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(AO3 crosspost) "Iron Fist" is a story of ~20,000 words that I'll be posting chapterwise that may or may not have follow-ups of similar length (depending on how long I can keep up motivation). It's a story about Wolf O'Donnell's daily life and his struggles with self-actualization. The story has already been written in its entirety; I'm just posting bits and pieces at a somewhat-steady pace as I finalize the editing.

It's a "slow burn" by SoFurry standards, so expect smut to start really happening by 4 chapters in, but there's lots of adult themes and absurd symbolism and all that.

This is a story about Wolf O'Donnell's work, and his world is rough, so expect lots of sketchy things.

Have fun!

---

In Meteo, there was no morning. No sunrise. No workday. The bloom of artificial sunlight woke him, but when it wilted away, the window outside showed only the familiar black nothingness of space. That was it--that nothing: His city. His people. His nothing. Sargasso was the city that never slept, and Wolf O'Donnell was its overlord: the Iron Fist of the Iron Ass on the Iron Throne, scraping away at the rust with a chisel--but it never stopped building, never gave him a goddamn break.

Watch the clock. Fifteen minutes to shower and dry. Five to get dressed, and five more to down a shake and coffee. Ten to review messages, and by then he was in the hangar. Into the Wolfen he vaulted, and he was gone.

---

The stench of alcohol and weed stung his nose. Wolf's eyes didn't bother scoping out the joint: it wasn't worth his precious time. The prevailing tongue in this shithole was a lazy, drunken slur aimed at one of the whores straddling a pole, the kind of whores that gave pole-dancing a bad rep to begin with: all ass, no skill. Then again, what else would one expect from some dive on the ass-end of Meteo?

Even drunks gave him clearance: clocking Wolf O'Donnell at your ten never bode well, especially this far from Sargasso. The bartender, a beanpole of a rat, did a double-take when he turned to find Wolf with his elbows resting down on the faux-wood of the bar.

"I... Lord O'Donnell." He still had the shaker in his hands, but he seemed to have forgotten about it. "I--"

"Find me Gale."

The rat's shoulders relaxed and he nodded, setting the shaker down. "Ah. Right this way."

At least when he pushed into the back room, the scents were muted. The rat led him down a corridor and pointed at a door before scampering off. Wolf pounded a fist three times and greeted the ferret who answered his knock with a friendly raised blaster.

Gale's eyebrows shot up, followed by his hands. "Wolf?"

"You greedy little bastard." Wolf pushed his way into the small office, keeping his good eye and his blaster both trained on the guy's ugly face. "How do you live with yourself when you can't even run a whorehouse right?"

"I don't know what you're talki--"

Wolf silenced that with a slap. Even more satisfying than the crack of leather gloves against fur was the squeal the ferret loosed in response. "Don't pretend you don't know why I'm here. Do you have any idea what a pain it is to come all the way out here clean up your shit?" Wolf growled. "The only reason I greenlit you here is because I made the mistake of thinking you'd stay in line. So when I hear one of your secret pet whores is barely even thirteen years old, I get a little upset."

The ferret's lips were pursed together. He'd paused mid-caress on the spot Wolf had slapped, stammering. "How did--it was never... official."

"I don't care, cunt. You're in my turf, and my word is law." Wolf leaned in closer and squinted. "I'll be planting someone here to take over your business. Then I'll be shipping your ass back to Fichina. Your family, too."

"I'll be arrested on sight! Please, Wolf--"

Wolf leaned in and snarled, and the ferret cowered back. "You should have thought about that before you went under my nose. Pack your things and leave. Your replacement arrives in half an hour, and you'd better be gone by then."

The ferret couldn't muster a word; all he could manage was a meek nod before he turned away, drooping. A lesser man might take pity. Wolf was no lesser man. He headed for the door. "Idiot," he muttered, before stepping out.

He could tolerate the air in the bar only long enough to order a drink before heading towards the exit, still carrying the glass with him. He took a long drag from the impressively-tasteless lager and was about to push through the door when a slurred voice to his right gave him pause.

