Into the Blue - Subjugation
#1 of Into the Blue
In 2063, a crumbling legal system and increasing crime leads into some very drastic measures in an attempt to change the course of development. What will happen to the small people involved in the waves of action, in this gritty, futuristic tale. Gruffy commission work at its best, the tiger hopes.
*
This is the first chapter of a tentatively three-part commission for :icon-aaron-blackpaw: - with some familiar themes, and new, interesting approaches into old ones, and hopefully an interesting, intriguing, sensual, dangerous dwelling into the depths of psyche, desire and crime. Your feedback is very much appreciated, and I look forward to hearing from you!
Cheers!
*
MCKINLEY PHARMACEUTICALS BUILDING
The air was thick with the smell of rotten eggs from the Axis Chemicals plant on the east side, and the wind was doing a fine job pushing the revolting stench all over the city. It even managed to penetrate into the small, bleak room populated by a few furs. One of them, a tall tiger in a classic white lab coat stood by the window and tired not to breathe through his nosepad while he eyed the uninspiring landscape of old glass and concrete office buildings sprawling in front of him. One of them had burnt down only a couple of weeks earlier, and there were still a few yellow police tapes flapping in the wind the tiger's keen eyes could pick up.
He turned about, slowly, to face the room. A somewhat frumpy 30-something rat sat on the uncomfortable couch, her paws clutching her pad firmly. The badger in a black suit sitting next to him seemed bored at the prospect of the meeting. Behind the desk, a ferret in an ugly-colored brown suit and with a quaff of carefully gelled hair seemed to be holding court. The fifth member of the meeting, a black wolf wearing a non-descript shirt and a tie, stood near the door and had his back onto the wall, slouching there. He seemed the most out of place of them all, and didn't seem to mind showing it, either.
"Right, then," the ferret said. "Doctor Spigot?"
The tiger let out a snuffle.
"Biosciences has run the electrophoresis plates through the machine and found at least twenty-six matching markers from the sequenced genome," he said, "there could be more, they only did the usual shotgunning of the DNA but it seems to be quite supportive of the data so far, especially with what I presume Miss Quentin has to say."
The ferret's busy eyes moved to the rat, sitting there tensely in her cardigan.
"I presume Doctor Spigot has reviewed your data already, Doctor Quentin?" he spoke to the rat.
"Yes, Mister Harding," Dr. Miranda Quentin replied seriously. "I've got all the data from the District Attorney's office, the prosecutor's office, from Wallis Green's in-site psychiatrist, the criminological report, the victimology...from the Pleasance Garden Home for the Young..."
"Perhaps you could enlighten us with a few key details, from your point of view in this issue," the ferret said.
The rat activated the pad sitting over her knees with a couple of taps, to recall her notes from its memory.
"Yes...Nicholas Jayden Cameron Pulaski, 28, born in 12th of May, 2035, in Dallas, Texas. Taken into custody and made a ward of state at the age of 12 after the homicide of his mother by one of her prostitution clients through erotic strangulation. Biological father unknown, one of his stepfathers committed suicide when he was 10 via hanging. Spent time in foster care before entering a juvenile detention facility at the age of 15 due to delinquent behavior. Larceny, arson, grand theft auto, first sexual offense at 15, when he assaulted a woman in a park. Escaped from detention and was next incarcerated at the age of 17 for an armed robbery. Various incarcerations since for minor crimes, battery, assault, rape, grievous bodily harm, drug dealing, possession...latest incarceration, 2 years ago for multiple counts of assault, rape, battery and theft. Currently serving a life sentence with no chance for parole at the Wallis Green High Security Containment Facility."
The black wolf chortled.
"Talk about a sob story," he commented.
"Quite the rap sheet," Dr. Spigot said.
"It's consistent with the psychological profile," the rat said as she changed files on her pad, "the evaluation of all the gathered data indicates a serious, persistent psychopathology consistent with narcissistic personality disorder with antisocial tendencies, impulse control disorders, possible attention deficit disorder, and a sexual psychopathology as well. The subject suffers from poor self-esteem, has had next to no academic performance, although all tests on intelligence show normal to upper normal intelligence quotient, although lacking in social and emotional intelligence, which is consistent with the personality disorder findings.
He is a sexual sadist who treats women as objects of sexual gratification, and due to the poor self-esteem and lacking social skills, has always seen violence as the only way to approach women to achieve sexual congress. There seems to be little ritualistic behavior about rape besides sexual intercourse, using force to subdue them. It seems to go together with his desire for immediate financial gain by robbing the victims of his sexual assault as well. His targets seem opportunistic, chosen for their perceived financial value and potential inability to resist his assault. He generally has committed vaginal penetration in the so-called doggystyle position - "
The ferret snorted.
"Thank you, Doctor Quentin, I think we get the picture about his sexual preferences here, and the lack of morale thereof," Mr. Harding commented. He looked uncomfortable, almost nauseous. The others in the room appeared less affected.
"Charming fellow," said the wolf.
"Your comments will only be required later on, Captain Sinclair," the ferret told the wolf.
"Humph," the black wolf shrugged.
"Anything else you'd like to add, Doctor Quentin?" Mr. Harding addressed the rat again.
"The behavioral pattern seem to be consistent with both the neuropathological findings of the dopamine synergy and the glutamate metabolism issues in the cerebral cortex and the limbic system findings, as well as the character history of sexualized childhood void of maternal or paternal care, lack of material comfort and basic security, the early introduction to both violence, sex and violent sexual behavior, as well as the lack of impulse control...leading into various destructive gratification behaviors including drug abuse, dangerous and illegal sexual behavior and violence does indicate that the patient is both a victim of his circumstances and his genetic background which predisposes him to this behavior."
"A match made in the womb," the tiger rumbled. "The perfect genes and the perfect environment that breed the perfect psychopath to be a scourge to our society."
"Hello, welfare state," the wolf chuckled.
"Captain Sinclair, really," the ferret stopped the canine with a quick, shrill remark.
"And it also makes him a perfect subject for the study, of course," Dr Spigot said, the tiger sounding slightly more enthusiastic now, especially in comparison to the droning rat, "the pathology matches. The behavior matches. Everything checks out, genes, brain, history..."
"And the social history, too," the wolf said, "He's a nobody. Has no family to speak of, no friends, no social networks, no connections besides some old drug clients. He practically doesn't exist."
"Nobody knows him, nobody cares about him," Dr Spigot amended darkly.
"Just rotting behind the bars where he belongs," the wolf snorted. "Of course he wouldn't be if that goddamn Democratic state senate hadn't issued that moratorium - "
"We're not here to discuss politics, Captain Sinclair," the ferret stopped the dark wolf's ranting again, "we are only here to choose whether Pulaski is suitable for Project Constant Diligence, based on everyone's joint opinion."
The wolf shrugged.
"I can't say more than I do," he rumbled. "Considering you haven't actually yet managed to provide me with one for my part of this thing...it's all up to you now, anyway."
"We do need you as well, Captain Sinclair," Doctor Miranda Quentin spoke to the wolf, seemingly unafraid of his surly behavior and appearance, despite her own meek outer image, "behavioral science and neuroscience are only part of the equation of the success of this experience. It would be your responsibility to see through the next phase of the experiment...the actual implement of a Diligence subject."
The wolf's tail snapped against the wall.
"And like I keep saying, if you stopped killing them instead of actually succeeding in what you are doing here..." he said.
"We have had successes," the badger finally spoke up in a refined, upper crust voice and diction, "we have Cuddy and Lindsay."
The wolf chuckled.
"You made a chimpanzee hug a bunny."
"A formerly psychopathic chimpanzee who used to tear the heads off bunnies and drink their blood for fun," Dr. Quentin said, and sounded awfully cheerful.
