FSE

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The shirtless plump bulldog exhaled as he saw the sliding door open up. Volcano panted for a moment before he wiped some of the sweat off his forehead, exhausted after working out in the gym. He walked inside his team's cabin, glad that he finally had some alone time. The canine waited for the door to close before he headed towards his bed and looked over his shoulder. Then the canine inhaled sharply and grunted, leaning over to the right so he could pass gas. The canine exhaled after the noisy, trumpeting sound ended and he felt the flatulence warming his behind. Rex sniffed the air and waved a hand behind his fat bottom before chuckling and stepping beside the nightstand near his mattress.

"They better not have...good! Still here!" he shouted with a smile.

Rex laughed as he pulled out the small, rectangular device with a pair of black earbuds plugged into it. He tossed the device on the mattress before he sat down, causing the bed to creak. The bulldog gazed at his thick, white boots and lifted his right foot. He pushed down on the top of his left boot, grunting as he slowly slipped it off. Then he did the same with his right foot and kicked his boots aside, exposing his socked feet.

"Finally," Rex muttered.

The canine wiggled his toes as he looked down at his feet. He curled his toes, cracking them a few times as he left his feet planted on the floor. Rex flared his nostrils and growled. The scent coming from his boots and feet were already filling the room. The heady smell of his sweaty socks and the odor coming from inside a pair of boots that had been worn for twelve hours straight was filling his lungs. Volcano took a huge breath, his chest puffing out as he inhaled the foul smells all around him. Then he sighed with content and smiled widely again. The dog put his legs up and moved his socked feet against the bed's footboard before he lied down and put the earbuds inside his floppy ears. He turned on the small device and started flipping through various songs until he found the right one and set it down. Then he relaxed and closed his eyes, letting the music flow through his ear canal. Volcano started to breathe quietly, feeling his body already losing control, his brain moments away from slipping into the subconscious. There was nothing he could hear besides the music, nothing he could feel besides his cushiony bed, nothing he could smell besides his socked feet and boots. Rex exhaled softly as his body was bombarded by comfort--

"Hey, Rexy!"

And then the dog snorted and opened his eyes, scowling. He turned his head and saw a familiar green frog standing in the doorway. Slippy sniffed the air and started to frown.

"Whew! What stinks?" he asked, his nose plugged.

"Remember when I told you about my 'personal time,' Slips?"

"I don't see you carrying a magazine."

Rex blinked. "I mean my alone time, Slippy. You know, just me and my bed and my music..."

"And your stinky feet and flatulent behind, from what it smells like. Don't you have any air freshener?"

The bulldog sat up and grinned as he looked at the frog. "No dog who just got back from the gym wants his room smelling like lavender. Lot more pleasant to bask in your odors with glory!"

Slippy blinked. "I guess."

Volcano rubbed his nose as Slippy stepped inside his room. "So whatcha want? This about Falco again?"

The frog rubbed the back of his head. "No. ...Well, kinda, but I didn't just come here to whine or anything. I'm just bored, I guess. And tired."

Rex scooted over and wagged his tail, giving Slippy some space. "Don't just stand there! Come sit down; take your shoes off."

Slippy didn't feel like being rude or objecting, so he complied with the dog's demands. He sat down on the bed before lifting one of his legs up and grabbing his left boot. He grunted and took it off slowly, moments before he did the same with his other boot and dropped it on the floor. The frog sighed after removing his boots and wiggled his toes, smiling as he looked down at the floor.

"See? Much more comfy, ain't it?" asked Rex.

Slippy giggled. "Gotta admit, it's been a while since I've kicked back and gave my feet a rest."

Rex laughed as well before he looked down at his device and started to scroll through more songs. He changed his tunes again and started to listen to music loud enough for Slippy to faintly hear. The frog glanced over at the bulldog and saw him smiling and bobbing his head left and right. Slippy was tempted to ask Rex what he was listening to, but he found the chubby dog amusing. Rex started to scud his head more, moving his large noggin as his ears flopped. And then the canine waved his arms forward, flicking his wrist and moving his fists up and down, as if he were playing an invisible drum set. Slippy laughed as the dog kept playing, shutting his eyes and biting his bottom lip, shaking his head so much that his earbuds popped out. Rex's eyes shot open and he frowned.

"Dang it. They always fly out before I finish!"

The frog chuckled and rubbed his nose. "I think I've seen enough of your performance."

"Tch! You kidding me? I haven't even shown you what I can do with the guitar!"

Rex grabbed his earbuds and was about to put them inside when the frog quickly asked him a question.

"Hey, 'bout that name of yours, Volcano..."

"Yeah, what about it?"

