#slingo

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.

He had gotten a faceful after underestimating the yet-to-be-uprooted back country’s terrain, his motorcycle giving out in the thick of the woods.  It hydroplaned and flung him off with such speed he just barely had time to brace himself. 

Now Sleet lay crumpled, a grumbling, frustrated heap. Everytime he tried to push himself off the forest floor his arms would buckle and send him back down into the muck. Something was sprained, and judging from the copper smell, the liquid trickling down his lip wasn’t all mud. He had taken his fair share of licks and scrapes over the years. It came with the territory of his job. There was something about being beaten by a kid though that made those once shruggable wounds sting more. 

Or maybe it was the mud.  It wasn’t exactly sanitary. 

WHOOSH! 

And then there was the dreaded squeal of sneakers peeling out and coming to a stop. Sleet's cape, caught in the gale, flew forward and settled over his eyes. He was thankful for that, to be shielded from the mocking face of one Sonic the Hedgehog. His relief was short-lived. Grass-stained gloves reached down and pulled up his dignity's last line of defense. 

Still bending down, Sonic waved. Sleet growled. 

Pleasantries exchanged, his quarry whisked the cape aside, stepped back, and gave a prolonged whistle, the type one might make when gazing at a worldly beauty like a canyon or a field of stars. Anything but a sopping wet wolf with their rump propped in the air.  "Downward dog, huh? Cool, cool,” Sonic said, nodding. “Y'know, I’ve always said you need to loosen up. Happy to see it's working out.”

Sleet considered striking the brat, but not deeply. He thought himself a logical Mobian. A backlog of humiliating failures dictated the hedgehog would simply faze out of reach. Blast that kid's reaction time. And his mouth, Sleet thought, backing his ears as Sonic continued gabbing. 

“Sonia’s into yoga too.  Now, me, I’m not much of a yoga guy. All that twisting and turning and pretzeling—” Sonic’s ears darted forward. He began to hoot, flapping a hand excitedly. “Ooo, ooo, can you do the ‘crawl into a ditch and leave me and my sibs alone position’? Or the ‘stop being such a buttface and get a new hobby or preferably a life’ position?” 

Sleet could at least retaliate verbally. He prided himself as being rather experienced in that area. “Oh yeah?” With some effort, he managed to sit, hissing through the pain that shot up his arms. Sleet made a fist and shook it. “How about I show you the ‘I’m going to use your hide as a steel wool scrubber’ position, you contemptible hamster?”

Sonic merely laughed. Sleet’s fist fell, and the rest of his body followed in step, deflating.  “Like that’s ever gonna happen! What is this, the trillionth time you’ve bungled things up?” He put his hands on his hips and admonished. “You know, you should really start wearing a helmet. That was a mondo nasty wipeout.” 

Sleet rubbed at the knob steadily erupting from his head. “As if you care.”

Sonic shrugged. “It’s banter, Sleety.” 

Sleet was about to protest, tell him if he ever called him Sleety again he’d see to it that Robotnik roboticized him twice, but then, from the tall grass . . . 

A hunched shape was closing in behind Sonic, its furry orange hump cresting over the field. Between the near-desiccated blades, Sleet saw a glistening wet nose and a pair of pin-prick eyes that glowed a familiar neon green. 

Dingo, transformed into a massive grizzly bear, exploded from the brush and reared to full height. His saliva-frothed jaws parted, letting vent a thunderous roar. Sonic gave a strangled yelp and fell back. He just narrowly missed being pinned under at least 1,500 angry pounds of fur and preternatural muscle. Dingo’s sharp-nailed claws connected to the ground with a loud thud. “Dohhh!” he groaned as if he had missed a point in a game of Whac-a-Mole. Returning upright, the mutant balled his claws into pseudo-fists and stamped a foot. “Stand still so I can crush you!” Before he could try again, Sonic booked it. Huffing raggedly, the Dingo-Bear loped after. 

Sleet didn’t bother spectating. Maybe if Dingo was lucky he would bring back a chewed up shoe. Unfortunately for them, Robotnik didn’t want shoes. He wanted hedgehogs, as he so often, loudly, ear-bleedingingly, proclaimed. 

They had been summoned to the Efflorescent Oasis for a routine check, unexciting work Robotnik could have given to a drone. The tropical forest was notably not efflorescent, the most prime sections having been thoroughly renovated by His Obsessiveness. For all his scientific prowess however, there didn’t seem to be anything he could do about the wet weather. An unflagging, muggy fog swathed the area, almost searching in its movement. The ghastly place hadn’t even been on Robotnik’s radar until Gandar, a loinclothed buffoon and the Oasis’ de-facto protector, made a stand and aided the hedgehogs in escape. 

 It became a symbol of failure to Robotnik no doubt, and plans to invade were quickly drafted. Sleet developed the pesticide for Rosa conspuentibus—the spitting flower that’d initially kept the emperor’s forces at bay—with the aid of a few unpaid interns, also known confidentially as scientists abducted from universities all across Mobius. Dingo handled that part. He was an incorrigible smash and grabber, the smashing being through doors and the grabbing being of professors scared witless. 

