It’d be nice to be able to stop fainting.

As an added bonus, it’d be nice to actually have decent dreams when I do.

I wake up, shake myself off, and prospect my new surroundings – immediately understanding that I’m in the realm of my doggie dreams.

There’s a cushioned highchair and a wooden desk lying in the middle of an oddly decorated, four cornered room – more like a chamber than part of a house or apartment. I look around me and see nothing but shelf upon shelf of books, bound up in ornate leather, and a collection of clocks tick tick ticking away incessantly. Anywhere there isn’t a bookcase, there’s the oval or (bizarrely) rectangular face of a clock whittling away every second of my already short enough life.

I give an indignant harrumph! And turn away from them, but only then do I notice the man sitting in the seat behind the wooden desk.

He’s scribbling away with an ink pen on a piece of weathered parchment, and each scratch feels like claws raking themselves across my brain. I wince as I hear him etch out whatever he is on his paper and, having no alternative, decide to hop up onto the cushioned chair and tell him what I think of him:

“Do you really have to do that?”

He stops and glances up at me. Bright eyes set in a youthful, pale face shine in my direction. His cheeks are gaunt, pallid, and altogether unreal. Something about his face feels off. There’s an almost perfect symmetry to his features that throws me. He’s wearing a checkered suit and tie with flannel sleeves that whip around relentlessly as he writes, and taking him in, I begin to feel even dizzier than I did before.

“Ah,” he says simply. “Canis Lupus Familiaris. Please, make yourself comfortable.”

I feel my butt slam down on the seat without even thinking about it. Part of me thinks this was more of a command than an offer.

“What did you call me?” I ask.

He opens a desk drawer, folds his parchment neatly, and files it away with the slow, practiced grace of a dancer. “Forgive me. For the record, you understand. All proceedings with assets must be correctly labeled and logged. Standard procedure. If I may –“

He leans forward and the milky pad of my paw is in his hand before I can even growl for him to get lost. He pricks the middle of my pad with his stylis.

“OW!” I cry out, but his hand has retracted just as my teeth flare up.

“Forgive me,” this bungling cretin says again. “Necessary to confirm that the transfusion has taken place. Errors in judgement and calculation must be accounted for. Naturally, I take full responsibility.”

I stare at him blankly as he produces a small vial, unstoppers it, and prods the tip of his stylus with a perfectly filed nail so a tiny speck of my blood hits the bottom.

“Results should return in approximately five hours local time. In the interim, I will administer a full and detailed briefing to the asset.”

I shake my head, jump forward, and place my weathered paws on his desk.

“What are you talking about?!”

I get the feeling he isn’t even talking to me. What the heck is an ‘asset’?

The clocks continue their ticking as the well-dressed specter clears his throat, as though about to make some royal proclamation.

“Asset designation: Raziel.”

My ears flare up.

Oh, yeah. That’s my name. Right?

“Location: Arwyll, Western subcontinent: The Drethen Demense. Colloquial target designation: Darkseed. Objective: termination.”

I stare back at him as I slump in my seat, my head going hazy again, my stomach grumbling for a steak. Not even a good one. I’d take it well done at this point.

“Apologies,” this ghost-man says. “Again, for the records.”

I look down at my fluffy belly and just wish someone would scratch it already.

“Look,” I say. “I know this is a dream. So, I’m going to count to three, and on three, I’ll think of something better than this.”

I haven’t even begun counting when the ghost-clerk gives a mirthless chuckle and flashes that same, creepy smile at me.

“You always were a jovial sort, Raziel,” he says. “I am glad to see you have not lost your sense of humor. We consider it vital for our assets to retain a sense of their humanity whilst in our employ. Of course, in your case, we felt this might be rather difficult.”

Stolen story; please report.

Hold on…

“Did you just say ‘employ’?”

He blinks. “Naturally. Rest assured that you are now officially under our direct supervision. We were concerned with Asset #4’s recent expiry and are not ashamed to admit that your successful attempt at unaided transfusion was not within our projected outcomes.”

Transfusion.

Like…blood transfusion?

“You…” I mutter, trying to piece together the language of this machine-man, trying, at the same time, to tie his words together with those of Witherfang and his wolves. “You mean when I licked that guy – that Greycloak – that died in the forest…I…”

“Precisely!” my interlocutor replies with sudden glee. “I knew you would come to understand the situation. I must admit, as Asset #4’s Handler, I was rather disappointed with his recent performance. You, on the other hand, show great versatility and viability as an asset. Make no mistake, we are very interested in observing the results of your transfusion. Especially considering the near-certain chance of expiry.”

"...Expiry?"

"Indeed. Transfusion without following proper protocols carries with it a 79.999% (repeating, of course) chance of instant expiry. Normally, emergency transfusion is carried out only in extreme circumstances and after the proper records have been adjusted and environmental factors accounted for. You, however, have managed quite well on your own. Well done."

I suppress the desire to throw up.

Actually, wait, no I don’t.

