something sisterly, something like pride.

”Almost perfect.” She made her way to the space’s wardrobe, opening it and retrieving, first, a set of boots identical to Blackwell’s own. She set them down, and motioned for Lettie to sit at the desk - and then, she snapped her fingers.

”Scylla,” She spoke, in that same Sunday School intonation, “It’s time to go below.”

“Miss, I-“ Scylla started, before she was cut off.

“Drown.”

The shift was instantaneous; Scylla’s shoulders dropped, her eyes became fearful and wide, as if she was about to start thrashing. Blackwell’s voice was level, that same tone echoing.

“This is no time for fighting, Scylla; stay calm. Let it take you.”

Scylla was entirely receptive to the words; her eyes dropped to comfortable slits, her shoulders slacked entirely, her jaw went slack.

“Good girl.” Blackwell cooed. “Look at Miss Muir.”

Scylla turned without words, staring dead at Lettie. Lettie stared back, saying nothing - her voice stolen by the totality of the Hound’s submission, by the horror of what occurred before her. Blackwell continued.

“This is your Handler, now; she will keep you safe. She is yours as you are hers.” The level nature of Blackwell’s voice, the practiced verbiage of her words, told Lettie that she’d repeated this mantra enough to commit it to memory forevermore, to burn it into her skull. “Colette is your protector, your warden, your owner. She will protect you, and she will punish you. She will love you, and she will hate you. She will feed you, and starve you when warranted; water your garden and salt it if such a need becomes apparent. You will accept all of this in equal measure - for she knows best.”

“She knows best.” Scylla’s voice was distant, a hollow in the world. Lettie cursed herself for still not being able to muster up the energy to break the trance, but a voice in the back of her head spoke to an impulse she hadn’t fed for some time; a desire to be powerful, to have ownership. She’d felt it before - working on tank-walkers on the front, their functionality based entirely on her work and her assurance, the lives of those therein dictated by her work, her hand.

In a way, this was the same - her ownership, her responsibility just sat with flesh rather than steel.

By the time she’d broken her own fugue and buried the voice down, Scylla was kneeling before her, staring up expectantly. Lettie’s boots sat between her legs.

“May I?” Scylla asked, quiet, absent.

Lettie nodded.

Scylla moved once again; her hands working to unlace the boots, to press them onto Lettie’s feet, to lace them up once again. She tucked the legs of Lettie’s slacks into them, ensuring that they were fit and proper - before taking a step back, kneeling once again.

“Are they up to your standard, Colette?” Blackwell asked, and Lettie snapped back to reality. She’d forgotten the other woman was here.

“They are.” Lettie murmured.

“Good. Her jacket, now, Scylla.”

Scylla stood, moving with the same automata usually seen in a child’s toy to collect the longcoat from the wardrobe. She held it in her hands, by the shoulders - and opened the sleeves.

“This is the most important part of the ritual; the binding.” Blackwell spoke. “Stand, Colette.”

Lettie did as she was asked - moved by reprehensible tradition, she turned her back toward Scylla.

“Dress her, Scylla.”

Scylla did as she was asked - holding the sleeves for Lettie to slot into it. It was nicer than the thing she’d had in the field - warm and comfortable, lightweight enough to wear daily while clearly being made to withstand the elements, interior pockets for whatever she might’ve needed. She went to adjust it to settle on her shoulders properly, but Scylla moved quickly - mechanically - and did it before she could. Hollow eyes stared into Lettie’s own, before Scylla took her by the arms, and turned her to face Blackwell - kneeling at Lettie’s side as she finished.

“Absolutely perfect.” She whispered. “Never have I seen a more fitting pairing. How does it feel, Colette?”

How did it feel?

It felt horrid - she’d been let in on the darkest secret of the Commonwealth, and she’d been chosen - compelled or otherwise - to become its holder and benefactor.

It felt warm - Blackwell stared at her with importance that she’d never felt before, and Scylla was eager to serve.

It felt hollow - that voice that she’d tried to bury, that she thought she’d killed a long while ago, had come forth once again.

So, how did it feel?

“It feels fine.” Lettie lied. Blackwell smirked.

“We’ll find better words for it in time.” She sighed. “But for now, that will do.” She checked a pocket watch at her side, and cursed. “Come, now. We’re late.” She looked at Scylla. “And Scylla, my love? Surface.”

Scylla’s body language changed; she choked, sputtered as if her lungs were full of water. Frantically, her eyes scanned the space for familiarity, on the edge of a thrashing tantrum - until they caught Lettie.

Instantaneously, she calmed.

She inched closer to Lettie, and she put a hand on the Hound’s shoulder. She wanted to take Scylla in her arms and tell her that things would be okay, that they’d get out of here somehow - but she couldn’t bite back the pleasant feeling that had crawled up her throat seeing Scylla as submissive as she was - and before she could process a proper response, Blackwell’s hand touched her lower back, broke her focus.

“Let’s go.” Blackwell chirped, quiet and quick - and so, they went. Lettie paused - briefly - to collect her pack of cigarettes and stuff it into her new jacket before departing.

The hall beyond the Barracks had filled with some motion in their time re-dressing and demonstrating Scylla’s subservience; others dressed in similar tweed-and-cloth to what Blackwell had prepared for Lettie migrated in packs of two-or-three. Some were trailed by their pups; dutiful and attentive, some on two legs and others on four. Something about it sat wrong in Lettie’s stomach; it was one thing for the trance to have a utility purpose; another entirely for the wolves to be on display as they were here.

The time for contemplation passed quickly, however, as Blackwell spoke up. “I’m going to be departing once I bring you both to…your training room. I leave you in capable hands - but I leave you here. What happens going forward is between yourself and Scylla - and little else.”

“What d’you mean by that?” Lettie raised a brow. Blackwell turned on her heel, and Lettie turned to face her almost instinctually, hearing Scylla’s own boots skirt against the ground as she stopped, stepping back to let her betters have their space.