"And the Biosciences are still very happy of their simian model of the psychopathology of psychopathic behavior they created in the chimpanzees," Dr Spigot said.
"It's still a bit more to take a convict and turn them into a crime fighter through your brain meddling," the wolf dipped his muzzle in the direction of the furs on the couch and the tiger in turn. "And so far you haven't had anything else to show of it besides that chimpanzee and what, five dead convicts with fried brains?"
"And Subject 6, who is in a minimally conscious state in a long term care facility," the badger said, "but we have ironed out the problems that caused his frontal lobe to infarct during the procedure, we've traced it to the - "
"Spare that for your Nobel Prize acceptance speech," the wolf said, "I just want to know if you can really pull this off this time around, or whether I should just get my ass back to Precinct 38 so that I could do some actual police work for once. The drug dealers aren't kept off the street if I just keep hauling my tail out here every week to talk bullshit with you."
"You are under an oath and a government contract, Captain Sinclair," the ferret told sharply to the unruly wolf, "your dismissal from this project would require some very high level action."
The wolf threw his paws up.
"I really thought I was working for the City..." he mused flippantly.
"Yes you are, Captain Sinclair," the ferret replied. "Which his one of your main assets, too, because we need you for the next phase, when we put the Subject to the streets."
"This is gonna bite your ass hard," the wolf chuckled.
"You supported it, though," Doctor Spigot said. "It was your support of aggressive action against the violent crime in the City that made the powers that be choose you as an expert member of this panel."
"I thought it'd mean that you'd get me more cops to do the work we need to do to keep good citizens from being killed by drugged out rapists and burglars trying to get stuff to buy their next fix with," Captain Sinclair retorted, "I didn't expect you to be playing Frankenstein here."
"We do not try to reanimate the dead here," the badger said. He almost sounded offended.
"I bet that's another government project," the wolf replied. "Gonna keep those soldier boys on the field as long as possible after they banned warrior bots in the UN..."
"If you keep this up, Captain Sinclair, I think Dr. Quentin might have to diagnose some sort of a paranoid episode in you," the ferret stated. "Could you please calm down and stop hindering our serious, civilized discussion here?"
"If you say so."
"I really don't see what else there is to talk," the tiger stated somberly, "if the genetics match, the personality matches, he's not going to be missed...I say we get the release and we do it. It's been six months since Subject 6 failed, I think we have made enough refinements, and this Pulaski is more promising than some of the other candidates we have reviewed in the meanwhile."
"Of the ones in the fourth tier selection, he is the best choice," Dr. Quentin said.
"Doctor Olson?"
The badger nodded.
"I don't see any contraindications on my team's part. Some of the limbic anatomy is challenging, but nothing we can't handle. Nothing we haven't done before, at least."
"Doctor Quentin?"
"I can recall my team at a day's notice from the field for the work," she said. "That won't be a problem."
"Doctor Spigot?"
"Just give me a patient and I'll do what I do," the tiger said.
The ferret nodded, before he faced the wolf.
"And you, Captain Sinclair?" he said. "Can we trust on your cooperation in participation to this project?"
The wolf shrugged.
"You're the ones paying to keep me quiet about it, so I guess I have no choice."
The ferret shook his head once more at the wolf's terrible attitude, but knew he had no choice but to accept it as something he simply had to live with if they wanted to get this off the ground.
"Then it is settled," he said, "this panel had reviewed all available data and deems that Subject Nicholas Pulaski is to be chosen as the next subject for Project Constant Diligence, on this day."
A few solemn nods seemed to close the lid on that decision, and the ferret's busy fingers started to type on his pad.
"Indeed," the ferret said.
*
WALLIS GREEN FEDERAL HIGH SECURITY CONTAINMENT FACILITY
_ _
_ _
When the door into cell C-491 was opened by the guard at 18:25 pm, they found Nick Pulaski sitting on his bunk, breathing somewhat hard from the pawing off session that the arrival of the prison wardens had interrupted rudely. When the slinky German Shepherd looked up to the two khaki-clothed wardens, a bear and a coyote, his erection was still more than visible on the front of his blue scrub pants. The scent of dog musk seemed to permeate the room.
"Get up, Pulaski, face the wall, paws behind your head," the bear growled to the dog, "you're getting transferred."
The dog's ears bounced up with surprise before he made any other moves.
"Whut?" the dog slurred.
"Get up or Sander will have to zap you to comply," the bear told. The coyote was already standing at the doorway with his taser at ready.
"Yo kidding," the German Shepherd snorted. "It's night, I ain't going anywhere this late."
"You're being transferred to another facility," the bear repeated, "get off your ass, face the wall, and paws behind your head or you're getting electricity zapped up your ass."
"I wanna talk to my attorney," the German Shepherd said. "That's my right!"
"You can talk to your attorney later," the bear snorted. "Come on."
The dog stood up with obviously managed slowness, not intending to give the wardens the pleasure of actually having him under their control to any real degree. His boner made an obscene bulge on the front of his pants even when stood up, tail swishing tensely, spreading the smell of unwashed fur into the noses of the two me sharing the small space with him now. The bear seemed immune to such a stench but the coyote could be heard snorting, by the door.
"Paws up."
The dog did as he was told, and got heavy metal cuffs snapped onto his wrists, with his paws secured behind his back. Leg shackles came afterwards and were hooked onto the pawcuffs with a small length of chain. Once he was ready, the bear added a heavy padded collar around his neck, one that could be used to apply a debilitating electric current in the event that the convict would try to misbehave.
"Alright, move those paws, Pulaski."
He was thrust into the hallway, lined with the cells doors. They were all sealed for now, lockdown was in progress, and everyone had had their one hour of mandatory outdoors activity. Their steps echoed on the bare painted floor, the heavy boots of the wardens. The dog's slippers only made a shuffle, having been deemed the only safe footwear for convicts if this magnitude. The wardens' equipment belts clattered with their movements, bodies swaying as they escorted the dog through the hallways, past closed doors, into an elevator that took them down to the ground floor.
"Where're we?" the dog asked when he was pushed into the concrete hallway. "This ain't processing."
"Papers will be sent electronically afterwards."
"What about my stuff?" the dog said. "What about my stuff from my cell, my - "
The bear yanked on the chain connecting the German Shepherd's shackles, to give him an unpleasant, jerking stop that almost toppled him over.
"No need to worry about that. It's all being shipped after you to your new facility," he said.
"That ain't good," the dog snorted. "That's bullshit, that's fucking stupid."
The coyote opened a heavy steel door that led into a dimly lit, large, cavernous parking area that smelled like oil and rubber. Few of the prison's utility cars were lined up near to one of the walls, but the dog was not taken over to one of them. There was a black van standing by, quite near to the access door, one with tinted windows. As soon as the guards emerged with their prisoner, the side door opened.
"Get in, Pulaski," the bear said.
A Rottweiler in a black suit was sitting inside the car, which seemed to be equipped for prisoner transport, with one seat for the dog already within, and in front of him, a bench with some restraints visible on it.
"So where am I being taken?" the dog asked. "Up state?"
"You'll see soon," the bear said. "Get in."
"I dunno about that," The German Shepherd snorted.
The bear elbowed the dog.
"Hey!" the dog yelped, tail flying behind him. "That's brutality!"
He was shoved into the car by the bear, and the Rottweiler got up from his seat to snap up the dog onto metal restraints that attached to his cuffs already in place. They made sure that the German Shepherd would not be moving where he was sitting. As his final act, the bear removed the shock collar.
"Bye, Pulaski," the bear said.
"Thank you for your cooperation," the Rottweiler told the prison warden. "We'll be on our way now. If you'd close the door, please."
"Sure," the bear smirked.
