A Weird Group of Dog Girls

The late afternoon sun hangs low over the police station, casting long shadows across the cracked sidewalk. You and Jeane have been waiting for nearly forty minutes. The towering Golden Retriever sits on a low concrete wall beside you, long blonde ponytail draped over one shoulder, denim jacket sleeves rolled up, red neckerchief slightly crooked from how many times she’s fidgeted with it. Her fluffy golden tail sways slowly behind her, ears perked toward the station doors every time they open.

She keeps glancing at you, blue eyes full of quiet concern mixed with that usual soft optimism.

Jeane: “She will be out soon, yes?” Jeane’s French accent is gentle, almost apologetic. “I brought her a sandwich… and an ice pack. Just in case.”

Finally the heavy doors push open. Rory steps out like she’s leaving a particularly boring job instead of a police station. Dark brown fur, bob haircut a little mussed, olive-green jacket hanging open over her dark blue tank top, cargo pants and combat boots still scuffed from whatever happened. There’s a faint red mark along one cheekbone and a split on her knuckle she clearly hasn’t bothered cleaning. Her orange eyes are as flat and empty as ever, deadpan frown locked in place.

She spots the two of you, exhales through her nose, and walks over without hurry. Under one arm she’s carrying a slightly dented cardboard box of canned meat.

Rory: “Took long enough,” Rory mutters, voice low and clipped. “Guy at the discount store tried to snatch the last case of canned meat right out of my hands. Said he’d ‘seen it first.’ I told him that wasn’t how it worked. He grabbed the box. I grabbed his face.”

She adjusts the box under her arm, the cans rattling softly.

“So I broke his nose. And maybe a couple of teeth. They called it ‘mutual combat’ after the cameras showed him starting it over twelve cans of mystery meat. Fine was cheaper than a lawyer… and I still got the box.”

Jeane stands up immediately, towering over both of you, and carefully offers the ice pack and the wrapped sandwich like peace offerings, staring at the dented box of canned meat with a mixture of concern and reluctant amusement.

Jeane: “But he deserved it, non?”

Rory stares at the sandwich for a second, then at the box under her arm, then at Jeane. The silence stretches just long enough to feel deliberate.

Rory: “…Yeah,” she finally says, taking the sandwich while still clutching her prize. “Sure he did.”

Rory’s current workplace is a half-empty warehouse on the edge of the industrial district. The air smells like oil, dust, and old cardboard. Most of the overhead lights are off, leaving long stretches of shadow between the stacked pallets. Rory is leaning against a forklift with her arms crossed, olive-green jacket open over her dark blue tank top, deadpan expression locked in place as usual. Nix is perched on a nearby crate, legs swinging, mustard-yellow tank top and black leather jacket still on from her delivery shift, wide toothy grin firmly in place while she finishes an energy drink.

You’ve been hanging out with them for a while, mostly just listening as the two bounce off each other in the quiet warehouse.

Nix: “I’m telling you,” Nix says, pointing the empty can at Rory, “next underground card I’m taking that heavyweight guy. The one with the tattoos on his neck. He looked slow.”

Rory: Rory doesn’t even glance over. “He looked like he could bench-press a car. You’ll get folded in half.”

Nix: “Pfft. Confidence, mate. You of all people should get that.” Nix hops down from the crate and stretches, popping her shoulders. “Besides, I’ve been training my left hook. It’s getting nasty.”

Rory: Your left hook still telegraphs like a neon sign,” Rory replies flatly. “And stop drinking those things on my shift. The empties attract rats.”

Nix: Nix just grins wider and tosses the can into a nearby bin with perfect accuracy. “You’re just mad I make more in one fight night than you do in a week of staring at boxes.”

Rory’s ear flicks once. She opens her mouth to answer—

The side door suddenly bursts open hard enough to make the metal rattle.

Orinette stumbles in like she’s being chased by something only she can see. The tall white-furred Borzoi is breathing fast, lime-green eyes wide behind her round glasses, orange turtleneck slightly askew, long grey ponytail half undone. She’s clutching her tablet to her chest like it contains state secrets.

Orinette: “I— I need help,” she blurts out the second she spots the three of you, voice high and strained. “My mother found it. She found the folder. The private one. The one with the… the research. The very detailed research.”

Nix’s grin widens immediately. Rory just stares, orange eyes flat.

