Chapter Text
It's a normal, uneventful Saturday night, warm and humid as most summer nights are.
DogDay is sweeping up the collected dust and detritus on the floor. Admittedly, though, there's little to sweep, as it's been a quiet time at the Bargain Mart. It's mainly just to pass the time, as DogDay has never been one for clock-watching. The rest of the nightly duties have already been completed, and all that's left is to wait until—
*Bee-Beep*
DogDay looks down at his watch.
12:00 AM.
He smiles: closing time.
He carefully guides the broom back into the janitor's closet, placing it alongside the other cleaning tools with practiced ease. The closet door clicks shut. He stretches his arms slightly, working the tension out of his shoulders, then turns and heads toward the backroom.
The door swings open with a gentle creak, revealing a cozy office space tucked behind the sales floor. A soft desk lamp casts a golden glow over everything, making the space feel warm despite the cool night air. Behind the desk sits Ms. Cherie, the elderly owl who owns the Bargain Mart. Her feathers are a soft mix of silver and taupe, and she wears small, round glasses perched low on her beak. Her eyes, though aged, are sharp and alert as she quietly counts a stack of bills, her wings moving with steady precision.
DogDay steps in and unfastens his green work apron, folding it in half and hanging it neatly on a nearby hook. "Twelve o'clock, Ms. Cherie," he says in a soft, respectful tone. "Time to head home. You want me to wait for you by the front door?"
Ms. Cherie doesn’t look up immediately, focused on finishing the current tally. Then she glances over her glasses and gives a gentle, dismissive wave. "It's fine, hon," she says, voice warm but firm, compounded with her southern drawl. "You can head on home."
DogDay hesitates, his ears tilting a bit with concern. "Are you sure? I don't mind waiting. I'd hate for you to walk home by yourself."
Ms. Cherie pushes her glasses up her beak and chuckles softly, the sound more amused than dismissive. "Don't worry about me," she says as she opens a nearby filing cabinet and rummages for a moment. "I've been making my way home from this store longer than you’ve been alive, sweetheart. I'll be just fine."
She retrieves a folded check from the drawer and offers it to DogDay.
"Here. I threw in a little extra as thanks for dealing with that fool who came in here last week for me."
DogDay takes it with a grateful grin, his tail wagging. "No need to thank me, ma'am. Just doing my job."
"Well, it was a job well done. You've earned it," she says, already turning back to her books. "Now go on, get home safe. I'll lock up."
DogDay nods once more, that familiar blend of respect and fondness softening his expression. "Yes, ma'am," he says, "Good night. See you Monday."
He gives Ms. Cherie a small, two-fingered salute before turning toward the door, shoes whispering against the linoleum as he steps back out onto the darkened sales floor.
The Bargain Mart feels different after midnight. To even call it a "mart" feels a bit generous, as it's more of a general convenience store than anything else. Still, without the hum of customers and clatter of carts, the space exhales, shelves standing like quiet sentinels beneath dimmed fluorescent lights. DogDay pauses for a moment, taking it all in. The faint smell of cardboard and detergent, the distant buzz of a streetlamp bleeding in through the front windows...
There’s a calm here, a stillness that settles into his chest and slows his breathing.
That calmness is something that has taken time to relearn.
He flicks off the remaining lights row by row, partly out of habit and partly out of courtesy. Shadows pool behind him as he goes and turns the neon OPEN sign off. Standing at the front of the store, he slips on his unassuming grey jacket, leaving it unzipped. The bell above the door gives a soft, tired jingle as he steps outside, carefully pulling it shut behind him until it clicks home. Outside, the town of Marshal is hushed. The sky is a deep indigo, scattered with stars that blink lazily through thin clouds. DogDay stretches again, this time more fully, rolling his shoulders and tilting his head from side to side until a few satisfying pops answer back. His muscles ache in that pleasant, earned way, proof of a day well spent, even if it had been a quiet one.
He tucks the check safely into his wallet and starts down the sidewalk, hands slipping into his pockets as his tail sways with an easy rhythm behind him. The pavement is cool beneath his feet, the air crisp enough to sharpen his senses. Somewhere nearby, a feral night bird calls; further off, a train horn moans low and lonely, a nostalgic sound for him. The smell of petrichor is loud from the day's earlier July showers.
As he walks, his thoughts drift. Mundane things, like what leftovers might still be waiting in his fridge, or whether he should finally fix that loose hinge on his front door. He wonders to himself how Mr. Chen is doing, slightly surprised by how long it's been since they last spoke, despite living in the same complex.
The street lamps above buzz as he passes by, with the occasional flicker here and there. He walks slowly. Leisurely. Enjoying the fresh night air.
Most would hurry home as fast as they could; Marshal at night isn't exactly the nicest urban environment, especially not on the side where DogDay lives.
Most don't have a way to protect themselves.
Most aren't DogDay.
He makes the turn onto Hawthorne Street, the sidewalk narrowing as the buildings shift from sleepy storefronts to aging brick apartments and shuttered businesses. A few windows glow faintly, perhaps TV light, maybe a lamp left on by habit that never quite broke. Somewhere, glass clinks. He passes a fenced-off lot overtaken by weeds, moonlight catching on broken bottles like scattered stars. His reflection wavers in a darkened shop window: tall, broad-shouldered, jacket open.
