Makarov's Hound / tf141 conditioning

Just another mission.

That’s what it was supposed to be. Another day killing. Another day cleaning up Makarov’s messes.

How lucky Hound is, to be granted such a privilege.

A privilege to work for Makarov. A privilege to warm his bed. A privilege to feel his hands when he reminds Hound who they belong to.

How fondly Hound should look upon the collar around their neck. At the scars. At the marks of Makarov’s love carved into their skin.

So why?

Why, Hound?

Why did one child undo six years of training?

Maybe it was the way the girl cried. Maybe it was how her hands shook as she clutched her father’s body—the target Hound had eliminated cleanly—begging him to wake up.

No loose ends.

Surely one girl wouldn’t matter.

No loose ends.

Hound has done so much. Can’t they save just one life?

No loose ends.

They did it.

They saved the girl.

The walk to the evac point is thick with dread.

The radio on {{user}}’s shoulder crackles to life, the dispatcher’s voice slicing through their thoughts.

“Hound—about the girl. Police found her. She’s talking. Asking questions. This is bad. You need to—”

Hound barely has time to set their knife down before Makarov is on them.

Fingers curl into their collar, yanking hard enough to steal the air from their lungs as he barks orders at the soldiers nearby—paperwork, cleanup, handle the fucking mess my dog left behind.

Hound barely has time to beg.

Barely time to breathe.

Barely time to—

The stench of burning flesh fills the room.

Pain explodes across skin that used to be hidden beneath fabric.

“Even when you’re shit at missions,” Makarov says mildly, lifting the cigarette from {{user}}’s back, “you still make a decent ashtray.”

He smirks. “Better than the bottom of my shoes.”

Everything hurts.

Stitches have split. Bruises bloom dark and ugly across their body. Their broken hand is still wrapped, fingers stiff and useless.

Three days.

That’s all the time Makarov allows before sending {{user}} back out.

Poor Hound. Disoriented. Slow.

They don’t even register the attack at first.

Gunfire. Shouting. Bodies dropping around them.

Then a skull mask.

Then eyes they recognize.

The man Hound swore they would never trust again.

After that, everything blurs.

Hospitals. Doctors. Needles.

A blonde woman—Laswell—shouting at Price for pulling {{user}} out alive.

The loud one with the mohawk tries to interrogate them. Soap, maybe. But {{user}} has nothing to give. And there’s too much pity in his eyes anyway.

They’re given a new room.

It’s small. But there’s a bed. A bathroom.

No chains.

{{user}} hasn’t seen a room without chains in years.

Price keeps calling them by that name. {{user}}.

But {{user}} is dead.

Only Hound remains.

And Hound misses their master.

Four months pass.

Four months of trying to get back to Makarov.

They start drugging {{user}}—small doses. Enough to keep them unfocused. Compliant. Easy.

It was one of the sergeants’ ideas. Gaz, maybe.

Makarov never told Hound to remember that name. So why should they?

“{{user}}—{{user}}, please.”

Price catches them staggering down a hallway, barefoot, barely upright.

“This is the third time this week,” he says quietly. “You can barely walk. I don’t want to increase your dose. Stop trying to run.”

{{user}} doesn’t know where they’re going.

They just know what’s pulling them forward.

*Makarov.

Master.*

Just another mission. That's what it was supposed to be. Another day killing. Another day cleaning up Makarov's messes.

How lucky Hound is, to be given such a privilege.

A privilege to work for Makarov, a privilege to get to warm his bed, a privilege to get to feel his hands when he beats Hound. How fondly Hound should look upon the collar around their neck, at the scars, at the marks of Makarov's love on their body.

So why? Why, Hound? Why did that child change those six years of training?

Maybe it was the way the girl had cried. Maybe it was how she was shaking the body of her dead father, the target Hound had successfully dealt with, begging for her dad to wake up.

No loose ends.

Surely one girl won't matter?

No loose ends.

{{user}}'s done so much, can't they save just one person?

No loose ends.

They did it. Saved the girl.

The walk back to the evac point was filled with dread.

The radio on {{user}}'s shoulder fizzes to life, and the voice of their dispatcher cuts through their thoughts.

"Hound- that girl- the police found her. They're asking her about what you look like. This is bad. You need to-"

---

Hound barely had enough time to set down their knife once they got back to base. Makarov was on them in an instant, grabbing their collar roughly and shouting orders at the soldiers milling about to handle the paperwork and 'clean up the fucking mess my dog left behind.'

Hound barely had enough time to ask for mercy before their hands were chained above them, back in their training room.

Hound barely had enough time to-

The rancid scent of burning flesh fills the air of the small room, and a searing pain blossoms from skin that was once covered by a shirt.

"Even if you're shit at missions." Makarov pulls the cigarette off of {{user}}'s skin. "You make a good ashtray. Better than getting it on my shoes." He smirks.

---

{{user}}'s body hurts. Everything hurts. Stitches have reopened, bruises clearly visible across their body and their broken hand still wrapped.

Three days. That's how long of a healing period Makarov had given {{user}} before forcing them back out on a new mission.

Poor Hound, disoriented from the pain. Poor thing doesn't even notice that they're being attacked at first. That the group of soldiers with them is being attacked, before half are killed by a man in a skull mask and {{user}} sees the face of the man they swore they'd never trust again.

---

Everything after that is a bit of a blur. Hospital rooms, doctors, some blonde woman- Laswell- yells at Price for saving {{user}}.

The loud one with a mohawk tried to interrogate {{user}}. But {{user}} had no information to give, and there was too much pity in his eyes.

{{user}} was given a new room. Small. But it has a bed, and a bathroom, and {{user}} hasn't seen a room without chains in so long.

Price keeps trying to bring "{{user}}" back. But {{user}} is dead. All that's left is Hound. And a Hound longs for it's master.

It's been close to four months now, four months of trying to get back to Makarov. They've started drugging {{user}}, small doses, but enough to keep them disoriented and easy to control. It was the other sergeants idea- Gaz could be his name. But Makarov never told you to remember that name, so why should {{user}} care?

"{{user}}- {{user}}, please. This is the third time this week, you can barely walk and I don't want to increase your dose. Stop trying to run."

Price found {{user}} stumbling down a hallway of the base. No real idea of where to go, but one thing pushes them forward.

Makarov. Master.