“Packbonding is the most important part of this process - more so than conditioning itself. Consider Scylla as she is; she’s effective, and efficient, but she’s not had a proper Handler. As much as I’ve adored her, she’s not bonded to me. Her work in Volkov…admirable, but it was a scouting operation in the end to find potential candidates to bond her to; candidates who can hold her hand when she submerges, again and again, something I’m far too busy to consider.” Her eyes drifted to where Scylla stood, looking between the Handlers expectantly. Something about the want in her eyes fed that need to matter that festered in the back of Lettie’s mind. “But you? You’re perfect. She’s already been primed to accept you - it’s just up to you to prove that you’re the woman for the job.”

Lettie snorted. “I’unno about that, I ain’t ever fucked around with somethin’ like this before, an’-”

“And nothing.” Blackwell laughed. “You’re here. You’ve dared to step into the uniform - no matter how I got you here, your only way out was to accept the path of shame. You chose not to. Your ascension was more important than utilitarian moralism. You commanded Scylla on the battlefield when she was prepared to cut your fellow troops to ribbons, told her to stop - and you did so without training. You are capable, and despite how well you try to hide it, you want this. You want the expectation, the promise of power, the positionality that comes with being above something; not just Scylla, but the dregs of our army that sit even below her. You need work, and your connection needs reinforcement - but I assure you that you are capable, and so,” She reached forward, cupping Lettie’s chin. “You are going to try, Colette. You are going to do what instinct tells you to do, just as you did at Volkov. You will swim, or you will sink, and as much as I am anticipating the former, I am prepared for the latter.”

Lettie’s anger snuffed out her growing want. “An’ what does that mean, then? Y’gonna leak that photograph y’took an’ kick me back out into the forces? They ain’t gonna want nothin’ t’do with me.”

Blackwell stared at her, somewhat incredulous, before speaking. “Colette, you’ve seen the heart of this. There’s no leaving it behind, no getting out.” She scoffed. “I told you - there are two ends to every leash. It’s your time to show that you belong on my side of it - rather than hers.” She shoved a thumb toward Scylla, who barely even registered the insult, the degradation, the notation as a failure.

A thousand words came to mind for Lettie, but only two left her lips. “I understand.”

“I’m glad. Governess Lark is stern, but she is fair.” She checked her pocket watch again, and huffed. “We’re late. You should go - through that door, just ahead. Don’t waste any further time dawdling.”

And with that, Blackwell turned on her heel, and disappeared; she left Lettie and Scylla standing, exchanging a glance - before pushing ahead to the classroom.

The room ahead was immense, in a word; an amphitheater half-circled with seating in five or six ascending rows, built around a stairwell leading to an operating chamber below. It was sterile and academic; in a way, it reminded Lettie of the firm confines of academia, universities she’d never even considered attending, so far beyond her that they felt like dreams.

She paused, briefly - before the clearing of a throat stole her and Scylla’s attention. In the midst of the operating chamber stood three women - one, tall and dressed in fare somehow more academic than that worn by Blackwell, with lengthy blonde hair that cascaded over her shoulders; a second, dressed in clothing similar to Lettie and the other Handlers scattered about the campus, with a cropped militaristic style; a third, kneeling, wearing a sleeveless shirt and a dog’s collar about her throat - equal parts debasing and embarrassing. Again, Lettie stopped her stride to stare, to consider - before the throat cleared itself again, as clear a signal as any to hurry up.

“You’re late.” The tall, academic one mused. She pushed circular glasses down the bridge of her nose, sucking in air. “Olive said you’d be more timely.”

“M’apologies.” Lettie murmured, and the woman winced.

“What is that accent? From West Heather? And you’ve come here?” She laughed. “Gods, I knew I’d have my hands full - but I expected some level of comparison between this batch of candidates, not…” She waved her hands about, exasperated. “An academy graduate and gutter-trash.”

“Hey-” Lettie started, but surprisingly, it was Scylla who stopped her - an elbow to the side. Lettie’s eyes shot downward, and she saw it; fear radiated from Scylla’s very being.

She clamped her jaw shut. The woman continued.

“Regardless, Olive seems to feel quite highly about you - so I’ll humor her. Failure at this stage is almost as productive as success, anyway.” She opened a slot in the spectator’s arena to allow the two to enter the operating chamber, allowing Lettie to take it in more fully; entirely barren, white tile flooring and walls with a fresh layer of grout between, a single drain in the floor and two wrought-iron tubs filled with an even mixture of ice and water. It harkened back to Scylla’s description of her initial meeting with Blackwell-

“Colette?”

Her voice cut through the space again, and Lettie glanced up. “Sorry, jus’-”

“‘Jus’’. Ugh.” She shook her head. “You vex me. I’d advise you to keep your speech to a minimum until we’ve reached a point where I have no further instruction to give.” She crossed her arms behind her back, looking both Lettie and Scylla over. “Mercifully, you both look the part enough that I should be able to push your…vernacular out of mind. My name is Quintessa Lark. You may call me ‘Miss Lark’ or ‘Governess.’” She took a step toward Scylla, and clicked the heel of her boot. Scylla’s body shot to attention. “Come here, pup. Kneel so I can get a better look at you.”

Before Lettie even had a moment to consider a response - or command Scylla to stay - the Hound moved forward, settling on her knees in front of the Governess. Lark took Scylla’s jaw in her hand, and stuck a thumb between her lips, forcing her mouth open. “Admittedly, a pairing like this is unconventional - Violet and her pup are both of high-standing, but I can tell you aren’t - nor is this one.” She looked her over, completing an examination similar to how one would consider the condition of a show-dog. She clicked her tongue, softly; a smile on her lips. “Still, she’s in good shape. Not so much a lost cause. Has she seen combat?”

Lettie held her tongue, until a stern glance from Lark brought her voice forth again, quashed into an uncomfortable and unfamiliar shape; an attempt to avoid a further scolding. “Lightly. Volkov Pass in Veriglas. Tore the whole fuckin’ thing to bits, with ease.”

“Volkov Pass.” Lark nodded, slowly, as if the words meant something to her. “And what was your role in this offensive?”

“Crew mechanic.” The words caused Lark’s eyes to flit upward, a wave of judgment from her eyes to Lettie’s core.

