FSE

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"Wooooh boys! Look at him- we got a fighter!"

Dodge left, respond... Hook into the chest- didn't flinch- reposition, recenter. Blood is trickling.

This is the fourth one. His breath rattled out, arms dropped to relieve the stress. Gotta stay active.

"C'mon boy, don't you quit on me. I got three people to 'venge." The other fighter laughed, "Scared yet?"

He gathered the blood on his lips, in his mouth, through his nose- and it came out in a wad between their feet. Then his arms rose again.

"Attaboy!"

Jab, jab, upper. Dodge right, arm block incoming, rebuke... Knee incoming, meet with opposite. Balance off... Push off... This is it.

Trap leg, step in, hook, smack in on the neck and- he's on the floor.

Once the flurry of punches into the dirt started coming, the spectators intervened, pulling the fighter off their comrade and making sure to trap those arms in. He made no other sound but the occasional struggling grunt, but when he knew he was tightly wound he made an effort to return to examining his surroundings.

The fighter and his captors were in the middle of an old pig sty. This area was enemy territory, and an unfortunate case for his predicament. It was a commandeered farm. The previous occupants, unknown. Though the fighter did remember seeing it... Problem was, he was meant to be somewhere else entirely, as an informant embedded in the Consulate House, deep in the land stolen from his superiors by the Hell's Riders. He'd been captured, knocked clean out, and sent here. The drake pens. He was sure he'd have been drake food by now. But the workers here clearly had some shit to work through, if they were toying with him.

He stretched his neck and worked his jaw, clearing his nose of the rest of the blood. Chief was in front of him now. Chief was the only name he'd heard of this fella, dressed in a vest full of gunshot holes and wearing a clearly stolen officer's harness, from which both his gun and the gun of another unfortunate soul hung. He had his sleeves rolled up today. Dirt on his hands, and cigar between his lips.

"That's a good soul in there. Lotta fire, lotta bloodlust. I respect it." Chief rumbled, hooking a thumb in each of the vest's short pockets. "You've been places, seen things. Haven'tcha?" He chuckled, but the fighter kept quiet, simultaneously lamenting the terribly cliche monologue this will turn into and searching for his out. "Well, once we get that file on you, I bet we're gonna find you a good place in this here establishment."

The fighter chuffed, but didn't offer much else. Chief took it well, and grinned. "Bureaucrats love their little profiles. Keepin' every which one of us neatly packed and penned. Ah, I bet you thought you was a ghost, huh? Nice little empty spot in their drawers. Hohoh," The big man shook his head, "nawh, they keep special files for men like you. The types what scare them, that they keep on a short leash."

The fighter's brows pinched in. "Oh? That sound odd?" Chief turned his self back the other way, puffing on his cigar with some intent, his grin only widening as the smoke billowed. "Yeah I had you figured the moment you were dumped on my front porch. All I had to hear was 'spy'." Chief's grin was fading now and had the fellas holding the fighter push him to his knees with a few hand signals. "I worked with your type before. The quiet and collected, fuckin' annoying, always scanning their surroundings like it's all a prison. Every step calculat- You know what, you're doin' it right now, I don't need to explain this to ya." He crouched, one hand managing the cigar and the other on his beard as he rubbed away the tension. "I get it. I served too. It's a hell and a half just knowin' you're a big ol' green target for some half-buzzed abor's lookin for somethin to work out their daddy issues on. Add what you got, whole operation weighin' on your shoulders, it rips the rest of yer humanity out. Whatever basic hadn't got yet.

"What I don't understand," Chief's cigar came dangerously close to the fighter's neck, "is why you're still followin' orders from men whose only goal is to line their pockets, while cullin' fighters like you and me before they start askin' questions." Their eyes met, both full of fire and yet something made the fighter hate looking at him all the more. He would speak, but he knew Chief wasn't worth the breath.

"You're not that blind, boy. Ya had to see somethin' going on that ain't right. Fat cats passing gold behind closed doors, speeches bein' written for men what should be speaking for themselves, orders that don't make sense. It don't matter how much humanity you got left, some part of ya had to say 'somethin's not right'-... and you are still looking for a way out." The fighter's gaze dropped to the dirt as Chief stood again, sighing in disappointment. "I don't like the way yer lookin' at me, son. But you know what, I get it. I do. This ain't about the shady bullshit daddy gubmint is pullin'. It's somethin' else for you, ain't it?"

