It was a labradoodle. Probably only a few years old, energetic, and barking like many dogs did at 3am. Wolframite only knew the dog because the people who owned him lived in an apartment a block or so away that had a small back yard with a lit garden. This is where the dog was tied up. Ladon had seen it once or twice as he hopped roofs on his way to the inner city and tried to avoid the lights whenever possible.

Before, he admired anyone with a pet, having never had one.

Tonight, he had a much different opinion.

He had left his room. Left the bed where Billy no doubt was still sleeping. Ladon had woken in a cold sweat, hands covering his ears and failing to stop the sound. Bark. Bark. Bark. Bark. The sound of calling out for help. The whining, moaning, yowling, barking cries for someone to come. It was a noise he knew.

In the shadows, he looked over to Elliot, the small plush dog, loved, worn, now untouched on the little table where he had set him delicately. The dog was speechless, but Ladon got up to make sure. Elliot hadn’t spoken since the BMC, and poking him, the stuffed dog only flopped on its belly, unresponsive to its master’s touch.

He had wondered about Elliot. The dog had been there when he woke up after Billy rescued him and brought him home. Ladon had been surprised to find him there, in his room, and first thought it was a ghost or an imposter. He smacked it away off its table and threw a pillow on it, sure it was some evil creature. Once he noticed it did not move, did not whine at being hit, he returned to it and saw it did not breathe. Then he had laughed at the idea that it could breathe. Of course Elliot couldn’t breathe.

But he had barked. He had barked back then, and walked, and rested on his shoe some nights or days or whatever time it had been when he tried to sleep and not dream. But even Ladon knew how crazy that sounded and never told Billy. So far, he brought up nothing of his time missing and the security in no one bringing it up also made him feel safe.

The dog kept barking, and he covered his ears, breathing hard.

It had to stop.

On the roof, in the dark, he looked at the dog in question. It noticed him, despite the shadows. His energy was noticeable, and it looked up, and barked. Glass shattered as the first garden light was destroyed. Honestly, if the owners didn’t wake up for a barking dog, a broken bulb wasn’t going to stir them into waking. Then, to follow suit, he destroyed another. Then another. And then another. For the ones he could reach, he kicked them out. For the ones he couldn’t, he tried several times with his weapon. Good practice, but hard with one hand being of any use. The dog whined only at the sound of glass, and then went back to barking.

The garden was dark aside from a few solar nights that gave off a weak, blue glow.

His heels crunched on broken glass as he walked down the cobblestone path. Designed with exotic plants that could hadn’t the climate and keeping feng shui in mind, even the dog house reeked elegance. Custom made to look like an actual house, compete with shingles and tiny windows.

When he approached, the dog finally curled it’s lips up, flashing white teeth that contrasted with it’s curly, black fur. Wolframite stopped, and looked. It was strange to have a dog regard him as a threat. I’m a threat? “You brought this on yourself. You called out. You asked for company. You asked for help. No one is going to help you. No one cares. They put you out here to die.”

And that was exactly why he was here. The dog barked, it’s tone more threatening, more challenging. “I’m going to make this fair. No chains. A real fight. I’m not like them, but I’m not like me either.”

He rose his weapon and with crack, shot the blade at the wood. It splintered, and he tried it again before the chain hinge holding the dog snapped and freed itself of the overpriced house. The dog was free to do as it pleased, and seeing a strange in the dark, it acted.

It wasn’t a drawn out battle. In the end, the dog was just a dog. It had one attack. Run, jump, and latch on to what it could. Wolframite had more moved, and jumping before he could be hurt, a mark that would be hard to explain to Billy, he rose up and then kicked down. A kick to the animal sent it down. Another kick hit its head, and bare hands were all that were needed to break a neck.

Then it was quiet.

The labradoodle’s head rested on the ground where Wolframite slowly set it down, breathing hard as he looked to the mutt. It wasn’t a victory. It hadn’t even been a fight. It was a dog. An animal. They’re animals. “…but they’ll be harder to kill.” …but more satisfying. He touched his brow, breathing deep. Turning, he headed back, wanting to go back to bed. He’d wash his hands free of the smell of pampered pooch, and then crawl back into the covers with Billy where it was nice, safe, and quiet. Where he hoped to not dream. Where he could get some rest from thoughts of what he was, wasn't, and might becoming. Where he didn't have to think of what was or had never been barking. Where the next day, he wouldn't say a word of what happened, and keep quiet like he kept quiet about everything else. Quiet was a good thing. He knew that. He learned that.

He’d probably put Elliot in the closet beforehand just to be sure.