The Central Genetic Repository Distribution Hall echoed with the sounds of hope and heartbreak.
Eight-week-old puppies filled the waiting area with the soft scuffles of tiny claws on polished floors. Pup TK-5591-R was one of four Rottweiler puppies in Station 12—a massive male even at this young age, with ears that hadn't quite grown into themselves and paws large enough to trip over. His black coat shimmered with hints of mahogany in the sterile light, and his intelligent eyes held a depth that made the technician pause in her assessment notes.
The Callahans arrived precisely at 14:30. Eleanor Callahan moved carefully, her steps measured and deliberate, her face pale but smiling. Three years in remission from breast cancer had given her back some of her strength, though her frame remained slender beneath the soft sweater she wore. Patrick Callahan walked beside her, his arm protectively around her shoulders, his eyes scanning the room with the vigilance of a man who had learned to treasure ordinary moments.
"Families are matched based on temperament compatibility," the technician explained, her voice professionally neutral. "Rottweilers like this one are ideal for households needing stability. They're protective, loyal, and form deep bonds that last a lifetime." She carefully avoided the unspoken truth—that these bonds would one day be leveraged to send them to war.
Eleanor approached the kennels slowly, her movements cautious. The other Rottweiler puppies immediately began competing for attention, their tiny bodies wriggling with excitement. But Pup TK-5591-R hung back, watching her with an intensity that seemed too old for his young face. When Eleanor knelt and extended a trembling hand, the puppy approached with surprising gentleness, sniffing thoroughly before placing his massive paw carefully on her knee.
"He knows," Eleanor whispered, tears forming in her eyes. "He knows I'm fragile."
The puppy tilted his head, studying her face with those intelligent brown eyes, then gently licked her fingers with a pink tongue that seemed too delicate for his powerful jaws.
Patrick smiled for the first time in months. "He's solid. Like iron. When everything else feels like it's falling apart, he just... stands there."
Eleanor stroked the puppy's head, her fingers tracing the soft fur between his ears. "And his paws... they're so careful with me. Like he understands exactly how much pressure to apply."
"Ironpaw," Patrick said decisively. "That's his name. Ironpaw Callahan."
The technician nodded, making a notation on her tablet. "A strong name for a strong dog. Remember to document his development milestones. The pre-Paradise behavioral assessments are critical for his post-enhancement adjustment."
As they left the facility, Eleanor cradled Ironpaw against her chest, his warm body a comforting weight against her heart. Patrick carried the supply bag containing food, toys, and the mandatory development journal they were required to keep. The midday sun cast long shadows across the pavement, and for a moment, they stood together—a family reborn in the fragile space between remission and relapse, between hope and the inevitable draft notice that would one day come.
The early months were a time of healing. Ironpaw grew quickly, his massive frame filling out with muscle and bone, yet he never lost the gentleness that had first drawn Eleanor to him. He learned the rhythms of the Callahan household—the morning tea ritual, the careful tending of Eleanor's small garden, the evening walks that grew shorter as her energy waned.
When the cancer returned, it came like a thief in the night. Eleanor's doctor called it "aggressive"—a rare form that didn't respond well to standard treatments. The hospital visits began again, the medication schedules covering the refrigerator door, the oxygen tank that appeared in the corner of their living room like an unwelcome guest.
Ironpaw sensed the change before anyone spoke of it. He began sleeping on the floor beside Eleanor's bed instead of his own cushion. He learned to recognize the signs of pain before she did—her breathing would change, her hands would tremble slightly, and he would position himself exactly where she needed him, his massive body a living support against her fragility.
One Tuesday afternoon, during Eleanor's worst week of treatment, she sat in her wheelchair on the back porch, wrapped in blankets despite the summer heat. Patrick had gone to the medical center for her pain medication. She was alone except for Ironpaw, who sat motionless beside her chair, his intelligent eyes never leaving her face.
When the wave of nausea hit, when Eleanor doubled over in her wheelchair, retching into the small basin provided for such moments, Ironpaw didn't flinch. He didn't move away from the sickness. He simply shifted his massive body closer, pressing his warmth against her leg, his head resting gently on her knee.
Eleanor managed to lift her head, her face pale with pain and medication. "You're solid," she whispered, her hand trembling as she stroked his head. "Like iron. When everything else is falling apart, you stand there like iron."
She paused, breathing through another wave of pain. "And your paws... they're so gentle. When you touch me, it's like... like a promise."