Tired-looking.
A warm breeze rolls through, thick with summer and rain-soaked asphalt. DogDay takes a deep inhale before releasing it in a sigh, then continues on.
By the time he makes it to the front door of his apartment, he's yawning every other minute. It greets him with its familiar crooked number plaque. He unlocks it, nudges it open with his foot, and steps inside. The space is dim, but welcoming. Moonlight spills through the blinds, striping the living room floor, and a faint yellow glow is coming from the ceiling fan in the open kitchen, but other than that, it's darkness. His couch sits exactly where he left it, a blanket tossed over one arm. The faint hum of the fridge greets him like a quiet hello.
DogDay toes out of his shoes at the door and shrugs out of his jacket, placing it on the coat rack in the corner of the foyer. He sets his keys and wallet on the counter of the open kitchen, rubbing his eyes as he yawns again.
"Long day?" comes a voice behind him.
DogDay's body tenses for a brief second. His breath catches, his muscles coil in old reflexes. Then the voice registers, and he realizes that he knows its owner.
"Poppy," he mutters as he stares forward at the wall. "You come to tie up loose ends or something?"
"We both know you wouldn't be standing here right now if that were the case," she replies coolly.
Slowly, he turns, met with the sight of her barely illuminated by moonlight and the yellow glow, settled comfortably in an armchair in a particularly shrouded area of the living room. She's even harder to see dressed in all black, but her scarlet hair and pale face never cease to be stark amidst the black. One leg is tossed over the other, and her hands are folded neatly in her lap.
"Yeah, well... Can't think of any other reason why OASIS would send you to come and see me," he says as he leans back against the counter, crossing his arms. "They're normally pretty strict about their documents and written contracts. Strange of 'em to break one like this."
Poppy's face, what little DogDay can see, doesn't change, but she does shift just the slightest amount in her chair.
It's enough of a tell.
"...They don't know you're here," he deduces immediately. The words settle heavy between them. Poppy doesn't deny it, nor correct him. Her silence alone is an admittance. "Risky. That's not just a dressing down. You could get excommunicated if they find out you're here. Unlike you to take a chance on something like that."
Poppy stands, her black overcoat trailing behind her as she walks up to him. "Then surely you understand that what I have to say is important," she says as she reaches into her inner breast pocket and pulls out a tablet. She taps the screen a few times, then offers it to DogDay. His face hardens for a moment before he reluctantly takes it. Eight codenamed files appear on the screen—
Death
Tempest
Draconis
Starving
Insatiable
Countess
Corroder
Layabout
Alongside the names are eight respective pictures: A black-wooled sheep, a raven, a dragon, a rat, a shark, a bat, a poison-dart frog, and an alligator.
"They call themselves the Waking Nightmares, and they've been more than a pain in the ass." Poppy expounds, "We don't have much info on them as of right now, but what we do know is that they're elusive, dangerous, and they operate as something of a team, under a militant terrorist group known only as Emergence."
DogDay’s brow furrows. "Don't remember them."
"You wouldn't," Poppy replies, crossing her arms. "We had our first encounter with them a few months after you disbanded from OASIS. For the most part, they've stayed in the shadows, building quietly. Recruiting from splinter cells, militarized cults, even defectors from groups we thought we'd dismantled years ago. Whatever this is... It's bigger than a few rogue agents."
DogDay frowns. "I don't get it. You've got faces, and OASIS has some of the best tracking technology I've ever seen all across the country for this type of thing. It might take some time and effort, yeah, but you can track down a couple of punks. What's the catch?"
"The catch is that they're enhanced. How and through what means, we don't know... but like you, they have attributes and abilities that go beyond the realms of anthropomorphic life. Powers."
"Powers..." he repeats softly. The word tastes metallic on his tongue, like it still feels fantastical despite the constant thrum of living plasma in his heart. "So that's what makes our little peanut gallery here so special."
"Mm," Poppy hums in agreement. "There could be more, but if there are, they work behind the scenes. These eight are consistent. Wherever Emergence makes a move that actually matters, one or more of them are present. They’re not commanders, exactly, but they’re not foot soldiers either. Think of them as... enforcers. Problem-solvers."
"Assets," DogDay cuts, the bitterness in his voice spilling through by accident. "Tools to be used and then discarded when they stop being useful or get too smart for their own good."
Poppy stays silent.
DogDay exhales through his nose, eyes finally lifting to meet Poppy’s. "You’re showing me all this. Telling me all this. That means you want something from me."
The further silence that follows isn't comforting. Not just because it means he's right, but also because it means Poppy is definitely attempting to find the words for what she wants to say to convince him.
Finally, she lets out a small sigh of resignation.
"I need you," she says flatly. "OASIS won’t authorize a full operation because we don’t have the political leeway to pursue them openly, and all resources are being put toward relief efforts and recon squads to dig Emergence out of whatever hole they're hiding in. These eight are running rampant out there, even without Emergence's leashes on them, and... I can't go after them alone."