"How'd you get that nickname anyways? You don't seem like a hot-head, and you're not obsessed with spicy foods or anything like that."

Rex scratched his left cheek and coyly turned his head away. "Yes...that. It's a--"

"Long story?"

"Disgusting one. Um, you know how I always eat a lot before a sortie. Never know which meal will be our last, right?"

"Sure."

"Well, a while back, I ate a lot of food before a mission...and it didn't agree with me."

Rex watched as Slippy frowned. He could tell the frog knew where this story was going.

"Oh," said Slips.

Rex nodded. "Yeah. Oh. I thought it was just farts, but...things got wet at some point. And there were no toilets in our Spiked Collars..."

The bulldog sighed heavily and rubbed his chin. "So when we got back, I just sat in my ship, trying to find some way to hide or fix what I had done. When Doogan and the others came to check on me, they could smell what had happened before they even saw the mess. And when I finally did get out of my starship, everyone fell to the floor and nearly died of laughter. Doogan said that I ruined my pants so badly that it looked like a volcano erupted inside of them."

Rex smiled meekly as he saw Slippy turn away and grimace.

"Ugh, that's...that's-that is...all right then."

Volcano chuckled. "Name just stuck with me. I don't mind it much anymore though. At least the guys stopped putting diapers in my locker. Although there was this other time--"

"Err, I'll take your word for it," said Slippy speedily.

Rex wiggled his ears before he picked up his listening device and blinked. "You don't ever use one of these?"

Slippy turned and raised an eyebrow. "What, one of the music radios?"

Yeah. Very helpful now that I think about it. Sid prefers silence, everything being quiet. But I can't deal with that. No, silence is too...lonely. I gotta have noise, even if it's just someone talking in the mess hall when I'm eating."

"So it's like music therapy?"

Rex grunted as he put his legs back up on the bed. "Not really. Just a distraction."

"A distraction from what?"

"Things."

"What things?"

"Things, Slip," said Rex, raising his voice.

Rex frowned when he noticed that he was becoming more defensive than he wanted to be. He blinked and rubbed his scalp, his tail becoming limp.

"Sorry."

"No, it's okay. It's not like I need to know everything about your personal life. Guess I'm just nosy sometimes."

Rex grinned. "Could've been worse. Least you didn't ask about my time in high school. I remember my friend and I buying some plantains..."

Slippy started to frown again. "Does this story involve something coming out of your behind and end with you messing yourself?"

Rex's grin grew even wider. "No."

The bulldog stared at the frog's face, until his eyes started to grow wide, and his mouth nearly hung open. Slippy muttered something before he quickly put his boots back on.

"Y'know, I think I'm gonna go see what Peppy is doing," said the frog as he walked towards the door.

Rex waited for the frog to exit, leaving him by himself inside the bedroom again. The bulldog took another deep breath and let the stench of the room fill his lungs before he smiled. Then he put his earbuds back in and resumed listening to his music.

________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

The Saint Bernard snarled loudly as he tossed his wrench down and slammed his fist on the plane. The young fighter pilot standing beside him raised an eyebrow.

"Take it easy, Terry. It's just a plane," he said.

"It's not just one plane--it's thousands. We're getting out butts kicked out here and we're running out of mechanics to fix our damaged starfighters!"

The docking bay was always busy. Terry always enjoyed coming into the massive area that housed all the starfighters and giant aircraft carriers. He loved the smell of exhaust, the scent of metal and soldiers welding plates together. The sound of people chatting and barking orders, accompanied with the deafening roar of starfighters testing their engines, and aircrafts beeping as they performed system checks and updates made his ears twitch with happiness. The Saint Bernard used to enjoy being here, walking around and fixing damaged planes or observing all the new planes and customizations mercenary squadrons gave their fighters. But now, the canine couldn't stand being in the docking bay. What used to be beautiful planes were now mangled chunks of metal only fit for scrap. What used to be the sound of people barking orders or bragging about their new paint scheme was replaced with soldiers constantly talking about battles or blabbing about how many soldiers had just died. Terry sighed heavily as he leaned against a metal crate, his gray coveralls and boots stained with oily fluids.

"Always broken down planes, always soldiers requesting to get a new plane because their old one can't be fixed or cause 'it's too old' and they need a more 'modern' one. This is getting ridiculous."

The fighter pilot blinked. "S'how it is. You know the Cornerian Army is recruiting more soldiers every day."

"How's that going, though? Are we getting help, or are we throwing more innocent people into a meat grinder?"

The cocker spaniel snorted. "What's with you, Terry? These last couple weeks you've been cynical. Can't even eat a sandwich beside you without you whining about something."

Terry stared at the cocker spaniel before he sighed and picked up his wrench again. He played with it in his large hands, stroking the smooth metal before he walked over to the plane.

