I read the "Military Punishment" series, and I was impressed by the idea behind it. So, I'd like to write a non-canon sequel to it. The plot will be somthing like this:

Ebon Se’lot, a 18 year old male panther, has attended the academy for several years. He is also not very fond of Sargent Lupis, and decides to try and humiliate him by beating one of his favorites in the "Hand to Hand Combat" Final Exam. He goes too far, however, and almost kills the other student. Not only did he break the Academy rules, he broke the *law*. However, a legal loophole allows the Academy to choose his punishment, and he is sent to Warhime building for "re-education".

As for the internal struggles, Ebon is fiercly independent, almost Sith-like in his life philosophies and his actions; the strong must rule, and the weak must fail and serve them. His father is the source of this attitude; ever since he was old enough to walk and talk, his father had been training him to be a fighter, to stand on his own two feet rather than succumb to "the soft emotions". As you can imagine, he will absolutely hate this place... at first. But he'll eventually start to realize that he's finally getting something he had never had before; people who love him and care for him, regardless of who he is or what he's done.

PS: I plan on him having a male caretaker for this story, as he will be sort of the antithesis of Ebon's real father.


PPS: I'm not quite happy with the last name "Se'Lot" (Ocelot?), so I'm open for suggestions.




(I've tried emailing this story idea to the owners of the FTT website, but haven't got a response yet (yes, I removed the "No-Spam" part of the email address). If any of you know a more effective way to contact one of them, please forward this idea to one of them)





Edit: Oh yeah, I've already got a good start on it. I can post what I have so far if you guys are interested.

And now, I have Chapter 1.

Warning: Contains foul language and violence.

Ch 1

“Come on, hit me!” my father growled, dodging another one of my swings. The rest of the world was a blur gray, unfocused and utterly insignificant. The only thing that mattered was landing a blow on my father, and prove to him I was strong. But-

“What, is this too hard for you? Do you want to go inside and hang onto your mother’s coattails, follow her around while she works? Do you want to be a maid instead of a soldier? Is this just too hard for you?”

I swung wildly, trying desperately to show him that I was strong, that I was fit to be a soldier, but he just stepped around my flailing arms and punched me in a soft spot in my lower back. I crumpled to the ground in pain and did my bets protect myself from any more blows, but none came. I lifted my head to see what he was playing at, but he just stood over me, shaking his head in disappointment. “I’m done with you,” he said, turning on the spot and walking away.

I struggled to my feet and managed to gasp out the words, “What… you mean?”

“I’m done trying to teach you,” he said flatly, still walking away. “You’re weak, and I will not waste my time on a weakling.”

His words hit me harder than his fists ever could. I swayed on the spot for a moment before calling out to him. “Wait! I’m not weak! I just need-” I tried to follow him but the pain was like a knife in my side. I fell face first into the dirt, bloodying my nose and nearly choking on dust. When I struggled onto my elbows and looked up looked up I saw no pity. Disgust etched every line of his face as he said, “Look at you! You can’t even handle a bit of discomfort without swooning like a woman! Your mother must have bedded someone while I was away on duty, because you can’t be my son. My son isn’t weak.”

“I’m not weak!” I cried out, tears of anger and misery coursing freely down my cheeks.

“And now you’re crying,” he said, his voice colder than death. He turned away from my indecent display of emotion, saying “Get out of my sight, weakling.”

“I’m not weak!” I cried out again.

But he was no longer paying attention; I wasn’t even a person to him anymore, just a patch of dirt on the ground. Beneath his notice. “I’m not weak!” I cried out again, struggling to my feet and ignoring the pain in my side. But still he didn’t listen. My failure was inexcusable; I was dead to him.

“I’m not weak, damn you! Turn around and face me!” I screamed, but he just kept walking.

Anger coursed through my veins like black blood, and I no longer felt any pain. I ran after him, my vision red with rage and my claws outstretched, and yelled “Gods damn you, turn around and face me you bastard!”

But he still didn’t turn.

