Chapter Text
All that Chan feels is rage.
He sits by his pole, seething with rage, too tired to yank against the chains that bind him to the large metal spire. He does not whine, does not cry, or growl; he sits on the filthy ground, muddy with spilled water and his waste.
He makes no sound when the men come to give him food, he sits and watches as they dump a crude soup into his dog bowl. He doesn't move when a rough hand pets his matted fur and tugs on his torn ears.
He knows that biting is impossible with the muzzle strapped to his head.
It’s metal and heavy, and its weight, combined with the collar and chains around his neck, drained him of energy.
So he sits. Lets the anger build as the man's hand runs down his spine, teasing the fur that ran down his back, and yanking on his short tail.
The man speaks and Chan does not listen, the words are not for him. He sits with his eyes tied to the bottom of his pole and waits for the man to finish petting his greasy fur.
With a final pat to the top of his large head, the man stands and leaves, giving a sharp whistle when he reaches the edge of the yard.
Chan knew what that meant.
He surges forward, diving his head into his dog bowl. The muzzle allows just enough movement in his jaw for him to lap up mouthfuls of the warm soup. It’s a thin soup, made of ground raw meat and dog kibble with water and maybe what Chan had once assumed was some sort of broth.
Chan didn't think enough to assume things anymore.
He eats fast, licking what was stuck at the bottom of the bowl through the muzzle.
When he can’t get any more, he makes his first noise of the day. A deep, snarling growl makes its way out of his throat. He can see the chunks of meat and kibble still in the bowl, but he can’t reach it. He itches with anger when no matter how hard he tries he can’t lick the scraps up.
He yanks away from his pole, snapping the chain taunt so hard it rings through the yard. He wheezes as his collar chokes him, holding the pressure for a few seconds before exploding in a series of harsh thrashes. Choked snarls and whines make past the abuse of his throat, so loud he hurts his ears.
He pauses for a second, body rigged as he breathes hard. He sits back on his haunches and yanks as hard as he can, digging his paws into the mud. He used to hope that maybe, if he pulled hard enough, the pole would move, and he’d be able to free himself.
But Chan hasn't hoped like that in a while.
He starts to trash again, rage bubbling so loud that a few harsh barks tear out. Almost as soon as there's a pause in his barking, a whistle sounds through the yard.
This one is low and sweet, misleading for the threat that it is.
Very rarely, Chan feels more emotion than rage.
Fear.
It washes ice cold over him, and instantly he stops thrashing. His whole body shakes as he lays down, completely silent as he rests his head on his paws.
He does not move, does not feel anything but fear, as footsteps slowly approach him. A hand curls down to his throat, unlatching the chain from his collar. It is replaced quickly by another, but this time it’s held in the hand of a man, and not tethered to his pole.
Chan listens, for he knew this was the one time he was expected to. He stands when given the command, hauling his large body up onto huge paws, he is no longer shaking. With a tug of the leash, they start walking.
The man speaks, voice raspy with smoke.
“No fights today.”
Chan's steps falter, ears twitching.
The man chuckles, “No, no fights, today, someone wants to buy you.”
Chan stops walking altogether, his paws spread wide in the dirt to keep himself in place. He breathes heavily, thoughts racing for the first time in a long while.
Someone wants to buy him. That was not a good thing. Someone buying him meant new training, new expectations, new behaviors. The men who owned him now were not his first owners, and Chan has always known they wouldn’t be his last. But he has been here for so long, he doesn't even remember his previous owners' faces.
He doesn't want to leave.
Chan tugs backward on the leash.
He doesn't want to leave his yard, his bowl, his good food (it was the best he’d ever been given) his-
His pole.
Everything was so consistent here, two men, only one came in at a time. They whistled and talked to him, and the only thing really expected of him was to fight . Would this new owner make him fight? Would they feed him good food? Would they beat him? All of his owners beat him, even the one holding his leash at this moment.
Chan doesn't want to leave.
He’s startled from his scrambled thoughts as the man whistles sharply, flinching as if he had been struck. But he remains in place.
He is stronger than this man, he is going to stay , he can’t sell him because Chan isn’t going to move. He pins his ears and lets out a small growl, looking up at his owner and seeing his enraged face.
Something blurs in front of his eyes and before Chan can react, he sees stars.
When his vision clears all he could register is that he is lying in the dirt and is in pain ; aching sharply between his ears. He has been struck, hard .
