#sleengo

True to his word, Dingo minded his manners during the gala. There’d been a few small setbacks, such as the instance when he laid into the freckle-faced parvenu who accidentally scuffed Sleet’s shoe, but those could be forgiven. His eagerness to lay into anyone who so much as looked at Sleet funny was a trait none of the other plus ones possessed. In that respect, having Dingo on his arm made Sleet feel special, superior. Treasured, the way he deserved.

It also got his stomach all fluttery more times than he would’ve liked. He had to make a conscious effort to keep from smiling like some gormless pup on their first date. He couldn’t fault himself fully for his distraction. Dingo cleaned up nicely, and there was a sort of innate la belle et le bete romanticism to the pair they made.

Pesky enteric butterflies aside, Sleet couldn’t have asked for a better soirée: Robotnik had no notable criticisms; the aristocrats left no doubt of their continued loyalty to the empire; and no Freedom Fighter rabble rousers showed up and caused trouble.

There was just this one thing. This one, teeny, infinitesimal thing that gnawed away at Sleet’s brain.

The dance he and Dingo had, while not perfect, was one to remember. There were no spools on the floor to trip Dingo up and foil the angel lift—a move unique to their arrangement, one that none of the bluebloods could dare to compete with. Up there, he felt on top of the world.

Sleet’s feet returned to the ground. The live orchestration hushed.

And then everyone around them shared a chaste kiss.

Instead of a kiss, Sleet and Dingo shared a very long, very awkward, searching stare, like they were both trying to commit every strand of fur on their faces to memory.

So far as Sleet understood, partner dances weren’t inherently romantic. There’d been no indication this ball was to be so amorous in nature. Perhaps this detail conveniently slipped Robotnik’s mind. Sometimes he treated them more like playthings and less like foot soldiers, Sleet especially. It wouldn’t be entirely out of character for him to try his nerves just for kicks. There was a rumor going around that some among the imperial ranks were betting on how long it’d take for Sleet to “fold”.

He had doubts this folding in question had anything to do with leaving the empire . . .

Tonight’s gala sponsor had an affinity for the olden days greater than the average aristocrat. The most giving ratepayers, as well as the Emperor and his right hands, were to take part in and be spoiled with an extravagant horse-drawn procession. Spoiled isn’t the word, Sleet thought. The horses weren’t roboticized, making them smelly and loathesome, and the coachmen drove at a snail’s pace. It was all so antiquated. Naturally, Sleet and Dingo rode together.

The wolf watched his seatmate from the corner of a reproving eye. Just look at him. He doesn’t even realize what he’s done. No idea of the trouble he’s wrought.

Dingo was, like so often, off in his own little world. He’d busied himself with repeatedly, flagrantly, licking his chops and overexcercising his jaw.

“What on Mobius are you doing?” he asked when he couldn’t bear the noise anymore, taking his head out of his hand and facing Dingo.

“Caramel,” Dingo answered after much continued struggle. He prodded at the roof of his mouth with his tongue. “Rehlly gudd cayturming. Etsh stumk. Qualty stumf!”

“Stop it. You’re going to get it on the upholstery.” The command hardly carried any bite, perfunctory and bored. He hadn’t the energy to bother saving face. “Robotnik’ll punish the both of us if you keep damaging his property.”

A growl pealed out from Dingo’s throat. “Let ‘im try,” he grumbled darkly, cracking his knuckles. Suddenly the caramel wasn’t an issue anymore. In typical Dingo fashion, he was still convinced they could take Robotnik down. He hated being told the odds. Bold, if not stupid. With Dingo that line was often blurred.

Sleet wasn’t willing to risk such a brazen assault. Dingo was strong, but did he have the stamina to take on armies of SWATbots? And who knew what other war machines Robotnik had in his repertoire? They weren’t privy to everything His Baldness was up to.

“It’s still early days,” Sleet reminded. The pay was good. The power was great. Until those wells ran dry, he was content kowtowing. Sleet returned his attention to the window. “Save that energy for the hedgehogs.”

Dingo voiced his frustration with a snorting grunt, but wisely dropped the subject. He went quiet.

Too quiet.

Sleet, feeling Dingo’s eyes on him, steeled himself for the inevitable. It came soon enough.

“You okay, Sleet?”

Sleet didn’t turn to look at him. “I’m fine. Just tired.”

“Why don’t you sleep?” Dingo asked in that hopeless, guileless way of his. “If there’s an attack, I’ll protect ya.” Sleet saw Dingo’s reflection snap to attention and assume a soldierly air. “Nothin’ gets past me.”

Sleet could readily attest otherwise. “It’s a different type of tired.”

“Oh. Well . . . is there anything I can do about it?”

“Not likely,” Sleet said with a finality, eager to drop the conversation. He shifted away from the window and pointed at Dingo’s tuxedo, a welcome opportunity to change the topic. “Why are you still wearing that?”

Dingo gazed down at himself. “Oh. Huh.” He scratched his head before admitting. “I don’t know.”

Sleet quietly scoffed. Dingo had spent all that time stalling and fretting over the suit only to completely forget he was wearing it.

“It is kinda irritatin’ now that you mention it.” He began undressing, throwing off his suit jacket, not so much unbuttoning his shirt as he was ripping it open. They both cringed at the sound of stitches popping, Dingo stopping after every tear to flash Sleet an apologetic look. Several oops, sorries, and my bads later, he was free from his tux. His nostrils flared wide as he took a huge breath in. Exhaling even bigger, Dingo sank into the cushion and stretched his legs apart in a most ungentlemanly manner. “Oh yeahhh. That’s heaps better. Thanks, Sleet. You’re a lifesaver.”

“Of c-course.” Heat flooded Sleet’s face. He wished he hadn’t mentioned anything at all.

It was going to be a long carriage ride.

“So, did you pick up any hot goss?”

“Hm? Oh, uh, no.”

“I think Lady Guinevere’s preggers. Probably Sir Whiskerton’s.”

“Mhm.”

“Gonna be one ugly baby, hah!”

Sleet replied with a noncommittal mumble, barely parting his mouth. He hastened his pace through the fortress halls. Getting back to base hadn’t given him the relief he had hoped for. Perhaps once he was in bed then. Then he’d stop putting so much thought into something so trivial. Since when did he care about fitting in with the crowd? He was being silly. Bounty hunters weren’t silly, and they didn’t dwell on the past.

Dingo was getting better at realizing when he’d been left behind. It wasn’t long before he caught up. The one-sided conversation turned from ugly babies to scolding Lady Agitha for using her purse to steal the shrimp appetizers. Not because it was selfish and gross, he made sure to emphasize, but because if he did the same he’d get in trouble for it.

On a better day, Sleet would have thought it laudable, maybe even a little sweet, of him to try and engage with his interests. But since Sleet hadn't had the chance to do any eavesdropping himself, too distracted in his thoughts, it just felt like salt in the wound.

Two SWATbots on guard duty saluted them as they entered the elevator lobby. While Sleet fought with a button that didn’t want to be pushed in, Dingo asked the sentinels what they thought about Agitha’s shrimp purse. SWATbots were not conversationalists. Still, Dingo somehow took their dead silence as confirmation that he was right. The sticky button relented at last, and shortly after the doors granted them ingress.

The fortress had several levels. Robotnik had bestowed them a space on one of the uppermost floors. It was a boon he’d promised, one he’d actually delivered on. As emperor, his quarters were obviously more lavish, but for two scoundrelly bounty hunters who’d never had reliable room and board before it was a penthouse.

“Maybe I should get a purse,” Dingo wondered aloud after Sleet punched in the button to their floor.

Sleet closed his eyes, sighing quietly. Soon, he’d have solitude. He tried tunneling his thoughts on that, imagining his bed, velvet slippers, and luxury dressing gown. He thought of his overnight face mask and the cool, crisp smell of cucumbers.

The elevator jerked to a halt, rattling Sleet out of his forced distractions. Turbulence in the lift was unusual, but not altogether unexpected. Robotnik was lousy with handling the fortress’ upkeep. Sleet didn’t dare bring this to his attention. Every time he suggested something he always ended up worse for it. The only time the building saw improvements was after a breach from Freedom Fighters. They had a knack for sneaking inside like rats.

No matter, Sleet decided. The elevator would start up again, and he would be on his merry way.

Then the lights winked out.

“Is that a new feature?” asked Dingo.

Sleet flexed his claws anxiously. “Give it time,” he said, more to himself than to Dingo.

Time was given. The lights didn’t return.

Groaning, Sleet clapped his hand to his brow. “Oh, fan-tastic. Great, just great. Just what I needed.”

“Really? You like being stuck in a box and plunged into darkness? It kinda gives me the heebie-jeebies . . .” Dingo said with a shudder. He pressed close to Sleet for protection.

“You can see in the dark,” Sleet groused. They both could, but Dingo’s night vision far outpaced Sleet’s. Seeing in the dark was one of the few things Dingo was better at.

“Spiders like the dark,” Dingo said meekly, barely above a whisper, as if he was afraid just mentioning spiders would summon a whole swarm of them.

Sleet didn’t even bother rolling his eyes. He shoved Dingo off and began pacing. “Agh! That cheapskate! Robotnik has all the riches in the world and can’t bear to spare it on basic facilities! Some emperor.”

“Oo, I know!” Dingo blurted suddenly and approached the doors. “I’ll rip open th—”

“No! Have you lost what little mind you have? That’s Robotnik’s property!”

“Heh, so?”

“So he’ll get mad! We might lose our benefits, o-or worse!”

“Rrrright, right,” said Dingo, obviously still considering property damage. A slow, dragging scritch-scratching followed. Him rubbing his chin, Sleet recognized. “Hm. Ya think I should punch the keypad instead?”

“No! No punching! No ripping or tearing or gouging or any other form of violence!”

“What about—”

“Biting is included in ripping and tearing, Dingo.”

“So we’re just stuck here?”

“For the time being,” Sleet sat against the wall. “Unless you have any better ideas.” There were worse elevators to get stuck in. Because of the size and weight of SWATbots and other members of Robotnik’s robotic retinue who popped in and out the building, the fortress accommodated Dingo’s unconventional frame well, so Sleet didn’t have to worry about jockeying for room.

Dingo took a sharp intake of air, as if about to raise a suggestion, then stopped. He did this two more times before finally accepting defeat and taking a seat beside Sleet. “Good thing we’re together!” he chirped. Even in this darkness, Dingo’s grin was clear as day.

Sleet crossed his legs, propped his head on one hand, and sulked. They were right back where they started: stuck.

No amount of meditation on cucumbers or opulent accessories quell that annoyance gnawing at his brain. What once was a dull ache had flared into a pressure that refused to be ignored. His emotions weighed on him with the heaviness of something material, as though a big alpha guivre had chosen his head as its perch.

“We can play Twenty Questions, or Would You Rather, or—”

“Why didn’t you kiss me?” The words were out of Sleet’s mouth before his mind had time to catch up. He didn’t backtrack though. He didn’t rush to claim he’d misspoke, didn’t stammer through a half-baked excuse. He let the question loom. It was a question worth asking, wasn’t it?

Dingo audibly swallowed. “Er, I don’t think I know that game,” he said through nervous chuckles.

“At the gala,” Sleet pressed. “At the end of the dance, everyone kissed. Everyone but us.”

“My aunts always told me that just cause everyone else is doin’ something, doesn’t mean I should. Though they never did say anything about kissing.” Dingo paused and tilted his head. “Was always about jumping off bridges for some reason. Kinda weird now that I think about it. We didn’t even have a lotta bridges where we lived.”

“But you literally jump off bridges all the time,” Sleet argued. “Why heed that advice now?”

“Not all the time. I mostly jump off buildings or cliffs. So it’s like . . . quarterly or something. I reckon I jump outta things more.”

“That’s not the point,” Sleet said tersely. “You made us look foolish.”

“Well,” said Dingo, “why didn’t you kiss me?” As he said this, he pointed at Sleet, then himself.

Taken by surprise, Sleet narrowly choked on his own saliva. “I-I was the lead!” He tempered his voice before he continued explaining. “You were the follow. The follow initiates.”

“Mm, that doesn’t sound right.”

“You’re a novice,” Sleet said, flustered. “It wouldn’t sound right to you.” He grumbled irritable nothings beneath his breath. Even he wasn’t quite sure what he was angry about anymore, but he was too far in to give up now.

“I did want to kiss you,” Dingo replied, and Sleet’s mutterings came to a crashing halt. The wolf whipped his head towards him. Any faster and his neck might’ve snapped. “But I felt like I’d be pushin’ it. Your comfort levels, I mean. Wasn’t something we rehearsed. Wouldn’t be proper.”

“Oh,” Sleet said, blinking. After a long pause, he shifted uncomfortably, feeling like the biggest fool to ever grace the planet. Sleet had laid his personal boundaries in thick from the very start of their partnership. It only made sense for Dingo to be reluctant.

Why was he blaming him anyway? Because it was easy? Because it was comfortable? There hadn’t been anything stopping him from initiating instead. What’d he been so afraid of? Everyone already thought they were an item, and their lips had technically touched before.

Sighing, Sleet rubbed along the bridge of his snout—a sort of habit he’d developed whenever nervous or stressed. Whether this genuinely calmed him or not was debatable, but a habit was a habit. “I’m sorry. That was a stupid question.”

Dingo seemed struck by this admission. He was quiet for a moment, as if he’d not heard Sleet and was weighing how to respond without revealing so, before saying, “Oh, uh, no worries. I ask stupid questions plenty.”