I jumped on his back and slashed every part of him I could reach. “I’m not weak you fucker!” He crumpled to the ground like a gaffed fish, but still I kept attacking him, severing muscles and arteries with unnatural ease. “I’m not weak! I’m not weak-”

“I’m not weak!”

I sat bolt upright in my cot, heart pounding and drenched in sweat. The dream vanished like midday fog, but the uneasiness lingered. ‘What the heck was that about?’ I thought groggily, shaking my head as if it would clear away the feeling. I’d had similar dreams before - dreams of losing to an opponent, dreams of not graduating from the Academy, dreams of being sent to prison - but they were rarely so intense. Nor were they ever so personal to me. My father exemplified the best qualities of a soldier: efficacy of mind, endurance of body, and indomitability of will. To have him tell me, point blank, that I had none of those qualities, was an unmanning experience.

‘And if you let this get to you, you’ll make it true,’ a part of me said savagely, sounding like an odd combination of me and my father. ‘Rise above it. If you cannot reign it in, then turn your fear into anger and let that motivate you instead. But do not submit to fear.”

I shoved the fear down as far as it would go, burying it under layers of frosty indifference. The exercise reminded me of those mind-games I heard my father talking about, where a person would be locked in a small room in complete darkness and silence. Without the sensory input, their mind was apt to hear or see things that weren’t there. The strong willed person could ignore this, holding onto the knowledge that they were seeing and hearing harmless phantoms of the mind. A weak willed person, however, would believe that there really was something in the room with him, and would try to attack it. They would invariably end up hurting themselves. The lucky ones only got a few bruises and bloody knuckles for their foolishness, but others have broken their bodies or their minds beyond repair. My dream was just like that; it could only hurt me if I let it. A few deep breaths and my uneasiness was completely gone, a corpse buried under an avalanche.

I looked at the white rabbit in the cot across from mine, my mutually unwilling roommate. It wasn’t the fact that he was prey that bothered me - there were plenty of stallions and bulls who had never tasted a drop of blood but still made excellent warriors. No, I didn’t like the rabbit because he was prey in body and spirit. Always seeking a ‘peaceful’ solution, never using more force than necessary in their drills and practice; I was amazed he had made it to his final year at the Academy. Unfortunately, I could not get a room to myself - not even a small one - so I had to share one with this pathetic excuse for a soldier. So I was glad to find that he was still asleep and had not witnessed my moment of weakness. Or perhaps he was getting smart and just pretending to be asleep. Either was fine with me; if he was truly asleep he could not tell, and if he was too afraid to face me he would not tell.

I got up and got dressed while he was still abed and, sure enough, he made an unconvincing display of waking up, stretching elaborately and yawning far too loudly. “Is it morning yet?” he asked, his bleary eyes at least appearing genuine.

“I assume you are able to open a window or, failing that, check a clock,” I said shortly, buttoning down the front of my uniform and tugging out a few wrinkles. Why does he even bother talking to me?

He scratched the base of his ears absentmindedly, giving me a sour look. “Sheesh, someone woke up on the wrong side of the bed. I can’t say I’m surprised, though, with how you’ve been sleeping-” he stopped abruptly as I turned fix him with a cold stare.

“And how have I been sleeping?” I asked, my voice dangerously low. I took a step toward his bed, extending my claws as a discreet threat.

He leaned away from me, drawing his covers higher. “Err, nothing. Just… nothing.”

“Exactly.” Without another word, I turned and walked out of the room. “Prey can be so annoying,” I muttered to myself, walking down the empty hallway.

I like it... perhaps the enxt chapter could be made...longer?

it's a nice start, though

Quite a nice start.

This is GREAT. I love it!

Been wanting more from the Military Punishment series ever since I read the first couple. One of my fav furry stories . I just wish I had writing skills . I have the ideas, I'm just no good at getting them down on paper to make an interesting read.

Looking forward to more!

The only problem I have with writing this is getting into the "mood" for this story, ie, cold, calloused, and more than a little angry. And that's increadibly difficult on this forum. I gotta think of things that make me angry... errr... ummm... kittens! No wait; spikey kittens! With burning sulfur for breath!


