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Orbital Station Sunbath stood vigil several hundred thousand miles away from anything else with a pulse that wasn't made of wire tubing. Life, such as it was, did not exist on the planet beneath. Mining Colony VII--a name so creative it had to have graduated from the academy--sat placid and dead while autonomous machines broke its crust for precious metals no one really needed anymore. The war was over, had been over, and demand for military grade ship alloy dropped as soon as the Cornerian fleet stopped disintegrating. Yet still Mine Colony VII dug and, most important to Falco, its orbital station had a docking bay.

Falco Lombardi waited impatiently. Invisible tractor beams pulled his Ar-wing towards one of many empty landing pads situated around the station. Pearls around a fat neck. It was an ugly sight, all of it. A stump over red desert, surrounded by cold empty space for miles on end. Sunbath was there though, which put it above everything else, all the nothing. Falco's FTL drive engine had failed, yanked him into real space before he could squawk out a curse. That was five hours before. For five great-foxing hours he sat in the cockpit, headed towards a distant signal. Travel on sublight drives was never ideal, only something to be done in atmosphere, really. Still, he made it. He was alive. Exhausted and angry sure, but alive. The blue falcon rubbed circles into his numb legs.

"Can't you guys go any faster!?" Falco squawked into his onboard comlink; it buzzed in response moments later.

"Sure, if you don't mind dying."

Falco grumbled something indignant but spoke no further. Outside, asteroid fragments floated past his Ar-wing's canopy. Dust hung over everything near orbit, thick enough to make any pilot's life hell even without the chance of a fatal impact. Robotic scrubbers whizzed around Falco's ship as it went, back and forth vacuuming up debris. There was always more, though, tossed carelessly from VII's surface in its constant mining operation. All automated of course.

Sometime later Falco's ship was docked. Overhead blast doors sealed shut just as air cycled into hanger 12. Within minutes an overhead light turned green and Falco threw open his canopy. His boots hit the floor just as a thin pine marten in a greasy uniform approached, data pad clutched in his paws.

"Name?" He asked.

"Falco Lombardi."

"Occupation?"

". . .unemployed."

It continued like that for a while. Eventually he was cleared. Station staff took to repairs for only a minimally outrageous service fee. Falco didn't argue. He just asked where he could get a drink.

Nowhere was the answer, at least officially. This was a military installation, not a civilian service center. Unofficially. . .fifty credits would make any crewman part with their whiskey ration. Falco found a seat in view of his ship and dribbled Cornerian Blue down his beak. Time passed. Slowly. Enough that the former mercenary could reflect on why he was here in the first place.

The answer, of course, was Fox.

He hated Fox.

McCloud was always a pain in the tailfeathers. Falco's former, as of a week previous, boss seemed to spend his time inventing new ways to piss him off. Disrespected him. Embarrassed him. Now without a war to vent his many frustrations Falco had nothing distract from how much he hated Fox McCloud.

The Star Fox Mercenary Group had fallen onto hard times after the Andross war. Peace meant they weren't on retainer with the Militara Cornaria anymore. Contracts amounted to guard duty. Falco just couldn't cope. With any of it. Not without good pay and a target He had said so many times before, yet none of his teammates believed him. Well, now here he was: gone. Picked a random direction and jumped. That led him here, to Mining Colony VII, and to a steel bench with a bottle in his talons.

He sighed and sipped his whiskey.

"Day drinking on a fleet installation is illegal, you know?"

A wolf in a gray flight suit wandered up out of nowhere to leer. He had a blaster at one hip, cuffs on the other. A light breastplate layered over his chest completed the look, as if the vacant eyes and slack jawed vibes emanating from this Lupine didn't make things clear enough. Falco glared and sipped his whiskey.

"It's day?"

"Planetside, sure."

"Isn't it always day down there?"

The guard shrugged. "Day, night. Drinking on a hanger bench sure ain't legal."

Falco scoffed. "You'd know."

“I know you're putting that bottle down, sir."

Falco did. Wasn't worth a fight. The guard nodded and took it up himself. He downed a swig right in front of Falco and motioned for him to stand.

"Alright, let's go."

"What?"

"I assume you want a private place for your spanking."

Falco blanched.

"My WHAT?!"

The guard shot him a look like he was talking to king idiot from planet stupid.

"Your spanking. Whipping. Corporal punishment. You're going to bend over my knee and I'll smack your bottom with my paw."

''I-I know what a spanking is!"

"Good so there's a cell we use for—"

"What the hell are you talking about!?"

Falco stood, talons clenched. Feathers bristled.

"Spanking isn't anywhere in the criminal code! What are you, a pervert!?"

The wolf looked him up and down with an amused, yet also somewhat annoyed expression. He crossed his arms, which were large and strong as you could want in a solider. He spoke in that sort of soulless deadpan Falco had grown so accustomed to in years dealing with jackboots, ship jockies, and suits. "You have a data pad, sir?" The wolf asked without any hint of emotion.

The question threw Falco off his tempo. He reeled back a bit, looked around, then patted around his pockets. He produced a small, aged data pad from his jacket moments later. The star fox logo--a great fox mid leap--emblazoned across the back made him grimace.

"Do me a favor and lookup 'Border Accords one-one dash-b'."

It took a while. Cornerian Criminal Codes aren't exactly a casual read. Even Falco, who had a general familiarity at his old mentor Peppy's insistence, found them a headache to navigate. More than once the guard had to provide direction, which only served to temper Falco's rage into embarrassment. Finally though he found 11-B of the Cornerian Border Accords: he didn't like what he saw.