“God in Heaven.” She sighed, letting Scylla’s jaw loose and taking a step toward Lettie. Lark had height on her - enough to be notable without being all-consuming. “I asked for prestige in picking candidates for the Handler’s wing, and I’m handed journeymen.” She laughed. “Isn’t it entertaining, Violet?”

“Yes, Governess. Very much so.” The other woman chirped, short and curt. Lettie wanted to punch her fucking teeth in, but held her tongue and her violence, turning to face Lark.

“All due respect, ma’am-”

“-Governess.-”

“-Governess, Director Blackwell picked me because I was able to quell Scylla in the battlefield, when she seemed primed to…ruin a victory. I could tell she was growing anxious, and so I told her to stop - and she did.” Lettie held her hand out, and Scylla returned to her side; she pressed her head into Lettie’s hand. To her credit, she did not scritch behind the Hound’s ears. “Director Blackwell spoke with me after, and…”

What was she going to say? The truth? Director Blackwell had Scylla rape me and took pictures of it, so that I couldn’t do anything but agree. Director Blackwell threatened everything I’d ever worked for because I had the common sense to put an end to more senseless violence before it could even start. Director Blackwell saw me for what I was - wanting more - and made it so I couldn’t say no.

“...offered me the opportunity to come with. So, I took it.” Lettie gave a smile. “Simple as, really.”

“Simple as.” Lark hummed. “Surely seems to be the case. Simple is a fitting word.” She looked down to Scylla. “The pup has taken to you, clearly. I assume Blackwell did the handoff?”

“What, the…drown thing?” Lettie raised a brow.

“It’s called a hypnotic induction.” Lark sighed. “Not something I’d expect you to understand, but I’m glad to hear it was done. Having proper ownership handed to you is one thing, but you must prove that you’re able to wield it. Violet and Freja have shown me their connection already, but…I’m always interested in making a game of it.” A smile danced across her lips. “If you fancy it, Miss Cross?”

“Of course, Governess. Freja!” The other Handler nodded to her Hound, who made her way toward the tub, shedding her clothing as she went - save for the collar, which the Handler removed as she offered her neck out. Lettie found herself caught in the moment, before a glance from Lark forced her into action - motioning for Scylla to do the same. Scylla hesitated - balked, really - and Lettie felt her face growing warm with shame, with embarrassment.

“Get on with it.” She barked, firm as she could muster. Scylla jumped, and moved; she stripped out of her shirt and trousers, and then her undergarments, before settling into the tub. She mimicked the Hound parallel to her - settling her neck against the back of the tub, trying to hold herself in place - but her jaw clattered as shivers racked her body. Lark rolled her eyes and stepped back, motioning for Lettie and Violet to step forward.

It was Lettie’s turn to mimic, now; she settled with her hands at the edge of the tub, each to either side of Scylla’s temples. She watched Violet, who seemed to get some level of enjoyment out of her position in the moment; idol, star pupil, what-have-you. It boiled something fierce in Lettie’s gut, but she focused on the task ahead.

“The drown command is the centerpiece of the work completed within the Program,” Lark began, more clinical now than she’d been previously. “Encompassing the idea that we can harness the moment of struggle when a body is submerged, the fight that comes when it feels as though one is about to lose their life and fall into the riptide - and use its momentum to fuel a war machine. When a Hound is induced, two paths lie before them - struggle, or submission. The former is necessary for the battlefield - the latter has utility outside of it, as I’m sure you’ve both experienced.” Lark shot a smile at Lettie, who locked her jaw. “To be able to drop a Hound into this state at a moment’s notice is the most essential skill in a Handler’s toolkit; if you are unable, you are incompatible with the program. Granted, it takes time to develop, but…” Lark picked something out of her fingernails. “You both have primed Hounds, and an ideal testing environment - a similar setting to that used in conditioning.” She took a step back.

“Drown your Hounds.”

An incredulous ‘what?’ escaped Lettie’s lips - but Violet was already moving; her hands settled on either side of her Hound’s head, and forced her down. Lettie watched Scylla’s eyes fill with fear as she realized what was about to happen - but she had no choice as she took the girl and shoved her beneath the water.

It was frigid - almost unfathomably cold, bitter and painful on the hands, so much so that Lettie could barely imagine what it felt like against the entirety of Scylla’s bare flesh. Scylla thrashed - instinctually, likely - while Violet’s Hound remained still. Lark watched both Handlers with barely-veiled disinterest.

“Bring them up.” She chirped, and Scylla emerged; eyes wide, gasping. The other Hound was dead silent, a light smile on her lips. Lettie was grateful that the exercise was finished, that she could take Scylla and move on -

“Again. Drown.”

Violet pushed her Hound under, again, and Lettie, pitifully, did the same. Again, the thrashing - Lettie’s tweed was soaked through with freezing water. Through the water’s surface, she could almost read the panic in Scylla’s eyes. Lark had a watch in hand, now.

“Bring them up.”

Again, the surfacing; Scylla did so with desperation, splashing water over Lettie, over Lark, over Violet. Frustration and irritation boiled up from the latter two, but Lettie was too bogged down with worry to even consider any of the potential negatives -

“Again.”

Scylla didn’t bother to look at Lettie, didn’t bother to wait - she held her breath and submerged. Lark clicked her tongue.

“Don’t let her do that, Colette. Stop her!”

“I won’t-” Lettie snarled, but Lark moved like a woman possessed - and a ruler snapped against the knuckles on Lettie’s left hand.

“Next time, I’ll aim for your face. She has to drown.” The vicious glare of the Governess cut through Lettie, who did as she was asked, jamming fingers between Scylla’s lips and depleting her stored air - a weak cry echoed from Scylla’s mouth, bubbles coming to the surface as she continued to drown.

“Surface.”

Scylla came up again, panicking - but the difference between both Hounds was more pronounced, now. Scylla had her wits about her, clearly, but Freja was entirely stiff and still, eyes wide and waiting, empty as the day she’d been born. Lark turned her back toward Lettie and Scylla, allowing the former to hold Scylla’s head to her chest, to comfort her as quiet tears came - but admittedly, her attention was drawn toward the display before her.

Freja stepped free from the tub, padding quietly toward Violet, kneeling. Violet cooed.