After the floral sentinels were doused, Gandar agreed to negotiate, a foolish move that saw the jungle Mobian roboticized. Robotnik was free to maximize the forest’s natural resources: peat was extracted for fuel and smoky-tasting whiskies, and the flowers that were markedly less spitty begat sumptuous perfumes and cosmetics. As much as Sleet’s opinion of him had declined, he had to admit Robotnik was a commendable businessman. The human even threw in a waystation for potential weary travelers, complete with a mini museum singing his glories. There were pamphlets on how to join the empire and robots that spouted jingles about recognizing signs of treason. “So Your Loved One’s A Freedom Fighter” was an unfortunate earworm, and Dingo’s insistence on crowing it didn’t help.

Sleet wasn’t particularly sorry to see most of the landscape go. When it came to these takeovers, or acquisitions as the data logs called them, he rarely was. This acquisition was a win on many accounts, despite the initial gardening challenge and enduring propaganda ditties. Even the animals had a part to play. When they were driven out, many ran into the arms of hawkers and auctioneers. The exotic pet trade boomed, aristocrats bending over backwards to get their hands on the fuzzy flavors of the month. Dingo, too, wanted a pet. A parrot, because he could teach it swear words. Sleet told him he could barely teach himself the alphabet and suggested a pet rock instead. Much like a parrot, the crack flew over his head. 

Apparently Aleena’s spawn took issue with economic prosperity. Crying over a few chopped down trees, the ungracious lot. 

Sonic’s presence was a surprise. The bounty hunters had been on opposite ends of the industrial park when Sleet heard him. 

Sleet had realized too late that Sonic was likely a distraction. Seeing as they rarely traveled apart, Manic and Sonia had to be inside the premises. The operation here was more complex than blowing up an unmanned factory though, and the triplets didn’t seem the collateral damage type. The most they could do is interrupt work by saying a few cheap words about the power of friendship. 

Sleet doubted it would do much. Not everyone fell for their schlock, especially not audiences with pockets lined by Robotnik’s ever-expanding enterprise. The workers made a decent living here. Sleet would even bargain to say they seemed a lot happier than he was. I wonder if it’s the fumes, he thought. 

He slumped against the tree his mondo wipeout—whatever that meant—had sent him into. What if he was deluding himself? The hedgehogs had pulled off miracles before. He put out an alert to the SWATbots stationed at the extraction sites, just to be safe. 

Whether or not it came through, he wasn’t sure. His comm was busted and soaked to the core, so the reply was unintelligible. A shame. I wanted the glory of capturing that blue rat myself. His lip stiffened. No. SWATbots are unreliable. They’ll louse it up somehow. And if they don’t, I can finally sleep well at night knowing Sonic will be roboticized. 

Satisfied with those optics, Sleet reached for his belt’s satchel, slow and experimentive. His shoulder popped, and he hissed again, retrieving a disc-shaped droid from the receptacle. “Medbot, make yourself useful and scan me.” 

The small, disc-shaped medical droid sleepily whirred to life and hovered in front of him. Its cyclops eye turned piercing before it cast a veil of red light over his entire frame. Sleet winced. Somehow that always caught him unawares. 

The light fizzled away and the medbot promptly briefed its findings in a sickening customer service squall. As it prepared an antibacterial spray for his facial scrapes, he made a mental note to switch its bedside manner to something less punchable, should His Nosiness allow. Like Sleet suspected, his injuries were inconvenient, not life-threatening. If Dingo caught whiff however, the inconvenience levels would rise a considerable amount. 

It wasn’t that Sleet didn’t like being waited on hand and foot. No, Dingo’s readiness to pamper was one of his greatest qualities. This readiness could also be suffocating. Anyone who’d ever called Sleet overdramatic didn’t know the meaning of the word. He had taken care of himself this long; he didn’t need a nurse in lineman’s clothing to worry over him. 

Shortly after Sleet dismissed the medbot, Dingo returned from his doomed hunt limping and in the guise of one worse for wear cheetah rather than the slavering bear from earlier. No hedgehog captive. No chewed up shoe either. Dingo-Cheetah was a notably lither and curious-looking form, his signature underbite a bit too big on his small, rounded face.

He sat in front of Sleet with some difficulty, lamentably muttering something regarding his backside and bruises before delivering his report. “They got away, Sleet.”

Sleet snorted. “And the sky’s blue.” 

Dingo-Cheetah craned his sloping feline head up and hummed, squinting askance at the blanketing clouds. “Mm, I’unno. I’d say it’s more of a grayish color right now. Though I don’t know what the sky’s gotta do with anything.” He turned back to Sleet and smiled, whiskers lifting. “We’ll get ‘em next time. I’m sure of it! I feel it in my bones.”