"You know I love planes, Merwin. Ever since I was a pup--"

"I know, I know. You fell in love with a starfighter the moment you saw it flying above your house. You gazed at the streaks it left in the clouds, you enjoyed the deafening roar of the engine, your eyes were transfixed on the orange flames coming from the exhaust nozzles. What else is new?"

Terry scowled. "You don't need to mock me."

"It just frustrates me that you're more upset at the planes getting destroyed and not the friends and coworkers we have to put in more and more body bags."

"Of course that upsets me. But planes...all of you just see them as things. If it gets damages or destroyed, you shrug it off and say, 'Hey, I'll just get a new one!' But planes aren't just...objects, Merwin."

"Yeah, they are."

Terry sighed as he walked over and rested a hand on the plane. "They're not. Look at it. It's warm. It's still functioning. It has engine trouble, but-but it can still be salvaged. It's just a cut, Merwin--all we need to do is bandage it. Then it'll be fine."

"I don't think we have a five-foot-long band-aid, unfortunately."

Terry scowled. "You just don't get it. When you're issued a plane, it's your responsibility. You have to take care of it, clean it, repair its damages, customize it--you can't keep it looking like all the others. That's what you regular pilots don't understand. Your starfighters aren't tools. The more you take care of 'em, the more you treat 'em the proper way, the better of a pilot you'll be. You and your plane will form this bond with each other. You become one with the plane. And the next thing you know, flying, dogfighting, evading the enemy...it's easy. It's all so simple."

Merwin sighed heavily. "Hmm. Well. I guess I see what you mean. I'm actually very envious of you."

"Why's that?"

"Because you care more about starfighters, not people. Because you get upset when a plane loses a wing, and not when a pilot or soldier loses an arm. Because when a starfighter gets destroyed, you don't have to plan any funerals. You don't have to hide inside a locker room and cry and hope no one hears you. You don't have to explain to the starfighter's parents or brothers or sisters that the starfighter's body is so mangled that they can't even look at it."

The Saint Bernard stared at the cocker spaniel and the scowl on his face. Neither of them said anything afterwards--they both knew Merwin just made the whole situation more awkward for them. Terry was tempted to say something, some form of rebuttal, some kind of snarky insult. But nothing came to mind. The canine leaned against the plane, waiting, pondering. And then Merwin left, presumably to go focus on his next mission or receive a new update. Terry watched the young pilot walk away until he was out his field of vision. The dog's eye twitched for a moment before he turned around and stared at the plane. Terry flipped the wrench in his hand a few times before he realized something he loved about planes the most.

They didn't say words.

________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

The fawn mastiff stared at the old hound dog as he stood beside the locked door rubbing his chin. The burly canine grunted before he cracked his knuckles and exhaled.

"Don't you worry, General. I won't hurt him much," he growled.

"Then why did you request for all those tools? I don't need you going overboard, Sid," responded the general.

"Like I said, I won't hurt him. I won't _need_to. And you have cameras set up in the room anyway--you can watch everything that I do. You can intervene whenever you feel like it."

General Pepper grunted. Sid Burrley kept staring at the old dog, not scowling, but not smiling, not angry, but not ecstatic either. The fawn mastiff tried to read the general; he assumed the general was trying to do the same to him. But Sid didn't care. If he thought he was a bloodthirsty maniac on the verge of exploding, that was fine. The general glanced at the door before he nodded slowly.

"All right. But remember: we may still need him for later. So please, do not do anything too rash such as removing his tongue."

"I won't, sir."

Sid kept staring at the general until he retreated towards the observation room and shut the door, locking it. The mastiff blinked twice before he sniffed and pressed the green button beside the cell door. The metal door whooshed open, and Sid promptly stepped inside the cell.

"Oh great, another one of you bozo dogs!"

Sid blinked and kept a straight face. The door whooshed and locked behind him, sealing the two creatures inside. The cell was standard for the CCC: only one window that General Pepper and a few other commanders were looking through, four firm, gray walls, a floor in need of sweeping, and a ceiling with two security cameras placed in the corners of it. The fawn mastiff looked around the room, slowly walking around, analyzing when and how he could use everything to his advantage. He started to move his hands along the wall before he stepped behind the chair and the prisoner tied down to it.

"Hey, doggy! If ya let me go, I'll give ya a few biscuits as a reward!"

The canine grunted before he stepped behind the prisoner, wagging his tail slowly as he approached the metal tray with several instruments on it. He blinked as he looked at all the tools, ranging from scalpels, a blowtorch, a pair of scissors, a bucket of water, and even a raw chunk of steak. Sid picked up some of the knives and scalpels, noisily clinking and clanging the weapons around so the prisoner could hear.

