The Paradise Enhancement Facility didn't look like a place where lives were remade.
From the approach road, it appeared almost serene—a sprawling complex of interconnected glass and steel structures nestled in what had once been the fertile river valley of Huan Mei. Before the war turned it to mud and blood, this neutral zone had been prized agricultural land, home to experimental hydroponic farms and genetic seed banks. Now, it housed something far more precious and terrible: the future of warfare.
The main building rose three stories high, its curved architecture reminiscent of a cathedral rather than a military installation. Floor-to-ceiling windows captured the weak sunlight, diffusing it through prismatic panels that cast rainbow patterns across sterile white floors. This wasn't accidental design. According to Project H2xD specifications, the visual environment needed to reduce pre-procedure stress by 40% while maintaining clinical precision. The facility's architects had studied ancient temples and modern hospitals, creating spaces that felt simultaneously sacred and scientific.
Inside, the air hummed with carefully calibrated systems. Temperature remained constant at 21.3°C—optimal for canine comfort while preventing bacterial growth. Humidity was maintained at precisely 45%, enough to prevent respiratory irritation but low enough to inhibit pathogen survival. The scent profile was meticulously controlled: 87 parts per million of lavender essential oil mixed with hospital-grade antiseptic, proven to reduce canine anxiety by 32% during initial processing.
"This is Batch 447," announced the convoy supervisor as vehicles pulled into the circular receiving bay. "Logistics and Morale Division candidates. Handle with Protocol Gamma."
The transport doors slid open with pneumatic hisses, revealing rows of individual kennels. Inside each transparent compartment, a dog waited—some sleeping, some trembling, some pressing expectant noses against the vents. They were all small breeds: Pembroke Welsh Corgis, Dachshunds, Shetland Sheepdogs, Shiba Inus, and Pomeranians. Each is under 14 kilograms. Each was destined for the specialized hell of Thway Kan's trenches.
Processing began immediately. Registration scanners read microchips implanted during initial breeding assignments. Biometric sensors recorded heart rates, respiratory patterns, and stress hormone levels as baseline metrics. Photographers captured images from six standardized angles: front profile, left profile, right profile, rear, top-down, and action shot. This wasn't just documentation—it was insurance. After Paradise, some dogs struggled with identity dissonance, and these images served as anchors to their pre-enhancement selves.
WiWi remained still as technicians recorded her measurements. Her autumn-colored fur gleamed under the clinical lights. Her amber eyes tracked every movement, every shadow. She didn't understand the words being spoken about her—"ideal spatial reasoning capacity," "exceptional emotional intelligence markers," "perfect candidate for morale stabilization"—but she understood tone. The technicians spoke with professional respect, not the desperate grief that had filled her home.
"TK-2847-C, proceed to Preparation Room 7," instructed a gentle-voiced assistant, guiding her with soft hand gestures rather than a leash. The corridors branched like arteries through the facility's heart, each turn marked with holographic symbols that corresponded to batch numbers and specialization tracks.
The air changed subtly as they moved deeper into the facility. The floral-acrid antiseptic blend gave way to something sharper, cleaner, more chemical. WiWi's hackles rose instinctively. Her nose detected compounds no unenhanced dog should perceive: trace amounts of viral vector stabilizers, neural growth accelerants, the faint metallic tang of quantum processor materials. Her body knew what her mind couldn't comprehend yet—this was where dogs stopped being dogs.
Preparation Room 7 was a perfect circle. Thirty transparent kennels lined the perimeter, each equipped with water dispensers, comfort bedding, and monitoring systems that tracked biometrics without contact. In the center stood examination tables, medical equipment, and feeding stations designed for small-breed physiology. The ceiling was a single pane of smart glass that could shift from clear to opaque, from bright daylight simulation to night-cycle dimness.
Of the thirty kennels, twenty-eight were occupied. WiWi recognized several transport companions: a fluffy Pomeranian with a blue ribbon still tied around his neck; a red Shiba Inu female with watchful eyes; two miniature Dachshunds whose long bodies trembled as they stood on hind legs against their kennel doors.
The room's acoustic design was particularly sophisticated. Walls were layered with sonic-absorbing materials that reduced external noise by 93%, while subtle harmonic frequencies embedded in the ventilation system maintained a background hum proven to lower canine heart rates. This wasn't compassion—it was tactical necessity. Stress compromised the Paradise procedure's neural integration success rate by 17%.
Dr. Lin Yun entered with two assistants, his white coat immaculate, his expression professionally neutral. He was in his late forties, with the careful movements of someone who had spent decades working with animals. His file noted 1,247 successful Paradise procedures and three psychiatric leaves of absence.
He didn't begin with protocols or paperwork. Instead, he knelt in the center of the room, making himself small, non-threatening. The assistants followed suit, creating a triangle of human calm in the circle of canine anxiety.
"Hello, soldiers," Dr. Yun said softly, his voice calibrated to a frequency range known to soothe canine auditory systems. "My name is Dr. Yun, and I'll be overseeing your transition. I know you can't understand my words yet, but you understand my heart. And my heart is heavy today."
He paused, glancing at the monitoring displays showing elevated stress levels across the room. A slight adjustment to his tone, and the collective breathing patterns of the dogs synchronized fractionally deeper.
"The facility you're in was once a place of creation—not destruction. These walls housed researchers who grew food that could survive climate collapse. They saved seeds from plants that no longer exist in the wild. They believed in tomorrow." Dr. Yun's hand gestured to the circular room. "Xia chose this place deliberately. He wanted the first Enhanced Canine Soldiers to be born somewhere that remembered hope."
Dr. Yun's eyes moved across the room, meeting each dog's gaze briefly. His file noted this was against protocol—establishing personal connection before procedure had been shown to increase post-enhancement psychological distress by 22%. Yet he continued.
"In twenty-four hours, you'll understand these words. You'll understand why you're here. You'll understand the names of the people you're protecting. Some of you will understand too much." He paused, swallowing hard. "Xia—the man who created this place—he thought he was saving us all. His golden retriever, Sunny, died saving his daughter from a fire. Xia asked himself: what if dogs could save us from war the way Sunny saved his child?"
A Pomeranian whined softly. Dr. Yun reached out, not touching, just offering presence.
"He didn't realize he was creating a new kind of sacrifice. One that requires understanding. One that requires love." Dr. Yun's voice dropped to a whisper the monitoring systems barely captured. "We tell ourselves this is necessary. That without you, humanity ends. That without you, children like Jian and Tommy and Hana will have to fight in the Blood Pool. And maybe that's true. But truth doesn't make this right."
One of the assistants shifted uncomfortably. The protocol dictated that they move to sedation preparation. Dr. Yun ignored the signal.
"Xia's notes contain a passage he never shared with the Council. I found it in his personal journal after he disappeared." Dr. Yun's voice cracked slightly. "'I have created heaven only to cast them into hell. Sunny would have hated what I've done in his name. But my boy will be safe. Humanity will be safe. Is a father permitted to weigh the life of his child against the souls of three million dogs? God help me, I have already answered.'"
Dr. Yun stood slowly, wiping his eyes with a precision that suggested long practice at hiding grief. The smart glass ceiling shifted to a soft twilight simulation—the pre-sedation protocol.
"May Albora forgive us," he whispered, the words barely audible over the hum of the ventilation system. "May you forgive us."
As assistants moved toward the kennels with sedation syringes, the facility's hidden speakers began playing a recording of children's laughter—the first of many sensory anchors designed to connect pre-Paradise memories to post-enhancement identity. The sound filled the circular room, surrounding the dogs with ghostly joy as they awaited transformation.