The German Shepherd gave his former guardian a brief impassive look before the door was slammed shut by the bear. Once the door closed, the dog was alone in the back with the Rottweiler, who returned upon his own high-backed seat and put on his seatbelt.
"Driver, let's move!" the black dog barked out.
The car's electric engine whirred into life, and the acceleration was the only way to know that they were moving, since the back of the car had no windows.
"So, wazzup?" the German Shepherd spoke to the nameless dog. "Seen any good movies lately?"
The Rottweiler didn't even twitch.
*
MCKINLEY PHARMACEUTICALS BUILDING
Dr. Spigot had a disposable coffee cup in his paw while he looked through the one-way window into the holding room, a thoughtful expression over his muzzle while he studied the sight of the German Shepherd sitting on his bunk in the room with a bored expression over his face.
"Is he everything you thought he was?" the tiger spoke.
"Yes," Dr. Miranda Quentin replied from the tiger's side. "And more..."
"Do you think we'll succeed this time around?" the tiger asked.
"We're going to do our best, aren't we?" the rat said.
"We can only try," the tiger said. "Doctor Olson says he can do it tomorrow already."
"I'll be ready as well," the rat said, "the suite is ready."
"Good," he said.
"Do you ever think whether we are doing the right thing?" Doctor Quentin asked from the white-coated tiger.
"I stopped after Subject 2," Dr. Spigot replied. He sipped his organic multi-coffee and snorted so that it made his whiskers wobble in the flow of air, almost fogging over the glass in front of them. The German Shepherd was tapping the floor with his bare foot. They'd confiscated his shoes and given him new prisoner attire and a rather forceful, soapy shower.
"The things we've learned, even simply by trying, has given us so much information," the rat said, "I can only imagine the future implications of how to use this knowledge."
"The road to hell is paved with good intentions," the tiger said.
"Are you getting...fatalistic, Percival?" the rat questioned.
"I'm just saying, we should know what we are doing here," Dr. Spigot replied. "Only that."
"Do you want to talk to him?"
"I didn't speak to the previous ones either," the tiger shook his head. "I don't see the point."
"I don't like talking to them either," the rat said, "It interferes with my impartial analysis."
"Well, there he is," the tiger pointed at the dog through the see-through panel. "Hope you're right in your analysis."
"I'm more concerned about what I am supposed to do after this is done," the rat said. "If he pulls through..."
"He will," Dr Spigot said. "We have learned enough, haven't we?"
He slurped down the rest of his coffee and crumpled the cup in his big paw.
"I need to get to sleep. Tomorrow is going to be a very long day."
"I'm not sure I'll be able to," the rat smiled wearily.
"Yeah," said the tiger.
*
They went to the German Shepherd's room in the morning, and two orderlies held him down, screaming profanities and struggling against their paws before a pressure syringe was snapped against a bare patch of fur on his neck and the tranquilizer made his complaints fade away within a matter of seconds. He was dozing by the time the orderlies put the dog onto a gurney and he was pushed through the corridors into the pre-op room., where masked personnel in gowns and gloves started their preparations. The dog had been reduced to a rag doll, who did not stop them when they washed him again, removed his clothing and replaced it with a gown, attached the wireless monitoring electrodes and slipped an urine collection catheter into his bladder. An electric razor was used to clear several patches of fur on his head, which left the dog with a patchy look once they were done. Afterwards, a plastic bag of sorts was pulled over his head, with holes for the eyes and the muzzle, but with everything else covered by the plastic that was then pulled tight and secure so that it provided a skintight layer over the German Shepherd's head.
"Patient's ready and prepped," one of the masked figures spoke into the intercom.
"Bring him in."
_ _
The gurney was pushed through a pair of doors into a large, tall room, lit with bright lamps on the ceiling, the walls and floor tiled, a sterile white that left no chance for any speck of dirty to be left unseen. Equipment and massive screens lined the walls, though the center of attention was the surgical bed at the center of the room, padded in black leather and covered with a sterile green sheet. Instrument carts surrounded the table, and upon its head end, a towering machine stood, almost reaching the arched ceiling above them. All the staff members wore green robes and hoods covering their entire muzzles, with clear plastic faceplates. The most prominent of them was Doctor Olsen, of course, the badger holding his place next to the tall machine.
"Put him into place," he said.
The orderlies lifted the dog onto the table and disappeared through the doors, leaving him under the care of the actual surgical team. There were only five others besides the badger, two doctors and three nurses, who now started to work on the German Shepherd. IV needles were stuck into his arms, and signal conditioners started to transmit the data from the various sensors on his body onto the monitoring equipment in the operating theater. Heart rate, respiratory rate, EEG data, showing the jagged seesaws of sleepy canine thoughts.
"You can start anesthesia, doctor," the badger told to one of his colleagues, a cougar similarly attired as he was himself.
"Alright, start pre-oxygenation and give me the fiber-optic scope and the 6.0 nasotracheal tube."
The German Shepherd was put into sleep with an injection of an anesthetic, after which the cougar slid a tube through his nasal cavity and into his windpipe to have the respirator supply oxygen into his body while he was under. Even his eyes had been taped shut.
"Bring forward the surgical frame."
It was a heavy, metallic construction that was attached to the bed and enclosed the German Shepherd's head. To produce maximum stability, it was simply screwed onto the dog's head from several points.
"Bring down the scanner arms."
Several mechanical arms swung into place from the towering machine on the head of the surgical bed. A few moments later, several of the screens on the wall began to show a rotating, multi-color image of the dog's brain, lit up constantly by the visual representations of his neural activity. Things seemed rather quiet for the moment, considering he was under deep sedation.
The badger studied the readings for a moment, before he proceeded onwards.
"11 blade and pickups, stand by with the hemostatics."
The scalpel slid through the thin film of plastic, provided to create a sterile field for the surgeons to work, past shaved skin and tissues, all the way into the very bone of the dog's cranium. The scalp bled hard, as was its habit, but application of a special spray closed up the cut blood vessels and soon everything was relatively clean again. The badger worked slowly, knowing this was the only part of the actual procedure when he had his paws on the patient, and he was an old-fashioned surgeon in that manner. He took the opportunity, and took his time performing the incisions.
"We have good exposures," he said, finally, knowing that he was being followed in the viewing gallery by Doctors Spigot and Quentin, as well as Mr. Harding, the ferret looking bored and a bit terrified by the high-tech environment.
"Prime the drills," ordered the surgeon to his colleague, a young fox.
Doctor Olsen's position was behind the surgical robot, operating its controls via touch-sensitive panels on a large console next to it. The machine whirred and rumbled into live, with several drills turned on at once, giving a noise similar to the experience of visiting a very enthusiastic dentist.
"Aim looks good...need to move 1.2 degrees on the southern direction...on arm 3...and then we're good," said Dr. Olson, all business.
The air filters, and the sterile water being piped into the drills meant that there was very little smell, but everyone heard the noise of them digging, each in turn, into the dog's skull at several points. The praying mantis of a robot was then re-equipped, its arms turned around by the staff at hand and moved back into position. Through all this, the dog was sleeping, unaware of what was going on to him at that very moment.
"Inserting the para-axial probes," the badger spoke, knowing that his voice would be picked up by the microphone and piped to his small audience up in the gallery.
Thin filaments, hair thin but strong, were pushed by the robot's steadily thrusting arms into the German Shepherd's brain. They could be seen snaking in on the scanner view on the screens, making their inevitable transit through the delicate tissue that was presumed to house his very personality, his character...even, possibly, though you'd have to ask Doctor Quentin about it...his soul.
"How are you proceeding?" came the voice of Dr. Spigot.
"Very well. We can start infusing the hypnotics, and to start taking him out."
