Who let the Dogs In?

[Don Isaac]

Mud. Barbed wire. Asphalt. Bone.

The transport made a distinctive noise as its treads crushed each beneath its bulk. The cloying embrace of the muck that squelched and slurped as a spray of filth splattered the scarred and scorched hull, the snapping and twanging that reminded him of his grandfather's guitar, the resonant thrum of the lifeless stone that echoed in synchronicity with the warforged steel careening across its surface.

The marrow-bearing crack, muffled by the pulped flesh.

Perhaps one of the state's poets might call it a melody, a stirring call to battle that kindled the urge for glory in the hearts of any patriot.

To one that had actually heard it, it was chaos. Rhodri breathed deeply, the air stale, laden with the stench of old blood, gunpowder, and his fellow soldiers. Nine other men shared the troop compartment with him, each one carefully considering their wargear, performing last-minute checks that they had all performed the minute before, and the minute before that. Magazines were carefully inspected, actions checked, grenades affixed to belts, machetes examined once more beneath the flickering lights set into the transport's roof.

"One click to target," crackled a voice over the sound system. The accent was heavy- a territorial soldier who found himself too small to bear the weight of Mitra and the machete, yet had the spine to squeeze into the cockpit and steer towards the guns of the Flat-faced men.

Another note to the chaos- shells screamed through the skies, a clear blue that was soon to be blackened with smoke. One detonated not far off, he heard- shrapnel ricocheting off the hull, arcing back into the mud. The dogs around him were fully awake, now. One stood, pressing an eye to the view port and grunting in dissatisfaction as he pulled off his helmet. "Fourth squad's lagging," he said, pacing before the assault ramp as his lips curled back, bearing fangs as he snarled-

The whole transport shook, its advance halted by a high-explosive round struggling to penetrate the slabs of steel welded to the hull. But the metal-workers practicing their trade deep within the industrialized clearings within the forest knew their craft well. Mere seconds passed before the engine roared to life again, howling defiance against the Union guns opposing them.

The engineering of the Gods proved less durable. The man- Ludav. His name was Ludav. had been knocked to the floor by the impact, his doffed helm providing no protection. Nobody looked. Nobody spoke- they could all smell the fresh blood. He'd been with them for a few weeks, the latest addition since the skirmish at the rail yard had culled their numbers. But they had no priest to say the words. Only-

"Halfway to target," snarled the driver. The smoke launchers popped with a dull thump, a shroud of smog heralding the transport's approach. The remaining Chassuers shared firm nods with each other, rising to their feet as they gripped the overhead handles, facing the assault ramp. The machine guns overhead snarled, now. Brass casings spilled across the hull, twin guns raking fire against the human defenders manning the walls. Thump. Thump. Thump. Artillery pounded around them, churning the once-verdant plains into toxic mud as silver-particulate gas flooded the atmosphere.

"Brace-" another impact. Rhodri slammed into the body of the man before him- Gervais, tightening his grip on the handle as the lethal cargo of the vessel strove to reclaim its balance. No losses, this time, though Ludav's carrion had rolled to the back, flopping bonelessly against the rear hatch. Would he still be there, at day's end? Or would the Tankmen pull back to sate their own hunger?

A pointless question. The tank rolled forth, cresting a mound as shrapnel and rubble bounced off its worn hull. "Five," shouted the runt locked in the driver's chamber. "Four," he called, a pair of paws working pedals in the cupola above them, the gunner known as nothing more than the hopeful promise of covering fire and the chatter of heavy machine guns. "Three," surfaced above a surge of static, some wire frayed by the steel storm buffeting the world beyond. "Two." Nine sets of claws wrapped around the bolts of their guns, racking them as one. Within the confines of the craft, each heart hammered wildly, each beat joining a chorus and echoing off the walls.

Soon.

He was salivating. Slavering. He didn't even hear the shout as the hydraulics of the ramp ground open- the sterile atmosphere was replaced with gunsmoke, screams, the crack of rifle fire. Rhodri howled along with his pack, charging forth into the breach as bullets clattered off the hull, racing forth like children jostling for the first seat at the dinner table. He flung himself forward, and then-

Collapsed.

