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War Dogs

Challenge yourself.

Anon held those words to his heart like a mantra for as long as he could remember. He didn't remember exactly when he adopted them like a prayer, but it was certainly at a young age. Since then, he did it with everything, even the small stuff. Never stop, keep improving. It worked great for a lot of things, especially work. However, it also was a double-edged sword, because to challenge himself was to never sit still for long. He could never really relax, he always had to keep the feet going. When you did that, though, you missed the small things.

Regardless, his philosophy found him decent work. There was huge demand for metallurgy and automata repair in the safe Zone sectors, and even better, it proved a good obstacle, where he had to keep testing himself against greater demands. For a few years, Anon figured this was his calling, that this work would keep him challenged him for decades to come.

. . .and then it got dull. Not because the work itself wasn't demanding. There was never a “simple" task. Removing a rusted rotator from an automata core could turn into a three-day job. No, it was more he felt he could be more. In mind and soul. Cheesy as it sounded, one part of him was “fulfilled," but not the rest. Did he really want to look back on life and say “hey, I fixed up machines!" Soon, he was restless again.

The long and short of it? He joined the military.

It was fairly unusual for a fellow his age to join. He wasn't old, but the army, they liked their bodies young. He was lucky he wasn't at the prohibited age, and thus began a new career, one that he hoped might meet the needs of his inner wish: challenge yourself.

Well, at the very least, he was off to a great start. His early time in training went smoother than others, only because his career as a glorified repairmen made him enduring. He was used to long, hard days of bending, stretching, and lifting. The military – at least physically – was like another layer. Good thing too, he needed all the advantages he could get at his age. From there, it was a matter of selecting a career.

And what's the natural outcome from automata fixer to a path as a soldier? Rifleman, of course. It was his MOS, and one he felt most comfortable with. After all, it was Zone military. It was kind of the point to be a decent marksman, right?

Training in that department kept him on his toes and, for the most part, treated him well. He was able to keep improving and focusing, because every day there something to push a little harder. That was the military for you – they liked throwing on the weight to see who buckled first. You couldn't risk it otherwise, a faltering pair of boots in the field could cost one their life, and the lives of their squadmates. But Anon? He stuck to it. He didn't always succeed, but he never gave up, even if his body did.

Almost a year in, things were going smoothly – or as smooth as they could in the military. A struggle, but the good kind. Anon was on his way to being a specialized riflemen, and his mind was full of daydreams. Ideas about what he could do, what challenges he might face, and how he might prove himself as a soldier for the Zones. If getting out in the field meant people at home could be safe and happy, more reason to keep this mantra.

And then, one cold, gray morning, he was pulled aside.

One of his officers – a hard faced man who was all mean looks but friendly jokes – had some news. To Anon, bad news. The worst news, in fact.

“You're being reassigned and reclassed."

And that was that. There was nothing, absolutely nothing, Anon could do. Orders were orders, and if the military drove one thing into your head, beat one absolute so deep into your skull it was like a second brain, it was thus: you always followed orders. Even if meant abandoning his career and his path, even if it meant essentially tossing aside everything he worked for to be a rifleman.

“Yes sir," he had answered, voice flat and stiff.

He had no business questioning what for, but he was damn curious. “What is my new position, sir?"

His officer gave him a forced smile. “Congrats son, you're a glorified dog-walker."

Anon hadn't the slightest fucking idea what that meant, not until he'd come to find out the Zone government was implementing a new weapon program involving caniforms. A fancy way of saying “war dogs."

It was baffling, completely and utterly. Why!? Why him? He had zero specialized training when it came to animals, much less dogs, and hounds of war needed good handlers. Animals were different. They were flesh and blood, not machines. So why the hell did he – someone who wanted to learn to shoot well – get assigned this task?

The only reason he refused to default to disappointed anger was a simple phrase: challenge yourself. Well, fucking fine. If he was to be a dog-trainer or whatever, so goddamn be it. He'd study night and day then! Shit he'd be the best fucking dog handler they'd ever seen!

Ugh.

-*-

He was moved the next day. They got his ass shipped like he was artillery being sent to the front lines. He was going towards the mid-Zones, 33-C and 36-B, or around them, much deeper in the Coalition territories. Plenty of time to reflect glumly about what he couldn't do and what he was about to do.

It wasn't only the position he liked, it was the kinship. Maybe, in his soul, that was what he needed all along, to have comrades in arms that understood a particular “way." That understood the hard grind. In automata repair? Not so many friends out there, and the others he had were too distant and hard to keep track of through message systems. Regular civilian life – especially in the Zone – didn't have the same feeling, either. There was a person for every crowd, and for Anon, it was the soldier life.

So stripped not only of his title, so too was the camaraderie. He had no doubt the people he was heading to work with were just fine. Pleasant even. But training a unit of specialized animals was a different beast altogether – if one could forgive the wording. Other handlers got into their training regimens because they were interested in it. This would be like if they were told, after months of working with caniforms, they were being unceremoniously thrown into another branch of training.

But it didn't matter. Orders were orders. Anon did his best to mentally prepare himself for the life he apparently now had. And, well, he bargained with the unknown mistress of fate, reasoning that perhaps he'd one day return to his path as a rifleman. Perhaps this was a temporary thing, and they were short on numbers.

Regardless, once transitioned to 33-C, he was directed to head to a major personnel gathering referred to as “The Smokehouse." This was after he got settled in, a robotic, cold process where stoic faces injected him into his newest “home" as quickly as possible. Didn't matter that he'd spent the day travelling, his commanding officers wanted him introduced to the K9 unit as soon as possible. Suppose that made sense – dogs getting comfortable around people, especially in a military environment, was likely a critical aspect of their training. They'd meet in a field, as was typical.

Except. . . when Anon arrived in said field, they were nowhere to be seen. Instead, he heard the distant rumble of a helicopter, a Chinook, nearing the area. He swung his gaze up to see its approaching silhouette. It grew larger as it neared, and it suddenly dawned on Anon it was landing here.