“Bones, huh? That’s reassuring.” Per usual, Dingo missed the dryness in Sleet’s tone, smiling brighter. “What happened to you?” asked Sleet, although he had a feeling he knew the culprit. Only one hedgehog could catch him off guard like that. 

He confirmed wryly, “Sonia. Yeah, little sheila hit me with the Camper Van.”

“She what?” Shock, then a flash of anger, followed by embarrassment for having been so outwardly emotional in the first place. It wasn’t like Dingo had been in any real danger. He bounced back from most everything. Knowing him he probably did more damage to the van than it did to him. Still, Sleet’s hackles were ruffled, and he couldn’t explain why. She’ll regret that. 

Dingo was much more interested in goggling at a crawling stickbug than revenge or explanations. Sleet had to snap his fingers for him to continue.  “That’s right, she hit me full on. I reckon she was out for blood. Kid’s gettin’ vicious, I tell ya.” He shook his head and laughed softly, almost wistfully. “Dirty move. I really caught some air!” He had a tendency towards deference when recalling encounters with Sonia. Well, as deferential as a self-proclaimed bully boy could manage in any case. Sonia impressed him and therefore received a level of respect. 

Though confusing, Sleet saw no harm in allowing the definitively one-sided rivalry to continue since Dingo never pulled his punches, just as rough with her as he was with any other Freedom Fighter. Sleet could indulge his having a so-called worthy opponent as long as it didn’t interfere with the task at hand. 

 “Phew! My paws are burning. Lemme just—” Dingo spun a tight circle next to Sleet and collapsed onto his side with a mrowrfh. He laid his spotted head on the wolf’s leg. Sleet tensed at both the unwelcome pressure and the sudden show of affection, but only just. Although Dingo’s perceptiveness was shaky, even a broken clock was right twice a day, and Sleet feared too much of a reaction would betray his infirmity.  Eyes closing, the mock-cheetah let out another content burble, practically melting into the ground. “Much better.”

High-pitched croaks of tree frogs resounded through the forest. They were leftovers of the market boom, too unaesthetic for aristocratic eyes and now overflowing due to their more charismatic predators being purchased. Combined with their odd song, the pittering, cool drizzle, and the smell of petrichor, Dingo’s calm was infectious. Many times Sleet caught his eyelids drooping.

He may have drifted off there if the ‘grayish color’ sky hadn’t rumbled. The luckless pair looked up in unison. At first, Sleet assumed the sound of an incoming thunderstorm. The reality was much worse: a Robotnik Intelligence Agency cruiser. As the craft came further into view, beelining for the peat extraction site due east, the bounty hunters shared a disdainful groan. 

“They must have skimmed our comm line,” Sleet said. His nape bristled. “Again.” 

Neither party was on friendly terms. The RIA agents were a great deal better at hiding the fact, Sleet admitted. For him, the subtlety got tiresome. Although he lacked sufficient proof, it appeared to Sleet their employer would purposefully stoke the flames for his amusement, encouraging the friction by appointing them the same assignments. There’d been too many instances for it to be coincidental. 

Deep down, Sleet knew that he should bite his tongue whenever a RIAbot made a snippy remark, that he should refuse to be a part of the childish game Robotnik was playing.

But those tin can overachievers were so annoying.

“Don’t worry, Sleet,” said Dingo. “The hedgehogs skeddadled. I saw them leave. The bots could try to follow the tracks, but the rain’ll wash those away.” 

“Ah, yes, they’ll come up empty,” Sleet agreed, then added quickly. “I knew that. I just didn’t . . . feel the need to announce it. I wasn’t worried for a second. Astute observation regardless, old friend.” 

Dingo glowed. “Thank you! Uh . . . what’s astute mean again?” He switched subjects before Sleet could answer. “Hey, Sleet, I think getting hit by a car calls for ear scritches,” said Dingo, wiggling the appendages in question. “Eh, eh? Howsabout it?” He rolled over onto his back playfully. “It’ll boost my morale.”

“Morale, hm?” Sleet hummed, mock thoughtful. “You did showcase forethought today, turning into a faster animal to better keep up with the hedgehog.”

“Yup! Four times the amount of thought!”

“Indeed.” He left him hanging for a few beats, finding humor in how huge and pleading his eyes grew. “I believe that can be arranged once we return to base.” Dingo started with excitement. “And if you don't make it weird. No doing that kicky leg thing.”

Whooping, Dingo shot up, his healing factor evidently finishing its last touches. “That’s good enough for me! Oh, y’mind changing me back? S’quicker when you zap me.” The remote was muddy and flecked with leaf litter. Sleet held it out with a grimace. Filthy, but not damaged. He built it to last—something he thought Robotnik could stand to learn regarding SWATbots. 

The transmogrifer flashed, and Dingo raised his newly-recovered arms high above his head, giving a mighty, joint-popping stretch, customary after a transformation. Especially two back to back, Sleet noted. 

Sleet also idly noted the play and bunch of his partner’s muscles . . . and startled when he suddenly addressed him. 