Rhodri gasped, a hand flying to his chest to feel out the bullet that had felled him- only to find nothing. The stench of cordite had completely faded, and he was lying upon cracked, dilapidated concrete, rather than the shell-shattered ramparts he had been laying siege to but moments ago. Blinking blearily, he pushed himself upwards, the stone beneath him growing slick from a cool rain falling from a dark sky scarcely visible through the brutalist spires strangling the skyline. Neon lights refracted through the raindrops, a chemical sheen rendering them iridescent while automobiles streaked through the night, blurs of motion and light.

Slowly, he staggered to his feet, slack-jawed as he stared out at the world before him, leaning against the coarse surface of the alleyway, the stench of garbage within forgotten compared to the sight. Gathering all the oral traditions of his people, he breathed out an accurate summation of his situation.

"Fuck."

 

[Don Isaac]

The place reeked. Exhaust fumes, smog, smoke, the fugue of rotting processed meat. It smelled like home- no. Not home. His ears pricked, listening to the noises of the city around him as he shambled through the alleyway, creeping and cringing at every sound. He caught a voice echoing through the crumbling concrete walls around him, and tried to hold back the growl blossoming in his throat, as his lips curled back to bare his fangs.

Flatfaces. Was he in enemy territory, somehow? No- these weren't union buildings, and the stench of tobacco was distinctly absent. His claws tapped against the wall as he moved, spiraling patterns of gaudy paint forming sigils and symbols that he couldn't parse- not in this state. He wasn't a commander, not a diplomat, certainly not a spy. He could feel the comfortable chain of command that had wrapped around his throat fading, cutting him loose and spiraling into an abyss of contemptible freedom.

He slinked up to a corner, looking around its weathered edge, his lanky frame attempting to conceal itself. The streets stank of the detritus of human lives, and it had grown difficult to associate that stench with anything but impending violence over the months of battle. It was a truth that was rarely mentioned, save in hushed tones in the darkness of the apartment blocks.

He quietly cursed one of those conversations as he broke cover, loping through the darkness as he bounded upwards, snatching a tattered blanket from a drying line hung over the alleyway, far from typical human grasp. Meat. It always came down to meat- two boys, scarcely more than pups, exchanging whispers that a recruiter had mentioned The Old Law to them. That Flesh was free to claim in war, that whole cities of hairless, fragile men were marching to oppose The Regent's reign, straight into the gullets of loyal Lupar.

Even with a diet of pork, the need for meat did not cease. The neighbouring apartment block had succumbed to that need- the howling and the gunfire went on for hours. Weeks passed before the next batch of workers had been shuttled in, after the stains and claw marks had been sufficiently hidden. And for the chance to sate that hunger- and earn some coin - he had found himself here.

Damn. He wrapped the blanket around himself, hobbling his step, trying to adopt the ram-rod straight legs of the foeman in a futile attempt to blend in. Lupar were not human, and his tail curled in on itself at the farce of the falsehood. Still- perhaps a blind drunk would not start screaming tales of wolf-men if he was spotted in an alley.

Perhaps.

Stalking through the shaded streets, enclosed on all sides by the solidified indifference of civilization, Rhodri's snout wrinkled beneath the makeshift cloak. Man. Their reek was everywhere, but it was fresh ahead, through the winding alleys, accompanied by the scent of smoke and echoes of laughter. Dark. Discreet. If there was any chance to reconnoiter whatever people dwelled within this urban hellscape, this was it.

Stumbling around the next corner, Rhodri's eyes beheld what his senses had already confirmed for him. A gaggle of men- closer to boys, really. Dark leather clung to their bodies, marked with graffiti, chrome, and chains, presumably in some form of fashion statement. Cigarettes and pipes left their lips as they blew plumes of coloured smoke, laughing with each other as they rested their hands easily on their weapons.

