Alta | Female | German Shepherd | Charlie | 63 | M: All

The doberman's expression settled on resolute defiance. A decision was made. The way his face twisted, the way his muscles tensed, she knew he was going to lunge before he did. Alta leapt aside, just as he surged forward. He was free of Rache's grasp, although she had a piece of her ear clutched in her maw.

There's no good choice here, is there? Between a rock and a hard place.

Blood ran down his face, effectively blinding him. He would do well to ensure that the two warriors only remained on his good side, his side not blinded by thick crimson liquid. Alta saw the advantage this posed immediately - all they had to do was back him up into a wall, blind side facing the arena, and attack, if they wanted a fair fight. If not, well - they could double-team and take him down as easily as breathing. Or, they could always attack his strong side until he was too wounded to continue.

Either way, Twenty-Five wasn't making it out of here alive. Both Alta and Rache were stronger, faster, more skilled. He had put up a good fight, but didn't meet the standard of a Charlie dog - not even remotely. Alta recalled the years of training, how the sisters had watched the life seep from their mother's broken body, how their emotions had hardened, flesh had been torn and ripped during practice. They were warriors, soldiers. He was a dog. A dog could not overcome a monster, try as he might. That was indeed what Alta knew she had become - a monster. A beast, less than canine. It pained her.

Perhaps it would be best to kill Twenty-Five now. To pull him from his misery. Alta went rigid, and her lip curled. Suddenly, the calculating, analytical expression had been lost. She was no longer judging him, his skill. She was going to fight. To kill.

The black dog's jaws gaped, and she lunged, going for a death blow. Her fangs were only inches away from his face when the speakers sounded. Beta.

Enough. He has proven his worth. Sixty-one, Sixty-three, both or one of you are permitted to escort Twenty-five to the lab. By force if you must.

The speakers cracked, then shut off. Alta abruptly turned away. "Sixty-one?" It pained her deeply to address her sister by a number. "The decision is yours."

Orden | Female | Half Blood, Border Collie Cross | Beta (Bravo) | 22 | M: All

Orden knew what was happening the moment the her eyes caught the two sisters charging towards Pfiel.

They stole away Maze. They broke him first. Now they want to see how he fights, testing him. They're going to make him a cull.

Orden knew it was inevitable. He met the requirements. Orden, long ago, had been considered as an option for a cull. But Beta's method of breaking her had backfired. She only grew spiteful, resentful, on top of broken. She was too disobediant, to conniving, in their eyes. Additionally, she was a collie - bred for her brains, for endurance, for work ethic. Not combat. But Pfiel was a doberman. Built for battle, made for war.

No.

Orden felt an odd sort of connection to Pfiel, despite having shared little words. He wasn't arrogant. He wasn't commanding and insufferable, like Anfall. Not silent and brooding, like most of the dogs here. Just a good dog. Broken, like her, but with a heart twice as pure. One of the only dogs in Beta that didn't have a face she wanted to claw off on a daily basis.

And now, now he was going to become a cull, a monster. Perhaps a distraction was in order.

"Sixty-three?" she inquired politely, a strange phenomenon for the collie. "I do hope you consider not replacing his brain. The way he fought - he is clearly clever enough to hold his own. I believe both Foxtrot's Commander and the Cheif have their own brains, and they are both quite capable. If your input counts for anything, I highly suggest mentioning it."

Orden was taking a risk and she knew it. These dogs were not accustomed to a subordinate speaking without being directly addressed. She was playing off of what she hoped was an insecurity. She assumed they believed they had little say. If she was correct - it was far fetched, but she was out of options - they may very well be resentful about it, and take the oppertunity to prove Orden wrong, to prove to themselves that they in fact did have a say, and would mention to Beta, if possible, Orden's comments.

Orden knew that if a dog lost his mind - literally - he was no longer dog. He could not be saved.

Sixty-three glared at her with unreadble eyes, as if shocked by this strange creature that dared speak without invitation.

Orden lifted her head defiantly.

Go ahead. I don't care what you do to me. I don't care. I don't care about you, I don't care about Beta. I don't care about myself. I care about my fellow dogs. I care about Pfiel, because I don't want him to become a monster. I care about my regiment, because I don't care about Beta. I'm not willing to lose that - that care. I hate the world. I hate you. I hate myself. But I care about the dogs.

Alta's face suddenly loomed above Orden's. The collie cross didn't blink once.

"You have no right, soldier. To speak to your superiors in such a manner is going to get you killed. This is your only warning."