"Go on. Doctor Quentin will be there shortly."
_ _
It took nearly half an hour before the dog finally blinked, and his lips began to move - almost the only part of his body that he could indeed move, under the influence of the medication in his vein, and the physical restraints.
"W-what..." the dog's raspy voice managed.
_ _
The first thing he properly saw, besides lights and shadows, was the face of Dr. Quentin, looking down to him through the faceplate of her surgical outfit.
"I'm going to be starting with a simple series of reaction tests on you, mapping your responses to them. These are very similar to the ones that were previously performed to you by the prison physicians."
A wireless eye display was placed over the dog's face so that his field of view was once again obscured, for a moment, before the photograph of a smiling German Shepherd woman, holding a German Shepherd cub, was projected upon them.
"You do not need to speak," the disembodied voice of the rat spoke. "You only have to watch."
She operated a button to swap the image, and let the computer record the reaction the various sensors detected to each of the images. She knew how a normal fur would react, based on her long clinical experience and the reference material, and knowing how this particularly...difficult brain would perform, they could move on to the next phase.
Photos of smiling faces.
Angry faces. Happy faces, sad faces. A burning house, an apple pie freshly taken out of the oven, so warm that steam was still rising from the succulent treat. A brand new car. The Moon landing. A prison guard, a German Shepherd, of course, like all the reference images, for maximum impact due to racial recognition.
A naked woman, showing her body in a pornographic pose. A picture of a crying cub, a dandelion, the Statue of Liberty, a teenager wearing his graduation robes and a mortarboard. An open bottle of beer, a laughing boy, a smiling girl, a naked male dog showing his erection. Picture of a dead German Shepherd with a bullet hole on his chest, blood seeping out. One image even more violent than the previous, interspaced by images of love, caring, warmth, hope.
The rat and the badger spoke in a quiet, murmured shorthand, exchanging information much like the computers were, pushing buttons on their equipment. Throughout this, the German Shepherd laid still, awake despite the fact that his head had been drilled open, and with the sensors recording every reaction, in his body, in his brain, to the precision of the last neural synapse firing its electrochemical message forward onto the next.
*
"What's your name?" asked Doctor Spigot from the German Shepherd lying on the hospital bed, drowsy eyes, a tail limp between his legs and under the white sheet that covered his body. Monitors showed muted data on the background, and the head propped up on pillows sported several small bandages. Tubes from hanging IV bags and syringe drivers on IV stands curled onto the arms resting against the sheet.
The tiger grabbed each paw into his own.
"Squeeze my paws, and tell me your name."
The lips moved, without a voice coming from his throat. The eyes seemed glassy, as if he was feverish.
The fingers curled a little. The tiger put the paws back down onto the bed.
"Tell me your name," he said.
"N...Nick...Pulaski..."
"Good," the tiger said. "Where are you?"
"I...don't know..."
"What is the last thing you remember?"
The dog's ears flicked weakly. He coughed.
"I...prison?"
"Yes, you were in prison."
"T---transfer?"
"That was the cover story, yes, I understand," Dr. Spigot replied. "Your transfer to another facility, was it not?"
"Is this...is this the new prison?" he asked. "Did...did something happen to me? This looks like a hospital."
"In a manner of speaking," the tiger said, "I'm not in the position to discuss it with you, however, not at this point. You are still recovering from the surgery."
"Surgery? Bottle is that?"
The tiger's ears jerked.
"Excuse me?"
"Bottle is that?"
"Do not worry about it," the tiger said. "I'll be back shortly."
*
A freshly bathed, reserved as always, but surprisingly energetic Dr. Olson was busily staring at a rotating hologram of the brain belonging to Nick Pulaski, a very concentrated face on his muzzle.
"There is some expressive aphasia," Dr Spigot told to his colleague, "I presume that is the edema from the surgery."
"The intracranial pressure is normal," the badger replied. "Once the swelling goes down, we should see a return to normal cognitive function. One of the cerebral probes went 1.2 centimeters away from the central Broca area. It is a peripheral effect."
"Considering the previous ones gorked out by this point, it's nothing," the tiger said. "But it is a worry."
"The functional scans are all very encouraging," Dr. Olson said. "The recording from last night shows quite regular activity. Emphasis on regular_,_ Doctor."
"Does Doctor Quentin agree?"
"She thinks it is encouraging, yes."
Doctor Spigot decided that this was about as elative as the Swede would sound like, and took it for what it was.
"Of course it's difficult to measure some of the effects yet, but once we taper down the hypnotics after the indoctrination, but....physically...physically everything looks wonderful. Even better than with Cuddy, or Lindsay, for that matter. And even Cuddy was such a great step away from Lindsay."
The tiger thought about the diaper-wearing chimpanzee in his cage at the Simian Laboratory, and shook the idea away from his mind.
"Cuddy...Lindsay...Pulaski," the tiger enunciated.
The badger wrote down a few notes on his pad and hit a button to bring up yet another extremely complex brain scan image for his visual appreciation.
*
MCKINLEY PHARMACEUTICALS BUILDING - DAY + 2
_ _
_ _
Nick was watching TV in his room, quietly. He had missed TV in prison. It was the worst thing about prison, really. No internet and no TV. The programs hadn't become any better during his two years behind the bars but he didn't mind. It was simply a pleasure to be watching the changing images on screen. There were so many channels, too, if he got bored, he could change it at will.
He felt a bit better, too. They'd taken the tubes off his arms and he only needed to have an injection in the morning and the evening, and they said it was vitamins to help him get better. Who was he to argue with someone in a white coat? They were only doing their best to help him. At least they were kind in this prison hospital, he thought. There was no shouting, no tasers, no electric collars. He hadn't even been cuffed to the bed. Maybe this was some kind of a new soft facility. Maybe another Democratic innovation. Wasn't that why they hadn't decided to put him in front of the firing squad? Imagine that in 2063. What next? An axe to swing off the head?
The bored dog's ears perked when the door into his room opened and a black wolf entered. The man was tall, masculine, confident, walked with a purposeful stride. He was dressed in regular clothes, too, no scrubs or white coats, Nick noticed.
He knew the moment he saw him that he liked the man, for some reason, and that he should listen to him. He never really got that feeling about furs. He just didn't trust them. This one seemed different, somehow. Something about him...
"You're called Pulaski," the wolf said.
The German Shepherd gave him a puzzled look. The wolf strutted over to the TV and closed it, before he stood in front of it, facing the dog in the bed.
"I'm Captain John Sinclair," he said, "I work with the Police Department."
A strange myriad of memories filled the dog's mind...of many unformed figures...all the yelling, the blazing guns, the scowling faces. The victorious grins when they'd stomped down on the German Shepherd's tail.
He looked at the wolf, but couldn't really feel the same antipathy that was his regular response to cops. He remember what his dad had called them. Shitheads. He recalled. Cocksuckers. One of his dads, anyway. His mother had swapped them a lot, even when they weren't paying for the pleasure of fucking her dirty cunt or her asshole.
"I'm...Nick," the dog replied. "Nick Pulaski."
"I know who you are," the black wolf barked.
"I don't know you, though," Nick said.
"You don't," the wolf said curtly. "But you will. I've been told to look after you, in a way."
The German Shepherd blinked.
"Are you like...my parole officer or something?" he said. He knew he didn't like those either, almost less than cops.
The wolf laughed roughly.
"Hell no," he said, tail swiping the air rapidly, "I think the docs like to call me a mentor...though I suppose technically they hope that I'll be your boss...if you make the cut. Which I'm sure you will, given enough effort."
"I don't know what you're talking about, really," the German Shepherd replied, "this is a weird ass place, anyway. Is this some new kind of a prison? Is there anyone who can tell me what the hell is going on here?"