From that moment, he was Ironpaw. Not a registry number. Not a future soldier. Just Ironpaw—her iron strength when she had none left.
As Eleanor's condition worsened, Ironpaw's vigilance increased. He learned to open doors by jumping to reach the handles. He carried items from room to room with surprising gentleness in his powerful jaws. He positioned himself between Eleanor and anyone who might upset her—delivery people, medical technicians, even well-meaning relatives whose grief was too loud for her fragile state.
One afternoon, when Eleanor was particularly weak, she asked Patrick to bring her old ballet slippers. Soft, worn fabric that had danced across stages before the war, before cancer, before life had narrowed to hospital rooms and pain management schedules.
"They're the only shoes that don't hurt," she explained, her voice thin. "The only thing that still fits."
Ironpaw watched as Patrick helped her slip them on. He pressed his nose against her feet, inhaling the scent of lavender soap and medicine and the unique signature that was Eleanor.
"These were mine when I was a girl," Eleanor whispered, stroking his head. "Before I knew anything about war or cancer or dogs with numbers instead of names. When I thought life would be long and gentle."
She closed her eyes, tears leaking from the corners. "Take care of him, Patrick. When I'm gone. Promise me you'll take care of him until they come for him."
Patrick couldn't speak. He simply nodded, his hand finding Ironpaw's massive head, holding on as if the dog were the only anchor in a world coming apart.
Ironpaw didn't understand the words "gone" or "until they come for him." He understood the fear in Patrick's touch, the grief in Eleanor's tears. He pressed closer to her wheelchair, his body a solid warmth against her fragility.
For three more days, Ironpaw never left Eleanor's side. He learned to drink from a bowl Patrick placed beside her bed. He ate only when she insisted. He positioned himself precisely where she needed him—against her back when she sat up, beneath her feet when they ached, beside her head when the pain made her cry out in her sleep.
On the fourth night, Eleanor woke suddenly. The moonlight through the window caught her face, making her look almost peaceful.
"Ironpaw," she whispered. "Come here, my good boy."
He lifted his head immediately, his intelligent eyes holding hers.
"You're going to have to be brave," she said, her voice stronger than it had been in weeks. "Braver than me. When they take you away, you'll understand things you don't understand now. You'll see terrible things. But you must remember this—you were loved. You are loved. That's your true strength. Not the iron in your name, but the love in your heart."
She lifted a trembling hand, placing it on his chest, over his heart. "Carry that with you. Wherever they send you. However far you go. Never forget that you were loved."
Ironpaw whined softly, pressing his head against her hand.
"I know," she whispered. "I know you understand."
She closed her eyes, her breathing growing shallower. "Promise me you'll wear my slippers sometimes. When you're scared. When you miss me. Promise me you'll remember how gentle you can be."
Ironpaw placed his massive paw carefully on her hand, a gesture he'd never done before. A promise.
Eleanor smiled—a real smile, the first in months. "Good dog," she whispered. "Best dog."
She never woke up. Ironpaw stayed beside her through the night, through Patrick's grief, through the quiet arrival of the medical team who took her away at dawn. He lay on the floor where she had been, his head on her pillow, breathing in the fading scent of lavender and medicine.
Patrick didn't sleep. He sat in the living room, staring at the draft notice that had arrived the day before. The timing was cruel. Inevitable. The Exchange Draft Policy waited for no one—not for dying women, not for grieving men, not for dogs who had just lost the human who gave them purpose.
In the morning, Patrick buried Eleanor's ballet slippers in Ironpaw's travel bag along with his registration papers and medical records. He avoided looking at the registry number on the documents—TK-5591-R. A number that reduced his wife's faithful guardian to a military asset.
Ironpaw sat patiently by the door, his massive head resting on his paws, waiting. He didn't understand death yet. Not until Paradise. But he understood absence. He understood the terrible emptiness of a house that held only memories. He carried Eleanor's slippers in his mind, their soft fabric against his rough paws, her gentle voice whispering promises he couldn't yet comprehend.
The knock on the door came at noon, precisely as scheduled.
Patrick opened it to find a woman in uniform, her tablet glowing with Ironpaw's registry information.
"Registry TK-5591-R," she announced. "Ironpaw Callahan. Eighteen months. Rottweiler. Heavy Weapons Division candidate. Report for Paradise procedure and subsequent deployment."