wolfsbane.

denmother. - I.

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

In the final days of the Siege of Hulske, Scylla Muir finds her resolve, loyalty, and sanity tested.

Scylla Muir had picked up smoking.

It wasn’t the most ideal hobby - despite the fact that she spent most of her time in a rig, she still needed to keep her real body in decent shape. Smoking didn’t help that in the slightest - but it was an easy reward to manifest, an easy bit of bait to lay, and something that she and Colette shared. As the two of them drifted further and further apart, this was the one thing they kept together - day would turn to night, and she’d crouch next to Colette’s field-desk, and they would trade puffs from a cigarette. It was always nice - cognac and vanilla, cherry and maple, wrapped finely and neatly, a wondrous gift between the lips - before Colette would grow tired of it, snap her fingers, and put it out on Scylla’s tongue.

She barely even registered the pain, anymore.

The cigarettes she smoked now were shit-tobacco, intermingling with other chemicals. It was something cheap she’d found at an illicit market a few days before they’d reached the Veriglan capitol. Colette had noticed - even if she’d tried to hide the box itself, she couldn’t hide the stench of smoke on her clothes. It didn’t matter, really - if Handler had asked, she’d simply have told her. She’d been permitted such a brief indulgence, and cherished it - it allowed her to feel just a bit more human.

But she’d been certain to let her know that the difference between the two of them was as it always had been - in the pedigree of what they chose to take in.

Scylla Muir was a wolf; most of her remaining memories were of being a wolf, even if it was a short frame of the life she’d lived. A vile mixture of traumatic affliction, neurological damage from the Wolfhounds’ arrays, and the general stress of the battlefield had fried her almost entirely - leaving her with a hollow facsimile of existence prior to Colette taking shape in her life. From the moment at Volkov, things felt clearer, and she felt more human.

It should’ve been a reason for celebration - for the mental fog finally subsiding, giving way to clarity. Colette was probably her favorite person in the whole world - there was a reason she bore her last name, after all - but there was something else there. Her Handler felt like she’d changed, become different since they returned to Heather - been more focused on the mission, on the objectives of the Commonwealth, of the project. She refused to speak in detail about the latter portions - all that Scylla knew, really, is that she was part of it, if not its primary focus.

She’d gotten more distant, less warm, but that was understandable - if anything, Scylla considered herself lucky that Colette spoke to her at all, anymore, with what she’d done to her. Handler had been certain to remind her that the lot they’d shared was only that because of the fact that Scylla had done what she had - had raped Colette, had lost control - and she’d carry that forever.

She got it.

She was alone, in this moment; just her and Typhon - Charybdis’ replacement. This wolfhound was larger, faster, better-equipped. Every inch of it had been created to her Handler’s specifications - more plating around areas that Scylla left the most vulnerable, specialized claws with differing modalities depending on what she was up against, a wider variety of munitions stored in the machine’s belly, and a modified version of the direct energy weapon that had been stored in the core of Charybdis previously. This one had a wider field-of-use, allowing the ‘dump’ of built up heat to clear out an entire room, a city block - or be focused at a single, heavily-armored target.

The cost of operating such a machine, however, was immense; because of the larger size, the neural array that plugged into Scylla’s spine was twice the size of Charybdis, with the needles going even deeper than the original. It put an absurd amount of strain on Scylla’s brain, her body, her central nervous system - but, still, she did it; she wasn’t one to back down from a challenge so easily, especially when Handler asked her to do it, again and again. If Colette put her inside Typhon repeatedly, then she had to believe it was safe - if only because she was incapable of fathoming the opposite.

She took a few steps closer to Typhon, walking around to the front of it. Her hand brushed against its snout; a lengthy, featureless protrusion. She liked to imagine that the Wolfhounds could hear her when she spoke to them from this space; they’d never speak back, for the machine-spirit that dwelled inside of them was dormant without a host to animate it, but they could listen. They could carry her secrets and her prayers, her wishes and desires, her riches and wonders, and manifest a victory that would benefit them both. They could know exactly why they needed to keep her safe, and have a drive to do so.

They could, maybe, learn to love her the way she loved them - and they’d be the better for it. Colette and Scylla had become closer when Scylla had accepted that the love she had for her Handler was so immense that it would kill her, one day; perhaps, if her machine grew the same love for her, it would keep them both safe.

She was about to open her mouth, about to lean against Typhon’s snout and whisper to it truths-of-the-world, when she became aware of another set of bootprints in the hangar. She looked up, and saw another figure - a mechanic, she identified, from their uniform, not dissimilar from Lettie’s old fatigues that still hung in her office. She blinked.