The Chinook sent waves through fields of distant grass, debris kicked up as Anon covered his eyes, perplexed. The hell? Why did they need a military helicopter? He knew war dogs were no joke, but a Chinook was often used for personnel. Hell, he figured this would make the canines uncomfortable.

But, as it landed, he squinted. The doors slid open and figures emerged from the vehicle's side. At first, he assumed those were the handlers. But, more than one appeared. In fact, at least a dozen large frames poured out from the Chinook to his astonishment. The hell was going on? He peered over, noticing there was something odd about these approaching silhouettes. Their frames were large and they were covered in some type of fur camouflage. He'd never witnessed anything like it.

Where the fuck were the hounds?

Realization slapped him over the head like a heavy sack of bricks. Oh, those weren't regular soldiers. That wasn't camouflage. There were no regular dogs because. . .

These were the dogs.

Anon had never seen anything like it. The caniforms approached, their built enormous frames standing heads over him, even at a distance, all bearing distinctive coats of fur, wearing uniforms, holstering rifles, entirely and completely bipedal. Anon was staring at a small platoon of completely anthropoid dogs. What the fuck.

Seriously. What the ever loving hell? Anon always heard distant rumors about various Zone military projects bordering on breakthroughs in weaponry, but he never saw much of it. In fact, he wrote it off as rumors and random conjecture. After all, bored soldiers might make up any old story to pass the time. So when one of his fellow soldiers offhandedly mentioned “fight dogs," he figured that was a special branch of animals trained to fight. This was. . . something else entirely.

He stood, gobsmacked. According to his new information, he was supposed to be the training commander here. That's why they picked him – to lend his marksmanship skills to a band of “recruits." He thought, when he heard that, it was for rookie handlers, but now?

This was happening, was it? At once, the Zone's willingness to engineer new weapons was all too apparent. In front of him, a line of anthropoid canines. They were built, tall, and so far as he could see, all female. Hard, studious eyes peered out at him, their noses flaring with curious sniffs. For the first time in a long, long while, Anon felt a pang of cold fear rob his chest. These creatures could eat him, throw him across the Smoke Pit, or run him down like prey. Based on their size and modified weapons, too, they appeared to be the veterans here. The hell was he even here for!?

That was the other scary part, too. They weren't bearing standard issue assault rifles - not exactly. Their weapons were fit to their size and stature, bearing larger mags, extended barrels for more grip and accuracy, and even bigger round size. Anon didn't even want to think about the kind of flesh-shearing calibers they were working with, and he was the specialist.

He must've been dehydrated, seeing things from lack of water. This couldn't be, no way in hell. Yet it was.

The sun washed over the unit of roughly twenty soldiers, who, upon spying Anon, approached and formed a neat line, organized and efficient. They were trained, but not trained in the way you would with a dog. Trained like soldiers. That was freaky, that whole concept. If they weren't hounds, you'd mistake them for monsters.

But you know, for monsters, they sure didn't show it. No, in fact, they demonstrated the universal dog-language of “submissive," or amiable. Their tails were low, their eyes wide, and they gazed at Anon with studious caution. Hell, there was a hint of nervousness tugging at their faces, like you would with a batch of greenhorns. But why? They were huge, they could probably rip Anon in half with their bare paws!

When no one spoke, one of the girls stepped forward, straightening, arms at her side.

Her voice was gruff but still carried a feminine softness. “Good afternoon corporal! This is PFC E2 Esvn reporting in to Unit 2-6 Alpha Company Rifle Platoon."

Okay, was that frightening, or impressive? Her linguistics were perfect, and beyond a roughness to her speaking, you wouldn't know the words to be coming from a dog. A war dog. Anon blinked, snapping back to life. She introduced herself, with all the understanding of protocol, terms, and understanding of her rank, along with the company. It was incredible, if not oddly disturbing.

This was a lot to soak in given the short time frame. The Chinook eventually roared back to life, flying away, leaving Anon with a company of soldier caniforms. What could he do?

. . .follow orders. Fall back to his training. What did training dictate? If these were indeed new recruits, it didn't matter if they had wagging tails or sniffing muzzles. Soldiers were soldiers. Right?

Standard protocol then dictated two things: roll call and equipment check. Anon cleared his throat, dawning the expression of someone who knew what he was doing and was in control. Right now, he felt like neither of these things.

“You are now part of the greatest fighting force in the Zone," Anon started, casting them a steely look. “You will listen to my orders. You will follow my orders. You will learn and become the best platoon of sharpshooters."

He kept his tone harsh, strong as steel. . . and it worked? Not to say they were scared, but their was something receptive in their expressions, anxious even. Well, step one at being a good handler then, right?

“We will make sure you're not wasting my time," Anon continued, keeping up his strong front, “and check through your equipment. Every belt not strapped and every unpolished boot is five, understand?"

There was a resounding “SIR" from the girls. Huh.

“Your names will be called. You will be expected to answer immediately and clearly. Understand?"

Another “SIR" in unison. Well, alright, this was going smoothly so far. Anon managed to hide the fact his chest was going a hundred miles a minute, heart threatening to burst through his rib cage. But then again, if they were like dogs, they could probably hear it.

As far as routine went, Anon did his best to appear he was going through the rounds as normal. He had to inspect each of the girls and their equipment, but, that proved challenging. Not because they had done something wrong or things were out of place, but because the equipment was so different. Size, first off, was the biggest factor – forgiving the wordplay.

Everything from standard equipment to armor to weaponry was far different. Knives? God almighty, one swipe of these things and you were cut in half. Their armor? Not just protective gear, but designed with a specialized weaving which contributed to both flexibility and cooling factor. The girls had coats of fur, so overheating was a very real possibility. Once more, armor molds were shaped to fit the dimensions of the unique caniforms, the subtle things that separated them from a human body.

Once all accounted for – Anon doing his best not to fumble over words or his own boots – it was time for roll call. This part was a little different.

“Sir!" one of them said aloud, minding a cautionary tone. “Would you prefer our designation, sir?"