Chief's grin returned as the fighter's attention picked back up. "We got somethin' in common then. The back-door deals and fake politicians were all the reason I needed to fight for my type a' freedom. The kinda freedom me and my boys want. To do as we please, where we please, because the Law is fickle and more dangerous than a loaded gun." He'd taken a grand pose, grinning and holding his arms wide open, "its casualties come much much later though, and in the thousands."

Screw it. The breath can be reimbursed. "The Law kept my family alive when your type rolled into my town." The fighter growled. "If you really wanted to see true freedom, you'd've shot the bad men right where they stood. But you took the coward's path. Runnin' away and pretendin' you're some disgraced soldier fightin' for good." The fighter couldn't stop a short laugh. "Killin' innocents. Siphonin' their livelihoods. So while you're waiting for the Law to catch up to yer body count," he met Chief's eyes again, "why don't we go another round?"

Chief's turn to laugh, sticking his cigar back between his lips. "God Almighty, fightin' us makes you feel that good huh? Put me down as a mind reader." His sleeves got a bit of an adjustment, "alright ya little beast. Show Hell's Riders how it's done."

|======|

Fifteen. He'd gotten through fifteen of them before one hit knocked him out. That fire inside him burned with pride, that was four more than the night before. He grinned and groaned, picking himself up off the hay.

"Ten successful op-err-ay-shee-owns." Chief huffed, outlined by the morning sun beaming in through the barn's open bay doors. "Bodycount, too damn high. No misconduct. Clean. A perfect weapon in every way, shape, and form." A light flop of papers hit the dirt. "You, Mister Vincent Specter, son of the late Jenson B. Specter- better known as 'The Saint of Clubs'- are too fuckin' dangerous to keep anywhere near me or my men."

Vincent laughed, his chest forcing out the stress and ache in a mockery of Chief's little display of superiority. He couldn't speak, couldn't even stand. He just fell back into the hay, the laugh turning into a groan of pain.

"I'm glad none of my boys went and boozed up before kickin' your ass." Chief continued, unphased by the outburst, "one little mistake and I'd've been standing in a bloodbath. I know what you're capable of, Specter. That's why I'm not taking any chances. You're gone."

The infiltrator extraordinaire rolled onto one arm, casting a questioning gaze up to the curator of his fate. "Then why haven't you shot me yet?"

"Funny thing about that." Chief's voice had lost its egotistical edge. Something else took its place. "I seem to remember leaving a small band of men to protect a town of our own some time ago. Something like fifty-odd residents. You wouldn't happen to know what happened there, would ya?"

Vince's reaction was a questioning glare. Chief leaned in, light through the barn's wood shining through and highlighting the anger in his eyes. "Little hamlet by the name of Yaleford." Vince's gaze hardened. "I'd left my best man there. Friend of many years."

Chief read him. The fire burst forth, and Vincent's teeth bared. The bigger man held his ground. "You're no Lawman. You're a beast at heart. That's why you're on the short leash. Why, when going with a parlay among your supposed superiors, they said they 'didn't know anyone by the name of Vincent Specter.'"

That hit home, and Vincent's eyes widened. "Why, when questioned about what anyone of their men would be doing spyin' on our business, they said 'probably because they aren't worth the trouble.'" Chief continued, then leaned back as the sunlight started to even out. "Your pops was a Lawman, right? Did the protectin'? I hear he was a good man. Barely pulled his gun, save that day. Now, how could his son turn out like this? Sadistic, violent, a ver-it-ay-bel force o' nature. Why hath God set to see you become such a monster?"

Vincent's face contorted into something of a snarl, one hand beating into the hay. "Why should I tell you anything? The man that lets his cronies do all the work? Lets them 'reap the rewards.'" He said at last, "lets them..." He could feel his whole body seizing, eyes losing focus, "lets them..." How'd he get on his feet? He was shambling closer to the gate that Chief had already backed away from. Everything else was a blur but the man that was just out of his reach. "You and your type, you only know the language of suffering." Vincent rattled the gate, one hand out and clenching something only he could see. "And I speak it. They forced me to watch, to learn." He was simultaneously there- hearing and seeing it again- and here, knowing that this man was the crux of it all. "Ya'll made me watch, watch my friends turn into food, made me a monster just like you. Now take responsibility. Kill me, or I will rip and tear the skulls outta every single bastard on this farm."