“I don’t believe you’re supposed to be here.” She murmured, stepping out from Typhon’s front. “This area is classified, for-“

”-individuals with knowledge on the project. Yeah, I’m aware.” The other woman scoffed. She was warm, really; tan skin and hair that hung over one half of her head, the other shaven down to scalp. Her fatigues were rolled to the elbow, and her wrists were covered in black ink. She was somewhat cute, if Scylla stopped lying to herself. She tilted her head toward Scylla. “You a hound-driver?”

Scylla bristled. “I’m a Wolfhound operator, yes. Who are you?”

The woman cracked a smile. “‘m a frame mechanic, rated for these bad boys, ‘ere.” She took a few steps toward Typhon, and whistled. “Though I ain’t seen one quite like this before - s’this a new model?”

Scylla bristled, again. “Yes. It was built to specification for Handler Muir and its operator - that being, me.”

The mechanic nodded, in response. “Here, I thought we were pushin’ the boundaries enough with the mark-ones, but this…doesn’t this thing hurt you like a bitch when y’try to pilot it? I’unno how the whole…neural thing works, but I imagine it stings like a motherfucker. Pro’lly need one like, twice the normal length t’drive this.”

“Not quite that much.” Scylla’s tone was starting to become flush with her annoyance. “Clearly they’ve sent us the wrong mechanic - if you’re unsure, you can probably find some other assignment, and we’ll continue to do what we’ve been doing.”

“An’ what’s that?” The mechanic asked, absently, as she glanced at the gaps in plating between Typhon’s limbs.

“Handle maintenance on our own.”

At that, the mechanic stopped, and laughed. Out loud, doubled over, the whole nine. The longer it went, the angrier Scylla got, a desire to plunge her thumbs into the stupid cunt’s eyes growing with each passing second of rancorous laughter, to dash her skull against the concrete. She tried to do the breathing exercise that Colette had taught her, but it didn’t help; instead, it only worsened the tightening feeling in her chest. She took a step toward the mechanic, hands up.

“Look, if you’re not going to respect the work that we’ve done, then maybe you should just-“

”Scylla.”

She stopped dead. The voice of God rang in her ears, and she turned, eyes drawn immediately to the dead center of her Universe; Handler Muir, in the flesh. Colette took a few steps further into the hangar, her freshly-polished boots clicking with each recurrent motion. Scylla fought the urge to drop to her knees and pray, especially with the newcomer in the space; she wanted to save as much of her dignity as she could in the face of almost snapping at the poor girl.

That didn’t last long, however; Colette snapped her fingers and moved her hand in a downward motion, before spinning it in a half-circle. With barely a moment’s notice, Scylla came to her side, kneeling on the floor, hands in front of her. Colette’s fingers dug into her hair, scratching at her scalp, obliterating any cognizant thought she’d had moments prior.

“I’m glad to see you’ve made Ms. Strohm’s acquaintance.” Colette mused. “She came highly recommended, especially when it came to working on machines like yours.” Her attention shifted back to the mechanic. “Are you finding things to your liking, Cassandra?”

“Aye, ma’am.” ‘Cassandra’ glanced over Typhon more. “Gonna need a day or three t’get used t’her, but-“

”We don’t have that time.” Colette’s voice was quick and clipped; Scylla noted the frustration evident in it already, a poor omen for anyone who sought to persist in the little Veriglan corner of Hell they occupied. “You have a day, tops. Will you be able to ensure that it’s in operable condition?”

“I mean…” Cassandra blew air out between her lips with a ‘pssh’ noise. “I’ll try my best? I ain’t really able t’promise shit.”

“Well.” Colette mused, quietly, and Scylla wondered if this was where the termination would occur; if her Handler would pull the service-arm in her waist-holster from her jacket and blow Cassandra’s brains smooth across Typhon’s plating. She’d seen the weapon up-close a handful of times - it was a favored punishment of Colette’s to balance it between Scylla’s teeth during a scolding; safety off, trigged partially depressed, a tooth or two holding the slide from racking closed and potentially discharging the firearm.

She’d never anticipated seeing it actually used, but a part of her now hoped for it - somewhat. Perhaps then the corps would start sending them better mechanics-

“I suppose we can work with that.” Colette sighed. “But, in the future, please know if I give you a timeline in transfer paperwork, I’m expecting it met. We’re clearing the market district tomorrow, regardless of the shape that Typhon’s in - if it’s unable to operate, the whole thing goes belly-up.” She looked down to Scylla, a light smile on her lips - one that Scylla was compelled to return. “I know my Wolf will hunt admirably regardless, but I’d like to make sure her claws are as sharp as they can be, hm?”

“Of course, ma’am.” Cassandra mused. “I’ll see what I can do.”

