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•Beware, Beware,

Be Skeptical

She awakens to the cold. She's numb, incredibly so, and she can't move her limbs.

Where am I? Why can't I move!?

She feels something warm brush against her, repeatedly combing all over her body in tired, but careful strokes. She instinctually leans toward the contact, and a whimper bubbles up from the pit of her chest, but she cannot hear it. The air around her is shaking and the floor rumbling, and she feels bodies just about her size tumble and wiggle beside her. A wet, cold thing shoves her from behind towards something, and she complies, the frigid air slowly melting away as she is huddled next to something warm and furry.

Hunger assaults her and overrides her panic as the warmth shifts, the cold thing nudging her again and pushes her against it, but she has no clue what she is supposed to do. Suddenly, something grabs hold of her with cold, clammy and rough fingers. She forgets her monentary hunger and screeches and squirms, fear enveloping her as it flips her over and she is unable to hear her own screams. It shoves something in her face and she turns away, pushing and clawing at it with her hands and feet but it pries her mouth open and shoves the thing that is warm and squishy inside of it. She bites down and her mouth is filled with a yogurt-like substance. It tastes incredibly bitter, like barley tea, and she nearly gags at the silky texture.

I hate yogurt!!!

Still, her hunger outweighs her dislike as she guzzles it down until the giant hand roughly shoves her back to the warmth. Her mind becomes hazy and despite her fear, and she falls asleep.

•Of Their Smiles, Their Smiles of Plated Gold•

I flinch as another harsh bark shatters the air, growls and snarls and teeth flashing in the cages around us. I curl a bit more into my (new) mother, but she makes no move to comfort me, too tired to even lift her head. One of my brothers wanders too far at the edge of our cage, and one of the dogs snaps at him through the bars, making the brown and white pup yelp and stumble backwards. I rush to his aid, growling pathetically in my unintimidating puppy voice. The Tosa Inu snarls back, frothing jaws and steroid-enhanced muscles bulging as he growls at me. The door outside creaks and slams shut, our caretaker coming in with a giant bowl of slosh wheeling in behind him. He grins as he sees me challenging the older dog, a wicked smile of missing teeth and plated gold.

"Well, now, spitefire, that's good! Can't have you dying too soon, though." He says as he stares at me before frowning and pulling a baton from his belt, flicking it and it unravels into a thinner, sparkling stick. He jabs it into the Tosa's cage, hitting him in his haunches and Tosa responds in return with howling and snapping at the electrical weapon. I shiver and stumble back, fear coursing through my veins at the shaking mastiff. Jigoku, our caretaker, snickers demonically at my reaction.

"That's good, that's good, you little devil. Wouldn't want to get rid of the boss's favorite batch if they turn on us, eh?" He snips at me, thrusting a ladle in the bucket and dumping the mix of what smells like water, dog food, lard, and meat into the Tosa's food bowl. Tosa lunges at it and garbles it down, massive canines snapping together with each bite. He does the same as he fits the ladle past the bars, my little brothers all rushing towards it and gobbling down the gross meal. I sigh (in a very doggish way) and wait for them to finish as Jigoku carries on past our crate.

It's been about three weeks since I died. Approximately twenty four days, if I really want to keep count.

It's also the amount of time it's been ever since I was born. I'm a mixed breed of fighting dogs, as far as I can tell by looking at my wolffish littermates. I live with my small family in a crate in the back of a fighting ring, surrounded by snarling and frothing fighters. I'm part wolf, from what I've discerned from my choppy knowledge of the men's Japanese as they speak to each other over the past few days, having just recently unlocked my hearing. My litter has high expectations in the eyes of the workers here in the dog pits, the first hybrid canine breeding experimentation for the wolf's ability to think on its own without relying on man for guidance. My mother is a Shikoku Inu, a rare dog breed the the master favors. However, her fur is greying and she has become old. In the limited knowledge I have, I know that we are going to be her final litter.

I decide that I have waited long enough and shove the other puppies aside in my reach for the bowl. It tastes revolting, but it is better than the yogurt formula I was force-fed when I was a newborn.

I jar with fear every time a dog yelps in the ring just past the door, and the hollering of the growing crowd out there skyrockets. I hastily gulp down the rest of the soup before the others can, picking up the large piece of chicken inside of it and dragging it over to mom, growling at any of the others who dare try take a bite. It takes all of my mini puppy power to bring it to her, but I somehow manage it. She sniffs and nibbles it, but makes no other efforts. I huff and flinch as the ring door slams open, Jigoku dragging in a beaten and bloody terrier, it's mouth duck taped and eyes glazed. I freeze and panic, seeing his lifeless eyes staring at me as he's dumped onto a growing pile of dog corpses and maggots.

He must have been a bait dog.

I shiver and look away, nausea filling my stomach as I focus a little too much on the smell of elimination and rotting flesh.

I tilt my head to the concrete cieling, and all I can do is pray that I'll soon be free.