Meh, I'm going to listen to some of Dr. Steel's darker stuff, see if that gets me in the mood >.>

yeah... I can see why..well..good luck getting in the right mood

Listen to 5 straight hours of Dimmu Borgir .

Sorry this has been so long in coming, but... it's been hard getting the feelings on the paper. Anyway, to the story:


Chapter 2

It was Final Exam week at the Academy, but most of mine were already done. Naturally, I scored near the top of my class in all of them. Not because I was particularly intelligent, or because I liked the subjects (who honestly cares about grammar syntax when “I’m gonna kill you dead” gets the point across just as well?); no, I simply had discipline that other students at the Academy lacked. Whatever I couldn’t do with talent, I made up for with tenacity.

This last final, however, was both my favorite subject and specialty; Unarmed Combat. For the test we would face other recruits, and then be judged on how well or poorly we faired. My only problem with the process was who the Academy chose to be the judge, Major Lupis. It was well known throughout the Academy that he favored his own species over all others, and I myself had seen this firsthand; I knew that I would have to clearly and utterly defeat any lupine opponents if I wanted to come out on top.

We were allowed twenty minutes to prepare for the start of the tests, which I spent stretching and limbering up my muscles. Most of the others were doing the same, even, to my unpleasant surprise, Remus Lupis. Being the Sergeant’s son he had never had to observe the basics of preparation, preferring to use his brute strength to get the best of his opponents. He was built like an ox, so this usually worked out quite well for him. If it came down to a match between the two of us (and I had no doubt it would; no one else in the class looked like they would pose a challenge), I would have to use my speed and agility to my advantage.

The ring, like everything else at the Academy, was simple but functional; an unadorned mat on the ground that did little more than soften a ground impact. All styles and techniques were allowed, just like on the battlefield; the only thing we couldn’t do was cause permanent damage to our opponent. We formed a loose circle around the ring, rigid formality forgotten for the time being, and waited for him to call us out.

I was the first one called out, along with an otter of unremarkable skill. ‘What’s he playing at?’ I wondered, glaring at the Sergeant as we got on opposite sides of the ring. I had expected him to pair one of the lupines with the otter, boosting their morale with easy victories. Then I realized his deeper strategy; he wanted to tire me out so I would not succeed against his son. I grinned, laughing on the inside; if he thought he could fatigue me with a few scuffles, he was sorely mistake.

When the whistle blew for the first round, I let the otter come to me. He tried to rush with a flurry of wild blows, but they were inaccurate an weak; I dodged them easily and snaked myself around behind him, then gabbed him in a choke hold. At least he had the wisdom to forfeit; as soon as I kicked his legs out from under him and dropped him to the mat, he tapped out. I released him and stepped off the mat, not bothering to help the weakling to his feet. He was disqualified, in any case.

Fortunately, there were rules in place that even Sergeant Lupis had to follow; a winning combatant couldn’t fight in the next round, thus allowing them time to rest. I sat slightly apart from the rest of the group to watch the next fight. This one was between a horse who seemed decent at striking techniques, and a gorilla who was only marginally good at grappling. It was no contest; the horse stayed out of the other’s reach while landing several good strikes, eventually wearing the gorilla down. The horse finally landed a heavy blow, and the gorilla dropped to the mat in a daze. I stood up, knowing that I would be fighting next.

The third fight went as predictably as the first. And the fourth one. And the fifth one. The only person who seemed surprised was the Sergeant; even after six fights I showed no signs of tiring, but just kept on going with the same ruthless efficiency I had shown against the otter. I grinned at the wolf, knowing just as well as he did that his plan was failing, and I was going to mop the floor with his son anyway. I could almost see the cogs turning in his head as he tried to find a way to get the upper hand.

A few rounds later and only Remus and I remained. I could hear grumbles and mutterings from the defeated fighters, but heard no cheers or yells of encouragement for either of us. I could scarcely blame them. On one hand, I fought and beat half of them single-handedly with the ruthless efficiency of a chainsaw. On the other hand, Remus, who hadn’t fought a single match but made it to the final round anyway. Still, their distaste mattered little to me; I was here to assert my superiority and bring my enemy low. Popularity and amiability had little to do with that.