I fall to the floor and spill my guts on the room’s pristine carpeting as I come realize what the hell I’ve done: I drank that guy’s blood. I tasted it, and it made me…this.

The ghostly clerk beams down at me.

“The results of the transfusion will linger for a time,” he says. Completely calm. “But we find that symptoms of the initial exhaustion tend to expire within 48 standard hours. In a matter of seconds our meeting shall conclude, and you will be returned to Arwyll to commence your duties in earnest.”

“Hold. ON!” I shout up at him, jumping weakly on his desk and barking at his incredulous face. “Did you do this to me? Tell me how to get rid of this! I don’t want to be…whatever this thing is I am now. I just want to be a Corgi.”

He cocks his head at me as the dark corners of sleep begin to creep in from the side of my eyes again.

“Transfusion is an irreversible process,” he says, seemingly surprised. “At least, we see no compelling rationale for attempting reversal. It remains the most convenient method of transferring and maintaining Assets. Assets are only considered nullified by expiry or successful termination of their target. In this regard, we felt our direction in the wake of your System Initialization was most clear,” he adds. Then, after clearing his throat: “’Finish the fight’, yes?”

I waver between light and dark, trying to hold his face within my eyes.

“You…help,” I say, weariness taking over. “I don’t…I don’t…know…”

After a few seconds of consideration, he deigns me worthy of a reply:

“It is generally not within the purview of Handlers to offer their Assets personal assistance. I am to serve merely in an observational capacity and to act as your System Administrator. Anything further is considered outwith the bounds of our designation, you understand. However, given the situation, we feel that the exceptional circumstances of your transfusion merit a degree of guidance.”

For an instant, his face disappears from my sight, and I feel as though a spike has been driven into the side of my brain. I yelp, fall, and then see a blazing image of a castle – a veritable bulwark of iron and stone, standing tall at the top of a mountainside, looking down upon a valley of thorns.

“The organization known to Arwyll as the ‘Greycloaks’ have always assembled at the behest of our Asset,” the pale man continues. “In their base of operations, our influence is exceptional, and allows for sustained communication. You should find their fortress, gain entrance, and commune with our beacon within. I am sure that any further queries you may have at that time shall then be answered. In addition, we can guarantee the remaining followers of Asset 4, such as they are, shall assist you in your efforts.”

He then shrugs his shoulders as though everything he’s said meant nothing at all.

“Of course, these are simply suggestions,” he explains. “We would never presume to dictate the path an asset must take. We shall back your efforts, so long as you hunt the minions of the Darkseed.”

My mind is going again.

What else…is…new?

“When you wake, heed the counsel of Canis Lupus. They will provide ample direction.” I hear the smiling spector say as he resumes his scribbling. Then, as the world around me goes blank: “We wish you luck, Asset 5.”

----------------------------------------

I wake to a torrent of spittle-strewn tongues.

“He lives! Everyone – the Little Brother lives!”

I know that voice belongs to Swiftrunner before my eyes blink through the gunk of sleep, and the wolves preoccupied with resuscitating me cease their efforts and drop into reverent bows.

At their head, the ragged body of Witherfang sags in relief.

“Welcome back, Lightborn,” he says. “As you can see, your exploits have not gone unnoticed.”

He’s right. As I slowly rise, shaking myself off, I see the haggard members of the tribe watch my every move, some whispering into the alert ears of their friends or pups.

As I simply stare back at them, tongue lolling dumbly out my mouth, I find that I’ve bumped into a familiar face.

Snappingjaw stands over me, supported by two of her Sisters. Her scars are still fresh, and that makes her smirk all the more surprising.

“You did…ok…loaf,” she says.

“Hail!” Comes the general shout from the tribe. “Hail the Lightborn! Hail the Loafblade!”

I blink up at them all.

“Loafblade?”

“A name most worthy for our hero!” Swiftrunner cries – adding his voice to the chants. “A name that will be sung by the stars as they look upon his glory.”

My eyes pass from face to face signing my praises, filling the dead air above the hollowed-out tree trunks of the forest. Their voices rise to a chorus that sails across the night skies, probably waking up every creature that still lived in the forest.

-You have earned the title: Loafblade-

You gain the following faction disposition adjustments:

Clan Jagged-Tooth (+50)

Minions of the Darkseed (-100)

Lovely, I think. Looks like my life’s only getting weirder. But at least ‘Loafblade’ is better than ‘Asset.’

Then my thoughts drift back to the dream-vision that felt so real only moments ago, and when I turn back to Witherfang, the sparkle in his sharp eyes tells me he knows what’s running through my mind, right now.

“Everyone!” he yells. “Tonight, we honor the Lightborn – our Loafblade – by showing him we remain strong even in the face of this evil. Tend to your wounded Brothers and Sisters, take what you can from your dens. We must make preparations for the Exodus.”

And amidst yelps and barks and righteous howls of assents, he noses me gently and nods towards the edge of the den ridge.

“Come,” he says. “It is time you knew the whole truth.”