FSE

Furry search engine

formerly SoFurry search engine

[0500] [Some sandy shithole on the far side of the world.]

I woke up, blinking away sleep and slowly getting out of bed with a deep groan. We'd been in these barracks for about a week and by now we all felt right at home. The bunks and been removed, lest more be destroyed, though we only let them take the metal frames. The mattresses, blankets and pillows were strewn across the floor, some ripped open, feathers and chunks of foam scattered about. Nobody could have mistaken this for a normal barracks, even before the unit had pissed on the outer walls to mark it as theirs.

I'd dragged my shit to one of the corners and made a little den for myself, blankets pulled close. It was pointless of course, the suit was climate controlled and comfy, but still it felt right to make my own den, even in the den we shared.

The others were waking up as well, one by one. Getting up and stretching, fanged maws yawning drowsily, tails wagging as we saw each other, giving a yipping greeting. Actual speech was filtered into electronic barks and growls, even if you overheard it or hacked into the radio, if you didn't have our pack's encryption key then it would just be somewhat synthetic animal noises. Even so, sometimes a bark was just a bark.

Six Wardogs going about their morning routine is quite a sight to see. If you haven't seen a Wardog before, trying to imagine if an F-22 hatefucked a dire wolf, and you'd be close. Sleek grey plates over dark synth flesh, moving with the kind of grace that only a living thing could get right. To look at us you'd never know there was a human being inside this armor.

Truth be told I forget myself sometimes. The armor is so insanely comfortable to wear, the soft inner layer pressing directly against the skin, worn naked. Perfectly ventilated and climate controlled. Then you have the haptic feedback directly into my neural jack, I feel everything that touches this metal skin and black synthetic flesh, it's all real.

That's not even getting into the way the suit messes with your head on design. Jacked straight into your brain, altering it in subtle ways, electrical and chemical stimulation. Nothing crazy mind you, but subtly altering your perceptions, giving you little punishments and rewards for doing or thinking certain things. Conditioning you, shaping you into a hound to be turned loose.

That was one of the reasons the pack rarely left its armor on deployment. Oh you could do it, there was no rule against it, one mental command and the suit would release the human it carried. But switching back and forth between human and wardog was taxing, headaches, confusion.

Bandit had left his armor once in the barracks, it was... weird. Of course we all knew each other out of armor, we were war buddies, of course we did. But seeing him exit his armor alone, in the midst of the den, it felt wrong. He was no longer pack, no longer one of them, he looked on them with unfamiliar, almost worried eyes, and they didn't know how to treat this strange packmate who wasn't one of them anymore.

They wanted Bandit back, not this human who happened to animate him, Bandit sitting empty and silent, dead. The human had quickly crawled back into the armor and Bandit was back again, and they all greeted him with much barking and licking. They never left their armor willy nilly after that again.

Recognition between them was a special thing. The Wardog armors were all essentially identical, same design of course. But each one conformed and adjusted to the body of the user, leading to notable differences in size and shape. Beyond that, each one personalized their armor further. Command had initially resisted it, but eventually some shrink had convinced them that self expression and appearance was vital to them forming their in-armor personas. So as long as they didn't paint 'shoot me' in giant neon letters it was let go.

Then of course there were the different ways that they animated each suit, ear position, body language, smell. Sure there was the AR popups that would happily give you a full biography of each other at a mental command. Of course they'd set it to never show the pilot's human name or face, that was irrelevant, that wasn't who they were right now.

Me? I'm Fenris. Scandinavian family, little brother thought it was cool, sue me. Mostly black color with some lighter grey markings to give a little depth, tracings over the muzzle and underbelly.

Bandit, previously mentioned, was already up and prancing about. The smallest of us with his ears flopping happily and tail wagging. His most distinctive feature was the big black spot over his right eye. It was a double ended joke, making him look more like the kind of dog a 1950s TV show kid might have, and being the exact size and position that the scope of his marksman rifle would cover while aiming.

Titan had opted for a thin tail and his ears often stood straight up. Very Doberman Pinscher, He was probably the most disciplined of us, the one to remind us that sometimes rules actually mattered. Though by human standards he was still quite wild.

Jackal had something of a more fanciful design, body markings reminiscent of sculptures of Anubis. Our tracking expert, quiet, preferring barks and growls to even translated speech.

Buck was the medic, the way his tail curled made everyone think of a husky, more so the way he carried injured people on his back. His body was light colored, with a grey cross on the side, nobody wanted to wear a red target. Not like he was an unarmed medic in any case.

Duke was the golden lab, the one who always mediated conflicts within the group, one way or another, he kept us together. Even packmates had squabbles.

Bandit trotted over to me, giving me a cheery look. <Morning!> He yipped.

<You're looking chipper this morning.> I growled back, padding along sedately as he pranced excitedly.