“I just felt . . . out-of-place. I don’t need validation from aristocrats, of course, I never want to be one of them, but . . . ” Sleet sighed again and shook his head. “It’s hard to explain. Forget it.” That was enough of that.

For a while, neither of them spoke up again. Sleet was listening for any signs of rescue when Dingo addressed him out of the blue. He thought he’d follow up with another idea that would have to be promptly shut down. But Dingo wasn’t done surprising him.

“Night’s still young.”

Sleet’s ear twitched. “What?”

“Lift might be stuck a while,” Dingo said, jabbing Sleet playfully with an elbow. “Night’s still young.” He paused. “A-am I not sayin’ that right? Speech figures are tricky.”

Sleet squinted. “What are you getting at?” Is he suggesting what I think he’s suggesting?

“Kissing.” Sleet’s stomach flipped. “We could practice. Y’know, for the next go round. Maybe I can help your nerves the way you helped mine before the dance.”

“My nerves are fine,” Sleet said. It was a claim that wasn’t nearly as convincing as he’d hoped; his voice shook and threatened to break. He cleared his throat, speaking only when he was sure he wouldn’t embarrass himself anymore than he already had. “But since you're offering, yes, I’d appreciate that very much.” Dingo offered his hands. Sleet went to accept them, then hesitated. “Just practice?”

“Just practice,” Dingo affirmed. A sly smile entered his voice. “Unless you beg for more.” He made a flirty, faux snarly noise that was equal parts ridiculous and endearing.

Sleet snorted his amusement. Rising to Dingo’s challenge, he called upon his seduction spy jobs from yesteryears. “I don’t beg,” he said sultrily. “I don’t have to.” He closed his eyes, puckered his lips, and—

“Aughhh. Shoot,” Dingo complained, patting his person, “I don’t have any gum. Got any gum on you? Mints? Breath spray?”

Sleet gawked openly at him. He couldn’t believe what he was hearing. This was the same Mobian he’d seen use a salad fork to scratch behind his ear just hours before. Now he was worried about presentation? Once again, it was up to Sleet to take the lead.

He shot out his arms and cupped Dingo’s face with both hands, catching him in the middle of his orthodontic rambling. Impatience getting the better of him, he held him more firmly than he had in the bridal chamber, fingers pinching into and squeezing the great lummox’s cheeks. Then he pulled him forward and practically crashed his lips into Dingo’s own. A hitched squeak of surprise came from Dingo’s throat. It melted away into a soft moan and he pressed back. Sleet’s eyes fluttered before shutting.

Confections Dingo had eaten throughout the day lingered sweet on his warm, plush lips. Sleet usually didn’t care for sugary flavors, but tasting it this way lit a hunger within him. He moved one hand down to Dingo’s mane and splayed his fingers through the bristly fur there, making Dingo purr against his mouth.

One moment longer, and they broke apart, retreating back to their places.

Sleet whisked a tongue over his top lip, further smearing the gloss he’d diligently applied before the festivities. It’d been mussed by Sleet’s enthusiasm. He didn’t care. As he breathed in the echo of Apotan chocolate, a warmth beyond warmth coursed through every inch of his body. What was once a mere fluttering was now a soaring, surging murmuration. Sleet struggled to convince himself he wouldn’t float away.

“I . . . ” he said, finally finding his voice.

“I . . . ” Dingo said at the same time.

They turned to each other and chorused. “I think I might need more practice.”

Before Sleet knew it he was straddling Dingo’s lap. Practicing.

It was Sleet who officially introduced tongue. There’d been an instance on their first round where Dingo’s tongue had crossed the threshold, but, from the way it’d flailed, Sleet gathered this wasn’t on purpose. Uncoordination was Dingo’s specialty, and he didn’t strike Sleet as someone well-versed with kissing. Kissing another person and not his own biceps, that is. Sleet, while a bit out of practice, had experience to spare.

Dingo flinched a little when Sleet’s tongue met his, but he didn’t pull away. The exchange was awkward at first, like the tongue equivalent of two mannerly pedestrians trying to sidestep and juke out of one another’s path.

A few more unsure jousts, and Dingo’s contributions became something more purposeful, more heated. They fell into a rhythm, Sleet setting their pace, Dingo matching Sleet’s strokes.

With a low, rumbly growl, Dingo cupped the back of Sleet’s head and deepened the kiss. Tasting turned into devouring. Electric thrills played up Sleet’s nape as Dingo familiarized himself with the inside of his mouth. Sleet quickly discovered Dingo was more skilled with his tongue than he’d let on. Broader and sloppier than Sleet’s own, it teased all the right areas in record time. Well-saturated smacking, sucking, and lapping filled the elevator’s space. Kissing someone with jowls and an underbite would never be a tidy experience. After all the perfectly manicured pomp and circumstance of the gala, a bit of disorder was appreciated.

There was a certain danger inherent to allowing someone with four-inch tusks to suck your face, and it was that danger that made everything all the more intoxicating. Every now and again, the tips of Dingo’s teeth would catch on and nip Sleet’s lips, stealing a needy sound from him. The peaks grazed pleasantly against his skin.

Thin hands roved down the swell of Dingo’s chest, trailing, unhurried, savoring, until they found purchase around his waist. Sleet squeezed him covetously. Getting back to their quarters was only the vaguest of memories now. Here, in the safety of the dark, he felt truly free for the first time in what felt like ages. And by the Gaias, Sleet was going to make it last.

So he realized too late that he didn’t just feel like he was ascending. He was.

The elevator chime went unheard. It was the draft and the bitter industrial odor it carried that made Sleet freeze on the spot. A round shape loomed large in the open doorway.

He panicked, hands leaving Dingo’s belt.

THUD!

The janitorbot dropped backward. It spasmed twice, electricity jumping from its chassis, before going still and giving an expiring bwoooo. Its lights flickered off.

Sleet released a tense breath before he lowered his gun. While the oil pool spread, he cursed and ran a hand over his face. That must’ve been the third janitorbot this week. He cut a look over at Dingo, who was giggling. Sleet expected him to make some remark about property damage. Instead, the mutant was too kiss-delirious to even notice the smoking husk inches away from him, head and tongue lolled in a blissful, trance-like manner. If not for said smoking husk, Sleet might have reveled in knowing he still had the it factor.

Sleet’s new invention was impressive. Backdropped against the dinge of the decommissioned power plant the pair used as their weapons’ testing ground, Dingo thought it looked like something straight from the movies. 

The Exo-Suit, as Sleet had so theatrically introduced it as in his demonstration, was the culmination of months of scavenging scrapyards, warehouse robberies, and bargaining with Torque’s boys under the table for choice parts. He based its build off of power loaders, pilotable mechanized exoskeletons used to transport heavy cargo. Power loaders, Sleet explained, lacked the articulation, precision, and combat ability he desired however. He wasn’t piloting the Exo-Suit, but rather wearing it. With its sleeker design and flamboyant paintjob, it was equal parts an example of Sleet’s technical aptitude and showmanship. One would never know its unsophisticated origins, or how many premium bananas they had to steal to schmooze over the more renegade members of Torque’s pit crew.  

Dingo clapped at all the right moments during Sleet’s demonstration. He ooed as Sleet dug into the floor and tore apart the concrete. He awed as Sleet lifted two junk cars, one in each mechanized hand, and then tempered his disappointment when his appeal for a juggling act was ignored. As Sleet took his bows, Dingo rose from the cargo container he’d been using as a seat and gave a standing ovation. 

It was when, while Dingo engaged with the butterfly-inducing fact that the Exo-Suit granted Sleet enough height both bounty hunters could comfortably look each other in the eyes, that Sleet had asked him to hit him. 

Dingo blinked, blinked again, then tilted his head. Surely he’d misheard. “Could you repeat that?” he said, swiveling a pinky into one ear. “It kinda sounded like you said you wanted me to hit you.” Which would be ridiculous. Sleet didn’t traffic in ridiculosity. Dingo, meanwhile, had been told he was an expert in such matters. 

“I did,” said Sleet plainly. “Hit me. It’s important. I’m field testing.” 

Dingo’s face pinched, lips twisting and brows wrinkling in heavy consideration. Then he brightened. “Oh! I get it. You’re joking.” He let out a loud burst of laughter. “That’s a good one, Sleet! Real rip snorta!”

But Sleet was not laughing. He watched Dingo overdo his pretended hysterics, face steely and unmistakably impatient. Dingo quieted. A fraught silence yawned between the two of them. 

“Oh,” was all Dingo could think to say, voice going very small. Feeling suddenly haggard, he scrubbed over his face with a clammy palm. 

What was the least hurtful way to break it to your dearest, bestest friend that he’d get absolutely demolished in a sparring session? How did one tell their crush that they were liable to get crushed during the first round? 

“Shouldn’t you try it on a dummy first?” This, for some reason unknown to Dingo, prompted a flash of amusement to cross Sleet’s face. Dingo didn’t care to unravel why, struck as he was by his companion’s strange request. “Get more data?” 

“This is me gathering data. I designed this suit to be able to contend with your strength. It’s literally foolproof,” Sleet said proudly. “Do you remember that watchdog unit I reprogrammed?

Dingo bobbed his head. “The little floating round thing that always got in the way, yeah.” 

“It was obtrusive, I admit. But its footage of your clashes with our adversaries proved most invaluable. I’ve poured through hours of video.” 

“Ohhh. Ohhhh! So that’s why you kept it around so long.” Honestly Dingo thought Sleet just liked watching it hover around. Wait, hours? Spent watching him and only him? The revelation made him snortle. “Aw, Sleet, can’t get enough of me, huh?”

“It’s strictly research,” Sleet said, a little defensive. “I see plenty enough of you. We share the same living quarters.” 

“Did it get my good side?”

“You have no good side.” 

“Hah! You’d know, since you spent hours watching me.” 

“Oh, enough of this!” Sleet exploded, making Dingo startle and draw away.  The silence returned, even tenser than before. Then Sleet sighed, a frustrated, almost agonized noise. “I don’t understand. You like punching. What’s the problem?” He sounded hurt. “We practiced for this.” 

Building Sleet’s strength, and in turn his self-image, had been a project they both undertook. It started off promising, raisin bread incident notwithstanding (apparently Sleet had an adult-onset allergy to raisins). Right as they were graduating into weighted exercises, Sleet’s impatience with his progress and unenthusiasm for the grind hit a breaking point. What was Dingo to do? He couldn’t make Sleet do the drills and after business started ramping up strength training was pushed farther and farther out of mind. 

Sleet was, respectfully, still a shrimp. And there was nothing wrong with that! Some guys were just shrimpy. 

Dingo couldn’t begin to understand how Sleet was feeling. He’d never felt physically inadequate, never felt weak or less than. And if anyone tried to make him feel that way he could just fold them like a lawn chair. Sleet had no such luxury.  He was a brainy sort, though. That had to amount to something surely. He built incredible things. He could get information from a person using just his words. He was resourceful and witty and showed drive with his diabolical plans, plans that Dingo could listen to all day and never grow tired. Sleet knew how to count beyond ten, how to shoot straight, how to pour a glass without spilling, how to entertain a dinner party without hanging a spoon on his nose  . . . 

Sleet wasn’t less than. He was more than enough. 

Dingo stared down at his hands. He clenched them, watching the flex of powerful tendons within. His options left much to be desired. Humor Sleet and risk wounding him physically? Or stand ground and refuse, wounding his spirit? Torn seemed too small a word to describe how he was feeling.  

One punch. He could do that, right? Just one punch. Sleet said the suit could take it. And didn’t he trust Sleet? 

“If you’re too much of a wuss,” Sleet began, with a coyness undetected by Dingo's ears. “I could always ask one of the Gorilla Twins.”

Dingo flinched and snapped to attention. “The Gorilla Twins?!” he repeated incredulously. “Th-those bozoes? Ya can’t be serious!” 

“Oh?” Sleet’s brow rose. “Why not? They’re awful strong.”

“I’m stronger!” blurted Dingo, jabbing his chest. “I could beat ‘em with my pinky finger! B-blindfolded! On an unicycle!”

“Prove it.”

“Well, I would, but I, uh, don’t have a unicycle and . . . ” Dingo paused. “Ah. Right.” 

Now it was personal. His reputation was on the line. He couldn’t have Sleet thinking he was a wuss, and he definitely couldn’t have him thinking those run-of-the-mill goons were better than him. So Dingo drew in a long, steadying breath, lifted his chin, set his balled knuckles by his sides, and tromped forward. As he approached, he rolled his neck and shoulders and put on a mean, teeth-baring mug, growling, daring Sleet to break his nerve. Or rather, give him a chance to reconsider. Sleet was unfazed. He even yawned politely at Dingo’s bluff charge. If the wolf had any trepidation about seeing this through, he was doing a phenomenal job hiding it. 

Summoning all his might, Dingo cocked his arm, gave a battle cry, massive fist hurtling towards the mechsuit’s chestplate like a cannonball . . . 

Dink.

Sleet glanced down at the still-connected fist, then up at its owner. His face was perhaps the most unimpressed it’d ever been, lowered brows and scrutinizing yellow eyes so scathing they sent Dingo’s tail cowing between his legs. The punch wasn’t a punch at all. It was a nudge. A nudge even more timid than Dingo intended. 

 This was a wholly new type of disappointment from Sleet. It felt . . . bad. Horrible. Heavy. As if an anvil had just dropped into his stomach. Dingo stepped away and backed his ears. 