"O'Donnell. Izzit true yer a tailraiser?"

Wolf finished his sip and set his eyes on the guy, a muscular horse who might have been attractive if he didn't have such slumped posture. The horse's clothes were stained with beer and self-loathing.

"Yes," Wolf said, and raised his glass. He poured the rest of his good-as-water lager right over the top of the horse's dumbstruck head. The drunk scrambled to his feet, but tripped on the way up. Wolf leaned in closer, grabbing at the guy's collar. "You're just gonna let a faggot do this to you, huh?"

All these 'tailraiser' comments were a lot more entertaining when he considered that these pussy fucks would probably run screaming and whimpering and crying to Mama if anything got near their precious sacred temple of an ass, and they thought that made them tough? Hell, this guy couldn't even look him in the eye. Wolf watched on the horse's arms, waiting to intercept a strike, but none came.

This fuckface was a symbol of everything wrong with Meteo. Hell, at least Gale had ambitions. This guy looked tough, but he was made of paper. He talked big, but he folded the second he met resistance. And he was dumb as a load of factory-reject bricks.

Ass-end of Meteo was generous. This was like the ass-end of Meteo that forget to wipe.

"You aren't even worth pulling my gun. Fuck off." A shove later, and Wolf was out the door, into the warped metallic halls of the station's interior.

Wolf leaned his back against the bar's entrance while he tended to his comm, scrolling through messages and e-mails while pointedly ignoring his surroundings. This station leased space mostly to commercial operations, but these were, for the most part, the types of places one would never admit to going. Unlicensed dentists, doctors with revoked medical licenses, electronics shops that specialized in illicit repairs and counterfeiting, all advertised through bright, gleaming neon signs... like Corneria's hazardous waste bin, and Wolf had to mop it up like an overworked janitor. This part of Meteo was a cesspool. It was, if nothing else, a reminder of how far things had come.

Eight years ago, the whole asteroid belt had looked like this, a lawless criminal haven that was just too expensive for Corneria to police after the war. Half of all contracts a pilot might take in these parts ended in someone getting stabbed in the back. Murders happened daily as cartels fought for shipping rights, battled for airspace, and snuffed out competition with deadly force. But five years ago, Wolf O'Donnell won that war.

Some parts, though, were slow to adapt. The riff-raff needed to be slapped around now and then to remember their place.

Wolf deftly went through his speed-dial. "Mira," Wolf said when the line picked up. "It's done. And hell, can we nuke this whole damn station, while we're at it?"

"Very good, Boss," came a quiet voice back to him. "Unfortunately, Sector Nine is one of our most profitable."

"I know, I know." One thing Wolf accepted was that some people were better at some things than he was. Mira had been one of his better pick-ups, and the weasel had been all too eager to seek asylum from a slew of corporate lawsuits. "It better be, for this to be worth it. Do you need anything else out here?"

He finished off his drink while he waited for a response. The weasel required patience, at times. Mira's voice came back after a few minutes. "In Sector Eight, the repair shop."

Wolf sucked his teeth, and his thoughts returned to that old crocodile. "Right. Fang's."

"He is a week behind working on our ships."

Wolf pushed past a hippo couple on his way towards the hangar. "Fang's an old, old friend, and if he's behind, something's up. I'll pay him a visit. Hope the old fart's doing alright." He pushed pack a pair of monkeys, who squirmed and stared as they realized who he was. "I'll head there now. I'm out, Mira." As soon as he closed the line, though, his comm was beeping at him again, already... which prompted a frustrated growl. He took this call audio only because he really didn't want to stare at this monkey's ugly face.

"Eli?" He snapped. "Make it quick." In his peripheral vision, heads cocked his way, making damn sure Wolf O'Donnell wasn't yelling at them.

"Wolf. Look, sorry to bug you, but--"

"Then fucking get to the point."

Eli sighed. "If this is a bad time--"

"Holy shit, man. Talk!"