“Don’t fight it.” She whispered. “Just kneel. Let me have you. All of you.”

It was easy enough to see the change; the slumping shoulders, the end of panic, not as cleanly as Blackwell had it, but clean enough. She was empty, hollow, a vessel for her Handler’s will. Violet cupped Freja’s chin, brushed her hair away from her forehead.

“Good girl.” Violet whispered, and pressed her lips against Freja’s cold flesh. Lark clicked her pocket-watch.

“That’s enough.” She sighed. “Admirable performance, Violet - quicker than last time. An easy enough contest, against a non-starter.” She looked at Lettie and Scylla, and sneered. “I suppose I should be easier on you, what with this being your first - pup, come.” She pointed to her side, and Scylla looked to Lettie, and then to Lark - and joined her. Lark looked her over, feeling her pulse points, taking her head in her hands -

- before driving the point of her boot into Scylla’s ribs. The girl let out a wretched noise - and whatever water had been trapped in her lungs, intermingled with bile came up from her throat. The action had been lightning-quick, so much so that Lettie barely had time to react to the first blow - but her eyes caught the second as Lark pulled her boot back, and she rushed, grabbing the woman by the shoulders and pulling her away. Lark twisted on her foot, rage clear on her lips.

“What the fuck do you think you’re doing?” She snarled.

“What are you doin’?” She growled in response. “That’s my fuckin’-”

“That is your nothing. You couldn’t even drop her into trance in ideal circumstances. Your failures have to be punished - always, or you’ll never learn.” She took a step back, a heaving breath coming forth as rage burned in Lettie’s chest. “I don’t suppose you’re willing to take a beating on her behalf, are you?”

Lettie fixed her jaw. “Scylla’s my Hound to protect-”

“Lettie, don’t!-” Scylla cried, weakly, from her position on the floor.

“-so I’ll take it in her stead. I’m stronger, ‘nyway.”

That caught Lark’s attention; the rage on her face diluted down to malicious curiosity. “You’d take a beating for your Hound?”

“I would.” Lettie growled. “I will.”

“Curious. Perhaps I’ve been too harsh, too soon.” Lark shot a sideways glance to Violet, who looked somewhat perturbed by the development - but as Lettie’s eyes moved to follow, Lark’s fist smashed into her skull, knocking her loose and down to her knees. A swift, booted kick to the ribs nearly caused Lettie to vomit, but she held it in - before Lark grabbed her wrist, smashing her hand against the side of the tub, pressing her knuckles against the cold iron and -

WHACK!

- the ruler came down again, and -

WHACK!

- again, blood trickling from her fingers -

WHACK!

- a third, emphatic, final blow. Lettie seethed; she let her anger out in short huffs, let herself return to a more stable level of emotion. Her eyes met Scylla’s - full of worry and pain all their own - before she was yanked back to her feet by Lark, who took her battered hand and examined it. She tutted, quietly.

“I need to work on my form, clearly. I meant to just catch your knuckles.” She lowered the hand, and looked to Violet, a curious edge to her stare, now. “Have you ever taken a punishment for Freja?”

“W-what?” Violet huffed. “Of course not, but Freja doesn’t ever-”

“Ah, ah!” Lark clicked her tongue. “Freja doesn’t get punished now, but she did previously. Need I remind you, all wolves were pups at a time. You forget the most important rule of our creed, dear Violet; you punish and protect. A weapon allowed to be damaged profusely will eventually cease in its function.” She moved to Scylla, helping her to her knees - ignoring the way that the naked girl looked at her with disgust and fear. “Despite my initial reservations - and those that continue beyond my first impression - I believe this may be less one-sided than I’d initially thought. Credit to you, Ms. Muir - it’s rare that a student turns my expectations so quickly.”

“Feels like I should be fuckin’ disgusted knowin’ that.” Lettie growled. Lark laughed, in response.

“You’ll come to appreciate it later. For now - take your Hounds and…go about your business. Rest.” She trailed through the puddles opposite Scylla’s tub. “We pick back up at sunrise tomorrow. Try your hardest not to be late, hm?”

Her boots clicked toward a door at the far end of the operating chamber, and then, she was gone. Violet, Lettie, Scylla and Freja remained - and the former Handler stared upon Lettie with narrow eyes, taking a step forward and prodding an index finger into her chest.

“I don’t know how in the fuck you got here, but I’m not about to lose my fucking dream to gutter-trash.” She snarled.

“Trus’ me,” Lettie stepped forward. “I’m not lookin’ to steal shit from you. Y’think I want to be here?”

“Clearly, you don’t, if you can’t even stand the sight of your little dog getting hurt.” Violet snorted. “Are you even ready for the possibility of her rig taking a hit?”

Lettie’s jaw tightened. “There’s a difference-”

“There isn’t. And the sooner you realize that - that there’s no real difference between pain from us and pain from them - the sooner you’ll wash out and end up in the arms of someone who can actually do this. You coddle her long enough, and she won’t learn a fucking thing.” Violet’s words left with a venom that Lettie couldn’t quite place. “Just watch.”

“Fuck you.” Lettie spat back, and she watched as Freja settled before Violet; teeth bared, hands clenched into fists. Nude before Lettie, she could see that the woman’s body rippled with muscle; Scylla wouldn’t stand a chance against her, and Lettie doubted that even she would be able to do any damage, knowing that Violet could put the woman into a trance far faster than Lettie could with Scylla - if she could at all. She wasn’t exactly sure of the rules here, but she had her doubts that violence amongst pairings would be harshly punished.

Wisely, perhaps, she retreated; she snapped her fingers, and took a few steps toward the exit, feeling Violet’s eyes scraping over her as she and Scylla made their way toward the stairs, Scylla sheepishly trying to hide her exposed flesh from the prying eyes of the world outside. Lettie waited until they reached the door to pull her coat free from her shoulders, wrapping it around Scylla’s body, letting her be covered as they trailed into the hall once again, back toward the barracks.