“Well then.” Sleet put his hands on his hips. “Perhaps I’ve let my enthusiasm get the better of me. I’ve gone about this wrong.” The sound of Sleet admitting he’d made a mistake was as unusual as it was exquisitely reviving, like finding a clean pool of water in a sweltering desert or a collectible that wouldn’t break after mere minutes of handling. 

Dingo heaved out a great sigh, sagging heavily with the effort and stretching out every syllable in his W H E W to the extreme. “Man. That’s a relief.” He straightened, putting a hand behind his head. “Strewth. I haven’t been that worried since—”

“I’ll strike first.”

“Y’wot?”

The next moment seemed to occur in slow motion. He saw a set of metallic knuckles swing into view. It connected squarely to the side of his face. Two vicious elbow strikes followed, then an uppercut so devastating Dingo felt himself lift briefly off the floor. Colors indescribable in their brilliance flooded his vision. He doddered back, then doddered some more, until finally pirouetting like a drunken ballerina. 

When he fell, his jaw slammed into the floor with a hard, booming WHUMP that thrust him back to the here and now. A plume of dust and debris settled over his muzzle. Starbursts popped behind his eyelids. A sharp ringing keened in his ears. He was slow to push himself up and check his jaw, lightly palpating its underside and clasping around its hinge. The taste of copper crept into his mouth.

He had actually felt that. 

“Oh dear,” he was barely able to make out Sleet’s voice, “I didn’t knock that pebble of a brain of yours out of your head, did I?” 

On the contrary. That was still very much intact. Presently it felt as though someone had dumped a whole liter of Perfect Chaos Cola on it, energized and atingle. He gave his head a fierce shake, and the world stopped spinning at last. “Whoa-ho-ho!” he whooped and hooted. “Attaway, Sleet!” Oh, how he’d longed for this day. Fighting was everything to Dingo. It was possibly the closest thing to a religion he had. But he could never share it with Sleet, not intimately. The two could never have a proper, blood-pumping, rip-roaring, sweat-soaked tussle, not without Dingo morphing to a form in Sleet’s weight class. Even under that clause, Sleet always turned his nose up at the idea, preferring more “cultivated” and  "intellectual" activities. 

 In Tralius there was no shortage of cocksure belligerents to exchange blows with, but that’s all they were, cocksure belligerents. Not close friends, not even acquaintances really. More like animate punching bags. They would’ve scrapped with anyone. Dingo was much more discriminating. A fight with Sleet, now that was special, that was precious. At last they could have some real fun.

 Or at least have the next best thing, Dingo quickly reminded himself. He’d need to temper his blows, suss out how much roughhousing Sleet could take. 

“Don’t you dare,” Sleet said suddenly in a tight, growling voice that gave Dingo chills. “Don’t you dare hold back. I’ll know if you go easy on me.” 

Now that was an order if Dingo had ever heard one. He’d always loved the soft, slightly nasal way Sleet naturally spoke, and the even softer way he whispered, but the grit and gravel in his more authoritative tones got Dingo especially hot around his ruff. What a man, he thought, the tips of his ears flushing.

Dingo got to his feet. “Don’t you worry, Sleet.” He swiped the blood from his nose with a thumb before grinning wildly and squaring up, Sleet’s command having lit a fire in his belly. “When have I ever let ya down?” Sleet gave him a pleased smirk, then mirrored Dingo’s stance.

Legends said that the Zeti, an extinct race of horned warlords and barbarians who lived above the clouds, courted potential mates through fierce ritualistic combat, testing their mettle, proving their worth. To a testosterone-glutted romantic like Dingo, the concept utterly exhilarated him. Tantalized him. 

Could this be . . . their courtship? 

Dingo snapped out of his moonstruck reverie just in time to block Sleet’s right hook, countering with a powerful push kick to the abdomen. Sleet grunted and faltered back some distance. He shot a quick glance at the area of impact. A kick that hard usually left a dent. To his apparent relief and self-satisfaction, the only damage was some slight discoloration. 

Dingo, not wanting to disappoint, didn’t give him the time to savor the moment. He thundered towards him, feet pounding into the pavement. With another yell, he slammed into Sleet shoulderfirst. Sleet however did not go down. He set his feet, rooting, resisting. They clashed. 

“Look at you!” Dingo commended brightly while they clinched, pushing against each other. “Baking bread one day, bumpin’ uglies the next!”

Sleet’s expression flicked from teeth-bared determination to blanching scandalization. “Th-that’s not—that’s not what that phrase—why would you . . . ” He growled and shook his head. “Augh! Stop trying to psyche me out!”  

“I wasn’t,” Dingo smiled apologetically before adding in earnest. “That’s not another word for scrappin’? What’d I say?” He chortled, low and slumberish. “Heh-heh, must be somethin’ juicy.” Then Dingo broke their clinch by butting his head into the Exo-Suit’s roll cage. The force made the frame’s bars rattle, and Sleet reflexively recoiled. He was now on the back foot, narrowly dodging Dingo’s one-two punch, almost going off balance as he did. After managing to get a jab in, then another, he went for a low kick. 

Dingo caught it with a kick of his own. “Nope!” 

Sleet kicked again, higher. Dingo grabbed the offending foot, putting it into a lock. His thick skull absorbed Sleet’s open-handed buffeting. As he tightened his hold and centered his weight, prepping for a hammer throw, he felt the cold of metal clasping around neck. Sleet pulled up and drove an armored knee into Dingo’s jaw. On the third try, he managed to land a significant hit, thrusting into Dingo’s sensitive snout. The jarring shockwave that rippled through his muzzle made Dingo loosen his hold. He quickly dove underneath before Sleet could wriggle free, grappling his opponent’s inner thigh and heaving. He arched, sending them both crashing into the ground.

They continued on like this, exchanging blows, feints, and quips. Circling, testing, transitioning from stand-up fighting to ground-fighting and back again. Best of three became seven. 

Occasionally Dingo would surprise him by making good of his shapeshifting abilities; he partially altered his appendages, sweeping Sleet’s legs with a tentacle or gouging deep grooves into his armor plating with a monstrous claw.  Sleet surprised him, too. Dingo had never had someone try a flying head scissor on him before, least of all someone encased in titanium alloy. While the maneuver failed, it didn’t make Sleet’s tenacity any less applaudable or attractive. The wolf was lagging by the tenth round, Exo-Suit beginning to show more than a little wear as it leaked puddles of tarry hydraulic fluid onto the floor. Still, he fought on, incautious movements and lolling tongue betraying the bite of his smacktalk. He didn’t seem to realize he was hemming himself in until it was too late and his back was against the wall. 

Dingo strung Sleet up by his  arms. In between panting breaths of his own, he asked, “How’s that for pebble—”

Sleet snarled, a true snarl, the first Dingo had heard come out of him. It shut Dingo up fast. That, and all the willpower and fire in Sleet’s eyes. This close, Dingo couldn’t help but stare. And what a sight Sleet was, mane tousled and noticeably damp, purple strands drooping into his face. A single bead of sweat trailed down the front of his shapely nose, tracing its curve. Dingo watched it fall with stunned interest. He couldn’t remember a time he’d seen his fastidious, appearance-obsessed companion look disheveled. So perfectly imperfect. Handsome in his raggedness. 

They’d met not unlike this, Sleet up against the wall, at Dingo’s mercy. The wolf had quite literally bumped into him. Dingo would’ve let bygones be bygones if Sleet hadn’t opened that big mouth of his. The torrent of venom he unleashed . . . Dingo couldn’t have kept up with the amount of insults slung even if he tried. Even when he made it crystal clear he wasn’t a push-over, Sleet hadn’t broken his gaze. He didn’t beg for forgiveness. He didn’t bow, and he wasn’t bowing now.  That barely held together bravado from the past had morphed into defiance at its utmost degree.

And sweet Gaia below was it was hot. Sleet wasn’t at his mercy. The truth was it was the other way around. 

Dingo’s ruff heated again. He wet his lips, trying in vain to remember what he’d been about to say. His daze made him overlook the roguish smirk Sleet suddenly flashed at him. It was the only warning he got before a titanium-reinforced foot crashed into his crotch. He let out a sound halfway between a choke and gasp and curled in on himself, hands flying to his vulnerables. Body seizing up, he dropped to his knees and fell onto his side like a wooden plank. Sleet stepped over him without a second glance. 

He should have been mad. It was true that Dingo wasn't one for etiquette. He had kicked his fair share of nards in his lifetime. That said, it wasn’t okay for him to be kicked there. Hypocritical? Yes, but that, among many other words, wasn’t in Dingo’s vocabulary. And yet, instead of seeking retribution for his bruised tangelos, that sense of pride from before underlay his misery. How rotten of Sleet to aim there. How, as the Zeti would say, worthy. 

“Good one,” he managed to wheeze, blinking away stinging tears. He listened to the rhythmic self-assured clunk-clunk-clunk of Sleet walking away. It began slowing . . . slowing . . . 

The loud crash of the Exo-Suit collapsing made Dingo’s eyes fly open. The cry that followed had him pushing through the nausea and forcing himself up. “Sleet?!” Fear resuscitated him. He crawled over as fast as he could. “Sleet!” he said, relieved to see him already hauling himself out of the wreck and casting off all his high-tech accoutrement, none too carefully. His relief waned. From the wolf’s lack of concern for his devices and the way his face clenched, Dingo got the sickening feeling something was very wrong. “Sleet, what happened?! You’re hurt? Are y’hurt?” Had he gone too far? His stomach did a somersault. He’d never forgive himself if he hurt him. “Somethin’ broken? Sleet!” 

“Don’t be so arrogant,” Sleet snipped. Another face clench. “And not so loud.” He waved him off, Dingo scooted a hair’s breadth away. His words came out in short bursts, like it took effort to even open his mouth. “It wasn’t your doing, for once.” He shut his eyes snug for a moment, lips peeling from his gritted teeth, and sighed, the way one sighed when confronting a bitter truth. “I overworked myself. Sparked a flare-up, or it’d already been brewing and I exacerbated it. My spinal mods must—” he tried and failed to bite back a groan “—need retooling.” 

 Dingo relaxed, but only somewhat. Sleet had told him once, during one of those moments of fleeting vulnerability that Dingo cherished so dear, that he’d been born before he was due. 

“My mother’s environmental conditions weren’t ideal, nor her stress levels. Exile isn’t exactly conducive to a growing illegitimate child’s health,” he’d said, with a small, bitter laugh that made Dingo’s heart hurt. 

In the time that Dingo knew him Sleet’s congenital aches had rarely ever manifested. He wasn’t sure what to do, and he felt terribly useless for it. His first instinct was to hold him, nestle him against himself, keep him safe from harm. But Sleet’s pain was an invisible one. There was no enemy to protect him from, and Sleet wouldn’t abide such contact without good reason. 

“You did great.” Maybe some praise would take Sleet’s mind off the pain. 

For a moment Sleet was quiet. “I did, didn’t I?” His voice carried an unfamiliar note to it, something like wonder, as if he hadn’t expected to succeed. He looked up at Dingo. A small smile crossed his face. 

Small, but so rewarding. Dingo could practically feel the waves of triumph radiating from him. A shining testimonial. He swelled. It was always nice, being needed by Sleet. When booby traps weren’t involved, that is. “Yeahhh,” he said, and his voice went a bit too dreamy as he reflected on every invigorating hit. He corrected himself with a cough and puffed out his chest. “B-but, uh, it’s only ‘cause you learned from the master.”

“The only thing you’re the master of is tripping over air and leaving the toilet seat up.”

“Er, that’s two things.”

He preferred charging headlong through crowded bazaars and port cities, sending market stalls and their contents flying, making his presence well-known. Stalking on a cool, starless night from the trees in the form of an arboreal apex predator and striking when the target least expected it offered a different buzz. No matter the approach, it was all good fun seeing the terror flood their eyes when they realized they were cornered and the two bounty hunters were only pretending to listen to their babbled appeals and excuses. 

Sometimes, they’d get a fighter, someone who really knew how to make the chase worthwhile, the type who’d whirl on Dingo mid-step and dare a glancing blow. Never much of a challenge, but refreshing nonetheless. Dingo liked to let them think they had him on the backfoot before quashing their hope and a great deal of their bones, if the client allowed. 

The thing with chases though was that they were more enjoyable when you weren’t on hooves. And you weren’t in snow that went up to your weird, jutting reindeer ankles.

 And you weren’t providing transport for Mobius’ worst backseat driver. 

“For the love of—Dingo, I’ve seen you move faster for the ice cream truck! Get up! He’s getting away!” Sleet’s heel connected with Dingo’s downy underbelly twice. “Yah, yah!” His spurring didn’t hurt, but it sure was annoying. 

With a huff, Dingo clambered wobblily out of the steep snowbank he’d sunken into, flung the rapidly piling snow that’d fallen onto his velveted tines off, and broke into an uneasy gallop onto hopefully less engulfing ground. His legs felt a hair’s breadth away from turning into icicles. Maybe he should have suggested a penguin form instead. Sliding down the Northern Tundra’s slopes on your belly sounded much less taxing than charging down them on hooves. 

“Come on!” Sleet persisted, albeit with a touch of chattering teeth. “Eyes on the prize!”

What do you think I’m doin’?  Dingo would have said, but his tongue was decently warm inside his mouth, and he didn’t want to risk a draft. Even in this heavily insulated form, the cold was managing to seep through. The froth that leaked from his fuzzy, cowish muzzle crystalized within seconds of exposure, and his tusks were starting to rime. 