"Look, that journalist I mentioned--"

"I told you to send her off." He'd come to the stairs leading down to the bay, and he started his descent. Eli had until Wolf reached his ship to speak, else he'd get hung up on.

"Look. If she gets your story out, there's gonna be so much good press. You know the narratives everyone gets told, and this is your chance to clean 'em up!"

"Yeah. And?"

The momentary silence spoke volumes about how much the stupid ape thought this through. "And you could get the bounty removed. Look, I know it can be done. It just takes some work, and she's your path in. She just needs an hour or so with you to talk."

Wolf had come to his ship by now, and he leaned up against it, sighing. Gods, this was like talking to a child. "This ain't a children's book, and I don't need a redemption arc."

"Yes, but... I know you didn't have a choice, okay? You could get out of this."

"What, you think I'm going to turn over a new leaf and work at a damn grocery store?"

"You're being dumb. Talk to Mira, please? Maybe it could be worth it from a business perspective?"

Wolf growled. "I'm fine just the way I am, thanks. Corneria wants me to be the damn enemy, I'll be the damn enemy. I worked damn hard to build my bad reputation, and I ain't gonna just throw away such a valuable asset."

"Just ten minutes? She's put a lot of work into researching you, and the least you could do is respect that."

Wolf opened the hatch on his ship and climbed in, settling his ass down against the cushion. "Tell her I'll send her a dick pic if she wants my attention so bad. Otherwise, fuck off. And don't waste my time with this again." With that, Wolf closed the line.

---

The excursions took over half his waking hours. After an hour at the gym and a post-workout shower, Wolf threw on pants and stared down the old angry-looking fuck in the mirror. He'd been doing a lot less fighting and a lot more sitting on his ass and barking, so no surprise he'd put on some extra weight. Five years ago, whipping himself into shape would have been a top priority, but he hadn't yet decided if he'd let the extra ten pounds piss him off when so many other things were competing for that right.

Maybe he ought to just do a fuckload of drugs; that'd shave the paunch off real fast. And the off-chance he wouldn't wake up in the morning was just a bonus, wasn't it?

He'd been flirting with one of his fuckbuddies (that pretty little bunny twink with a bottomless pit of an ass) all through the week, but he hadn't done much other than squeeze one off in the shower or cockpit in what felt like months. God, he needed to get laid, but screwing the same five no-lifes for the past three years bored him to tears, and harvesting fresh meat was damn-near impossible when every motherfucker in Meteo carried a knife clenched behind their back, ready to plunge it in the second they got the chance. Wolf had all this damn dick and nowhere to put it.

Fatigue was clearly wilting his focus, so he downed a pill from his cabinet drawer to perk him up. Next on the list was a team meeting, an hour ahead, but there was still so much to do before then. He punched a few buttons on his comm to start another call, this one audio-visual, and busied himself with drying his head-fur. When he pulled the towel down, a holographic image of Falco's head stared back at him.

"The hell do you want? I'm kinda busy here."

"I'm sure it can wait two minutes," Wolf said. "I'll be fast. There's a ship set to land on one of my stations in a couple days. They've got some cargo I want, and they haven't paid their dues. I've got word they booked CDF to cover their asses."

"Could you at least put a shirt on?"

"I need to know if Fox McCloud is going to be there."

Falco raised a brow. Over the past five years, the bird had started to look less like a rebellious teenager and more like a somewhat disgruntled professional who was just having a bad hair day. Bad feather day. Whatever. "How the hell should I know? Look, I told ya, I ditched the team last year."

"And Fox likes you too much to clear your credentials. Check his bookings, see if he'll be there. I don't want the wrath of God coming down on my crew because I ran into Corneria's Golden Boy again."

Falco sighed. He was silent for a while, eyes scanning something on his screen. Wolf took the time to finish drying off his hair. The rest of Wolf's fur was already mostly dry from the drier next to his shower, but his more copious headfur took that little bit of extra effort. "Yeah, no. He's got some kinda charity banquet that night, looks like."

"Fine. Thanks, little bird."

"Look, Wolf, I can't have you calling me like this. This isn't gonna be a regular thing, is it?"