“Er, y’know Sleet, you should really start wearing a helmet.” Sleet felt his hackles flatten and his pulse return to form, only for them to spike back up again when the larger canine entered a low kneeling lunge. Sweat and dew conspicuously pearled on Dingo’s calf. “Bit dodgy not to, yeah?” he said as he switched to the other side, grunting. 

Keen to reply in accordance with their usual, uncomplicated repartee, Sleet pushed past his haze. “I guess you’re right.” The words came easier once Dingo stopped his impromptu aerobics. “Not everyone can be as thick-skulled as you.” 

Dingo laughed and made a show of knocking the side of his head with a meaty fist. Sleet wasn’t sure if he imagined the comical sound the action made: a klonking, like someone beating together coconut halves.  “Yeah, it’s a gift.” 

Amused, Sleet snorted. Another jab, right over his head. On good days, his hopelessness was almost cute. 

Almost. 

Dingo looked at him expectantly. “So, uh, we’re going, right?” A polite way of saying, why are you still on the ground?

“Oh. Right. That,” Sleet said as stiffly as his limbs felt. Don’t fall, don’t fall, don’t fall. After a moment’s mental preparation, he rose to his feet as inconspicuous as he could manage, then took two strides left. Pain pierced through his ankle. A loud “yow!” escaped him, that and a few choice swears. 

Dingo was at his side in an instant. Sleet hadn’t fallen after all, but he partly wished he had. Another heaping of mud might have blotted out his associate’s unreasonably harrowed expression and rapid-fire, worried questions. 

“I’m fine, Dingo. Just landed on my foot wrong. I can walk it off.” He tried to demonstrate this by continuing forward. It was less of a walk and more of a clomp. His spirit was unwavering nonetheless. Bounty hunters weren’t supposed to cow to sprains and pulled muscles. “Nothing to get all worked up about. I’ve been in worse scrapes.” 

“But—“

“Ah-ah.”

“But—“

“No.”

“B—“

“Drop it.” There was quiet. Sleet nodded once to himself. That took care of that. “Now, if you wish to be of service, carry my motor—” Two beefy arms scooped him up. Surprised, he let out a cry regretfully akin to a frightened seagull. “Wha?! Dingo! Put me down!” His partner had him in a bridal carry. “I said the motorcycle, not me!”

“You should stay off your feet,” said Dingo, unfazed as Sleet bopped him repeatedly in the chest. His voice was honeyed, but also firm. “You might make it worse.”

Sleet’s onslaught slowed, then stopped. Defeat. Again. “Ugh. My hero.” Dingo was so irritating when he was right. “Just get my motorcycle. And be careful!”

“It’s already broken . . .” This wasn’t a crack, of which Dingo infrequently dished out. This was a genuine statement of genuine confusion. 

He could drown in a bowl of soup. “You might break it more!”

The prospect dawned on him slowly. “Rrright. Heh, yeah! I am pretty good at breaking things!”

While Dingo morphed his tail into a towing cable and whistled a jaunty tune, Sleet continued to accept his fate with crossed arms and muttered indignant remarks. If the Bounty Hunting Guild could see me now, he thought as they departed. 

The thought endured. After a time, he considered it anew. What was he upset about? If the Bounty Hunting Guild could see him now, they’d be jealous. Not every bounty hunter had a Dingo to ferry them around. Certainly fewer still could say they trusted their partner or that their partner actually cared about them or that their partner was this troublingly comfortable to hold—Sleet had positioned himself so that his arm was around his savior’s stout neck and trapezius muscles, faintly aware his fingers were caressing a swath of wiry mane. 

This was quite literally the cushiest position he could find himself in, being toted around like royalty by the biggest, baddest lout this side of the cosmos. What if the Bounty Hunting Guild could see him now? It didn’t need further meditation. Why should he care? They weren’t even an organization anymore, and he was the emperor’s secondhand man. Those amateurs were beneath him. I might have even roboticized some without realizing.

Mind cleared, Sleet smiled to himself and sought to enjoy the ride. The tropical rainforest’s atmosphere remained misty and somnolent. He welcomed it, closing his eyes at last and pressing into Dingo’s embrace. Lulled by the steady beat of Dingo’s heart and the plushness of his underbelly, he was too comfortable to even mumble that they were going in the wrong direction. 

A heavy raindrop hit Sleet’s nose. He stirred. Another fell—plunk!—and his bleary eyes opened slowly, adjusted to the darkness, then bulged. He blinked incredulously at his new, craggy surroundings. What he thought had been rain was water from stalactites. 

“Dingo?” 

“Yeh?”

“Do you mind telling me why we’re in a cave?” 

“S’only way to get to the hot spring, of course. What,” he guffawed somewhat, “y’ been takin’ a snooze this whole time?” 

“Yes.” 

“. . . Oh. That explains things.”