"HEY! Hello?! Monkey strapped to a chair here! Would be, uh, would be nice if'n ya let me go! You know how handcuffs work, dont'cha? You dogs are smart enough to take 'em off, right?"

Sid scowled and glanced at the prisoner. He stared at the short, scraggy-furred beast in a gray and black flight suit. Part of the suit had been damaged ever since his starfighter crashed. Sid still remembered watching as the golden snub-nosed monkey bailed out of his aircraft. He remembered hearing various ground troops being ordered to take as many prisoners as possible. And he remembered returning to the CCC, watching as the monkey was dragged through the halls making a large fuss and spouting out as many swear words as possible. Sid knew he was going to enjoy torturing this primate. The monkey grunted as he moved his wrists around, his hands still tied behind the chair and bound together with the handcuffs.

"Oh gee, seems like these cuffs are still on. You wanna, y'know, rectify that? Can you say that word, stupid dog? It's easy. Rec, like rectum--that's your butthole, stupid dog. Then Ti, like tea, that sweet stuff you drink? And then Fy, like the end of that television network that shows really crappy movies with bad CGI."

Sid still said nothing. He didn't even growl or grumble. The mastiff kept a straight face, blinking as he continued to ponder, plotting all the gruesome things he'd do to the irritating monkey. He picked up the scalpel first and walked over to the monkey, blinking as he placed the tip of the deadly instrument against the back of the primate's neck.

"What is that? Hmm? You tryin' to scare me now, is that it? Got some prickly li'l knife and you plan on cutting my eyes out? Ooh! I know! Maybe, uh, maybe ya feel like cutting off my testicles and shoving them into my mouth?"

Sid didn't answer. He simply took the scalpel away and placed the tip against another portion of the monkey's neck. Then he repeated the same gesture, only he placed it on the creature's head. The golden-colored beast started to breathe heavily as he looked left and right.

"Ohhhhhh-kay. I get it now. I get it. You...heh, you are just tryin' t'scare me! You ain't--OW!!"

Sid blinked after taking out a pencil and jabbing the monkey in the back of the neck with it. The pencil was sharp and tore through the skin, but he delivered nothing more than a scratch to the monkey. Sid growled in the primate's ear before he snorted. He started to exhale deeply, his warm breath blowing against the back of the prisoner's head. The monkey scowled and started to groan.

"Urgh, back up a few feet--I can smell your nasty dog breath! When was the last time you brushed your teeth?! Or do you dogs not even own a toothbrush?"

"Two weeks ago," replied Sid in his baritone voice. "I've noticed that morning breath helps keep others at bay. Makes it easier for me to have my personal space."

"Aww, the big bad dog doesn't have any friends! No wonder why--that breath could make someone pass out! So is this all ya gonna do: stand there and make me smell the noisome air in your mouth?"

Sid backed away from the monkey and walked back over to the table. He put the scalpel down and instead picked up five throwing knives. He tossed some of them up and down in his hands before he walked in front of the monkey and sighed deeply. The mastiff looked down at the primate and blinked.

"Tell me what you know about Andrew's forces. His high-ranking commanders, his special mercenary squadrons, anything valuable."

The monkey scoffed and turned away. Sid shrugged and started off with an easier question.

"What's your name and rank?"

The monkey snickered. "Name? Seymour Butts. And since I've been cooped up in this suit for two days, I'm pretty darn sure I'm rank!"

Sid watched as the primate laughed to himself and grinned. Sid took several steps backwards before he held one knife in one hand and raised his hand high. Seymour blinked and started to frown.

"Err...whatcha doin'?"

"Kill the lights," Sid growled.

The dog controlling the lights and cameras in the cell shut off the lights. Both creatures were buried in darkness, having no form of light source besides the two red dots on the bottom of the security cameras. Sid could hear Seymour Butts breathing heavily. Good, the dog thought. He tossed one of the knives, not bothering to aim properly.

THUNK.

"AHH! HEY! WH-WHAT--"

THUNK.

"SHOOT! Okayokayokay--just wait! Just hold up a second!"

THUNK.

"Hold the frick on! I'm--I was just messin' with ya, man! C'mon--it was just a joke!"

THUNK.

"STOP IT! H-h-how can you see?! D-I'm--I can't--just calm down! N-no--no need to do anything rash! Let's...let's be calm 'bout this, eh?"

THUNK.

Sid heard the primate yelp again, much to his delight. The mastiff realized he was out of throwing knives and snorted, thinking about the other instruments he could use to torture the monkey with.

"Tell me what you know," the dog growled.