Sleet was holding up well, all things considered. No doubt due to Dingo’s woolen craftsmanship. Winter was sweater weather, and Dingo fancied himself a pro at knitting sweaters. Sleet was wearing one beneath his armor, over his undersuit, both of which already conserved heat passably. His grousing when presented with the sweaters, among other handmade winter apparel, had decreased over the years. He still made an attempt—oh, did he try—but his efforts to avoid wearing them weren’t nearly as long-lasting, and his tough guy excuses were all used up. 

The prize of which the moody jockey referred looked like nothing more than a little green dot in the freezing fog and stretching white expanse. 

Sleet shooting Manic’s hovercraft out of the sky hadn’t slowed the hedgehog. As soon as the bounty hunters disembarked the Red Whiptail, expecting to retrieve the unconscious, if not dazed, royal pain, they found out he was very much still alert. The improvise and use your downed hovercraft as a snowboard type of very much still alert. 

“Move it, Dingo! Yah!” Another jab in the side. Dingo tossed his antlered head and grunted in warning. 

If only there were a low branch around to humble him.

A humorous idea, but an ill-advised one. While Dingo wasn’t against ill-advised ideas, capturing Manic was a win they both needed. Sacrificing their chances for a fleeting laugh, that’d be one of his biggest blunders ever. 

As the little green dot grew nearer, Sleet’s weight leaned forth. Blaster bolts whizzed over Dingo’s antlers. The volley lit the fog up enough for them to see Manic’s quilled shape serpentine with barely any difficulty, dodging every scintillating beam and vanishing into wintery obscurity once more. 

“Agh!” Sleet let out a growl of frustration and hammered a fist onto Dingo’s withers.  “Confounded pincushion!” His shouts were drowned out by a passing gale of icy wind. 

Freedom Fighter activity in Mobius’ polar regions had increased ever since the Empire began installing refueling outposts and garrison bases there. With construction underway on a secret major oil rig operation, and a group of nosy Arctic Freedom Fighters at large, His Pinkness had all his subordinates scattered high and low. 

On any other day, in any other biome, Dingo would have been pleased by the diversion Manic’s appearance brought. It didn’t snow where Dingo was from. The driest of Mobius’ continents, Trailus was warm year around. Before becoming a bounty hunter, he’d only experienced snow inauthentically, by way of depictions in media and decoration for festive storefronts. Those holiday specials he grew up watching never emphasized just how blisteringly cold the stuff could get.

Extended exposure to freezing temperatures also made his body feel a bit . . . starchy. Weaker even, although he didn’t like to think about that. Sleet once hypothesized his unique molecular structure would solidify at an extreme level of frigidity, such as the conditions found at the Ice Cap. Although the Northern Tundra wasn’t extreme, it wasn’t particularly cushy either. 

Why’d those Resistance wimps have to go and make a big fuss now? Couldn’t they have waited until after the holidays? Better yet, why couldn’t Robotnik have waited to build the rig until after the holidays? 

It’s the one thing this whole bleedin’ season is good for! thought Dingo. 

The abundance of seasonal sweets, the banquet halls to raid, the unattended banks, the carolers to throw water at, the parade floats to pop, the decorations to sabotage, the gift heists, the family-friendly icons to crudely imitate and subsequent children to frighten! There was no shortage of mischief and mayhem to be had. Or there would have been, if Robotnik hadn’t essentially criminalized any sort of revelry that wasn’t venerating him. The elite and subordinates like the bounty hunters had certain allowances, of course, but any gift-giving that wasn’t to him was strictly prohibited and, after the Urchino incident, Sleet was hesitant about going behind Robotnik’s back. Meaning no time-honored Sleet and Dingo gift exchanges! 

Anger at both his employer and adversaries compounding, newfound strength and speed surged through Dingo, cold-numbed legs accelerating, his hooves great pistons punching in and out of the compacted snow. A rumble built deep in Dingo’s throat, then exploded out as a forbidding bugle loud enough to rival the howl of the wind. There was such force behind it his head careened back. The cry rushed from his lungs, breath streaming out and billowing like white fire. Sleet, snickering, gave Dingo’s fluffy neck a companionable slap, evidently very pleased by the potent shift in energy.

Mid-bound and mid-reverie about pulling Robotnik limb from limb however, right when the slope began to bottom out, Dingo’s four-chambered reindeer stomach suddenly tightened. At once, he jammed all his hooves deep into the packed snow. His back and hindquarters canted low and hard while he slammed the brakes. Snow kicked up behind him in an impressive shower as he slid, like dust beneath screeching wheels. When his momentum stopped, he thudded heavily onto his haunches with a grunt. 

Dingo was a firm believer in going with his gut, his instincts. Sleet pooh-poohed this, but Sleet was an incorrigible pooh-pooher. If he wasn’t loudly naysaying something, he must have been out of sorts. 

“I have a six cents,” Dingo had once tried to explain. 

“A sixth sense,” Sleet had replied in his grousing I’m too tired for this voice.

“Whassat?”

Presently, his six cents were giving him a bad feeling about what laid up ahead. He took a few investigative sniffs of the air, the last of which being the deepest. The large snowflakes he accidentally inhaled on this turn made him hitch and sputter. Once he recovered, he stared into the wintery haze beyond. Far too murky to identify any obstacles or enemies. Dingo crept forward, keeping his antlers low and at the ready. He noted Sleet’s quiet. Perhaps he felt it too. 

Soon, he discovered just what it was: a gaping crevasse in the ice. Edging closer to its cliff, Dingo peered down and made an awed, distinctly Trailian noise as he admired the vivid blue of the chasm’s jagged walls. When he had his fill, he lifted his chin and said in a tone not the least bit hiding the smugness that swelled within him after all the kicking and yah-ing and unwanted, unconstructive critique, “Heh, good thing my mutant super senses felt that, eh, Sleet? What was it you were sayin’ about my steering again? About my tragee . . . trajuct . . . whatever smarty-smart word you said?” There was no nasal and grudgingly accepting reply to validate him. “Sleet?” Not even a defeated huff or grumble. “Sleet?” 

He realized his back suddenly felt a lot more cold, more bare. Dingo turned his head as far as his bulky reindeer neck allowed and took stock of his fussy rider’s absence. Inwardly, Sleet’s outlined afterimage winked at him like a neon sign. “Where’d ya go?” Dingo looked around, making a small circle in place. At the same time he completed his pivot, he heard a muffled groan from up ahead. Dingo squinted and focused in. 

The fog abated enough for him to see Sleet’s lower half sticking out of a snowdrift. Dingo jolted with panic . . . and then it hit him, the recollection of that one fancy science concept Sleet told him about whenever he feared he’d misplaced his tail: object permanence. Panic quickly gave way to barely smothered, full body spasming laughter. 

He hadn’t bisected his partner in some horrible, strangely bloodless accident. Sleet had merely gotten an icy cold faceful of comeuppance, flung off when Dingo stopped at the crevasse. 

“Hold—” An explosive ‘snrk!’ breached Dingo’s muzzle, and he had to take a moment to gather himself. “Hold on, Sleet! I’ve got ya!” He wheeled, bounded a few paces, turned back around, and primed his muscles for a running leap. Pawing the ground, he took a snorting breath, twin clouds of misty condensation blasting from his nostrils upon his exhale before he barreled forward and launched himself. “Hup!” 

He soared with a practiced ease. This  form might not have had any flying magic like in the tales—he had tried once before, there was a lot less whimsy and a lot more crashing—but Dingo had history jumping cliffs and canyons in the Badlands as a horse, which was basically just a less poky reindeer. 

His dismount was even cleaner than he could have hoped. The feat stoked his conceit higher. Tail raised, he took on an exaggerated trotting bearing, hooves lifting loftily. “Did you see that?” He paused, realizing the comedy of the question. “Oh, right. You couldn’t, ‘cause your head’s—” 

Giggles slipped out from him as he reared and pressed his forehooves into the snowdrift, returning to his fours as it gave way. How it crumpled apart reminded Dingo a little of the breakable chocolate desserts the aristocrats enjoyed. He found the mallets given to break the treats far too puny and ineffectual, though he supposed those qualities complemented the nobility well. 

Mumbling concussed nothings, Sleet sloughed out on his front. 

Alongside one unmoving Manic the Hedgehog. 

“Sleet!” Dingo tore backward in surprise. “Sleet! You got ‘im!” Excitement laced his voice. 

“Wha?“ Sleet’s gaze was unfocused, eyelids asymmetrically shuttered. He spoke with a thick dizziness. 

Dingo thrust a hoof towards the vermin, pointing as best he could. “The hedgehog! You got ‘im! We did it!”

A brief silence passed between them as Sleet registered this. His once woozy eyes lit up, and the wolf sprung to his feet, lifting Manic by his wrist and giving a breathless, ecstatic laugh. “I-I must have collided with him when you threw me!” The when you threw me part held none of the usual Sleet sneer. Nothing like a captured quarry to smooth things over. 

They whooped and cheered and Dingo trotted a little victory jig in place, the soul-crushing atmosphere and all work-related misgivings peeling away in the face of their electric jubilation. They’d done it! The Freedom Fighters’ morale would no doubt weaken when they saw one of the prophesied children roboticized. Robotnik could call this whole thing off! They could go back to the fortress in Robotropolis and make some pitiful small business fork over all the sweet treats they can carry and heckle a community theater play! 

And maybe, just maybe, they’d wander under a mistletoe. 

“Before we roboticize him,” Sleet was explaining, jogging Dingo from his moony pining, “we use him as a carrot to draw his accursed siblings out.” 

“Yeah! . . . Uh, what’s the carrot for?”

Sleet raised the limp hedgehog higher. “He’s the carrot.”

Dingo scrutinized the boy, brows and nose wrinkling. He hummed an indecisive noise. “I think I’d make the better carrot. Manic’s more of an artichoke, I reckon. Maybe asparagus?” Dingo quickly amended after giving Manic another glance over. “No, wait! Definitely an artichoke.” 

Just as Sleet opened his mouth, there was a booming sound, almost like a miniature thunderclap, as if the air itself had shattered. 

Then, WHOOSH!

A meteoric gust of wind and a glowing javelin of blue sped between them, the force of the blur’s passage slamming into them and bowling them over. Before the geyser of snow the interloper kicked up could settle, Dingo angrily leapt to his hooves and struck out with his antlers. Nothing connected. He’d only been attacking empty space, space where the impossibly fast Sonic had just been. 

Sleet’s hand, too, was empty. The only evidence of Manic’s short-lived nabbing were the scattering of green quills on the ground. 

Dingo bristled, nostrils flaring, blood burning. He made to pursue, but a steadying arm caught him in his chest. Dingo fixed the now standing wolf a pleading stare and uttered a desperate moo. His body went nervy and twitchy, like a housecat’s after seeing a bird they can’t reach. If he just pushed a little harder, if he funneled every ounce of his rage and hatred and anguish in the run, maybe he could catch him. 

Sleet said nothing though. His face was one of weary acceptance, a familiar sight. He turned his attention from Dingo’s shuffling and reindeer whines to the horizon. Dingo followed.

 There was no blue dot. There was no green dot. 

Sonic had cleared the Northern Tundra’s vastness in milliseconds. He and Manic were gone. 

“But I . . . we . . . ” said Dingo quietly. 

Sleet sounded half bored. “Come on, Dingo. It’s not worth it.” 

The fight drained from the mutant’s cervid muscles. His ears slunk. His tail drooped. He stilled. Sleet placed a hand on Dingo’s shoulder. The way it lingered before he vaulted and climbed aboard, Dingo wondered briefly if it wasn’t just to mount up, but a rare show of comfort. 

With Sleet astride, Dingo turned away from where the hedgehogs vanished. He took a few plodding steps forward, setting course for where they’d left the Whiptail. Dingo hesitated almost as soon as he’d started however, eyes falling upon the loosened spines. The clouds overhead, once blanketing and unconscionably opaque, had curtained somewhat. Bright sunlight pooled over the quills, and the snow beneath them glittered. As Dingo considered them afresh, his rounded deer ears bobbed curiously. They looked almost like pine needles. 

The image made him hearten. His mouth twitched into a small smile, the first stirrings of inspiration purling in his mind. He could still salvage this. 

Dingo walked over and, gingerly, picked one of the quills up in his mouth.

Living in the Northern Tundra base Robotnik had arranged for them felt a bit like living in a big sardine can. 

For something so recently built, there was a palpable aura of dinginess and dilapidation to it. Robotnik spared expenses whenever he could, and ensuring the bounty hunters’ quality of life was clearly something he didn’t worry himself with. That much was obvious by the low ceiling and door frame Dingo had to duck and sidestep to enter; no matter how many slapstick injuries he accrued, it took a mighty conscious effort on his part to remember to be size-aware. 

Bleak, minimalistic, and perfumed by the industrial fustiness ever-present in the emperor’s handiwork, the station was a true exercise in function over fashion. It was toasty at least. The hum and rattle and whir of the heating system went on day and night. 

The circumstances in which they found themselves reminded Dingo of a monster movie he once saw, about a group of scientists fending off a shapeshifting creature. As a shapeshifting creature himself, the irony was not lost on him. Only, he was far more handsome and charismatic than the space invader featured, and the scientists’ accommodation had more than three rooms. When the duo first arrived, Dingo jestingly promised Sleet that he’d never ever “assimmilatize” him, on his Quokka Scouts’ honor. 

The wolf, alas, didn’t get the reference.

Returning from their not-so-fortuitous hedgehog hunt in the Red Whiptail, Dingo, biped body plan restored, had been pleased to see an imperial freighter touch down with them. The robots that disembarked carted a large hovering dolly heaped with crates. Crates that held very special, very precious cargo of the jolly persuasion: Dingo’s extensive collection of holiday decorations. He saw to replacing the base’s gray upon gray upon gray with colors of a more lively mood posthaste. 