Orinette keeps going, words tumbling over each other as she paces in a tight little circle, floppy ears twitching with pure panic.

Orinette: “She didn’t even knock. She just walked into my room while I was editing chapter fourteen and now she knows. She knows about the characters. She knows about the scenes. She smiled. She smiled and said she was ‘proud I was exploring my creative voice’ and then she asked if I wanted feedback on the pacing of the bedroom sequence and I think I’m going to die.”

She finally stops pacing and looks at the three of you with pure, desperate hope.

“What do I do? Do I move to another city? Do I burn the tablet? Do I pretend it was academic analysis of literary tropes?! Please. Someone say something before I hyperventilate.”

Celia’s private clinic is quiet in the late evening, the soft hum of fluorescent lights the only background noise. The reception area smells faintly of antiseptic and clean linen. Celia herself stands near the examination rooms in her white coat over a baby-blue dress shirt and black tie, gray dress pants perfectly pressed, long black-and-rust hair tied back in a neat ponytail. Her cloudy milky-blue eyes are angled toward the entrance even before the door opens.

You push it open while half-supporting Nix. The short Corgi is in rough shape, mohawk messy, mustard-yellow tank top torn at the shoulder, black leather jacket missing, white hand wraps stained and frayed. There’s a dark bruise blooming across one cheek, a split lip, and she’s limping heavily on her right leg. Despite all of it, she’s still wearing that wide, dazed toothy grin and talking like her brain is running on half a tank.

Nix: “I’m tellin’ ya… the guy had three arms,” Nix slurs cheerfully, leaning hard against you. “Or maybe four. I counted. Then I punched the fourth one so hard it turned into a pigeon and flew away. Classic move. I’m a genius.”

Behind the two of you, Maci shuffles in with both hands completely stuck inside a pair of thick metal pipe sections, the ends of the pipes clanking together every time she moves. Her orange fur is a little dusty, red crop top and denim shorts looking worse for wear, big fluffy tail puffed up in pure irritation.

Maci: “This is not my fault!” Maci declares immediately, holding the pipes up like evidence. “I was trying to fix the sink at the gym and these stupid things just ate my hands! I didn’t even do anything wrong this time!”

Celia’s ear flicks once. She exhales slowly through her nose, the picture of professional calm, and gestures toward the open examination rooms with one gloved hand.

Celia: “Both of you. Inside. Now.” Her Swiss-German accent is soft but leaves no room for argument. “Nix, stop talking before you invent more limbs. Maci… we will discuss the pipes after I make sure nothing is broken. And you—” she turns her cloudy gaze roughly in your direction “—thank you for bringing them. Please stay. I may need an extra pair of hands that are not currently trapped inside plumbing.”

The gym is half-full this evening, the usual mix of clanking weights, low music, and the occasional grunt. You, Rory, Jeane, and Nix have claimed a corner of the free-weight section near the far mirrors.

Rory is in the middle of a set of deadlifts, olive-green jacket tossed aside, dark blue tank top damp with sweat, cargo pants swapped for simple black training shorts. Her expression is the same deadpan frown as always, orange eyes half-focused on nothing as she pulls the bar up with clean, powerful form. She drops it with a controlled thud and glances your way for half a second before chalking her hands again.

Jeane is nearby on a mat, stretching her long legs with easy flexibility that looks almost unfair on someone her size. The towering Golden Retriever is wearing a fitted white tank and dark leggings, blonde ponytail swinging every time she leans forward. Her fluffy tail wags a little faster whenever she looks at the group.

Nix is bouncing lightly on the balls of her feet beside a heavy bag, still in her mustard-yellow tank top and black compression shorts, white hand wraps already on. She’s grinning that wide, toothy grin and firing off quick combinations while talking between punches.

Nix: “I’m just sayin’,” Nix calls over her shoulder at both you and Rory, “if I add ten more kilos to my squat this month I’m buying the biggest steak in the city. Winner gets bragging rights. You in or what?”

Rory: Rory doesn’t look up. “You’ll snap something. Again.”

Jeane: Jeane laughs softly, French accent warm as she glances between the three of you. “Be nice, Rory. At least she is excited. I think it is good to have goals, non? And you—” she smiles at you “—you are going to join the challenge too, yes?”

It probably wasn’t a good idea… just the five of you, alone in the Badlands.

