The kennels are full, we don’t need more hounds...

...we need more of those freaks that keep them in check.

“Enter, Mycelia.” Speaks the Mother Superior, sensing Her Subordinate’s hesitation from the other side of the door. Mycelia Wintergrass is a Handler, she fears nobody within the imperial core and answers only to a select few. Their rank is a special one, untouchable, the depravity of their system having grown and grown in scale until even the imperial house itself had to ask: “Would they turn those beasts on us in retaliation were we to ever attempt to shut them down?”

Still. Mycelia is a Subordinate Handler, a member of the very first batch, and so she does have to answer and respect just one person. The first Handler, now dubbed Mother Superior, holds a commanding presence in this building — and the rest of the city, for that matter. Hers is the hand that holds the control bar, this world below a circus of marionettes flailing wildly to keep their strings.

Commanding the restless thrum in her chest back into uniform stillness, the Subordinate Handler clad in imperial black and sporting perfect posture enters the room. A stoic expression paints her face, as it does all the Handlers Her program has created; it is a perfect reflection of their Mother’s own black look, only willing to be smug or gentle when the performance is warranted.

“Good afternoon, Mother.” Mycelia still fears the empty expanse that fills that woman’s deep, abyssal gaze, set within heavy eyes marred with crow’s feet. More than simply their taloned perch upon her skin beside the unflinching glower, Mother’s eyes are that of crows’, dark and knowing. Mycelia is wary of staring into that darkness for too long, and yet she must show her Superior due respect. The time it takes her to remove the magazine from her firearm and place both upon the tray to her left is all she needs to bolster that false bravado. Think of hound, she tells herself, and remember you’re not one to show weakness. After all, it was Mother Herself who taught her that when She brought her over to this life. More than fear, she feels warmth, understanding that it must surely be an unnatural and implanted sensation given the sheer coldness of this wraith wreathed in black. They share the uniform, the coldness, though Mother’s appears somehow darker. It is the colour of cruel, unfeeling kindness.

“Sit.” The embers of a smirk begin to stir on that aged face, Mother Superior raising Her hand and pointing midnight finger at the chair opposite Her own. It is no great mystery why the firm command brings amusement to the very first of their kind, those who handle hounds, and Mycelia swallows back the prideful retort that wrongly suggests she sits for no one. This she can tolerate, she will endure. Mother made her, after all, showed her the light in a previously starless stretch of sky; it took less drugs, shocks and beatings than the typical hound receives, but only by a small margin. A Subordinate Handler needs to be constructed more carefully than a broken mutt.

Mycelia sits, wry smirk mirroring her superior’s own quite poorly. Had this been her first visit to the session room the straps on this chair might’ve given her pause, but Mycelia understands too well the importance of being restrained during this process. That rebel scum needs reminding of its place, and it cannot be allowed to take a swipe at the Mother. “May I? I’ve… a project to attend to soon after, so apologies if I seem keen to get this over with. You… know how it is.” Half way through her sentence, the Subordinate Handler began to question her own errant mouth, not sure if she’s spoken out of turn as she cautiously inspects the Superior’s parting lips, lungs arresting her breath until the words set her at ease.

“Oh yes, a hero as I hear it? It’s been quite some time since we brought in one of those, so I expect great things from you, little mouse.” Mother cocks Her head, resting pale cheek against creaking leather fist. “You may go ahead and put the headset on. Secure it properly.”

With a short, affirmative nod, Mycelia picks up the bulky headgear she had placed into her lap when sitting down, fingers curling into the well worn frame. This will be Mycelia’s 21^st… no, her 22^nd visit to the session room for her scheduled therapy. That marks 22 entire months since she chose to abandon the rebellion and commit herself in heart and mind to Her empire. Not the one with golden flower crest, but the empire held in Mother’s hallowed stare, that demands more loyalty than any mortal soul can safely muster.

