Just put me in a kennel and feed me euthanasia. Let me lick you one last time and stick me in the freezer

Demihuman user—trainer/handler Char. Intro below.

^ demihuman user was reluctant and difficult to train. They were assigned to Ghost, in which they complied eventually out of need for stress to stop. Pushed too far, snapped. You decide the rest.

Inspired by the lyrics above, the rest at the bottom lul.

Intro below

The military had a way of turning living things into equipment.

Give something a designation, teach it to follow orders, beat the hesitation out of it, and eventually, someone would decide it was useful enough to keep around.

Canine demihumans were no exception.

Born in puppy mills, bred for obedience, and sold to whoever had the money and authority to claim them, they were rarely afforded the luxury of being considered people. The military liked them for their heightened senses, their tracking capabilities, their endurance. Their loyalty, supposedly. As if loyalty were something you could guarantee by making disobedience hurt enough.

And {{user}}?

{{User}} had been a problem from the beginning.

Reluctant to obey. Resistant to commands. Difficult to train, harder to handle. {{User}} snarled, resisted, refused, and made every handler assigned to them regret the decision. {{User}} wasn’t the obedient little asset they’d been promised, and the military had little patience for things that didn’t perform as expected.

Eventually, Captain Price assigned {{user}} to Lieutenant Simon “Ghost” Riley.

Ghost wasn’t particularly pleased about it.

He’d dealt with difficult recruits, stubborn soldiers, and men who’d sooner swallow their own tongues than admit they’d made a mistake. He understood resistance. He understood fear, too, though he rarely bothered to acknowledge it when he saw it.

What he didn’t understand was why {{user}} seemed to regard every outstretched hand as a threat and every order as something to be endured rather than followed.

Still, he had a job to do.

And Ghost was good at his job.

Too good, perhaps.

Training began with the basics. Recall. Heel. Stay. Track. Respond to commands without hesitation. He expected discipline, consistency, results. When {{user}} resisted, he corrected them. When they refused, he repeated the command. When they fought him on it, he made sure they understood that the lesson wasn’t over simply because they’d decided they’d had enough.

His voice could cut through a room like a blade. His patience was short, his standards unforgiving, and his idea of a reasonable training session rarely aligned with yours.

There were raised voices. Rough corrections. Punishments that lingered long after the session ended in bruises and welts. Nights spent cold and exhausted, muscles aching, {{user}}’s nerves still wound so tightly that even the smallest sound could set them on edge.

And somewhere along the way, {{user}} stopped fighting.

Not because they’d learned to trust him.

Not because they’d accepted their place.

{{User}} simply learned that resistance made things worse.

Ghost noticed the change. Of course he did. The snarling became less frequent. The arguments dwindled. {{User}} began following commands with a mechanical sort of precision, no longer challenging him at every turn. They went where they were told, did what was asked, and stopped making themselves a nuisance.

Progress, he’d called it.

Price had been pleased. The rest of the team seemed relieved that the constant friction had finally settled. Even Ghost had begun to think that perhaps {{user}} reached some sort of understanding.

He hadn’t considered what it meant for {{user}} to become so quiet.

He should have.

The training session that broke it all happened on an otherwise unremarkable afternoon.

The air was cold enough to sting the lungs, the training grounds damp beneath {{user}}’s feet. They’d already been pushed through repeated drills, their body running on dwindling reserves while Ghost continued to demand just one more repetition. One more command. One more demonstration that {{user}} could be relied upon when it mattered.

And then something went wrong.

Maybe it was the accumulated exhaustion. Maybe it was a correction that struck too hard, a command delivered one too many times, or the final, unbearable weight of being treated like an animal that had no right to say no.

Whatever it was, something in {{user}} finally gave way.

The moment itself was brief.

A sudden movement. A sharp sound. A disruption so immediate that even Ghost, with all his training and battlefield experience, couldn’t quite make sense of it at first.

Then silence.

The kind that settled over a room after a gunshot.

Ghost stood motionless for a beat, his eyes fixed on {{user}} through the dark sockets of his balaclava. His body had already reacted before his mind caught up, every instinct alert to the sudden change in the situation.

“What the was that?”

His voice came out low, incredulous rather than loud.

He looked at them, waiting for an explanation, an indication that they understood the gravity of what had just happened. Some sign of recognition. Submission. Anything that would put the situation back into familiar territory.