They spoke not a word as the two of them settled into their rest for the night - Lettie checked the inventory of the wardrobe and dresser, Scylla curled up under a blanket on the dog-bed. Dinner was delivered, at some point - a platter for Lettie, a bowl for Scylla - and they ate, civilized, on the floor together. Lettie set an alarm, washed herself, and crumpled on the bed - and as time passed, Scylla crawled up next to her and stared expectantly. Lettie opened her arm, and Scylla settled into the crook of it.

Night took them before long.

Packbonding, as a whole, was simple.

Once grouped, Handlers and Hounds were set against one another; pair against pair to determine which had the strongest bond, and thus would be the most effective in the field of battle. There was learning to be done, of course; mornings were spent in classrooms across the manor’s campus, studying the basics of hypnotic induction, while afternoons and evenings were spent in what Lark called ‘live exercises’ - drowning, commanding, dressing, and wrestling.

They were as simple as they’d been named - drowning involved forcing a Hound below the water again, and then forcing them into trance, commanding involved having a tranced Hound follow orders of increasing complexity, dressing involved having a Hound dress their Handler with minimal direction, and wrestling was…wrestling, with each Hound seeking supremacy over another. There were no points, and victory was scored through submission or pinning.

As the last exercise of each day concluded, the pairs were dismissed - more often than not, this was accompanied by a verbal spar between Lettie and Violet, the latter of which had become more brash in passing days. Part of Lettie wanted to believe that it was because they were getting the better of her, but she knew the truth; the cracks were beginning to show, because Scylla was unable to perform. They’d not taken victory in a single exercise since they’d started this process - Lettie would be unable to drop Scylla, or she’d drop Scylla and the Hound would stop responding, or she’d forget simple steps in dressing.

Wrestling was by far the worst for Scylla. Freja, time and time again, would toy with Scylla - and the moment she started, it was hard to get her to stop - especially when it bordered on assault, or rape. Eventually, the bell would be called, or Scylla would submit, and it would be over.

With each failure came punishment - and each punishment was taken by Lettie, who bore the scars of such an action; cane marks on her thighs and legs, welts from a whip up her back, bruises on her knuckles, and pinpricks on her calves. Each time, she bore it; each time, she earned some credit back for her willingness.

Each time, her resentment grew - for the program, for Lark, and for Scylla. The girl would try to make it up to her - would dress her wounds, help her shower, apologize profusely - but it was still her fault, still a consequence for her lack of performance. Lettie wouldn’t speak on it - they both knew who carried the fault - but it was becoming harder and harder to ignore with each passing day.

On the eleventh consecutive day of failure, Lettie needed a break. She’d sent Scylla to bed without a chance for apology, or rationalization - she needed space, and she needed the Hound to be alone. She let her have the barracks while she strolled campus; hands dug into her trousers, keeping her legs moving to avoid the wretched ache of their wounds. She wouldn’t return - couldn’t, really - without rectifying these thoughts in her head, without venting stress somehow.

Gingerly, tenderly, she found a bench to sit upon - and from it, she stared out to the area surrounding the campus; the treeline of the surrounding forest, the wrought iron fence that acted as a semipermeable barrier between herself and the world beyond. She’d barely seen any security, here; she doubted it was entirely unprotected, but could anyone really stop her and Scylla if they decided to run?

She almost smacked herself for her stupidity. Of course they could. This was the core of the Commonwealth’s most well-kept secret - if they ran, it felt highly likely they’d not make it far.

She felt dread clawing up in her chest, again; her brief, fleeting hope fading into the ether before it even had a chance to become real. What Hell had she fallen into? What chance did she have? Each day that ticked by felt like her last as a fully sapient being, like she was closer to becoming part of Scylla’s pack than her proper owner.

Tears trickled down Lettie’s cheeks. She tried to rub them away, furious, angry, pissing mad - before a hand settled on her shoulder. She turned, expecting Scylla trying to comfort her, or Violet rubbing it in -

Instead, Director Blackwell stood.

“Colette.” Blackwell tilted her head. “Are you crying?”

“N-no-” She started, a defense-

A hand clutched her chin. Tilted her head up. Words died in her mouth.

“You’re crying.” Blackwell murmured, firm and final. “Don’t lie to me, darling.”

“I-I’m sorry-”

“It’s alright.” She let a breath slip between her teeth. “Tears make us human, don’t they? I cried plenty in my time in the academy - half as treacherous as this, it was.” She made a soft ‘tut’ noise with her tongue. “Where’s Scylla?”

“Asleep. I hope.” Lettie’s voice betrayed her frustration, which sparked a light behind Blackwell’s eyes - brief, but present. “I apologize for-”

“You’re very kind to that Hound, you know.” Blackwell cut her off. “Not being judgmental; I told you I’d not interfere in your treatment of her, but…perhaps you deserve some kindness, too.” She pulled Lettie up by the wrist, sweeping her along despite her protests. “Come - the cottages are nice enough.”

“The cottages? Director, I-”

“Hush. Call me Olive.” Blackwell murmured, leading Lettie onward, through the sprawling garden and onto a row of nice - albeit small - cottages beyond the exterior limits of the garden itself. She didn’t release Lettie’s wrist as she opened the door to one, pulling her inside with a gentleness that the director hadn’t yet shown, leading her to a couch far more comfortable than the previous bench - so soft that it almost made her forget about the cane-marks on the underside of her legs.

Blackwell knocked around the kitchen for a bit as Lettie sat, and simply was on her own for a moment; the bonding component of the process, as described in the surrounding academia of it all, had been greatly effective. Lettie was struggling to see where she ended and Scylla began; the two of them operated as a singular unit, amplified by the fact that Scylla’s failures had become her own, and thus her punishments had, too. They were of two bodies, but one soul; two corpses sharing a grave that seemed to be filling in by the moment.

Frustration boiled up in Lettie’s stomach again as she considered it; if they were bonded, why was this pain hers alone? Scylla claimed that she’d felt it, too; that she felt terribly for it, but she didn’t know. She didn’t bear the scars. She didn’t consider the permanence of it all. Lettie agreed to take it on, time and time again, but it was only because of Scylla - of her beady eyes, and her begging stare, of her fear and her failure. She’d been shamed enough in the reality of her loss - the physicality could be taken elsewhere.

Theoretically, of course. In reality, it was adding up more quickly than she’d expected.