Chief was... Understandably surprised. But like before, not at all phased. He steeled his gaze, and looked Vincent in the eyes. "Responsibility. Hm." He hummed, "I never thought I'd see someone so consumed by this. Son, that's just the reality of war."

The gate creaked and shook, obscenities spooking the drakes around the barn, as the beast inside Vincent flew into a rage.

It took a good ten minutes before Vincent exhausted himself, his hands bleeding and his whole body shaking with the fury of so many years of that burden.

"I'm sorry those bastards sent you to your doom. I'd never play along with their cherry-pickin' games, were it any other man. But I gotta take the opportunities God gives me." Chief huffed, and Vincent- despite falling silent- trained his still violently dilated eyes on the man. "All done with your tantrum? Good. Now, here's how this is going to work. I don't care about you, or whatever you saw my men do. What I do care about is an untamed beast under my jur-iss-dik-shun. Y'know what I do to beasts that don't behave?" Chief approached, and Vincent's bloodied hand shot out. It wasn't enough. Chief took and bent that hand back until it hurt, and then some. "I break them." Chief's eyes hardened on the agent on the other side of the gate.

Vincent's hand snapped. The only sound he made was a snarl, his lips wet with anger and pain. "What happened to respect?" He rattled out.

"Lost it when I found the beast that turned my best friend into a throw rug."

Too easy. "That's just the reality of-"

His head met the metal bar of the gate, and a hand shot in on his throat.

"Robert! Get the fucking swapper."

|=========|

Vincent was hogtied on his knees now. Every man on deck. Watching him. He couldn't believe this was his fate. Helpless to stop his execution.

The sound of metal hitting dirt broke his concentration on what was around him and focused his attention right in front. What... is this?

An ornate piece of circular metal with what looks like a tiny bear-trap trigger paddle in the middle, and two triangles welded on either side of it. Voodoo bullshit?

"Alright, bring the parade around." Chief was behind Vincent. And for once the man could hear the snorts and low hisses of the drakes. He'd either been too focused on his rage or looking for a way out to notice, but there's a reason this little clan of outlaws was called "Hell's Riders". Their mount of choice being giant lizards a few heads taller than horses, and significantly meaner. Well, in the case of males. Females... They weren't particularly docile, but not as hard to master as males.

And the whole stock was being passed in front of him and checked, as if they were deciding which of them would benefit the most from his meat.

"That one." Chief pointed to a sandy colored drake, whose handler stepped forward with the reins. The extremities were dusted with a dark brown, thicker as the color got closer to the claws. Its head sported a kind of arrow of the same dark brown color, but otherwise in the lantern light was a muted yellow. "I hear you like white and black." Chief growled as he approached the prisoner. "Would you have preferred that one? Or that one?" He pointed to two respective drakes, who looked more cream colored and chocolate-charcoal with some other colorations spattered around their softer areas. "Well, I've got no reason to deny you. It'd all be the same anyways. But something about removing that choice fills me with a kind of joy you just can't get from regular vengeance."

"What's it matter which one eats me?" Vincent decided he'd let himself a few more quips before dying.

"Matters to us." A handler barked back, Chief waved him off. "Vince I'm gonna let you have a few more moments to collect yourself and, maybe see the light of forgiveness." Chief crouched again, this time behind and a little off to the side of the Son of The Saint of Clubs. He had a Bible held forward. "God puts us all on the paths he chooses, but it is up to us to repent and allow Him into our lives-"

Vincent turned his wild gaze up to the man. Silence followed. Chief motioned for something to be said. "Passing responsibility for your actions off on God." Vince rumbled, "like a fucking coward."

Chief shrugged. "I tried. You all saw it." Chuckles were held at Vincent's expense.

He meanwhile, looked up to the beast that was right in front of him now. The handler had it laying down, though its gaze was stuck on the tied man. Behind those eyes was nothing more than the idle examination of a beast, waiting for the next command. His fate lies there. Somehow fitting, for the horrors he'd seen of a Hell's Riders siege.

"Do you think..." Vincent started, as his shoulder was sliced, "that God forgives beasts?"