Designation? At first, Anon didn't understand. “We take names here!" he barked back. There was a moment of hesitation, if not confusion.

“Is calling roll too complicated a task for you, ladies?" Anon chided, looking them over. In truth, he was asking for clarification.

“Sir," another spoke up, “we are designated a number sir! We make up our names, sir!"

Numbers? Huh. That felt. . . wrong. Anon looked them over, studying them again. Indeed, along their shoulder pads where white etchings, their call numbers. 84-6, 22-1, 48-9, and so on. He didn't know what it meant, or what it implied, save that the Zone hierarchy of experimental weapons treated them like, well, weapons, not thinking, breathing organisms.

“You are now my task force!" Anon growled. “You are not soldiers of Zone, you are my soldiers! And my soldiers have names!"

That was that, then. The girls proceeded to provide their names and Anon marked them off. On the sheet with their indicated numbers, he scratched them out and penned down what they called themselves. Most of them were strange combination of “hound speak" and mangling of English, so he'd get words like “Sata, Kres, Vurska, Yikir, Torra, Grasha," and so on. Lots of emphasis on 'r's, rough growling, that sort of thing.

Anon was fascinated. But no time for dawdling, orders were orders and despite his career change and learning something quite astonishing about the inner workings of the military, he had to get them prepped. The rest was routine – or as routine as it could get with war dogs like this.

Like with any batch of recruits, Anon had to get them inundated with additional gear and then assign them their barracks. The whole place he was at, this Section, was well aware of who they were hosting. Other handlers and personnel reacted to the new platoon as though it were normal. They had gear ready to go, rooms, and even prepared the specialized diets these caniforms apparently thrived on.

When Anon was getting the girls settled in, one of the other human handlers pulled him aside. “You'll need to make use of the supplementary trails, right now the regular PT building is under repair."

It was late during this conversation, and Anon was speaking to an older officer. “I see," Anon said, “any reason?"

“K-4 was temporarily housed there and she tore the place apart."

Anon hadn't any inkling what that meant. “K-4?"

“Oh, right, you're the greenclaw, I guess they didn't tell you about what we do here."

Anon shook his head. “No sir, I was enjoying a good life of shootin' guns," he joked.

“Well, no matter what you see, we had it under control. We'll let you know as soon as the building is ready."

That didn't explain a goddamn thing, and it only added to Anon's growing list of small questions. What the hell did “had it under control," mean? Was there something else going on here outside of “handling dogs?"

Well, whatever, it was an insane amount of information to process in one given day. Anon had gone from operating as a marksman to minding a squad of war dogs. He wasn't sure how to feel about that. It was late and he was hungry.

On his way back to his assigned bunk, he spied a gathering of war dogs entirely different from his squad. There was a small line of them, minded over by another hound of astonishing snow-white fur that – if one could believe – was even taller than them. She waved a hand, barked and order, and her squad responded. They were conducting physical combat trials against wooden totem dummies. One of the girls hit the solid material so hard she shattered it, splitting it in half and sending the rest of it careening into the ground in a mess of splinters. The commanding hound was not pleased.

Jesus fucking Christ what the hell was all this?

His own tent/bunk, at least, provided some degree of respite so he could at least process. He had a small set of supplies to himself, and a bed, which was nice. Most of the time you were sharing space with one other squadmate. It wasn't bad, just part of the job, but having personal time was good too. And the food? It wasn't bad. A tier above MRE's, if one could believe, but it too was different. The food was synthesized, referred to as “Protein Meat Supplement 3A with Flavoring," a block of colorless something that carried a good flavor, but wasn't from an actual animal. But it was loaded with nutrients, and Anon felt abnormally vigorous when he finished his dinner. These, he realized, were the kind of things the war dogs had to eat to maintain their stamina and physicality. It was interesting, he'd give it that.

Come morning, though, back to basics. Hybrid anthropoids or no, they were soldiers and they needed training. That was why he was here, and he was going to see it through. First thing first then was to conduct a PT assessment. This was because the girls were going to be designated as a TRAP team – Tactical Recovery of Aircraft and Personnel. That was a huge responsibility and required strong frames, steel wits, and the capacity to follow orders to the t. Mistakes could cost innocent people their lives, along with squadmates.

Drills started out with standard tests, mainly to check stamina and overall strength. Anon wasn't sure what to expect, exactly, though he wagered the girls were stronger than a traditional soldier. And he was right. Thing is, he didn't realize just how right he was.

Because he was working with caniforms, they didn't have a standard set of training to go through. There were things to test, yes, but their PT was conducted quite differently. Stamina was for the trail, at which each girl was informed to spring over a short distance and meet parameters. Anon didn't know, at first, he was simply working off the sheets he was given. But once reviewing, he boggled. The girls were reaching dash speeds around 30mph on average in a quick burst of speed, which was the normal rate. Christ on the cross.

Next came other valuable statistics. Because the team worked in rescue, they had to demonstrate their ability to smoothly perform rescue operations such as fireman carry positions, for either themselves or hypothetical victims of a disaster. The funny thing? Anon didn't have to check for their speed or whether they were strong enough to pick someone up successfully. He had to make sure they held back as to not accidentally crush someone with force during rescue operations. One of the girls, Zekka, lifted a dummy so quick she near yanked its arms out of its sockets. One can imagine why doing that during rescue was a very bad thing, and Zekka had to do twenty for the drop (of which she did a set of one-armed pushups with little difficulty).

Overall, Anon's initial was impressed. And admittedly, intimidated. What was keeping these war dogs in line, anyway? Surely not such a small human like him? He wasn't a slouch physically – no soldier was – but by the standards of these caniforms, he was a runt. What was stopping them from running amok and taking this place for their own?

Hmm. Perhaps the same reason he chose to be a soldier: a desire to protect innocent people in the Zone. Still, the girls' casual strength put him on edge, because he wondered what they might do if pushed to the extremes. Or got angry.