•Deciet So Natural•

I pant and puff, forcing my legs to run faster and faster, almost jumping onto the plastic platform in from of me. I'm afraid. I am now a year old, and they are beginning to train me to fight. I'm sprinting on a treadmill, my heavy chain collar and leash jingles and slams onto my winter fur as the biting cold returns once again, announcing the uncanny day of my winter birth. I've been going at this pace for almost an hour, and my saliva is slicking the plastic run as I heave. Finally, Jigoku slows the pace down to a steady jog. I heal quickly and grow fast, he says.

I believe him.

My muscles are growing at breakneck pace as the days pass, the calories from my new diet of steroid-jacked meat and lard helps keep my energy for training, and I am now almost as large as the Tosa Inu from long ago.

I wonder if he's died yet.

I was separated from my mother eleven months ago, and I have yet to see any of my brothers. Jigoku has already entered me in seven Hog-Dog fights, ones where I am pitted against half-grown boar just about my weight. I have only lost once, my first, because I had frozen in the middle of the fight.

A cracked rib is enough to keep me from ever making that mistake again.

In my old life, I had never broken a bone. Ruptured and inflamed organs, sure, since that was why I died but the shock of breaking a rib had nearly sent me into hysterics, so from then on in my lonely corner, I sang to myself. In my head, of course, because Jigoku and the others hate it when any of us bay or howl. I had discovered that after he had thrown a bucket at my head. It's not as pleasant or comical as it sounds when you're a puppy with a soft skull.

Throughly wiped and tired, Jigoku deems my efforts as adequate for today, and shuts down the machine altogether. My joints and bones creak a little as my mouth drips foam and mucus, body shivering at the over exertion as he takes my chain and tugs me away at his heels, my muscles screaming in protest as I wobble after him.

We go outside into the frosty air, walking without fear as dogs on the ends of chains staked to the ground yowl and pull, aiming to rip me to shreds as I stagger through. He connects me to my stake in the back and immediately leaves. The Shiba Inu beside me whimpers for his affection, but he leaves without giving her a second chance. She whines and turns to me as I lay down, jello-boned and fully spent. She walks over to me, but the chain keeps her a good seven feet away. She huffs and pulls again, but to no avail. I roll my eyes (what color are they? What color is she? All I can see is yellow and blue) at the Shiba's vain attempts.

She must be new here.

There is no interaction. There is no making friends.

You're on your own.

•But...•

Two Years and then some. I've lost count. But that doesn't matter. Nothing matters anymore.

There is only death.

Midorima leads me with the chain and thick, barred muzzle. He stands a good two feet away from me, never letting his guard down.

That was how I got Jigoku, after all.

I could still taste his blood on my teeth, feel his pulse between my canines and see the life drain from his disgusting piss-colored eyes.

I could taste the freedom.

I'm fully grown now, and I tower over every single opponent I face. Even the great Tosa Inu from long ago would cower four inches under me in withers height. My muscles bulge and roll under my fur and skin, long claws scraping the gravel beneath my pads.

I am powerful.

I am fighting outdoors this time, in the cold winter of my birth, and I see the growing ring on the permafrost. Midorima walks me up to the gate and shoves me in, ripping off the leash and muzzle before jumping back at my snap. Warm water is doused on me and a towel is quickly rubbed on my coat, removing any possible poisons. I've been poisoned so many times. Is this my fiftieth fight? Sixty sixth?

It doesn't matter.

My opponent is a vaguely familiar mix, wolfish eyes and a bite scar on his chest. I sniff the air and recognize him with a start.

He's my brother.

(But it doesn't matter.)

The gates swing open and we lunge, rearing up and tearing at each other's faces. However, I am the elder and more experienced.

I am not afraid.

I grab his ear and pull backwards, tearing it from it's roots and teeth scraping against his skull, marring it bloody and split as he clamps down on the scruff side of my neck and shakes. We growl and snarl, but we never cry.

(We're both numb anyways.)

I shove him down to the ground, toppling him over even though he refuses to let go. I twirl and bear my fangs as I sink into his neck, copper and iron flooding my mouth as he growls and writhes, struggling against my grip. I push my weight into his neck, using a paw to pin down his chest and push the breath out of him. He squirms and howls in rage, but I don't let go even as a bar slips between my mouth and people tug on my collar, trying to make me release him.

(I'm too gone to notice the headbands, the flak jackets.)

My brother, my flesh and blood slowly crumples down beneath me as I let go far too late. I feel no sorrow. I feel no compassion. I feel no guilt as they try to drag me away from mutilating his body.

I feel only rage.

I jump and bolt, a newfound energy coursing through my body like second blood as I outrun all of the men, leaping over the six-foot iron fence. Adrenaline like never before courses through me, humming like it is alive as I tear the earth beneath me, ignorant of the shouts and distantly familiar throwing knives and stars. The world cracks underneath my feet as I run into the woods, farther and farther away from that places. There is no human in me. There is no right or wrong.

There is only death.

•A Wolf in Sheep's Clothing

Is More Than A Warning•