"Mister Specter, you have remained quiet for a good majority of your stay here- Are you really going to prolong this by having an ecks-e-stent-shal breakdown right now?" Chief shouted from a few steps behind the man.

Vincent shook his head, grinning. "Answer the question." He narrowed his gaze on the knife that was dripping his blood onto the paddle. "Fine, I'll humor you. No, beasts do not have the capacity to feel guilt. Especially not ones like you."

"Then who goes to hell for the people they've eaten?" Vincent seethed.

Chief's patience was wearing thin already. "Son, you'll see soon enough."

The knife sliced through one of the drake's ears. It chomped at the bit, but didn't make too much of a fuss. And the blood dripped on the paddle, joining with his own.

Swapper... Blood... Vincent's eyes widened. Could they really do that? Have they been doing that? How many of these beasts were people? His eyes shot to every one of the menagerie as they were led away. Whatever ritual this was, it was done. The metal circle rang at a barely audible tone.

But that tone became everything, and his vision shuddered, wiping away. He saw the handlers moving in on the beast before him, but only the motions. They were preparing to hold it down. That was going to be... Him. He cried out as he felt control over his limbs fade, as if he were entering sleep- but forcefully, and without a moment of actual rest. He became distant, seeing the motions from a bird's eye view. The sounds of movement disappeared, even as he strained to stay in his body. The beast's eyes met his. Then he could feel his limbs again. He lifted an arm- but that was impossible... he was tied. He watched the beast lift a leg.

Then it all rushed at him. Reality crashed in, and the roar- ear splittingly loud- did not scare him. He squirmed as his faculties returned, new feelings firing off and confusing his consciousness. Why were his thumbs small? Why did his mouth want to fall off? What was that THING slapping his side, before being squeezed and pulled at his displeasure? And most importantly...

These fuckers better get off him... Now. He thrashed harder, shaking his head and the reins. He kicked, he roared louder- still trying to form words- he tried scrabbling up... But none of it was working. They had a hold on him that kept him down, like some irregular strongmen had taken hold of his body. One of them was shushing him now, his ear flicking as they finally got his head to settle. That's when his vision caught sight of the bundled thing in front of him. Him- it was him... Fallen over and squirming, making incoherent sounds.

Protests formed, his mouth simultaneously letting off hisses and squeals, but his lips and throat weren't made for it. This was the beast's body. But it wasn't, it was his. But it was the beast's.

He looked down frantically, and found that when his hand moved, the claws moved. No... No.

The body tensed, and let out one more roar, as he willed himself to break free from their grasp. But these bindings were heavy. That's what it was, the bindings must have something like that circle. Something keeping him from using all of his strength against the people holding them.

When that reality settled in, he stopped squirming, and the men backed off. He was urged up with a few pokes from a stick, and he let them dictate that. Once he was up on his feet, he wanted to run. That was quickly shut down when the reins were pulled tight, and it felt like his entire head was put into a vice grip and tugged down by a force much much bigger than the man holding them. Then more sticks. First on a front paw. He moved it forward, then a back paw... Other back, other front- They were teaching him how to walk? How fast were these fuckers? The sticks stopped when he got the pace, and something sweet was shoved in his muzzle. He was so overwhelmed, he had to take it in and savor it.

No! They were training him like an animal! He pulled the reins, hissing and growling strongly. His hinds bucked, but didn't connect on anything. They were already out of the way! How can they read him? He felt... so uncoordinated, slow, unnatural. The sticks came back and they put him in pace, then sped up to a trot. He wanted to fight it, he had to fight it, but it was simultaneously necessary to learn and impossible to ignore. He was just introduced to this and they were taking advantage of the disorientation to manage his outbursts!

Once he could maintain a trot on his own, another sweet thing was pushed into his muzzle- this time he spat it out- but that was met with quick reprimand on his nose. They were ruthless, not a moment of rest! No disobedience was tolerated! He let out a prolonged hiss, as the trot was sped up to a quick run, but that wasn't kept up for long. They started with voice commands just then, calling out "whoa!" While slowing him down- another treat, he spat out, and was punished- "Hup!" And they sped him up, another treat- he took it- Slowed down "whoa!"

The flurry of commands and actions was instilled until he just wanted them to stop...