Well, he certainly got a taste of it. After stamina and basic rescue maneuvers were practiced, next came actual physical tests. With soldiers in training, you'd accomplish this in a variety of ways, challenging and straining the body from different angles and exercises. The idea was to identify weak (or strong) spots with a soldier, because in the field, numerous possibilities opened up to the type of conditions and obstacles one might face, especially outside the Zone. You might have to push through heavy debris and pull out several survivors while a fire raged nearby, or dive into below-zero water and get on land to start an assault operation.

Needless to say, the girls performed. They seemed downright happy about it, in fact. Anon wasn't sure what to think about that.

“I'll give you something to smile about!" he barked, having a group of the girls lift up their version of Ol' Misery. Ol Misery was a long-gone log used to punish recruits and test their strength and will as a unit, made of solid, unforgiving wood. This version? A literal pillar of metal. The girls lifted it, held it, and appeared to struggle, but their ability to keep the weight above head without collapsing was impressive. What the fuck were they feeding them? Where did they even come from?

Anon had to keep himself from gawking in astonishment. The following days, the girls were set to more difficult types of training that were unique to TARP, and given their unique physiology and frames, they were quick learners. There were few instances where Anon had to correct or discipline them, and in the rare instances he did, it was simply because they were outpacing their human counterpart. Hell, it was enough to make one feel a little belligerent. All this skill ingrained in their genes, or so it seemed.

By the end of the first week, he could only give them passing marks. It was still hard to believe his old life was over, but given the nature of these war dogs, he could see why he was needed.

-*-

Despite everything, the atmosphere settled down.

The entry point for any soldier – big hound girl aside – was always tough. Introductory training programs were designed to identity those that faltered under high stress situations. On the field, it was always worse, always harder, so there could be no cut corners. However, once recruits moved past their initial assessments, they were treated with greater deals of respect, and things were calmer.

That went the same for the platoon, even if they were caniforms. A good thing too. Anon wanted – no, needed – to get to know them better, despite not being totally comfortable in his new position yet. He got an opportunity when he spied the girls during recreational hours in the afternoon, out in the fields. They were playing a game, around ten of them, though it was a game he wasn't familiar with.

“Oh, sir!"

Anon had his arms crossed, the sun pouring down on the cut field while a gentle breeze ran through the fort. He wore shades, though his clothing was more form comfortable, as were the attires of the others. For the girls, they were allowed to wear clothing that was suited to their frames – that is to say, clothing that prevented them from overheating. A roundabout way of saying they were in shorts and tees.

He glanced to his side to see one of them approaching. She had a gunmetal grey fur coat with long black hair. Though she was a size over Anon, her demeanor was pleasant.

“You here to join us?" she said, tail swishing.

Was she kidding? “No ma'am I am not," said Anon with a head shake, “I'm on my easy hours."

“Besides," he continued, watching the teams. “Dunno' the game."

“Oh! It's Strikeball. It's our favorite from home."

Anon never heard of it. “Strikeball?"

“Yeah!" said Kres. “Two teams of five! One Guard, two Strikers, and one Runner. Point is to hit the ball on the goal."

Well, that helped a little. Anon listened, watching the girls. Indeed, one of them launched a little sphere with alarming velocity. It was blocked by the other team, but the snap from the impact sent a chill through Anon.

“44-44 made it up a long time ago! We've even got our own pro league back in the tanks."

Again, these things Anon didn't understand. “Who's, uh, 44?"

Kres scratched her head. “Oh, right, sorry, you guys go by names. She was one of the originals, part of the Kil-la-man-jar-o series. I think I said that right?"

Anon got the feeling these were things well above his pay grade. “Don't worry about it. And 'the tanks'?"

Kres tilted her head like Anon was the strange one. “Hmm? Oh, you know, the breeders. Where we get engineered. I guess they have a fancier name than that, but we just call them 'the tanks.'"

It dawned on Anon he was talking to a breathing killing machine. But she was so pleasant, her voice high and cheery, her demeanor respectful of her rank, but speaking frankly.

“Hey, hey! I saw that toss! No cheating!"

Their attention was pulled as one of the girls called out the other, growling, baring her teeth, teeth that looked like they could cut through metal. It put the fear of death right into Anon.

“Do I need to step in?" he said, assuring his voice didn't betray fright. Kres shook her head.

“Ohoho, no way! That was just a penalty call. 22-1 caught 18-81 tossing. You can't throw the ball if you're a Runner."

Anon nodded his head. “. . .I see."

He didn't. Kres must've caught that. “It's pretty easy, actually. Two Strikers try to hit the target, one Guard for blocking shots, and one Runner that can run defense. Blocker can't come out of their zone, so the Runner has to think about what they're doing. They can get the ball, they just can't toss it. The Strikers, though, they can throw it to each other."

As she spoke, Kres' tail wagged, and there was genuine enthuse in her voice. Her eyes dilated as she watched the others settle the penalty dispute and get back to the game. Huh. Interesting. Despite her origin, she still had interests and passions. It wasn't to say Anon thought of these soldiers as mindless killing machines, but when you heard about gene-breeding programs and living weapons, there wasn't much room for interpretation.

He was admittedly kind of curious, now. “Well, as long as there's no fighting," he said, “we're a team here."

In truth, he didn't know if he had the ability to break up a fight between the girls. He wouldn't survive.

“Nope!" said Kres. “Besides, you lose respect in the Pack if you do that. Nobody wants to back as a scrap girl."

Anon turned to her. “A what?"

Her ears flicked. “Hmm? Oh, just means you get what's left of a meal. Smaller portions, less flavorful stuff. Enough to eat but it's no fun waiting. Nobody stays a scrap girl for long."

What the hell? They had their own hierarchy too? Well, of course they did, they were as dogs, after all. And Anon found himself wanting to know more, interestingly enough. So, maybe he would.

“Well, alright. Keep it clean out here."

Kres straightened. “Sir!"

Anon laughed. You know what? Specialist rifleman or no, these were interesting circumstances. The girls had done more than enough to prove themselves capable physically, and they were on the mark for listening to orders. He didn't mind a more casual feel.

“You can just call me Anon, Kres. When we're in training, it's sir, but right now, I'm off duty."