To call them armed was overly generous- pipes, planks with nails struck through them, knives. Only one pistol among them, a ragged model strapped to a young man's thigh, spikes of pink hair wobbling wildly as he strutted and preened. Even through the haze of smoke, it didn't take them overlong to notice the new arrival, looming out of the dark of the alleyway. Their apparent leader turned, baring his teeth, coloured a dirty yellow in contrast to the brightness of his attire and his hair, spreading his arms wide- was he trying to make himself look larger, or bidding him welcome?

"Hello, friend," the boy said- though the tone of their voice was certainly implying anything but. "You happen to be wandering on Tunnel Snake turf," he said, grasping the collar of his jacket and popping it, neon-pink scales coruscating around its sleeves. His comrades shambled off a set of crates and barrels, leaving their thrones of rubbish behind as they drew their weapons, holding them idly as they shared grins between themselves.

Oh, damn.

Rhodri raised his cloth-swaddled hands in a peaceable gesture as he dipped his head low, still towering over the swaggering gangsters. "No trouble," he said, mangling the tongue with his thick accent and inhuman maw. "No trouble. Be going." Slowly, he shambled backwards- and wild-eyed youths ate up that distance, laughing as they toyed with their weapons. "What's the matter, big man?" Laughed one of them, a girl rubbing coloured powder away from a nostril. "Got something you don't wanna lose, huh?"

There was half a dozen of them- barely armed, no discipline- he could take them to the cleaners, fill his belly, and keep searching for some sort of answer. But that was the beast's path, wasn't it? To kill when convenient, to eat his fill, and move on. There was no Waykeeper over his shoulder to guide him, no forest to disappear into. There was only himself, and so he kept his hands raised, opening his mouth to offer another plea for peace.

Click.

He'd begun moving before he recognized the sound of the man before him cocking his pistol. His jaws snapped shut around his throat, bringing forth a flood of sweet blood while he dislocated the youth's arm, preventing him from drawing the gun and letting its bark cause more problems than the screams and shouts now reaching his ears would. He threw the dying meat to the floor as he surged towards his prey, chewing the tender neck-flesh and relishing in its flavour as he pounced. The man fumbled his knife as he tried to bring it to bear, Rhodri's hands clasping around his skull- pushing his clawed thumbs deep into the screaming man's eye sockets until the racket stopped. He was in the midst of pulling his digits free from the pleasant mush that they were lost in when a bat cracked against his back, demanding his attention.

He whirled around, leaping directly into a nail-laden plank that sunk into his torso, the scent of his own blood joining the murderous melange seeping into his sinuses. Snarling as his tongue tried to work a tattered ribbon of skin from his fangs, he grasped a head in each hand, blood-matted paws only adding to the riotous colours of their hair.

Crack. He was moving on sheer instinct, now. He didn't think, he merely let it happen as he tried to pulp one skull against the other, cracking them into fragments from repeated impacts. He let them fall limp to the ground once he saw the gore dribbling from their eyes and noses- there were still two left to go, though they'd clearly had more sense than their fellows. He dropped to all fours, tongue lolling from his mouth as he began the chase, the scent of fear a familiar beacon.

---

Down the twisted alleyways, a pair of gangsters ran for their lives. Rosa and Sam had hardly expected the night to go like this- a stolen score, a night of revelry, and meeting The Suit to sell him back his shit. Fuck- had he sent the monster? Rosa's veins pulsed with terror and Stimmpowder, her heart threatening to burst. "Faster!" She screeched at Sam, the blubbery bastard huffing and chuffing at her heels in an attempt to keep the pace. He didn't even have the breath to offer an excuse.

She turned back- fuck him. She didn't have to outrun that beast- only Sam. She grasped a rotting pallet as she passed it, throwing it behind her and laughing in relief as she heard her friend fall behind her, tangled in the moldering wood as he wept. She could see the street lights not far beyond her, the neon glow of the clubs. She was home fr-

---

Rhodri hit the lead runner like an artillery shell. His weight descended onto her, cracking her spine like dry kindling, finishing the deed with a stomp to the back of her skull. Warmth coursed through his veins, each streak of crimson upon his pelt pulsing with vitality, a fire burning in his gut as he stalked towards the lone survivor, trying to crawl away with what must have been a broken ankle. He didn't have the time to feel pity- only hunger.

