The Central Genetic Repository for Logistics & Morale Division wasn't what most people imagined when they thought of a puppy nursery. Nestled in a secure sector of the Eastern Support Territory, the facility resembled more a cross between a hospital and a high-tech agricultural research center than a home for newborn dogs. Yet within its sterile white walls, life pulsed with the same warmth as any litter of pups.
Dr. Lin adjusted her glasses as she examined the monitoring screen displaying vital statistics for Litter 447. "Neural development within optimal parameters," she murmured to her assistant. "All twelve puppies are showing the desired temperament markers for Logistics & Morale assignment."
The breeding program had been refined over decades since the Xia Doctrine transformed warfare. Genetic mapping had identified specific traits that made certain breeds ideal for particular military roles. For Logistics & Morale Division, they needed intelligence wrapped in compact bodies—dogs under 10kg who could navigate the narrow trenches of Thway Kan while maintaining the emotional intelligence to sense and soothe their comrades' distress. Pembroke Welsh Corgis, with their problem-solving abilities, pack loyalty, and distinctive low-to-the-ground stature, had proven perfect for the role.
This particular litter was special. Their sire, Champion Maple Valley Scout, had served three tours in the Blood Pool before succumbing to radiation poisoning. His genetic profile carried exceptional spatial reasoning and an uncanny ability to detect emotional distress in others. Their dam, Riverbend's Golden Promise, had been bred specifically for her calm temperament and nurturing instincts. The combination had produced twelve perfect candidates for the military's most emotionally demanding division.
At exactly 8 weeks old—precisely when canine socialization windows peaked—the puppies were prepared for distribution. Each was microchipped with a registry number, vaccinated against battlefield pathogens, and given preliminary temperament assessments. The process was efficient yet gentle, for these were not machines being assembled but hearts being prepared for sacrifice.
Marcus Chen had never been good with waiting. Standing in the distribution hall alongside dozens of other families, he shifted his weight from foot to foot, his worker's hands fidgeting at his sides. Next to him, Mei held seven-year-old Jian's hand tightly.
"Are you sure about this, Marcus?" Mei whispered, her voice barely audible over the murmur of the crowd. "Once we take her, there's no going back."
Marcus looked down at his son, whose face glowed with anticipation. "Every family must serve," he recited the familiar directive. "The Exchange Draft Policy is clear."
"But not yet," Mei insisted. "Jian's still young. We could request a delay—"
"No." Marcus's voice was gentle but firm. "The breeding cycle is calculated precisely. If we refuse this assignment, they'll draft me instead. And you know what happens to humans in Thway Kan." His eyes held a pain too deep for words. "Six weeks. That's the average survival time."
Jian tugged at his father's sleeve. "Daddy, will she like me? What if she doesn't want to be our dog?"
Marcus knelt, meeting his son's eyes. "Dogs choose us as much as we choose them, Jian. Remember that. And this one... she'll know you're waiting for her."
A chime sounded through the hall, and a uniformed administrator stepped onto the elevated platform. "Families of Litter 447, please approach the distribution stations in order of your registry numbers. Remember that your assigned puppy has already been genetically optimized for the Logistics & Morale Division based on your region's needs assessment. Bonding begins today, but your responsibility continues until the Paradise procedure at eighteen months."
Eighteen months. The words hung in the air like a death sentence neither spoken aloud nor forgotten.
The Chen family's registry number was called, and they were directed to Station C. Behind a glass partition, a technician held a crate containing three squirming Corgi puppies. These weren't the last picks, Marcus knew. The distribution was carefully calibrated—this litter had been specifically bred for families in their district, each puppy matched to household profiles based on psychological assessment algorithms.
The technician opened the crate and placed the three puppies on a soft blanket. "Observe their interactions," she instructed. "Allow them to approach you naturally. The bond forms more quickly that way."
Jian stepped forward first, crouching down so he was at their level. Almost immediately, a small female with autumn-colored fur and distinctive white markings on her chest separated herself from her siblings. She approached Jian with cautious curiosity, her tiny tail wagging tentatively. When Jian held out a gentle hand, she sniffed it thoroughly before licking his fingers with a pink tongue no bigger than a fingernail.
"She likes me," Jian whispered, tears already forming in his eyes.
The puppy made a soft sound—not quite a bark, not quite a whine, but a unique little noise that seemed to belong only to her.
"What was that?" Marcus asked.
Jian grinned. "I think she's saying her name."
Mei knelt beside them, offering her hand next. The puppy approached with the same careful consideration, sniffing thoroughly before accepting Mei's touch. When Marcus extended his hand, she hesitated only briefly before pressing her tiny head against his palm.