Her train of thought was derailed by the clinking of cubes of ice, and her attention was entirely stolen by Blackwell’s emergence from the kitchen, holding two glasses; amber liquor and cubes of ice, a thin strip of candied orange.

“It’s from the West. The good stuff.” Blackwell laughed, quietly. “Never really appreciated it as much as I love gin, but…it’ll do.” She pressed one of the glasses into Lettie’s hand, and Lettie glanced down at it.

“Is this a test?” She asked, simply. Blackwell blinked.

“Of course it’s not a test. You’ve been tested enough in recent days, haven’t you?” Blackwell took a sip from her glass, and Lettie did the same. “Governess Lark has been…filling me in, on your progress, when I’ve seen her. I’ve not been around continuously, but I’ve been here enough to get the updates I need.” She let out a light sigh, shaking her head. “Not quite how I saw this all going.”

“It’s my fault.” Lettie said, quietly. “I need to be stronger for Scylla, an’-”

A laugh from Blackwell cut her off. “Stronger? Colette, you’re covered in welts you’ve taken for your Hound without complaint. You’re letting her grow soft.” Blackwell seemed contemplative, for a moment. “Granted, I think it’s better than…throwing her to the wolves, proverbially, but still. She’s got to learn the pain of failure, or she’ll be afraid to try to succeed.”

“But-” Lettie started, but it clicked. Blackwell was right - there was no incentive for Scylla to try and win. It wasn’t like she could fall any further; she was already a Hound, her autonomy already belonged to another, even if she wasn’t entirely able to capitalize on it at this point in time. She’d continue failing, and Lettie would continue taking the punishment until Lark declared them both lost causes, and they’d be separated - Scylla sent to some other Handler, and Lettie sent to Drown until she forgot what she’d been in the first place.

It started to curdle and ferment in her skull, and Blackwell’s stare; considerate and contemplative, prying and wanting, only brought her need on further. She had been kind; more than that, she’d been overprotective. She’d safeguarded Scylla like she’d been the important one in the mix, but Scylla was what she was - a tool, a Hound, a weapon. She could handle some wear-and-tear, it was part of the fucking task. It was her responsibility to be efficient and effective - it was what she’d been conditioned to do.

It was the proper order of the world, after all; Colette Muir had ordered her on the battlefield without any training, the program itself had fucked up their bond, and she’d only worsened it with her softness. She chewed on her lip as Blackwell continued to peel her apart with a stare, and finally, she sighed.

“You’re right.” She started, and then paused. “But you’re wrong, too.”

“Oh?” Blackwell raised a brow. “Why’s that?”

“Because I was right t’take her punishments recurrently.” She sighed, teeth locking into place, jaw tightening. “If she’s gonna fail, the Governess shouldn’t be the one t’discipline her.”

Lettie barely missed the smile growing on Blackwell’s face.

“It should be me.”

Slowly, Blackwell nodded, and she pressed a bit closer to Lettie; her leg touching Lettie’s in a way that would’ve brought heat to the Handler’s face, were she less inundated with her current train of thought.

“Oh, yeah?” Blackwell purred. “Tell me about it.”

Lettie looked up at her, a wry smile on her lips.

“Why don’t you just come tomorrow and watch?”

Blackwell’s smile stretched across her lips, and Lettie saw it, then; the hunger in her eyes, the desire to pounce and eat her entirely - but she held it back, instead offering her glass for a clink.

Lettie accepted, and her thoughts dwelled elsewhere.

The following day brought another round of wrestling - and with it, another insurmountable challenge for Scylla to overcome. Lettie hadn’t changed anything about their interaction, but she had reminded Scylla of her responsibility - to succeed, for it was her ass on the line rather than Scylla’s.

From where she stood - next to Lark and Violet - Freja’s advantage was visually obvious. She didn’t tower over Scylla so much as she dwarfed her - she had twice the muscle on her body, and her frame was packed tight like a shotgun shell - ready to fly out and obliterate whatever stood before her. Lark was primed to ring the bell to ‘start’, when another shape emerged in the upper rungs of the amphitheater - and even from the lower level, Lettie could recognize Blackwell’s silhouette.

A moment passed, and the bell rang - and both Scylla and Freja flew at one another, Freja quickly taking the advantage and shoving Scylla down to a knee. The larger woman nailed Scylla with a stiff knee to the midsection, bending her in half before driving her into the ground fully. There was no fight on Scylla’s behalf - no desire to win, no drive. Anger curled around Lettie’s heart - but she waited, watched.

Then, it happened; Freja put a palm against Scylla’s face and shoved her into the ground, holding her there. The veins in Scylla’s neck bulged as she cried out in agony, and Lettie wondered if the other Hound was going to kill her - but that would’ve been a kindness compared to her following motion, as she pressed her knee between Scylla’s legs.

Freja’s voice, husky with the moment, emanated from deep within her throat. “Rut.”

“W-what?” Scylla whimpered.

“Rut, you needy fucking runt.”

To Lettie’s horror - and building rage - Scylla obliged. She pressed her insignificance against Freja’s knee, rubbing herself against the larger woman like a desperate animal, Freja’s smile only growing larger and larger as she kept her pinned - but not so that she could secure a win. From this position, there wasn’t a chance in Hell that she would push to a victory before getting her trophy.

From this position - judging by her gasping and the reddening of her face - Scylla wasn’t lasting long, either.

Two, three, four thrusts more, and Freja pressed in, and Scylla let out a desperate moan as she came all over herself, crumpling full-back to the ground as Freja pressed the same knee - now soaked with her cum - against Scylla’s face, holding her down for a pin.

The bell rang, again, and Lettie was moving before she even knew what she was doing, hand swiping Lark’s ruler with a yelp from the Governess. Freja - usually so strong in the face of the opposing Handler - cleared out as she saw Lettie’s stride, keeping a safe distance as Lettie closed on Scylla’s prone, post-coital state, and drove the heel of her boot into Scylla’s stomach. She rolled onto her front, coughing, sputtering, whimpering, “Lettie-”

“SHUT!” A boot to the back. “THE FUCK!” Another to the tailbone. “UP!” A kick to the ribs. “FACE ME!”