His jaws snapped shut like a steel trap.

He hunched over the latest carcass like a carrion bird, ripping, tearing. He'd been on salted pork rations for weeks. Each mouthful of gore was like ambrosia. He buried his snout beneath the ribcage, stripped the shoulder joint down to tendon and bone. It was long minutes before his stomach was bloated enough to warrant a pause in his feast- and thus, sated, he slumped against the wall, breathing heavily as he sat, finally feeling the ache of his injuries. He raised trembling hands to his face, looking upon the blood-soaked claws- meat and gristle still clinging to his fingers, beckoning for him to lick them clean.

They were barely more than children, drunk on their own presumed invincibility. He could feel the chemicals that were in their veins burning his throat, their blood still tainted with their drugs of choice. He'd been in this place for scarcely more than an hour, and he'd already killed and eaten its inhabitants.

"What have I done?"

A silk handkerchief in a gloved hand descended into his vision, accompanied by a voice as slick as oil.

"A damn fine day's work, if I'm any judge."

 

[Don Isaac]

Rhodri had been in the army too long to refuse comfort where it was offered. He snatched the fabric from his mysterious benefactor's hand, wiping at his gore-stained maw, fighting to keep his hungry tongue still. It wasn't long before it was sodden with the sanguine mess, and he couldn't help but feel somewhat embarrassed as he offered the cloth back, his eyes still kept low, unable to meet their gaze.

"Up and at them, soldier- I can see fatigues beneath those rags, yes? Not an outfit you'd like to be caught dead in, I imagine," came a chuckle from on high, prompting the Lupar to slowly clamber to his feet- going from a huddled mass of bloodied rags to a looming monstrosity. His yellowed eyes examined the flatface before him, struggling to sense anything over the stench of blood filling his nostrils. Good cologne. Gun oil. Well-scrubbed blood. His gaze roamed over the navy-blue suit, a colour thankfully easily discernible to his eyes, eventually settling on the man's face- or rather, lack of it.

A cockrel's head sat atop his shoulders, a rubber bird replacing his visage. The crimson wattle jiggled unnervingly as they tilted their head, investigating Rhodri's full size. "Hrm. Make them big wherever you came from, don't they? Come," he said, as he snapped his fingers, digits concealed within a set of pristine white gloves.

He could hardly object. His mind was still in the throes of regret, disgust and desire warring within him as the taste of blood faded from his maw. A stretch limousine had parked at the alley's entrance, a gull-wing door raised high to obscure the street from view, exposing a luscious interior, red leather beckoning him in with its sumptuous softness. He followed the masked man within, tail tucked between his legs as he meekly clambered within, sprawling out onto the seats as the door hissed and clicked into place.

"You have questions, I presume," the benefactor spoke, gloved fingers steepled. There was something about the voice that pricked at Rhodri's ears- static. Their voice was not their own- recorded, broadcast, or altered? A lean leg settled atop the man's knee as they watched Rhodri's reactions, carefully observing from behind their mask.

"Yes," rasped Rhodri, massaging his throat with a clawed hand. It tasted like the poisoned winds the union unleashed upon the trenches- and those men had put it in their veins? "Where- where am I?"

Across from him, a set of white gloves spread themselves beneficially. "In the broader perspective, The Crossroads- a realm between realms, where hundreds of realities have come together to form our merry little communities.Some are born here, others simply… fall through the cracks, and end up here- you can't go back, before you ask." Rhodri's rearmost teeth ground together, his molars yearning to gnaw on still-bloodied bone as he held his head, trying to accommodate this upset to reality. His whole world- gone.

"The more immediate concern, however, is where we stand at this second." The limo stirred to life beneath them, smoothly cruising away down shaded streets. "Welcome to Markov, friend. A series of slums built atop a dead world, surrounded by mechanical monsters and genocidal demons, and helpfully populated by recidivists, cultists, gangers, thieves, and profiteers." He reached into a compartment that clicked open- prompting a quick leap backwards into the corner from Rhodri, fearing whatever he might dredge up. Fortunately for all involved, it was a cigar case. The chicken-man cracked it open, snapping his fingers- and a flame blossomed upon his digits, igniting the tobacco. While the wolf-man attempted to reconcile the sudden appearance of magic in addition to the reality-upsetting nature of his current existence, he was not so far gone as to fail to catch the sweet relief, his greedy instincts well-honed during his service.