We both got into our fighting stances, glaring daggers at each other from across the mat. “Ready to go down, kitten?” he taunted, flexing his muscles in an exaggerated display of power. I regarded him coldly but made no response, preferring to roll my shoulders and relax my muscles so that my strikes would have more power behind them.

Sergeant Lupis stood between us, holding the starting whistle in his mouth. “Are you ready?” he asked, looking at Remus. His son gave him a predator’s grin and nodded. “And you?” he said, turning to me with contempt. I regarded him with the same frigid gaze I gave his son, and nodded. “Alright,” he took a step back. “Combatants… FIGHT!”

He blew the whistle and we started circling one another, each looking for a weakness in the others’ form. I laughed inwardly, seeing how sloppy he had become. ‘Maybe you should have focused on your training more, rather than mosey and graze like a cow with young,’ I thought derisively, a sneer curling my lip.

But his raw power was still intimidating, and if he got a firm hold on me I’d be in trouble. I tested his limits, seeing how far and fast he could strike, and found that I could get in minor hits with relative ease. I doubted he would have the endurance for a long match, either; he didn’t train often, and the matches I observed were quick victories on his part. If I just kept on sniping at him, jabbing and punching too quickly for him to catch, I could wear him down. I grinned, and landed a blow on his exposed shoulder. ‘Oh, this is going to be fun, toying with him,’ I think, grinning at the wolf’s frustration.

Five minutes into the fight and there was no clear victor. But he was tiring, and I still had plenty of energy left. If I continued with the strategy, my victory was assured. I took a drink of water and waited, bouncing on the balls of my feet to keep my energy up.

I looked over at my opponent and frowned. He was talking with Sergeant Lupis (which wasn’t allowed during the rest period between rounds, but the wolves always got away with bending the rules), but I couldn’t hear them over the general babble. They seemed to be talking in hushed tones, and a few moments later Remus grinned and nodded, clearly pleased with something. I scowled. He obviously had a plan, but I couldn’t figure it out; nothing exchanged hands, and I doubted Remus could learn a new technique in thirty seconds. I shook my head, focusing myself; what will come will come, and agonizing over the unknown wouldn’t help me overcome it. Staying sharp would.

The second round started, and I continued my winning tactic of snipe-and-retreat, ever wary for any surprises from the wolf. Nothing out of the ordinary happened for a little while, but about thirty seconds into the second round, the wolf grinned. “Psh. Weakling,” he taunted.

My next swing went wide, and I almost overextended myself. “What?!?” I hissed, caught by surprise. I quickly dodged away from his reaching claws, just barely avoiding his trap.

He chuckled, enheartened by my response. “Oh, it’s true then,” he laughs, a sadistic glint in his eye. “Poor kitty, having nightmares… Do you really cry out in your sleep?”

A moment later, three red slashes appeared on his forearm. I didn’t even remember putting them there; a red haze of fury clouded my vision, my teeth, bared. But he just shrugged it off and continued. “Oooh, struck a nerve, did I?” he taunted, a sneer curling on his lip. He cupped his paws to his mouth and called out, “Hey guys, kitty here has nightmares! You think we should call his mommy over here and-”

I do not remember clearly what happened next, only a few flashes with no discernable order… mutilated forearms… the terrified face of a wolf… a throat with a large, bloody chunk torn out of it… But I do remember the taste and smell of blood, very clearly. I do, however, remember being pulled off by several other cadets. As I stared at the bloody mess on the ground before me, Sergeant Lupis strode in front of me, his eyes ablaze. I stared, dazed and dispassionate, as he drew back his fist and knocked me out cold.











Author's note: I can't help but feel the ending of this chapter fell... flat. Ugh >.<

I think the ending fit pretty well. Good job on the story... I've never read any Military Punishment things, but this seems good, and I'm interested.

After this big fight scene, it was difficult to make an ending.

wow, Can't really blame the guy though; I would have torn out Remus' throat myself with comments like that.

It was good, keep it up.

Love it! Keep it up!