“Don’t just see about it.” Colette fired back. ”Make it happen.” She took a few steps back, and Scylla stayed sitting - watching, waiting. It was a test of loyalty, of hesitancy; too slow, and she’d get a ruler on her fingers and toes for her impatience. Too fast, and she’d get dumped in the ice bath to ‘cool off’ - and get some trance-reps in, in the process. Colette waited, and Scylla stood, and Cassandra watched them both.

Time seemed to stop. Seconds dragged on for minutes, and minutes for hours.

Then, Colette clicked her tongue. “Come, Scylla. Let’s go.”

Scylla trotted to Colette’s side, not sparing a glance back at the Mechanic - presumably stunned into silence and morbid curiosity, now - before the two of them strolled from the hangar, returning to Colette’s office for further briefing.

It felt like the only alone time they got in the daylight, anymore.

Colette’s office was nice - inasmuch as a militarized office in the bombed out remnants of what was likely once a general store could’ve been. She’d had Scylla drag a desk in from one of the side rooms, had the engineering corps reinforce the walls and windows so she couldn’t be clipped by some would-be partisan with good eyes and a lucky shot, and brought in some light personal memorabilia. One item among the collection was, to Scylla, the most noteworthy; Scylla’s ‘graduation’ picture, with Colette’s hands on her shoulder, staring down at her Wolf longingly.

Scylla, to her credit, stared off in a daze. Her collar, a bright red thing with a little golden bell, was prominently displayed in the center of the photograph, framed to draw focus from the rest of it. It was a reminder of the placement of the two individuals therein - if Scylla’s form of dress compared to Colette’s didn’t already convey an aura of unstated supremacy.

The snapping-of-fingers brought Scylla’s attention back to Colette, who sat behind her desk. Scylla realized she’d drifted; she stood in the middle of the space, unmoving.

“You’re floaty today, pup.” Colette gave Scylla a light smile. Scylla returned it, uncertain.

“I’m sorry, Handler. It’s been…I don’t know.” She sighed. “My head’s been everywhere, today.”

“I understand. Pre-raid jitters always used to get to me, too.” Colette didn’t look up from the papers flitting through her hands. “Want to talk about it?”

“M-maybe?” Scylla took a few steps toward the desk, and as she reached the chair opposite Colette’s, she almost lowered herself into it - before Colette clicked her tongue. Scylla’s face reddened as she settled herself next to the desk, going to her knees.

“Good dog.” Colette murmured. “Tell me - what’s on your mind?”

“I’ve been getting…frustrated, a lot, lately. Not just with the soldiers, or the engineers, but with the others, too - Violet, particularly.” Scylla leaned her head against the desk, and Colette paused her sorting - instead, she dropped her hand down to the side of the table, scratching the spot behind Scylla’s ears. “I feel like…my patience is running thin, for some reason. I’m not sure why. It shouldn’t be, right?” She looked up at Colette, who chewed on her lip in thought. “Nothing major’s changed.”

Colette shrugged. “We’ve been on the front for a bit, my dear. It would make sense if you were getting tired of being here, rather than home.”

Home. A wisp of a concept, really; Scylla had no clue where home was. Before being reassigned to Colette, she’d lived with Director Blackwell; a spare room in a penthouse in Central Heather. Colette had promised that Scylla would be coming home with her when things were all said and done, but hadn’t spared any details beyond that - just that Scylla’d love it, and she’d never want to be anywhere else ever again. Scylla didn’t doubt that; her brain was cooked in just the right way to make that a reality, so long as Colette desired it.

She realized she’d been drifting again, and so, she huffed. “It’s not that. That frustration is familiar - this is less so.” She looked up at Colette, who had completely discarded the papers, now. “I feel like something’s wrong.”

Colette sighed, lightly - not her ‘i’m-frustrated’ sigh, or her ‘punishment-warranted’ sigh, but her ‘you-silly-pup’ sigh. She pushed her chair out, turning to face Scylla fully, opening her legs. Scylla made her way between Colette’s legs, laying her head against her Handler’s thigh, and Colette pet her gently - softly. Each stroke of fingers against the space behind her ear and temple sought to neuralyze Scylla, bringing her down into a docile state.

“Nothing’s wrong.” Colette said, simply. “Although it seems like you’re quite stressed - maybe you could use a refresher.”

“A refresher?” Scylla blinked.

”More time in the tub.”

Scylla’s mouth went dry, and she looked up at Colette, who gazed down upon her expectantly. In most situations with her Handler, there were right answers and wrong answers - oftentimes clearly defined. In this situation, there was a singular, honest-to-God answer - and if she didn’t say it herself, there’d be Hell to pay.

“I would love that.” Scylla mumbled.

”What was that? You don’t sound so enthused.”

“I would love that, Miss.” Scylla mumbled, again. Colette smiled.