The wolf sat down on a plastic chair next to a sink on the corner of the room, folded his tail comfortably, stretched out his arms, put them down to the armrests, and stared at the seated dog on the bed.
"This ain't a prison," he said, "This is a secret government facility where you were abducted by the man in black so that you could take part in a secret government-funded live experiment in personality modification. Don't make me try to tell you the proper name of that shit, it gives me headache trying to pronounce some of the terms those docs like throwing around to make their dicks sound bigger than they are."
He laughed at his own terrible joke. The German Shepherd's ears perked curiously.
"What kind of weird shit is that?"
"Does your head hurt?" the wolf said.
Nick brushed a paw against one of the little bandage pads, this one on right temple.
"Well...yeah...a bit, sometimes."
"That's because they drilled into your head," the wolf gestured with his paw, extended his middle finger and tapped his temple with it, about the same place where the dog had touched his own head. "They pushed in their stuff and messed around with your brain while you were drugged up."
Nick's tail gave the bed a tense swat.
"That...that's not...what is that, really?" he mumbled.
"Don't ask me how they do it or what they do exactly, but they've been doing it for a while, trying to make it work, and they're saying you're the success," the wolf replied. "They're saying you're on your way to be a new man."
"What does...that mean?" the dog asked. He wasn't really buying it. Maybe this was some kind of a weird ass interrogation technique, maybe to try to make him confess to even more crimes he had committed. He'd always denied them of course, called them setups, but they always ended up having one fiber off his clothes or a few hairs, or a splash of cum that was enough to show he'd done it.
"Because of assholes like you, cops are dropping like flies and the recruitment levels are at an all-time low even with the latest 10% pay raise provided by a federal subsidy to keep the cops working under maximum pressure," Captain Sinclair detailed, "so, someone got the bright idea that since the prisons are full of assholes like you, why not take a few of you, drill into your heads, and reconnect the wires so that you stop being assholes and become model citizens instead?"
Nick grunted.
"That's bullshit," he shrugged. "Just something they tell to scare furs off."
"Well..." said the wolf, "you're sitting there...and I did see the others, too, before they croaked."
"What the fuck are you talking about?"
"This is a dangerous business, this brain shit they are doing," the wolf said, "the six before you died, and before you, the only success they had was a monkey...well...a chimpanzee...you know, one of those banana lover things, like Tarzan's buddy, Cheetah?"
"What the hell?"
"So..." the wolf rubbed his chin while he talked, "they first made this fucking crazy apeshit crazy monkey - can you imagine, some big ass scientist told that he's gotta made a crazy monkey who they then have to start behaving normally again? And they first tested it with laboratory rats and bunnies - what's a psychopathic rat like, anyway? Beats me...but yeah...after all that, they started live trials and the previous ones ended up vegetables or died, but here's you...sitting...talking bullshit to me...not drooling much...I think they might have something going to what they said about you being a success story."
Nick let out a deep breath. He didn't believe what the wolf was saying. it was all...science fiction to him. He'd liked those movies and TV shows when he was a kid. Let you think you were off in some other world fighting aliens, instead of listening to your mother and your current dad fight in the next room, or maybe one of mom's clients.
He shivered at the memory. He'd learned not to think about them, early on, but sometimes they came haunting him. Prisons were always the worst. In prison, there was few things to do besides thinking, and thinking easily led into remembering.
"So, there you are," the wolf said, nodding towards the German Shepherd, "scrawny piece of crap...and I should be making you into a cop, they say."
"But...but...I'm a prisoner," the dog said. "They caught me."
"You no longer exist," the wolf snapped his fingers. "A fur who doesn't exist can't have a rap sheet, now can you?"
"But I'm...I'm Nick Pulaski..." the dog started.
"They've wiped everything," Captain Sinclair said, "they've come up with good stuff for you, making you sound like a real choir boy or sumthin'."
The wolf chuckled.
"You won't have any problem getting into the Academy, anyway, we'll rig the entry process to make sure you make the cut," he said, "the rest is up to you...and to me a bit, I guess, since I'm supposed to be keeping an eye on you now."
"You...what?" the dog said. "What kind of shit is this anyway? Why are you talking shit to me like this? Are you trying to make talk or something, squeal on my dealers or something, by promising me shit?"
The wolf snorted and bared his teeth.
"I'm not promising you anything and not expecting you to say a single word about those motherfuckers you used to call your friends," Captain Sinclair growled. "I'm just saying that it's all been done already. Old Nick Pulaski is gone and the new one is supposedly sitting right in front of me...though it remains to be seen, I guess."
"But..." the dog's tail swished against the bedcovers, "I've no idea what you're talking about!"
"Apparently they're gonna tell you much more about it," the wolf said.
He suddenly got up, took a couple of steps over towards the bed, then stopped.
"But they said that it's gonna take some time before you warm up to the idea, once they're done with you. But they wanted me to come and say hello to you early on so...hello, Pulaski. You should call me Captain, because that's who I am...Captain Pulaski."
The dog stared at the wolf, who looked at him boldly, unnervingly calmly, too, before he blinked once, and headed for the door.
"Catch you later, Pulaski," the wolf said.
The German Shepherd's puzzled eyes followed him all the way until the door slammed shut behind him, having been closed slightly too energetically than it was necessary.
*
You are Nick Pulaski.
_ _
You are 28 years old.
_ _
Your brain has been rewired in an attempt to provide a more normal neurophysiological function, impaired by your special difficulty of emotion processing and impulse control.
_ _
You are a government experiment in personality modification.
_ _
You've been given a chance to repent your old ways.
_ _
You will serve the community.
_ _
You have no choice.
_ _
*
47. 48. 49. 50."
_ _
The sweaty dog's arms went up for another go.
One more for good luck.
_ _
The heavy metal bar was lifted once more before the German Shepherd let it down onto its holders. He laid on the bench, breathing quite heavily, and sweat covered his body. Nick was dressed in a sleeveless compression shirt and compression shorts and sneakers, and had been working out for an hour already on the brand new, shiny equipment in the spare room in his apartment that he'd quickly designated a gym. It'd taken a couple of weeks for him to start it, because the doctors had told him that if he did it too early, he might accidentally cause his brain to blow up, but he thought that was probably exaggerating things a bit.
The dog's tongue lolled out of his muzzle. His arms ached in a sensation that he'd learned to like recently. He'd never been much for exercise, and he'd never certainly had this kind of equipment to do it with either. Besides the bench, the room also had a stationary bicycle, some regular weights, and a crosstrainer. A rolled up gym mat leaned against the wall where he'd put it after doing squats and pushups.
He was musky and sweaty, and he found the feeling surprisingly good. His body was feeling good, too, after exercise, and eating proper food for once. He'd gotten all sorts of advice he was supposed to adhere to, and he found that it was quite easy to make a habit out of it.
The German Shepherd stood up, stretched a bit, cricked his neck, and grabbed a towel. He planned to drink some recovery formulation from his fridge before a shower, and then he could start reviewing some of the documents he'd been given to, basic stuff for the Academy, Pulaski has told him.
Nick felt pretty good about the wolf. He felt like an older brother, the kind who'd have his back in a pinch. The wolf might've been a cop, but he seemed trustworthy. He always treated him fairly, too, and didn't talk anything weird like the doctors and the furs with ties in the building where they'd kept him before being told that he had a place in town now.
"You'll be independent, but we'll monitor your progress, of course. We don't expect any trouble from you."
_ _
The words echoed in his mind. They seemed to have weight to them, he thought.
It felt so weird, to be standing where he was. He could remember everything he'd ever done, of course he could, but it all seemed like it was...far away. Another life.