Seymour snarled. "Screw you! You ain't the boss of me--these stupid scare tactics ain't workin'! You may as well uncuff me now--you're only wasting your breath!"

Sid left the knives on the floor as he started to walk forward. He could still faintly make out images of the brightly colored primate handcuffed to the chair. The mastiff took out his pencil again before he stood behind Seymour and began to wave the writing utensil beside him.

"Let's see how you function without an ear..."

"Wh...wait, what?"

Sid walked over to the tray and started to fiddle with the tools again. He started to grab the scalpel, and then he set it down so gently that no one could hear. The dog walked behind Seymour again and planted the tip of the sharp pencil behind his left ear.

"WHOA! Hey-hey-hey now--hold up! WAIT!"

Sid started to run the pencil down Seymour's ear very gently. The monkey started to scream, thrashing his legs around as he opened his mouth, praying for Sid to stop. But Sid continued to torture the monkey, scratching his ear with the harmless pencil. He wasn't sure if he was drawing blood, but even if he was, there was no way what he was doing was permanently damaging the monkey.

"STOP! FRIGGIN' STOP--I'll tell you...okay? I'll tell you what you wanna know."

"Then speak."

Seymour exhaled. "Okay...what I know...is that Andrew's a monkey. All right? He's Andross' nephew. All right? See? I told you something a stupid dog like you doesn't know. Can you let me go now? OW!"

Sid quickly ran his pencil down Seymour's left arm. Shortly after he did, the mastiff walked over to the plate carrying the bloody piece of meat and dipped his fingers into the crimson. Sid sniffed before he walked back over to the primate and held his fingers above the monkey's left arm.

"Brachial artery. Just severed it."

"WHAT!"

"You feel that blood running down your arm?"

Sid waited. He knew some of the blood would start dripping. Neither of them heard anything, but once Seymour started to breathe heavily and whimpered, Sid knew what he was doing was working.

"Oh no...I-I--what did you just do?!"

"I'd say you got...three minutes. Talk and I'll close the wound. Or keep up with this tough guy act of yours, and bleed out in this chair."

Sid waited. He knew Seymour was going to crack at some point. He had to. The dog paced around the cell, his thick boots clomping on the floor. He hovered behind Seymour, making sure more blood dripped onto his arm and ran down onto the floor. He could hear the monkey whimpering and muttering to himself, unsure of what to do. Sid exhaled. With how long this was taking, he was tempted to use all the destructive instruments for real just to yield results faster. But his methods would still work. They always did, especially with enemies like Seymour.

"Still resilient. Such a brave soldier you are."

"Yeah! Y-you--you're right! I'm res...lent...whatever word you said! I'm that!"

Sid walked in front of Seymour and crouched down. "But now I wonder...how tough will you be without your package?"

"My package? What the heck--OH GOSH! NONONONONO--STOP! STOOOOOP!"

Seymour started whimpering and shouting again when Sid placed the tip of his pencil against his groin. Sid blinked as he began to rotate the pencil using only two fingers.

"Since you're such a resilient soldier, I'll let you choose. Should I take your penis first, or your testicles?"

Seymour started to holler again. Sid began to poke the monkey against his crotch over and over again, hoping he'd be able to pierce the flight suit with the "deadly" weapon. But even if he didn't, he knew the primate was going to break soon. The canine hadn't even used his flashlight or a wet towel to torment the monkey and he was already screaming like a fool. Sid snorted as he pressed the tip of the pencil against the primate's groin harder, enough to make the monkey feel pain.

"No! No! NO! NOOOOOOOO!!"

Sid waited until Seymour let out a sobbing noise that was followed by short sniffling sounds. And then the mastiff's ears twitched once he heard a short hiss. Seymour started to pant and sniffle, his heart beating fast as he tried to contain himself. Sid stood straight up and growled, flaring his nostrils once the hissing noise quickly turned into trickling. The mastiff exhaled and began to twirl the pencil around in his hand.

"ALL RIGHT, ALL RIGHT, ALL RIGHT! I'll t-I'll talk! Okay?! Okay--I'll talk!"

Sid grunted. "So start talking."

Seymour took a few short breaths and let himself calm down. He shut his eyes and shook his head. "I...th-they've been doing a lot of planning lately, okay? I...I heard them talking about superweapons, machines like the Golras."

"We know about the Golras already. Star Fox and the Lightning Lizards disposed of it. What else?"

"Uh...well, I-I think a lot of them are capable of launching assaults from long distances. Y'know, like, uh, like those trucks that fire tactical ballistic missiles?"

"Andrew has superweapons armed with them?"

"I-I think so. I heard so-some chatter 'bout--'bout the, um...'bout this base. 'Bout all your bases. Why send hundreds of soldiers to get killed whe-when one missile can do the job with the push of a button?"