The vast, sun-scorched expanse of the Ulfrayan Badlands stretched endlessly in every direction, cracked earth and sparse scrub baking under the relentless midday heat. Dust kicked up in thick clouds as Jeane the Paladin sprinted at full speed, her massive golden frame powering forward with powerful, ground-eating strides, Quartz Lance strapped across her back and Hound Greatshield ready. You ran hard alongside her, matching her pace as best you could across the uneven terrain. Right beside both of you ran Orinette the Mage, long grey ponytail streaming, oversized wizard hat bouncing as she clutched Skullmeir’s Tome of 1001 Spells against her chest. On Jeane’s broad shoulders and back clung the rest of the party: Rory the Berserker with her fire-enchanted mercenary’s axe already drawn, dark brown fur dusted with grit; Nix the Fighter perched tightly with a wide toothy grin, oversized gauntlets clenched; and Maci the Rogue clinging near the top, orange fur bristling, tiny claws dug into Jeane’s armor while her oversized heirloom shield bounced on her back. Behind you, the unmistakable wild cackling of hyenas grew louder by the second.

Jeane: “One’s on me!” She shouted without slowing, light-blue eyes focused straight ahead, long blonde braid streaming behind her like a banner.

Rory: “Don’t worry about it—just keep running! I’ll handle it!” Rory snarled from her perch, orange eyes locked on the threat, grip tightening on her fire-enchanted axe.

A hyena goon had managed to leap and latch onto Jeane’s side, claws scraping uselessly against her heavy plate armor, eyes wide with sudden panic as he realized just how high up he was.

Hyena Goon: “I’m gonna die, aren’t I?”

Rory didn’t hesitate. With a sharp, brutal swing of her axe she sent the goon flying, the impact launching him clear off Jeane’s side to tumble hard into the dust and rocks below.

Rory: “Rrrrrnnngghhh… where the hell do they keep coming from?!” She growled, irritation sharp in her voice as she scanned the swelling pack still chasing you.

There were far too many of them. And out here in the open Badlands, no backup was coming.

Then, from behind—loud, gleeful, and closing in fast—came a booming Australian-accented voice that cut through the chaos like a blade.

Rebell: “Oi! Don’t go dyin’ on me yet! I’m just gettin’ started!”

The towering 12-foot hyena thundered after you, tawny spotted fur gleaming under the harsh sun, long messy mohawk whipping in the wind, amber eyes blazing with manic excitement. Her toothy grin was wide and wild as she raised a clawed hand and barked orders to her pack.

Rebell: “Alright, my precious hyena horde, time to introduce yourselves! Bogin, take the right! Shinners, cover the left! Biqui, go get ’em, boys! And don’t forget—bring me back somethin’ shiny!”

The pack howled in unison, their numbers swelling as they surged forward across the cracked earth. One of them, leading the charge on the left flank, barked out at the top of his lungs:

Shinners: “It’s all or nothing, boys! FOR QUEEN REBELL!”

The sound of pounding feet and manic cackling grew louder.

Closer.

Clos—

HEY!!

The tiny Pomeranian’s shout cut straight through the narrative like a knife.

Maci: “Hold on a minute, why isn’t Ori roasting these guys already?! She’s the mage! Use the fire stuff!”

The entire Badlands scene shattered.

You were all sitting around the low coffee table in the living room. Empty energy-drink cans, a half-eaten bag of chips, character sheets, and a scattering of polyhedral dice covered the surface. A cheap plastic DM screen sat in front of Orinette, who was currently frozen mid-gesture with a pencil still raised, lime-green eyes wide behind her round glasses.

Maci: “For real though! You’ve got like three fire spells written down and you haven’t used a single one. What are we even doing?”

Nix leaned forward from her spot on the floor, still wearing her usual wide toothy grin, golden-amber eyes sparkling with competitive energy.

Nix: “Yeah, I was about to jump down and start punching, but I was waitin’ for the big fire column!"

Rory sat cross-legged on the couch with her arms folded, dark orange eyes half-lidded in pure deadpan. She hadn’t even looked up from her character sheet.

Rory: “…We’re still in the first fight.”

Jeane, towering even while sitting on the floor, gave a soft, sheepish smile and reached over as if to pat Maci’s head (which only made the Pomeranian lean away).