Then they did, and led him to the barn. Then he heard the voice, through new ears that also picked up every little crunch of dirt, the shuffling of birds in trees, and the heartbeats... Of men. "Turn in time, men. Good work." Vincent couldn't see Chief, but he still had to adjust to this new way of looking at things. "Oh hey, Chief... What do we call this one now that we got a soul in there?" How dare this fucker talk about him as if he were just an animal.

A hand came up and pat Vince on the neck, to which he quickly pulled away from. Chief chuckled, and Vince scanned around until he could see the man. He was looking right at him- and the rage boiled. The reins kept him still though. "Spades."

|===========|

"No food." A handler said as another led Vince into the pen.

He's survived worse. The reins were taken off, but before he could snap, something slipped around his neck and tugged him toward the back of the pen. Grrrah! How could such large beasts be so easily controlled by a few scrawny men!? Vince growled and hissed at the man that had him strung on the puller, but all the guy did was smirk. "Remember to get the pole on first before taking off the reins!"

"Got it, my bad!"

"Bunk time!"

The lantern light faded. Vincent was alone. In the dark. With the sounds of other- no... Just the drakes around him.

The absolute flurry that was the last hour of his life left him empty, confused. His whole body shook. That was it, this was his body. This wasn't some trick, or temporary lesson to be learned. This was him now. He collapsed in the hay. This was difficult to process. It was as if he could still feel his normal hands, and his own lips, and ears- but they just felt wrong. Then this fucking tail that kept sliding around and wrapping around him wildly.

He watched one of his paws stretch and wiggle on his command, and felt an ear flick when a twig snapped somewhere in the trees. He should just... Lay down. Rest. Think. Think about happier times. The blood and suffering of his enemies. The man that now... essentially... owned him...

The night crawled out of the mountains. Peace and quiet returned to the little farm. It was as if it was never taken over by Hell's Riders. Alas, that never lives long.

Before he could make sense of anything, the barn was alive with action. Some of the drakes were being saddled up. How... Was it morning already? Did he actually just sleep, or was this a trick?

The sunlight poured into his pen, answering his question, and his head was quickly subdued with the pole and soon the reins. No, no! He hated this- he hated how fast and aggressive they were. He squealed and spat, squirming again until the reins were tugged down and he was made to follow with quick whaps of a stick to his feet. Fuck. This degrading bullshit. How the hell did these reins work?

The commotion started to spread out as some drakes were ridden off into the trees, likely off for some more outlaw crap. Others were taken out to the range. While Vince was brought to the empty pig sty again. It already felt like ages since he was in the middle, fighting fifteen men. And now, not twenty-four hours later, he was a beast making prints in the soft dirt.

But what for? Oh good lord he could smell the stank of pig's past. He shook his head, pawing at the reins and his muzzle to try and get the stench out- a natural reaction to the stink- but he was quickly whacked, and an order was barked at him. "Lay down!"

They didn't go over that one last night. So he staunchly refused to even consider it. The handlers didn't like that, of course. Disobedient beast! "Fine."

His ass got hit hard then, and he snarled, trying to press his luck and snap at the aggressor- but the reins held tight. "Sit!"

Fuck you! Vince growled. And he was whacked again.

It went on like this for a while. He'd withstood plenty of beatings, this was nothing. Absolutely nothing compared to what his papa gave him when he was young, and the beatings he endured on his crusade against these outlaws.

When the hour passed, they moved on to something else.

Running. They'd already got him to do this last night, and something about getting those sticks under his feet forced him to react by picking them up and placing them forward. They continued this for hours, slowing him down and speeding him up... And a part of him really wanted that sweet flavor in his muzzle for doing it all again, but those never came. Why? No, he knew why. This was their tactic. Wear him out, make him chase the treats. He won't bend...

He can't bend.

Hours later, and he was begging for release. His whole body ached, his limbs sore, and his head drooping. The handlers looked no better, but still those reins could hold a proper dragon if they were in the hands of these men.

They were taking Vince back to the pig sty. Here it comes. He heard them all panting and exclaiming, each handler that was assigned to poke sticks at his feet. But he was panting too, if only a little.

"Sit." The command came, and the stick pressed hard on his back, but he never wavered, and snorted at them defiantly. Groans were his prize, and he shook his head. "You think you're so strong." One of the handlers huffed and puffed, "enjoy this while it lasts."