"The registry number is TK-2847-C," the technician said as she handed over a packet of materials. "Female Pembroke Welsh Corgi, weight 3.2 kilograms, projected adult weight 9-10 kilograms. Her preliminary assessment shows exceptional emotional intelligence and spatial reasoning capability. She's yours to raise for the next eighteen months."
Marcus held the puppy gently as she squirmed in his arms. She was so small—fragile, really—with the translucent pink skin visible beneath her fine coat. Her ears were still soft, not yet developed into the distinctive upright shape of adulthood. Her eyes held an ancient wisdom that seemed incongruous with her tiny body.
"What should we call her?" Jian asked.
Marcus looked into the puppy's amber eyes. "What do you think your name is, little one?"
The puppy made that same distinctive sound again—a soft, breathy noise that somehow felt like a word.
"WiWi," Jian declared. "Her name is WiWi."
Mei stroked the puppy's head. "WiWi. I like that. It doesn't mean anything in any human language. It's just... you."
And so it was settled. WiWi—just WiWi—came home to Maple Street.
The technician's final words followed them out the door: "Remember to document her development milestones. The pre-Paradise behavioral assessments are critical for her post-enhancement adjustment. She'll need all the love you can give her. It's what will sustain her later."
Marcus didn't ask what she meant by "later." He already knew.
The walk home was magical. Jian insisted on carrying WiWi in his arms, cradling her like the most precious treasure in the world. She slept most of the way, exhausted from the excitement of her first day, but whenever she woke, she would lick Jian's chin or nuzzle against his neck, making that soft WiWi sound that had given her her name.
At home, they set up a makeshift bed from an old sweater in the corner of Jian's room. That first night, despite their best intentions to let her sleep alone, WiWi cried whenever she couldn't feel human contact. By midnight, she was tucked between Jian and his mother, her tiny body warm against Jian's side, her breathing steady and peaceful.
"She's perfect," Mei whispered in the darkness.
Marcus stroked WiWi's soft fur. "She is. And we have eighteen months to love her exactly as she is."
The early weeks were a blur of feedings, potty training, and sleepless nights. WiWi grew quickly, her proportions changing daily as puppy fat filled out her frame. She learned the routines of the Chen household with remarkable intelligence—when Father Chen came home from his shift at the generator plant, when Mei prepared meals, when it was time for Jian's lessons.
At three months old, something remarkable happened.
Mei had been having a difficult day. News had come that her sister's family had received their draft notice—her Golden Retriever, Sunny, would be undergoing Paradise next month. She sat at the kitchen table after dinner, tears silently tracking down her face as she stared blankly at the wall.
WiWi, who had been playing with a stuffed toy in the living room, suddenly stopped. Her head lifted, ears pricking forward as she seemed to sense the shift in the household atmosphere. She dropped her toy and trotted into the kitchen, where she stood before Mei and made a soft, questioning sound.
When Mei didn't respond, WiWi did something extraordinary. She turned and trotted down the hall to the bedroom she shared with Jian, returning moments later dragging one of Mei's slippers by its heel. She placed it carefully at Mei's feet, then sat back on her haunches and looked up at Mei with those wise amber eyes.
Mei stared at the slipper, then at WiWi. "Oh, little one," she whispered, pulling WiWi into her lap. "You felt that I was sad, didn't you? And you brought me comfort."
WiWi licked Mei's tears away, her tiny tail wagging against Mei's arm.
Marcus appeared in the doorway, having witnessed the exchange. "That's not normal behavior for a three-month-old puppy," he said quietly. "Even for a Corgi."
"It's why they chose this breed for Morale Division," Mei replied, holding WiWi close. "Because they feel what others cannot."
Jian joined them, his small hand stroking WiWi's back. "She's not just any dog, Mama. She's WiWi. And she loves us."
From that day forward, WiWi's role in the family shifted subtly. She wasn't just a pet or a future soldier—she became their emotional barometer, sensing moods before they were spoken, offering comfort before it was asked for. She would nudge Father Chen's hand when he was stressed after work, guide Jian back to bed when nightmares woke him in the night, and position herself strategically between her humans during arguments, as if her mere presence could bridge any divide.
Dr. Lin would have been pleased. WiWi was exhibiting exactly the traits they bred for in Logistics & Morale Division—emotional intelligence, intuitive understanding of human needs, and an ability to provide comfort that went beyond training.
But the Chen family didn't think about any of that. They simply loved a small dog with autumn-colored fur who made a distinctive sound that had become her name.