"You're the one who picked up, dumbass."

"You could just call him yourself."

Dodge. Duck. Maneuver. Barrel roll and boost out of sight. "I've gotta run. Places to go, people to do." He turned to hang up his towel on the bar. "You ever get bored living on royalties and want to do some real work again, drop me a line. I'm sure I can find something for you, and I don't have nearly as big a stick up my ass as that Mama's boy you used to work with."

Falco rolled his eyes. "Yeah, yeah. Whatever." The display went to static, and the connection closed.

---

Panther and Leon sat across from him on the round table. Wolf's tablet rested on the center of it. "We've got two missions," he said.

The others had their own tablets out, loading the files Wolf had aired. Panther spoke first. "Hm. The Cornerian Defense Force. I remember last time, that fox--"

"I checked," Wolf said. "McCloud won't be there. We're fine."

Panther grunted. "And what's this about a base on Sector Eight?"

"Loyalists. From an old cartel from before your time, Panther." Wolf looked over at Leon. He still remembered the public torture the chameleon had put their leader through. It'd made Wolf's stomach turn, but it was the right move to make, with how quickly it crushed the morale of their opposition. It'd been a valuable lesson for Wolf. "They've been sabotaging ships in the area. Our mechanics are backed up, and our fleet is weakening."

"Is this a concern?"

Wolf waved a hand. "They're gnats. We swat them down."

"Right." Panther's eyes glanced down to his tablet again. "And, recruitment. You have reviewed the applications?"

"Yes."

"And?" Panther had a grin on his snout. "Is there anyone whose romantic notion of sailing the skies I should crush?"

Wolf sighed and rested his forehead in his hand. Recruitment policy had been the same ever since Panther had joined: Star Wolf took only the best. Any applicant who passed the cut went right to sims with their newest pilot. Panther had yet to crush anyone. "No. Only two who are promising. One is too young. The other..." He looked through his notes. Valen. Power-hungry, feisty fox. Cute. Persistent. But... "Not a good grunt. Tries too hard to impress, won't just shut up and follow orders. Too ambitious."

"Then we are, again, three men."

"Yeah." Wolf shrugged. "Better three good men than three babysitters and a child." Panther was frowning, Leon... never seemed to care about anything.

This, Wolf thought, was the difference between him and McCloud. McCloud would take the extra money that had been budgeted for a new fighter and funnel twenty percent into a raise for Panther, who was a phenomenally-good soldier, one of the best living pilots, and--most importantly--always followed orders. But more than Wolf needed the spare change, he needed Panther's ego in check. No raise.

"We'll fly three men once more," Wolf said, meeting each of their eyes in turn. "Is that a problem?"

No dissent voiced. It was settled. Wolf nodded. "One week. Two missions. I'll see the both of you on Wednesday."

The two of them filed out of the little meeting room on the corner of Sargasso station. Wolf turned to towards the window to stare out at his empire, that black nothingness.

The reality was, Wolf didn't need another pilot. Sure, it'd make Star Wolf stronger, but did they need to be? Having the best merc squad was a cute distraction, a nice little trophy to put on the wall, but what sang around these parts was having the biggest army and the baddest reputation. Wolf needed more competent, educated people like Mira on his side to manage his clusterfuck of an empire, or an enforcer to dump Wolf's dirty work on so he didn't spend so much time trekking around the place barking at people and slugging them out when they forget a decimal point on their deposit.

When he left, Panther was waiting for him outside. "Hey, boss. You wanna hit the sims?"

Wolf's lips flattened to a line. "Can't," he said. "Gotta run to Corneria."

"Corneria?"

Wolf grunted in affirmation. "Business to handle. These things require a personal touch."

Panther had that look on his blocky snout that Wolf didn't like: that of a man who'd been turned away so many times in succession that he wondered why the hell he even bothered to ask anymore. Wolf hated that he'd seen that look frequently enough to know it.

"Alright, boss."

In Meteo, there was no morning. No sunrise. No workday. But on Corneria, there were all three.