Sid nodded. "That's good. What else have you heard? What do you know of the Fireflies?"

"I don't know much about them. Just that they're some hardcore pilots that'll tear your butt asunder if you aren't careful. And I don't know much else--"

"Hmm. Yes. Perhaps I shall take your eyes instead."

Sid walked dangerously close to Seymour.

"OKAY! Dang man--calm down!" The monkey huffed. "Fortuna, all right? And Aquas. I've heard chatter about Andrew's mercs readying for an attack on Aquas against the Cornerian Naval Fleet. I don't know when or how they're gonna attack--you need to figure that out on your own. As for Fortuna...um. Andrew's got a base there. Massive. Colossal. Gargantuan. Um...big. I don't know what's there, but obviously he's hiding something important. Who knows? Maybe he's building another superweapon there, or maybe more tactical missiles. Point is, I'm sure you all would be very happy--"

"What's the coordinates?"

"I don't know."

"Then what good is that information?"

Seymour huffed. "Yeah, I always walk around keeping coordinates to my leader's top secret bases locked in my head! I told you he plans on attacking your naval fleet! I told you he's building superweapons--I told you about his base on Fortuna! Isn't that enough?"

Sid rubbed his head. Seymour was definitely an idiot, and a braggart of course, but he wasn't the best liar when push came to shove. The mastiff didn't see the point in pressing him any longer--not without forcing the primate to lie so he wouldn't be harmed. The attack on Aquas seemed enough to go on, and the CCC had plenty of analysts who could locate Andrew's base with enough time and effort. Sid Burrley grunted and faced the window.

"We're done here. Turn the lights back on."

"Wait...wh-what about my arm?! HEY! You can't leave me here--I'm gonna bleed--"

The lights flicked on, revealing Sid and his bloody hands, along with the pencil in his right hand. Sid stood still and stared, watching as Seymour's face slowly transformed from panic, to relief, to bewilderment. He was hoping the dim monkey would figure it out, but when he didn't, Sid walked up to Seymour's face and scratched him roughly with the pencil. Seymour winced, but his face was still perfectly fine. The mastiff grunted as he walked back to the tray and picked up the bloody chunk of meat.

"Wait...I thought...I don't get it! Th-there was blood running down my arm! How'd you--"

SPLAT.

Seymour let out a muffled grunt when Sid tossed the bloody steak on his face. The canine licked his fingers clean just when the metal door clicked and whooshed open. Two security guards and General Pepper all walked into the cell, staring at the prisoner and the "damage" Burrley caused.

"Did you get all that?" Sid asked.

General Pepper nodded. "Superweapons and an attack on our naval fleet? Something tells me Andrew's army is heading for Aquas as we speak."

"What about the base on Fortuna?"

"Not much we can do there until we find its location. We'll have our hackers and analysts work on finding it, but it's a needle in a haystack until we do."

"Fair enough. Make sure you take care of Seymour Butts over there. He could be useful for later."

Sid glanced at the primate before looking down at the yellow puddle he left on the floor.

"And get him a towel."

________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

He didn't need them. He didn't need any company. He was fine right where he was. Just him, the glass, and the smooth brown liquid that would soon slide down his gullet. The Rottweiler stared at the glass of dark brown bourbon and snorted. He grabbed the glass and downed the whole shot, slamming the glass down and smacking his lips.

"Whiskey."

The aging lizard stared at the canine as he cleaned out one of the mugs. "You sure? You been knocking a lotta those drinks back, Doogan."

"What did I say?" the dog growled.

The lizard sighed. "What kind?"

"Wheat."

The bartender nodded and turned around, looking around the long shelf of alcoholic drinks to serve to the mercenary. The burly canine sniffed as he started to glance around the bar. He thought it'd be more populated by now, but Doogan figured everyone was out doing a mission or sleeping or something else unimportant. He always enjoyed coming down here; Doogan loved the purplish neon lights glowing from the signs, the smell of smoke from the guests smoking cigars, the various soldiers who were either laughing or boasting about their past missions with a slurred voice. A handful of soldiers were sitting in the booths or eating nachos or Buffalo wings at the round tables. Doogan blinked and noticed a few skunks in red all sitting on the big couch the owner had placed in the corner of the bar. Doogan growled and turned away, hoping the black and white creatures weren't intoxicated and intended on ruining his day. Then again, who wasn't ruining his day? The general was always barking orders at his team; his team always hated him for everything he said and did; everyone avoided him like he had some kind of disease. Whatever. Screw 'em. All Doogan needed was himself and a tall, refreshing drink. Or seven. He forgot how many shots he had.