Water was poured on the beast's back then, stirring Vince to action away from the attack. The handlers were relieved to see Chief storm into the pig sty. "Having trouble, men?"

The rest of them nodded and murmured. Chief took that as his tag-in. He took the reins and forced Vince to walk around him, which was no trouble. Vince couldn't believe he could be led around so easily, but those reins were simply unnatural. "Do you see this, Spades?" Chief growled with a proud grin. "You are being led like an animal. Because that is what you are."

Vincent narrowed his eyes, and... His teeth bared. A snarl was forming. It was already in his nature. He was feeding Chief exactly the ammo he needed. Stop! "These reins were designed to put beasts like you in your place. As tools for man to utilize." Chief continued, as he saw the snarl disappear, "but they don't control your tail, or your paws. That's on you."

Was that a challenge? Vince's eyes became slits. Chief stopped the circling motion, the tension was building. So much that the handlers had to back off. "That's right. You've been letting them tap your paws, you've been keeping your tail in line. That is what good beasts do. Are you good?"

No. Vince slammed his teeth on the bit, and the ground shook as his belly rumbled with the rage he'd kept back. Chief's eyes widened in delight, "There's that fire. Come on Spades, show me what you can do with the body you belong in."

The tail was first, it whipped and cracked the air, slicing the stupid vest and leaving behind a good cut... But nothing lethal. "Yes!" Chief growled through the pain, grinning. Then, Vincent followed up with a clumsy paw, but that was easily deflected when one of those sticks appeared in Chief's hand- to Vincent that is. It was thrown into the sty- "Come, Spades. Where's the aggression?" Chief clicked his tongue like Vince was a horse. That fucker!

Vincent growled and launched from his haunches, Chief dodged, letting the reins loosen a bit as the beast slammed into the loose dirt, and turned on him. The tail made a return, but it wrapped around the stick, and Chief flicked it aside. More attacks came, bucking and claws. They got faster, more wild, more aggressive, more... Vincent! Yes, he could feel it in his chest, the fire. Coordination was returning to his mind as synapses fired, and his muscles tensed on command. He was sure he could kill this fucker right here and now, just one good claw, one good tail whap and-

The tail was caught, and Chief wound it around his arm. Suddenly, Vincent was yanked backward, falling face-flat into the dirt and mud of the cold water with what felt like his spine being torn out through his ass.. "When they tell you to SIT, you SIT."

The suddenness caught the beast off-guard, and he hissed loudly, scrabbling to find footing again, to maybe get one more try... One more hit! No, he was yanked again, and a boot was stamped on his ass. "You have no control, Spades. It doesn't matter whether it's your head, tail, or claws. You're a beast, clumsy and slow. Get the fuck up."

Vincent, now confused and angry that his attacks just could not land, stumbled to all fours and turned so his ass was nowhere near the man. "Better. Now SIT." No. Vincent's eyes narrowed again, his teeth bared but no snarl to be heard. The stick was thrown out of Vince's view as the reins were held tighter. "Sit." Chief growled, and Vince felt the stick tap his ass firmly. He faltered.

No... That's not right. He wasn't a beast. He was in control. He was human-

"Sit." The stick pressed on his back end, and his legs buckled. He felt so weak, so tired. How long were he and chief at this? His eyes caught the sun. He swore it couldn't have been longer than an hour. But... It was so late. His lungs burned, his maw opening to pant.

Then his haunches plopped down.

A collective sigh of relief was had from every handler, as Chief tugged the reins down, and Vincent's vision shuddered, something small and soft was put up to his lips, and this time he lapped it up, unaware of what he'd just slammed down his gullet. "Good. Lay down."

Vincent hesitated before obeying, easing down onto his belly. Another piece of meat touched his lips and he snapped it up, breathing heavily through his nose. He took a deep breath and swallowed, his eyes glaring at the man that now stood above him. "You're not broken yet. I see you." The man grinned, leaning in and petting Vincent's nose. "But we made good progress in one day." He leaned closer to Vincent's ear as his hand went to scritch at the scaly chin. "Others have lasted longer than you. Do you know what that means?"

Vincent's breath caught.