Somehow, Scylla complied; she rolled onto her side and stared up at Lettie, who looked down at her; pitiful, covered in her own waste, a fucking loser rather than a violent Hound.

“DON’T YOU KNOW HOW MUCH I’VE FUCKIN’ DONE FOR YOU?”

A kick to the stomach, and then a running of her boot against it, picking up the slick left from Scylla’s embarrassment.

“HOW MUCH I’VE SUFFERED - SUFFERED - BECAUSE YOU CAN’T FUCKIN’ WIN!”

A boot to the sternum, now.

“I THOUGHT YOU WERE A WOLFHOUND! I THOUGHT YOU WERE THE ONE WHO BROKE VOLKOV! BUT HERE I SEE YOU; A LITTLE, BEGGIN’ PUPPY.”

A stomp to the skull, emphasized; her heel caught Scylla’s nose, and she bled. Fuck if she cares, Scylla’s earned this. She grabbed her by the wrist, dragging her up to the spectator’s area where they watched her loss - and she planted Scylla’s left hand down against the wood, bringing the ruler high - and down -

WHACK!

- the skin on her knuckles split immediately, and-

WHACK!

- another hit brought blood, but the backlash of the ruler tore up the flesh beyond the knuckle. Another-

WHACK!

- and another -

WHACK!

- and a salvo, unending.

WHACK!

- until on the last, the ruler snapped. Scylla wept; her face red with tears and her throat raw from sobs - the only sound in the whole of the ampitheatre. Lettie dropped the ruler’s remnants before Lark, eyes ignoring the wreck that was Scylla’s previously-intact left hand, before she shoved her against the wood, bringing her eye to eye - a firm hand clutching her chin. Scylla wanted to look away - she could tell - but her eyes were drawn to Lettie’s.

“You’re done lettin’ me down. It ain’t happenin’ again - an’ if it does? I ain’t takin’ no punishments for you, an’ Lark ain’t givin’ ‘em out either. I will beat you fuckin’ bloody in front of every pair of eyes I can fuckin’ find if that’s what it takes to get you to perform. Do you understand me?”

“Lettie-” Scylla cried, weakly.

“Don’t you fuckin’ ‘Lettie’ me.” Her voice came out as a growl. “You’re the reason I’m in this fuckin’ mess in the first place, because you couldn’t hold your cock in your fuckin’ pants when another girl told you to rape me. You’re gonna spend every day of your fuckin’ life makin’ what you did that night up to me - an’ you start it now.”

Scylla’s eyes went wide, filled with all-consuming fear. Any thought or want beyond utter submission faded as Lettie stared into them. She nodded, slowly.

“Say, ‘Yes, Handler.’” Lettie demanded.

“Yes, Handler.” Scylla whimpered.

“Good dog.” Lettie dropped her. “Now don’t fuckin’ come ‘round ‘til bedtime tonight without a good fuckin’ reason. You can eat your dinner cold.”

“Yes, Handler.” Scylla whispered, again. Lettie took a step away from her - stepping forward to feint another boot to her head, causing Scylla to flinch with a yelp - before she stepped away, brushing up the amphitheater stairs and past Blackwell, stopping only briefly to catch the look of approval on the Director’s face - before vanishing into the manor proper.

Her walk to the barracks was clipped - she needed space, needed time, needed a moment to herself. The lack of pain that surged through her body - all too familiar from her usual strides back - energized her, filled her with a euphoria not so easily described. She pushed through the door to her quarters, stripped out of her clothing - slick with sweat from her moment of rage - and pushed into the bathroom.

She stared at herself in the mirror - her stupid, lopsided smile had adjusted itself in the presence of her betters; her eyes had narrowed and focused. Her hair remained the only problem point - too long, too disheveled - but a grab for a provided shaving knife let her trim it to something cropped, something professional. She rewarded herself with a shower, afterward - one that didn’t feel like utter hell as the water running over her didn’t have to navigate new wounds.

She indulged herself, and enjoyed it. By the time she’d emerged, dinner had arrived, and she was pleasantly alone; without the Hound-shaped albatross about her neck, she felt that she could breathe. She ate dinner tucked half into bed, flipped through the pages of one of the books that Blackwell had left her, and otherwise sat in the silence.

Without the voice in her head that had been screaming at her to take what was hers, she found she could have some semblance of peace.

Evening had faded into night, and Scylla was nowhere to be seen; Lettie couldn’t find it in her heart to mind too dearly, she assumed that the Hound had simply gone elsewhere to sulk, or was trying to figure out how to make up for her failures.

She’d learn, eventually - and if she didn’t, ignorance was a powerful tool. Lettie extinguished the sole lamp in the room, and drifted down toward the pillow, her head settling against it -

- when the door creaked open, inch by inch. She opened an eye, catching Scylla’s silhouette in the doorway.

“Back from our sulking, then?” Lettie asked. She received no response. Slowly, her hand traveled toward the lamp’s switch - and flicked it.

When the light came up, her eyes first caught Scylla’s hands - stained red, chunks of viscera dancing up her arms until they faded, commenced again around her mouth. Lettie’s eyes widened as she pushed herself up to a sitting position - and Scylla shrunk, lowering to her knees as she crawled to Lettie’s bedside.

“What did you do?” Lettie asked, her voice barely above a whisper. Scylla looked down, wouldn’t meet her eyes, so she repeated, reconsidered her words.

“What did you do, Hound?”

“I…” Scylla’s voice was thick with sadness, and…something else, almost imperceptible. “I killed Freja.”

The moment washed over both of them. Lettie’s brain swirled with a hundred thousand emotions - but one won out above the rest, pride swelling in her chest. “How?”

“I cornered her. She left her barracks to…go somewhere, outside. I followed her - I didn’t m-mean to do it, b-but…” She fumbled with her hands, toying with what appeared to be a chunk of cartilage. “She tried to…do it again, with her knee, an-and I…blacked out. I think I…” A tittering, nervous laugh escaped Scylla’s throat. “Ripped her ear off, in it. H-her head was…all over.”

“All over?”

“Lots of stone out there.” She whispered. “Almost too much.”

