Hero / Male / Kilo / Wolf/German Shepard / 39 / Mentions: All

Hero followed the others inside, his vision seemed unfocused, and his mind was racing. He was struggling to keep himself composed. Tysta was dead. He had let her die. It was his fault, all of it. If he had been there this wouldn't have happened. Tysta would be here.

He pinned his ears and clinched his jaw, forcing back a whimper that built in his throat. He needed to be alone. Now.

"Look at you, Hero. The one no one asked for, your pathetic. I never wanted you. Just die already!" His fathers voice rang in his ears. "You can pretend all you want, but you will never be enough."

"Promise me." Then Ash's voice.

"Leave! You aren't wanted here!" The beta.

The voices swirled in his head, taking over again, his grief over Tysta was making it worse. He needed to do something, the question was, what? Hero closed his eyes and took a deep breath.

He had to go after the one who had killed Tysta. Without getting caught.

(Short, sorry.)

Afton released a breath, quietly, letting the unspoken conclusion thread its way into his mind. Tysta was dead. The golden dog hadn't deserved such a cruel end; he, of anyone, should have seen the light beyond the City walls. Tysta was the best of them.

And now he was gone. His heart broke for Arrow, Ty's closest friend. He could only imagine the weight of her loss. Afton flicked his gaze to the small long-dog. She was a prisoner, that so much was clear. Her composure was admirable, but it was evident that she didn't wish to be here. Blood splattered her chest, drying from crimson to a burnt red hue. Afton's deep brown eyes traveled, finding the two other Beta canines - an Aussie mix, and what looked to be a Wolfblood. Both wounded to some extent, but neither seeming to carry the weight of the invisible chains of a hostage. The Kilo dogs weren't watching them the way they watched the small dog, even though they could presumably do far more damage.

The larger Bouvier cross drew himself upwards, expression cold, just short of curling into a snarl. Afton took a single step forward, towering over the rest. "Beta dogs," his deep voice rumbled, "have killed one of our best. I have no say in why you're here, or what we do with you. But know that his blood was lost at your paws, and I can never forgive you." A heavy silence hung in the air.

Afton lowered his voice. He didn't enjoy speaking to his enemies. The dog flicked his cold gaze across the small dog, the Wolfblood, and the Aussie cross.

"Touch any of these dogs, and you will never live to see another day."

Afton remained still for a moment, then turned to Ginger, awaiting some sort of order, command, explanation. Perhaps he should go after Arrow, but the dog felt she might want to be alone.

Alta halted at the voice of the Chief and Commander, spinning to face the leaders, snapping to attention. What a mess they all were - Bravo and Foxtrot. Alta had thought she had seen failures before. Evidently, she was alarmingly underexperienced in the realm of mistakes. Really, that's what the Charlie warrior viewed the Bravo and Foxtrot dogs as - mistakes, and nothing more. It was almost difficult to find a faint semblence of pity deep within her soul for these dogs. They had brought whatever was coming upon themselves.

Alta didn't even blink at the roars of her superiors. She was too well trained for such instinctive responses. Rather suddenly, her vision seemed to shatter, and she saw flashes of light. A jolt of pain leapt into her brain, searing her mind. Alta's ears began to ring, echoing in her skull, disorienting her. The dog inhaled sharply, stamping down a cry of pain. She bit down on her tongue, hard. Her sight cleared, slowly, but her heartbeat seemed to have planted itself into her skull. Her ears stopped ringing, but craniums still seared with a burning sort of agony.

The dog's eyes grew cold, and she flicked one ear, awaiting the command of a cull. Her eyes roved slightly to the left, finding Rache. There was something oddly panicked in Alta's gaze, yet eerily calm - distant, almost. The dog turned, slowly, vacant eyes flicking across the scene. She took a small step forward before halting, head tilted.

Alta stood still, like the good little soldier she was supposed to be. Her commanders hadn't said any direct command, not yet. The dog blinked, trying to orient herself. Alta's head was still spinning, and her skull was throbbing. She heard whispers in her mind, little commands echoing in her head.

Her gaze fell away from the commanders, but her body remained at attention. She sought out the familiar figure of her sister nearby. Alta's rational mind seemed to be held in the clutches of some sort of internal spasm. She could not understand what she was to do, who the enemy was. There was always an enemy, wasn't there? That was how life worked in Beta. Rebellion was the enemy. Or was it? Beta said it was rebellion, disobedience, failure. But how did they know the enemy wasn't among them the entire time, waiting, watching, preparing to make their move? It could be anyone.

But who? Who was the enemy? Alta's eyes flickered. Silence.

Without a flicker in her expression, the Charlie warrior lunged for her sister's throat.

Alta released a snarl that didn't seem to come from a canine throat. Feral, like a monster. She was not Sixty-Three. She was Alta. And her sister was Rache. Whoever stood in front of her was an enemy - not Rache, not her sister - Sixty-One. That was her enemy. Sixty-One. A bolt of searing pain snapped through the dog's mind once again, and she arched her back ever so slightly, teeth clenched.

She knew Sixty-One, just like she knew Sixty-Three. She knew their strengths, their weaknesses. She knew how both bodies could kill and be killed. Alta whipped around, hind claw slashing across another dog's neck by mistake. That was the AmStaff Plott cross - Anfall, was it? The dog roared in fury. Didn't matter.

Alta revealed a sharp array of fangs, drawing back her black lips. Her voice rose. "I am not 'Sixty-Three'. You are not my sister. You are not Rache." The name was almost foreign on her tongue, so underused, it was nearly forgotten. This dog was an emotionless soldier. This dog was not Rache. This dog was Sixty-One. Or was she? Alta felt as though she couldn't see. She couldn't understand. The enemy was everywhere and nowhere at once - closing in from all sides. Her back was exposed to them, her neck as well. But she couldn't seem to pin down the monsters.

Alta held no qualms, no hesitation. She did not fight with hesitation, and Rache knew this. But she knew Sixty-One well. She knew the clever way she fought, how she would read the emotion, the expression, decide what the opponent would do next. But Alta was no regular opponent - she was a trained warrior, the best of the best, alongside her sister. Alta had no expression. The dog barreled forward once more, in a balanced manner so that a dodge couldn't possibly throw her off balance. She didn't aim for a slash across the flank, but jaws on a limb, of better yet, a throat. She kept close the the ground, head lifted, and aimed to snap her jaws closed around Sixty-One's right foreleg.

The day had been chaotic enough. But now, that new Charlie dog was going after her sister, as though she had simply lost her mind. Well, frankly, family relationships could be tough. Murder by sibling really wasn't too far fetched. But, really, if there was combat, she wanted to be up and ready, and decidedly not pinned beneath metal claws that kept digging deeper into her chest. Really, it wasn't neccessary.

As Alta spun, a loose claw slashed across Anfall's neck, and off reflex, the dog jerked upwards with a roar of fury, pulling herself from Pfiel, and shoving forward towards him, body weight propelled forward.

How dare that Charlie dog -

Anfall jerked backwards then, away from the Cull who she may or may not have knocked to the ground, spinning to face whatever chaos had ensued between the sisters. No one was winning, but no one was losing. Not yet, anyway.