Chapter 4 Unholy Pet

Days passed in a blur of humiliation and rage. My new existence as "Echo" consisted of tests, training sessions, and performances designed to showcase the successful consciousness transfer to potential investors. Dr. Finch and his team worked tirelessly to document my adaptation to the canine form, forcing me through obstacle courses and cognitive tests while visitors watched from behind glass barriers.

"The SPX-9 model represents the pinnacle of our bioengineering program," Dr. Finch would explain as I solved puzzles that would challenge most humans. "Human-level intelligence housed in an enhanced canine form, with triple the strength and sensory capacity of a natural dog."

I performed their tricks, not out of obedience but strategy. Each successful demonstration earned me more freedom, more opportunities to observe and plan. I needed to make Damien remember, to break through whatever programming Vera had installed in his memory index.

After two weeks, I was permitted limited access to certain areas of the mansion—always monitored, always wearing the specialized collar that could deliver a paralyzing shock if I ventured into restricted zones. The staff treated me as a prized experiment, something between a pet and a weapon.

Damien avoided me. I caught glimpses of him in hallways or through windows, but he always turned away, his expression troubled. Vera, however, made a point of visiting the laboratory daily, watching my tests with calculating eyes.

"We should accelerate the combat training," she told Dr. Finch one afternoon, reviewing my performance data. "The military representatives are coming next week. They want to see aggression metrics."

Dr. Finch frowned. "The subject has been resistant to aggression protocols. We've had to increase the stimulant dosage three times already."

"Then increase it again," Vera snapped. "This project cost us millions. I want results."

That night, they injected me with something that made my blood feel like fire. When they released me into the training arena the next morning, everything looked red-tinged, threatening. I fought the chemical rage, focusing on memories of my human life to anchor myself.

Two handlers entered the arena with padded suits and shock prods. Standard procedure—they would provoke an attack response, measure my strength and speed, then subdue me when the demonstration was complete.

"Begin aggression test," Dr. Finch announced from the observation deck.

The handlers advanced, prods crackling with electricity. I backed away, fighting both their threats and the chemicals urging me to attack.

"Subject is resisting," noted a technician. "Adrenal readings are elevated but she's suppressing the response."

Vera's voice cut through the speaker system: "Use the secondary protocol."

One handler pulled something from his pocket—a small holographic projector. The image that appeared before me was Damien and Vera, locked in an intimate embrace. My heart rate spiked, the drug-induced rage finding a focus.

"Emotional trigger effective," the technician reported. "Aggression levels rising."

I lunged at the hologram, teeth bared. The handlers took advantage of my distraction, jabbing me with the prods. Pain shot through my body, intensifying the rage. I turned on them with a ferocity that shocked even me, tearing through the protective padding on one handler's arm.

Blood. The taste of it triggered something primal in the canine brain I now inhabited. I fought for control, backing away from the injured handler.

"Remarkable restraint," Dr. Finch observed. "She's fighting the combat programming."

Vera looked displeased. "Increase the dosage for tomorrow's demonstration. I want the military representatives to see what this model is truly capable of."

After the test, they hosed me down in a sterile chamber, the cold water washing away blood and the lingering effects of the stimulants. As my mind cleared, shame washed over me. I had hurt someone. Despite everything they'd done to me, I had never wanted to become a weapon.

That evening, unexpectedly, Damien came to the laboratory. He dismissed the night technician, an unprecedented breach of protocol.

"I'll observe the subject myself tonight," he said, his tone allowing no argument.

When we were alone, he approached my enclosure cautiously. I remained still, watching him.

"Dr. Finch says you're fighting the combat protocols," he said quietly. "That shouldn't be possible. The enhancements should override conscious resistance."

I met his gaze steadily.

He ran a hand through his hair, a gesture so familiar it made my heart ache. How many times had I watched him do that when he was troubled, working late into the night on a difficult problem?

"Something's wrong with this entire project," he muttered, almost to himself. "The emotional responses don't match our models. And today..." He pulled up a holographic display showing my vital signs during the combat test. "Today you actively resisted harming the handler, even under chemical compulsion."

I stood, moving closer to the barrier separating us.

"Vera says it's just programming glitches, but I've never seen code produce this kind of... moral resistance." He studied me intently. "What are you? Really?"