The pungent, sour smell of brackish lichen, brine pools, and ossified bat guano hung in the air, and Sleet maneuvered so as to bury his snout in Dingo’s bicep, finding the subdued scent of body wash and perspiration much more preferable. Cobwebbed animal bones were littered about the slate gray floor. Sleet thought the space, damp and full of decay, was the physical embodiment of antiquation, lost in time, a stark contrast from the Efflorescent Oasis’ sleepless factori—

He jumped at the sound of scuttling tiny feet, an “aah!” escaping him. When the culprit revealed itself to only be a skink clambering into a skull’s eye socket, he loosened his vise grip on Dingo’s flesh, a grip he hadn’t realized he’d held until Dingo made a discomforted noise. Sleet sighed in relief before saying, “What hot spring? If there were hot springs in the Oasis, Robotnik would’ve drained them.” 

Dingo shook his head. “I found ‘em the last time we were here, while you were doing admini’strative work. We had hot springs in Tralius too. The water’s, like, medicine. I know what you’re thinking, that’s a load of hooey. But trust me. I’m a Quokka Scout, remember? Top of my class.”

“You told me you got your high-rank badges by stealing them off your peers.”

“Heheh, yeah. Good times.” His face turned serious, and he looked down at him searchingly. He drew in closer, gaze fearfully magnetic, a caress all of its own. “How’re you holdin’ up?” His sudden hushed tone and fixed stare made Sleet duck his chin, and he felt foolish for it. 

“W-well, I’m not keeling over.” And for once he wasn’t downplaying his injuries. Largely, everything had flatlined, neither worsening nor improving. The outlier was his ankle. While he had dozed, it swelled and rubbed against the inside of his boot. “How do you know you’re going in the right direction?” Sleet peered around Dingo’s broad form as best he could and panicked. “And where’s my bike?!”

Dingo’s voice, mercifully, returned to its usual timbre. “Whoa, hey, take it easy there. Keep your arms and legs inside the ride at all times.” He snickered at his own joke; Sleet’s unimpressed look cut his enjoyment short. “Bike’s at the cave’s mouth, and I know where we’re going because my nose knows.”

Sleet, not for lack of trying, couldn’t form a rebuttal. When they were freelancers, there’d been several instances where his tracking devices failed, and Dingo saved the day by using his nose to sniff out their quarry. Of all the things Dingo prided himself on, his nose was one of the more credible. 

The trappings don’t scream five-star spa, Sleet thought. Spelunking was an activity of the non-intellectual and menial sort. On principle, Sleet preferred to be far away from the words non-intellectual and menial, so, if he could help it, he avoided caves. But I’ll humor him. Anything was better than Dingo-enforced bed rest, and he was somewhat curious about the hot spring. Never the outdoorsy type, he hadn’t come across any before. The more adventurous aristocrats talked so fondly about mountain retreats and saunas. Sleet wanted a bite of that apple, before everything got paved over in the name of the empire. 

They traversed deeper, into a tunnel that grew brighter as they advanced. Before long, Sleet discovered why. His jaw dropped at the sight. Giant brilliant crystals jut from the walls, floor, and roof, like many fluorescent fragments of a morning sky, gradients of pinks, blues, and yellows. 

“This has been here the entire time?! Dingo, you magnificent mountain of muscle, you!” He reached up and cupped Dingo’s face with two hands, squeezing his cheeks together. “With this many diamonds, we could get offworld, no more hedgehogs, no more Robotnik! Mobius can kiss our duffs goodbye!” 

“Whuh?” asked Dingo through squished lips. 

“T-the diamonds!” Sleet stopped squeezing and gestured expansively. “The diamonds everywhere!”

“Oh, those. Yeah, uh, those are useless. Not worth anythin’. S’called Zilchite. Seen outgrowths like this in the caves back home. Pretty but useless. Like aristocrats!” He laughed enormously, the sound echoing off the walls.

“Z-Zilchite?” Sleet’s ears and shoulders drooped. Did the indignity ever end?

“They do make for nice lamps, though.” 

Sleet flumped back down and sighed exasperatedly.  “Do tell.”

Dingo did. Profusely. His yarning lasted the entire way to the hot spring. 

The tunnel deposited them into a vast, primeval cavern yawning at least twelve stories high, lush with ferns, lichen, and liverworts. Phosphorescent blue-green moss and algae illuminated the space, as did more clusters of Zilchite. Although the ceiling was largely shrouded in shadow, Sleet could make out the faint outline of stalactites above, glittering with flecks of the fraudulent mineral. The centerpiece of the verdant chamber was the prodigiously-sized river of steaming water supplied by a subterranean waterfall and almost unnaturally cerulean in hue, less like water and more like melted sapphires. 

So far as Mother Nature went, it was a creditable effort.

Almost immediately, Sleet’s fur felt sticky and matted. Dingo’s body heat, initially so pleasing, had overstayed its welcome. Dingo noticed his passenger’s discomfort and let him down gently. Sleet stood with minimal assistance. Awkwardly and with his weight shifted to one side, but he stood nonetheless. As he dressed down to his bodysuit, he further surveyed the secret natural compartment.