“Come along, then.” Colette got to her feet, and Scylla trailed after her - into the attached room; a small bedroom with an attached bathroom. Like the office, it had been retrofitted - walls sealed, windows removed, memorabilia installed. Scylla slept at the foot of the bed upon a tiny mattress, while Colette had dragged the previous-owner’s mattress and bedframe into the tiny little space - the lap of luxury, for both of them.

The bedroom itself had a diminutive bathroom built in an adjacent walk-in space, but most of that space was occupied by a soaking tub; four claw-like legs, burnished black metal, a loose piping system that allowed water to be carried from one of the reservoirs outside to the tub itself. Scylla didn’t waste any time avoiding the reality of the situation; she settled herself next to it, resting on her knees.

Then, Colette spoke.

“Strip.”

Scylla did so without thought nor resistance; slowly, surely, she undid the buttons on her shirt, leaving it laying on the floor behind her. After that, she undid her pants, leaving them similarly piled. From there, her undergarments and socks - and she sat in the empty tub, completely bare. Colette inspected her body - a ‘tch’ coming from her mouth as she examined the newly-deepened neural ports on Scylla’s back - before she pulled the suspended lever, and ice-cold water washed over Scylla in spurts.

It took around a minute for the tub to be fully filled; for the duration of that minute, Scylla felt her body bracing in anticipation of what was to come; her limbs tensed, her lungs seemed to be mechanically gulping more air, her jaw tightened so hard that she feared she’d broken a tooth. Colette was quiet - she offered no words of reassurance, no promises that it wouldn’t be ‘so bad’.

It was better for both of them to stew in the truth of this moment before it occurred.

Silence filled the bathroom as the tub reached its capacity, and Colette stepped away - thirty seconds, sixty seconds, ninety seconds. Scylla fought the impulse to run, to tuck herself under the bed and make Colette drag her out again, knowing that all she’d get for her trouble there would be cigarette burns and a starched-red ass. She sat, quietly, patiently, and as Colette returned, a smile crossed her lips.

“Good puppy.” Colette teased, and she dumped a bucket of ice into the tub, before settling behind Scylla, putting hands on her cheeks. Her thumbs danced in small circles on Scylla’s cheeks, calming her, rendering her docile -

-before Colette dragged her under the water with force.

Drowning wasn’t unfamiliar at this point in Scylla’s life, but it wasn’t a trauma that one so easily forgot. Colette had insisted that they play it back, again and again, to ensure that Scylla wasn’t slipping, or that her conditioning was holding - and so, this exercise had become regular, a biweekly occurrence with greater frequency each time Scylla complained about something in the field. Colette would hold her under until she started to gasp, her lungs losing the fight with the tides below - and then, she’d be allowed to surface.

Five seconds - barely enough to catch a breath, instinctually forced to swallow down as much air as she could in a short window - and then, drowned again. There was no rhyme or reason to the repetition of it - it went until Scylla stopped fighting, a variable which was dictated largely by her own body’s physical state on a given day. Once she stopped thrashing, stopped trying to surface on her own, stopped trying to push against Colette’s will, she would be allowed to remain above water.

On this occurrence, it took seven repetitions.

”That’s almost a new record.” Colette mused, running her fingers through Scylla’s hair, pulling any chunks of ice that had clung to it - or developed in the recurrent under-over of it all. “I think you lasted nine, one of the first times. Not so much, recently.”

“Mm…hmm…” Scylla was a hollow, an empty vessel ready to receive Colette’s will, her instruction. Colette could’ve just put her in Drowned state to begin with - to largely the same effect - but there was something more intimate about reaching it naturally, something more personal. Scylla wasn’t sure where this lane of teaching came from - certainly not from Blackwell. This felt like a more personal, violent twist to the usual framework established by the program itself.

In that, Scylla figured she shouldn’t have been surprised.

Colette pulled Scylla out of the tub once she was certain that she’d been properly induced, draining it shortly after. She didn’t bother dressing Scylla again - rather, she set her, nude, on her knees in the middle of the bedroom. She’d placed a little rug in the center, so that Scylla’s knees didn’t bruise so easily - before cupping her chin, forcing her to look up.

“Tell me what’s wrong, Scylla.”

“I…” Scylla’s subconscious acted without effort. “I am afraid that this operation is getting too big.”

“Yes?”

“I am afraid that with so many Wolves on this front, you’ll lose interest in me.”

“Is that so?”

“It is.” Scylla dumbly nodded. “And I don’t like the support crew. We used to work on Typhon together. We should continue working on Typhon together.”

“We did, my darling pup, but I’m unfortunately a very busy woman. I can’t get these hands too dirty or dinged up, anymore - that’s unbecoming of a Handler. Plus, those machines - ugh. We both know I’m well beyond that now.” Colette clicked her tongue, and she watched the barely-perceptible droop of Scylla’s empty smile. “Oh, come on now, Scylla. Don’t be a child about this.”