Six months passed in a blur of growth and bonding. WiWi learned the boundaries of their garden, the best spots for sunbathing, and every member of their neighborhood. She developed a particular fondness for chasing butterflies but a deep-seated fear of ducks after an unfortunate encounter at the local pond. Father Chen built her a small house in the backyard, but she refused to sleep in it, preferring instead to curl up at the foot of Jian's bed each night.
Her size increased steadily but remained compact—perfect for the narrow trenches she would one day navigate. Her ears stood proudly upright now, constantly swiveling to catch every sound in their home. Her coat thickened into rich red-gold fur that glowed in the morning sunlight. But her eyes remained the same—amber pools holding that ancient wisdom that had captured their hearts from the beginning.
Marcus documented everything in the development journal that the facility had provided. WiWi's first successful retrieval of a toy. Her reaction to thunderstorms (hiding under Jian's bed). Her preference for sleeping pressed against Mei's side rather than Jian's or Marcus's. Each observation was a treasure, each note a prayer that somehow these details might matter later—might help the scientists understand the dog behind the soldier.
When WiWi was nine months old, Marcus took her to the mandatory development assessment at the local Enhancement Center. The facility was clinical and intimidating, but the technician, an older woman with kind eyes and a slight limp, immediately put them at ease.
"How is she at sensing emotional distress?" the technician asked as she examined WiWi's physical development.
Marcus described the slipper incident and several similar occurrences.
The technician nodded, making careful notes. "Excellent. She's showing early signs of the empathic abilities we need in the Morale Division. Does she respond to vocal stress cues or primarily physical ones?"
"Both," Marcus admitted. "She seems to know when someone is upset before they do."
The technician smiled sadly. "That's the gift and burden of these breeds. They feel everything deeply. It's what makes them so effective on the front lines, but also what makes the separation so difficult."
Marcus felt a familiar ache in his chest. "How many make it back? After Thway Kan, I mean."
The technician's professional mask slipped briefly. "I'm not authorized to discuss casualty statistics. But I can tell you this—I lost my Border Collie, Scout, three years ago. He was a Morale Specialist. The last letter I received said he'd saved thirteen dogs from combat stress breakdowns in his first month. He made a difference, Mr. Chen. That matters."
Marcus looked at WiWi, who was patiently allowing her teeth to be examined. How could this small creature, who still chased her tail and barked excitedly at mealtime, possibly survive what awaited her?
"We have nine more months," he said quietly.
The technician placed a gentle hand on his arm. "Make them count, Mr. Chen. Every single one."
As they left the facility, Marcus noticed other families arriving with their adolescent dogs—German Shepherds, Dobermans, Mastiffs—each one showing the same mix of pride and dread that he felt. The unspoken truth hung heavy in the air: they were all raising heroes who would likely never come home.
That night, Marcus held Mei close after Jian and WiWi had fallen asleep. "I can't imagine a world without her," he whispered. "I look at her now, chasing dust motes in the sunlight, and I can't picture the trenches. I can't imagine her carrying a rifle or wearing a uniform."
Mei's voice was fierce in the darkness. "Then don't. For these next months, let's just love WiWi. Not the future soldier, not registry number TK-2847-C. Just our WiWi. Our daughter."
And so they did. They filled their days with walks in safe parks, picnics on weekends, and quiet evenings where WiWi would lie across Jian's lap as he read to her. They celebrated her first birthday with a special chicken dinner (ration cards be damned), and Marcus carved her name into the wooden beam above the fireplace—WiWi Chen—a permanent mark in a temporary life.
As her eighteenth month approached, the shadows lengthened. News reports spoke increasingly of "successful deployments" and "strategic advances" in Thway Kan, but the Chen family noticed the subtle changes in their community. Families who had sent dogs to Paradise grew quieter. Children who had lost their canine companions seemed to age overnight. And every month, the draft notices arrived like clockwork, thin gray envelopes that carried the weight of futures extinguished.
WiWi, sensing the shift in mood though not understanding its cause, became more protective. She positioned herself between her family and strangers at the market. She growled softly at delivery drones. At night, she slept with her head on Jian's chest, as if memorizing the rhythm of his heartbeat.
Marcus documented it all in his journal. "Subject TK-2847-C shows heightened protective behaviors as maturity approaches. Emotional intelligence continues to exceed benchmarks. Forms deep attachments to all family members but shows a particular bond with the child subject Jian Chen. Exhibits distress when family members express anxiety, particularly regarding calendar dates." The clinical language couldn't capture the truth: WiWi loved them fiercely, completely, unconditionally. And that love would one day be her greatest weapon—and her greatest vulnerability.