Her eyes widened. “Really?"

“Yep."

He checked the time. 1400.

“Look, I'll trust you to keep an eye on things for me, alright Kres?" he added. “But, would you mind telling me more about. . . how to put this. . . your culture? Later on, that is."

Kres tilted her head, the sunlight catching her raven locks. “Culture?"

“Where you come from. How you got here. We're soldiers, we're all from different parts of the Zone. Different, but the same. Learning about each other is how we become a stronger unit. And I don't know the first thing about you all, so, if you wouldn't mind."

Her black canid lips curled into a smile. “Casually, right?"

“That's right."

“Well, I'd be happy to!" she said, tone bright. “I'd love to learn more about you too. Don't you have a tent I can stop by?"

Anon blinked, hesitating. What did that mean?

Nothing, nothing at all, he told himself. She was a caniform, a war hound, just being friendly, given her biological disposition.

“Not supposed to consort with your superiors like that," Anon said with a smile, “but I'll allow it."

Kres tilted her head again. “Consort? Heh, humans are funny. Well, I can see you this evening, if you want."

Anon went over his mental schedule and found nothing beyond a few drills, so that worked for him. Gave him a chance to eat with her, at least. There were the other girls to consider, but one at a time. Besides, learning about them with Kres might make the unit even stronger. While he still missed his time with the originals back when he was training as a specialist, the girls were growing on him.

“In 0500 hours then, sharp."

“I can't wait!" said Kres with a strangely girlish happiness.

Satisfied, Kres strode over towards the Strikeball game, and Anon caught himself watching her a little too closely. Gazing at her back and the visible sinew of muscle, the swagger of hips, swish of tail, size of her rump.

Wait, what? Easy, soldier, easy.

-*-

Evening came and sent a gentle hush of orange light over the facility, the timid gold glow of a fading sun casting tranquil amber fingers across the various structures and buildings. It was early, but curfew operations were typically underway, meaning no one could leave the base, most personnel had to return to barracks, and non-standard training activities were suspended. There were some exceptions, like night-jogs and nocturnal conditioning, but other than that, it was a very adult way of saying “stay inside."

Anon didn't mind it. Even if he was a higher rank – meaning he had more liberties – he preferred the quietness. Allowed him to collect his thoughts and digest. Normally he'd shoot the shit with his comrades or make jokes in the mess hall, but circumstances were different now.

It was a strange feeling he had to work through. Transitioning was one thing, but every day he learned new, bizarre things about the Zone, the military, and what they were doing. Genetic weapons? Hybrid caniforms? It was so alien to him. Hell, it was intimidating too, and mentally disarming. The higher brass were just making super soldiers in chemical tubs, was that it? How many? How long?

Maybe he was overthinking it. After all, they clearly needed training, these war dogs. Still, a small part of him couldn't help but feel. . . obsolete.

If they had the ability to craft soldiers, why did they need recruits? Was that a front? A lie? Bah, he really was overthinking it. Orders were orders. And, maybe the Zone needed hybrid class soldiers of this sort. The world out there was different. Beyond the safe lines, beyond the Horizon, you weren't dealing with traditional threats, or so the rumor was. Chunks of the world were coded Red Spots, uninhabitable for various reasons. A regular pair boots – even a rifle specialist – might not have been enough.

“Knock knock?"

Anon nearly fell from his chair. He was in his “bunk," at his desk, looking over several field reports, but got lost in thought. So much he didn't hear the approach of a war dog at least eight feet in height. That was, uh, scary.

Peeking her nose through the flaps was Kres. Anon removed any indication he was spooked and gestured. “Hey, Kres, come in."

Kres did so, swaggering through the flaps and just spilled. Oh, god.

She was in very casual attire, pushing the limits of what was allowed here, frankly. A grey top that was nothing more than a sports bra complimented her positively fat, weighty bust, leaving a window to her ample cleavage. Her enticing midriff was exposed, revealing both fluffy fur coat and the indication of a powerful, built frame. Her shorts rode up her generous hips and cupped at her thick buttocks while her tail shimmied from side to side, all while her raven-locks flowed down shoulders, accenting her terrifying eyes of bright green.

Urgh. Damn. God. Damn. Anon's blood went hot and he screamed at himself to keep it cool. He was expecting her to look so fucking good. He wasn't expecting to be so aroused by a damn war dog! His brain near-melted. He so badly wanted to give her new orders, to tell her to get on all fours and. . .

“Hey, uh, sorry," she said, distracting him. “Is it okay if I snack? These are good!"

She helped up a shiny wrapped bar which read NUTRI-BONE. “Closest thing we get to a dessert around here."

He shuddered. “Oh, no problem. Make yourself comfortable."

She smiled. “Woo!"

One torn wrapper later she was munching into the treat while Anon did his best to collect himself. Wasn't easy. So, he tried to focus on why she was really here – to get to know him and vice versa.

“Ohmf, whssha doin?" she inquired, coming over to loom over him, glancing at his paper. She chewed, while her mountainous front wobbled into view, cleavage mashing her assets together. Christ, girl, take it easy.

“Reports," said Anon, tone stiff, “not much else."

He pushed away. “I have to check these off and have them turned in by the morning. It's some new protocol for this position. Responsibilities."

Kres straightened, thank goodness. “Yssh don't sffn happy abut it," she said, swallowing.

Anon glanced away. “It's different. But I'm starting to like it."

Kres held out her food. “Wanna' bite, sir? Er, I mean, Anon."

He waved her off. “No, that's all right. Ate a while ago."

“Me too!" said Kres, looking around the tent. “They gave us steak flavoring tonight, that was nice."

Food? Okay food. Anything to pull Anon's mind away from where it was. Getting all involved with your squad like this was just. . . it was trouble! Even though it had been a while since he had lady company of a friendly nature, and that didn't include anything erotic. But her proximity was tapping into something so primal and raw. . .

“Flavoring?" Anon said, staring an inquiry. “I noticed the food is. . . well, I don't know what. It's like blocks of meat and nutrient bars and just feels like a lab threw it together."