Would Robotnik reward them if they told him about this? I wonder what else is hidden here. Buried treasure? Rare fossils?

Sleet turned to ask Dingo only to clamp his mouth shut and quickly glance away, jaw tensing. From the bridge of his snout to the tips of his ears, his face burned with that irritably familiar and intense emotion he refused to name. “Going—” He cleared his throat and began again, finding the initial attempt far pitchier than he would have liked. “Going au naturel, are we?” 

“Hm? Oh! Yeah. The snow monkey Mobini on TV don’t wear clothes.” Dingo said this as if it made perfect sense. “Y-you’re not bothered by it, are you?” Out of his periphery, Sleet saw Dingo’s face flash with worry and apology. Dingo quickly picked up his balled pants to shield his nethers. 

“Don’t be ridiculous.” Sleet was even more flustered now at the suggestion he was a prude. “I’m not bothered.” Squaring his shoulders, he turned towards him to prove his apathy, but was careful to level his gaze. “Just surprised. Didn’t think today would go this way.” 

He had taken communal showers before, back when he was a member of the Bounty Hunters’ Guild. He had taken a few with Dingo, too, when they were low on Mobium. Those were both marginally more . . . emotionally detached. Unexceptional and done without thinking. 

A communal dip in nature’s hot tub, however, brought to mind an image of something more intimate. 

Your Mobotropolite upbringing is speaking, he thought. Sleet sought to quiet his prenotions, reminding himself Dingo came from a much different land.

Yet, the unspoken feeling still burned. He was mistaken, he reasoned. It was hot here. Hot was in the name. Obviously, the warmth that spread through him was the result of the heat of the spring itself rather than Dingo’s stark, well-sculpted nakedness.

“Free body, free mind,” Dingo replied serenely, letting the scrunched pants drop from his grasp. It was no doubt something he heard from a daytime talk show. 

“Oh, your mind’s definitely loose. I’ll be keeping my undergarments on, thank you very much. You might be infallible to disease, but I’m not. Who knows what’s festering in there?” He peered into the stream and sniffed a plume of steam experimentally. There was a fragrant earthy scent to it, one that appealed to his canid nose.  “Looks deep. Won’t you sink? You’re not the strongest swimmer.” 

Dingo stuck a thumb in his mouth and puffed his cheeks. Fwumph! Instantaneously, his upper arms inflated, forming water wings. He grinned at Sleet sidelong and pumped his eyebrows as if to say I bet you wish you could do that. Sleet in fact did not. He preferred to keep his flesh unpolymerized. 

After testing the water with a foot, Dingo dunked inside. Sleet found his groan of indulgence a bit much. It couldn’t be that great. 

Sleet tested the spring’s temperature for himself, first grazing the surface with his toes, then allowing the water to rise to his instep. Temperature satisfactory, he eased his body into the spring, the water coming up to a little above his chest while he tread. His nose twitched, parsing the spring’s mineral-rich scent anew as it poured into his nostrils. This and the water’s warmth, which felt especially pleasant against his back and shoulders, coaxed a contented, trembly noise from his lips. If it wasn’t that great, it certainly came close. Once in a while, he had to admit, Dingo did come up with something. 

Dingo must have felt this admission in his bones also. “Told ya!” Continuing to laugh in the face of nature, he had exchanged his biological water wings for a biological pool lounger.  “You’re on your way to relaxifying!” Surely that wasn’t a real word.

Sleet waded over and settled beside him, awaiting instruction. When none came, he prompted at last. “Okay, what now?” 

“Huh?” 

“What do I do next? To activate its properties?” There had to be a way to speed things up. 

The part-dog, part-pool lounger snortled amusedly, and Sleet bristled a bit, feeling like he was being made fun of. An apologetic smile replaced Dingo’s languorous one. In the blink of an eye, and with the balloonish squeak of transmuted flesh, he returned to having only water wings. “Didn’t mean anything by it. Honest. Odd is all, you askin’ for my guidance. Little topsy-turvy.”

“Don’t get used to it.” 

Dingo placed a hand on Sleet’s shoulder, mitt so large it practically engulfed the bony protuberance whole. He gave it a soft squeeze and drew in closer. It wasn’t until he brushed away a humidity-logged lock of purple hair that had slumped into Sleet’s face that the wolf’s brain skidded. 

He should have swatted his hand away. That was how things were supposed to go. Their dynamic, it was reliable, tried and true. He’d swat the hand away and call him something nasty—not nasty enough to push him away, not nasty enough for him to snap him in half like a pencil, but something suitably Sleet. Dingo would paw at where he was hit, maybe briskly shake his hand out, offer a sheepish grin or a bad joke or both, and Mobius would keep on spinning.

So why did Sleet’s hand settle against Dingo’s extended forearm instead? Why didn’t he break their gaze, why didn’t he scramble free from the emerald fathoms of Dingo’s eyes? 

