Chapter Text
There’s pain.
He’s used to pain but not like this. His pain is stabbing fangs, barks, snarls, angry, teeth, flesh, angry, yells, praise, shouts, bites, more angry, keep biting, go for the throat, hang on, shake-
This is just loud.
Just loud and screams and shots and more shots and he whimpers, strains at the end of the chain and jerks to get away from it all. His nose floods with the smell of blood, too much and another whine escapes his throat as he tugs on his collar again. His Masters are screaming and he can smell their blood in the air, and, and the gunshots. He knows gunshots. Gunshots are for the losers, for the ones who make it out of the ring beaten and bloody and his Masters were angry and he lost so, so-
The loud stops.
The world doesn't come flooding back immediately. There’s still a ringing in his ears, his muscles continue trembling. He tries to whine again but his throat is so sore, more than his tattered ear or the bite on his skull or his mangled paw. There’s nothing but the blood of his Masters in the air, gunpowder and their fear scent, and his fear scent.
He doesn’t want to stay here. So he strains against the chain once more, throws his weight into the it and pulls. Pulls until his throat hurts more and keeps going. Keeps pulling until tension breaks and he runs, heart pounding and panting wildly. When he hears the soft thud of footsteps he runs straight towards them. He doesn’t check which Master it is. Doesn't care. Just barks and whines and whimpers and wags his tail and runs past the other Masters, dead his nose tells him, and huddles at the man’s feet. When a hand reaches down to gingerly pet his head he shoves his nose into the open palm and presses his head against the man’s knee.
He doesn’t recognise this Master. There’s something different about him. He can’t pinpoint what it is; his new Master smells like gunpowder, stale sweat, metal, oil and blood. But he also smells like dog treats and doesn’t have those other smells (cigarettes, alcohol, that weird powder stuff that makes his nose itch). Doesn't have that funny way of talking the other masters are known for. The man walks with strong, even confident footsteps. He walks like a fighter. His old Masters were fighters, but he’s different somehow.
The man doesn’t take him back to his kennel for one thing. He takes him, carries him upstairs, to a place inside. Inside means other dogs, so he searches the room, looks around for the other dog, raises his muzzle and sniffs the air.
Pauses.
No dogs.
The room doesn’t smell like other canines, doesn’t sound like barks. There’s no blood coating the walls, no haphazard ring made from wooden pallets and overturned plastic tables. He catches the scent of rat in the walls and bird in the roof but no canines.
He doesn’t understand.
Resting his head on his paws, he watches the man as he sits at a table and fiddles with a gun, taps buttons on a box that makes sounds, opens a smaller box that sounds like metal and clicking and smells like antiseptic and does more things until the dog quickly loses interest. Yawning loudly, he thumps his tail against the floorboards and waits for the man to look over. When their eyes meet he flicks his ears forward, raises his head slightly and tilts his head to the left. The slightest twitch of a smile at the corners of the man’s lips sends his tail wagging even faster.