Dominance
Icy eyes scrutinize it for a moment, and then his gaze flickers back to the line behind you. His head tilts, and then he nods. "Number four. Go get in line." Without hesitation, he hands you a plastic disc with a red number four blaring along the screen of it, and turns his eyes from you dismissively.
Number four -- there's no more information than that, but you have a good idea of what he means. You can see the other anthromorphs standing there with similar pieces of paper in their paws, and the three at the front of the line have their numbers bright red and shining even in the dim lighting.
One.
Two.
Three.
And you're four.
It's a pecking order -- biggest to smallest. It's something close to a pack infrastructure, though you can tell that it isn't just about height. Some of the dogs are in front of others who are taller than them... but their faces look more aggressive, their bodies are built more than the fluff of the others.
It's survival of the fittest, and you find yourself silently thanking whatever lucky stars that there are that you picked a costume that was a German Shepherd and not something small like a pug.
You'd never get to eat then -- the poor Pom at the back of the line lets out a little whine as the number on its disc shifts back from twenty to twenty-one when you take your place. You look back, and its little brown eyes focus angrily on you for a moment; a growl pools from your throat before you can stop yourself, and though it looks like it wants to fight for a moment, it quickly drops its gaze.
Dominance.
You have dominance.
It's a strange sensation that is both shocking and something that sends you rippling with pride and pleasure -- and it only causes the hunger that you're feeling to deepen. Your attention turns rapt to the front of the line as you get to move up a spot, and soon enough, you're at the counter.
"ID, please?" The hound that stands behind the corner has the same irritation that the bouncer who pointed you to the line has. This time, you just pull the clip off of your shirt and hand it to him. Instead of looking at it, he flips it over and scans a barcode that you didn't even notice was there. A picture shows up on the screen in front of him -- though it isn't your new face, in particular, it is a face that reflects the German Shepherd that you've changed into. Statistics pop up, and they look strikingly similar to the numbers that you read up on when you were considering getting a dog and you were looking into their needs and requirements.
The numbers scroll and list: height, weight, requirements, food needed.
That number highlights. Three servings, athletic build. High protein diet required.
"Your order will be at the window. Move on." He swiped the card again, and a beeping, trilling sound spills through the air before he gestures you to the left. For a moment, your growling stomach can't comprehend what just happened.
Written by Karlyene on 19 June 2018
