The other dogs squirmed in their bracers as the conveyor belt mercilessly churned on. pale blue lights illuminated overhead, only offering the briefest of glimpses of your predicament. The tribe was strong, immutable against prey and predator alike. but this invader fought with light and steel foreign to your limited understanding. Despite your pride and strength. your muscles would not overcome the bonds the captors have placed upon you. Now the ground itself betrays you, moving your brothers ever forward. The hunters in your pack slotted into alabaster seats, braced with cushions around your arms and legs. Too soft to injure, but too strong to pull away. Even your heads were forced to stare forward at a black panel.

Then the lights came.

They existed to confuse the issue. Trying to twist your perspective of these wardens. Twisting them from malicious captors, to benevolent commanders. Laughable. A warrior as loyal as you would never believe such drivel! Minutes pass and the message continues. Even if it were true it would fall upon deaf ears, you chose your path with the tribe. Hours progress, the floors and walls have turned to mush. A steady flow of fluid trickles from your mouth. Words are hard to form as time goes on. Bleeding into symbols you had never recognized. Slowly being trained to obsess over them. Thin wires feed sustenance into your body. Electrolytes, Adrenaline, Testosterone, Proteins and Amino Acids. Flooding your body with a NEED. An URGE. To WATCH the SCREENS. To AWAIT COMMAND. You would break free. Once you finished your MISSION to WATCH the SCREENS.

Days pass.

Tight armor is placed over your body. You barely feel them interface in between the brief bouts of consciousness whenever the screen doesn't have your absolute attention. Sometimes the armor has to be welded in place to ensure it's never removed but you don't remember the pain. All that you can cling to now is the URGE. The singular need to be directed as instructed. To let the steady cocktail of Adrenaline, Testosterone, Dopamine, and Endorphins to ensure that WATCHING the SCREENS was always pleasurable. No. not exactly pleasurable. It felt good but it wasn't something so basic. it was.... POSITIVE.

Weeks Pass.

Standing at attention. Having completed several hours of sniper training. You are rewarded with eight seconds of POSITIVE. grunting into the tiny tubes that drain away all the drool you produce for lack of thought. Preferring the COMMANDER BROADCAST to transmit orders directly into the cartilage of your ears. You locked into a salute to prevent any body spasms that typically came with POSITIVE. Now sporting a tall, proud mane like your squadmates, you were clearly much greater SOLDIERS now than simple, limited warriors. Once the final training is complete, your number will be tattooed in the side of your neck, your shoulder, and the center of your chest. Branded like the valued resource you are. And all that old, meek little doberman underneath the layers of armor, plastic, and chemical programming is a singular, immutable truth:

ARF. UNIT 001 has been PROCESSED by the COMMANDER. ARF. UNIT 001 is CONTROLLED by the COMMANDER. ARF. UNIT 001 is eager for COMMANDS. ARF. ARF. ARF. ARF.
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In the earliest days of my brainstorming (I want to say 2002) I had spun a small comic about a tribe of raptors turned into programmed soliders. The idea was quite a mess, as I am no real artist. However the idea stuck, and I eventually introduced the skeleton of the concept to Cai. Naturally he took it like a good dog to a bone, and churned this lovely piece out showcasing the look. If I recall, the helmet is capable of opening up, but only at the behest of the commander wishing to perform an inspection. I imagine that in addition to the heads up display the visor transmits, it can also encompass the soldier's vision into a swirl similar to the ones they watched during orientation. to keep them in check in case program reinforcement is necessary

Art by  diodki666