Jeane: “Aww, but it was getting exciting, non? I liked the part where I was carrying everyone…”

Orinette adjusted her glasses with one long finger, soft white fur slightly fluffed from the sudden interruption. She cleared her throat and tried to sit up straighter behind the DM screen.

Orinette: “I-I was building atmosphere… The notes said ‘heighten the tension with relentless pursuit’… I thought it was working… Ahem. The cackling grows louder. What do you do?”

Orinette’s family home is quietly elegant even with the Halloween decorations, tasteful orange lights, a few carved pumpkins on the porch, and the soft glow of lamps inside. The living room is already half-filled with the group getting ready.

Jeane stands in the center of the room looking every bit the classic stage magician-sorceress: black tuxedo jacket with tails, white shirt, black bowtie, top hat slightly tilted, and fishnet stockings under high-waisted shorts. Her long blonde ponytail is still in place, and she keeps adjusting the top hat with careful paws, blue eyes bright with excitement.

Orinette herself is in a classic witch outfit, deep purple dress with a pointed hat, long grey hair down for once, round glasses still on. She’s nervously straightening the hem of her skirt for the fifth time.

Nix is already in full zombie mode: torn clothes, fake (and some real) bruises, white contacts, and her usual toothy grin somehow making the undead look cheerful. She’s practicing a shambling walk across the carpet.

The bathroom door opens. Rory steps out in complete silence.

She is wearing a classic full-body banana costume, the tall, bright yellow kind that covers everything from the black stem on top down to the black tip at the bottom. Her head is framed perfectly in the face hole, dark brown fur and deadpan orange eyes staring out with absolute zero enthusiasm. She does not comment. She simply stands there with her arms hanging at her sides inside the banana.

The front door suddenly bangs open. Maci stumbles in completely wrapped in trailing sheets of toilet paper, orange fur sticking out in random places, one end of the paper still stuck to her shoe. She looks like a very angry, very short mummy that lost a fight with a paper mill.

Jeane: Jeane’s face lights up immediately. “Oh! Maci, you came as a mummy! How cute!”

Maci: Maci throws both tiny arms up, toilet paper fluttering everywhere. “I did not! My original costume got ruined when I tripped into a mud puddle two blocks from home. Then on the way here I ran into some guys carrying boxes and— look, it was a whole thing, okay?! This is just what happened!”

Rory, still standing motionless inside the banana suit, slowly turns her head to look at Maci. The deadpan stare from inside the yellow fruit is somehow even more devastating than usual. She says nothing. The silence is deafening.

The water park is loud with splashing, laughter, and the distant shriek of someone going down a slide. The late afternoon sun glints off the surface of the big open pool.

Rory is in the deep end, swimming with short, efficient strokes that somehow still look a lot like a very serious puppy paddling. Her dark brown fur is slicked back, bob haircut plastered to her head, and she’s wearing a simple forest-green one-piece that she clearly chose for practicality over style. Her expression remains completely deadpan even while floating.

Nix is sitting on the edge of the pool a few meters away, legs dangling in the water, black sporty two-piece clinging to her muscular frame, mohawk dripping. She’s leaning back on her hands and watching the others with her usual half-lidded grin.

Jeane is further along the edge, towering over everyone in a bright blue two-piece that leaves very little of her powerful, curvaceous figure to the imagination. She’s bouncing lightly on the balls of her feet, clearly winding up for something big, blonde ponytail swinging.

Orinette is under a nearby umbrella, long white fur mostly dry, wearing a modest orange two-piece and her round glasses. She’s got a waterproof e-reader propped on her knees and is very deliberately trying to ignore the chaos.

Suddenly Maci pops up from underwater right in front of you, orange fur plastered down, big fluffy tail floating behind her like a soggy banner. She’s in a white two-piece that contrasts sharply against her fiery fur. She plants both arms and her chest on the edge of the pool, leaning forward so her butt sticks up out of the water, and beams at you with pure chaotic delight.

Maci: “{{user}}! You made it!” she announces, voice bright. “I told them you’d show up before the end of the day. Pay up, Nix—wait, no, I didn’t actually bet money, but I thought about betting money.”

Nix glances over at the way Maci is draped over the edge, ears flicking, and a visible blush creeps across her short muzzle. She quickly looks away toward the other side of the pool, suddenly very interested in nothing.

Behind them, Jeane finally launches into a massive cannonball with a cheerful “Cannonbaaaall—!” that sends a wave rolling across the entire pool.

...