<Excited is all, we finally get to go out and do shit, I'm sick of this den.>

I roll my eyes. <We all are Bandit, this base has never had Wardogs before, CO is trying to ease the humies into dealing with us. You chasing that HEMTT in full 'mailman' mode did not endear us to the locals.>

<But... I had to chase it.> Bandit protested.

I rolled my eyes. Smallest and youngest, at least as far as wearing his armor. The instincts were raw and difficult to control, he was still learning. The truck was driving away, running, ergo he had to chase it. Standard canine logic. I stared him down.

His tail slowly stopped wagging and he tucked it between his legs. <Forgive me, I was weak.>

I licked his cheek. <It's fine, they carry extra tires for a reason. And they do make great chew toys.>

Bandit perked up instantly and barked, before hopping off to jump up and down on a Titan-shaped lump under some pillows. <Wake up! Wake up! We get to go kill shit today!>

As the big doberman jerked awake, sending Bandit skittering across the den floor, I walked past Duke, who was happily gnawing on a piece of metal that used to be part of a bunk bed, warped and half torn apart from his teeth.

<Sleep good?> I asked.

He nodded, holding his stick between his paws. <Yeah, ready to roll when she gives the word.>

I nodded. There weren't any real ranks in the pack, only personalities. Sometimes one of us would be in charge, sometimes another, it all depended on who needed to be in charge most, and who was most comfortable there. The strict rules and roles of rank and discipline had no place in the pack, they didn't work.

<Yeah, any idea what this might be?>

Duke shrugged. <Nah man, probably same old shit.>

<Ain't that the truth.> I growled, heading off.

Duke was up, partaking of his usual morning ritual of licking his balls. Yes we have balls. The first gen suits didn't, but it turns out that when you turn your average serviceman into a biomechanical killing machine, fill his head with animal urges and instincts and encourage not leaving the suit for months on end, giving them a symbolic castration isn't good for morale. So yes, we have balls, and sheaths, and dicks, and anyone who gets weirded out and bitches about that fact should go wear a chastity belt for the next six months and then come back and lecture us.

<Morning. Taste different today?>

The medic chuckled, getting up. <Just practicing good hygiene, gotta be at my best.>

<I doubt she's going to check down there.> I said, flicking an ear like a raised brow.

The husky morph tucked his tail for a moment and looked away, before snapping his nose up. <She's here.>

That got our attention.

Pack dynamics aren't what you read about in old books. There's no 'alpha' or 'omega', and that's not true here. We're packmates, buddies, friends, we get along, sometimes we growl and snap but we make up, and we move on. We're equals, and we look out for each other.

Those outside the pack were less important, not worthless, not enemies, but the humie personnel and civilians were on the outside of a very tight knit and loyal group, while we could have decent relations with them, they weren't of us, weren't pack, and never would be.

She was a different matter. She wasn't pack. She *owned* the pack.

We all smelled her coming and got up, looking to the door which swung open, flicking the lights on as she entered. She had a name and a rank, but both of those were meaningless. She was packmaster, and we were her hounds. Nobody who hasn't been a Warhound can understand how profound that simple relationship is.

"Morning boys, well rested?" She asked.

We all nodded, giving little growls and quiet yips in the affirmative. None of us moved, none of us looked her in the eye, our gaze on the floor. An outsider might have thought the scene was tense, but it was respectful.

Silently, she held out her hand, the back of it towards us. One by one, we walked up and gave her hand a lick, and she petted us on the head.

"Good boys." She said, smiling. I wish everyone could feel how utterly satisfying and happy hearing those two words always made us.

"Brass is finally letting you off the leash, some locals fucked up in a very big way and the pack is going in to deal with it. There's a chopper waiting with your gear, I'll brief you on the way." She turned towards the door and walked out.

"Heel."

We followed without question.

The Chinook was empty, save for us and our gear. Standard weapons, nothing too fancy. While we often stayed in quadruped mode, we could shift to bipedal in an instant, it was needed to operate normal weapons and technology. In our off time, we were most comfortable as dogs.

Packmaster walked in, and we made room. The chopper dusted off and we started getting our gear, strapping and clipping on weapons, ammo and grenades to each others various weapons hardpoints.

"Some local extremists hit a village full of people we happen to like." She began when we had our loadouts set. "Standard smash and grab, went in, made a lot of noise and took hostages, they're demanding a rather unreasonably long list of concessions if their families ever want to see them again. Instead, we're sending you."

We growled in anticipation, looking to each other with eager eyes.

"Mission is simple, go in, rescue the hostages and get them out safely. I'd prefer if none of the kidnappers remain alive by this time tomorrow, but your priority is to get those people out, and you all come home alive. I couldn't stand to see anything happen to you boys."

We nodded, packmaster was protective, and we liked that. Made us feel loved.