Silence stretches. DogDay closes his eyes, dragging a hand down his face. The faint scars beneath his fur pull tight with the motion. Old, mostly faded, but never truly gone.
"You know I left OASIS for a reason," he murmurs.
"I know," she says softly. "And you have every right to be embittered about it. But I know you. I know that you have a capacity for goodness and a sense of justice stronger than anybody else's. The world needs heroes right now. And I came to you because I knew that if there was anyone I could ask to be on my team who'd be the hero the world might need right now, it'd be the dog with the golden gun."
She steps closer, stopping just short of his personal space.
"This isn't an order, Canidae. I'm only asking, and you're welcome to say no."
And for a second, just a split second, something in DogDay does want to say no. It wants to tell Poppy off, then go back to sweeping floors and fixing squeaky things and living this calm, quiet life he's made. But another part, a far larger and far more honest part of himself, feels sick at the thought of saying no. At the thought of sitting here, in this apartment he doesn't actually care about, with the ability to help others who can't help themselves... and choosing not to. He glances back down at the tablet, at the names and the images associated with them, and within his chest, the Livid Energy writhes and thrashes.
"Yeah..." he sighs. "But you know I won't."
"No," Poppy says, smiling now. "You won't."
DogDay hands her the tablet back, which she slips back into her breast pocket.
"So... What now?"
Poppy's smile fades. "For now, you just focus on packing quickly and lightly. An SUV will be here in the morning to pick you up and move you to a more secure location that'll act as our HQ for the time being. Oh, and... before I forget." She turns back toward the darkness and ambles over to the chair she was once seated in. Reaching behind the chair, she pulls out an assuming, pure-black case, then walks back over, holding it out to him. "Had to pull a few strings to slip these out of deep storage under the board's nose, but I think it'll be worth it."
At first, DogDay is confused. Slowly, though, the realization dawns on him, and his tail gives a little flick of admitted excitement. He doesn't hesitate in taking the case from her hands, though he's careful with it, if the contents are what he believes they are. Unhooking the latches, he slowly opens the case. Inside lies an orange and red poncho, slightly worn with time, folded neatly into a square. The hem is the most ragged part, the color and shape resembling the flickering ends of a flame. Beside the poncho lies a gold-plated, PPC-style revolver and the hip-holster for it. Its slab side barrel is long, thick, and dense, smooth, and clean, if you ignore the scorch marks that stain the front of the barrel near the muzzle and the openings of the cylinder. It has little in the way of flashiness or ornamentation, bare of any engravings save for one that has been amateurishly inscribed near the muzzle:
'Hotshot.'
Almost reverently, DogDay wraps his left hand around the ebony grip and lifts it from the case, and immediately, the weight of it feels like home in his hand. He gives it a once-over, checking for signs of misuse or mistreatment. He gives the smooth cylinder a few spins, his smile widening as he listens to the satisfying clicks of each turn.
He chuckles. "You are gonna catch so much hell when the board finds out about this."
Poppy shrugs. "As acting director, I've chosen not to care. It was never ours to take, let alone keep from you; family hand-me-downs belong to the family alone, after all. Besides, I'm sure they won't mind once you and your team pull this Emergence thorn out of their side."
"What?" DogDay pauses his aiming at the darkness, giving her a look of confusion. "What do you mean 'my team'?"
"Let's just say that I'm working on a little something. I'll tell you more when you get to the compound." She turns and walks toward the door, continuing, "For now, get packed up, then get some rest. You'll need to be ready for the first phase of Roundtable."
As her hand reaches the doorknob, she pauses and looks back at him. "Looking forward to working with you again, Canidae," she says as she twists and pulls open the door, stepping out before DogDay can say anything in response.
DogDay stares after the door for a few seconds before looking down at Hotshot again. He runs the pad of his thumb over the engraving on the barrel and sighs. He sets it back into its case and places it on the counter behind him.
He pulls his phone from his pocket after a moment, dialing the number of Ms. Cherie.
*Brrr....*
*Brrr...*
*Brrr...*
*Brrr...*
"You've reached the phone of one Ornette Cherie. I can't come to the phone right now, but leave a name, number, and a brief message, and I'll get back to y'all quick as I can!"
*BEEP!*
DogDay smiles at the message.
"Hey, Ms. Cherie. It's DogDay! Hope you got home safe, ma'am. I uh... I just wanted to let you know that something serious just came up, and I won't be able to come into work for... for a while. I'm not sure how long."
As he talks, his floppy ears dip a little lower in shame.
"I'm really sorry for telling you this on such short notice. If I had known sooner, I would've let you know then, but... like I said, this just sort of sprung up on me. I hope it isn't too much of an inconvenience for you, and you're more than welcome to replace me if you need to. Again, I don't know when I'll be back, so... if for some reason we don't see each other again... thanks. For letting me work at the store and treating me so well."
His throat feels a little dry as he tries to work out the next words.
"Bye, Ms. Cherie. Take care."
With a soft beep, he ends the message, then sets his phone down on the counter.
With that, he walks to his bedroom to begin gathering his things.