"It means you are a beast at heart. You needed this. This isn't torture. It was for the other poor saps we broke. But you... You're going to be the most satisfying and quick break I will ever experience. Vincent Jenson Specter never existed. It was only ever Spades the drake, wasn't it?" The scritching intensified, and Victor's eyes trained on the claw marks in the dirt. His claw marks.

"You poor little beast. Stuck in a human body all along. It's okay, you are right where you belong now."

|=====|

Now... Now he was feeling it. On his second day, his stomach growled. His legs were sore, all four of them... and his tail slumped. Chief was gone on some errand, so he refused to do much else but the simplest stuff. Trot, walk, sit, lay. The handlers were okay with that, they seemed to not like the whole of yesterday. But unfortunately, Chief left instructions. Near the end of the day, the saddle was introduced.

That invigorated the beast. A second wind of indignation and pure unadulterated rage filled his chest with the desire to never put that thing on. This... Insult to humanity, insult to everything Lawful...

He couldn't fight it though, once he was poled that gear went on without so much as a growl. It was all so tiresome... Always something going on, always getting poked up or made to walk. At least he got water... He learned how to drink that fast, dipping his lips in and sucking from the trough. He was so tired and hungry by the time they brought him back to the pig sty.

"Who's up first?"

The words rang hollow in his ears, shaking his head to stay a little more awake.

Then he felt the first tug of someone trying to saddle up. That stoked the flames of rebellion, and before the intrepid rider could even get up, he was thrown off with a simple spin and bump of Vince's hip. The rest of the handlers weren't sympathetic, guffaws and sarcastic clapping grating at Vince's ears. He knew they were itching for a go. The beast that killed many of their outlaw kind, ripe for breaking. He took a few deep breaths, striking up a ready pose. The next handler hopped right on.

And that was just the beginning.

Once the lot of them were thrown off into the sty, multiple times to Vince's surprise, they called it a day.

How did he get that much energy? He's so hungry. He was panting on the way back, the saddle already being taken off while the large beast was quickly hosed down. He took the cold water with a raised head. It felt so good...

"You're really something, Spades." One of the handlers said as the rest were shuffling off. Something out of Vincent's view then pressed up against his lips. It was big, and smelled so good... He hungrily took that in his teeth and swallowed- what was chewing? "I ain't gonna try tomorrow. Give them hell." It was heaven in his mouth, and sated something deep. It still wasn't enough. He licked the hand, searching... Needing.

What was... Why was he being nice? What was the point? They heard their boss... Chief. Tools. For man to use.

The pole took Vince's neck before the reins were removed, and right before the handler left, Vince turned back to try and see their face. But it was hard to do that with these eyes. They were made for seeing movement, not facial recognition. The hunger was only making it worse.

So instead he licked the air, and tasted the man's scent. The first of his conscious attempts, and he instantly recognized so many things. Drakes of all types, all around. He did it again, categorizing and remembering. Again, tasty... Gross, friend, foe, prey. Food, bed, eggs.

God, he was so hungry. His tongue flicked out again, the last time he needed to do this consciously. It led him to the back of the pen, where a trough was. It was empty, but the scents of food's past were there. He needed it...

|======|

Anything, anything... Please! Vincent pleaded, tasting the air and seeing where the other drakes got their food. But he was led away from all of that, and he obediently followed, his eyes wild and scanning for any trace of prey. The saddle was back on. He had to get food. Augh, he could feel his stomach imploding!

Today was his third day as a drake. And already he could feel his hold wavering.

But the moment he saw the pig sty, he could clutch on. He huffed and cleared his mind, his eyes shuddering as they focused on details. Humans, a dog in the distance? Prey? No- Don't think of that. His tongue flicked out, tasting the air again and yearning for something meaty. Something that will need no further explaining.

Chief. He was here. Along with many more handlers.

"Well now, this can only mean one thing. Ya'll failed to break Spades?" The big man chuckled, and some of the handlers launched into excuses, but the boss wasn't having it. "Yeah yeah, come on. Let's see you all give it another go."

Vincent allowed the first rider up this time. The fire of rebellion mere coals in that moment, but once the reins were handed over, it was bucktown city.

Population... Zero. It only took three tries. Vincent was starting to understand his strength, even if he couldn't feel it because of the hunger. But this meant that the first rider was done for, and the second one was too, even if it took longer.