"We're dropping you near the village that got hit. We don't know exactly where these bastards are hiding, but one of the villagers got in a lucky shot." She produced a bloody scrap of bandages, tossing it towards us, and quickly we all circled around and started sniffing it. Jackal gave her a silent nod, he had the scent.

She nodded back, the back ramp lowering, twenty feet above the ground. "Sic 'em." She ordered.

We bounded out the back of the transport, howling and barking in excited freedom for a moment, before we started sniffing the air. Jackal barked once, and soon we were bounding after him, howling and barking as we pounded across the shifting sands.

<Interesting that we got picked for a hostage rescue mission.> Titan wondered aloud as we loped across the sand, following Jackal's nose. <Considering we're the local boogeymen.>

<Maybe that's exactly the reason packmaster got us for this.> Duke wondered. <We scare the locals and even the rest of the base, being big damn heroes and rescuing some poor trapped civilians might make them warm up to us.>

I considered it. <Yeah sounds about right. This might make the humies stop pissing themselves when they see us.>

<That only happened once.> Titan rumbled. <And I think he was drunk.>

<True.>

We ran in silence after that, before Jackal eventually slowed his pace to a lope, the pack entering some rocky foothills. Jackal growled low, enemies near.

We moved with practiced ease, Bandit checking high before loping off, low and slow to a good vantage point to get set up with his marksman rifle. Titan took point, me and Buck watched his flanks. Jackal circled around the far side and Duke hung back a little to observe and direct.

It was nothing special. Little compound, a few huts of rough stone and mortar. Low wall of similar construction, no electricity, no security system, no visible movement.

That wasn't a problem. We could smell them, many humans who didn't bathe terribly often. We smelled cordite and potentially explosive chemicals, gun oil, and prey animals. We smelled the acrid stink of fear, we'd found our target.

Jackal circled around the far side of the little compound, we crept closer, sticking to shadows and concealment, watching shadowed movement through windows. When all was in position, Duke barked one word.

<Kill.>

Jackal loped forward, dark, lean and graceful, and vaulted through one of the open windows without a sound. Screams of terror and pain sounded moments later, along with a panicked gunshot.

Curses and questions and shouting from inside the larger building, the one where the fear-scent came from.

<Breach.> Duke barked, rushing forward to bound over the wall and into the compound. He switched to bipedal, rushing to the smaller bounding to gun down a fighter trying to escape the carnage within.

We barked affirmatives and stacked up on the door. I switched bipedal, forepaws snapping open to clawed hands, snatching my carbine from my back as the others did the same. I growled I was ready and Titan kicked the door clear off its hinges, leaving a paw shaped indent in the metal.

I was in, carbine up and sweeping, moving by scent and hearing as much as sight. Hiss of fuse, scent of burning powder, pipe bomb has been lit.

<Flash out.> I growl, more to inform than warn. Our bodies were immune to mere flashbangs. The stun grenade bounced into the room, going off with a loud crash. The dropped pipe bomb went off a moment later.

As Titan entered to gun down any remaining fighters, I entered the next room. A man was reaching for a rifle, I blew his brains out and moved on, next room.

<Clear!> <Clear.> I could hear the others growl behind me. I entered the last room, in time to see someone pull a crying civilian out of a cage, putting a gun to her head and holding her up as a shield.

He started issuing the usual demands, free passage, going away, letting him live, no particular order. I blocked his escape, growling out low as my AR threw up a friendly contact sign moving along the wall behind him, outside.

The tone of my growl changed when the blip was right behind the man. Wait... wait... He pointed the gun at me, and I barked. The wall behind him exploded, a pair of clawed hands reaching in to grab the man and drag him back out through the hole. His scream turned into a wet, choked noise, and soon only the sounds of tearing flesh could be heard as Jackal presumably ate him.

The civilian stood there, terrified, tears going down her face. She couldn't have been more than 14. I listened, ears perked as the pack barked the all clear. I replaced my weapon on my back, getting back down on all fours, the girl backing away in fear.

I let out a mournful noise, lowering myself and yowling. "I won't hurt you." I spoke, careful and clearly, translated into the local dialect.

She and the others in the cages froze as I spoke, as if they just plain didn't expect it. Not that I could blame them, they had little explanation for things like us beyond 'demons' that made sense really.

"I'm here to take you home. We won't hurt you." I said again.

She still looked scared. Slowly, I got on the ground, laying down, before I rolled over onto my back, paws in the air, tail flicking in the gesture of nonthreatening submission. Still letting out a sad whine.

Slowly, she crept closer, gingerly reaching out a hand, I touched a paw to her hand. "You're warm." She said, the only thing that seemed to come to her mind.

"I'm alive." I said simply.

"Are you... a person?"

I was quiet for a long moment. "I'm a Wardog."