Kres nodded. “They did! It's just like home. The protein supplement nutriblock is the fancy name, but we just call it slab."

Okay, this was going somewhere else. Anon did his best to ignore the gentle wobble of her breasts when Kres talked.

“Home, huh? I don't even know where that is."

Kres paused, then frowned. “Hmm, I'm not allowed to say much about where it really is. But it was a big building, and we grew up in the tanks, my sisters and me. We were raised and made our Pack, then got distributed here."

Distributed? Weird way to put it.

“So um. You were made?"

Kres' smile returned. “Yep! Me? I'm from the K-Strain!" she said, raising an arm and flexing. As she did, her pronounced bicep bulged into visibility and Anon got a glimpse of the real, raw power that body was hiding.

Anon watched her closely. “And that is?"

“Oh, ya' know, just means I come from one of the specific Gene Mothers. Kay, K-4. Remember? Um, Killy-man-jar-oh?"

Anon blinked. “Kilimanjaro?"

Kres nodded. “Yep! There's others like Funeral-Six or Sierra-9. But I come from the one of the big lines. Every sister knows about K-4!"

She glanced from side to side, then leaned, closing her voice to a whisper. “There's also Zero-0, but we're not supposed to talk about them."

Well, that sounded terrifying. Anon nodded. “It's okay. I think I understand now."

Kres brightened. “I hope that made sense! We've all got a Gene Mother."

And, as Anon understood, her Gene Mother was K-4. Huh.

“She was a dog, then?" Anon asked. He stopped, though, wondering if what he asked bordered on offensive. Dog wasn't exactly how you thought of a girl like this.

Didn't matter, Kres shook her head and looked unperturbed. “Oh, no way. They were based on apex predators as far as I know. Kaymom was based on a wolf, but replicating that is really hard, so. . . here I am!"

Anon couldn't help but notice the amount of reverence in her voice, and it made him wonder what the originals were like. Or where they even were?

“Maybe one day I'll be strong like her or the others! We can do a lot of good out there if we're strong."

Well that Anon could agree with. “From my perspective, you're all pretty amazing anyway."

Her eyes seemed to sparkle. “Really!?"

Anon chuckled, nodding his head. “I've never seen anything like it."

Her tail started to wag again. It was so strange to see this happy, bubbly personality coming from all that. Those teeth, those claws, the muscles, the size. . .

“But what about you, Anon?" Kres said, shifting subjects. “Are you happy here?"

He was silent. That was a complicated question. He didn't want Kres to feel any blame for his change in career – it wasn't her fault. But he couldn't lie that all of it was strange and new and he didn't know if he was meant to be here. So, he explained as such, reflecting on what he was doing, his comrades in arms, what he intended to do, and what changed for him.

“Never expected to be an officer for. . . well, war hounds."

Kres nodded, glancing to the side. “Oh. . . well. . . I want to say I understand, but I don't think I really do, Anon. I've always had my Pack and my sisters."

He shrugged. “It's okay. Not your fault. Orders are orders."

“Still, you probably feel stranded out here. I don't know what I'd do if I was separated and had to learn a whole new set of skills. Heh, not that I'd have a choice. After all. . ."

She grinned. “Orders are orders."

Anon nodded his head. “We gotta' trust the higher ups know what they're doing."

Kres' tail swished. “Guess so. I just trust my Pack. And no matter where I am, if I have the Pack, I'm home."

Not too different from a squad then. Military had you deployed all over for a variety of operations, and sometimes the only comforts were the people you were with. The hound might've been entirely different from Anon genetically, but on a “spiritual" level, they weren't so different.

“Heh, you know, maybe you're part of the Pack now too."

He chuckled. “Don't know if that's how it works, Kres."

“Oh, sure it does! Honorary Pack members are totally a thing. It's not like I share the same Gene Mother with my sisters."

She leaned. “So why not you?"

Agh, why, why did she have to do that again? Her front spilled into view and showed off the generous cleavage, almost like she meant for Anon to get eyefuls. He cleared his throat.

“Isn't there some kind of code?" he said, making things up now. Kres smirked.

All right, what was she doing? What was that look? Something shifted, something about her demeanor and tone. Her tail flicked and her burning green eyes rolled over his frame, intrigued, like she were studying a meal.

“Code to what, Anon?"

For the first time since his arrival here, Anon felt on the defensive. Like his personal of power and control was slipping away and the levers of a “commander" were no longer at his disposal. In the presence of such a big, fairly buff, womanly – dare he say sexy – hybrid, he was so. . . powerless. His mind rushed and hot adrenalin surged through his veins. His mind filled with ideas, thoughts, things that you shouldn't think about in the military, much less your squadmate. But she was ordinary squadmate, or soldier, or anything. None of them were.

“To uh, your Pack," he said, stumbling. “Aren't there rules?"

What was he even asking? Anything to defuse this situation, he guessed. But, seriously, was that what he really wanted? When he took another peek at her front, a very primal part of him gave a resounding NO.

“Well, depends if you really want to be part of our Pack," said Kres with a snicker, “but I take it by your question that's a yes."

She straightened, turning around. “Well, it's pretty simple, Anon. There are three big things. Eating, fighting, aaaaand. . ."

At once, her hands reached under her top and yanked the digi-camo off. Her plump, fat bust bounced free with a timid clap and she swung around to show off her entirely exposed chest. “Breeding."

Anon about passed out. Oh god.

The accent of her exposed front complimented the now very visible chording of her abdomens, and with no fabric to hold her back, her sleek gunmetal fur shimmered in the dim tent light. Her locks of black hair spilled like a river to her supple orbs, but she flicked them out of the way to reveal her nips which tented like two dark peaks, granting her an exotic, enticing appeal.

The word hung in the air and she owned with all confidence like a creature with a rabbit in its jaws. She wasn't worried about the risk or connotations of what she'd just said. One look at Anon said it all: he wanted this as much as her. Hell, she could smell it, the language of aroma saying more than words possibly could.