Orden held the dog's gaze, challenging, steady. Daring her to make a move. To her credit, Sixty-three could hold her temper. She turned away.

Orden cast one final glance to Pfiel.

I'm sorry, her eyes seemed to say. I tried.

Very possibly the first time Orden had apologized for anything.

The fight beneath the Cheif was beginning to spiral out of control. Given very little direction of how to proceed with this battle, Sixty-three was beginning to put more effort into her attacks. Blood had been shed, and this was clearly only going to end in a death, and not that of the sister's.

Let this be finished. I recommend Twenty-Five of Regiment Foxtrot, under the command of Commander Thirty-four to be a candidate for the cull position.

There was a heartbeat of silence, and the loudspeakers boomed with Beta's command.

From the corner of her eye, Kämpe caught sight of the small corgi - sixty-two - slipping away.

What is she doing? The fool! She looked as though she was... following, tracking.

The cull whirled, metal flashing in the light. "All regiments remain where you are. Beta's order in regards to Twenty-five still stands."

Kämpe knew that she could potentially be walking into chaos. As a precaution, she needed backup.

"Commander Thirty-four. With me, immediately."

She trusted the regiments would be perfectly fine alone, under the watchful eyes of the Charlie sisters and the arena cameras.

"Send complex into lockdown," she called, and alarms began to ring. It was absolutely unheard of for a dog to run out like that. "All patrols are to return immediately. Pen one is to remain open until all soldiers are accounted for. " Beta could hear her voice wherver she went within the training center's walls. Additionally, the complex was adapted to respond to her verbal commands.

Kämpe increased her pace, trotting down the halls. She trusted Hoffen was behind her. The Chief slipped out the side enterance, following Aadya's path.

Her mind flicked through observations, predictions, potential scenarios as she jogged. It wasn't difficult in the least to follow Sixty-two. Her pawprints were fresh in the frost kissed ground.

There. Around the wall, Sixty-two stood, watching a group of unfamiliar canines. A cull, in the distance, one she had never seen. A small terrier - and Kämpe knew that there was no such dog in Beta's ranks. She had spent hours memorizing the soldiers of Beta. A tall, golden and gray dog spoke.

Her eyes flickered. No underground enterence, no buildings in sight. Just walls.

"What. Is. This." Kämpe snarled, stepping forward. Her metallic fangs flashed, and her tail lashed from side to side.

Kämpe glared at the small dog. She sensed sincerity, true fear, true confusion. She knew she shouldn't forgive, trust, Sixty-two, but Kämpe did. "Later, Sixty-two. I expect a full explanation afterwards."

Easiest way to fix this, to make sure she knows where her loyalties lie: test her.

"Sixty-two, you are to deal with the small dog."

Fair enough. Bread loaf against a rat dog. Shouldn't be too difficult, considering Aadya was highly trained.

"Commander Thirty-four, neutralize the larger dog, and keep Twenty-eight contained in this area. I will deal with him." She commanded the larger cull, eyes already finding her own target.

She dished out orders as she was running, charging at the cull - the largest threat. Catch her off gaurd, attack her strong side, force her back on her weak. Judge her reaction, repeat. Kämpe had been made into a warrior, culled from her litter, from her regiment to fight.

The Cheif lunged, jaws spread, claws extended. She ducked away at the last minute, then spun back, hoping to catch the older cull across the face.

Everything. It was all so sudden, chaotic, abrupt. The first was a small dog, akin to a loaf of bred. Only a little larger than Arrow. Then, a cull. She didn't carry Ginger's commanding, yet wise presence. This cull - whoever she was - was terrifying. Not particularly tall, perhaps about Zadolt's height. But she carried herself with an authority Tysta had never before seen. Her eyes flashed - intelligent eyes, the eyes of a conniving fox. Ty's first natural instinct was to roll on his back and cower. Her entire presence said only two words: Fear me.

Another Cull appeared. Hoffen. Far taller than the other cull, he too would have been incredibly imposing, had Tysta not known him. There was something in his eyes, almost... an apology. The first cull, the leader, started dishing out orders. That small dog was supposed to go after Arrow.

He would never, never let anyone touch his friend.

"Arrow. Arrow, get behind me." He whispered to her, his own hackles rising. There was no way out of this. No peace to be found. They would have to fight.

Suddenly, the cull lunged for Ginger.

"Gin!" He called, eyes wide. She would have to hold her own, for now. Ty couldn't lose his head. He turned to face Hoffen. Surely he wouldn't attack? He couldn't. Tysta had trusted Hoffen.