The sedative hit WiWi's bloodstream like cold water.
One moment she was lying beside the Shiba Inu in Preparation Room 7, surrounded by the warm, familiar scents of other dogs, the soft hum of the ventilation system mimicking the rhythm of sleep. The next, the world tilted, colors bled into gray, and her limbs grew heavy as stone.
She fought it instinctively—muscles tensing, heart racing—but the chemical tide was too strong. The last thing she saw before darkness claimed her was the Shiba Inu's amber eyes, wide with the same fear WiWi felt but couldn't name.
Dr. Lin Yun stood in the observation room, watching the monitors display thirty sets of vital signs. All within optimal parameters. All ready for transformation.
"Begin Phase One," he ordered, his voice steady despite the tremor in his hands.
Through the one-way glass, technicians moved with practiced efficiency. They lifted each dog onto individual gurneys, securing them with padded restraints that would prevent injury during the convulsions that would inevitably come. IV lines snaked into forelimbs, delivering the first cocktail of viral vectors and neural growth accelerants.
Dr. Yun studied WiWi's monitor specifically. TK-2847-C. Pembroke Welsh Corgi. Logistics & Morale Division. Her heart rate was elevated but stable—142 beats per minute. Better than most. Better than he'd been at her age, facing his own demons.
"Neural Enhancement Matrix initiating," announced the lead technician. "Viral vector infusion at 30%."
On the monitors, brain activity patterns began to shift. Standard canine theta waves gave way to more complex patterns—beta waves spiking in regions that had previously been dormant. The FOXP2 and ASPM gene sequences were taking hold, rewriting neural architecture at a cellular level.
Dr. Yun remembered the early failures. Dogs who had gained human-level cognition but lost their souls in the process. Dogs who had understood too much, too quickly, and simply shut down. The breakthrough had come not from better science, but from better understanding—recognizing that intelligence without emotional continuity was torture.
"Memory Anchoring Protocol activating," Dr. Yun ordered. "Audio stream Alpha-7."
From hidden speakers, a recording filled the transformation chamber—Jian's voice, young and bright, telling WiWi about the ducks in the park. The sound was carefully calibrated to trigger emotional resonance while the neural pathways were most receptive.
On the monitors, WiWi's stress hormones decreased by 28%. Her brain activity showed increased coherence between emotional and cognitive centers. The anchor was holding.
WiWi dreamed.
Not the simple dreams of chasing squirrels or finding hidden treats, but complex, layered visions that made no sense yet felt profoundly important. She saw Jian's face, but it was different—older, harder, with shadows beneath his eyes that hadn't been there before. She saw Father Chen standing in a field of mud that stretched to the horizon, holding her red collar with the silver bell. She saw Mei crying in a kitchen filled with the smell of real eggs, her hands shaking as she poured tea.
The images came faster, overlaying each other like ghosts. Maps of places she'd never been. Numbers and letters that meant nothing but felt significant. The sound of gunfire, sharp and terrifying, followed by the smell of something burning that made her hackles rise even in sleep.
And beneath it all, a voice—not Jian's voice, but something deeper, older. A voice that spoke in a language she couldn't understand but whose meaning seeped into her bones.
"You are not just a dog. You are more. You will save them."
The words weren't English. They weren't any human language. They were the language of necessity, of survival, of sacrifice. And somehow, in the dreaming place between dog and soldier, WiWi understood.
"Phase Two commencing," Dr. Yun announced. "Musculoskeletal Restructuring in three... two... one."
The transformation chamber filled with a low hum as electromagnetic fields activated around each gurney. WiWi's body tensed against the restraints as her skeletal structure began to shift. Vertebrae realigned with microscopic precision. Joints reconfigured. Tendons and ligaments stretched and strengthened at a cellular level.
On the monitors, pain indicators spiked—heart rate 198 bpm, respiration 42/minute, cortisol levels off the charts. Alarms sounded softly in the observation room.
"Administer analgesic cocktail Delta," Dr. Yun ordered. "But maintain consciousness threshold. They need to feel this. They need to integrate it."
A younger technician, fresh from medical school, looked up with horror. "Sir, their pain receptors are at maximum capacity. Shouldn't we—"
"No," Dr. Yun cut him off sharply. "This isn't cruelty. This is necessity. If we numb them completely, the psychological integration fails. They need to feel their bodies changing. They need to own this transformation."
He turned back to the monitors, his face grim. "Remember your training. These aren't patients. They're soldiers being forged."
But his hands trembled as he watched WiWi's vital signs. He remembered holding his daughter on the day she learned to ride a bicycle—how she'd fallen and scraped her knee, how he'd wanted to numb the pain but knew she needed to feel it to learn balance. This was different. This was deliberate pain with a purpose he still questioned in his quietest moments.
WiWi's body was on fire.
Every cell screamed as her spine lengthened, as her joints reconfigured, as her muscles rebuilt themselves fiber by fiber. She wanted to howl, to run, to escape this terrible becoming—but the restraints held her fast, and something deeper held her consciousness captive.
In the fire, memories surfaced like islands in a storm. Jian's laughter as he chased her through the backyard. Father Chen's hands as he fastened her red collar. Mei's voice singing softly as she cooked dinner. The smell of pancakes on Sunday mornings. The feel of cool grass beneath her paws.