“Don’t you think you’re going overboard with . . .” Sleet began, sitting cross-legged at the thinly-cushioned circular booth in the middle of their measly kitchenette slash living room. He, now wearing his sweater true, waved the bitten end of a jerky strip he’d been gnawing on in Dingo’s direction. “All this holiday hullabaloo?” 

Their food options were limited to sledging biscuits, canned meats, and the unglamorous like. 

Definitely nothing he would swipe from a banquet hall, Dingo thought. What he wouldn’t do for some glazed ham right about now. 

The portions allotted sustained Sleet fine but they never filled Dingo up, hunger quick to wake him in the middle of the night from his bunk. How did Robotnik expect him to aid in world domination on a near empty stomach? If he was half the genius he boasted to be, surely he’d have created a food replicator by now, like the ones in the space serials on TV.

“This place is cramped as is,” Sleet continued. “When you said you were expecting a shipment, I was hoping you meant something useful.”  He added under his breath conspiratorially.  “Like libations.” 

Indeed, Dingo had considered using his imperial entitlements further, such as requesting an hourly delivery of frozen pizza. But he could only pull rank so much. Turning Robotnik’s logistics personnel into pizza delivery men was apparently a step too far. If they’d been given more time to prepare, Dingo would have stocked up his rucksack. As it was, he’d eaten all the snacks he packed already. 

Dingo gave a small shrug before extracting a red tablecloth from a crate and unfurling it in one big shake.  “It gives the room some life.” Dust and glitter flew off, causing Sleet to grimace and squinch his snout in a manner Dingo found both adorable and hilarious. Dingo turned his head slightly to hide his enjoyment of the pulled face, since Sleet wasn’t fond of being thought of as adorable or hilarious. “Some feng shui.” He wasn’t sure he was using the word right, but it felt nice rolling off his tongue. 

Sleet made a growly noise in his throat as he bit into the jerky and yanked off a piece after much effort. He gave it a few vigorous chews before saying low. “You’ve been watching those house renovation programs again, haven’t you?” 

“Heh,” Dingo’s cheeks heated. Not with shame for enjoying yet another traditionally un-bounty hunter-y activity, but from the knowing tone of Sleet’s voice, from being read so ablely, so easily caught. Man, he’s good. “I-I just think it’s fun to imagine wreckin’ the really fancy ones, y’know?” 

Sleet sighed. Dingo got the feeling it wasn’t true annoyance. “Do me a favor and get it out of your system before we return to Robotropolis,” Sleet said through chomps of his leather-tough snack, having popped its entirety into his mouth. “Robotnik doesn’t care for others questioning his judgement. I imagine that includes fortress design decisions.” 

Bit of a drab thing to imagine, Dingo thought, when one could imagine something more incredible like bagpipe-playing giraffes. “Okey-doke!” Dingo assented with a cheerfulness. He draped the cloth over the booth’s table. Not made for small surfaces, most of it spilled over and bunched at the floor. Dreamily, Dingo clasped his hands to one side, head following suit in a tilt. “Beeeautiful,” he said, then looked to Sleet with great anticipation, lower lip bitten and tail awag, whipping excited arcs. 

“It sure is . . . something.” 

Pleased with Sleet’s speechlessness, his dreamy pose deepened into a silent squee, a full-toothed, face-splitting beam scrunching his eyes. 

“Ugh,” Dingo opened his eyes to see Sleet shielding his own. “Don’t do that in front of me. I just ate. Your wrinkles have wrinkles.”

Oh, Sleet. Dingo would have rolled his eyes if he were better coordinated. The last instance he tried Sleet claimed he looked like a drunk chameleon, and the sensation felt odd. 

Taking a step back, Dingo appraised all his much-needed renovations thus far through a finger frame. His tongue poked out as he focused, scanning over the silvery tinsel and lights, the plastic garland and the big, red ribbons. It was no traditional Dingo family getup—he hadn’t his siblings here to help, and like Sleet said there was only so much he could unpack before things became hazardous—but considering what the room looked like before it’d more than make do. 

Dingo drifted the finger frame toward the table, toward Sleet. Scratching at a canine tooth with his pinky, the wolf was slow to notice. When he did, he flinched and ducked away, then frowned, realizing his overreaction. He played it off with a disdainful snort becoming of an aristocrat, turning up his muzzle and placing his hands in his lap primly. 

Once again the words adorable and hilarious came to mind. And pretty. And periwinkle. But mostly pretty. Even in his cruder moments, there was always an elegance to Sleet.

Dingo admired him and his proud, terribly kissable-looking snout a moment longer before skirting off to their sleeping quarters. There was more crashing than he’d intended. 

He returned shortly after with his tome of a scrapbook and an assortment of stationery supplies nestled close to his chest. He grinned at Sleet, who had risen in reaction to the clangor and squeaks of boot soles against aged metal. 

“Ah, yes,” said Sleet flatly as he resettled into his seat. “More essentials.”

“Uh-huh!” Dingo dumped all the items onto the table. Out of everything in the accumulation, Sleet stared most incredulously at the scrapbook, mouth agape as he beheld it. Heavy enough to qualify as a bludgeoning weapon, thick enough to jam a titanium blast door, the whopping composition was several years worth of recorded memories, a highlight reel of roguish escapades, bashed skulls, juiced up sidearms, double-dealing and ill-gotten Mobium. 

Dingo plopped down close next to Sleet. The wolf bounced slightly from the new weight on the shared seat. “And you’re gonna help me finish this!” said Dingo, opening the album to an empty two-page spread. Sleet looked at it, then back to Dingo, then back to the book, as if not comprehending. Dingo gave him a giddy and encouraging nod. Sleet, not for lack of Dingo’s trying, hadn’t seen the scrapbook up close before. It only made sense he’d be taken aback by its awesomeness.

When he spotted a certain green spine amongst the table’s clutter however, his expression curdled. “What's that doing here?” he said in a voice like he’d smelled something foul. “Don’t tell me you’re . . . ” Sleet cut himself off with an irritated huff, looking to the ceiling and muttering. Then he whipped his head towards Dingo. “What’s the use in memorializing such a humiliating failure?” he snapped, gesturing indignantly at the memoiric cause of complaint. “I thought your scrapbook was for triumphs, for trophies.”

Dingo blinked and shrank in on himself somewhat. He expected Sleet to be reluctant, sure, but not upset. Upsetting Sleet was the last thing Dingo ever wanted to do. He just thought this’d be a fun activity, something to do other than wait on pins and needles for another command from Robotnik. Perhaps Sleet had been more annoyed by their conditions than he’d let on. 

Ears edging back, Dingo averted from Sleet’s glare and tightened jaw. He grimaced and put a hand to his burly arm, rubbing there and holding himself uneasily. Maybe this wasn’t such a good idea after all. 

No, Dingo thought, quickly recouping his nerve. 

He had to try. 

Dingo drew a breath, then admitted. “It was sad.” His eyes turned downcast.  “Yeah.” Despite himself, there was an ache in his voice. His hand clenched unconsciously into a fist as he thought back to their defeat. A mental image of Sonic and Manic’s sneering faces apparitioned. Dingo’s heavy brow lowered, but only for a moment. He stopped himself from imagining thrashing them. There was a more important matter to attend to. His gaze lifted. “But,” he put extra emphasis on the word, brightening, “as my hero Tommy—” 

 Sleet interrupted with a groan. Dingo, recognizing the comparison concerned a multimedia action-adventure franchise Sleet couldn’t be further from being a fan of, winced. Nevertheless, it was the first example that came to mind and, considering the wealth of box sets and comics in Dingo’s quarters back at the fortress, this was assuredly one  reference the pop culture ignorant Sleet was familiar with. 

 “—Thunder said in Tommy Thunder and the Citadel of the Ancients, y’gotta take the good with the bad. It was bad Manic got away. But we made it out without gettin’ spindashed, yeah? And that rush when we had him? I know you felt that.”

Sleet appeared to, albeit grudgingly, consider Dingo’s words. His snarl lines softened, as did his disparaging glower. 

With this, Dingo’s resolve strengthened even more. “Things could’ve gone worse. There coulda been a snownado. I hear those exist. We coulda woke up a yeti, or fallen down that crack and gotten captured by creepy ice hermits who’d force us to perform for their entertainment.” Sleet arched a brow at him.  “Well, y’know. Just a thought,” said Dingo innocently, venturing a smile. “A hypothetical. That’s what it’s called, right? Hypo-thet-ical.” His nose scrunched. “Feels weird. Why so many letters? The time it takes to say it, y’could go ‘round the world and back again.” 

A corner of Sleet’s mouth quirked, and a soft ‘hm’ escaped him. Amusement. Faint, but there all the same. Seeing Dingo’s smile broaden in turn, Sleet caught himself and endeavored to reharden his face.  Dingo understood Sleet’s mannerisms too well for that to fool him. The mutant felt relieved his joke landed. He was starting to get the hang of these hyper-bollies and speech figures.

Dingo let his triumph sink in for a moment before speaking again. “A failure’s only a failure if you don’t learn from it.” 

Sleet, who’d taken to rolling a pen up and down the table with the flick of an idle finger during the lull, seemed to start at this. He stopped his distraction, and his ear twitched. 

“That’s why I record every job, bad or good,” Dingo patted one of the pages, “in this book.” When he turned to Sleet, proud of his craft, Sleet somehow looked at him even more bewildered than he had the book. Dingo frowned. What’d he done now? 

Sleet’s eyes creased, disbelieving, almost accusatory. “Where’d you get that from?” 

“Get what from?”

“That proverb? The thing you just said?”

“Uhh . . . ” Nervous, Dingo’s eyes flitted left and right, searching for help where there was none. “. . . ‘What’s a proverb?”

“No, the—” Another ‘hm’, and a slow half shake of his head. He inched forward, laying his arms on the table, the tenseness in his shoulders ebbing away as he regarded Dingo with a sort of mellow wonder. Their eyes held, longer than Dingo had been expecting. 

Was Sleet still waiting for an answer? “Can I, uh,” Dingo lowered his head in appeal and tapped his forefingers together, “get a hint?” 

Another beat, then Sleet mused softly at last. “Always the optimist.” As he said this, a small smile crept over his face. He let it remain. 

Small, but more nourishing any banquet hall raid, Dingo thought, heart dancing. His tail thrummed the cushion as he drank in the hard-won expression, a pleasant warmth blossoming in his chest and radiating outward. The aw-shuckness of it all overwhelmed him so much all he could do was smile back, rub the back of his head, and stammer little waving off noises. It didn’t matter that he didn’t know what an optimist was. From the way Sleet said it, how he looked at him, it must have been a great compliment.

 “Awh, well, y’know,” Dingo began once his tongue untied, feet moving in slow kicks beneath the table. “I like lookin’ on the bright side, too. Oh, and hey,” he put in, giggling, “we might’ve lost Manic, but now we know you make a great projectile.” 

“Don’t push it.” 

“Right.” 

Sleet’s eyes found the book once more. He reached over, grabbed a corner of the album’s front cover, and closed it. 

Dingo’s dancing heart sank. Was the projectile joke too far? 

He knew Sleet had a dislike of revisiting his past. ‘Never look back’ was a maxim he’d hardwired into his very being. 

But the past in the scrapbook is different. I’m in it. I’m there for him, thought Dingo, feeling his ears sag. He swallowed his disappointment and steeled himself for Sleet to rise and walk away. 

And then Sleet began slowly tracing a hand over the album’s cover. Dingo’s ears lifted as he watched Sleet. The way the wolf contemplated it, if not for the puffy stickers, water damage, and yellowed photographs of their mugshots, one could have been convinced it was some hallowed, priceless artifact.

“You put everything in this?” he asked after a stretch of silence, gaze still rapt. Sleet’s voice was thoughtful, barely above a whisper. He passed the tips of his lithe fingers over the title, which Dingo had lovingly, heavy-handedly markered. 

BOWTEE HUNTOR BFFS

“Everything.” Most everything. He’d sooner wear shirts for the rest of his life than immortalize the arrow incident. “I’ve been wanting to show you, but you . . . well, you were always busy. With things like ironing and filing reports and ironing reports and filing ironing reports.” 

Sleet stiffened, and his face paled a little at the mention of his unusually frequent postponements. If Dingo didn’t know any better—and he was often told he didn’t—he’d say Sleet looked as if he’d just realized he’d forgotten to turn in one of those pesky ironing reports. Hopefully Robotnik wouldn’t notice. 

“Sometimes all on the same day! I don’t know how you do it!” Dingo amiably bumped his shoulder into Sleet’s. “It’s like, are you a worker bee or a wolf?” He chuckled at his own joke. 

Sleet cleared his throat before agreeing fast. “Yeah. Busy.” The sudden discomfort on his face began to abate. “I was busy. Very busy,” he said, and it almost sounded like he was saying it as much for himself as for Dingo. 

“Ah, it’s no problem. Really. Nothing to be sorry for. Better you than me! Haw!” Dingo laughed again, clapping a hand to Sleet’s back. “Robotnik’s never asked me to do any of that beep-boop ‘puter stuff.”

Sleet pawed at his shoulder blade, then leaned back to survey a bulge between the album’s text block. He opened the scrapbook there, a section in the middle. 

 “Oh!” Dingo piped up. “This is the poisoned knife of that Raiju Clan assassin that tried to kill me! Remember that? My gains were too thick for her noodly arms to yank it out, haha! Best sleep I ever had. 