“Of course, we don't have our pick of the males seeing as how there aren't any around, so it gets lonely. A girl has needs, Anon."

She gave a faux salute. “Whattya' say, sir? Should I take off the rest?"

Anon's brain was turning to putty. He nodded, feeling his loins tighten. “Yeah. Yeah, you should."

Gah, it was like he had found his first nudie mag all over again. His heart raced and mind wandered. She was so different, so exotic, so new and strange, yet alluring. A soldier from another world he never knew. Didn't matter if she was a caniform. If this was wrong, he didn't want to be right.

“Whatever you say, sir."

Was that why the clever hound came in such casual attire? Didn't matter. She snagged the sides of the fabric and wiggled it down her wide hips. Here, Anon got to appreciate her frame even more. She wasn't just packing topside, she had thighs for days, too. Because of her size and generosity of muscle, her hips were thick and pronounced, lending to a powerful yet impossibly curvy frame too. She seemed to blend all the best traits of her species and sex, an apex creature, an ideal mate, a great soldier, and a war dog. God above, were they all like this!?

Once off her got eyefuls of her amazing frame. Everything from her height to the delicate wobble of her healthy tits to the gentle tuft of dark pubic fur created a picturesque sight. She was something else, and Anon was at full salute.

“Damn. . ." he muttered.

Kres snickered again. “You've never been with a hybrid, have you?"

He gave a dry chuckle. “What gave it away?"

“Cute."

She stretched. “Soooo you like?"

Her ears flicked. “Oh, you might as well get the back too."

With a 'hop,' she twirled to showoff her backside. All the amazing machinery of her back-muscles splayed out, subtle, but still visible. They sprawled down to her fat, wide rump, which was as plush and jiggly as one might dream it. It wobbled at her slightest motions, little fleshy echoes resonating across the gray cheeks, her tail tossed away to grant a better view. Urgh.

Because of her size, her plump, supple ass was blissful in scope. For her, it was probably average, but to Anon, she could crush him in half with all that, much less squish his skull like a melon with her heavy front. It was too much, and too much was perfect.

A small voice rang out in Anon's head: challenge yourself. Didn't need more convincing. The only question was. . . where the hell did they go from here?

“Sir?" said Kres, catching his attention. “Do you approve?"

Anon huffed. His pants were getting very uncomfortable. “Dunno," he grunted, taking in eyefuls of the sight before him, “need a better view."

At this point, sense was leaving him. The common mannerisms and disciplines of his position were running out the window. One might chastise him for falling prey to his baser instincts, but there's the thing: there wasn't training for this. No, he didn't have a 101 course on “how to not want to bang your war dog squadmates." If one existed, well, glad he never heard of it. He'd probably skip it anyway.

In the meantime, Kres grinned, glancing back at him, getting the idea behind his phrasing. “Oh. So you need a closer look."

She wasted no time, coming to Anon before shoving her thick haunches into his face, gently swaying from side to side. Essentially, the whole of his sight was consumed by wardog ass, and he didn't care. Her cleft was hidden between cheeks, the dark mouth hinted while her bubbly haunches crashed together. For a moment, Anon was awestruck. He felt like a barely-legal kid's first time in a strip club, overwhelmed by all this woman. It wasn't like he had no experience with ladies, just, this was something else entirely.

Finally, though, his brain kicked him back into gear and bellowed an order: touch. Well, he was gonna' do more than touch. His hands sprang forward and he grabbed palmfuls of the generous flesh, rolling fingers over it. The fur was like silk and the fat so smooth, filling his grasp to completion. Kres gave a dog-chirp of approval, wobbling in his hands, her jiggly rear providing ample reward from Anon's harsh grip. If he were a bolder man he might outright smack her fat ass to see what it'd do, but given she could toss him around like crumpled tissue, he'd save that for another time.

He was tempted to pull her haunches apart to get a view of her mons, but Kres exchanged position by rising and turning around. This time, her hefty front tossed together with a thick clap, teasing him with the tented black nips.

“Heavy ordinance, sir," Kres joked, placing her hands over his shoulders.

He forced a chuckle. “I'll let you get away with that one for now."

Kres loomed over him, and it dawned on Anon how much bigger she really was. Yes, he got that sense from observing them during training and by standing around them. Yet, the impression never really hit home until now. Her hands gripped him, maintaining a gentle strength. Oh she didn't grip hard, but the impression was there. The same hands that could probably snap trees in half.

Thank god his face was full of tits.

Yeah, Anon shoved his head right between those ample slopes, burying himself in the soft gray fur. Her tits were weighty, resting on his shoulders, incurring a soft laugh from Kres. “Mmm, never really had a guy touch me like this. . ."

Anon looked up from the supple cleavage. “Their loss."

Probably didn't even get to see many guys, if any. Well, Anon certainly took advantage, pulling back to squeeze and toy with the immense, weighty front. Kres approved, granting a noise that Anon could only describe as a dog purr. Something growl-y and primal, but clearly aroused. He went further by teasing at her nips, pinching at the tips. Kres lulled her head back and sighed, her frame stiffening from the attention. Based on her wagging tail and abrupt reaction, it was clear no one had touched her like this before.

Anon felt like, and his heart raced. His blood went flashfire and his instincts wanted more, so much more, but goddammit there was only so many things one could do given their location and time. He let off a heated breath, running a hand down her back, feeling the chorded hint of muscle intermixed with soft flesh.

“Kres. . ." he whispered with a tone that indicated raw, infatuated lust. He stumbled over a million things he wanted to say and do. Things like I wanna fuck you something fierce, but also, I just want to hold you and feel this bizarre but welcome warmth.

You know, even with comrades and brothers and arms, that was only one part of life. Wasn't like he had somebody with him, somebody to hold in the darkness of night. Kres was hitting all those buttons, right down to the ancient human instinct of human and dog collaborating for tens of thousands of years. He thought of all the things he might do, but, proximity was overriding him. It had been a while. Hell, he couldn't remember the last time he saw a pretty face that wasn't related to military endeavors.