And another memory, sharp and terrible—Jian whispering in the dark: "When they take you to Paradise and make you smart, you'll find a way to come home."
The fire intensified. Her paws felt strange—too large, too many parts. She tried to flex them and felt bones shifting, tendons stretching, as if her body was learning a new language of movement.
Jian, she thought, though she didn't yet have words for the concept. I am changing. I am becoming something new. Will you still know me?
"Phase Three: Tactical Processing Implantation," Dr. Yun announced, his voice tight with concentration. "TacChip integration sequence initiating."
In a sterile side room, technicians prepared the pea-sized quantum processors—each one containing more computing power than the entire Central Genetic Repository facility. These weren't simply computers; they were bridges between canine instinct and human reason, between loyalty and strategy, between love and duty.
"Subject TK-2847-C ready for implantation," the surgical team reported.
Dr. Yun watched as they positioned WiWi's head in a stabilizing cradle. A laser scalpel made a precise incision at the base of her skull, just above the spinal column. Through microscopic cameras, they guided the TacChip into position, its golden filaments extending toward key neural clusters.
"Neural interface successful," reported the lead surgeon. "Visual cortex connection established. Auditory processing online. Tactical assessment module activating."
On the monitors, WiWi's brain activity spiked again, but differently this time—not the chaotic pattern of pain, but the organized surge of new capability. The TacChip was learning her mind even as her mind learned the chip.
"Language protocols downloading," Dr. Yun ordered. "All major dialects. Priority: Mandarin, English, Russian."
Data streams flooded WiWi's neural pathways. Grammar structures. Vocabulary databases. Phonetic patterns. It wasn't learning in the traditional sense—it was integration, as if these languages had always lived inside her, waiting to be awakened.
The world exploded into meaning.
Sounds that had been mere noise suddenly carried weight, intention, significance. The steady beep of the monitoring equipment wasn't just sound—it was heartbeat monitoring system, optimal parameters, stable condition. The rustle of fabric wasn't just movement—it was white coat, cotton blend, size medium, technician uniform.
And voices—oh, the voices!
"Vital signs stabilizing. Cognitive integration at 87%."
"Administer sustenance optimization compounds. Prepare for environmental adaptation protocols."
"Remember why we do this. Remember what we're saving."
WiWi tried to process it all, but it was too much. Too fast. The fire in her body merged with the fire in her mind, and she felt herself fracturing at the edges—dog and human, loyalty and strategy, love and duty, all crashing together in a storm of becoming.
Then, cutting through the chaos, a voice she knew:
"WiWi?"
Jian. It was Jian's voice, but filtered through some kind of recording device, slightly distorted but unmistakable.
"I love you, WiWi. In all the languages. Starting with Corgi."
The words shouldn't have made sense—she didn't know what "languages" were, what "Corgi" meant—but her heart recognized them anyway. The storm calmed, just slightly. A single thread of meaning held firm in the chaos.
I am WiWi, she thought, and for the first time, the thought had words. I am loved. I am changing. But I am still me.
"Phase Four: Sustenance Optimization Protocol," Dr. Yun announced, his voice hoarse from hours of concentration. "Final integration sequence."
The chamber filled with a mist of specialized compounds—enzymes, bacteria cultures, metabolic regulators. These would rebuild WiWi's internal systems to survive on battlefield rations, to process contaminated water, to endure radiation exposure that would kill an unmodified dog in hours.
On the monitors, her digestive system showed signs of distress—nausea indicators spiking, stomach acid levels fluctuating wildly.
"Memory reinforcement," Dr. Yun ordered urgently. "Scent protocol Alpha."
From hidden dispensers, the chamber filled with familiar scents—maple syrup from Jian's breakfast toast, the lavender hand soap Mei always used, the wool of Father Chen's work sweater. These weren't just comforts; they were anchors, tethering her new body to her old memories, her new mind to her old heart.
WiWi breathed deeply, and the nausea subsided. The scents carried more than comfort—they carried identity. This is who I was. This is who I am becoming. I am still WiWi.
Dr. Yun stood at the observation window, watching the final integration sequences play out on the monitors. Thirty dogs. Thirty transformations. Thirty souls are being remade for war.
His tablet chimed softly—a priority message from High Command. He glanced at it, then back at the monitors, his face grim.
"Prepare for accelerated deployment protocols," he ordered, his voice carefully neutral. "Thway Kan needs these soldiers. Now."
The young technician from earlier looked up, horrified. "Sir, the psychological stabilization phase isn't complete. They need at least twelve more hours for integration..."
"Thway Kan doesn't care about our protocols," Dr. Yun snapped, then immediately regretted his harshness. He took a deep breath, his shoulders slumping slightly. "I know. I've read your research. The psychological fracture rate increases by 43% without proper stabilization. But Sector Gamma just lost an entire company. Sixty-three dogs. They need replacements ASAP ."
He moved closer to the window, his reflection ghostly against the glass. "There's a saying from the old world: 'Perfect is the enemy of good enough.' In war, 'good enough' often means 'still breathing.'"
He turned to face his team, his expression unreadable. "I want every comfort measure possible in the remaining time. Extra memory reinforcement. Additional scent anchors. If they can't have time, they'll have love. Even if it's simulated."