“It was ours.” Scylla grumbled. “And I don’t want some stupid blackthumb working on-GHK!”

The back of Colette’s hand smashed hard against Scylla’s cheekbones, dropping her even further to a knee. She tried to push herself back up, and Colette didn’t stop her - but she barely had the muscle strength to hold up on her knees in this state, so she instead slumped fully to the ground. Colette sighed, wringing her hand out as she pressed her boot to the back of Scylla’s neck, holding her there. She didn’t dare refuse or push back against it.

“Remember your place, you dumb dog.” Colette snarled. “You are beneath every single other person here, for they are human, and you are not. The only reason that they have no leverage to order you about - to clean their boots and ash their cigarettes and lick them clean - is because you sit under my light. Were you ever to leave that, you would be no better than the strays that wander the alleyways.” Scylla was silent, and Colette clicked her tongue. “Acknowledge me.”

“Yes, Handler.”

“I do not ask your opinion on who or what I bring to this base, because I do not need to entertain myself with the ramblings of dogs. Your opinions do not matter. I could signal for a new machine to be brought in to replace Typhon, and you would accept that, because you do not have the authority to make decisions. You are a dog. You are a tool. You come when you’re called, bark when you’re asked to, and kill whatever I point you at. Beyond that, you are allowed a veneer of personhood - but that allowance is a privilege that you could lose at any time. Some Handlers keep their dogs Drowned, asleep in their own waste in their quarters whenever they’re not in a rig - is that what you want, Scylla?”

“No, Handler.”

“Because we’re working our way there.” She sighed. “Gods, I wish you were less…” She waved her hands around. “Argumentative. It would make things much easier.”

“I’m sorry, Handler.”

“You’d best be.” Colette sighed, and removed her boot, leaving Scylla laying where she was. She collected a towel from the wardrobe, and clicked her tongue to summon Scylla to kneel, once again, before she started to dry her off. It was rough and abrasive and aggressive - it was what she deserved, really - but it was efficient. Colette collected a blanket from the pet-bed at the end of her own, and wrapped it around Scylla’s shoulders - before leading her back out into the office. She sat Scylla beneath it - out of sight - and collected a cigarette from her top drawer.

Scylla looked up at her, expectant; Colette glanced down. She scoffed. “If you can get my treads cleaned by the time I’m finished with this, the ashes might grace your tongue.”

“Thank you, Handler.” Scylla murmured, dull and quiet, as Colette leaned back to expose the bottom of her boots, and Scylla’s tongue went to work.

Boarding Typhon was, as a process, far more complicated than Charybdis had ever been. It required a crew to keep the sarcophagus at the center open for long enough for the neural array to fully integrate, and the same crew to close it and seal it shut. As it generated far more heat than Charybdis, the expectation was that the inside be entirely insulated from such damage - making it a much thicker, and heavier build.

Thus, it required much more mental energy to operate.

Scylla found herself nude, legs already buried in the sarcophagus, when Colette arrived. The mechanic - Cassandra - had taken the time to familiarize herself with the machine the night prior; judging by the splayed out multitude of half-thermoses from the mess hall, she’d been here for quite a while. She was happy to help with the initial process, but Scylla knew that she’d be asked to leave before the true boarding process began.

Still, she was content to ignore that, for the moment; she watched as Cassandra’s posture changed from the jokey-and-flitty thing she was to a steady, secure presence when the clicking of boots rang out through the hangar. The mechanic cracked a salute, and Colette returned it.

“Is it ready?”

“Believe so, ma’am. Topped off ‘er levels an’ got her ready t’go.” Cassandra whistled. “Jus’ gotta call the crew in an’ we’ll be ready t’get that spinal tap all lined up.”

“Mmhmm.” Colette nodded. “Go collect them, and wait outside; I’ll summon you when we’re ready.”

There was hesitation, on Cassandra’s part - a curiosity, a desire to watch. Colette cocked her head to the side. “Was there a part of my order that was confusing, Ms. Strohm?”

“No, ma’am. Apologies.” Cassandra collected her things and stumbled out of the hangar, leaving Colette and Scylla alone. Colette took a step forward, cupping Scylla’s chin from her prepared position within Typhon.

“How are you feeling?”

“Anxious.” Scylla mumbled. “This machine always makes me anxious.”

“I know.” Colette nodded, slowly. “But it’s necessary. You understand that, right?”

“I do.” Scylla nodded. “Whatever gets us the win.”

“Good dog.” Colette pressed a light kiss to Scylla’s cheek, and pressed fingers against her temples. “Scylla…it’s time to drown.”

This was different from the tub - always. The feeling of frigid water rushing into her lungs, a deluge of sensation - of pain and agony and hollowness - flooded her body, dulling her senses entirely. She fought the urge to thrash, fought the urge to sink - she could do nothing until Colette permitted her, so she opted to do nothing.