Another him, perhaps, but he wasn't yet sure what to think of the docs' claims that the poking around in his brain and the "training" afterwards had made him meek as a lamb when It came to criminal activity. He sure as hell didn't have to rob convenience stores for food anymore, considering that they'd fixed him up with a regular check, no questions asked.
No drugs, either. He'd underwent detox in prison, some good stuff, something they pumped up to his veins until he simply didn't want to take anything anymore, and it seemed to have worked. Previously his first impulse after leaving a prison had been to get as high as possible, find some pussy to fuck, and get on from that.
He'd done none of that now. He'd simply stayed in his apartment, went on little walks, stocked his fridge and even learned to do his laundry. He couldn't remember if he had ever folded a freshly washed shirt still smelling of detergent, even as a pup. Now his drawers were full of them, and he felt odd pride about it.
It was almost weird to be this clean, constantly, well clothed, fed, and sober. It really was new to him, something he had never experienced before, having a full fridge. Even the cool air flowing from inside and making him shiver felt kinda reassuring, and the light inside it. The lamp in the fridge at home never worked...
Nick was just pouring his drink, a towel over his shoulder, when the doorbell rang. The perky-aired dog left the bottle and the glass onto the counter before he went to the door. A glance at the security screen showed him that none other than Captain Sinclair was standing out in the hallway. He opened the door with a swipe of his paw against the panel.
"Evening, Pulaski!"
"Hello, Captain," replied the German Shepherd, new wag to his tail.
"Can I come in?"
"Sure, sure!"
The black wolf sauntered in and seemed immediately to be at home. He was dressed in an old pair of jeans and a shabby jacket that hung about his body, besides the even older and disreputable-looking sneakers. He certainly didn't appear to be much of a dresser, the German Shepherd thought. He probably had other priorities.
"Am I interrupting anything?" the wolf asked.
"I was just working out," the younger canine explained, "doing some of that stuff you showed the other day."
"Good," the wolf sniffed the air while he looked around, "nice and clean here. You been cleaning?"
"Yeah, trying to keep it tidy like...uh...like you told me to, Captain," the dog said. It felt like a good thing to say, he thought. He was meant to report to him, after all, about everything he was doing, and he'd been told that the wolf could help him around with any problems he might have in that regard.
"Well, an honest man's integrity should extend to his property," the wolf said, "living in a shack that looks like a crackhouse isn't the best way to go, especially for a cop."
The dog wondered what the wolf's house looked like, considering his clothes. Maybe it was very neat. Maybe a Mrs. Sinclair cleaned it all up for him, and brought him his beer after work. He should ask the wolf about that.
"I'm not a cop yet," Nick said.
"But we're gonna make sure you will be," the wolf replied. "Did you get the stuff I sent you?"
"Yeah, it's on my email, I was gonna look at it this afternoon," Nick explained. "Still getting used to having all this stuff to read, though. It's pretty hard."
"You'll get the hang of it," Captain Sinclair rumbled good-naturedly. "Didn't do much reading before huh?"
"I only read Hagar the Horrible, nick snuffled.
The wolf chuckled.
"Jesus Christ."
Nick scratched his sweaty muzzle.
"One of the docs at the...place said that I've got a...uh...low reading age...or something?"
"They say a lot of stuff at that place, sure," the wolf mused. "I try to let it go in through one ear and out from the other."
Nick was a bit surprised by that statement. The wolf kept telling him how he was now supposed to take care of himself and be a responsible dog, but sometimes the Captain himself said stuff like that, and it puzzled him somewhat.
"Probably right, though. You been doped up most of your life, eh?" the wolf stated to the dog. "You don't want to read the good word when you're doped, rite?"
"I thought you knew all about the...lowlifes as you call them?" the dog said.
"Yup," the wolf tugged his paws into his pockets while he walked around the apartment, as if doing an inspection tour of it. While the German Shepherd watched, he even opened up one of the kitchen cabinets and peered inside.
"What're you doing" Nick asked.
"Checking for contraband," the wolf said.
"There is none...Captain," Nick said.
The wolf looked at the neatly arranged cups and plates before he closed the door and winked at the dog.
"Just messin' with ya," he said. "Gonna have to learn to relax, too, you know. Ain't easy for furs like you to let your guard down."
"I don't know about that," Nick shrugged. "I've been feeling pretty relaxed lately, I guess."
"Yeah?"
"I don't really know how to explain it," Nick replied, "it's just...like...like I don't have to keep looking over my shoulder...or...you know..."
"Like you expect someone's gonna stab you in the back the next moment you let yourself take a breather," the wolf said, "oh I know you types, the paranoid whackos. The dope does it for ya, even if you're not on it at the moment, the paranoia persists."
"Yep," Nick said. "Don't remember much about it since I've gotten clean but...I guess so."
The wolf looked at the open bottle of sports drink and the glass full of the sickly green stuff. His nosepad wrinkled at the sight. Then he wandered back over into the sitting area, and settled onto the couch without questioning the host about whether it was appropriate or not. Just like at home indeed.
"Come on 'n sit down here, Pulaski," the wolf said, "let's have a chat."
"Can I get my drink?" the German Shepherd pointed out the glass.
"Sure, whatever you fancy."
He went back to the kitchen, finished pouring, and took a long, deep gulp of it before he moved over to the couch and put his glass down over the flat armrest.
"Better?" asked the wolf.
"Yeah, I guess," Nick replied before wiping his muzzle on the back of his paw.
"Your mom never told you to do that?" the wolf rumbled.
"My mom never told me to do any good things," the dog said in a low voice.
The wolf looked at the sweaty Sheppie for quite some time. He scratched his neck.
"Seen your file," he said, "seen too many of those houses too. Half a dozen kids crawling on the floor like rats, parents, if there are any, high up to the eyeballs with dope, piss 'n shit everywhere."
"Yeah," Nick huffed.
"Always a fucking shame," the wolf opined. "They never stand a chance."
Nick's tail gave a small smack against the couch. His lips were curled in a grimace for quite some time.
"So what am I then?" he looked at the wolf.
Captain Sinclair grumbled.
"A fucktard who got his head drilled open and his brain fiddled with to make him into a good pup?"
Nick grunted.
"I dunno what I feel," he said.
"What's the issue?" the wolf patted his shoulder, a move that surprised the dog. The surly wolf wasn't exactly a physical type, at least not to his knowledge. He didn't linger with it, either, just a quick paw on arm and then it was back on the couch.
"You keep saying stuff like that," Nick replied, "but I don't know what I feel."
"Why?"
"Well..I know I did all this fucked up shit...I mean...I don't need to tell you, do I?"
"Nope," the wolf said.
"So...I know I did it...I remember the stuff I did...when I wasn't doped up...and I know I did it...but I don't know what to think about it."
"Maybe you shouldn't think about it then."
"But...if you say...like...like that Doctor Quentin said, that...that I have issues in here..." Nick pointed at his brown and black head, "that if...if all was because I was wrong in the head..."
"Nope, I ain't buying that, no matter what that Spigot guy wants to think," the wolf grumbled. "No matter how messed up your head is, I bet that if you'd gotten a proper upbringing, you might've turned out alright. Not brilliant alright, I mean, maybe alright like McDonalds burger flipping alright, but still...y'know, not dope-sucking, raping fucktard looking for a next fix or a thrill."
"Maybe."
"If anyone had ever even tried to look over your back...and no, I ain't gonna say that the system didn't try...it does try, but it does a fucking bad job sometimes..."
The wolf yawned. The dog still seemed thoughtful, standing there and looking a bit lost.
"Come on," Captain Sinclair elbowed the Sheppie. "This is messed up enough as it is without you getting all philosophical about whether you're a fucktard because your mom and dad had bad genes or whether it was the stuff that happened after you were born that made you into a perp."