He pressed it to his lips, sucking down the smoke, burning away the murderous memoirs that still clung to his taste buds. "Good taste," he offered, shifting in his seat. He felt like a man, again- not a beast, not a child caught with his fist in the cookie jar- or ribcage, as it were.

"Quite," the man said, inclining their mask. Neon lights blurred across the gaudy latex, casting the fowl face in bright pink patterns advertising women, drugs, and guns. Eye-searing displays of debauchery played across the emotionless beak and empty eyes, eliciting no comment from whatever laid beneath. "Now- fortunately for all involved, your… rough landing happened to be inflicted upon a gaggle of gangsters. It would be quite difficult to find anyone who'd miss them." But not impossible, Rhodri thought, furrowing his brows as he chewed the end of the cigar, its embers burning bright. Not for a man of these resources. "I can hardly hold it against you. But you've certainly proven yourself as a man of… specific talents. And I consider myself a collector of talent."

Plucking the cigar from his mouth, Rhodri hunched his shoulders as he leaned in, his frame scarcely appropriate for the luxuriant space- it was more than sufficient for the masked man and his kin, but the Lupar was barely able to fit. "You want to make me a killer for hire," he stated. There was precious little doubt in what he was being propositioned for.

"No," spoke the man in the mask. "I want to make you a salaried killer. A soldier, in a silent war. There's a great deal of work to be done- and few with the stomach to do it." Rhodri frowned in concentration, ruminating on the thought. Without a purpose, he was just hungry. Without a war, he was just a killer, striving to fill his stomach. His teeth sheared through the end of the cigar, chewing on the tobacco as he twirled the remainder through the air between a pair of claws. "Let's say I agree to this. What do you need from me?"

The other man laughed, as a pair of white gloves settled comfortably onto their own lap. "Just the answer to a simple question."

"Do you like hurting other people?"

---

Eventually, the Limo rolled to a halt before a no-tell motel. Even as Rhodri slipped out of the door, earning nothing more than a placid nod from the sole occupant, guttersnipes were eyeing the hubcaps, tire irons held in desperate death grips as they slowly ambled out from their alleyway homes. It was for the best for everyone involved that the luxury vehicle pulled away, rejoining the lightning flow of traffic that coursed through the city streets, exhaust fumes choking the skies. The air here was rancid, worse than the factories of home- Or was that simply nostalgia? He could taste spice on the wind, hear a peal of laughter as children played behind closed doors.

He was surrounded by a foreign people, alone in his nature. The only consolation is that he wasn't one of the shavebacks that fled the forests to walk among the flatfaces- he was here by chance. Grinding his teeth, he strode into the building before him, pulling free a wad of legal tender and slapping it down onto the counter. The attendant didn't even look up at him, eyes glued to a newspaper loudly proclaiming the victory of Markov's defenders over some threat or another- simply slid a key onto the counter and dragged the money back with him.

Rhodri stalked off- he wasn't eager to be around these men for much longer. He could count the number of flatfaces he'd met without violence on a single paw. He checked the key- a letter and number marked on a worn plastic tag swiftly led him to his room, the tired eyes of addicts and whores sliding off his ragged cloak. What did he look like to them? One more beggar? Or a barely-disguised monster they simply couldn't risk revealing?

He slipped within- the sound of the lock clicking into place behind him finally allowing his shoulders to sag as he stripped off the pathetic disguise. A ragged blanket fell to the ground beneath him, followed swiftly by his uniform. Hissing in pain, he felt his injuries- a bruise across his back that he could largely ignore, and a series of punctures left by hopefully not-too-badly rusted nails. He'd clean and dress them shortly, but for now- he stepped into the shower, savouring the warmth and water cascading across his battered form, steam fogging the mirror and concealing his monstrous form.

And across the room, a phone began to ring.