Oh, and that’s my medal for eatin’ all that Spagonian ice! Remember? When we were tracking that runaway Mazuri prince for the reward money? Oh, oh,” he bounced in his seat when Sleet turned to the next page, “and this is a scrap from the robe of that Meropian city official I mugged! The one who looked at me funny! The pattern’s real nice. Oh, oh, oh, and these are the teeth of those Jackal Squad jokes what tried to poach our poached quarry! I kept the blood an’ gums on ‘em, it adds a little splash of color to the page, y’know?”

They continued like this, Sleet turning pages, Dingo commentating. Unprompted, he would point out the little flourishes he’d added to border his scrawled captions and detailed what material he used to produce his hand-drawn recreations of events. Occasionally Sleet would go beyond a monosyllabic reply, reminiscing along with him in his own way by critiquing the veracity of the accounts. 

 “That’s us making up our debt to Torque after you pushed me into that lever,” said Dingo, tapping a vignette with caricatured versions of themselves holding wrenches and looking sooty. “When we put her and her crew months behind on work. I didn’t know a monkey that small could be so angry, gahah-ha! I was gonna make it a sorta flipbook, so the ships could crash into each other like they did in real life, but I, er, couldn’t figure it out. Check this out!” He held the scrapbook up and jostled it lightly. The rendering of Torque had googly eyes, and they shook below her big, angry eyebrows. 

The interactive feature evoked a genuine snicker from Sleet. It was a sound Dingo wished he could bottle up and listen to on repeat. 

Luck shone upon them. At least half an hour had passed with nary a pinging communicator to answer. 

Dingo had been so occupied retelling exploit after exploit that he’d almost forgotten about the blank spread. It was Sleet who’d reminded him. 

“What would I do without you?” Dingo had said. 

“Flounder.” Sleet had replied. “Well, more than usual.” 

At first, Sleet seemed intimidated by the wide-ranging assortment of crafting supplies. He was very precious when using them, holding them like scientific specimens rather than tools to free one’s imagination. Dingo thought it was sweet he cared so much about not using up his things, but Sleet was being much too cautious. It took a while for him to unrestrain himself and indulge, although his manner of design was more controlled than Dingo’s. He was especially taken with the bottles of glitter glue, praising the adhesive’s efficiency and cleanliness. 

Soon enough, they eased into a comfortable rhythm, cutting and pasting and drawing away. Dingo continued to hark back to past vistas and wrought havoc aloud all the while, but slower, less gushingly. 

 “Are we still banned from Emerald Coast? The staff was real huffy about my shark fin prank, the buncha snobs.”

“No, Dingo, they were ‘real huffy’ about you uprooting the resort’s ornate marble fountain and throwing it at the mob of heavily-armed bounty hunters that were tailing us.” 

“Hah, yeah. Good times.” 

It was when Dingo began coloring in the page’s piece de resistance, the grand pine tree that Manic’s quill would adorn, that he felt his eyelids growing heavy. He fought it, blinking his eyes determinedly and completing another swathe of green, but the pull came to him once more, stronger. Somewhere between recounting the Chaos Cola security gig and their time in the Mercian dungeons, Dingo had helped himself to a mug of hot cocoa. The warmth of the beverage, the soreness of his reindeer-worn muscles, it was all beginning to sap his energy.

Maybe if he just rested his eyes, just for a moment . . . 

“Dingo.”

“Mwuh?”

“You’re smushing me.”

Dingo cracked his eyes open. Sure enough, he was slumping heavily against Sleet’s side, one weighty arm draped across the slighter canine’s shoulders. He jolted with a snort and removed himself. “Sorry!” Dingo blurted and dusted orange fur off from around Sleet’s collarbone. 

How could he have dozed off during something so important as BHBFF bonding? He wiped his mouth with a forearm and sniffled. Shame faintly panged at him. “I wasn’t asleep,” Dingo denied preemptively, removing his glasses for a moment to scrub his eyes. “I was . . . ” A yawn threatened to interrupt him. He stifled it the best he could, face screwing up. “I was inspectin’ your . . . work.” 

“Mm, of course. Snoring while inspecting. What a novel idea.” 

Dingo stretched his arms upward. In doing so, he almost cuffed Sleet with an elbow. 

“Watch it!”

“Sorry! Again!” More heedful of his dimensions, Dingo brought his arms back down and, blinking off-kilter, smiled lopsidedly.  “I’ll inspect less closely.” His BHBFF remained skeptical. “Agh, okay, okay! So maybe I’m a little tired. Not much of a cardio guy.” Dingo raised his unbraced knee and massaged a small circle into it. “Still kinda achy from that run.”

Something that looked a little like sympathy set on Sleet’s face. Dingo couldn’t quite tell. His eyes felt like they had a film over them, and even if they weren’t currently beset by rheum he doubted he’d be able to recognize a sympathetic Sleet, since he wasn’t demonstrative when it came to certain emotions. 

“You should get some rest,” Sleet said. 

“What? And let you have all the fun? Not,” Dingo spoke around a yawn bigger than the one before, “a chaaance.” He frowned, realizing the grogginess in his voice was undeniable. Pesky biological need, ruining the moment. “Just a fluke. I’m up. Bright-eyed and bushy-tailed!” 

To illustrate, he grabbed hold of his tail and tried shifting it into that of a squirrel Mobian’s. With a dull heat, the appendage distended and rippled promisingly for a few heartbeats before sagging like a deflated balloon. The air trapped within sputtered out, squeaky and indecorous.

“Th-that’s supposed to happen. The molecules are, er, moleculing. Warming up.” Sleet’s unimpressed expression redoubled as Dingo protested. “It’s a real thing!” 

“Dingo.” 

Eager to prove he still had it in him to scrapbook, Dingo reached for a sequin on the table. 

Sleet’s hand intercepted his. “Dingo.” There was a firmness to his voice. 

Dingo stiffened in surprise, ears shooting up. A fluttery feeling stirred in his stomach as Sleet’s hand coaxed Dingo’s away from the sequin. It intensified when Sleet used both hands to clasp Dingo’s transgressing one. Dingo was more than strong enough to pull free from his grasp, but why would he ever want to? The sequin was a distant memory. 

Their gazes lifted at the same time. 

“I insist,” said Sleet, in that hushed, velvety tone only he could muster. 

To Dingo, the trappings behind Sleet seemed to dissolve into an ethereal scene, a peach-pink sky with clouds as round as cotton balls. A welcoming, warm and radiant glow ebbed around Sleet’s form. 

 Dingo barely realized he was purring. “Hhokay,” he said, sounding like he’d taken a lungful of nitrous oxide, feeling lighter than air. 

“Good.” Sleet nodded once, then withdrew and shooed at him. “Off with you. If we’re going to catch those insurgents, you need as much energy as you can get, and I can’t work if you’re going to be snuffling and puffing and mumbling about penguins right in my ear. Your jowls flap like old shingles in the wind.”

Dingo blinked, and the Aphroditic backdrop vanished. “Y-yeah.” He was late to pull his hand away, returning it to his side as haltingly and awkward as a SWATbot. If Sleet noticed, he didn’t say, having delved right back into stenciling snowflakes, just as committed to their detail as he would when creating a blueprint. “Shouldn’t you get some sleep too?” 

“Later. I have some reading to catch up on.”

“Oh, did a new fashion mag come in?”

“I’m talking about the scrapbook, Dingo.”

“Right, right,” Dingo said as he stood up, “I knew that.” He thought he heard another ‘hm’ of amusement from Sleet as he shambled off to their quarters. 

As soon as he saw his bed, the buzz of the day’s unexpectedly long leisure and Sleet’s open affection waned. 

Eyelids already shuttering, he crashed onto his too small mattress and drifted into sleep, dreaming of new adventures, new floggings. 

“I know, but .  .  . breadbaking?” Sleet gestured at the assorted ingredients and supplies on the kitchen unit’s island. “Really?” 

“Hey, whisking and kneading are good exercises!” objected Dingo. With little noises of effort, he tied his apron’s strings into a loose and clumsy knot. 

Sleet forwent mentioning that he didn’t have much of a taste for products involving dough, especially not the type sweet-toothed Dingo cherished. Perhaps he could use his half as target practice or bait for the tricksy vermin chewing on the Dinghy’s wiring. 

He’d seen Dingo prepare homemade dough on a handful of occasions, such as the time he tried making pizza and tossed the unbaked bread base into the ceiling in his fervor to be “like a real pizzaiolo”. The process didn’t look all that difficult. Certainly if a numbskull like Dingo could do it, Sleet could do it. Ten times better, he imagined. 

While the prospect of one-upping Dingo in yet another activity was tempting, Sleet couldn’t help feeling a little disappointed that dessert prep of all things was to be his workout. Whereas Dingo bench pressed live megafauna, bearhugged boulders until they smithereened, and pulled scrapyard freighters using only his teeth as part of his regime. None of those sounded glamorous to Sleet, but there was a spectacle to them.

A crude mucky spectacle, but a spectacle all the same. Making pastry puffs was far too domestic and pedestrian in comparison. 

Sleet felt himself frowning and made to push his face into something more neutral before Dingo could notice. When Dingo sidled next to him and lightly bumped his hip into his own however, he knew he was too late. That meathead, he was always so perceptive when Sleet didn’t need him to be. It made his irritation double. Crossing his arms, Sleet huffed and looked at the floor; Dingo’s eyes were too unnerving whenever he started one of his tenderhearted spiels. 

“You can’t just start pumping iron,” Dingo said. “Y’gotta work your way up to it. Back home, in kindy, I started off liftin’ giant tortoises. Piddly things, y’know, ‘bout 550 pounds.” 

Sleet shot him a wide-eyed, disbelieving look. In kindy? In kindergarten?

“Oh, uhm, is that a big number? I don’t really look at numbers. I just lift,” Dingo said, shrugging. 

Sleet knew he didn’t mean to sound so blunt and careless. Dingo was just being Dingo. He didn’t think before speaking. He didn’t think before doing anything. Still, it stung. ‘I just lift’? thought Sleet. His fur bristled, and he turned away again, fully this time, with a scowl and disgusted scoff. This was not one of Dingo’s better pep talks. 

“What?” asked Dingo. “W-what did I say?”

It wasn’t that Sleet wanted to be as musclebound as Dingo was. No, that sounded hellish. But if Sleet had just an inch, just a modicum, of his strength . . . 

He felt a small breeze sweep up his mane, then, a beat later, sweep down again. Dingo must have reached for his shoulder, hesitated, and reconsidered, the mutant making a sort of whine in his throat on the second pass. Sleet’s ear flicked and, in spite of himself, he turned his head imperceptibly to glimpse the brawn to his brain. Seeing his troubled expression made Sleet’s tightly folded arms slacken somewhat. 

“Forget the tortoises,” Dingo said after another moment’s hesitation. “Everyone works at their own pace, yeah?” He offered a faint smile, which heartened once Sleet uncrossed his arms. “S’what my aunts always said. That and stop licking toads.”

“Closed your ears for that part, did you?” Sleet remarked. He had slapped toads out of Dingo’s hands numerous times himself.

“They taste like purple,” said Dingo with a distant wistfulness, the flavor evidently returning to him as he clicked his tongue like he’d just taken a taste of something tangy. 

Sleet turned. Dingo jolted with hope, standing straighter. “Very well. I’ll make this . . . raisin bread.” His lip curled on the R, a customary your trifles are beneath me sneer. It felt only natural. 

“Bonza!” Dingo blurted and did a little—relatively speaking—hop, causing the ship to creak and rock and the island’s items to rattle. 

Sleet anxiously looked up at their ramshackled roof, expecting a panel to come crashing down. Once the ship steadied, he gave Dingo an unamused look before startling a little when his fellow boulanger-to-be abruptly leaned forward, conspiratorial, as if about to share something sensitive. 

“Hey, uh, Sleet,” whispered Dingo, close enough for Sleet to see the wetness of his nose leather, “I don’t know if you know this, but. . . ” He spoke out the side of his mouth. “You’re missing an apron.” 

“I’m wearing armor, Dingo.” He rapped a fist on his breastplate to emphasize his point. “I’ve washed demolecularizations out of this. I’m sure I can handle crumbs and flour. Besides—” Sleet grabbed Dingo’s space-invading muzzle and shoved forward. With a little grunt, Dingo tottered back—“I don’t own an apron.” 

Dingo paused for a moment to snuffle and wriggle his quashed sniffer, looking terribly unthreatening for a being of his size and figure. Then he said “Good thing I bought you one!” and before Sleet could register the comment Dingo pounced. There was a blur of pastel pink gingham, a quick flash of embroidered strawberries, and Sleet’s breastplate was now besmirched with text that hokily proclaimed Bake My Day. 

Dingo’s laugh was big and giddy. “Now we match!” He bounced a little on his feet, fists pumped close to his chest. “Isn’t this great?!” 

“Grand,” Sleet muttered. 

* * *

As Dingo kneaded his lump of dough, he hummed and scat sang to a ditty he seemed to be making up on the spot.

Sleet found him less than tuneful, but there was a pep to Dingo’s melody-mangling that was undeniable. It was even a little amusing. 

Sleet considered his partner’s uncharacteristically measured movements a while longer before shifting his attention to his own lump of dough. His face pinched in a grimace.

Lump was perhaps too generous. 

He poked the starch-based slurry experimentally with an ungauntleted finger, then, bracing himself, sank his hands into the dough. He only managed a few seconds before recoiling back. “It’s stickyyy!” he said, voice a whine as he struggled to shuck the glutinous hangers-on from his fingers. “You didn’t say it’d be sticky!”