(Sorry for keeping you waiting, but I just went through a different artistic stage - that is, pictures rather than writing. So, without further ado, I present-)

Chapter 3

Blood… the pervasive smell of blood… And the taste… the unmistakable metallic taste of blood in my mouth, almost as bad as the smell…

Not the best way to wake up.

I jolted back to full consciousness, and with it came an incredible pain in my jaw. Lifting a hand to check the damage, I find that I can’t move them independently… handcuffs. “Don’t try anything,” an unfamiliar voice growls, and I feel something cold poke me in the side.

I open my eyes slowly, and see a Doberman in a police uniform glaring down at me, his gun jammed against my side and pointed at my heart. I freeze for several moments, then slowly lower my arms. “Do I look like I’m in any condition to fight?” I ask thickly, being careful not to move my jaw too much.

“After what you did to the wolf? Yeah, right. I‘m not going to take my chances, thanks.” He steps a few paces away, but still has his gun leveled at me. I sigh, and lean back.

After a few minutes of awkward silence, I finally ask, “So, what’s going to happen to me?”

“Dunno,” he said shortly. “If it were up to me, you’d be in the back of my cruiser right now and on your way to prison. Unfortunately, they won’t let me. Something about the matter being under military jurisdiction,” he finishes, glaring at me as if it were my fault. I shrug, and settle back in my seat. Not like I was going anywhere…

I was being held in a small, office-like room. There were several chairs along the wall (one which I was currently occupying), a desk with a computer on top, and a filing cabinet next to the desk. I didn’t recognize the place at all, which was surprising; I had been in most every building there, and even the “Corrections Facility” on occasion. This wasn’t like any of those places. Heck, it didn’t even look like the other administrative buildings; where most of those had tan walls and painted concrete floors, this one was painted light blue and had soft beige carpeting on the ground. They even put trim on the walls, a completely unnecessary (and in my opinion, unwanted) addition for the austerely efficient military environment. Yet, the Doberman seemed to indicate I was still on Academy grounds…

An old gray building came to mind, a building shrouded in as much superstition and myth as Area 51... at least, it was that mysterious to the cadets in the Academy. During my stay, I had heard of a few other unruly cadets being dragged off to the building and never seen again. Some thought they were tortured there; others, that they were deprived of sleep or food. I didn’t put much stock in the rumors, of course; at the very worst, I thought they had holding cells of some sort for those who were potentially dangerous, and had to be kept away from others until the police arrived to sort things out. The mood of the room seemed to say otherwise, as did the fact that the police had arrived and I was still being kept there.

The minutes ticked by slowly, feeling utterly bored and almost wishing they would get to sentencing me already. I was just about to ask the officer if he could check on what was keeping them when Sergeant Lupis came striding in, soon followed by a rather large male lion. While the wolf was in standard military uniform, the lion was wearing nothing but standard civilian clothes… he didn’t even have a sign of rank. At least, none that I could see. “I’m sorry, sir,” the lion says , clearly frustrated, “but I cannot approve of these ‘additions’ you’re proposing. Yes, his case is more severe than normal-”

“But look what he did to my son!” Lupis cries out furiously, shoving what appeared to be a medical report under the lion’s nose. “He nearly killed my son! If the paramedics hadn’t gotten here on time, he could be dead right now! I demand to see punishment!”

“I am well aware of the status of your son,” the lion says coolly, snatching the report from the wolf’s grasp. “And I am sure you are aware of the purpose of this facility. We do not punish for the sake of punishment; we are a correctional facility, Sergeant, and our utmost concern is the mental wellness of our patients.”

The Sergeant let out a low growl. “Surely, you can see that this one,” he cast a venomous look at me, “will require special treatment-”

The lion cut him off this time, finally getting angry. “And if that proves to be the case, then I will certainly give it to him. But you have released him to the care of this facility; I have your signature, and the signature of your superior officer. He is, officially, no longer your concern.”

The wolf looked ready to pounce, but apparently decided against it; Lupis was by no means tiny, but the lion looked even larger than Remus. The Sergeant stalked out of the room, growling and muttering to himself, as the police officer looked around in confusion. “Err, will that be all?” the Doberman asked, unsure.