"But I'm supposed to not be one anymore, am I?" the dog said. "I don't even - "
He suddenly fell quiet. The wolf flicked an ear in his direction.
"What?"
The German Shepherd grunted.
"Nothing."
"Oh the hell it is nuftin'," Captain Sinclair retorted. "You gonna tell your Capt'n or shall we book a appointment with the always delightful Miss Doctor Quentin?"
Nick looked at the older man for a moment before his ears took a more downwards angle, and his tail shuffled the still squeaky new couch, between their legs.
"Nah, I don't wanna do that."
"So what's up?"
"I dunno," he said, finally, "maybe it's because of what they did to my head or something, but...huh..."
"Yeeeeah?"
"I ain't...having those thoughts I know are...bad..."
"Like what thoughts?" asked the wolf. "Violent ones? Wanting to load up with drugs?"
The German Shepherd sneered at himself, unhappily, a dark sound coming up from his throat.
"Y'know...looking at 'em...wanting to...jump them...what else do I need to say?"
The wolf snorted.
"Bitches, eh?" he grunted. "Wanting to mess around with them the bad way?"
"I know what I did," Nick replied. "Don't want no more."
"I'll never understand it," Captain Sinclair grunted. "I've read the literature and interrogated hundreds of perps...but still..."
"Ain't gonna do it no more," the German Shepherd said, "ain't even thinking about it anymore. Ain't even looking at them..."
"No?" the wolf asked.
The dog shrugged.
"Nope," the young man said. "Don't seem to do much for me...that a good thing? That I ain't wanna...you know?"
"To dip your dick where it ain't belong," the wolf cop commented.
"It's almost like..." the dog said, "like when they put me on that shit once...that...uh...you know...neutering stuff?"
"Orchineutral or Emaskulin, probably" the wolf said.
The dog gave him a surprised look that made the cop shrug .
"What?" he harrumphed. "My Precinct has dozens of registered sex offenders on the list of usual suspects. The pedos and the repeat offenders are tagged with implants that dose them up with that stuff to keep their dicks limp. I do read my stuff, y'know. A good cop does, because he knows that information is as important a tool as the nightstick."
"Hmm..." Nick rumbled, "You...you don't think they..."
"Whut?" the wolf sounded unhappy.
The German Shepherd shrugged. He began to scratch his sweaty thigh.
"You know...they told you what they did to me...did they...put one of those in or something?"
The cop wolf chuckled.
"Something the matter?" he barked. "Ain't getting your puppymaker up as much as you'd like?"
Nick was hardly bothered by the extremely rude language - there was literally no obscenity he hadn't heard, but this coming from the wolf sounded especially uncivilized. The wolf sure slipped into such parlance every now and then, but it was always a surprise for the dog who was slowly starting to learn to look up to him.
"Huh," the dog's ears flapped back and forth.
"Well..." the wolf leaned back on the couch and smirked, to the Sheppie's surprise, "It ain't that, Pulaski. You ain't on any of the chemical stuff. I would know, believe me."
"So what is it then?" the dog grunted. "You don't think they broke something up in my head or something when they were poking around, or..."
The wolf gave him a look.
"Well, it'd make sense, wouldn't it, Pulaski?"
"Huh?"
"Think about it, kid" the wolf mused, "how're you gonna make sure that if you let a sex offender loose on the streets that they ain't gonna do it again..."
Nick grumbled.
"You...you ain't saying that they...switched my sex drive off or something?" he pointed at his head. "Can they do that?"
"I don't know about that, but they can do a lot I hear..." the wolf said.
Nick started to frown.
"So...so you...you do know that they did something?" he said. "To stop me from..."
Captain Sinclair smirked.
"Well first they thought that it's just a matter of conditioning, but let's be honest, a guy thinks with his balls most of the time, and no amount of bunny hugging photos is gonna make that change," the wolf grumbled, "so..."
The German Shepherd's furs spiked up. His chest began to let out an aggressive, low rumble. The wolf's own neck furs bristled, no way they wouldn't have, when encountering such a show of angered masculinity as the dog sitting next to him on the small, neat couch.
"You do know, don't you?" Nick asked demandingly.
"I'm part of the panel of experts, of course I know," the cop said. "I know everything."
The dog breathed quickly, shallow, noisy huffs of air. His lips were curled, his tail tense, his ears flat. He looked like he was ready to fight.
"What did they do to my balls?" the dog growled.
The black wolf chuckled roughly.
"They ain't done nothing to your nuts, kid," the Captain said. "They're all intact as far as I can tell...a guy without balls wouldn't be getting this antsy, for starters, about not wanting to get it on with a bitch..."
The Sheppie barked out.
"So tell me what they did to me!" he yelped.
The wolf looked at him for a while, his head tilted. Then he snorted, too, and scratched his neck.
"Well...I guess it's been long enough now...what, a month now since your op?" the wolf mused.
"What's that got to do anything with it?" Nick groaned.
"They said the nerve connections would have to stabilize before any changes would start manifesting themselves...might take weeks or months..."
"I don't know what you're talking about, you're starting to sound like that badger doc who talks funnily," Nick said.
Captain Sinclair laughed.
"What changes?" Nick asked. He wasn't going to drop the issue like that. "What did they do?"
The wolf cop nudged his muzzle against his paw and looked thoughtful.
"I ain't sure if I should tell ya, really..." he said, "might get me into trouble with the bosses."
"I thought you said you are one of the bosses..."
" I'm only a small boss, though," the wolf said.
"Think you owe me that much," Nick said.
The wolf's scowl deepened. He moved swiftly, faster than the dog could react to, and grabbed his muzzle. Nick let out a growl, and his paw moved automatically to try and swipe the paw away, but the wolf was there before he was, grabbing the paw in mid-air.
"I owe you shit, Pulaski," the wolf growled, "_don't you _ever dare to forget that you're just a little stinking piece of shit on the bottom of my shoe and that ain't gonna change until you prove yourself otherwise..."
The wolf glared, his voice just a low hiss, and his grip on the dog's muzzle and his arm were not very considerate. It was close to causing bruising if he'd make it any more firm. His breath was hot and wet enough to almost mat the creamy furs on his muzzle.
"...you better remember that..." Captain Sinclair spat out of his maw before he shoved the younger man back and he stood up himself, tail twitching behind him. He left Nick panting on the couch, his teeth still bared while the wolf paced around the living room.
"I remember everything," Nick huffed, "everything I did. And I want to get better. I ain't that man anymore!"
"Like I said, that's to be seen, kid," said the wolf.
"So are you gonna tell me, Captain, or...or..."
"Or what?"
"Or am I just gonna have to keep wondering, or ask someone else?"
The wolf snorted and sneered.
"Alright," Captain Sinclair said. "Guess I should, then. But it ain't gonna be easy on ya, I'm afraid."
Nick shook his head.
"Rather know than not know."
"Okay," the wolf said, "they turned you over. That's about it."
The dog looked suitably puzzled.
"What?"
"You're a bum bum boy," said Captain Sinclair, "dick-polisher. Tail-chaser. Choc doughnut muncher. Shaft-slicker. A friend of Dorothy's. A rear driver - "
"What the fuck are you talking about?" Nick mumbled.
The wolf rolled his shoulders showily.
"They wanted to make sure you ain't sticking your dick into any bitches anymore so they turned some switch in your brain from "het" to "homo", "the wolf said, "not exactly politically correct to say so because that implies you can make the switch the other way around too and those Born This Way folks are still pretty goddamn loud out there and they'd call it genocide if they heard what can be done...illegal or not."
Nick's instant reaction was not chortle.
"You're bullshitting me," he said, "you're just fucking around with me."