In the blank space between, she felt it; like she was ghosting fingers against something else, like something was reaching out to touch her. It wasn’t her feral self; rather, there was an additional manifestation here. She tried to get a better glimpse of it - instead, a single word rang out;

“Sink.”

She submerged; Scylla-the-person was gone, Scylla-the-wolf remained. She bared teeth, snarled, and Colette’s hands went to either side of her face as she collected the neural array. At a time, the feeling of the needles punching through flesh, and muscle, and bone to reach the delightful fruits of her nervous system would’ve been the thing that doubled her over in agony - now, it was just routine.

“They’re going to lock you in here, pup.” Colette mused, stroking Scylla’s hair. “And they’re going to leave you dormant until we reach the leadup to the market - not because you’ve done something wrong, but because they’re afraid of you. They should be afraid of you. Once we reach the market, they’re going to activate you once again - you’ll be free to move, free to thrash, free to bite and claw to your heart’s content. And that, you should.” Colette finished the insertion, and began to close some of Typhon’s inner shell to preserve her modesty. “But only against their soldiers, am I understood?”

A growl, in response; it was all she’d get from Scylla at this point, drowned in the deep, a machine bent on killing. She was entirely incompatible with her better humanities; she was lost in some void somewhere else. Colette cooed, and stroked her hair as she closed the last inner bits of shell.

“That’s a good dog. If you manage to break this line, Scylla, there’s a warm bath waiting for you - and maybe even a whole cigarette, all your own.”

Scylla didn’t understand those words, but they certainly carried the tone of a reward - upon that, she would stake the whole of her life. She let out another growl - and heard Colette step away, her boots clicking against the hangar floor once again, calling out to someone else. Before long, Scylla was set upon by hands that sealed her within Typhon; latchkeys turning and shifting, plunging her into darkness. The machine itself was carried elsewhere; moved into another vessel. The smell of diesel filled her nostrils, made her salivate.

Closer and closer, to freedom, to carnage, to wrath.

She’d heard the soldiers speaking about the road ahead - that the end was near, that soon, Hulske would fall, that the damned market held out just a bit too long. It had painted an image in her head - something like Volkov, but tighter; closer quarters that would necessitate greater violence, exactly what Typhon had been built for. She held her breath as things seemed to dilate, take their time - and then, a shuddering stop.

“Wake the dog!” A voice howled, and it happened; Typhon surged to life, and with it, Scylla, too. The tarp was ripped free - and a salvo of fire rang out around her, munitions clanging against the frame of the truck and Typhon’s plating, pinging harmlessly into spaces around her.

Her brain tried to find solutions - pathways, portals - and the most evident rush-point manifested as a machine gun nest, the source of most of the gunfire raining on-and-around the truck her rig had previously occupied. She broke into a dead sprint, eyes set ahead on the slot through which the weapon was able to fire - and with a swift motion, shoulder-forward, Typhon ripped through the reinforced concrete like it was little more than wood and drywall. The gun’s operator was shattered on impact; his viscera sprayed over the other infantryman in the space, trying desperately to load a rifle that they’d never get to fire as Typhon’s claws found home in their skull. Typhon smeared blood on the floor below as it rushed forward on its knuckles, moving through the back of the nest - into a free-fire zone.

Grenades and shotshell and small-arms rained down upon it, but it didn’t stop moving - leaping from soldier-to-soldier-to-soldier, those who hadn’t found cover quickly enough found themselves reduced to pink mist and splashes of gore, scattered about like thrown sandbags. Scylla was vaguely aware of the shouts of infantry behind her, moving through the void in the fortifications that she’d created - but she couldn’t stop yet. Soldiers in the district had taken up defensive positions in-and-around the various buildings that dotted the region; little marketplaces, general stores, homes. Each would provide a hell of an issue for any Commonwealth advance - and so, Scylla found her next focus, diving ahead and ramming the whole of her form through an exterior wall on a general store.

The concussive force of a few tons of metal smashing hard into a wooden-wall, splintering it on contact, sent the first-floor soldiers scattering. Typhon snarled as its claws found home in a lightly-armored rifleman who’d dared approach her first, lifting up and chumming his insides as the top half of his torso slammed hard against the wooden ceiling above before falling to the ground below with a wet thud. Another brought a scattergun high, and Typhon’s claw moved before it could even reach a level angle, punching it down before putting a bore-hole in its wielder. A third soldier tried to flee to the second floor, and Typhon followed after; dropping grenades all the way down the stairs, a likely surprise for any Veriglan fools that tried to follow and overcorrect the attack as it stood. A series of concussive blasts and an audible groan from the building rang out as Scylla’s hands wrapped around the fleeing rifleman - and she used him as a barrier to ram through a wall on the second floor, mulching him as he became the filling of a wood-and-reinforced-steel sandwich, a thin paste staining the belly of Typhon.