Dingo made as if to nudge him so he could scoot past and assist—the kitchen unit’s space was limited—but then he froze and gave Sleet a meaningful look. 

Sleet understood, jerking his head: get over here and get this off me! He generally wasn’t fond of extended periods of touch, and Dingo was often ignorant of his strength. So, after the first lung-crushing hug on the night of their unlikely alliance, Sleet put up a few ground rules. Hugs were a luxury. 

A little thrill played along Sleet’s nape as Dingo’s massive shape settled behind him. Despite now knowing he was not the total killing machine he initially gleaned him for, his presence still sometimes provoked a level of awe. Unlike Sleet’s previous partners in crime, Dingo’s novelty had yet to wear off. 

His nearness also produced a sudden feeling of reflection within Sleet.

The wolf had never had a partner be so . .  . personal before. Doing things for him and only for him, jumping at the chance without the promise of a reward. 

It’d be so easy for Dingo to end him. He could twist his head off as easily as one might uncork a bottle. He could so much as shove him and sever his spine. If Sleet were out of the picture, he wouldn’t have to share profits anymore or take any lip. 

Instead, Dingo had dashed an amount of his recent earnings on extra baking supplies and an apron Sleet would likely only wear once. 

What was wrong with him? Beyond the habitual inane remarks and toad licking. It was a reoccurring quandary for Sleet. 

Sleet had only mentioned his physical insecurity once, offhandedly, a maudlin whisper, an instant of tipsy weakness while distressing after a job. It wasn’t supposed to turn into anything other than that. If Dingo had any sense, it wouldn’t have. His affection was a weakness and frequently troublesome. 

But, a small part of Sleet conceded, it felt nice here and again to be appreciated not through fear, sycophancy, or obligation.

As Dingo explained hydration, using words he could hardly pronounce and some Sleet didn’t think were real, his breath gently buffeted the back of Sleet’s nape. The hairs there prickled. 

“Don’t use your fingers. Use the, er,” he paused, memory lapsing, “the bottom part of your hands. The rounded bit, right there.” 

“My heel,” Sleet supplied flatly.

“Your heel! Why’s it called that anyhow? Looks nothing like a heel. Bit confusin’ t’have two body parts called a heel, yeah?” 

Sleet cleared his throat. 

“Oh, uh, right!” He laughed a little. “Like this.” The great lummox usually wasn’t manually adroit, often handling things too hard or not at all—he gave the phrase butter fingers new meaning. Here it was as if he was a different Mobian altogether. There wasn’t an ounce of impreciseness or ponderosity to his folding and pressing. 

Sleet watched his large, concrete-pulverizing hands with bemused fascination as they pushed down and outward, easily stretching and working the coalescing mash in an unhurried rhythm, only stopping intermittently to tweeze and sprinkle in pinches of flour and cinnamon sugar. 

The stickiness lessened, and the dough began looking more appealing. 

“Have a go,” Dingo encouraged when he stopped, catching Sleet, who had been unexpectedly enjoying the show, off guard. It took a moment for Sleet to register the request, and when he did he felt an odd tug of nervousness. This must have been visible in his bearing because Dingo hunched a little lower and took his hands, orienting his own over Sleet’s,  nearly enveloping them. Warm pawpads, toughened by frequent dustups, rasped faintly against the back of Sleet’s hands. Gently, Dingo pressed, coaxing the tips of Sleet’s fingers to sink into the dough. “We’ll do it together. 

Kneading was not as monotonous as Sleet had deemed at first blush. While somewhat grubby work, there was a soothing quality to the folding, pressing, and turning. 

After a few collisional hiccups with elbows, they molded the dough in easy tandem. Tiny clouds of flour curled elegant and languorous around their interlaced fingers. 

He felt strangely. . . light. Even despite the growing dull soreness in his arms. In fact, he didn’t just feel light, he felt secure. Dingo’s bulk, which had been so intimidating upon their first encounter, seemed to radiate a sense of security. The steady heave of his powerful, purring chest, rising and falling so close to Sleet’s back, afforded a calming effect. 

A wave of contentment threatened to take Sleet over. He let it, allowing his neck to ease back. Involuntarily, as he stretched, his sleepy gaze swept up to the little divot in Dingo’s chin and the shine of his tusks. He studied the remarkably gentle brute’s face. 

Short of snout, rugose of hide, and prone to bouts of excitable slobber, Sleet had always thought he looked like the back end of a crushed bus. And that’s to say nothing of his fashion sense. But there was, Sleet supposed, a quaint primitiveness to his features. 

Physical attributes aside, his antics could be droll, and Sleet certainly had never come across another Mobian so unconcerned with others’ opinions, so brazen with his limited grasp of social graces and absent intellect. 

Although Sleet may not have grown up in a palace, his mother instilled her aristocratic background into him all the same. Palace or rat-ridden street, there was a certain way the sophisticated Mobian needed to compose themself. He was taught that appearances were everything. 

Dingo had no such preoccupation. Was it purely an effect of his empty head? Or was he just content and had everything all figured out? 

 And . . . were his eyes always that green? 

To Sleet’s embarrassment, said eyes flitted down. 

He quickly returned his gaze to the board. At the sound and vibration of chuffing amusement, his snout flushed annoyingly with heat.

“What?” asked Dingo, a smile in his voice. “What is it?”

“Nothing,” Sleet said, feeling those flecks of jade glinting at the back of his head. 

 Dingo leaned. His breath and stubble tickled Sleet’s ear. “You were smilin’ at me.”

He was? “I-I must have tweaked a facial nerve last job.” 

“I don’t mind,” said Dingo, not believing him. “You have a nice smile.” 

Sleet’s vanity felt the urge to milk that: how nice of a smile was it? The feeling passed as swiftly as it arrived. “It was a tic, Dingo. A twitch, a spasm. You must be seeing things again.”

“Muckfoot is real! He stole my marshmallows. When that guy shows up again, I’ll flog ‘im and bring ‘im to you so you can turn ‘im into a rug. An’ then I can flog ‘im again whenever he gets dirty!”

Sleet didn’t have it in him to re-explain that it was a raccoon Mobini that stole his marshmallows, too perturbed he’d been caught staring. And what was he staring for? They’d been partners for some years now. He’d bore witness to Dingo’s mug more times than the faint of heart would deem healthy. There was nothing new to glean. 

Sleet had contemplated what was wrong with Dingo. 

But what was wrong with him? 

Clearly I either need stronger respiratory equipment for my experiments, Sleet thought, or higher standards. 

Even as he thought this, his mutinous eyes trailed to Dingo’s thick arms, the faint bulging of his already obtrusive and outsized biceps, how he cupped and caressed the dough, gliding his fingers across its silken curves . . . 

He couldn’t help but wonder how the pressure would feel on his skin. 

Wait, what? The thought sent a jolt of cold panic through him, and he slipped his hands out from beneath Dingo’s. 

Surely he couldn’t be jealous of a wad of dough! No. Preposterous. He’d meant it in the sense of a massage. Clinical and indifferent. And it’d never happen anyway. Kneading dough and kneading skin were two different things; Dingo was liable to break something import—

“Good thinking, Sleet! We don’t want to overwork it.” The thrill across Sleet’s spine returned as Dingo rose abruptly from his cant with a soft grunt, the issued hot air tousling his nape again. Dingo lifted the well-massaged dough ball off the board, then released it. It fell with a troublingly provocative, seemingly surround sound slap. Then he retrieved a nearby rolling pin and made to bear his weight, shadow resettling over Sleet. 

Their hands found each other again, assuming position on the pin’s ends. 

“With rolling pins, you’ve got to really—” Dingo’s hips rolled forward in concert with the appliance, bumping into Sleet’s culet. Sleet’s eyes sprung wide. “—griiiind into it . . . ” Dingo said the verb as one long, growling exhalation that brushed against Sleet’s clenching throat.

Every hair on his body shooting up, the skin beneath erupting in goosebumps, Sleet went rigid. 

Silence. 

Dingo withdrew, chirping. “Look at us! Baking! You did great, Sleet!” He continued gabbing praises, but Sleet was in no state to process any of it, face a round-eyed gape, body a tingling tumult of nerves, the brain he prided himself on in fiery disarray. 

Years of bounty hunter training, a lifetime of honed emotional detachment . . . 

Undone by the swell of uncooked bread and a single accidental pelvic thrust.

“Now you roll!” Dingo’s bright voice temporarily cut through the fog. He was watching him from his original spot in the kitchen unit. 

“R-roll.” It came out squeaky and more like a question. 

“Yeah!” A pause. “Er, Sleet, you okay? You look all . . . trembly. And porcupine-y.”

🔫 Sleet 🔪

Sleet was raised in the gutter. He knows a fair bit more than the average Lower Mobotropolis street urchin because his mom was an aristocrat until she was slandered by her peers and booted from high society. She taught him the essentials, and he learned everything else from scavenging library books. Presently, his education has all but fallen through the cracks. He tries to avoid reading most of the time. What will Dingo think if he learns he’s not the uber-genius he makes himself out to be? Why does he care what Dingo thinks? When such thoughts arise, they are pushed away and buried.

He has cybernetic implants to aid with frequent aches and muscle strain. In the winter, he struggles due to a lower cold threshold, the result of a fur and skin condition. Dingo knits sweaters for him. They’re oversized and kind of a mess. On particularly glacial nights, Sleet isn't averse to sharing warmth, willing to cuddle up and be the little spoon, so long as Dingo promises not to tell anyone. 

He had no friends growing up and was often picked on. His ailments and interest in science made him an easy target. Some of his peers disliked him on the very principle of him having an ex-aristocrat mother. This made him prickly and distant. While others played kickball or tag, he was tinkering with junkyard machinery or eavesdropping around spacer hangouts, dreaming of someday getting off planet and flying to a world that’d understand him. 

He’s quite good with a needle and thread and tailors his and Dingo’s ball outfits himself. Sleet gets his sewing skills from his mother. She was the personal outfitter and trusted right hand of an important noblewoman. As a pup, he adored listening to his mother’s stories of galas and masquerades. During such fleeting moments of peace, she’d also make costumes for him. He still heavily enjoys fashion, having a closet dedicated to fancy capes. 

Sometime in his tumultuous childhood, Sleet discovered there was an Honor Guard. He admired their outfits and swordsmanship. Most of all he wanted to join so he and his mother could live in the warmth and safety of a castle. He even fashioned a costume out of his mother’s fabric scraps, complete with a sword made from a rusted metal pipe. She was quick to dash those dreams and didn’t take kindly to him borrowing her things, especially not for such a “ridiculous” project. During lonesome, existential nights he wonders how differently things could have turned out if he had become a member of the guard after all. 

When his mother was absent or too volatile to be around, Sleet found company in local mechanics.  He learned how to swindle and cheat with the best of them. One shop owner actually took him under her wing, viewing his perceived weaknesses as strengths. 

Sleet first developed the transmogrifier as a kid. He used it not only to defend himself against the local rabble rousers and humiliate them. It wasn’t a complete success, only partially transforming targets, giving them wings or eyestalks and other unwieldy appendages. Transformations were temporary. No less horrifying however. 

He calls himself a jack of all trades. This title is dubious. Thanks to an enriching education from the school of hard knocks, he does have an approximate knowledge regarding a variety of things, though it’s usually limited to topics relating to self-preservation and chicanery. 

Animals don’t like Sleet and aren’t afraid to let him know. It’s become a standing joke. Dingo teases him for it, despite the fact that, because of his stature, toothy countenance, and tendency to squeeze or pet too hard, he isn’t the best with animals either. 

Sleet is a skilled marksman. He prefers distance, specializing in both handguns and long guns. If the weight class is right and the odds are in his favor, he can hold his own in close quarters using an array of hidden fighting knives and some rudimentary martial arts. Sleet simply won’t hear that his cape is a hindrance, even when this has been proven multiple times. All that being said, Sleet is more of a fleer than a fighter. He is an unabashed coward, not opposed to unning away screaming with his tail between his legs. 

While preferring motorcycles, he’s not half bad at riding animal mounts, thanks to the teachings of cowboy bounty hunter and old flame Fleabyte. It is serendipitous that he’s acquired this ability, otherwise he wouldn’t be able to stay on as well after zapping Dingo into a beast of burden. The poor brute has heard a lifetime’s worth of ass jokes from his rider. 

He enjoys strategizing and has free time stored away solely for scheming purposes. These lovingly-crafted plans generally go awry due to Dingo’s haphazard, devil-may-care nature and forgetfulness. That’s not to say Sleet would do better in the bounty hunting business on his own. He has the upper body strength of a wet noodle and a predilection for monologues and theatrics. He needs someone to shake him out of these ego trances.

Sleet uses his hands often when talking. Lots of flourishes and waves, tapping his chin as he feigns uncertainty, balling his fists and involuntarily shaking them when incensed. Little itchy, twitchy movements. Dingo finds it most endearing. 

Though tech-savvy and clever, his anger and pride sometimes get the best of him, leading him to make less than wise decisions, such as forcing machines past their breaking points or abandoning plans the moment his buttons are pushed. 

Sleet is not good at maintaining his hygiene, hence the hedgehogs’ odor-themed jabs. He'll polish and shine his armor until it glistens, yet giving the suit an interior deep clean is far from his mind. He's become so dependent on the power high and protection the suit gives him that he rarely takes it off. Dingo found this strange and a little concerning at first, but Sleet has convinced him that a good bounty hunter is always prepared in case of ambush. The thick polluted air of Robotropolis doesn't do any favors for his mangy fur coat either. So if anyone's a flea hotel, it's Sleet, though you’d be hard-pressed to find any fleas that’d give his scrawny hide the time of day.