“Get up now .” The man growls, but Chan is too dizzy to get his paws beneath his body, his limbs scrambling in the dirt as he tries to get his brain back online.
The man turns to call someone, “Oi! Get me my baton, the mutt isn’t listening.”
Chan lets out a strangled whine, fear tearing at his insides, and stands. He ducks his head low and nudges it against the man’s leg, begging without words for mercy.
“Oh-ho, that was quick eh? Jeez, it’ll be sad to see your well-trained ass go.”
With a trash tug that almost knocks Chan off his paws, they start walking again. Chan wobbles at first, but quickly his head clears and he can walk steadily out the gate when the man opens it.
Chan looks back, blinking at the sight of the yard. He wonders if this would be the last time he would see it.
A yank to his collar snaps him back to reality, and he lets himself be led to a patch of gravel.
Four men are standing there. One of them is his other owner, and the other three are new to Chan.
One is tall, with long hair, and the other is short and bulky with muscle, Chan does not look at their faces. No, he only looks at the man standing in between them. He has sharp features and eyes that bore into Chan.
The sharp man doesn't pay the others any mind, simply stepping forward and grabbing Chan by his muzzle. Chan nearly tugs back, but a short, sharp whistle comes from the man holding his leash.
He goes pliant.
He lets himself be inspected, lets the man turn his head, inspect his paws, tug out chunks of his blowing undercoat; (It was almost spring, Chan was already beginning to shed). He doesn't flinch when the man’s hand runs over a wound on his side, it hasn't yet healed after his last fight.
“How did you treat this wound?” The sharp man asks, Chan realizes faintly he shouldn’t be listening, the words are not for him.
“Eh just hosed him with some water and sprayed some iodine on it, ‘should be healed well in a day or two.”
Chan stops listening as the men talk, only zoning back in when his leash is handed over to the sharp man. His vision goes blurry as his owner leads the sharp man through giving him commands. He sits, laid down, heeled, and plenty of other things. When they were done he sat, eyes forward and ears pin straight.
More words are spoken, and Chan sits for even more time.
He loses track of time, but eventually, there is another tug on his leash and his release command is spoken. His breath stutters as he realizes the hands leading him aren't his owners, but instead the sharp man’s.
He’s really leaving.
He turns and looks back, knowing his yard was just around the corner.
He doesn't want a new yard, he doesn't want to go with these new men, he wants the men who stink of smoke and speak to him as they pet him. He doesn't want this.
But Chan knows better than to test the patience of these new men, he has already stalled long enough. He turns and lets himself be led to the stranger's car. The tall man opens the trunk, revealing a kennel, and Chan jumps into it without hesitation. Fear is already pricking at the back of his neck from taking too long.
Chan loses his awareness when he is in a car, nothing makes sense and the constant swaying while in a crate makes his stomach twist. He’s learned that it is better to lay his head down and wait until the vehicle stops than to stand and try to balance.
He stays in place as the men get out of the car, only moving when the sharp man grabs his chain after opening the crate door.
His joints ache as he jumps from the car, focusing his blurry vision forward when the sharp man tugged him .
Chan does not look around, but he smells .
Something is not right about the air here.
It smells clean, he smells trees and grass, and…
Chan smells other hybrids.
And no scent of fear, or anger, no sour emotions that stunk in his nose. No, it smells soft, almost creamy, edged with emotions Chan could no longer recognize.
Fear pricks under Chan's skin as he is led to a series of large chain-link kennels.
Something isn't right about this place.
He is led into one of the kennels, which is large and shaded, with a sort of hut in the back. The sharp man leads him to the middle.
The sharp man unlatches the leash from his collar and retreats quickly.
And Chan?
Chan stands there.
Chan stands trying to understand what is happening, what just happened.
The sharp man took off his leash .
There was no pole, no pole , no chains, no yard, no commands, no beatings to teach him “who the alpha is.”
Nothing.
Chan stands, he stands until his legs can't hold him anymore, and then he sits. When his back and hips can no longer handle his sitting, he collapses to the neatly packed dirt.
Chan does not move when it grows dark, does not move when a space heater next to the kennel kicks on and blows warm air over him, and doesn't move when the need to void grows. He lays there and floats, his brain so overwhelmed with change that he can no longer even try to figure out what is happening.
