Disclaimer: These people belong to their creators, not to me.

Warnings for intimations of torture and the wholesale slaughter of chickens.

_|88:88 88|_

Timesheet

by Nightfall

part one

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_|4:14 AM|_

Darkness shuttering away to a rough, grey ceiling. Mmm... stone. Grey stone. Blue stone. Baby chimera with delicious temper. Baby princesses with burning hatred. Lovely little sorceresses leaving trails and wakes of destruction. All eminently teasable.

Hungryyyyyyy...

Breakfast. Breakfast soon. But if breakfast is soon, then...

_|4:15 AM|_

POUNCE! "Huff huff huff pant whiiiiiiiine yip yip yip snarl!"

"All right! I'm up! I'm already up!"

"Yip yip yip!"

"Gah! Keep your breath and your claws out of my face, you dumb canid!"

"Whiiiiiiiinesnarl!"

"I know you're hungry. I'm hungry, too. I don't suppose the pack would let me eat first for once in my undeath?"

"Growl."

"Well, it was worth a try."

COLD floor! Maybe someday she'll let me have a carpet. And maybe new pajamas. This pair's getting ratty. Better keep the argument on a 'keeping up appearances' note and not mention how BLOODY COLD it is in here! No hope for a new blanket, of course.

"Fenris, where are my pants?"

"Snrkhmph."

"I'm not feeding you until I'm fully clad."

"YIP?! Snaaaarrrrl!"

"Are you kidding? What if someone turns up? You think Master would want me to walk around in these? ...Good boy."

"Growl."

"...Okaaaay, fine. Good big bad wolf. Now pull those teeth in before I remind you who's beta around here and who's just another piece of the pack."

"Hrmph."

Dumb wolves. Nothing but hack and slash and feed me, beta! As though I didn't have enough to do. Inconsiderate pack. Just because I have opposable thumbs.

"You know, someday I'm going to make you people catch and skin your own chickens. You ought to be ashamed of yourself, letting someone human- shaped do it for you. I mean, every canine in existence who hasn't been spoiled rotten into a domesticated stupor feeds itself."

"Growl!"

"Funny thing, Fenny-me-pup, but I find that my observations only piss people off when they hit the mark."

Where's my shirt? There it is. Needs ironing. And de-dusting. Under the bed with the dust bunnies is no place for a good uniform piece. This shirt, of course, is another story. Why is it mustard yellow, again? Am I some hyper-sanguineous Chaos-Dragony-type minion that I should be forced to wear the most bilious shade of beige in existence? Why does my uniform have to make me look sallow? You'd think the hair would be a hint about my ideal color scheme.

And yet they question my orientation. You'd think the hideous ensemble that no sane gay entity would be caught upright in would toss them a hint.

It'd be wrong, of course, but there you are.

What the... oh, *Master.* Again?

"Fenris?"

Ooh, I got the deadly tone right. Ooh, look at the pointy little ears drooping. I'm good.

"You gnawed my boots."

Droop, little ears, droop, droop. Heehee.

"New boots! Fetch! NOW!"

Dolphin and Phibrizzo's minions get to form clothing from their own substance. I have to run back home and change every time I get a little scratch. Of course, they're totally undisciplined and essentially unrecognizable from one moment to the next. And it is easier to pretend you're all better after you've been ripped in half when they think the perfect new shirt is part of you and you have energy to spare for it. But if my boots were part of me, we wouldn't have to go through this every other week.

"Ah. Thank you, Fenris. What a moderately well-behaved canine you are. No, I will not scratch behind your ears. You, sir, are in disgrace. I may even send you to the doghouse if you don't behave yourself. Now, bring me my ankle-wraps."

[end part one]