The makeshift courtroom reeked of urine and a certain acidic stench, like vomit left to ferment. I suspected it came from the drunkard standing in front of me. Then again, maybe the noble always smelled like this—I wouldn’t know, having never been close to one before. I glanced at the few pedigreed dogs sitting on the judge’s bench, pondering the possibility. Did they sniff each other's butts just as we mutts did, or was that something reserved for us lower breeds?

"Next," the phantom Poodle judge struck the gavel and signaled to the court clerk.

"Case number 24601, theft, unlawful entry, one prior offense for theft, and one for public urination," the Chihuahua clerk read out. The Labrador beside me shoved me forward to the defendant's stand.

"Guilty." I wanted to save some time. The rigid, slow, and tedious process was punishment enough, not to mention that my defenses had never mattered anyway.

"You robbed a house..." the judge began.

"I broke a window pane." I forced myself to meet his eyes, trying not to be distracted by the fluffy fur around his face. If I laughed, they’d probably add contempt of court to the list. "I stole a loaf of bread. My sister’s child was close to death, and we were starving."

"You don't have a nephew. You stole jewelry worth a thousand credits and sold it for alcohol." The judge glanced at the case file. "Is there any error in the defendant's record?" he asked the clerk, who shook his head.

"Oh, come on." I rolled my eyes dramatically. "Seriously, 24601?" I looked around the courtroom. The others were staring blankly at the ceiling and walls, clearly uninterested in backing me up. The drunkard who had just been hauled out by the bailiff was now vomiting by the door, too busy to help himself, let alone me.

"In light of the defendant's two prior offenses and the fact that you will turn sixteen next week," the judge seemed unwilling to indulge my antics any further, "you are subject to the three-strikes law."

"Hey, you can't do that!" The law clearly didn’t work that way, but the judge just turned his head and raised an eyebrow, giving me a look that said, "I can't?"

"Considering the defendant’s young age, the court offers the option to enlist in the Navy, serve the Empire, and have your record expunged," he continued, leaning his elbows on the desk, fingers interlaced. "Or twenty years of hard labor at the Bellwood Quarry." He added this last part as casually as if he were asking what I wanted for lunch. "I hear the lakes there are beautiful, though they don’t quite compare to the sunsets at Toulon Shipyard."

"Enlist," I sighed, shoulders slumping, ears flattening against my head. I didn’t even have the energy for sarcasm. Sixteen-hour shifts at the quarry were basically a death sentence, just a slow and painful one. If I’d known it would come to this, I would’ve taken more credits and traded them for Cognac. The single-malt whiskey hadn’t been nearly as good as I’d imagined.

"Next." The gavel struck again, and the Labrador seized my arm, dragging me away like just another item on a conveyor belt.

"Next." I obediently stepped onto the scanning platform, ignoring the rough shoves and unfriendly tone. The faster this humiliating process ended, the better. I scratched at the spot on my right buttock where they’d just jabbed me with a vaccine cocktail. It really itched.

"Alpha of three ears, Beta of seven eyes, Alpha of one snout, Alpha of one tail..." The dark gray terrier conducting the medical exam grabbed the base of my tail, causing the fur on my back and tail to stand on end uncontrollably. My body went rigid, blood rushing to my ears. He whistled, jotting down notes in my file. "...Too bad the coat color is Zeta group."

I glanced down at my arm in confusion. The black base color was streaked with a few deep brown stripes, sparsely interwoven, often described as somewhat tiger-like, though the dark colors made it hard to see unless you looked closely.

"But the base color is still black, so no one should mind." He patted my rump to signal I could step down, making my ears twitch again. "Why bother enlisting in the Navy and giving yourself a hard time? Any powerful House would be more than happy to have you." He scanned the barcode on my right arm band and waved me off.

If it weren’t for that damned poodle abusing his power, I wouldn’t be here, would I? And don’t get me started on the Navy—everyone knows it's the crappiest of all the crappy assignments, with horror stories circulating on every street corner.

Sure, the environment on Gaia is deteriorating day by day, both ecologically and socially—I get that. But that doesn’t mean I want to venture into space, filled with uncertain and certain dangers alike. I can’t see how any part of that makes sense. I’ve never understood the so-called "romance of exploring the final frontier." Solid ground under my feet is more than enough for me, as long as there’s a proper balance—like the presence of alcohol.

But what did he mean by that last comment? While the phrase "have you" doesn’t sound great, I’ve been treated like an object so much lately that I’m becoming numb to it. Curiosity is getting the better of me instead. Maybe one day I’ll ask the other breeds about the significance of coat colors and classifications. If the Navy is truly as "egalitarian" as the official propaganda claims, perhaps a well-informed mid-level citizen will be willing to explain it all to me.

Soon, I was at the front of the line again, being instructed to assume some kind of pose and step into a machine with an unknown function. I tried to distract myself during the empty stretch of time, avoiding thoughts of the misfortunes and the eight million ways to die I might encounter in the future. Twenty years of service, and I’d be out, with my record cleared and citizenship in hand. I clung to these optimistic thoughts, watching the small lights inside the machine flash in different colors.