The lion turned to the officer, and with a kindly smile said, “Yes, yes, I’m sure I’ll be able to handle this little guy. The keys, please.” I frowned. ‘Little guy?’

“You sure?” the officer asked, handing him the keys to my handcuffs. “He did a number on the Sergeant’s son, I don’t think-”

“Yes, I’m sure,” the lion with the same kindly smile, though with a firmness that left no room for argument. I sat still as he unlocked and removed the cuffs. “Thanks,” I muttered, massaging my chafed wrists.

“Don’t mention it,” he chuckled, ruffling my headfur. At my growl, the Doberman drew his gun and pointed it at me. “Leave it be,” the lion said, his smile gone. The canine slowly lowered his gun. “The new ones always growl at first, and even if he got violent I doubt he could overpower me. You are dismissed,“ He nodded curtly at the door. The Doberman grumbled to himself, and walked out the same way the Sergeant had. ‘Ah, so that’s the exit,’ I thought, making a mental note.

“So, what’s your name little guy,” the lion asked in an annoyingly cheerful voice after the Doberman had left.

I frowned at him annoyed. Reaching out and tapping the file in his hands, I answered coldly, “Everything you need to know is in that file.”

“Aww, does kitten not want to introduce himself?” the lion coos, reaching up to tickle me under the chin. I growled furiously, and grabbed his forearm… or, at least, that was my intention. In the blink of an eye, he had somehow managed to cross my arms across my chest and pin me to the chair. “Don’t do that, kitten, I might accidentally hurt you,” he said calmly, scratching my head again. “Wouldn’t want that, now would we?”

I gave him such an icy glare that I would have only been slightly surprised if the infuriating feline was frozen solid. Unfortunately, I was not so lucky. He sighed. “The new ones are never easy… oh well, let’s check out that jaw and get you cleaned up.” With another infuriatingly cheerful grin, he picked me up bodily and started carrying me.

“I can walk on my own, thank you very much,” I growled, struggling furiously to get out of his arms. It wasn’t unheard of for one soldier to carry a wounded one from the battlefield, but that was usually because the wounded one couldn’t walk themselves. Even then, they usually just assisted them, half walking and half dragging them to safety. Which naturally made me wonder (more than a little annoyed) what the fuck he was playing at.

He chuckled, but otherwise ignored my request. I gave a low warning growl, my fury coming back in full force. With all the control I could muster, I gritted my teeth and asked, “Why do you insist on treating me in such an infuriatingly…” I searched for the word. “Infantile… manner?”

He gave another infuriating chuckle, and I could barely resist the urge to claw it off his face. “Hehe, I guess the Sergeant didn’t explain it to you, then?” At my raised eyebrow, he continued. “Well, you’re going to be treated as a cub - well, kitten, in your case - for a while. You better get used to it, for your sake.”

I tried for several moments to fit concept in my head, so strange and foreign that I hadn’t even considered the thought of an adult ever being treated like a child. I couldn’t; it was impossible for me to imagine it. How could an adult be treated like a child? How could they be forced to go along with it, truly? It seemed so utterly impossible, in concept and execution and legality, that I actually laughed. “You- *snicker* -you can’t be serious,” I finally managed stifling my chuckles.

The lion looked down at me, with an odd look in his eye. “Hmm… they never laughed before,” he muttered, then shook his head. “Sorry, yes, I am serious.”

“Yeah, sure,” I said, still grinning faintly. “Seriously, what’s gonna happen to me?”

“I’d ask him,” the lion said with an amused smile, looking farther down the hall. I followed his gaze.

At first I thought it was an optical illusion, that the hallway was smaller where the figure stood, thus making him look bigger than he really was. As he came closer, however, I could see this wasn’t the case; it was a fully grown male raccoon. You can scarcely blame me for the mistake, though; you probably would as well, had you come across a fur wearing nothing but footed pajamas, with a pacifier in his mouth and a stuffed animal tucked under his arm.

I stared, speechless, as the creature pulled the pacifier from its mouth, and asked the lion in a strangely childlike voice, “Daddy, can I have some milk? My tummy feels all rumbley.”