At any rate, Kres understood. He was speaking another language, one hybrids understood quite well. Pheromones, scent, Kres picked right up on that. The ambrosia of want-to-fuck was strong in the air, even if Anon couldn't pick up on it. Kres' nose flared, her ears perked, and tail wagged. A surge of warmth filled her loins, raw and new. Oh, by the Gene Mother, when did she last feel this?

Didn't matter. Though Anon only spoke her name, it was clear they wanted the same thing. Kres leaned forward, pressing her soft muzzle lips into Anon's forehead, applying a kiss and a lick, all the affections of a hound pouring through her image of fearsome war machine.

“We should get to the bed," Anon managed, running his hands across her soft thighs. Kres glanced over, noting the fairly thin cot.

“Mmmf, I don't think that'll hold up, sir."

Anon blinked. Shit, she wasn't wrong. Given her size and raw physical power, she'd probably beak the thing just by looking at it, and he didn't want to explain to inventory why he'd need a replacement.

“Nothin' wrong with the ground," he conceded. He didn't mind. Kres licked her chops.

“I have an idea. . ."

Anon watched as Kres shifted, pulling away from him, but only momentarily. In true dog fashion, she assumed a position appropriate for her ancestral species, going to all fours. Or, at least, propping herself up on hands and knees. Her wobbly breasts clapped together as her plump haunches splayed out. She went prone, inviting Anon with a glance back to him, tail lifted. Her legs spread and she revealed the soft, warm nethers between her generous cheeks, gently glistening in the tent-light, black lips promising all the things a young man like Anon dreamed about.

Anon didn't need further explanation. God above was it even possible to get this horny?

He unfasted his pants and went to her, his hard, needy length springing out, hard, sensitive, more than it had ever been in his life. It twitched and a swelling sensation of raw sexual need consumed him, just like it did with her. A dribble of presex flowed from his tip and he approached her, gripping her haunches again. Given her size, he didn't need to shift position, a perfectly complimented union.

“Hffff," huffed Kres, steam escaping her muzzle, “don't make me wait!"

Don't make her wait!? Anon could only managed a grunt in response, positioning himself. For a moment, he allowed himself a few brief seconds of indulgence, running his tip against the outer folders of Kres' black snatch. It was tantalizingly hot, kissing his sensitive flesh and sending a small jolt of excited heat through his inches. Kres shuddered too, but more from the proximity, the knowledge Anon was right there.

Anon didn't respond – at least not with words. He was too consumed with all this hound in front of him. So, his body obliged. With one smooth push he shoved himself into her, root meeting earth. Soft, hot pressure enveloped his inches, cradling his length with a perfect grip. She was perfectly tight and also not, enough there was grip, but also leaving comfortable space to make his motions easier. Considering the size difference, it was impressive.

Both gave a soft approving moan. Their groans underscored the “yes, finally" atmosphere, the coupling of human and hound. Once Anon was pushed in, he could briefly appreciate the amazing creature in front of him. Everything from how the size of her ass curved around his waist to the softness of her body coupled with the sinew of muscle.

But, one could only stay “hinged" like this for so long before wanting more. Like the animal he really was, Anon gripped her plush thighs and started a barrage of thrusts, each slow and practiced. Speed wasn't necessary, that was always a misnomer. The motion, and enjoying every little stroke and the sensations it brought, that was where the enjoyment was. A hard fuck was better reserved for field work anyway (and Anon had to wonder if he'd get an opportunity like that).

“Rfffhhooo. . ." cooed Kres, giving a low howl. Anon thought someone might hear. Then he thought, who cares?

Ugh, he needed this. They both did. He watched himself dive and dip into her soft, slurping lips, how they coaxed his length with their cushioned grip, sending greater waves of hot electric tingles through his loins. Each one drowned his brain in more abandoned lust, to the point he was incomprehensible aside from little grunts of “more."

Kres bounced against him too, though carefully. Indeed, she couldn't swing back to hard or the pendulum force of her body would outright knock Anon on his ass. A morbid thought, if she ever rode him, she might just fuck him through the bed – literally.

“Ffuckingod. . ." Anon managed to say, increasing his thrusts. Brrr, how long was it since he was with someone? Enough that the absence of company made him forget how good it was to be with a lady, no less like this. But, it also meant his ability to hold wasn't there. Like a breaking dam he burst, and his rod quivered, exploding with seed.

He just needed this, needed this to happen, need to drain himself in a willing person, and this was certainly the lady to do it with. Kres too gave a yelp of surprise, stiffening as she clenched on the root, absorbing all the issue she could.

“Nmmnf!"

Kres panted, tongue hanging as the surge of heat filled her. Even as a killing machine, having a male mount her touched a deep primal “button," one that you couldn't just “engineer" away. For that brief moment, Anon and Kres weren't soldiers – they were just animals.

Anon near collapsed on her, gently panting. His heart raced and he felt like he'd gone for a brief jog. Slowly, he pulled free, his soaked length softening, head clearing. As it did, he wanted something else.

-*-

Bed.

Not his bed, but hers. Did it carry risk, fraternizing with lower ranks soldiers? Yeah. Did he care? Hell no.

Kres looked up, her frame tucked into her large bed, holding up the blanket. Her thick breasts played out and she gave him an inviting look.

“Well?" she said, voice low. They were in the barracks with the others, after all. Wordlessly, Anon obliged and settled in the sheets with her, allowing the enormous war dog to embraced him. He was the little spoon, but he didn't mind, not one bit. Her fur coat filled him with warm. Despite her muscle and size, Kres was so soft, too. For once in a long, long time, Anon felt safe and, admittedly, pretty happy.

These girls weren't like his old comrades but, they were certainly special. Now, he had a very different relationship with one of them. Maybe he would with the others? He didn't rightly know how he'd tackle that, but, he remembered that one critical mantra: challenge yourself.

Kres snuck an arm over him and Anon felt his back press against her squishy bosoms. He closed his eyes, falling into one of the best nights of sleep he ever had.

As he did, Kres nipped his ear and huffed one final set of words.

“Welcome to the Pack."