It was the first of a handful, a series of motions that saw Typhon tear through a wall like it was nought but tissue paper, turn the soldiers inside into wall-staining debris, and move along with a few grenades to spare. Each building became a smoldering wreck within moments of contact with Typhon, each unit of soldiers deployed to secure it a mere memory of what they’d been moments prior. In its role as a killing machine, it was almost perfect, if not inefficient - but efficiency went to the wayside in a smash-and-grab operation like this.

It paused, eyes focusing dead ahead on the last standing structure - a reinforced bank building at the mouth of the Market District. Scylla wasted no time hesitating, contemplating, considering next steps. Instead, she ducked her head and rushed forward, sending Typhon through the door with great force, assuming that she’d flatten something behind it - only to find no resistance beyond it, nothing standing in the way-

-until it was thrown into a nearby pillar, the stone crunching as metal slammed into it with such force as to crack it instantaneously. Typhon’s eyes went up as Scylla tried to refocus, and there it stood; something much like her, much like Typhon. The machine was about a half-measure larger than Typhon, and significantly less canid; rather, its head and shape somewhat resembled a horned bear.

Scylla didn’t really have time to consider it further; she ducked low and rammed both of Typhon’s claws into its midsection, but they penetrated only partway through before meeting a dead-stop, allowing the machine to ram its skull against her own, rattling her brain and jolting the neural array. For a moment, she became aware of the body within Typhon - an assembly of flesh that could be damaged, injured, hurt - and she almost escaped the Drowned state, almost felt herself lose the will to fight then and there.

Strangely enough, though, she felt it - a hand grabbed her flailing mind and pulled it back down, into the water - and she was back in the cabin, focus drawn forward to the Bear once again. Typhon’s claws came up once again, punching into the side of the machine’s head - again, again, again, but were stalled at the same point as they’d ended previously. She tried to pump more heat in and punch through existing wounds, but the Bear remained standing. A clinking noise rang out through the atrium as Typhon continued to tee off - before the Bear’s jaw snapped open and shut into Typhon’s shoulder.

She felt barbed anchors dig through the metal and into her flesh-shoulder, the body-beneath, but the fear of surfacing was absent - mercifully so, as the Bear flung her with great force into an opposite wall of the bank building. Another crack spread up the wall, and the Bear let out a terrible bellow as it rushed at her - Typhon just barely managing to avoid the charge and resultant smash-through. The wall itself buckled on impact, bricks and chunks of structure from on high raining down upon them both - but Typhon wasn’t about to let its first true foe escape so easily.

She pounced - catching the machine where it had slumped for a moment, likely trying to recover. She managed to scramble to its back, eyes catching a gap where the head met the body - seemingly, a vulnerability - and she brought her claw up - before the machine bucked her off and planted both back legs into her chest with force, shattering the blast-casings that held the munitions in Typhon’s belly in place. The Bear stumbled, seemingly surprised at the volume of explosive materia that spilled forth from its prey’s stomach - but Typhon, lighter than it had been, simply rushed forward and drove both claws into either side of the bear’s neck.

There, they found purchase - not flesh, Scylla could tell, but it was something. She tried to yank the head backward, pulling at the neck to try and sever it - but the machine held its ground, planting feet, anchoring. It was a test of will - and the longer it went on, the more heat that Typhon built up, the more frantic the overheat warning on her screen became, the more intense the inclination to dump it became.

But she couldn’t. This was her prey. She didn’t need a Commonwealth trick to kill it - she just needed strength, and will, and power-

-and a warning flickered as Typhon’s core overheated, and its systems started to fail. A horrid chugging noise began to ring out from Typhon’s engine, and the Bear, likely smelling the scorched diesel on the air - pulled back. It seemed to consider Typhon - consider its struggling opponent and its plight - before it instead pulled off entirely, rushing off as the sounds of another Commonwealth victory ran out through the Market District.

Scylla felt herself beginning to surface, felt her consciousness begin to surface from the vise that had been clamped on it during the fight with the Bear - but before she could consider why such a thing had happened, waves of pain radiating out from the neural array racked her body, and she blacked out from the agony of it all.

When she awoke again, she was back in Colette’s quarters; she’d been dressed in only shorts, her chest and back wrapped in thick bandages, a blanket pulled up over her chest. She sat up, slowly; eyes turning to see if she’d been left alone, before she was utterly unsurprised to see that she hadn’t.

Sitting across from her - just out of arms’ reach - was Colette. She was rolling a cigarette, running her finger on her tongue and sealing the paper. Scylla was about to speak to alert her Handler to her presence, but her Handler spoke first.