Underneath that armor, he wears a black one-piece bodysuit  made of a silky, breathable material, more resilient than it appears. Sleet is skin and bones. It’s why he prefers working with a partner. He went through—or rather left for dead—dozens of other partners before finding a suitable match. Dingo’s hardy. Sturdy. Loyal. Revoltingly sweet. He’s an intriguing oddity to him. Dingo could easily kill him and yet he doesn’t. For a time Sleet wondered if he was just too dim to ever consider betrayal. 

He’s not big on displays of affection or people entering his personal bubble. However, when traversing through big crowds, he always presses close to Dingo, sometimes even reaches for his hand. 

Considers himself sophisticated. He’ll generally greet with a low bow and flourish, allies and enemies alike. Has neat freak tendencies, despite the fact he’s a hot mess himself.  In short, rules for thee, but not for me. There’s often a mental tug of war between his debonair self and the mouth-frothing sewer rat that lies deeper beneath. 

Sleet has a bad habit of late night tinkering.  He isn’t actively trying to be a night owl, time gets away from him. If Dingo doesn’t carry him off to bed beforehand, he ends up hunched over and asleep at his study. It does no favors for his already poor posture and eye bags. 

His reputation precedes him. When he freelanced, many bounty hunters steered clear of him because he was a noted cheat that backstabbed his partners. Despite these unsavory exploits, he manages to reel in even the most disconcerting of clients via ingratiation, boasting a nigh supernatural silver tongue. Those who’ve been tricked by him before cite his wordsmithing as being almost hypnotic. 

He tries his damndest not to acknowledge Dingo’s gaga eyes and honey glow cheeks. More times than one would deem platonic, he’s gotten distracted by Dingo’s chest. Though, to his credit, it’s hard not to when your co-pilot’s almost always shirtless and idly flexing his muscles. Even harder when you’re pinned beneath his chest—Dingo could make tripping over his feet a professional sport. 

💪 Dingo 🧬

Dingo has a sizable extended family, a horde of siblings and cousins back home. His destructive tendencies came as no shock to his aunts who raised him, since the family business used to be organized crime. The syndicate disintegrated long before Dingo was born, other groups like the Toad Warriors and Bear Pack Bikers quickly outcompeting them. 

Has no memory of his mother or father and holds no ill-will towards them. He has plenty of wild theories about their disappearance though. Everything from being lost at sea to being flattened by an asteroid. Whatever it was, he’s convinced it must have been legendary.

Of his litter he is the eldest brother. Barring fur color, none of his family look quite like him. His spots and flopped ear are noted recessive traits. His more dramatic features are the result of an understudied mutant gene. Nobody’s sure where in the family tree it came from. So far as Sleet can glean, it’s one in a billion, a title Dingo wears proudly. He isn’t interested in making connections with any long lost relatives, fearing there could be someone out there better than him at all things mutant. 

Dingo grew up in the outback of Tralius, quite some distance away from the hustle and bustle of Mobotropolis. He was a rambunctious, often rude and aggressive child. A typical schoolyard bully. Sometimes he would lament over his appearance and wish other kids invited him to play, but those moments were short-lived. Fortunately for his peers he could be easily tricked or bribed with sweets. 

Whereas Sleet took up inventing and sewing, Dingo loved throwing his weight around and exploring the great outdoors, wrestling every beast he came across and scaring vacationing campers late at night by pretending to be a Mobian-eating monster. 

In pursuit on foot, Dingo is bad at maneuvering sharp turns. His topheaviness and clumsy feet have cost a number of hunts. 

He has a sweet tooth. One thing he appreciates about the aristocracy is their love of extravagant desserts. 

He is very naïve and trusting. It was worse when Sleet wasn’t in the picture to talk him out of things. A country boy in the big city, Dingo was scammed out of a lot of his Mobium when he first arrived in Lower Mobotropolis. The shell game was just too alluring. 

Dingo is not so oblivious that he can’t rebuke Sleet’s gratuitous blaming. He can be sassy. Those who’ve had the displeasure of working with them can attest that, when tensions are high, they have the propensity to bicker like an old married couple. 

For someone who was raised in Tralius, he is unusually afraid of spiders and other crawly arachnids. He doesn’t enjoy turning into insects either, finding the overall sensation, in his words, icky. 

Transformation is typically painless. He tends to be sore after taking on the more abstract forms. If the strain is really bad, he will go to Sleet and ask to be massaged. Sleet used to refuse, but he has since humored him, asserting that he’s only doing it to check for signs of molecular decay. 

Dingo can morph without the assistance of the transmogrifier, though the process is slower. It depends on how distant taxonomically-speaking the chosen form is from his mammalian base. These transformations are not too pleasant visually or audially, so the remote is preferred.

Dingo’s mutant abilities have some drawbacks. Because of his rapid healing, his body will try to stop him from getting tipsy and keep him on his A-game.  He has to drink by the barrel to feel even the slightest buzz. Additionally, being stuck in one form for too long can leave him achy and disoriented, and if he changes too frequently his molecules buckle and unravel. It’s not a pretty sight. Sleet even theorizes that if he’s in a form for over two hours, he will get stuck that way. They have had close calls before, where after finally being turned back from a Mobini, some behavioral traits of the animal lingered.

Before meeting Sleet, Dingo could only morph if he remained focused, and those transformations were generally simple, such as limb multiplication or extension. The transmogrifier effectively glues his molecules together, meaning he doesn’t have to exert his concentration anymore. Colors are still somewhat of a challenge, tinted with his default orange. Nevertheless, he fools the untrained eye. When tasked with disguising as another Mobian, Sleet coaches him and will always supply him with a hidden microphone. 

After an especially big transformation, Dingo becomes so drowsy he can hardly stand. All that molecular stretching and rearranging, it’s draining. When he wakes, he is insatiably hungry. Which is saying a lot because Dingo already packs food away like it’s nothing due to his bulking regime. 

His accelerated metabolism often manifests in odd cravings, such as tuna and peanut butter sandwiches or pickle and pineapple ice cream sundaes. Sleet wishes he’d partake in his experimental cuisine somewhere else. Preferably out of the Red Whiptail’s cockpit—he gets crumbs everywhere. Despite being an extreme omnivore, Dingo cannot handle spicy food.

When he’s not making unusual combinations, and in turn making Sleet’s stomach churn, Dingo’s a decent chef. Messy, but decent. He’s the more culinarily adept of the two and makes dinner when time allows. 

He likes scrapbooking. Dingo has more stationary and cute pens than he knows what to do with. Unfortunately he’s heavy-handed, so many of his supplies are worn with love. He keeps mementos of every successful hunt. Little knick knacks and trinkets, maybe the occasional tooth from a beaten adversary.

Not necessarily a couch potato, though does spend most of his downtime lounging in front of the TV. He enjoys playing video games, although he’s not very good at them on account of his itchy trigger finger skipping past tutorial levels.  As long as he can shoot or smash things or toss chubby penguins off cliffs, he’s happy. He watches mainly big loud action movies, corny rom-coms, and slapstick cartoons. Sleet believes his screen time will rot the little left of his brain, though he has shown some interest in the historical Delmontian dramas Dingo skips past while channel surfing.

Has been known to boast quite the sailor mouth. It doesn’t happen often, the most foul only invoked for particularly painful offenses like stubbing a toe. Sleet doesn’t know what half the Trailian swears mean and at this point he’s afraid to ask.

Dingo does not like shirts. He especially hates the tuxedos and dresses Sleet makes him wear whenever there’s a bounty on an aristocrat. He tries to keep his grumbling to a minimum because dressing up makes Sleet happy. In casual settings, if more than his shorts is outright necessary, he’ll wear a quippy graphic tank top.

When they go out of town, Dingo always hits up a tourist trap or two, no matter how blatantly overpriced or mind-numbing. He’s a big fan of carnivals and amusement parks. Dingo’s demolished many strength tester games and would most assuredly be banned if he wasn't one of Robotnik's hirelings.

Not the sharpest tool in the shed, true, but he is definitely the more emotionally aware of the duo. When it comes to personal matters, he’s a good listener.

He has a twinge of separation anxiety. It’s not super debilitating, he just gets restless if Sleet is away for long. He can be possessive. This proves a problem whenever Sleet goes Casanova Mode to retrieve information from targets. It’s worth noting Sleet has moments of jealousy too when Dingo manages to hit it off with others, though he’d never admit it.

The hedgehog triplets are aware of Dingo’s crush on Sleet. To catch him off guard, they’ll sometimes slyly allude to it, much to a flustered Dingo’s chagrin.

Finds Sleet’s voice very soothing. It’s so soft and muted. He could listen to it all day. Often he does since, while certainly less exuberant than Dingo, Sleet can be a chatterbox when it comes to aristocratic gossip and comparing blaster models.

Despite being certifiably canine, Dingo makes all manner of noises. He snorts and huffs like a bull when upset and can unleash fearsome, leonine roars. When happy, he rumbles. 

Excitable. Liable to break the nearest object in vicinity from pure exuberation. 

Dingo can’t see well without his glasses. Despite the swanky look, they are in fact prescription. If they’re misplaced or knocked off by a meddlesome hedgehog, his clumsiness is increased tenfold. He is gentle when handling them. 

Dingo wears a bracer on his right leg. In a comedy of errors, he injured his leg as a pup while playing with a slingshot. For reasons unknown, his healing factor neglected to kick in. His knee aches at times. Dingo mostly wears it because he finds it cool and fashionable. 

His fighting knowledge is limited to the concept of hitting, hitting hard, and hitting dirty. He has no formal training, relying on instinct and what he’s seen on television to best enemies. His moves are sloppy and unrefined, but no less formidable. As a mutant shapeshifter, he’s also granted a number of potential forms. Even without Sleet’s transmogrifier, his elasticity allows him to grow in size and turn his arms into whipping tentacles or his hands into mallets. He could finish fights before they even start with this power, however Dingo prefers to milk his battles for all their worth. Some Freedom Fighters have reported seeing him actually play with the battered and unconscious like they’re dolls. 

He is actually well-kempt all things considered. Dingo enjoys bubble baths and singing—or caterwauling, as Sleet calls it—in the shower. His fur coat is soft and surprisingly dense, especially in the winter when it grows out. He sheds and has to brush himself fairly often. If he’s in a good mood, Sleet will help. The mastiff-like skin folds around his neck also have to be cleaned regularly. His mane is naturally bristly, akin to that of a wild boar. It softens somewhat after a good shampoo.

Dingo makes the first moves. He is usually the one who initiates. Trouble is, if it doesn’t involve flexing his guns or pulling a smoldering expression, Dingo’s bad at flirting. His word choice is . . . unique. Lummox that he is, his compliments come across more like threats. Turns out Sleet does not in fact appreciate being called small, fragile, and edible among other things. He’s since tried to alleviate this by writing down pick-up lines on his hand. 

Dingo’s definitely the more doggish of the two. He wags his tail, something seen as uncouth in aristocratic social circles and immature in most other places. He’s wounded himself on occasions by wagging so hard. Dingo also barks when he gets too excited or surprised and, due to his muzzle structure, is predisposed to drooling. If Dingo is proving particularly stubborn about going into a death trap or being used as bait, Sleet can convince him with a scritch between the ears. 

Additional Information

Their partnership was bumpy at first. Their differing personalities clashed and sometimes led to physical altercations. Nothing too dramatic of course, they are still cartoon animals after all. Dingo pulled his punches. Sleet might have been a nag, but he didn’t want to see him hurt.

Sleet and Dingo are both bisexual. Dingo has a slight preference towards men and masc folks. Sleet is trans. He performed his top surgery himself. Despite the quality of the tools he had at the time, his scars have healed remarkably well.

The two are very competitive. Before being hired by Robotnik, on particularly uneventful nights they played board games. They’re both cheaters so they went around in circles for hours. Lots of yelling, finger pointing, and eventually falling into a heap on the floor because they stayed awake all night trying to psyche each other out.

When they manage to squeeze any free time out of their schedule, they enjoy going to arcades and stealing prizes from kids. They also like to take potshots at the irradiated wildlife on the outskirts of Robotropolis and do prank calls—the Robotnik Intelligence Agency being a favorite victim.

Dingo believes that Sleet’s love language is mockery. That might not be too far from the truth. Sleet genuinely doesn’t know how to express himself. He doesn’t altogether know if he wants to. Sleet’s trained himself to think the worst of everyone so he’s not disappointed or hurt in the long run. In truth, Sleet appreciates acts of service. Dingo’s love language is considerably more simple, as things regarding Dingo so often are. Dingo’s huggy, nuzzly, altogether physically affectionate.

Sleet snores terribly. It’s not so much the volume as it is the whistling his nose makes. He’ll never admit to it, and gets flustered whenever Dingo tells him. Fortunately the walls of Robotnik’s fortress are thicker than those of their previous abodes, giving Dingo the chance to rest easy.

Dingo doesn’t understand mirrors. Sleet, egotist that he is, rather likes mirrors. He hasn’t owned any since the incident. It’d be a hassle to clean up glass and find a replacement everytime Dingo popped his head into Sleet’s quarters. Sleet has explained how reflections work to him several times before, yet it never seems to stick.

In his default state, Dingo has a strongman build. Sleet is a beanpole. Without his boots and shoulderpads, he’s slightly shorter than Dingo.