It took a little while, the others keeping their distance at first until I'd gotten their moderately relaxed by playing the big friendly dog. Buck assessed them for injuries and decided they were fit to move, and that getting them out of here would help them mentally. Jackal had licked his chops clean of blood and bits of person, having eaten his fill before moving out without so much as a yip.

I headed out, surveying the little compound. Lots of dead bad guys, some had tried to flee and been picked off by Bandit from on high. No injuries or damage reported by the pack, the civilians hadn't been held long enough to suffer abuse that needed immediate attention.

I let out a happy snort and nodded, heading over to the side of the house, before hiking my leg up and taking a piss. Roll your eyes if you like but only a Wardog knows the deep and abiding satisfaction of marking something as yours, especially a recently claimed battlefield. This place was ours now, and everyone should know it was us who did this.

That ritual done, I loped off to rejoin the pack and we went out a ways into the sand, Duke getting on the radio with Packmaster to call for evac before Buck rattled off their medical condition. That done we waited on a dune for a little bit, the locals skittish around us, though I liked to think that was mostly nerves though. The girl I'd saved lay her hand on my side though. That meant a lot to me.

Soon the chopper came back, and we herded the civilians onboard.

<I feel more like a sheepdog than a Wardog!> Bandit yapped, and we all groaned. Packmaster was waiting for us, and we all lay about her feet as she looked over our reports.

"Looks good." She said simply, before asking the usual questions about the mission and results, I left that to the others to answer, putting my head on my paws, though I didn't dare nap in front of Packmaster.

The ride back to base was long and boring, Packmaster seeming pleased as she professionally went over her reports on a little touchpad, politely but firmly stating that she was not going to hold an immediate debriefing with the CO, as she needed to tend to her pack after their mission.

The humie CO didn't push, not understanding the intricacies of pack dynamics or how important this was, but he understood that she was the expert, and didn't want to do anything to upset her half dozen canine killing machines.

When they got back, she sent them to the barracks. "Wait there boys, I'll be back." She promised, and they went in, immediately becoming far less professional.

Bandit was bouncing around like a five year old on caffeine going over every awesome shot he made. Buck and Duke ended up grabbing both ends of a metal pipe and playing tug-o-war, growling and tugging as their claws scratched more claw marks in the floor.

Titan humored Bandit's excited jabbering before pinning him to the ground and licking him a few times, and I promptly jumped on them in a dogpile that soon melted down into happy barking and tussling on one of the beds.

We were so wrapped up in our play we didn't notice Packmaster had come back until she whistled for us. But she didn't seem angry. She was smiling and dragging a cooler in with her, us crowding around.

"You all did very good today." She said warmly, not holding back her smile. "And I think my boys deserve a special treat." She said, opening the cooler and pulling out... the most glorious thing I've seen in weeks.

Raw, red, juicy... real... goddamn... steak!

She waggled it back and forth in her hand, our snouts following it back and forth like a pendulum. We all sat around in front of her, some letting out quiet little whines. I am not ashamed to admit I was one of them.

"But who should get it first..." She said, tapping her chin with one finger and giving us a knowing little grin, the whole pack edging closer to her and letting out a collective whine.

"Fenris... you kept your cool in a very tense moment, and a little girl is alive because of you." She said, reaching down to pet my ears, before giving me the first steak. I woofed happily and took it, wagging my tail to show how happy I was.

After that she gave out one to each of the others, praising them one by one in their own ways. She teased Buck a little, making him stand on hind legs to grab the meat. She tossed Bandit's so he jumped in the air and did a backflip to catch it. She didn't say a word to Jackal, kissing the top of his head before giving him his treat.

We all ate in happy silence as she watched us with pride, which felt even better than this damn steak I was eating. When the food was done, it was time for more play, and now Packmaster was in among us like she was one of us, no longer having to pretend for stuffy humies or keep up pretenses.

She petted and praised and scratched, and tossed chunks of rebar for us to catch and tussle over.

I almost melted inside when she sat down in front of me and started petting my ears. "Who's my good boy?" She asked, ruffling them as I whimpered in pure bliss, tail wagging loudly as it smacked about. "You are! Yes you are!" She said, pushing me onto my back before she rubbed my belly, one of my legs kicking.

I sometimes overhear people wondering how anyone could consent to be a Wardog. To have the system reach into your mind and make you something else, something not quite the same as the person who put on the suit. The conditioning, the change of personality and perspective. I wish I could make those people feel the pure, simple, and all consuming joy I felt right then.

I have a strong pack, a packmaster who appreciates and praises me, and I get to do cool shit like kill bad guys and save people, and instead of paperwork and safety briefs, I get juicy steaks and belly rubs.

I am powerful. I am needed. And I am loved.

I am a Wardog, and there is nothing I would rather be.