”For all that fuss the day before, you performed admirably, pup.” A smile graced Colette’s lips - a rare sight, these days. “Thought I was going to have to worry about you a bit more, but there’s my old foolishness again. You’ve never let me down.”

A warmth radiated through Scylla - praise, unheld. She’d done good. She’d done well. “Thank you, Miss.”

“I think you’ve earned some time in my bed tonight, don’t you?” Colette glanced up, and Scylla felt that same warmth radiate through her body, once again. “A good reward for a good hound.”

”I-I’m gracious that you’d offer, ma’am.” Scylla swallowed. “But I should be…honest. I saw something out there, something like Typhon. It…”

“Did a number on your rig, I’m aware.” Colette’s glanced turned away from Scylla once again. “A few soldiers who made up the tip of the spear alongside you let me know of it. I’ve passed Typhon off to Cassandra to get back into working order - in the meantime, you should rest for a few days. You sustained some burns, running it as hot as you did. In normal circumstances, I’d seek some form of reprimand for that, but I can tell you were overclocking for a reason. My dogs don’t waste resources that they don’t need to expend, do they?”

“No, ma’am.” Scylla swallowed. Colette smiled, again.

“I didn’t think so. Parts are replaceable - you, less so. In the future, if the damned machine tells you to dump the heat - just do it, will you?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

Colette turned to face Scylla fully, now; she held the cigarette between two fingers, and drew closer. Gently, she put her hand up to Scylla’s face, cupping her cheek, closer than they’d been in quite some time. At that distance, Scylla could read everything on her Handler’s face; the slight stress wrinkles that had started to form, the bend in her nose that she’d had surgically corrected before they left Heather for Veriglas, the hollowness of her eyes.

Structurally, they were the same eyes that Lettie possessed at Volkov Pass - but they were different, now. They’d lost much of their definition and color, replaced with a steelshaped firmness that Scylla couldn’t quite put words to. In a way, she supposed that Colette was just as much a tool of the system as she was - something they’d never speak to one another, for fear of retribution, but something that they’d hold in their heart.

Quietly, Colette whispered, “I was worried about you, you know.”

“I know.” Scylla whispered back. “You always worry about me.”

“Just because I hurt you sometimes when I’m…disciplining you doesn’t mean I don’t care about you - you know that, right?”

“Of course, Miss.” She kept her eyes down. “I’d never take that to mean what it didn’t.”

”Good. Good girl. Good dog.” Colette pet the back of Scylla’s neck, mussing her hair slightly. “You’re a wayward little puppy, sometimes, but I’d never want anyone but you. I hope you know that.”

“I know, Miss.” Scylla leaned in, and Colette took the Hound in her arms, pushing her head down lightly so that she could light the cigarette she’d rolled. She stuck it between her lips, taking a long pull and letting the smoke drift freely from between her lips - before lowering it to Scylla’s mouth, letting her take a drag. They traded smoke back and forth for some time - and as it finished, Scylla anticipated the rest of it being ashed on her tongue, having to swallow the remnants.

Instead, Colette put it out on the bedside table, and dragged Scylla back into bed with her - pulling them both into the gentle tide of sleep.

Despite the exhaustion that came with the raid on the Market District, Scylla found herself unable to return to sleep.

She curled up in the crook of Colette’s arm as she had each and every time they slept together - and with her left hand, she traced every inch of Colette’s face, danced fingers along the curvature of her jawline and her cheeks, of her nose and her upper lip. She admired the way Colette’s hair fell over her face; choppy streaks, now, compared to the long curls that she used to have, before Heather, before the Academy, before they’d packbonded.

She was still pretty, of course - prettier than Scylla had ever thought she’d deserve, prettier than she ever thought she’d be worth. The idea that Colette had picked her - before all of it had gone to shit - still rang out in her head as nigh-impossible. She fought the urge to nuzzle into Colette harder, to press kisses to her sleeping face, to take both of her thumbs and plunge them into her eyes.

She stopped, and pushed herself up on her elbows with immediacy. She blinked, and batted her own head with her open palm - she’d not had intrusive thoughts like that in quite some time. Slowly, she lowered herself back down to a laying position, curled back into the crook of Colette’s arm, and begged her body to let her return to slumber.

Instead, Colette blinked awake, and looked down at her. She smacked her lips, looking down at Scylla. “Y’okay, girl?”

Scylla’s face warmed at Lettie’s voice, the familiarity of it compared to the cold clip she spoke in, now. Her improper inflection always returned while she was half-asleep, and while Scylla wanted so desperately to indulge in that longer, to tell Colette what had happened - that same hand that had grasped her mind in the fight with the Bear pulled her right back into a deep sleep - leaving Colette to sigh, shrug, and pull Scylla back into her arms once again.

Together, they both returned to silence.

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