One by one, they stood up, only to fail. He was going through the motions, rolling, bucking, spinning, everything to get them off, to fight for his right to be more than a beast. He was winning, he will have his independence. They will see him as more than Spades. More than Vincent, even!

But then he realized that this last rider wasn't letting go. How many had he fought off? Fifteen? He bucked harder, slammed his back into the ground, hissed and spat. This rider would not get off. They won't leave! They won't fly away! Fuck off! Get off! Off! Off!

At last, the beast slowed, panting, stumbling. Everything spun, focus unclear. Feet dug in on either side of its chest. Dysphoria was at its worst. The beast looked down, saw paws dug into the dirt. Where were... hands? Thumbs? It picked up one paw, stamped it back down. That... was. Paw. Claws. Stomach was so empty. Just needed food. Food. Hungry. The taste of food was away from here. But can't go away without punishment. Get food... for listening. For obeying. No! Not like this!

The beast trembled and faltered, making a sound close to whining and blowing hot air. It tried to say words again, but all that came were squeals and rumbles. Please, mercy.

Words were being said. They were firm, something about 'good'. Word mattered little. Food. They will give food. Just listen, obey. Kicked in the sides again. The rider wanted to go. Go. Hup.

The beast collapsed into the sty. All semblance of fight gone. The rider pet the top of the beast's head, and it wailed.

Chief approached with applause. Then lifted the hand of the victor, the one who broke Spades. It was the handler from yesterday. The handler kicked, and Spades rose from the muck of the sty with trembling legs, the reasoning escaping him. But why? He said he wasn't going to try... He said...

The reins pulled the beast around to do a victory lap, the rider now accepting high-fives. They were cheering, "Michael! Michael! Michael!" Vincent's chest was hollow. There was no fight there, just a line waiting to be tugged toward the food. That can't... That's not fair.

As the chanting died down, the rider leaned into Spades' ear. "You're mine now. Told ya I wasn't gonna try. Easy." The beast's neck was pat softly.

Vincent. Spades huffed, and Michael tugged the reins back to stop the beast in front of Chief. The bigger man shook Michael's hand then went over to pet the lizard's cheeks, rubbing them tightly. "There you go. That wasn't so hard, now was it? All that tantruming and proselytizing. Doesn't amount to much now, does it? Three day break, man," He huffed, offering one more chunk of meat from a pack on his hip, "don't worry, girl. We'll treat you good." The meat disappeared and Vincent wailed- nothing more than a quiet whine from the beast's muzzle.

|=====|

Food. Smell food! Spades watched the trough as something was dropped in it, impatiently stamping the ground while the gear was being pulled off. Before the handlers could even leave, the beast was at it, growling in hunger. It was a big few chunks of meat and bones, but it was eaten with gusto, eyes closed, and savoring every bite of the meat pile with eager licks. It tore into the torso first, and felt the sweet sustenance rebuild its energy. The handlers watched. One petting her flank while the others snickered. "Good girl. Eat it up, you deserve it." Michael hummed, then motioned for the handlers to pack up while a leg was snapped and swallowed.

He could think clearly after having half of the feed. But, not quite like before. There were pressing matters at the forefront, like finishing food. He continued... While he remembered the word the man said. Girl. He slurped up a limb, crushed the shoulder, and swallowed the whole arm. She licked up the head and crunched the skull between her powerful jaws, then tugged the whole thing up to let it slide down her throat. Her. His. He. She.

The matter was set aside, but only for a moment as the last chunks of meat and blood were licked out. After a rather noisy cleanup session, the beast plopped in the nest of hay, and for the first time since that fateful day, it checked down there. The long tongue and neck helped explore better than... Than uh, hands. She felt it graze along two sensitive nubs. Spades liked that... But not as much as licking deeper, tighter into the crease of the sandy scales. That's when her tongue reached something that made the beast's heart flutter.

She licked faster, making a show of it with needy whimpers and tightly wound grunts.

She nosed into the sensitive nubs, testing the soft flesh, her tongue bending and pulling.

But it wasn't enough for her.

That's when he stopped, and realized what he was doing. Vincent. They'd broken him. They... made him into a beast. His leg slowly went down, but his tail squirreled upward. Though he couldn't see the damage, anybody checking on Spades will. And she was rather... uncouth.