He doesn't sleep during the night, he is barely aware time is passing until the sun starts to light the kennel and someone comes to stand in front of the door.
Chan bristles when he catches the scent of the stranger.
It is a cat.
He stands up fast as lightning, a snarling bark tearing from his throat. He surges forward, the sound of metal clashing ringing in his ears as his muzzle meets the fence.
The cat does not flee, they just stand there , ears and tail twitching in, in some kind of emotion Chan can't identify.
Chan growls meanly, muzzle still pressed to the fence as he makes eye contact with the cat. Their hair is blonde with patches of it black and orange, freckles litter their skin, and the fur of their ears and tail was a shining calico.
Chan wants to rip them to shreds.
“Oh wow…” the cat says softly, “They really messed you up huh?”
Chan doesn't pause in his aggression, a new, unsettling emotion setting in his chest that only makes him bristle further.
“Well, Minho’s gonna be out soon, he’ll get that thing off you and give you breakfast. Everything’s gonna be okay, don’t worry.”
Chan watches as the cat turns and walks for a second, snarling when they suddenly turn back.
“Oh! My name is Felix by the way, though I doubt you’ll remember that when we get you fixed up.”
And with that, the cat was gone.
Chan stands at the fence for a few moments before his legs shake too much and he lays down. He has not drank water or eaten in over a day at this point and had not voided in more hours than he could process.
He rises to unsteady paws and stumbles to relieve himself, before going to check the dog bowls set in a metal holder. One is filled with water, the other empty.
Chan dips his muzzle into the water, gathering it in his mouth before tipping his head back to drink it. He had learned quickly how to drink with a muzzle that doesn't allow him to lap at water.
He drinks as much as he could, getting the water down to a point where he could no longer get it into his mouth.
Chan growls as a familiar feeling of rage bubbles in his chest, but his aggression is cut off when he hears footsteps approaching. He sniffs the air.
The sharp man is back.
Chan's vision blurs as he sees the bowl in the man's hands, he knows what’s about to happen.
Fear claws at his chest when the man doesn't whistle, just opens the door to the kennel and steps inside. It seems like he’s not going to use the training his previous owners had taught him. Chan breathes deeply as his brain latches onto that thought.
The man moves past Chan, watching him the whole time even as he bends to swap the empty bowl for the one Chan assumes is full of food. Chan tilts his head in a weird muddled emotion.
Does this man fear him?
While Chan is trying to process that thought, the man moves closer. Chan automatically bends his head to be pet, expecting rough hands petting over his fur. But no.
The sharp man's hand curls around Chan's head, grabbing the latch of- of the muzzle .
The sound of the latch being undone triggers many things. Too many things for Chan to understand.
He turns sharply as the muzzle falls to the floor, mouth open and teeth exposed.
Because he’d never gotten good about not redirecting onto his handler.
And Chan had really only been taught one thing about his muzzle coming off.
Fight.
His vision blurs but somehow sharpens as his teeth sink into flesh, his brain settling into a feral instinct to shred every solid thing he can get his maw on.
He knocks the sharp man down, no longer thinking of him as master, owner, or even human . No, this man is now Chan’s chew toy, a thing for him to maul and destroy.
He lunges up the man's face when he is tired of mauling his arm. Adrenaline filling his veins as he goes for the soft parts he knows are vulnerable.
He won't stop until the screams ringing in his ears fade to nothing but gasps and wheezes.
Or, that's what Chan would typically do.
This time he is torn off his prey by the neck.
Chan is used to this, once he had gotten settled into actually attacking, his trainers had built “drive” in him, since he never really had much of it naturally. Pulling him off his prey and teasing him until enough frustration built for them to let him go, making him return to his prey with far more aggression and anger.
“Baiting” is what they had called it, and his “bait” never made it out alive. Not that Chan cares now.
Chan doesn't care because to him this is not training, there is no expectation of behavior here, so he fights against the arms of the man holding him back.
He faintly hears the yelling of the sharp man and the man holding him, but he is more focused on turning his body enough to get leverage to bite the man- it is the short man Chan realizes.
Chan just barely gets to sink his teeth in before he feels something stab him in the neck.
He snarls, shaking his head to rip flesh before his muscles start to loosen, his body relaxing against his will.
As Chan's jaw slackens he has one final, startlingly clear, human thought.
“Did they just sedate me?”