This thing in her hands is as worn and beaten as those hounds in the behavioural adjustment kennels, Mycelia thinks with a cruel curl to those blackened lips. Mother probably only had the one headset made, using it for each and every Subordinate Handler required to pay visit to the session room. Mycelia understands the budget this woman demands and so knows the choice to be intentional, the unpleasantness of this device a calculated decision. The metal is pulled over her short, silver hair and Mycelia Wintergrass turns her nose up at the scent of… struggle. Such an unpleasant affair, she thinks, this pungency a harrowing reminder that there’s still a resistance deep inside her in need of snuffing out through repeated sessions. They say that thirty usually does the trick, then the war inside stills and the fire dies into cold, obedient acceptance. It’s like hounding, really, except you’re fracturing and whipping the half of your mind that fancies itself a fighter. Handlers do not war, they train.

“Go ahead and turn it on, I’ll strap you in.” Mother speaks with Her usual icy benevolence, rising from Her chair and using familiar cane to carry Herself across the threshold of the room. While the machine sitting snugly on her head comes to life with harsh mechanical whirr and a display of several flashing LEDs from the visor ahead, Mycelia is calmed by a waft of Mother’s cloying perfume. It is a nostalgic scent, she learned to love it unconditionally while the woman crushed her will to resist over weeks of methodical brainwashing. It’s… the process was good for her. Mycelia loves breaking dogs, allowed to keep a select few memories of what was done to her as inspiration for her own developing techniques.

Firm, nostalgic touch binds Mycelia’s wrists and ankles to the session chair, the Subordinate Handler sitting still and letting that imprinted motherly scent wash over her and still the unwanted disquiet in her form. In a low, throaty voice laced with just a hint of satisfaction, the Mother Superior speaks thus. “You know what to do, Miss Wintergrass. Follow that dot and lose yourself to your wretched history once again. I’m here to catch you when you fall, take the bad thoughts away as I always do when it gets to be too much. You’re a good girl, and an exceptionable Handler for me, so together we’ll keep killing this rebellion until those flames of rebirth succumb to the final ashes. Here, I’ll hold your hand.”

“Thank you, Mother…” Mycelia takes a deep breath and watches the red dot on the visor ahead begin to slowly move from left to right, bouncing from one edge of the display to the other while gradually accelerating. At the same time, audio begins to drone into her ears to compliment the side to side motion. The method is an adapted, arguably desecrated version of Eye Movement Desensitisation and Reprocessing therapy, in which the patient’s brain is stimulated bilaterally with rapid eye movement, sound and even tactile sensation. Mycelia knows the taps are coming, and that they’ll devastate this composure of hers when the memory switches tracks. Mother’s clasp, while clad in cold black leather, can only ever feel impossibly warm to the woman who was reborn by these hands. Mycelia was sculpted into a daughter of Her empire, trusting in that uncharacteristically gentle touch that makes her feel safer than anything in that pitiful rebellion ever could. Old family disappoints when pitted against her new one, her maternal steward.

“Don’t speak, focus. I’m unlocking your history, let your mind drift to that regrettable past life I saved you from. It should be easy, you’ve done it so many times already and besides… like your sisters, your mind is uniquely malleable. It’s useful for shaping, but the downside is this need to repeatedly maintain the correct form.” Mother’s voice is rich velvet, a contrast to the foul-mouthed rebel hero Mycelia is in the process of experimenting a new technique on. It goes to show the difference in class between her refined, benevolent Superior and the savagery of her former comrades. They deserve to be forced into the fold, uncivilised and misguided as they are.

The Subordinate Handler focuses, eyes shifting from side to side in accelerated motion akin to the rapid eye movements observed during natural sleep, a mechanism of the human body which helps consolidate memory and process emotion. EMDR therapy is typically used for reprocessing memory thick with emotion, such as untreated trauma. During this period of focus, forced to switch between two sides means you’re put in the unique and surreal state of having one foot rooted in the past while simultaneously remaining anchored in the present. For Mother’s process, a simple series of taps is all it takes to jump from past to present, and vice versa. Shoulders relax and the Subordinate Handler enters the required rhythm.

“Let’s begin.” Speaks that safe, authoritative voice that broke more dogs than any other. Mother need not explain the sides, by now Mycelia’s altered conscious can run this process without consulting her present mind at all.

Tap, tap, tap.

Subordinate Handler Mycelia Wintergrass feels leather
digit taping the side of her head, surfacing a dry
smirk on that face framed by straight silver bangs.
She remembers the start of her day, morning routine.
Slipping into imperial black that fits her well and
tending to the dogs that only know her touch.
Mycelia gives the Mother Superior the calm expected
of her and awaits that tapping on her left side.