He always had a hyper-awareness of his own body whenever he removed his armor. This instance, he experienced it tenfold. Intensely aware of his drying mouth, of his breath that had caught in his throat, of the electric tingling that seemed to zip through every cell of his body, of the irrepressible fact he was mere inches away from his longtime associate’s unclothed physique. 

“You don’t do anything,” Dingo’s face carried an absolute tenderness, like he was seeing Sleet and only Sleet. Withdrawing his hand, Dingo took a smooth pace backwards. Sleet’s nerves stopped their galvanic dance, and he found himself able to blink, able to breathe again. He didn’t get a chance to evaluate what just happened and was thankful for it, Dingo interrupting with a “Watch me.” before inhaling through his nose, holding for a beat, then exhaling unreasonably long. 

No one breathes like that, Sleet thought, but he tried anyway. 

“Deep breaths. Make ‘em deeper, use your lungs. It’s slower. The way you’re breathing, y’sound like a constipated donke—” Quick as thought, Sleet splashed water at Dingo’s face. A constipated donkey? Really? So much for tenderness. 

“Heeeyyy!” Dingo cried out after imitating a sprinkler on the fritz, spitting and puffing the water from his lips. He blinked hard, blindsided by the aqueous offense. Softened from the blow, his mohawk lolloped forth. “No fair!” 

Sleet lifted his head triumphantly and smirked. “Didn’t mean anything by—“  Before he could finish the callback, Dingo countered with a splash of his own. Only, Dingo’s splash was more of a miniature tidal wave. Now it was Sleet’s turn to sputter. His coif drooped, and his facetufts sopped pitifully low. After knocking the water from his ears, he turned his attention to his laughing, and more importantly, distracted, assailant. 

Before he knew it, he was engaged in an all-out splash fight, propelled by a baser emotion Sleet hadn’t felt since childhood, one the wolf thought he was above. It wasn’t that he didn’t know what fun was anymore. He could have fun. His idea of fun just usually involved the misery of others. This was a different type of fun, almost alien. 

He didn’t altogether hate it. 

Occasionally they’d break away, circling each other and juking before closing the distance and dousing each other with rapid strikes. As they alternated between chaser and chasee, splasher and the splashed, Sleet, insofar as his ankle permitted, allowed himself to frisk and porpoise and even giggle, a noise that surprised them both. 

The singularity of the moment was not lost on Dingo, and the two paused, meeting eyes. The truce was short-lived, Sleet relieved that Dingo didn’t linger on the inarticulate, blush-making sound. 

It didn’t leave Sleet’s mind however, and he slowed and hung back. 

What on earth are you doing? a voice in his head spat. You’re a bounty hunter! A stone-cold mercenary! This is juveni—

“Yoo-hoo! Sleet!” Sleet snapped to the here and now to see Dingo finger-waving at him. “I’m out in the open and totally unarmed!” After drawing himself up and puffing his chest, Dingo gestured at his frame as if displaying goods on a shopping channel. “So much to target!”

Sleet felt a smile creep over his face. He crouched, readying to strike. Bounty hunters also see that the job is done, he argued, shutting the voice up.

Bodysuit removed, inhibitions nullified, Sleet relaxed for the first time in months. He wasn’t sure when exactly he’d disrobed, but he didn’t find himself missing the skintight garb. His muscles, usually so taut, had slackened considerably, and his headache long since vanished. The rejuvenating, thermal water also reduced the inflammation around Sleet’s ankle, the pain now a dull throb. 

The two bounty hunters floated companionably side by side, their elbows planted on the riparian zone as one would do with a pool’s edge. Reveling in his newfound pliancy, Sleet eased his head back and exhaled deeply and, in his opinion, more naturally than Dingo had demonstrated earlier. 

Through half-lidded eyes, Sleet saw Dingo cut a glance at him approvingly before returning to his own relaxation. The wolf felt a faint swell of pride. He had this breathing thing down pat. Was there ever any doubt?

As unexpectedly sublime as the hot spring was, time was getting on. There was no way to tell day or night inside the chamber, but with the uptick in radio chatter coming from their respective clothing piles, it was clear their absence was starting to become noticed. Their respite had to end. 

 “We ought to be off,” Sleet announced reluctantly.

“Yeah,” Dingo agreed, sounding almost inebriated. 

Neither made a move.

“Robotnik will be displeased if we don’t report back soon.”

“Prob’ly.”

Again, neither stirred. 

Perhaps they could spare a few more minutes. After all, Sleet needed to come up with a good excuse for their delinquency. 

It was as he began plotting this excuse that he felt something nudge against his foot. 

Sleet startled and was all but ready to jump out of the water until he saw Dingo crack open an eye and quickly shut it again, head turning away.  An accident, Sleet decided before settling back in. Dingo never had great limb control. 

A moment later, it happened again. One moment more, and it wasn’t a nudge anymore, but a trace—slower, longer. Leisurely.