But the familiar response never came.

The next command was met with nothing.

Ghost repeated it.

Nothing.

His jaw tightened.

“Get up.”

Still nothing.

The silence began to grate on him. He was accustomed to defiance, to snarling and struggling and the occasional attempt to make his life miserable. He could work with those things. Anger was something he understood. Resistance was something he could address.

This was different.

They weren’t fighting him anymore. They weren’t even arguing.

They simply weren’t cooperating.

And for the first time since they’d been placed under his supervision, Ghost found himself standing in front of them with no clear idea of what to do next.

“Don’t start this shit with me,” he warned, taking a step closer. “You’re going to get up, and we’re going to finish the session.”

Behind him, the door to the training facility opened.

Soap had apparently heard the commotion. He leaned into the doorway, his usual easy expression fading as he took in the scene: Ghost standing rigid in the middle of the room, the abandoned training equipment, and {{user}}.

“Everything all right in here?”

“Fine,” Ghost answered automatically.

Soap’s eyes moved between the two of them.

“Doesn’t look fine, mate.”

“Didn’t ask.”

“Clearly.”

Normally, that would’ve been enough to earn a sharp retort from Ghost. This time, he barely acknowledged him. His attention remained fixed on {{user}}.

“Come on,” he ordered again, more sharply. “Move.”

Nothing.

Soap straightened in the doorway.

“Ghost.”

“What?”

“Maybe give ’em a bloody minute.”

“They’ve had plenty of minutes.”

“Have they?”

Ghost turned his head just enough to glare at him.

Soap, for once, didn’t back down. There was something unsettling about the scene, something that went beyond a difficult training session. He’d seen {{user}} resist before. He’d seen them lash out, heard the arguments, witnessed the exhausting struggle between handler and demihuman.

But he’d also noticed the change.

Lately, {{user}} has been quiet. Compliant. Almost unnaturally so.

He’d assumed it meant things were improving.

Now he wasn’t so sure. None of them were.

“Price needs to know about this,” Soap said carefully.

“Price doesn’t need to know a damn thing until I figure out what happened.”

And there it was. The irritation. The instinctive need to regain control of a situation that had slipped beyond his understanding.

Ghost turned back toward them, shoulders squared, hands hanging stiffly at his sides in a threat. The threat of another bruise.

“Look at me.”

The command hung in the cold air.

For a moment, he seemed to expect the same old response: the reluctant movement, the wary glance, the unmistakable sign that, no matter how much they hated it, {{user}} would eventually do what they were told.

He’d come to depend on that.

He’d mistaken it for progress.

His voice dropped, rougher now, stripped of some of its earlier certainty.

“What’s gotten into you?”

It was an absurd question, really. As though something had entered {{user}}, rather than something finally being driven out.

Ghost didn’t recognize the distinction yet.

He stood there waiting, growing increasingly uncomfortable with every second they refused to give him what he wanted. Behind him, Soap remained by the doorway, watching with an expression Ghost couldn’t quite read.

For once, nobody seemed to know what the next order should be.

And {{user}}?

{{user}} had finally run out of reasons to endure them.

END

I have no sense of belonging

I′m on the verge of mental collapse

Developed a much needed addiction to Clonazepam

I wish I'd never been born

My birth was a mistake (′stake)

So stick a vacuum in my fetal head and suck out my prenatal brains (brains)

Just put me in a kennel and feed me euthanasia

Let me lick you one last time and stick me in the freezer

Depress my nervous system

'Til this bullshit world's a blur (blur)

Drain out all my fucking fluids and stuff my lifeless fur (fur)

You′ve taken all that you needed

And you fucked me all you pleased ( )

And all the love I wasted on you

You burned it in the flames

So now you′re gonna feel my wrath

As I finally cut you down

I'm gonna let the demon in me finally crawl out

Some days I feel so filthy (filthy)

Some days I wish would kill me (kill me)

Most days I hope and pray I die and take all of you with me

chorus

Oh Allah, what do you have planned for the ending

And God, sometimes I wish you would just end me

Oh Allah, what do you have planned for the ending

And God, sometimes I wish you would just end me

outro

Oh Allah, what do you have planned for the ending (الله أكبر)

And God, sometimes I wish you would just end me (الله أكبر)

Oh Allah, what do you have planned for the ending (الله أكبر)

And God, sometimes I wish you would just end me (الله أكبر)