Today, it's wolves. Huge, shaggy beasts with slavering jaws, and sparking metal colanders on their heads.
Myra does not approve. She's more of a cat person, herself, but that doesn't mean she likes seeing things like that done to poor, fuzzy puppies. Plus, controlling the animals with technology like that instead of training them is just lazy. She had to train. For years, every day. No life. No boyfriends -- trainees aren't allowed outside much, and good luck finding a guy in OSI who isn't gay. Just fighting. Fighting, fighting, fighting. Some days, she's just sick of fighting.
She rips the colander off a doggy's head, hoping that might disconnect it from whatever's controlling it, but the whole brain comes out with it and dangles there, gray and dripping. So much for that idea.
She kicks them all in the face instead, then goes after their master, a young guy in a floppy-eared dog costume that looks like he bought it at a cut-rate Halloween store, but he runs off with his unconvincing tail between his legs before she can teach him the meaning of cruelty to animals. She has the feeling they won't be seeing him again. Supervillainy is a dog-eat-dog world -- Ha, her Combat Banter 101 instructor would be proud of that one! -- and he seems even lamer than that guy in the butterfly suit.
Myra sighs and picks up the detached colander, brushing dirt and grass off the wolf brain. Maybe Rusty will find it interesting. Maybe she'll lay it in front of him, and he'll look up at her and say, "Why, Myra! It's just what I wanted! I have the perfect idea for turning this into something useful, yet considerably more compliant with SPCA guidelines." Then maybe he'll touch her face and say, "You know, I've always thought of you as a killing machine, but now I see that you are also a kind, thoughtful person who just wants someone to care for." And then they'll get married, and if she has to keep kicking wolves in the face, at least she'll be doing it for love, and for the chance to touch somebody she doesn't immediately have to kill.
Some days, she suspects this kind of hope may be the only thing that's keeping her sane.
He's wearing an apron. A few years ago, the only way you'd have gotten him into something like that would be to kill him first and then play dress-up with his corpse. But what the hell. He's already had to change his clothes three times today. First there was the blood spray from when he ripped the heads off those guys this morning. Then the vomit from when he made the mistake of telling Dean about it. Then the Doc spilled that green stuff on him -- he'd ended up burning that outfit. Now he's almost out of shirts, and there's no way he's getting pancake batter on his favorite Led Zep concert tee.
"Boys!" he calls out. "Your breakfast is ready!" Well, breakfast, or whatever you call it when you finally get around to making pancakes after spending all day burying bodies and looking up home stain remover recipes.
They come barreling into the kitchen, making noises like... Well, like a couple of small boys, probably. They're the only ones Brock has any experience with, though, so it's not like he has much of a basis for comparison.
"Oh, boy!' exclaims Hank. "Pancakes!"
"Our favorite!" cries Dean.
They both rush over and throw their little arms around his legs. Man, they're getting big. They're nearly up to mid-thigh now, which is, like, waist-high on normal people. He tousles their hair and clasps them carefully on the shoulders. Aww, they're good kids, really. A little weird, yeah. But nice. Not the kind of kids who'd give a guy a hard time for wearing a frilly apron. Funny, though, how you could decapitate a whole army to keep them safe, and they'd just complain that breakfast was late, but give them pancakes, and suddenly you're the Best Bodyguard Ever.
Standing there, with their little bodies tucked trustingly up against him, he slowly realizes that he's feeling something strange. But strange in a good, warm kind of way. Sort of like the feeling after you've just had really great sex, except not actually like that at all, thank God, because that would be disgusting. He wonders if there's a word for it or something.
"We love you, Brock," says Dean, squeezing his leg a little tighter. Huh. Maybe that's it. Go figure.
"Yeah," he says, and musses their hair again. "Go eat your pancakes."
They do, and for a moment he just stands there, in his apron, watching them eat. Y'know he really didn't think much of this assignment when he got it, but now? If it turns out to be a lifetime gig, he might just be okay with that.
It's funny. He doesn't want to have sex with them. All right, all right, it's not like the thought hasn't briefly entered his head, when his meds are wearing off, and it's late at night, and he just feels so damned lonely. But, really, he mostly doesn't. It's the first time his relationship with a boy, let alone two of them, hasn't been defined by his horrible urges. Which is, what d'you call it? Ironic. Because in other ways, it's a little bit like being in love. That feeling of desperately wanting someone to respect you and care about you, wanting to protect them and be there for them, wanting to feel like part of their family, because they're the only important thing in your life. A man's got to have something to care about, doesn't he? After he's given up his career and sold out any friends he might have had, and the only woman he's ever loved won't even talk to him, and he's come to realize that everything that might give him any comfort is just wrong, and the principle he's tattooed across his body doesn't even mean anything to him anymore, if it ever did.
Sgt. Hatred wipes at his eyes, puts the bottle back in the cabinet, unopened this time, and goes off to see if maybe now Hank'll let him teach him how to shoot. Because if he can't make this work, he might as well eat a bullet himself.