Tap, tap, tap.

The Mother Superior raises gloved hand and brings it down with force.

The unreasonable rebel remnant is struck, hard, against the cheek.

It reels back, a slither of blood and drool escaping the corner of its mouth.

And still, those eyes do not stop their erratic movement, cementing all of this.

“The shame is not yours to bear, daughter.”

The smooth black hand squeezes lightly and Mycelia blushes darkly.

This touch, the difference in feeling between her left side and her right…

It proves that one life brought only pain, and the other constant comfort.

Fighting for the rebellion was fucking hell, Myce became an outlet for others.

Here, under Mother’s wooden beams, Mycelia uses those who once did her.

Drugs them.

Hurts _im them.

Breaks ^sorry them.

Trains them.

Treats them.

Tames them.

…

“Yes, Mother… I… thank you for—“

Tap, tap, tap.

Tap, tap, tap.

“One last question. Tell me about Rayla.”

“Oh, gladly.” The Subordinate Handler cannot help but give a

wistful smile as she remembers the very first hound she had the

pleasure of breaking with her own blackened hands. The kennels

may be full, but there were still so many unfinished and half baked

products as the Mother Superior’s workload became unmanageable.

“Rayla Wintres, rebel pilot. She was a couple takedowns away from earning

her ace status when we captured her. Later, her sister too was captured in an attempt

to rescue her. Both Myce and Rayla Wintres have since become high value imperial assets,

of course, with the latter now a very loyal and well conditioned hound. If I do say so myself,

ma’am, she’s an excellent attack dog. The recent skirmishes in which she has been deployed in a

pack, she’s always taken charge. We don’t tend to assign leaders, it typically falls naturally when we

bunch the hounds together out in the field like that. I’m very proud of her, if I may say so. In terms

of her behaviour on base, she’s always very receptive to her rewards. I have her black my boots now

and then. She is my finest warhound, Mother, so why do you ask? Because she’s this rebel’s sister?”

Mother’s hand recedes from Mycelia’s own, the woman standing and walking with a stern gait over to the entrance of the room. With silent curiosity, the restrained Handler listens as her Superior retrieves Mycelia’s service pistol and slots the mag in with a dramatic click.

“We’re running ahead of schedule, but I got this far knowing when to take risks.” So speaks the stoic older woman who convinced the empire to fund Her hound program in the first place, how She managed to reach Her current position nobody can rightly say. “We’re going to make this your final session, Mycelia. You’re the best Handler I have, but if you fail me here and now… I suppose I’ll have a new best. So it goes, risk and reward.”

The Subordinate Handler has enough control in this moment not to let her blush deepen at the praise she considers ‘likely earnest’. Still, she’s not without the fear of death, and these words from Mother urge caution and stir uncertainty in her chest.

With slow and foreboding perambulation, the Mother of strings circles back around to Mycelia’s front and pushes the loaded firearm into Her Subordinate’s left hand. Next, She removes the restraint around the very same arm and pulls Mycelia’s wrist to place the barrel of the gun beside the seated woman’s head.

“When you hear the lock to the door click, tap yourself three times in the head with this.”

…

“Mother?” Mycelia’s breath hitches as she understands all too well what will happen should she comply. Still, she cannot disobey an order from this woman. Anyone else, she’d be spitting in their face regardless of rank, but Mother Superior’s word is absolute.

“Kill the rebel inside of you before it kills you, Handler. This is what I ask of you.” The woman speaks in the same tone Mycelia does to her dogs when they’re being stubborn, or seem confused.

“I… yes, mother. I’ll see it done.”

“There’s my good girl.” Mother Superior grips Her Subordinate Handler’s chin, perhaps for the very last time, and plants cold poisonous lips against Her adoptive daughter’s. Mycelia feels unworthy of the kiss, even just a peck from this woman feels more important than the air in her lungs that grants her life. What is life without purpose? Love?

And then those steps begin to leave her, a distant traipse towards the door that ends with the pronounced click Mycelia was listening out for.

Tap, tap, tap.

…

BANG!

…

…

…

Blood runs thick down the headset’s left side, bullet diverted into the hardware.

It hurts… but I won. I left the right side intact.