This was my chance. I needed to communicate, to break through somehow. I looked around my enclosure and spotted the water bowl. With deliberate movements, I knocked it over, then used my paw to spread the water across the smooth floor.

In the puddle, I began to write with my claw: A-R-I-A.

Damien's eyes widened as he watched the letters form. "That's... impossible."

I continued: I-S E-V-E-L-Y-N.

His face paled. "No. This is some kind of advanced mimicry. You're responding to data in my memory index."

I scratched more urgently: R-E-A-L. N-O-T C-O-P-Y.

His breathing quickened. "Stop this. Now."

Before I could continue, the laboratory door slid open. Vera entered, her eyes narrowing as she took in the scene.

"Damien? What are you doing here so late?" Her voice was sweet but her posture was tense.

He straightened quickly, stepping away from my enclosure. "Just checking the subject's cognitive responses. Dr. Finch mentioned some anomalies."

Vera approached, slipping her arm through his possessively. "You work too hard, darling. Come to bed. Let the technicians handle the experiment."

As she led him toward the door, I barked sharply, desperately.

Damien hesitated, looking back at the message in the water, already evaporating.

"Did you see that?" he asked her. "The writing."

Vera's expression never faltered. "What writing, darling?"

"It spelled Aria. And Evelyn."

She laughed lightly. "Your mind is playing tricks. It's just water splashed around by an animal. Come, you need rest."

But Damien pulled away from her, returning to my enclosure. He stared at the fading letters, then at me.

"Run a DNA comparison," he said suddenly. "Between the canine subject and the original body's records."

Vera's mask slipped for just a moment, revealing alarm. "That's unnecessary. We already verified—"

"Do it anyway," he interrupted. "Something isn't right."

He knelt beside my enclosure, studying me intently. "There's something on her shoulder. A marking through the fur."

Dr. Finch, summoned by the commotion, entered the laboratory. "Sir?"

"Look at this," Damien said, pointing to a patch on my shoulder where the fur thinned slightly. "Is that a birthmark?"

Dr. Finch leaned closer, frowning. "It appears to be. Strange, I didn't notice it before."

"Aria had a birthmark exactly like that," Damien said quietly. "On her left shoulder. Like a small crescent moon."

I sat perfectly still, hope rising for the first time in weeks. The birthmark—my birthmark—had transferred to the canine form, just as my consciousness had.

Dr. Finch looked troubled. "That's... unusual. The physical form shouldn't replicate such specific details unless they were deliberately programmed."

"Or unless," Damien said slowly, "this isn't a replica at all."

Vera stepped forward, her composure regained. "Darling, you're exhausted. You're seeing connections that aren't there."

"Run the DNA test," Damien insisted. "And check the original memory index files. I want to see the unaltered versions."

Dr. Finch nodded. "It will take some time, but yes, we can do that. Although, sir, I should note—only the original would have that genetic pattern. A clone or replica wouldn't show the same epigenetic markers."

Vera's eyes flashed with something dangerous. "This is absurd. We have investors waiting, military contracts pending. We can't delay because you're having sentimental doubts."

Damien turned to her, his expression hardening. "Those contracts can wait. Something isn't right here, and I intend to find out what it is."

As they argued, I watched Vera carefully. For the first time, I saw fear behind her perfect facade. She knew what a DNA test would reveal. She knew what the unaltered memory files would show.

When they finally left, Vera's arm once again linked possessively through Damien's, I felt something I hadn't experienced since my transformation: hope. The birthmark had been noticed. Questions were being asked.

That night, as I lay in my enclosure, I heard technicians whispering outside the laboratory door.

"Ms. Quinn wants the subject prepared for the combat demonstration tomorrow, regardless of Mr. Cross's concerns."

"But he specifically said—"

"Ms. Quinn signs the checks. Get the injections ready."

I closed my eyes, steeling myself. Tomorrow would bring more tests, more degradation. But Damien was beginning to question, beginning to see. I needed to stay alive, stay aware, until the DNA results came back.

For the first time since my transformation, I allowed myself to imagine a future beyond this cage—a future where Damien would know the truth, where he would understand what Vera had done to both of us.

And when that day came, I would make her pay.