He stood up from the couch, a sudden motion that made the wolf's tail jump aggressively at the movement that could be interpreted as a preparation to attack. Instead of making a lunge for the wolf, however, Nick pulled off his muscle shirt and tossed the compression attire down to the couch. He began to run his paws over his torso, palms pressing flat onto his fur and skin. Captain Sinclair watched curiously, and snorted.
"What the hell are you doing now, kid?"
"Where is it?" Nick hissed, still feeling himself up.
"Where's fucking what, Pulaski?"
"The goddamn implant!" the Sheppie grunted. "You're just fucking with me, you must've put a fucking chem implant on me at some point to get my sex drive down and now you're just pulling my tail telling me this shit about going gay!"
The wolf chuckled.
"By all means, keep going, don't let me interrupt. This is quite entertaining to watch."
The dog stopped his body search, paws frozen on his belly.
"Do you know where it is?"
Captain Sinclair laughed.
"Come on, even if I did know, would I tell you?" he stated. "What'd you do, claw your skin open to get at it? Get some quack dig it out? I don't think so."
The black cop wolf stepped forward again, and glared directly into the Sheppie's eyes.
"Is it so hard to believe?" he spoke smoothly. "Don't think the docs can do that if they can switch on those little brain cells that are meant to make us all just wanna kiss and makeup instead of beating each other into a pulp?"
"But I'm not gay!" Nick the dog snorted. "You'd think that I knew if I was, huh? Huh?"
"You don't know if you don't try..." Captain Sinclair mused. "Nobody told you that you can't get laid as long as all parties are agreeing into doing it."
The dog growled deeply.
"You're bullshitting me for some weird ass reason and I just don't understand - "
The wolf unzipped his disreputable jacket and dropped it to the floor, revealing a toned torso covered in only a sleeveless skintight muscle shirt, much like the one the Sheppie had been wearing earlier, though this one was a shade of grey to contrast the wolf's ink-colored fur. His eyes were gleaming and he smirked at the dog in front of him, rolling his shoulders as if he was preparing to physically challenge the Sheppie.
"Consider this...foreplay..." the wolf stated. "Or courting...hell, a date...whatever fancy word you wanna put there...not that you know anything about it, I presume."
"Captain..." the dog breathed.
The black wolf pushed his paws through the loose front of his saggy pants and pulled out a hard, musky cock, sheath, balls, the entire package plopping out into view, an obscene length of veined red meat and the furry flesh nuggets in their sac.
"Now, you're gonna look at this dick right here in front of your eyes and if you decide that it's not for your taste, 'm gonna put it back in my pants and I'll get the fuck out of here," the wolf stated while pointing at his throbbing canine knotty cock, "but so that you know...I know you'll be looking for dick sooner or later...and you've never been one to deny yourself, Pulaski..."
Nick stared at the red, thick tool poking out of the wolf's pants. The stretchy cloth of his own compression shorts didn't have enough strength to keep back the burgeoning flesh of his own dick starting to grow hard with all the blood rushing into it. The feel of the bare skin of his shaft pressing against the musky, sweaty cloth made it twitch. The wolf saw the reaction and smiled, licking his lips.
"There we go..." he said.
"This...what is this..." Nick mumbled, he too staring down his body at the growing bulge.
"Dontcha worry, pup," the wolf rumbled smoothly as he stepped over to the dog, "your Captain's gonna show you the drill...and I ain't speaking figuratively here, kid."
"You...you...you gay, Captain?"
The black wolf blew him a kiss and licked his lips again.
"Hello, dear, why don't we get better acquainted?"
He grasped the dog's arm and manhandled him to turn around so that the Sheppie stood there, with one arm twisted behind his back, the wolf standing behind him, his breaths huffing down the dog's sweaty neck. He sniffed it, noisily, the black pad of his muzzle pressing onto the musky strands of fur to get a good whiff. The sensation seemed to agree with the confused doggie's body, too, because he could feel the shiver, going down along the spine on the back that was pressed onto the Captain's chest.
"Gonna take good care of you from now on...in all ways," the wolf murmured dirtily while he used his free paw to grope along the dog's chest and belly, feeling the muscles that were shaping up thanks to his new exercise regime.
He licked the dog's neck, bringing out a moan from the immobilized German Shepherd in front of him. The wolf shifted his hips forward with a movement that put one of his knees against Nick's thigh, and pressed his erection against the dog's firm rump.
"D-did...did they put you up for this?" Nick moaned, feeling the cock dig against his flesh with surprise.
"Nope, Pulaski..." the wolf behind him rumbled, "this is my personal project...to keep you on the right path..."
He dropped his paw and gripped the dog's rear. He squeezed the Sheppie's ass hard, enjoying how it felt under his fingers. Nick's tail tried to smack his paw, but it too was trapped between their warm, tense bodies.
"I ain't gonna force myself on you..." the wolf said, "because I know you know that deep down you just know it has to happen..."
His paw moved over the curve of the Sheppie's ass and cupped his boner in his grip. The dog's hips jerked forward onto the touch. His growl had become a weak whimper by now, subdued by the victorious rumble belonging to the Captain wolf behind him.
"I'll go easy on ya...show ya men can do it hard...but don't need to hurt...hurting is for men like you were...so I'm gonna show you the proper way..."
The Captain bent the dog over the couch and pulled down his shorts, revealing an ass that was a sight to behold for the wolf for the brief glimpse he got before the Sheppie's tail fell down over it. He wasted no time in spitting onto his fingers and pushing them under that particular tail, to explore in the musky crevice between them.
"Nice and easy for ya, Pulaski..." he growled roughly into the dog's ear while he prodded and poked and teased flesh, "showing ya how it's done right..."
The rough fingering was spit-polished, but he fetched something from the dog's bathroom cabinet to make things slick for the actual main event - and stopped at the doorway into the living room, to see the dog still bent over, paws on the back of the couch, ass pointed up and the tail jerking from side to side nervously.
"I'll show you the right way, Pulaski..."
He jammed fingers covered in pad cream into the Sheppie's hole and spread the white, greasy substance against the puckered flesh. Some was even forced inside the dog's opening, while further glob was quickly smoothened over the Captain's own hard wolfcock.
"Now I won't deny that this will feel weird...but you'll learn to like it...every tail raiser does...and even craves for it...heh..."
Their bodies rubbed together in a sensual mingling of musk and sweat, hips to hips and knees against knees, in rough, carefully controlled choreography by the leering wolf. The dog's body was tight, firming up from the work he'd put onto it, and his ass...it squeezed on him all the way and made it a slow, difficult penetration that made the wolf moan as loudly as the dog tail up and ass spread in front of him.
"You'll make me proud," the wolf rumbled in a kind of a dirty, quiet monologue while he thrust into the dog's ass, "you'll show 'em that whatever they did to change your mind...I'm gonna make sure that you'll keep doing the right thing..."
His balls slapped against the dog's twitching nuts, adding another cadence to the smack of hips on rump.
"...you'll show it's gonna be a bad idea to mess around with Precinct 38...yeah...hmm...been too long since I had tight doggie wuff ass...nhhhmmmyeah...not gonna knot you this time around...need to work up to that...but..hmm...yeshhh..."
He gave quick, jerking thrusts. his knot pounding against the Sheppie's smarting hole until the wolf's ass cheeks squeezed together in one more mighty humping motion and he spilled his seed into the German Shepherd's constricting guts.
The wolf ended up panting over the bent over dog for some time, licking over his neck to taste his musk anew.
"Gonna make me proud, pup..." the Captain's words echoed in the dog's ears...and deep down, somewhere in his rewired mind, Nick Pulaski knew that he believed him.
*
TO BE CONTINUED IN "INTO THE BLUE - "SEQUESTRATION"
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