Scylla returned to silence - she didn’t offer anything else up, and Lettie didn’t request it. Instead, she lifted Scylla by her shoulders, leading her to the bathroom. She sat her in the tub, running the showerhead over her - cold, but Scylla didn’t dare shiver as she was rubbed abrasively to get each and every bit of blood off of her, each fragmented chunk of gore out of her hair, her teeth, her fingernails and between her digits. It washed away - into the sewers, into oblivion.

“This didn’t happen.” Lettie said, simply.

“This didn’t happen.” Scylla repeated.

“You didn’t kill Freja.”

“I didn’t kill Freja.”

“You were asleep. At the foot of the bed.”

“Y-yes. I was…asleep. At the foot of the bed.”

“Good dog.” Lettie ran her hands through Scylla’s hair, and Scylla purred at her touch. She finished showering her, toweled her off and dumped the towels into the trash-chute attached to the room, before she led Scylla to the foot of the bed. Scylla looked toward the dresser, and went to move - but Lettie clicked, and she stopped. “Dogs don’t need bedclothes.”

“Yes, Handler.”

“Dogs don’t go on the furniture, either.” Lettie crouched. “You sleep here, now.”

“Of course, Handler.”

“If you’re good, you can sleep in bed again - but don’t go expectin’ it, and if I catch you in bed, you will be sorry.”

“I understand, Handler.”

“Good dog.” Lettie scritched her behind the ears, and covered her with her blanket - as kind a gesture as she could offer - before returning to her own bed, enjoying the best sleep she’d had since they returned to Heather.

She took the next morning slowly - waited for Scylla to rise, enjoyed breakfast alongside her, and they made their way toward the classroom as they had the previous twelve mornings. On the walk over, she noted how bare Scylla’s neck looked, and made a mental note to address it once she was assured of their position within the program.

Unsurprisingly, they were the second group to arrive - a furious-looking Violet stood next to Governess Lark, deep in heated conversation that ceased the moment they arrived. Lettie descended the stairs to the operation chamber without much haste or fanfare - Scylla close at her side - and she gave a light bow as they crossed the threshold.

“Sleep well, Vi?” Lettie asked, and Violet looked primed to pounce.

“You know damn well I didn’t sleep well, because your Hound killed mine.” The veins in her neck bulged. Lettie didn’t play into it.

“I don’t know what you’re talkin’ about. Scylla was asleep at the foot of my bed.” She looked down. “Right, Scylla?”

“Yes, Handler.” Scylla replied, quiet and cold.

“You’re bullshitting.” Violet growled. “And you should be shot for harming Commonwealth property.”

“Unless you’re gonna start providin’ proof, I don’t have t’entertain this.” Lettie whistled. “So…get busy with it.”

“I…” Violet’s words started to come out as a snarl, once again, before Lark held her hand up.

“We’ve quite the predicament ahead of us.” She said, quietly. “Because Violet is without a Hound, she should be disqualified - with all that comes along with that. However, I am unsure of the adequacy of your pairing, Colette.” She inclined her head. “I’m willing to give you a chance to show me.”

“Of course.” Lettie looked to Scylla, who met her eyes. There was a threat exchanged between them without words, a reiteration of the promise made after her loss to Freja the day prior, unending regret and agony, something she didn’t need to be a Handler to inflict. Scylla swallowed.

“Scylla.” Lettie said, firm. “Drown.”

The change was instantaneous. Shoulders slumped, jaw slack, empty-eyed, panic swirling in her body. Lettie scoffed.

“Stop fighting. Let it take you. Settle.”

Calm washed over Scylla in a wave; a hollow somberness. She dropped to all fours, ready for orders, docile and willing.

There she was.

Lettie checked the bottom of her boot - the dried mess still caked on the treads - and so, she lifted it.

“Clean it.”

Scylla barely hesitated, a smile crossing her lips like she’d been granted the opportunity to taste mana from Heaven itself. She ran her tongue against the bottom of Lettie’s boot without a moment of waste, the only sound in the space the gentle noise of tongue against leather, again and again, infinitely.

Lark clapped her approval, and Scylla paused - but a press of boot against her jaw started her tongue working again. Lettie’s eyes didn’t leave her Hound.

“I think we have a suitable pairing, then.” Lark said, firmly. “Violet, we can process your reassignment at a later time. Please, return to your barracks.” She ignored the protest of the other Handler as she looked to Lettie, the realized horror lighting up her eyes. “As for you, Colette - I believe congratulations are in order. I’ll confer with Director Blackwell, and we’ll figure out where you’re headed.”

“Of course. Take your time.” Lettie’s focus couldn’t have been further from the mission. Why should she give a shit? The whole of her purpose was right here; knelt before her, cleaning its own cum off of her boots and looking like it’d praise her for the opportunity if it could form words. She leaned back against the barrier to make herself more comfortable as it continued - and as Lark departed, Violet trailing after her with arguments fresh on her tongue - she heaved a sigh of relief.

Things had come together, and she had been right - the discipline, the beating, the punishments she’d taken had been worth it, if only for the moment that Scylla’s will shattered when it came against her own. She’d been meant for this, and Blackwell had seen it even when the others hadn’t - because she was special.

It made sense - all of it, even the circumstances that had brought her here. She couldn’t bring herself to be angry at anyone for creating them - not Scylla, not Olive, not the whole of the Department of National Intelligence or the fucking Commonwealth.

It had all been ordained.

She reached into her pocket, retrieving the pack of cigarettes she’d brought with her - untouched over the twelve prior days - and she stuck one between her lips. The taste of low-grade, filthy tobacco curdled unpleasantly in her mouth; it was unbecoming of her. She deserved something nicer - something like Olive’s favored brand, maybe - but this would do, for now. She lit the cigarette, and let the smoke drift from her nostrils.

She felt Scylla shift at her feet, and watched her posture change; mechanically, she rose up on her knees, hip-level with her Handler. Her mouth opened, her tongue stuck forth. Colette Muir lowered the cigarette and brushed the ashen tip off on Scylla’s tongue, before ruffling her hair with her free hand.

For once in her life, things felt right.

For once in her life, she felt proper.

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