"Here you go," said the bartender.

Doogan scoffed as the lizard placed the drink in front of him. "Took you long enough."

"You're welcome," the lizard growled.

Doogan grabbed the glass and started to rotate it in his large hand, staring at the brown fluids and blinking as he prepared to drink it. Doogan was about to put the whiskey up to his mouth when he heard the bar door whoosh open. The bulky canine blinked and flicked his eyes to the right, surprised to see a familiar blue bird wearing a red flight uniform walking towards the bar.

"If it ain't good ole Falco Lombardi! How ya doin' bro?"

Doogan grinned as the falcon looked at him and scoffed. "I am not your 'bro,' Doogan. I just came here to get a drink."

The Rottweiler watched as Falco sat down on the stool next to his. Doogan didn't drink his whiskey just yet. He held the drink in his hand and kept flicking his eyes at the bird.

"Get me a scotch," Falco barked.

The reptilian bartender nodded and started to get the bird's drink. Doogan snickered as he set his drink down. "Now where's your manners, boy? You ain't even gonna say please?"

Falco glared at Doogan and scowled, but he didn't take the bait. He turned and faced the bartender, watching as he poured him the glass of scotch and set the drink down on a coaster.

"Here you go."

"Thank you," replied Falco, still trying to avoid the dog.

"What, so you make his drink in like ten seconds but it takes you almost a minute to get mine?" snarled Doogan.

"Yeah, it does. You got a problem with that, then maybe you should find another bar to drink at," the lizard snapped.

Doogan grumbled as the lizard walked away and resumed cleaning or drying out more mugs. The burly Rottweiler downed his shot of wheat whiskey before he turned and watched Falco drink a small portion of scotch from his wider, taller glass. He waited until the bird set the glass down before he sniffed and started to talk to him.

"So what brings the famous Falco Lombardi to this bar?"

"I wanted a drink. Isn't that what bars are for?"

"Bars are for many things. You can sit on 'em, raise 'em, use 'em to do pull-ups--"

"Don't get cute with me," the bird snapped.

"Aww, you think I'm cute? I'm flattered, Falco, honestly!"

Falco grabbed his drink and started to stand up. Doogan quickly grabbed his arm and jerked him back down on the stool.

"Sit down."

"You really wanna do this now? You seriously want me to shove that shot glass down your throat and watch as you choke to death?"

"I just wanted to talk to you, Falco. That's all."

Falco scoffed. "Sure. You mean you're drunk, and you need someone to blab all your secrets too. I'm not here as a shoulder for you to cry on."

"But I'm here as a shoulder for you to cry on."

Falco took his hand away from his drink as he turned and faced Doogan. "Fine. I'll humor you. Whatcha wanna talk about?"

Doogan rubbed his nose and flicked his eyes at the bartender. The lizard, as if on cue, poured another glass of wheat whiskey into the canine's glass. The Rottweiler went back to looking at Falco again and sighed.

"Your team doesn't like you very much, do they?"

"That's none of your business."

Doogan smirked. "Yeah, it is. Before that whole Andross business, you were off doing your own thing. Probably busy gettin' some tail from that cat friend of yours."

"Her name is Katt," growled Falco as he started to make a fist.

Doogan ignored him. "So tell me, Falco. If you were having so much fun by yourself and Katt, why'd you come back?"

"Because Fox needed me. He was in trouble."

Doogan nodded. "Mm-hmm. You were randomly flying around the galaxy, and somehow, you randomly showed up in Sauria's orbit, and somehow, you showed up at the exact perfect time, in the exact perfect place, to find Fox fighting Andross in the middle of the wide open space. Somehow."

"I'm not the one who thought it was a good idea for Andross to still be alive and stuck on some dinosaur planet when I thought Fox already killed him."

"Point is...you came back. What if Fox hadn't been in trouble? Then what? 'Oh. Hey, Fox. Just stoppin' by to see how you were doin'. I see you got a new blue vixen to bang in your free time.'"

Falco huffed and rolled his eyes. "Will you just get to the point?!"

Doogan down his shot of whiskey. "You risked your life for this team. On several occasions. But they don't treat you fairly. They see you as the black sheep. They look at you differently now, don't they? They have to be 'cautious' around you. You're their team member, their friend, and they can't even talk to you properly. They have to bait you into a conversation by bribing you with pizza and dipping sticks."

Falco looked away and drank some of his scotch. He lowered the glass and licked his beak, shutting his eyes. "Who told you about that?"

"Who d'you think? Volcano's got a big belly, a big butt, and a big mouth. I bet you felt embarrassed, didn't you? You felt like that cripple you see eating lunch by himself, so people walk up to him and try to talk to him out of pity, not because they wanna be his friends."