All frontier postings, orbital stations, research posts, deputized civilian centers, and other fortified installation under purview of the Cornerian Armed Forces are endowed with emergency powers to ensure continued acquisition of vital resources. These powers are hereby granted in perpetuity and left to the discretion of commanding officers therein.

There was more. A lot more. Falco looked up. The wolf grinned at him with a face as punchable as Fox's. He tapped his breastplate: a badge inlaid near his shoulder.

"Uh..."

Dread swelled in Falco's chest, caught in his throat. He gawked wide-eyed a_t...Captain Rex_...for many moments too long.

"Listen.” Falco reached into his jacket. Slow, deliberate movements were now the order of the day here. He pocketed his data pad and produced a Cornerian Chip Card, also Star Fox branded. "There's misunderstanding here, clearly. How about I just—"

"If you try to bribe me, I'll arrest you."

Falco tucked his card away.

"Pants off, bud."

Captain Rex crossed his arms. There was a harsh look on his face, one that replaced any previous sense of amusement. Without another word he walked past Falco to the very public hanger bench and sat down, patting his knee.

"Can, uh," Falco said, tossing a glance back towards his Ar-wing. A team of mechanics, mostly canine, worked his ship without any sense of urgency. Drone scrubbers stripped dirt and debris off of its sleek hull. ETA too fucking long to make a sudden break.

"Can we go to that cell now?"

The wolf shook his head.

"That ship's out to deep space."

Unfortunately for Falco, being in a flightsuit meant removing his pants also removed all his other clothing too. The blue bird blushed as he stepped nude out of the pile at his feet, talons over his crotch.

Captain Rex grabbed his arm. Falco all but fell over his knee with a surprised yelp. The wolf draped a paw over his muscular rear end. Falco squirmed. The wolf raised a paw high and cracked it hard against Falco's right cheek.

"Awk!"

A sharp squawk immediately attracted the attention of every worker, guard, and semi-sapiant bot in hanger 12. They all looked first in confusion, then fascination, as the bird with a bad attitude squirmed and yelped naked over an officer's lap.

"Quit squirming!" Rex demanded.

Such was easy for him to say. Every blow came down hard, struck with every bit of muscle in Captain Rex's massive arms. Clearly he didn’t believe in warm-ups. Falco bucked, humped into his lap, and generally did everything in his power to avoid an honest spanking. Every blow landed though, and the more effort Rex had to put into keeping Falco pinned, the harder he struck in recompense.

"S-stop!"

He didn't. He kept going and going—rhythmic smacking backlit by constant snickering. Work around them halted. Sunbath’s ever-dutiful crew surely weren’t partial to this kind of entertainment often, or any entertainment at all for that matter. Some jeered. One stringy mongoose cupped his paws and demanded the captain go for the sitspots. He complied. Worse, he asked for suggestions! All at once Sunbath’s mechanics answered their leader’s call. Hit him harder, sitspots; was his beak out with soap! The utter humiliation of it all was too goddamn much. Falco buried his head in his spanker’s leg. Tears welled in his eyes.

"I could keep you here you know," Rex chuckled, lowered his tone to a conspiratorial whisper.

"I could do this every day till you learn some respect; feels like you could use it."

Falco bit down squawk. His tailfeathers burned, burned with a kind of agony he hadn't felt in years. The thought was terrible, hell in of itself. Falco Lambardi, hero of the Lylat wars, battle-hardened mercenary, ace pilot in the top of his class—even if flight school was a waste of damn time—slave to some perverted border officer power-tripping on authority granted by what was at that point a clerical oversight. Falco wanted to scream. Wanted to fight. Wanted to take off in his Ar-wing and take a direct shout at Sunbath station’s gravity stablizers, send this wretched installation right down to its planet. Most of all though, more than anything else in the entire galaxy, he wanted his spanking to stop.

"F-fuck! E-enough, okay! I’m—AGH!—sorry! Okay!? I’m fucking—AHHH!

The spanking continued for a while. Falco disintegrated slowly, spank after spank wore him down until the hero couldn’t mind his dignity anymore, couldn’t mind anything but how much his ass fucking hurt. He begged openly, loudly, and didn’t care the mechanics could hear him. The only mercy there was Sunbath’s crew seemed to grow tired of the spectacle and gradually got back to work on Falco’s Ar-wing. Even Rex seemed to bleed enthusiasm as time dragged on, though his paw never lessened.

Rex let Falco bawl and beg for a while, then pulled the bird to his talons with an ungentle tug. He led Falco naked and babbling, blue ass a deep crimson red, to a nearby wall and forced him to his knees.

"Stay there!" he barked. "No getting up. No rubbing. Got it?"

He didn’t wait for an answear. Rex began to leave. "Tell me if you see him violating corner time!" He shouted to his crew, then disappeared behind a metal doorway.

Falco stayed there as ordered, pressed against the wall. His ass burned, knees hurt. His dignity as a man, warrior, and hero destroyed in a single trip over the knee. Sunbath’s walls were cool. He rested his forehead against them and cried.

Time passed. Who knew how long. A mechanic sauntered over and informed him Captain Rex said he could leave. Falco didn’t believe it at first. This was a plot to get him into more trouble, to give these bastards more entertainment at his expense. It was only when Captain Rex himself appeared to give him the okay that Falco left corner time. Finally he was allowed some dignity again, though Rex said in no uncertain terms that he was not to leave port without approval. Falco slipped his flightsuit back over his crimson bottom with a wince. He spent the rest of the time waiting on his feet.