He can’t be serious, Sleet thought before looking over to see Dingo trying, and mostly failing, to maintain a poker face. “No, no, no. Amateur,” Sleet pushed away from the edge, waded near the center of the stream with a purpose, and turned to face Dingo, who looked at once surprised and a little wounded. “You’re going about it all wrong! Footsie is supposed to be played across.” The words flew out of his mouth before his mind could catch up and stop him. He was too affronted, too set on righting this obvious wrong. When he finally realized what he was unconsciously propounding, he flushed. “O-of course, that is what I would say if you were indeed trying to initiate a roun—” The tracing returned. Had Dingo stretched his foot over? Why did it feel different, so . . . bristly? 

Something wrapped around Sleet’s leg, and he was dragged under before he could even yelp. 

The suddenness and speed of the plunge made Sleet’s head reel. Bubbles surged furiously into his eyeline. Water crashed into his eardrums, muting Dingo’s dive in after. 

Sleet was falling fast. When his vision cleared, he saw a distinct absence of an attacker. Instead, there was the faintest ripple of movement, the vaguest of a flowing, viperish silhouette.  Unthinkingly, Sleet kicked out with his free foot, the very same he’d injured earlier. The hit connected, and his own barely stifled shout at the fresh pain that jarred through him overpowered the offended squeaks and clicks of his assailant. Ruffled but not deterred, its natural cloaking flickered, and Sleet got a glimpse of its carnivorous visage, its reptilian eyes that gleamed with eagerness and hunger. 

A scaly, orange torpedo rocketed forth and slammed into the creature with an unmistakably anthropomorphic body check. Dingo had taken the form of a sizable Tralian crocodile, large of teeth, tail, and dorsal scutes. He tossed his narrow head to Sleet and made a saurian rumble inside his gular pouch just barely recognizable as let’s ride. 

Incidentally, this was not the first time Sleet used Dingo-Crocodile as a sea scooter, nor the first time Sleet had been imperiled by a local apex predator. Knowing their luck, it wouldn’t be the last. Taking hold of his scutal mohawk, Sleet was towed along with an urgency. 

They burst through the water’s surface, and Sleet leapt for the safety of the grassy stone, scrabbling upright. Dingo-Crocodile’s claws made purchase with the bank. Just as he drew himself forward, the creature struck again, yanking him back beneath the water. 

“Dingo!” cried Sleet. 

An underwater frenzy erupted. A tumult of bubbles and foam and froth clouded the fray. In flashes, a crocodilian tail would appear, then an almost octopusial tendril. Keeping an eye on the disorder of snapping jaws and fish-like scales, Sleet made a hobbled break for his pile of raiment, where his belt and gun were. 

When he snatched up the blaster, Dingo violently resurfaced. He was more himself than crocodile now, a patchwork of scales and fur. “I’ve got ‘im, Sleet!” The snake-fish, one long sinew of hissing fury, was coiled around his body like a vise. It looped its neck over Dingo’s arm twice and squeezed hard, making him amend. “I’ve almost got ‘im, Sleet!” 

He jammed the crocodilian nails of his free hand into the creature’s coil. It let out a sharp rasp of pain and outrage. With a prizefighter’s battle cry, Dingo pitched over, and they grappled briefly underwater before breaking apart and returning to the surface. As they eyed each other, Sleet leveled his gun, but Dingo, without looking away from his slippery opponent, waved him off. 

Then, the snake-fish reared up like a cobra and shot forward lightning fast, a blur of tessellated yellow and brown. Miraculously, Dingo caught it by its throat. There was an unprecedented skillfulness to the move that suggested he’d done this a million times before. The creature flailed vainly in mid-air. 

Over ten feet in length, it resembled what a moray eel and a hagfish might reproduce after a dalliance in toxic waste, sporting snaggly, backwards facing teeth, shrunken forelimbs, and writhing tendrils on its snout. Decidedly unaesthetic to aristocratic eyes. 

One hand still clenched around its esophagus, Dingo grabbed the tail thrashing at his face and twisted the creature, looping it into a bow. It croaked, a sort of “ghlk!” noise, and its eyes bulged cartoonishly. Dingo pulled once more for good measure, causing its tongue, which was rapidly turning an asphyxiated blue, to flop out. Its tendrils spasmed once, and at last it went limp, head and tail sagging with one final deflating hiss. Down for the count. 

Dingo declared as much by enthusiastically slapping the surface of the water as if it were a wrestling mat. He flung a swath of wet hair away from his face before hefting the serpentine mass across his shoulder, looking proud of his work. 

 Sleet only shook his head in amused exasperation. Showoff. 

The victor’s laugh could have easily rattled the stalactites free. “And you said I can’t tie knots! Sure showed you, didn’t I?” He smiled, that oh-so-regrettably endearing, dopey smile only he could make. “Hey, how d’ya feel about sushi tonight?” 

Sleet pretended he wasn’t excited. “That sounds sufficient.” 

When they left, Sleet leaning against Dingo and using him as a crutch, both agreed not to tell Robotnik about the hot spring’s existence. Hedgehog hunting day in and day out, the pair decided they deserved a private retreat.