"What's your point, Doogan?!" Falco shouted.

Doogan didn't have to flick his eyes at the bartender this time. The moment the lizard walked by the shot glass, he refilled the drink once again. But Doogan ignored the brown fluids and started to rub his hands together.

"We're the same, Falco. You think my team doesn't treat me the same way? You think I'm not the outcast? I'm the leader of this dang team and-and they treat me like some freak. They act like I'm some cold-hearted sadist--like some meathead they shouldn't respect."

"Well, y'know, it doesn't help when you're constantly being a snide jerk to everyone around you."

"Oh yeah, yeah. I know, Falco. Everything's my fault. It's _always_my fault. If someone dies, go blame Doogan! Someone failed a mission, clearly Doogan's fault! Someone had their necklace stolen, then it must've been Doogan! Someone pissed on the photo of a dead soldier hugging his now bereaved wife, then Doogan..."

Doogan stopped. He turned away from Falco and looked down at the brown fluids in the glass. Suddenly it didn't look appetizing. It looked like bodily waste without the tiny chunks simmering around the glass. The Rottweiler blinked and frowned, his ears lowering. He knew he had enough to drink. And yet, he couldn't help but pick up the glass and dump the fluids into his mouth. Doogan shut his eyes and set the glass down, the fluids suddenly burning his throat as they went into his stomach. The dog leaned forward as he started to rotate the empty glass around on the bar.

"Everyone blames me for everything...everyone hates me..." Doogan said softly.

Falco didn't say anything. He didn't even glance over at Doogan or try to respond with another sarcastic remark. Doogan stayed still, blinking and rotating the glass over and over again, his stomach churning. He was starting to feel the effects of all the alcohol, but the dog forced himself to suck it up. He pondered, still looking at the empty glass, still hoping the lizard would come by and refill his drink. But when the bartender did just that, Doogan could barely touch the glass. The sight of the brown fluids almost made him retch; Doogan slowly moved the glass away and put his hands down on the bar.

"What are we doing here?" Doogan suddenly asked.

"Drinking. Like I said, that's what bars are for," replied Falco.

"No, I mean...what are we doing here? At the CCC? We...you and I, we're better. We're better than all of 'em. We fly faster, we're better at dogfighting, we-we know what commands to issue, what orders to obey, who to kill and what to destroy. So...so why are we here, following orders? Why are we constantly tolerating the balls of excrement people keep lobbing at us?"

Falco didn't answer. He blinked and drank more of his scotch, prompting Doogan to turn and look at him.

"I always liked you, Falco--"

"Okay, now I know you're drunk."

"I'm serious. We...we're black sheep, buddy. Us black sheep need to stick together, y'know? Form our-our own flock. Say 'Forget this herd! I'm goin' my own way!' Get what I'm saying?"

"Yeah. I'm listening to a drunk dog babbling about sheep. You keep talkin' all you want if it makes you feel better."

Doogan chuckled and sniffed. "You think this station's gonna last? Hmm? You think this-this giant army General Pepper's got goin' on is gonna last? No, Falco. Things always go wrong. Andrew's gonna find a way to steal it all from us--that's what the bad guys do. They cause chaos. They kill the good guys. A bunch of people die. And then that's it. The end. A lot of lives have been lost, and nothing was accomplished."

"Oh dear. Cynicism," said Falco flatly.

"You're not listening. We're the good guys, Falco. Which means, sooner or later, we're gonna die. Honestly, I see no reason in being a 'good guy' anymore, Falco. Why not just be...guys? No good, no bad...just guys. Guys who do whatever they wanna do."

Falco glanced at Doogan and shook his head. He drank more of his scotch and sighed heavily.

"Hmph. Fine. Ignore me. But you'll see. Sooner or later, this army will fall. And while all of you are busy dyin' and crying for help, I'll be clear across the galaxy, flying solo, away from all of the chaos. But don't you worry, dear Falco. If you ever change your mind, you an' me--we'd make a good team. Doogan and Falco, two of the most feared aces in the Lylat System."

Falco finished the rest of his drink and exhaled. "I'm leaving. You have fun drinking yourself to death."

Doogan watched as the blue bird stood up and started to walk towards the door. "Remember what I said, Falco! You always got my shoulder to cry on!"

Falco paused, and then he grunted and resumed walking out of the bar. Doogan laughed to himself as he exhaled and faced the bar. He looked down at his shot glass and the brown fluids inside. The dog smiled. He was alone once again, with a lovely glass of wheat whiskey sitting in front of him. Doogan grabbed the glass and downed the shot immediately. And then he slammed the glass down and pointed at the empty container.

"Keep 'em coming."